It was a bang. Not as big as we'd expected, but a bang nonetheless. GG Allin died early Monday morning. On Sunday, he gave what would be his last performance at the Garage on 2nd St. and Ave. B.
The abandoned service station is packed with GG's followers. A thin punk rocker shows off his back, tattooed with the poster from A Clockwork Orange. A big youth, built like a football player, swigs from a Colt 45 40-ouncer. A kid not older than 14 plays with his just-dyed green hair. A curious college kid sits by himself among the metal art. It's a freak show. Scummy and proud.
"Will this be the show where he kills himself?" asks the kid.
Todd Phillips, GG's film biographer, answers, "I hope not. When he goes, he's gonna take an AK-47 and bring the audience with him."
GG pushes his way into the performance space. He wears only a jockstrap. Starting with a new song called "I Am the Highest Power," he complains about the microphone.
"You're just a pussy!" shouts a young man with scraggly blond hair.
GG turns. "I'm a pussy?" he shouts back.
He takes the microphone and slams it into the side of the young man's head. Bang! The blond crumples. A trickle of blood drips steadily from his forehead. Someone grabs the body by the legs and pulls it out, dumping it on the gravel outside.
"I'm a pussy! I'm a pussy!" shouts GG, banging his head into the metal doors that hand once opened into the garage. GG's bloodflow is heavier than that of the blond boy. It spiderwebs over his face coming together in a red smear over his chest.
Then something else happens. It's hard to see. The crowd bunches in one corner. A loud smacking comes from the middle.
"All right, show's over," yells an authoritative voice.
A bearded young man runs through the side door, his hand up to his left eye. Blood oozes between the fingers. More banging. People explode out of the building, running backwards, away from the naked GG.
One, two, three, four. The wounded stagger out, pushed in a bloody path by the force of the crowd.
Outside, the adrenalin still pumps. The guitarist from an opening band hurls a bottle at a passing car. The football-player-sized youth runs up to a passing bus and climbs on the front bumper. He smashes his fists against the windshield. The terrified driver plows ahead, throwing him to the side.
Bottles fly overhead. GG is out on the street, still naked. He hugs a lamppost, smashing his head into it. Then he walks toward his fans. They scatter, tripping over each other in the scramble to get out of the way.
The blood, now in torrents, pours down GG's body. Sirens ring in the background. GG crosses the street, walking quickly. A dozen police cars pull up from all sides. Cops get out, only a few in helmets.
"Put the bottles down," comes the voice from the loudspeaker. A few half-hearted bottles land near the cops. Then it's over. The punks and the kids walk away. Quietly. An injured girl sits on the sidewalk. Blood dribbles into a rag pressed against her shaven head.
The first casualty, the blond in the club, is awake. "Wow! What a show!" he says.
GG gets away. Naked, covered in blood. He gets away. This was Sunday.
Monday afternoon the phone rings. It's GG's brother, Merle.
"GG passed away this morning," he says. Such a coy euphemism for a man who detested euphemisms.
After Geraldo, a year and a half in jail, his picture in the mainstream press, and a national tour, GG died in his sleep from a heroin overdose.
His fans said he was God. They were close. Pure id, GG refused to bend to any rules. He lived through pain, coma, hospital and jail. He was afraid of none of them. Free of fear, he was absolutely free to do what he wanted. What he wanted to do was destroy. You'll read obituaries that'll call him "sick," "a sad comment on society," maybe even "pathetic." He was not. Though he lived for less than 40 years, he lived without duty, without planning for the future, without worrying about bills, or acting politely for the neighbors. He lived by doing what he wanted, when he wanted. How many others have lived so fearlessly for so long?
No, we didn't get the final fireworks we expected. GG died privately, curled up on a friend's floor. The crowd of GG idolizers hoped they'd be there when GG did it. They weren't.
A videotape of GG in San Francisco shows an interview. He's asked why he didn't shit on stage, as is his custom.
"The crowd expects it," say the interviewer.
"With GG Allin you don't get what you expect," he replies. "You get what you deserve."
Mykel Board, Manhattan
Editor's note: Mykel Board first met GG Allin in 1982 and later produced his Hated in the Nation album for ROIR.
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