You may know Justin Pearson from any number of his dozen or so bands buzzing around the noisecore scene over the past three decades—The Locust, Head Wound City, Some Girls—if not from his wild writings on his experiences in the punk scene over that span of time, or the label Three One G Records, which he created in 1994 to document most of his work (hell, you may even know him from Jerry Springer). The past few years have not only seen a spike in new music from Pearson between his recently formed projects Deaf Club, Planet B, Satanic Planet, and Dead Cross, but also a retrospective of his groundbreaking early work, including reissue campaigns and the feature-length doc Don’t Fall in Love with Yourself.
Now, Pearson is gearing up to release another book called GG Alien and the Mystery Meat—an undoubtedly intriguing title that does little to prepare you for the chaotic journey through the artist’s thirties as he worked a minimum wage job at a local San Diego gay club in order to keep his various music projects afloat financially. As seen in the excerpt he’s sharing with us today, that experience not only included frequent encounters with neo-Nazis (or even individuals play-acting as neo-Nazis for aesthetic purposes), but an atmosphere that didn’t think twice about glimpsing iron crosses or swastikas inked onto skin as clothes flew off. It’s truly unique as a memoir, though also somehow consistently feels relevant to our sociopolitical moment in its frank discussions of sexuality, capitalism’s draining side effects, extremist politics, and the unexpected places where these subjects intersect.
The book is available to pre-order now ahead of its official release tomorrow via Pearson’s Three One G Records—in the meantime, check out the trailer and excerpt below. Buckle up!
The biggest no-no from my perspective during my
time served at Rich’s was the occasional odd Neo-Nazi
shit that would show up at the club. Sure, some of the
security were questionable institutionally racist East
County white power type dudes, and there was once a
guy who entered the Wednesday night dance contest and
when he had to get into his underwear he exposed the
swastika tattoo on his arm. Even though he was cut and
had some decent dance moves, I personally felt that a
swastika tattoo should disqualify someone as a winner
no matter what he brought to the contest. But nope,
the motherfucker won. Anyhow, the thing that blew
my mind was the Nazi fetish stuff that popped in from
time to time. Now, I’m talking about the not actually
racist garbage type person; just people who were into
the “aesthetic.” I vividly remember carrying a huge pile
of dirty glasses through the crowd, and what caught
my attention was a glimpse of two skinheads waiting
in line by the door. My doubletake focused on one guy
who had a swastika on the back of his head. I couldn’t
believe what I was seeing, and in order to get a second
look, I had to dump the glassware I was carrying and
circle back to see what the actual fuck was going on with
the dudes. I came back and asked Johnny Girl if she
saw the guys, displaying my amazement and shock. She
immediately said, “Oh the hot skinhead and his scrawny
sidekick?” I replied, “Yes!” And waited for some sort of
actual answer, not a rundown of how wet and turned on
Johnny was. If what I saw was actually what I saw, and if
she knew where they went, by the time our conversation
leveled out, they were absorbed into the crowd. By the
time I ran into them in close proximity, they were on the
smoking patio, and both topless, showcasing all of their
dumb tattoos. The “hot” one just had two iron cross
tattoos on his shoulders, which to me, seemed to be the
typical garbage tattoo placement of any pseudo racist
dipshit. I will admit, he did have a great smile and looked
“pretty,” even for a fake Neo-Nazi, which I instantly
discovered he was. But his sidekick, presumably the bot-
tom, who was a creepy scrawny dude, was the one who
was a bit more “interesting” and certainly more con-
fusing. One disappointment—as in, if you are going to
stand for something, even something as fucking stupid
as being a Neo-Nazi, you should own it—and that dis-
appointment was the swastika tattoo on the back of his
head wasn’t even a tattoo. He just shaved it into his hair,
which just showed that he was a Nazi poseur. He also
had the phrase “Bootboy” tattooed on his back in some
terrible Marvel Comics type font, and of course a gener-
ic iron cross tattoo with a wave or some blue jizz looking
crap that you’d see as some crown molding wallpaper
in the recreation room of a newly flipped condo which
wrapped around his arm just below the Nazi shit. I guess
I was a bit combative at first, as I would expect myself
to be, asking what the actual fuck they were doing at
the bar, assuming I would just tell security to “boot”
them out. But I think I caught them off-guard, and they
didn’t seem to fully get it, as to why someone would
be freaking out about their tattoo choices and overall
fuckhead vibe. I felt like I was in some bizarro wormhole
conversation with an actual Neo-Nazi who also had no
idea what they were doing, or the consequences of their
schtick. But these dudes were, uh, charming, flirty, and
clearly presented no threat to anyone at all. Needless to
say, I completely tripped out on them and was unable to
wrap my head around what they were doing since I had
to get back to work. But this was not going to be my
only encounter with the scrawny one.
