That slovenly look was already trending its way into my wardrobe at the time of AFI’s first performance at the local amphitheater but what I intuitively chose for that debut fit my frame; the skull print Life’s A Beach shorts were carried over from the ’80s. My small Crow tee shirt was new. The four-parter comic book series was only two issues deep. Any schlocky film adaption seemed an impossibility for such an underground work. Between ’89 and ’92, every Halloween morning I would paint that antihero’s black smile over mine. As my open trench blew through the breezeways of our high school (a layer I’d consistently wear while out of costume), I’d only be asked “are you a clown?”

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Answer That and Stay Fashionable was released in the summer of ’95. Shadowing the Swingin’ Utters’ van, we toured on it extensively. After multiple instances of our first LP going out of print we told Mr. Nut that we were moving on. Not being able to sell our record on the road not only compromised our limited gas funds and five dollar food per diems but prevented showgoers from having our music. Getting our music into distant hands was the whole point of being on any label. Of course, after severing with Wingnut, we were again confronted with our initial problem. No one wanted to sign AFI.

Adam Carson still has the rejection letters: Sub Pop, Revelation, Victory, Epitaph… we didn’t fit anywhere. The Lookout! rejection still hurts. Pete Giberga, however, was very interested in signing us. Jim Guerinot, then the manager of Rancid, Offspring, No Doubt, and his first artist, Social Distortion, had hired him to do A&R for Time Bomb. We all loved Mike Ness, were tight with Rancid, and in ’95 all of those bands were different versions of massive. None were on Jim’s inchoate label. In fact nary an artist was, but even without a single release in their catalog we figured their offer was worth exploring… especially because we had but one other option.

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As it turns 20, I’ve contemplated DU; given the grind of its creation, I’m shocked that record is as good as it is. Of course, it’s neither my nor AFI’s best work, but hey — it was so in ’06. I’m ever grateful that so many great songs came out of that miserable period. These days, I still enjoy the DU moments of our set list — yes, on the right night, even Miss Murder (Albuquerque, these lashes are battin’ at you)! In ‘05 however, it was December every day. With damaged cords, I was echolocating my way through a vertiginous rabbit hole that jagged toward, away, or more often straight through desperate songs. Thankfully the path ended in an eternal triskele, though as I was rasping my way out, I thought I’d never see the light at the end of that icy tunnel. In ’05, I sought that light nightly.

While recording DU, if Jerry Finn didn’t have me booked for the vocal booth the next day, I’d hit the town. The club kids, door guys, street rats and 3:00 AM soyrizo servers of ’05 Los Angeles knew me well. I’ve plans of Stacking up some of the Hollywood hysteria that delivered me from the pressures of AFI’s first Interscope release later this year. For now, I will detail escape I found in a different land — a land oft-derided that offered me much joy amidst the misery. Stackers, grab your SPF, we’re going to Orange County!

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As we crept through Chicago, my great driver told me he was from Nigeria, that Kennedy Expressway was ill-built for such influx, and that Mexican Independence Day was enough to harshly impede anyone from driving anywhere, let alone the yearly rock festival. Suddenly, he pulled to a curb. Green, white, and red streamers hung from the storefronts. Mylar and latex balloons of the same colors, strung and untethered, floated by. Throngs of the inebriated joyously marched the sidewalks. “The streets are blocked. I can’t get you all the way to the hotel. You should get out here. It’s two blocks that way,” he pointed. “You ok?” A burst of brass erupted from a nearby distance. A shirtless man in golden body paint stared through me and shrieked. I looked back to the driver from the sonic assault. “I’m ok.” I wasn’t really.

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“Davey Havok!” She laughed approvingly, the photocopied insert of Dork unfolded in her hands. “Far out!” Aunt Amy insisted on paying for her copy of our first record. She, like her daughter, was one of the earliest champions of AFI.

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