It started as a symbol, a bright blue circle on a black background, which showed up on stickers, buttons and on faded black t-shirts. That was how I became aware of The Germs. L.A.’s first punk band of note entered my teenage consciousness through the album cover design for G.I., the first punk record — the first record period — to be released by Slash Records, which would boom a short while later by signing X. The symbol looked vaguely medical, like something out of The Andromeda Strain, but was instantly iconic, like the cover of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, another simple graphic on a black background. To Darby Crash, the band’s founder and leader, it symbolized a circle of influence encompassing those who knew The Germs, those who had become “infected” with punk rock.
Then, of course, there is the come on, “What We Do Is Secret,” a phrase that was always associated with the circle, so much so that I believed that it was the title of the album (instead of G.I.). What could be more seductive? A new movement from somewhere deep inside California’s southern wasteland, emanating from a nondescript garage in one of the miles and miles of tract homes that radiate out from Hollywood, a ground zero, an epicenter. Curiosity peaked. It became a mission to discover exactly what it is that they “do.”
Then there was the band’s appearance in The Decline of Western Civilization, a film whose influence was so great and was so often cited, my friends and I referred to it as just “Decline.” Penelope Spheeris’s documentary about the early L.A. punk scene features a hilarious interview with The Germs’ manager — “It’s more like being the mother of four three-year-olds who are always fighting with each other… Sometimes I get to the end of my rope and just wanna batter my children.” Darby Crash makes breakfast and plays with his pet tarantula. The Germs’ performance in the film is comical. The band is certainly tight, providing a slinky, sinister backdrop for Darby Crash, who opens his mouth and lets out one gutteral moan after another, which Spheeris subtitles with each song’s lyrics, an interesting comment on the band’s importance and the state in which she’s found them. The crowd throws things at the stage and taunts Crash, who is clearly strung out on drugs, falling down and hurting himself, just barely able to squawk out a phrase or two now and again. Someone draws all over Darby’s body with a sharpie, as he prowls the stage like a panther, clearly the ringleader of this chaotic catharsis. The performance ends with Crash falling off the P.A. system, microphone cord wrapped around his neck, a grimace on his face, and voilá — another icon. This image is used on the documentary’s poster and accompanying soundtrack album. My teenage friends and I will stare at it for hours.
The Germs broke up shortly after that performance, reforming to play one gig in December, 1980 to “show the new punks on the scene what it had all been like back at the beginning.” By the time the blue circles of influence had radiated to my home town in central CA, Darby Crash had already offed himself, sealing his own and the band’s legend.
No wonder this story would compel the production of the bio-pic, What We Do Is Secret. Its subject is a potent L.A. myth and the rebirth of Southern California’s music scene; a scene that, like all good subcultures, was destined to self-destruct. It is the tale of an energetic resistance movement, of punks creating anti-corporate anthems over music too chaotic for most ears in an era that witnessed the rise of Ronald Reagan. For young Hollywood filmmakers, who may not have even been born at the time, this period must be fascinating, not to mention ripe for mining: only a few good films (Repo Man and Spheeris’sThe Decline of Western Civilization and Suburbia) attempted to document it.