I am not going to do a critical documentary and linear history of Darby Crash. My time in the early punk scene is based on blurred colors and images as a Claude Monet painting. My feelings and emotions linger and still wake me up late at night. I found him shy, troubled and out of control. The beat of underground music brought us together. I was unaware of any agenda he had, or anyone had for that matter because the lines were fuzzy. In the vacuum of outer space particles tend to clump together. We clustered together as young punks and we created a scene that is still amounting to something? We were a forgotten stagnation of youths that yearned for change. We were unhappy with our world and us.
“You’re not the first you’re not the last Another day another crash ..”
Darby was a baby when he died. My son is his age now. I often think about how young an inexperienced Darby was. The above image is a shirt that was given to me by my longtime friend Edward Colver the punk rock photographer extortioner. I love the shirt. When I investigate Darby’s face that Ed captured, I see a small degree of the man he was becoming. It was not the young face that I knew. A face that I took for granted. I thought Darby, the early punk scene, and my youth would last forever but nothing does.
I am not the faithful fan as many seem to be of the Germs or Darby. There are many that knew him better than I did. I rolled in the same wave that moved that early Los Angeles punk scene. He was one of the unique original, the few Los Angeles punks.
My only regrets are;
I wish I would have given him a little more of my time,
I wish I would have given him more of my clothing when he asked,
I regret laughing when he was drunk, high and rolling in glass,
I regret this the most.
What a kid what a character…
Happy Birthday Darby Crass, RIP