I Met Ian MacKaye Once, Sort Of!

Memory, Self Help Graphics, and a Changing East L.A.

I met Ian MacKaye once, sort of, back in 2004. I had heard about him performing with his new band, The Evens, along with drummer Amy Farina at Self Help Graphics. I never saw Fugazi play, one of my few regrets in life, so I wasn’t about to miss this opportunity.

I had this idea to give him a DVD of some films I had made as a student at Long Beach State and CalArts. I stayed up that night trying to export everything and burn the DVD. Things didn’t run smoothly, or as smoothly as they do now with technology. All-night exports were not uncommon, at least with my bargain-basement equipment. Burning a DVD, once you survived the export, was not for the faint of heart. But eventually it all worked out, sometime around one or two in the morning. Actually, I don’t know if it worked out. I didn’t have a chance to check the DVD for errors.

I recall waiting in line on the stairs outside that led up to the second floor. Earlier that year, the nice people who ran Self Help Graphics, or maybe just the nice person working in the gift shop that day, had let me shoot part of my thesis film there.

Anyhow, I had the DVD in my pocket with a plan. I would walk up to Ian and hand it to him, for no other reason than to share something creative I had made with someone who had been a source of inspiration for my art and for how I viewed the world. Minor Threat, Fugazi, Dischord Records. I had this silly idea that maybe we could do something Dischord-esque, but with film.

I had heard Ian would mingle with the crowd, so I figured I’d have a shot. I would walk up and say, Hi, my name is so-and-so. Here are some films I made. I hope you don’t get mad, but I used some of your music. I remember putting my name and email somewhere on the DVD in case he wanted to chat about it at some point. 

I may still have that DVD somewhere.

Anyhow, I’m on the stairs leading up to the legendary second floor of Self Help Graphics. I noticed a lot of white people of different ages. This was pre-gentrification East L.A., so it was a bit weird, but not weird at all, I suppose. Ian had a loyal fan base, and I had already been watching gentrification happen in real time in other parts of Los Angeles.

We were getting near the top of the stairs when I noticed an older white man casually sitting next to the doorman, just hanging out.

I may have thought to myself, Who’s this goofy guy? As I stepped onto the top stair, our eyes met. He nodded at me. I nodded back. It took about that long for me to realize that the goofy guy was Ian MacKaye. 

The doorman said, “Have a good night,” as we walked through the door, the DVD still in my pocket. I looked back at Ian, but whatever bravery or bravado I had imagined having when I finally met one of my idols was gone.

I probably should have turned around right then, walked back, and just given him the DVD, but my nerves got the better of me. There was this mythology around Ian and Fugazi, this aura, this lore, as my kids would put it. Much of it was silly, but at the time it all seemed plausible enough that I convinced myself to forget about the whole thing.

In moments like these, the irrational becomes rational. The night before, I had successfully convinced myself that handing someone a DVD was perfectly reasonable. Then, within seconds, my brain made a U-turn and began manufacturing increasingly ridiculous reasons why it would be inappropriate:

He probably doesn't have a DVD player.

Maybe he doesn't even own a television.

There's drinking in my movie.

Ian MacKaye will disapprove of my characters drinking.

People treated Fugazi like Buddhist monks. There were, of course, actual principles and practices behind the mythology: all-ages shows, inexpensive tickets, independence from major labels, MacKaye's abstinence from alcohol and drugs, and the economic model behind Dischord Records. But fans could turn those concrete choices into an entire mythology, imagining a system of prohibitions that didn't necessarily exist. I knew that, but I let myself believe in the ridiculousness of it all because it gave me an easy exit. 

So I decided to just enjoy the night.

The room was crowded for a show at Self Help Graphics, but Ian MacKaye would bring out a crowd. I recall seeing Ollin and vaguely remember them being the opening act. They were really good. Ollin had already been around East L.A. for about a decade by then, formed by twin brothers Randy and Scott Rodarte, former hardcore punks who had begun folding Mexican and other folk traditions back into punk. I had seen their name circulating around town, on flyers and in L.A. Weekly listings for shows, but this was my first time seeing them.

That night, as I remember it, their set leaned heavily toward Irish folk songs with a subtle punk twist. Their rendition of “The Wearing of the Green” left an impression on me. I searched for their version of it for years afterward, in vain.

There was another act after Ollin and before The Evens, but I can’t remember the singer for the life of me. She was Chicana, younger, and played alone with an acoustic guitar. For years I thought she might have been Lila Downs, but after doing some research that doesn’t seem right. Downs would have been thirty-four in 2004, older than the woman I remember. Then I thought it might have been Lysa Flores, whom I had seen once or twice before and who released an album later that year. She would have been around twenty-seven, which is closer to my memory of the woman that night, but I can’t say with any certainty that it was her.

This kind of stuff kills me. Not so much the fading memory, but the fact that I can’t seem to research the show. Online searches have turned up nothing.  I asked the friend who went with me that night, hoping he might fill in some of the gaps, but he doesn’t remember her either.

At some point, though, the absence of a record starts becoming part of the subject rather than simply a research problem. There’s something fascinating about having a night that I know happened but that has left almost no searchable evidence behind. The Evens played. Ollin played. I went with a friend. It was a fundraiser. A Chicana singer performed. I remember the stairs, Ian sitting beside the door, the DVD in my pocket, fragments of what people said.

So the official record, for better or worse, is essentially me.

And that’s precarious. I remember certain details vividly while names disappear. My friend remembers even less. Twenty-two years have reorganized everything. Some memories may have merged with other nights. My interpretation of what I witnessed has certainly changed because I know what happened afterward.

I remember...

I think...

I could swear...

Maybe it was Lysa Flores.

There’s a tension between memory and historical evidence. I can establish certain facts around the edges, but the event itself remains stubbornly undocumented. The personal memory becomes a little trapdoor into history.

Although I can’t remember the singer’s name, I do remember something she said before her set. She wasn’t nervous or shy when she said it, but there was a feeling in her voice that I still can’t quite pinpoint: “I know most of you are here to see Ian and Amy, but I hope you can come back and support Self Help Graphics.”

Maybe what I heard was hesitation or uncertainty. Maybe she didn’t want to sound judgmental. It was a fundraiser for the space, and looking back now, I wonder if what she was really thinking was that most of these people were never going to come back here again.

By then the room was packed, with late arrivals who had come specifically to see The Evens. There was a charge of excitement in the room. People were talking loudly in their little groups. Just off to one side was a group of Latino teenagers who had brought a case of beer with them. They were taking turns sipping from the cans. I worried they might get in trouble, but my attention soon shifted to some other kids nearby, white kids who looked like college freshmen. One of the young men said to his friend, “I wish everyone would just sit down for the show.” His friend nodded in agreement.

It reminded me of the mythology around Fugazi. In an attempt to limit violence, they often policed their own shows. They didn’t want paid security because security could sometimes make things worse. Ian and his bandmate Guy Picciotto preferred dealing with the crowd themselves. Toward the end of Fugazi’s run, they would sometimes ask people to sit and listen to their aggressive music rather than crowd surf or slam dance. There would be no violent catharsis at their shows, but perhaps a more contemplative one. This kid and his friends had apparently come prepared for The Evens.

Off to another side were some older white people. They seemed a little out of place, although the room itself was more diverse than the usual L.A. show I remember from the early 2000s. They seemed genuinely excited to be there. Eager, maybe. They struck me less as punk rock fans and more like arts-and-institution supporters, the kind of people who regularly donate during KCRW and KCET pledge drives, as opposed to someone like me, who gets annoyed by the interruption in the regular programming, doesn’t donate, but happily enjoys the free service.

At some point, one of the women, casual but slightly performative in her body language, half joking and half serious, exclaimed, “Maybe we should move to East L.A.?”

The comment struck me. There was something about how casually she said it. Maybe we should move to East L.A. As though it were that easy. Move here. Buy a house. Fix it up. It seemed like something she could do, and might actually do, if her friends agreed.

She liked being there at that moment, that night. It was all culturally exciting, I suppose. But I remember feeling uneasy. It was an uneasiness I had begun to feel as affluent white Angelenos started occupying neighborhoods I had always known as Black enclaves, Filipino enclaves, Mexican enclaves, Salvadoran and Guatemalan enclaves.

The Evens finally took the stage. I didn’t know what to expect, but I figured it wouldn’t be anything like Fugazi, and that was fine with me. Ian had a way of evolving his sound, his writing, and his singing as he forged ahead on his own singular path. By then the crowd had swelled to standing room only.

They kicked off their set with songs I didn’t know. I can’t remember exactly what they played that night. Their first album wouldn’t come out until the following year, so most, if not all, of it was new to me. What I do remember is that The Evens were not Fugazi, and that wasn’t a bad thing. The sound was smaller and more stripped down, just Ian and Amy, guitar and drums. There was an intimacy to it that fit the room.

One thing struck me about my first encounter with Ian MacKaye: he was funny. Or, I suppose, he is funny. He would stop between songs and talk with the audience, sharing stories and observations. At one point he asked everyone to take out their cell phones and play their ringtones. At first the audience seemed skeptical.

“Come on, I know you have them!”

People started pulling out their phones. Soon the room filled with this deafening wall of electronic chirps, melodies, beeps, and tinny little songs, dozens of ringtones colliding with one another.

It was 2004. I remember thinking, This is the future. I didn’t take my phone out. Ian MacKaye and Fugazi had taught me better than that.

I looked around the audience. The white college kids who had hoped everyone would sit down were now off to the side, angling for a better view. The Latino teenagers weren’t really listening and were still drinking. I looked for the KCRW-supporter types but couldn’t see them anymore.

Perhaps they had already left.

As I left, the DVD still in my pocket, I wondered if maybe this was the sweet spot: that brief moment when the community that made a place what it was and the people who desired what that community had created could all find themselves in the same room, enjoying an eclectic show in a space like Self Help Graphics, steeped in Chicano history and art.

Before working-class Latino families were priced out of their communities through rising rents, mortgages, and the cost of keeping a small business alive. Before the people who flocked to these neighborhoods looking for something more diverse, vibrant, and alive helped erase the very things that had drawn them there in the first place.

Perhaps the sweet spot exists only in these brief moments, before one thing gives way to another. An idea of the city, maybe even an idea of the country: diverse, imperfect, everyone in the same room for a little while.