Book Bit: Toxic Shock Records

By Bill Sassenberger

Bill Sassenberger is one of the great figures of American punk rock – not as a musician, but for doing just about everything else one can do to support and advance the music, the ethos, the spirit. In his Southwestern stores and his label, he has offered a lifeline to countless bands and fans. As he loved it so he has lived it — for more than 50 years.

He calls his 2024 memoir “a patchwork of triumphant, bittersweet and sometimes painful memories.” As he explains in the introduction:

From 1981 until 2014, my wife Julianna and I owned and operated a totally independent record shop called Toxic Shock. Our mission was to support independent music and the culture it came from. To that end, we refused to sell major label releases and preferred to promote the outsiders in the music “industry.”

We were lucky to have been in the right place at the right time, as punk was spreading to the suburbs and beyond. We also ran an independent record label through much of this period, working with some pretty diverse characters. As with many “do it yourself” ventures and personal relationships, we had our share of ups and downs. The record store supported us financially up until the mid-1990s, when taking on a part-time job in the “real world” became a necessity.

In December of 2011, my wife had a major stroke. This single event dramatically changed our lives. Julianna did her best to recover from its devastating effects. We had a shop in downtown Tucson for 23 years at that point. That finally came to an end, as our landlord wanted his building back, and the majority of my time needed to be devoted as Julianna’s primary caregiver. Challenging times indeed, but not the first.

We had a pretty long run: eight years in Pomona, California, a short venture in New Orleans, then another 26 years as Toxic Ranch in Tucson, Arizona.

Chapter 6: February 8th, 2012

Julianna’s recovery is ongoing at Kindred Rehab, a slow and painful process. I’ve developed a renewed respect for the nursing profession, but not for the nightmare that is health insurance. Monday to Friday, Julianna receives 45 minutes of occupational therapy from Jane, a kind woman who helps move and massage her affected left side, to help her regain muscle tone and dexterity. Then comes an hour of dreaded physical therapy from Robin — aka “Sparky” — who coaches her to stand on her good leg and try to walk using parallel bars for support and also in using an omnicycle. This really wears Julianna out, but she is getting better at it, day by day. There’s also Karen, her speech therapist, who is helping her for 45 minutes with cognitive skills and left-side neglect issues. Otherwise, she lies in bed watching TV and sipping her favorite trademarked beverage, the Nopalea and lemonade cocktail. The staff sits her in a wheelchair using Hoyer which is that scary crane device that she hates with a passion. She calls it a dirty rench hoyer. She finds the wheelchair very uncomfortable and is hoping she can use a walker instead. That’s the goal. I’ve joined her for dinner at Kindred almost daily and sometimes for lunch. Her sister Adrian has been supplying her with the magic elixir Nopalea, a cactus juice extract proprietary blend that Julianna discovered on a late-night infomercial. I have found an equivalent cactus juice bottled locally at the Mexican supermarket Food City. Either way, she loves the stuff and believes it is helping her. With Aetna, her rehab coverage runs out on March 1^st, but if ALTCS (Arizona Long Term Care System) is approved, she could stay at Kindred longer until she is truly strong enough to come home. This can’t be soon enough for Julianna, but she will need more than one person to help her with basic needs at this stage. She is determined to get better, but since I need to work, I’m unable to be home with her at all times, so I really hope we won’t be denied coverage.

In February of 1980, the highly anticipated Dead Kennedys debut album, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables, was released. On the cover were the flaming police cars I remembered from the White Nights riot the previous year.

The one good thing Pomona had going for it was cheap rent. Determined that I could make it happen and bored out of my mind with the stoners spending half their day rooting through our pipe parts/screens box, I found an empty corner storefront at 1305 W. Holt, about a mile west of Freaks, whose name had been changed to Gravity’s Foe. Probably because the owners thought it sounded less “confrontational” and more “esoteric.” You see, the cops were cracking down on sellers of drug paraphernalia and the owners were getting paranoid. If a customer said the words “hash pipe,” “bong” or “coke kit” we were supposed to refuse them service. We had signs posted everywhere, but stoners were not the brightest people to take a hint. Meanwhile, between bong sales at work, I reached out to distributors like Systematic, Zed Records and Jem for wholesale catalogs. I also wrote to many small labels that advertised in Slash magazine.

1980 was a year I racked up quite a few miles on the Toyota driving into L.A. from the Inland Empire. I saw plenty of the classic English new wave bands such as Lene Lovich on February 24th, where I was surprised to see David Lee Roth as an audience member in the balcony.

A good example of the hostility bestowed to fans of new wave and punk was when I was at a house party somewhere in La Verne, next to Pomona. I was drinking beer with some guys, talking about music. They were raving about Led Zeppelin, and I casually commented something to the effect that they should check out Devo. Before I knew it, fists were flying in my direction and I had to leave before I got pummeled to the ground. For me, as a 25-year-old who considered both hippie and punk as non-conformist movements, it was surreal that there was such a division between hippies and punks and I was shocked by how narrow-minded the current long hairs had become to this new music.

I was drinking beer with some guys, talking about music. They were raving about Led Zeppelin, and I casually commented something to the effect that they should check out Devo. Before I knew it, fists were flying in my direction and I had to leave before I got pummeled.

On April 5th, I finally got the chance to see Frank Zappa, having been a fan since I first heard the Mothers of Invention as a 16-year-old. The show was at the Swing Auditorium in San Bernardino. I was a little bummed that he chose to play mostly new material and didn’t play many of his earlier Mothers songs, but I’m still glad I went. I even bought his “I Don’t Wanna Be Drafted” 7-inch single at the merch booth.

On April 11th, X played the Whisky with Doors keyboard player Ray Manzarek in tow and they were about to release Los Angeles with Ray as the producer. Another highlight for me was seeing the political punk of Stiff Little Fingers from Ireland on August 23rd. The ska revival acts from the UK such as the Specials, the Selecter, and Madness brought their infectious Two Tone dance rhythms to California, then there was the amazingly riveting Gang of 4 on May 20th, all at the Whisky.

Public Image at the Olympic Auditorium on May 4th, 1980 was surreal. Hundreds of HBs (kids from Huntington Beach) swarmed the place, anxious to finally get a glimpse of their idol, Johnny Rotten. I felt so bad for the opening acts, it was literally raining spit on Los Lobos, who exited the stage with their middle fingers in the air. The Plugz managed to charge up the crowd and then came the Kipper Kids, who were not really a band but a performance act—two naked dudes wearing balloons as loincloths. They poured buckets of water on the crowd, then followed that with tossing scoops of powdered concrete. Or was it papier mâché? Either way, it was a mess once it got in your face and hair. When PiL finally hit the stage, the wasp nest of teenagers was pissed. They kept invading the stage and at one point John Lydon just handed the microphone to some 11-year-old kid in a sweater, who was dumbfounded. They came expecting Sex Pistols, but were treated instead to the throbbing, depressing dirges of Second Edition-era PIL.

May 18th at the Whisky, we saw Stiv Bators and the Dead Boys. Young Loud and Snotty was a favorite on the turntable and Stiv was quite the showman.

I spoke to Jello Biafra on July 3rd before the Dead Kennedys played the Whisky with Legionnaires Disease from Texas. He was hanging out with Frank Discussion of the Feederz, who was wearing a clear raincoat with live insects glued to it. Jello told me that I should keep my ears open and watch out for Bauhaus and Flipper.

On August 15th they were filming Urgh! a Music War at the Santa Monica Civic Center, which was released as a movie the following year. The night I attended featured Chelsea, X, Dead Kennedys and the Cramps. I gotta say, in spite of being a huge fan of both the DKs and X, the Cramps really stole the show that night. Lux Interior and Poison Ivy were simply on fire!

Devo played Riverside on their Freedom of Choice tour, at a place called Raincross Square. They were to play two sets that day, August 19th, but the show ended up in a riot. During their first set, there was some sort of malfunction that turned the stage lights in the wrong direction—towards the audience, which blinded the crowd—and the promoter decided it was a good idea to cancel the second set. This didn’t go over too well with ticket holders to the second show and the tall glass windows at the entrance to the venue got smashed. The next day, the newspaper headline read, “Devo Riot at Raincross Square.” I think even the local bikers were impressed.

On September 19th, in an industrial part of Little Tokyo at the Hideaway Club, Black Flag and the Circle Jerks were booked as co-headliners. Plus the Descendents, Geza X, Mad Society and the Stains. However, only Mad Society and the Stains (who were simply amazing) got to play. Before Black Flag was able to take the stage, interior walls were being torn down by the restless kids. Out of nowhere, an abandoned car was shoved into the building and sheer chaos erupted. LAPD helicopters were swooping in as the unruly crowd ran for cover and their vehicles. We did our best to get out of there quickly, as the cops started showing up in full force.

October 8th was the infamous “Creepy Crawl the Whisky” show with Black Flag and D.O.A. on the bill. There was a Raymond Pettibon-designed flyer with Charles Manson on it that was plastered all over Hollywood and the beach cities. Scrawled on the flyer was, “Charlie, you better be good. It wasn’t easy getting in here, you know.”

Black Flag was developing a strong hate/hate relationship with Daryl Gates and the LAPD. They were having trouble getting shows, and the Whisky gig was a much anticipated event. The bands were supposed to play two sets each that night, probably in an attempt to accommodate their growing fan base which would have easily oversold just one show. Openers D.O.A. — who had added a second guitar player to the band — were simply incendiary that night. Black Flag had the classic line-up of Greg Ginn, Chuck Dukowsi, Robo on drums and Dez on vocals. Their sound was just a huge wall of exhilarating and powerful angst-filled noise, you could feel it blasting right through your body. Chuck and Greg locked into this telepathic groove with each other like two battling cobras, Robo was a revved-up machine on the skins and the raspy voice of Dez cutting through the snarling tsunami of sound. The cops had staked out the Whisky before the show even started and showed a huge presence with multiple squad cars surrounding the venue. One knucklehead (I found out later it was a member of Modern Industry) chucked a beer bottle into one of their windshields before the second set was to start and all hell broke loose. Sunset Boulevard was blocked off to traffic and cops were chasing kids everywhere, swinging and hitting human targets with their billyclubs. Luckily, Matt and I made it back to my car and took the side streets to the freeway and the “safety” of Pomona.

The Plasmatics also came to the Whisky on October 10th. They lived up to their hype and put on a spectacular show involving the titillating Wendy O Williams, with her leopard spandex tights and exposed breasts (her nipples X’d out with black electrical tape), exploding TV sets, and a gas-powered chainsaw cutting through a plugged-in electric guitar.

November shows included the ghostly Wall of Voodoo and the primal Urinals at the Hong Kong Cafe. Relative safety returned to the Whisky. The Stranglers played November 7th, and they didn’t really attract the young crowd. As a matter of fact, most of the band members were older than me, but they were still amazing and quite menacing looking. On the 18th of November, it was the Slits, with their loose reggae/dub jams. Siouxsie and the Banshees on the 29th, promoting their Kaleidoscope album. After seeing Black Flag, it was kind of a relief not to have to worry about having your head cracked open after the show was over.

The Starwood was also doing punk shows. Black Flag, Adolescents, Minutemen, the Darby Crash Band and Eddie and the Subtitles. I missed the final Germs show there on December 3rd — legend has it as being their best live performance. I was never impressed by the Germs the few times I got to see them. It seemed that creating chaos was more important to them than the actual music. Darby Crash had a problem keeping the microphone near his mouth.

In December, I took the Greyhound to Vancouver. I had befriended the owner of Friends Records by buying some D.O.A. releases, so I figured I could check it out and see what punk was like outside of Los Angeles. Stopped in San Francisco and caught a show on December 7th at the California Hall with Dead Kennedys, the Offs, Plugz and Society Dog. It was a great show and I recorded the DKs’ set on cassette. I listened to it on the way north on the bus, along with the English Beat and Live at the Witch Trials by the Fall.

I made it to Vancouver, but not before being pulled off the bus in the wee hours of the morning by Canadian Border Patrol. They spotted the punk badges on my jacket and pulled me aside for half an hour or so, searching me and asking why I was going to Canada. Somehow, I kept my fungus-infused weed I’d picked up from my friend Dan in SF from being discovered. Luckily, they had no dope-sniffing dogs. Showed up at Friends Records before they opened and hung out for a while with the owner, who told me about a show that night with the all-girl punk band the Dishrags and youngsters No Exit. Before the show, I recognized Mugger, Black Flag’s roadie and future Nig Heist singer doing his usual thing of trying to scam the local punk girls.

The show was not that well attended, but it was a fun night overall. I bought a record from the No Exit guys and a fanzine to read on the bus back home. The homemade LP jacket had the Clash’s first album image, but with the heads of the No Exit guys pasted over the originals and No Exit in red marker scrawled on the bottom. They only pressed up 200 of them and seemed really happy to have sold one to me. I wish I still had it, as it now fetches a good price with record collectors. I spent the night smoking the rest of the weed, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the U.S. Border Patrol on my way back, so I found a hiding spot near the station and enjoyed the hallucinogenic buzz before it was time to catch the bus home.

Back in Pomona, I made the phone call to secure the new spot to open the record store and quit my job working for the neutered ex-hippies. I had to have my brother Mike co-sign for a $500 loan to buy some ramshackle store fixtures and merchandise. Then it dawned on me I would need a name. I was leaning towards Deviant Slice, after one of my favorite comics that the head shop stocked, but my older sister Judy suggested I try Toxic Shock, as that was in the news at the time. It had a nice ring to it and sounded punk rock, so I went with it, even getting a sign maker to do a bloody red logo for the window. I sprinkled a few donated tampons in the display case for added decor. Placed an ad in a local high school paper, Slush fanzine and L.A. fanzine No Mag. I couldn’t afford the ad rates in Slash magazine. Thanks to a piece written by Matt the Rat for our self-published F.O.E. (Freedom Of Expression) mimeographed fanzine that had rubbed editor Claude Bessy (aka Kickboy Face) the wrong way, they probably wouldn’t have run it anyway. Matt thought Kickboy was a pretentious twit and poked fun of his French accent. Kickboy responded with a long, scathing letter in the next Slash mag.

Word of mouth spread fairly quickly about the weird little shop across from Der Wienerschnitzel, sandwiched between a car paint shop, hair salon, realty office, a palm reader and used car lot. It was also in the part of town where the hookers plied their trade. We took clothes on consignment, carried a couple of Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop posters, spiked wristbands and gradually expanded our selection of records with mostly UK imports. We also sold punk badges which were popular because they were cheap.

One day at the shop, a jogger wandered in off the street, pulled out a handgun and instructed me to go into the bathroom, lay on the floor and shut the door. I did as he told me. After a minute, he asked where the cash register was. I replied that we didn’t have one, but there was a box behind the counter. After a few minutes of me yelling underneath the closed door in the back trying to describe where the box could be found, there was an awkward silence. I heard the voice of my landlord asking, “Where’s Bill?” The robber said, “He’ll be back in a few minutes.” More awkward silence, then I hear my landlord screaming in pain and crying out for help. I ventured out of the bathroom to find the robber gone and my poor landlord holding his bleeding forehead. He had been pistol-whipped, and the $14 in my cash box was gone. Evidently this same jogger had struck several Pomona small businesses and weeks later, all of us filled up an entire bus for a ride to L.A. County jail to try and identify him from a lineup of potential suspects. That was fun.

Famed punk photographer Ed Colver would drop by regularly to show me his latest photos. I remember he had the firmest handshake of anyone I’d ever met. It was like a vice grip! Another person (Robert Hill?) would bring in homemade badges with photos of serial killers and horrific skin diseases. Things really took off when kids discovered we were the only place to find records by Angry Samoans, Black Flag, Crass, D.O.A., the Fall, Middle Class, Agent Orange, Germs, X , TSOL, Plasmatics and the one record that really brought punk to the suburbs — Group Sex by the Circle Jerks. Eventually the chain stores like Music Plus and Licorice Pizza would give in and carry the bigger punk/new wave bands, but we just dug deeper underground, stocking stuff like Flipper, Residents, Nervous Gender, Fartz, the Nuns, Saccharine Trust, Tuxedomoon, Really Red from Texas, the Mentally Ill from Chicago and a bit later, the first 7-inch records coming from Dischord and Touch and Go.

Darby Crash committed suicide on December 7th, right before the premiere of the movie The Decline of Western Civilization. Unfortunately for him, John Lennon was killed the next day, so that news really overshadowed the footnote in the paper about the Germs singer.