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Introduction
It’s 6.35am. It’s dark, it’s cold and there’s a light mist out that makes the
visibility even poorer. I’m dressed in thick socks, Adidas running shoes,
track-suit bottoms, a tee-shirt, Aran Jumper, wind-breaker and a fluorescent
green vest over the whole lot so that any traffic that is out at this time of
the morning will be able to see me. I’m running at an easy pace up White Rock
Hill in Wexford town. It’s a very steep hill, and there are quite a few houses
as well as a waste-disposal plant at the top, so even though there shouldn’t be
too many automobiles, I know that at 7.00am, there will begin a steady flow of
trucks from the plant. I’m not foolhardy, but I want to skate, and this
location is convenient (I live just off it) and the steep gradient has become a
favourite. I’m sure that many a driver has looked at me and wondered who the
long haired-idiot is, out skateboarding at this ungodly hour. I don’t care. I
stopped caring some time back.
I have my board, a Hud City shortboard, slung across my back in a sports bag. I reach the top and move off the thoroughfare, up onto a path where I unsling the bag and take out the board. I’ve had it since the summer, but pressures of work and, having newly moved into the house I presently occupy, stopped me from using it more than once. Since mid-October, however, I’ve begun to re-discover the joys of skating, and it’s become a staple – in fact it’s become a necessary part – of my morning exercise routine. In fact, to be honest, I love it dearly. I’m not a flash skater. I’ve only just learned to ollie with any competence, and I’m not going to be entering any competitions, but I think that what I do is what thousands of people all over the world have been doing for decades: just getting out there and fucking doing it! There are no skateparks within my vicinity, so I have used the terrain around me to participate in my sport. It suits me just fine.
I pull on some old gloves (I’ve bailed a couple of times, and the hands get the worst of it in my experience) and push off. The guy who got me started, Greg Fewer, tells me I’m chicken-footed, and that my stance sucks, but I don’t care too much about that either. It works for me. I do a gentle ollie off the path onto the road, push off with my foot again, and I’m on the hill proper. It dips down rapidly, and I can feel the board picking up speed, the wind pulling my hair back and the mist slapping me in the face. I streamline my body, squatting slightly and holding one arm in front and one behind, a surfing type position I suppose, and I’m shooting past the opening to the estate where I live, all those people still in bed or getting their first cup of coffee, and I’m out in the pre-dawn morning, skating for all I’m worth. It is truly exhilarating, the sheer speed, the sense of being at one with the road, the wind, yourself…there is nothing quite like it that I’ve yet experienced. I sense more than see the end of the hill coming up. I need to stop here, as there is a main road at the bottom that is always busy. I turn the board slightly toward the left curb, and grind, feeling the board slow naturally. Near the bottom I turn smoothly out of the grind and coast to a stop. There is a steady flow of cars on the road below me. I pause and ponder the convoy of motorised transport heading South for Waterford and North toward the Quays, and note with some disdain that I’ll be in that line in an hour and a half. These morning sojourns are so damn short. I put the board back in its bag and begin to jog back up the hill.
The Answer is Never
“Outside the local grocery I was stopped for skating the sidewalk. The man
wants to know when my type is going to learn our lesson. Skating away I know
the answer to his question is never.” Lowboy (C R Stecyk III, 1981)
So reads the quote that begins the book I’m really here to review (as well as put down my own ideas about the state of skateboarding today), The answer is never: A skateboarder’s history of the world by Jocko Weyland (Random House, 2002). To be honest, it’s a task I dread and relish all at the same time. The book provides a detailed account of skate history, from the Big Bang to prehistoric man’s fascination with movement, to the Roman’s love of the chariot and speed to the surf revolution in the 1950s and into the genesis of the skateboard in 1958. From then on, the reader is sucked into the heady, exhilarating Dogtown scene in the '70s, the head-addled mania of '80s Hawaii, Pflugerville, the modern saturation and an explanation of what it was that really made people like Tony Hawk the stars they are today. It’s a roller-coaster ride of a book, and I read it in three frantic sittings, one that led long into the night. I was hooked by the second page, but then, I skate. I understand totally the philosophy, ethos, mythology and overall mood of the subculture that is described in this book. Skaters, particularly those of us who are also academics (and I’ve learned that our numbers are growing) will grasp at any seemingly literate and informed analysis of this thing we do. Would it interest a skater without a basic grasp of cultural studies methodologies, with no understanding of the post-modern narrative approach, without an appreciation of the irony of adopting a post-functionalist standpoint on such a seemingly unsuitable subject matter? Damn straight it would! This is an intelligent reading of what skating is, where it has come from and where it’s going. It is a tender love-song to the innocent, unaffected days of skating’s infancy, when people did it not because it looked cool or had associations with teeny-bop proto-punks, but in spite of the fact that main-stream society looked down on it and marginalised those involved in the pursuit of this strange dream.
It is an ode to the raw, untamed, talent of a visionary savant like Jay Adams, who carved a swathe through the '70s skating scene and created a legend that lives on in the gorgeous photography of Glen Friedman and in the memories of those of us who still revere those brave and crazy pioneers. It is a lesson in the trajectory and development of a social movement, taking on in equal measure the fashion, music, literature and personalities involved. It is also an attempt by the author to understand why his life has become so dominated by an activity that has no real purpose other than being…fun! And I think that this is one of the core features of the book. Two-thirds of its 330 pages are autobiographical, dealing with Weyland’s experiences in various locations around the United States and through various stages of his development as an individual and as a skater. At first I was uncertain about this as a narrative device. To be honest, I thought it was self-indulgent. Yet, as I read on, and as I pondered what skating really is all about for me, I realised that this was wholly appropriate. Skating is often a solitary pursuit. Even when you’re doing it with others, it’s ultimately about you, the board, and the surface you’re carving. It’s personal. The book puts this notion across admirably. The other central theme of the book is the way that skating has come full-circle. What do I mean? Well, skating began as a horizontal sport. It remained horizontal for more than a decade. You rode the board on the flat: on pavements and car-parks and dirt courts, wherever there was a flat surface. The first real skate contest in Del Mar in 1975 involved a 12 foot by 12 foot square within which the skaters did a variety of free-style tricks and moves on the flat. In the documentary, Dogtown and the Z-Boys, Stacy Peralta of the Zephyr Team from Dogtown, LA, comments: “We looked at that square of dirt and wondered: What are we supposed to do with that?!?” But that was where skating was at in 1975. The Dogtown skaters would soon elevate it to a totally different type of sport, but in those twilight days, the board stayed more or less on the flat. Then, through the genius of the Z-Boys, came pool-skating. Swimming pools of unsuspecting Californians would be drained while they were at work or visiting with relatives, and the Dogtown boys would skate the pool basin. During the mid-'70s this process gave birth to a completely different type of skating, and revolutionised the sport, destroying all conceptions of what could be done. Skating went aerial. The skaters would skate up the walls of the pools, emerging over the top of the coping blocks, first 5 inches, then 18 inches, eventually more than 5 feet. This led to a total rethink of what could be done with a board. People began seeking out desert pipes to skate. Skaters designed the now ubiquitous half-pipes and they became the standard. But there were people skating in places that didn’t have pipes, pools or skateparks. The skating magazines brought word of what was happening in Dogtown, but this seemed another world to many people who still longed to skate. And so came Street. Skating is, after all, an urban sport. Skaters began to re-think urban architecture, using it in ways the planners had never intended. Walls could be used to grind. Steep kerbs could be ollied onto and off. A trip along a simple footpath could provide myriad opportunities for the resourceful street skater. Skating had come back to the horizontal – but with a difference. Dogtown had proven that the board need not remain on the ground. There are no limits. No rules. No restrictions.
So skating has come full circle, but has developed and changed on the journey. I think that these two themes: that skating is a very personal thing, and the journey from the late '50s to the 21st century, are the main messages of the book. But within these two strands are woven much more.
Gonzo and Punk
An important aspect of the way that I view skating is who I am and how skating
fits into my life and my world. I am a 31-year-old man who runs a department in
a small community college in southern Ireland. I live in a small town, own my
own home and have a wife and children. I took up skating relatively late in
life, when I was 30. However, during my teenage years and early adulthood I can
trace the seeds for this move into the skating subculture. I was raised in a
very working class area, yet went to a decidedly middle/upper class school. I
was in a rock band. I have always worked with the marginalised within society.
In many ways I have spent a good deal of my life on the periphery.
When you live on the edges of mainstream society, there are certain things you use to connect with others who are similarly disposed. When I was growing up in the '80s, it was comic-books, pulp novels (mostly sci-fi, horror or American crime) and heavy metal music. These cultural artefacts offered an outlet, a conduit for communication with a wider frame of reference, a broader social group. Listening to the first album from Guns ‘n’ Roses, or the Gothic musings of The Cure, even the grey creation of The Smiths, showed us that there were others who thought as we did. It gave us hope. Living on the edge of Europe, so far from where anything was happening, it seemed that there was still a link to better things.
Skating was no different. Weyland spends a good deal of time discussing the cultural artefacts that helped the development and spread of skating.
Probably the most important line of communication from the front-lines to the wilderness was Skateboarder magazine. Weyland describes it as an historical document, and also uses his discussion of it to bring to the attention of the uninitiated the work of one of skateboarding’s main ambassadors: Craig Stecyk. Stecyk (or Lowboy as he is often known, although he has used and continues to use a slew of pseudonyms) developed a writing style that is probably most akin to Hunter S Thompson and his fellow gonzos. Entering Stecyks’s name into any decent Search Engine will produce links to many articles online, and I’d recommend taking a look. For anyone who has an interest in skating, his work is a must. In the Chapter, 'Frontier Tales', Weyland critically evaluates some of Stecyk’s major articles from the 1970s, giving us a sense of this man’s unique vision.
Central to Stecyk’s ideology was the clash of the outside world with the particularly subversive subculture of skateboarding. To Stecyk, as to many who skate, this clash is of huge importance. Many skaters have experienced the hoplessness of not being good at anything, of having no place in the mainstream, but then skating leaps out and grabs them, and they are home at last. Lowboy places this in the foreground. He writes for those who really skate, and makes no allowances for those who don’t. His language is full of the jargon and terminology of the skater, of the street gang, of the pachuco. As Weyland puts it: “He is talking to a select group, a select society that understands.” Writing of the move from the horizontal to the vertical and of the birth of street, Stecyk stated: “In actuality, the only limiting factor is that of your imagination…after you leave the realm of traditional preconceptions, you enter the area of endless freedom. There exists no right or wrong, rules are unheard of and the course is uncharted.”
The Chapter, 'Massive', examines books, mainstream magazines, movies and TV, which embraced skating (e.g., Stacy Peralta appearing on Charlie’s Angels – how cool is that?). What emerges is that even though these media tried to show what skating was all about, in general they failed dismally. Skateboarding: The Movie (That Defies Gravity) was horrifically bad, as were many of the books that purported to teach youngsters how to skate or tried to talk about the fashions and styles of the culture. It seems that Skateboarder, Thrasher and the short-lived Hot Action dealt with the sport the most authentically, and much of this was down to the fact that they were written or managed by real skaters.
Weyland lays his own musical tastes on the line fairly early on. For him, music is about punk. He describes the music as being angry, raw and against everything sacred. While this is possibly a narrow description of punk, I think that it demonstrates why so many people picked up on the punk and new-wave explosion during the '70s. The Summer of Love was over, Vietnam had sucked the soul from an entire generation of Americans and the future looked grim. Punk offered an alternative. It pointed the finger of blame at the government, religion, (mis)education, accepted social norms and anything that was “establishment”. For the skateboarder - the urban rebel, the modern outlaw, the pavement subversive – punk was the obvious music of choice. Unfortunately, punk isn’t what it used to be. While there are obviously some great alt-rock groups out there, skating has become, in the main, synonymous with teeny rockers like Avril Levigne and Busted. I think that most of us cringe at this adoption of something that at its heart is anti-commercial by individuals and groups that are so corporate and preened. Another modern usage of the skateboarding image is of course Jackass, the MTV-produced extreme sport/slacker/masochist/stunt show. I’m deeply conflicted about what I think of this. I will admit that I do watch the show from time to time. I have even laughed out loud a few times in between hiding my eyes and grimacing. Do I have an issue with skateboarding being so openly associated with such a shamelessly mindless programme? Well, as I said at the start of this article, skateboarding is not a deep, intellectual activity. I know that I’ve intellectualised it a bit here, and I know that Weyland theorises in the book. But do you know, it’s really just about playing around and enjoying the buzz of moving at speed on a small board with wheels attached. Some people would call that just plain dumb, and I’m sure people laugh at a grown man doing it at 6.30 in the morning. So I think that it’s fine that Jackass has skating associations. After all, the majority of skaters are 15-year-old boys.
Conclusion
Weyland concludes his book with an afterword, entitled 'History is Bunk'. In it,
he warmly reminisces about the people, the experiences, the fun he’s had while
skating, and the impact it has had on his life. He obviously feels a deep sense
of satisfaction that his life-path has encompassed this strange pastime, and
that the pastime has become so much more than a hobby. For him, as for many, it
became an obsession. Weyland does point out, however, that many skaters have
absolutely no interest in the history of their sport. For many, Jay Adams, Tony
Alva and Stacy Peralta are just names with no significance. They don’t care
about Dogtown, or Craig Stecyk or Glen Friedman or any of the “important” names
or features in their unique subculture. Many aren’t even aware that it is a
subculture! Weyland does maintain, though, that this lack of awareness has led to
a “leveling off of development…we live in an age devoid of new departures.”
Weyland admits to being uncomfortable with Street, feeling it a limiting and
passionless horizontal expression (I disagree). Yet he states that skating will
continue, and for every Tony Hawk there is some kid in a small town stepping on
a board for the first time. Or some adult for that matter.
Shane Dunphy is a skateboarder, sociologist and writer. He is co-ordinator of the Childcare Courses at the Central Technical Institute in Waterford.
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