By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
It's a chilly winter night at the half-abandoned Executive Inn near Love Field, and the frigid north wind is knocking the temperatures down even further on the skin. The place is dark and seemingly deserted, except for the noise emanating from several of the rooms. What used to be a motel for quick-visit travelers and other itinerant Dallasites is now an almost derelict building where, for very little money, bands can rent out gutted rooms to hold rehearsals.
You can get consumed by an eerie feeling as you walk around the unused pool and the scattered debris, your ears picking up on the hidden soundtrack emanating from behind closed doors--various snippets of thrash metal, grunge, punk, and sensitive folk rock escaping through the thin old walls. It feels like the set of a movie that takes place in the not-so-distant future, where music is the only way out of this decrepit hell.
Just how many of these young hopefuls will actually get to live their rock-and-roll fantasies is a question that hangs up in the frozen air on this night, but in the room where the Strafers practice, the familiar and cliched illusions are quickly dismissed when the singer puts his mouth close to the mic and bellows against a barrage of twin menacing guitars: "This is musical testimony/It ain't to pick up no chicks/And you're gonna be real lucky/If you hear any guitar licks."
The room resonates, though not so much because of the tumultuous volume. The electricity springs from the righteous fury of young men hungry to be heard above the radio noise and the manufactured anger of many of today's pop stars. The song they're performing is called "The Baddest Gang in Town," and it deals with Dallas' boys in blue. It's the Clash's "Police and Thieves" tailored to fit 1996 Dallas, or any American city.
Its theme--being harassed by those who are supposed to protect and serve just because you don't look right--is familiar and ultimately universal: "They don't know me/They don't know you/The baddest gang in town is the boys in blue/Let's get ready to rumble/It's the people versus the police." It's a far cry from one of the most popular songs of the decade that starts with the catch phrase of the '90s: "Do you have the time to listen to me whine."
"I don't like to whine," he shrugs. "This is about testimony. This is what I feel. They say you can't change anything with music, but it's worse to sit down and not write anything about it."
Twelve tears ago, Wall became infatuated with punk rock and its rebellious call to arms. While a lot of his peers were into punk for the cool clothes and adventurous hairdos, Wall embraced the political manifestos of the Clash and the biting social commentary of the Jam. He became convinced that young music is much more than two chords played fast and loud; he believed in the power of the words shouted over those chords, and he believed rock and roll could empower kids who wouldn't be heard if they didn't sling a guitar over their shoulder.
Wall began playing drums in 1983 in a band he formed with his brother, and they called themselves the Rad Boys. Not long after that, Ryan switched to guitar and began writing songs for his next band, the Dive Bombers, which released a single in 1988.
"By that time, the local scene sucked," Wall insists. "There was only the Theater Gallery and the Twilite Room, and the live scene wasn't anything. The Bombers broke up in 1989, but we dragged it along with another lineup until '91, but that wasn't much."
When it all turned funk and grunge in the early '90s, Wall packed it in for a while--mostly, he says now, because he couldn't find any other musicians with whom he shared the belief that rock and roll could change the world. In 1993, he strapped his guitar back on when he fronted the short-lived Kahili Knock. After that, it was back to bulletin boards in music stores, placing and perusing the "musicians wanted" ads.
Last October, 18-year-old Illinois native Dylan Baerwaldt saw Wall's ad in a music store and called him. Fresh out of high school in Springfield, where he played with hard-core bands, Baerwaldt moved to Dallas and started looking for fellow musicians.
"I called several people before I saw Ryan's ad, and most of them wanted to do Rush covers," Baerwaldt recalls. "Ryan's ad mentioned punk and the Clash, and I knew I wanted to be in a band like that."
Drummer Brian Sidener, 24, came to the band as a family friend who happened to be at the right place at the right time.
While they rehearse, the emotional intensity is overwhelming, as are the similarities to the Clash: In their staccato riffs and sing-along choruses (and song titles), the Strafers sound almost as if they're a subconscious tribute band to the British punk war-horses. "Rebel Radio" recalls "This Is Radio Clash," and "Have a Gun" could be "Guns on the Roof," especially when the latter borrows the line, "I fought the law and the law won," from the Bobby Fuller song the Clash made its own. In "Enemy Lines," the Strafers break into the chorus of the reggae classic "Pressure Drop," another song to which the British gave new life.