BAMA’s Tales from 1973

VERY Late one night at the 3 Yards.

One fine night we found ourselves in the 3 train yards around the 140’s in Harlem. Nothing major: Spencer, Pistol, Earl, Case and I were just throwing up a few tags and having some good clean fun.

Until we we saw the flashlights of the workmen headed our way. No words needed——we scattered in every direction.  Back in those days train yard workman were tough and they’d mess you up if they got the chance.

To get up out of the layup, you had to run up a hill, jump a fence and scale a wall——then you were home free. Spencer was skinny & nimble—he was over that wall in a trail of dust. I was helping Pistol over the fence—he’d been putting up a lot of pieces but had yet not mastered the fine art of escape. Pistol’s favorite yard, the Newkirk layup for the 2,3 & 5 trains was on ground level. Nice for him.  But all good, we got away clean.

Plan B——as usual, was to meet up in front Stan 153’s apt. building, a good central location.

When we got to Stan’s building, Case (aka Miracle Man) was already sitting on the stoop smoking a cig.  “What took y’all so long?” This doesn’t seem unusuaL, until you know that Case had one arm AND an artificial leg.  And Miracle Man would beat anyone else’s time——all the time.

—Bama Amrl

ThE RAZOR SHOW

The FIRST Graff show: United Graffiti Artists at RAZOR GALLERY, Soho, 1973

Bill Hart was running Razor gallery in the Village on West Broadway—right across from the street from)  from Circle Gallery (Where they showed all the Andy Warhol stuff).

The FIRST real GRAF show and it got attention big time.  Bama, Coco 144, Mico, Flint 707,  Snake 1, Cat 87, T-rex 131,  Phase 2 all exhibited. Apologies to anyone I’ve forgotten, it’s been 52 years.

The New York channels  7,  9,  5,  2 and 4 were all there.  The Post, Daily News, NY Times all printed articles about it.  (Link) MICO was the first to sell, BAMA was second, Then Phase2. Not a fortune, but way more profitable than hitting up a wall.

Hugo Martinez was the driving force behind U.G.A, He was studying sociology at City College on 137th and got hooked on the New York Graff movement.  Getting into U.G.A. was a big deal. Existing members would nominate new members and then voted as a group. I was brought in early on by Riff 170.  When I walk in and saw Coco, Mico, Flint 70 and Snake, I knew I was in.

Next up, Riff and I did a two-man show, 1975, in Tribeca.  Tribeca was a lot more casual and way cheaper back then.

I was living in a studio apt. in a Brooklyn brownstone at St. James Place between Gates and Greene back then.  $175 a month.  We sure won’t see a time like that again.

SHENANIGANS

also known as My Life of Crime . . . unimpressive as it was.

The parents were out of town, rolling the dice and leaving my sister & me without supervision. Fellow ‘riter Kitu 1 (from 127th and Laconia)  and I figured it was time for some shenanigans.

But tonight we decided to head North,  a big numbers spot near Edenwall had a big wall that nobody hit.

I was feeling my Cheerios—I grabbed my fat cap (one of my favs) substituting it for the regular cap on the spray can. We were already experts at cap-switching & experimenting. Got the silver paint and we were good to go.  Today’s Graf writers can purchase a variety of caps—but back then, we were the kings of improvization. Niagra spray starch, Jiffoam oven cleaner caps brought great results).

Off we go to the Edenwall projects. Our usual Hangout spot. I was doing a huge AMRL on the numbers spot wall when Kitu says let’s get the hell outta here.

We decided to walk north for a change. All the way to Mount Vernon / Main Street——tagging as we go.

It turned out the Black Spades also had plans that night.  A beef with some Valley Boys from Lincoln High.  They’re not a gang, they just get called Valley Boys. I was hangin’ with  Lava I & II back then, but I had no intel from him.

We tagged the handball wall, the high school.  That was our big mistake.  The cops were on high alert—due to the Spade/Lincoln beef.

We got rolled on—by not one, not two——no, SIX cop cars rolled up. Way too much of a reception for 2 Graf kids.   Kitu ran—which took some guts, considering we were more or less surrounded. Not my proudest moment, but  I took one look at those cops’ guns and made an executive decision to freeze.  I like being alive. For a hot minute I was a suspect in a stabbing, gang assault, attempted murder. Wow.   Later downgraded to vandalism when the cops saw I had cans of spray paint instead of guns and knives.

What a long, long night. In holding pen, my fellow inmate told me how his night was going:

“I went to the liquor store, my gun wasn’t loaded, man.  The guy, he wasn’t scared—he tried to punk me. So I had to beat the f**k outta him.   Then some guy came to help the old guy—turned out he was a cop.  They thought I was trying to rob the old guy.  I was, but they didn’t know that!!  By the time I got myself together I had 4 guns in my face.  Now I’m up in here.”

Yeah, if you end up in jail, get ready to meet some intense people.

But most important: if you’re gonna do something society calls a crime, choose the day of your crime wisely.   

Sadly, we chose Friday night, worst day to get busted——there goes your weekend.   I called my sister—all of 18.  She couldn’t do anything, but she called the parents. Uh-oh. My father had something to say: “I paid for this 2-week vacation and we’re not coming back to bail your ass out.”

That was a long 2 weeks, but I don’t complain about my father when there were plenty worse.  Superkool 223  got a major cop beatdown—and one of the cops was his dad ! The rest of “my life of crime” went by in a blur.

Got busted on 110th street— why did they take me to the Tombs?

Got busted on Intervale Ave.— why did they take me to Fort Apache?

Was it some kind of Scared Straight” thing? 

Got busted on the 6 train—the one train I would NEVER hit.  My FATHER worked on 6 train and I’m not crazy.

What happened was I got searched and, as usual, two fat markers were the evidence.  In a surprising—no, a SHOCKING turn, my father came to the rescue.  My two markers were very usual colors—they didn’t match the art / vandalism in question.  My father pointed that out and that got me off the hook. Good thing I have weird taste in colors.

THE Boogie Clubs.  

Waaay before Disco, somebody in the Bronx realized that the kids needed something to do & somewhere to go.  The Boogie clubs were a hit.  No liquor license.  Lots of kids.

The Puzzle— if you remember it you’re older than color TV. A club at 167th & Jerome Ave in the Bronx.  No liquor license.  Cheap rent, 75 cents to get in.

The Tunnel :  161 & Grand Concourse (the old Plaza hotel). You could only get in through the alley.

Break dancing was NEW, and everyone on the dance floor would jump back to give the breaker dancer room to move.   

The problem on this night was that when the crowd moved back, it exposed the tag Iron Mike recently thrown down on the floor. (Taggin a floor was its own controversy, you don’t want people stepping’ on your tags.  But Iron Mike marched to his own drummer.)

The security guard was pissed.  He sure took his job seriously.

“Who he f*ck is Iron Mike?”

Seems like half our time was spent scattering to avoid some authority figure.

It didn’t help that we’d also decided to tag up the bathroom.  Maybe not our best idea. The security guard was not amused.

“Who he f*ck is AMRL?”

“Who the f*ck is Tuzo?”

“Who the f*ck is  Sweet Duke?”

We had to lay low for a while. That was punishment enough cause nobody wanted to miss the club scene. Sometimes it felt like we spent half our time scattering to avoid authority figures.