DISGRACELAND - GG Allin: Live Fast, Die

Episode Date: September 11, 2018

GG Allin, the notoriously transgressive punk rocker, pushed the limits further than anyone before or after. For GG, there were no limits. No laws. He lived and performed well outside the boundaries of the mainstream and saw himself as the leader of what he called "The Rock 'N Roll Underground," for whom he pledged he would one day make the ultimate sacrifice: commit suicide on stage. Listen to this episode of Disgraceland to hear about GG Allin's final days. Buckle up, Sickos. To see the complete list of contributors, visit ⁠disgracelandpod.com⁠ This episode was originally published on September 11, 2018. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠YouTube⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠X⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTok⁠ To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. Disgraceland is an adult storytelling podcast. The themes are for a mature audience. The language is explicit. You know this. However, this episode pushes the limits of the word explicit.

In this episode, the subject's behavior and the language used to describe it is highly offensive. So this is a warning. It goes without saying that this isn't for kids. And if you yourself aren't constitutionally inclined to handle the highly transgressive world of Gigi Allen, then this episode isn't for you either. But if you're the type of sick bastard that slows down to look at a car crash on the side of the road,

then pull over right now, unbuckle your kids from their car seats, and throw them out on the street, step on that accelerator, and turn it the fuck up like Gigi Allen would. The stories about transgressive punk rocker Gigi Allen are the most insane stories you'll hear about any performer in the history of music.

He preached bestiality, incest, and pedophilia. He bludgeoned himself on stage and would smear his fans' faces with fresh blood. He'd binge Xlax before shows and defecate in front of his audience and share the results. More on that later. Upon signing a recording contract with Homestead Records,

Gigi literally pissed on label chief, Gerard Cosloy. And Gigi Allen would physically assault his audience. he'd sexually assault his fans on and off stage. One such sexual assault would land him in prison for 18 months, and all in all, he was imprisoned more than 50 times. He was born to a psychotic father in Lancaster, New Hampshire, who named him Jesus Christ Alan, because supposedly his boy was the new Messiah,

and Gigi's older brother couldn't pronounce Jesus, because some supreme being tied his tongue so as not to allow such blasphemy be spoken than a Messiah could possibly come from New Hampshire. So the cute little sibling nickname of Gigi, baby talk for Jesus, stuck. The Allens lived in a log cabin with no running water, and Gigi's dad kept his family isolated from the outside world.

Murder suicide by the old man was constantly threatened. The apple didn't fall too far because Gigi would grow up to infamously claim that he was the rock and roll Messiah and that his body was a sacrifice to his people, the rock and roll underground, and that one day, Gigi would make the ultimate sacrifice for them. But beyond all of this madness, Gigi Allen made great music. That's right, great music.

You don't believe me? Fuck off. I'm right. Sorry. That's what G.G. Allen would have said. But it doesn't make me wrong. G.G. Allen did make some great music. I mean, there's a lot of shit to sift through,

but if you like it loud, hard, and fast, then you can hardly do better than Gigi's hated in the nation cassette on Roar. It's great. That music at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Fox Trot Swinging Flutes, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights for That's the Way Love Goes by Janet Jackson. And why would I play you that specific slice of down-tempo Bohemian cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song on June 28, 1993, and that was the day that Gigi Allen,

the quote-unquote only true rock and roller left in the world publicly claimed on national television that he'd kill himself on stage and take his audience with him. On this episode, Fox Trot Swinging Flutes, Transgressive Punk, down-tempo, Bohemian cheese in the rock and roll underground. Grab onto your bowels, people, you're about to meet your god, Gigi Allen. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace name. Got up and had a shitty breakfast.

Went back to lockup and slept till 10. Shaved, got out and watched a movie, tougher than leather. Then back to lockup to jerk off. After dinner, I got a visit from Linda, still through glass. But she showed me her shaved cunt. I would have paid a hundred bucks to suck it but went back to my cell to jerk off again. Use the phone all afternoon to try to get some fucking money. Went to lock up and wrote some lyrics. Started jerking off again.

I'm getting a scab on the end of my cock. Wrote to Charles Manson today. I was fucking withdrawn all night and just stayed to myself. Gigi Allen was in jail again. Actually, this time, it was a prison. Born Jesus Christ Alan and nicknamed Gigi, Alan may have shared our Lord and Savior's name, but he shared his penis size with Adolf Hitler's rumored micro penis.

I know this because Gigi performed in nothing but a dog collar in combat meets. In his beyond punk-as-fuck performances, where he was known to physically assault his... audience, punching them with the butt end of his microphone, spitting on them and worse, defecating on stage, smearing himself in his own shit, and throwing it at his paying crowds. His performances regularly resulted with Gigi winding up in jail for indecency or assault, and understandably so. But his latest 18-month prison stint was for something far worse.

Assault was intent to do great bodily harm less than murder. Sexual assault from the stage in the midst of Gigi shows was old hat. It was nothing for Gigi to jump off stage and grab a man or woman by the ears and force his his or her face into his filthy shit-smeared penis. This usually resulted in another audience member, pummeling the distracted frontman with a clinched fist or a steel-toe boot while his band, the murder junkies, including his Hitler-Mistachioed brother Merle on bass,

a rotating cast of characters, including for a moment the legendary D.D. Ramon on guitar, and of course, Dino, the naked drummer, all played on, seemingly oblivious to the obscene spectacle playing out in front of them. But sexual assault offstage, that was a different matter. Leslie Marie Morgan, a 25-year-old waitress from Ann Arbor, Michigan, wanted to marry Gigi Allen. But first, she wanted Gigi and the rest of his band to come. come on her at the same time. However, the complications of synchronized ejaculation being what they are, Leslie would wind up disappointed. So the obsessed fan and Gigi decided to grab some alone time in Leslie's motel room. Gigi Allen, who was on record stating that there is no good sex without danger involved,

handcuffed Leslie to the bed and proceeded to burn her with cigarette butts and cut her breasts and stomach with a butterfly knife. Gigi later claimed that all of this was done at Leslie's instruction. And supposedly, when Leslie learned Gigi had no intention of marrying her, shocker, she then decided to report Gigi to the police. Or so went the story from Gigi, who claimed he was being set up. Whatever, Gigi Allen's abusive mistreatment of women is well documented, and whether you believe his side of the story, or Morgan's, I happen to believe hers, the dude belonged behind bars. And that's what happened. Gigi Allen came to the attention of the FBI

through his pen pal, John Hinkley, the would-be assassin of President Ronald Reagan. Turns out, Gigi had been corresponding with Hinkley, whose mail from behind bars was being monitored by the feds. And when they ran Gigi's name, they came up with the assault warrant in Michigan, and Gigi was quickly snatched up, tried, and sentenced. Which, for Gigi Allen fans, was a drag

because it meant that Gigi would not be able to make do on a promise he'd made them. But on Halloween night, 1989, G.G. Allen would kill himself on stage. I am in this fucking dungeon, but the leader of the pack

is always the one who pays the price and takes the fall. And to do what I do is like Russian roulette, and you have to be willing to go to jail. If there's only some way to escape, but as I pick my brain apart with the thought, and realize I am here as a sacrifice of my art, as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross

and came back at my birth. I now must suffer and die for all you fuckers out there drinking, doping, fucking, rocking, loud, obnoxious, partying and doing what I would be excessively doing, but because I am king, I must pave the road of destruction for all of you.

Spill your blood from me while I tear my skin apart for you and bleed. Underground societies have long been part of our culture, of most every culture, actually. Here in America, the mafia, anarchists, the extreme antifa and alt-right, white supremacists, communists, the KKK, Nazi skinheads, the Bloods, the Crips, the Weathermen, and the Molly Maguire's before all of them, were each made up of groups of people who lived outside the bounds of mainstream society

and therefore forced to exist underground. Gigi Allen lived outside the bounds of the mainstream, and he saw himself as the leader of his own anti-social group, the rock and roll underground, a group of disenfranchised youth, living out on the margins. If you're over 35, maybe you remember these kids. Dreadlocked crustpunks panhandling outside of Kim's video on St. Mark's, skinheads slinging weed and playing hacky sack with the hippies in the pit at Harvard Square.

The pre-Nirvana Midwestern teen with the cool cousin in New Haven who sent him the Revelation Records Comp, but for whom that was somehow not hard enough. The two smart for his own good Ivy League dropout with the black flag shirt who worked for the local moving company and stank like beer at 8 in the morning. While you and your parents likely ignored these kids, shuffling past them in the street, hoping they didn't strike up conversations with your girlfriend or your sister, gently reminding them to wipe their feet and cover their mouths, these marginalized youths were discovering and falling for Gigi Allen,

who, if they didn't believe was actually their lord and savior, they at least believed to be immensely more entertaining than whatever shit the mainstream or lamestream punk cultures were peddling at the time. I mean, the dude shoved hot dogs up his ass on stage and then ate them. He bloodied himself in front of his audience with broken beer bottles. He'd take any drug you put in front of him, booze and pills and powders, choose your medicine. The rock and roll underground saw no limits, no laws.

It was total rebellion against mainstream music and culture. While in prison, G.G. Allen honed his manifesto. If you believe in the real underground of rock and roll, then now is the time to do something about it. The time is now to overthrow the current situations and declare war on the record companies, radio stations, publications, clubs, and anyone who promotes the whole so-called scene as it now stands. We need to destroy it all and take it back from the corporate phonies and conformists. Action must be taken now and blood must be spilled. It was 1991.

Guns and roses were riding high on the charts. and Gigi hated them, saw them as the ultimate betrayal of real rock and roll, total corporate ass suck posers. To make matters worse, Gigi's beloved Ramones were cozying up to Axel and Slash in hopes of landing some opening slots for what was at the time the world's biggest band. This disgusted Gigi. In Gigi's mind, guns and roses were to be destroyed, not praised, and definitely not by the fucking Ramones.

After penning his manifesto in prison and a prison, Upon his release, Gigi was focused. This was no longer just about drinking, fucking, and fighting. This was war. And Gigi saw himself as the ultimate weapon, a ballistic missile of filth and destruction to be deployed by the rock and roll underground at his discretion against society.

His theater of war, the stage. His shows were not to entertain but to annihilate. All the blood, shit, piss, physical, and sexual assault that he pummeled his audience with wasn't a shock. it was to subvert, to break down any and all remaining social norms in his quest to destroy society. And that meant taking his act as far as it could go. That meant making the ultimate sacrifice. And that meant doing the unthinkable.

This is the decade for final mutilation. Time to get rock and roll out of the hands of the masses. And back to the people who will not accept comfort or conformity at any cost. and then I will commit suicide on stage and the blood of rock and roll will become the poison of the universe forever. Talk is fucking cheap. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Samuel Beckett, William Shakespeare, Gigi Allen.

This troika was what Judge John J. Demado was pondering in room 623 of the Milwaukee County Courthouse in MacArthur Square in March of 1989. Gigi's court-appointed lawyer, Peter Goldberg, was trying to make the case that Gigi's performance was part of an artistic tradition, scatology, incorporating human excrement into one's work, was merely an artistic statement, and Gigi Allen should be afforded the same freedom of expression as Billy Shakespeare before him. The judge called bullshit and sentenced Gigi to 90 days in jail for indecency.

More specifically, for shitting on the stage of Milwaukee's old rock cafe, and for then throwing it at his audience. It was official. Taking a dump on stage was not art. Prison sucked. So Gigi masturbated, out of boredom, a lot. Supposedly by his count, more than a hundred times in 30 days. But today was different.

He had visitors. Two young kids, one from somewhere in the northwest, the other from Kansas City. They were both punk rockers and fans of Gigi's. The short one, Kurt was his name, with the acne and greasy blonde hair. his band, Nirvana, sounded to Gigi like a bunch of wannabe's sell-out corporate crap. The other kid's band, The Flaming Lips, sounded like a disease you'd get from hanging out down by the peers.

Gigi told him to get the fuck out of there with their lame asses almost as soon as he received them. He spat at them and told them they looked like a couple of quote-unquote Kansas City faggots who wanted their dick sucked, so they bounced. And in no time, Gigi bounced out of jail, and then back into jail, and then out of jail and then back in again. And the arrests for a decency, assault, and various parole violations were constantly landing Gigi behind bars. The jail time did wonders for his rock and roll outlaw image, but caused Gigi to renege on his promise of killing himself on stage on Halloween, 1989, because he was locked up. And then when he promised to make good on his suicidal pledge the following year on Halloween 1990, and he landed behind bars once again thwarting his suicide,

the rock and roll underground started to smell a rat. Claims started to bubble up in the punk rock press of Gigi being a false Messiah, a publicity star of shock-rocking charlatan whose only interest was in selling records and tickets to his shows. No better than Alice Cooper or guns and posers. June 24th, 1993,

a Manhattan television studio, the Jane Whitney Show, part Sally Jesse Raphael, part Jerry Springer, early 90s television, pre-reality TV. The gig was to grab a bunch of marginal figures and throw them up on stage in front of a live TV audience and see what kind of shit starts.

On the panel today, a mix of flamboyant, drugged out club kids, including the notorious Michael Allig, a straight-laced cop from Nutley, New Jersey, in a cheap suit, and on the other side of him, two punk rock women and Gigi Allen. Gigi shaved bald for battle,

thick handlebar mustache, tattooed chest barreling out of his leg, leather jacket, dog collar, shorts, and combat boots. He was in peak form, amped the fuck up, taking every opportunity to verbally go at the cop, Sergeant Steve Rogers, preaching his normal rap, real rock and roll, the underground, rape, incest, best, and doing his best to somehow ignore the spectacle of Allig and the rest of the club kids on the other side of the stage.

Sergeant Rogers couldn't let any of it go. He compared Gigi to Hitler, and Gigi stood up. pointing and yelling into the crowd, I'm going to have your daughter, I'm going to have your daughter. He told the cop he could have any woman he wanted and that the cop was probably married to some old fat bitch. And the audience booed, cheered, laughed nervously. Alec spread out flamboyantly on the stage doing his best Marilyn Monroe.

And for the most part, he was ignored. This was now the Gigi Allen show. And that's when it happened. Just when it seemed like there were no more lines to cross. On national television, Gigi Allen looked into the camera and said, I live this life every day. When I'm on stage, it's my therapy.

And the ultimate performance will be when I reach my peak. I'll commit suicide, and I'll take your kids with me. The crowd was silent. And Jane Whitney looked at Gigi and asked, What does that mean you'll take our kids with you? Gigi sat back in his chair and calmly said, it means I'll kill them too. He then leaned forward into the camera and said,

When you've reached your peak, it's time to die. Well, my body is the rock and roll temple, and my flesh, blood and body fluids are a communion to the people. Whether they like it or not, I mean, I'm not out to please anybody. My rock and roll is more not to entertain, not to entertain, but to a way. annihilate. I'm trying to bring danger back into rock and roll. A day after the Jane Whitney teleifies shit show, Gigi Allen and the murder junkies were scheduled to play the gas station in East Village performance space that was, of course, once an actual gas station on the corner of Avenue

B in East 2nd Street in Manhattan. News of the live suicide pledge on television had Gigi fans thinking that this might finally be the day. This might finally be the show where Gigi did it, or he killed himself on stage. But that day, Gigi was doing his best to kill himself off stage. Gigi Allen was holed up across the street from the club at his friend Johnny Pukes apartment, a five-story walk-up. Johnny's girlfriend, Gigi, a girl he'd been hanging out with, photographer Richard Kern, and members of the murder junkies,

who were all day-drinking and waiting for Johnny to return from a coke run. They didn't have to wait long. Johnny darted across the street to one of those long guys. on New York City delis, where you bang on the locked door adjacent to the store, a voice would ask you what we wanted, you'd name your drug and the amount, put the money into the slot,

and within seconds your cocaine would be pushed back through anonymously. The Coke was a welcome distraction. There was a lot of time before the show. Gigi dove in headfirst. The blow helped him get into the red headspace to perform. Gigi blew line after line after line

and talked crazy manifesto BS. Underground was the one. He was their leader. He'd show them at the show tonight. Jane Whitney, what a bitch. Fuck that cop too and the skinny little faggot from the limelight while he was at it. More coke was needed. Johnny Pugh kicked the deli again and then bolted back up the stairs to his apartment, dump the coke on the table for Gigi to dive into it again. So he did. In between pulls from his bottle of Jim Beam. It was late afternoon and close to showtime and Gigi was turned up, not yet ready to perform.

Tonight was going to be different. Tonight was going to be special, and he had best prepared accordingly. He did another line, and he was twitching, sucking on his gums, bouncing his right leg uncontrollably. His wide eyes scanned the room for non-believers. Sweat started to slip down out from under the only thing in the world that he actually loved, his vintage black Nazi World War II helmet. He did another line. The Ramon's Pet Cemetery made its way out of John.

he pukes boombox. Despite Gigi's better instincts, he found himself digging the song, but he'd never say so. He did another line. Fuck the Ramones. Fucking posers. And fuck Dedi too. Another line. Pet Cemetery kept playing from the boombox.

Gigi thought of being buried. We thought of a grave. It brought Gigi back to that place of ultimate darkness. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. his father had called him down to the basement, and Gigi descended the creaky steps and turned to see his imposing dad grinning at his work. He showed his young son what he'd done.

There, in the dirt floor basement, he dug four graves, one for him, one for his mom, one for his older brother, Merle, and one for him, Jesus Christ, Alan. Someone turned up the boombox. He'll moan snapped Gigi out of it. Gigi did another line. Then another. Someone mentioned that the band was ready for him.

The tiny makeshift club was jammed. 200 kids, all waiting for him. And Gigi knew why this show was packed. It was punk rock Harry Carrey time, kids. This Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, your rock and roll Messiah is going to off himself in public. And you get to watch it live. The rock and roll underground smelled blood. And they thought, no, they hoped that this was the show where Gigi

would kill himself as he promised on the Jane Whitney show. But Gigi wasn't ready. More Coke. More Jim Beam. Someone blasted the boombox. The stooges, Gimmy Danger, bled out all over the room. Sinister. Iggy Pop, slinky baritone wrapped itself around the ears of everyone in the room

like a snake charmer on an overnight shift. Gigi's mood was changing, from darkness to white light, white heat-seeking human fuck machine. What the hell time was it? Were they going to do this show or what? Gigi pulled off his bottle of Jim Bean and under the smoke. He was sweating profusely now. He could feel the walls of his skull trembling.

His heart was pounding. He swore he could see his breastplate rising. His hands shook. He could feel the blood pulsing to his dick. He knew it for sure now. He was ten feet fucking tall. He then quickly dive-bombed his face into a fat line of coke, cramed his head up like a punk rock cobra.

His eyes, closed, rolled backward into his skull. His body froze for a moment, holding a roll dollar bill in his right hand. He slowly opened his eyes, stared vacantly across the room and said, Now it's time. Gigi bounded down the stairs, across Avenue B, and threw the rabble of punks hanging outside into the front door, through the crowd, and up onto the stage. The audience was giddy and tense with the sight of Gigi, wearing nothing but combat boots, women's panties, and a dog collar.

He grabbed the mic and bashed himself in the forehead. Blood immediately covered his face. The audience went apeshit. The band launched him to shoot, Knife Strangle Beat and Crucify, Gigi's anthem to the rock and roll underground. And when they did, Gigi jumped off the stage, took a swing at the nearest audience member, and landed his fist in the side of his head.

The dude swung back at Gigi. Gigi, not missing a beat, continued to spit out the vocals while swinging wildly of his fan. The band played on. The audience was riveted. The chorus hit and Gigi knew that this show was it. The crowd was with him. The rock and roll underground was ready.

For a moment anyway, but in the end the chaos proved to be too much. After one song, the audience cleared out. They were scared, shitless, and the club owner pulled the plug, literally. Gigi was incensed and freaked the fuck out. He started berating the soundman, throwing bar stools, crazed with blood covering his head and face. Shit, when did that happen? Smearing his chest, maybe it was just always there now. Gigi followed his fearful minions out of the club onto the sidewalk, screaming,

at them, pussies, posers. He then ran straight onto East 2nd Street and threw himself naked in front of a bus. The bus managed to stop in time. The crowd on the street lost it. Gigi heard the sound of sirens. Someone had called the cops. Fuck. If Gigi couldn't kill himself, he shit sure wasn't going back to jail. Not again. He tried to casually blend into the sidewalk traffic and walk his way out of the chaos he'd started. But blending in wasn't an option. for Gigi Allen. He was a six-foot-tall tall ball dude with a handlebar mustache

wearing only women's panties and combat boots covered in blood and feces walking down the street in broad daylight. And worse than that, there was a crowd of punk rockers gathering behind him. Shit, this was bad.

Gigi and his small entourage told the punkers to fuck off and stop following him, but it was no use. The scatological pied piper had gotten what he wished for, punk rock Messiah status. His rock and roll underground

followers weren't going to miss out on the chance to see their hero off himself. So they ignored Gigi's pleas to stop following him and kept up their pursuit through the streets of the East Village. And Gigi held a cab and jumped in the back seat with his crew. And the driver almost pissed himself. Uh-uh, get out. I'm calling the cops. The driver bailed on his own cab.

Gigi and company were forced to get out and hightail it back through St. Mark's over to Johnny Puk's place. Somehow, they made it without getting consumed by the crowd or picked up by the cops, and Gigi was safe, from prison anyway, but not from death. Despite his efforts to kill himself on stage or in the middle of East Second Street by throwing himself in front of a bus, Gigi Allen would indeed die that day, but in the most cliched rock star way possible. On the floor of Johnny Puk's shitty fifth floor walkup from a heroin overdose. That night, after the show, and after the romp through the East Village with his minions and

hot pursuit, Gigi would make his way back to his friend's apartment and proceed to snort copious amounts of heroin. In the end, he laid down to sleep, wearing what he'd worn on stage that day, with the addition, of course, of his prize Nazi helmet. He closed his eyes and never opened them again. He was dead. And what a cop-out. To Gigi's true fans, his death was tragic, but not for the reasons you'd expect. To Gigi's fans, Gigi Allen blew. He should have died as he said he would, live in front of his followers. By his own hand, suicide right on stage. It would have been enough for their teenage lust.

It would have been unlike any other performer before him. Or instead, in the streets, in front of his fans, who'd finally fully galvanized behind him. Literally, they were there, ready, willing, able, to not only watch him die, but to do whatever he wanted them to. It was a missed opportunity, and to cap it all off, instead of making history and going out in a punk rock blaze of glory, G.G. Allen died a pedestrian's death, like a common junkie, like Jim Morrison, Sid Vicious, Janice Joplin, and the rest of the cliched corporate rock hacks who came before him, like a true sellout. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis,

for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com

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