In May of 1984 I bought my first skateboard, a Sims Billy Ruff. Iʼd
never enjoyed anything as much and spent every waking moment that
summer skating; within a month it had consumed my life. Thrasher and Transworld
magazines became intermingled with the X-Men and Spider-Man comics
piled next to my bed. Powell Peralta and Vision skate videos took the
place of MTV. Over time I met other kids in my neighborhood that
skated; we built ramps, skated curbs, hunted new parking garages to
bomb, and, eventually, we found punk rock.
I found it after one of my new buddies learned Van Halen was my most
favorite band. He told me heʼd come over later to copy me some of his
punk records. I insisted nothing would ever replace Diamond Dave, but
he was adamant I give these albums a shot. The five tapes he recorded
for me from his vinyl collection that fateful afternoon included Minor
Threat, The Exploited, Suicidal Tendencies, Agent Orange, and The
Vandals. Looking back I commend him, it was a good starting lineup for
a virgin. In the next year, by the time I was thirteen, it became a way
of life. I voraciously consumed every punk rock record I could find and
soon began sneaking out to go to all-ages punk shows. Loosing me as
their number one fan also lead to Van Halen disbanding.
Punk rock was more to us than just passionate DIY music with something
to say, it was energy infused with a feeling of camaraderie—it was
ours. It wasn’t concocted to sell records to millions of teens. It
didnʼt reinforce the great American pass time of alcohol-fueled
misogyny and the celebration of the homogenized meaningless music that
dominated the radio and MTV. It was kids, not much older than us,
saying exactly what they wanted, doing it without outside help or
money. In no other place could an adolescent get identifiable honesty
that reflected his or her own observations and sense of right and
wrong. Punk offered us rational emotional reactions, conveyed exactly
how the writer conceived of them, with no outside influence.
I can now see punk musicʼs lasting corruptive influence over me—it made
me demand this personal voice and freedom in all aspects of life. As
they say—punk rock changed my life. I canʼt remember a time I was
happier than when I was thirteen years old. Reading comic books,
listening to records, pining over girls and skating—it was a delicious
soup full of good-taste stuffs. My adult life has been spent trying to
recapture it, “stunned adolescence” I believe they call it. This book
is certainly a symptom of that pursuit. A love letter to those
formative years and the impressions they left on me.
Black Heart Billy began as a sketch on some duo-shade board in
1998, a design Iʼd done for a local bandʼs tee shirts. I threw around
the idea of doing a BHB comic with a buddy of mine,
writer/artist Harper Jaten, but nothing ever materialized. It wasnʼt
until a year later, when I moved to San Francisco and began working
with Kieron Dwyer that BHB became a reality. I didnʼt have any
ideas how to handle the book so Kieron and I began doing writing
sessions at a local dinner. The idea that inspired us was to simply do
a stream-of-consciousness story that would be whatever we wanted it to
be, pure fun, no pretence or self seriousness.
That opened up the gates and the entire first story came together in
one coffee-fueled evening. We got to work drawing it that week. Not
long after we finished the first few pages Harper saw what he was
missing and got inspired to contribute.
Over the next few months the three of us did a couple of issues before
the financial realities of selling a black and white humor book about a
skate punk in the superhero-dominated comic industry made it impossible
to keep Billy going. Given how unconsciously focused Iʼd become on the
goal of making a living doing the book, this became a sour point in the
production of BHB. I felt as if Iʼd failed.
What I couldn’t see through my financial problems was the initial motivation in doing BHB,
to do something because I wanted to—to do it for the love of it—not for
the money. Once you focus on sales you change the intention of your
art, you risk altering your creation in hopes of making it more
accessible to a wider audience—you risk pandering. After declining a
purchase offer from a local animation studio we set BHB aside, content with letting the book rest.
Some time later, the BHB comics found their way to Fat
Mike, NOFX sing-songer and owner of San Francisco based record label
Fat Wreck Chords. Mike called us to see about doing covers and BHB
stories in a new comic/catalogue. I was thrilled; it was a big deal to
me. An opportunity to see Billy live again while reaching a wider
audience of like-minded people, a perfect scenario. Under Fat Wreck we
did three comics with new BHB stories that we cooked up with Mike and the guys at Fat. I even ended up doing an album cover for NOFX and No Use for a Name.
I got my hopes back that weʼd be able to now sell enough copies of BHB
to keep it going. We did a collection of all the stories at another
publisher and though we sold a decent amount of books we didn’t make
enough to buy a load of groceries. We pitched the book to a few other
publishers as an ongoing series but no one could get behind it.
Realizing we were back to trying to get the book to break through in
the cold, uncaring comic industry, we submitted, and again laid the
book to rest and moved on.
The Ramones gave birth to punk rock. They watched it grow into a
movement but they never enjoyed as much financial success from their
work as they’d have liked, or earned. When you love something and pour
your time, energy, and life into it, it can be hard to accept that it
won’t find a wider audience or pay your bills. It can corrupt the love
you have for it. Looking at the new IDW master edition of Black Heart Billy
shipping this week, with its gorgeous new color work by Nerve Agent and
Pitch Black front man Kevin Cross, I feel incredibly proud of what this
book is. If it never reaches a wider audience or makes me a single
dollar, the hundreds of hours invested in producing it are well spent
as I remind myself that ultimately—we made this book for us.
A group of friends, doing whatever we wanted, making a comic without
outside support. One that weʼd have enjoyed, say, back in 1984…
