I remember the moment I realized writing a book about the Dead Kennedys would be something of an uphill battle. It was in February of 2002. I had just been introduced to East Bay Ray, the group’s long-faced guitarist, in the middle of an empty rock venue in Jacksonville, FL. The DK were on their first “reunion” tour with Dr. Know singer Brendan Cruz taking the place of absent original vocalist Jello Biafra. The only thing that could have dragged me to one of these dubious shows was a personal invitation from the band, which I had actually received in response to the letters I sent them a few months earlier requesting their help with what I hoped would be the ultimate written account of San Francisco’s most subversive and influential punk band.

I had no idea the Dead Kennedys were going to reform and tour without their most famous rabble-rousing member, the aforementioned J. Biafra. It was an idea (or fact, rather) that literally nauseated me. It was bad enough watching them all sue each other in 2000. Now they were forever shattering any pretense of the underground spirit and brotherhood I thought they possessed by going out on the road with some Eddie Munster skater dude in Jello’s place. The day I read that was the same day I peeled the red, black, and white DK logo sticker off the back of my trusty Toyota Tercel. Still, I wanted to write the book one day, and they were nice enough to put me on the guest list of this Jacksonville show so we could meet face-to-face and talk turkey. So I went, tape recorder and pieces of my shattered dreams in hand.

Anyway, the moment: I had just met East Bay Ray, and he expressed an interest and willingness to help me in my quest to pen the greatest Dead Kennedys book ever written (as did bass player Klaus Flouride and unbelievably ripped drummer D.H. Peligro—that guy is totally worthy of the stupid “tickets to the gun show” gag). So I’m sitting in this dank venue in this foreign city, three hours from home, an eternity before show time, not having anyone to talk to aside from my pal who came with me and my brand new friends the Dead Kennedys, when Ray suddenly asked my buddy and I to vacate the general area.

“I’m sorry,” he said firmly, “but everything we say can and will be used against us.”

It was like something out of a White House press briefing. Not wanting to be Woodward and Bernstein to Ray’s Nixon, my friend and I skedaddled to the parking lot where I wondered to myself, Aren’t we on the guest list? Aren’t we supposed to be their guests? We just drove three hours to get here. Why are we in the mother fucking parking lot?

I would learn that this kind of thing was par for the course with the man born Raymond Pepperell. In later, lengthy discussions conducted via phone, the guitarist refused to comment on some of the strangest things, including exactly what notes he was playing in certain Dead Kennedys songs. I’ve heard of trying to maintain an air of mystery, but come on, dude. These records have been out since the late ’70s. There are eight-year-olds on the internet who have mastered the entire Hendrix catalog. It won’t destroy the façade if you tell one person what fret you were sliding up to on “Bleed for Me.” Yet I cannot and will not completely bash this man, for he was kind enough to burn many a Sunday night talking about his storied punk past with this fumbling, first-time investigative reporter on the other side of the country. East Bay Ray was more than accommodating. It’s just that sometimes I felt like I was pulling teeth over the silliest things.

Of course, this guarded nature is what made the Dead Kennedys so captivating in the first place and inspired me to attempt to write their book. The DK made a sizable impact on the American punk scene with their sly, stinging brand of psychedelic/jazz-infused hardcore. They influenced scores of future indie rock giants—the group is mentioned in nearly every chapter of Michael Azerrad’s 1980s underground rock chronicle, Our Band Could Be Your Life. Yet, aside from Jello, no one really knew anything about the Dead Kennedys—where they came from, what they were like, and where they ended up once the band dissolved. Aside from one or two entries in rock encyclopedias and a handful of sparse websites, there was just nothing to go on. They were like some kind of weird superhero group that showed up to buck the system for a few years and then evaporated as quickly as they came. I could watch an hour of VH-1 and tell you Adam Ant’s life story. The Dead Kennedys were one of my favorite groups, but at the height of my fandom I couldn’t even tell you any of their real names.

It should come as no surprise then that East Bay Ray’s occasional fussiness would not be the only hurdle I faced in attempting to write this book. Aside from the crushing wave of disinterest from every publisher slash lit agent I contacted with my idea and my relative lack of experience in the field, I realize now that I chose the worst possible time to begin my research—just over a year after the conclusion of the shocking Dead Kennedys court battle. The wounds were still fresh from that legal melee, in which Ray, Klaus, and D.H. took Jello to court over unpaid royalties, publishing issues, and a bunch of other stuff that was utterly comical only because these guys had spent so much time as a band mocking the giant failure that was the American legal system (the three non-Jellos won, by the way, getting their money and wrestling control of their tunes away from Biafra). Appeals were still ongoing when I met the Kennedys; thus, there was a lot of stuff they didn’t want to or couldn’t legally talk about. Furthermore, the figures surrounding the band—friends, producers, club owners, fellow musicians, etc.—were keeping their traps shut for fear of looking sympathetic to the wrong side. This cost me an interview with Jello pal Mike Patton, which still burns to this day. So many Mr. Bungle questions remain unanswered!

One person unconcerned with band loyalty was original DK drummer Bruce “Ted” Slesinger. Actually, it didn’t sound like Slesinger had much passion for anything save the San Francisco Giants (he’s a season ticket holder, apparently). When I tracked the reclusive percussionist down and finally got him on the phone between home games, you could cut the apathy with a knife. 

“Well, I guess I can help you,” he sighed heavily into the phone. “I just don’t know who would really care at this point.”