Chapter Six:
The Demands of Popularity

“There was money to be made in this counterculture thing,” biographer Peter Whitmer says of Hunter S. Thompson’s timely transformation into the “Impresario of the Weird” and his reporting of the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club. “The American fascination with the group,” Whitmer adds, “seemed to have no end; books articles, coffee–table photo collections were snatched off the presses by an eager public.” (1) The country’s wide–eyed interest in motorcycle outlaws, their violent nature, their flaunting of authority and their sexual escapades could not be completely satisfied by the publishing industry, however.

        As curiosity surrounding the Hell’s Angels turned to outrage in the 1960s, popular media were quick to exploit the outlaw biker image. The core of the biker myth was created and popularized on movie theater screens in the late 1960s and early 1970s. It was only a matter of time, then, before other entertainment media borrowed elements of the myth, a sure sign of its popularity. Film historian Ian Jarvie’s description of a moment of economic synchronicity between producers and consumers might explain the film genre’s immediate appeal. (2) But the contemporary biker myth, nearly unchanged from the one introduced in Roger Corman’s The Wild Angels in 1966, remains a media staple. It has shown a persistent ability to be molded, Silly Putty–like, into a variety of roles.

        Given their inauspicious beginning, as well as the withering media attention they received after 1964, motorcyclists’ ongoing transformation from the boisterous one–percenters of Hollister into a broad range of popular heroes and villains is noteworthy for what it reveals about the audience’s changing perception of heroism. The selection, emphasis and exploitation of elements of the biker myth by popular media is equally important because popularity necessarily requires a public desire and an audience demand. Analyses of these media, consequently, can be especially interesting for what they reveal about the society which produces and consumes them. As Thomas Schatz writes, the decoding of myth depends on familiarity and the audience’s active but indirect participation in its creation. (3)

        Bikers earned Hollywood’s attention with the release of the California attorney general’s attack on outlaw motorcycle clubs in 1965. Roger Corman, “king of the B–movies,” saw in outlaw motorcycle clubs an inviting trend for his brand of filmmaking. Mark McGee’s biography is careful to refer to Corman’s movies as “quickies” or “low–budget,” but they were exploitation films — they turned a profit from the country’s fear and curiosity. Newsweek’s Jack Kroll describes exploitation films as “pure commercial product — a polyurethane–wrapped package of sex, or violence, or horror, or all three flavors swirled together.” (4) David Chute, however, sees them as honest efforts to overcome hypocrisy and give people the type of entertainment they want: “This continent is the result of a thirst to push beyond what is known, and what is just. . . . When American pop culture finally started calling things by their right names, the old suggestive evasions began to look ridiculous.” (5)

        As Kroll’s definition insinuates, the exploitation of sex and violence for profit was most likely the film industry’s prime motivation in bringing the outlaw biker to the attention of the American public. But Hollywood genre films were not alone in using outlaw bikers. They were simply more obvious. As Chute’s definition points out, exploitation also holds out the possibility of overcoming a facade of cultural snobbery by exposing all that society hesitates to acknowledge.

        Bikers in genre films, comic books, music and television have been particularly successful at exploiting dissatisfaction with the boundaries of personal freedom and non–conformity, as well as reflecting society’s changing definitions of justice, heroism and masculinity. While other media used bikers to identify a definite line between good and evil, popular media blurred the line, sometimes inverted it entirely, in order to defuse some of the fear inherent in the biker’s stereotypical image and parlay positive aspects of the myth — strength, skill and self–confidence — into popular characters.

        Popular media were once lumped together as “the fluffy stuff so often described by academia as vacuous and insignificant,” (6) intended merely to entertain and indoctrinate the uncultured. Chandra Mukerji and Michael Schudson, however, explain that the products of popular culture have earned recognition as significant creators of meaning. Scholars, they note, have “come to take popular culture more seriously as a terrain of political and social conflict and a weapon of political mobilization.” (7) They also recognize that subcultures ill–served by the mainstream create their own meaningful communication, interpreting works in a manner consistent with their experience. These groups are identifiable by their tastes and the production of art and “cultural institutions suited to members of their social strata.” (8)

        From the consumers’ perspective, popularity suggests there is something in a work that speaks particularly to them in a manner they can comprehend and appreciate. John Fiske, in discussing television, focuses on cultural commodity and resistant readings of mainstream fare so that popularity becomes “a measure of a cultural form’s ability to serve the desires of its customers. In so far as the people occupy different social situations from their producers, their interests must necessarily differ from, and often conflict with, the interests of the producers.” (9)

        Similarly, John Storey, analyzing popular music, notes that “consumption is an active, creative and productive process, concerned with pleasure, identity and the production of meaning. There are, in effect, two economies running in parallel courses: the economy of use and the economy of exchange.” (10) In other words, works sometimes become popular for reasons the producers may not intend or support.

        Generic works should avoid the problem of misinterpretation because their intent is to meet the expectations of a particular audience, but popularity remains an important issue in understanding genre. Because they are not born fully developed, it takes time and a certain amount of innovation and experimentation for genres to first create a comprehensible formula which resonates with an audience, and then to succeed over an extended period of time to “masquerade as truth.”

        The Western is a prime example of a genre which has managed to maintain broad popularity for decades. Though individual works rely on the same basic conventions, by experimenting, rearranging and borrowing from other genres the Western genre integrated new themes and formulae which appealed to changing audience desires. (11)

        Biker films reveal much about changing audience demands and the development and popularity of myth. That the 1960s saw one–percenters escalate their level of violence and sexual deviance, resulting in increased public awareness and news media attention, had more than a bit to do with the creation of the biker film genre. But so too did changes in the movie industry and the purchasing power of American youth. Jarvie writes that in the 1960s the movie industry realized “it could no longer survive by making vehicles for the values and aspirations of an imagined middle America.” (12) To succeed in the television age, Jarvie argues, Hollywood reached out to smaller audiences, especially teenagers, and grew more critical of the country’s “fundamental institutions, traditions and values.” (13)

        Hollywood’s first attempt at a biker film, The Wild One in 1954, (14) did not fare well at the box office, partly because the country was not ready to accept its critical message. Like biker films of later decades, the film is set in an isolated middle–class community, smug in its security and superiority. Johnny’s (Marlon Brando) gang succeeds in upsetting the town’s routine and revealing its undeserved complacency. Donald Spoto describes the Black Rebels as “the social embodiment of a wild principle in men, whose instincts are passionate but unfocused . . . . The film is very much concerned with society’s fear of the marginal man — the man at the fringes.” (15) By film’s end, the townspeople and the sheriff have not only suffered the club’s victimization, they have shown themselves to be narrow–minded and ruthless in their punishment of non–conformity.

        The Wild One, adapted from Frank Rooney’s “Cyclists’ Raid,” retained the short story’s focus on the country’s fear of invasion and anarchy, but portrayed the violence and hypocrisy of smalltown America as a greater threat than the bikers. The film was also an early attempt, predating Rebel Without a Cause, to show teenage rebellion. Censors called it anti–American and overly violent; it was banned in the United Kingdom due to government fears that it might inspire rioting. But “there was no glorification of violence,” Stanley Kramer responded. “We simply showed that this was the first indication that a whole set of people were going to divorce themselves from society and set up their own standards.” (16) For Kramer, the film’s producer, the Black Rebels’ anger was a reaction to America’s “fetish for conformity” and the townspeople’s violence grew out of resentment and fear of the motorcyclists’ freedom.

        Focusing on Brando’s rebel hero, Joe Morella and Edward Epstein credit The Wild One with setting the tone “for the next twenty years of films about youth gangs and motorcyclists.” (17) The gang’s appeal to fifties’ youth, they believe, was that “they were saying and doing the things that all youngsters who saw the film had thought of saying and doing.” (18) The film indeed provided a frame for depicting youth gangs, and Brando did put his unique stamp of virile masculinity on bikers to come. Hunter Thompson noted that the film gave the Hell’s Angels “a lasting, romance–glazed image of themselves, a coherent reflection that only a very few had been able to find in a mirror.” (19) But aside from the Brando parody Erich Von Zipper, leader of the Ratz motorcycle gang in a series of Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello beach party films, bikers did not immediately catch on.

        Roger Corman’s The Wild Angels, (20) on the other hand, proved successful, supporting Jarvie’s contention that successful films were those “which caught a certain audience or a certain mood and whose success bore very little relation to the amount of money spent on them.” (21) The Wild Angels and the genre which coalesced from its formula played on the public’s conscious and unconscious fears and fetishes and resonated with youthful audiences. “The Angels were interesting because they represented the darker side of our society,” Corman observed. “They’re part of a growing group of people who have no place in our technological society. . . . Naturally, the Angels claimed that they didn’t want to be part of our society but that’s because they’re not really capable of it. They’re frozen out.” (22)

        Charles Griffith wrote the screenplay for The Wild Angels after a number of conversations with bikers, and for added realism several Hell’s Angels had small roles in the film. It tells a fairly simple story, yet included scenes which were too provocative for many exhibitors, establishing the film’s status among biker films. Heavenly Blues (Peter Fonda) and Loser (Bruce Dern) lead their motorcycle club to Mexico to retrieve Loser’s stolen motorcycle. Loser is left behind after being shot by a policeman. To save him from prison the club kidnaps him from the hospital. When Loser dies at the clubhouse, the bikers decide to return him to his hometown for burial. Just the presence of the bikers would be enough to inflame the townspeople, but when the invaders stage an orgy in the church, tie up a priest and place him in Loser’s casket (propping up his corpse in the corner with a beer in one hand and a reefer between his lips), and rape Loser’s widow, the townspeople — as well as many in the audience — decided the film had gone too far.

        Even the Hell’s Angels were upset by the film. The club sued Corman and his production company, American International Pictures (AIP) “for depicting them as an outlaw motorcycle gang instead of a social organization dedicated to spreading technical information about motorcycles.” (23) It was also suggested they threatened Corman’s life, but AIP followed the success of The Wild Angels with a series of films which, along with the many imitators, quickly established the biker genre. Like The Wild One and The Wild Angels, many of the core films depicted a central character caught between the wildness of the gang and society’s demand for domesticated civility. And even though they chose to leave the gang, the results of that choice are unclear. Johnny abandons the violence of the Black Rebels, only to be beaten senseless by the townspeople. At the end of The Wild Angels, Blues stays by Loser’s grave, prepared to accept society’s punishment.

        John Cawelti, analyzing Westerns, describes their central theme as a conflict on the border between two lands or two eras, with a hero divided between the two value systems. (24) The biker genre cribbed heavily from that established western idiom, right down to plots, characters and themes. If there was innovation involved, it was the biker genres’ focus on space, movement and unimpaired freedom, and a futile search for acceptance. In that futility resided the heroism and the masculine attraction of these new outlaws. They were symbolic of everyone whose desires were unacceptable to mainstream morality. And where horses had been props in the western, motorcycles were integral to the biker film. They were the “anti–car,” a further repudiation of middle–class values. Images of carefree bikers blasting down deserted highways, traveling from nowhere in particular to a different nowhere, emphasized freedom over security and transportation.

        Biker films, The Wild Angels and The Wild One included, take place on borders both literal and figurative. The films’ Southern California settings present a national border as well as the border between civilization and the desert. On one level it allows bikers an escape from the constraints of the city, and on another level it creates a field of battle where law meets disorder and anarchy. In that regard the genre reflects Timothy Corrigan’s definition of the road movie. The freedom to move, represented by automobiles and motorcycles, allowed displaced individuals to explore a “land that has somehow become unfamiliar; the road and the country may be known, but something has made it foreign.” (25) The early biker films took as their narrative focus attempts to socialize, or at least understand, the outlaw as the boundaries between civility and incivility and “the sanctions, securities and structures of a family tradition” crumbled. (26)

        One boundary that was constantly in question, and constantly being overstepped by bikers, defined the limits of sexual propriety. In AIP’s first follow–up to The Wild Angels, The Devil’s Angels, (27) John Cassavetes’ Cody, like Heavenly Blues, abandons his gang after a series of violent encounters and rapes. The threat of sexual violence saturates The Rebel Rousers, (28) a non–AIP film released in 1967. This time Dern is J. J., the leader of a gang that delights in terrorizing a middle–class couple. Angered because the man refuses to share his girlfriend, the gang members beat him and kidnap the visibly pregnant woman. They then compete for the right to “marry” her. Dern, sympathetic to the couple’s situation and ridiculed by the members of his own club for being square, delays the contests long enough for rescuers to arrive. In AIP’s The Glory Stompers (29) Dennis Hopper is the leader of the Black Souls. Maintaining the themes of predation and sexual deviance, he kidnaps the girlfriend of a rival gang leader in hopes of selling her into slavery.

        Jack Nicholson, the sex–crazed Bunny in The Rebel Rousers, graduated to Poet in Hell’s Angels on Wheels, (30) which boasted members of the Oakland Hell’s Angels and its president, Sonny Barger, as a technical advisor. In the first minutes of the film, Poet quits his job at a gas station because he can not put up with the customers’ abuse or his boss’ rules. The bikers, who witness his tirade, invite him to tag along.

        Poet is initially attracted to the lifestyle and to the gang leader’s girlfriend, but in the end he is to be too civilized to be a biker. When the girlfriend offers herself to him sexually, he finds the situation too casual and backs out, making her suspicious of his masculinity. When Poet discovers that the woman is pregnant but has no plans to marry or settle down, he offers to rescue her. Confused by her desire to stay with Buddy, her violent and abusive boyfriend, Poet turns his back on the club.

        The similarities of these early films go beyond plot and visual style. There is in the endless succession of drinking, drugs, barroom brawls and sexually available women who “want to go for a ride” and an unmistakable interest in freedom and “doing what comes naturally” without regard for boundaries or limitations. But though the bikers are carefree in attitude and appearance, the lifestyle is not without its complications. Sheriffs in the small towns frequented by motorcycle clubs are either overworked or overzealous.

        In Hell’s Angel on Wheels an officer who has made it his job to harass the club warns them not to even spit on the sidewalk. Jobs, if they are mentioned, are unpleasant and unnecessary. When a co–worker derides Loser for wearing a Maltese cross necklace, the biker walks away from the latest in a succession of meaningless jobs without a second thought. If those threats are not enough, local toughs are an ever–present danger and the slightest provocation generally turns into a life–threatening situation.

        Filmmakers were careful not to openly endorse the bikers’ use of violence drugs or sexual terrorism, and the films’ conclusions included at least a bow to civility. Johnny, Blues, Poet and J. J., though not socially tamed, do suggest that their characters have outgrown the aimless, almost childish, biker lifestyle. But other bikers, like Loser and Buddy, die gloriously, albeit violently, and defy their otherwise ho–hum existence. It was easy for the audience to overlook the hazards of the lifestyle, focusing instead on the bikers’ “live fast, die young” attitude. A sympathetic audience of teenagers could identify with outlaws who seemed only to want to be left alone to find themselves. Responding to a priest’s condemnation and his question, “Just what is it you want?” Blues sums up the anguish of 1960s youth: “We don’t want nobody telling us what to do. We don’t want nobody pushing us around. . . . We want to be free to do what we want to do. We want to be free to ride. We want to be free to ride our machines without being hassled by the man. And we want to get loaded. We want to have a good time.” (31)

        The danger which resided in these movies was that the interpretation of the message was squarely in the hands of the audience, and for many the outlaws’ complete lack of responsibility represented a viable lifestyle, and the bikers themselves a “standard of cool” to be admired and emulated. (32) It was the image’s popularity with a certain audience, coupled with a loosening of Hollywood’s moral restrictions, which filmmakers exploited. It also explains why The Wild One did not inspire imitation and The Wild Angels did. Johnny was cool, but the audience could recognize that his behavior came at too high a price. By the 1960s that was not the case. For example, former Hell’s Angel Barry Mayson, a teenage father trapped in a deadend job, recalls his introduction to bikers at a drive–in biker double feature:

        At the end of both movies, there were big battles with the cops and a lot of bikers got killed or hauled off to jail. The cops and “good citizens” said smug words about justice triumphing. What justice? I thought. All these dudes were doing was tryin’ t’ have a good time an’ stay free! So good guys always had to win in the movies. It wouldn’t be that way in real life. You couldn’t hold down bad guys as bad as the Hell’s Angels. (33)

        The fact that the bad biker invariably won the girl only accentuated the masculinity ascribed to outlaws. Hell’s Belles (34) provides a clear distinction between the outlaw’s manliness and that of the upright citizen. Society is represented by Dan, a motorcycle racer who hopes to buy a farm by selling a motorcycle he has won. The bike is stolen, however, and ends up in the hands of Tampa, president of a biker gang. Tampa, in what he believes is an act of generosity, trades his former girlfriend Cathy for Dan’s motorcycle. For bikers, we are to understand, women are easier to replace, and less valuable, than a good motorcycle. Though they are initially at odds, Cathy succumbs to Dan’s good nature and assists him in his one–man desert war on the bikers.

        Dan, being the square he is, thinks Cathy’s cooperation is a sign that she has given up on the gang and is interested in the secure future he offers. The movie’s climax pits Dan and Tampa in a biker–style joust, riding at each other on motorcycles and whipping each other with chains as they pass. The battle is meant to decide who gets the motorcycle, but ownership of Cathy and the superiority of their opposing lifestyles are also at stake. Dan wins back the bike and leaves Tampa stranded and bleeding in the desert, but ultimately fails to prove to Cathy the value of his masculinity. Cathy, who admits the gang is “the closest thing to a family I ever had,” rejects Dan’s security. (35) She walks back into the desert to aid Tampa, and in so doing she finds a bit of security, a place where she belongs. Few audience members would mistake the symbolism of Cathy’s choice to live on the margin she understands rather than in the mainstream which has no room for her.

        In the non–AIP Angels Die Hard nobody comes off especially well, not the Angels MC or the people of Kernville, yet it is one of the last of the early films to present outlaw clubs in something resembling a positive light. The movie’s theme is summarized fairly well in one of its songs: “Who are the bad guys? Where are the good guys? Who are the righteous and who are the liars? . . . Which is the right side of the prison bars? Who are the judges who make all the rules?” (36) The activities of the Angels MC run from raping a waitress to risking their own lives to save a boy from a mine shaft collapse. The “great little town,” on the other hand, is populated with rednecks and a bigoted sheriff who intimidate outsiders and revel in vigilantism. The film makes it clear that answering the song’s questions is never easy. The inability of the two sides to see the other’s position leads to a violent conclusion that leaves the questions unanswered.

        With the various conventions in place, the biker genre eventually had to allow for experimentation if it had any hope of maintaining its popularity. Women bikers appeared in The Hellcats, She–Devils on Wheels and Sisters in Leather. (37) The Black Angels (38) told a story of black motorcycle gangs at war. An interesting attempt to include elements of the horror genre was Werewolves on Wheels, (39) which is almost prescient in its vision of the future of outlaw motorcycle gangs. The bikers of the film, even more physically isolated than clubs in other pictures, suffer the results of their lack of faith and respect. Adam, the leader of the Devil’s Advocates, condemns Tarot’s spirituality, calling it “a bunch of hogwash.” But they are cursed when they disturb a satanic ritual. By night they literally turn into animals, becoming even more beastlike than the average movie biker, attacking each other and inspiring suspicion and fear that eventually divides the club.

        The more interesting experiments were those that introduced other marginalized groups into the thematic mix of rebellion and freedom. In The Savage Seven, (40) Indians and bikers band together to fight bigotry. In Angel Unchained a biker joins forces with a hippie commune in its fight against redneck cowboys. However, the films could not totally contradict other media which emphasized conflicts between bikers and hippies. Don Stroud’s Angel in Angel Unchained does not explain why he turns in his “colors” and leaves the Exiles Motorcycle Club, but when Tremaine, the leader of the commune, suggests the bikers would make good allies, Angel responds that would be “like asking a degenerate to babysit your kid.” (41) When Angel relents, the bikers indeed prove to be too wild for the commune to contain, and Angel warns Tremaine, “You’re going to need quite a sense of humor the next few days.” (42)

        The friction between the lifestyles is compounded by the fact the hippies are willing to give up everything they have to survive, while the bikers’ instincts are to take what they want. The bikers are further repulsed by the commune’s passivity and the hippies are confused by the bikers’ anger. Angel is willing to be “turned on to the peace trip” by one of its members, Merrilee, but when she asks him to stay his response is simply, “Stay? What does that mean?” (43) He is unable to control his anger when another biker attacks Merrilee, even though the woman is quite capable of defusing the situation non–violently. The club members are more than eager to return to the city, but eventually Angel is engaged by the peacefulness of the commune. There he is forced to deal with his own violent nature in order to find a place. Which way he will fall, on the side of violence or peace, is left in doubt as the movie fades out with Angel kneeling over Tremaine’s lifeless body.

        The introduction of a new type of skilled hero, the Vietnam veteran, may have been the undoing of the biker genre. In the opening moments of AIP’s Chrome and Hot Leather (44) a biker named Casey forces a car off the road for no apparent reason and two women die. One is the fiancee of Army Sgt. “Mitch” Mitchell. Mitch and three other Green Berets take it upon themselves to hunt down the Wizards gang because the local sheriff does not have the desire or the manpower. To do so they have to first learn to ride motorcycles, which provides a few light moments in an otherwise dreary film. Chrome and Hot Leather contains all of the genre conventions, but the bikers are flat and colorless. They party hard and spend a few moments harassing a small town sheriff, but the balance of the film either involves the bikers being beaten up or being chased by the soldiers.

        Mitch and his pals are slightly more rounded characters, but they are young and attractive, “hip” enough, so we are to believe, to pass themselves off as bikers. But because active–duty vets might not have been readily accepted by audiences in 1971, they are only training officers. The most obvious change in this expression of the biker formula, however, is that the soldiers are the ones who work together, sacrifice and show the sort of brotherhood that motorcycle clubs were supposed to exemplify. Like Dan in Hell’s Belles, they use their brains and military strategy to rescue Mitch and then outmaneuver the gang in a desert battle. The gang is never allowed even a minor victory in the film. Instead they are constantly at odds with one another as well as their pursuers. Their muscular leader T. J. battles Casey for leadership of the club, and it is T. J. who fingers Casey as the murderer in order to save himself.

        Together these early 1970s films, which comprise something like a second wave of biker genre pictures, reveal that motorcycle clubs were becoming further removed from reality, or at least from an acceptable reality. As in masculine fiction they grew to represent a lifestyle that was just too far out as the country moved into a new decade and tried to forget the division of the 1960s. Their characters were increasingly bland, identifiable only by their colors and leather jackets; as the genre evolved their motivation for being bikers was nearly non–existant. The outlaws of The Wild Angels and Hell’s Angels on Wheels wanted to be free and unfettered. The gangs in Hell’s Belles and Chrome and Hot Leather simply go through the motions, which does not allow any means to gain the audience’s sympathy. That sympathy went instead to those who suffered the clubs’ violence.

        Tom Laughlin’s Born Losers (45) is an early example of an alternative hero who caught on with audiences. Unlike gangs in other first–wave biker films, the Born to Lose MC has no redeeming qualities and no motivation for its violence. Only Daniel, the gang’s leader, is supplied a reason for his deviant behavior. Discovering that his younger brother is being abused by their father, he goes home to rescue the boy from the fate the audience assumes Daniel had suffered. But overall, the club seems a motley collection of society’s castoffs: Speechless, a deaf youth whose father cut out his tongue; Gangrene, a musclebound rapist; Crabs, who prides himself on his social diseases; and Child, who derives his name from “Christ child.” The plot, similar to the real–life events of the Hell’s Angels’ run to Monterey, involves the gang raping four women and subsequently terrorizing their families so they will not testify against them.

        Opposed to the gang is Laughlin as Billy Jack, a part–Indian Green Beret. Billy, a cowboy and rancher, returns to a country that is different from the one he left. Short of money, he finds his skills as a horse trainer in short demand. “No horses left around here,” he is told by a banker about to foreclose on his property. (46) Though sympathetic to the traumatized women, Billy is not set on a path of vengeance until the gang steals $600 from him. But as the one person in town with the necessary strength of will to stand up for what is right, a showdown with the bikers is inevitable. The town’s sheriff is a “jellyfish” and the deputy is sadistic. They encourage Billy, beaten and bleeding, to wait for the state police to take care of the bikers. Revolted, Billy tells them, “Whatever they’ve done to your women, you deserve.” (47)

        Though the bikers in other early genre films were violent, it was because they were driven to it by society’s prejudices. They could successfully elicit a certain amount of sympathy in that they were confused and seemed to be searching for something. They could, on occasion, even be put on a path towards social responsibility. Not so the bikers of Born Losers. After working on Laughlin’s film, Bob Tessier, an actor and motorcyclist who played a gang member in The Glory Stompers and Born Losers, refused to do biker movies. “I never had a biker friend say, ‘You should have been here last night, we raped these chicks and we had to kill one of their boyfriends.’ It never happened to me, but it always happened in the movies,” he said in an Easyriders interview. (48)

        The Born Losers are completely irredeemable; they take advantage of society’s weaknesses and revel in the fear they produce. The film bears more resemblance to 1980s biker films than to those of the 1960s and 1970s genre. Billy Jack was a cinematic model for the “one good man” who meets random violence with self–confidence and controlled vengeance.

        Popularity is fickle, and as Andrew Tudor notes, “Conventions change, often for reasons entirely out of the control of the filmmakers and film critics.” (49) The biker genre’s early examples, highlighted by The Wild Angels, Hell’s Angels on Wheels and, though it is not technically a biker film, Easy Rider, (50) reflected the confusion of the era. The films, director John Milius notes, “have a rich tradition of social irresponsibility. I mean, these films should make you feel guilty.” (51) The bikers’ appeal, he adds, was that they were free: “They are outside your life, your law. They don’t share your morality, ethics, your humanity, or your conscience. They are free of all that shit.” (52) For a few years at least the genre presented a viable representation of social conflict. What followed the biker film’s early popularity, however, was a backlash, a perversion of the genre and its conventions so that later films became less like the Westerns and more akin to gangster films.

        The genre exploited the audience’s willingness to see potential good in disreputable outcasts who gravitated to gangs. After 1971, however, the image was less popular and the audience more resistant to the idea of sympathetic bikers. Genres depend on common ground, a coincidence of popularity and ideology. When people saw the Hell’s Angels stomping and stabbing Meredith Hunter at Altamont, audience sympathy evaporated. In an increasingly conservative decade bikers became a true force for anarchy, one that could not be allowed in a civilized society. Milius describes them as “mutant, ursine predators, spawned by some hideous breach of social ecology, and they soon joined the ranks of irredeemable screen sociopaths, the way Indians used to be portrayed and Nazis still are.” (53) A romantic image of charismatic but confused outlaws was no longer possible.

        Though the biker film genre was effectively dead, the image and stereotype lived on to become a mainstay of other genres. For six years, from 1972 until 1978, bikers all but disappeared from movie screens. When they returned they were simply urban terrorists. In Clint Eastwood’s Every Which Way But Loose (54) the Black Widows are a swaggering but humorously impotent gang of losers who get beaten up by truck drivers, Eastwood, his grandmother and his orangutan. In Dawn of the Dead, (55) a sequel to Night of the Living Dead, bikers are among the throngs of zombies mowed down by resourceful teenagers with guns.

        In Streets of Fire, (56) a stylish hybrid of Born Losers and West Side Story, Willem Dafoe is Raven, the leader of a biker gang unaccustomed to opposition. But when they kidnap a rock singer they get more than they bargained for in her mercenary ex–boyfriend Cody. In the process of embarrassing the club and thumping Raven in a fight, Cody also manages to inspire the city’s residents to stand up and fight.

        The theme of one good man standing up to biker violence continued in Savage Dawn. (57) The film is more interesting, however, as a reflection of the de–evolution of society in the 1980s, of compromised masculinity and of a heightened focus on the potential threat of evil if left unchallenged. The Fifth Chapter Motorcycle Club invades an isolated desert town where law is barely recognizable. The sheriff, who in the opening minutes threatens to arrest a child for not having adoption papers for his Cabbage Patch doll, is the recognized king of a human cockfighting ring. The bikers and the sheriff are instant combatants, challenging each other’s masculinity with derisive comments about homosexuality and femininity. Law is overwhelmed by disorder, and even the town’s priest is corrupted by the outlaws.

        Watching from a distance as the champions of corrupt law and total anarchy stage their battle before a whooping barroom audience is Stryker, the film’s reluctant warrior who oozes self–confidence in every pose and sneer. Stryker is a former CIA agent grown disgusted with his actions in “the little stinking wars we got stuck in.” (58) Unlike the sheriff, Stryker is confident enough in his masculinity to ignore the threats and disparaging remarks. He stays above the fray, morally incorruptible and emotionally distant from everyone except another agent he has come to visit. He maintains that distance as the bikers take over the town, but when they directly threaten his surrogate family he responds — decisively and skillfully. The bikers loot the local National Guard armory of a tank, the ultimate phallus, but Stryker and an unlikely band of guerrilla warriors easily defeat them in an explosive climax.

        The one good man, confident and brutally effective when pushed to the edge, is also evident in Mad Max (59) and its post–apocalypse sequel The Road Warrior. (60) Mel Gibson’s anti–hero, exiled in the desert, returns to save the last vestiges of civilization from marauding mutant bikers. Similarly, in Stone Cold (61) and Beyond the Law, (62) the one good man is a police officer who infiltrates and wipes out bikers who now deal in drugs and weapons rather than simple deviance. Law and order, in the guise of Brian Bosworth and Charlie Sheen, cannot be entirely bound by police methods, however. An integral part of their masculine mystique is the hero’s willingness to shoulder the terrible responsibility no one else wants, to go beyond legal limits if that is what is necessary to defeat those elements which weaken society.

        In a trio of 1980s films, bikers appear as nightmare visions of anti–social human potential. Exposed to nuclear waste, the clean–cut students of Tromaville High School mutate into sadistic biker cretins in Class of Nuke ‘em High. (63) In Weird Science bikers crash an adolescent duo’s first party, threatening to expose their cowardice before their classmates. In standing up to the bikers the boys overcome one test of manhood and expose the bikers as blustering posers; one pleads, “Can we keep this between us. I’d hate to lose my teaching job.” (64) It is the bounty hunting “Lone Biker of the Apocalypse,” however, who becomes the true embodiment of terror and unconscious guilt in Raising Arizona. (65) At first Nicholas Cage’s character believes the biker resides only in his dreams, but Leonard Smalls, the “warthog from hell,” represents a necessary but wholly ignored aspect of society — the man who cleans up other people’s mistakes.

        Bikers could, on occasion, be good guys — but only with certain restrictions. In The Return of the Rebels the bikers are “on the down side of 40” and have to rediscover themselves in a bloodless battle against the true anti–citizens: middle–class adolescent thugs who refuse to defer to their elders. (66) The bikers of Chrome Soldiers, (67) now Vietnam veterans themselves, reunite to free their hometown of corrupt lawmen.

        One film stands out, however, amidst the explosive action–oriented films that had almost from the beginning exemplified bikers and biker films. Mask (68) rediscovered bikers as social outcasts and fitting companions to the film’s disfigured protagonist, Rocky. Unlike other films, Mask shows bikers in family settings — with wives and children — as well as party scenes. The Turks, experienced in prejudice and schooled in hard knocks, are less a recognizable gang or club than birds of a feather who try to protect Rocky from society’s thoughtless insults and the discrimination that befalls those who do not conform. (69) Motorcycle historian Martin Norris writes, “While the characters in the film may not look or act like many who ride today, they are portrayed as the only decent and sympathetic people in an otherwise uncaring world.” (70)

        Eco–friendly, politically correct bikers were introduced in Running Cool. (71) In a bow to the Andy Hardy genre, bikers stage a run to benefit an injured brother. He needs the money to pay taxes and save his land from a greedy developer. Bone, the biker who leads the rescue effort, is an emotionally scarred yet romantic former Army officer who was discharged after going AWOL and attempting to kill the drunk driver who ran down his wife and son. In the process of saving the swamp and all its “critters,” Bone and the rest of the sentiment–stricken bikers win over the town. Instead of “standing in the way of progress,” they become heroes who stand up for their principles. Bone also manages to save a crippled woman from an abusive father, falls in love and ends his wandering ways.

        It might be that Running Cool indicates the biker film genre came full circle, returning the biker to a potentially positive character. More likely, however, it was a recognition that not all bikers and motorcyclists are outlaws, even if they dress the part and ride hogs. Good and evil can reside anywhere at anytime, and one cannot exist without the other. In the 1970s and 1980s when the country reacted against liberality, decadent bikers and outlaw clubs came to represent an inferior and increasingly corrupt alternative to the status quo.

        By the 1990s, however, much of what the biker myth emphasized — freedom and non–conformity — had become rare commodities, and those who stood up for their rights as individuals became the heroes of the moment. Individual success, self–confidence and the strength of will to stand up to powerful foes, until recently attributes of the “one good man” who battled for law and order, could also safely be ascribed to bikers.

        All of the various cinematic biker images — scofflaw and freedom fighter, vigilante and sexual dominator — translated as well to music in both content and symbol, especially in a rock and roll genre that took root in the 1950s. B. Lee Cooper, examining songs glorifying outsiders and the “exploits of exceptional men,” writes that the songs’ value is as a “barometer for measuring the magnitude of alienation.” (72) The outsider in songs such as “Leader of the Pack” and “Black Denim Trousers” emerge as the ultimately free man. He is, Cooper argues, “uninhibited by law, custom, circumstance, or fear. He faces a society which demands his allegiance and compels his obedience, but he rises above the dehumanizing social order to shun all forms of authority and denounce the humility of passive citizenship.” (73) Unfortunately, as has been pointed out by Stanford, the only conclusion to the not–a–hero’s revelations is death.

        The Cheers’ “Black Denim Trousers,” (74) which reached no. 6 on the charts in September of 1955, was released the same week that James Dean died. The song tells the story of “the terror of Highway 101” who dresses as a Brando–esque motorcycle loner complete with grease embedded under his fingernails. As the classic rebel figure he cannot be dissuaded from the unlikely goal of riding 1,000 miles in just one night, not even by his girlfriend Mary Lou. A “screaming diesel that was California bound” cuts his ride short, leaving behind his “black denim trousers and motorcycle boots” as the only reminder that he had ever existed. (75)

        In October of 1964 The Shangri–Las’ “Leader of the Pack” (76) reached no. 1. It tells a similar story, but emphasizes the romance between Jimmy, the biker from the bad side of town, and the female narrator’s rebellion in falling in love with him. Jimmy, despite his tough–guy reputation, is crushed when Betty bows to parental pressure and breaks off their relationship. Teary eyed, he speeds away from the candy store and dies in a clamorous, squealing accident.

        Betty’s oppression and her parent’s unshakably narrow–minded opinion of Jimmy, an accusation of society’s shallowness, are the true focus of “Leader of the Pack.” But the doomed biker’s place in such story–telling songs was relatively short–lived, replaced in the late 1960s and 1970s by less tragic figures who found comfort, when necessary, in transient relationships. The subject of Roger McGuinn’s “The Ballad of Easy Rider,” recorded by The Byrds and included on the Easy Rider soundtrack, is almost monastic in his communion with and dedication to the highway. He wishes only to be swept along wherever the road might take him: “All he wanted was just to be free, that’s the way it turned out to be. Flow river flow, let your waters wash down. Take me from this road, to some other town.” (77)

        Though the outlaw aspects of the biker myth would remain important to rock music, its dominant themes would in time be boiled down to a hard core of strength, independence and freedom. Roger Horrocks describes the advent of the rock and roll genre as “the music of protest” and as an “explosion of male aggression, sexuality and delinquency.” (78) It should come as no surprise it found a kindred soul in motorcyclists and outlaws alike. Rock as a genre would make “Leader of the Pack” and to a certain extent “Black Denim Trousers,” songs reflecting a mainstream image of Brando–influenced bikers, the exception. Rock and roll would instead come to focus on motorcyclists, male or female, and their machines as icons of the thrill–seeking rebel, hellbent and dangerous, who lived the kind of life listeners could only dream of.

        The subject of Moby Grape’s “Motorcycle Irene” “super–powered, de–flowered, over–eighteen Irene,” resembles male counterparts in that she is sexually available but cannot be possessed. (79) Her beauty arises from the danger and excitement she represents. She is, after all, wrapped in chains and sports tattoos of “the names of prisons she’s been in and lovers she has seen.” Dirty, “smokin’ reefer,” riding a Harley, “stark ravin’, unshaven, Motorcycle Irene” is the life–hardened equivalent of the male biker, available for no more than a one night stand. Like many rebels, Irene dies violently, spectacularly and noisily, “ground round like hamburger.” But unlike the “Leader of the Pack,” there is no Betty to mourn her passing. Instead she is memorialized by her freedom: “Knowing all the answers, breaking all the rules, with stark naked, unsacred, Motorcycle Irene.” (80)

        Sailcat went to no. 10 in 1972 with “Motorcycle Mama,” with a jaunty blues song about a biker who asks a young girl to leave her parents and “be the queen of my highway, a motorcycle mama, and we’ll see the world from my Harley.” They believe life will be carefree, even after they have children, and they will “get respect from the towns we ride through,” and “if the squares won’t buy we’ll let them pass.” (81) An image of psychologically damaged drifters lost on the “human highway” haunts Neil Young’s 1978 album Comes a Time. His “Motorcycle Mama” introduces a lighter spirit to the album, however, a sort of detour as the song’s narrator is “runnin’ down the proud highway. And as long as I keep movin’ I won’t need a place to stay.” (82) Having escaped from “the memory county jail” he suggests a tryst with his Motorcycle Mama, but he reminds her it must be brief: “I see your box is open, And your flag is up, My message is ready, If there’s time enough.” (83)

        The most profound exploration of the biker myth, however, came in the heavy metal genre. Steppenwolf supplied bikers an anthem “Born to be Wild” (84) and brought to the music industry an aggressive, bass–heavy beat which seemed inspired by the thump of a Harley. Again, the fit between bikers and a musical genre seems too perfect. Metal extracted those elements of the biker myth involving confidence, potency and independence, moving the musical focus nearer to anti–social behavior. Horrocks describes heavy metal as a “straightforward kind of male exhibitionism and, thus, part of the construction of patriarchal male dominance” for working and middle class adolescents. (85) Heavy metal, he adds, “represents a clear case of a genre, or in fact a set of genres, where the iconography of power, heroic fantasy and intense romanticism can be seen as compensatory in the lives of the audience.” (86)

        “Born to be Wild” not only exploits that desire for freedom, but the sense of danger, a rarity in the modern man’s life, that comes with it. The song’s aggressive lyrics are expressed as commands: “Get your motor running, head out on the highway, looking for adventure, and whatever comes my way. . . . Take the world in a love embrace, fire all of your guns at once, and explode into space. Like a true nature’s child we were born, born to be wild, we can climb so high I never want to die.” (87) The motorcycle and the act of riding, “racing with the wind,” become the objects of physical attraction. They return the rider to his natural state: free and unencumbered by laws. That theme is presented more directly in another Steppenwolf song, “Screaming Night Hog”: “A feeling deep inside of me keeps driving me to roll. . . . I’m nobody’s slave, I’m nobody’s master. Time is mine morning, night and afternoon.” (88)

        The twinned metal themes of power and freedom remained constant into the 1980s and 1990s, with motorcycles and the open road offering a romantic illusion of control that could be, with the proper accessories, within reach of otherwise powerless individuals. The link between motorcycles and masculine potency continued as well. The suggestion in Saxon’s “Stallions of the Highway” (89) is obvious, and the protagonist of Sammy Hagar’s “Bad Motor Scooter” is one with his machine, inducing the object of his obsession, when she gets tired of her daddy’s farm, to “come on over to my place and stay all night. First thing in the morning we’ll be feeling all right. Get on your bad motor scooter and ride.” (90) The physical connection between man and machine is clearer yet in KBC’s “Dream Motorcycle”: “Let’s go down the highway of love tonight, You better hold on tight, Can’t you feel my motor runnin’, Let’s put somethin’ exciting between your legs.” (91) And the dangerous spirit of Motorcycle Irene, who can only be fulfilled by a real man, lives on as the “tattooed sex machine” in Circus of Power’s “Heart Attack”:

        They call her cosmic motorcycle queen
        Doin’ me righteous and coming clean
        I’d rather have myself a little witch, man
        Than to answer to some clean–cut bitch. (92)

        Yet the majority of heavy metal songs which took as their subject men on motorcycles exploited a defiant freedom as only bikers could experience it. Judas Priest modified the outlaw biker adage “Live hard, Ride free” in the anthemic “Rock Hard Ride Free.” Devoted metalheads could believe they themselves were included in vocalist Rob Halford’s description of diehard rebels: “No denyin’ we’re goin’ against the grain, So defiant they’ll never put us down, Rock Hard Ride Free.” (93) The theme is echoed in another song from the group’s Defenders of the Faith album, “Freewheel Burning,” which also uses “we” so as to allow listeners to bask in their inclusion in the proud biker multitude: “We don’t accept defeat, we never will retreat. . . . Look before you leap has never been the way we keep, Our road is free.” (94)
        Riding free is a sensual pleasure in Cruzados’ “Last Ride.” Once the song’s narrator kick starts his Indian he hits the road for “nowhere known”: “I can feel the wind kiss my hair, With sweet lips forever there, I can feel the road on my wheels, Taking me where I wanna go.” (95) The band Kill for Thrills references the myth of the western outlaw in “Motorcycle Cowboys,” telling the story of Billy Redrum who had a job he did not want. To escape life’s headaches he buys a motorcycle, rides into the sunset and leaves behind his pregnant girlfriend. He becomes a motorcycle cowboy, “living fast ‘cos nothing lasts forever,” especially not a life that is meant to be enjoyed. Though Billy’s eyes fill with tears on Father’s Day, he can not help but be true to himself: “I’m a lonely gunfighter on a horse called Harley–Davidson, Fire power by my side, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” (96)
        One final aspect of the biker myth prevalent in the heavy metal genre is the sense of nihilism, of a preordained doom that is the price of freedom. Though Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” indicated the bikers’ willingness to self–destruct, later bands would take the notion even further. Motorhead conjures a classic picture of the outlaw biker in “Iron Horse/Born to Lose”:

        He lives his life, he’s living it fast
        Don’t try to hide when the dice have been cast
        He rides a whirlwind that cuts to the bone
        Loaded forever and righteously stoned
        On iron horse he flies
        On iron horse he gladly dies
        An iron horse is his life. (97)

In a similarly morbid tone, Doc Holliday’s “Last Ride” opens with the line, “Gotta pay the dues for the life you choose,” and concludes with the refrain: “Riding two–wheel thunder to heaven or hell, A killer machine is the lover you need, Living to ride but you’re riding tired, Gambling your life on your last ride.” (98)

        Unlike biker films, rock and roll and the heavy metal genre rarely made specific reference to outlaw motorcycle clubs, but managed just the same to exploit audience frustration by distilling the myth down to those elements which would be most valuable to and popular with powerless adolescents — strength and freedom. As icons of rebellion and non–conformity, motorcycles suggested a freedom to which the listener could aspire and bikers reflected a willful attitude and non–conformity they could model. The spectacle and exhibitionism inherent to the heavy metal genre, Horrocks believes, stretches that frustration to the point where it provides listeners a sense of identity and a “fervent male camaraderie.” (99) More important than simple inclusion, though, heavy metal music’s use of the outlaw biker myth articulates a specific audience desire for a romantic self–image: the defiant hero who would rather fight the good fight and lose than give in to conformity.

        There is also in heavy metal an aspect of hero worship, with guitar idols gaining attention through skill and virtuosity. Similarly, comic book heroes garner reader identification, offering readers (as with heavy metal, predominantly adolescent males) a model of behavior through characters who possess superhuman strength, intelligence and courage. Since Marvel Comics introduced its first ongoing biker hero, Ghost Rider, in 1972, however, the notion of heroism has changed.

        Ghost Rider and other characters produced out of the biker myth suggest that comic book publishers, like producers of other popular media, understand the myth’s potential to not only represent skill, strength and masculinity, but a dark, irresponsible side of human nature. As the clean–cut heroism of Superman and Captain America slowly fell out of favor with readers, an ideological space was created for gritty heroes who reflected non–conformity and a questionable personal morality. As in the movie industry, the bikers of comic books have undergone an evolution from all–purpose villains to anti–heroes who enforce their own moral code.

        Though comic book writers recognized early that motorcycle riders as a class had been unfairly tagged as outlaws, it was clear that escaping the bad–biker image was difficult if not impossible. In a 1970 edition of Charlton Comics’ Surf n Wheels a trio of bikers calling themselves the White Angels stop to rest in a small desert town. Children idolize them and adults recognize them as young men “trying to prove that all motorcycle riders aren’t evil doers.” (100) The town’s toughs, jealous of the attention given to a “bunch of cycle bums,” see an opportunity to enhance their reputations by deriding the White Angels as animals. Their plan to humiliate the bikers backfires when the motorcyclists, competent and confident, manhandle the bullies, who then slink away saying, “They’ve destroyed our image in this town, made us look like fools.” (101)

        Team America, a band of motorcycle racers and trick riders introduced by Marvel in 1982, had a similar problem escaping the bad–biker image. Garbed in red, white and blue uniforms reminiscent of Evil Kneivel, stock characters Wolf, Honcho, RU Reddy and Cowboy were supposed to be “individuals striving to be the best, each driven by his own separate dreams! Isn’t that what America’s all about?” (102) Off the track and out of uniform, however, they suffered the same discrimination as real–life motorcyclists. Stopped at a red light, Wolf overhears a conversation in a nearby car: “Goodness, Papa! Look what just pulled up beside us — one of those Nazi, hippie–freak, outlaw bikers.” “Disgusting! You’d think a man would have more pride than to parade around like that!” her husband responds. (103) Later these upright citizens are shown to be members of a crime cartel.

        Despite comic book publishers’ attempts to create positive biker characters, the stereotypical outlaw image was more useful in providing a convenient contrast for heroes. In a Captain America comic from 1970, the hero discovers that his brand of traditional patriotism has fallen out of favor with teenagers. He is the butt of jokes for kids on their way to a rock concert: “Do you think he’s as square as he looks?” “Even squarer if you ask me!” (104) For a moment he considers abandoning the Captain America persona, but the threat of the Satan’s Angels motorcycle gang proves he is still needed. Just out for kicks, the gang storms the concert and threatens the “crummy peaceniks” and “yella–bellied creepos.” Captain America, though outnumbered, handles the gang and inspires the same youths who had earlier laughed at the idea of heroes. “Cornball or not — he’s fighting for us,” one cries as he enters the fray and takes a stand against the biker onslaught. (105)

        Comic books of the 1980s and 1990s, more interested in gritty realism than their forebears, did not neglect the utility of biker gangs. In a 1989 Green Arrow story a biker gang involved in prostitution, white slavery and murder shocks the hero with its level of violence. Green Arrow asks a detective at a murder scene, “What kind of animal could do something like this?” The answer he receives is, “More kinds than you’d wanna believe. Best guess right now is that this has something to do with a lunatic biker going around busting up strip clubs.” (106) Vigilante justice is the theme in a Punisher story titled “Crankin” in which the hero infiltrates and wipes out two Arizona biker gangs trafficking in methamphetamine. (107) Created in 1974, the Punisher was initially considered “too violent” for a mainstream publisher, but as Les Daniels points out in his history of Marvel Comics, “It would take a new decade, with a new attitude toward crime, to elevate the vengeful Punisher to his full commercial potential.” (108) Just the creation of the Punisher, however, made it clear that the essential nature of the hero had changed.

        The dominant image of the biker in mainstream comic books, however, has been defined by two characters: Marvel’s Ghost Rider and DC’s Lobo. The first Ghost Rider was a former trick rider, Johnny Blaze, who made a bad deal with the devil and became an avenging spirit burning with hellfire. Introduced in 1972, Ghost Rider continued a Marvel theme of unlikely and unwilling heroes whose good deeds and personal sacrifice went unrecognized and unappreciated by society. Daniels writes that “Marvel hit on the idea of combining horror with heroics, making a monster (often sympathetic) the protagonist of his own comic book series.” (109) Clad in black leather, his skeletal body alive with flame, riding a motorcycle with wheels of fire, had to be a difficult hero to sell but the first Ghost Rider series lasted 10 years.

        Tormented by his own existence, early Ghost Rider stories revolved around the character’s need to punish the guilty. But Ghost Rider’s demonic appearance made him a social outcast and Blaze’s celebrity made him an attractive target for bikers out to establish a reputation, leaving him completely isolated. In one issue a trio of motorcycle hoods thwart Blaze’s battle for control over his alter ego, prodding him into violence and a transformation into Ghost Rider by challenging his masculinity. When he finally gives in to the demon inside him, Blaze becomes “the most fearsome avenger of evil this world has ever known. Let he who has ever contemplated an act of evil gaze into the hate–filled glowering orbs of . . . the Ghost Rider.” (110) Like the Punisher, over time the Ghost Rider character became darker, more malevolent and single–minded in his pursuit of the guilty in order to take advantage of society’s desire to see the guilty punished.

        DC’s Lobo is a biker demon of a different sort, one more in tune with readers who can find humor in his ultra–violent, macabre sense of humor. In the Esquire article “My Favorite Thing,” playwright Eric Bogosian describes Lobo, his favorite superhero: “Riding from star system to star system on some kind of modified outer–space Harley, Lobo crunches, atomizes and perforates all who make the mistake of taking him on.” (111) Lobo, the last Czarnian after killing everyone else on his planet, is a bounty hunter who “breathes big, fat, ugly cigars and sucks down beer by the case. . . . He’s afraid of no one and he’s an asshole. A true hero for the nineties.” (112)

        Lobo is the pinnacle of the biker in comics. He is impossible to kill, invulnerable to dismemberment (which he suffers with unusual regularity), unrepentant in his own decadence and always at the mercy of sensation, pleasure and ego. As an intergalactic bounty hunter he is free to kill and maim to his heart’s content. Though not quite evil, in a storyline satirizing the annual Sturgis rally and races Lobo is told, “It’s bikers like you who give other bikers a bad name.” (113)

        Which is not to say that Lobo is without redeeming qualities. Instead he presents a different character from the average comic book hero. He is a working man whose responsibilities are to himself and to his job, not a moral hero who takes it upon him or herself to act as the planet’s protector or to save the universe. Lobo is a working–class hero, taking special pride in his skills as a bounty hunter and in his ability as a sometimes sadistic killer. He refers to himself as the “Main Man,” and as the toughest, meanest “bastiche” in the universe. And though that suggests excessive pride, many of the book’s story lines revolve around the necessity of his establishing his rights to the title of “Main Man” by thrashing those who would challenge his authority. In many ways he inspires the same sort of fan worship as a champion boxer or athlete in that he proves himself when it counts, and he does it with style.

        Comic book anti–heroes like Lobo and Ghost Rider are popular in a cynical age that no longer believes in manners and civility. Grendel: The Devil May Care projects a grim future for a society that admires such ambiguous and violent heroism. The story describes a country ruled by biker klans that enforce barbarous servility while enjoying a lawless existence. The klans are roughly organized as teams that compete in a no–holds–barred, Roller–Derby–on–motorcycles style competition. After a night of sordid entertainment, Hack, the Indianapolis Klan’s chief, tells one of his soldiers enough is enough: “Fun’s fun, but we can’t collect taxes from dead citizens and burned neighborhoods.” (114) Society puts up with them, we are led to believe, because they are the only force of law available, and the young idolize them the way many admire star athletes. In one panel a boy tells his mother, “The Grendels are the only ones who have anything in this world.” She responds, “Albert, someday you’ll see that there’s a lot more to life than brutality, pain and evil.” (115)

        The focus of the story is a love affair between Hack and the doctor, Dana, who catches the chieftain’s eye by shooting one of his lieutenants, an act which would obviously gain his admiration. “That bitch did just what she should’ve done, and she did it with balls I’ve rarely seen on a Grendel,” Hack tells his men, who are outraged that he allows the woman to live. (116) From that point on, and as his relationship with Dana deepens and opens his eyes to a world he has never known, Hack’s leadership is suspect. With his lieutenants plotting behind his back, and his control over the klan slipping, he hatches a plan to escape with Dana. His plan falls through, however, and as a final sign that he has been castrated, he gives himself up to a rival klan for execution. Asked why he let himself be taken away rather than die fighting, Hack responds, “I know it sounds stupid, Fuego, but I guess right then, at that moment, it just seemed like I had too much to live for.” (117)

        That bit of dialogue provides a sense not only of the doom–filled message of the Grendel storyline, but a harsh critique of traditional masculinity and society’s twisted tendency to respect the strong and revile the weak. Hack and his biker klan had nothing to live for except brutality and violence, yet they were at once respected and feared for their strength. As Hack comes to realize there is more to life than death and despair, he also discovers that he has something to contribute. Unfortunately, in his world that discovery also makes him worthless as a leader. Though he briefly escapes execution by one enemy, Dana ends their misery by putting a gun to both of their heads in a simultaneous murder–suicide.

        The Devil May Care’s message that hard times demand hard men (and women) and that love comes at a high price is reflected as well in another nineties comic book trend: bad biker women. No–nonsense women detectives, tricked out in skintight leathers and big guns, are the title characters in Shotgun Mary, The Wild Ones and Barb Wire. (118) They prefer motorcycles to men when it comes to longterm relationships, but in their line of work, and in the fantastic comic book realities they inhabit, a bike is a lot less trouble and demands much less attention. And like “Motorcycle Irene” their desirability increases dramatically when the mythic biker attributes of inaccessibility, danger, freedom and vitality are tossed into the mix.

        Dangerous relationships and dependency were taken to an extreme in DC’s Vamps, a six–issue story written by Elaine Lee. The five main characters are female vampires on the lam after disposing of their pimp–like vampire master. Liberated from servitude, they reincarnate themselves as biker women, reborn “full–grown from the crack in death’s white skull and armored in leather and chrome. The daughters of earth and the wounded sky.” (119) The women slash their way across the country, drunk on their first taste of “life” and the power that comes with being vampires. The women discover an affinity for motorcycles and for bikers, who not only help the vampires disappear but share their lust for life: “In a way we had a lot in common. We were misfits and outlaws, in love with freedom and the open road. Of course, the similarities ended there. Most bikers preferrin’ a cold brew to blood served up at body temperature.” (120)

        In Lee’s story, the Vamps’ motorcycles are a metaphor for traditional male freedom. Suddenly unrestrained and unencumbered by possessions and responsibility, their first taste of life and immortality is sweeter from the seat of a motorcycle, and there is as well an added element of raw power that comes to those who ride motorcycles. Being in the wind astride a powerful machine is symbolic of the absence of physical restraint.

        Similarly, the anti–hero Lobo would seem weaker if he spanned the galaxy from the safety of a spaceship, and the Grendels would risk less if they battled from the relative comfort of an automobile. It is no coincidence that motorcycles became a more common element of comics as grim and gritty characters became the norm. As in films like Stone Cold and Beyond the Law, the genre suggests the modern hero and vigilante, the lawmaker and the lawless, have to work outside normal boundaries to achieve satisfaction and true justice. And despite the success of the Harley–Davdison Motor Company, motorcycles are still outside normal boundaries.

        But is that all that is involved in the popularity of violent, sometimes demonic characters? Faced with Lobo’s growing popularity, artist Simon Bisley said in 1994, “Of course I’m somewhat responsible. I gave him his chain, hook, boots, and that whole look. We were subconsciously pushing Lobo as far as we could to disgust the readership, and worry and shock.” (121) If that was DC’s intent it did not work, as Lobo quickly gained a strong following. What his popularity suggests is another example of a media exploiting, either accidentally or intentionally, audience frustration. While the biker myth, as represented in Ghost Rider, Lobo and other comic book bikers, plays on the reader’s respect for skill and strength, it also recognizes the outlaw’s ability to smash any obstacle in their path because nothing has the strength or willpower to stand against them. Quite simply, readers envy their freedom to be irresponsible; the indomitable characters are free of physical, legal and moral restraint.

        Television equivalents of the comic book anti–hero have been tamer, though Warner Brothers’ 1996 Superman cartoon introduced Lobo in a two–part episode called “The Main Man.” Surprisingly, some of Lobo’s bad attitude and lasciviousness made it to the small screen. When he arrives on earth to hunt down Superman, a television reporter answers the question, “What is that up in the sky?” with, “A scroungy biker on a flying motorcycle.” (122) But even though Lobo propositions Lois Lane and kicks Superman’s butt before circumstances force them to become allies, the storyline rarely strays from a conservative television format. On one hand Lobo offers a negative model by which viewers can better comprehend and appreciate Superman’s virtue. Though he threatens to leave Lobo at the mercy of the episode’s real menace, Superman transcends his own base emotion in order to serve and protect a higher morality. The cartoon also reflects television’s conservatism in that the episode’s complications are favorably resolved in 30 minutes, returning Superman to a familiar equilibrium until the next episode.

        The cyclical aspect of television represented by “The Main Man,” of complication, favorable resolution and return to normalcy, is most evident in the situation comedy (the sitcom), a programming staple since the 1950s. Lawrence Mintz describes the traditional sitcom format as a “half–hour series focused on episodes involving recurring characters within the same premise. . . . What happens in a given episode is generally closed off, explained, reconciled, solved at the end of the half hour.” (123) However, the faithful audience that has come to identify with certain characters is reassured as well as entertained. While Mintz believes the viewing experience is pleasurable, he adds, “There are social implications in the theme that the return to the status quo is always good.” (124)

        There are, however, alternatives to Mintz’ reading of the sitcom format. John Fiske prefers to consider viewer resistance to the “homogenizing force” of television. Returning to the issue of popularity, Fiske argues that because a successful television program must appeal to a broad and diverse audience, it must necessarily be “an open text that allows the various subcultures to generate meanings from it that meet the needs of their own subcultural identities.” (125) The viewers’ interpretation of humor and irony, he points out, cannot be controlled. The jokes and irony presented in situation comedies , he adds, rely on the “collision between discourse.” In the end, whether or not a program is popular depends on the various “unresolved contradictions that the viewer can exploit in order to find within them structural similarities to his or her own social relations and identity.” (126)

        As an example, the writers of “The Main Man” may have intended for viewers to interpret Superman’s victory over Lobo as good triumphing over evil. Yet resistant viewers inclined to identify with the irrepressible Lobo might emphasize the fact that he bests Superman, that without his assistance Superman would have been defeated, and that he receives his bounty money. In the long run, Lobo comes out the winner because he can walk away while Superman remains saddled with the self–assigned responsibility of protecting the earth. A resistant reading can be applied as well to Happy Days, (127) the ABC series that presented television’s only long–running biker character — Arthur Fonzarelli, the Fonz. Though Fonzie was initially a minor character he soon blossomed into a popular phenomenon, which “caused cultural analysts problems trying to explain why a fifties–style juvenile delinquent was a national hero for kids.” (128)

        Mintz suggests that Fonzie’s attraction was simply that he was cool; “tough, confident, independent, arrogant, and above all, free, dominated by no one, Fonz was also likable and not a real threat.” (129) To a certain extent Mintz is correct as Fonzie filled the role of worldly foil to Richie Cunningham’s innocence. For much of the program’s 10–year run, Fonzie advised Richie and his pals, instructing them in the ways of the world, acting as a measuring stick for their own development as men and bailing them out when they failed to meet the standard.

        But why did the Fonz, a former biker and high school drop–out, catch the audience’s imagination when other character types could just as easily fit the role? The answer is that on one level Happy Days is a caricature of middle–class life, of the clash between Richie’s desires for simple pleasures and his family’s striving for a better life. Fonzie becomes at once a temptation and a reminder. Not only does the Fonz represent an attractive, sometimes superior lifestyle that Richie can never attain because he has been domesticated, he is a reminder of what the Cunninghams have given up to attain their comfortable lifestyle.

        Acting as a working–class touchstone, the Fonz passes on his hard–earned knowledge and experience to Richie. He is forced into the role of big brother, teacher and moral educator because Richie’s father is preoccupied with running his business and his older brother is away at college. Looked at from this perspective, it is interesting to analyze the various lessons Fonzie taught Richie and the gang, or at least reminded them of when they went astray. Coming out of the biker myth as he did, he was most apt to show them the value of courage and self–reliance. But the Fonz also handed out moral lessons about honesty and friendship, and he was, oddly enough, an early example of political correctness. He brought African–Americans into the Cunningham household, worked with the handicapped, dated a deaf woman and for one episode dealt with his own blindness. If not for Fonzie’s intervention, Richie’s education would have been incomplete.

        Fonzie was, then, a way for the Cunninghams, and by extension the viewing audience, to temporarily commune with a lifestyle they had never experienced or had lost touch with. This social education and middle–class critique by way of biker outlaws and motorcycles remains popular in sitcoms. Even before the rebirth of the Harley–Davidson as the icon of freedom and independence, motorcycles symbolized “forbidden fruit” to otherwise stable middle–class and professional sitcom characters. In a 1975 episode of The Bob Newhart Show, Bob’s best friends, one an orthodontist and the other a pilot, pool their money to buy a motorcycle. The pilot’s dream is to be a “free spirit happily motoring down the road of life” with “wind whistling through my tattoo.” (130) Needless to say, they are frustrated in their attempt to escape the workaday world, the motorcycle becomes a complication in their lives, and the only way to return to stability is to sell it.

        That theme of buying a motorcycle in order to escape stability, regain a sense of youthful masculinity and live life on the edge has been repeated in a number of popular television series. In an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel–Air, upwardly mobile Judge Banks buys a motorcycle and is promptly told, “Get off that mid–life crisis highway.” (131) On Coach, (132) a timid Dauber is initially afraid to buy a motorcycle because his fiancee might disapprove. For him the motorcycle is a youthful fantasy of power and confidence. Unfortunately, even after he and Coach Hayden Fox buy Harleys they are too afraid to ride them because they do not want to be caught in the act by their significant others.

        A biker character even appeared occasionally on the children’s show Shining Time Station. Barton Winslow seems like a normal smalltown shopkeeper, but when he puts on his leather jacket he seems to loosen up and unwind, spouts hipster slang and hops on a motorcycle. When he returns to his store his demeanor changes. He takes off the jacket and takes on another personality: “Time for me to assume the role of proprietor.” (133)

        Shoe salesman Al Bundy hops on his daughter’s motorcycle for a slightly different reason in the show Married--With Children. After discovering that he was sexually attracted to a cross–dressing male, he hopes to re–establish his masculinity: “I’ve got to do something wild. Something bold. Something that reaffirms my youth.” (134) Parked in the garage, sitting on the motorcycle, he fantasizes that he is in the wind with a bikini–clad woman holding him tight.

        Motorcycles suggest a carefree adolescence on ABC’s Roseanne. Faced with high school buddy Ziggy and the prospect of selling a Harley that represents his youth, Dan Conner realizes he has somehow become an adult. To Dan’s excuse that he now has other responsibilities, a still carefree Ziggy responds, “You’ve been riding that couch too long. . . . You don’t get dust on the fenders ‘til you shut off the engine.” (135) Roseanne, Dan’s wife, agrees with the decision to restore the bike, not only as a symbolic restoration of their youth but to recapture their individuality: “We used to be Dan and Roseanne. Now we’re the Conners.” (136)

        In a short–lived Fox series Misery Loves Company, three friends are similarly stricken by adulthood, but instead of just buying motorcycles they decide to join the outlaw biker ranks. Joe suggests the idea after realizing that he has settled into a rut. Declaring, “I’ve done my time on earth playing by the rules and living my sheltered and cloistered life,” he introduces his friends to his new bike: “I bought freedom. I bought the open road and independence, strength and courage.” (137) The three men dress up as the yuppies’ popular conception of bikers — head scarves and lots of leather — and visit a bar where they are dressed down by the bar’s biker patrons as wannabes and “yuppie scum.”

        Their “vain attempt to recapture lost youth” seems to have failed, until Joe discovers that one of the bikers, Scar, is really a pharmacist. Returning to the bar, they discover the other “real bikers” are a financial officer, a mortgage loan officer and a urologist. In a final show of male bonding they accept themselves for who they are: “Aging white–collar professionals trying to escape the monotony of our own daily lives.” (138)

        Except for Dan Conner and Barton Winslow, these sitcom characters rid themselves of their motorcycles by the end of their respective episodes, their lives returned to the point where the story began. But the question of why they get rid of their motorcycles is, in the end, less interesting than why they bought them. Plainly, sitcoms depend on the writer’s ability to disrupt the characters’ lives each week, throwing them into a new and different situation to see how they react and what kind of comedy ensues. Consequently, it is easier to write and create stories about characters who still seek happiness and fulfillment than it is to write for those who have found it.

        But why consider this particular plot device? Why turn to motorcycles when characters have an itch to reaffirm their youth and masculinity, or when they need to momentarily escape their “sheltered and cloistered life”? The answer lies in the viewers’ expectations and their understandings of what it means to be a biker. They know what bikers are like, or at least they have a picture in their heads of what bikers look like, what they sound like and how they act. The biker myth exists as a model by which the audience interprets the story, and when familiar characters do not fit that image humor arises from the discrepancy and from the characters’ exploration of the new identity. Some audience members laugh out of sympathy as they recognize their own insecurities in the actions of others. But others find humor in the characters’ misguided attempts to be something they so obviously are not.

        In discussing the evolution of the biker myth, J. Hoberman notes that a French newspaper’s review of The Wild One was subtitled “The Martians Have Arrived.” (139) As humorous as the translation is, episodes of The Twilight Zone and Lost in Space did literalize for audiences the image of biker as alien. In the “Black Leather Jackets” episode of The Twilight Zone three Brandoesque bikers establish in smalltown America an outpost from which to launch an alien invasion. (140) The incongruity of the situation does not escape their neighbor, whose sedate life of watching television and mowing the lawn is interrupted by their activities.

        Lost in Space’s Robinson clan encounters space bikers who are similarly intent on the destruction of a planet. “You love making a mockery of life. To you death is just a big joke,” John Robinson tells the bikers, to which they respond, “We like it.” And after temporarily thwarting the aliens’ destructive plans, the Robinson patriarch again moralizes, “It just goes to prove there is nothing you can do with a really dedicated misfit.” (141)

        In both of those shows bikers were meant to disturb the audience, to suggest that there were troublemakers in our midst who might be bent on destruction. (142) But despite the camp science fiction trappings of the two programs, they were little different from other popular genres which saw fit to exploit the biker myth and present bikers and one–percenters as aliens in their own country. Early biker films played on youthful confusion and social conflicts, sending bikers on a collision course with the forces of law and order. Heavy metal music exploited a similar frustration, taking from the myth its emphasis on defiance and individuality and using the motorcycle and the biker as metaphors for a rebellious freedom to which the listener could aspire. Comic books played off the biker’s darker side, employing biker–style superheroes as boundless arbiters of personal justice who enforced their codes through personal strength and unlimited power.

        Each of these popular genres, whether it is communicated visually, musically, or on the garish pages of a comic book, imparts to audiences and readers a particular image of outlaw bikers by emphasizing specific aspects of the biker myth. The outlaw biker persona, then, has been particularly useful in bringing into sharper focus issues of conformity, justice, masculinity, freedom and independence. Finally, the exploitation of the myth in popular genres, besides its commercial value, reveals a society’s fears, concerns and conflicts. They exemplify the kinds of conversations a society has with itself, frame our experience, acknowledge social conflict and form the “public consciousness of the here and now.” (143)

Chapter Seven

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        1. Peter Whitmer, When the Going Gets Weird: The Twisted Life and Times of Hunter S. Thompson (New York: Hyperion, 1993), 161.

        2. Ian C. Jarvie, Movies as Social Criticism (Metuchen, New Jersey: The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1978), 98.

        3. Thomas Schatz, “The Structural Influence: New Direction in Film Genre Studies,” in Film Genre Reader, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 93.

        4. Jack Kroll, “Collide–O–Scope,” Newsweek, 21 July 1980, 71.

        5. David Chute, “Wages of Sin,” Film Comment 22 (July–August 1986): 32.

        6. Chandra Mukerji and Michael Schudson, Rethinking Popular Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 54–55.

        7. Ibid., 1.

        8. Ibid., 28.

        9. John Fiske, Television Culture: Popular Pleasures and Politics (New York: Methuen and Co., 1987), 310.

        10. John Storey, Cultural Studies and the Study of Popular Culture (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1996), 98.

        11. For further discussion of the development of genres see Rick Altman, “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre,” in Film Genre Reader, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 26–40.

        12. Jarvie, 98.

        13. Ibid., 98.

        14. Laslo Benedek, dir., The Wild One, 1954.

        15. Donald Spoto, Stanley Kramer: Film Maker (Hollywood: Samuel French, 1978),163.

        16. Spoto, 159–160.

        17. Joe Morella and Edward Epstein, Rebels: The Rebel Hero in Films (New York: The Citadel Press, 1971), 72.

        18. Ibid., 73.

        19. Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gang (New York: Ballantine Books, 1967), 90.

        20. Roger Corman, dir., The Wild Angels, 1966.

        21. Jarvie, 99.

        22. Mark Thomas McGee, Roger Corman, The Best of the Cheap Acts (Jefferson, N. C.: McFarland & Company, Inc., 1988), 56.

        23. Ibid., 59.

        24. See John Cawelti, Six–Gun Mystique (Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Press, 1969), and Barry Keith Grant, “Experience and Meaning in Genre Films,” in Film Genre Reader, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 114–128.

        25. Timothy Corrigan, A Cinema Without Walls: Movies and Culture after Vietnam (New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1991), 147.

        26. Ibid., 146

        27. Daniel Haller, dir., The Devil’s Angels, 1967.

        28. Martin B. Cohen, dir., The Rebel Rousers, 1967.

        29. Anthony M. Lanza, dir., The Glory Stompers, 1967.

        30. Richard Rush, dir., Hell’s Angels on Wheels, 1967.

        31. Roger Corman, dir. The Wild Angels, 1966.

        32. Jarvie, in explaining why unpopular themes become popular, argues that films like Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate and Easy Rider were less influential in their criticism of social institutions. Instead, their power was in conferring status: “Those of a lower status, or those belonging to groups different from the reference groups to which they aspire, can learn from the media how these groups behave and thus begin to attempt to behave and to adopt lifestyles they have come to think are appropriate.” Jarvie, 129.

        33. Barry Mayson with Tony Marco, Fallen Angel: Hell’s Angel to Heaven’s Saint (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1982), 7.

        34. Maury Dexter, dir., Hell’s Belles, 1969.

        35. Ibid.

        36. Richard Compton, dir. Angels Die Hard, 1970.

        37. Robert F. Slatzer, dir., The Hellcats, 1968; Herschell Gordon Lewis, dir., She–Devils on Wheels, 1968; Zoltan G. Spencer, dir., Sisters in Leather, 1969.

        38. Lawrence Merrick, dir., The Black Angels, 1970.

        39. Michael Levesque, dir. Werewolves on Wheels, 1971.

        40. Richard Rush, dir., The Savage Seven, 1968.

        41. Lee Madden, dir. Angel Unchained, 1970.

        42. Ibid.

        43. Ibid.

        44. Lee Frost, dir., Chrome and Hot Leather, 1971.

        45. Tom Laughlin, dir., The Born Losers, 1967.

        46. Ibid.

        47. Ibid.

        48. “Bob Tessier: The Villain Who Turns Hero,” Easyriders, December 1986, 63.

        49. Andrew Tudor, “Genre,” in Film Genre Reader, ed. Barry Keith Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 10.

        50. Dennis Hopper, dir., Easy Rider, 1968.

        51. John Milius, “John Milius’ Guilty Pleasures,” Film Comment 18 (May/June 1982), 24.

        52. Ibid., 24.

        53. Ibid., 24.

        54. James Fargo, dir., Every Which Way But Loose, 1978.

        55. George Romero, dir., Dawn of the Dead, 1978.

        56. Walter Hill, dir., Streets of Fire, 1984.

        57. Simon Nuchtern, dir., Savage Dawn, 1985

        58. Ibid.

        59. George Miller, dir., Mad Max, 1979.

        60. George Miller, dir., The Road Warrior, 1981.

        61. Craig Baxley, dir., Stone Cold, 1991.

        62. Larry Ferguson, dir., Beyond the Law, 1992.

        63. Richard Haines, dir., Class of Nuke ‘em High, 1986.

        64. John Hughes, dir. Weird Science, 1985.

        65. Joel Coen, dir., Raising Arizona, 1987.

        66. Noel Nosseck, dir., Return of the Rebels, 1981.

        67. Thomas Wright, dir., Chrome Soldiers, 1992.

        68. Peter Bogdanovich, dir., Mask, 1985.

        69. An overly positive image of bikers may not have been the intent of director Peter Bogdanovich, however. A Los Angeles Times story on Sam Elliott, Gar in the film, reported that the director was protesting cuts in the film’s final version. Cut were scenes of a biker funeral which Elliott says are “the only time you get any glimpse that these guys are any crazier than this Bluebird troop.” Morgan Gendel, “Sam Elliott: Who is that Mask Man?” Los Angeles Times, 12 March 1985, Calendar sec., Part 6, 1.

        70. Martin Norris, Rolling Thunder: The Harley–Davdison Legend (London: Quintet Publishing Limited, 1992), 74.

        71. Beverly and Fred Sebastian, dir., Running Cool, 1993.

        72. B. Lee Cooper, “The Image of the Outsider in Contemporary Lyrics,” Journal of Popular Culture 12 (1978), 177.

        73. Ibid., 175.

        74. Leiber/Stoller, “Black Denim Trousers,” The Cheers, Billboard Top Rock ‘n’ Roll Hits 1955, Rhino.

        75. Ibid.

        76. George Morton, “Leader of the Pack,” The Shangri Las, Best of the Shangri–Las, Mercury.

        77. Roger McGuinn, “The Ballad of Easy Rider,” on Richard Thompson, Guitar, Vocal, Rykodisc.

        78. Roger Horrocks, Male Myths and Icons (New York: St. Martins Press, 1995), 129.

        79. Skip Spence, “Motorcycle Irene,” Moby Grape, Vintage, Sony Legacy.

        80. Ibid.

        81. “Motorcycle Mama,” Sailcat, Biker Rock, K–Tel.

        82. Neil Young, “Motorcycle Mama,” Neil Young, Comes a Time, Reprise.

        83. Ibid.

        84. M. Bonfire, “Born to be Wild,” Steppenwolf, Steppenwolf Gold, Dunhill.

        85. Horrocks, 143.

        86. Ibid., 143.

        87. Bonfire, “Born to be Wild.”

        88. John Kay, “Screaming Night Hog,” Steppenwolf, Steppenwolf Gold, Dunhill.

        89. Byford, Quinn, Oliver, Dawson and Gill, “Stallions of the Highway,” Saxon, Saxon, Carrere.

        90. Sammy Hagar, “Bad Motor Scooter,” Sammy Hagar, All Night Long, Capitol.

        91. Paul Kanter and Marty Balin, “Dream Motorcycle,” KBC Band, Arista.

        92. Alex Mitchel, “Heart Attack,” Circus of Power, Circus of Power, RCA.

        93. Tipton, Halford and Downing, “Rock Hard Ride Free,” Judas Priest, Defenders of the Faith, Columbia.

        94. Tipton, Halford and Downing, “Freewheel Burning,” Judas Priest, Defenders of the Faith, Columbia.

        95. Larriva, Marsico and Rohner, “Last Ride,” Cruzados, After Dark, Arista.

        96. Gilby Clarke, “Motorcycle Cowboys,” Kill for Thrills, Dynamite for Nightmareland, MCA.

        97. Kilmeister, Clarke and Taylor, “Iron Horse,” Motorhead, The Best of Motorhead, Capitol.

        98. Bruce Brookshire, “Last Ride,” Doc Holliday, Doc Holliday Rides Again, A&M.

        99. Horrocks, 143.

        100. Jack Keller, Surf ‘n’ Wheels #3, March 1970, 2.

        101. Ibid., 5.

        102. Jim Shooter, Team America #1, June 1982, 12.

        103. Tom DeFalco, Team America #11, April 1983, 6.

        104. Stan Lee, Captain America #128, August 1970, 2.

        105. Ibid., 18.

        106. Mike Grell, Green Arrow #17, April 1989, 23.

        107. Mike Baron, Punisher #31, March 1990.

        108. Les Daniels, Five Fabulous Decades of the World’s Greatest Comics (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1991), 166.

        109. Ibid., 155.

        110. Michael Fleisher, Ghost Rider #47, August 1980, 26.

        111. Eric Bogosian, “Lobo, My Superhero,” Esquire, June 1996, 76.

        112. Ibid., 76.

        113. Alan Grant, Lobo #23, January 1996, 12.

        114. Terry LaBan, Grendel Tales: The Devil May Care #1, December 1995, 10.

        115. Terry LaBan, Grendel Tales: The Devil May Care #2, January 1996, 14.

        116. Ibid., 3.

        117. Terry LaBan, Grendel Tales: The Devil May Care #5, April 1996, 23.

        118. Herb Mallette, Shotgun Mary #1, September 1995; Roy Thomas, The Wild Ones (Cadillacs and Dinosaurs #7), September 1994; John Arcudi, Barb Wire #1, April 1994.

        119. Elaine Lee, Vamps #12 September 1994, 1.

        120. Ibid., 16.

        121. Henry T. Colonna, “Taking Care of Bizness,” Wizard, March 1994, 76.

        122. “The Main Man, Part 1,” Superman, Warner Brothers, originally broadcast 10 November 1996.

        123. Lawrence E. Mintz, “Situation Comedy,” in TV Genres: A Handbook and Reference Guide, ed. Brian G. Rose (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1985), 115.

        124. Ibid., 118.

        125. John Fiske, “Television: Polysemy and Popularity,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 3 (June 1986), 392.

        126. Ibid., 392.

        127. Happy Days, Miller–Milkis/Paramount Pictures, ABC 1972–1982.

        128. Mintz, 114.

        129. Ibid., 114.

        130. “A Pound of Flesh,” The Bob Newhart Show, MTM, CBS 1972–1978.

        131. The Fresh Prince of Bel–Air, Quincy Jones Entertainment, NBC 1990–1996.

        132. Coach, Bungalow 78/Universal Television, ABC.

        133. Shining Time Station, Quality Family Entertainment, Inc., PBS.

        134. “Heels on Wheels,” Married -- With Children, Columbia Pictures Television, originally broadcast 7 February 1993.

        135. “Born to be Wild,” Roseanne, Carsey–Werner, originally broadcast 30 January 1990.

        136. Ibid.

        137. Misery Loves Company, Touchstone Television, originally broadcast 8 October 1995.

        138. Ibid.

        139. J. Hoberman, “Believe it or Not,” Artforum International, October 1988, 12.

        140. “Black Leather Jackets,” The Twilight Zone, originally broadcast 31 January 1964.

        141. “Collision of the Planets,” Lost in Space, Irwin Allen Productions, 1968.

        142. Another reading of The Twilight Zone episode is possible, however. In reporting back to his home planet, one of the aliens says, “They’re a stupid race, as our research told us, an inferior breed given to hatred and killing and making war.” It would have been difficult in 1964 to miss the criticism in that statement as America escalated its presence in Vietnam. The fact that it came from a teenager and seemed to describe the older generation represented by the neighbor would not have escaped young viewers.

        143. G. Stuart Adam, “Notes Towards a Definition of Journalism: Understanding an Old Craft as an Art Form,” The Poynter Papers: No. 2 (St. Petersburg, Fla.: The Poynter Institute for Media Studies, 1993), 11.