We won't bore you with the back story on the Salton Sea in southeastern California's Imperial Valley-rich chronicles brimming with every morbid detail about the once bucolic hideaway that morphed into a wind scorched wasteland are everywhere. This story is about what happens when chopper freaks from as far away as , New Jersey, Maryland, and Australia follow their hearts and 150 miles of fast and twisty tarmac from Temecula, California, to Slab City.
This flophouse for the flotsam and jetsam of humanity near the shores of the Salton Sea may flourish with freedom, but that toxic waterhole's mythic breezes washed away any semblance of sanity from the vagrants who populated this Valhalla years ago. The people of Slab City are fruity, and anyone who visits their commune is simply nuts. Given this fact, Bill Bryant reckoned the Slab City Riot would be a perfect way to cap another year of outlaw adventure for 500 or so of today's hardiest chopper riders. With no food, little water and only free beer to sustain them, what's the worse that could happen?
This Is Your Brain
After an easy night of pre-Riot training at a bikini bar in Temecula, Boozefighter Josh and I arrived at Slab City 11 a.m. Saturday morning. Before we could tap the kegs of complimentary Ballast Point Brew, a dozen Slab City denizens in dove grey Biltwell shirts descended on keg keeper Mike D. with dusty mugs raised. When riders rolled in around noon, several asked us why so many leathery desert rats were wearing the same shirt. This inspired bit of guerilla marketing was courtesy of Andy Camay at American Iron. When his shop misprinted some Biltwell tees, Andy donated the blems to Slab City. On the day of the Riot, locals climbed out of their rickety singlewides in new frocks, and a perfect means of distinguishing between "us" and "them" was born. Unfortunately, this means of positive ID went out the window when visitors and locals disrobed to engage in acid-fueled bestiality by the fire.
This Is Your Brain On Drugs
Brazen beer guzzling is one thing, and bikers are known to do more than their fair share when supply and situations demand it. The Slab City Riot was a beer-fueled freakout hellride by design, and everyone knew it. What nobody could guess was how much devil's lawn, acid or far worse the locals might add to the equation. As it turned out, most people who live under the rusty fender of a '77 Fairmont have a problem with drugs. Who knew?
One such person was a portly blonde chick in a bikini top and a scarf wrapped beneath her thick middle. After consuming a potent cocktail of god knows what, hippy chick gave Rioters the standard boob flash, then jumped into a naked fire dance. When a denim-clad bike rider's unintentional hip check sent hippy chick to the ground, an amorous member of Slab City's canine clan started humping her fleshy haunches. It was a scene spectators likened to a slow-motion car crash, with no one wishing to see the outcome, but even fewer averting their laser stares. In the poetic words of one Rioter, "How could something sarong be so right?"
Any Motorcycle Fans Out There Tonight?
Not everything at the Riot was so debased or vile. Local musicians joined import acts Hudson Drags from the OC and Get Dead from LA on Slab City's Range stage to deliver nearly 12 hours of non-stop rock and roll. The jam session was awesome, and alt-country rocker JD King, Star(motherfucker), Gilby Clarke, and Bam-Bam from JFA joined locals and fellow riders to enjoy it. And for my time and money, that's what events like The Slab City Riot are all about. With no entry fees to pay, no vendors to patronize and no grossly overpriced food and beverages to swill during lulls in the 'do rag parade, revelers at Slab City could focus on what matters most: the people, the place, and the machines. There was plenty of all three at the Slab City Riot, which is why, next time, you should be there.