By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
The three are Damon Alire; his wife, Laura; and Daniel Scott Shircliff. The fighting force is a band named Jodie Foster's Army, and the trio's vision is a skateboard park. Right here in Phoenix, open to the public, free of charge.
It all began about two years ago, in the living room of the Alires' home. "We were sitting around complaining," Damon, 26, and a rider for 11 years, says. "We had just been kicked out from some place [for skateboarding], harassed by a security guard, and my wife said, 'I'm sick of hearing you guys complaining. Let's get a skate park.'"
Why a skate park? Can't these kids just ride down the street? In case you haven't been keeping up, the era of innocuous, Jan & Dean-style sidewalk surfin' is long gone. According to Shircliff and Damon Alire, to practice the art of skateboarding in this day and age is to be treated as an evildoer, a public enemy, a third-class citizen.
"The main reason we're doing this is we have nowhere to skate," says Shircliff, 23, who's been riding since he was 14. "Everywhere we went, it was either, 'Get out of here!' or we saw 'No Skateboarding' signs.
"I can go to the mall to buy me a new pair of shoes, using a skateboard as my transportation, and be told, 'You can't come in here with that thing. You can't buy those shoes.' They think we're going to destroy property, cause problems." His face reddens as he speaks, offsetting the dirty-blond soul patch hanging beneath his lower lip. "They think we'll run into some old lady's ankle.
"It seems small to people, but to the kids, it's a big thing. How is it supposed to make a 14-year-old kid feel when the sport of his choice is--instead of football--skateboarding, and he can't even go anywhere and do it?"
But you don't just get a skate park; there are laws and restrictions, codes, committees and reams of paperwork that must be dealt with before anything gets built at a public park, all of which the three discovered after taking their cause to City Hall. But the main ingredient, of course, is money--in this case, an estimated $50,000 to build the park.
Another thing they discovered was that the Park Foundation of Phoenix would come up with half the financing if they could raise the other half.
Mark Lamm, a recreation supervisor for the City of Phoenix (and a man Damon describes as "totally cool"), has been working with the group for more than a year. "They've done a very, very good job with this," Lamm says. But will it actually happen? "They've got about $10,000 now, so they need $15,000 more and it should become a reality." That reality is slated to occur about Christmas at Desert West Park, 67th Avenue and Encanto Boulevard.
This brings us to the second chapter of our story, in which the Alires and Shircliff are transformed from simple skateboard lovers into nonprofit fund raisers, architectural advisers and concert promoters. As anyone who's aware of the big bucks raised by events such as Farm Aid and Live Aid can tell you, rock begets revenue.
"We knew the owner of a club called the Silver Dollar. We explained what we wanted to do, and he said he'd give us the club for the night," Damon says of the first fund raiser. "We knew a bunch of bands. We asked this chick from Burning Bush, this local band, and she said if we had a concert, they'd play it."
The success of that initial show led to another, that one "the second biggest underground show of 1993," Shircliff claims. "I still don't know how we did it." The gig featured Jodie Foster's Army, one of Phoenix's seminal, early-Eighties punk groups that went on to national success. And Jodie Foster's Army will be the headliner at another, upcoming fund raiser (also donating time are Wise Monkey Orchestra, Cruel Daddy Doom and the Hemlocks, Loonacy, H8 Inc. and New Mexico's Logical Nonsense).
There is nothing phony about Jodie Foster's Army's involvement in the skate-park cause, as founding guitarist Don Pendleton reveals. "I'm a surfer, and I couldn't surf in Arizona, so I would always skateboard with these guys [future JFA band members]--we were all students at ASU," he explains from his home in California. "We all liked the same kind of music, so we just started a band. It was real skateboard-oriented, real fast, aggressive music." The group became one of the first skate bands in the country, and is still together four albums and almost 13 years later.
"We sing about skateboarding, mostly because they've made it illegal, especially where I live now in Huntington Beach. It's kind of stupid; when I have kids, I hope they skateboard instead of hanging out in parks and doing drugs."
Pendleton, 34, has seen the sport rise, fall and rise in popularity, and echoes Shircliff's and the Alires' feelings of victimization.