A modern-day Western... on two wheels (original) (raw)
Sons of Anarchy is a TV series about a mad, bad Californian biker gang.
Led by Clarence "Clay" Morrow, who looks like an albino gorilla, they swear a lot, smoke a lot, fight other biker gangs and eat vegetarians for breakfast.
Even if they do ruin their macho image by drinking Budweiser, which is almost like beer, but not quite.
It was hardly surprising, then, that when I and a bunch of other bikers arrived in California to launch the DVD of the seventh series by riding around the locations for a few days, gang warfare immediately broke out over who was going to ride the older Harleys or the new Indians on offer.
I said: “Listen, I’ve got first go on the Indians."
“Why?” said Mark, one of the other guys.
“I have a reservation,” I said.
Laugh? I thought he’d never start, but he didn’t know who he was messing with; I’m the president of the Belfast Chapter of the Hell’s Angels for dyslexic journalists, the Sons of Santa.
Not to mention the fact that I’d watched an entire box set of series one and two before flying out. It was strangely compelling.
You can imagine every accountant in the land wanting to join the gang, ride a Harley, get a gal, drink beer with the guys, then do their tax returns at the end of the year.
Anyway, Mark was just jealous. All his mates were in a gang whose dads were trainspotters, called Sons of Anoraky.
Sadly, my evil plan to commandeer an Indian was stymied when we arrived at Eaglerider, the bike tour company in LA, to find that all their Indians had been sent to a big bike exhibition in Las Vegas.
Oh well. Climbing on a nice Harley Superglide, I went in search of the locations where the series was filmed, including, rather wonderfully, the fictional town of Charming where the Sons are based, and where the cops wear shoulder patches saying Charming Police.
Before that, though, we took the scenic route, winding along Pacific Coast Highway then up into the glorious biking roads of the Malibu Hills, stopping at biker hangouts such as the Rock Store, where the ancient gas pumps outside were still frozen at the last delivery of $22.60, and the Rocket Fizz Soda Pop and Candy Shop.
At dusk we pulled up outside the Santa Ynez Inn, an immaculate clapboard Victorian mansion down to the brass stair rods and portraits of whiskered patriarchs on the walls.
“How old is the building?” I said to the receptionist as we were checking in.
“2011,” she said.
The next morning, our first stop was Solvang, a sweet little half-timbered burgh founded by Danes in 1911, complete with windmill, bakeries and a town-hall clock which every hour chimed Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.
As you wander around, you keep expecting Hansel and Gretel to leap up from behind a white picket fence, produce a pair of Magnums and squeak: “Hand over the pastries, mother***ers!”
Thankfully, we arrived unscathed at the town’s vintage motorbike museum, a remarkable private collection of physics professor and IT multimillionaire Dr Virgil Elings, which contains everything from a 1904 NSU V-twin to a rare modern Britten V1000, and in between assorted Brough Superiors, Vincents and a 1920s flat tank Norton identical to the one restored by my uncle Fred, a former motorcycle policeman.
Possibly the most poignant bike in the collection, though, was a mint 1969 BMW R69S ordered by a young serviceman who was then killed in Vietnam and never got to ride it.
Virgil was now 75 and retired, but three years ago he and his girlfriend Carol Self rode coast to coast on a Honda Goldwing.
He told me: “You want to do it while you’re young, before you get stupid and senile."
Lunch was in the Madonna Inn in San Luis Obisopo, as featured in the cult film Aria, and with themed rooms ranging from Fairy Tale Princess to Stone Age Cave, and a restaurant as camp as Christmas, with chandeliers and pink leather booths.
Our waitress, naturally, had a degree in palaeontology, or rocks and bones, as she put it, from Edinburgh University.
After a cold dull morning, the sun made a welcome return (
Image:
Rick Poon)
It had been cold and overcast all morning, but in the afternoon the sun came out for a glorious sweeping symphony of road through hills and bluebell meadows then arid desert punctuated by forests of nodding donkeys pecking oil from the dry earth.
As we filled up with gas in Taft, an old timer pulled up in an immaculate white Pontiac Firebird.
“Nice bikes. Got a Harley myself, but used to drive my hot rod more, then had to sell it to pay a lawyer when my son got busted for possession of an AK47. Bought this with the five grand left over,” he said, then drove off with the visceral rumble that only five litres of V8 can produce.
The next day, Sons of Anarchy location manager Dan Cooley took us on a tour of the key sites of the series, such as the vast warehouse used for all the interior shots of the gang garage, clubhouse, homes, hospital, porn studio and brothel, which for years had teemed with hundreds of cast members and crew, and which now echoed with the ghosts of all that life.
“What’s the attraction of the series?” said Dan in "answer" to my question.
“I think it attracted both men and women; men for the motorcycles, the action, the lifestyle and the stunts, and women for the huge emotion of the family relationships,” he said.
“In a way, it’s like a contemporary Western, with the conflict between outlaws and the sheriff in this little town, except with motorcycles instead of horses.
“And as for motorcycle gangs, I think the attraction is the sense of camaraderie, of belonging to a group of friends who’ll stand up for you no matter what – and the freedom of being outside the law and normal life.”
He is, of course, right: It’s easy to dismiss bike gangs as silly chaps who rather than grow up dress up in uniforms and play with toys.
But it goes deeper than that, to our need to belong and our desire for freedom from the dullness of everyday life, which is something a motorbike and the open road answers more than anything.
The problem, of course, is when you decide your gang is better than the other gang; especially in a society where proving that far too often involves loud bangs and blood on the carpet.
For even when the Sons aren’t fighting with white supremacists, black drug dealers or a Mexican bike gang called the Mayans, they’re fighting among themselves, with Clay’s stepson Jax constantly trying to move the Sons away from gunrunning to making porn movies, backed by his doctor girlfriend Tara and his mother Gemma.
Clay’s resistance, of course, simply reflects the strange morality of right-wing Americans that killing is fine, but sex isn’t.
Just don’t tell them that the US porn movie industry makes more money than Hollywood.
By the end of the day, Dan had taken us to the cemetery where gang members buried their dead and the crematorium where they disposed of their enemies, and we were standing on the steps of an imposing courthouse.
Dan explained: “This is where Jax starts his final ride, pursued by 30 cop motorcycles and cars."
“Hang on a minute,” I said. “I haven't seen that bit.”
“Haven’t you got to that episode?”
“No, not yet. Although I did watch Paddington Bear on the flight over.”
It was no use. I was never going to be a proper biker. Oh well, I had a red hat and a duffel coat at home, so at least when I got back I could start a new gang.
So here is the news. Sons of Anarchy is dead.
Sons of Paddington rule. Mess with us, and you’ll wake up covered in marmalade one morning.
• Sons of Anarchy season 7 is out now on Blu-ray and DVD from Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment.
• The bikes and our excellent guide Peter Hayes were provided by www.eaglerider.com, which can provide everything from bike rental to guided tours all over the USA. For information on California, visit www.visitcalifornia.com.
• I wore Draggin’ Jeans supplied by www.thekeycollection.co.uk, superbly light and comfortable, yet safe thanks to military-grade Kevlar woven into the denim and CE lining in key areas. Highly recommended for cruising without a bruising.
• Photos: Rick Poon