Kevin Shields Talks Detention’s Comeback with Left For Dead Records

Transmission 134: Interview with Detention

Punk re-issue label Left For Dead Records is set to release a nine-song mini-album from New Jersey hardcore legends Detention. Titled “Dead Rock ‘N Rollers,” the album features their debut single of the same name, along with “El Salvador,” cuts from their self-titled debut album, and previously unreleased material.

Title: Dead Rock 'N Rollers
Artist: Detention
Release Date: 2024-10-31
Genres: Punk Rock
Label: Left For Dead Records
Description: Kevin Shields of Detention discusses their new "Dead Rock 'N Rollers" release on Left For Dead Records in an exclusive interview.

Detention emerged as one of the pioneering bands of the 1980s New Jersey hardcore punk scene. Their 1983 single “Dead Rock ‘N Rollers,” a 97-second burst of Ramones-inspired speed-punk, became a college radio cult classic. The track satirically addresses the untimely deaths of rock icons like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, John Lennon, and others. Drawing inspiration from bands like The Dead Kennedys, Detention combined sharp satire with high-energy punk to make a lasting impact on the scene.

We had the opportunity to speak with bassist Kevin Shields about the band’s origins, influences, and the upcoming release.

“Detention make Irreverent punk rock that sticks to its roots … calling out everyone in fine fashion!” —Kira Roessler/Black Flag

Growing up with records from Blue Cheer and King Crimson in your household, how did those sounds influence your musical foundation before punk came into your life?

It showed me that there was something beyond the more simplistic forms of music. Listening to the Beatles, who were hugely popular, and the Rolling Stones—a pop group influenced by American blues but playing rock music—I started to hear sounds that indicated there was something beyond that.

The instrumentation they used, time signatures, things of that nature were a little more complex. So, as a little boy, I got to hear it all—everything from the Monkees, whom I adored because I would watch their television show.

At the turn of the ’70s, you started to see groups that were moving far from a basic rock format. Yes, prog rock, Frank Zappa, artists such as these. I took notice; it helped me to be open to other kinds of music.

Later in life, when I began to tire of some of the really popular artists who had been around for quite a while, I was very open-minded to hear something that was different. Even if, like everything else, it was derivative from something else, it was different, and it caught my attention.

“These guys are fucking great!” —Jello Biafra

How did your experience in the Coast Guard influence your decision to create music? And what role did discovering punk records play in that transformation?

I was very fortunate that I was able to travel quite a bit in four and a half years. I first started to become aware of this new music they were labeling as punk, which was getting some media attention in America. While there was an American version, a lot of the English bands were getting publicity here. I started to take note because it would show up in mainstream media. I was amazed and intrigued.

I saw an article in Time magazine about this so-called new punk rock. It had a picture of Johnny Rotten and described how they dressed differently, the sound was different—they almost behaved differently. It wasn’t some kind of leftover ’60s peace and love activity, and that caught my interest.

Eventually, I started to learn about some groups. I was in southern Georgia at the time, which is no hub of culture, believe me. I was out there in the middle of nowhere and started to send away for albums. I would read magazines and see ads for other magazines or newspapers that seemed interesting, and I started to gather these things.

In March of 1978, one of my shipmates and I drove to Atlanta, which was not that far away. At the Atlanta Coliseum, we saw the Cruise-O-Matic, the Runaways, and the Ramones. I already had a well-worn copy of Rocket to Russia at this point. Seeing that show and this music live, and the people that were drawn to it, gave me a feeling of home. I had found something that was of my generation and that I could go with.

I was also stationed in New York City, so I was able to get out and see what was happening. I would read the Village Voice, try to find interesting groups or places to go. So I wound up at CBGB. I started to buy more records. Finally, I was sent out to California.

I’m a Jersey guy; this is 2,500 miles away from home. I was on a Coast Guard cutter based out of Alameda, California, right across the estuary from Oakland, and one bridge over to San Francisco. That’s where I started to spend a lot of time. I arrived there in the spring of 1979, and what would later be referred to as hardcore was just starting to ascend with the local San Francisco groups. Of course, the Dead Kennedys, who were already popular by that point, the Victims, the Wounds—they had a harder sound, a more progressive attitude. At this point, I felt that I had found something I could stick with, and that was a huge influence. If I had been back in New Jersey with my friends, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s that simple.

How did those nights at Mabuhay Gardens in San Francisco impact your vision for forming Detention?

I saw groups that were not technically adept, but they had a look, a sound, and an attitude. This has been happening since the days of Elvis Presley touring the Deep South, playing high school gymnasiums and Shriner’s Halls. All these country musicians would see this kid from Memphis, and all of a sudden, the next day, it’s like, “No more country-western for me; this is what I want to do.” Hence, you have your Roy Orbison, Johnny Burnette, Buddy Holly—it has to come from somewhere.

I saw how many groups were influenced by the New York Dolls in the Tri-State area. They saw a group that wasn’t necessarily technical; they were even a little sloppy in their presentation. They had an outrageous look, a stage show, and many groups were inspired that way. Mine was really no different. I saw these groups that had a sound, a look, an attitude, and I was really taken by it.

I went to so many gigs that after a while, once I was honorably discharged and moved back to New Jersey, I had seen so many gigs that I developed an interest in playing and being one of the performers instead of just being the guy standing down there looking up. If some of these people can do it, then in theory, I can do it, and that’s what happened.

When you returned to New Jersey in 1981, what challenges did you face trying to channel the energy of the West Coast punk scene into your local community?

The biggest challenge I faced was that I didn’t know how to play an instrument. That’s against you right there. I was a schoolboy trumpet player; I was in the band, the wind ensemble, the marching band. That was a hurdle that had to be overcome.

I got to a point where I bought a quite inexpensive bass guitar. A lady who lived up the street from me—her son had played but had moved out—had a bass amplifier she was willing to part with. So for not a lot of money, I set myself up with a guitar and an amplifier. Still, the problem remained: I didn’t know a note on these things.

My brother Paul suggested we contact one of his high school classmates, Rodney Matejic, another local guy in Hillsborough, New Jersey. We did, and Rodney met with me. He was so patient but very interested in doing music with another person, even on a crude beginner level.

My father was a speech therapist, and when he built an addition on the house—a garage—he also built himself an office so he could see students over the summer break. This office was heavily soundproofed, right next door to the playroom or TV room. Rodney and I would go in there, plug in, turn it up, and just start wailing. It was very convenient to have a rehearsal space in your dad’s house.

We started playing together, and it wasn’t long before we came up with what would turn out to be the basis of our earliest songs. Perhaps the influence was mine because I let it be known that my interest was playing music that was loud, hard, fast. I didn’t want to try to learn to be technically proficient; I wanted to be good enough to get a group up and running. Even though that might not have been the idea at the very beginning, it was certainly my personal goal, and it fell together from there.

What’s interesting is half of the band had experience with their instruments, and the other half had none. Rodney, the guitar player, had obviously been playing for quite a while and was accomplished. My brother Daniel is an accomplished drummer because he would play along with all the prog rock types—Bill Bruford, Phil Collins—guys like this, and he became very technically proficient.

On the other half, my brother Paul had never been in a group and didn’t even play an instrument. Myself, I was new to my instrument. So it was like a 50-50, but we were able to gel and make something out of it with the limited ingredients we had at our disposal.

I always intended to play something that would stand out because let’s transport ourselves back in time to 1982. What was going on then? Yes, there was an entire underground going on, but the groups that existed that played music perhaps comparable to ours were few and far between.

What went through your mind as the police shut down your first gig at Raritan Manor, and how did that experience influence your approach to live performances?

I need to set the record straight briefly. Your understanding is really having to do with two shows. The first time we played in front of people, it was as a three-piece with no vocals—my brother Paul on drums, myself on bass, and Rodney on guitar. My brother Daniel, the drummer, was still living in southern Florida.

We did an eviction party at my other brother Thomas’s apartment—they were getting evicted, not through any fault of theirs. So we decided to have an eviction party. We set up our equipment in the living room, and we might have had seven or eight songs, all instrumentals because we had just started and didn’t have lyrics or a singer per se. We probably got most of them done before the local constabulary came by; there had obviously been noise complaints. The band stopped playing, but the party continued. So right there, we felt good about that—they stopped the music but not the party.

What happened at the Raritan Manor was perhaps the first time we played in front of people, theoretically for pay. The Raritan Manor was like a dance club, a discotheque that didn’t have original music. A friend of ours who was in another band got three bands together, Detention being one of them, and we played there. Thank God Almighty that we went on last, that’s all I can say.

The first group was an electronic trio with keyboards; they played kind of new wave-ish, acceptable music. The second group played roots rock type stuff, like pop and roots rock—they’d do a Stray Cats song and then an original pop song. Both groups were quite good.

Then we came on, and it was loud. A lot of our people were there, so there was some spirited dancing, shall we say. The club owners—two Greek fellows —were standing in the doorway watching this debacle. You could see the sweat on their brow from across the room.

At the end of our set, early on, we had a proclivity for knocking our instruments over. Have you ever seen The Who when they smashed up their guitars? We were like a cheap-ass New Jersey version of that. Dan would kick his drums around, and I speared my bass while it was still plugged in and turned on. It was not for everybody, you know what I mean?

We were given a hundred dollars and the assurance that the owners never wanted to see us again in any respect. Between those two shows, how did I feel? I knew that we were on to something good. I knew we were pointed in the right direction.

“Dead Rock and Rollers” took direct aim at the mythology surrounding fallen rock icons. What drove you to write those lyrics, and how was it received within the scene?

We had a song that had no lyrics yet. Rodney, fooling around, would start playing the beginning of “Stairway to Heaven,” the iconic guitar intro. Then we would break into some good four-four downstroke punk rock. But it didn’t have any lyrics. We were going to name it after Led Zeppelin and call it “Three to Go.” I’m sorry; that is in such foul taste.

Eventually, Paul came up with words for it, and it became “Dead Rock and Rollers.” I need to point out that all the artists mentioned—I enjoy their music. These were brilliant artists who made some very bad life choices, and it cost them dearly. I just want to put that disclaimer in there because I have no ill will towards these people. They just should have been more careful and mindful about how they lived, but that’s the way it goes.

It immediately got noticed due to its subject matter and presentation. That’s essentially where the single eventually came from—people noticed it. Our friend Matt Pinfield was given a crude demo of the song, and he played it on the Rutgers University radio station. Once it got on the air, a lot more people knew about it, including Rob Roth, who was the proprietor of a local record store called Vintage Vinyl.

He called up Matt and said, “Where can I get a copy of this ‘Dead Rock and Rollers’ thing? I’d like to sell it at my store.” Matt said, “There is no copy; this is just a demo the band made for me.” Then the wheels were set in motion. It got a lot of attention. No one ever came up to me saying, “I hate what you said about him,” or anything like that. The reaction was very good; people saw it for what it was—satire.

If someone could tell me that it’s cruel or unthinking—I’m just a bass player, man. I had no objection to it; I thought it was funny. I listened to the thing 40 years later. I’ve had to listen to the record lately due to the fact that it’s being re-released. James Reynolds will send me stuff to listen to, and I’ve had to listen to it recently where in the past it was up in the attic. In its defense, I’ll say this: I listened to it 40 years later, and I still laugh. Sometimes I find myself laughing, and I consider that a great success.

As someone who experienced both the West and East Coast punk scenes, how do you compare their atmospheres and the impact they had on Detention’s identity?

If you listen to Detention’s music—and we’ll have more out in about a year from now; we hope to have all our recorded material re-released—the “Dead Rock and Rollers” 12-inch is now for sale through LeftforDeadRecords.com; that’s just the first phase. I’m understanding that around this time next year, there will be a CD anthology which will have much more—all our material, essentially.

What I was going to tell you was that if you listen to Detention’s music, I think you will hear our influences. The snarky, sarcastic take on society’s ills, as per the Dead Kennedys, played at hyperspeed; the power and occasional anger of Black Flag; the political discourse and speed punk of Discharge or GBH—one of the British speedcore groups. If you listen to our music, you will hear that.

Maybe because I had authorship on a lot of this, it’s more obvious to me. “Oh, I wrote that song; I must have been listening to blah, blah, blah.” But I think the trained ear, an ear that has heard a lot of these groups, will hear certain stylistic things in our songs that they can directly relate back to because we wore our influences on our sleeve.

I recently had an old friend from back in school who had received a copy of the album. I had texted him on my phone, “I’m proud of what we did. It pleases me that I was in a group that made music that sounds like this.”

East Coast and West Coast—I brought a lot of that West Coast experience with me. All the groups that I’ve mentioned eventually come to New York and New Jersey. If they’re going through America, they will be in New York; they will be in New Jersey because it’s conveniently located near the airport, and there were a lot of clubs at the time to play.

By the time Detention was up and running, and certainly by the time the 45 had come out, there was now almost a group in every town. You know how that works—the Ramones come through, and when they come back next year, there’s ten groups they can choose to be their opening act. That’s what happened where I lived in New Jersey; there was now a group at least in every town.

So now we had literally a homegrown scene. What kind of blessing is that? Because there was really not a lot going on musically. Oh, you could go see cover bands every weekend, a copy band—you could see that. But now there was a scene. So we’re fortunate, and through our efforts, we were able to make a scene. So now places have to pay attention to us. The places that are booking this kind of music now have to look at my group, the group from the next town, the next town over. And before you know it, they’re having gigs like two, three nights a week. How great is that?

What challenges did you face bringing your self-produced ’85 album to life without major label backing?

You know, that was kind of dropped in our laps. There were record stores and actually distributors that would touch this kind of thing. But keep in mind that there were only 500 copies printed, that I recall. The figure that everybody is bandying about is that there were 500 copies of the seven-inch. I’m sure we mailed them, or they somehow wound up at a lot of college radio stations, of course, who would play something like that. Understandably, it’ll never see the light of day on a commercial station with advertisers, so we can forget about that.

But there were only 500 copies, so a lot of it was record stores that would handle such a thing. Some of the large chains, the franchise record stores—they didn’t want to know, and I understand that. But again, we also had a lot of outlets in terms of record stores, video stores, things like that where we could sell this. But a lot of it was done at shows.

We would get mail from a college out in Indiana or something like that, showing that it was on their playlist. They, as a courtesy, would send you something to let you know, “Hey, we’re playing this here.” But for 500 copies, there was really not a challenge because it was almost out of our hands. We didn’t pay for it; it was paid for by Rob Roth from Vintage Vinyl Records, so we didn’t have to deal with that. What he did with all his copies, I am unaware.

But really, that was kind of a stepping stone because as a result of the publicity that this record permitted, we were able to get more shows and more recognition. Now, I say more shows and more recognition—notice I’m not saying more money because there was really no money to be made playing this kind of music. Anything that we put in our pocket for expenses came from selling T-shirts, sweatshirts, records at the shows. That’s where we got our walking-around money, as they call it. But it was a stepping stone that, when we eventually got to the point where we did our own LP, a lot of people already knew who we were.

Photo courtesy of Detention

Matteo Damiani

Matteo Damiani is an Italian photographer and author. Curator of the sites Retrofuturista.com; weirditaly.com; china-underground.com and others