In Memoriam: Marc Campbell (1951-2024)

The “88 Lines About 44 Women” songwriter’s many lives—teenage hippie, punk pioneer, new wave hitmaker, etc.

Marc Campbell in full flight with The Nails. (📸 Pic courtesy of Marc Campbell’s Facebook page.)

Deborah was a Catholic girl

She held out till the bitter end

Carla was a different type

She's the one who put it in

It floated in on a Casiotone-and-primitive-drum-machine slice of new wave, reminiscent of German outfit Trio’s minimalist 1982 hit “Da Da Da.” Except that electric guitar part sounded like it was lifted from some unidentified South African pop song. And these lyrics weren’t some unintelligible nonsense auf Deutsch, scattered with select bursts of pidgin English.

Zilla was an archetype

The voodoo queen, the queen of wrath

Joan thought men were second best

To masturbating in a bath

No, the lyrics to “88 Lines About 44 Women” by The Nails were more like a sexual “People Who Died,” with more of a sense of humor: “Seattle was another girl/Who left her mark upon the map…Jean-marie was complicated/Like some French filmmaker's plot…Jackie was a rich punk rocker/Silver spoon and a paper plate….”

Marc Campbell, the man behind those words, died unexpectedly at his Austin home on December 21, 2024, at 73. He was watching movies with his wife, Mirgun Akyavas, the “Tanya Turkish” immortalized in the song’s lyrics—a woman who, as Marc once said, enjoyed sexual congress 'while wearing leather biker boots.'

Born in Corpus Christi, Texas, Marc’s early years were shaped by his father’s military career, which had the family moving frequently, including stints in France. As a young boy in Cannes, Marc became enamored with Gitanes and the beachside bohemia, as well as instilling a lifelong yen for Jane Birkin. His family eventually returned to the States, but his rebellious streak was already in full swing. At 14, after a confrontation over his music resulting in his father smashing his record player and his records, Marc hitchhiked to San Francisco, where he spent time in communes, working for the Black Panthers and soaking in the counterculture of the ‘60s.

Akyavas said, “They used to catch runaways on the strip or whatever in San Francisco, and the police called his dad up in Virginia, saying, ‘Listen, we got your kid in a tank down here.’ He said, ‘You can keep him.’ So he had kind of a weird father. The mother sent money and bailed Marc out, and he was only 14, sent a train ticket or whatever it was.

“He had stories from those times. Some of the girls in ‘88 Lines’ are from that era, like his first fuck and everything. From there he moved to Boulder and lived in a teepee.”

“Marc was a known wildman in Boulder before punk rock,” Friend of The ‘Stack Jello Biafra noted. “The kind of guy who’d show up at poetry open mics, and read nude. Some way bombastic music columns too [for Colorado Daily (“the then-great CU paper”), Rocky Mountain Musical Express, “and possibly an upstart spinoff called Cake Eaters”].

“The man wanted attention,” he added, with uncharacteristic restraint.

Marc Campbell as a Raver, somehow channeling both Question Mark and Dee Dee Ramone. (📸 Pic courtesy of Marc Campbell’s Facebook page.)

According to New Noise’s obituary, Campbell relocated to Boulder, Colorado, from San Francisco in 1976 after spending time as one half of the 'poetic duo' Pits of Passion. He met keyboardist David Kaufman through a bulletin board notice the then-University of Colorado student posted, seeking musicians for a reggae band. They met face-to-face at the first band practice of The Ravers— by the time of their 1977 Cops Are Punks debut EP, Campbell on lead vocals and guitar, Kaufman on keyboards, drummer Al Leis, lead guitarist Artie Freeman, and bassist Jon Cormany.

“They were the first [Colorado] band to call themselves ‘punk rock,’ the first to release a record, and by anyone’s measure to bring a new sound and attitude to the otherwise tired local club scene,” reads The Ravers’ section in the fanzine accompanying Rocky Mountain Low, an anthology of the area’s initial Blank Generation stirrings.

“What impressed me about Marc was that he wrote good songs even then,” Kaufman posted on Facebook. “Marc was also on top of the latest musical trends. In 1976, I never heard the Ramones (or Television, Blondie, etc.) until I met him. He converted me to punk and new wave. We formed a close bond, songwriting and otherwise through the years with The Ravers and then The Nails.”

Rocky Mountain Low captures this era vividly, recounting tales of Marc’s Rimbaud tattoo, his love of poetry and literature, and his admiration for The Velvet Underground and ‘60s garage rock. As reggae receded from their sound, The Ravers evolved into something more akin to a sarcastic male Patti Smith crooning atop The Syndicate Of Sound, or some-such Farfisa organ-driven Nuggets-style band. Or an especially pervy CBGB band.

“What a thrill it is to crack open each town for punk music!” Biafra—then a Boulder-based 10-years-too-late hippie in his late teens—explained to me in The Austin Chronicle 10 years ago. “The Ravers were that band in Colorado.” Indeed—what immediately followed in their wake, in bands formed by Ravers roadcrew members alone, included not just Dead Kennedys, but Angst, The Healers, Instants, and the charmingly named Dancing Assholes.

The Ramones, American punk’s most archetypal faces, played Denver’s Ebbets Field in March 1977, opening for Ray Manzarek’s Nite City. When persuaded to headline a second, hastily arranged gig, they needed an opener.

“The only band that would fit was The Ravers,” said Biafra. “And since it was a high profile showcase opening for the Ramones, certainly The Ravers needed…roadies. So, me and Joseph Pope, who later started Angst, and a couple of our other friends, Sam Turner and John Trujillo, we became The Ravers’ roadies from that point onwards, until they moved to New York and changed their name to The Nails and had that ‘88 Lines About 44 Women’ radio hit and all that.

“I felt 10 feet tall,” Biafra exclaimed. “All those people in school and my family that told me I was such a loser and would never amount to anything? Fuck them! I’m a roadie for The Ravers!”

The Ravers’ local impact continued apace, landing them the opening slot with the likes of L.A.'s Nerves in May, two months after that Ramones opening slot. In April, sandwiched between those landmark gigs, they recorded nine tracks at Mountain Ears, a four-track studio. Three made it onto their debut EP, Cops Are Punks. Released that summer on Screwball Records, Cops Are Punks became the first record to emerge from Colorado's burgeoning punk and new wave scene. However, the record didn’t entirely capture the raw energy of their live shows, and some fans felt the best songs didn’t make the cut. Still, the band was riding high with momentum, and they played their final Colorado gig on May 21, 1977, at The Boulder Free School. Shortly after, they packed up for New York and rebranded as The Nails.

Marc Campbell getting Nailed onstage by a Flying V bass. (📸 Pic courtesy of Marc Campbell’s Facebook page.)

Once in New York, the original lineup quickly splintered. Drummer Leis bounced back home to Detroit by the end of the summer, eventually landing in San Francisco and joining Pushups, who dropped the 45 "Empty Faces" b/w "Global Corporation" in 1979. Manager Rick Stott returned to Boulder that fall and became the driving force behind The Immortal Nightflames, before he split again in late 1979. Bassist Cormany also headed back to Colorado in early 1978, where he briefly played with Lilly Rose & The Thorns before joining The Corvairs later that year. But Campbell and Dave Kaufman stuck it out in New York, regrouping with new members, and The Nails kept the flame burning through the late ‘80s. Their brief moment in the spotlight came when they signed with RCA.

“In 1981 while working on my solo songs during a weekend, Marc came over and played drums to a repeating rhythm pattern I played on a Casio calculator and an instrument called a VL-Tone,” Kaufman recalled in his Facebook post. “This became the genesis of the original ‘88 Lines About 44 Women.’ We added more tracks and Marc’s evocative poem. After mixing, Marc insisted it be on the EP we were making, even though it was primitive compared to the big studio sound of the other songs, ‘Hotel for Women’ and ‘Cutting Edge.’ ‘88 Lines’ became the hit!”

“I produced the Hotel For Women record that included the original (and best) version of ‘88 Lines About 44 Women’ through my spec deal at Media Sound Studios in NYC,” recalled Jimboco Records’ Jim Reynolds, who co-released it with The Nails’ own City Beat label. [Side A here. And Side B here.] Working in distribution at the time, Reynolds got it into stores and made sure John Peel received a copy.

“I also hired my friend Kenny Ryback to take it to KROQ (and other west coast radio stations and new wave clubs), which started the ball rolling on Marc's professional career,” he added.

“After hearing the song on the BBC, Tarquin Gotch at Warner Brothers in the UK and Europe contacted me and sent an offer to license the EP,” Reynolds continued. “Sadly, that didn't work out because (against my advice) the band and their manager, Tramps owner Terry Dunne, insisted on a world-wide deal, which meant Seymour Stein in NY had to sign off on it. After seeing them live at the Ritz, he decided to pass, which killed the UK/Europe offer as well. Fortunately for the band, RCA stepped in a year or so later and signed them.

“RCA re-recorded ‘88 Lines’, which became a hit in Boston (where they played shows often enough for some people to think they were a Boston band). And the label sprung for a video for the band's cover of ‘Let It All Hang Out,’ which ran on MTV for a month or so. Marc's fascination with Federico Garcia Lorca, the Spanish poet and playwright, led to a darker second album. Perhaps a little too dark as they were summarily dropped from RCA when the new CEO cleaned house.”

Kaufman explained in his Facebook post, “During the RCA years, I often shared a room with Marc on tours because the others avoided him, thinking he was too drunk, and would disappear when we checked into hotels. Sure, there were times he fell asleep fully dressed and had to sleep it off. But he and the band were a great live act. Neither his live performance nor recordings were affected.”

“He was a man of contradictions with a huge ego that arrived 20 minutes before he did,” laughs Reynolds. “Beneath it, though, he was very self conscious and insecure about his singing and stage performance. He didn't have much of a vocal range, but what he did have, he could use with great effect.” This resulted in what Reynolds admits were “some spectacular performances, including one where he made up a song on the spot on stage that I thought rivaled ‘88 Lines.’ But he was so high that night, he forgot it the next day. He did like his drugs and always had the best cocaine in the '80s, which he said he got from a Colombian diplomat.”

By the late ‘80s, Campbell was running Albuquerque Eats and the Rodeo Bar. “The food was great, but the bar, which had a small stage, was pretty dead,” said Reynolds, at the time deeply entrenched in the Americana underground. He was financing and promoting records by The Silos and Vulgar Boatmen, informally managing both, and even co-writing songs with Walter Salas-Humara (Silos) and Robert Ray (Vulgar Boatmen). He pitched Campbell an idea: a one-week Silos residency at the Rodeo Bar, aimed at luring major label scouts. And it worked.

“Because it was such a small room, it was packed every night and the offers came in,” said Reynolds. Campbell knew how to capitalize on a moment, and that week of packed-out shows laid the groundwork for the Rodeo Bar to become a key venue in NYC.

That was also when Reynolds pushed Campbell to return to rock ‘n’ roll. The original Nails regrouped in their loft studio, hammering out new material that would become Corpus Christi. Reynolds mixed the record with the band at a friend’s studio and put it out himself. Sales, unfortunately, weren’t what he’d hoped. Then came the inevitable money drama—the bass player, struggling financially, started pressing him for more royalties. Reynolds sent payments, but it wasn’t enough.

“When he insisted there was no signed agreement, I showed it to him and offered to open my books, but he wouldn’t let up,” said Reynolds. Eventually, after sending everything to their attorney—royalty check, agreement, the works—the demands stopped. That was the end of the line for Reynolds, too. He was done.

Says David Kaufman, “I did not participate in the Corpus Christi sessions, but rehearsed and played with the band for the release party at the NYC Tramps nightclub in 1993, which was well received. That was the last time to my knowledge that The Nails played live.”

Reynolds felt Campbell was “much better without the Kaufmans, but they were like a musical crutch for Marc. He was contradictory in that regard—extroverted AND introverted, egotistical and insecure [about his musical abilities] to a fault. I always tried to bring out the best of his talent and for a long time he appreciated it, but the Kaufmans won.”

March 2000: Campbell rings up Kaufman and invites him to play on a solo album he’s working on. The name? Either Devil’s Circus or Death and Resurrection Show—both suitably dramatic for a guy like Campbell. Kaufman played on a few tracks, but the project took a long, winding road. By 2010, Campbell had renamed it Tantric Machine. Kaufman assumed it was never released, only to be pleasantly surprised years later to find it lurking on SoundCloud. That same year, The Nails—minus Douglas—reunited for some rehearsals, kicking around the idea of a new record. It never materialized, but the sessions were loose, cathartic, and exactly what Kaufman needed after his first marriage crumbled. Campbell, always the gracious host, was a steadying presence.

The last time Kaufman saw Campbell in person was 2009, when he swung through NYC. They met up for dinner in Hoboken, just a couple of months after Kaufman lost his brother George. The ex-Nails singer/guitarist seemed in good spirits, fresh off reconnecting with Mirgun Akyavas, which he brought up at dinner. Yes, “Tanya Turkish” was back in the picture, and Campbell couldn’t have been happier.

By the 2010s, Campbell had found a new way to channel his fire—writing. His sharp wit and encyclopedic knowledge of music, film, and counterculture made him a natural fit for Dangerous Minds, a site devoted to the weird and wonderful edges of pop culture. His pieces were as brash and uncompromising as his music had been. He rhapsodized about lost gems of garage rock, punk, and psychedelic cinema, often with the same biting humor that had made “88 Lines” such an enduring cult favorite. Whether he was championing underground artists who never got their due or skewering sacred cows, Marc wrote like he had nothing to lose—which, in many ways, he didn’t.

In September 2024. Kaufman had reached out about licensing an old Nails track from 1979, Real Proof—recorded when the band was just a four-piece: Marc, George, Tommy, and himself. What stung most was realizing he was now “the last person standing” on that song. Campbell gave his blessing for the licensing and replied with a window into his life: “These days I'm a recluse. Rarely go out. I read, watch movies, cook and cuddle Mirgun and the three dogs. … I really miss walking for meditation and health. Austin is too hot and my allergies are terrible here.” Kaufman had mentioned his own health struggles, but Campbell never let on that he was dealing with anything beyond the heat and allergies. It was their final exchange.

That was the Marc Campbell I knew: a man who never stopped digging, never stopped calling bullshit, and never stopped being deeply, weirdly, beautifully himself. He reached out to me, another Austinite, after he’d moved here, and we connected over our shared love of rock ‘n’ roll, literature, and telling the truth—however inconvenient. He wasn’t just some punk rock relic resting on the laurels of an '80s hit. He was still engaged, still thinking, still pushing against the grain. In our conversations, he’d mention his frustrations with the industry, the way nostalgia cheapened the past, and his deep ambivalence about his own legacy.

On Facebook, his posts either celebrated his obsessions or were unbearably phlegmatic. He seemed to hate every new film he saw from 2010 onwards, to an almost comical degree. In February 2018, Quincy Jones gave a hilarious interview to Vulture, where he claimed Sam Giancana killed JFK, called Harvey Weinstein a “jive motherfucker,” said Marlon Brando would “fuck a mailbox,” and swore he’d gone on at least one date with Ivanka Trump.

Then he decided to lay into The Beatles.

“They were the worst musicians in the world,” assessed the esteemed jazz musician, who had worked with everyone from Ray Charles to Michael Jackson. “They were no-playing motherfuckers. Paul was the worst bass player I ever heard. And Ringo? Don’t even talk about it.”

Jones was either being hilariously blunt or just trolling every Beatlemaniac on the planet. It upset a lot of people, and Marc surprisingly took the bait. (Or maybe it wasn’t surprising?) It was hilarious seeing him rant—how dare this bum talk shit about the Fabs, and who the Hell was Quincy Jones and what had he done lately?

“Marc, what do you care?” I interjected on his thread. “You don’t have a horse in this race. It’s not like you were in The Beatles!” Whereupon he produced a photo of a very young Marc Campbell with bangs hanging in his eyes: “Fuck you, Tim—I most certainly WAS in The Beatles!”

Marc Campbell , wanting desperately to hold your hand. (Yeah, yeah, yeah!) (📸 Pic courtesy of Marc Campbell’s Facebook page.)

“Too funny,” laughs Reynolds. “And I believe he wore every hair style at least once!”

Austin wasn’t always kind to Marc. The heat was brutal, the allergies worse, and he found himself retreating more and more, as he mentioned to Kaufman in that 2024 email. He’d opened Sound Gallery, a vinyl and turntables dealership that lasted a few years, which Biafra helped promote with a personal appearance while he was down to appear at Fun Fun Fun Fest. Sadly, a hipster Austin enamored with vinyl couldn’t support the shop enough to sustain it, and it closed just before COVID shut everything down. Marc missed the city he once prowled through, missed the long walks that helped him think. But by then, he was already slipping into the margins, though few of us knew it. By the time it occurred to me I hadn’t seen his contributions to Dangerous Minds in awhile, he was gone, no cause of death given.

Marc Campbell lived many lives—teenage hippie, punk pioneer, new wave hitmaker, underground provocateur, rock ‘n’ roll raconteur. Some knew him only for one chapter, others for the whole wild, messy novel. He burned bright, and he burned out, but he never stopped being a true believer in the power of words, music, and rebellion.

And now he’s gone. But the songs, the words, the stories? Those remain. And I will miss my friend very much.

R.I.P., Marc. I know you’re smoking Gitanes and sipping espresso with Francoise Hardy in the afterlife. Look out for Marianne Faithfull, whom I know you also loved. She just joined you the other day.

Marc Campbell was a man who believed in telling the truth, however inconvenient. That’s something I strive for with every post here at The Tim 'Napalm' Stegall Substack. If you made it this far, I’d like to think you’re getting something out of my humble little space.

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