Arts & Culture
The Chronicle tagged along with the “Urban Animals” for a joust in 1985.
The warriors look fierce in their odd assortment of strategically torn tights and discarded football and baseball gear. They have chosen their weapons carefully — long staffs with padded ends — and they shoot aggressive stares at each other through the openings in their war helmets. Tension builds in the crowd, waiting for the rumble of polyurethane wheels to set the rhythm of the event. That rolling inner-city tribe — the Urban Animals — has gathered for a joust.
This particular contest will be staged with the Houston Festival as a backdrop. Spring is upon the city. Banners fly in the wind. Teenagers roam in groups up and down the barricaded streets. Young couples move with their children toward the sounds of music. Thousands of Houstonians are seeking friends, food and entertainment.
Mounted police peruse the crowd. A Celtic band in traditional garb performs on one of many stages. The smell of cooking scents the air. Executives mingle with the blue-collar workers. A young girl sits calmly as a butterfly is being painted on her cheek.
The celebration has
been cast in tradition. It is a time for cultural pride. Native dress in the crowd reflects the city’s ethnic diversity. Art abounds, in music, dance and brush stroke. The sky is turquoise and the sun shines brightly on the Animals about to do battle. Behind their audience, young skateboarders try to scale a wall for a better view. Video crews check their equipment and make last-minute adjustments. Portable radios compete for air space. Breakdancers perform on cardboard a few yards north of the crowded oval. “Indian” hits his conga drums in a tribal rhythm. And two ragtag gladiators on skates hurtle finally toward each other, mayhem in mind.
The Animals’ joust began five years ago on a summer midnight in the parking lot of a downtown pub. Two of the founders of the skating group, outfitted in surplus welding equipment, squared off with weapons made of inch-and-a-quarter PVC pipe with milk cartons duct-taped to the ends. The gear and weapons have evolved to some degree, and the joust is now tradition. It works like this:
Opponents, determined by drawing lots, face off about 100 feet apart and make passes at each other wielding well-padded staffs. The first skater to knock the other off his feet three times advances to the next round in his bracket, winners determined by process of elimination.
Head and body slams are discouraged, but this year the Animals added what they call a “melee” to speed up the event — a pass with all-out warfare at the point of contact until either one skater goes down or a referee calls for another pass.
Two referees work the joust, starting each pass and determining falls or disqualifications. The rules are written in pencil. Modifications occur on the spot, rather like professional wrestling, with limits stretched to fit the actions of the contestants. Unlike the jousts of medieval days, women, too, participate here, but only against other women — so far.
So, outside the glassencased library and in the shadows of the reflective giants of the Houston skyline, the two combatants close on each other, their wheels chattering on the cobblestone walkway, photographers poised, crowd yelling. A powerful blow hits the helmet of the silver-clad skater, knocking him off his feet. He hits the deck with a thud, pulls himself up, retrieves his weapon and returns for another pass. And so it goes, pass after pass, blow after blow, fall after fall until finally a winner emerges. To no one’s surprise, it is Scott Prescott who prevails. One of the founders of the Urban Animals, he’d dominated the joust for three years until a controversial call cost him his crown. He regained it at the festival through a tournament process that took a relatively minor injury toll: one broken wrist, one bitten tongue (requiring stitches) and one gashed eye.
Prescott is a fitting victor because he is recognized by many as the ultimate Animal. He lives in a school bus behind a warehouse on a piece of property he found abandoned several years ago. He claimed title to the property through an obscure homesteading law.
Prescott is a conceptual artist whose jobs take him out of town for months at a time. When he’s in town, though, he has plenty of time for Animal affairs and partying with the tribe, an informal group which one joins merely by hanging around in skates and, the unwritten rules say, “presenting the right attitude for a period of time.”
The joust is just one manifestation of the Urban Animal phenomenon. They are nocturnal creatures, donning their skates and bizarre outfits after dark and shooting down parking garage ramps, careening around buildings and along deserted downtown streets, dodging security officers, winos and cops, with whom they have managed to maintain an OK relationship even though their downtown skating can technically be called trespassing. The Animals think of their collective gestalt as freedom through creativity. The lifestyles of many of them are Bohemian, although many hold conventional 9-to-5 jobs. Careers are important to some of them, and their vocations include bar management, graphic arts, modeling and media jobs, foreign car mechanics, retail management and social work. Roller-skating is their common bond.
While some citizens view the joust as MAD MAX-type combat, to the Animals it is a multidimensional form of street art. It is an emotional, physical event that applauds being active in a sometimes dull environment.
The nightly skating, too, provides them with an ever-present edge. “Skate or Die” is their motto, and a 60-degree slope in a parking garage or a 6-foot jump over a guard chain always present a challenge. This is their celebration of life.