orange county

John Seymour was the rare politician who didn’t mind harming his career if it meant doing right by his constituents.

As the newly elected mayor of Anaheim in 1978, he angered the city’s Police Department by suggesting the creation of a citizens oversight commission after residents complained that officers regularly harassed and beat them.

The lifelong Republican upset his party’s conservative base in the 1980s as a state senator, when he announced his support for abortion rights and opposition to offshore drilling.

“I’m not going to always be right,” Seymour told reporters in 1990. “Therefore, to expect one to never change a position on an issue … is too much to ask.”

Appointed to the U.S. Senate in 1990 after Pete Wilson was elected governor, Seymour lost his seat to Dianne Feinstein two years later and never ran for public office again. He remains the last California Republican to serve in that role.

“John was a guy who had great courage, he had great goodwill and a damn good mind,” Wilson, who was mayor of San Diego when he first met Seymour in the 1970s, said Monday. “He not only enjoyed a little combat, he was willing to give the time necessary for it.”

Seymour died on April 18 at his home in Carlsbad. He was 88, and the cause was Alzheimer’s disease, according to his son John.

As his party swung to the right, the moderate Seymour had no problem with becoming a political afterthought.

Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas, center, poses with senators on Capitol Hill in 1991. With Thomas, from left to right, are Sens. John Seymour (R-Calif.), Larry Craig (R-Idaho), Bob Dole (R-Kan.), Jesse Helms (R-N.C.), Connie Mack (R-Fla.) and Dan Coats (R-Ind.), right front.

(John Duricka / Associated Press)

“If somewhere in a footnote, history should record my public service, I would hope that they record me as one who cared more for people than for policy, one who was a no-nonsense guy who worked hard for those in need of help, but who wasn’t hesitant to knock heads of bureaucrats in order to get things done,” he told supporters at the kickoff to his Senate campaign in 1992.

Born in Chicago, Seymour settled in Southern California in the 1960s after a stint in the Marine Corps. The UCLA graduate started a real estate business in Orange County as the region transformed from farmland to suburbia. After four years on the Anaheim City Council, he became mayor in 1978.

He quickly established the pragmatic persona that would enable his rise in California politics.

Months after Seymour’s mayoral win, Anaheim police officers stormed a Latino neighborhood and beat up dozens of people in what became known as the Little People’s Park riots. At community meetings, Seymour admitted his shock at learning about the poor relations between the police and many residents.

The mayor described his approach as: “Don’t sweep it under the rug; don’t look the other way. Admit that we have a problem.”

At the same time, Seymour was negotiating with the Los Angeles Rams to move from the Coliseum to Orange County. While other O.C. officials proposed a new stadium, he convinced the Anaheim City Council to convert Angel Stadium into a multipurpose venue that he argued would create “the greatest opportunity for Anaheim since Disneyland and the California Angels.”

The Rams moved to the city in 1980. Two years later, Seymour was off to Sacramento as a state senator.

He became head of the Republican Senate caucus in his first year and bucked the stereotype of an Orange County GOP firebrand by largely eschewing culture war issues in favor of matters like higher pay for teachers and government support for poor parents that sometimes aligned him with Democrats. That made him few friends in his own party, with many finding his personal ambition grating — he once wrote a letter to then-Gov. George Deukmejian asking that he be appointed state treasurer — and a distraction from getting more of their own elected to Sacramento.

Seymour made no apologies for selling himself as a public servant while simultaneously seeking more power.

“I like to do things,” Seymour told The Times in 1987. “I’ve been a doer all my life. I don’t like to sit around sucking my thumb. I like to resolve problems.”

That year, conservative opponents deposed him as caucus chair. They snickered two years later when he announced that while he personally opposed abortion, he now supported a woman’s right to choose.

Sen. John Seymour in 1991.

(Don Boomer / For The Times)

The impetus was a U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave states more leeway to regulate abortion. Since California had legalized the procedure decades earlier, Seymour reasoned that he should respect women’s choices. He spoke with people who were for and against abortion, and with his own family, before going public with his change of heart.

Naysayers accused the state senator of trying to pick up female voters as he was campaigning for the Republican nomination for lieutenant governor against fellow Orange County legislator Marian Bergeson, who opposed abortion. The charge was bogus, according to longtime Seymour campaign advisor Eileen Padberg.

“He didn’t get talked into it — he was an effing Marine,” she said. “He had to be convinced in anything before making a decision. In my career representing hundreds of candidates, John was one of very few who consistently would say about their stances, ‘This is going to kill me, but I gotta do it.’”

Seymour lost the primary to Bergeson. Six months later, he was once again one of the most powerful Republicans in the state when he took the Senate seat Wilson had just vacated to become governor.

Seymour’s son John recalled his father getting the call from Wilson while the family was vacationing in Shasta.

“Dad knew that it was a heavy, weighted responsibility, and that it would affect the family,” John said. “But we kids said, ‘You should do this, if it makes you happy.’”

Seymour became the second Anaheim Republican to serve in the position, after Thomas Kuchel in the 1950s and 1960s.

Wilson told The Times that he originally wanted to keep his friend in Sacramento to help push through his agenda. But the governor figured he needed a trusted voice in Washington even more.

“You’re looking for people who are not only friends but are capable and experienced and understand what’s necessary,” Wilson said. “And I don’t think I was doing him a great favor, because it was a tough time for the state.”

California was weathering its worst recession in decades and a punishing drought. The state’s vaunted defense industry was shedding tens of thousands of jobs with the closure of military bases after the end of the Cold War.

The daunting task didn’t faze Seymour.

“I mean, you gotta be good to succeed in the private sector,” he told The Times in 1992. “But if you’re gonna succeed in getting things done in the public sector, you gotta be better than that! That’s the challenge!”

Seymour spent most of his short time in the Senate in triage mode. He lobbied especially hard for California’s real estate industry, calling himself the “realtors’ senator.” But the diminutive man’s plainspoken demeanor failed to gain traction with California voters — a 1991 Times profile deemed him “the unknown senator.” And his one moment in the national spotlight became fodder for opponents.

In the spring of 1992, Los Angeles erupted in deadly riots after a jury acquitted four police officers who beat Rodney King. As he once did in Anaheim, Seymour went on a listening tour across affected neighborhoods, accompanying President George H.W. Bush.

This time, Seymour was accused of seeking photo opportunities a month before his primary election and being tone-deaf to the riot’s root causes by airing television ads stating, “We can’t be tough enough on lawbreakers.” White House aides ridiculed him in the press as the “Velcro senator.” His Republican opponent, Orange County Rep. William Dannemeyer, labeled him “Senator Flip Flop.”

Seymour easily beat Dannemeyer, then faced Democrat Dianne Feinstein, the former San Francisco mayor whose narrow loss to Wilson in the governor’s race had earned her widespread name recognition. He received only 38% of the vote as Feinstein rode a Democratic wave that swept Bill Clinton into the White House and a record number of women into the U.S. Senate, including Barbara Boxer in California.

California Department of Finance spokesperson H.D. Palmer worked for Seymour at the time and saw his “regular guy” boss give “one of the kindest and most gracious concession speeches I’ve ever heard.”

“Then he went down to O.C. to be with his supporters,” Palmer said. “He was true to his roots.”

Wilson soon appointed Seymour to head the California Housing Finance Agency, which helps first-time home buyers access low-rate loans. He stayed in that role for two years before becoming chief executive of the Southern California Housing Development Corp. The Inland Empire nonprofit, which managed and built affordable housing complexes, is now known as National Community Renaissance, or National CORE.

John, who is the nonprofit’s vice president of acquisitions, said his father had no regrets about leaving politics behind because “housing was his passion. He saw it as a platform for people to grow. He would say, ‘Once you’re housed, you have a big, beautiful horizon to do anything.’”

Seymour did lean on his past to urge skeptical cities and counties to allow affordable housing projects, challenging them to be like him: do the right thing regardless of political cost.

“If in fact you’re going to try to change an environment in which a mayor or city council will do what they know in their hearts is right, you need to offset the political blow,” he said at a housing conference in Cathedral City in 2002. “I challenge you to form a coalition.”

Seymour is survived by his wife of 54 years, Judy; children John, Shad, Jeffrey, Barrett, Lisa Houser and Sarena Talbert; nine grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.

Cameron Collins was sick of Joe Biden.

The owner of concert promoter Brew Ha Ha Productions describes himself as a libertarian-leaning conservative who built his career in San Juan Capistrano. He’d kept his personal politics out of his popular SoCal events, like the ska fest OC Super Show and the nationally touring Punk in the Park fest, a staple for bands like Bad Religion and Pennywise.

On May 30, 2024, Collins felt dismayed that Biden had pursued reelection. In a fit of anger, he donated $225 to Donald Trump’s campaign.

“It was just an impulsive thing,” Collins said in an interview. “Biden had said he was going to run again. I was like, nope. He’d said he wasn’t. It was more about that than anything. I don’t post anything political or talk about anything politically. I’ve never donated to anything like that before.”

That donation proved fateful. After a small punk label discovered and decried Collins’ donation, the scene turned on him. Influential bands pulled out of his festivals or said they wouldn’t return.

On Feb. 27, Collins canceled every Punk in the Park date for 2026.

“The current climate surrounding the events has created challenges that make it impossible for us to move forward,” the organizers wrote on Instagram.

It’s no surprise that an underground music scene would loathe a Trump-donating promoter. Amid the Iran war, raids by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the Epstein files, many Americans want Trump supporters gone from their lives, some viewing any form of support for him as an attack on their and others’ safety and dignity.

Yet until this donation, Collins was a respected promoter whose events sustained hundreds of acts, including progressive bands. Some artists who relied on Collins’ festivals — even if they hate his politics — said the backlash will hurt their livelihoods too.

“It was the worst money I ever spent,” Collins said. “It was not worth this.”

On a March afternoon after canceling his tours, Collins spoke to The Times on a Zoom from his home in Texas. He wore a thick gray beard and the chunky glasses of an aging rocker. His home office was plastered in concert posters from his decades of shows, which include Punk in Drublic (a long-running collaboration with his friends in the left-leaning band NOFX), Silverado Showdown in Orange County and SoCal rock radio station KLOS’ Sabroso Festival.

He expressed bewilderment over the fan revolt that turned him from a scene mogul who gave to pediatric cancer research charities to a villain with a gutted festival business.

“I feel like my reputation with every artist I ever worked with was that they would say, ‘The guy’s got integrity. He treats everyone right. He fights for this scene,’ ” Collins said. “I’m wondering what is happening right now that this has become so polarizing.”

Asked what Trump policies he supported, Collins sighed and said, “A vote for a candidate is not an endorsement of everything they stand for. I am very antiwar. There were promises that Trump made — no more foreign wars, supporting Ukraine by ending that war, lowering prices on gas and on groceries. Dinner table topics.”

Those goals are significantly at odds with the president’s track record. Did Trump deliver on Collins’ donation?

“The way that this whole fiasco has gone down — no one would have voted for that,” he said.

Punk has long struggled with a reactionary streak. British bands in the ‘70s wore swastika armbands for shock value. The Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten and the Ramones’ Johnny Ramone turned rightward, and Orange County’s hardcore scene has had neo-Nazi extremists. Gen X punk fans who consider themselves anti-establishment might see online leftists as imposing on their ability to have consequence-free political speech.

Yet the vitality of today’s punk scene is driven by young, racially and sexuality-diverse fans who believe they are in grave danger from Trump’s policies.

Last year, Brandon Lewis, the founder of the Columbus, Ohio-based label Punkerton Records, was poking around on the donor database Open Secrets. He was curious how his scene was donating, and he’d attended Brew Ha Ha events like the Ohio punk festival Camp Anarchy. He checked where Collins put his money and was appalled that it went to Trump.

“We refuse to support, defend, or stay silent about someone who gave money to a man actively destroying everything we care about, deporting our friends and families, erasing the existence of our trans community, stripping away civil liberties, civil rights, and workers’ rights, while dismantling the Constitution itself,” Lewis wrote from Punkerton’s Instagram.

“I’m a combat veteran, and this administration is just pushing everything I believe in about freedom out the window,” Lewis told The Times. “When I would listen to Trump’s rhetoric about ICE — I’ve got friends who are undocumented. Supporting that in a financial way, supporting someone saying my trans friends don’t exist, and to do so coming from a music scene that to me is accepting and kind and certainly not ripping families apart, I couldn’t in good conscience let that go.”

Other bands in the scene, like Dillinger Four, found more donations — around $100 or $200 each — from Collins going to the Trump-supporting political action committees WinRed and Never Surrender and the Trump National Committee. Collins’ support ran deeper than a one-off gesture.

Left-leaning fans demanded that bands drop off Collins’ festival bills.

Dropkick Murphys, a rough-and-ready enemy of Trumpism in punk, had played Collins’ past events. When word of his donations spread, the band came out swinging.

“Punk Rock and Donald Trump just don’t belong together,” they wrote in an Instagram post . “So, upon finding out that Brew Ha Ha promotions donated to the Trump campaign, we will not be playing any more Punk in the Park shows.”

Some acts, like old-guard punks the Adicts and ska group the Aquabats, canceled sets at Collins’ events. Other bands, like Dead Kennedys, said they opposed his beliefs but fulfilled their contracts.

“Dead Kennedys have always stood firmly against authoritarianism, racism, and fascism. That has not changed,” the group wroteon social media. “After these scheduled appearances, we will not be participating in future Punk In the Park events.”

Collins said he understood why bands jumped ship. “There was so much pressure building,” he said. “The bands are a business. You have to say, at what level is the pay worth the headache?”

Yet he insisted that “anyone that pulled off did not pull out because they were standing for something, but were being pummeled to the ground by everyone that said they’d better do it or else. I don’t want those bands to go through that.”

Many fans say that Collins is seeing the predictable consequences of supporting a politician the scene despises.

Others struggled with what to do in response. Monique Powell, the singer for the Orange County ska band Save Ferris, describes herself as a “queer anarchist anti-Netanyahu Jewish child of a North African immigrant,” and far from a Trump sympathizer. Yet Save Ferris played Collins’ OC Super Show event in spite of the protests and bands pulling out.

She said that, while she opposes MAGA, she “wasn’t willing to disappoint fans and put hundreds of people out of work just because someone had a view I didn’t agree with.”

She said Collins “has been an important part of creating and nurturing this scene. He gave a lot of people work. From onstage, I see all the vendors, the stage crew, all providing jobs for people of all backgrounds. He’s given a place for fans to come together, even if they don’t all believe the same stuff.”

Save Ferris was a breakout act in the ‘90s and is now a working-class band on the ska and punk festival circuit. “I see the midsized, hometown venues that the bands of my ilk play — they’re being bought out or dying,” Powell said. “I’m not about to start getting out pitchforks for someone who did something that’s nothing compared to the effects of larger companies.”

Take, for example, Beverly Hills-based concert giant Live Nation, which was in the news last week after a federal jury in New York ruled against it in an antitrust case. Live Nation’s chief executive, Michael Rapino, has donated to Democrats Kamala Harris, Sens. Jacky Rosen of Nevada, Lisa Blunt Rochester of Delaware and Adam Schiff of California, and the music biz-friendly Texas Republican John Cornyn. Live Nation’s PAC has given to Republican Sens. Marsha Blackburn of Tennessee and Ohio Rep. Jim Jordan, alongside several Democrats. Billionaire Philip Anschutz, whose namesake firm AEG is the parent company of Coachella promoter Goldenvoice, has donated millions to Republican politicians, PACs and party organizations for decades — exponentially more than Collins ever did.

It’s fair for to wonder why music fans who hold the line on supporting a Trump donor like Collins might attend those other shows. Lewis said he struggles with that contradiction too but said it hurt worse coming from a punk promoter.

“Donating to Trump is antithesis of what punk means. Hating people for their sexuality or skin color is not punk in the least bit. People clearly expected better from a punk rock festival,” he said.

“I think Live Nation should be broken in half,” Lewis added. “But it’s no knock on someone who wants to see Social Distortion at a Live Nation venue; they need escape as well. I’m just not going to pretend Live Nation is a beacon for good things.”

Those punk communities are pushing back beyond Collins’ events. The SoCal gothic-cumbia DJ collective Los Goths pulled out of the Orange County festival Los Darks after learning its organizers, Peachtree Entertainment, produced the MAGA-champion Kid Rock’s controversial Rock the Country festival. The Los Angeles crust-punk event C.Y. Fest was scrapped after its organizer, Ignacio “Nacho Corrupted” Rodriguera was accused of sexual misconduct (he called the claims “false allegations and misinformation,” but stepped back from the festival).

Collins’ company produces events outside the punk scene, focused on craft beer and other music genres. He recently revamped his upcoming Me Gusta festival into Sublime Fest after the rap group Cypress Hill pulled out. (Last year, Sublime played at the Trump National Doral golf course for the Saudi-backed LIV Golf tour.)

Collins is not sure how he’ll find his way back into the punk scene or if the fans will want him there again.

“I still go out into the audience because I just want to see, is it real? Do people hate me?” he said. “We have bands up there like the Casualties, who are flying [anti-ICE] flags. People are like, ‘You’re a fascist,’ but I’m paying a band to go on my stage to say whatever they want, and then signing a check and going, ‘Thanks for doing it.’ ”

In America‘s current political climate, left-leaning punk fans may not have patience for Trump sympathizers. Having heterodox beliefs is one thing; financially supporting the president is another. Collins is a free market guy, and the punk market has spoken.

Yet huge companies that donate to Trump and his allies are consolidating the industry. It’s harder for progressive punks who want the scene to reflect their values.

“I feel like we created a sustainable, realistic scene that can keep going for years, and bands can earn the money that they need to anchor those tours,” Collins said. His donation caused this avoidable backlash, but “if you take away festivals that are their anchors, like we have been for so many of these artists over the years, how do they tour? This is what the bands are telling me, that ‘we’re the ones getting killed here.’ ”