Soaring Lines & Stolen Fire: The Eagle Tattoo, From Grimm to Germs

There’s a reason the eagle keeps showing up — on skin, on flags, on flash. It’s not just about patriotism or symbolism. It’s about power. Movement. Survival. It’s one of the oldest recurring motifs in American tattooing, and every time I tattoo one, I’m thinking about who came before me and where we’re headed now.

Guys like Bert Grimm, Sailor Jerry, and Paul Rogers laid the groundwork — stencils cut into acetate, machines tuned by hand, pigment that bit deep. Their eagles weren’t static. They were mid-dive, talons out. They were warbirds — reminders that tattooing was once a hard-earned trade passed down hand to hand.

The eagle became a badge of identity. A rite of passage. Military guys in WWII came back with them etched into arms and chests, proof of where they’d been and what they’d seen. Tattoo shops near bases cranked them out by the dozens — bold, clean, black-heavy eagles that could survive sun, sweat, and time.

But just like punk, tattooing wasn’t about polished perfection. It was about making a mark that mattered — raw, fast, unapologetic. That’s where bands like The Germs crash through the story. Their music wasn’t clean. It wasn’t safe. But it was real. Just like the early tattooers who threw down eagles on sailors and street kids with hand-built machines and shaky hands.

This week, I tattooed an eagle. Clean and solid, yeah — but full of that same chaos and reverence. The line between tradition and rebellion is razor thin. That’s where I try to live.

“What we do is secret.” Maybe. But every mark tells the truth.