This is how I always felt at early 90’s hardcore shows. Except without chicken guts. To young to be there but somehow always able to sneak in. I was the Little bastard child of the Massachusetts hardcore scene. Cut off jeans self-built skateboard like a lightsaber tucked under my older brothers arm to make sure I didn’t get punched. Or to encourage me to get punched depending on the nights lesson.
Months earlier Jay, my brother saw me using the moldy basketball hoop outside the house and asked if I wanted to do something that was actually fun. With no friends and because we were latchkey kids there was no one to say no.
It wasn’t long before I adopted what would eventually be called the middle school life. Except before it was cool. Tossed about by bigger kids and some adults I was so happy to be moshing. No! Slam-dancing, Jay had told me. Get it right or you can’t come back. Okay slam-dancing. Earth Crisis and Shelter and 108 oh my! I wanted so badly to get punched like jay and all his friends.
When it happened it was awesome. Had to tell a few people, guidance counselors and teachers I walked into a door or whatever. I swear was born a decade too late.
Fascinating stuff. Reading on wikipedia..I don't know if it"s true, it says one of it's central concepts is the Trip to the Zone, inspired by Stalker. What do they mean by that?
In college, I was a drummer for a number of basement bands. Each house in the city had a name. The Sports Complex, the Grav Yard, the Manheim. The sun goes down and cars began to park out side as I haul my drums into someone's basement. Amp feedback blares while I turn drum keys on the toms. The stampede of footsteps growing above us as more people arrive. Soon a waterfall of footsteps thud down the wooden basement stairs. Beer cans crack open as studded vests and fishnets stand shoulder to shoulder. Folks perch on stairs and abandoned appliances as room in the poorly lit space becomes sparse.
When the music starts, the people disappear. My focus is on the speaker facing me so I can track the guitar and base. I am brought back to the basement as someone's bottled water slings across the crowd or a drum stick snaps and I snatch a spare. The energy in the room is loud and the crowd moves like one large, wild creature. Everyone is there to have a good time.
Soon we move gear as the next band begins to unpack. I am friends with the person who runs the house, so I help run the tip jar at the front door. More people step through the doorway with brown sacks of cold beer and jingling keys. The next band roars downstairs below us. A few groups remaining upstairs for a good laugh or a smoke.
I notice something beginning to fill the air. It stings in the back of my throat over the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled cheap booze. I turn around on my stool parked by the front door and see a dusting begin to collect on the floor. It seems to be thicker in the back of the house where the basement stairs are.
There is always a few people who do some pretty rowdy and uninvited stuff at shows. Chairs thrown at the Studded Bird. A bunch of broken glass in the basement after one of the shows at Sports. Cars broken into at the Mustache Club. Sometimes it is a big cleanup and if folks don't listen after a few conversation, they will no longer be invited in.
I hand the tip jar to one of my friends and head toward the basement stairs. I slide through the crowd on the stairs. Meat Mist is playing. They have strung up chicken nuggets in front of their set up like they do every show. Occasionally eating them as they play. The air is hard to breathe. Like razorbacks in my air ways. My voice is rough as I yell over the sound to find out what happened. Someone points to someone wildly swinging a smashed vacuum canister over their head. This is definitely a first.
I feel like our old basement shows filled that liminoid space. Every Friday night we played with other local bands. Sometimes traveling bands from other cities played. A lot of good times and stories to be told. Stuff you didn't see at the bars and other music venues.
This essay is dear to my heart. Carrie in reverse. That's all I want. This essay reminded me that I've always been a sucker for the underdog narrative. No matter how old I am or how many times I hear it, I can't get enough of those types of stories. "and they wore miniskirts or Jordache jeans and sneered at everything, like they always do. They took over the dance floor. They took over everything." Ha!
Here's my underdog story: I had an eating disorder growing up as most of us ladies do and I had very low self esteem. By the time I got to college I was getting tired of my starving ritual and that voice in my head putting me down. After a few trips to eating disorder groups I realized just how exhausted I was . I found that we all were. I would often go to hipster bars to see my favorite singer for years. I never said much to him and he didn't say much to me. After a couple years I go up to him to buy another CD and he nonchalantly handed over the CD and said "I just want you to know I think you're very beautiful. I'm not trying to be gross." and handed me my CD. I stammered out a "Thank you" and quickly left the building. I never thought of myself as an ugly duckling after that night. It was like a weight lifted. Having confidence is an awesome super power. Get it as soon as you can!
Good point. I have new stories, some pretty crazy ones, but most still involve something that would end up on the wrong end of a libel suit or an NDA binder. I guess that's what fiction is for, eh?
This is how I always felt at early 90’s hardcore shows. Except without chicken guts. To young to be there but somehow always able to sneak in. I was the Little bastard child of the Massachusetts hardcore scene. Cut off jeans self-built skateboard like a lightsaber tucked under my older brothers arm to make sure I didn’t get punched. Or to encourage me to get punched depending on the nights lesson.
Months earlier Jay, my brother saw me using the moldy basketball hoop outside the house and asked if I wanted to do something that was actually fun. With no friends and because we were latchkey kids there was no one to say no.
It wasn’t long before I adopted what would eventually be called the middle school life. Except before it was cool. Tossed about by bigger kids and some adults I was so happy to be moshing. No! Slam-dancing, Jay had told me. Get it right or you can’t come back. Okay slam-dancing. Earth Crisis and Shelter and 108 oh my! I wanted so badly to get punched like jay and all his friends.
When it happened it was awesome. Had to tell a few people, guidance counselors and teachers I walked into a door or whatever. I swear was born a decade too late.
Thanks for the story, Chuck!
Fascinating stuff. Reading on wikipedia..I don't know if it"s true, it says one of it's central concepts is the Trip to the Zone, inspired by Stalker. What do they mean by that?
In college, I was a drummer for a number of basement bands. Each house in the city had a name. The Sports Complex, the Grav Yard, the Manheim. The sun goes down and cars began to park out side as I haul my drums into someone's basement. Amp feedback blares while I turn drum keys on the toms. The stampede of footsteps growing above us as more people arrive. Soon a waterfall of footsteps thud down the wooden basement stairs. Beer cans crack open as studded vests and fishnets stand shoulder to shoulder. Folks perch on stairs and abandoned appliances as room in the poorly lit space becomes sparse.
When the music starts, the people disappear. My focus is on the speaker facing me so I can track the guitar and base. I am brought back to the basement as someone's bottled water slings across the crowd or a drum stick snaps and I snatch a spare. The energy in the room is loud and the crowd moves like one large, wild creature. Everyone is there to have a good time.
Soon we move gear as the next band begins to unpack. I am friends with the person who runs the house, so I help run the tip jar at the front door. More people step through the doorway with brown sacks of cold beer and jingling keys. The next band roars downstairs below us. A few groups remaining upstairs for a good laugh or a smoke.
I notice something beginning to fill the air. It stings in the back of my throat over the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled cheap booze. I turn around on my stool parked by the front door and see a dusting begin to collect on the floor. It seems to be thicker in the back of the house where the basement stairs are.
There is always a few people who do some pretty rowdy and uninvited stuff at shows. Chairs thrown at the Studded Bird. A bunch of broken glass in the basement after one of the shows at Sports. Cars broken into at the Mustache Club. Sometimes it is a big cleanup and if folks don't listen after a few conversation, they will no longer be invited in.
I hand the tip jar to one of my friends and head toward the basement stairs. I slide through the crowd on the stairs. Meat Mist is playing. They have strung up chicken nuggets in front of their set up like they do every show. Occasionally eating them as they play. The air is hard to breathe. Like razorbacks in my air ways. My voice is rough as I yell over the sound to find out what happened. Someone points to someone wildly swinging a smashed vacuum canister over their head. This is definitely a first.
I feel like our old basement shows filled that liminoid space. Every Friday night we played with other local bands. Sometimes traveling bands from other cities played. A lot of good times and stories to be told. Stuff you didn't see at the bars and other music venues.
This essay is dear to my heart. Carrie in reverse. That's all I want. This essay reminded me that I've always been a sucker for the underdog narrative. No matter how old I am or how many times I hear it, I can't get enough of those types of stories. "and they wore miniskirts or Jordache jeans and sneered at everything, like they always do. They took over the dance floor. They took over everything." Ha!
Here's my underdog story: I had an eating disorder growing up as most of us ladies do and I had very low self esteem. By the time I got to college I was getting tired of my starving ritual and that voice in my head putting me down. After a few trips to eating disorder groups I realized just how exhausted I was . I found that we all were. I would often go to hipster bars to see my favorite singer for years. I never said much to him and he didn't say much to me. After a couple years I go up to him to buy another CD and he nonchalantly handed over the CD and said "I just want you to know I think you're very beautiful. I'm not trying to be gross." and handed me my CD. I stammered out a "Thank you" and quickly left the building. I never thought of myself as an ugly duckling after that night. It was like a weight lifted. Having confidence is an awesome super power. Get it as soon as you can!
Zombie culture and voodoo rituals...Have you read Serpent and the Rainbow by Wade Davis, Mr. Palahniuk? What a wonderful book!
It feels good to disembark from that giblet trip I was on. Thanks again!
Maybe the "in crowd" thought the party was for the "phony society," which is why they attended.
(just warming up here).
I had a hell of a time in middle school, but wusiwug's story about the singer reminded me of the bright moments, which is mostly what I remember now.
Did anyone else catch the title of the post where "Cacophnoy" is misspelled?
Chuck, you're certainly no one-trick (caco)phony! Enjoying the stories (again). Back in the saddle (incidentally my favourite song that I can't sing)
Good point. I have new stories, some pretty crazy ones, but most still involve something that would end up on the wrong end of a libel suit or an NDA binder. I guess that's what fiction is for, eh?
I picked up the livers and took them home to make paté.
Love you, Chuck!
How brilliant! Would've killed to be there.