An+Introduction+to+Punk

We’d been in Ireland for two days, just enough time to explore, but not enough time to find out how to get back to HQ. We’d gotten lost half a dozen times those first 48 hours, at one point ending up on the other side of the city in true Bugs Bunny “wrong turn at Albuquerque” fashion. We usually managed to get ourselves back home, mostly by repeatedly asking random pedestrians for directions. Besides, we didn’t give a crap whether how lost we got, it was an adventure. The only thing we had planned that day was a punk rock show, featuring one of the finest bands in the world of street punk. Street Punk, for readers who aren’t familiar with Punk Rock and its various misfit spawn, is a working class, usually political type of punk rock, characterized by single note guitar lines and short solos. Or at least, that’s what Wikipedia says.

Now before I go further, I’d like to just explain my views on Punk a little. When it comes to music, Punk is one of two genres that are close to my heart, the other being Heavy Metal. For one reason or another these two, usually pissed off types of music strike a chord with my inner ear. But I’ve recently come to a realization about both Punk and Metal. Both genres are generally angry in both their melody and lyrics. They often act angrily, or at least dementedly, onstage. But they both differ in the type of rage they draw from. In the philosophy of fury, Metal is the spiritual group. Metal draws usually draws itself from primal aggression, the searing hate that is caged in every person’s heart.

Punk on the other hand, is all about having a focus. Punks are pissed off for a reason, that reason more often than not being politics. But even if the band is apolitical, they’re still pissed off about something. While Metal is almost reverential in its wrath, throwing themselves into the mosh pit like mad priests, Punks are secular like soldiers in that they have a target for their anger and that’s what’s driving them.

Anyway, enough philosophy. Like I said before I descended into wordy contemplation of two decidedly un-wordy forms of music, we were going to see the casualties. I had been looking forward to this concert for weeks, mainly because this was going to be my first experience in an actual punk show and with actual punks. Due to the fact that I live in the sticks, I had previously never had opportunity to go to a concert. Combine that with being the only person I know who’s into punk, and you get a nice combination of anticipation and worry.

We arrived at the venue, a pub called the Mercantile, at about 7:30. The concert was due to start at 8:00, so Sean and I decided to get there early. Finding the entrance to the actual venue took a little bit of searching, but eventually we located the backdoor. It was here that I finally met genuine punk rockers.

The first fellow we met was an Albanian whose name as yet remains unknown, mainly due to the fact that the Albanian was both slightly drunk and in possession of a truly fearsome accent. We chatted with him as we waited for the show to begin. He turned out to be a friendly dude, though this may have something to due with his blood alcohol content. We talked about our favorite bands (his tastes ran mainly towards Celtic punk and street punk), our reasons for being in Ireland (he was looking to try and get a job), and anything else we could talk about to waste time.

While Sean and I stood there, chatting with the inebriated Albanian, the alleyway behind the Mercantile slowly filled with punks. Now, one of the things I’ve always enjoyed about Punk rock is its variety. There are tons of sub-genres, not as many as metal has but still plenty. Along with that, Punk is one of those types of music that appeals more to a type of person than to a specific age group. If your pissed off at the state of the world and have a don’t give a crap attitude, then you can be a punk. The alleyway proved that.

The majority of the punks were of the liberty spikes, Mohawk, and leather jacket school, but in between the big hairstyles could been seen representatives from the rest of the family. There were some old schoolers, hardened old bastards observing the proceedings like a war veteran overseeing the latest recruits. Psychobilly’s, decked out in 1950’s haircuts and plaid flannel lurked in the corners, along with a lone skinhead complete with steel toed boots, shaved head, and white t shirt. Rounding out the pack were the pop-punks, whose music tastes I despised but who in themselves were decent enough folks.

It was about 10 minutes after 8:00 that the doors finally opened, causing the assembled reprobates to slip inside. The venue was a small, poorly lit room with a little alcove for the bland to play in. The floor was made of a dark, unidentifiable wood, made indestructible by time and repeated abuse. On the side of the room opposite the stage there was a bar, which about half of the crowd, my brother included, migrated towards. A couple ten minutes later, everyone had a cold glass of Guinness in their hand, and the first band was ready to play.

This first group, whose name I later discovered was Droppin Bombs, weren’t bad. They played instrumentally simple, but enthusiastically berserk songs. The vocals consisted of the two guitarists screaming the lyrics into the mikes. The crowd responded positively, there were plenty of heads bobbing in time with the music, but not enough to create a pit.

Droppin Bombs shot off about six or seven songs before finishing their set. Once they were done, the crowd shuffled back into the alley. Out there we made another friend, the Albanian having disappeared after the first show, an Irish punk and singer who for reasons of anonymity and not remembering his name, I’ll call Joe. Joe was good company, giving us insight into Ireland’s punk scene, which it turns out wasn’t that large.

Given the popularity of Celtic punk, especially with bands like Flogging Molly, the Dropkick Murphy’s, and the Pogues, you’d think Ireland would have a massive punk scene. But remember dear readers who happen to know Celtic punk lore, none of those groups are actually from Ireland. Are they descended from the Celts? Yeah, but in the end the Pogue’s started in London, the Murphy’s in Boston, and Flogging Molly in L.A. Go figure.

Anyway, after having the Horrible Truth of the Irish punk scene revealed to us by Joe, the doors opened again for the second act of the night. This second group, Skeleton Crew, were a step up from Droppin Bombs. For one thing they produced actual music, where as the Bombs just assaulted you with a nearly solid wall of noise. Not that that is a bad thing, the ear bleeding volume technique can make for a good time. The most interesting thing I noticed about Skeleton Crew was its guitarist, a tough looking fellow who perspired profusely the entire show. Watching this guy play, I couldn’t tell whether he was just really into the music or fighting off a massive stroke through sheer willpower. Every time he finished a line or guitar riff, his eyes would roll up in his sockets, his head would shake, and his Adam's Apple would jump up and down like a cricket on meth. It was like he was suffering from some kind of revelatory episode. The music just poured through this bastard the way scripture pours out of prophets and saints. I was kind of disappointed when blood didn’t start leaking from his palms.

When Skeleton Crew was finished, that left only the headliners. About half the crowd exited out the back again, retreating into our dimly lit lairs until the shreiky guys with bad teeth were ready to come onstage. My brother and I once again found ourselves enjoying the company of Joe, with the Albanian making a walk by cameo appearance beer in hand. We talked as before, but this time it was obviously merely a diversion. We were all just standing around until the Casualties came one, and nothing short of another sanity shattering spoiler from Joe would change that. Luckily for us, we didn’t have to wait long.

There really is one word to describe punk, one thing that defined Punk rock at its most fundamental level. One adjective to rule them all. Ugly. Punk is ugly. The sound, the lyrics, the truths we force into the light, and most definitely the bands, its all ugly. So let me save you an unnecessary descriptive paragraph by just saying that no band is more Punk than the Casualties.

When the Casualties took the stage, you could feel something change in crowd. The show was approaching its climax and we all felt it in our blood. This was what we’d been waiting for. That energy jumped around inside us without anything to do, making everyone twitchy. Those of the crowd who had it worst, Sean and I among them, pushed towards the stage. The band was onstage, we were practically bouncing off the walls, the stars were aligned. The first chord was hit, and a mosh pit formed.

This was my first experience in a pit, so I really didn’t know what to expect. All I know was all of a sudden the mass of people I was standing in the middle of suddenly went insane. Shoving, kicking, punching, throwing fists up in the air and screaming to the heavens. The entire crowd suddenly ended up on the same mental wavelength, the same wavelength that the Greek Maenads were famous for. Everyone pushed forward towards the stage in waves, each line of screaming punks hitting the stage hard before being dragged back into the pit by those behind them.

But even though it was rough, aggressive, and insane, it wasn’t cruel or out to hurt anyone. If someone fell to the ground, they were pulled up before they could be trampled. If someone did a stage dive, the poor shmucks they landed on made sure they didn’t land hard enough to break anything. Basically, the mosh pit was a riot with manners.

I took to the pit like a fish to water. I kicked arse and took names, roaring like a lion and attacking the line in front of me like a maniac. The goal of anyone in a mosh pit is to get onto the stage, a goal I managed to achieve twice. The first time, I managed to get to the stage, but it was only because of Sean giving me a leg up that I managed to get on top of it without being dragged away. The feeling, the emotion that shoots through you when you’re standing on the stage with the band right behind you, security moving to you left and right flanks, and the mob right in front of you, it’s indescribable. The only way to express it is to either do a stage dive or to try and take the microphone. I opted for the stage dive. I botched the jump, merely hopping off the stage, rather than swan diving into the maelstrom and trusting that someone’ll catch your crazy arse.

The show continued on, one rabid song after another. The Casualties went through their best songs, like We Are All We Have, Criminal Class, and Unknown Soldier. They even did Blitzkrieg Bop, dragging a Mohawked youngster on stage and shoving the spit covered mike into his hands. The kid gave the song all he was worth, and the crowd roared its approval. But eventually, the show began to wind down, finishing up with the last song, Unknown Soldier.

The pit, seeing that the end was nigh, threw itself back into a frenzy, giving this last song everything it had. The band reciprocated, the lead singer pouring his beer on himself and belting out the lyrics in a guttural bellow that just added fuel to the fire. By this point I was exhausted. My clothes were completely soaked through with sweat, saliva, beer and a little bit of blood, most of which wasn’t mine. Sean had retreated from the pit for a beer, so I was more or less on my own. The peak of the song was what finally pushed us over the edge. We took the mosh pit to the stage, pushing each other onto it instead of pulling each other off. The Security personnel had given up trying to keep people off the stage and just watched the madness with a mixture of disgust and amusement. But they didn’t really matter, because they weren’t punks. They didn’t get it.

See, the one thing all punks have in common is that we’re misfits. A punk doesn’t fit in with anyone else but other punks. Maybe they have interests or opinions that don’t mesh with other people. Maybe they can’t buy into or understand the same things other people do. Or maybe they’re just arseholes. But the fact is, the only time a punk can really feel at home with other people is when those other people are punks.

I’ve always enjoyed Punk music, and ideas. Fact is, I’m an angry, mule headed bastard who gets way too much enjoyment from breaking rules or freaking people out. Which means I fit right in with the other punks just fine. But it wasn’t until that night, standing on that stage surrounded by guys with pointy hair and similar personalities, wearing cheeky grins that mirrored my own, with the band venting their rage behind us, that I really understood Punk. You see, Punk is Ugly.

Enough said.