I started my love of hard core and punk rock at the tender age of 14, when I went to my first night club in Providence to see the hardcore band my uncle, Brian, was in. Hardcore is a sub-genre of punk. Its aggressive and loud, like punk, but heavier with a faster tempo than punk. At the time, my uncle was in a band called, Skeptic, with a bunch of his friends from our high school (we’re 3 1/2 years apart, we went to high school together). How did a 14 year old get to a nightclub? Well, my aunt Lisa and my uncle John took me. Sure, I had chaperons, but it was just about the coolest thing a 14 year old can brag about on Monday morning. “What did you do this weekend?” “Hmm, well… I did go to Club Confetti this weekend…”
Going to clubs with John and sometimes Lisa became a habit. When I got older, I went on my own. Brian would start bands, quit bands, change from singing to drumming and back again, go from playing hardcore to punk; at one point he even considered playing Irish folk music (he may still be entertaining this one). One of his many bands played in my garage for my 16th birthday party. There were between six and ten people, including the band, in my parent’s garage. Brian now sings in the punk band Reason to Fight; many people know him as Fuzzy.
I can’t say any of the shows I’ve attended was boring by any account. At first I didn’t even drink at shows, I just watched people. People-watching was interesting. Sometimes it was dangerous. At a show at CBGB’s I stood, on a chair, behind a guy dubbed Pete Pills (before the show I was instructed to not take anything that he offered) because people and furniture were flying. It wasn’t a fight; it was a really crazy mosh pit. There was even two women in the pit, holding their own with the boys and men. I met plenty of interesting souls at punk shows. For some reason the more people drink, the more they like to tell total strangers about themselves. On occasion, just for the hell of it, I’d lie about my name. I used to have predilection for assuming the name Kelly O’Conner. With my dark, wild curls and lily-white skin, I look dark Irish. I always got away with it. So if you met a gal at a show named Kelly O’Conner, sorry, that may have been me.
Punk shows typically have an interesting locale. Sure, there are clubs and bars they could play in, but, why? There are fun “alternative spaces” available. Some of these spaces may lack signs that indicate that that is where the place is. The place is so hip that, if you can’t find it, you don’t belong there. I once went to a punk show at a place called The Jeep Shop, which was on a dead end road, next to an automotive repair shop and behind a strip club. You know it was a classy area. It not only lacked a sign that said here we are, it lacked heat, and it was the middle of February. Well, they did have a gigantic space heater downstairs near the, eh, bar. The bar looked like a bar, but there were no drinks on tap and I saw them carrying in the cases of the three beers they offered. The music was upstairs; the heat was not. I guess they assumed everyone would drink till they puked (some did: I saw a guy puke into a garbage barrel) and who needs heat when you’re shit-faced. (A fat drunk shirtless guy jumped onstage and did a little jiggly dance. The band played around him. Later in the evening, the garbage barrel and its contents made it into the mosh pit. The guy was sliding on the floor with the dumped garbage. Good times.)
I do wax poetic about punk shows. I love the music. My friends, my family, are there. I have great stories, even if they aren’t as funny as the above. I haven’t gone in a while. I blame the economy. Damn economy ruining my punk rock evenings of fun! Even if I avoid drinking, a cover charge is a royal pain for someone on unemployment who just wants to hang out with her friends and enjoy the music. Every once in awhile, the dive Borowski’s in West Warwick, puts on free shows. The capacity is 30 people, the band is in your face and half the people there get so drunk they spill most of their drinks on the floor, which becomes a skating rink of booze. That said, the bar has made a name for itself in the punk scene: people talk about it; bands are excited to play there.
All this nostalgia makes me wanna lace up my big heavy boots and head on out to a punk show, maybe I’ll hit the next one. If unemployment gives me a raise.
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This blog was edited by the fabulous AC Martínez
