No Grrrls Allowed, Just kidding, Opposite of that! (Perfect Pussy, Feral Future, Green Dreams and Utah Jazz, Bug Jar, Rochester, 7/16/2014)



Before the show that  night, we drank watermelon vodka and ginger ale splashed with grenadine and blue curacoa, the kind of slapdash cocktail you wind up drinking a week or so after a major holiday, when you throw whatever booze is in the house into a glass and name it after a character from the TV show you were streaming online all day.  So after loosening up with a few Joey Tribianis, we stomped off to the Bug Jar, and, for probably the first time in three years, arrived before any of the bands had started playing.  But the pbr’s were going down smooth and the cigarette smoke on the night air made me feel as youthful and nostalgic as the throwback 90’s gear on almost every scenester in sight.

The first band up was Utah Jazz, a three piece garage-punk group, in which two of the three pieces were girls and none of the three pieces was a bass player.  That’s right, two guitars!  No bottom end, just distortion, feedback and chords zooming around anarchically, furious, a buzzaw shriek, a banshee unleashed.  No disrespect to the singer/guitarist, whose Kathleen-from-Bikini-Kill screech was just as good as her Theo-from-The-Lunachicks bellow, or the guitarist/guitar player, 20140716_215122about whom I can recall no details aside from the fact that he was apparently a man, but my favorite person in this band was the drummer.  She, with her soaked rag of stringy hair flying about and her Bad Brains t-shirt, commanded a ton of spastic energy and was just a blast to watch.  Overall, I thought Utah Jazz was awesome; but as a habitual bass user, i feel obliged to say they could have used a bass player to fill out their sound.  On the real, y’all can train a clever farm animal to play that thing, and then you’d still technically be a trio.



Rochester locals, Green Dreams

The next band, Green Dreams was the one I was really looking forward to that night.  A beautifully crafted facebook announcement for the show had me stoked to see some kind of quirky feminist punk outfit with clever, socially-conscious lyrics about everything from bro culture in punk music to like, ghosts, basically the kind of stuff I nerd out on harder than Hunger Games.  In fact, they were even better than I expected.  Their structure was hella tight and the songs were mad catchy; I pogoed unself-consciously through the entire set.  The frontwoman, a tattooed time bomb in a baby dress, was Instagram friends with Shandi, so I felt a little geeky standing right next to the stage with my eyes glued to her the whole time, like I was some sycophant sucking up to a local scene-queen because the internet, but what choice20140716_222507-MOTION did I have?  She was incredible.  Midway through the set, the band took a breather while she did something that weak hearted, popularity obsessed punk rock bands have been too chicken shit to do for the past fifteen years; she delivered a rant.  She did what punks and revolutionaries are supposed to do, apologetically spoke her mind, giving a passionate speech in favor of something the media has been telling us all to hate for the past two decades: political correctness.  Well, maybe not for political correctness as such, but rather against what has been the dominant mindset for the last several years, that it is better to tolerate bigoted statements in the name of self-congratulatory, post-whatever irony than to confront ideas that keep us all subservient, and thus risk being seen as over-sensitive.  “Keep your patriarchy out of my punk scene,” she yelled, and she was right.  Confronting racist and sexist ideas is not about sensitivity; it’s about standing up against the ideas that have justified centuries of inequality and oppression, the same ideology that keeps us divided, fighting each other for the last portion of the wealth we all work to create.  And it’s about time we start remembering what side we’re on.

Feral Future, from Austin, Texas, followed Green Dreams with a loud, sexually charged set that proved something I pretend to have always said but in fact just made up for the purposes of this blog post: Austin don’t mess around.


Feral Future, with a special appearance by the mosh pit girls up front.

At first look, I thought their singer had no physical presence at all, by which I mean that there was no singer on stage, only a disembodied voice.  It took me a second to spot her down in the front of the crowd, wailing and shaking her hair in everybody’s face.  As it 20140716_231341turned out, her stage presence was too much for the stage to contain.  Later on in the set, Shandi handed me her big, carved wooden earrings for safe keeping and bounced up to the front, where all the shaved head chicks and new millennial riot grrrls were thrashing around and slamming into one another.  I stayed out of the pit because I didn’t want to trample a bunch of people and end up looking like a dumb drunk frat boy for the eight hundredth time, but you know how you can stand on the edge of a mosh pit and kind of gauge what the vibe is?  Well, bouncing there on the cusp of the pit where those girls were moshing each other, I could tell this: it was joyful.  As an outsider, I imagine it has to do with the freedom of finally being in a rock show environment that felt safe, about the rare opportunity to have fun with other women, but it’s a rare mosh pit that ever feels so happy.

20140716_235226The headlining act for the night, Perfect Pussy, was loud.  I mean thunderous, noisy and frantic, with the distilled energy of a lightning storm, or, if you prefer, a square mile of coca plants somewhere in South America, stripped bare.  I couldn’t stop watching the gonzo bass player, who was going ballistic throughout the band’s non-stop set.  He played nothing but chords, lending the band a certain killer-piano-trying-to-murder-you-while-tumbling-down-a-mountain sound that, combined with the unholy din erupting from the abysmal bowels of the synthesizers, made Perfect Pussy the sweat-soaked engine of sonic damnation that they were.  I mean all of that in a good way, in case it’s unclear.  The singer, a pixie cut blonde in a crazy, nylon, printed dress, had a stage presence that I could only compare to someone like Jello Biafra or Henry Rollins.  She held the slack from the microphone cable coiled in her hand and screamed into the mike like a singer in a straightedge band, with passion and intensity pouring from her eyes.  And as awesome as that was, here’s the thing: I couldn’t hear a word.  Not like I couldn’t20140716_235951_20 understand the lyrics; I couldn’t hear a single sound that she made over the noise of the band, from the beginning of their set to the very end.  Which was sort of a bummer, because the band seemed really great, but for all I know the singer sings like Cobra Commander and the songs are all about evangelical Scientology.

“Kill the bro inside your head,” the girl from Green Dreams had said during her epic rant.  After the Feral Future set, Shandi and I stood outside with some of the girls from the mosh pit, shouting about, “positive pits,” and, “girls to the front.” I thought about it on the way home, with my ears ringing and all that, feeling good and not even really that drunk.  The whole idea of counterculture is that you have some critique, some problem with the dominant culture.  When you give that up, when you accept the prejudices of the dominant culture- with slut shaming, with hilarious hipster racism, whatever- that’s when you stop being counterculture and become just a repackaged version of the same tacky bullshit this culture sells to everyone else.  Thankfully, I didn’t see any of that garbage going down at the Bug Jar Wednesday night.  It was one of the best nights out I’ve had in a while.


…and don’t think nobody appreciates the drummer, cause we do.



David Rovics, 10/9/13 Rochester

002David Rovics took the stage at the Flying Squirrel Community Space, in jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt, looking nothing like a beloved quasi-rock star.  Midway through the first of his two sets that night, he asked for the lights in the room to be turned down, so that the stage lights would illuminate him while the rest of the room sat in semi-darkness and watched him strum his folk ditties on his acoustic guitar.  “Basically, I’m a shit anarchist,” he said.  “I like to be the center of attention.”

That’s right, last week we went to see a folk concert, not our customary musical milieu.  In fact, when I walked in an older guy by the door teased me about my mohawk and my Doc Martens, asked me if I thought I was going to a hardcore show.  Well, of course not, but I like to be ready in case a hardcore show breaks out.

For those of you who don’t know who David Rovics is, please let me explain.  You know those guys with the buttons pinned all over their jackets you hear wailing out tunes at every anti-war rally, the Bob Dylan impersonators who you see strumming their guitars at every Occupy encampment and every anti-fracking demonstration?  David Rovics is basically the king of those guys.  For the last two decades, he’s been travelling the world, playing at protests and for coffee shops full of left wingers, inciting the occasional riot, and amassing an impressive library of original songs.

After the show, he told me that he had over three hundred songs in his catalog, encompassing all of the typical leftist topics, and a few others that seem to be the idiosyncratic interests of Rovics himself.  That night’s set included recently-penned tunes about the government shutdown, ballads about activist movements in other countries, songs covering obscure episodes in history, and a tribute to a Greek activist dog with the courage to stand and fight in the center of a teargas cloud.  Besides all of that, there was at least one song about pirates.

With so many songs about so many different things, there came a point at which they all started to sound more or less the same.  I went home that night with the entire David Rovics persona stuck in my head, wishing I had a guitar to strum as every thought that passed through my brain took on the cadence of an Irish folk tune, all delivered in his folksy nerd voice, like They Might Be Giants doing Pete Seeger.

David had a great, self-deprecating sense of humor and an easygoing attitude that made him  a blast to spend a couple hours with, even if I was in a musky community room filled mostly with respectable, aging leftist strangers, and no booze.  On the way home, Shandi commented that he made politics entertaining and interesting, “unlike most political events.”

For me, the highlights of the evening came when he stopped trying to impress us with the new stuff and just played the hits.  It was a giddy thrill to shout the chorus to “I’m a Better Anarchist than You” or to belt , “Burn it Down,” at the top of my lungs with all of the local insurrectionists.  After the closing refrain of “Pirates of Somalia,” I told Shandi, “I like it when he plays the sing-alongs.  It’s like church.”

And the way I said it, it probably sounded like I was being ironic.  But the truth is I wasn’t, not even a bit.  Especially in times like these, when the world around us seems to be so irretrievably locked in the clutch or ignorant right-wing backlash, I’m always hoping for some kind of church service to break out.  Or like a riot, or a hardcore show.

Peter and the Test Tube Babies, South Moes (Denver), 3/28/2012

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comI didn’t get much done before work yesterday.  I slept late and spent the afternoon putzing around in my ugly silver gym shorts and the same black tank top I had on the night before, wearing my Cedar Point flip flops down to the Sonic to fill up on Tater Tots that I hoped would soak up the alcohol still eddying around in my digestive track.  I slept through an entire disc of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia on DVD.  This was a time for recovery, a time for cobbling the bits of my ego back together and trying to refocus the blurry, furious memories of the incredible punk show I had been to the night before with British punk legends Peter and the Test Tube Babies.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comTypically, we arrived at the show late.  Shows in Denver tend to end around midnight, and start at something like six in the afternoon.  Maybe that’s an exaggeration; I can’t be sure.  I’ve never been to any bar here early enough to catch the beginning of a show.  The opening acts were 99 Bottles, The Potato Pirates, and The Bad Engrish, all bands I had been hearing a lot about since we got to town but hadn’t yet had the chance to see.  I was looking forward to seeing the local bands as much as I was to seeing Peter and the Test Tube Babies.  Well, almost as much.  Ok, not even close, but I still really wanted to catch their sets.

photo by Shandi Rine

99 Bottles

We got to the bar a little after 9, just in time to snap one righteous picture of 99 Bottles, Colorado Springs’ most ferocious Oi band, before they ended their set.  “One more song,” I screamed, “We just got here,” but to no avail.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comWe stepped toward the stage, into the thick, stinking heat still hanging in the room from too many bodies sweating, too many lungs converting oxygen to greenhouse gas.  The punks and the creeps and the skins were all dissipating, retreating to find thinner air, beer and cigarettes.  “It’s hotter than a god damn in here,” I said, my apparent catch-phrase for the night.  I would have several occasions to repeat it before the show was finished.

photo by Shandi Rine

I forgot to mention, the guy from The Potato Pirates played washboard on a couple songs.

As we made our way through the tangle of bodies and the swell of ambient noise from a hundred shouted conversations, Shandi found herself in the disadvantageous position of being perched atop a pair of high heels.  They made her legs look even longer than normal in her new red pencil skirt, but she was unaccustomed to balancing on what amounted to pegs under her feet.  I would spend the rest of the night doing the work of an offensive lineman, blocking my long-legged quarterback from the furious onslaught of blitzing moshers, boot-clad human cannonballs hurtling out of the pit with nothing but drums and the fury of guitar fuzz filling their brains.  “From now on,” she told me, “I’m wearing my Doc Martens’ to these things.  I don’t care.”

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comThe Potato Pirates started their set with the wheezy strains of bagpipe chords giving way to the galloping thunder of hardcore punk.  These guys took the scatter gun approach to playing vaguely-oi-ish music:  rather than specializing in hardcore punk, ska-punk or celtic rock, the Pirates shifted gears between all three.  All the major skinhead food groups, as it were.  They played in all three genres fairly well, though I tended to prefer the more ska sounding songs, probably because I never got over 1997.   The celtic stuff was the least well developed, the bagpipes functioning more as a prop than adding to the overall music.  The last half of a song that I heard the PPs play when they opened for The Slackers back in February had, for some reason, left me expecting a much more pop-punk oriented band than what I saw at Moe’s that night.  I had it in my head that they had sort of a nineties So-Cal sound, but the Bagpipe wielding band I saw on Wednesday night was much more bad ass.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comThe low point in the Potato Pirates’ otherwise rockin’ set came toward the end, when one of their songs devolved into a crowd of guys chanting “Suck my dick” into the microphone.  There is nothing on earth outside of a Rush Limbaugh broadcast that sounds more like the sonic interpretation of an angry, two-inch boner.

photo by Shandi Rine

The Bad Engrish

The Bad Engrish is Denver’s inescapable punk rock band.  Since we moved here I have been seing their logo everywhere, on posters, stickers, on patches sewn onto denim.  In their logo, the A in “Bad” is an anarchy sign, but I didn’t notice any overt political messages in their music.  Truth is, I’m having a hard time remembering any specifics from their set, apart from raising my fist to sing along with a chorus of “Punk and Proud,”  and trying to maneuver around a four-foot –wide photographer up front to get pictures of the crowd surfers.  The highest compliment I can give the Engrish –and this is likely meaningless to anyone outside of Columbus circa 2001- is to say that at times they reminded me of Little Orphan Anarchy, only without the air of drunken, chaotic sloppiness that was the hallmark of those old Bernies shows from back in the day.  No, the Bad Engrish were consummate professionals, their street-punk style honed to tightly executed perfection.  One could imagine them playing a Hellcat Records showcase or the Volcom stage at Warped Tour.  Coming out from behind her camera after taking a few shots of the band, Shandi leaned (more accurately stooped; she’s much taller than me in heels) into my ear and asked if I thought the guitar player would be pissed if she described him as “a cross between Sherman Alexie and Joe Strummer.”  I didn’t figure he would, though I don’t know that he actually looked like Sherman Alexie as much as he just had his hair braided like the dude from Smoke Signals.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comThe singer, sporting a foot-tall scarlet Mohawk and a Cock Sparrer belt buckle, was a clear Anglophile.  Once, between songs, he told the crowd, “If you’re sitting next to someone with a British fucking accent, buy him a fucking drink.”  After the energetic set from The Bad Engrish, we were ready for the Brits themselves to take the stage.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comShandi and I tucked into a spot by the monitors at stage right that we would occupy for the rest of the show.  We felt the breeze thrusting from the speakers as the bass did a sound check.  The show was an absolute frenzied mêlée.  I kept my elbows out, trying to hold back the crowd from toppling the six feet of tattooed Roman sculpture that was my beautiful blond wife.  I had taken a vow, I reasoned, to protect her in all mosh pits, and fulfilling that duty was more important than trashing around with the rest of the shitheads.  There was only so much that I could do, though.  We both came away from the show with our knees bruised from the bumping against the stage and our ears ringing for the next two days.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comPeter and the Test Tube Babies, who look like such sweet kids in all the pictures of them from the eighties, were by now old limey perverts with punk rock t-shirts straining to cover their beer guts.  In contrast to artists like Mike Ness, who have learned hard lessons from a life of loud music and substance abuse, Peter & the TTB had the affect of a group of friends who had been hitting the bottle hard and playing punk rock for over thirty years and had enjoyed every minute of it.  At center stage, Peter (who, according to his webpage, is an ESL teacher when he’s not preforming his duties as a punk legend) spent much of the show mock-wanking his microphone and flirting with the girls in the front row.  Between songs, the band joked with each other in an indecipherable Cockney patter.  I couldn’t make out a word, but I did get the idea that they were fond of some of the local microbrews.

photo by Shandi Rine http://outtogetthehoney.tumblr.comThe Denver show was one of only five stops that the Test Tube Babies were making in the non-California U.S.  People had come from all over to this otherwise insignificant barbecue restaurant on South Broadway for their best chance to see P & the TTB play live.  One guy handed me a stack of vinyl stickers for his band, “a traditional oi band,” he told me, “from Des Moines.”  According to Google, that’s seven-hundred-miles one way, and most of it is through Nebraska.

photo by Shandi Rine

Keep Britain untidy.

The big payoff came at the encore, when the Test Tube Babies returned to the stage and played the classic, slow version of “Elvis is Dead” to a grateful swarm of screaming young guppies.  Later, downing shots of tequila and Jagermeister in defiance of all good judgment with some of the local rudies, we reflected on our situation.  The Great Recession (damn Reaganomics!) has been hard on us, fraught with the layoffs and unemployment that our corporate overlords have chosen to inflict on the entire American working class in order to increase their own profitability.  Now, we found ourselves a thousand miles from home facing the greatest economic instability we had ever encountered, without even a group of friends to commiserate with.  “This was great, though,” Shandi said, “this was just the show that I needed.”

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine

photo by Shandi Rine