Every kid is my brother here.

Got up to the bar tonight and had a beer, two, five, buddies buying, my night off. Over time, it's like we pass a 20 between ourselves, my rounds this week, yours next.

Same crowd, new night. Same steps: greet your way around the bar, down two, join the parade out to the back corner of the parking lot, wander back inside to the pitcher. A gal I know was dealing with unwanted advances, so I put my solid bulk between her and the fellow. Better to puke on yourself and pass out next to the building than to be that guy, eyes rolling in different directions, unable to understand that he's got no shot tonight.

And the horns roar out, 3rd 4th 5th wave ska, arms and legs flying around the pit in front of the band. The beat thumps into me and I find myself loud, chanting oi! oi! oi! oi! and catching grins, up on the toes of my boots. Another beer, the band ends, home again.

Effed Up Punk Nite

Did I mention Punk Nite?

I'll (punk) rock you like a hurricane. (I'm actually pretty much the world's worst dj, but it always turns out to be a lot of fun.)

the best of times

You know, I really don't share all that much on this blog. It's too public. I don't get into discussions about my sex life, my spiritual beliefs, or the finer points of my wider politics. I don't go on about the details of my work woes or how I'd rather be at the bar, double fisting Pabst.

That was me on Friday with two friends, waiting for the Lucky Scars to hit the stage. They're a local streetpunk/oi band, and they put together a fundraiser for cancer research - called it Breast Cancer Beatdown. There's a joke or two to be made about a cancer benefit in a smoke-clogged dive bar, and they all got made that night, I tell you what.

The cause was worth but entirely superfluous to my night. Some people go to church to center themselves and feel at peace with creation. Some walk in the woods or jump off of bridges or eat mushrooms or race cars. But for me it's live music. Just about anything will do in a pinch - bluegrass on the porch, marching bands making the streets ring and crash. But to be in the crowd at a punk show, in my home bar, brothers and sisters around, singing along. Moments like those are the reason some of us never give up the scene, though we let the drama and street level politics largely fall by the wayside.

My knees are shot from standing on concrete in boots and tripping over kids in the pit, so I don't mosh anymore. I try to pay my bills on time these days, so you don't find me blowing my paycheck at the bar every night anymore. My favorite little subgenres of punk rock aren't as popular as the current trends, so there's not a show every weekend anymore. But when the call goes out, I can't help but answer it. With a beer in each hand and a smile on my face.

big in England

Lord, the world is weird. And the punk scene is tiny. And when you look up in the grocery line to see someone you've partied with and gossiped about and swapped zines with and have just generally crossed paths with over the past ten years on the cover of the National Enquirer, it does feel a little surreal.

I didn't buy the issue, though - I've got better pictures of her at home.

just so you know

Note the date change! This is now happening on Saturday, 3/21!

And, no, I won't be playing any Coldplay. But I will be playing quite a few tracks from artists like the Dropkick Murphys, The Pogues, Flogging Molly, Seamus, and so on, what with St. Patricks being only a few days before.

fun in the sun

There's this local band, see, called Lucky Scars. They're buddies of mine, part of the crew I run with. A great bar band. Well, one of them, for various reasons of his own, is calling it quits. This week, the Scars are playing their last shows with this lineup. The first one is Wednesday night down at St. Mike's Pub on Gaines Street. That'll be a hell of a good time, because the headliners are Hudson Falcons, and I hear they rock it. Plus, that's one of our home bars - there's a comfort level involved that make singing along and acting like fools just that much easier.

But, even better, the Scars got on the bill at a big local show over there in Panama City. Yep, the Redneck Riviera. Goofy golf, overpriced head shops, "Muff Diver" tshirts, and plywood condos - now with 100% more punk rock. A couple of friends and I have a room rented - we're going to have us a good ol' time on the miracle strip and then show PCB how Tally does this thing.

hey man, play some Crass

I've now DJed for four Effed Up Punk Nites at the Engine Room, one a month since November. No scratching, no mixing - I don't even own my gear. I just show up with a couple hundred cds and Truewill shows me which knobs to turn and which switches to throw.

So far, everyone who turns up seems to have a good time. And part of their fun is making requests - if I have it, I'll play it. I've noticed, though, that there are certain types of people who just have to make their voice heard. For example:

- The Honest-To-God Fan: This guy or gal is just stoked to have someone DJing the ska, punk, or oi they love instead of yet another block of new wave or electroclash or industrial. They might ask for someone obscure, but more often it's a great B-side, sing-along track. Garageland by the Clash, for example, or Myage by the Descendants. When I play something they dig, requested or not, they're apt to jump up on the platform with me to slap me on the back or throw an arm over my shoulder and sing a line or two, and they're quick with a "thank you!" and a thumbs up.

- The Show Off: Wants to hear that tune some local-to-Gainesville three piece thrash band recorded in 1984 and released on 100 copies of a single-pressing vinyl 7". What, I don't have that track? What am I doing DJing? This type might even bad mouth my collection on a messageboard the next day. Luckily, the Show Off is almost always universally known as a douche, so no one cares what he has to say about shit.

- The Know Nothing: He'll come up and request The Misfits two minutes after I play "Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight." He's aware of maybe a half dozen of the better known punk and third wave ska bands, but not what they actually sound like. He wants to seem with-in and in on what's going down, but it's obvious that he's just checking off a mental list that starts with the Sex Pistols and ends with Less Than Jake or - worst of all - Rancid and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Less annoying than the Show Off, but still funny to me.

So, are you going to make it to the next Effed Up Punk Nite?

I don't know where you'll be tonight, but my happy ass will be at the Engine Room on Railroad Avenue, playing oi, ska, and punk songs for the masses. The probably drunken masses, because Pabst Blue Ribbon beer is only $1 until midnight. I mean, you can't beat that with a stick, not even on a Tuesday night.

What's your favorite Ramones song? Maybe I'll play it.

where I belong

Juancho feels compelled to hop on a bike and ride it all over creation in 105 degree heat. My mama just has to get out in the garden, stooping and pulling and weeding and fighting enemy species invasions. Some folks are compelled to climb mountains. Some find themselves playing the same video game over and over to perfect a handful of skills that only apply to that situation. Seems like everyone feels some pull, has some inner drive to do this certain thing, even if it sounds completely batshit insane to everyone else.

I guess that's why I spent a few hours last night in a wood-and-tin shed downtown, near the homeless shelter, sweating rivers and losing my hearing. There's something pure about a do-it-yourself punk or oi or hardcore show. I don't mean all our motives are pure - ask any independent musician why he or she does what they do and you'll get answers like "I just want to get fucked up and make loud noises" or "to piss people off" or "to get laid." I mean, a bunch of folks want to hear a certain band that's on the road. They contact the musicians and make plans for a show. They borrow or rent a space, do a little fliering and spread the word. Ask a few local acts to jump in. Maybe they get a keg. Stick someone at the door to collect a few bucks from everyone to help out with gas money or whatever. Set up some PA and let 'er rip.

Next thing you know, people who, in their day to day life, take shit as kitchen workers or state employees or yard guys are singing their lungs out, throwing each other around a dirty room with no ac, burning off all the pent up frustration and energy we deal with in this society to the sounds of their favorite bands rocking out. Even when my feet ache from standing in boots on concrete, even when I catch an elbow in the belly or get knocked off my feet by 250 pounds of excited hardcore guy, even when the beer is warm and the microphones barely work and the headliners are broken down somewhere in Valdosta, it's worth it.

There's no money to be made in the scene I love. World famous musicians live in shitty trailers in the dirt near Stark or rent one bedroom apartments in Jersey or share a punk house with 15 other guys in Portland. There's something in it that's like being part of a particularly charismatic backwoods church. Talking in tongues, rolling on the floor in ecstasy, uniting in fellowship for ideals above and beyond our real lives. A lot of kids come in and out of the scene - they spend a time here and grow out of it, find a place in mainstream life where they can be comfortable and get what they need. But I can't imagine not being part of it. I don't jump in the pit any more - bad knee - but someone needs to document the shows, interview the bands, record our history.

Honestly, though, that's just rationalization. It's not making zines that keeps me going to shows. It's the feeling you get when you're crammed up against the lead singer with a brother or sister on every side, each of you shouting along, part of something grand.

4 weeks, 4 shows

Normally, the most annoying thing a friends' band can do is play out too much in too short a time. Burnout ensues. It stops being fun to sing along and starts feeling like an obligation to show up to most of the shows.

My bros the Lucky Scars are playing 4 shows in the next four weeks. For once, I'm looking forward to the whole thing. They're hitting all my favorite venues - The Shed off Macomb, St. Mike's on Gaines, and The Beta Bar - plus that new oyster joint next to the round Holiday Inn. Bird's, I think it's called, and I hear they serve up good grouper sandwiches and $1 Pabsts. I think I'll work up a piece for my music zine comparing the joints, the sound systems, any bouncers present, price of booze, how the rest of the crowd reacts - you know what I mean.

Plus, the cast of characters playing with them is changing up each time. I'll be catching a few local acts I really enjoy - Neon Touch, County Hell, some other fun bands - and a few I've been told I have to see to believe.

As long as they don't make a habit of it, I think this should be a good month for oi and punk here in Tally town. It's going to be a long, dry summer for touring acts. When gas hits $4 a gallon, no one's going to be taking their music to the masses. So this strikes me as a good way to really dig into the homegrown heroes and watch the boys rock out.

post this

For a while there, it looked like the wide, wide world of web killed the art of the show flyer. Local venues started to rely more on myspace and email updates, and their posters seemed to be little more than monochrome handbills. Name, date, some image lifted from the internet. 10 minutes to create, tops. Ugly and fairly useless.

Since Truewill bought the Beta Bar, though, I've been seeing some really beautiful art stapled to pizza joint walls and community bulletin boards around town. Bright colors, killer graphics - a real departure from the overly computerish looking flyers that are everywhere these days. A couple times, I thought hard about taking a poster for a show I had no interest in, just for the look of it.

See, my bedroom is pretty well papered in show ads. Most of them are reminders of music I've heard and bands I've seen rock out on little stages from here to Atlanta and back again. After years and years of gathering and displaying them, I can tell you that we've got a really cool thing going locally right now. Mostly due to Jerrod Porter, I think, local artist and man-about-town.

I hope the trend spreads. I'd love to see bright posters promoting punk shows at St. Mikes, diy events at the OAF House, ska blow-outs at The Shed. The internet is cool and all, but you can't hang a myspace event invite above your bed.