This is a message for all the kids out there. You know who you are. You spike your fucking hair, you rip your jeans and claim your DIY, you complain that there are no fucking shows, and when there are shows you choose not to go to them because you don’t want to pay seven fucking dollars to support a fucking touring band. Fuck you! Fuck all of you! You are scum. Fucking scum. Its people like you that are tearing the subcultural world apart. Get out of your parents fucking basement, stop drinking your fucking 40, stop complaining that your too poor to fucking afford anything. Your not a fucking street punk you fucking cunt. You live with your parents in a big fucking house in the fucking suburbs. If mommy and daddy can buy you a pair of $70 dollar bondage pants then you can ask them for $10 bucks to go see a god damned band play. Get off your fucking butt flap covered asses. Do something besides complaining that the punk scene is dying. Help start a new venue, start a shitty band, and support the local bands in Salt Lake that give a flying fuck about touring bands who aren’t big enough to be booked at the fucking LO FI café. If all you mother fucking cunt faces can cough up 15 bucks to see The Havoc, then I’m sure a lack of money is not the reason why I never see any of you fuck heads at the smaller DIY shows. Peace.
– A Concerned Show Goer Dear Concerned Show Goer,
So if I am reading this right (which I know I am) you’re complaining about the sad deplorable state of the psychobilly/punk rock crowd that you see at the touring shows? Obviously, not all of us can be scenesters and dress the part (i.e. go to Nordstrom’s to buy our shoes), go to all the shows (i.e. when is the next Reel Big Fish show?), and hold and maintain the “oh so coveted” street credibility that all this affords you (i.e. yes yes I don’t pay rent, I eat my parents food, and best of all…I WORK AT HOT TOPIC PART TIME)
It must be tough listening to the music. Ironically enough, the fashion itself is a piss poor substitute for the real deal. It is easy enough to touch up the pompadour, roll up some collars, and shine and show the “creepers” that you parade around town. But what ever happened to appreciating the bands that made the fashion, the style, and most importantly, the music that you are SUPPOSED to like? This reminds me of a show in which Bad Religion opened for Blink-182.
But this sort of division of fashion over musical talent is nothing new. In hip hop you have the well made, highly stylized, designer fashion of the artists that make the music. Puffy jackets, baggy jeans, crisp socks, and white shoes with the shoelaces NOT tied (oh how rebellious!). In indie circles you have the crybaby restrictive t-shirts, tight pants, and the ostentatious band logo merchandise prominently displayed on everything else that isn’t being worn (i.e. locust belt buckles, small pins, and stickers galore). No wonder the hip-hop kids can raise the roof and the indie kids can only bob their heads and tap their feet.
But what makes your preferred genre of music so hideously pompous and arrogant is that it costs money to look like you just came from a bad “back to the future” sequel. The secret is out: we aren’t in it for the music we are in it for the money. $100 pair of “authentic” 1950’s style jeans, $40 chain (w/ beat’em up crusher wallet), another $100 for the Social Distortion tattoo that you sport right below the double whiskey bottle tattoo, etc and the expenses go on. Hell, living the musical life is more expensive than actually listening to the music you are supposed to be supporting (or in the best case scenario representing).
The scene that purports itself to be so rough and tumble actually has sunk itself into the hands of the corporations it tends to want to rebel against. When talking to an anonymous psychobilly friend of mine he admitted to listening to Glenn Gould and Perry Como while buying hair gel!
Finally, it takes money to look like the scene that you are trying to affiliate yourself with. You can be bothered with shows unless it is the likes of the Nekromantics or other such big names. Like a Boy Scout Jamboree, this is the only way to know whom the other fuck faces are Boy Scouts and in turn grab thirteen merit badges in a week. But all this posturing doesn’t make a scene or even stimulate interest in the music itself. What it comes down to is this: Stop wasting money on hair care products and fucking fat guys with an REO Speedwagon tattoo on his chest and spend the money where it really counts–back into the music.