It’s an everlasting irony for me (or anyone that goes to punk rock shows regularly) that the first people to jump up and let everyone know they’re ‘punk’ are those who have tartan trousers, leather jackets and mohawks. Those that take ket before a show so they can live that Sex Pistols fucked-up-dream, mannn.
I mean at least for a couple months before they go into a job in the army.
I find them pretty easy to ignore, but they’re like hungry puppies; you’ll give them a little bit of attention and they’ll keep on coming back for more. Over, over and over again.
Bone. Fucking. Heads.
But there are also loads people who are status quo – they’re there for a good time and if that means a load of beers, high-fiving and stagediving, then that’s what they’ll do. I guarantee those people are the kind that'll be first to apologise if they accidentally body-check you or spill a drink.
I’ve been trying to think what it is that punk rock means to me. Other than stringing words together like 'friends', 'high-fives' and 'doing things in your own front room with your own resources', I’ve having a pretty hard time with it.
So I’ve made it easier for myself and picked out one period of time which epitomises the whole deal for me.
It was earlier this summer when I played a show last minute in Streatham, South London, with a bunch of my favourite bands in the UK right now: Bangers, Our Time Down Here and The Arteries.
The show was an all-dayer and 5 non-band people were there when I played at 2pm. That was the head count until about 10pm.
After the show I got the train back to my friend Steve’s house in Kingston.
The next morning, speculation of The Arteries and Bangers playing in Steve’s bedroom in a family friendly (and I mean friendly… there was a posh lift and flowerpots everywhere) block of flats solidified.
When The Arteries’ van turned up, a human conveyer-belt was made up to Steve’s room on the 4th floor before the TV, sofa and his entire record collection was moved aside to make room for the borrowed PA and a backline.
The room-show lasted about 20 minutes with both bands playing only a couple of songs each, but in that twenty times 60 seconds I had one the funnest times ever. Everyone attending or participating put a hand in to help out with gear, including Banquet Records with the PA. Nobody slacked, nobody complained. Every second was a blast.
Right now, at this present moment, that’s what I think of when Frank Turner sings “punk rock didn’t live up to what I thought it could be” (ironic, huh) and when bonehead ‘punx’ ruin my night.
Right now, that’s what punk rock means to me.
Just right now.
Fuck you, T-Mobile Fair Use Policy. I need Mock The Week.
In a bit.
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