maniac on the dancefloor

Fantastic. Only one week into the new year and I've already seen two great hardcore shows. Perhaps I should see some more non-hardcore shows but perhaps said shows should be cheaper and held in the same shitholes the punks are willing to play.

Unfortunately, I'm growing irritable in my old age. It seems as though I can't see four or five bands in a row anymore without getting tired of the sound of guitars. Soon I'll be complaining about that trash the kids are listening to these days...it sounds just like noise.

At the Big Horse on Tuesday, Sweden's Imperial Leather was set to rock the house after seven bands. I missed them and the other touring band, the Cooters. I did see however, two of my favorites: Condenada and Tras de Nada, as well as Disrobe, Riotous, and some young, sweatpantsed metal band from Wisconsin. It was all just a warmup for tonight.

We arrived in the Beauty Shop with forties in hand, just as Global Genocide was starting. Global Genocide consists of four fifteen year old girls playing loud, fast slightly melodic punk rock. It was adorable and there was absolutely no standing room (The Beauty Shop is, in actuality, a two-bedroom apartment. The bands play in what would otherwise be considered a dining room). We gave up and drank in the kitchen. I perused merch.

The first thing I noticed was a zine called Griot. I read it a month ago after finding it on a free rack at Quimby's. I was instantly compelled because the word griot represents an incredibly funky brand of traditional African music that is performed as a way of telling a story, but here it was written in a shaky, heavy metal font (what could it be?). Inside was a punk rock love story full of well written cliches and some interesting turns. The writer seems to need to identify punk rock as an entity a lot in the story. Without knocking it, I'd describe it as something I would have written ten years ago if I had the life experiences and writing skill I have today, if that makes any sense. I bought a copy from the author who was shocked I'd seen it. He was from Ohio, and had come along for the ride with Piedmontster from North Carolina. He said I could take one for free, but I insisted on paying because I was drunk, and had already read one for free.

The place was full of familiar faces. There were four other current and former djs from WZRD there, Beth, Dave Cavasos (now performing as David Diarrhea), James with the tits and Rotten Milk. Cassie, a girl I went to grade school with, stood heads above the crowd. She'd just gotten back from New Orleans, she said, and didn't expect to see anyone she knew at the show. It's always fun to see kids I haven't seen in over a decade, but it's even more fun to see them all grown up at a punk show.

Condenada played, but I've said enough on this blog about how much I like them so let's move on.

The next band, Piedmontster, was loud and fast and silly. They played synth-driven dance music, punk and a tiiiiiny bit of ska and overpowered the entire apartment with a smoke machine. My girlfriend, my roommate and I danced, jumped and pushed around, exhaling plumes of gas every time we yelled. Two of the kids from Intifada, who at 17 look years younger, found room to crowd surf. Every now and then I'd retreat to a bedroom and watch the show framed by the doorway. A face, or a body would appear on the left, from the kitchen, standing still and bobbing their head. Then all of a sudden they'd be pushed all the way past the other end of the door frame. It was great.

The last band I had the tolerance to see was Maniac Mansion. I think it had some of the people from KK Rampage in it. Maybe all of them, I can never tell. Like KK Rampage, they played energetic noisepunk and violently thrashed around in the audience but they did it better. The singer yelled as someone crawled up to his shoulders and brought him to his knees. Fists threw up into the air. The light ficture swung, and was batted. People wiped sweat on each other. When it was all over, someone from the kitchen yelled,

"Congratulations, you all smell like punk rock. You should...market that. Somehow."
Guy next to him: They already do. It's called CK One.
Guy with dreads: (a second later) I have a deal inked with Calvin Klein!
Guy next to him (again): I already made that joke.