Never On My Own

The line at the side door of Ottobar last night was wrapped around the alley. A far cry from the Down To Nothing show in Richmond half a year ago, which boasted a crowd of bandana-ankled homegrown scuzziness, I was amused at all the D-rings attached to ball-buster jeans. (Is it possible Baltimore is more hipster than Richmond?) But more amusement seemed directed towards me, as I elected to show up in a Banana Republic cream collared blouse tuckedinto a high-waist denim mini skirt, my little vintage cherry flats and a light blue Alice inWonderland bow in my hair. I knew better than toWear the Shirt to the Show, so even though I don't yet have shirts of the bands playing last night, I left my Strike Anywhere, Bracewar and Hatebreed shirts at home and decided I wouldn't be the chick who is trying too hard to look like a boy in order to like the music she likes. So I ran the opposite direction, and we will analyze the consequences later.

I got inside too late to catch Alpha and Omega from LA, but they'll be on the tour with Bane and TUI when they go to Europe next month. Cruel Hand struck me as pretty

traditional, call-and-response, heavy distortion and aggressively uplifting lyrics. Tight, charismatic, balls-to-the-wall. Some punches were thrown down in the pit, and before too long there was mild crowd control--two songs into the set. Reptilian, yes. Juvenile, certainly. But impressive nonetheless.

For sake of the Bmore experience, and to break the ice with myself being at a show unaccompanied, I grabbed a PBR at the bar and tiptoed carefully up the stairs to the loft where I could observe without getting beer all over once the windup really started. Here's where the majority of the ladies sat together or with their strong silent men. Some of them were clearly making a statement (yes, you, bleached mohawk girl with the bull ring), others were making neutra-statements in flannel and jeans. I got some good pictures from up there (to follow), but I had to scamper back down to the floor once TUI took the stage, because you get good photos but bad experience up there. There's not nearly enough sweat, and it was cold as hell.

My solo status afforded me much more opportunity for eavesdropping, and something I've learned is that if people think you're listening even casually, they put on a freaking show for

you. It makes for good notes. Some of the snippets from up there in the loft:

-Who

said hardcore died in '83?

-I think it was Reagan.

-You see that fat dude? He kicked me in the fucking dick. The dick, dude. Not cool.

-Maybe he thought he knew you.

-Would YOU kick your friend in the dick??

-Maybe.

-Not cool.

My beer drained and my senses really kicked up a notch, I descended from the lofty lair and joined the sweaty peons below. Their first two songs, including "Believe" from their new album, sent everyone into a whirling, kicking, pushing frenzy. Unfortunately their momentum was disrupted by a problem with the kick drum, and they had to carry it off on a stretcher.

Question: why is Trapped Under Ice possibly the most badass hc band I've ever seen (other than maybe DTN or Cro-Mags?) Their breaks are well timed, the anthems are the most triumphant, and even a whammy bar and the occasional guitar solo makes it better. When a band is uniformly throwing down as hard as its fans...you get it: totally, fucking, badass. Punches thrown pamby-pamby and hugs in between. Just one big dude (was his name really Frodo?) on the floor, going totally batshit insane on absolutely everyone, and someone tries to stage dive but misses and gets to eat some concrete floor. He's okay. But he gets kicked out anyway.

I've never seen Bane, but I've been exposed to the name and a few tracks off their myspace, and a fellow music-stalker and scribbler on the West Coast agreed that it was going to be an epic show. I'm curious about the direction some hardcore bands take in adding more melodic elements to the sound, turning down the distortion a little and giving notes to the lyrics. These are the guys who pull it off, although the risks there are great and border on that pop-punk bullshit I really can't handle. I hate to be a hater, but there it is. I need music that could punch ME in the face, not the other way around. And yes I love folk and indie jams and of course I'm a huge Dead head, so that's not what I'm talking about. I want to see a hardcore band kick the ass of all those fucking beefcake pop-punk lead singers who bench press in their videos, probably wear too much cologne and whine loudly if the hotel has no hair dryer. Just sayin'.

The aggression you feel in the room at a hardcore show is the most positive form of male friendship I've noted in our increasingly man-child addled society. And don't think it doesn't make me a little jealous that girls think they can't have the same thing without going lesbocurious. Aaron Bedard broke it all down a couple times, giving shout-outs to his old show-going Bmore crew (he's in ol' beantown now), and especially to a dude who was standing along the sidelines for the entire show, who apparently is from Texas but since missed all of Bane's shows out there, he looked up cheap tickets and flew out to the East to catch them.

It's not a Scene, although there are those who have created some around the bands. It's most definitely a brotherhood, and the loyalty there is fierce and bolstering. It's what gets you high, and a lot of them are still straight edge. I can't imagine trying to be knackered and playing those riffs and breaks at the drop of a hat, break-neck speed and ear-pummeling volume. It's been done, and when it's right it's a beautiful thing. But I daresay a skiezed-out drummer would collapse after one or two songs. That's four minutes. Think about it. There's something pure about it, and I like that just as well as my beloved junky jams.

Then all too quickly, the show is over and everyone begins filing out. I am apart but not alone! It's after midnight, and the several block walk home does not seem like a good idea. All instincts point to wait--and listen. But I'm totally conspicuous standing outside with a notebook and a cell phone, trying to wake up a girlfriend to pick me up. I'm going to have to bum a ride, and it's gonna be a while because the bands are packing up and everyone else is packed into their sedans and headed in opposite directions. I'm like four blocks away, I say. Or...more like six to eight. Someone calls me out on it, and there ensues a total bum rush of boys directing point-blank questions at my wardrobe, my bag, my notebook, hands start pawing through my purse which I obligingly hold open, feeling a bit like a tourist in the monkey house as they remove the fliers, atomizer, pens, camera, lipstick...thank God I didn't bring all those things I thought to remove! I answer their questions the best I can, amused that I thought I would be on the other side of this conversation.

-If we give you a ride, can we crash at your place?

-Do you have room?

-Do you live in a crack house?

-Or a trailer? (There's a story to that one.)

-Why doesn't your boyfriend come pick you up? (Ah, the real question implied.)

-On a scale of one to ten, how good of a kisser are you? (Jesus, look at those expressions. They're serious.)

I tell them: yes, I'd love to have all of them stay, but I'm afraid I just moved in and I only have one small couch but lots of floor space.

-I don't do couches. Or floors.

-Yeah, beds only.

It's funny that despite all this banter, not one of them has officially decided to walk me back or drive me back. The one van has a dead battery and they're jumping it with another. A few beers appear from inside the van, and they're all in dojo form and yelling and laughing at fart jokes and ignoring the Ottobar staff whistling at them to mind the neighbors. I'm fine to hang around, but I stick out like a sore thumb more and more, and I'm sort of anxious to end my public appearance and disappear into my apartment and digest all this. I consider walking myself home, just so as not to be a bother. But my instincts tell me to stick it out, and I thank them now.

I got to chat for a bit individually with some members of all bands, and I get a chance to tell Aaron Bedard how much I loved the whole thing. It is he who mans up and agrees that I cannot walk home alone. "Jump in the van, sit there and look pretty. We'll get you home." They are on their way to Long Island, and ask where I live. I tell them it's actually pretty convenient, it's between here and Long Island. I'm giving play-by-play directions while fielding more middle school questions and absolutely loving every minute but wishing I weren't so swept away by the attention that I'd maintain presence of mind to ask all MY questions, maybe get a picture of me with all of them in their van, anything to have some physical proof of my brief taste of that fantastic van full of two awesome hc bands. I'm afraid I'll have to settle for my scribblings and the hope that I can hook up with them when they're back in town so I can pretend to be a real journalist. (What am I saying??)

Many many thanks to the bands for reminding me of the virtuous life of heavy music, clear minds, and loyal friends, but mostly to my instincts for telling me that it was better that I showed up alone, and for making me stick it out for two hours after the show.

It is crazy when they tell me that this is just screams to a beat
when i know its what shot you into my veins
glue that binds, a weapon that defines us
and I would be so lost without you
though I walk alone I am never on my own
cuz the places we've been become the times we have shared
and they crash like waves and mark these days
and I don't go anywhere without them

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