Its an odd thing, finding oneself in a moshpit, at age 32, for the first time in at least a half dozen years. Somewhere between getting spin-kicked in the temple by 84 pound emo asshats, or having Gymbo of the Dayglo Abortions pour beer on me and inviting the crowd to analy sodomize the makeshift human barricade we had formed to protect them from the crowd at Shadow (dive bar...no stage...bad ideas), the whole idea of subjecting myself to all that action seemed to be something of a lost desire. Like the way we one day weake up and fail to see the need to associate a houseparty as an excuse to play Edward Forty-Hands. Besides, its the same concert from the sidelines, and the beer is closer. Strange then, to find myself on a rainy Sunday north of Hell's Kitchen in New York City, a few thousand complete strangers at my back, while I pushed my way to 10 feet from a dark stage, curtained off in all black.
Alongside famed G-20 protest posterboy, Adam Wordsworth Nobody, we pushed to front and centre. And then came the light. The low hum of the organ began to ooze into recognition. As too the rising white light gave shape to the stenciled letters...R...E...F...U...S...E....D. Worms of the Senses took shape in our ears as the light gave shape to the word.
"Holy shit we are going to see REFUSED" somebody shouted beside me.
The curtain drops. Then it was this.
I will not endeavor to explain the next 10 minutes in any great detail. The idea of putting words to such a feeling of combustible energy, equal parts survival and cathartic bliss, is silly at best. From the bottom its an undertoe, the force of the mass of angry humanity propelling you this way and that. From the top its the proverbial parachuter falling through the forest canopy of elbow and fist. Ferocity and family to the sounds of the Refused Party Program.
Dennis owns the stage as he would his own skin. The band hits the notes as though they had been jammed out for decades. The crowd screams back at every vocal. Every person, every light, every instrument in this room had seemingly been bread for this singular occasion.
"This is fucking surreal man", admits Dennis between songs 20 or so minutes into the set, his eyes betraying a sincerity mere words couldnt quite express.
Surreal doesnt do justice to the idea of a band, whose last tour through New York State, 14 long years before, saw them playing coffee shops and house parties. How could they know when they recorded their final record, all those years ago, imagining it as a "fuck you" to hardcore music, that it would grow and evolve to the defining record of the entire genre. "The Shape of Punk To Come" became Godzilla, and the world of music became Tokyo. For 14 years this record changed the game, inspiring a new generation of artists and fans from the very grave of the artists who gave it birth. "Refused Are Fucking Dead" was equal parts eulogy, prophecy and salvation. 14 years for the fans they never had, to realize the dream. To give vision to their imagination. To particpate in the genesis of their entire lives in love with modern hardcore. The new romantics had found home.
It wasnt just the moment, but a marriage of moment and place. New York City Hardcore has always been the heart and soul for purists of the sport. Refused has long proclaimed their own affection for the scene, honored as youngsters from the northern reaches of Sweden to press labels of NYC Hardcore. How fulfilling for the band and the crowd to bring to stage Lou Koller of Sick Of It All to cover `Injustice System`. 18 years earlier, they had driven the length of Sweden to catch them play Stockholm. This night, they shared the stage in the hometown of their boyhood hero, equal legends to the hungry masses. Such is the organic beauty of punk rock. There is no glass ceiling. Heroes become peers, teachers become students, the 99 percenters are the one. Equals and individuals in every sense. Utopia becomes palpable reality in every note. Fucking beautiful brother.
The encore opened into the anthem that defined the legacy. From the opening lick of `New Noise`, the energy took a turn to the supernova. Again details fade into the pure electricity of the event. As I imagine the last light of a stellar body, pulled into eternity by the dark mass of a black hole, the event horizon blurred into some version of unrecallable light. The only lasting memory was the crowd, for the only time during the set, managing to drown out the hurculean PA system.
CAN I SCREAM
The role of the crowd cannot be understated in this coup d`etat. Sadly the notion of the respectable pit is a bygone era in modern hardcore. The Johnny OC generation of mosh kids are more interested in the delusions of grandeur of their own slam dance ritual than the unity of cathartic physical rebellion. But on this night, trends became lost, or at least enough folks who know what a mosh pit should be took control of the room. Every man who went down was pulled back up. Every body that rose to the surf, was buoyed by us all. In a sea of disenchantment celebration, we were all one current, bound together but for the moment.
It was really only after 2 nights of Refused reunion, did the full scope of the magic settle in, and not til later, at a second late night show by opening act Ceremony, of Rohnert Park CA, at the Mercury Lounge. Physically drained by two nights of such titanic electricity, Nobody & I cabbed undaunted to the Bowery, having caught wind that Ceremony was playing to a packed dive in the lower east side. As we arrived, a white van pulled up and the band poured out in front of us. After a few moments of props and appreciation, they invited us to pose as their road crew to get in for free. As I lugged a base cab through the backdoor entrance, a flood of realization hit me. I tell this not for the need of `scene points`. I`ve been a human barricade for the Dayglos, cooked spaghetti for Mr Precission (of Rise Against and 88 Fingers Louie fame), cocooned Barn Burner`s tour van in toiletpaper while in traffic on Highway 401, talked regional wine suggestions with The Aggrolites, spent the night camping on the couch at Dave Hilyard's home in Washington Heights, spent a year living with the lads from Farewell To Freeway and shared joints with Chali 2una (only to have him forever judge me for sharing my ex girlfriends pink, tampon shaped lighter). I got my share of dem points. I tell this because it was in that moment I remembered the 2 great gifts of youth and punk rock. As we get older, we may lose it as we lament the arrogance and naivity of the age. But what we should never let die is the unity and the frustration. The idea that it is our obligation to question all moral and intellectual authority. And that no matter what we are in this together, and together we are stronger. Age may bring the wisdom of humility and a common sense rooted in reality. But age also fosters the individual over the collective. Its a great loss, but only if we give in to it. Nights like this remind that in our growth, there are still great lessons from our days gone by.
The very next morning I was on a flight to San Fransisco, on my way to tour the wineries of Napa and Sonoma in my capacity as a young wine professional. On the drive north on US 101, the last stop before Sonoma turns out to be an incredibly boring drive through the outskirts of Rohnert Park.
No one was with me, but I think I said something like, `That`s fucking surreal man`
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