Erika Ransom

July 2005 MRR

5/6/2005

Boston Punks

Ohhhh…what a fucking weekend.

Boston punks on a rampage, anarchists drinking ‘til dawn, bike gangs crossing town, and my ears still ringing from all the shows.

It was all a glorious, beautiful disaster.

A weekend like a warm spring day, letting us all out of our respective rat holes and whispering promises of a kick ass summer.

When you read this, I’ll be in Europe, then off soon to SF. So, for the moment I can’t help but dedicate a column to just the fun of the moment, and the Boston punks and friends who make me want to stay.

Touch of Class House

The show on Saturday (April 30) had been building momentum for weeks. The kind of show that every punk I saw on the street, in the bar, at the sex shop or hanging out at Regeneration was looking forward to. And the anticipation wasn’t because some amazingly brutal Swedish hardcore was coming into town, or the latest Texas hyped-up craze. No, the bands weren’t famous. And the venue certainly wasn’t CBGBs.

The show was so hyped that five separate flyers were made for the occasion, all with their own style and by different people.

It was ridiculous.

My second favorite flyer was hand-drawn and cut out in a weird organic shape that bordered the picture, defying the unwritten laws of the flyer geometry, choices of square or rectangle. I wondered how Crusty Tim found the time to make such a masterpiece, between hanging out at the record store and breaking his collarbone biking into parked cars. Ha! Seriously, the flyer also offered “free haircuts.”

Fucking punk.

My favorite flyer featured a background photo, and just the mysterious words, THE CHUTE in the middle.

The bottom of the flyer read, “(oh, plus a buncha crappy bands)” and “A BENEFIT FOR ABC/No Rio/ If you don’t bring money, that must mean you hate ABC No Rio…and you don’t hate ABC No Rio do you?”

Matt is such a smart ass.

If you don’t live in Boston, you may be wondering what the hell THE CHUTE is. And why all of us were so excited about this show.

Ask C.C.S.S. from Canada, BORN/DEAD from California or even COJOBA from Puerto Rico, and they’ll all tell you about taking a ride down THE CHUTE. I guess you could say it’s now internationally famous.

THE CHUTE is an old-fashioned wooden laundry chute (thus the clever name) in a row house in Brighton–dubbed the Touch of Class House. THE CHUTE is about two feet square, opens on the second floor of the house, and travels straight down, like a black tunnel straight to hell, to the dark and smelly basement several feet below.

Brave punks take the plunge feet first down THE CHUTE like dirty socks on laundry day.

If you think jumping down THE CHUTE sounds dangerous, well, you are probably right. Luckily, defying logic, nobody yet has broken something. But, who says punk is safe anyway?

All winter, cabin-fever-induced Boston punks jumped down THE CHUTE between bands during the shows, and crash-landed into a pile of foam and cardboard to cheers and beers.

Punk fucking rock!

This particular show-of-the-five-flyers was special not only because it was a benefit for ABC, but also because it was to be the last show at this space. The Boston DIY punk scene depends on basements to thrive, and this was the inevitable goodbye to yet another house.

The lineup this night was: NO ABUSE (HC Punk from NJ), FRUIT SALAD (Anarcho-hardcore from Boston), RINGERS (Oi punk rock from Boston), and 40 WATTS (Boston punk!)

When I arrived, the show was already packed with just about every punk in Boston. It was nuts. I had to escape to the porch just to get enough room to drink my beer and breathe at the same time.

Even before 40 WATTS hit their first note, half the room was singing sans-music to the BLATZ cover, “Tonight, we’re going to fuck shit up!”

Seemed fitting.

The PA system was slowly dying, and it was hard to hear Jen’s vocals, but the tunes were MISFITS inspired, right-on and classic driving punk. A gang of women punks danced up front and a whirling circle pit filled the basement–and this was 40 WATTS’ first show! Hell ya. I’m looking forward to more from these kick ass ladies.

At the end of their set, hanging out in the basement talking to Joan about Montreal (a city I’m dying to visit), I looked over and saw water pouring out of a pipe attached to the house’s water heater, which was located right next to where the bands had played.

Definitely a bad sign.

Within moments, the flow became a torrent, and looking around at all the exposed wires hanging around, we all got the hell out of the basement!

Upstairs, it was a Boston punk reunion. Political punks, drunk punks, rocker punks, people who I haven’t seen in ages. It was like a weird dream, as everyone I knew seemed to be there, doing something ridiculous. Gretchen had on a funny hat and Jamie had the bright idea to smoke strawberry flavored cigars.

Then the lights went off. Probably the housemates trying to fix the water heater pulled the main power switch as not to be electrocuted. A smart move.

In the dark, a hundred punks were yelling and talking, and Mari, Gretchen and I started up the La Rivolta chants, a gang of anarcha-feminists on a rampage.

Sara, Jacob and Scott came by and offered everyone pasta in the dark. Holding the pot, they all sang, “Eat the pasta, eat, eat the pasta!” I couldn’t refuse the dare, and put my hand into the mush and pulled out a few sauce-covered noodles. In my mouth however, I soon realized that the trick was on me. It wasn’t noodles at all, but Twizzler fruit candy sticks with tomato sauce. My first reaction was to stifle my gag, and quick my second reaction was to give Jacob a rounding slap in the face!

Ah, friends.

Then, after turning the water off and saving what equipment was left in the now-flooded basement, Mattie Cupcakes decided to keep the show going. So, the RINGERS played in the living room, starting a full-scale melee. At times a circle pit ran past the band, through the kitchen, the front room and then back to the living room.

Punk fucking rock and good times!

Midnight May Day Madness

“If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of the revolution,” said Emma Goldman.

Right on.

After putting together a two-day festival, and two months of going to actions and organizing against the Mexican Consulate, the La Rivolta Collective decided to do something fun and social–a dance party in honor of May Day.

And, what better place to hold it than in the newly-formed La Rivolting collective house. Gretchen and I had spent the last month cleaning the place up and finding roommates, and a party seemed like a good idea.

Ha!

One bedroom was cleaned out as the “dance” room. DJ Ivanna played political hip-hop, international tunes and women-led groups, and then DJ James played punk, funk, 80s pop and some other tunes that kept me yelling at him, “Play more punk!”

Adding to the fun, I had my slideshow going on one of the dance room walls, and we set up a bar in the kitchen.

Perhaps the best thing about the party was a great moment dancing to ridiculous 80s tunes with my good friends and a whole crew of anarchists, anti-fascists and other people I usually only see at rallies and meetings.

Like the punk show earlier, it was a rare moment for me of just having fun.

Sunrise

The party continued into the next day, and at the end the windows in the kitchen began to glow. It was time to go outside and watch the dawn.

“James, do you have any more cigarettes?”

“Sure do,” he said, the last person other than myself still awake.

It was about 7am. I had just kicked out the last of the partygoers, and the house was finally quiet.

In a brief look around in the morning light, I could see that my new collective house was in shambles. The kitchen floor was covered in a black goo of ash and beer, banners were torn down in the hallway, and it seemed a thousand cans had been piled on every surface. Someone had scribbled a stupid drunken tag, “Jefferson” all over the refrigerator and kitchen lamp in permanent marker. For some reason, there were smashed cookies all over the floor.

It was a good time to go outside.

We sat on the wooden steps leading up to the back porch, and had the last beers in the house. We talked about bands and life and how things change.

I watched a squirrel play on the telephone wires over the yard, his eyes black shiny marbles. Most of the yard is dirt and ivy, strewn with the remnants of a chopped down tree. The backyard was abandoned for several years, and you can still see the odd beer can peeking up through the dirt, and pieces of metal and glass catching in the sun.

There is still a lot of work to do.

But now, there is my garden, a rectangle of bricks surrounding a 6 x 8 plot where I dug everything up, took out the weeds and trash, turned the soil and planted seeds.

I can’t help but try to change things, because I feel hopeless just standing by in this fucked up world.

But, this summer, I am also making time to dance.

Endnotes/ The Weekend that Never Ended

The next day HUASIPUNGO from NYC played another benefit show for ABC No Rio in Boston at the Harvard Social Forum. They were amazing! This band has been around for over a decade, and they still put out more energy than all the other (younger) bands at the show combined.

HUASIPUNGO reminded me so much of the early 90s hardcore scene, and bands like SPITBOY who had something to say, and powerful music to back it up. HUASIPUNGO’s music was fast and brutal, and the songs short as hell. But each song packed a punch, filled with meaning and emotion. Snider and the other members put forth so much genuine feeling into the music, an attitude that I think is missing from so many bands today. HUASIPUNGO wasn’t political in the sense of talking about the generic “issues of the day,” which is easy to do, but rather took on that which is personal, passionate, angry and real. No bullshit or posing, but music expressing experience and an outlook on the world.

My third show in a row was on Monday, seeing M.D.C. play with the original lineup at the Elk’s Lodge in Cambridge. It was like M.D.C’s thirty-fifth day on a forty-day tour, and they were playing a part of the east coast with MOLOTOV COCKTAIL from NYC. M.D.C. was, I have to admit, much better than I expected.

It was great to hear the music as it sounds on the records–fast as hell sounding like it was thrown together in a speed blender. Dave was also in top form, and his introductions to the old songs were right on target for what is going on today. There are still not many punk or hardcore bands that have the nerve to chant, “Kill the cops!” Right on. The Boston circle pit was in full effect and the show was a blast.

MOLOTOV COCKTAIL was also really good–and it had been too long since they last played Boston! Hanging out with this crew was such a blast, hearing about their European tour and recent adventures. THE PROFIT$ played as well, and I really enjoyed the energy of the show, and repeatedly jumping off the small stage, guitar in the air!

Cheers to all the Boston punks, especially Gro, Mari, Adam, James, Lucho, Sara, Laurie, Brian, Jim and everyone else who makes this town a place I’ve called home for so long. Love, Erika

(ransom@theprofits.org)