Erika Ransom

MRR #234

11/5/2002

Smash!

I was standing on the broad sturdy roof of a three-story factory building in east Boston, looking through the gray mist towards the lumbering blocks of skyscrapers downtown. For the first time in months, it was raining, and cool. The dead heat and oppression of summer had passed. I pulled my favorite sweatshirt closer around me, and inhaled the Fall crisp energy in the air. I shivered and stamped my feet on the gravel.

Another season, and the momentum builds.

I was with two other punks, two guys who I had seen at shows many times but didn’t really know all that well, and we had just stepped outside to enjoy the view, rain or not, and take a break from helping out. I ate the peanut butter sandwich I had brought for lunch, and we talked about the usual. Just inside the roof door, in a large factory space, a motley crew of twenty or so other punks and hardcore kids were helping to build Boston’s new all ages DIY venue, a place called Regeneration. People were doing all kinds of things simultaneously: washing the floors, painting the hallway black, cutting foam squares to put on the ceiling to absorb sound, laying down carpet on the stage, moving crap around, picking up trash, and poking through piles of used sound cords to find ones that looked good enough to use. Everyone was talking, and looking for what to do next. Ross was running around finding paintbrushes, paint and hammers, and generally organizing the semi-chaos. In the small room that quickly became Regeneration’s office (where Ross sleeps on a small pull out sofa, and cooks on a very sketchy electric hot plate) Mary Jane was busy organizing booking schedules and paperwork. The place was buzzing.

It was only a couple of weeks before Regeneration’s first (official) show, and although the hardest things had already been done, like building new walls on top of the original ones, and building a stage from the floor up, there was still a lot of things left to do.

After the three of us had absorbed the view from the roof, and caught the fresh air, we went back in and helped with the stage. All I can say is that this stage is a thing of beauty. It is a good size: large enough to fit a band comfortably and for jumps and thrashing about without knocking everything down, but small enough so the whole band is still very much standing together. It’s tall enough so that everyone in the room can see the band, but short enough so that it’s only an easy short hop on or off stage. Perfect for that amazing chorus, when everyone can’t help but run up front and sing along with the band. And, the whole thing was built by punks volunteering their time and tools. Pretty fucking cool. The stage doesn’t even look like part of an abandoned tree house, or dip suspiciously in the middle. It is straight and level, and damn sturdy. The largest kids gave it a full on jumping test, and nothing fell off or even sagged a little. It held firm and solid. Kick ass.

To add to the coolness of it all, the stage was built while a show went on simultaneously in the next room. The venue for the RAMBO show fell through at the last minute, and rather than simply cancel the show and go home, people moved the show to Regeneration. While bands played on the other side of the wall, kids kept cutting lumber, measuring, and nailing shit together. And there it is. Beautiful. Better than a case of Brooklyn Lager in the fridge on Sunday.

On the day I was helping out, the carpet went on the stage. I was only doing a very small part, hammering carpet nails, fixing the carpet onto the floor, but it was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Who would have thought?

“Smash! Smash! Smash!” went my hammer. Here’s another nail for punk rock.

“Smash! Smash! Smash!” I could picture people jumping on the stage.

“Smash! Smash! Smash!” I could feel the heat of a hundred people screaming and dancing.

“Smash!” Being a small part of something big is a wonderful thing.

Perhaps I was a little overenthusiastic with securely fastening the carpet, making sure it wouldn’t curl up the first time a guitarist jumped up and down on it. I was using plenty of nails, and Paul reminded me that it’s not going to last forever. Shit, I hoped it would.

Regeneration is the stuff of Boston legend—an idea that so many people have talked about over too many beers for the last five years—an all ages DIY venue run by the punks, for the punks. Ever since the legendary Rat closed forever, when Kenmore Square was gentrified by BU and associates, Boston has had on-and-off-again luck with places for punk shows. Place after place stopped having all age shows, or punk shows at all, for one reason or another. It was becoming increasingly harder to book a reliable all ages show for a small touring band and local bands that wouldn’t be shut down, out in the fucking suburbs, or need to draw 300 people to pay the club at the end of the night.

On tour, I would marvel at places like the Mr. Roboto Project right outside Pittsburgh, ABC No Rio in NYC, and Gilman Street in lovely Berkeley, CA. The shows had an intense energy, and I got the strong sense that the spaces had so much more to offer than just music. There was a feeling of empowerment and ownership, expression, music and art. It’s hard to build that in a rented hall or a club where the rules are not yours and everyone packs up at the end of the night. I wondered why the hell we couldn’t get something started in Beantown. There were plenty of punks and plenty of bands. It was a scene without enough places to gather.

For years, there was a string of benefit shows, everyone talked and talked about wanting to start a place, and, nothing happened.

And now, it’s here.

All it took was a few motivated people taking the initiative, some research and digging, a bit of luck, and a lot of people helping out along the way.

As we all settled into 2001, getting used to the idea that Bush had gotten away with a fixed election, Regeneration first started to seriously come together. Ross Melee borrowed twelve dollars from a friend to buy a book about MA state non-profit laws, got a tattoo, and vowed that the place would happen. While Ross started work on getting a non-profit organization started, he teamed up with two friends, Sue Cat Woman and Paul Unseen.

Sue and Paul had been putting together benefit punk shows for a future Boston all ages venue for the last five years. After the millennium came and went without a new venue, we had joked it was all a scam, but Sue hadn’t left town, and had saved the collected money and created an important little nest egg to get things started later on. That money paid for Regeneration’s essentials like the sound system, building materials and first month’s rent. By the summer of 2002, Ross had located a building in south Boston where the landlord didn’t flinch when they said they wanted to start a youth center with punk rock bands. And, beyond belief, it was cheap, and near public transportation. Goddamn. The three of them signed a lease, Ross moved in, and construction began.

Only a couple of months ago, the place looked like a giant food cooler. It was a giant food cooler, and a factory that had made chocolate covered popcorn. The space is located at the very end of Mass. Ave. just past the Boston Medical Center and Dorchester neighborhoods. Right around the building, there isn’t much going on. There is a food retail loading dock, a McDonald’s, an electric supply store and two gas stations. Mostly, it’s miscellaneous industrial businesses and factories. No one else is in the building in the evenings, so sound isn’t an issue.

My first time there, Adam and I made the trek in the Profit van, and made it as far as the parking lot. We got out and checked the address again, then Adam and I started debating directions, and got in a fight if we should have taken a left somewhere. We were in front of a non-descript gray factory building with a huge loading dock, and the only sign in sight was for a rubber stamp operation on the second floor. No one was around, especially no punks, or our friends who had invited us to check the new place out. On the verge of leaving, we decided to just try doors. Adam thought he remembered something about a rubber stamp place, so it had to be around somewhere. We found a door propped open with a rock, which was a good sign, and went inside. There was nowhere to go except up the wide cerement stairs, so we did that.

On the third floor, we found a big door that wasn’t locked, and opened it.

“EEEEEEEE,” a piercing alarm went off, sort of freaking us out, but I peaked in and yelled, “Hello?”

Sue came around the corner, and we had found the new home of Regeneration.

It was kind of a creepy place in the beginning: ugly, dirty-yellow-textured walls, bare cement floors, and thick plastic ribbons separating the main rooms, freezer-style. The idea of making the place into a DIY all ages space for shows seemed damn near impossible.

But there it is today. It’s the coolest place ever. And the first show is happening this week. The fliers are up, and everything’s ready to go. Teams of volunteers have shown up every weekend to help out and get the place ready, doing everything from washing windows, to preparing the place to sound great. Everything glistens with a fresh coat of red and black paint, the toilets work, and artwork and posters are already springing up on the walls. You can tell as soon as you walk in, the place was built by punks who care about punk shows. Just to top it off, in the ‘zine library, I found an ancient fourth issue of MRR and also the newest Slug and Lettuce. Everything a punk nerd girl could hope for.

Now as I wait for the first show to happen, I appreciate this moment of beginning, when anything seems possible for this place. Hammer in hand, I felt that bands across the country will make there way and play in this place, that local bands will come and go across its boards, the sound will rock, it’s shows will become infamous for energy and excitement, and that another small chunk of DIY punk rock history is in the making.

Or maybe not. The place could be permanently shut down by the Fire Marshal or the Boston pigs next month, and could be just another place that didn’t work out. Maybe a few kids will fuck up it up by spray painting on the wrong wall, or hanging out front by the street with beer cans and getting caught. There are also the predictable problems that come with all venues: the need for security, a fair and manageable booking system, and paying the monthly rent. Not everyone will like the way the place is run, and there are sure to be disagreements and compromises along the way.

All I know for certain, is that right now in Boston punk and hardcore something fun is brewing, and this is a beginning of something fucking awesome. I can’t wait.

I also encourage anyone who wants to open a DIY venue in her town, and is willing to work for it, to just get started and try like hell. That is often the hardest part, getting thoughts into action, and not being afraid to make mistakes along the way.

And that goes for everything, especially when working against the forces that divide and oppress us. When people come together with energy, and build momentum, any change seems possible. And that’s what keeps me going.

Never underestimate the power of a single nail and a driving force of energy. Smash!

End This: To get in contact with Regeneration to volunteer or booking, call 1-866-414-ROCK and leave a message. You can send your music to: Regeneration, 3^rd Floor, 960 Mass Ave., Boston, MA 02118 or email regenerationboston@hotmail.com.

I am excited about this column, and a big thanks to Arwen and Mike for giving me a chance. Thanks to MOLOTOV COCKTAIL, the MENSTRUAL TRAMPS and Desmond Decker for rocking out on my CD player as I wrote furiously to make my first deadline. And, thanks to me for getting off my ass and writing my third guest column to MRR last month. It turned out to be my first installment of “Ransom Notes.” Hell yeah.

Comments (and corrections) are encouraged at ransom@plaguedomes.com. You can also check out the PROFITS website at www.theprofits.org.

Fuck shit up this fall, and celebrate the people and movements working for change. In solidarity, and up the punks, Erika Ransom