'Punk
Theatre At The Paris' by Rich
Seward
"They're called Difiance and the flyer for the Paris
Theatre had a guy with a mohawk on it," I said.
"There's like three other bands playing with them,
never heard of any of them, but they have cool
names."
"Oh
yeah? Like what?" Josh asks.
"Triphammer,
Xclear and Secludes or something like that. Sound like
good bands to me...What about you, Cory? What you
think.?
"Defiance
sounds cool. All I know is I wanna do
something."
On
that note we take off, headed for a store, where Cory
goes in and buys six forty ouncers of malt liquor.
Being only nineteen, he gets a kick out of buying beer
for us older guys. "Hold those fuckers down!" I snap
as they crack bottles and start racing to see who can
chug fastest. At about the halfway mark, both have to
stop to take a breath and show me their bottles. I
call it a tie, and pull out of the parking lot, headed
for downtown.
"Gawd
damn, look at all the mohawks!! Cory yells, and throws
an empty forty once bottle out of the window as we
drive by the line out front. "Sweet. I told you this
would be a good show, I haven't seen this many mohawks
in one place since like '90," I say.
"I
don't know if this is such a good idea, guys," Josh
smiles, "I mean look at us, we are all dressed like
yuppies an stuff. Maybe I better finish this other
forty before we go in," he says, tipping the bottle
up.
We
park, and I wait for them to finish off their second
beers, and I realize how right Josh is...We really
look like some kind of preppy fags. I am in khakis and
a wife beater, Cory is wearing khakis and a Polo
shirt, and Josh in Calvin Klein jeans and a white
Beastie Boys T-shirt.
"Oh
yeah Joshie Boy, we are gonna have to get some respect
quick in there or we will be gettin' targeted as
fakes. You know what to do, just go all out...How
about you Cory? Your neck hurting tonight?" His neck
had taken a beating at the Rage Against The Machine
concert about a year ago, and he hasn't been the same
since. "You gonna get it up tonight? You gonna get
jiggy with it?"
"Yeah
Cory, does your neck hurt??" Josh laughs, socking him
in the chest, to which Cory reacts by socking him back
and we stand on the side of Burnside in downtown
Portland while they take turns slugging each other
about six punches each. Luckily there comes a break in
traffic before anyone gets hurt, and we dash across
the street. We have arrived.
The
Paris Theater. This place has so much atmosphere it's
crazy. Black painted walls with this funky glow in the
dark with Arabic or Chaldean writing on it, whatever
it is it gives it a weird black magic kind of look.
The Paris Theater. You can count on them having a
skanky little mosh gig on any given Friday or Saturday
night.
We
are out of place. There are about 150 mohawks here, a
bunch of short spikes, and many shaved heads. My boys
laugh at me as I rave about how beautiful the girl
that just walked by with a mohawk is. But we are
getting crazy looks...Punk rockers don't like yuppie
looking people too much, which is funny, because most
modern punkers are suburban kids from good families.
There might be a social ramification there, something
about how these people feel about their suburban
roots, but we were just here to dance.
Cory
decides he isn't going to get in the pit tonight, I
think maybe because he sees all the spike leather
jackets and is worried about his skin. He has been to
a lot of slam gigs, but the spikes make him leery.
Josh and I start taking bets on who will hit the first
stage dive, me or him...I play along, knowing full
well that it will be me who boosts him over the crowd
to the stage, but let him think we are competing if
that makes it more fun for him. I remind him "Hit 'em
hard!!" as the band comes on stage, spikes, studs,
torn clothes, purple mohawks and Liberty
spikes.
As
the music starts, I begin to nod my head, feel the
muscles in my back tighten and my fists clench and
unclench. Oh yeah, the bass player knows how to drive
us, I think as I see a few people start bumping
around. The tempo picks up as the lyrics end and the
drummer starts kicking the double bass. Unable to wait
any longer, I spit at the stage and throw myself into
the thickest crowd I see.
I
spin and bounce into the crowd, careening off of the
shoulders and backs of these punks who are looking at
me all crazy, until I am hit with bone jarring force
from behind. That was what I had been waiting for, and
I used the force of that hit to propel me into someone
else, who in turn was slammed into someone, who threw
them away and into someone else. The pit begins to
boil, but I see Josh, slamming into some guy about
twice his size, and I launch myself across the floor,
spinning at the last so its my back that hits the guy
as he is recovering from Josh's bump, continuing the
spin as I come off of him and smash into Josh, who
slaps my back and roars something as I am slammed from
the side and lose my balance into the crowd of losers
who are just observing the pit. They push me back in
violently and I decide I don't like these people
pushing me around, so I start "Scraping the edges" as
we used to say, working my way around the outside of
the pit, leaning on my shoulder against the people
packed around the edge, when they try to push me
grabbing them and spinning them into the pit to either
swim or drown.
I
turn from flinging some skinny kid in spikes with
green hair and way too many piercings to see my
nephew, Cory, stumbling in the middle of the pit with
his head in his hands. I know he is hurt, he looks
disoriented. I panic and cross to him, wrap my arms
around him and push him into the crowd. "Recover man,
get your head, you're all schwilly," I scream in his
ear as I hold him pressed up into the
crowd.
"Ohhhh
man," he groans, "the back of my head hit someone's
face. If my head hurts, their face has to be fucked
up." And I start laughing."You will be OK, man...Do
you know what he looks like?"
Cory
looks at me like I'm retarded and says, "No, man, it
was the back of my head, but I bet he looks pretty
bloody about now. Oh well, he shouldn't have been in
the pit."
I
slap him on the back, "That's right bay-bee, if you
can't swim, stay out of the deep end, there ain't no
fuckin lifeguards...Give me a push!!" He shoves me and
I add my momentum to it and reenter the
pit.
On
the next song, Josh grabs me, and screams "Give me a
boost!" in my ear. I crouch down and cup my hands for
his foot and up, up and away, he rolls over the crowd
and onto the stage. The look on the singer's face is
worth a million bucks as this preppy looking guy grabs
the arm that is holding the microhone and screams
something like "Rarraraghar" into the mic before doing
a flip onto the top of the crowd. Not to be outdone, I
pull myself over the shoulders of some fat guy that is
standing too close to the stage, turn on stage and
look for a landing zone with a thick crowd as the
security guy rushes at me yelling "Get off the stage,
fucker!" and I just nod and grimmace, and we make our
way through the boiling, bruised pit to the spot where
we can get on stage again.
Between
songs, I see a guy with a bloody face with what
appears to be his big brother talking to Cory. It
doesn't look friendly, and as I make my way to him,
big brother shoves Cory in the chest. Cory raises his
hands in what appears to be a conciliatory
gesture...He learned that from me, it means he is
getting ready to throw punches, so I jump between
them, chest to chest with this shaven-headed big
guy.
"Tis
all fun an games bitch," I scream, "you wanna fuckin
get wicked? You wanna fuck around?!" I see surprise
and uncertainty flash across his face at my
appearance, and he takes a step back. Something
catches my eye, or maybe it is just a flash of some
kind of instinct, but I look to my left and see a
group of about eight guys advancing on where we are. I
spin away from the big brother guy and meet this new
group halfway, my arms spread wide, "You wanna turn
this into a crew thing?! Who's first, fuckers?! There
is a guy with Liberty spikes and studded, torn, black
denim jacket screamin something I can't hear, but the
contortions of his face tell me it is aggression. Next
to him a blond guy with a crew-cut, hands in the air
shaking his head like he just wants to break it up, a
few girls behind the guys, grabbing at them, doing the
typical"no honey don't" routine. "OK, bitch, you're
first," spits from my mouth as I plant my fist in the
Liberty spiked guy's face. He falls like I hit him
with a brick, and I hurl my body into the
rat-pack.
Elbows,
fists, knees, head, boots, I release and let the rage
take control, knowing that I can't win, but at least I
am going to go out like a champ, forgeting what it's
even about, forgeting where I am, who I am, barely
registering administered and received blows until I
feel a hand grab the back of my neck and the back of
my arm connect with a face. I spin away from the grip
and turn to deal with this new presence, and a
microphone is jammed in my face as the hand pulls my
head down and towards the singer's face, his head next
to mine, roaring unintelligibly into the mic. He pulls
the mic from his face and sticks it in mine and I
realize I am still screaming stuff when I hear my
voice come over the PA screaming threats and taunts to
my attackers, or maybe even my victims, but no one is
hitting me anymore. They have all faded away, except
for the first guy I hit, who is still on the floor.
The moment is broken, I look back to where Cory and
the big brother guy would be, but Josh and Cory are
right behind me, bloody smile on Josh's face and
Cory's Polo shirt torn, no aggressors to be
seen.
"You
guys can't be fuckin killing each other!! the singer
screams as my boys wrap their arms around me, raving
about how beautiful that was, "Like sumthin out of a
fuckin movie," Josh keeps saying and Cory shaking his
head in disbelief that I am still on my feet. Later I
will see that I am covered in bruises, swollen spots,
torn skin, but right now the only damage I am
registering is a bloody mouth and a small trickle from
my nose. Somehow, we have ended up right next to the
stage. I guess people make way for you after a show
like that, because we didn't have to elbow through
anyone, and I throw my head back and laughing like a
maniac spit blood into the air and howl. I raise my
arms, feeling like some kind of god, a hero of old,
still not quite sure I believe what just happened. I
feel someone grab my hands and I look up to see the
bass player with his bass slung around his back,
trying to pull me up on stage. Cory throws a shoulder
under me, and I am up, the base player laughing,
smiling, saying stuff I can't hear, pounding me on my
back and raising my arm like a prize fighter. The bass
drum kicks, and he drops my arm, swings his bass
around and starts jamming out an opening riff. I look
at the security guard who is keeping his distance, nod
my head, smile my bloody smile, and dive on to the
crowd.
