Brendan Kelly doesn't know this (how could he?), but about two hours before I'm supposed to be watching his band play, I am sitting in a gay dive bar in West Hollywood with my best friend Dustin. I don't know why, but I can't shake the feeling that this is completely appropriate before going to see him. If I were drinking a beer instead of the pineapple and—if I remember correctly—vodka drink I ordered, I would truly be feeling at one with Mr. Bandsandwich himself. We're not there long before we decide to head to the venue. Much to my dismay, we narrowly miss Mikey Erg's set.

Sam Russo is up next, and we find a spot front and center. Even though I'm unfamiliar with his work, I become interested the moment he comes on stage with nothing but his acoustic guitar and a fairly adorable English accent. I would later find out that he has toured as a guitarist and backing vocalist for The Falcon. He begins his set and I'm not immediately drawn in. While Russo's voice has the perfect balance of gruff and calm, the music is a little slow for my taste.

I become antsy and try to focus on something else. A girl standing a few feet next to me is singing her heart out to every single word. I take a moment and focus on the lyrics, and it brings me back in. I am reminded that not all music has to be fast and dance-y, and that it is okay to feel. I let Russo's music take me on a journey into my own emotions, and I feel every word viscerally. As his set comes to an end, I am almost sad that I now have to switch my feelings off and get back into no-fucks-given punk mode. Dustin has to head out to feed the meter, and I join him because, well, I'm just a gigantic bag of emotions at this point and could really use the fresh air.

Once we're back in, The Copyrights have already begun their set and the room has twice as many people as before. My sappiness dies down because there are two thoughts I always associate with The Copyrights: “Let the good times roll,” and “Party!” Their set list consists of a good number of songs spread evenly through their discography. They're playing short tunes chock full of aggressive and undeniably catchy hooks and visibly enjoying every moment as they feed off the crowd's energy. These guys possess the perfect pop punk formula and—not to oversell it—epitomize fun in the process.

By the time The Falcon hit the stage, we've made our way back to the coveted front and center. I'm boiling over with excitement to finally see them in action. While I typically avoid super groups (let's face it, most are just in it for the money), The Falcon is a very reasonable exception. The super group consists of Brendan Kelly and Neil Hennessy (The Lawrence Arms), Dan Andriano (Alkaline Trio), and Dave Hause (The Loved Ones). The punk veterans start their set with crowd favorite “Sergio's Here” then rip through a setlist composed mainly of songs from their latest album, Gather Up the Chaps, with some older songs sprinkled in here and there.

Their stage banter is genuinely funny and the chemistry between Kelly and Hause is undeniable. About half way through the set, they're playing “Unicorn Odyssey” and Sam Russo runs downstairs to join them and sings along into Andriano's mic. There is so much movement happening onstage, it's hard to focus but it really riles up the crowd. They get so riled up, in fact, that a drunk couple behind me spills their entire cup of whiskey and coke all over me. I am initially pissed off, but it is a nice way to cool off after being sandwiched by sweaty strangers all night. I now refer to that incident as my punk rock baptism.

Right before their last song, Hause urges everyone to stick around after the show for some crowd interaction. They close out with my personal favorite “The La-Z-Boy 500” and the room explodes as we all sing along to “When the bell tolls, I'll be fine / They say that living is a lot like dying.” A little less than half the room clears out when they're finished; most of us are curious to know what this crowd interaction is going to consist of. Much to everyone's surprise, it's a conga line… inside that teeny, tiny room known as the Troubadour. Naturally, we all join in, dancing and holding the sweaty shirt of the stranger in front of us.

I can honestly say this was a show unlike any I've been to before.

///

Clara is a twenty-one-year- old college student who still lives at home with her mom. She likes going to comedy shows, collecting records, hockey, wrestling, anything written by Chuck Palahniuk, and Guy Ritchie films.

It's a Thursday evening in Glendale when I walk into a bar painted black, wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling. A disco ball hangs above a dance floor and looks completely out of place—but adds some comical charm to an otherwise drab room. This is the Complex: a small, hole-in-the-wall bar that fits one hundred people comfortably and around 150 uncomfortably. The crowd is a little different than what I'm used to seeing at punk shows. It's an older crowd, clearly metal heads, and they're uniformed up in more denim, pins, patches, and studs than I've ever seen in one room. Two things aren't much different, though. The first is that the male-to-female ratio is easily a solid six to one. The other being that in a sea of light skin, my brown face sticks out like a sore thumb.

I easily move past the fact that I'm the only brown girl in the room as I'm far too excited for what I'm about to witness. Pears, the band I've been listening to almost every day for five months since my best friend Dustin put them on a playlist to expose me to the side of punk I've been missing out on: Fat bands. Although I'm going in only knowing the lyrics to “Breakfast,” I'm fully expecting the energy to be high and the room to be rowdy. In the crowd of nearly seventy people, just over ten are super stoked for Pears. When they come on stage, the fun begins.

They crack jokes during their mic check and have the emcee play them in with the Family Matters theme song. Things take a bit of a 180 as the song ends. Frontman Zach Quinn channels his inner Iggy Pop, removing his shirt and baring his skin, bones, and ink. He looks like art as he jumps and runs and contorts all over the miniscule stage, exuding raw energy. Even though I'm taking pictures, my eyes are watching him in real time, and I am in complete awe. In between songs, there is some sweet and humorous banter by guitarist Brian Pretus as he thanks us for coming out to their 299th show. Before anyone can get too emotional, they're right back to swinging their axes, screaming into mics, and balancing themselves with melodic rhythms and catchy hooks. They somehow manage to play nearly every song from both of their albums, cramming roughly twenty songs into a forty-five minute set.

Their penultimate song is “Breakfast” and I just about lose my head, as do all the other Pears fans in the crowd. We're singing our hearts out, sweating all over each other, and feeling completely and utterly free. Accompanied by labelmate and Strung Out bassist Chris Aiken, they wrap up their set with the title track from their sophomoric album, Green Star. The crowd goes absolutely nuts. It seems like every single person in the room is singing along word for word. When it's over, Dustin and I head to the merch table and pick up some pins, stickers, and a T-shirt—signs that my love affair with this band has only just begun.

If you haven't had a chance to see Pears yet, don't fret. It seems these guys tour endlessly.

///

About the author: Clara is a twenty-one-year-old college student who still lives at home with her mom. She likes going to comedy shows, collecting records, hockey, wrestling, anything written by Chuck Palahniuk, and Guy Ritchie films.

I've lived in Los Angeles all of my life and have been absolutely terrible at attending shows at some of the local venues. I finally went to the Redwood Bar and Grill in downtown Los Angeles to see the Great Apes from San Francisco, who made a stop on their short tour with All Eyes West from Chicago.

Instead, I fell in love with locals Gentlemen Prefer Blood—who have a pop punk sound with some resemblance to The Copyrights. The show was supposed to start at three, but as I arrived at the venue, the bands were just pulling up in the van. I don't even remember what time music started playing because it felt like time was being stretched out. Luckily during this time I ran into Daryl and was introduced to another Razorcake contributor John Mule, so we watched the Dodgers game for a bit. 

Local band Lake Effect played a set of long, slowly drawn-out songs that made me a little too relaxed. I dozed off in one of the cushioned booths by the stage.

When Gentlemen Prefer Blood took the stage, they blew me away. This was my first time seeing them live. I had never even heard them. The band put on the best set of the matinee, playing to only a handful of people (including their significant others) in front of the stage. They got my attention with the combination of the two vocalists: Todd and Dr. J. It was a really great touch to their unique sound. Todd unleashed so much energy. He took full advantage of the minimal space he had up on the small stage. It was like he had too much sugar in his bloodstream. The songs I enjoyed the most were “Makeshift or Graves” and “1000 Words” off of their latest release Used Books and Guns. I discovered which songs were played during the set as I purchased their record and talked with Todd afterwards. I ended up liking them so much that after they played I wanted to hear more. I couldn't take my mind off of what I just witnessed.

All Eyes West played after and were kind of difficult to get into. They had a very heavy melodic punk sound with vocals that hinted of Lagwagon's JoeyCape. Their guitarist took full advantage of the open space as he hopped on and off the stage and played where the crowd should be. I felt like I spent most of their set trying not to get hit in the face by his swinging guitar.



Lastly, Great Apes took the stage. I discovered them when they opened for The Lawrence Arms a while ago and got into their traditional, raw punk sound. The first time I had seen them play, they were great and full of life. This time they were just okay. They played songs like “Seventeen Years,” which seemed to be everyone's favorite song. Despite everyone singing along, it was a struggle for singer Brian Moss, whose voice sounded tired. Maybe it was just an off day for him. They have a pretty solid collection of songs that are worth taking a closer listen to and I highly recommend their album Thread.

The show ended and it was still daylight, to my surprise. As I regained my eyesight from being in the darkness of the Redwood, I couldn't help but feel super lucky that I had the opportunity to be exposed to a band like Gentlemen Prefer Blood.

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Megan G. Razzetti—come find me at a show or see what I'm listening to here.

Again, it was another throat-killing show as they played a ton of songs that if you don't know, then you're missing out. Start buying everything you can get your hands on… and yes, also the novels that Dr. Frank writes. Between “Swallow Everything,” “Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba,” “Thank You,” and “Danny Partridge,” I couldn't have been more excited about the set list. I'm pretty sure that I've finally figured out what Dr. Frank's Ph.D. must be in, and it's heart surgery. The man knows what makes it break, tear, rip, and tick. The melodic ring of Mr. T Experience is nothing to be missed. 

First come love, then comes The Queers! The lineup was insane. Dangerous Dave, Chris Fields, Bear, Patrick, and Joe Queer with no guitar?! Super cool and fun, ripping all of my favorites like, “You're Trippin'” and “Wimpy.” A couple of songs in, I wondered, “What the hell is wrong with Dave?” He just didn't seem like himself. He was just plain ornery. He stumbled and made belligerent moves all over the place. Too much booze, I suspected. At one point, Chris gave him what I imagined to be a warning. Not much longer after that, right at the end of “I Hate Everything,” a few slaps of the cymbal with the bass, a shove into Chris, and that did it. Dave crossed a line and Chris tackled him. He obviously had enough. 

It was kind of like watching two brothers go at it. (Which, in a way, that is exactly what it was. Not brothers by blood but brothers through time.) Dave was escorted off the stage,  and after an apology by Joe, we were once again immersed in The Queers' “Granola Head.”  I thought for sure Joe would pick up a guitar at that point, but I am so glad he didn't. Joe killed it as a front man. The amount of energy Joe was giving off was electric. I have never been told to fuck off so many times and loved every finger of it. The lineup was backing up Joe with an incredibly fast and tight sound.  I try to never miss The Queers when they're here. No matter how many times I've seen them with different lineups, they're one of the funnest bands to see.

In the past I have driven miles to see Screeching Weasel. Music from the most recent album, Baby Fat Act 1, filled the empty stage. I wondered if they would perform rock opera-style, as the album is. Was I about to witness punk history? I felt the anticipation of the crowd.  I am a complete drama nerd so I started getting excited that theatrics were headed my way. So we wait… and we wait…  

Then, Ben, in all of his glamour, took the stage. I mean, this was a Liberace-style jacket. It had jewels sparkling all over it. As soon as he grabbed the mic, they went into “I'm Gonna Strangle You.” The crowd went insane! The band continuously rocked old songs: “My Right” and “Hey Suburbia.”  The guitar was ripping, the beats were hard, and his vocals were as if he had never aged a day.

If I closed my eyes, it was like it was 1991. “My brain hurts my brain hurts.” Aahh, my throat hurts from screaming! At first, the band snuck in an occasional tune off the new record, and about half way through the set, I wondered if he was dying to play the new stuff.

So Ben was kind enough to ask the crowd if we minded. The lackluster response prompted only two songs—“So Long Mojo” and “Things Aren't So Bad”—that were really good and sounded like great Screeching Weasel songs. Shortly after that, we jumped up and down to some more old school tunes like “Veronica Hates Me.” (I realize this is not an album review, but I digress. When Baby Fat Act 1 came out, it was scary to think it was a punk rock opera. I love Meatloaf but punk? At first spin, it was great! To my surprise, it really is just a kickass Screeching Weasel album that has a story throughout.) It's always hard hearing new stuff because most of us don't know it and we really want to mouth the words and sing along, but, overall, it was played super tight and sounded amazing.

There always has to be a wise guy, right? This show is no exception. Some “punks” in the crowd were throwing stuff at Ben. I think he held it together pretty well for a while, but he said something. After a serious tongue-lashing from Ben, they were escorted out. My favorite part about this moment was the girl next to me who turned to me and said, “C'mon isn't his reputation tarnished enough?” What? Isn't this the Ben Weasel we all know him to be? I'm not sure why she was surprised.  I was surprised it took him as long as it did to say something. I've seen Screeching Weasel three times. Two times he's commented on something going on in the pit. (Maybe he was just tired the first time I saw him.) This was a spectacular performance by Screeching Weasel. I can't forget to tell you about when Joe Queer dawned “the jacket” and sung “Cindy's on Methadone.”  So much fun!

I was really excited about this show and it really delivered more than I could've asked for. Seeing these three bands was reminiscent of being reunited with friends after years; we picked up right where we left off. I couldn't help but be reminded of my old scene and all the people in it. Some of those people and places aren't with us anymore. The feeling I got that night made me remember that just like an amazing punk rock song, memories and life can be short, fun, sad, and over in a blink of an eye. “Seasons will change, and so will you…”  

///

Cahnie Galletta is a photographer from San Diego you can see what she's up to at her facebook page, or follow her on Instagram @sdgidget

Tom Klein is an artist from San Diego and music enthusiast, follow him on Instagram @swellcreature

Typically, I don't put any stock into Valentine's Day, though I have had a few memorable dates on the day we arbitrarily celebrate love. They include: firing a gun for the first and only time at a range in L.A. on a double date; seeing my favorite band EELS play at a theater mentioned in one of their songs; and getting soup and roses delivered by a soon-to-be boyfriend. Generally, it's just another day of capitalism. My plan for 2015, fresh out of my latest relationship, was to read books in a nest of blankets. Thankfully, none of that happened.

Living in a punk house with five dudes and three bands between them lends itself to many sleepless nights. However, there are the occasional all-night benders that I engage in and February 13 was one of those.

Over brunch and Bloody Mary's the next morning, my roommate's friend, Elan, asked me out to a movie. As we were driving to the theater, he handed me his iPod to play DJ. I scrolled through, saw an extensive Cursive collection, and asked if he knew they were playing Seattle that night. Movie plans were instantly cancelled as we set upon a quest to obtain tickets for the sold out show. CraigsList came through for us and we made plans to meet a guy named Patrick at the show who had a pair of unused tickets.

We pulled up in front of the venue and spotted a guy holding out two tickets. He walked up to the car, said he was Patrick, and sold them to us. The exchange was very cold. I think he said two words to us and I remember thinking, “That guy really doesn't look like a Cursive fan.” Inside Neumo's we got a call from the real Patrick. We'd been taken by a scalper.

Slow Bird, a female-fronted trio with synthy keyboard, opened the show. They were a great primer for the night, showcasing an indie dream pop style with full, robust vocals. Their guitar parts melded with the keys in a way that the singer's voice stood out distinctly, while the drums were heavy and slow. It was difficult to pay attention to Slow Bird because of the group standing behind us. They were loudly discussing who had the best weed among them. Because of that, I can't say for sure if I enjoyed the group, or just tolerated them as I did the folks behind me. But it turns out that Slow Bird are from Seattle, so I could get another chance to see them sooner than I thought.

To be completely honest, Beach Slang, was the entire reason I went to this show. I'd listened to more Beach Slang in the last three months than I had Cursive, in the last ten years. Beach Slang, a four-piece from Philadelphia kept popping up on “Best of 2014” lists I had read in December. Right away I could see why they were getting people's attention.

I couldn't help but smile as soon as they started playing. They dove straight into their fuzzed-out set, kicking out jams that reminded me of The Replacements and early Goo Goo Dolls. One song in and the front man/guitarist James Alex was winning over the hearts of every person in the room. He looked over the sold-out crowd—a sprinkling of minors wrapped around the balcony, and the mass of people averaging the age of thirty-five—and stood slightly aghast.

“This is so crazy to me. I'm used to being the kid that sits alone at lunch time and now there's a sold-out show watching us,” he shared with the crowd.

After a wave of soft laughter from people who remembered what that was like, Alex looked over at guitarist Ruben Gallego and said, “You're tuning? Come on, you're making us look bad. The ‘Mats never played in tune.”

As the set carried on, I sang and danced along to the songs I recognized. They played so hard and with such stage presence that Alex couldn't keep his hat on. Each time he put it back on, it lasted a mere seconds before flying across the stage again. A few songs in, they all stopped on queue after the first verse in order to promote their upcoming full length album. Who does that?

Alex exclaimed, “We got signed to Polyvinyl Records, can you believe it? We're just a bunch of punks from Philly!” Not long after that I looked up to catch Alex holding his guitar up to his face and sliding his tongue down the fret board.

Their song “Dirty Cigarettes” started playing towards the middle of the set. It was like an old friend had come to visit. I've only been exposed to Beach Slang for a short time, but it sure doesn't feel like it. Musically and lyrically this band can emit a gamut of emotions, ranging from remorse to empowerment, loneliness to uplifting. It's as if they're telling you, “It's okay. We all have failures. But it's because of them that we can accomplish anything.” By the end of the set I was so ecstatically in love with this band. They left us with “Happy Valentine's day! Make love tonight and enjoy the rest of your fucking life!”

I bee-lined it to the merch booth and snatched up both of their EPs, telling the guy selling it to let Beach Slang know they made a huge fan out of me that night. When I turned around, I realized we were separated from the stage by only a shallow barrier. It was a perfect place to watch the headliner! A group of people next to us asked if I was hanging out, hoping to meet Beach Slang. I replied, “Not intentionally, but if I do, I'm going to hug them. This just seems to be the best spot to watch a sold-out set.”

Closing out the night was the band everyone waited for: Cursive. Playing material primarily from their 2003 album, The Ugly Organ, they were complete with a rocking cellist. I'm pretty sure that besides high school band, that was the first time I'd seen someone play cello on stage. The previous bands were a beautiful marriage of gritty melodies and emotions, which was awfully fitting for the holiday. Once Cursive finally came on, the attitude totally shifted.

Just about everyone in the crowd became twelve years younger and filled with nostalgic memories. Each song they played was met with cheers within a note or two. These fans really recognized their catalog. Guitarist and vocalist—Tim Kasher—periodically threw out red roses and chocolates for the crowd who sang along to every word. Watching from the side stage allowed me to see the pure elation and happiness on each smiling, shouting face. Although I wouldn't call myself a Cursive fan, I can relate to the rad fucking time everyone in there was having and vicariously live through it. You could see it radiating throughout each of Cursive's members, too. They were just as stoked to be back on stage as the audience was watching them.

Many people had a perfect night. I may be wrong, but I remember “A Gentleman Caller,” being the last song played by Cursive before ending with an encore with a looping “Staying Alive.” The lyrics “The worst is over” on repeat provided a beautiful melody. Cursive played hard, dirty, and beautiful and I walked out sort of kicking myself for not paying attention to them earlier. But hey, it's okay, because Beach Slang was the best thing ever!

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Kayla Greet is from Seattle, WA and has been a Razorcake contributor for the last year. She is a fanatic pinball player, knitter, and writer for Skill Shot—Seattle's pinball zine. Recently she decided to start a Tumblr about staying creatively motivated as well as to share new projects. You can find it at http://www.not-good-enough-2015.tumblr.com/

Fullerton, California's Burger Records has created quite the name for itself. The label humbly began in 2010 as a means of self-releasing records by Thee Makeout Party, co-founders Sean and Lee's then band. Burger soon gained widespread notoriety and recognition for licensing cassette format releases by bands on labels such as Recess, Hozac, Dirtnap, Douchemaster, and several others. Since then it has released some three hundred cassettes and records, along with hosting several concerts at their retail space record store. 

Burger has also successfully assembled touring festivals such as Burgerama. This year they seem to have outdone themselves and others by organizing the Burger A-Go-Go, a one day festival held at the Observatory in Santa Ana, CA. It featured a lineup consisting of all-lady or lady-fronted bands from various parts of the country. Among them were surefire draws such as Dum Dum Girls, Bleached, Best Coast, the Coathangers, Shannon And The Clams, the Muffs, and Peach Kelli Pop. 

Save for Bleached and Best Coast, these would also end up being the only bands I caught at the fest due to the exhaustion caused by an event scheduled for nearly twelve hours in a venue with hardly any air conditioning and over-priced refreshments. I didn't find out until three bands in that the yellow “press” wrist bands granted access to re-entry which was strictly forbidden under normal circumstances. I briefly shed a tear for the rest of the concert attendees, but quickly retracted the sentiment upon realizing that I was in the minority of the age group of people over thirty. In other words; the kids would be fine. 

This was to be a day-long affair with the Observatory opening its doors at two PM and posting its set times on TV monitors in the walkways of the venue. My girlfriend Claudia and I, along with our good pal George, arrived shortly after five PM. We were just in time to find out that the Sugar Stems from Wisconsin opted out of the fest and headed towards Arizona after playing Los Angeles a couple nights before. Rats! I'd have to until another time to catch them.

Tuesday nights are a drab. There's usually fuck-all to do except for maybe getting cheap tacos or just bumming it at home. The weekend still seems too far away, Saturday was just a few days ago, and the main thing we have to look forward to is that it's almost the middle of the week. Yep, Tuesday nights suck.

Then again, sometimes they don't. Every now and then a gig comes up with such a great lineup of local bands and a killer touring band. It doesn't matter if it's in a city you've never been to, at a place you've never heard of, or if you're going alone. Sometimes you just got to go. So I made the thirty-minute trip to Mid-City in Los Angeles.

The gig was held at Space 42, a relatively new place for punk shows in West L.A. Space 42 follows the cardinal  rule of DIY spots: keep a low profile. The building itself is adjacent to Venice Blvd. Away from prying eyes, its blue fa�ade is quaint and unsuspecting. I wasn't at all surprised to find out that the building was a former medical marijuana dispensary. All good DIY spots used to be something else. I walked up a driveway—my bag heavy with some zines, beer, and a camera—paid my six dollars, and waited for the first band to start.

Hawthorne's Dead Squad opened the show to a decent sized crowd. It's hard to peg down their sound to a specific genre or band, which is a good thing. They have tinges of oi, late ‘70s punk, and garage, all through a lo-fi filter. Despite a few hiccups, their set was solid and the crowd was bobbing their heads and tapping their toes. Dead Squad started as a three-piece where guitarist Toby had vocal duties. Those were the more garage/punk rock-sounding tunes. Then singer Pipi took the mic. Her harsh, high-pitched vocals gave songs like “Antisocial” a bouncy oi feeling to them. I look forward to seeing how this young band progresses.

I love dumb, silly punk; the kind that sucks the agro out of a room with its cretinous lyrics and makes everyone jump up and down like a spazz. In their year of existence, L.A.'s Stupid Life has got this down Their racket consists of Japanese noise-punk heroes The Swankys formula of simple 1-2 kick drum/snare combo with plenty of tin-pan drum rolls and a spunky bass that would make the dead pogo. For four dudes with no artificial noise or collection of pedals they cause quite a commotion. Nothing serious about this band other than they're really good. Singer Spell looked like a lanky Doctor Doom thanks to a mask fashioned out of duct tape. Drummer E. Rock's crashed cymbals. Ear Bean's plucked the bass. Pretty P hastily pulled his guitar strings and made him look like manic marionette, forcing him to flail. Limbs a strew, he skipped and hopped across the dance floor. Their set, like many of Stupid Life's songs, was short and punchy—just how I like it.

When Stupid Life finished I took some time to take in the inside of Space 42. It's a small room that's no bigger than an average living room. With the exception of some color from light graffiti, there are four plain walls decorated with strands of single-color Christmas lights. A black curtain separates the inside from the outside parking lot. The lot was where most people were hanging out, smoking and drinking. My bag was getting heavy so to lighten my load I cracked open another beer, which, thanks to Stupid Life, was very much shaken up. I apologized to the person next to me who had some of my beer on their sweater and went back inside.

A local band that I've admired for a long time but for whatever reason have never been able to catch live was setting up. Poliskitzo has been around since 2009 and have put out a few tapes and vinyl on great labels like Silencio Statico and Todo Destruido. Aside from Orden Mundial, Poliskitzo were my favorite act of the night. We're fortunate enough in L.A. and Southern California to have a lot of really good bands, but I think Poliskitzo stands out. They've been one of the more rhythmic and soulful bands around and I was really excited to finally catch them live.

Guitarist and vocalist Gabriel's crooning was on-point whether he was belting out lyrics in rapid succession like on “Skizofrenia” (“No me quitaran las ganas de matar/ Skizo-Skizo-Skizofrenia”) or beckoning the crowd to sing along to “En las calles nos llaman/ desconocidos!” during“Drum Solo.” He really digs deep inside when he sings which gives the lyrics extra feeling and weight. Bass player E.T. Skitzo twitched and grimaced as he plucked his bass and sang along. Eddie, the drummer, produced some killer beats, not missing anything. It was hard to grasp that this music was coming from a three-piece.

Polisktizo creates something really unique that translates very well live. In the beginning of their set I was able to stop bobbing around a few times to take some pics but still managed to come out with half a dozen blurry ones. At that point I just pointed my camera in their general direction and shot blindly. I enjoyed them so much I didn't realize my camera had run out of juice halfway through their set. They were great. Live, Poliskitzo puts out a strong energy that makes one want to dance and sing along instead of running in a circle. I'm glad I was finally able to see them and can't wait to catch them again. I walked outside with a big smile, still singing along to Poliskito in my head.

Unfortunately my camera was dead and the only other thing I had was my phone. It was going to suck to try to take pictures of Blazing Eye and Orden Mundial with my Blackberry (remember those?). The only thing left to do was to make things harder on myself and drink a warm beer while I waited for Blazing Eye to come on.


L.A. juggernauts Blazing Eye stirred shit up. It was impossible to, at the very least, not pump your fist and bang your head to their raucous L.A. brand of Kyushu-noisecore with its gruff vocals, heavy bass and drum, and crude unrelenting guitar. I've seen them a few times and they've never let me down. Austin's vocals are insane. He was really animated, bouncing around in front of the crowd and standing on top of a mini-amp, bellowing out the words to songs like “Humiliation” and “Kill You.” At one point he ended up on the floor writhing.

The bassist didn't move around that much—he never does—but it was hard to pay attention to him because of the gimp mask he was wearing. How he could play in that small room with all the body heat and musk generated from bodies hurling across the floor is beyond me. His stoical presence really added to the overall vibe that Blazing Eye put out—one of desperation, desolation, and oblivion. Guitarist Sam frantically smashed on the chords—keeping up with the chunky bass and hammering drums—creating just about the best fucking sound ever. They played nearly every song from their demo and 7”, along with a new song. I didn't get the name of it, but it was slower than their other stuff but just as good.

I've always been fascinated by punk that comes from an island nation (not counting Great Britain). The first time I heard Australian punk, it blew my fucking mind. How does punk get in, or out, for that matter? Just as important, what place does it have in that society?

“Bueno, de primeras puedo decirte que el ecosistema parece hostil para el punk y para cualquier otro tipo de movimiento contracultura,” (Translation: “First I have to say that the environment seems hostile for punks and other counter cultural movements”), said Bernat, singer for Orden Mundial.



Orden Mundial is from Mallorca, Spain, an island in the Mediterranean Sea. They formed about four years ago when local hardcore act Cop De Fona called it quits. Orden Mundial consists of the exact same members of Cop De Fona except each member took on a different duty, creating a more frenzied sound.

Despite the hostilities, Bernat says the punk scene in Mallorca is great and locals feel privileged. This is not the case in other MediterraneanIslands he has visited.

There is an ambiguity to Orden Mundial, from the aesthetic of the band—one of their logos is a black mask with a cryptic expression—to the band name itself; Ordern Mundial means “World Order” in English. Not “New World Order” or anything like that. There's nothing that modifies the order they're talking about. “Orden Mundial deber�a significar cualquier modo en que el mundo funciona, se organiza, hace referencia a sus impulsos,”said Bernat (Translation: “‘Orden Mundial' refers to any way the world functions, is structured, and also alludes to its compulsions.”) “Cuando hablamos de mundo hablamos de realidad, de todo aquello que existe.” (Translation: “When we talk about ‘the world' we refer to reality, to everything that exists.” Their sound reflects the world they speak of.

This was Orden Mundial's first U.S. tour—hitting both coasts and a few stops in-between—and there was a really good turnout for this particular gig. I think a common misconception of punk is that if there is no pit or bodies aren't slamming then the crowd isn't enjoying the band. Sometimes you're just watching a band and you stand there, kind of stuck, with your eyes glued to what's in front of you. That's what I noticed that night, and I can say for sure it wasn't because the crowd wasn't digging them; it was because they were thinking “Holy fuck.” That's what was going through my head throughout their set. It wasn't some gimmick or excess that caught people's attention; it was because they were just that damn good. The half-circle of people in front of the band grew denser as they played and bodies started moving.

Singer Bernat paced slowly on the dance floor, stuck his neck out at the crowd, shouted lyrics in Castilian Spanish to songs with titles that translate to “Empty Youth”, “Worms”, “They're Ghosts”, and “Open Grave”. Guitarist Jauma looked like he was beating his guitar into submission—just hacking away at it—producing some killer riffs and feedback. Rafa pounded the kit, his head bobbing with each strike, joining in on the chaos. The chunky bass kept everything stacked. During my favorite song Bernat seemed to dig his heels into the ground, and with composed fervor yelled out, “Te arastras por el Suelo/ Te Revueltes entre ti mismo/ Gusanos! Gusanos!” (Translation:“You drag yourself across the floor/ You squirm/ Worms! Worms!”)

Orden Mundial is not looking to provide answers. Their lyrics aren't essays and they aren't interested in preaching. They're more interested in asking questions, said Bernat. “Escapamos de interpretaciones f�ciles, pero bueno, damos permiso a que cada uno lo asuma como quiera. Lo que nos gusta con la banda es invitar a la reflexi�n…”(Translation: “We stay away from the obvious, plus everyone has their own interpretation of things. We like to get people to reflect.”) The crowd did just that. Those who knew the words sang along, and those who didn't paid close attention. A band is doing something right when, in the midst of disorder, people are interested in hearing what each song has to say. Orden Mundial accomplished that on this night.

After the show I was able to briefly speak to Randi and Marina, two members of the Mamira co-op, who run Space 42. Their unchecked enthusiasm, along with that of all the bands and the crowd left an impression on me. The night was flawless; no fights and no fuzz. Southern California represented hard and Orden Mundial brought the goods. It was a victory for the punks, on a Tuesday night no less.

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Pop punk anthems, singalongs, sophomoric antics, pogo punk dancing, and bubblegum dreams were all I had on my agenda going in to the Soda Bar on a chilly January night in San Diego. It would seem appropriate that I wouldn't be alone in my idea, seeing as how that's what The Dickies are known for. When you think of classic bands, nobody sounds more fun than The Dickies. Unfortunately, much like my last time seeing The Dickies, I soon realized that my ideas were vastly different than my fellow punk rockers attending the show that night.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, The Dickies!”

Blazing right into “Killer Klowns,” followed right away into “Fan Mail,” was the perfect start to a night filled with poppy gems. After all these years, it's so fun and amazing to see that these San Fernando dudes have still got it! Somehow, though, between the blowup sex dolls, the scuba masks, the penis puppet, and the Stan Lee superhuman guitar riffs, a large segment of the crowd was miraculously able to latch onto a lamer, shittier, less fun and more annoying vibe. Sounds impossible? Hard to believe? Misunderstanding on my part? I hoped so, too.

Trust me. I've seen more pits than a bowl of cherries, at this point in my life, so this isn't a complaint about some asshole who “doesn't get it.” This is written from a rock'n'roll Juggernaut of sorts… so I feel like my complaints are valid, honest, and not alone. Standing at the front of the stage, I was aggressively kicked in my ass. Literally. Taking pics and getting kicked is not my game. And, really, if they were Teenage Kicks, I might've understood. These kicks though were from a chick of about forty-five trying to live out her annual punk rock night.

Luckily, I was able to find shelter in the form of a punk rock elder as confused as I was. In fact, once I started looking around and feeling out the crowd, it was obvious that this good-time show was some sort of “amateur night” for old punks who come to one show a year and act out their punk rock aggression from childhood. These people are who make my decision to see an older band annoyingly hard. They show up with un-ironic outfits, fists full of hate, and a severe misunderstanding of what punk rock is—or at least what my opinion of it is. A drunken fist fight in the middle of the pit? Not even close to punk rock. Pushing girls down and spitting beer on everyone? Wrong again. Most of us relate to the music and love the getaway that is offered, and it bums me out when I am focusing on getting my noggin hit or my hair pulled more than watching the band.

At the end of the night, what really matters is that after all this time The Dickies are still dishing out an amazing show. They pioneered the way for so many other fun and poppy bands, and are still showing the kids how it's done. Anyway—apart from everything I just mentioned—the next time The Dickies come to my town, I'll be right there. If I have to take an ass-kicking to see a band I love, then kick away, because nobody will notice my tears as I'm singing along.

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Cahnie Galletta is a photographer from San Diego, Ca who was privileged enough to grow up in the Southern California punk scene. She has turned her love of shows and art into a way of life. To see her work go to Crowdsurfingthroughlife.tumblr.com or find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/sdgidgetphotography. If you are ever getting married, check out her alternative wedding photos sdgidget.portfoliobox.me

I had two goals in mind when I went to the Fonda theater on a Saturday night to see the Fat Wreck Chords foursome of ToyGuitar, Western Addiction, Swingin' Utters, and Lagwagon. My first goal was to write a decent and honest review of the show for Razorcake. I take that job as seriously as a Boy Scout takes… umm, sticks? I don't know. My second goal was to find Darius Koski from San Francisco's Swingin' Utters and thank him for all the heart and soul he has put into the band and my consciousness. More on that later. On to the show!

ToyGuitar was the opening band and lead singer Jack Dalrymple really summed up the show nicely. In between the band's fast-moving, head-bopping songs, Dalrymple made an aside and reminded the crowd, “This is a great Fat Wreck Chords show.” He's right. Any of the four bands on the bill could headline this show, even in a large, clunky, very un-DIY venue like the Fonda. 

After ToyGuitar was hardcore punk act Western Addiction. This band has raw power. I wish I had been able to make it to Pomona's VLHS the night before, where Western Addiction played a headlining set. Even though they're plenty loud and make enough of a presence to hold down this large venue stage, I can only imagine how much more intense their set would feel in a small, DIY venue. It's a real gift for fans of this band that they're able to play both ends of the spectrum. Songs like “God Says No” and “The Church of Black Flag” blew me away and reminded me of a quote from hardcore godfather Ian Mackaye who, clearly tired of the same question being asked over and over, told an interviewer, “If you want to see a Minor Threat reunion, go start a band.” I'm glad Western Addiction exists to play their parts in today's punk landscape. 

Now, as promised, the hero story. I wanted to give Darius Koski my thanks. In between sets, as I waited for Swingin' Utters to go on, I noticed Darius come out from behind the curtain to say hello to Shawn and Mark Stern of Youth Brigade, who I had noticed in the crowd earlier. When he stepped away for a second, I walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. “I just wanted to say thank you.”He gave me a look that was twofold:“You're welcome,” and “Thanks for saying ‘thanks'.” We shook hands and I didn't have anything else to say. “That's all,”I said. He laughed out loud as I awkwardly walked away. It was worth it. I know punks are “supposed” to spit on their heroes instead of walking up to them and saying thank you in a moment of vulnerability, but I don't care. There are a lot of singers, songwriters, guitarists, punks, and poets whose music I have loved, but Darius is only one of three or four who I might go out of my way to thank, even if it is in a bizarre moment like the one we briefly shared.

As for the Swingin' Utters' set, what can I say? I'm a geeked-out fanboy when it comes to these Bay Area legends. Their music is intertwined with my teens and early twenties in an inexplicable way that will hold me forever. I took the first three songs in the press pit to catch some photos for the zine, and then I went out into the crowd and lost my mind, shaking and dancing to some of my favorite tunes. Johnny, Darius, Greg, Jack, and Miles powered through a set made up of half tracks off of the recently released Fistful of Hollow and half old classics, including “Five Lessons Learned,” “Pills and Smoke,” and, to my surprise, “Brazen Head,” from their 1999 EP of the same name. It could be one of my favorites of the Utters' releases. They closed the set with “The Next in Line,” a real crowd pleaser from the first note to the last.

And last but, holy shit, not the least: Lagwagon. It's no secret that this is the band that filled the Fonda Theater that night. The anticipation built after the Utters finished and, when the curtain came up, there was a large banner image of the cover art for Hang, Lagwagon's first release in nine years. Onto the stage walked bass player Joe Raposo and broke into the opening riff of “Obsolete Absolute” off of their most recent release. As the rest of the musicians joined in, the crowd went apeshit and Fonda security guards got the night's first round of flying plastic cups and nimble-bodied crowd surfers tossed up and over the railing. The audience reaction mirrored what people had been telling me all night about Hang: they love it. Everyone I had the chance to talk to, in casual conversation around ashtrays and bar stools, had let me know just how excited they were that Lagwagon is back, recording, and touring. JoeyCape hit the stage, pogoing up and down, microphone cable wrapped around his hand, and he didn't look like he had lost a single thing in Lagwagon's twenty-two years with Fat Wreck Chords, since their initial release of 1992's Duh. The crowd was with them, all the way to the end. 

Jack Dalrymple's words were ringing in my ears as I left the Fonda and walked to my truck parked just off Hollywood Blvd. This was a great Fat Wreck Chords show. Each one of these bands, old and new, is doing all they can and more with what they have. And all of us, if we can avoid the plague of flying plastic cups and crowd surfers, are better off for it. If you get a chance, thank someone for the gift of good music. 

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Want to read more about Lagwagon, Western Addiction, and Swingin' Utters?

Lagwagon interview

Swingin' Utters interview

Western Addiction Tour Diary

It was my first time seeing all three bands on the lineup and I was pretty pumped. The Flatliners started the night with really fun energy. I couldn't stop head-nodding for a second. Hearing “Monumental” live was so amazing and full of energy—a set full of feel-good music and music that just makes you feel.

Next on the bill was Dave Hause. At this point, I thought things were going to slow down a bit. Well, he came out guitars a-blazin' accompanied by his brother Tim and they quickly roped me into their world. “Time Will Tell” was beefed up a little and played with great passion. I was hooked. One person in particular caught Dave's attention and it made for great banter through the set. Owen—a kid maybe eleven or twelve—right up front was made the mascot for all of the youth. After consistent taunting, Owen did his first stage dive, which was, well…. really cool.

Finally, the moment that we all were there to experience: the culmination of twenty years of Hot Water Music on stage. They came out and started immediately pumping our veins with rock'n'roll. After twenty years, it was the same throaty vocals, heavy guitar, and even heavier lyrics that that I've come to love from these southern gentlemen.They rounded out the friendly rock'n'roll vibe of the night by just being themselves and giving everyone exactly what they came for and more.  What a treat to have Dave come back and sing “Trusty Chords”—it was a goosebumps moment. I can still feel the warmth over me as I write this. Having a fellow fan, Dave Hause, singing with the band made me feel like I was part of the reunion too. Judging by the rest of the crowd screaming in unison, I wasn't alone in my thoughts. To complete the dream, they did “Simple Song” by Avail.

I just want to say thank you. Talk about heart pumping!

Most people who walk through church doors are hoping to find something, someone meaningful that can make their life feel better and not so meaningless. It's amazing that a bunch of old and young punk rockers were able to legitimately find meaning inside those same doors and under those same stained glass windows on a Wednesday night in San Diego. Music helps people escape. It also helps people come to terms with their feelings and inner thoughts. That night, we had the best preachers we could've asked for. We found them in The Flatliners, Dave Hause, and Hot Water Music. Truly, this was a night that will live on in my memories forever.

If you can do it, summer is a great time to get out of Los Angeles. First, the heat makes people insane. Your bike's inner tubes start popping if you leave them outside too long. The beer kind of has a way of evaporating before it even goes down your throat. I know there are plenty of harsher environments all around the world, but the bullshit is always easier to deal with when you're somewhere that you don't call home.

When the idea of heading out to Minneapolis to visit my wife's grandfather and uncle popped up, deciding when to make the trip seemed obvious. “Well, let's see. We can do it when nothing in particular is going on, or we could go when my favorite band in the world is playing back-to-back shows at the bar that one of them owns!” Within minutes, flights were booked. We were going to D4th of July: the annual two-day celebration of Dillinger Four and a diverse selection of bands that they had chosen to join them, all housed in Erik Funk's own Triple Rock Social Club. It's an inspiring and intoxicating event. A fleeting pilgrimage for those of us who live many miles away and want to absorb as much as possible in a city we have only known through the bands that it has birthed. The pop punk, the power trash, the most tantalizing hardcore, all seeped out of these basements and changed our ears forever. Could I really do it any justice with the little time I had?

The answer was no. It ended up being a pretty unfortunate visit, with most of the time spent with my wife in a hospital at her grandfather's bedside. But being there for a family member when they're going through a crisis is not something to take lightly, and I did get to spend some time walking the banks of the Mississippi when I needed a break from the IVs and smell of hand sanitizer. Each night we got in the car and tried to rationalize the situation; there wasn't anything we could really do to improve his condition, and if we didn't go to these shows we were going to regret it.



This year's D4th was separated by subgenre. The bands playing Friday were varying degrees of melodic, while Saturday's roster was on the more aggressive side of the spectrum. A real Midwestern blend of fuck-it-all-let's-party. Local Minneapolis band Lutheran Heat opened up the night with some twang and the weekend had officially started. People went totally bonkers for Direct Hit and Masked Intruder. A quartet of Belgians known as The Priceduifkes put on a pretty hilarious show, decked out in USA jerseys and talking plenty of shit. Canadian Rifle and The Brokedowns were as amazing as you'd expect them to be. Sure, these bands definitely belong on the melodic show, but these are savage melodies. Relentless in originality. They were the perfect openers for Dillinger Four's Friday night set.



Contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid. I've seen D4 more than a handful of times and I never take it for granted, but sometimes they can be a lot tighter than other times. In the back of my mind, I knew it might be possible for them to not play the tightest set. But I also figured seeing them twice in one weekend increased my odds for seeing them at their best. Well, Friday night, they were fucking on! Like a freighter drunk on diesel, they cranked out the hits, even playing C I V I L W A R's “The Classical Arrangement” live for the first time ever. It was a truly powerful set. Even though our trip wasn't going how we had planned, we were glad we were there.

Saturday's lineup consisted of a good amount of bands I had never heard of, but I was informed that it was a pretty accurate representation of the Minneapolis punk scene, so I definitely paid attention to what was being dished out. Full-bore crust punk thrasher-time as bands such as War//Plague, Zero, and Architectis Death Spiral ripped through their sets. Then came the doom, courtesy of Vulgaari. Nary a moment of peace for those who looked upon. It was heavy and dirty and the ideal soundtrack for hanging out and drinking beer.

The Night Birds played before D4 that night, and their live shows are well documented for a reason. They know how to knock out a fucking energetic set! I'm sure Brian was driving the sound guy crazy when he'd stick the mic up to the guitar cab during PJ's scalding hot solos, but everyone else thought it was awesome. So goddamn loud.

Before D4 came on, I knew this was going to be my last time enjoying some Midwestern beer for a while so I went and got a tall boy of Old Style and Grain Belt. My selections ended up being the proper accompaniment to D4's set. While it was definitely a loose one, it didn't matter. Most of us had seen them the night before. I went from not seeing them in five years to not seeing them in twenty-four hours. Things had changed. They could have botched every note of every song and sang the lyrics in ways that didn't rhyme or make sense, and I still would have enjoyed it. Just watching them do their own thing in their own home was enough.

I don't want perfection. I want character. And I like it when shows are fun. For their final song of the weekend, they crashed through a version of “Sally Maclennane” and everyone hung on for dear life. I stood in the center of the room trying to catch the chaos and beauty with my piece of shit digital camera. It was not possible. The damage that had been done was on a scale which one has to live through to see. People started trickling out, the show was over, and it was time to head home.

While I look back on this weekend with mixed emotions, it isn't without resolve. The struggles of aging will never end, both in the decisions you're forced to make and the ones that your body makes for you. We strive for independence, but can never escape the shackles of our physical bodies. This is all the more reason we must work for what we believe in. All the more reason to spend your days wisely. I feel inspired by what the D4 guys have created. A physical shelter to house their passion. An event that would look ridiculously conceited if done by others, but they pull it off. The resilience of growing up with punk, rather than growing out of punk.

Hanging out before one of the shows, someone told me they had never listened to the D4's 2008 release, C I V I L W A R. I tried to explain to them how important some of those songs are. The part that immediately comes to mind is the bridge in the track “Gainesville.” For just three lines, these sentences cut deep. “Time was wasted, we're moving way too slow / Let's go before we're old / Time doesn't wait for me.” Life is urgent. Never forget how quickly things can change, for the good and the bad.

Get up and go!

It is of loneliness and a disease of the bone
too grand for me to comprehend or amend
—“Like Needed” from The Optimist Club, Sticks & Stones

I had the great pleasure of attending the Save Our Schmuck: Benefit for Seth Kushner at Union Hall in Brooklyn, N.Y. on Aug. 26, 2014. Kushner is a noted comix creator (“comix” refers to the small press underground/alternative comics community) and photographer. Kushner was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia not long after successfully funding his comic anthology Schmuck on Kickstarter. His surgery was delayed due to rounds of chemo in an attempt to get his cancer into remission before the transplant could take place. The benefit sought to raise money to help with Kushner's mounting hospital bills. It's challenging to be an artist in a country that places the health of its citizens second after income.

Life moves in waves, with each great triumph followed by tragedy. Fate often deals what seems like the worst possible hand in a game of poker, but sometimes it's followed by a royal flush. Kushner's diagnosis and struggles were tragic, but what followed was a gathering of his peers in support of their brother. A bevy of incredibly gifted people packed themselves into the tiny downstairs performance space of Union Hall. I learned about how wonderfully talented Kushner is thanks to all the brilliant artists who have collaborated with him. 

The event, sponsored by HEEB Magazine,was hosted by the magazine's Comics Editor Jeff Newelt and featured fantastic live comix readings of Kushner's works—including a charming story from Schmuckthat recounted the main character Adam Kessler's (a fictitious version of Kushner himself) Bar Mitzvah and his disbelief that it truly made him a man. A later chapter documented Kessler's visit to a strip club during which he receives a lap dance from a comics enthusiast and almost finds love. Kushner's work is both self-deprecating and endearing, plunging you into the mindset of his main character/himself. The two selections were read by R. Sikoryak (who is known for his “Carousel” series of multimedia comics slideshows) and Dean Haspiel, along with chapter artist Christa Cassano. 

Haspiel also read a selection from his new graphic novel Fear, My Dear: A Billy Dogma Experience, which perfectly complements the heartbreaking with the hilarious, and the realistic with the surreal in a series of four-panel pages. Artist Josh Neufeld performed the final chapter of Schmuck, featuring his own artwork, in which Adam Kessler finally meets and falls in love with the girl of his dreams. It is based on Kushner's real life courtship of his wife Terra.

As for the non-comix portion of the night, Dr. Sketchy founder Molly Crabapple, who has been a subject of Kushner's photography, told her humorous-yet-disturbing account of meeting Donald Trump in Dubai, and asking him an “inappropriate” question about his opinion on how massively underpaid the workers are who build his villas in the richest city in the world. Two subjects of Kushner's photocomix series CulturePOP rounded out the performances: the delightful Plucky Charms performed a fun, innuendo-laced song on her ukulele and Akim the Funk Buddha performed a hip-hop/dance depiction of an American at a Japanese Tea Ceremony.

The main string that tied these performers together was their collaborations with Kushner. But another theme emerged as the night wore on: rooting for the underdog. From Kessler's awkward teen years and forays into love, to the servants of Dubai, it is the idea of championing the ones beaten down by events beyond their control and creating a voice for those who might not have one as a means of attempting to overcome potentially unbeatable odds—whether it's through comix, shocking questions, dance, or music.

The audience was then treated to a special surprise: A video from Mr. Kushner himself, announcing his cancer had gone into remission and he was tentatively scheduled for a transplant. There could not have been a more perfect conclusion to the night than that announcement: the truest notion that sometimes the underdogs can come out on top.

It was also an excellent introduction for the “underdogs” of the New Jersey punk scene. Sticks & Stones was a punk band in the late '80s to mid-'90s from New Brunswick, N.J. And, to put it as the band members themselves have, they were “cursed” from the get-go and for each triumph in their career, a disaster of near-epic and unbeatable proportions often followed. 

When their LP Theme Song for Nothingcame out in 1993, the band booked a tour that included the West Coast. It was an ambitious venture they decided was worthy of documenting in its entirety. They experienced a few “highs” in great turnouts and well-received shows. However, near the end of the tour they encountered an unthinkable low: the immolation of their trailer in the middle of Big Horn National Forest in Wyoming (as heard onThe Optimist Club track “Home”)—where all of their gear and worldly possessions were lost and painfully documented on video.

After that point, their final record (the aforementioned Optimist Club) was released exclusively in Germany—oddly enough the one place where they managed to get more than footnote recognition. They subsequently played a few really great shows until bringing their “cursed,” seven-year existence to a merciful, “euthanasia”-like end still in relative obscurity.

Fast forward a decade to 2004. Lead vocalist Peter Ventantonio found a new home in the circus-punk-cabaret outfit World/Inferno Friendship Society (where he is better known as Jack Terricloth). Lead guitarist Johnny X., (Mike Cavallaro), had a short and sweet stint in Johnny X & The Conspiracy and later made a name for himself as a comic artist, creating the fantastic series 66 Thousand Miles Per Hourin addition to his work with the webcomics collective ACT-I-VATE, started by Dean Haspiel. Drummer Chris Calello became a family man, and bassist Osamu Kawahara traveled the globe.

In that same year Chunksaah Records released the anthology The Strife and Times, giving a whole new generation of punk rockers not only a taste, but a compendium of the band's output during their short but storied existence. It culminated in a full reunion set during World/Inferno's Hallowmas October celebration at the Hook (RIP) in Brooklyn, followed by a few sporadic reunion shows over the following eighteen months. But even in the glory of reformation and long-overdue recognition, thanks especially to positive reviews of The Strife and Times and a number of shows with fellow East Coast bands like The Bouncing Souls and Weston, Sticks & Stones still could not revel. They realized that they worked better as friends—and decided never to play together again as a band.

But “fate” would, as she often does, have another card up her sleeve.

On Aug. 26, 2014, seven years after those sporadic reunion shows, and twenty years after the band's breakup, Sticks & Stones got back together—one night only—for an acoustic mini-set. Their set was short and memorable, whiskey-laced and full of anecdotes and laughter—something needed most during trying times. Sticks & Stones is a band that's often considered “criminally underappreciated,” not just because they were one of the few who held true to their punk ideals with aggressive guitars, reckless abandon, and an unending anger toward an unforgiving society, but because their lyrics and music perfectly encapsulate the human condition. 

The opportunity to see Sticks & Stones is rare, but I was grateful for the chance to see them. Here's to hopefully more reunions in the future—but we'll see what fate brings.

Seth Kushner is currently in recovery from a bone marrow transplant. For those who are interested in helping out with his continued medical costs, here is the link to contribute.

Jamie L. Rotante is a writer, proofreader, and all-around weirdo from New York. She only kind of seeks your approval and friendship. Drop her a line on Twitter. 

I wasn't exactly sure what to expect when I rolled up to Gigi's Cocktail Lounge on a Tuesday night at 8pm. Since moving back to Ventura, I have done my best to go to as many shows as I can, but I never made it out to Gigi's, the consummate example of a just-under-the-radar dive-bar tucked outside the persistent humming of the Victoria Avenue exit off the 101-freeway.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was that there was no stage (awesome) and that the soundboard was huddled against the far wall, sectioned off with police-like caution tape (potential for problems, I thought). I was obviously early, so I grabbed a pint and eagerly awaited the first band of the night: French Exit.

Razorcake readers are probably already familiar with the punk band French Exit. Their debut LP, Guts & Black Stuff, released last year, received favorable reviews from our very own Sean Arenas and Garrett Barnwell. I agree with both of them, as I was instantly hooked on their brand of catchy, Weezer-esque, mid-tempo punk rock. I had seen them once before opening for Andrew Jackson Jihad, but now that Guts & Black Stuff was in my constant rotation, I was excited to see them again. Did I mention the Weezer connection? French Exit opened with “Dominoes,” from their 2012 split release with Signals Midwest, and immediately I smiled: the whoa-whoas that open the song are just too contagious, too obvious, and too fun that they instantly made me happy.

French Exit sounded great—they were spot on, hitting each note with increasing energy and precision that I could not stop bobbing my head through their roughly thirty-minute set. I was especially happy they played “Impossible,” “Home,” and “Backspace” from Guts & Black Stuff, and “Favorite Actress,” from their Worst Case Scenario EP released in 2011. They also get bonus points for having the newest issue of Razorcake at their merch table. I highly recommend checking out French Exit if you haven't already. Garrett and Todd have a great interview with the band in issue #81, and their bandcamp page can be found here.

Up next was Chicago's All Eyes West. Prior to the show, I had never heard of them, so I decided to check out their bandcamp page, which can be found here. A three-piece band that plays melodic punk rock in the vein of H�sker D�, Drive Like Jehu, and Jawbreaker, I thought they were good, but not great upon first listen. After watching them play however, I need to give them more credit. Seen up-close and not expecting to be impressed, All Eyes West were actually pretty good. In addition to the above named bands, I also picked up a Foo Fighters-vibe, which in most cases could be terrible, but was actually carried out pretty well by the band. The guitar player, who I was standing just in front of, could not keep still—he was clearly having fun in the moment despite the fact that most in the crowd were still shuffling between drinks inside and smokes outside. I have to give props to All Eyes West for just putting their heads down and plowing through their set.

One of the coolest things of the night was the fact that as each band finished their sets, the members of the other bands would help break down their sets and assemble the next band's gear. Just the way a DIY punk show should be, right?

It seemed only mere minutes after All Eyes West's set when Montalvo, California's The Fucking Wrath came up next. It was a homecoming of sorts for the band, as all of the members grew up and starting jamming in the area. Combining a ferocious blend of hardcore punk and metal, The Fucking Wrath was as their name implied: absolutely brutal. Even before they played their first note, it was obvious that most people came out to see the Wrath. People pushed closer. Absent was the empty space that existed between the first two bands and the audience. Whereas the audience was a bit too cool for school for French Exit and All Eyes West, such an attitude was pushed aside for The Fucking Wrath. Maybe it was due to the fact that The Fucking Wrath were nearing a break-up and all their friends wanted to soak in one more epic evening with them. None of the members are on bad terms or anything like that, just that “adult” responsibilities like being a parent and holding down a reliable job are curtailing the band into the nebulous realm of “inactivity.” Maybe it was because the band was back home, and, in the words of guitarist and singer Craig Kasamis, making the show's location both “the birthplace and deathplace of the band.”

The Fucking Wrath lived up to the expectations. They were fantastic, and despite the fact that by now the mostly wasted crowd's reaction nearly tore down the soundboard and a hanging light, their set was the best of the evening. Bonus points should also be awarded for their set, as Craig gave a shout-out to his Mom, who was in attendance. I highly suggest you check out The Fucking Wrath, and if you are in the VenturaCounty area on September 20^th, check out their final show, which promises to be a 90-minute set. A link to the band's Facebook page, which will include information on their final show, can be found here.
           
Okay, now let me get this out of the way first before talking about the final band of the night, Planes Mistaken For Stars (PMFS). (In a hushed voice): I never really got into them before they went on a hiatus in 2008. Now before you chastise me, it's not that I don't like them. I just came across them late, with their final album Mercy being my first exposure. I liked it just fine, but it didn't move me the way Hot Water Music did, another band I will honestly disclose that I came across just prior to their second hiatus. Before you take away all of my punk credentials, please just realize that I only disclosed that information to provide the proper and honest context. That said, they were really fun to watch. The crowd had clearly dispersed some since The Fucking Wrath's set, but that did not diminish PMFS's enthusiasm. Their set was akin to watching a great, chaotic band as if they were ripping through a beer-soaked practice in their garage. Several times throughout their set, guitarist and lead singer Gared O'Donnell knocked over his mic-stand, only to fight back a smile when someone kindly repaired and replaced it. For a band coming off several years of hiatus and only having a few shows under their belt since reuniting, they were fun and loose in all of the right ways. Before I knew it however, their set was over. I was really anxious when the evening began, uncertain of what to expect, but by the end of the night I could not have imagined doing anything better with my Tuesday night.

On Wednesday, June 25^th, I ventured to St. Vitus Bar in Greenpoint, Brooklyn to see White Lung play. I had been itching to see them live since the first time I heard their music—which was, quite embarrassingly so—only about a year ago. I've been enamored with their music ever since they came onto my radar, especially with Mish Way—as a front woman, as a lyricist, and just as a person. So when I found out that they were not only doing a Deep Fantasy record release show in New York, but would be playing in one of my favorite Brooklyn venues, it was a no-brainer that I'd be in attendance.

Wednesday nights are weird nights for going out. It's the proverbial “hump” day, which always manages to be the longest day of the week. However, my usual hermit-ness in the summer on work days goes out the window when concerts are in question. Nothing was preventing me from feeling like a badass babe and heading to Brooklyn for a show, hoping to have a great, anecdote-filled story to write about.

Disclaimer: I'm the biggest tool in the world. I go to shows with this grandiose idea that I'm going to chat up the band members at the bar and become fast friends. Not like a “groupie” (can you be a non-sexual groupie?). Just, you know, the next time that band rolls around they'll remember me and we'll have fun stories to share. This idea has come to fruition zero times. Instead I just stand with a drink in my hand, smiling awkwardly at anyone I recognize from a band. I'm socially inept as soon as I get to a venue.

Before the show, my fianc� and I stopped at a Mexican caf� that was only two doors down from the bar. I got a sub-par carnitas burrito, which was far inferior to his chorizo. Slightly unsatisfied by my culinary decision, we headed over to the bar to settle in before the show. Now, I've mentioned that St. Vitus is one of my favorite venues, but let me explain why: St. Vitus is a black metal “heaven” (or whatever you would call the otherside opened by the anti-Christ). The place is dimly lit and decked out in blasphemy. Their beer and shot specials are all listed by price in ranking order of church officials (though, they place “bishop” above “archbishop,” silly blasphemers!) All jokes aside, a bar with that kind of atmosphere can easily be the cheesiest place ever, but it's actually a great venue. The staff is always friendly and efficient, the sound is great and they put on decent shows.

Unfortunately, I was too full to indulge in any of their specialty St. Vitus buns, which are devilishly delicious (I'm sorry). I recommend them if you find yourself hungry after hours of headbanging to some death metal and downing pickle back shot after pickle back shot. (Their pickle back shots are a specialty and not once, but twice during the night, did I hear two people make a “Pickle back? That's my favorite shot and my favorite band!” joke). I didn't go for those, either. It was Wednesday after all, and that carnitas burrito was just planning its evil indigestion-filled revenge.

We managed to weave our way through the packed bar to the front when it was time for White Lung's set. I was ready to experience the estrogen-filled raw woman power of the band spraying upon me. I couldn't wait to see this awesome female-fronted hardcore band in full swing live.

I feel ambivalent toward the term “female-fronted.” It's as if some exception needs to be made, like it's such a novelty to have a kickass woman singing. Mish Way

Everything at this show was virtually as good as it could possibly get. All the bands on the bill put on eye-widening, jaw-dropping, stellar performances. The Five Star Bar in downtown Los Angeles hosted the Symbol Six record release party for Dirtyland, the band's second full-length LP that took a mere thirty-two years to materialize. Only two things could have been better: Symbol Six was mysteriously missing guitarist Taz Rudd and the fetid smell from the bathroom tended to waft into the stage area. Even so, Symbol Six rhythm guitarist Tony Fate stepped up to expertly take the lead guitarist role, while the distinct scent of old piss and floral urine cakes added to the punk rock underground ambience. This was Symbol Six's night, but out of respect to punk rock royalty, the band put Rikk Agnew and his latest crew in the headlining position. This was an invitation-only event, so promoter Ginger Kuroishi made sure everyone in attendance got a laminated Symbol Six Record Release Party VIP pass—nice souvenir.




A Pretty Mess was onstage when I entered the room and my immediate reaction was, “Holy shit! I'd heard this group was intense, but I had no idea.” This female-fronted four-piece from L.A. has more balls than a bowling alley. The energy and intensity drew me to the front like a moth to a flame and I realized I discovered another gem that had been hiding in plain sight for way too long. The music was angry, the vocals sneering, and it all cut deep down to the old school, streetpunk roots.

Lead guitarist and vocalist Dee Skusting was a powerhouse of power chords and simple, but effective, leads. Watching bassist Meghan Maltox was a show in itself with the way she dominated her instrument as she slapped it around and forcefully used her hands to make it do exactly as she demanded. A Pretty Mess is adroitly keeping the flame of honest, stripped-down punk rock alive. The band was joined by Rikk Agnew for the cover of DI's “Guns,” and I wondered if the show could keep this level of intensity going until the end. Listen for yourself here.



Barrio Tiger, another hometown L.A. band, answered my pondering with a resounding, hard rock “YES!” These four guys played some real ass-kicking, blue-flavored, garage style, rock‘n'roll with such intensity, it was no wonder they were on the primarily punk rock bill. Barrio Tiger shreds and swaggers in a high-energy, upbeat way that is both familiar and unique at the same time—familiar-sounding with the well-worn, blues-based leads and chord progressions, and unique in the way guitarist Jimmy James (Hangmen, Comatones) looks and quirkily laid it all down. With his super-thick glasses, bushy moustache, and all denim wardrobe, he looked like a fictional character that could have been played by actor (and former professional skateboarder) Jason Lee. I really liked “Special Purpose,” which was very similar to AC/DC's “Whole Lotta Rosie,” with its stop/start intro—it was a real pounding head-nodder that made me want to dance, even though I never dance. Most excellent was the band's super-charged rendition of Devo's “Gates of Steel.” I doubt that Devo could have beefed up and fuzzed-out that song more. Thank you to founder, vocalist, and guitarist Calixito Hernandez for creating and turning loose the Barrio Tiger. Barrio Tiger can be found on Facebook.

Technically, the stars of the evening—the members of Symbol Six—displayed great respect to Mr. Rikk Agnew and deferred to his band by choosing to play second to last. That was a bit of real class. As usual, Symbol Six put on one hell of a show, even though lead guitarist Taz Rudd was on temporary hiatus. While his absence did diminish the fullness of the band's sound to a certain extent, the forcefulness and fine-tuned velocity that defines Symbol Six remained intact.

Celebrating the (very) long-awaited release of the band's second full-length LP Dirtyland, frontman Eric Leach led his band into a full frontal charge of songs both new and old. First off the block was “Spit It Out,” and that is exactly what went on for the rest of the set. It was high-energy, buzz-filled intensity from first song to the last. Soon after came the new song, “Fired Up.” I like this song so much that I have been singing it to myself throughout the day for weeks. “Fired up / Jump right in / What if you lose / But what if you win?” I love it.

After a few more shredders, during the proud loser's anthem, “Never Gonna Make It,” some drunken goof stumbled across the stage plowed directly into my friend Cathy, who is a rather large woman, and knocked her backward onto her behind right in front of the stage. As the band played on watching, Cathy proceeded to slap the shit out the drunken buffoon with dozens of blows as the poor sap tried desperately to climb out of her ample lap. Those of us in front cheered her on and some were taking pictures. When the song concluded, Mr. Leach asked the audience, “Did you all get that?” Thankfully, nobody was hurt. After a few more songs, both new and old, the set concluded with the new album's namesake, “Dirtyland,” and noisy approval from everyone in attendance. Every song on the new record is a winner, so be sure to pick that up and to visit Symbol Six here.




I was looking forward to hearing Rikk Agnew's latest creation, and I honestly got blown away. As the band was setting up, it was obvious that what was coming our way was going to be good. Starting out with “OC Life,” and soon followed by the classic Adolescents' ripper “No Way,” I completely lost myself in the music. Some of you know what I am talking about. The music is so enjoyable and overwhelming, that there is no vision, no memory, no cognitive constructs other than sound and elated sensation.

Someone was slapping me on the back and urging me on. I turned to see it was Dee Skusting, the singer of A Pretty Mess, smiling broadly and giving me the thumbs up. Through a blur, I murmured, “I'm not here right now,” even though I knew she could not hear me and then turned back to find that place for a few more precious moments. We were also treated to “Death Wish,” an old Christian Death tune, and some of Rikk's new songs, such as “I Can't Change the World” and “One Shot.” I sang along to “Creatures” so loudly, I was hoarse for two days. Has Rikk Agnew ever written a bad song? I don't think so. Without exaggeration, I can honestly say, this show was truly as good as a gig can possibly be and it was brought into existence by the hard-working, relentless, Ms. Ginger Kuroishi. Take some time and click here to experience The Rikk Agnew Band.

On May 17, 2014 I had the pleasure of seeing OFF! at Bowery Ballroom in NYC. If you subscribe to virtually any music publication, you're probably well aware of who OFF! is, but here's some quick info to bring you up to speed: Lead singer Keith Morris was a founding member of such seminal punk bands as Black Flag and Circle Jerks, and OFF! is the brainchild of he, Dmitri Coats (front man of Burning Brides), Steven Shane McDonald (Redd Kross bassist) and Mario Rubalcaba (Rocket From The Crypt/Hot Snakes drummer), and their music will punch you in the face with intellect, fury, and wit. Despite being an iconic figure in punk history, Keith Morris remains one of the coolest and down to earth motherfuckers out there (the same can hardly be said for some former bandmates—well, mate—but we'll leave him out of it. After all, this is about OFF!, and not that other insect-repellant-named band.)

Speaking of insect repellant, I'm writing this on one of the first nights of summer where I can sit outside, citronella candle burning away, children finishing up a basketball game next door, and birds singing despite it being nearly eight o'clock at night. Sometimes you have to stop for a moment and take in the little things.

OFF! – “I Don't Belong” (Live  5/17/2014 at Bowery Ballroom, NYC)

Anyway, back to the show: NYC's own Cerebral Ballzy opened for OFF! and their curtain-swinging, high-octane punk got the crowd rolling. Speaking of the crowd, it was a diverse mix of aging punk rocker guys who looked like they just stumbled out of happy hour, and young kids tearing up the floor. I made a note of the fact that nearly every white male in attendance looked like Sean William Scott. Two songs into the set, I saw a motocross Sean William Scott get punched in the face by a mini Skinhead Sean William Scott. It didn't seem to deter him from enjoying the rest of the show.

OFF! came on-stage, tuned up, Morris put the set lists down for everyone, and then just fucking played. No pretense, no big build-up, no overly baiting anticipation, just pure, unadulterated punk rock awesomeness.

A few songs into the set, a guy standing behind me started yelling “FUCK GIN” while Morris talked in between songs. (Crowds in New York often like to yell opinions if there's a break in music, the most popular one usually being “SHUT THE FUCK UP AND PLAY!”) It was a rather odd and out of the blue opinion to share, but I guess he's really not a fan of the juniper-based alcoholic beverage. Maybe he had a bad experience? Perhaps he's allergic to juniper? When others started echoing a similar, though not the quite identical sentiment, I understood where he was coming from. And it raised a really important question: who the hell opts for a soft “G”? (Morris eventually spoke his words about the hard “G” in question, before launching into “I Got News for You.”)

OFF! blazed through their solid, twenty-two song set, with Morris sharing his various opinions on life and the world between songs here and there (Prompting one audience member to yell out—you guessed it—“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND PLAY!!” to which Morris replied, “I'm sorry, do you have somewhere to fucking be?”) I enjoyed hearing Keith's on-stage witticisms. At one point he took a moment to address the tragic accident that happened during SXSW, when a drunk driver ran drove the wrong way down a one way street and lost control of his car, crashing through the temporary barricades and into a crowd of people. Morris extolled about how “life fucking sucks and life is unfair… and there are people out there who just want to make sure you never have fun…”

OFF! – “Panic Attack” (Live  5/17/2014 at Bowery Ballroom, NYC)



A majority of their songs hit just over the one-minute mark, which meant I got the best of both worlds: to hear nearly every song from their discography I was itching to hear, and to be home and in bed by midnight, the ideal for a show-loving granny-in-training like myself.

So as I sit here, citronella candle (unfortunately not OFF! brand because, to echo Morris, life isn't that perfect) collecting more wax as I'm winding down this piece, I think about how beautiful this particular night is. It was a similar nice night in May when I saw OFF!. Despite the Bowery Ballroom blaring AC too high (Morris remarked before their set began, “why is it like a fucking meat locker in here? It's like that scene in Goodfellas.”), despite not having enough time or cash to pay some visits to the bar before the show started, and even despite all the too drunk Sean William Scotts, it was a lot fun. Because those insignificant things don't matter when you're having a good time, and, though life may be unfair at times, this world still has some really beautiful things to offer. Because in life, there's always going to be something or someone out there who's going to try and ruin your fun. And, God damn it, don't ever let them.


Jamie L. Rotante is a NY-based writer who considers herself a vinyl enthusiast and a chocolate chip cookie aficionado. She wants to be your friend. Talk to her at twitter.com/Jamitha