The small venue was packed with those sporting blue mohawks, tattoo sleeves and leather jackets decorated in an array of studs. Pushing past others in a narrow hallway, my friend and former entertainment editor, Dillon and I finally reached the back patio, sitting beside each other in a haze of cigarette smoke and the cool night wind.
We endured the parade of opening acts with clenched jaws and rolling eyes, some promising while others were painful. We voted to escape to the Fuzzy’s Tacos beside Three Links, eating a comical heap of nachos in the empty restaurant, the wall to my left vibrating with the music from the room over.
Returning to the dark room, we sighed in relief as The Queers finally walked onstage. Joe Queer gave a greeting saying how they had arrived back in Dallas and then opened the show with the song “This Place Sucks,” resulting in a smile breaking out on my face at the truth of the statement.
Guitars wailed and Joe Queer screamed venomously into the microphone, spurring an intense response from the crowd below him. Cups of alcohol and half full cans of beer were thrown, a splash of alcohol raining down on anyone in the crosshairs, the stout liquid seeping into my army jacket and rolling off of Dillon’s leather jacket. The punks began pushing each other in full fury, stumbling and pushing back until it was a complete chaos.
The audience screamed rash and vulgar lyrics as Joe Queer spat back. “I Hate Everything” rang out of the amps, shaking both the eardrums and the body, the feeling of the bass pressing against my chest and my heart pressed back with the same amount of force. The small venue grew hotter and the air became stagnant, smelling of alcohol, cigarette smoke and body odor as punks pushed each other with enough force to drive each other to the ground and into walls.
THE Richie Ramone stepped out onto the stage and sang beside Joe with a drink in hand, a punk rock deity before us. He proceeded then to taking a seat by the drums and playing both “I Wanna Be Sedated” and “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”. The crowd was suddenly furious in the best possible way, screaming lyrics and pushing each other with more intensity.
At places like this, I felt comfortable. I didn’t feel out of place. It was music at its most raw, the audience not caring what they did, just feeling the music. I was jumping, screaming and pushing anyone who fell into me as hard as I could back into the sea of churning bodies, a chaotic oblivion that consisted of aggression and grating lyrics. This was where I felt good. Thoughts of typical outings with friends crossed my mind, usually places I felt out of place: the movie theater to see a new movie featuring Adam Sandler, shopping in the mall at small boutiques, sleepovers watching cheesy movies. Things like that were just not me. This place, this music, these people were what I was interested in.
The night ended with the car ride back home, Dillon driving and I fighting to keep my eyes open, he making small talk in an attempt to keep me awake. After some joking and laughs, which woke me up considerably, we were enveloped in comfortable silence. The radio whispered and eased our damaged ears, the night ending with Otis Redding on the radio as we drove down an empty street at 1:30 in the morning. That was where I felt comfortable, accepted, not at all out of place.
