I was a Teenage Punk Rocker

by Douglas Brown, original still available here.

It must have been '85 or '86. The last time I got screaming drunk on cheap whiskey (Old Calvert or something of that brown bag sort). It was a damp, ruthless night in northeastern Indiana. With my spiky hair, tattered, over-worn jeans, cheap Salvation Army bowling shirt and too-new leather jacket I gathered myself and made my way to the No Bar, No Grill in The Village. It was time. I'd waited for these guys for too long. Too many cheap shows played by T.S.O.L., Modern Vending, and The Rugs. Now was the big time!

I fumbled through the dense crowd of about 50, and made my way toward the "stage" (no more than a 3 inch platform stuck in the back corner of the dark room. No Bar was just that: no bar, no grill. A nofrills cinder block attachment to the second hand record store. Tonight was the biggest show they ever held, a Chicago band named Big Black. On the "stage" was a guitar, a bass, and a rack holding three large silver amp-like boxes. The amps were lit, and so was I. Wondering when these guys were gonna show up, I sagged against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried to keep from puking.

Suddenly, a drum beat of unknown proportion cam barreling through the room. Two lanky guys looking like they just drove from Florida in a '66 Bel Aire Wagon, were "on stage." Where the hell was this drummer? How did he drum THAT fast? Click. "Hey," the nonchalant voice started, "were Big Black. We don't have a drummer, 'cause they steal all the chicks. This is our drummer," he said alluding to the rack of electronic boxes, "keeps perfect time, we get the girls. Now, Shut Up!"

This is when it all gets lost....my brain scrambled like eggs, my body becomes bacon as Big Black scours and screams into song number one. It lasted about two minutes, to be generous. It started and ended before I could wrap my soaked mind around any or either note. The sheer volume was enough, but the texture, the way it was done, the abandonment....I knew I was gonna like this. A few songs later I found the music. The crunch of the guitar was exactly right, I'd been looking for that sound for too long, and this guy had it. Bass thumping like thunder in May, drums pounding with the echo of data bits and digital, and THAT guitar.

I felt sober for the first time in a long time. My ears were screaming for it to stop, my head was wanting more, more, more. The crowd was swelling, and the movement had begun. It was time, time to let it all go, lead the pit into a wave of fury and activity. This was Slam Dancing. Unlike the "Mosh Pit" of the '90's, we got it going. Twenty some years of anxiety, frustration, parental control, and cheap speed came to the forefront of my and many others minds and bodies. We were not exercising our machismo, post-football, beer drinking glory days. We were pissed. Angry at the fact we were at college and had noidea why or what to do about, disgruntled at Reganomics and Ollie North. Direction-less, but pent up with the false ideology and mass commercialism of our parents and our "leaders." We wanted out, but had no where to go. We had all this energy, stymied and repressed, ready and waiting, wanting and hurting, looking out and looking up. The skies were gray, the rain kept coming, we had no where to turn....except for music and each other.

As Big Black raced through their set, the Slamming began. I bounced, flew, fell (got helped up), ran, turned, fell again (more help), sun, raged, twisted, jumped, trounced, got a black eye, crunched some one's teeth, bled. Soaked, closer to sober than I thought, drained, exhausted. Ninety minutes and about eighty songs later it all ended. A swoon fell over the exasperated fans. Those few not involved gaped and stared. Those of us that were "into" the show gleaned, acknowledged, looked for rides, wondered who was hosting the post-show. Camaraderie was found. They knew, and I knew that we were not alone. All those years of suburban tension were, for a few months, gone, released into the realm of music. There were no fights, no broken bottles, no personal insults, no one was really pissed off at some one else, it was our kind of Woodstock...a moment together wherein we found out others like us existed. The night stood still, we gather ourselves, looked for first aid, cheered each other, encouraged each other.

Great show, great times. At the aftermath, Steve Albini staggered into the kitchen. I was nursing my eye, smoking (something). He surveyed the room, wondering where in the heel a bunch of guys and gals could get so much energy, so much bottled up distortion in the middle of Indiana. "Where did you guys come form?", he asked. "What do you mean?", a voice replied, "you're standing in my kitchen." The Big Black guitarist replied, "Wow, never knew Indiana was this bad, and this great." Thanks, Steve.

It was triumphant and at the same time disheartening. We'd "made it" with a member of Big Black, we'd all survived. Hell, we'd made it this far, why not carry on. We had joined together, our time was due, it was about music, community, it was about us. We knew that, we liked it, we lived for a few hours that night. As the nights and our lives moved on, we stayed together for awhile. Then, whatever it is that happens happens. We lose touch, stop playing guitar as often, the strings get old, it goes out of tune, the neck starts to warp. Then, it is time again. Head to the repair shop, clean it up, play it, and step in, crank it up and remember what it felt like back then. The energy has to come out, the anxiety of consumer culture and money hungry capital has to spill somewhere, eventually. It's time agin...search for the sound, turn it up, and play what we feel and feel what we play.

[Obik: I tried to contact Doug Brown for permission to use this on my webpage, but the email address on his page is no longer valid. He works at razorfish now, but I can't find an email address for him at that domain either. If anyone knows his email addy, zip it my way.]

[Obik: Big Black played Muncie at least twice, once in 1985, and on 1986/05/17, and both times it was video taped, though I've been unsucsessful in getting copies for myself. The first half of Sound of Impact was recorded at the second Muncie show, and certainly kicks ass.]