Neo-Nutjobs

Calling all punks, hardcore kids, and jerks! Night Birds will hereby be capping off an impressive year feature the release of their sophomore LP, a new EP, a handful of tours, and a glut of regional shows at Brighton Bar this Friday. On the bill are New Jersey old schoolers Chronic Sick and really fucking old schoolers The Dickies.  Go to this show.  Lest the apocalypse-jump-starting super-shit-storm known as Sandy scrambled your memory, a nearly identical show occurred last year, almost to the day at the Brighton.  Just substitute the Dickies with Angry Samoans. This show was a blast and a half and my last pleasant punk rock memory before the hurricane hit the Shore like Godzilla on bad day.  That show had everything - great tunes, moshing, joke-telling, and a collective struggle against nazism.

One year ago…

The show at diehard punk venue Brighton Bar kicked off in usual fashion.  Night Birds ripped through their set.  Chronic Sick hit the stage.  Punks were psyched.  Now it’s time for the headliner.  Angry Samoans don’t exactly hit the stage with bombast.  This isn’t Kiss.  More like off kilter stand-up comedy.  Metal Mike clad in a WBNA Sting jersey and ill-fitting denim shorts that would make a randy sorority sister blush looks casually into the expectant audience.  “Anybody know any jokes?”

The outright attempts at comedy don’t last long and before we knew it, we were all moshing.  Right Side of My Mind, Gas Chamber, Lights Out.  The temperature in the crowded venue turns tropical.  A bald-headed punk glued to the stage drops his leather jacket.  He’s standing in front of me. Now sporting the unfortunately named “wife-beater” tank top, I can vaguely detect two-pair of right angles tattooed on the subject’s back.  The moshing continues and we are all jostled around. The tank top gets pulled askew briefly and I have a full view of this guy’s “sick ink.” Yup, it’s a swastika tattoo.  Goddammit. Now why is this jackass at the show?  Is this because Samoans have some admittedly un-PC lyrics? Is this cuz of the song about Hitler’s cock?  Whattamoron!

Having grown up in the confederacy (read, northeast suburbs of Atlanta), it wasn’t uncommon to see some dickhead with a swazi tattoo or an embarrassing cover-up of a really bad mistake bumping around one of the bigger shows. At a reunited Misfits show in the late 90s we were shocked to see ol’ Adolf’s likeness illustrated on some jackass’s shoulder blade.  “Look, it’s a fucking Hitler tattoo!” my buddy screamed in a comically high register illustrating his bewilderment and disgust as he took swings at the guy’s back when he rolled over our heads. When the Dead Milkmen came through town, a gaggle of neo-nutjobs turned out for Tiny Town.  Unable to interpret sarcasm, their right arms held erect during the entire tune.

What do nazis do in 2013?  How do they even exist?  Maybe there are some enclaves where they can function reasonably.  Maybe like a right-wing Crimethinc holed up in the woods.  In fact, many of their efforts take place in some rural environment on some isolated tract of land. Sieg heiling the all-white crowd, trying not to step on cow shit.  Punk fucking rock dude. 

Outside of these scenarios, the concern remains – how does a jackass with swazis on the backs of his hands and “white power” across his neck go grocery shopping?  How does he go out to eat without having his burger molested by bodily fluids?  It must be a miserable existence!  How the fuck does a nazi eat ice cream?!  You can’t be seething with racism and xenophobia while enjoying some Ben and Jerrys!

But I digress…

This bonehead was psyched on the Samoans.  He knew all the words.  He was on the stage, off the stage, grabbing the mic, singing along.  When his shirt was eventually ripped off, it didn’t take long before whispering and pointing at the back piece in question turned into shouting insults and (not-so) cheap shots.  The tolerance level went from short-lived to non-existent.  Everybody started moshing this dude.  And it had to been fucking clear even to him.  Like I said, this guy was psyched on the Samoans and nothing was gonna stand in his way from “5-4-baby-3-2-1.”  I would have admired the commitment and fortitude if the ends were not so evident.  It’s like jumping out of an airplane sans parachute with all the determination and confidence of Superman. You’re still gonna’ be a pancake.

Fuckin’ nazis.  Elwood Blues was dead on.  Like him, we all hate nazis.  But nowhere is it quite as acute, even knee jerk, as Berlin.  I’m not an expert on politics and punk rock in Deutchland, so this is just one punk’s perspective – a punk who’s donned a backpack and hit the old world more than a handful of times. My buddy Robert currently resides squarely in the Berlin hardcore scene. He puts out records under the moniker Refuse, promotes shows and is genuinely one dedicated dude.  That night, before hitting the Pakrway down to Long Branch, Robert and I exchanged a batch of emails chiefly regarding the most controversial of the night’s snotty triumvirate, Chronic Sick.  Yeah, the Cutest Band in Hardcore re-entered the punk rock lexicon again with the No Way Records re-issue of their two way-out-of-print-pay-exorbitant-sums-for-an-original EPs. 

Now the cover art for their 12” EP features America’s and Berlin’s least favorite misappropriated Asian symbol on singer Grey Gory’s forehead. Given this, Robert said there’s no way Chronic Sick could play in Berlin regardless of keeping company with Angry Samoans or Night Birds or the Dickies or whomever.  Somehow a swastika painted on one’s face might make the wrong impression in Germany. 

So what’s the difference between the cover art and this jackass’s tattoo?  I assert that donning a swazi ala Chuck Manson in 1982 in order to be as offensive and idiotic as possible is a far cry to committing permanent ink to your back like it’s the number on a football jersey.  And like the identifying number on a jersey, having that tattoo proclaims loudly “this is me.”  Is Chronic Sick’s record cover in bad taste?  Yes.  Is that the point? Duh!  Is Greg Gory devoted to bone-headed causes like white power and national socialism?  Fuck off.  Still I can’t object to a German person’s sensitivity on the subject.  I’m not even gonna’ go further than this sentence in an attempt to psychoanalyze a nation.  It’s just too bad it prohibits digging some killer NJ hardcore.

As the Samoans set wore on, I faded to the back like the out-of-breath thirty-something that I am.  From this distant view I could make out a struggle between the nazi and the punks. Fever pitch, reached.  In what took seconds but appeared to unfold in slow-mo, two firm hands grabbed the guy by his shoulders and rushed him headfirst towards the front doors.  Eighty-six time.  It seems the owner of the Brighton Bar had reached the end of his patience and personally escorted the neo-nutjob to the sidewalk.  And who should be the owner of the venue? Who liberated the show from the lone jackass?  His name is – wait for it – Greg Gory.  He sings for Chronic Sick.

"Vannage"

Get in the van.  The Night Birds connect with Washington DC on a rainy Friday night.  A modest turnout and a Modern Life Is War reunion of sorts awaits.  First I must um, endure the afternoon ride down to a shutdown capital with New Jersey’s favorite feathered punks. 

For those of you that have had the pleasure, you would agree that a Night Birds show delivers a hyperactive, hardcore punk blast with nary a spare breath to be had.  Aside from a vacuum-sealed tightness, the intensity of pissed off killer bees, and tunage you’ll be humming tomorrow; if they have anything, it’s endurance. If they aren’t playing 16 songs in no-time-flat in your town, they probably will be next weekend.  You may ask what caffeine, sugar, controlled substance combo elicits such consistent performance.  And what fervent discussion of contemporary ills both personal and political prepares them for on-stage catharsis? Fair questions.

I can only expound on the latter.  Hitting the road precisely at load-in time at the onset of Friday rush hour, meant they’d be lucky to make their set-time, let alone grab a bite for dinner or relieve a stressed bladder.  Nope, yours truly was the only van occupant eating dessert first, then dinner, chased by a tumbler of coffee.  Brian, Joe, PJ, and Ryan were forced to rely only on animated conversation for any fuel for this night’s performance.

If you think their van banter consists solely Seinfeld episode re-creation, horror movie debate, and visions of the near term arrival of dystopia, you’d only be half right.  While it’s true that Seinfeld reverence is utmost; and it’s true that symbology in Kurbick’s The Shining yielded much discussion; and it’s certainly true that a well-thumbed copy of Jared Diamond’s treatise on the disintegration of societies (the aptly titled, “Collapse”) sat on the dash, there’s so much more to the content of a Night Birds run.

I was forbidden, for ample reason, from recording the proceedings.  And thus direct quotes will not be featured here.  I will spare you from my crummy paraphrasing that would rob all verbiage of delivery and character.  Instead let’s look at the vast array of conversational chapters…

Poop, farts, and diarrhea in various scenarios and situational environments were discussed at length on four occasions.  So were submarine sandwiches, fuckin’ nazis at least twice, and the anticipated wardrobe of modern HC kids.  A general distaste for the current state of Metallica gave rise to much enthusiasm for their recent IMAX movie.  Plans were hatched to view it a-s-a-p. As in, tomorrow before their next show.  After all, there is a movie theater next to Webster Hall.  Christopher Reeve made an appearance, as did Hall n’ Oats, Louie CK and Tenacious D.  I’ll let you, the reader, decide which side of judgment each of the aforementioned landed on at discussion’s end.  There were anecdotes aplenty when it came to sketchy experiences at shows. The usual - tough guys, carjackings and machetes.  Three negative observations of Chattanooga, Tennessee by three different mouths yielded another’s expressed desire to visit post haste.  The latest on Netflix and the inner-workings of NYC jails.  Parents, jobs, swingers, and television.  All talk halted when a Delorean crossed our path.  Smart phones came out, vanity plate options were debated.  Besides the obvious “Outatime,” “Teen Wolf” was also suggested.  And no road trip is complete without warning of sketchy people that smell like urinal cakes.  The merits of E Town Concrete LPs, Poison Idea and what’s more memorable, the content of Saturday morning cartoons or the theme songs for Saturday morning cartoons.  Did you know there is an episode of Family Feud or some similar game show where a contestant answered “turkey” for every question?  Transsexuals came up three times, disturbing movies were analyzed at dissertation level and the moon-landing. The foibles of coworkers were listed and reviewed – especially those that are willing to stop their car in mid-traffic to pick up a broken pair of sunglasses.  Urination, testicles, and the neighborhoods of Manhattan.  Uncomfortable doctor’s visits, pizza and the cops.  Occasionally, all discourse was paused for CDs both stand-up comedy and pop-punk.  These interludes were short-lived however, and the conversation picked-up where left off debating, reviewing, and expounding on breakfast, China, Pee-wee Herman, Beyonce, Nike shoes, massage chairs, Urkel, dogs, vomit, Germany, Japan, and umbrellas.

When the show ended and punks turned into bar hoppers and the Night Birds van revved up for the rainy drive back home, what then?  What topics remained to keep the driver awake and the passengers entertained?  How do sweaty, road-weary punks get home safely?  It’s nothing a Wawa can’t cure.  That, and a livid debate over Broken Lizard movies.