Oct 19, 2005 18:29
This one's for my kid sister, who's been trying to get me to tell this story for a long time.
So we're at a show at the Metro in Chifuckingcago. This has to be going on about five years at least now. I had become a seasoned show vet. My bestest friend Zak had introduced me to this fantastic concept of punk rock. I mean really introduced me. I had always known about it internally. Something deep within me was always engineered for this. Like a deep secret that was just aching to get out. Probably the same way a young white kid who doesn't know he's adopted looks at his black parents. He knows, he just has to be told or shown. Zak showed me.
So we're at a show. We're late, because that's how we roll. For as much as we pretended we didn't give two shits and a motherfuck about what people thought of us we sure loved to be fashionably late at the time. I believe it was a triple threat show. When we got there The Distillers (pre-Brody/Tim breakup, when they rocked stones!) were just finishing up their set. She was like a goddess I remember. Then the Suicide Machines came on.
Now by this time in my short show going career I had already seen The Suicide Machines three times, I believe. If you have never had the pleasure of seeing these guys. I feel fucking sorry for you, partly because I don't know how much longer they will be around. Probably the main reason I listen to what I do now is because of the Suicide Machines. Zak once put it best by saying, "You know if on the first day of your freshman year of high school, along with textbooks and gym clothes, they handed out Destruction By Definition, high school and your teenage years would be so much easier." I could write them a blowjob, but that's not the story. They're just amazing. Plus the lead singer is REALLY goofy looking. Ha-ha!
Now if memory serves me, this was a birthday show. I believe it was Toots' birthday. Zak was dating this girl at the time, I called her Toots. It was humorous to me. She was...tall. Anyway, I just think it's funny, he took her to a show she probably didn't even want to see.
So the Suicide Machines throw down. I don't know what that means, "throw down", I heard it on a teevee show once. It was so hot. I've been in a lot of venues and I'm almost convinced that no place gets hotter than in the Metro. I think they keep the heat on so they can charge you seven dollars U.S. for fucking water.
I'm not a pit guy. The band has to be one of my favorites for me to venture into the pit and even then I don't really like it because you miss half the fucking show because some girls Vans are planted on your face the whole time. Plus I'm skinny. I weigh like a buck five wet. Plus, fat guys take their shirts off during shows. Sweaty back hair up my nose and in my mouth don't really trip my trigger. Still, every time I hear "1234" by Catch 22 I get a salty taste in my mouth. So because it's the Suicide Machines I'm closer than I normally would like. And you know what it wasn't that bad. I didn't miss the band and I still got to thrash around like an ass. It was a good time.
Suicide Machines finish and are striking their shit. This is the time to move around to get a good spot for the next band. Who's the next band? Sick Of It All. Not a huge fan. But like a slut on freshman orientation, I'm open to new things. So Zak, Clarissa, Dusty, and I are huddled around each other, doing that thing smokers have to do at crowded shows and smoke with our hands held above our heads. Sick Of It All are setting their shit up. Zak asks me if I'm going to stay "in" for Sick, Etc. I had a good enough time with Suicide Machines, I told him yes.
There's a large gentleman with a two foot tall yellow mowhawk to my immediate left. He seems to be over 250 pounds and is wearing a sleeveless jean jacket. His wallet chain looks to be made of barbed wire. He keeps yelling "Sick Of It All!" at the stage.
Suddenly, the lights go out. People start moving. A small red police light that sits next to drum kit turns on and starts flashing its red glow upon the crowd. Over the PA, an air raid siren sounds. That's when I hear the 250 lb. seven foot mohawk no sleeved punk rocker say:
"Uh Oh!!! Old School!!!"
I have never been so scared in my life. I spun on my heels and cut through that mob like a hot knife through butter. I turned around right before I got out and saw a hurricane of bodies flying as Sick Of It All raged through their opener. I still get that queasy feeling in my stomach. I don't know why, that just scared the shit out of me.
So I'm a pussy. There ya go, Mando.
Uh-oh. Old School.