Let me tell you about one night last weekend, a night when I thought I was going to see one band, yet ended up seeing a bunch of different bands ... all for you, dear reader. Come with me ... on my magical journey to ye olde punk show.
Dephinger are from Phoenix, and therefore: Fuck them! I refuse to watch any band from that wannabe Los Angeles. Psych! I missed 'em because I had to be fashionably late--it sez so in my Alternative Journalist Trade Magazine.
Bricktop was the first band I saw play. They have started a new subsubgenre of punk: emoi. It's like the episode of The Simpsons when schoolyard bully Nelson Muntz showed off his sensitive side with his ballad to Lisa. It's the diary the hooker with the heart of gold keeps. It's the violent offender who knows better and sends you flowers after sending you to the hospital.
Next up was Bloodspasm. It was heartwarming to see frontman Bob Spasm wearing a shirt extolling his love for Obama's grandmother, who, as we know, recently passed away. It was even more heartwarming that he dedicated a song to little ol' me. Then they played it, and I can hardly wait 'til Al Perry covers it, so it actually sounds good.
By this time, my head was a little fuzzy from the white-wine spritzers and appletinis I'd been imbibing, and American Death Trip's pre-power violence segued into Limbless Torso's post-black metal. No matter how great we feel about ourselves and our election results, someone will still be pissed off somewhere.
Awful Truth got stuck with the unenviable position of wrapping it all up, and while most of the punkers had split to rescue the baby sitters from their broods, those who were able to stay witnessed a fun spit-and-slam spectacle of good-old hardcore--the kind that was around before that term got swallowed up by metalheads with bandannas and mascara. It was just like the old days. I hated it!