The Stopper Reunion
Dec. 9th, 2012 04:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonI had no idea when I woke up this morning that I'd be going to my punk rock high school reunion; but such surprises often prove to be both the blessing and the tragedy of this world. Today started out dark, my father's birthday, his 60th and the first since his passing. I felt myself slipping into that black head space from which I've only managed to escape by some fluke failsafe triggered off the subconscious ( "mood zero unlocked: emergency ontological procedures activated" ). A bad place was waiting for me to return, an existential version of the POW camp that kept reintroducing itself to Steve McQueen throughout 'The Great Escape'."A long night was surely gathering on my horizon but then at the last minute I got a message from the action woman, my old friend Winter.
She threw me a life line. Stopper, a local punk band, was reuniting tonight after some sixteen, seventeen years at the Drunken Unicorn. A benefit show for an old friend and band mate to get some much needed legal aid. A band who the last time I saw play was with Bud (the one I call "Jimmy" in my fuck-up artist narratives) down at the Star Bar. Different days, back when I was on a first name basis with the 'Bastard Squad', 'The Beer Posse' and the gutter punks of L5P. Back when I was surrounded with exuberant chaos and invincible possibilities. Back when not only anything could happen, but often did. And Winter, well she wanted to know if I wanted to join her at the Unicorn.
C'mon, now, how could I say no?
You know it's a punk show when you arrive an hour after opening and there's already three cop cars assembled outside. Don't panic, they're here apparently over some drama at the head shop next door. No worries. Bop inside in my leather jacket armor (+2 on confidence saves) and 'lucky' Social D shirt. I'm a little nervous. I'm used to cold vibes from the Cafe Perilous or registering invisible between the readings. Don't get me wrong - I'm not looking for romance, I'm not looking to hook up or be the life of the party. But I need to feel that I am amongst someone's counted. Not all the time, believe me I can go solo like my first name's Han. But this first birthday's a bitch. Shit, I'm repeating myself b look...
... there's Mark Stopper not looking a day over 1998 and waving at me.
Look there's this hot chick in cowboy boots and glasses who knows my name - no, not my name, my secret identity - and squeals at me excitedly and jumps in my arms and peppers me with kisses and I have no idea who the fuck she is. Look, there's this big, bad looking mother fucker all muscles and inks and he steps up on me ready for business only to howl my name victoriously. He slaps my arm, introduces me to his wife, shows me a picture of his little girl off his phone. He doesn't ask but rather demand to know that I'm still writing. And no, I don't know who that was either. But look - there's Winter, and then there's... Jimbo 88, there's Marshall Law, there's Ian Stopper, there's Greg, there's a crowd of big drunken smiles and graying devil locks all embracing each other as if we were at our own wake.
And around this point I start drinking. Oh, goddess, how I wish, I wish, I wish, I could have drank the way I do now back then. Back when I couldn't hold a cup much less a strong drink. So I'm listening to old war stories - revisiting the Somber and the Compound. Tales of pulling a smiley on a mob of Nazis or talking to a cop on acid for 30 minutes in a rubber Elvis mask. Tales I've heard a hundred times but not in what felt like a hundred years.
Well, eventually it's time for the main act. The room's packed. The lights are on full blast so I can see the age range of the show - teeny-boppers and old schooler alike. Stopper takes the stage and the fucking crowd goes ballistic. One song in and beer cans are launched over the crowd into the stage. I stand on the periphery of the pit. I hold the line and dig the sounds coming so loud the bones rattle. And, yeah, to be honest I had absolutely zero plans for getting into the fray.I was all like fuck that noise, I did my time and I'm 40 now. I can barely keep up on the dance floor during the rare trip to the Shelter much less go blow for blow in the whirling fury. But then, the band went ahead and played the most awesome cover I've ever heard of Bad Brain's 'I Against I'. Seriously, your name would've had to be Doctor Know to do a better version. Which means I can blame the whiskey, blame the nostalgia kicks or the energy of the room but, old man or not, but I had to dive in.
And I gave as good as I got and it didn't stop there. They didn't stop with the Bad Brains. They played Fear's "I don't care about you", The Misfits' "I Turned Into A Monster", they ended with Black Flag's "Six Pack" and got Winter up there to sing along to the Damned's "New Rose." 19 year old me about had a fan-gasm right there. There was even this minute where I took a shoulder to the chest, slipped on a beer puddle and before I hit the ground was caught in a net of sweaty arms and launched back in. I can't even remember when the last time that happened to me.
After their set I went outside to catch my breath. The crowd filtered outside. We made our farewells, swore to meet up for future drinks and blunts. At one point, during a quiet lull standing there in the crowd, I saw her. My Violet, and I saw as she looks today - twice as wise and just as beautiful. I wanted to say hi to her, I wanted to hug her and tell her it's okay, it's not over yet, not as long as there's at least one of us left to remember what all this was.
But Violet turned into somebody else and the ride I finagled was ready to head.
So back here now, I'm limping around on a knee that's cut up a bit and my shoulder's on fire with pain and I'm back here alone... but it's okay. It's no longer my father's birthday and tomorrow will see me back in the fight. As long as one of us remembers we have one. That's my job - to make sure those who weren't there will. Alright, bed spins kicking in. 10-4, over and out.
She threw me a life line. Stopper, a local punk band, was reuniting tonight after some sixteen, seventeen years at the Drunken Unicorn. A benefit show for an old friend and band mate to get some much needed legal aid. A band who the last time I saw play was with Bud (the one I call "Jimmy" in my fuck-up artist narratives) down at the Star Bar. Different days, back when I was on a first name basis with the 'Bastard Squad', 'The Beer Posse' and the gutter punks of L5P. Back when I was surrounded with exuberant chaos and invincible possibilities. Back when not only anything could happen, but often did. And Winter, well she wanted to know if I wanted to join her at the Unicorn.
C'mon, now, how could I say no?
You know it's a punk show when you arrive an hour after opening and there's already three cop cars assembled outside. Don't panic, they're here apparently over some drama at the head shop next door. No worries. Bop inside in my leather jacket armor (+2 on confidence saves) and 'lucky' Social D shirt. I'm a little nervous. I'm used to cold vibes from the Cafe Perilous or registering invisible between the readings. Don't get me wrong - I'm not looking for romance, I'm not looking to hook up or be the life of the party. But I need to feel that I am amongst someone's counted. Not all the time, believe me I can go solo like my first name's Han. But this first birthday's a bitch. Shit, I'm repeating myself b look...
... there's Mark Stopper not looking a day over 1998 and waving at me.
Look there's this hot chick in cowboy boots and glasses who knows my name - no, not my name, my secret identity - and squeals at me excitedly and jumps in my arms and peppers me with kisses and I have no idea who the fuck she is. Look, there's this big, bad looking mother fucker all muscles and inks and he steps up on me ready for business only to howl my name victoriously. He slaps my arm, introduces me to his wife, shows me a picture of his little girl off his phone. He doesn't ask but rather demand to know that I'm still writing. And no, I don't know who that was either. But look - there's Winter, and then there's... Jimbo 88, there's Marshall Law, there's Ian Stopper, there's Greg, there's a crowd of big drunken smiles and graying devil locks all embracing each other as if we were at our own wake.
And around this point I start drinking. Oh, goddess, how I wish, I wish, I wish, I could have drank the way I do now back then. Back when I couldn't hold a cup much less a strong drink. So I'm listening to old war stories - revisiting the Somber and the Compound. Tales of pulling a smiley on a mob of Nazis or talking to a cop on acid for 30 minutes in a rubber Elvis mask. Tales I've heard a hundred times but not in what felt like a hundred years.
Well, eventually it's time for the main act. The room's packed. The lights are on full blast so I can see the age range of the show - teeny-boppers and old schooler alike. Stopper takes the stage and the fucking crowd goes ballistic. One song in and beer cans are launched over the crowd into the stage. I stand on the periphery of the pit. I hold the line and dig the sounds coming so loud the bones rattle. And, yeah, to be honest I had absolutely zero plans for getting into the fray.I was all like fuck that noise, I did my time and I'm 40 now. I can barely keep up on the dance floor during the rare trip to the Shelter much less go blow for blow in the whirling fury. But then, the band went ahead and played the most awesome cover I've ever heard of Bad Brain's 'I Against I'. Seriously, your name would've had to be Doctor Know to do a better version. Which means I can blame the whiskey, blame the nostalgia kicks or the energy of the room but, old man or not, but I had to dive in.
And I gave as good as I got and it didn't stop there. They didn't stop with the Bad Brains. They played Fear's "I don't care about you", The Misfits' "I Turned Into A Monster", they ended with Black Flag's "Six Pack" and got Winter up there to sing along to the Damned's "New Rose." 19 year old me about had a fan-gasm right there. There was even this minute where I took a shoulder to the chest, slipped on a beer puddle and before I hit the ground was caught in a net of sweaty arms and launched back in. I can't even remember when the last time that happened to me.
After their set I went outside to catch my breath. The crowd filtered outside. We made our farewells, swore to meet up for future drinks and blunts. At one point, during a quiet lull standing there in the crowd, I saw her. My Violet, and I saw as she looks today - twice as wise and just as beautiful. I wanted to say hi to her, I wanted to hug her and tell her it's okay, it's not over yet, not as long as there's at least one of us left to remember what all this was.
But Violet turned into somebody else and the ride I finagled was ready to head.
So back here now, I'm limping around on a knee that's cut up a bit and my shoulder's on fire with pain and I'm back here alone... but it's okay. It's no longer my father's birthday and tomorrow will see me back in the fight. As long as one of us remembers we have one. That's my job - to make sure those who weren't there will. Alright, bed spins kicking in. 10-4, over and out.