I busted out my old punk vest, scrolled “APOCALYPSE HOBOKEN” across some fabric scraps with a sharpie, and safety pinned the DIY patch across an empty space on the back. I stuck it above the 8 Bucks Experiment patch that had once soaked up my gushing blood after I pulled the safety pin from my lip while standing outside Club-156 watching the breaking news that Princess Diana had just died – a small sacrifice to the rock gods. I recruited my pal Lindsay, who had never been to a punk show before, and we set out for the Congress Theater.
In 2009, Riot Fest wasn’t a one-stop-shop outdoor festival yet. Instead the various bands spread out between different venues throughout the city, so you had to triage who you got to see. I chose the Congress Theater as our punk rock tabernacle this year because - 1. Apocalypse Hoboken was on that lineup. 2. Dead Milkmen were headlining, and 3. Anti-Flag. Anti-Flag was just finishing up their set when
we arrived, and the drummer had brought his kit out into the middle of the crowd! Apocalypse Hoboken was great, but a decade of preaching the punk gospel hadn’t been kind to their singer. Junked out and wearing a bathrobe, he looked a bit like Eric Stoltz in Pulp Fiction. But his energy was there, and the congregation was moved nonetheless. We were drinking a lot of holy water, so I remember seeing Dead Milkmen … but not that well.
Between sets, we sat on the stairs in the entryway sipping cans of beer. These were big grand ballroom stairs that led up to the balcony from the lobby, rivaling anything the Vatican has to offer. A smelly gutter punk with a tattoo covering his entire face flopped down next to us and asked, “can I have a shwil?” gesturing to Lindsay’s beer. Her face reflected total amazement, so I explained that this guy is to punk rock as a Hare Krishna is to Hindu. He has dedicated his body to the cult and
spends his days
begging. “Tattoo face
guy” we called him, and
he has been a
reoccurring character in
our adventures ever
since.
My first Riot Fest was
just the reminder I
needed that I live for live
music, and it was the
start of 10 straight years
praying at the alter of
punk rock. Lindsay had
been my first convert
(though she wasn’t
difficult to indoctrinate,
as her stepfather had
been practicing for decades). We went on to join congregations at Double Door, the Congress, Cobra Lounge, Liars Club, and of course, Riot Fest every year without fail. I know I said religion grosses me out, but I’ll admit that rocking out at a show with other likeminded weirdos does get me close to God … whatever that means.
Fishbone