It's been a long time since I've been to a good punk show. A LONG time. I can't even really remember the last one I was at, unless you count Nomeansno (and many would not, though I don't know why). Regardless, it's not my job to pontificate on what, exactly, punk is anyway. What little fact does exist on the subject is so hopelessly entangled with myth and fiction (and bone-headed drunkenness) that it's hard to really know anything about any of it. [Insert monotone voice here.] "Yeah. Woo hoo. Another fucking punk show. Who gives a shit anymore? Why don't I just gouge my eyes out with my thumbs instead?"

Well, I give a shit, that's who! I could care less about who started it, where it all came from, if it's dead or not, or the cultural relevancy of it all in the long run. It doesn't matter to me if most people think it's silly and a throw back to a political movement that never went anywhere then and has no foothold whatsoever now. I don't even care if people think it's just a reason to dress funny and drink a lot! I fuckin' love loud, dirty, sweaty, smelly, disgusting, three-chord, verse-chorus-verse-bridge-chorus, incoherent, dumb-ass punk fuckin' rock! So what if I was born in 1975 (being only 5 years old when it all "wound down" in some schools of thought)? So what if I don't have funny colored hair or enough tattoos or piercings to be hardcore enough? I have just as much appreciation for this kind of music than any of the rest of you, and the best part is I don't get wrapped up in the nonsensical bullshit of it all by trying to figure out what is and isn't punk.

I just go to have a good time.

And that seemed first on the agenda for a lot of other people at the Cobalt Lounge on Saturday too. From the moment I got there I could tell that this wasn't some kind of club-house meeting show, where the final outcome of the evening would be based more on the fashion-show aspects of proving how cool you were when Fear took the stage. Most everyone I saw was looking to get drunk and listen to some live music and have a blast, period. They were all aware that it's all been done before and that none of this is "new." Those guys sporting Mohawks didn't appear to be of the opinion that they were making some inventive social statement by "dressing funny." From start to finish I felt like for the first time in a long time, as corny as it seems, that we were all gonna drop the pretense and enjoy ourselves.

That felt good. I was first attracted to shows like this for that very reason, but somewhere along the line everyone seemed to forget that the whole reason there are live shows was to WATCH THEM PLAY! Instead, it always became some sort of out-hiping contest, where the guy who can impress the most people and dress the coolest wins and gets to take home the punk-rock honey of his choice. Yeah, sure, we'd all love to do that if we could... but this is the real world! There's a lot more to life than looking good (even if there were a lot of pretty girls prancing about that night), and one of them is LOUD MUSIC! A beer in my hand and a cigarette in my mouth helps too, so let's get go going already!

Unfortunately, there were problems from the start. Cobalt Lounge policy (apparently) involves not allowing bags in the show, and I had stupidly brought mine along. In a panic I didn't know what to do, since they wouldn't let me check it at the door. Where do you stash a bag in downtown Portland for the duration of a show so it'll still be there when you come back for it? My only hope was that all those nights spent drinking at the Shanghai Tunnel would pay off and that Zorn would take pity on my plight. Fortunately for me, he did. As soon as I walked in he greeted me by name and asked me what I wanted with a big smile on his face. I explained the situation to him and before I even had to ask he said he'd keep my bag behind the bar until I got back. Fuck yeah! I bolted back to the Cobalt with plenty of time to spare.

The moral of the story? The Shanghai Tunnel (and Zorn) Rocks! They deserve your money a whole lot more than The Cobalt Lounge (which sucks cock anyway and should be firebombed so decent shows don't end up being booked there anymore... idea courtesy of The Ramen City Kid). Anyway, enough of this shit; the show's starting.

Running Riot might not have been their full name (it might not have even been the correct first two words) but that didn't seem to matter as much to them as did the fact that they were from Belfast, Ireland. And boy did they let us know that! Through his thick accent the lead singer announced (screamed), with the typical fury that most bands like this tend to have, everything that they were all about: hating the government, having a good time, and getting drunk (a common theme amongst all the bands, I noticed). At first they weren't quite doing it for me. They sounded like a million other guys that do the same kind of schtick, and to top it off the barking-style vocals were just a bit too distracting. Aside from being Irish (which I did), I was quickly loosing interest. But soon enough they started going off about the government (always good for a laugh), and when they followed that up with a knockout cover of "We're Not Gonna Take It," I was sold.

After that, these guys were hot! Having lived for a few months with an Irish lass who was dating my roommate, I gained a healthy appreciation for the Irish sense of humor, and these guys had it in spades. Plus, the low end of their sound was perfect; I could feel the bass hitting me in the chest with such force that I was actually getting a little excited (bass and low end sound has always been linked to sex in my mind for some reason). The low end was so heavy, in fact, that it shook my beer off the edge of the counter I had set it on, and thus became the first alcohol fatality of the night (one of many to come). Scale of one to ten: eight, with a footnote stating that they were a bunch of Irish Drunks, and are thus being judged on that kind of Scale instead. Check 'em out (if you can figure out what their name actually is).

Eye-candy break. I love punky girls (always have, always will) and they were out in droves. There's something about them that just sends me into a frenzy, and no amount of cold showers seem to do the trick. Put me in a room with a bunch of girls with dyed hair, bob-cuts, plaid skirts and boots up to their knees (don't forget the fishnet stockings... savage!) and I'm in heaven. All I'd need to make it any better is some beer and smokes, but they seemed to have plenty of that themselves so I sat back with yet another pint and charted their migration patters. I always forget the pluses to being single, and girl watching has always been number one on the list.

BeerZone (this time, from Scotland) seemed to have a slightly different approach to the show, which involved them singing about beer and politics AND how much they hate boy bands. Lots of energy, fun to watch, and this time we get covers of "Summer Lovin'" and "Ace Of Spades" (not to mention a Clash song thrown in for good measure). Sense of humor? Of course! Fun to watch on stage? Most definitely! Good lyrics and catchy musical content? Maybe (I seem to remember them doing a song called "Alcoholic Heroes"). Worth seeing live?

Do you even have to ask?

By now my alcohol intake has gotten rather large (I'd been drinking before the show too) and I was ready to take on the world. I love how every show has a vibe, and every vibe is infectious and spreads as the night goes on. This show had a great vibe, and I was having a great time with this one. More eye-candy, and my friend Steve had just arrived during BeerZone so soon enough we were swapping show stories and whatnot. Perfect, this was exactly what I needed on a Saturday night. When U.K. Subs started, it was as if little time had actually passed between bands. Weird.

I saw the U.K. Subs in Eugene a long time ago (3 years?), and when I went to the show I was pretty stoked on seeing them. Based on the radio play I'd heard and their reputation, I figured I'd be in for something right up my alley. Opening was Anti-Flag, and they put on a great set (ironically enough, they did a cover of "I Don't Care About You" at that show), but when U.K. Subs came on their set was awful. They had no energy, they didn't seem too enthusiastic about playing, and when they were playing it was as if they were going through the motions rather than wanting to put on a show. The highlight of their set was when they introduced their new bass player and commented on how she was born the same year their first album came out. Ha ha. We all had a good laugh, but it didn't improve the quality of their set.

If that had been any indicator of what they would be like tonight, then the only thing that stood in the way of having a good time (for me) appeared to be them. I braced myself as they took the stage, and the first thing I noticed was their lead singer wearing a T-shirt that said, "Punk As Fuck," on it. Oh boy, this was a bad sign. I was immediately reminded of a song by this band from Eugene (dating back to 1992 I think?) called Piglet, and they had a great song called "Punk As Fuck" ("I tried real hard to be a jock / I got rejected, now I'm Punk Rock"). I cringed. Old school guys flogging a dead horse one more time to prove that Punk's Still Not Dead... AGAIN. Oh dear.

As it turned out, though, they were pretty damn good. Much better than the last time I saw them (with yet a different bass player who seemed closer to their age... maybe it was all him?). I was obviously missing something, though, since everyone in the audience seemed to know every song they played. Reason #16 why I don't like to argue about the this-and-that of punk: I'm not up on every song by all the bands. Sure, I know what I like. Who doesn't? (If you answered, "Me", you best just stop reading and take your medication right now.) But in all honesty, I don't own a single U.K. Subs album. Ditto for Fear, except I've got a fair amount of their stuff on tape (fair = 5 or 6 songs).

Okay, so I'm a big loser, but you just paid fifteen bucks to see four bands talk about their own political mindsets; mindsets that, when put to the test, wouldn't give them room to pay fifteen bucks to see any band, even if it was Fear and the U.K. Subs (or someone equivalent). So the next time you need spare change down by Pioneer Square, think twice about who you call a loser when I know where that money is going at the end of the day (beer and concert tickets).

My original point was (don't you just love digressions?) that there was something going on in the audience when U.K. Subs were playing, and I could feel it. As the audience sang along to the words I couldn't understand, and as each person in the crowd tried to, one at a time, get on stage in a non-threatening way to show how much they love this band ("I got to sing along to the chorus of 'Fill In The Blank ______'! Did you SEE that shit?!"), I got the impression that this was the scene - the community - that everyone always talks about. If all it takes is knowing the lyrics to a few songs and being willing to prove it at a show... HEY! Sign me up! That sounds great (and I'm not being sarcastic or ironic when I say that, either).

The best part of the show (aside from the singer's comment, "We've already got your money, so we don't give a shit about what happens now") wasn't even on stage, though. Steve and I (plus his friend whose name I have no idea how to spell nor will I try) had staked out a nice corner of the floor next to the bar which was, conveniently, far enough away from all the slam-dancing action to please both us and them ("them" being the dancers). I'm not much fun in a pit, and I'm far too self-conscious about loosing my wallet or whatever to really enjoy that kind of action for very long.

Anyway, back in our little corner of the floor: there was a couple hanging out, jumping around, and having a great time near us. They were tossing back beers and shots of vodka like pros, and for the most part seemed to be having a great time. Short blond girl and a large, shorthaired (shaved?) guy. Anyway, they'd been there for a while when this girl got (you guessed it) another beer and another shot (go fig?). They start to drink, and suddenly something is amiss. I'm not quite sure what, but immediately she lunges for the bar to grab a napkin. Before the napkin can really be employed effectively, though, it's already too late: she's spewing all over the floor. Puke everywhere... it was pretty gross. This lasts for about 45 seconds or so, and when she's regained her composure she just grabs more napkins off the bar and starts on cleaning up (herself, not the floor).

She looks fucked up, but to be honest she also looks like she's been through this all before and was pretty efficient when it came to covering all the bases. When she was cleaned up he looks at her as if to say, "You okay? You wanna leave?" Her response speaks volumes: she starts jumping around and picks up where she left off before. Completely unfazed and ready to rock again. It almost looked like she might be ready for another drink too!

All this girl needed was a good pukin', apparently.

Vomit anecdotes aside, U.K. Subs played a great set this time. My only complaint is with myself, in that I don't really know any of their songs and I picked up on the fact that I would have enjoyed it better if I owned an album. Next time, I'll be ready (promise).

Having never seen Fear live before (and having my last image of Lee Ving that stuck with me be his part in Clue: The Movie) I was surprised to see him with long hair. Not only that, he looked pretty darn healthy for being as old as he is (and I can't say that at all for the singer of the U.K. Subs). That was no longer an issue after the music started, though. Despite the fact that I didn't know their new material (and despite the fact that the sound at the Cobalt Lounge is for shit, and couple that with the fact the employees are assholes there and you have a good argument for not going to Cobalt Lounge shows anymore) they plowed through a great set of material, stopping only to make small blurbs between songs. It was kind of upsetting, though, because at times I couldn't even understand that.

I must admit, Lee Ving is my favorite asshole. My memories of watching him in Decline Of Western Civilization are full of him cursing and ridiculing the audience, and though I'm not much of a fan of that attitude myself, I've got to give him credit for this: he can insult someone better than anyone I've ever seen, live. I was sad that his particular brand of assholeness was absent from this show (he didn't even call anyone a faggot as I've heard is his want quite often), but in a way it was nice to know that as punks get older they learn to direct their anger elsewhere. Apparently, this was into the music, which kicked ass.

They played two of my favorites (a song I don't know the title of as the tape it's on is unlabeled, but I call it "Terminal Detective", plus an out-of-place and abridged version of "Fuck Christmas") during the main part of the set, but for the most part it was stuff I didn't know (and frankly, that didn't really matter). The place shook, the crowd swayed and rocked, (our puking friend seemed to be having the time of her life), and I wasn't even disappointed that I didn't hear that song that goes, "Everybody's gotta believe in something / I believe I'll have another beer." If you're gonna make your career by writing songs about your love of beer and your hatred of the government, then you might as well take your cues from Fear, because they've got that routine down pat.

They ended the set with "I Don't Care About You" ("A song about how I feel about each and every one of you in the audience"), then pulled a classic rock 'n' roll maneuver and left the stage before coming back to play the show stoppers "I Love Livin' In The City," and "Let's Have A War." ("Time to get everyone here to sing along now," as Lee Ving said beforehand.) At that point I just couldn't help myself; I dove into the crowd and started screaming right along with everyone else. If there are a few Fear songs I know well, then those last ones were definitely them.

Post-show activities: drinks at Shanghai with Steve and his friends Matt and (girl I don't dare try and spell her name). Cab ride over to northeast, followed by an amazingly drunken stumble home that almost resulted in a little bit of vomit of my own. (As it was I actually had to crawl to my room.)

So what does it all mean? What conclusion can be drawn from any of these described experiences? Who knows, really. The closest thing I can come up with is this:

When you wake up in the morning hungover and you can't seem to be able to wash some odd-colored smudge (smeared into your skin by sweat and beer) off your wrist, you must have been at a punk show the night before.

No promises, though. With this kind of show, there never are.

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