(02/16/23 10:39pm)
Welcome to what was supposed to have been volume one! In my typical fashion, though, I got way ahead of myself when I was drafting, and the piece was much longer, generally dissatisfying, and close to incomprehensible. So, instead, I bring you a second installment! Cue the confetti. If you’ve not read the first volume and are interested in some background information and long-winded sappiness, you can find it here! In the meantime, I bring you a culmination of interviews, resources, and qualitative data that would make Paul Farmer weep. Enjoy :-)
(01/30/23 4:16pm)
Y’all- I love live music. This is by no means a controversial opinion, but my scene back in Atlanta is a thriving, diverse collection of folks and their clashing musical politics, and I miss it like a tooth. My first ever house show was seeing Pinkest open for Lowertown, and that was the gateway to find the kind of shows I really liked. My friend Addie and I were basically FBI interrogating the poor folks of this backyard venue, showing up an hour early like the sweet youths we were, and through that Pinkest show (lowertown never got to play, the cops got called) I had the genuine privilege of discovering our punk scene. Finding the alternative underground in Atlanta was the best thing that could have possibly happened to me. At 16, I was a loud mouthed, musical know it all. Prince was the peak of any artist, ever. My clothes consisted exclusively of Kohl's concert tees and Goodwill jeans. My experience with concerts thus far (excluding the Pinkest show) was confined to a John Denver Tribute at the Chattahoochee Nature Center. No, really. So when I was getting ready for my first punk show, I was practically vibrating from anticipation. I had my finest (only) Black Flag shirt on, and some dollar store eyeliner, and as ready as I felt, nothing could have prepared me for my first ever punk show. Every molecule in my 16 year old self was enraptured- loud clothes, louder music, a drink in every hand, a too big grin on every face. The constant press of sound- and elbows, actually. I didn’t start out moshing but the evening certainly ended there- was intoxicating. I was ecstatic, like, the jumping-up-and-down, embarrassing squealing noises kind of happy. It could be time and tenderness have worn this memory into something more comfortable, but looking back, it’s no wonder that this show, that these shows, would become my life. 2 years later, my “know-it-all”-ness has certainly vanished. There’s nothing like punk to humble you. If you read this and think it's pretentious, that’s your right, but I’m perfectly earnest.
