All the energy, anger and excitement of a punk-rock gig

Going to see a punk-rock or hardcore show can be excellent fun, and listening to the bands record afterwards, but you can also read about great gigs and tours too and that can bring the sweaty energy back and inspire the same feelings, without all the aggravation! 

Here’s a couple of great example excerpts from Welly Artcore’s nineties North American tour diary, ‘Directions to the outskirts of town’…

"Next it was CHAOS U.K.’s turn and the crowd jostled like the huddle at

    the start of a marathon, some vied for position at the foot of the

    stage, others squeezed their way into the already sweating fray, while

    the band wound them up with an intro tape of an old children’s TV theme,

    Chaos pacing up and down the stage provoking them further, mimicking the

    voice on the tape, “It’s time to brush the sleepy dust from your eyes,

    rise and shine, up and at ‘em!”

    Then the room exploded, “She was a girl from Birmingham, she just had an

    abortion”, sneered the shaven-headed vocalist in his LURKERS t-shirt as

    the crowd surged forward. ‘Bodies’, spit and missiles took flight while

    steam rose, and the entire club seemed to be jumping up and down from

    the front right to the darkest recesses at the back, to a cover of the

    SEX PISTOLS.

    Fists and rude gestures were directed at the stage while others climbed

    on to join in before jumping back off into the heaving mass of humid

    humanity. Stage right, a long haired guy in a leather jacket clutching

    his girlfriend was becoming increasingly annoyed because his view of the

    stage was obscured by a punk leaning against the back of an amp, and he

    poked and gestured for him to get out of the way. I looked over my

    shoulder, and moved a little, but not too much. Hey, I was trying to

    look like I knew the band.

    After about two dozen rapid fire punk anthems it was over. Two

    teaspoonfuls of British accent, four fluid ounces of scrumpy lyrics,

    eight packets of stolen Wurzels riffs and a pinch of German capital

    investment, stir violently for thirty minutes, knead for twenty, and

    leave to cool for two months until the return gig at the end of the tour."

"The house party was packed, beer flowed, dozens of skaters skated, and

    sun-baked West Coast punk blared from the speakers. Then, as was

    becoming the norm, the CHAOS U.K. boys were gently coerced into playing,

    so the gear was fetched and West Country cider-punk became the unlikely

    soundtrack to a small Southern Californian riot.

    CHAOS U.S.A. hammered out five songs and the ramp started to look like

    the shred freeway, but then it suddenly all got too much for sun-baked

    Californian youth and the garden turned into a running brawl that

    quickly swept through the house and into the adjoining gardens, sending

    a trampoline flying.

    The band played on while Gabba hid behind his amp and I squeezed through

    the packed party and through the house, headed upstairs and positioned

    myself on the roof next to a few locals with video cameras who were

    filming the action, to take some photos of the melee. The fracas quickly

    ended when the well-off locals shouted “Ghetto Birds!” as a warning and

    cops turned up in helicopters and cruisers.

    The police told us Limeys to leave, but the Colonel was having none of

    it, flipping them off, “Hey man, fuck the cops!” Actually I made that

    up, the gear was hurriedly packed and we buggered off sharpish to Kelly

    the surfer’s house to conclude the day’s drinking. It was quite

    something to witness fried American youth get drunk on piss-weak beer

    and lose their minds to Avon and Somerset hardcore."

"A variety of misled Mohawked misfits trickled slowly into the hotel, as

    well as the majority of the punks who’d frequented the previous Southern

    California gigs. First up was a ‘77-style band whose name slips my mind,

    then U.S. BOMBS, who I was told featured Kerry Martinez of SHATTERED

    FAITH and skater Duane Peters of POLITICAL CRAP. New to me at the time,

    I went up front to check them out, and THE STITCHES were up next with

    some more old school shuffle.

    Soon enough CHAOS U.K. hit the stage and as usual about twenty five

    people joined them for fists in the air and swinging off the light cage.

    Nervous, the P.A. guys kept turning their rig on and off so the crowd

    sang their guts out for a few songs MINOR THREAT-style with no P.A.

    There was a definite feeling of ‘this is a one-off venue’ in the air,

    the light cage didn’t survive the ordeal, and then surprise, surprise,

    the L.A.P.D. turned up with their sticks and tear gas and proceeded to

    clear the place.

    So here I was at the back of this formerly swanky hotel function room

    behind the merch table, still trying to sell t-shirts as fast as I could

    when a Robocop approached ahead of the cloud of tear gas, “Exit the

    building”. “Give me a minute, I have to pack up”. “Exit the building”.

    “Hang on mate”. “Exit the building”. So I rammed everything into the big

    cardboard t-shirt box as fast as I could and exited the bloody building

    rather than get arrested. Yet another gig shut down."

‘Directions to the Outskirts of Town: Punk Rock Tour Diaries from Nineties North America’ is a candid and humorous account of life on the road packed into a 6” x 9” paperback with over 300 pages, over 250 unpublished colour photos, flyers and illustrations, and a foreword by Kaos of CHAOS U.K.

You can pick up a copy from most good book and record shops, or order directly from Earth Island Books here.