It Just Doesn't Happen Anymore
Every now and again, in this ever-divisive world, you get pleasant reminders of how much we all really have in common. Obviously, for some of us, it’s more than others, but we can always find some commonality if we want to. When I decided to write a history of Indiana punk rock, I wanted to tell the stories of some really incredible people who have gone onto great things. I wanted to tell the stories of those of us not connected to big cities. There are documentaries and books galore on Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Chicago, London and even Dallas and other American cities. However, I mostly wanted to capture what it was like, for me and the Kris Roes of the 90’s, for the Paul Maherns and Mass Giorginis of the 80’s and the Tim Carrolls and Dale Lawrences of the 70s.
Because of advancements in technologies, the things we did, at least how we did them, will never happen again.
In doing research ahead of my first two interviews in a few weeks, I keep coming across the same stories, over and over. Yes, there are differences. A few years, maybe it’s Bloomington, or Indianapolis or wherever, but the social outcast in search of punk records and a place to belong is always there. And, so is the appreciation for the broken barrier between band and audience. You go see your favorite band, you stand right in front of them and then you hang out with them after the show. They probably gave you an opening slot for your band, or gave you advice, or helped you sell your zine. You became friends.
There is also the element of anticipation, because back then nothing happened instantaneously.
I remember seeing an ad in Maximum Rock n’ Roll that Lookout! Records had placed. It featured and EP by Squirtgun with a complimentary quoute from Mike Dirnt of Green Day. I had never even heard of Squirtgun*, but I thought that was a great band name and if it was on Lookout! and had the approval of Mike Dirnt, then I assumed I’d like it. The next day I took some cash to the supermarket to get a money order and I mailed it off to Berkeley.
Back then things like that took so long, you almost forgot you sent off for it, but I remember coming home from school and seeing the envelope in the mail and rushing inside to the turntable. As the needle started transferring the sound of “Social” to my ears, I started reading the sleeve and the insert.
“Holy shit! This was recorded in Lafayette! That’s just 90 minutes away!”
Then I find out that Mass, the bass player, owned Sonic Iguana in Lafayette and he recorded a lot of Lookout! bands.
I don’t remember how long it was before my friends Jeremy and Justin and I decided to drive up to Lafayette and find Sonic Iguana on a whim. I don’t even remember how we did it in 1997. It could have been the phone book up there for all I know. But, we found it and as we pulled in, Mass was in the parking lot with a band on a break. He was kind enough to give us a tour and we went on our merry way.
A little while later, the three of us went to see Squirtgun at the Emerson Theater in Indianapolis. Back then, you could, or I did, sit on the side of the stage with no hassle. I sat on stage with Less than Jake, Merle Allin and the Murder Junkies and multiple other bands. This night was no different, we sat near Mass as they played through their set. I was dared to get up and sing “Social” when they played it. I never really needed much convincing to do something like that, but Jeremy offered me his chain wallet to do it, so I did. You can see it here, about thirty minutes in.
Not only was Mass not mad, he gave me the mic, and Matt backed away from his mic and let me take the solo. And, in spite of this, we spent about thirty minutes after the set talking to Mass and getting autographs.
Is this going to happen when you go see The Killers, or My Chemical Romance? Maybe Thirty Seconds to Mars if you spend a lot of money to go to Jared Leto’s weird cult island, but I digress.
Within thirty seconds of hearing of an artist today, you’re listening to them on Spotify. I’m not saying it’s better or worse, I think it’s better in some ways and worse in others, but ultimately, it’s just different. It’d be like your grandpa telling you about going to school in a one room school from first grade to twelfth grade. It just doesn’t happen anymore.
It used to be you saw a kid in a new town with a Rancid patch on his jacket and you’d just go talk to him because you didn’t know when the next time you would see another punk and this guy might turn out to be your new friend or the next guitar player in your band. It was lonely being a punk in a small Indiana town, even in the 90s, but it made connecting with someone else something special, something not to be taken for granted. It just doesn’t happen anymore.
And that’s okay, time marches on, but I don’t want it to be forgotten. Kids today will have their own stories to tell. I see my daughter growing up and there are lots of similarities, but things are different. I try to share with her some of these small joys, but she doesn’t experience them the same way.
Because it just doesn’t happen anymore.
*I assume this was before Mallrats came out because I was already a huge Kevin Smith fan, but it’s possible I just hadn’t seen it yet since seeing indie films in Columbus, Indiana was not easy – I got caught up when they came out on VHS thanks to my job at Blockbuster.