FOREWARD
I
wrote a version of what follows and sent it to a comrade-in-arms in hopes that
he would expand on the subject matter and that some sorts of snowball effect
could happen and this piece would be built upon and eventually some sorts of
large(r) scale project documenting all the far-out times during the burgeoning Cincinnati Punk Rock basement
scene of the mid-late 90's... Maybe, maybe not I suppose... That particular
comrade in question wanted nothing to do with this effort. So then I sent this
'start' to another comrade from the trenches, someone who was there all
Back-In-The-Day™ and shit... Then to another and another... Each with the same
results. Maybe those times aren’t nostalgic enough for them yet to relive in
hindsight, or maybe I’m too nostalgic for my own good. I’m not sure which, if
either, it is. In reality (the terrible, terriblereality), both may be wrong
to a certain degree. Maybe those times weren’t really times at all or maybe,
just maybe... the story is still being written.
To
be honest, I’m not quite sure.
None-the-less
those times were times indeed, at least for somebody (if even for just me).
This 'piece' or effort or whatever the kids are calling it these days, probably
wont become the introduction to a book or anything else on a large(r) scale
like Eric Davidsons’ WE NEVER LEARN book, but I wish it would (but seriously, I actually used
the full word 'probably' back there-- what have I become?) But that’s all ok
too... These/Those times were great. By no means are the goodtmes over I feel I
think (I hope). Many more adventures await me and those who surround me (you
know who you are-- consider yourself warned), but I felt as if way-back then I
was part of something great, something bigger, and something special.
Maybe it was just me... I may be wrong about it, I can admit that. No shame in
being wrong... Being wrong is still being something after all. Acknowledging
the possibilities if being wrong also acknowledges the possibility that I am
100% right too. If I learned anything from being involved in the punk-rock
scene as a whole, nothing is about anything more than what you make or made of
it. In fact, anyone can realize that sometimes the end is just a beginning;
just as any beginning is something else’s end. Nestled here in a strange social
spot remembering bands like THE SLOBS, THE LONG GONES, PINCUSHION, ARCHIE & THE PUKES,
THE TWERPS, THE SYPHILITICS, GERIATRIX! THE MORTALS THE HYPOCHONDRIACS or
SNOTBOY '77 (or just plain SNOTBOY to you newer fans) and looking at new bands
like WEAKNESS, HOMEMADE DRUGS, WHITE WALLS and countless others (Cincinnati is
packed with great bands)... Things seem to be growing (or at least maintaining)
and interest seems to he deepening... Still, after all this time. Putting it
simply enough, those times, as uncertain as it seems even now, were a blast!
I hope those weren’t the best
times I will ever see.
Shawn Abnoxious
September 2012
BLASTING FROM THE BASEMENT
Notes about the Cincinnati
Basement Scene 1996-99
There never really was a 'beginning' in
the classic form of what a beginning is, or should be. No grand event, no big
bangs, or trumpet call. No grand significant moment to herald in what would
rise and become something bigger... or was there???
Hmmmm...
Likewise, there was no big ending to tell
you that everything was over and that what had come as a flash, finally went
out with a poof! There was no big grand finale or ceremony telling you that you
have finally reached the end. The rides over... Please exit to your left in an
orderly manner.
Is it even over? Done? Complete?
Of course not.
There are still fringe elements gathering
in the danky basements (and other elsewhere’s) that might just as well be
places with populations that feel as if maybe (just maybe) they are part of a
witnessing of a certain kind of greatness that the enemy (everyone else) don’t
deserve or understand nor will they ever!
This, whatever you wanna call it, is
special...
The fight isn’t over! The battle
continues! Those basements are bunkers where the battle verses complacency and
normality will be waged. It, one again whatever you manna call it, will never
be over. The battle changes, there’s new battlegrounds... but it will never be
over.
Never mind. Asking if it was over was a silly
question to begin with.
You...
You’re left with memories and times of
events and happenings that you recall like war veterans recalling their wars,
battles and campaigns.
Crazy times.
Wild times...
Crazy, wild and dangerous times.
There was something to be learned in those
earliest basements on Glendora, Parker Street or McMillan and even more lessons
on Warner Street, The Dick House or The Flora House. They could almost be
battlefields in a war that both sides appeared to have won and also lost
simultaneously. Many of those stories almost sound made up
when you catch yourself telling the tales. Sometimes listeners will just give
you that "Yeah, right" look and you can’t really say that you don’t
blame them. If you weren’t there yourself, maybe you wouldn’t believe it all
happened either.
Yeah, someone’s bangin' in the bushes...
Yeah, those bushes with all the garbage in them. Desperate times call for
desperate measures.
That is raw sewage coming up from the
drain. So what? It's just raw sewage. Dancing is dancing no matter where it is.
He smashed a bottle over his head and is
bleeding everywhere AND he has aids? A bottle? His head? Blood? Everywhere?
Here come the cops.
"My last beer is always for
me" he said while reaching into his pocket and sub sequentially
brandishing a switchblade.
The pigs are here (again).
What’s all that paper laying all over
everywhere? Oh, its copies of the latest zine, THE NEUS SUBJEX that was handed
out for free. The Neus Subjex: Litter Waiting to Happen!
That’s just a sample... A verily small tip
of a bigger iceberg that is already ripping your ship to shreds. Don’t even
bother with the lifeboats. You are doomed. Take a deep breath and just enjoy
the sinking...
Before you could realize it, you were
wrapped up in something that you knew was special and exciting. A bigger
something or other that you didn’t know was special at the time. Sometime in-between
the beginning that never happened (or you didn’t realize was happening) and
what you got now (whatever you wanna call it) you find yourself rubbing through
a thick beard with sore hands surviving a freak car accident with your car in a
swimming pool and the news cameras framing you up nicely holding your
waterlogged dry-cleaning that (for whatever reason) you managed to somehow,
someway, magically retrieve intact.
There you are....
Standing next to the submerged car,
scratching your head, playing your role for the cameras superbly and sticking
to your wild story that not only seemed to be holding up, but held superbly
after all. You survived. You are a survivor. There still some song to be sang
yet.
So sing your song. Sing it loud. Sing it
strong.
Somewhere in there, back there, around
there... That one place, that one time, those particular circumstances... Not
knowing exactly anything from anything else, you took a direct hit.
You took a BLAST FROM THE BASEMENT and
things will never be the same again.
I, we, they (choose your weapon) haven’t
been the same since.
ENDLUDE
As
long as punk-rock has existed in Cincinnati or elsewhere and as long as
punk-rock will ever exist anywhere, there will always be basements, back rooms
and other forms of dilapidated structures of every imaginable kind hosting the
weird, the outcast and subversive elements. No, the abstract will survive. The Rebellion will endure. This
weekend in Cincinnati... No matter which weekend it is, in some basement there
is action. There is noise. There is survival. There is song to sing.
...
