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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Life in Seattle after the grunge rush is an interesting affair. Pearl Jam is out there, somewhere, still making music (we think), and of course St. Kurt still gets props on everyone’s desert island disc list, but the rise of rap-rock and the resurgence of the boy and girl bands’ bubblegum sound has rendered all that long hair, stubble, distortion pedals, and mumbled lyrics rather quaint. Even the thrift stores have stopped selling flannel. But Seattle is not New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Miami, or even New Orleans or Nashville. All these cities are big enough (or, in the case of New Orleans and Nashville, have musical identities bigger than the actual size of the city) that they’re not thrown into a crisis of identity when their home-grown musical sound of the moment falls victim to the slings and arrows of outrageous Billboard fortune and the eyes of the world turn elsewhere. Seattle is different. Just like any of a number of mid-sized American cities (Charlotte, Phoenix, and Cleveland come to mind), it is obsessed with its image, and its progress toward the "big leagues" of metropolitan-hood in this country. As grunge began to lose its cool, and Americans stopped paying attention to Seattle’s music, many Seattleites panicked. Dot-coms, Starbucks, and Frasier may a quaint little city make, but to be a "world class city" (as the city planners of Charlotte, for instance, repeat hypnotically), something artistically exciting has to be going on as well. People here were so worried that someone convinced the world’s eighth-or-so richest man to build a big museum for rock and roll, designed by the world’s most celebrated living architect. That’ll stick it to the man, eh? As the rock culture here struggles to maintain its relevancy, though, there’s actually been a surprisingly resurgent punk scene making its presence felt in, and even beyond, Seattle. And so it was that I found myself on a Saturday night recently, chugging across Puget Sound on a ferry with two friends, headed for tiny Bremerton, Washington, an hour’s ride away. Bremerton is a sleepy island town with a naval base, a state park, and precious little else. It doesn’t exactly scream "Anarchy in the UK" at first glance. But it is the home of three of the members of Hafacat, one of the most exciting bands on the Seattle punk scene, and the band was playing that night at a delightfully seedy bar ten minutes from the ferry dock. I should hasten to point out that I am no expert in the ways of punk. I had discovered punk as early as seventh grade, first through new wave bands like Blondie and Devo, then later through a local Macon, Georgia band called Vex. From that point my friends and I, high schoolers now, moved on to shows by local Atlanta and Athens bands, and then to records by more established bands — Fear, Black Flag, Velvet Underground, The Ramones, Dead Kennedys. But punk was then, and remains now, only a tile in my mosaic of musical experience — though I’ve since discovered the joys of the Sex Pistols, Husker Du, and The Stooges, my tastes still run more to the Allman Brothers, Beck, and the Indigo Girls (and just try taking off a sweater at a punk show and realizing you’ve worn your "Swamp Ophelia Tour" shirt underneath — ouch!). So, you’ll have to accept my ramblings for what they are — an enthusiastic amateur’s take on a punk show. With that disclaimer, let me say that while I may not be an expert on what punk was then, I think I have a pretty good idea of what punk is now, and especially of what punk is not. Punk is not Green Day sneering at the MTV cameras and faking a cockney accent to sound cool. Punk is not intellectual. Punk is not groovy. Punk is elemental and fun and dumb and humorous. Yes, humorous — the Sex Pistols may or may not have had that element, but certainly The Ramones, MIA, The Germs, Fear, The Dead Kennedys, and most others had it in force. And that element of humor and fun is one reason I tend to prefer girl punk bands. I know what you’re thinking, so let’s just clear this up. Yes, I am a straight male, and yes, the three female members of Hafacat are drop-dead, but that’s not the point. At least not most of the point. What Hafacat does, what their opening band Bad Apples does, and what New York’s girl punk band Betty does, is have fun with the music. This does not translate into softening the impact. They just don’t feel they need to put on their tough guy face constantly to put on a good show. Not surprisingly, the show profits as a result. |
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