By Ollie Phelan
We send punk novice Ollie Phelan to the depths of depravity (Underworld, Camden) to see if he’s taken in by the dark side.
Moshing. Anarchy. Sacrificing sheep. That’s what punk is, right? When I volunteered to break my hardcore punk virginity and sample the delights of Biohazard and friends at Camden Underworld, my imagination started running wild.
I was expecting erratic dancing. I was expecting black, studded leather. I was expecting mohawks, so wild and spiky, they constituted a threat to the health and safety regulations of the building. Some part of me even hoped to see real life satanic worship. With the environs of the desperately alternative Camden as the night’s host, surely I wouldn’t be disappointed? And with as gruesome and frightful monikers as Arythymia and Biohazard, the night promised to be nuclear.
Approaching the venue, there was no doubting the type of band who would be playing that night. Unsurprisingly, a common code of black was the overriding uniform, but within the black there was a great mix of people, ranging from fresh faced teenagers to middle-aged men, sporting beards that would’ve put Gandalf to shame. However, once entering the venue, something didn’t feel quite like the scene my absurd imagination had created. The colour of black had been diluted, the length and virility of beard shorn away and the hardcore nature of the crowd dissipated. The atmosphere pre-gig, which I had imagined would be tense and sullen, was calm and relaxed, with a lot more banking and accountant types milling around than would have been expected. What was most amusing was that these 40/50-year old city slickers were the ones most enthusiastically donning band t shirts and shirts with provocative slogans. One balding, glasses wearing accountant wore a tee emblazoned, “Fuck off and DIE” and another, with slightly more hair, who had the air of a parent desperately trying to be cool, displayed the message “none fucking heavier” on his back.
As is to be expected at any gig, the first support band were rapturously ignored by the majority in the venue. They displayed an interesting banner declaring, “As long as there are slaves there will always be tyrants”, but unfortunately, their singing style was not conducive to clear lyrics, and so I couldn’t discern any further political comment, nor any other words for that matter. After the band left the stage, taking with them my sense of hearing, and as the alcohol started to flow more liberally, the atmosphere heightened, ever so slightly. And with this brightening of ambiance, I spotted the first gravity defying mohawks. One wore a t-shirt with “get in the fucking pit” brazenly inscribed on its back, which was slightly confusing as I never saw him in the pit all night.
Hypocritical punks aside, the next band elicited a better response from the crowd, and inspired some quite mind bending dancing moves. One man, dancing totally alone, with a big backpack and rain coat, flung his whole torso forward, until perpendicular, and then snapped it straight back up, in time with the relentlessly pounding beat. Then there was the raging bull, a man who charged right through the crowd, trying, and partially succeeding, to start the night’s first mosh-pit. The most intriguing of all were those who, in their own little bubble, swiped vehemently through the air with their fists, as if they were trying to brutalise and mutilate their worst enemy. Unfortunately for my punk night theories, this exhibition of free inhibitions was restricted to about 10 people, the rest stood leaning on ledges or sipping beer, observing the stage, unmoved. The most telling moment was when the singer implored the crowd to go apeshit, and was met by a sea of blank faces. Granted, these were only a support band, but it doesn’t feel very hardcore or punk when a singer has to beg the crowd to dance, nor when the band are dressed like models out of an obey magazine, snapback and all.
Come the main act of the night I was half-deaf and disillusioned with the punks I had come to observe. Things picked up when the old schoolers got what they wanted and Biohazard came on stage, but only marginally. The ‘fuck the system’ attitude I had searched for was absent, the issue being that the majority present were the system, and the rest had school, college or university in the morning. From what I saw, it seems that punk, as its own vibrant micro-scene is struggling. Well, in Camden Underworld at least. Even those dressed the part didn’t act so. I guess nowadays, in the age of the corporate job, punk has been reduced to a romantic utopia, to which people flee during the evenings to pretend they don’t give a fuck, before returning to the desk the next morning at 7.30am. In a way, it’s liberating to see a mix of young and old coming together under the banner of hardcore punk, but in another, it’s sad to see balding, middle aged men, pretending to be outcasts, wearing provocative t shirts and throwing their heads back and forth at a greater velocity than Woody the Woodpecker. So, overall, I was disappointed. Maybe it was my ludicrously high standards, but I didn’t see whole scale anarchy, I didn’t see more than two Mowhawks, and worst of all, no sacrificial slaughter took place. So, as I trudged back home, through the knee high sea of beer cans and takeaway boxes that floods Camden Town’s pavements, I thought, maybe hardcore punk isn’t that hardcore after all.
Comments