a story i recently wrote
fight the world order…
I am always fascinated by youth culture. I am not too far removed from this culture and so it is easy for me to see the ere of its ways. I can remember being in middle school and my brief stay on the inside of the social circle.
I grew up in a middle class neighborhood directly connected to the Country Club by the most amazing hill known to any adolescent. It was rumored that beyond the hill were three-story houses with slate driveways and a house with an elevator. Back on our side of the hill we played in the backyard of my split-level house that looked strangely like a Pizza Hut. The hill took on characteristics of the archetypal train tracks. You didn’t really know what was beyond the hill and you knew it could be dangerous, but you longed to breach the top of that hill.
Despite the mixed feelings of the sacred hill it became somewhat of a common ground—a neutral zone if you will. The rich kids came to ride their pristine 21-speed Schwinn bikes down the hill the same way we brought our 10-speed Huffys handed down from an older sibling. Then, your bike was your scarlet letter. Your bike proved your status. The year I coerced my parents into putting all my Christmas presents into that sweet 21-speed Schwinn Hurricane bike was the year I had finally arrived. I had made it—I was one of them. Until of course, I found out Schwinn was out and Trek was in.
It was an endless cycle. I’m pretty sure it still continues today. Maybe its not over the type of bike you have or what side of the hill you live on, but the existence of what one may call identity groups is undeniable. Anyone who ever had the amazing experience of attending a public high school will agree.
I am reminded of the movie 10 Things I Hate About You where you see all the stereotypical adolescent groups. You’ve got the skater kids and the thugs, those who look like they just stepped out of John Wayne’s latest western film and the preppy kids clad with their Ralph Lauren polos and pricey denim. The list goes on and on. There’s a group for everybody. If you don’t like any particular group you form your own.
When I was in high school, I’m not really sure which group I fell into. If I had to choose I would say it was probably the “I’m really cynical about identity groups” group. I had a few friends in high school who stuck pretty close together. Rebellion ran in our blood as we chose not to take part in the stereotypical high school life—not for any noble religious reasons, but because we didn’t want to “conform.”
I think that is the way most groups form. People don’t want to be categorized because they want to be unique, so in there efforts to be unique they participate in the very thing they try to avoid. A new group forms and the cycle continues.
Once I began observing these groups and being a part of them myself, it became a rather intriguing quandary. Why do people do what they do? Why do people dress in certain ways that seem normal to some and bizarre to others?
I went to a punk rock show once. I could probably stop there and that would be enough. Nevertheless, I must continue. While in college, I dated a girl named Becky. She had a twin brother who seemed to be the polar opposite of her. She was in college; he made pizzas. She lived on her own; he lived at home with mom and dad. She was rather preppy and trendy; he was in a punk rock band named Hungry Ghost. Need I say more?
In efforts to be a supportive sibling, Becky would go to some of his shows at local bars. Naturally, during the time we dated, I too went along to a few “shows.” The first observation here is that the appropriate terminology is not a concert or performance, but a “show.” To me, a show implies either an elaborate, or should I say fabulous Broadway performance or some lame collection of artwork. It’s still up for debate if you consider the work of Hungry Ghost artwork, but you can guess where my allegiance lies.
Upon arriving at the aforementioned “show” Becky and I are hyper-aware of our attire for the evening. We discarded our polos and trendy tennis shoes for the bleakest clothes we owned. It was clear that we wouldn’t fit in, but we thought we’d try.
While parking we noticed a small grouping of young folks behind the fence. It appeared as though they might be having a share time, or discussing theology, or maybe just discussing how the hell Johnny got his hair into that frighteningly tall mohawk, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that from that point on, the night was sure to be filled with surprises.
As we enter the bar, I have to harbor all my instincts that tell me not to touch anything. The walls are covered in a camouflage of graffiti. The lights are low. There are only a few people inside, but we put on our “man, I love punk shows face” and enter like we too had mastered the art of studding all the leather we owned.
The fashion of those in attendance was especially puzzling to me. Though you may have been fooled, I do not exactly fit punk rock stereotype, so I do approach their attire with a bit of a bias. I kind of thought the ideology behind “punk rock” was that you didn’t care—“I’m a bad ass. I can dress how I want, because I don’t care.” This may very well be the case, but these people had taken great care in achieving their appearance. You can’t tell me it didn’t take Johnny hours to get his hair in that sleek red mohawk or that it didn’t take him hours to squeeze himself into those skin tight jeans for that matter. Or let’s observe for instance Jane, the girl who’s fishnet hose and gloves and eyeliner all match accordingly. There is great care in looking the way they do. You can’t fool me into thinking they don’t really care.
Though Becky and I had tried to assimilate into this culture as best as possible with our fashion, I’m sure we stuck out like a straight couple in Chelsea. We proceeded to get our Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from the bar. Why else would anyone drink that except that it’s cheap and you’re trying to not be found out? Then the immense sound begins to fill the room.
Here again, I become rather critical. I try to be respectful of all forms of art and music, but I have some difficulty calling the cacophony of sounds coming from those speakers music. Hungry Ghost, being the headliners of the evening came to the stage after some quality music from an even more obscure band.
The set begins with the lead singer saying “Fight the world order” and then immediately rocking out into a plethora of screaming slash words I couldn’t understand. Maybe this is completely appropriate for a punk rock show, but I was used to a more formal greeting. Maybe even thanking the crowd actually paying money to enter this hellhole. Nevertheless, we immediately began fighting the new world order.
As a person who has a passion for social justice issues, I felt a connection to Hungry Ghost. The political messages in their lyrics were numerous. The care and concern that went into lyrics such as “Bush knew, you bet you ass he fucking knew” leads me to believe these guys were onto something big. The lead singer really seemed to draw me in and make me feel empowered and welcome in this place, which seemed so far from my present reality. Or wait; actually it was probably more of a gut-wrenching fear that these were the types of people who were on “my” side. These were the guys who thought it was ok to question the government or to criticize American culture.
Let’s assume for a moment that the members of Hungry Ghost were quite informed and truly interested in a new world order, I’m not sure we can make that same assumption about all those in attendance. The crowd ranged from teenagers to guys older than my father. The mosh pit showed no discrimination to age.
I’m sure some of those people were there because at the heart of punk rock music is a message that says “we don’t like the things as they are” and I can agree with that. But at the same time, there is a style and identity that comes with the music. Some people just “feel” the music and thrive on the always-classy mosh pit.
When it comes down to it, I can’t attempt to understand the punk rock culture. I’m sure those who classify themselves as punk rock could offer an equally biting critique of my own social identity.
I left that night filled with various thoughts about people, life, and Hungry Ghost of course. I also left concerned that I would have permanent hearing loss. That constant ringing in my ear would serve as a reminder of the powerful social messages of my dear friends, Hungry Ghost. Hmm…sometimes I think I might just rather fight the world order on my own.
I am always fascinated by youth culture. I am not too far removed from this culture and so it is easy for me to see the ere of its ways. I can remember being in middle school and my brief stay on the inside of the social circle.
I grew up in a middle class neighborhood directly connected to the Country Club by the most amazing hill known to any adolescent. It was rumored that beyond the hill were three-story houses with slate driveways and a house with an elevator. Back on our side of the hill we played in the backyard of my split-level house that looked strangely like a Pizza Hut. The hill took on characteristics of the archetypal train tracks. You didn’t really know what was beyond the hill and you knew it could be dangerous, but you longed to breach the top of that hill.
Despite the mixed feelings of the sacred hill it became somewhat of a common ground—a neutral zone if you will. The rich kids came to ride their pristine 21-speed Schwinn bikes down the hill the same way we brought our 10-speed Huffys handed down from an older sibling. Then, your bike was your scarlet letter. Your bike proved your status. The year I coerced my parents into putting all my Christmas presents into that sweet 21-speed Schwinn Hurricane bike was the year I had finally arrived. I had made it—I was one of them. Until of course, I found out Schwinn was out and Trek was in.
It was an endless cycle. I’m pretty sure it still continues today. Maybe its not over the type of bike you have or what side of the hill you live on, but the existence of what one may call identity groups is undeniable. Anyone who ever had the amazing experience of attending a public high school will agree.
I am reminded of the movie 10 Things I Hate About You where you see all the stereotypical adolescent groups. You’ve got the skater kids and the thugs, those who look like they just stepped out of John Wayne’s latest western film and the preppy kids clad with their Ralph Lauren polos and pricey denim. The list goes on and on. There’s a group for everybody. If you don’t like any particular group you form your own.
When I was in high school, I’m not really sure which group I fell into. If I had to choose I would say it was probably the “I’m really cynical about identity groups” group. I had a few friends in high school who stuck pretty close together. Rebellion ran in our blood as we chose not to take part in the stereotypical high school life—not for any noble religious reasons, but because we didn’t want to “conform.”
I think that is the way most groups form. People don’t want to be categorized because they want to be unique, so in there efforts to be unique they participate in the very thing they try to avoid. A new group forms and the cycle continues.
Once I began observing these groups and being a part of them myself, it became a rather intriguing quandary. Why do people do what they do? Why do people dress in certain ways that seem normal to some and bizarre to others?
I went to a punk rock show once. I could probably stop there and that would be enough. Nevertheless, I must continue. While in college, I dated a girl named Becky. She had a twin brother who seemed to be the polar opposite of her. She was in college; he made pizzas. She lived on her own; he lived at home with mom and dad. She was rather preppy and trendy; he was in a punk rock band named Hungry Ghost. Need I say more?
In efforts to be a supportive sibling, Becky would go to some of his shows at local bars. Naturally, during the time we dated, I too went along to a few “shows.” The first observation here is that the appropriate terminology is not a concert or performance, but a “show.” To me, a show implies either an elaborate, or should I say fabulous Broadway performance or some lame collection of artwork. It’s still up for debate if you consider the work of Hungry Ghost artwork, but you can guess where my allegiance lies.
Upon arriving at the aforementioned “show” Becky and I are hyper-aware of our attire for the evening. We discarded our polos and trendy tennis shoes for the bleakest clothes we owned. It was clear that we wouldn’t fit in, but we thought we’d try.
While parking we noticed a small grouping of young folks behind the fence. It appeared as though they might be having a share time, or discussing theology, or maybe just discussing how the hell Johnny got his hair into that frighteningly tall mohawk, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that from that point on, the night was sure to be filled with surprises.
As we enter the bar, I have to harbor all my instincts that tell me not to touch anything. The walls are covered in a camouflage of graffiti. The lights are low. There are only a few people inside, but we put on our “man, I love punk shows face” and enter like we too had mastered the art of studding all the leather we owned.
The fashion of those in attendance was especially puzzling to me. Though you may have been fooled, I do not exactly fit punk rock stereotype, so I do approach their attire with a bit of a bias. I kind of thought the ideology behind “punk rock” was that you didn’t care—“I’m a bad ass. I can dress how I want, because I don’t care.” This may very well be the case, but these people had taken great care in achieving their appearance. You can’t tell me it didn’t take Johnny hours to get his hair in that sleek red mohawk or that it didn’t take him hours to squeeze himself into those skin tight jeans for that matter. Or let’s observe for instance Jane, the girl who’s fishnet hose and gloves and eyeliner all match accordingly. There is great care in looking the way they do. You can’t fool me into thinking they don’t really care.
Though Becky and I had tried to assimilate into this culture as best as possible with our fashion, I’m sure we stuck out like a straight couple in Chelsea. We proceeded to get our Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from the bar. Why else would anyone drink that except that it’s cheap and you’re trying to not be found out? Then the immense sound begins to fill the room.
Here again, I become rather critical. I try to be respectful of all forms of art and music, but I have some difficulty calling the cacophony of sounds coming from those speakers music. Hungry Ghost, being the headliners of the evening came to the stage after some quality music from an even more obscure band.
The set begins with the lead singer saying “Fight the world order” and then immediately rocking out into a plethora of screaming slash words I couldn’t understand. Maybe this is completely appropriate for a punk rock show, but I was used to a more formal greeting. Maybe even thanking the crowd actually paying money to enter this hellhole. Nevertheless, we immediately began fighting the new world order.
As a person who has a passion for social justice issues, I felt a connection to Hungry Ghost. The political messages in their lyrics were numerous. The care and concern that went into lyrics such as “Bush knew, you bet you ass he fucking knew” leads me to believe these guys were onto something big. The lead singer really seemed to draw me in and make me feel empowered and welcome in this place, which seemed so far from my present reality. Or wait; actually it was probably more of a gut-wrenching fear that these were the types of people who were on “my” side. These were the guys who thought it was ok to question the government or to criticize American culture.
Let’s assume for a moment that the members of Hungry Ghost were quite informed and truly interested in a new world order, I’m not sure we can make that same assumption about all those in attendance. The crowd ranged from teenagers to guys older than my father. The mosh pit showed no discrimination to age.
I’m sure some of those people were there because at the heart of punk rock music is a message that says “we don’t like the things as they are” and I can agree with that. But at the same time, there is a style and identity that comes with the music. Some people just “feel” the music and thrive on the always-classy mosh pit.
When it comes down to it, I can’t attempt to understand the punk rock culture. I’m sure those who classify themselves as punk rock could offer an equally biting critique of my own social identity.
I left that night filled with various thoughts about people, life, and Hungry Ghost of course. I also left concerned that I would have permanent hearing loss. That constant ringing in my ear would serve as a reminder of the powerful social messages of my dear friends, Hungry Ghost. Hmm…sometimes I think I might just rather fight the world order on my own.
posted by Robert at 2:35 AM
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