Punk Rock 
Grief
      Recently I went to a Punk Rock benefit for a friend of a friend who was
murdered.  I've been an avitar of sorts, a visitor from another time, at these
kinds of shows for years for I have family that have been into the Punk Rock
scene for years, since they were in High-school.  I am the youngest of my
generation in my family.  Next in line is my cousin, J., who was born when I was
17.  J. was always a literary kid, writing stories, talking about literature. 
We always had a lot to say to each other.  
     And so, every so often, I go to his shows.  And the shows are always with the
same folks there, people who I have known for years and years.
     I have another friend who lived with me for a while nine years ago.  He was a
kid in Boston in the  1980's, a product of the public school system. 
Hardworking, competent.  He is a master chef and very well known in greater
Boston.  He's a great guy, and I'm blessed to include him as a close friend. 
He's been supportive of me in many ways including trying to help me to move
forward in my own life, jettison the things that don't work any more, and start
new traditions.
     So there was a time when I took him to one of my cousin's shows.  The bands set
up in a basement.  This was a rundown house in Dorchester.  
If you've never been to one of these kinds of events, you might feel completely
out of place there if you are an older person who doesn't know anyone.  Really
these things are for friends and friends of friends.  It always welcoming and
friendly despite the lyrics.
     Usually you can't understand what the lyrics are anyway.  The idea is the
channeling of an artistic rage.  The singers are usually shouting.  The guitars
are usually up too loud for older people.  The heating ducts in the house
usually vibrate from the loud sound.  There might be people slam dancing.  The
room is usually small, the ceiling low.  People rest their arms on the dusty
pipes.  People are spilled out and up the basement stairs and into the kitchen
above.
     And so on Saturday, last, I called my bud and he told me the very horrible 
news. Would I want to go to a benefit for his friend who was murdered?!  He said it
was a lot like what my cousins do, a Punk show in a private home.  So he gave me
an address in Sommerville.
     And so it was for real: real people, real music.  My bud and I were the oldest
ones there.  Most of the folks had tattoos and piercings.  They were dressed in
the style that they like: everyone with their own unique look.  Not clones, but
individuals.  They were all in their late twenties except for my bud and I.  His
little brother is the age of the folks who were at the benefit.
     So how did my bud know all these folks?  He used to babysit some of them when
they were toddlers.  They have been his friends for years and years.  It's an
extended family.
     Yes, that is what it is, an extended family.  And there was so much grief
there in the crowd hidden behind the tough exterior of punk-rock garb.  They
were all distraught by what happened to their buddy.  I am  not going to provide
details of what people knew about the murder here, though I talked to a bunch of
folks who told me things. 
     So, there was much sadness.  A hole was carved out of their hearts which can
not ever be filled.  The person who was a shining light in other people's light
snuffed out too young.  And all of the friends and friends-of-friends broken
now, a piece of their life taken away from them.
     If you think that Punk rockers are scary, you must not know any of them.  You
must have never really talked to them or observed them in a group, how they care
and feed each other.  They are the children of a generation of over-achievers. 
They channel the wild-energy that makes us vital.  And while in their poetic
state they seem to be in a rage. that rage turns off as soon as they get off of
the stage.  It's back to the quiet contemplation.  They feed you.  They want to
know if you are alright to drive.  They'll give you a place to sleep on the
floor.
     My buddy's friends raised a lot of money for the funeral, etc, for their
murdered friend.  The left over money will go to his sister.  Now she is alone
with an elderly mom who isn't well (what I heard).  These Punkers were so
giving.  The fund raising went on for over a week!  The mourning period will
never really end for these folks.  There is a hole in the band.
Yes, there is a hole in the band.  There were diamonds on the floor (broken
glass on the rug).  There was a howling in the basement.  There were hot-dogs on
the grill.  Everyone was fed.  There was a keg of beer.  No one was thirsty.
You know that these are hard times.  There aren't a lot of jobs for these young
folks.  I over heard some of them talking about the fact that they were out of
money.  Out of money but still giving money for the funeral!  That is Punk rock.
     And on the stage the Punk Rocker gives it all.  The rage isn't against anyone
in general.  It is a rage against the villainy of the world at large, the stupidity
of people when they are behaving badly.  Everyone can display this stupidity.
And so if you feel the rage, and you think it is directed at you, and you are
not being stupid, realize that there is an ascendance that you can do.  No fear
should be felt.  It is the world knocking on your door saying 'hey, you in
there, stop being a selfish jerk'.  It is the poet pointing out your flaws so
you can recognize them and change.  And so what you sense as . . . misanthropy .
. . is actually trying to be a wake-up call to you.  They don't want to harm
you.  But they are trying to pop your many bubbles.
     Yes, we all live within these bubbles that we have created around ourselves. 
Some of us retreat to these comfortable suburban communities.  Some of us choose
to live in walled communities.  Some of us are loners and we don't mingle.  Some
of us are hypochondriacs who fill up our medicine cabinets with drugs paid for
by the government.  Some of us give benefit concerts for our murdered friend.
How many of us are still out there in the scrum at a show with people twenty
years younger than us and praying silently for them so that they can overcome
their grief?  How many of us are blessing the begger and asking the Peace of the
Lord to descend upon them?  How many of us are letting a young, and almost
homeless, friend stay in our spare room?  So if you see these young adults as
antisocial and you think that their extended network of friends is a big mistake
from which they need to be 'detached', I say 'detach from that idea.'  Recovery
might need to happen in a group.  People get bad habits.  The group is their
enabler sometimes.  It is not that the group is bad, but that the group needs to
progress.  Individuals . . .. take an initiative . . . and they move the group 
to a more advanced place.
     Anababtists were folks who were into the sex and the free-love thing in the
foothills of the Alps long long ago.  They were interpreting the Bible and the
Jesus message in a way that said 'love everyone' and they meant it as a sexual
thing.  Well, look who their descendants are today?  After being hounded out of
Switzerland by an un-holy alliance of Catholics, Calvinists, and Lutherans (who
all were at war with each other), some of the Anabaptists ended up in
Pennsylvania.  Their descendants?  The Quakers and the Amish!  

10:37 AM
Sept 8, 2010