This post’s playlist (here is ya don’t have Spotify):
Sometimes on a rainy day—if the sky is gray enough and the cold rain falls onto the pavement just right—I’m transported to age 15, on that fateful day when my friends and I were called posers in the parking lot of a punk show.
For the people who called us posers—at the time just distant and blurry unnamed street punks—it was just any other day, but to me it felt like the end of an era.
When my friends and I gathered at Janine’s house that dreary Saturday afternoon, I was feeling myself. As usual, I’d left my house in one outfit and changed into another at Janine’s. Janine’s mom was my favorite of all the friend moms—she never asked questions. That day I changed out of my wide leg jeans and baby tee into a tiny gray miniskirt and bright red fishnet stockings paired with the T.U.K. leopard-print creepers I’d bought after saving up a whole week’s pay at my part-time job.
I always put a great deal of prep into my look before a punk show. I would sometimes spend hours trying to craft an outfit that was the perfect blend of sexy and tough. The kind of outfit that hopefully obscured my age and virginal innocence (I was saving myself for marriage at the time, but no one needed to know that). After I finished the look by raccooning my eyes with cheap black eyeliner, I walked out the door thinking I looked absolutely badass and raw, like maybe Nancy Spungen or a young Brody Dalle1 from the Distillers.
It was my first punk show in what felt like ages, at some new firehouse venue I had never even heard of. My usual stomping ground, The Underworld, had shuttered its doors a couple months earlier and I’d been mourning the loss ever since. While the Underworld wasn’t the first venue I’d ever been to, it was the one that had meant the most to me. Situated in a gloomy little lot next to a ribbon factory in Stroudsburg, PA, that place was where I learned how to be a punk.
Within the venue’s painted black walls, I learned everything from how to survive a mosh pit to how to craft the perfect “don’t fuck with me” face when passing other people in a crowd. It’s also where I learned that it’s not particularly cool to watch the opening band and it’s absolutely not cool to stay inside the venue between sets. Between each band you were supposed to go outside and drink beer, smoke cigarettes, or at the very least create some sort of loud interpersonal drama. My friends and I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and were all pretty agreeable, so that last part was still a work in progress.
Unfortunately, the excitement I had on the drive to the new venue was short-lived. As Janine’s mom’s minivan pulled up to the drab, beige firehouse, my heart sank. It had no ominous name, no signage, no grungy decor to set the scene. It was just a lame event space that probably hosted church potlucks and senior citizen bingo the rest of the week. This place was no Underworld, but I guess I’d try and make the best of it.
I don’t remember who was playing that day—probably some local punk or ska bands with names like Off-Killter, The Deadzones, or Larry and the Skankertons. But what I do remember is that immediately something felt off. We were at a punk show, we were among our people! Yet the vibe just wasn’t there. I entered expecting to see spiked, sneering teens skulking in dark corners, but instead everyone was just awkwardly milling around an open, airy, brightly lit room. It felt like we were all waiting for the keynote speaker at a business convention or something, instead of waiting for a band to blow our minds with its killer opening bassline.
After the first band played to meager applause, my friends and I stepped outside with the other punks to stand around and look cool. Honestly, this was my favorite part of any show. The parking lot of a venue always felt full of possibilities—you could make friends, witness a fight, or maybe even fall in love—really, anything could happen.
On that fateful Saturday, like most other days, I dreamt of locking eyes with a hot punk rock boy. He’d be clad in a studded leather jacket, ripped black jeans, and a pair of beat up Doc Martens. After a few minutes of witty banter, he’d take me by the hand and lead me to a nearby alley. There, he’d light up a cigarette and take a drag, slow and cool, as he leaned against a dumpster. As the cigarette smoke circled around us, he’d cradle my face in one hand and wax poetic about the beauty of my eyeliner-rimmed eyes. As the sexual tension built to a fever pitch, I’d lean in for a kiss. And there we would remain, passionately making out against a dumpster until the end of the show.
Unfortunately, no hot punk boy returned my gaze. In fact, no one did. The fire house had a real cliquish vibe that me and my friends weren’t used to. At most shows we’d get maybe a few “cool clothes” compliments or at least a smile or two from some of the more welcoming oldheads2. But here, no one seemed to notice our existence.
Until they did.
At that point we had wandered pretty far from the venue, into the lot of a neighboring strip mall. In the distance we could vaguely make out what seemed to be a big group of street punks and we figured hey, let’s see what they’re up to. From afar they looked like a fun bunch—a sea of colorful mohawks, spikes, and animal print.
As we inched closer, one girl in the group noticed us. “Hey, what the fuck are you doing here?” she yelled.
We kept walking, paying her no mind. Obviously, she wasn’t talking to us.
“Hey, you fuckin posers, get the fuck out of here!”
Huh? My friends and I looked at each other, confused. I mean, she can’t be talking to us, right?
The girl yelled again, this time louder. “I’m talking to you, posers!”
While we were still a little too far to make out everyone’s faces, it was clear that everyone in the group was staring at us. Someone with a bright red mohawk threw a beer can in our direction. Then, a cacophony of shouts rang out.
“Go home, posers!”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“We don’t want you here!”
Okay, it’s us. They’re yelling at us.
Once the reality of the situation sank in we ran out of the lot as fast as we could. Was the group chasing after us? Pointing and laughing at our swift exit? We didn’t stick around to find out. Me and my three friends were tiny, stringy little girls and we knew our limits. We ran in terrified silence until the group was out of our sights.
I remember shortly after we stopped running to catch our breath, that’s when the gray sky opened up and a cold drizzle began to fall. Instead of ducking inside, we just walked right through it, letting the rain stand in for the tears we were all no doubt struggling to hold back. We walked a long time in silence, with no idea where we were headed, just counting down the hours until Janine’s mom could come and take us home.
We never returned to the venue that day, or ever. In fact, I think it was about a year until I had the courage to go back to any punk show. It may have only lasted moments, but that brief interaction in the parking lot shook me to my core. Until that moment, I knew exactly who I was. I was a punk! I listened to punk music, I was anti-establishment, and I hated the mainstream. Didn’t those punks in the parking lot know that? Didn’t they know I was one of them?
Well, apparently they didn’t. But why? On the one hand, I’d done my best to look the part, but on the other hand, wasn’t punk about so much more than just fashion and appearances? I didn’t yet have the brightly colored hair or the perfectly studded jacket, but up until that point I didn’t think that mattered all that much. I expected them to know I was a real one from vibes alone.
That situation opened up a whole new world of questions and doubts I’d never even considered before. If they didn’t know I was punk, then who else didn’t know? Did everyone else think I was a fraud? Was I a fraud? What even was a punk if I wasn’t one? WHAT WAS ANYTHING?
Despite the endless questions that raced through my mind, one thing was for sure—I would never, ever be called a poser again. I would make sure of it.
Just a bit of housekeeping and hellos:
I noticed I got a few new followers in the last month or so…hi and thanks for being here! I don’t publish quite as much as a lot of other publications—you can expect new Dead Scenester content once, maybe twice a month at most. Also, if you were/are deeply steeped in any music subculture, I would love to hear about it. Consider the comment section a certified safe space to reminisce about your skate punk/cyber goth/horrorbilly/screamo glory days, if you ever feel moved to do so. Anyhow, thanks for reading and see ya next month.
Gatekeepers are such dicks. You and my wife were totally in the same scene though, she used to go to a place called the Underground, but it was in the basement of a church so similarly lame to "The Underworld".