3
DIY Econ
The punk with the mullet clutches me in their hand, sweating into me. Their sweat mixes with the condensation from the tall can of Modelo they’re swigging from and they ball their fist between sips, wiggling their damp fingers into me to dry them off. Beside them, their tall, combat boot-clad girlfriend mimes a two-step.
The three of us stand in a funny kind of line in the hallway of a brownstone’s basement apartment. We’re waiting for the (affectionately named) door bitch to check everyone's suggested donations for this DIY show. They’re friendly, greeting everyone with a warmth that suggests this venue is actually their home, and one they like hosting in. I peek around from inside mullet’s hand to take in the fancifully named Magic Mountain.
As far as I can tell, it’s just the lower level of a deteriorating pre-war Brooklyn apartment, decorated with desktop printouts of defunct Six Flags attractions. Not that this matters to me, or to anyone else in line. This show is so small practically everyone on line was personally invited.
We get to the front and I’m unceremoniously handed over. The door bitch tucks me into their black leather pouch and I feel the loss of the temporary camaraderie the group offered. My glimpse of the crowd as they step inside reminds me that while I’ve paid their way, my place is still outside. Once again, the future of my night is in the dark.
I’ve been in this scene for a while now. I came to New York care of a trucker from Ohio, a fan of hardcore who dropped me off at St. Vitus. I found a brief home pushing ket up the nose of a beautiful androgyne, but eventually they swapped me for a t4t cassette. This turned out to be my lucky break, as I’ve been bouncing around this Ridgewood/Bushwick/Bedstuy triangle ever since.
I can tell a few of the dolls are starting to recognize me, too. I’ve heard them say that I must be the only $10 in the scene, that they’re passing me back and forth in perpetuity, just barely keeping things afloat. They’re joking, but their recognition fills me with pride. I’ve become slightly less than anonymous, taking on an identity as part of the engine of this micro-scene. The girls have welcomed me into their sweaty little coven, and I am grateful.
The basement apartment door opens, emitting a wave of distorted guitars and speak-singing that fills the hallway up like a fish tank before closing, draining the sound back down to knee-level. An out-of-breath body rushes out, a buzzcut punk wearing a sweat-soaked tank top I can just make out through a gap in the money pouch’s zipper.
“It’s so hot in there,” the punk gasps. Door bitch offers them a metal water bottle.
The punk drinks gratefully, slowly regaining their breath. “Okay, we’re done with our set, I can take over here so you can go inside.”
“Are you sure?”
The punk nods vigorously, cheeks full of water. Door bitch doesn’t need to be told twice. They slide the leather pouch into their pants pocket. Now, the door opens for me.
Inside is 20 degrees hotter, wetter, and louder. From inside my leather cocoon I can see the sweat-soaked bodies filling the tiny room, hair plastered on their foreheads and grins on faces. I recognize some of these girls; one of them slid me over the bar at Purgatory just two nights ago.
Rainbow string lights cast everything in a dim light, making the whole scene feel like a crowded, loud womb. Or a trans rainforest.
There’s a little clearing of wires and amps at the back of the room where two long-haired girls and a mustachioed cis man are setting up. The girl with the blood-spattered Hello Kitty guitar catches door bitch’s eye, beckons them up to ask if they can tell the backyard smokers to get their asses inside, the next band is starting.
After a brief foray into the cool December air, door bitch is back in the noticeably tighter crowd. Punks of all heights, shirts, and haircuts brush against my pocket, heat-transferring their restless anticipation to me as Hello Kitty presses their lips against the mic.
“We’re One Hour Photo, thank you for coming tonight. Take care of the space, take care of each other.”
The bass and drum kick in. Heads and feet around me start bouncing along.
“I want to see you beat the shit out of each other.”
The whole room breathes in, holds, and then everything explodes. The band dives into a careening, driving, punk number. Bodies slam into each other, hit the walls, a bookshelf, the floor, before hands yank them up and throw them back into the pit. Girls reach out and catch dancers gone flying before shoving them away, extending their limbs as far as they can in the pulsating, upright pile. And for once, I’m in the middle of it, strapped to door bitch’s side and vibrating with glee until they tumble down and I fly out of their pocket. Hello Kitty screams:
I DON’T KNOW WHY!! WHY DO WE DIE!! I DON’T KNOW WHY!! WHY DO WE LIVE THIS WAY!!!!
I slide under feet, crushed, sticky, but buoyed by the punks’ screaming, thrashing energy. I can’t move and it doesn’t matter — I am a sponge for this moment, soaked to saturation and lying in a pool of excess feeling. Above me, the music has pared down to just drums and bass again. The crowd has slowed, and I can see Hello Kitty pushing into the crowd, guitar slung across her body and forgotten, lank hair covering her face as she repeats over and over:
I don’t know why… I don’t know why… Idontknowwhy… IdontknowwhyIDONTKNOWWHY
Her voice breaks as her guitar comes careening back into the mix and her bandmates pull her back by her umbilical mic cord. The crowd surges forward.
Hands reach out to touch Hello Kitty, to shove her, bring her into the moshing amoeba.
On and on their set goes, screaming, jubilant violence bursting out of everyone and shaking the basement walls. I am mute and on the ground, and I have burst too. I want to be held and thrown and held again by the 53 faces in this room tonight. I want this sisterhood, siblinghood, loving violence, forever.
Hours later, I feel my pouch being unstuck from the floor. Light floods my vision as a hand reaches in and fishes me out. It’s Hello Kitty, fingers sweaty and shaking from exhaustion as she folds me around a $20 and hands me to her drummer.
“For once I actually get to pay you,” she says.
“Just when the show is at your house,” the drummer laughs before pulling Hello Kitty in for a hug.
“That was incredible, I love you. Get home safe.”
The drummer crushes me in her fist and nods before shouldering her cymbal bag. Later, relegated to the drummer’s wallet on her train ride home, I pray that I never circulate out of this scene. That this girl doesn’t spend me on Uniqlo socks or Target ibuprofen or even drinks at a bigger venue. Surely there’s some greater reason that cash is the currency of choice in DIY spaces; I’m worth so much more here.