Punk’s not dead, but I might be
NOFX’s final tour proves to be an endurance test for the mind, body, and soul
It’s 11:30 a.m. and the woman standing in line to get into Punk in Drublic festival has already pissed herself. I don’t know if this is a good or bad omen.
The woman obviously doesn’t know. Or, if she does, she doesn’t care. She just keeps drunkenly yell-talking at her companion, a bro who listens with the faded attention of someone who’s spent a lifetime standing front row at concerts, next to the speaker with no ear plugs. I look to my two pals—Tony and Taylor—as if to confirm I’m not seeing things, and they nod. We all see it. We try to have a conversation, but our attention always veers back to the big, dark stain in the seat of her pants.
I suppose if we were better people, we’d alert her to the situation, but truth be told, we’re all kind of afraid. Not just of her, but of everything. But this is what we signed up for. How could the final NOFX tour not be a straight-up horror show?
And I don’t even really like NOFX, who are the headliners at Punk in Drublic. Name any other punk band during the ‘90s and there’s a good chance I was obsessed with them. Rancid, Bouncing Souls, Face to Face, Bad Religion, No Use For a Name, Descendents, H20—these were the bands that soundtracked my high school years. But NOFX? NOThankU. For me, their songs always felt unnecessarily mean in the guise of being funny. Their contrarianism put me off before I even knew what that word was.
But NOFX aren’t the only band playing today. Supporting bands include The Vandals and Descendents—two bands I’ve genuinely loved for most of my life. Let’s also not forget that admission to Punk in Drublic includes three hours of all-you-can-drink beer tastings. Moderation and good choices: today is not your day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more perfect storm for a shitshow, and I just can’t say no to morbid curiosity.
Security wavespee-pants lady through with no hassle, and that makes me happy. Why not have a day when we can be our worst selves? I can’t help but feel inspired.
Waterfront Park opens up before us like a proto-Pompeii, a paradise on the verge of blowing up. It’s a sea of aged punks, beer-bloated, graying at the edges, uniformed in Dickies shorts, black band t-shirts, and stiff-brimmed hats worn low. Everybody looks like they’ve either been to jail or on their way there. The ratio of men to women is 10:1.
Far be it from me to be the punk police, but NOFX represents my least favorite flavor of punk—that is, the kind that relishes in moral ambiguity, nihilism and provocation. For them, punk is just about being disgusting. To know what I’m talking about, just read the autobiography NOFX: The Hepatitis Bathtub and Other Stories, a hugely entertaining book written by the grossest people on the planet. I listened to the audiobook while exercising, and once had to stop mid-run and gag after listening to a graphic depiction of their drummer swallowing balloons filled with heroin.
Getting fucked up and and not giving a fuck—these are the values of the NOFX fanbase.
But before I get too high on my horse, I must remember that I, too, am here. No better than the rest of these beer swilling chuds.
We saunter over to the first beer tent. At first, we stick to lagers with low ABVs. There are eight hours until NOFX goes on, so restraint is key if we want to survive (always a good sign when you start thinking in terms of survival when you’re at an event).
But there are just so many beer options! Moderation is dumb! The ABVs go up and my IQ goes down. I switch hit between beers and seltzers because seltzers are clear, which, in my head, equates to hydration. Always good to stay hydrated.
Suddenly it’s been three hours and someone yells last call. We rush-waddle over to the nearest beer tent to fill our sticky little tasting cups before it’s bye bye to free beer beer.
In the aftermath, my friends and I stand around with eyes defocused, relishing in memories that took place just mere minutes prior. Remember when we were drinking beer? That was rad. As we bask in the stupor, horns from ska band Mad Caddies drift through Waterfront Park. I may be drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to get excited for late ‘90s ska. With four hours left until the main event, and the dread of being sober amidst a crowd of Mad Max characters, we begin eating edibles.
If you’re familiar with The Hero’s Journey, this is our abyss.
We push our way into the crowd waiting to see The Vandals. Everyone else has the same sort of zombie thing going on, so it’s not very difficult to navigate through the mass. Or I assume it wouldn’t be for someone in their right mind, but the edibles are kicking in and everyone has become a ghoul from an anti-meth ad: bulging eyes, missing teeth, Iggy Pop skin. I can’t stop staring.
The Vandals start and the crowd ignites. People keep touching me. I don’t like it. My buddy Tony turns to me and says “We are in Beau is Afraid”—referencing a movie that’s pretty much a 3-hour anxiety attack—and the statement is so true and funny that I start laughing. I can’t stop. I push my way out of the crowd before The Vandals even finish their second song, and spend the next 20 minutes laughing in a Port-A-Potty.
Now alone, wandering Waterfront Park by myself, I find a pizza truck selling “spicy pies.” I’m not really hungry, but I like the idea of holding a slice of pizza, because it gives my hands something to do. I’ve become self-conscious about how not normal my hands appear. I text Tony and tell him “i’m by the spicy pies,” with zero follow-up explanation. While waiting in the line, I practice my order—”two spicy pies, please”—but when I get to the front, the bug-eyed server, who looks as if he hadn't prepared for the level of depravity at Punk in Drublic, asks if “this is the headliner?” I’m not really sure what he means so I hold up two fingers and say, “There are still two left.” I’m certain my eyes drift in opposite directions when I say this. Just a straight up madman.
The Vandals set ends and somehow I find my friends. They look like they’ve been through the ringer. We all do. Have we gotten too old for this shit? We could just leave—we’re goddamn adults with jobs!
But something compels me to stay. Punk rock is a game of endurance, and I’m not going to bail. If all these other wasteoids can do it, I surely can.
Just then, we watch a shirtless man with a severe surgery scar across his belly drift in from the security line. His stomach, a sinister smiling face. The idea that people are just arriving is unfathomable to me. Why hasn’t there been a public health warning? Stay away at all costs.
Ten minutes later, we see the same shirtless man dragged off in handcuffs. A woman near us says wistfully, earnestly: “He seemed like a really nice guy.”
We pass a stand selling $11 boxes of flavored alcohol called Beatboxes, and it seems like a good idea to jump back onto the booze train. By now, the sky has clouded over, and the sun has begun its descent. Everything becomes muted and eerie, and I’m afraid of what nighttime will hold. Best to taper the fear and dull the senses. I pop the top off the Beatbox and when the artificial flavor graces my tongue, my brain is like, “oh boy, here we go again [laugh track/applause].”
We return to the stage to stake out a spot to watch Descendents, but Tony and Taylor remember that they should probably eat something. They have me wait by a light post while they find food. It feels like a plot to escape. I decide that if they leave me, I won’t hold it against them. I wait where they tell me, nearly hugging the light post, drinking my alcoholic juice box like a goddamned frightened child. While they’re gone, I witness no less than three medical emergencies. Drunken zombies yell for everyone to clear a path so EMTs can remove bodies. I watch a man stumble out of a mosh pit—which is somehow happening despite no music—both of his shoes are gone. What happened to your shoes, sir? He stands there, looking lost, the cuffs of his pants trampled beneath his soiled socks. This is my Normandy, I think.
Almost as if it was scripted by a TV writer, Tony and Taylor return right as Descendents begin their set. My friends are back! The band rules! This Beatbox is delicious!
This whole vibe shift? Here for it. This is the punk rock that I came for. Descendents are tight, sounding the same as they do on Everything Sucks—an album that pretty much got me through high school. They even play, “Thank you,” a song that still chokes me up every time I hear it. As Descendents rage through their set, I can’t help but feel they’ve accomplished the impossible: turn 10,000 surly degenerates into a united mass of joy.
By the time NOFX finally takes the stage, it feels like we’ve all lived through something. We survived. I can’t even be a hater at this point, and when the rapid fire riff that begins “Linoleum” kicks in, I’m singing along and pumping my fists with everyone else. The crowd expands and contracts from the mosh pits that explode throughout the park. Discarded Beatbox boxes litter these newly formed open spaces, and that reminds me to drink another. I watch as two shirtless men try to light a shirt on fire in the middle of one mosh pit. It certainly feels like we’ve all died and ended up in hell, but, like, a funny hell.
I leave before the band ends. As memorable as this day has been, I have no desire to see what Downtown San Diego looks like when all the freaks are set loose. It’s been fun to spend a day being my worst self, but what about the people who this is their lifestyle? What will they do now that NOFX is calling it quits? I imagine a big big slime pit where old-school punks can go to drink cheap beer, do drugs, and throw shoes. Someone should make that.
The Lyft driver taking me home plays classical music, for which I’m thankful. Too much noise for one day. Too much punk.
RIP Rick Froberg
I never knew Rick Froberg, but Hot Snakes was the band that convinced me San Diego was a cool place to live. By all accounts from friends who did know him, he seemed like a kind, genuine person in a world that’s increasingly unkind and disingenuous. But you didn’t have to know him personally to know that he was an artistic genius—a cursory listen to any of his bands would prove that. What a monumental loss, and my heart goes out to everyone who knew him.
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Brilliant, as always. I agree 100% with every single sentiment of this post.