Screw 32, A.F.I.
Sometime in 1995
Seaman’s Lodge
Nevada City, CA
Flashback Friday
The Best Concert I Ever…Let’s Just Leave It At That
Holy shit, thought I. It may have even been a weeknight –though probably not because Marnie was over at…wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Everything in its place. I was young and stupid. As in: Young. The marvelous and painful age of thirteen. Having embraced the culture of punk rock at an early age (thanks predominantly due to the leading hand of my two older sisters), I’d recently started going to wonderful and sporadic shows at this tee-pee sized hut in my hometown’s neighboring Nevada City. The venue, if one were to venture so far as to call it that, was dubbed The Seaman’s Lodge, and the name in and of itself obviously incited regular Beavis and/or Buttheadesque chuckles. Profanity aside, I saw some of the best shows there ever. For whatever reason the culture of punk rock found a cozy and welcome dwelling in Nevada City and lots of great bands from all over would happily swoop in and bloody-up some noses before heading down to Sacramento or the Bay Area. And Seaman’s Lodge in Pioneer Park was often the hub for such events, despite the fact that I’ve had bedrooms scarcely smaller than that place. Maybe these bands just liked the idea of putting “Seaman” on their flier.
The night in question promised to be one for the ages: the bill included Screw 32, a band from the East Bay who was on a rapid incline to spikey mosh popularity. They’d already been in a couple Thrasher Skate Videos, but this was a year or so before they were signed to Fat Wreck Chords and they were still playing at places like our humble little shitshow.
The other ass-kicker was A.F.I. They too had yet to achieve the huge success they saw in later years. This was even before Hunter Burgan was in the band, a guy who grew up in my hometown and was close homies with my oldest sister, Rachel since we were kiddies. I still remember waving to him from the school bus when I was in Kindergarten. It was one of those weird moments that just stick with you. I think I remember it because it was my first version of name-dropping. All my classmates seeing me say hello via gesture to a Big Kid. Which is funny because the exact same thing would happen were I to see him on a public bus in Southern California today. Yeah, I’d surely say, I totally know Hunter Burgan.
I had heard A.F.I. through one or two of my sister Marnie’s friends (as me nor any of my rugrat companions were nowhere near cool enough to own any of their albums) and I’d been dreaming of the day I’d see them play their fast as fuck jams live.
Now, allow me to preface this all with another important aspect to our scenario: every time I went to one of these little shows back then, I was inevitably shitless with nerves in the hours leading up. I was always in the tiny minority of pre-high schoolers, and sometimes I’d be the only little shit there. Besides, any of the kids my age that would be at one of these shows were inevitably from Nevada City, which was code for saying they were eons of Cool beyond me. Being from Grass Valley made me immediately poor and white trash. Which was true, but…let’s just say the social hierarchies of teenagers are completely fucked and leave it at that. Either way, I always felt like I was being laughed at by all the older kids. When punk rock flourishes as it does in a small town like Nevada City, the outcasts become the badasses and there can develop a sort of reverse discrimination. It’s like you’re not unlikable enough to be liked by the severely unlikable. Or some shit.
I also felt out of place because I didn’t feel like my Cobain inspired attire and long greasy hair was punk enough for the mosh pits. Looking back, I’m sure they enjoyed pushing my skinny ass around in said pits. You’re welcome, all you early 90’s dirtbag enthusiasts. You know who you are.
Either way, so it went every time, I would be so fucking intimidated by the thought of going that I would come within inches of finding an excuse to opt out. Then I’d go and have the best time ever and buy a 7” or whatever my saved lunch money could afford. Then I’d brag about it at school the next day, my friends sitting around and listening like they were hearing tales of someone walking on the moon.
Tonight was the worst though. Holy shit. It was gonna be a big one. The tiny burg of Seaman’s Lodge promised to bust at all four corners. My sister Marnie was staying at her best friend, Ryan’s house and they were gonna meet me there. I was getting a ride with my mom who, as we crawled ever closer to the venue, asked me what time she should come pick me up. Punk as fuck right? I told her the show was going to end at 9 because that was my cut-off though I deep down knew it would be later.
We got to the Lodge and there were the usual rag-tag early birds sitting around smoking and looking cool and waiting for the doors to open. I didn’t see my sister or Ryan so I sat awkwardly on the front steps feeling like I was on a stage playing the biggest dumbass in history. You know, they typical sentiments of a thirteen year old. That was when it happened. My mom, having gone down the hill of the parking lot to circle around and make her exit, pulled up to where I was sitting and motioned for me to approach the car. I could hear people behind me saying things like “No, Mommy. I don’t want to go home,” and shit like that and I wanted to bury my face in the grass. My mom said, “Those guys down there said it doesn’t end until 10. At least.”
I could still hear the jeering behind me as I mumbled something and, just wanting it to end, circled around the car and got back in. “Forget it then,” I said. “Never mind. I thought it got out at 9 but I guess I’ll just not go.”
“Well you don’t have to do that. You can go. I’ll just pick you up early if you want to meet me out here at 9.”
I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted her to drive. The thought of leaving the show early to get picked up by my mom was worse than not going at all. “It’s fine, mom. Just…let’s just go.”
And so it happened. We left. And it turned out that I missed the best fucking show to ever grace the community of Nevada City. My sister told me that nothing like it had ever been seen by her or anyone else at Seamen’s Lodge or anywhere. It was just one big riotous pool of amazingness. People crowd surfing and shit. And I never forgave myself for being a little bitch and not going.
I later saw both A.F.I. and Screw 32 many times, but it just never lived up to what I imagined that night being. Nothing ever could. And so I end on a sad note, but with a duality of messages: One, if you’re a little guy or gal, or for whatever reason you’re intimidated by going to shows, please just fucking go. For me. It’s never as scary as you think it’s gonna be. And remember, punk rockers are like bears, they’re more scared of you than you are of them. My second message goes out to all the parents out there who might be leery of letting your young one go to such late-night charades. Let them go! The amazing memories and priceless lessons they will learn far outweigh any minor injuries they may acquire in the mosh pit. Besides, they’ll have enough regrets by the time they reach 16. Might as well save them the horrors of missing out on Moist opening for The Queers at Seaman’s…this article suddenly got weird.
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