The long awaited debut LP from NYC’s FLOWER “Hardly A Dream” is finally set to arrive.
FLOWER’s tedious approach to writing/creating/drawing their debut LP was carefully thought out and the result is a monumental anarcho punk /crust record.
“Hardly A Dream” Takes us on a bleak journey through the dark side of society. As soon as you drop the needle a dark atmosphere is immediately created with a slow intro featuring arpeggio guitar work that builds into pummeling d-beat crust. The albums vocals then leave you with a feeling of being crushed by the ever-present weight of living through our modern world of late stage capitalism that was built on the falsehoods of the so called American dream, religious hypocrisy’s, nationalism, and the greed of humankind.
FLOWER take many cues from predecessors and are most often (and rightfully so) compared to NAUSEA but they also take a heavy influence from ANTISECT, SACRILEGE & other greats. The artwork has a very RUDIMENTARY PENI feel and the record comes with an amazing 24.5 X 34.75 CRASS style poster jacket. All art work was meticulously hand drawn and overseen by the guitarist Willow in true DIY style and spirit. Willow was also cool enough to draw up a special shirt for the record release featuring an alternative PROFANE EXISTENCE backprint!
Dark, heavy, galloping crust from the streets of London. AGNOSY is back to present us with a ferocious beast of an album that can only be forged by the anger and frustration of living in today’s world. “When Daylight Reveals The Torture” aggressively attacks evils such the current rise of fascism and animal abuse. It intelligently and passionately touches on the Afrin invasion and the revolution in Rojava and shows nothing but utter disgust toward the arrogance of humankind’s lust for greed and power that will inevitably lead us down paths of war and environmental devastation.
While lyrically AGNOSY are much more politicly straight forward this time around than on previous releases, musically they have expanded on their sound to create a dark and moody atmosphere while at the same time staying crust as fuck. To say they know what they are doing would be an understatement from this band of vets whose members have played in HIATUS, HEALTH HAZARD, and BEGINNING OF THE END.
Long galloping intros are followed up by traditional d-beat, fierce solo’s are then meet with vicious vocals and pulverizing bass in a brilliant recording captured by Lewis Johns at The Ranch Production House and was mastered by Brad Boatright at Portland’s legendary Audiosiege. We then pressed on deluxe heavyweight 150-gram vinyl, printed on reverse board jackets, and included an 11in x 22in gatefold insert to bring you a high quality and truly epic record.
The legendary crust classic is now available once again!
Authorized and released in cooperation with MISERY, S.D.S., & MCR Japan & Remastered by Jack Butcher at Enormous Door Studio we are beyond proud to make one one the most rare and sought after crust records available once again.
Fuck the scavengers charging punks exuberant amounts of cash on ebay and discogs. We worked meticulously with both bands and with Jack at Enormous door to bring you an updated version that kicks major audio ass while maintaining the original authenticity.
Released on deluxe 150 gram vinyl. With an 11×11 inner sleeve. Black Paper Jacket. Reverse Board Jacket.
Earlier this year we re-issued this legendary LP and sold over 950 copies in just 4 short months. For this second pressing we pressed 490 copies on Krystal Clear & 485 on Grey Vinyl with Black Mist.
Stench crust the way it was meant to be played!
The UK crust scene of the 1980’s inspired band after band but no other band has ever reincarnated the sound of that time as well as SWORDWIELDER. Quite simply if you like crust, then this the album you have waited decades for.
Review by Craig Hayes from “Your Last Rites”… Swordwielder – System Overlord Heavyweight punk fanatics take note: System Overlord is a fucking triumph. The long-awaited sophomore album from Gothenburg stenchcore band Swordwielder is a brooding behemoth, constructed from the filthiest and heftiest strains of punk and metal. System Overlord shimmers with apocalyptic visions, and it’s overflowing with all the grim atmospherics and intimidating intensity that defines consummate crushing crust.
Too much hype? No way… And no apologies, either. Swordwielder deal in definitive stenchcore on System Overlord, and much like their full-length debut, 2013’s Grim Visions of Battle, the band’s latest release is a knockout. Swordwielder’s harsh, gruff and dark sound owes a significant debt to old school icons like Amebix, Axegrinder, Deviated Instinct, and Antisect, and they mix and mangle their influences and leave ’em to rot on the battlefield.
Plenty of hammering rage drives System Overlord tracks like “Violent Revolution,” “Savage Execution” and “Cyborgs,” and thundering epics like “Corrupt Future” and “Northern Lights” exhibit subtler strengths, mixing guttural growls and clean vocals with crashing percussion and dirge-laden riffs. Connoisseurs of corpse-dragging crust will love the brute-force belligerence of “Absolute Fear,” “Nuclear Winter,” and “Second Attack,” which rain down like merciless mortar barrages. As a rule, all of System Overlord‘s mammoth tracks chug and churn with grinding muscle, while reeking of squalor and decay.
Swordwielder exudes tightly coiled aggression from start to finish here—songs rise from the ashes of desolation, and resounding calls for action and resistance ring loud. If you’re a fan of heavy-hitters like Fatum, War//Plague, Carnage, Zygome, Cancer Spreading or (insert your favorite hefty crust crew here), System Overlord‘s trampling tempo and strapping sound are bound to appeal.
WILT combine old school metal and crust in a perfect hybrid that very few others have ever achieved. Prepare for a LP thats equal parts galloping d-beat crust reminiscent of bands like HELLSHOCK, and INSTINCT OF SURVIVAL, meets old school death metal in the vein of BOLT THROWER, MEMORIAM (old) SEPULTURA.
Here is a track from the upcoming LP
“Sermon for the Bootlickers”
Despite the inculcation of helplessness within each there remains great power. Ill at ease with such makes us ill. Learn to see the hand that feeds for what it is. You’ve been fooled if you think you’ve got no power. Refuse to be reduced to a consumer you’re a human being. Define yourself by more than wealth. Define yourself as a human. You don’t need what you’re being sold. Bend your knee to no authority but your own mind. You have the power to avoid the gilded trap. Avarice is what you’re conditioned for. Break the mold discover what’s really valuable to you.
Wed, July 12 Hanover / Germany / Confirmed Thu, July 13 Bremen Fri, July 14 Mulhem / Germany / Confirmed Sat, July 15 Gent, Belgium / CrustPicnic / Confirmed Sun, July 16 Paris / France or Amsterdam / Nederland July 18 North-East France or West Germany July 19 Freiburg / Germany TBC July 20 Winterthur / Switzerland Fri, July 21 Zurich / Switzerland Sat, July 22 Biel / Switzerland July 23 Lausanne or Geneva / Switzerland
July 24 Geneva / Switzerland or Grenoble france
July 25 Treviso (or Milano or Bologna or Verona) / Italy
July 26 Ljubljana Slovenia Confirmed
July 27 No Sanctuary chilling day
Fri, July 28 NoSanctuary Confirmed
Sat, July 29 NoSanctuary Confirmed
July 30 Ilirska Bistrica/Slovenia or Vienna/Austria or Budapest/Hungary.
July 31 Wiena / Austrai or Budapest or / Slovakia
August 1 Brno / Czech Republic.
August 2 Prague / Czech Republic
August 3 Finsterwalde / Germany TBC
Fri, August 4 Leipzig / Germany TBC
Sat, August 5 Berlin / Germany / confirmed
August 6 Dresden
August 7 Wroclaw / Poland
August 8 Warsaw / Poland
August 9 Poznan / Poland
August 10 Szczecin/Poland TBC
Fri, August 11 Rostock / confirmed
Sat, August 12 Hamburg TBC
APPALACHIAN TERROR UNIT – “WE DON’T NEED THEM” LP – EXIST #156
“We Don’t Need Them” is the second full-length record from West Virginia puns Appalachian Terror Unit. ATU have become known throughout the years as being one of the most politically charged bands in the current punk scene. This new record is an all out attack on today’s society that takes ATU to a new level of intensity both lyrically and musically. The combination of the beautiful and thought provoking gatefold cover (with art designed by Stiv of War) along with the brilliant recording and mastering job by Jay Matheson at the Jam Room take this record even further.
Song subjects include the horrors of war, police brutality, destruction of the environment, rape culture, consumerism and much more. Expect a very heavy and much angrier approach from a band that has been around the block and matured their sound. Seven raging new tunes including the epic fourteen and a half minute track“We Don’t Need Them”, a song that will one day be ranked among similar greats as the SUBHUMANS “From the Cradle to the Grave” and AUS ROTTEN “And Now Back to Our Programming”.
This is a split release between PROFANE EXISTENCE, RUIN NATION, SKULD RECORDS, and APPALACHIAN TERROR UNIT.
-Gatefold Jacket designed by Stiv art. Printed on Matte UV coated 20 point recycled board with soy based inks.
-Fold out lyric sheet with artwork by Daniel Lerner and Timothy Tanker.
-Large 24 x 17 inch poster
WAR//PLAGUE / VASTATION – “UNITED IN DARKNESS” SPLIT EP – EXIST #158
Back with some serious raging crust and hardcore punk. Both WAR//PLAGUE and VASTATION have teamed up to delivery a fierce and socio/politically charged record that will fulfill your craving. Bringing both the Minneapolis and Portland DIY communities together!
This is WAR//PLAGUEs 7th release that has 2 songs with a cover track that pays homage to TOTALITARs “Sin Egen MotstÂndare”. Signed, sealed and approved by TOTALITAR themselves! This current release for the band is a prelude to their upcoming LP and 8th release. Minneapolis crust punk veterans that prove their dedication and sincerity to the Minneapolis and global DIY punk scene.
VASTATION once again are out for blood! This band has proven time and time again that they are at the forefront of the stench/crust movement with influences stemming from Sacrilege and Bolt Thrower! These guys have put Portland back on the map again with music that brings brutal rage and a thought provoking element to the DIY scene.
This is split release between PROFANE EXISTENCE and ORGANIZE AND ARISE
This June / July the newest member of the PROFANE EXISTENCE family, Portland’s VASTATION will be touring the west coast of the United States. They will be teamed up with WILT from Seattle for the entirety of the tour. If that’s not enough crust to rip your face off, a few selected shows will also feature BÄDR VOGU and British Columbia’s legendary ISKRA!
VASTATION is a somewhat newer band that formerly went by the name NIGHT NURSE. Musically VASTATION play raw galloping stenchy metal crust reminiscent of old peacevile bands. Their songs feature elements of greats like BOLT THROWER and AXEGRINDER mixed with DISCHARGE and EXTINCTION OF MANKIND. Later this month VASTATION will be dropping two incredible split EPS. The first one is with Minneapolis’s WAR//PLAGUE. It will be released on PROFANE EXISTENCE RECORDS and on ORGANIZE AND ARISE. The second split is with MUTILATED VETERANS and will be released on MORBID REALITY RECORDS.
“You can’t put your arm around a memory, don’t try” – Johnny Thunders
I rose at 9 am to the freezing air blowing through the valley. It FINALLY stopped raining at least, and the sun is peaking out of the clouds high up above Humbug Mountain. My usual morning grogginess has now elevated to include blurred vision and severe disorientation as I stumble out of camp to take a quick shower. As I return to my tent, Dan offers me his old biking gloves since they’ve worn down considerably and he ended up buying a new pair. I answer in the affirmative and he balls them up and tosses them over the thorn bush separating our camps. I thank him profusely, as I’m looking forward to doing away with the dull ache in my left palm that has plagued me for days.
I leave the camp in a good mood after I say my goodbyes to folks, and upon exiting the park Tristan catches up with me and we bike together for the first hour or so. We chat about Australia and I tell him about my travels out there, and he tells me about his life in British Columbia now. My knee is killing me this morning as the cold air is not doing my joints any favors. I bite my lip and press on, hoping that once I get warmed up it’ll become more bearable. If this wasn’t my last big ride, I would have stopped to rest it for a couple days for fear of causing damage, but since I’m almost at the finish line I press on. I stop at the top of a hill to remove my rain shell, as cumbersome and unnecessary as it’s become in the now direct sunlight, and Tristan continues on as I wave him goodbye. He mentions that he might stay at Jedediah Smith State Park where I’ll be tonight, even though it’s a few miles off of the 101.
It was an easy 20 miles to Gold Beach, as odd as it must be to read “easy 20 miles” when referring to cycling, but once you get into the rhythm of your bike tour this is how things start to seem. There was little to no headwind all day, and the terrain was bearable with amazing views of the coast (as usual). I ended up making great time, so I lingered in Gold Beach a bit longer than I normally would have. As I’m crossing town I spot the holy grail of bike tour stops – a used bookstore, complete with a teahouse AND free wifi. Better yet, I walk in and I see my buddy Tristan reading and catching up on emails as well! This was my greatest find of the day and I bask in its glory for an hour and a half while I chat with Tristan and enjoy my tea. The barista is super friendly and accommodating about my freakish-vegan-“how do you live??” dietary needs and this also warms me up inside. After Tristan heads on, I linger for about 45 minutes longer, transitioning from “I don’t want to get up right now” to “I want to stay here forever” before I finally force myself to move on.
Another beautiful 26 miles and I find myself in Brookings, OR – home of the trench coat lady. It definitely has a “southern Oregon” feel to it as I roll into town. As I’m on the northern outskirts of town I pass the South Coast Lumber Company with a sign welcoming me to Brookings. I found it unfortunate that they didn’t add a tagline of “Please enjoy the surrounding forests while you can, as we are actively destroying them.” Maybe they have a suggestions box I can drop a note in next time I come through?
The first interaction I witness while arriving in downtown was a man in a roadwork van have a shouting match with a woman at a fruit stand. I couldn’t make out what they were yelling at first, but as I passed I heard her yell, “BECAUSE I DON’T DO BUSINESS LIKE THAT. THAT’S WHY!” as he responded with, “YEAH BUT BILL DOES!” which was met with “YEAH WELL BILL AIN’T HERE.” I let the battle of “Brooking’s Fruit Stand” rage on as I continued down main street.
Once again I found a McDonald’s, stole their wifi to find vegan options in town and then treated myself to the third restaurant meal of my trip. It’s funny considering that I kept telling myself “one and only one meal out” before the trip started, but this Thai place looked too good to pass up. Plus, I’m worth it! As I’m using the bathroom at the restaurant I noticed some graffiti on the wall claiming that “Bam Margera was here” in 2007 complete with that stupid heartagram symbol. First of all, Bam, you spelled “wuz” wrong. Second, I doubt this was actually you anyway, and even if it was who would care that you ate here? I don’t know, maybe people do. I constantly underestimate the absurdity of celebrity worship in this country, and I pleasantly have been able to avoid much of it by not having steady access to internet on this trip.
Brookings, like most Southern Oregon towns, is patriotic to the point of discomfort for me. I mean, Nationalism is shitty to begin with, but there’s a weird biblical air to some of the stuff I’ve seen in town. I passed a motel that had a marquis out front reading “The patriots blood is the seed of the freedoms tree [sic]” which turned my stomach in a weird way. What the fuck does that even mean? I think. As I’m rolling past, I remember that the 4th of July is coming up in the next few days, explaining the existence of all the firework stands and tattered american flags. I’m filled with a huge sense of urgency to get home before the nightmare known as the 4th of July descends upon the campgrounds across the Pacific Northwest. “Celebrate a place you just happened to be born in that’s divided by invisible and arbitrary borders by blowing things up and scaring wildlife!” What a great way to celebrate the birth of a nation! (Do I even need to say that this last statement is laden with sarcasm?)
I make my way through and out of Brookings, the last town in Oregon, and finally fulfill my destiny by biking over the California border! A wave of emotion washes over me as I spot the “Welcome to California” sign on the horizon, and in that moment I found it so difficult to believe that I’ve ridden this junky 70’s Scwhinn nearly 400 miles across the state of Oregon. Nothing like the feeling of success that only an overly-ambitious and terribly under-prepared adventure can bring. I stop and take about a dozen photos, trying to time my iPodto take photos of me casually leaning against the sign post, and failing miserably in getting a decent picture. Right on the other side of the border I stop to use the bathroom at a gas station in the parking lot of a casino. I find out they have free wifi so I’m quick to post on my social media accounts that I made it to California, and that I now am officially beginning my journey back home. It feels like the end of an era, and yet I’m still very, very far from home.
I breeze through several eery small towns and follow the signs advertising the alternate Pacific Coast bike route. Most of these routes don’t take me anywhere near the coast, and instead I find myself cycling through sweltering farm land. At one point I pass a field of cows just as one of them begins to sit down. As she settles in I yell out to her “Yeah that’s right! Take a load off, my friend! Take 5!” only to realize right after I’m done shouting that the house next door is full of people and has all of its windows down. Leaving no way that they didn’t hear the weirdo on the bike shouting at a group of cows. Fuck it. My loyalty is to the cows.
A few miles past what is now referred to in my mind as “Cow City,” I’m making my way through more farmland and approach a small farmhouse on the edge of a field. Suddenly a small terrier comes running across the backyard barking at me as I get closer. Just as I begin to think “Oh, there’s a fence there, it’ll be fine”, this dog LEAPS through a jagged whole in the chain link fence and charges straight for me! I SLAM on my breaks and almost skid to a stop, missing him with my front tire by inches. Only really missing him because I turned my wheel to the side just in time as he bolted toward me. As I struggle to get a hold of my heavy and awkward bike, he begins darting back and forth, nipping at my feet as he does so. Seconds later a man in a pickup truck pulls alongside me and laughingly says “Oh, that’s Charlie. Just tell him to go home.” and pulls away without a word more. I start to sternly say “GO HOME, CHARLIE!” as he darts back and forth in front of me and gets shockingly close to biting my front wheel. Soon I hear a little girl in the field yelling at him as well, demanding he go home and yelling “BAD DOG!” He refuses to back down, so I try to just pedal off and once again he lunges and out of fear of running him over I stop. The girl storms out of the house and scolds him, and he finally retreats a few paces back from me. I see my moment and take off. He almost pursues me for a second and then gives up as he’s repeatedly told “BAD DOG!” by the girl and picked up and placed back in the yard. That dog was willing to stop me from passing that house if his life depended on it!
Down the road I pass Pelican Bay State Prison, which is weirdly part of this “scenic alternate route” that these signs are leading me down. I figure though that if you’re going to tour the U.S., you might as well see all the prisons, considering that there’s such a huge percentage of people incarcerated in this country. Prison is just about as American as apple pie and lifted trucks after all. A few miles later I meet a couple of goats hanging out in someone’s front yard on leashes, and then the world seems alright again.
I am now in officially uncharted territory. Well, uncharted in the sense that I didn’t print out maps for Northern California, so I honestly don’t know where the heck I am and how far I am from Crescent City. I’m supposed to transfer over to Highway 99 a few miles before I even pass through the town, and I get the sneaking suspicion that I’ve overshot it as the day stretches on. An hour after my first feeling of “Oh shit I’m lost” I enter the city limits of Crescent City. Cursing myself, my bike and anything and anyone else I can blame for this debacle I pull over in the parking lot of a motel to try and pull up a map on my Ipod. As I’m checking the map I realize I overshot my turnoff by about 10 miles, which feels like an insane amount after biking for around 75 miles today already. Angered but not deterred, I finally find a road nearby that’s a straight shot to Highway 99, and the campground that’s listed is just a few miles past that. I make my way across Crescent City, and realize as I cruise that it’s a pretty rough place. I pass run down trailer parks replete with fighting and screaming residents, garbage all over the roads and giant monster trucks roaring past me. I also bike past abandoned factories and mills out on this rural road, a sure sign of lost jobs and economic disparity. Some areas of this town remind me a lot of Detroit, but probably in the next few decades a lot of cities will grow to resemble Detroit as well (I love Detroit though, just need to clarify that).
Amazingly the map I downloaded is still up on my Ipod when I stop to check how much farther I have to go. Unfortunately, the map claims that there should be a campground where I’m standing, but all I see are more goats. I’m now on the rim of the Jedediah Smith State Forest, but no signs indicate a campground anywhere. I’m almost panicked as I’m rounding 80 miles and can’t seem to find my home for the night. I make it to the junction for Highway 99 and decide to stop at a small apartment building to ask for directions.
As I roll into the lot I see a big group of guys replacing a tire on a Ford Bronco, and decide not to bother them (plus the added unease of approaching a huge group of dudes to ask for directions), I pull up alongside a guy sitting on his porch. I ask him if he knows where the campground is, and he doesn’t look up. I ask again, and again no response. I ask again, and this time he finally sees me and says “Uhh…what?” I ask a 4th time and he again says “What?” The 5th time I’m about to give up, just as he starts to sputter something out, because I look past him into the apartment and realize how sketchy this whole scene is. I see people inside rustling around, looking FREAKED out that I’m standing near their doorway, and finally a woman rail-thin with gnarly scratches all over her face and eyes bugging out comes out and asks what I want. I repeat what I’m looking for and she finally calms down, “OH, yeah that’s like 20 miles up the mountain” as she points toward the 99. “Oh fuck, are you serious? 20 miles?” I say. “Yeah, yeah. It’s way up there man. It’s almost all the way at the top of the mountain. I can’t believe you’re riding up there.” FUCK! WHY?!
I start to pull out of the parking lot to take on this stupid and seemingly unnecessary challenge when all the guys fixing the Bronco tire stand up and face me. There’s probably 8 of them, many of them sporting gang tattoos on their faces, and there’s an awkward silence for a few moments. One of them then asks “Where you trying to go, fool?” I answer and they all immediately brighten up as one of the bigger guys, with probably the most facial tattoos, responds in a jovial and warm manner, “Oh yeah man! That’s just right up there! Shit, you’re biking up that mountain?” I respond yes and they all let out a collective sigh, and he responds with “Damn, be careful on that road, homie. There’s no bike lane and people drive like dicks. It’s fucked up.” I agree and tell them I’ve already biked like 80 miles today and I just wanted to sleep, they all seemed pretty impressed and told me that it sucks I have so much farther to go. As I’m about to leave, a skinny guy with droopy eyes asks, “Hey though, you got any trees?” Assuming he meant weed (or “marijuana” for the layperson) I let out an awkward and drawn out, “Uhhhhhhhhhh. No.” and we all have a good laugh. I thank the gentlemen and hop back on my bike, them shouting encouragement toward me as I begin my trek up the hill. Making friends everywhere I go, I guess. What a day.
I begin my last and final ascent of the day, up into the massive California redwoods. It’s still daylight out, but upon entering the state forest it’s soon blacked out, leaving me debating whether I should have put my bike lights on. The two lane highway is not well traveled at this hour, but the people who do travel down it do not drive in a courteous manner and I find myself yelling, swearing and spitting at RV’s and other cars as they fly past me. In what seems like no time at all I begin seeing signs for the state park campground, totally quashing the original estimation given to me by the folks at the apartment building that it was “20 miles up at the top of the mountain.” I’m thankful that they’re wrong, and I pull into the state park sore, tired, aching and slightly lonely. I pull up to the ranger kiosk, and wait a good 30 seconds before the woman sitting with her back to me realizes I’m there. The redness in her eyes and slow manner of her speech leads me to believe that she’s been “doing some pot” during working hours. I pay her the typical $5 for the hiker/biker site and then ask her if any other bikes came in today. She says no, that there was only 1 person out at the hiker/biker area, and I immediately felt bummed that I won’t be seeing Tristan or any of the other people I’ve met on this trip tonight.
I pull into the grounds, and I pick a site that borders up against a massive old growth redwood tree. It must have been at least 50 feet tall, I couldn’t see the top as the glare from the sun was too much to bear. Speaking of bears, apparently one had been spotted at camp recently so I’m advised to keep all my food in the “bear box” in my campground. Normally I don’t bother and just sleep with food in my tent, but this time I lock it in there as I’m instructed. I get my tent set up and walk the 1/4 mile to the showers on a small path through the woods. Upon arrival I realize that the showers cost $1 for 10 minutes, which is an insult compared to the FREE showers that the Oregon State campgrounds offer you. THIS IS WHY I LEFT YOU CALIFORNIA! I think, as I storm out of the bathroom. I pass some kids tossing a frisbee around on my way back and I awkwardly have to walk through the middle of their game to get past. An uncomfortable moment passes as I interrupt their fun and they all silently stare at me as I shuffle down the path. FUCKING DEAL WITH IT!
^Sharing my campground with this fella
I get back to camp and the loneliness of the silent grounds hits me hard. Having shared campgrounds with mostly the same people every night on this trip, it feels odd to be on my own once again. I’m tempted to build a fire, goof around and swim in the nearby river, but with no one to hang out with I end up just climbing into my tent instead and continue reading my Stephen King book. Today was my last day on my bike, and tomorrow begins my hitchhiking journey home. I was originally going to bike up the 99 to Grants Pass, but I’m rapidly running out of time and I definitely have run out of energy. The 80 miles and 2,000+ ft climb to GP to link up with the 5 does not sound like a fun time to me right now, so I’m going to throw myself upon the mercy of the hitchhiking gods. Once I get to Grants Pass I’ll begin a search for a rideshare on Craigslist, and failing that I’ll find an onramp to hitch off of and hope that someone who stops will have room for my bike. As proud as I am of finishing this ride, I have to remind myself that I’m not done yet, and that tomorrow could still be potentially the hardest day I’ve seen this week. It’s still a 5 and a 1/2 hour drive back to Portland, and I could get lucky and get a ride all the way home in one go or I could be stuck on the side of the road all day and never catch one. We’ll see how it goes in the morning, but the 95 mile ride today took a lot out of me and now it’s time to sleep. Thanks for reading, friends. Wish me luck tomorrow.
“The storms are on the ocean / the heavens may cease to be / this world may lose it’s motion, love / if I prove false to thee” – The Carter Family
I woke up this morning a little past 8 am again, my body is kind of settling into a new schedule it seems. One thing I enjoy about sleeping outside isI rise when the sun does, and that in turn means I usually get to bed at a reasonable hour. Plus, there’s nothing like strenuous athletic activity to remind you that when it comes down to it “food is fuel” and “sleep is for recharging”.
I get fully packed up around 9 am and said my goodbyes and goodlucks to the few other cyclists I’ve come to be familiar with at these camps. Some of them I’ve seen only once before, but I can tell a camaraderie is building between us. I mount my bike and coast down the hill that the hiker/biker site is on and pedal out of the state park. I hung a left on the 101 and take the first few strides toward another long day of cycling.
It’s freezing cold this morning, and the air is heavy and damp. The fog is almost as thick as it was last night and I feel the need to wear my rain shell due to the crisp air. It takes me about a half hour to warm my legs up so they stop moving like rusted machinery, but once I get my rhythm back I’m jamming down the highway and making good time. Before I know it though the short 6.5 mile ride from the state park to the town of Newport is over and I once again am cruising around a new place and taking in the sights. Newport isn’t much to look at though, I gotta be honest with you. It seems pretty industrial and downtown looks just like a long, tattered, chewed up old strip mall. Probably not too unattractive when I take into account a lot of other place I’ve visited over the years, but after cycling through these quaint and extremely beautiful coastal communities, Newport seems to be in stark and unfavorable contrast.
I stop at a small market to stock up on supplies, including some athletic tape since my hand is beginning to form a painful palm bruise. The bruise started to form partway through my ride yesterday, and this morning it’s killing me to a point where I mostly ride one-handed. I didn’t bring bike gloves with me unfortunately, so wrapping it in a $2 bandage seems to be a cheap, temporary solution to this problem. The old worn rubber grips on my Schwinn cruiser bars probably weren’t designed to be comfortable for 400 mile rides, but how was I supposed to know that? Haha. After I stock up on what I need I cross the street to the Starbucks where I use their wifi and do my “not dead” checkin once again. I don’t bother getting a tea as there’s a massive line flowing from the counter all the way out on to the patio where I’m sitting, as much as I may want one this morning. Heavy, sleep laden eyes bore down on a sweaty punk guy as he uses the facilities without intending to purchase anything. “FOR SHAME!” I imagine them screaming. I can hear the irritable tone in their conversations, and it seems as if they’re probably all a moment away from strangling one another if it meant that they could get their coffee before someone else. I’ve grown tired of this town already, so I head on my way, not looking back for a second.
I continued down the highway at a good clip until I caught up with the Australian guy who I recognized from the campsite last night. I chat with him for about 15 minutes while riding in his draft, and eventually overtake him while bombing a hill and tell him I’ll see him in the next town. About a half hour later I start to see a lot of pretty impressive rock formations as I’m flying down the highway, and soon I see signs for “Seal Rock” coming up pretty soon. I decided to take a break and pulled into a turnout to check out the view. There weren’t a whole lot of seals within view, but the chain of tiny islands that sit just off shore was definitely worth the stop. Eventually the Australian guy caught up to me and pulls over as well. We exchange pleasantries and I find out his name is Tristan while we both chat about our individual rides. He’s riding solo as well, from Vancouver, BC where he’s currently living, and all the way down to San Diego. He had a considerable beard consistent with someone who’s been on the road as long as he had and he also was wearing a pretty cozy looking pair of boardshorts that I secretly envied. As is the same with pretty much everyone I’ve interacted with who’s bike touring I liked him pretty much instantly. I think it says a lot about someone’s character if they’re willing to hit the road solo, armed only with a bicycle and a tent, cover a huge distance on a small, human-powered machine and leave everything behind for an undetermined amount of time. Pretty soon Tristan and I are joined by a woman I non-verbally refer to as “the woman who never talks”, who I also recognize from the last camp and infer is riding solo as well. She pulled up about 10 feet behind us and gave us a small wave while she checked out the view. I lingered for a few more moments but decided to keep going before I got too comfortable and it gets even more difficult to press on.
Hours later I find myself climbing yet another massive hill. It’s still foggy out, and the air is becoming increasingly more damp as the day progresses. Soon I feared it would start to rain and make this ride that much more difficult. The headwind today has been considerable, and already my muscles were straining to keep a pace that I feel satisfied with. I realized I’m incredibly hungry now, on the verge of “hanger” (so hungry that you get mad) so I decided to pull off at a convenience store at the edge of an RV park at the crest of a hill. I bought an iced tea and asked if I could use the microwave for my Tasty Bite packets. The woman is extremely helpful and chats me up for a long time while I meander through the store. Even though I’m in a hurry and I’m starving I politely carry the conversation since she’s being so kind to me, even setting me up with plates and cutlery to better enjoy my food off of. I took my food to the benches out front, and as I’m eating it begins to lightly rain, which then gives way to pouring rain. I am not in the mood for this right now I think. My only hope is that this rain will cease in the next couple of hours, but my experience growing up on the coast of southern California tells me that a storm could be coming soon.
I pedaled on through the pounding rain, some moments even losing my vision because the rainfall is so heavy. I try to get in a positive mindset and stay focused to the task at hand, recognizing how this trip is proving not only to be an incredible physical strain but a mental one as well. Eventually I make my way into Yachats, which now I start to think will be my new favorite town on the Oregon Coast. It’s small and full of kite shops, surf shops and cheery looking people having a great day in spite of the rain. I pull off the 101 and follow signs to a Post Office, where I drop in some postcards for friends near and far. Even though it’s the middle of the week, nearly every Post Office I’ve seen in these small towns is closed, or only serve as PO box stations. I thankfully bought postcard stamps already so I wasn’t put out by it, but it’s definitely something I need to keep in mind next time I stop.
Regretfully I pedal through Yachats and continue on my way, stopping to snap a few photographs of what I fantasize to be my future place of residence. Soon I cross town and I’m back out in the woods, laboring down this two lane road. Some town folks in Lincoln City warned me that once you get south of Newport the roads considerably change for the worse, and that it becomes less touristy and less populated from there on out. So far this seems to be the case, as the road gets rougher with every mile, the emergency lane had whittled down to being only a foot wide, and on my right is usually either a sheer drop off a cliff or a 5 feet drop into a ravine; sometimes with no guard rail at all. I’m spacing out at this point in my ride, thinking a bit about the rain, about my sore muscles and about my hand which still stings even with the bandage protecting it. The next thing I know I feel my bike start to drag to the right where the ravine drops off, and before I can correct myself I know that my balance is going to send me into the ditch. “oh SHIT!” I yell as I careen off the road, barely getting my front wheel up to prevent myself from flipping over my bars. I drop 4 feet down into the ditch with a heavy thud, my elbow and ribs hitting the side of the road on the way and my upper body flopping partially into the lane of traffic. I immediately scramble to right myself as I have no idea if there are any cars approaching from behind. Thankfully there are none, and as I swear and spit I drag my heavy-as-shit bike out of the ditch and then check the wheels and the components for damage. Thankfully, and amazingly, there seems to be none. Both tires are still inflated and soon as I start biking I carefully watch both wheels for even the slightest wobble. There are none, so at least I have that to be thankful for. Unfortunately my shin, elbow and ribs are now killing me. I cracked my ribs on that side several times over the course of my life from skateboarding, so slamming down on the concrete just now didn’t help much with that at all. What a day this is turning out to be.
Checking my map I realize I’ll be approaching the one and only tunnel I’ll have to cross through since I skipped over the other that’s just south of Astoria. This is the “Cape Creek” tunnel near Heceta Head, and the photographs I saw of this tunnel did not prepare me for the ominous cavern that loomed on the hill, beckoning me toward it to receive my fate. The grade is incredibly steep here, and there is absolutely no emergency lane to bike in anymore. What’s worse, there are massive, two-trailer semi trucks flying past me on this road despite the rain. They kicked up mist and instilled terror in me as they passed me going 4 times my speed. After a struggle up the hill in my lowest gear I reach the mouth of the tunnel. A button sits on the edge of the bridges and tunnels on the coast that sets off a series of lights that warns other drivers that we’re passing through, as well as legally reducing the speed the cars are allowed travel through certain sections. I feel these warning lights are a placebo for the cyclists at best, and drivers typically do whatever they want with impunity and without remorse. I stop for a moment to catch my breath, sit at what almost feels like a “starting line” and prepare for my mad dash through the several hundred feet of tunnel ahead of me. In one motion I slam my palm into the button and the race is on! I get both feet in my straps, shift up and start jamming through the darkness as quick as I can, 2 bike lights blinking on the back of my seat post. Thankfully the car directly behind me slows to the required 30 mph, and eventually matches my pace to protect me from other cars in the narrow passageway. The cars behind this thoughtful person start blaring their horns in anger, creating a deafening sound that multiplies and magnifies in the stone tunnel. What the fuck, man! I almost utter, but I stay focused on the task at hand. A few moments later I inch my way out the other end of the mountain side and breathe the fresh air of victory, only to realize there’s still no emergency lane and another formidable climb ahead of me. Fuck this day. Seriously.
Through asthma induced wheezing and legs feeling like they’re made of rubber, I finally approach a plateau where the grade levels out and offers a view of the ocean. I pull over in a turnout and take a look at what I just accomplished with this mad dash up this towering cliff, and my prize is the view in front of me now. The heavy fog still looms in the air, presenting a sinister and spectacular view of the Heceta Head Lighthouse a mile or so down the road. Directly beneath me a group of Sea Lions lounge on a series of rocks, one of them sleeping directly on his face with his arms splayed in every direction. He’s immediately my favorite. My wheezing and my enjoyment of this jaw-dropping view is only interrupted by an older woman who approached me and asked me where I was biking from. I told her that I started in Portland a few days ago and I’m met with the now expected “that’s great! good for you!” response. She’s friendly and we chat for a minute, and I thank her for considering how fucking scary and dangerous it is out here for bikes and as I tell her about some of the more disrespectful drives today she yells curses into the air.”You’re cool”, I think “but I gotta go”. She wishes me luck and I thank her again.
Soon I reach a small building with a very full parking lot, and I realize these are the Sea Lion Caves I saw on my map as I was going over it last night. If you pay a fee there’s an elevator that will take you down into a cave where you can view the Sea Lions in all their slumbering and barking glory. As tempted as I was to take the elevator, I was totally broke, and instead I set my eyes on the counter that had about a dozen different types of fudge on display. I ask the woman behind the counter if any of them are dairy free, and I get an immediate response that all of them have cream and butter. “FUCK!” So I grab a few postcards, including a pretty awesome holographic one and head on my way.
The grade eases up a bit once I pass the Sea Lion Caves, and even though I’m still powering up the side of this impressive cape in the rain, I breathe a small sigh of relief as I think the crest must be coming soon. I eventually make it to the visitors center for “Devil’s Churn” and decide I should stop and ask about where I can find “Thor’s Well”, one of the main things I wanted to see on this ride. The park ranger was really helpful as usual and marks it on a map for me, explaining that it’s really simple to find. I take a short walk across the parking lot and take a look at Devil’s Churn, which is a narrow crack in the rocks that traces back all the way to the base of the cliff. The tide flows through the ravine and as waves crash around inside the mist it creates sprays to a considerable height. I film it with my camera phone to show friends later and go back to grab my bike. The ranger tells me it’s all downhill from here till the turnoff I need, and I reach the spot in less than 5 minutes. Excitedly I rush back and forth along the railing overlooking the rock formations to try and find the well. I can see some of the formations he mentioned, but no sign of Thor’s Well. I find some info placards along the railing but not one of them mentions this geographical oddity. I finally saunter over to the far corner of the railing where I see two women standing and I ask them if they know which one is Thor’s Well. They say they were wondering the exact same thing, and that the only thing they think it could possibly be was a tiny little hole in a rock several hundred feet away and inaccessible by foot. It doesn’t look to be churning in quite the way the ranger said it would be, but I take a photo of it and several other rocks just in case and decide to look it up later. Another anti-climactic end to what I built up to be so exciting! I told probably 10 other people about how I wanted to see this thing on my trip down, and none of them had heard of it, and now I know why. Well, whatever, at least I got to see it… I think?
Fuck, it’s still raining. Hard. Maybe I don’t need to mention that, but I’m thinking I need to illustrate how thoroughly soaked I’ve been all day. My shoes are squishy when I walk around, and if I wasn’t biking all day and keeping my body warm I’m sure I’d be at risk for all kinds of nasty colds. After a lot more rain I finally roll into Florence and stop at the Fred Meyer at the edge of town to restock my protein bars and get something to make for dinner. As I’m locking up out front I see the woman who never talks, and we both wave to each other. She locks up her bike and heads inside a moment after I do. I perused the fruit and vegetable section when I spot her again and I went over to chat. I’m guessing by her accent that she’s probably German, and though she speaks English really well I understand the shyness of speaking a language that isn’t your first in another country. We talk about our days and she tells me she was thinking of getting a hotel room that evening to get out of the rain. I tell her I’m envious because I wish I could do the same in light of having had a hard day, but unfortunately I can’t afford it. She asks if I have a place to sleep yet, and the way she phrased it confused me as to whether she was offering to share her hotel room with me or if she was just interested in where I was staying. I decided to assume that she was just interested in where I was staying, and I tell her I’m staying at another state park about 5 miles south of Florence called Jessie M. Honeyman. As I’m answering I see a look of disdain drift over her face, and for a moment I wonder if she really DID mean for me to infer that she wanted me to stay with her. Awkward as can be I quickly change the subject and eventually end the conversation to collect the rest of my supplies. Weird times. As I’m packing my bag to leave the Fred Meyer an older fellow walks past me and remarks with a smile “Looks like you brought the rain with you, thanks a lot!” and gives a small laugh. I smile back, all the while thinking “ha-ha, fuck you. Rain jokes. So good.”
It’s been a rough day, to say the least.
*Squish, squish* goes my shoes as I saunter across Florence on my bike, which I’m rapidly finding out is another town I’m less than impressed by. The sand dunes down here are pretty awesome though, and I do have a good laugh as I coast past a church called “Our Lady of the Dunes”. What were they thinking! I bike past several towering sand dunes that I regrettably did not photograph, due to my desire to get to camp and end this difficult day. One street I biked past dead ends at a 30 ft sand dune towering steeply above the sidewalk, which makes for an otherworldly sight. Soon enough I finally roll onto the side road that leads to Honeyman state park, a place that is surrounded by beautiful sand dunes. I see signs all over for rides in sand buggies and ads for dirtbike, quad and sandboard rentals. Unfortunately the weather won’t permit me to enjoy any of that today, but I’d gladly settle for a full nights sleep.
I approach the ranger station, pay for my site, and receive a terrible explanation as to where the showers are located on the property. I don’t bother asking for a map because it’s raining so hard at this point that it would just disintegrate into my hands. I arrive at my spot and begin to unpack my tent as quickly as I can. Unfortunately the long day leaves me disoriented and irritable, and I wrestle with my ramshackle tent for 15 minutes before I finally get it to sit upright with the rain guard on. In that time my tent had filled up with a considerable amount of water that added more to my frustration. I actually say out loud to my tent “I’m sick of your shit!” and toss my bags inside and storm off toward the showers in my still soaked clothes. Thankfully I managed to borrow some really nice waterproof panniers from a friend back in Portland, so at the very least I’ll have a dry sleeping bag and a dry pair of shorts to wear tonight when I sleep. I have to stay positive here.
I walk to the showers, literally peel off my clothing and stand in the hot water of my private room for probably 45 minutes. I put my head against the wall, closed my eyes, and let the water warm my whole body and tried to chase away my blues. What a day, what a fucking day… and it’s still pouring rain out. I mean, it’s raining harder than I’ve seen it rain in a long time, and I don’t even want to begin thinking about having to put on these wet clothes again and go back out into it. Since they’re already soaked anyway I use Dr. Bronners to wash my clothing in the show, so at the very least I’ll have the benefit of them being clean. I painfully and regretfully put my wet clothes back on and trudge back to camp to fix my crappy tent and get ready for bed. I left the bathroom with a huge roll of paper towels to try and soak up the water trapped on the bottom of my tent, and after about a half hour I finally get everything dry enough to feel comfortable taking out my sleeping bag. I sit completely still for another few minutes afterward to pinpoint all the leaks in the tent, where they drip and how the water pools. The moisture is just sweating through the rain guard at this point, and the only way to avoid getting drenched over the course of the night I have to sleep in an extremely awkward position. Almost like a giant question mark.
I pull out the Stephen King book I’ve been reading and it’s almost enough to chase off the thoughts of wishing I was home, warm and in my own bed. This is the first night that I’ve felt the pangs of being away from home and it’s hitting me hard. I could tolerate almost anything right now just as long as it would STOP FUCKING RAINING; but no. I have to endure it with no warm food, no dry clothes and no fire. Somehow I’m extremely dehydrated as well, a reminder that I forgot to drink enough water today even though I’ve been drenched for the past 10 hours. A lesser, and possibly wealthier person would throw in the towel, bike back to Florence and get a hotel room. To be completely honest, if I had the money I might have, but that’s not the hand that I was dealt here. I read for a bit longer until I’m confident I’m tired enough to be able to shut my eyes and not wake again till the morning. I’ll deal with whatever I have to deal with tomorrow. This night is sad, lonely and cold, but I’ll survive regardless. At least this day is over and I’m another town closer to my goal. Goodnight my friends.
“I like my town with a little drop of poison / nobody knows they’re lining up to go insane” – Tom Waits
I’ve decided my route. Well, at least part of it. To be honest only the first day’s ride, but that’s something at least. I was originally thinking of biking out of Portland and heading Northwest up to Astoria, OR and then doing the entirety of the Oregon Coast from one end to the other. Through much deliberation though (and advice from concerned housemates) I decided to scratch that plan and instead bike directly from Portland to Tillamook, which is a straight shot on Highway 6. It cuts 3 days off my timeline and it’s still about 20 miles further to bike to Tillamook and then down to Crescent City, CA rather than if I had got a car ride to Astoria and started there. A bit heartbroken as I love Astoria, but it’s only fair considering finances, time, and of course the health of my knees. Also, I’ve seen that section of Oregon so many times and there are parts of the coast further South that are totally new to me. Goonies never say die, though. I’ll be back to you soon Astoria!
I have also made a fair amount of progress on my bike thanks to my buddy Starmichael at Kenton Cycle Repair in North Portland. I got an email from him inviting me down to work on my bike in his shop, so I rode down there on my wobbly tired Schwinn and got to it. We listened to a mix of old Johnny Cash related bands (The Highwaymen and his other duets and collaborations), Roger Miller and some others. During which I told him about my idea to play a set at a family-friendly market in town that I was invited to and only play traditional folk songs from the darker, more depressing end of the spectrum. For example: “Waiting Around to Die” and “Don’t Let the Sunshine Fool Ya” by Townes Van Zandt, “Big River” and “I Guess Things Happen That Way” by Johnny Cash, “Clay Pigeons” by Blaze Foley and of course a handful of Tom Waits songs. He recommended I cover “One Dyin and a Buryin” by Roger Miller, which is Miller’s acoustic, pro-suicide ballad sung in a traditional manner. The market attracts a large number of people each month, mostly families, and we’re here in his shop laughing and thinking about me getting up on stage on a bright and sunny day and just depressing the shit out of everyone.
My other idea I floated to fill the 2 hour set was to get up on stage without my guitar, grab the microphone and belt out “WHEN A MAAAAN LOOOOVES A WOOOOOMAN” until someone unplugs me or drags me off stage. I guess that’s what you’d call career goals maybe? Certainly ambitious to say the least.
I worked on my bike all day while he welded a frame in the back, and in the end I installed a heavy duty front basket, new pedals and straps, a rack over my back wheel, changed out and replaced all the little bits of hardware that were mismatched or rusted, and tried to true my wheels but ended up watching Starmichael do it for me instead. I replaced the back wheel also as the spokes were frozen in place and I wanted to get another 700 wheel to match the front one anyway. There are few things in this world as satisfying as working on a bicycle, especially when you have the appropriate tools and parts. Starmichael gave me an insanely good deal on all of that stuff, and some of it even free as it was used and not in good enough condition to sell but not poor enough to throw away. Fuck yeah punks! So yeah, if you’re ever in Portland and need your bike repaired go check out Kenton Cycle Repair, and be sure to drop the secret phrase: “I’m punk as fuck” and they’ll work their magic.
After I got home I took a walk to the library and printed out a few “Bike the Oregon Coast!” brochures that the state of Oregon put out. The pamphlets were huge, and printing stuff at the library can go from extremely cheap to extremely expensive very quickly, so I ended up only printing about 15 pages or so of what I thought I’d actually need. Whether this proves to be a fatal mistake is yet to be seen. These do seem super helpful though, as they list not only the cheap state campsites that have showers and hiker/biker sites but also the towns that have bike repair shops. There’s also a fair amount about some awesome natural spots to check out, my main interest lying in a place called “Thor’s Well” just south of Yachats, OR. From what I could ascertain it’s an oval shaped hole in a rock that has water flow up and out of it during high tide, which is represented well in some really awesome photographs I found online. It wasn’t marked clearly on my map so I wrote it in with pen, as well as a few other things I found on my internet search.
Just a few days left now to get ready, and I’m still not even close to being done! I can tell it’s going to be down to the wire here. On top of getting ready for this I’m also playing a show on Saturday night at a vintage clothing shop with a band I play guitar in, Intentional Overtones, so I’m concerned I might wake up on Sunday not feeling physically ready to make that initial ride out to the coast. I decided if worse comes to worst and I just feel totally wrecked from the show that I can leave Monday morning, but ideally I want to stick to my original plan. We’ll see what happens, for now it’s time to rest!
Okay, shut it down – the year is officially over. We have the record of the year here, and it’s only April. War//Plague, the best modern crust band in the midwest (if not all of America), have brought forth what is easily their finest work to date. “Temperaments Of War” is their latest release, and is an absolute masterpiece. Without giving too much away, this is a concept record (without the prog-rock pretentions of the term, thankfully!), comparing the Four Humors to mankind’s obsession with war. This is a unique thematic approach, which hasn’t been explored through extreme music before. A much more interesting take on war and war culture than the countless dis-clone “war is bad/bodies burning” lyrics which have become a sad cliche these days.
For those not in the know, War//Plague build upon an impressive legacy of American crust, and bring to mind the glory days of the ’90s anarcho/crust scene, but without becoming another rehashed nostalgia band. The passion is there in every note, which you can feel from the minute the needle hits the record. War//Plague are the new standard-bearers of the crust movement.
Here is a preview of Krang’s 5th musical project: “Bad Moon” LP. 35 minutes of new material written over the past year. Here is the 3rd track: “Mirror Puncher”. The album is out this spring on 150 gram random color vinyl with 8 new Krang tracks. Presented by Profane Existence (MNPLS), Sacred Plague Records (PDX), Occult Whispers (CHI), & Shaman Records (CHI).
I’ve been avoiding 2 things recently- beginning to write for Profane Existence and addressing the Miley Cyrus debacle in any serious manner. This morning a houseguest who writes for Afropunk.com pointed out the Vice Magazine article about Miley Cyrus being punk, and I decided that was the last straw. So this is my wading into the intersectional cluster fuck. Apologies. Not sorry.
I live at the Wingnut Anarchist Collective in Richmond, VA and I listen to a lot of pop country, but my background and politics are punk. In August my Aunt bought me tickets to see Ke$ha in DC, cause I like Ke$ha, cause I have bad taste. I’d never been to any mainstream show in my life, and had no idea what to expect. What blew me away was the sheer spectacle of mainstream pop music. There were stripper poles, drag queens, blow up animals, soft porn videos, mini cars, angle grinders shooting sparks, and more. I was convinced by seeing the spectacle in person along with a couple thousand 14 year olds that nothing is shocking anymore. It is with this experience that I address the Vice article on Miley Cyrus.
The concept of punk as spectacle or just fashion rebellion is something that was probably never accurate, and if it was, it is hella outdated. Being raunchy or pushing boundaries has been for some time now completely accepted by consumer capitalism and the pop industry. Spectacle sells. Capitalist scum have at this point completely stopped caring about morals or promoting WASP values, and only care about making money and distracting people from reality. See the Society of the Spectacle by Guy Debord for more on this concept.
Shock isn’t punk. Punk has always been about more than shock. The politics of punk are shocking because they undermine mainstream values, not because our clothes are covered in safety pins. Punk is shocking because we want to overthrow the patriarchy and smash the government and free all the prisoners and stop racism. Drugs and excess aren’t punk either. Those have always been privileges of the rich.
If Miley Cyrus’ racist performances are punk, the the KKK is punk. And the KKK isn’t punk. Mainstream society is all about the white supremacy. Ain’t nothing punk about that. If Miley Cyrus not giving a fuck about what people think is punk, then Monsanto and the U.S. Military Industrial Complex are punk. I think its pretty obvious why not giving a fuck doesn’t make you punk.
Miley Cyrus can’t conceivably be working towards her own liberation while contributing to the oppression of others. Shit doesn’t work like that. No issue is one dimensional. Of course slut shaming is unacceptable. But we have to go beyond the white/liberal feminist stance to address the racism and classism and other shit coming from Miley’s corner. And we also have to address the systemic nature of these things. It’s not just Miley and it never has been.
Dan Ozzi (author of the Vice article) writes like a person with a lot of privilege. He thinks not giving a fuck is punk. How original. Sounds like every other white male with unexamined privilege. He can get in line with the manarchists. Punk isn’t for him. And we don’t need people like him to try to define a genre for us. Not giving a fuck about racism or sexism or transphobia or classism is about as fucking normal as you can get.
Capitalism is about what sells. And capitalism is rapidly appropriating aspects of punk that it can turn into consumer products. Those products have never been punk. True punk rebellion includes fighting capitalism, fighting oppression, and promoting a DIY ethic and solidarity and community. Punk isn’t about rebellion for rebellions sake. That’s what capitalists would like for us to think. There are specific values to punk. Punk is queers and people of color and womyn and everyone who refuses to assimilate or perpetuate oppression. Listen to some Crass, Bikini Kill, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains, etc. Check out Punks Unite Across Turtle Island – www.nativepunxunite.tumblr.com . Check out radical punk zines like Shotgun Seamstress www.shotgunseamstress.wordpress.com . Punk isn’t dead and shitheads like Dan Ozzi and Miley Cyrus will never kill it. Punk isn’t dead and the capitalists won’t ever be able to market the parts that really matter.
WARNING: There is virtually nothing new in this issue that has not been previously published on our web blog. There is no cover price and money being charged here is to nominally cover printing, shipping and bank fees. You may be able to get a copy for free or small donation from touring bands or at Extreme Noise Records, Long Haul Info Shop and other cool DIY places