ROCKERS WITH WALKERS: Punk’s Not Dead… Yet

My loving tribute to Punk In Drublic

Oct 06, 2024

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I was just settling in to write my latest Hot Type column for Byline, when I got a call from a singer in one of my favorite punk bands. He is also an activist, and we bond over our support for Ukraine.

As always when talking with anyone who gets “it” I am comforted in the assurance of my path.

He told me he was going to see Pennywise on Sunday, and that’s when I remembered vaguely that I might have passes to Punk In Drublic — a music festival featuring the final shows of the band NOFX, the event’s headliner.

I checked my email and realized my tickets were for October 4, and like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Day, I discovered it was October 4. I heard myself tell my friend: “I guess I’m going.”

He said: “You have to go.”

And within five minutes, I had a superfly outfit, festival proofed, for an all-day outing in San Pedro by the sea.

Well-worn cowboy hat with peacock feather. ✅
Walking shoes, stylish yet fabulous. ✅
Long skirt, halter top, flannel for evening. ✅
Sunscreen, perfume, ear plugs, and wipes. ✅

I’ve been doing this thing since I was 11 years old, and literally flew out the door hoping to make it in time for the Bouncing Souls, who I first saw at Club 50 Bucks in DTLA in ‘94ish with Red 5.

I always have a plus one with photo pass and VIP access, and usually run into a band friend, who slaps on an All Access sticker, so I can hang with my chums backstage.

And yes all that happened, but first, let me tell you about the guy in the Joe Strummer shirt with a walker.

I guess I should’ve been prepared.

My lifelong love for music has kept me mentally at 17, so seeing a guy in a Joe Strummer shirt making his way to the front of the Buzzcocks barricade with a walker was, fuck, I don’t even know what to say…

And then, I saw another and another, and I realized, punk’s not dead… yet. It appears to be ambulatory.

Before I picked up my passes, I of course parked a half mile away to avoid paying fifty bucks. While getting my steps in, I could hear the Bouncing Souls on stage, and I reflected on that time when I ran into the band’s bass player in the men’s room backstage at the Warped Tour, circa 2001ish. I had quit smoking but alas, I started again with Bryan Kienlen.

I have a history of befriending smoking hot bass players.

When I arrived at Outer Harbor Berth 46, the first friend I saw was BMX superstar Rick Thorne, riding his bike, because the pros know how to navigate punk festivals on wheels.

The second friend I saw was Death By Stereo guitarist Dan Palmer, whose handlebar moostash has grown so long since I last saw him it almost poked my eye out.

The last time I saw the Sheffield-born Palmer, he was heading to the loo to do “Number 3” on Pennywise’s tour bus at their reunion show at the Palladium. I still have no idea what Number 3 is, but it’s one of my favorite lines spoken on a tour bus, ever, as well as One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of Punk.

As always, I am at the show to document the fashion and acquire yet another Pennywise tee for my vast collection.

Among my favorite shirts, were the Taylor Swift tees. Yes, Swifties were present at Punk In Drublic. One shirt combined Taylor Swift with the Misfits logo, another had her name printed over a horned devil spawn with skeletons.

At punk festivals, we speak in the Language of Tshirt.

Backstage, it’s always how I strike up conversations.

“I like your shirt, man,” is the usual ice breaker.

To the guy with the Rancid shirt, circa 2005, you compare notes.

“Ya, I saw them at Warped Tour’s 10th anniversary show in Boston. Were you there?”

Or the gent in the vintage Social Distortion shirt:

“Ya, first time I saw them was Mabuhay Gardens in San Francisco.”

We all sound like old roadies.

To the guy in the Strummer shirt with the walker:

“Were you at the Clash/Who show in SF in ‘82? I thought you looked familiar.”

I saw Ignite, Distillers, Descendents, and Guttermouth shirts, and a guy wearing a Charles Manson shirt with the words Never Trust a Hippy printed above Manson’s visage. Of course, I saw a thousand shirts reflecting every era of NOFX — the festival’s headliner. It was the first night of the last three shows of the SoCal band’s final tour, and when Fat Mike walked out on stage bemohawked in clown face, there wasn’t a dry punk eye in the house. They promised to play forty songs for forty years, and pulled out some deep cuts from ‘84.

I recall the time I was milling around the VIP lounge at the Warped Tour circa 2004, and I told Fat Mike the sin I had committed. In order to avoid having to track down some boring neo-Nazis during a rating’s sag at Fox 11, I sold my boss on doing a segment on The Punkvoter Tour instead. It was also the Rock Against Bush tour, and Fat Mike was the mastermind. He made it safe to begin protesting the Iraq War at a time when people were still reeling from 9-11. I confessed to Mike that I ran the segment that I had filmed at his festival with the title Punkvoter, and how I left off the other part of the title, Rock Against Bush. I played dumb, which I was very good at, and the segment ran on all the Fox affiliates throughout the country.

Fat Mike told me he thought I had done the right thing, absolving me of my sins lol.

So many moments in a writer’s life.

I realize what a privilege it has been to spend my life backstage and in barricades.

These festivals are always bonding experiences.

I bond with the photographers in the trenches.

We compare notes on shows, and exchange post-party tips.

I know who’s sober, by their healthy glow.

While waiting in the photo pit for the Buzzcocks to perform, I was thinking about the last time I saw them. I was six months preggers with my almost 28-year-old son, dancing at the front of the stage at the Palace in Hollywood. He turned out more than fine btw.

The next day, I was reprimanded by the music critic for the Los Angeles Times, where I was a nightlife columnist, for “being too enthusiast.”

Well, as I danced my ass off yesterday to the Buzzcocks “Ever Fallen In Love” with unbridled joy, I thought how lovely it is to be enthusiastic.

Oh and the Dropkick Murphys. 🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼🫶🏼 🤘🏼

Singer Ken Casey hates fascists as much as I do.

He sings for the working people. Behold, Rose Tattoo — a gorgeous ballad for all you Irish poets out there.

The mosh pit was raging hard and fast as Dropkick began performing at the festival, so hard that the band had to pause its set for a gentleman who was injured.

Ken Casey told the crowd: “Make way for the stretcher. He’s either wasted or severely concussed.”

It’s not a punk show without someone being wasted or severely concussed.

I just make sure it ain’t me.

I walked daintily around the grounds, being careful to make sure my head knew where my feet were at all times.

I was glad to see the mohawked fellow in the leopard creepers, with the NOFX vest and tatt, his walker adorned with stickers of all my favorite bands. I knew when I got the photo it was my “Chernobyl moment.” Reporter Igor Kostin wrote a book titled: Chernobyl: Confessions of a Reporter, and the cover featured a memorable image of a bio robot in a gas mask pushing a baby carriage.

My photo is iconic, too. I got a rocker with a walker.

A long time ago, I went down to the crossroads, the intersection of Sunset and Larrabee. And there I heard the music that flows through my veins, the sound and the fury that sustains my independent spirit, that gave me a courage I would not otherwise have acquired.

I give thanks, each day, that punk’s not dead… yet.

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Donations Welcome

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Related:

It’s Not Dead

Straight Outta the South Bay: Pennywise at the Palladium

Punkvoter Memoir

Fox Undercover

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More info about Bette Dangerous - This magazine is written by Heidi Siegmund Cuda, an Emmy-award winning investigative reporter/producer, author, and veteran music and nightlife columnist. She is the cohost of RADICALIZED Truth Survives, an investigative show about disinformation and is part of the Byline Media team. Thank you for your support of independent investigative journalism.

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