Pop Culture

Infiltrating the Philadelphia Underground

By Dan Horn
Apr 2, 2011 - 13:12

Infiltrating the Philadelphia Underground: My Squalid Affair with Dying Punk Rock Culture and an Interview with the New Torch Bearers 

Squabbles with a punk godfather, crocodile mosh pits, and condemned venue locations. Oh, my!

(INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS)

The loose wooden boards beneath my feet writhed with the sheer concussive force of staccato drumming and sloppy power chord melodies. The sultry close quarters gig in the cellar now seemed like a novelty, even with punk rock legends like The Boils and Reagan Youth playing. The real party was on the ground floor. I was here with friends, but the psychopaths lilting to the primal basement beats and stumbling euphorically through the Halfway House had me gravitating toward these strangers instead. These were the kids Anthony Burgess had warned us about, and, goddamn, were they cool.

With a cigarette jutting from my lips and a beer in my hand, I scanned the crowd. Through pirouettes of cigarette smoke, people were lined up taking turns making out with some new age harlot in the backyard, a toxic landfill of rotting furniture and human refuse. Searching the other direction, I spotted [Reagan Youth's guitarist] Paul Cripple's sleek, gleaming head bobbing amidst a rugged sea of technicolor mohawks and chrome-studded vests. I approached cautiously, as if trying not to scare off this addled musician with any sudden movements, to let him know how Reagan Youth had influenced me as a guitarist and song-writer. Paul was in a bright tie-dye shirt, and for the life of me I can't remember what else he was wearing.

Never the miser, Cripple generously offered me a rail of his get-yer-own, and, ever the wide-eyed opportunist, I graciously accepted. The night spiraled into an unmitigated orgy of color and sound, unfamiliar faces with familiar voices, deafening music. I was continually finding myself hypnotized by Paul's tie-dye shirt. I was absolutely soaring. People came and went, conversing and drinking with us in the crowded living room as they went about their undoubtedly lascivious business. All was well until my conversation with Paul suddenly went south, and it all started because of that stupid movie Airheads.

"Airheads sucked! They stole our song!" Paul growled, his glazed eyes bulging from his Bic'd skull. He was of course referring to the song "Degenerated," for which Reagan Youth never received a penny of their royalties. Paul vehemently jabbed an index finger into my sternum. He had drawn the line in the sand. Of course I wasn't the movie's biggest fan either, but inebriated beyond my wits and feeling a bit belligerent, I was happy to not only cross that line but kick a little sand in Paul's face while I was at it.

"Airheads did not suck," I proclaimed. "The only shitty part about that movie was that horrible song 'Degenerated'! That's not the one they stole from you, is it?"

At which point, my friend Matt tackled me to the ground and dragged me out of the Halfway House. I resigned to defeat, giggling madly through clenched teeth and trying to pry my locked jaws open with my fingertips. Someone was shot and killed on that block that night, but it wasn't one of us.

*****

At the turn of the century (the 21st century, that is) punk wasn't dying. It was dead. It's bloated, sun baked carcass had long since been shoveled off the pop-culture asphalt by the road kill crews. If you had outlined the corpse in chalk and conducted a forensic autopsy, you would have found the cause of death to be slow, agonizing suicide. Some steadfast followers of the punk movement still clung to its ragged memory, and they banded together, forming small pockets of resistance to accepted pop-culture norms. One such ragtag group gestated just beyond University City in a less than hospitable Philadelphia, PA, neighborhood. Philly, at that time, was a festering wound of murder, crime, and sports teams with shitty records. Its residents were animalistic, disenfranchised, and poverty-stricken. To say the city was a hell hole is an understatement. This was one of the meanest urban sprawls in America, and this area, though not the darkest recess of the city, was certainly an entrance level to the inferno.

On the corner of 2nd and Walnut sat what looked like a half-condemned three-story row home with a chain link fenced yard out the back. This quaint little number had been dubbed the Halfway House by one of the kids that found the place on Craig's List and rented it out. Beneath the home, a dank, musty stone cellar dimly lit by a string of light bulbs moonlighted as a cramped punk venue, while above, the kitchen, living room, and backyard would turn into something of a quagmire of spilt booze, vomit, and unconscious punk rockers. I was of course destined to find this place.

I was living in a Bucks County suburb in those days. I had grown up in the same house in the same neighborhood my entire life. People endearingly called it Green Ghettoes, a play on the name Green Meadows, but in truth it was nothing more or less than a trashy housing development in semi-rural SE Pennsylvania. I was working several dead end jobs, always moving from one to the next, never able to hold one down for very long. I'd let my hair and beard grow out after high school, giving me the appearance of a derelict Jesus. I was packing up my Ibanez electric guitar every other night to go rehearse with a different band. One of my labors of love was the horror punk band The Creeps (yeah, real original, I know).

We were astonishingly doing OK for ourselves as The Creeps. We had played a show at DeSalles University and were asked to play at the Trocadero, a former burlesque parlor on Arch St in Philly's China Town. We never really had much of a hardcore punk fan base, most likely because we were socially functional. Sure, we wore our Misfits t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, but we all had jobs and looked somewhat respectable. I even cut my hair to take on a more professional look (I was getting tired of being refused entry by security at one of my jobs because I looked like a vagrant). Needless to say, most punks would have written us off as pussies, but through several loyal contacts, we were invited to come see a show at the Halfway House.

Inhibitions to the wind, we eagerly dove through the rabbit hole and found ourselves in a Wonderland of illicit substances, punk rock legends, and cock roach infested dives.

The Halfway House became a favorite haunt of indigenous punk bands, perhaps the most prominent of those being The Ghouls. I'd seen The Ghouls open for U.K. Subs and The Misfits in New Jersey and in Allentown, so I was somewhat familiar with their music, but my personal interactions with some of them while they were absurdly intoxicated are some of my favorite memories of the gang. After lead singer Robert Price, a Vincent Price enthusiast of course, left The Ghouls, the rest of the band immediately regrouped without missing a single beat and formed Hate and War. I recently had a chance to speak with Hate and War about the state of Philly's punk union. Hopefully you, the reader, will enjoy their at times laughable, and at others downright offensive, answers:

Dan Horn (DH): When Robert Price left The Ghouls, how did the transition to Hate and War come about?

Hate and War (H+W): The night he left we just kept jammin'. We wrote a song called 'No Regrets' which turned into our first Hate and War song. 

DH: How did dive venues like the Halfway House affect the band when you were off the touring circuit and back home in Philly?

H+W: Well, a couple members of the band lived at the Halfway House when not on tour. There were about 10 of us total in the house. It was a great place to chill out, and we had a ton of awesome parties. I'll never forget the time a touring band stopped in and brought their pet crocodile with them. They let it loose in the pit and needless to say the crowd was super scared. 
 
DH: What are some of your fondest memories of the Halfway House?

H+W: BBQ's in the backyard; 40's and blunts on the couch; Countless packed shows and parties; Lots of free lovin' from fans. 
 
DH: Whatever happened to the Halfway House?

H+W: The landlord condemned the house. So we all had to move out.
 
DH: I've read that Zack has a new venue in Fishtown. What can you tell me about that place?

H+W: Zack had a venue called the Fishflat. A lot of awesome bands played there. The cops got wind of the place and shut it down. House venues never last long. The best time to visit a house venue is when it first starts. 
 
DH: What kind of obstacles face unlicensed venues in Philadelphia?

H+W: Retarded neighbors that just wanna quiet neighborhood to raise their stupid kids. When I have kids I want them to be around music and the arts. But most of these Fishtown trolls just want retarded no talent bum kids. They call the cops if a shows go past 10, which is a guide line we try to stick to.

DH: Are we seeing the end times of small venues as we know them?

H+W: Nah, man, the underground will last forever. For every house venue that gets shut down there are 3 that are just coming up. It's the natural cycle of this beast.

DH: When will Hate and War be hitting the national tour circuit again?

H+W: We're in talks with a couple major labels and were just about finished with a double LP entitled "Interplanetary Hostility." Look out for that when the world ends in 2012!

Last Updated: May 16, 2012 - 6:56
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