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.
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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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