Punk Rock Show

Never fell in love ‘till I fell in love with you

Never knew what a good time was till I had a good time with you

If you’ve ever been to it, Chinatown’s quaint rock-and-roll cathedral, the Trocadero Theatre, sticks out like a P.F. Chang’s in Little Italy.  So it’s not hard to imagine myself, just a nervous college freshman in 2006, wandering the streets of Chinatown with my brother wondering if we’d ever find the concert hall in the middle of so many similarly named “Rising Sun” and “Lucky Garden” Chinese restaurants.

After a few anxious minutes of meandering the streets around Market East Station, my brother and I spotted a couple of kids in Operation Ivy t-shirts walking with confidence past us.  The shirts and one of their stiff, blue Mohawks hinted they were going to the show as well.  Surely enough after following them we ended up at the mouth of the club’s unassuming exterior.  We walked down Arch Street to the end of the line with our tickets in hand.  As we passed fellow concertgoers, we noticed very few of them looked like us.  We wore t-shirts and shorts on the hot August night, but we observed several people in denim jackets adorned with metal spikes; others in tattered skintight jeans; and tons of colorful, random hairdos and piercings.  It being my first true punk concert, I can’t deny that mixed in with the excitement and anticipation was a tinge of fear.  I wasn’t like these people, and I felt their stares fall heavily upon my brother and I as bouncers scanned our tickets and we walked into the steamy Trocadero for the first time.  August 20, 2006.  The band was Rancid.

If you wanna get the feeling and you wanna get it right

Then the music gotta be loud

When Rancid finally took the stage and the music started, my brother and I tried to push forward to get closer to the action.  Surprisingly, our push forward was met with an equally strong push that sent us backward.  Once again we drove toward the stage.  This time we were thrown to our left and then back to our right.  It wasn’t before long that we realized we were in the center of one massive circle pit.  The sea of hooligans bounced around the Trocadero floor like waves during a storm. 

            I watched my brother float away from me as I continued to be pushed around like a rag doll.  At first, I was angry.  I had come to listen to Rancid play their mu 

sic; not get shoved by 30 year-olds with unkempt beards and body odor.

            The more songs I heard, the more I found myself jumping around like an idiot.  Sometime between “Salvation” and “Tenderloin”, I found myself voluntarily back in the pit with the punx.  I pushed and shoved and danced and sang.  The more Rancid played the deeper the feeling of ecstasy.  When people in the pit fell, others around immediately paused the pit to help them up.  The steam heat rose from the sold out crowd and licked the Trocadero’s ceiling. 

            It was official; I was hooked.  To me, shows were never just about hearing your favorite bands play music.  It was about getting away from it all and truly let yourself go.

            Today, nearly 7 years since that inaugural Rancid Troc show, my brother and I venture back to Philadelphia to see the band that started it all for me.  It’s Rancid.  It’s the Electric Factory.  See ya in the pit.

Cuz when the music hits

I feel no pain at all