Friday night's here, what's to see?Recently, I went to a show with some friends to see three unknown bands. It was a small venue. I still go from time to time in a vain attempt to hear some good music and relive something of my youth.
Nothing to do, you know what I mean?
Nothing on the telly,
There is no late-night show,
No shows in town, there is no place to go.
Here we are, nowhere, nowhere left to go.
~ Stiff Little Fingers, “Here We Are Nowhere” (1979)
The last of a long line of memorable shows was years ago—back-to-back nights in 2006 at Irving Plaza to see Stiff Little Fingers and Buzzcocks. I still keep the double-sided flyer.
While I can’t slam, pogo, or stage dive anymore, I couldn’t even if I wanted to—the crowds and energy are lifeless now, even when the bands cover punk classics.
That night at the show, the first band ripped into “Sonic Reducer” by the Dead Boys. The second did too. The third followed, as if they’d shared set lists in a group chat.
No risk. No rupture. No originality.
The room never felt alive. Each band arrived with its own small orbit of loyalists who clapped, filmed, and vanished into the night as soon as their guys left the stage. By the end, the place felt like a morgue.
At the empty bar, as we discussed what we had just witnessed, a friend showed me a clip of Billy Corgan lamenting the decline of rock and roll and suggesting that the CIA may be behind it. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past our government.
The change in the music scene didn’t feel organic. It felt like a switch flipped. A culture of rebelliousness, masculinity, and individuality was replaced by conformity—something safer, less dangerous, effete.
We once built our weekends around shows. One night it was punk, the next something else entirely. Now the young people I know have little interest in music at all.
With no one to fight over the jukebox, we chose what we wanted to listen to.
The bar was empty.
The songs weren’t.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 21st, Feast of Sant’Anselmo d’Aosta
