Punk Is Dad (And Mom)
Celebrating 19 years of Punk Rock Bowling in Las Vegas
Imagine taking a trip Las Vegas. You bring your new lover or old spouse or the whole family for a much-needed getaway. You stay in downtown Las Vegas where high-end hotels like the Golden Nugget are as nice as the low-end hotels farther down the Las Vegas Strip. The price is right and the vibe is decidedly mellow. It’s Memorial Day weekend and the Nugget has a great pool with a water slide that passes through a shark tank the kids will love and is steps away from the Fremont Street Experience that puts the real Las Vegas right at your doorstep. It will be fun, you say. It might even be relaxing. But when you enter the lobby something is very wrong.
The place is packed with punks. Not the snotty kids you occasionally see at the mall or panhandling in the street, but middle-age punks, punk rock lifers, the punk rockers your parents warned you about decades ago. They’re all here in sleeveless denim jackets with tattooed beer bellies, multi-colored Mohawks and outrageous piercings.
They wait in the check-in line with leopard print suitcases, spill out of the lobby with cases of beer tucked under their arms, greet each other with high fives and hugs as they make their way to the hotel pool, strutting about like peacocks on parade, like it’s their hotel. It just so happens that this particular weekend — it is.
The sign in the lobby tells you it’s the 19th annual Punk Rock Bowling and Music Festival, and as your mind works to string these words together into a meaningful concept your hope for an uneventful holiday slips away.
There’s nothing shocking about punk anymore, but the sight of hundreds of punks in a place where they aren’t expected still has the power to provoke.
For as long as I’ve been coming to Punk Rock Bowling (PRB), those moments when normal tourists turn the corner and unwittingly stumble into a place overrun by punk rockers are among my favorite. Whether it’s a bar, a bowling alley or a hotel lobby, the shocked, stunned, even fearful expressions giving away to acceptance and amusement never fail to entertain.
One year at the Gold Coast Casino, a show ended just as an awards ceremony for an organization of professional bull riders was letting out. The cowboys and punks sized each other up and for a moment the potential for violence was imminent, perhaps even desirable. But by end of the night the bull riders and the punk rockers were partying at the bar with their arms around each other, drinking out of glasses shaped like boots.
It’s Friday, the day before the outdoor music festival kicks off across the street, and the punks are gathering at the pool in the center of the hotel. The splashing water lends a pirate vibe to the shenanigans as punks stagger about the decks, unsure of their surroundings but gleefully alert to the possibilities for mayhem. Punks are no different than many of the tourists who come to Vegas; they are just more open about their intentions.
There’s a spot along the glass-walled passageway where tourists stop to snap photos of a quartet with radiant Mohawks (orange, black, green and blend of teal, turquoise and purple) relaxing by the pool like punk flamingoes.
It’s early and the festival hasn’t officially started yet, but there are already casualties. I see sunburns, gruesome hangovers, and at least two people on crutches. One fellow in bedraggled-looking dreads that somehow blend with his beard has a cocktail umbrella stuck in his hair.
I’ve come to PRB to put my finger on the pulse of the political climate in punk rock music today, but whatever the Golden Nugget is this Memorial Day Weekend, it’s not the headquarters for the resistance.
I might as well get this out of the way.
I used to attend PRB on a semi-regular basis. I was on the bowling team that the fanzine I write for, Razorcake, entered every year. In 2004, our team, the Blatant Stereotypes, came in second. I drank around the clock and did the necessary drugs that made such excess feasible.
I remember one night I took advantage of Nevada’s lax open container laws by riding in a taxi with an enormous cocktail of Captain Morgan and Red Bull that I’d made in my hotel room’s ice bucket. Reader, I finished that drink.
In those days, the spectacle was centered on a single hotel, typically one with an on-site bowling alley like The Gold Coast or Sam’s Town. There were performances by punk rock bands, but they weren’t the main event.
The unofficial house band for PRB was Manic Hispanic, a SoCal band that played satirical covers of punk staples. Manic Hispanic was fronted by Mike “Gabby” Gaborno of the Cadillac Tramps, and sometimes punk rock bowlers would be treated to a performance by another one of Gabby’s side-side projects, Flock of Goo-Goo, which played covers of ’80s pop hits.
It was all impossibly excessive, which is why so many people I used to run with back then are dead now, including Gabby, who passed away earlier this year.
I got sober in 2009 and over time I started going to punk rock shows again. I used to work in a casino so Las Vegas doesn’t trigger me the way it does others. But PRB is not what it used to be.
In it’s 19th year, PRB is a rock festival with performances by over 60 bands, including 14 club shows over the course of the four-day weekend that attracts 7,000 punk rockers from all over the world.
It’s my first PRB in a decade, so I’ve taken a few precautions. Instead of staying at the Golden Nugget with my rowdy brethren, I’ve rented a room in a condominium near the Clark County Courthouse a few blocks away from the festival.
My host is an exceptionally polite Turkish-American man named Yusuf who offers me green tea and fresh croissants. When I’m not at the festival I cool off in my air-conditioned room, tracking my baseball bets.
It’s a far cry from the round-the-clock rowdiness of days gone by, but a man who bets on baseball is capable of any kind of deviance you can dream up. You’re just going to have to take my word for it.
The headliner for Saturday night’s slate of performers is Iggy Pop, the shirtless wonder and godfather of punk. I head to the site early to pick up my credentials. As one would expect from a massive punk rock show, things are a bit disorganized, or as Jimmy Rip put it: “a total ratfuck.” VIPs and members of the media are told to stand in various lines that get moved around while ticketholders wait in the 100-degree heat. Finally, the gates open and people start moving.
I’ve got a book signing with Keith Morris, the legendary frontman of Black Flag and the Circle Jerks. His latest band, OFF! is playing later in the evening and Keith is signing copies of his book, My Damage, which I co-authored, in the Dr. Martens Lounge.
After hunting down the books and lugging them to the lounge, we’re ready. People from all over the world line up to buy books and get their picture taken with Keith. I’ve been to a handful of these events and have had many opportunities to observe how Keith deals with requests.
Keith is that rare performing artist who will sign anything you put in front of him: books, flyers, photos, record covers, CD inserts, ticket stubs, you name it. But I’d never seen him sign an actual person. David Ludwig from Calgary, Alberta asks Keith to sign his thigh where he’s got a tattoo of the Circle Jerks skank man logo. Keith obliges.
Keith is fairly matter-of-fact in the way he conducts this business. For the people getting his signature, it’s a moment. For Keith, it’s another day at the office, part of the Keith Morris experience where everyone wants something. But when fans bring their young sons or daughters with them, the 61-year-old hardcore vocalist goes out of his way to make them smile, and there are lots of kids here today.
The show is all ages, but it would have never occurred to me to bring my daughter here. She turned 14 this summer and doesn’t like punk rock, so it’s not my decision to make. But I’m surprised by the number of children.
I make small talk with Holly Doll from Fresno, California, who is attending the festival with her husband, Irish Cash and their young daughter Zoey Ireland. The Ireland’s own a tattoo parlor and are covered in ink, which they don’t ask Keith to sign. Zoey sleeps through the signing thanks to her oversized headphones.
The Dr. Martens Lounge is open to the public and features an array of custom-painted boots. Surprisingly, the boot decorated with the logo from The Young Ones proves to be one of the most popular with the camera phone paparazzi.
While I keep one eye on the books, I watch one of my favorite bands The Spits. I’ve seen The Spits play at least a dozen times, but always in small bars and clubs. The Wood brothers are infamous for their onstage bickering and seemingly not knowing what song to play next, and I’m delighted to see that playing on a big stage hasn’t changed their disorganized approach.
Keith trades in his pen for a microphone and takes the stage with OFF! Keith is known for his short hardcore songs and, occasionally, long speeches between them. During one such break, Keith encourages the audience to “Vote them out! No more Trumps! No more Bushes! No more Clintons! Get ’em all out!”
Keith is literally preaching to the choir and those who have traveled from abroad despise Trump. Most of the crowd ranges in age from the late 20s to the late 50s. There are very few kids in the audience, and by kids I mean people who are old enough to vote but otherwise on the cusp of adulthood, which is unusual for a punk rock show. In fact, the kids are greatly outnumbered by the young children of middle-aged punks.
I spot a trio of young punks in the crowd and between sets I ask why there are so few kids here today. Jesus Montes (19), Dallas Castillo (17) and Emma Agundez (17), all Las Vegas locals, assure me there are “ragers” all over town, but most young people can’t afford the steep ticket price.
The Dr. Martens Lounge is closing up so that the staff can see Iggy Pop, which means it’s time for me to clear out. By the time I get my books boxed up and loaded into a car waiting for me at the front entrance, Iggy has already taken the stage. I’m going to miss the show.
That’s the first lesson of PRB: you can’t see ’em all.
One of the pleasures of being sober is waking up early on weekend mornings and observing the crippling hangovers of others. Schadenfreude for the sobriety set.
I wake up on Sunday morning with clear head and a sore back from lugging around books, which is just sad. I think about going to check out the actual bowling tournament but it involves walking to the Golden Nugget and catching a shuttle to the Gold Coast Casino, so I skip it.
I spend the morning moving around the condo, trying to find the most comfortable place to work. My host had assured me that he would be spending most of his time in his bedroom, and that I wouldn’t know he was there. This is more or less true except for the odor of marijuana that seeps from his room every time I walk by.
Around lunchtime, Yusuf emerges from his room. Sensing my discomfort he offers me a topical ointment for my back that contains cannabis oil. After assuring me that it won’t get me high, I put some on my back. By the time I get to the festival, the discomfort has disappeared. I may be sober but my back is high AF.
I’ve scored an all-access-pass for the day’s events and make sure I get there in time to watch the Bouncing Souls, a pop punk band with roots in American Oi! and hardcore. My wristband gets me into the VIP section, an elevated area with its own bar, bathrooms, and plenty of shade. These tickets are not exclusive. Anyone can buy their way in. Here I meet Shannon Ballou from Chino, California who, along with her husband and two other couples, has brought a total of eight children with them, ranging in ages from six to 17.
Shannon assures me that PRB is a great place for children. “It seems weird, but it’s a pretty family-friendly environment.” Her friend, Rachel Jordan, tells me that while people who don’t know the music can get judgey about bringing kids to a punk rock music festival, it’s actually an educational experience. “It’s body positivity. It’s acceptance. They can see people of all different shapes and sizes and hair colors and skin colors and no one bats an eye.”
I wander backstage to watch Bad Religion’s set. It takes me a minute to realize I’m standing next to Fat Mike of NOFX, even though he’s wearing a dress. Fat Mike sings along to every song and halfway through the set Fat Mike rushes on stage to take Jay Bentley’s place on bass guitar. Fat Mike may be a bone fide punk rock star in his own right, but when Bad Religion is playing, he’s their biggest fan.
After the show I get invited to various parties. I politely decline and go back to Casa Cannabis for more baseball and backache medicine.
It’s the last day of PRB and I don’t have any special passes. No backstage access or VIP tents for me today. I spend the day moving through the crowds and it’s a good day for it. Whether it’s the bands on the bill — The Adicts, Pennywise, Cock Sparrer — or the fact that it’s the last day, the festival is at full capacity.
The crowd feels noticeably blokey-er. Bald heads and scally caps and a bazillion boots by Dr. Martens. There are an abundance of shirtless skinheads and bodies sculpted by lager. Eyes are redder. Body funk is thicker. Speech more than a little impaired. But the vibe is extremely positive.
The Adicts have something to do with it. Their droogish shtick has softened over the years. They are no strangers to the summer festival circuit and they know how to keep the audience engaged with costumes, props and massive bouncing balls that they set loose on the audience.
The kids love it and they’re everywhere today. By now they’ve got the lay of the land and have made friends with other children, and they’re definitely having more fun than I am.
Some of these kids were literally born to do this. Mila Lopez, age one, watches the show from her father Rico’s shoulders. Meanwhile, Milo Peyton, named after Milo of The Descendents, has been to Punk Rock Bowling every year of his young life, a tradition that started when he was one week old. Michael and his wife Bethany brought Milo their 10-year-old daughter with them from Sacramento. He’s not exactly sure where she is at the moment, but he isn’t worried. They are literally surrounded by children.
Blair is nine years old and sports a Mohawk that she wears year round but has to comb it down while she’s at school. This is her third PRB. Her mother, Alainah, has been making the trek from Texas for the last six years. She and her husband buy Blair a ticket every year even she probably doesn’t need one. Blair knows all the security guards and a number of the vendors, and they all look forward to seeing each other every year. During our short conversation Blair bounces around, poses for pictures and says hello to new and old friends. She has better social skills at nine than I did at 20.
But the real rock star of the night is Colm Wilcox, whose parents Kevin and Geri, have been to “eight or nine” of the last PRB festivals. Colm is four years old and this is his fifth PRB. You could say it’s in his blood. With a wild purple Mohawk, sawed-off denim jacket and multi-colored headphones, he looks the part, which can be a nuisance as he’s frequently stopped and asked to pose for photographs while his dad pushes his stroller to the porta-potty.
Kevin, who lives in Las Vegas, says Colm loves dancing and listening to music and kicking around beach balls with other kids. When he gets too hot he runs through the misting fans. “There’s plenty of good fun.”
It’s hard to argue with him, but while it’s one thing to make the claim that PRB is a kid friendly event from the VIP section, Milo and Blair and Colm are in the thick of it, and they’re having a blast.
Kevin’s take on whether PRB is a kid-friendly event is pragmatic. “It can be,” he tells me. “It can be whatever you make it.” Just like Vegas.
During the final performance of the evening, Cock Sparrer launches into “We’re Coming Back,” a great song from their second album Shock Troops, which is full of them. Maybe it’s the cannabis oil that my back enjoys so much. Maybe it’s a contact high from the reefer smoke that hangs over the crowd like a shroud. Maybe it’s the beer that baptizes my skin every few minutes as bodies surge and sway and suck me into the dance. My skin tingles as a chill passes through me that’s tuned to the same frequency as Mick Beaufoy’s guitar, a riff laid down in 1982 and buried in my subconscious somewhere so that it could be activated here and now, with these people, with these kids. It would be a mistake to say that someday they’ll play a role in the future of punk rock, because they’re already a part of the story unfolding all around me. Everyone here knows it, and is protective of it. These kids are the future of the music we love. It doesn’t matter if our parents threw away our records or if our classmates at school made fun of us for the way we dressed or that we spent countless hours alone in our bedrooms listening to these songs. For us, these songs are a gateway to our pasts, but for these kids it’s about the future and the future is now.
