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Gonzo Report: Bruising show at Ocean Beach’s Holding Company yields pure punk bliss
Bad mix, good mosh
T.S.O.L. - Inspiring both bruises and smiles.
“Suicidal Tendencies and The Last Gang shirts, I knew you would be exceptional people,” exclaims Agusto from South America, who is complimenting my wife and me on our T-shirt choices. The man himself is wearing a shirt I covet: a limited edition image from the headliners for today’s show, punk icons T.S.O.L. We swap concert stories for a bit before heading back into The Holding Company in Ocean Beach, where a 1:30 matinee is being held. The venue is a three-level building: the lower level is used for live music, the second floor is a bar that plays, well, not punk music, and the roof is a restaurant offering a view of the city and beach, even on this less-than-clear day.
The concert space is a hall with a bar running along one side; the stage area has a small floor. There are several bands tonight, including D.P.I., Project Sellout, Luciferigno, and On The Piss. Each group sounds progressively worse, due to what, even in my most charitable moments, I cannot call be an actual mix. Direct support veterans D.I. spend a good portion of their set with “what the fuck” looks on their faces. Attempts to correct the sound — if there are any — prove fruitless, so they power through a set dominated by bass so loud that it’s painful. I don’t know if this is the worst sound in San Diego, but I can swear under oath that I’ve heard better at underground, backyard, and print shop shows.
There’s a clear path to the front by the stage and we head for it. A woman named Lindsay and her boyfriend are talking, and the boyfriend moves aside, gesturing for my wife to take his place up front so she can see. Mrs. Steffenhagen and Lindsay hit it off like old friends for the brief moments before T.S.O.L. begins its set, at which point, it becomes almost impossible to converse with words. I’m standing between my wife and the edge of the pit when I feel the first of many blows to my back. It’s part of the experience of being up front at a punk show. There’s a rhythm to a pit that I fall into, occasionally leaning back into the slamming bodies, but mostly bracing myself against the unleashed frenzy.
Two solid men who I will call Wall1 and Wall2 walk through the pit, dancing and laughing as people bounce off them and helping them up after they hit the slippery floor. It’s as safe as a pit can be, with all shapes, sizes, and genders crashing into each other, going down, and popping up for another round. We’re not giving up our prime spot, but one man, wearing a shirt cut so severely down the sides that it looks ready to rip, tries to dislodge my wife and Lindsay. Remarkably, when I grab him and launch him across the pit, his shirt not only stays intact, but provides a sturdy handle. (I end up doing this multiple times, as he is one persistent fucker.) Less cool is the woman who elbows Lindsay during a rare break between songs. Even above the crowd, I can hear her sad challenge to “handle this” before security moves her away. I later find out that one of my female friends was kicked out of the show earlier for punching a woman fitting this woman’s description over a similar display of assholism.
The sound is even worse for T.S.O.L. than it was for D.P.I., which I didn’t think was possible, but it’s still a good show. The set ends without the usual ritual goodbyes, but it’s still all smiles, at least in the audience. Singer Jack Grisham was not his usual jovial onstage self, although he seemed in a good mood when I talked to him earlier. Or maybe he was fine, but I couldn’t hear him because of the shitty sound. The guy I launched via his shirt handles gives me a high five and Wall2 laughs, telling me it was hilarious watching the guy go rolling through the pit like a human bowling ball.
It’s still daylight outside as we walk back to the car, legs screaming and backs tense as the adrenaline drains. We share a laugh at the observation that matinees are perfect at this point in life, because they end just when regular shows start, allowing us a shot at some much coveted sleep. The post-show glow is pure punk rock bliss, and I fall asleep counting the bruises on my legs instead of sheep.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Bruising show at Ocean Beach’s Holding Company yields pure punk bliss
Bad mix, good mosh
Gonzo Report: Bruising show at Ocean Beach’s Holding Company yields pure punk bliss
Bad mix, good mosh
T.S.O.L. - Inspiring both bruises and smiles.
“Suicidal Tendencies and The Last Gang shirts, I knew you would be exceptional people,” exclaims Agusto from South America, who is complimenting my wife and me on our T-shirt choices. The man himself is wearing a shirt I covet: a limited edition image from the headliners for today’s show, punk icons T.S.O.L. We swap concert stories for a bit before heading back into The Holding Company in Ocean Beach, where a 1:30 matinee is being held. The venue is a three-level building: the lower level is used for live music, the second floor is a bar that plays, well, not punk music, and the roof is a restaurant offering a view of the city and beach, even on this less-than-clear day.
The concert space is a hall with a bar running along one side; the stage area has a small floor. There are several bands tonight, including D.P.I., Project Sellout, Luciferigno, and On The Piss. Each group sounds progressively worse, due to what, even in my most charitable moments, I cannot call be an actual mix. Direct support veterans D.I. spend a good portion of their set with “what the fuck” looks on their faces. Attempts to correct the sound — if there are any — prove fruitless, so they power through a set dominated by bass so loud that it’s painful. I don’t know if this is the worst sound in San Diego, but I can swear under oath that I’ve heard better at underground, backyard, and print shop shows.
There’s a clear path to the front by the stage and we head for it. A woman named Lindsay and her boyfriend are talking, and the boyfriend moves aside, gesturing for my wife to take his place up front so she can see. Mrs. Steffenhagen and Lindsay hit it off like old friends for the brief moments before T.S.O.L. begins its set, at which point, it becomes almost impossible to converse with words. I’m standing between my wife and the edge of the pit when I feel the first of many blows to my back. It’s part of the experience of being up front at a punk show. There’s a rhythm to a pit that I fall into, occasionally leaning back into the slamming bodies, but mostly bracing myself against the unleashed frenzy.
Two solid men who I will call Wall1 and Wall2 walk through the pit, dancing and laughing as people bounce off them and helping them up after they hit the slippery floor. It’s as safe as a pit can be, with all shapes, sizes, and genders crashing into each other, going down, and popping up for another round. We’re not giving up our prime spot, but one man, wearing a shirt cut so severely down the sides that it looks ready to rip, tries to dislodge my wife and Lindsay. Remarkably, when I grab him and launch him across the pit, his shirt not only stays intact, but provides a sturdy handle. (I end up doing this multiple times, as he is one persistent fucker.) Less cool is the woman who elbows Lindsay during a rare break between songs. Even above the crowd, I can hear her sad challenge to “handle this” before security moves her away. I later find out that one of my female friends was kicked out of the show earlier for punching a woman fitting this woman’s description over a similar display of assholism.
The sound is even worse for T.S.O.L. than it was for D.P.I., which I didn’t think was possible, but it’s still a good show. The set ends without the usual ritual goodbyes, but it’s still all smiles, at least in the audience. Singer Jack Grisham was not his usual jovial onstage self, although he seemed in a good mood when I talked to him earlier. Or maybe he was fine, but I couldn’t hear him because of the shitty sound. The guy I launched via his shirt handles gives me a high five and Wall2 laughs, telling me it was hilarious watching the guy go rolling through the pit like a human bowling ball.
It’s still daylight outside as we walk back to the car, legs screaming and backs tense as the adrenaline drains. We share a laugh at the observation that matinees are perfect at this point in life, because they end just when regular shows start, allowing us a shot at some much coveted sleep. The post-show glow is pure punk rock bliss, and I fall asleep counting the bruises on my legs instead of sheep.
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