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Gonzo Report: Watching out for one another at a hardcore taco shop concert
If you didn’t get the Instagram flyer, you weren’t there
Death Whispers work up a hardcore appetite and respectful audience.
“You’re way too excited about a broken hand,” says someone outside Rolando’s Taco Shop in Barrio Logan to a young man hoisting his harm aloft and yelling excitedly for everyone to look at his hand. Despite the locale, he probably didn’t break it trying to one-hand a jumbo burrito, but rather, in the makeshift venue in an upstairs room where hardcore bands Death Whispers, Sumo, Cold Path and Get Pieced are playing. As for me, I follow his instructions and look at his hand: the lump protruding at an awkward angle promises excruciating pain when the adrenaline wears off, but that doesn’t dampen his excitement. We’re three bands into a four-band show, and the energy both inside and outside of the taco shop has remained positive throughout
It’s all part of the neighborhood vibe, which is bolstered by a visit to Libélula Books & Co. owned by Jesi Saucedo and their wife Aracelli Hernandez. The bookstore is situated across the street, and the couple fully supports the use of the room at Rolando’s for open mic nights, poetry readings, and punk rock shows. They even drop off some independent punk zines at the shop for the audience. The grimy newsprint of a Razorcake issue warms my heart even as it stains my hands — a tactile vestige of community, one that people are reading before my very eyes.
Before I enter the venue, promoter Alexia Chamol of the band Birds Of Paradise collects the three-clam cover from the hundred-plus attendees who got the Instagram flyer. The upstairs portion has a half-gate to keep people from falling five feet into the dining area. And I do mean half a gate. The other half has no barrier that I can see. An abrupt drop could cause injury, no doubt, and the showroom is becoming more packed by the second. Death Whispers prepares to play, and the audience has their backs to the mini-cliff when the jostling begins, moving bodies whether they like it or not. The sound is good, with the exception of vocals that are poorly amplified through a single small speaker and wage a losing competition with the drums, bass, and guitars.
No matter, each band’s first song is greeted by audience participation chants, which I assume are lyrics. And looking at Sebastian, the 15-year-old singer, it seems clear he doesn’t know he can’t be heard, given the intensity on his snarling face. A post-set interview with the band sees him acknowledging his lack of volume casually, instead celebrating the energy and insanity of their stage time. I see the letter “X” in marker on a couple band member’s hands — the mark of straight edge. When I ask them what it means, they answer, “No drugs, no booze, no smoking.” They also know that my black sheep tattoo is from the godfathers of straight edge, Minor Threat. Most refreshing: they don’t give me shit for smoking a cigarette, instead laughing when I ask if they beat people up for doing so. They are well-versed in the scene’s history and its past militant adherence, but have no interest in participating in the latter.
I take a position at the back of the room before Sumo begins and become one of those bodies being moved through someone else’s volition. I get it. I’m tall and probably blocking the view, such as it is. But the urge to throw an elbow is strong, because fuck you, that’s why. I exit the concert room and feel the temperature drop the second I hit the stairs to go sit with my friends Silas and Adan. Adan is digging the music at his first hardcore show, but he wasn’t properly prepared: he saw “tacos” and came along without reading the rest of the invite.
The half-gate was never going to last, and shows a more pronounced buckle during Cold Path before giving out for good during Get Pieced. Yet no one falls from the raised floor, because everyone is looking out for each other.
As the last note rings, the raised room empties into the dining area and onto the sidewalk. I check the restrooms at the back of the formerly packed area for any signs of damage, and I’m surprised to see them clean and unmarred. Parents are picking their kids up from the venue, girls are kissing boys goodbye while heading toward Dad’s truck. The dining room is no worse for wear, and, aside from the honor badges of a broken hand and some fat lips, there are no purposeful injuries, no fights all night.
This isn’t a “rediscovering” of DIY punk values. It’s the continuation of a scene whose members exemplify community, inclusion, and mutual care.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Watching out for one another at a hardcore taco shop concert
If you didn’t get the Instagram flyer, you weren’t there
Gonzo Report: Watching out for one another at a hardcore taco shop concert
If you didn’t get the Instagram flyer, you weren’t there
Death Whispers work up a hardcore appetite and respectful audience.
“You’re way too excited about a broken hand,” says someone outside Rolando’s Taco Shop in Barrio Logan to a young man hoisting his harm aloft and yelling excitedly for everyone to look at his hand. Despite the locale, he probably didn’t break it trying to one-hand a jumbo burrito, but rather, in the makeshift venue in an upstairs room where hardcore bands Death Whispers, Sumo, Cold Path and Get Pieced are playing. As for me, I follow his instructions and look at his hand: the lump protruding at an awkward angle promises excruciating pain when the adrenaline wears off, but that doesn’t dampen his excitement. We’re three bands into a four-band show, and the energy both inside and outside of the taco shop has remained positive throughout
It’s all part of the neighborhood vibe, which is bolstered by a visit to Libélula Books & Co. owned by Jesi Saucedo and their wife Aracelli Hernandez. The bookstore is situated across the street, and the couple fully supports the use of the room at Rolando’s for open mic nights, poetry readings, and punk rock shows. They even drop off some independent punk zines at the shop for the audience. The grimy newsprint of a Razorcake issue warms my heart even as it stains my hands — a tactile vestige of community, one that people are reading before my very eyes.
Before I enter the venue, promoter Alexia Chamol of the band Birds Of Paradise collects the three-clam cover from the hundred-plus attendees who got the Instagram flyer. The upstairs portion has a half-gate to keep people from falling five feet into the dining area. And I do mean half a gate. The other half has no barrier that I can see. An abrupt drop could cause injury, no doubt, and the showroom is becoming more packed by the second. Death Whispers prepares to play, and the audience has their backs to the mini-cliff when the jostling begins, moving bodies whether they like it or not. The sound is good, with the exception of vocals that are poorly amplified through a single small speaker and wage a losing competition with the drums, bass, and guitars.
No matter, each band’s first song is greeted by audience participation chants, which I assume are lyrics. And looking at Sebastian, the 15-year-old singer, it seems clear he doesn’t know he can’t be heard, given the intensity on his snarling face. A post-set interview with the band sees him acknowledging his lack of volume casually, instead celebrating the energy and insanity of their stage time. I see the letter “X” in marker on a couple band member’s hands — the mark of straight edge. When I ask them what it means, they answer, “No drugs, no booze, no smoking.” They also know that my black sheep tattoo is from the godfathers of straight edge, Minor Threat. Most refreshing: they don’t give me shit for smoking a cigarette, instead laughing when I ask if they beat people up for doing so. They are well-versed in the scene’s history and its past militant adherence, but have no interest in participating in the latter.
I take a position at the back of the room before Sumo begins and become one of those bodies being moved through someone else’s volition. I get it. I’m tall and probably blocking the view, such as it is. But the urge to throw an elbow is strong, because fuck you, that’s why. I exit the concert room and feel the temperature drop the second I hit the stairs to go sit with my friends Silas and Adan. Adan is digging the music at his first hardcore show, but he wasn’t properly prepared: he saw “tacos” and came along without reading the rest of the invite.
The half-gate was never going to last, and shows a more pronounced buckle during Cold Path before giving out for good during Get Pieced. Yet no one falls from the raised floor, because everyone is looking out for each other.
As the last note rings, the raised room empties into the dining area and onto the sidewalk. I check the restrooms at the back of the formerly packed area for any signs of damage, and I’m surprised to see them clean and unmarred. Parents are picking their kids up from the venue, girls are kissing boys goodbye while heading toward Dad’s truck. The dining room is no worse for wear, and, aside from the honor badges of a broken hand and some fat lips, there are no purposeful injuries, no fights all night.
This isn’t a “rediscovering” of DIY punk values. It’s the continuation of a scene whose members exemplify community, inclusion, and mutual care.
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