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Suicideboys inspire Marines to storm the dance floor
Hip-hop cousins share their struggles and connect with their fans
Suicideboys share their struggles.
Make no mistake: San Diego’s Midway District is a war zone. As soon as I stepped out of my car after parking, I heard smashing. When I looked over, I saw what I could only assume were a couple of homeless guys using golf clubs to beat the shit out of a Home Depot shopping cart. I locked eyes with one of them for a moment, and decided that if I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a dinged-up pitching wedge, it would be wise to get moving. So, that’s what I did. Have fun, fellas. Get your aggression out on that orange painted metal. Me? I was on my way to see Suicideboys at Pechanga Arena. But my stroll had only just begun.
Keeping on the path to Pechanga, I moseyed past a pimp and a ‘tute. This walk was getting more and more interesting. Then, once I came upon the arena, everything turned black. A mass of Suicideboys fans thronged towards the gates. I’d always known the New Orleans duo of hip-hop cousins Scrim and Ruby had a monster underground following. What’s more, I knew they said they had formed a pact: if they didn’t make it in music by the time they were 30 years old, they would commit suicide together. Fortunately, they are very much still alive. But they still share about their struggles with drug addiction and depression, and their fans connect with that — strongly.
Upon entering, I noticed there were mile-long lines snaking in all directions. Was this the line to get to the seats? No, these were the lines to get a piece of Suicideboys merch. “They’re all touching each other,” one guy told me.
“Who?” I asked.
“The merch lines, dumbass. They go around the entire building. By the time I get to the table, I’ll be next to the bar, ready for my next beer.”
On my way to my terrace-level seat, I zig-zagged my way through women dressed like Harley Quinn from Batman and dudes wearing Grey Day tour shirts, which was clearly the hot ticket item. Once I found my section, I noticed a pack of dudes sitting there. One of them occupied my seat. No worries: there were plenty of other seats right next to them, so I sat in one of those. A couple in the seats ahead me, Ray and Myra, turned around and started chopping it up with me, and I learned they were with an entire brigade of Marines, down from Camp Pendleton.
Ray wanted to sneak down to the ground level and get into the action. Staying calmly in the seats didn’t appeal to him. The young Marines agreed to go with him. “I’m getting down there, one way or another,” said Ray. “I’m gonna start recruiting people. They can’t stop all of us. After the second song, we’re going to go.” I agreed to go with them. It had been a while since I sneaked somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. When the time came to make our way down, Ray pulled a Suicideboys ski mask over his head and kissed his girlfriend goodbye. She would be left behind as he led us to ground zero. The pack of Marines and I followed. I was twenty years older than these guys, but whatever. I enjoyed being a part of their impromptu campaign to get down behind “enemy lines.”
As we advanced down the ramp to ground level, my heart began to thump. We would have to get through multiple layers of security to complete our mission. Then I noticed some slices of pepperoni pizza at the concession stand. They fairly glowed with goodness, and I had to make the choice: stay and grab one, or follow the crew down. Ray went for the ramp. The Marines swiftly followed.
Paralyzed with indecision, I finally dragged my eyes away from the pizza and trailed after the Marines. We passed the single security guard at the top of the ramp. No problem. But at the bottom of the ramp, at least a half-dozen bouncers swarmed as they watched us approach. This was it. Did we ever really have a choice? We breezed right past all those gatekeepers, scattering ourselves into a multi-mosh pit crowd like depraved cockroaches. Ray bolted for one of them. Eventually, I was washed up near the front. The Marines were doing battle nearby. Fireballs and lights from the stage complemented the aggressive hip-hop. I tried to remain graceful under pressure.
Participation itself, whatever happened, was the ultimate victory.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Suicideboys inspire Marines to storm the dance floor
Hip-hop cousins share their struggles and connect with their fans
Suicideboys inspire Marines to storm the dance floor
Hip-hop cousins share their struggles and connect with their fans
Suicideboys share their struggles.
Make no mistake: San Diego’s Midway District is a war zone. As soon as I stepped out of my car after parking, I heard smashing. When I looked over, I saw what I could only assume were a couple of homeless guys using golf clubs to beat the shit out of a Home Depot shopping cart. I locked eyes with one of them for a moment, and decided that if I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a dinged-up pitching wedge, it would be wise to get moving. So, that’s what I did. Have fun, fellas. Get your aggression out on that orange painted metal. Me? I was on my way to see Suicideboys at Pechanga Arena. But my stroll had only just begun.
Keeping on the path to Pechanga, I moseyed past a pimp and a ‘tute. This walk was getting more and more interesting. Then, once I came upon the arena, everything turned black. A mass of Suicideboys fans thronged towards the gates. I’d always known the New Orleans duo of hip-hop cousins Scrim and Ruby had a monster underground following. What’s more, I knew they said they had formed a pact: if they didn’t make it in music by the time they were 30 years old, they would commit suicide together. Fortunately, they are very much still alive. But they still share about their struggles with drug addiction and depression, and their fans connect with that — strongly.
Upon entering, I noticed there were mile-long lines snaking in all directions. Was this the line to get to the seats? No, these were the lines to get a piece of Suicideboys merch. “They’re all touching each other,” one guy told me.
“Who?” I asked.
“The merch lines, dumbass. They go around the entire building. By the time I get to the table, I’ll be next to the bar, ready for my next beer.”
On my way to my terrace-level seat, I zig-zagged my way through women dressed like Harley Quinn from Batman and dudes wearing Grey Day tour shirts, which was clearly the hot ticket item. Once I found my section, I noticed a pack of dudes sitting there. One of them occupied my seat. No worries: there were plenty of other seats right next to them, so I sat in one of those. A couple in the seats ahead me, Ray and Myra, turned around and started chopping it up with me, and I learned they were with an entire brigade of Marines, down from Camp Pendleton.
Ray wanted to sneak down to the ground level and get into the action. Staying calmly in the seats didn’t appeal to him. The young Marines agreed to go with him. “I’m getting down there, one way or another,” said Ray. “I’m gonna start recruiting people. They can’t stop all of us. After the second song, we’re going to go.” I agreed to go with them. It had been a while since I sneaked somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. When the time came to make our way down, Ray pulled a Suicideboys ski mask over his head and kissed his girlfriend goodbye. She would be left behind as he led us to ground zero. The pack of Marines and I followed. I was twenty years older than these guys, but whatever. I enjoyed being a part of their impromptu campaign to get down behind “enemy lines.”
As we advanced down the ramp to ground level, my heart began to thump. We would have to get through multiple layers of security to complete our mission. Then I noticed some slices of pepperoni pizza at the concession stand. They fairly glowed with goodness, and I had to make the choice: stay and grab one, or follow the crew down. Ray went for the ramp. The Marines swiftly followed.
Paralyzed with indecision, I finally dragged my eyes away from the pizza and trailed after the Marines. We passed the single security guard at the top of the ramp. No problem. But at the bottom of the ramp, at least a half-dozen bouncers swarmed as they watched us approach. This was it. Did we ever really have a choice? We breezed right past all those gatekeepers, scattering ourselves into a multi-mosh pit crowd like depraved cockroaches. Ray bolted for one of them. Eventually, I was washed up near the front. The Marines were doing battle nearby. Fireballs and lights from the stage complemented the aggressive hip-hop. I tried to remain graceful under pressure.
Participation itself, whatever happened, was the ultimate victory.
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