By Keith Walsh

I fell into the group of hardcore punks in my senior year of high school, which was 1980 and 1981. I was a meek new waver, wearing bright yellow, red and blue clothes, but when I say these guys were hardcore, they were wall punching, glue sniffing guys who hung out in the hallways during classes, wearing black leather and grimy jeans, mohawks and piercings everywhere. I wasn’t that close to them, I attended my classes, but we found a common ground in the ska bands that I loved (The Specials, The English Beat, Madness) and some new wave bands that were rebellious and weird enough to appeal to them (XTC, The Clash.)

Eric and Duane were the two main guys, not bad guys, just directionless youth that found meaning in the punk movement, which allowed them to be angry and focus their emotions on chaotic music. Eric lived in a nice, recently built community with his divorced mother, who was surely driven somewhat nuts by the activities of Eric, who punched holes and spray painted band names on the drywall in his bedroom. One day when I rang the doorbell, Eric’s mom told me “I can tell, you’re different,” because I broadcasted my meekness and simplicity rather strongly.

These punks frightened me, but I longed for companionship, as I was, at 16, also rather directionless. The loudness of their music, the anger of their expressions, and the crassness of their reading material, such as Flipside magazine, all intimidated me, but they were kind to me and laughed at my musical aspirations, such as when I played my crazy new wave song “Einstein (He Messed With The Atom)” on Eric’s mom’s piano.

One night we went to the Cuckoo’s Nest in Costa Mesa, a famed punk club that attracted the leading bands of the movement. I’m pretty sure they were using me for a ride, as I was the only one that had a car, but they were respectful and kind. Once inside, we saw Black Flag, though I don’t remember which vocalist it was at the time, as the band had more than one over the years. I remember feeling uneasy at the roughness of the crowd, but in retrospect, these were just young people joining together in a common movement that validated their struggle.

When we arrived at the club, there were tons of punks milling about the parking lot, just hanging out. It was quite the scene. Once inside, the music was visceral, loud, and the crowd was an undulating mass of sweaty people, bouncing up against each other in an almost orgiastic euphoria.

Eric, Duane and I separated after high school, when I joined a synthpop band. I sometimes wonder what they are doing now. I still appreciate the DIY approach of punk that lets young people, even those just starting out, to make music and express themselves regardless of actual skill, which they can develop with practice. I myself to this day am fond of punk guitar sounds and tones.

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