Punk O'clock

It is a late summer evening and hot as ever. Excited, I drive over the bumpy rode covered in pot wholes and park next to a crowd of what seems to be the delinquents of Las Cruces. I arrive to the sketchy environment. It's a Friday night and it seems as though everyone could not be any happier to get the weekend started. I'm approaching the entrance, but first I must make my way through the maze of smoke, D-beat conversation, and trail of alcoholic beverages. It's as if it was my initiation into the building. Suddenly, I'm standing in the doorway of the foyer. As I wait for the crowd to migrate its way further into the building, the smell of beer grows stronger and sound of thrashy music gets louder. I glance at the walls around me, seeing the various posters covering every inch of space overlapping one another, I am certainly in the city's most underground punk venues.

The "doorwatcher", as I overhear them be named, marks my hand with an "x" at the entrance and I continue further into the venue. Making my way out of the foyer and into the second room, I walk over to the opposite side and wait patiently for the show to begin. It is still very loud and I observe different band members communicating with one another to either load equipment or set up. Off in the distance, the shows promoter, Nick, is negotiating how to divide up the donations among the bands, as well as save a small stipend for the broken toilet in the venue. I assume that although the environment does not seem business savvy, this is definitely the business side of running a venue. The rooms is slowly but surely getting more and more packed with friends of both locals and touring bands. We are all condensed into one room just moments from show time.

The lights turn down low and the thrashy music stops. The abrupt and very loud sound of a snare drum takes place of the music while the bassist and guitarist tune for their set. I observe that as the band tunes louder and louder it triggers more people from outside the venue to come in. Just when I thought that the space could not get any more congested, more supporters make their way into the venue. Things get real, and the entire room begins to perspire. I am on the verge of tears when I realize I can no longer see, but James, a kind man watching the PA , makes room for me and relief washes over in an amazing wave.

The band starts and passionate supporters begin shoving one another around. I descend further behind the crowd of people to avoid injury. As I take my place in the back, I notice that most of the female supporters stand in the back and like me, avoid getting hurt. It is the males of the venue that seem the most physically passionate about this genre of music and express it through movement and a specific form of dancing. Yes, dancing. The wave of people pushes me into a beat up piece of furniture in the back. I find it is sturdy enough to stand on so I do. I now see an ocean of supporters blending with the musicians playing up front and yelling every lyric they know with the vocalist.

Still divided as male and female, I managed to find unity through out the entire venue. No matter where one chose to stand, dance, or yell, it seemed that every person was there for the same reasons.

It's the last song of the bands set. The applause from the crowd justifies how proud and happy they are to support some of their closest friends as musicians. I can see the exhaustion in each persons face as the overwhelming amount of heat and noise drains them. The bands set ends and people start trickling outside for some fresh Southern New Mexican evening desert air. The venue is emptier than before, but the aftermath has Punk O'clock written all over it.