Steve Burman
Andrew Kaufman is the author of several books, including The Waterproof Bible and All My Friends Are Superheroes.
It’s 43 minutes before midnight and the Forgotten Rebels have yet to take the stage. Admittedly, 11:17 isn’t typically considered late for a punk rock concert to start. It is, after all, a Saturday night. What is rock 'n' roll if not the sonic embodiment of excess? Of partying? Of teenage rebellion turned into music? It’s just that there isn’t a single teenager in Lee’s Palace, the venerable, if grungy, downtown Toronto venue hosting tonight’s performance. Of the 300 people who paid 20 bucks to be here, maybe 40 are still in their 20s and 30s. The vast majority are as old as I am, men with beer guts and thinning hair, women wearing comfortable shoes stifling yawns. The truth is that most of the people here for this punk rock show are on the dark side of 50.
A nervousness hangs in the air. Part of this is the waiting, but there’s more. When the P.A. plays a Ramones song, the two guys beside me marvel about how the song was released in 1978 – 40 years ago. This is when I realize that I, too, am thinking about how much time has passed, how old I’ve suddenly become. I believe that’s why we’ve all given up Netflix and our comfortable sofas to come to this show. We want to see how the Forgotten Rebels have aged. What do punk rockers look and act like in their 50s? Will they be their old fierce selves? Or will they be some toothless cartoon version that will make all of us regret our decision to come? We are here, this December night, to see how the Forgotten Rebels have held up over time, because, some part of us believes, that will show how we’ve held up. The success or failure of the Forgotten Rebels will reveal our own.
That’s a lot to have riding on a punk band.
If you have never heard of the Forgotten Rebels, you’re not alone. Founded in Hamilton in 1977, they released seven albums, none of which sold well or received radio play. But the music, and especially their live shows, garnered a cult following. There was a time in the eighties when their name was a code word, something you could utter to prove you were cool. The current line-up features Jeffrey Campbell on guitar, Shawn Maher on bass and Dan Casale on drums. However, it must be noted that more than 20 musicians have, at one time or another been part of this band. There’s only one member that’s been there from the start and that’s lead singer and punk-rock provocateur, Mike Grelecki, better known by his stage name, Mickey DeSadist.
The P.A. fades down. The lights dim. The audience becomes quiet. I can’t tell whether the crowd’s sudden reserve is out of reverence or worry. When the band finally take to they stage, they’re lead by Mr. Casale, the drummer. His haircut, what used to be – and perhaps still is – unfortunately referred to as a mohawk, provokes a sigh of relief from both myself and the two guys beside me. There’s nothing more punk rock than a dyed green mohawk. Mr. Campbell and Mr. Maher come on next and while they don’t look punk rock in jeans and T-shirts, they remain slim and have hair.
Then Mickey comes on, and his costume is a little harder to describe and a little more worrying. He wears a pink feather boa and this weird sequined purple jacket. Of course, I acknowledge the necessity of the lead singer to exhibit presence, to emit an attention-getting flamboyance. The problem isn’t that the outfit subverts the stereotypical gender norm. We would have all been happy if he’d come out wearing a dress. The problem isn’t what he’s wearing but how he’s wearing it. Mickey looks like he’s trying too hard. And this, in punk rock, is the worst thing you could possible do.
However, these early misgivings are obliterated as the band begins to play. They sound, quite simply, amazing. Guitar, bass and drums unite as a single driving force. They tear through a string of fan favourites, including In Love with the System, Bomb the Boats and Tell Me You Love Me. Mickey’s voice, while a little soft at the first, begins to warm up. The audience relaxes. Our worst fears have not been confirmed. And then something truly amazing happens: A mosh pit forms.
I hadn’t even noticed how every young person in the crowd – that is, under 30 – had rushed to the front of the stage. They’d congregated in front of Mickey, their presence transforming those 200 square feet into what was known back in the day as a “pit.” There they were, banging into each other, dancing through collision, like molecules in an accelerator, proving their existence by ramming into each other. It’s fantastic. I cannot remember the last time I actually saw a mosh pit. Was it ’92? ’93? Kurt Cobain was still alive, I know that much.
The old timers hang around on the edges of the pit, not going in but wishing we could, prevented by trick knees and stiff joints. We smile broadly, urging on their kids, as if we were parents at a swimming lesson, filled with pride, as if we were watching a child jump off the high diving board rather than men in their late 20s slamming their shoulders into each other. The site of this mosh pit, the very fact that one exists in 2018, is strangely moving to me. That the tradition has been passed down from one generation to another. Punk rock has a beating heart! I did not waste my youth on something meaningless and ridiculous! These feelings grow and gain power inside me, until quite close to the end of the show, something horrible happens.
The band is in the final moments of one of their best songs, the title of which I am unable to print here, when it happens. Mickey sings the lyric, “I’m glad you died before you got old.” His voice, now entirely warmed up, is strong and confident. But his voice is completely without irony. He sings the lyric without any sort of self-realization. Mickey seems to have completely and utterly glossed over the fact that this has happened to none of us. We have not died. We are, in fact, old. And Mickey’s lack of awareness exaggerates mine. Although the song holds up and the musicianship is great, I cannot think about anything other then how old I am. I look around at the crowd. We’re all so old. I begin to ask myself, what is the point of being here? What is the point of any of us being here? What is the point of clinging to ideals that were unrealistic in 1984? I have a mortgage, a car, two kids sleeping at home. In this moment, the realization that I became the man I used to rebel against is inescapable. The younger version of me would have mocked me without mercy, seen me for what I am: an old fat man desperately trying to regain his youth.
The band leaves the stage. The audience cheers for an encore. I decide that I might as well stick around for it. Ten minutes pass and when the band finally returns to the stage, Mickey DaSadist is shirtless. This, for me, is the last nail in the coffin, confirmation that neither the Forgotten Rebels nor Andrew Kaufman have aged well. But the band has saved a couple of their best songs for last. And as they play them, Mickey’s bravado finally reaches full steam. He owns the stage. He knows that’s he’s pulling it off. There is something beautiful about Mickey DeSadist in this moment. Mickey, like us, isn’t the same person he used to be. But who wants to be that anyway? Who wants to be that stupid? And yes, he has a tendency to revel in past glories. We all do. But at least we have glories to revel in. Seeing Mickey up there on stage, strutting around, makes it easy to believe these things. If only because his abs are not rock hard. Because of the slight roll that topples over his belt. Yes, his hair is thinning and his jeans aren’t skinny but he’s up there. At his age – at our age – getting up on stage is punk rock. At this age, just existing is punk.