#maxaluna's

Having played in a hardcore band throughout a good portion of the '90s, a large chunk of my weekends were spent in parking lots and most of them were in Connecticut. Rife with cheap warehouse space and bored white people, every coffee shop, fake club, or teen center throughout the state could potentially host a bill of at least five bands, on any Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. 

These venues were seldom equipped to house hundreds of people aged 13-43, so they were either too hot or too cold. Condensation would form on the windows or people would be bundled behind merch tables, their breath visible as they answered questions of "How much for a T-Shirt" or "Is there really anything on this VHS tape?" The latter question was specific to picking up a video cassette from Rick Ta Life's portable punk flea market, as there was a good chance there were not two high quality Misfits gigs on said tape, but rather blank snow that loops and never breaks into a band playing. If you're unfamiliar with Richard Ta Life, please take some time to look him up later, as it's impossible for me to provide any worthwhile perspective without hijacking this entry.

It was the dead of winter and my Sunday was spent in the back of a strip mall, at a club called Maxaluna's somewhere in Connecticut. The bands were probably One4One, Fastbreak, Groundzero, Murphy's Law, and Hatebreed, because most shows in that state boasted some combination of those musical acts. My band was playing also. It was 1995 and it was freezing out, but too hot in the club to dress appropriately. 

Breaking all rules of decency, I chose to wear shorts instead of jeans to feel more comfortable on the tiny carpeted stage. Nothing happened of note while we played, but we sold several records and T-Shirts, and were compensated well from the promotor James Jasta. Mr. Jasta--the frontperson of a then unsigned crossover band called Hatebreed--had also paid us for a show we had played a month prior that he owed us for. Most bands wouldn't leave a venue without attempting to collect their pay, but Jasta was earnest and trustworthy, so if he said he'd "Pay you more later," it actually happened without question.

What I do remember was downing water constantly during our 30 minute set, trying to stay hydrated and avoid passing out and injuring myself. There were points where I debated asking the singer to go on some long diatribe about anything, so I could sneak off and wizz, but I soldiered on, feeling like boiling kettle ready to overflow. Trusting only Jasta, I also had the band's pay and merch money in the side pocket of my shorts, which was close to $700.00 and quite a bit for a shitty hardcore band.

After moving our equipment off the stage, I bolted for the bathroom, with a bag full of clean clothes and wires slung over my shoulder. All the urinals were taken and I briefly debated breaking the laws of decency and pissing in the sink, but a stall door whipped open and I was instantly filled with a sense of security. 

Wanted to be free of my sweat soaked shorts, I completely removed them and hung them over the cinderblock wall, while I took--at least during the two decades I had been alive--the greatest pee of my life. Unfortunately, the joy of streaming gold into the American Standard below me, would soon fade after I dawned a pair of denim trousers and placed my shorts into my backpack.

No, I didn't have any type of accident, but I realized that my wallet containing all our money had slid out of my pocket and into the grooves between the cinderblocks of the wall. After climbing up and peering down, I could see it laying there, robust with 10s and 20s, six inches from my grasp. I was fucked.

In a state of panic, I ran outside and just started kicking things and cursing. Losing all my IDs and credit cards sucked enough, but having to tell the band that our money for two shows was between where people go number one and number two, wasn't going to make for an enjoyable ride home.There was only one resolution, provided I had the available tools to perform and extraction. 

"Hey, do you happen to have a hammer or anything like that in your truck," I asked our singer. He was a tinkerer, the type of person that probably took his toys apart, just to see if he could reassemble them. His trunk often lined with different ratchets, pliers, wrenches, and screwdrivers. His nickname was "Wrench," but that was coincidental. Luckily, he popped his head out from behind the maroon door of his vehicle holding a decent sized metal mallet.

We strategically waiting until the loud heavy metal guitars of Hatebreed buzzed in the background, knowing their volume and the crowd's refrains would mask what was about to happen. "Where is it? Wrench asked. I pointed at my wallets estimated location on a brick painted dark green, before he uncoiled a massive swing. Jailbreak! Cement dust poured out of the gaping hole, covering the floor and my wallet. Smashing the shit out of a cinderblock was actually pretty easy, and Wrench's single $700.00 swing was all we needed to liberate the cash.

Murphy's Law followed Hatebreed, playing a typical set, roughly 437 minutes in length. Once their last horn tooted, we were free to pack up our equipment and head back to Massachusetts.

"Hey man," said Mr. Jasta, his voice pained and face creased with disappointment. "I planned on giving everyone a bonus, because the place was packed today, but some asshole smashed a hole in the Men's Room wall... like who the fuck would do that right? That's just stupid!"

"Some fucking dumb hardcore kid would," I answered trying to lighten the mood. "If they aren't tagging the walls, they're doing something dumb. Thanks for the loot for the shows and for putting us on the bill. Hopefully the owner isn't too upset about the damage."