Satelights // 10 to Go // Bandage // Wish upon a Star: Nov 7, 2014 @ An Club

And so we dance to the rhythm, dance! dance!, this may be your last chance.

I could literally feel the excitement rising up gradually, throughout the day. I was visualizing it already, anticipating. I knew it so well: the sturdy, reliable pillars, the semi-crappy sound, the friendly height (and size!) of the stage, the lights on the ceiling suffering the occasionally bash from a crowd-surfer's foot, the shrill of feedback, the sticky floor, Makis (?) sound-checking - an ever fix’d mark in An Club, the sweaty man-stench (wait, scratch that, i could do with less of that), cheap beer (and thanks to the lady behind the bar for still keeping it real, but fuck Amstel) the posses gathering in the left wing, the drafty right wing almost deserted being by the stairs (but providing just as good a viewing platform as the left), the pit (quasi-centre of it all) the merch bar with its warm lights, banter and rarely used draft taps, the spliff-rolling bench back in the far left, the respite area under the sound-checking booth (basically a table covered in empty glasses, with a bench), the 'green' room [red (?) in actual fact] covered in decades of writing on the walls by the various players, fans, groupies, roadies etc, the privileged position next to the lights-and-sound booth (best spot in the house if you ask me, convenient for the sensitive of hearing - and to think it took me over a decade to discover that, at least now i know - also, works well if you are a short person, like me!); and the overall sensation of knowing i'd manage somehow (for sheer wont and necessity) to immerse myself into the playing and the lights and the bass drums touka-touka guitars solos singing shouting brawling drunk pumped up festive atmosphere. It is always a deflatted, disappointing night if i leave still remembering what was going on with me before i got to the gig.

I remember when i used to drive down to An Club from my old house up North, took me almost an hour every time, I’d go at least a couple times a month, if not more frequently. I'd always feel that discomforting pleasure of excitement in my stomach. I'd have a knot in the back of my throat right about the time i'd be passing Panormou; by the time i turned off on Alexandras it had usually moved down my windpipe and into my solar plexus. Then, usually at the traffic light turning into Spyrou Trikoupi (η τελική ευθεία) I’d reach my compression peak, my legs twitching as I changed gear. It was like holding my breath, and knowing me, i probably was holding it for extended amounts of time, letting a little air slip in with every streetcorner i'd pass, until i found somewhere to park, where i'd compose myself, roll one and head off.

Going back to An Club again, after i-can't-even-recall-how-many-months-(could-it-be-over-a-year!?), i calculated how many years i'd been gig-going there. Initially i thought it was 12 years, but as the internet will corroborate, Snapcase's live, my first gig at An Club, was February 15, 2003, so it would be 11 years and a bit. My friend at the time had said, 'Nah, i won't take a shower when i get home, this is clean, pure sweat". Now that i think of it, he probably reeked of cigarettes and spilt beer as well, but what the heck, i wasn't the one sleeping with him. Snapcase were the bomb and I was addicted. Sure, I’d seen gigs before, but nothing like this. I was initiated into the vague direction of hardcore when I was about 15, starting with bands like Bodycount, System of a Down (most popular in 2001), Marilyn Manson, Deftones (I love you even in death), and then getting overly engrossed in Evergreen Terrace ("My heart beats in breakdowns") and Raised Fist ("Get this right"), A Wilhelm Scream, Poison the Well and bands like Hot Cross and Fear Before (the March of Flames)  - y'know, screamy stuff. In college, I moved on to punkrock, and eventually picked up on things like stoner, sludge, postmetal, some crust, a lot of pop-punk and punkrock etc. Perhaps some might say these bands suck – to which my reply is, yah, and, so, what? Did I ever come and ask for your approval for anything? Didn’t think so. But somehow, sometimes, people are under the impression I actually give a fuck about what their opinion is of me, and consequently of my musical tastes. I’m sorry; I was unaware that my listening to music had anything to do with you whatsoever. Then again, people are so excited about having menial small-talk (spare me), it’s any wonder they ever say anything of substance*. I recall when I was 16 having guys tell me ‘What, you like those dudes (i.e. that band)? They’re such faggots!” And apparently, so am I. Sure, I’ll be a faggot (haha, though lesbian is closer to what they might call me sometimes), and I take neither as an insult but as a full on compliment. Sure I’m a faggot, if that makes you happy. But oh, puh-lease. So what if I can’t listen to Pig Destroyer or Agoraphobic Nosebleed (great name btw) – but apparently, in some eyes this is a competition, and you need to do so much to prove you are even more of a man. I can just imagine some insecure people now: what the f-? If a girl can like Dillinger Escape Plan, what does that mean for me? I gotta up the ante now and listen to something harder, more obscure, louder, kra-kra-kra. But again, I digress. Not everyone thinks this way, just like not the entire planet is populated by assholes. Now I see how projection works though, and whether it was their way of saying I wasn’t tough enough, I didn’t belong (which begs the question, why does someone have to be tough in the first place?) or their way of not admitting they like that band too (hypocritical cowards), but in the end... I’ll say it again so you can get it: so what. I don’t need you.

Throughout the years, I have occupied almost every position in that place. Usually, i favour the pillars (being a small person), where I get to see, first and foremost, and sing and share my enthusiasm. Better viewing, better hearing, fewer people (for someone with slight agoraphobia, this helps, though often I have no problem coming close to rib-crushing by being shoved on/off the stage barrier). Often I used to choose the left wing, but it eventually got too crowded and smokey, and most preferred talking to listening.

But so what if a couple of drunkards shift attention away from the band (though quite unjustly sometimes I feel, like with that chicken at the Day Off gig at Kyttaro)? And so what if you spilt your beer? And so what if s/he didn’t call or show up? So what if he didn’t clap a hand ('the drama you create amuses you and only you'), she didn’t say hi, they didn’t invite you, so what if you are alone, or unhappy? So what if (like some tit in the bathroom) your poor hair didn’t straighten just right (if the humidity-related conversation between two chicks is anything to go by – “oh I knooooow, mine came out like shit today too!” – some girls really need to get over their vanity and throw away the curling iron)? So fucking what, man? So what if it’s raining, or you’re not gonna get laid tonight, and so what (once and for all, so what?! Are you that shallow and needy?) if someone didn’t like/respond to your fuuuhcking facebook^ post (it does not merit a capital F)? You are missing the point. While you are too busy checking your dumb-phone, or looking for wi-fi, or checking out someone’s tattoo, or dissing someone, or talking about the latest Game of Thrones episode, there is a band up there (half the time from abroad) who has traveled a heap of miles and sweated their asscrack-and-balls off to be up there - for you! And you are disrespecting them by being in your own fucking little world, talking about shit that does not matter. Do ya see me point?

It could be said about me that I am aloof, or lonely, or strange, snobbish, boring, who the fuck knows and honestly who cares if and what is said about me, but I go and I give my undivided attention to these bands. Hell, even all the hairs on my body stand to attention. I can feel the hairs all down my entire back, across my ribcage, even the hairs on my chest, they all rise and and greet them, my arms, thighs, calves, even the hair on my head stands on end, and reaches out, like millions of tiny antennae receptors, to come into contact with the music. Hairs on end and knee-jerk reactions, that’s what it’s about. When RVIVR played I was a nervous wreck, I know it to be true, I know I had crazy eyes and an unstable physique, probably looked like I was on something (good vibes in truth). But for me it is holy communion what takes place, as N. so rightly put it. And I thank these bands. Apart from the electrifying feeling that surged through me and out by way of every single tiny hair, the double-beat played up and down on my knee-caps; another frequent effect of music, often in tandem with my hairs standing up. No matter the band, if they are giving it their all, the knee-jerking reaction is always the same: Alkaline Trio, Vodka Juniors, Lagwagon, 65 Days of Static, Stretch Armstrong, 925 (κάποτε), Mute The Silence (κάποτε), Raised Fist, A Wilhelm Scream, Red Sparows, The Raveonettes, Despite Everything, Strung Out, Walls of Jericho, Pretty Girls Makes Graves, The (International) Noise Conspiracy, Hatebreed, RVIVR, High on Fire, Dub Trio; they all induced this reaction. At times it will sway me to the point of almost toppling over, not being able to stand straight. At RVIVR, i could barely keep still despite not consciously moving, but there was my knee, jerking away like a young thing on porn.

I can never forget the connections I have made throughout the years. Sure, many bands have heard and see their fans, time and time again, but you are unique and they’ve never seen you, and that’s why they play. I still remember Pelican’s singer smiling at me when he saw how much I was digging the gig from my pillar, nor when Strung Out singer Jason looked to me to remember the forgotten lyrics to Velvet Alley (or the time he saw me at their London gig and somehow recognized me), nor the appreciation of Thrice singer Dustin when I told him I’d come to Holland from Greece to see them play. I still recall the first time I heard The Masks Are Off Now at the Vodka Juniors’ Dark Poetry release gig, when the whole thing just swept over me like a soothing balm (I was sleep deprived, had just come down from my first time snowboarding Parnassos, had several bruises on my ass, and could literally not move), as I just stood there, with my eyes closed, close to tears, hearing a song I’d never heard before but that worked like an ancient remedy all the same. I’ll never forget the few times I’ve got up on stage and shared the mic, nor my first (and last) stage-dive during Boysetsfire’s encore. The blue, brown, purple, green and red bruises were all worth it. Singing myself so hoarse I almost vomited, pulling a whitey at Rodeo (Texas?) coz of the too-heavy bass lines and dirges of Acid King (in the end my sister and i agreed we should have gone to Electric Wizard which i think were playing the same day but her voice is just too good to miss!); pulling another whitey in Villa Amalias**; having tear-gas flood underground into An Club (2011) and keeping calm trying to get away without getting lost. I’ve had mostly good times, and I usually try and keep the bad times for another night. Or, better still, I take the bad stuff and use it as fuel at the gig, I shout out all my unhappiness and displeasure with the fucked up state of things, I scream my abuse to the ceiling, and my praises to the stage. I sing like no one’s watching. And at times, I’ll make a fool of myself, and at times I’ll be aloof, and sit on my own. I know I sometimes seem lonely, or lost, but I am not. Especially when I am at gig, I am not lost. I may be in amongst a crowd of people whose faces I know and that’s all, I don’t know your name, who you are, if you’re a sweetheart or a jerk; and I don’t care (unless you pick on me, then I care, I’ll fight you no problemo). Sure, we might be soul mates and we could be arch enemies. And if we ever had anything, it's taking a one-way stroll down memory lane, so there. But I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. That’s not the bloody - fucking - point. The point is the music. Some nights it really does feel like we’re a small community of friends, having a good time, while others it feels like a clique of scenesters (φασαίοι, τι εξαιρετική λεξη), laughing at all their inside jokes, doing all this with selfish cause and ends. But I don’t care and it doesn’t matter. I don’t care, coz my eyes are focused on stage. During the gig, there is nothing more important than staring at the stage. I’ve put off going to the toilet for a whole set just so that I don’t miss a single song (and for me, 1/3 of a beer = a whole glass of pee, don’t ask me how or why but alas tis true). Though, being a girl, I’ve had to put off peeing way longer than a band’s set. And saying that, I know it makes no difference that I am a girl, though for so many guys in the past it has been a topic of self-righteous conversation I fear. Ooh, watch out, there are Giiiiiiirls in the (audience of the) punkrockhardcore scene, yikes (one only knows what the reactions would be if ever there was a all-girl hardcore/punk/rock band appear on the scene, i feel some boys would actually have an aneurism. On the other hand i know many boys and girls who would welcome such an effort. I could only offer my vocal chords/writing skills since i don't know the first thing about playing music (though i'd like to give the drums a crack). But I digress. So I have a cunt? It’s usually a pain in the ass anyway. And so are you when that’s all you see, a cunt. But maybe I am a cunt, a cunty snob who cares not for the people who make up the scene (excluding bands), and really could not give much of a fuck to say hi to you just coz I’ve seen you age alongside me these past ten-something years. So I hate small-talk, sue me why dontcha? Maybe I am just a cunt who cares more about how she feels when she listens to the music, and nothing else. So call me self-involved, though last time I checked I didn’t owe no one nothing (yes it pains me to put a double negative in there but i'm trying to make a point here).

Well, you can’t have it all. You have my devotion, do you really need my sugar-coated chit-chat words of camaraderie? So I say, silence is better, unless you’re at a gig at An Club.

Ideally, you exit from a gig better off than how you entered. For me, that is a successfully show. Others might measure it with the amount of beer on the floor (or their belly), or their hangover, or whatever. But for me, if the band's playing makes me smile and forget everything (everything) else, then it is a successfully, well-spent evening. Ideal exit circumstances from a gig include a nauseating, high-pitch frequency in your ears that lasts a couple hours (and if you are lucky it will lull you to sleep as well), unsteady legs, sweaty arm-pits, hoarse throat, mind empty (but somehow full and satiated, almost sedated) and open, receptive, eyes somewhat sore from the blinding lights, smoke and murky darkness, the smell of 'fresh' Exarhia air as you clamber up the steps past that big dude who never smiles.

Last night my knees kept relatively quite, apart from during Satelights' Ghostship/last song, their only song I caught, where they were shaking uncontrollably, even my shoulders shook a little. That right there, that’s the sheer *joy* of hearing a beloved song LIVE, shoved in your face and pummeling down ears, seeing them play and enjoy it dammit! Knee-jerking came back during Now that you're gone by Bandage. And when Wish Upon a Star took the stage, my head bopped and nodded unwillingly, my body swayed and wanted to pogo (thought i'm a public hazard so i spared the audience any injury), and i found myself wanting to look each one of them in the eye and say thank you, good luck, keep it up, i'm really digging this take care and good night. 

I was given the chance to express my thanks when Drossos, singer of Bandage, came to say hi and thank me personally for showing up time and again at their shows. And i gave many thanks too - not just for them existing as a band or a whole bunch of other things, but i gave thanks for his taking the time to talk to me and recognise me. It means a lot when your appearance and contribution is appreciated. All it takes is a quick glance, a smile, even a nod, maybe a couple words - hey, hi! Don’t worry, I don’t bite and trust me the last thing i want to do is talk for hours (ok, sure, maybe a decade ago i'd have chewed your ear off, possibly). Though i don't need to be told in person every time, nor by every band, far from it. I know they are thankful for my being there, even if they don’t know me. And WUAS, apart from actually thanking us profusely for being there (ah re Orfea, sentimentalist :), had a good time themselves. As do most bands; I can see it in their stage appearance, in their wide, wild smiles, sneaking peeks at each other across the floor as if they can't believe they've got it so good, i can hear it in their voices when they sing, or see it in their screwed up face when they pound their snare drum or crash symbol, or when performing their scissor kicks, groovy, swinging guitars and flying blurry wrists on the solos.

I know they are psyched to be there, coz i can hear it in their songs which sound better live, coz that's what happens when you're ecstatic about getting to play your songs and anthems: you are ecstatic, and the whole joint knows it. And the audience is ecstatic for hearing a truer, alive rendition of those anthems. And i know what the deal is. I know I don’t leave the house much, and don’t call my parents too often, forget my friends’ birthdays, I know I am stingy and antisocial, I know I could do more for myself, I know I could eat better and work out more, smoke less, frown less, love better and think more productive thoughts. But I also know I love my people, and I know myself, and I mean harm to no one who doesn’t deserve it. I know I don’t judge you because I can apply relativity to your situation, and I know he who cast the first stone. I know I don’t waste my time though on social networks, nor spend my money on exorbitantly priced bullshit. I know I treat animals well, I recycle and I never litter, brush my teeth twice a day, say thank you and please, sorry and don’t worry. I know what’s up, and how it goes down. I know. I also know what I don’t know (too many to list here). And knowing what I do and do not know is what makes all the difference. So yes, I know. And that means I also get to say Thank You.

So, I end this not-so-brief post by giving thanks for the moments I have shared with all the bands and fans and circus animals of this scene. I also give thanks to the many people who have introduced me to what became some of my favourite bands. But I don’t thank you like a sweet little girl indebted to you for showing her the light (ugh far from it) - I merely thank you as one human being to another for sharing. If all you wanna see a cunt, then i'll be the cunt, sure thing. But that means you're a dick, right?

And so, today I give thanks to all the bands, and look forward to another decade of gigs. Alors, on danse.

Who did you appreciate today?

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(*) Disclaimer: being stoned/drunk and talking shit is not the same as talking shit when you are stone-cold sober. Also, idiots are more and more common these days, so there you have it.

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^ When i was working with a PC in front of me for 8hrs i too fell victim of overusing Fb - luckily i've been cured of that disease...

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(**) That night in question (Dec. 8, 2012) at Villa Amalias, I’d been waiting for a friend by the toilets while reading a zine, and something in the content of the zine gave me a really bad vibe (it has happened before when a girl tripping got on stage during Zion Train or Groundation, I think, and she was tripping balls, but happily unaware of being on stage bugging the players, and her bad vibes gave me a whitey). So anyhow, I get a bad vibe and it sends me reeling, In the blur of the pre-whitey I can barely make out a friend waiting for the loo and hastily tell him to inform my boyfriend (already in the loo) that now i too am tripping balls and I gotta go outside, except I never make it there on my own, coz I have near fainted before reaching the stairway, but I felt several eyes on me, seeing me swagger along like it ain’t no thing, and I then felt an invisible wave of embraces tenderly, slowly move me along to the door, meanwhile I’m stumbling saying "no need, I just can’t really see is all but I’m just dandy, see, thanks" trying to be as unobtrusive, inconspicuous as possible. At the door, a young man literally scooped me up and plopped me on a bench, not wanting me to slip on the wet marble steps of the exit and sprawl my brains out on the rainy pavement. So thank you thank you thank you all, I physically felt your solidarity. And remember kids, the pit is fun but when there is a man down we pick him up.

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(***) P.S. Now would be a good time for some people to know that i absolutely abhor (which meas heartily hate) huggy kissy-kissy greetings from random people - i only do it coz i'd hate to see your crest-fallen little face when i back away and look at you with disdain. I am not your family, nor your friend in most cases, so why don't you reserve the chummy XOXOs for someone who deserves them, coz they sure go lost on me - so get off me and just say 'hey', from afar is fine too, since that's all we're gonna say anyway. My point us, if we/you are not gonna bother to say anything more than 'hey' (which is totally fine with me and something i can totally respect) don't go to the hassle of hugging and kissing me (which i totally don't respect - coz it proves to me your lack of judgment). Oh, and don't even think of giving me one of those lame-ass high-fives that usually ends in a weird weak fist-shakey kinda thing (mostly due to my inability to high-five successfully of course, but also coz, come on, you know you don't really mean it, you don't fully endorse it). I keep tellin' ya but no one will listen: fist-bumps are the only way to go, man. Sorted. Truly.

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Over & out. Good night & good luck. ____________________