What we do in the shadows

I recently had the privilege of being a part of a benefit show in Syracuse where the headliner's vocalist (Philly pop punk staples, Dark Thoughts) grieved the broken state of the world, and specifically America. Directly after this lamentation he spoke hopefully about the importance of our clandestine communities and how we should use the love and camaraderie of these gatherings to trudge on in the face of systemic corruption and economic rot. In the DIY punk scene, they/we are at the mercy of physical spaces to host our rituals, though lately bands and promoters are cutting out the middle man and setting up under bridges, with generators juicing up the works. House shows rise and fall, often due to interpersonal fall outs (you didn't wash the dishes as the communal chore calendar asked you to, you slept with my girlfriend, you are a raging alcoholic, etc), new neighbors, college ending, or too many visits from the fuzz. 

The punk world I've inhabited has a transient quality, mostly because we are rarely welcomed in civilized spaces. The perceived lack of revenue (bar sales are significantly lower at hardcore and punk shows) as well as the stigma that we will cause trouble and break shit (modern metal/death core bands seem to wear this badge proudly, they wear huge pants too) keep us on the run, and often shed folks along the way. All of this is to say that DIY music is seeing more spaces demolished in lieu of "profitable" alternatives. Subcultural communities are being overhauled by evil AI overlords and the cruel hands of time. Carson Lund's Eephus observes two amateur New Hampshire baseball teams during their last game on a field about to be demolished. The movie isn't centered on a single player, it bounces around from clumps of teammates delivering mini-vignettes with one-liners for days, the game/field serving as seemingly the only connective tissue that brings these grumpy fellas to the table. There are at least a couple scenes where the players seek a bond outside of the game itself, but life (kids, being old and tired, etc.) gets in the way. 

Is it that these guys only share the game as a raison d'etre, and if so is that enough? I can relate to this lack of connection outside of the thing itself. I can't tell you how many times I've had the dreaded "we should hang out sometime" conversation with someone at a show. What truly makes us "friends" if we can't even break bread outside of the venue itself? I've been feeling this isolation more in the last five years than ever in my life (though my years in Vermont were as lonely as it gets), and I'm not sure if it's ageing, the post-COVID hellscape, phones, or something else. The communal experience in general seems to be fading. I should also point out that the majority of my lifelong friends were people I met within this construct, so I'm not so cynical yet as to swear off the bonds beyond the THING itself, I'm just saying that some of the people I've known the longest have been relegated to the pit and the pit alone.

I've spent a great deal of my life with sundry tribes of misfits. In 2025, every Tuesday from May until early November, I drove out to Chenango Forks to join the Binghamton Aero Society, where 70 year old men flew their large scale R/C airplanes and talked shit to and about each other. One of the men was mocked relentlessly for how often he would crash his planes into the adjacent cornfield. I witnessed two such occasions, in which he implored his fellow pilots to walk into the corn to search for his ravaged plane (he was wheelchair bound), which led once to a man being lost for over an hour. On Wednesdays, I go to Ripics bowling alley, formerly Laurel Lanes, where I observe the local leagues including the Springbrook hooligans (Go David GO!) who similarly talk shit to and about each other. I remember getting a job at ACHIEVE in 2007, meeting my friend John who was my boss at the time and a rumored cinephile. Our core room was known as the "behavioral" room, and I can't argue with that designation. One of my main jobs was to chase a grown man throughout the building as he sought to procure frozen chicken patties which he dutifully ate en masse (RIP Salvatore). He also kicked the shit out of me and John several times, but it never felt personal. Most of those gentlemen are now dead (RIP Pete, Herman, Patrick, Salvatore) but I often think of them and that beautiful madness that was our room. John and I shared many adventures with our friend Carey; lots of feces, profanity, violence, and nudity. It was through this madness we started Core Room 5 Film Club, which eventually welcomed the likes of Jeff, Ben, Chris, Jason, and Alex (with the memorable moniker that read "Scream and other movies"). We would write hundreds of posts about movies, in my case often on my front porch at Margaret Street, with my beloved Lou tied to my ankle. It should go without saying that none of this provided any sort of financial reward, instead it felt like a vocation. I remember John would screen movies for the CR5 riff raff; off the top of my head I recall Herzog's Lessons of Darkness, Tarkovsky's Stalker, Korine's Julien Donkey-Boy, and Scorsese's Journey Through American Movies. I remember John heroically defending his decision to show these individuals such "weird" cinema to our boss (RIP Lanette), stating that he'd rather show this than some mainstream garbage. Our guys would often sit enraptured, no poop or hitting, until they got bore and pooped and hit us.   

My friend Jackson is a baseball fan and pointed out that Eephus really nails the allure and befuddlement of the game itself. At one point a character says "it's kind of like baseball, I'm looking around for something to happen and poof! the game's over." The game within the movie is fairly inconsequential, we aren't compelled to root for one team or another, but there is something so poignant about these amateur leagues, doing it for the love of the game. My friends in Cleveland have kept it alive for 20 plus years, and there is much crossover between the league and the music scene, which I find illuminating. There comes a point in Lund's movie where the umpire bails in the 7th inning as a result of the game running too long, his final words = "it was already pointless." Leave it to an ump to make such a hopeless declaration. That motherfucker is the only one getting paid. His absence leads to a decision, which isn't as unanimous as it would seem; do we play on? In a movie full of great dialogue, I found myself moved by the simple words "fuck it! Let's keep playing." These men are like The Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword, but surlier and more out of shape. The umpire duties go to the game's solo attendee, Franny (Cliff Blake), an elderly man armed only with a scorebook and a pencil. The sun sets, the game crawls along, people yell at each other, cars provide the sole lighting, and it ends trivially with a walk. Franny walks out into the dark woods alone. I found this all very moving and sadly clairvoyant, as we fight to cultivate these passions in the insatiable modern world. I've read a few people compare this to Tsai Ming-liang's masterpiece, Goodbye Dragon Inn and I'd like to add the Ross brothers' Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets if I may. If there is any justice in the movie world (there isn't) Lund won't be going the way of buffalo anytime soon. 

- Long live CR5 Movie Club! Long live my failed music "career!" Death to AI! Death to fascists! Geese fucking suck!

- Eephus opens with none other than Frederick Wiseman's voice, a legend in the documentary world. Mati Diop's Dahomey owes a lot to him, and similarly ponders art as a living being, similar to Ryan Coogler's much celebrated "music transcends time and space" sequence in Sinners. Highly recommend!

- Speaking of endangered art, I finally caught up with John Frankenheimer's The Train in which a Nazi officer attempts to loot paintings in the waning days of WWII. When confronted by Burt Lancaster's railroad inspector the officer says the following: "Does it please you? A painting means as much to you as a string of pearls to an ape. The paintings are mine. They always will be. Beauty belongs to the men who can appreciate it. Now this minute you couldn't tell me why you did what you did." What did he do? He hijacked a train stolen by the Nazis carrying works by Picasso, Renoir, etc. resulting in massive casualties. Frankenheimer cuts to a mass of bodies piled up on the side of the railway, Lancaster unloads a round into the fascist scum. The camera cuts to the boxes of art and intercuts that with the corpses. Is art worth dying/killing for?