Baltimore punk-rockers cope with shifting ethnics

As soon as the second quarter of last year's Orange Bowl ended, pop sensation Ashlee Simpson stormed the stage for her halftime show, her legs shrink-wrapped in skin-tight black leather.  Her naturally blonde hair was dyed an intense shade of midnight, her hands were adorned in fingerless biker gloves, and she was flanked by a team of gothic cheerleaders.  The pop starlet only performed two songs, but within her six-minute set had managed to define everything wrong with the modern perception of punk culture.

Simpson, a darling of the music industry, had been fashioned to look like a stereotypical "punk." 

Nolen Strals, the lead singer of Baltimore hardcore band Double Dagger, scoffs, "The word punk?  I mean, who knows what the hell it means anymore.  Younger kids are thinking they're punk when they've never gotten sweaty in a basement with a bunch of people playing music."  It seems that in recent times, almost everyone has forgotten what the word "punk" originally stood for.

According to Alex Hooper-Hodson's dissertation on punk music, pure punk was "about making the best of what you had, and not always aspiring to lifestyle choices that were governed by money. You didn't need expensive clothes, good looks, or even musical talent. You just had to want to make your voice heard."

However, in the modern age, with the threat of commercialism always biting at the heels of aspiring musicians, the punk image has been bastardized to the point where the fashion overrides everything else: the ideals, the people and the music.

But things were not always like that.

It's hard to believe that the pyrotechnics and pretension of Simpson's half time stunt found its roots in the underground nightclubs of New York City.  Punk first hit the U.S. in the 1970s, worming its way into the heart of New York.  Like the spark at the head of a train of matches, punk trail-blazed its way down the East coast, eventually hitting Washington, D.C. and neighboring Baltimore at the end of the decade.

Strals, 27, is part of a DIY (do-it-yourself) hardcore scene in Baltimore that has been ebbing and flowing since the genre developed from the New York punk movement.  In the 90s, Baltimore hardcore grew, new bands, new sounds and new makeshift venues popped up around the city, causing the scene to come close to explosion around the new millennium. In 2002, Baltimore hardcore was experiencing a golden age.

But recently, the local scene has been declining.  The bands have grown up, the venues have shut down and the audience has gotten tired.  "Kids were jumping on boxcars to get to their shows three years ago, you don't see that anymore.  There's an energy that isn't there," says Ryan McElroy, a patron of the Charm City Art Space, one of the remaining DIY stages in Baltimore.

Interpretations for the slump in the movement range from person to person.  Art Space owner Mike Riley says there's no problem with the scene, that punk naturally comes in waves.  The genre's mantras of anarchy and anti-establishment are simply too impractical and are usually outgrown.  Most DIY bands end up breaking even rather than profiting.  On their last tour, Strals admits that Double Dagger ended up losing money after gas and other various expenses.  To get by, he currently holds a day job as a graphic designer for City Paper.

The DIY ethic that permeates punk culture may be one of its main tenets, but also is one of its main downfalls. "It's more rewarding to make something than to buy something," explains McElroy.  "All of us are making the things we want to see in the world; we're not content to line up and buy what's sold to us."  According to Strals, "When I was a teenager and DIY was first shown to me, I was like, `Holy crap, what can't I do?'" But the DIY ethic inherently causes problems.  Because bands do not perform at established venues, they make their own unwarranted spaces, leading to a constant battle with local authorities. "[In the beginning] places were shutting down everywhere," says Mike Riley. "Venues like the Ottobar and the Sidebar became less and less willing to start out smaller bands." As a result, the Charm City Art Space was founded in 2002.  Riley credits pure luck and the Art Space's zoning as an "art gallery" as the reasons they have evaded closure.

The self-destructive nature of the DIY ethic is not the only thing to blame for the recent slump in Baltimore punk music -- the fans themselves are at fault. According to Strals, the Art Space holds monthly meetings to discuss issues facing the local scene, but they are usually poorly attended.  He recalls that the best turnout was right after the Bloodshed, a local powerhouse DIY venue, was shut down by the Fire Marshall in 2003. "When the Bloodshed closed, it was a big deal," says Strals. "It supported the bands that couldn't play at the Talking Head or the Ottobar but still needed a big room." Members and non-members alike packed into the close quarters of the Art Space to address the concern.

But things have changed.  "At this point all the venues have been around, so people are used to it," says Strals.  "There's no excitement. There was urgency before with all the venues that were closing. It was like, `We all have to get together to do this. We have to keep it going, get the music out before they shut us down.'"

"Maybe we need another scare," he laughs. "You know, to remind people that it's important."

Perhaps what threatens the punk scene the most is not the people or the venues but an overall apathy stemming from commercialism.  The apathy that plagues the current scene grows from what Strals calls a "Hot Topic" mentality.  Hot Topic is a store that sells marketable punk products to teenagers, and Hot Topic punks, represented by singers like Ashlee Simpson, are those who have cashed in on punk fashion but not punk ideals. 

At the moment, one of the remaining hopes for Baltimore punk is the Art Space, which has become the starting point for all new punk bands in Baltimore.

Two seconds into a show at the Charm City Art Space, you quickly learn your place: You're either in the audience or you're against the wall.  And while the prospect of being the wallflower at a concert may seem like a cop out, the prospect of being part of the audience is a matter of getting more bruises. Watching a show means a full-on confrontation with not only the band (whose members aren't afraid to tackle you mid-performance) but with the writhing, ass-kicking crowd that's trying its best to recreate the frenetic pace of the music. 

At a show in the Art Space, one can feel a tactile energy, a faint urgency that's growing again.

Strals reports that Double Dagger is starting work on their next album, set for release sometime next year.  In one song, he compares DIY punk with his favorite typeface: Franklin gothic.  "The typeface has all these inconsistencies where letters don't make sense.  With punk rock it's the same.  They're both ugly and flawed, but that's what makes them beautiful."  It's a concept that breeds hope, that maybe punk will find its roots again, maybe from the Baltimore scene, maybe from bands like Double Dagger, maybe from a single great show at the Charm City Art Space. 

For a genre of music that thrives on dynamics, explosive passion and die-hard dedication, it only takes a small spark to start the fire again.  And when the authenticity of punk returns, Strals's lyrics will ring like a manifesto through sweaty basements across the city: "We do it because it's what we were made for/ We do it because there's nothing else/ That feels as right as this!"