I hated screamo when I was younger.
To me, back then, you chose your scene and defended it with your life. There were diplomats who could travel between groups unhindered, but for the most part, I always felt like it was us versus them. The screamo kids thought our punk idealism was antiquated, and we thought they were fair-weather trend followers.
I was such a true believer; I wouldn’t even go inside a Hot Topic. I hated the idea of mass market individuality so much that I would stoically stand outside while others in my group shopped. As you can imagine, I was tons of fun at a party.
Now I’m 35 and fully realize how dumb that was.
These days I would never be so arrogant as to try and gatekeep anything from anyone. If someone genuinely loves any music, even if it is attached to fashion, it’s a beautiful thing. Life is brutal and tragic, so why try and admonish a person for finding a little sanctuary of sonic joy?
It seems to me that many of my punk rock brothers and sisters have given the old emo records a proper re-evaluation and found that they’re actually pretty good. My friend Ramona grew up in the emo scene, and when I told her about said re-evaluation, she told me they never needed our approval and didn’t want it now. I think she’s right.
Still, in a sincere effort of what will almost certainly be a ham-fisted apology, I want to review one of the records I would have never condescended to listen to when I had my punk blinders on.
…
The Review
Pretty. Odd.
Panic! At The Disco
2008
Pretty. Odd. is a goddamn symphony.
Countless groups have tried and failed to ape the Beatles’ sound. Who would have guessed emo kids from Las Vegas would be the ones to finally get it right. The fact that they started as a Blink-182 cover band makes it seem almost impossible.
Nearly every member of Panic! at the Disco was still in high school when they were signed to Fueled By Ramen. The first record, A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, had been an instantly iconic smash success. After touring themselves nearly to death, the band rented a cabin to write their highly anticipated follow-up. When that record was almost completed, they had a change of heart and scrapped the project altogether. Starting completely from scratch, they began writing as a group with an acoustic guitar and developed something totally new.
The result was Pretty. Odd.
It’s not the sophomore release anyone was expecting, and that’s what makes it such a strong statement. This isn’t the same band who had a generation of black-fingernailed lost souls screaming along to “I Write Sins Not Tragedies.” Instead, what we find is a more fully developed band having fun to the point of whimsy.
Pretty. Odd. tries its damndest to break through your speakers and into your very heart.
The record has strings, horns, melodic harmonies, and, most importantly, knows how to use them. There’s a singular vision that creates a sum greater than the whole of its parts, which is particularly noteworthy, considering it’s a record with no individual skips. How do you not instantly fall for a song like “Nine in the Afternoon.” Or a song like “Do You Know What I’m Seeing?” which creeps into your membranes and decompresses you before you have the chance to try and resist its charm. I dare you not to smile when you get to “Folkin’ Around.”
For me, the crown jewel is “When the Day Met the Night.” A love song literally about sunrise/sunset should be the most be the most annoying thing I’ve ever heard, but even I (a 35-year-old pain in the ass), am not immune to its allure. It sounds like a song the Brady Bunch would sing about the meaning of friendship, and I still love it. That’s the power of good writing.
I’m surprised Pretty. Odd. isn’t the fan favorite. When I’ve mentioned to the former scene kids in my life, most of them say something like “Oh yeah, I never really got into that one.” For my money, it’s the obvious choice. I don’t mean to paint the picture that it got lost in the shuffle—It went platinum after all, but I still think it deserves more flowers. It massively undersold relative to its predecessor, which feels criminal.
And speaking of things that feel criminal, it’s time for today’s tale …
…
The Tale
I hate violence.
I went to public school, so I saw my fair share of fights. I’m a red-blooded American and would be lying if I said my animal instincts didn’t make me gather around with everyone else and gawk at the spectacle of two overly hormonal teens with bad hair clobbering each other. I always went out of my way to avoid conflict in my personal life, though.
I never wanted to fight anyone; I didn’t see the point in it. I was a smarmy little prick back then, but only verbally. I would always walk it back if an argument got too heated. I don’t think there’s any glory in getting bloody and bruised over anything, even if someone spoke ill of my beloved Ramones.
I was also a rabid Outsiders fan and romanticized the idea of a rumble.
If you’re lucky, you’ll meet your tribe when you’re young and become thick as thieves. Punk gave me that. The guys in my scene were my chosen family.
There was always an unspoken understanding that if someone messed with one of us, they messed with all of us. It felt good to have that, the safety and security of your brothers-in-arms by your side. It never amounted to much, since all we mostly did was hang out in basements and go to shows, but it was always there, just under the surface.
Then, one night, we were called to action.
The events of this story took place a couple of decades ago, and I’m sure no one is proud of it, so I’m making the active choice to change some names and details. I don’t think anyone would bellyache too much over that decision. If anyone remembers it, I’m sure they would rather they didn’t.
Like most stories that pointlessly escalate into mayhem, this one is rooted in love.
Two high schools, both alike in dignity (in that we had none) in fair North Georgia, where we had two scenes:
My friend Derek was the unspoken leader of our group. He had been the earliest adopter of punk and had thus introduced a lot of us to the gaps in our musical education. He was charming, charismatic, and always had a girl on his arm.
One of those girls was Chelsea.
Out of all of Derek’s girlfriends in those days, I always found Chelsea the most endearing. She was wild and free, like she had an inside joke with the universe. She was one grade behind us, and even more scandalous, went to a high school in the next county over. We were known for our punk scene; they were known for their screamo scene, and Chelsea was one of chosen few who could casually glide between both without picking a side.
Derek and Chelsea had one of those brief but passionate teenage love affairs that was always destined to boil over and burn out. They were usually either drunk on each other or in total shambles, with a razor-thin line betwixt the two. It was during one of their this-time-we-really-mean-it splits that Chelsea sought the comfort of another. Adding insult to injury, he was in a screamo band.
All of us watched Derek stew over this perceived injustice for days. The more the information marinated, the closer it came to a simmer. It wasn’t long before things boiled over.
Derek ultimately decided he had to fight this other man.
It’s been so many years now; I honestly can’t remember the other guy’s name. Even if I could, odds are it was one of those adorable stage names everyone had back then. For our purposes, let him henceforth be known as Reginald Van Stomper.
I had never met Reginald Van Stomper before all this unpleasantness. Word around town was that his band was pretty good, but they wouldn’t have been on my radar at the time anyway. I guess, looking back, all I really knew about him was that he obviously had a way with women.
Reginald’s band was headlining a show at the only venue in town a couple nights later. Unbeknownst to any of us, Derek had decided this would be the opportune moment to launch his counterstrike. It was Van Stomper who had drawn first blood, after all. It was while the band was on stage that Derek texted me and told me his plan. I asked if he needed assistance, and he told me no, that our friend Claude was backing him up.
Let it be known now and forever that I think the world of Claude. He has a heart of pure gold. What he lacked, however, was anything resembling the reputation of a bruiser. He wore bespoke vests, Beatle boots, and smoked a pipe.
I immediately started making calls.
No one I spoke to was going to be able to make it there fast enough. Looking back, I’m sure most of them were just smart enough to avoid the situation, but I was blinded by misguided loyalty and unwilling to let my friend enter the lion’s den without a fighting chance. In the end, I knew at least our friend Max would be down for the cause.
When I told him the only other person currently in the mix was Claude, Max turned his car around in the street while we were on the phone.
Nervously pacing with my hands in my pockets and my worn-out Chuck Taylor’s feeling every single piece of gravel under my feet, I waited for Max in the parking lot. I had run into the venue briefly to case the situation and found Claude reliably holding court at a table, pipe in hand. The band were performing, but based on the whiff of stage banter I caught, I knew the last song was nigh. When Max’s headlights pierced through the still-black night, I don’t know if I felt reluctance or relief, but my suspicion is that they were both equidistant from the truth.
All of us remember things more cinematically than they were. In my mind-movie, I picture us walking into that building slow motion as “Now I Wanna Be Your Dog” by the Stooges swelled over the action. I’m sure we actually just looked shaky and nervous.
As the band’s final notes rang out and the small but enthusiastic local crowd applauded, I had a moment where I thought nothing might happen after all.
Then Derek walked on stage.
Most fella’s machismo won’t allow them to admit the truth, but fights are rarely as they seem in the movies. They’re awkward, emotional, and scary. Even the adrenaline boost doesn’t make you feel like a champion who could take on the world. It’s an unpleasant, restless, almost guilty energy.
Derek walked up to Reginald Van Stomper, announced his intention to fight, and then began swinging. I froze, in that way you do when reality crashes on you like a tidal wave, but Max sprung into action like he was born to it. I snapped back into focus only a moment later, when I saw someone rear back to punch Derek in the back of the head. Acting purely on instinct, I tackled that person to the ground. I had taken some taekwondo in my youth, even making it almost to black belt, so I knew I could hold my own if need be. I put my hands up, squared my body, and gulped.
My opponent stood up and then just kept standing up.
I’m no one’s idea of a large man. I’m 5’7” if the lord above is smiling on my plight that day. This man, however, was well over six feet tall. He also looked like he was no stranger to a regular fitness routine. I thought the reality of my situation had set in before, but until that moment, it truly hadn’t. I was just some stupid kid who liked records other stupid kids made. Now I was going to get pummeled by a bizarrely huge guitar player, and for what, because his friend hooked up with my friend’s ex-girlfriend? That wasn’t worth dying over.
Miraculously, I was saved by trendy dancing.
See, back in the aughts, screamo kids were into this new style of slam-dancing that sort of resembled fighting invisible ghosts. They would wildly kick and punch the air, squat and shimmy from side to side, and look like they were picking eggs up off the ground. I never understood it, but if the spirit moves you, follow it.
Instead of sending me to glory with one powerful punch, my opponent started hardcore dancing in front of me. It was weird, but effective. I backed up out of his way, and by the time he was done, the fight was over.
We were kicked out of the venue, with the threat of permanence, and then we went to a local park to celebrate our “victory.” It never escalated past that, no retaliations or police reports. Our little corner of the world kept spinning, and I believe Derek and Chelsea even got back together for a while. No lessons were learned, at least not immediately.
I did keep that fight with me for a long time, though.
…
The Aftermath
I used to equate being punk with being brave.
Growing up punk in the Deep South comes with its own challenges. I wore tight jeans and had funny hair, and with that territory came guaranteed harassment. Rednecks called me queer on a near daily basis. Cops hassled me. The vice-principal at my high school would instantly give me in-school suspension if I curled one toe out of line. I didn’t care because I was earning my stripes. I wore my leather jacket like a suit of armor. Compared to my dedication to the scene, everything else was just noise.
At some point, though, I simply stopped being angry.
The world is dark; the government is corrupt, and the kids aren’t alright. That was true when I was 16, and it’s somehow only managed to get worse since then. I don’t have a solution for any of those problems, I just don’t. What I can tell you, though, is that it feels one hell of a lot better to step out into the sunshine than shout into the void.
Being punk isn’t brave; it’s just being punk. It’s records on the turntable and posters on the wall. It’s laughing until you can’t breathe at the lunch table with your friends when one of you makes an off-color joke that goes just a little too far over the line. It’s whatever you want it to be because it’s purely conceptual.
Thinking about it now, I think those emo kids were braver than me. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable and live out loud is the very definition of courage. From the outside looking in, it doesn’t seem like they spent a lot of time posturing. They were just kids who wanted to dance.
Aren’t we all just kids who want to dance?
