GIVE ME SOME NOISE
The headliner at Comet Ping Pong last Saturday started with a chant. “Say it with me,” the lead singer commanded:
PUBLIC TRANSIT SHOULD BE FREE!
The crowd answered back without missing a beat:
PUBLIC TRANSIT SHOULD BE FREE!
The call and response surprised me. Standing in a packed crowd at the back of a pizza parlor in Northwest Washington D.C., a collared sweater tied around my waist and a can of ‘Natty Boh’ clutched in my hand, I discovered that, of any moment since returning to the United States, this was the first moment I felt personally connected to American politics.
Yes, good people — public transit should be free.
Then came the noise. The sweet, seething noise of punk.
There exists an immediacy in the noise of live hardcore music. Like meditation, the blaring sound forces a singularity of experience. Clashing drums and wailing vocals expand to devour everything beyond the stage. The music’s thrum sits deep in the belly and holds court over the mind.
I find a sense of calm in that noise. The din of hardcore music demands my complete attention.
This is a new revelation for me. Though I have always loved “noisy” music — I blame this on my cousin Hunter, who gave me a System of a Down album for my twelfth birthday — I also have a lifelong fear of crowds. Two of my worst memories are of panic attacks, moments gasping for air, manic, surrounded by mobs of people. That fear kept me away from concerts until quite recently. Nudged by my brother-in-law, I attended a show in January and, at ease in the relatively small venues, kept coming back for more.
The punk shows I’ve attended embody a nagging emotion I’ve felt since returning to America. The intensity of sound distills the abject frustration I experience living in my home country, a feeling that I see expressed in so few, if any, places in American society. And judging by the crowd and musicians, the D.C. punk scene shares in that sentiment, reflected by their chants about free public transit, solidarity with the trans community, advocacy for the cease-fire in Gaza, and the low effort but undeniably cathartic “Fuck Elon Musk” belted by one performer. While it’s easy to encounter these sentiments online, the reality of a concert, bound by its collective experience and tangibility, made it so much more concrete.
Moving to D.C. last year, I did not anticipate how difficult it would be to find a progressive counterculture fitting my politics. Copenhagen’s culture of activism had spoiled me. Always, I could rely on the Danish public to combat corporate interests and support the disenfranchised. Here, in the capital of the U.S., the most Democratic-voting territory in the country, I’ve struggled to see evidence of those same ideals at work, until I started attending hardcore concerts.
Washington D.C. once had a thriving punk scene. Back in the 80s, during the lowly years of American progressivism, an anti-establishment cell grew on the underbelly of the nation’s capital. The counterculture of the 60s and 70s had gone out to pasture or acquiesced to the capital growth of neoliberalism, and the day’s frustrated youth needed an outlet. Punk, the sound of British rebellion, found a welcoming home in the District. Where better, after all, to make contrarian music than at the heart of an apexing American empire?
The tradition of hardcore music in the nation’s capital rose and fell with the popular projects of the era — names like Bad Brains, Minor Threat, S.O.A, and Fugazi. More important than the acts, however, was the activist spirit undergirding the music. D.C. hardcore demonstrated its commitment to social activism through initiatives like Positive Force, a loose organization of young punks disillusioned by political apathy.1 Positive Force held monthly concerts to assist locals and amplify national causes. The musicians rallied against racism, war, and gentrification while raising hundreds of thousands of dollars for causes like supporting D.C.’s homeless youth.2
Positive Force and the D.C. hardcore scene have dwindled since then. Recent articles claim that punk is alive in the District, a claim I obviously can’t dispute. But the large-scale grassroots movement of the 80s and 90s is gone. The punk scene no longer services local needs, nor can it rally thousands of protestors to the White House as it did in 1992.3 I’m certain that punk’s influence can be found across the city; and from what I’ve read, the DIY punk scene still thrives outside of my normie purview,45 but the District of 2025 is not a city of activist punks.
That’s such a shame. Punk has proven itself as a powerful tool of political dissent, and of civic organizing. Hardcore music is a galvanizing method for bringing people together to enact social change, just as it did in the 80s and 90s. My short-lived experience is a testament to that power. I’ve curbed my fear of crowds to chase that impassioned solidarity, and now I’m desperate for more. Give me a mohawk and a leather jacket, I don’t care. Let me connect with the people who feel as I do. And for goodness sake, give me some fucking noise!
A little bit
On translation and the stickiness of language
Language is, at least partially, deterministic. What we call things and how we string together ideas shape the way we interpret reality. That’s why translation is so difficult, perhaps inherently impossible. By translating a thing into a new language, we change the entire ontological context of the thing, all the cultural understanding and subtle meaning. Some of that can be retained, but the true essence of a word is always modified through translation.
That dilemma makes sense to me (I think), but as a monolinguist, I have a hard time truly understanding its implication. Here are a few links that better explain the difficulty of translation.
What is the Best Bible Translation? || Religion for Breakfast (2024)
Growing up, I thought of the Bible as a single document. But considering the Bible from a historical perspective, that notion quickly unravels. RFB explains just how fraught the translation of the various books of the Bible has been for millennia.
Can We Talk to Whales? || Elizabeth Kolbert in The New Yorker (2023)
New AI research suggests we might be able to decode the sounds of whales. Fascinating? Yes. Terrifying? Absolutely.
The Pain of Losing Your First Language || Kristin Wong in Catapult (2021)
Kristin Wong recounts the struggle of learning a language she already forgot.
Somewhere and Everywhere || Various authors in The Drift (2024)
Eight authors discuss the many issues with reading literature in translation.
Other good stuff
What it says on the tin
Why Didn’t Thomas Jefferson Free His Slaves? || Ryan Chapman (2024)
He wrote that all men are created equal. He also owned hundreds of slaves. What gives?
The Small Bow || A.J. Daulerio and others
A twice-weekly newsletter about recovery, for anyone. Regardless of what’s going on in your life, you’ll find yourself sympathetically nodding while reading The Small Bow.
Wake Up! A Profile of Positive Force DC || David Weinstein (1991)
Fully acknowledging my rose-tinted glasses, gosh dang, the 90s were cool.
Love this writing....I know Punk is the thing here, but even an old boomer can relate. Different time, different music, same experience.
Especially this...
There exists an immediacy in the noise of live hardcore music. Like meditation, the blaring sound forces a singularity of experience. Clashing drums and wailing vocals expand to devour everything beyond the stage. The music’s thrum sits deep in the belly and holds court over the mind.
I find a sense of calm in that noise. The din of hardcore music demands my complete attention.