Saturday, June 15, 2024

Fan Club, Spurr and Swamp Wife entertain the backyarders / Cat Rose photos

Fan Club. (All Cat Rose photos)

By Andy 

Ah, the backyard band parties. We know them all too well -- toss the lawn darts and croquet mallets off to the side and fucking go for it. 

Back in the day, we attended our fair share of these punk soirees in the South Bay sector of Southern California that featured the Descendents, Con 800 (pre-Pennywise), Anti, my own ensemble Sorex and more.      

In 1983, a band of high-schoolers, The Boys Club, tore up the local party circuit, playing punk and new-wave cover tunes. Led by future Pennywise vocalist Jim Lindberg, the band also featured my buddy Mike Filce on guitar, among others. I once sang part of the Misfits' "We Are 138" with them at a school talent show in Torrance. Anyway, one evening, the band played a house party in Hermosa. During their second set, the cops crashed the rager, everyone was booted and a scuffle broke out between some partygoers and the fuzz.

Fast-forward to June 8 of this year, and we've got Fan Club, Spurr and Swamp Wife delivering the tunes that slither into the punk, hardcore and alt/post punk realms and get the crowd buzzing at the Club House in Seattle. Next door at The Evil House -- perched higher above the CH and separated from us by a tall chain link fence and conglomeration of foliage -- bands are bashing it out to their own revelers. 

In a sort-of punk Treaty of the U-District, the two houses agree to stagger the set times so the bands don't battle it out and ravage attendees' eardrums. Evil gig-goers peek down to watch CH bands while some of our participants scale the fence to get a partial glimpse of their action up the way. While the music blares down below, skankers bash into each other, kicking up dirt and grass in energetic lawn-mowing fashion. 

Afterward, myriad beer cans and bottles are strewn about the yard as band members pack up their instruments and bid farewell to the gracious, leather-jacketed hosts. Nearby, a recycling container is overflowing with used aluminum and glass drinking receptacles, so the punks lent a crucial hand in the clean-up effort that the residents were probably dreading that evening or the next morning. 

As techno music now pumps from the adjacent abode, I toss a can on the pile and join the others on a stroll into the night.

Here are Cat Rose's photos from the Club House:




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