Damage Case #1: Rancid

I've decided to just start listening to my favorite bands/albums and just write about my experiences relating to them.   I'm not sure where it will take me, but I'm just hoping to get the creative juices flowing with it.    

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Two years ago, my wife came back from the local market up the street, looking perplexed.   When I asked her what was up, she explained that this kid at the store had seen our two year old son's D.I.Y. Rancid shirt and felt the need to tell her that he had liked their first album, but felt that they had subsequently sold out.   She was really confused as to why this fucking kid felt the need to talk shit about my kids shirt.   I explained to her that he was an elitist, hipster fuck.

Rancid are, hands down, my favorite band of all time.   They're the band that made me fall in love with guitars and the band that my friends and I bonded over in high school.   They've consistently put out great punk albums for the last twenty years.   They've done more to support the worldwide punk, oi!, ska and psychobilly scenes than any other band I can think of.   They've employed friends of mine and given smaller bands chances to open for them.

But of course, Rancid committed the cardinal sin of being slightly successful in the mid '90s.  Therefore, idiot kids who were still shitting their diapers when that happened who feel the need to score street cred spew canned put downs when you mention that you like them.   Its a fucking bullshit attitude that runs deep through the punk community, this double standard not applied to the Clash, the Cramps or any of the older bands by people hoping to count coup.

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I purchased Rancid's "Let's Go!" at the Strawberries in Auburn on the Friday of the first week of my sophomore year of high school.  My friend Erin worked there, and I'd gone in hoping to see her.   It was a random purchase.  I didn't realize the Op Ivy connection, and just picked it up because of the picture of the band on the back of the cover looked badass.

I will never forget hearing the opening feedback of "Nihilism" through my headphones for the first time.   It was like a sucker punch to the gut.   I immediately fell in love.  They were singing about their lives, their friends, their neighborhoods, feeling poor and alienated.   It was the first time I really ever felt a personal connection to music.  It changed my fucking life.  I work in a record store today because I want to facilitate that experience to other fucked up kids.

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It was late in the afternoon.   The North Hamptom Fairgrounds were hot and dusty.  I'd fought my way to the front of the crowd to see Rancid's set at Warped Tour '98.  They were going on late and would only be playing a short set.   The rumor I'd heard was that The Cherry Poppin' Daddies had been little bitches when it was raining during their scheduled performance time because they didn't want to damage their zoot suits.  This, in turn, had cut into the time allotted for Dropkick Murphy's set.   Now, this was Dropkick's only show in the Boston area that summer, and the New England punk and skinhead scene was there in full force to see them.   Rancid had supposedly volunteered to give up some of their set time so that DKM could play a full set.

It was over 100 degrees, and water cost an arm, a leg and a decent view of the stage.  I opted for dehydration and claustrophobia, and clutched the guard rail to see my favorite band.   I honestly don't remember all that much of the actual performance because I was so uncomfortable.  But at the end of the set, I found myself directly in front of Lars as he was unplugging his guitar.   He had a bottle of water at his feet.  Slightly starstruck, I summoned up some courage and asked him if I could have what was left of his water.  He smiled and passed it over to me.   It was like the kid getting the football players towel.

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About eleven or twelve years ago, I was looking through the rockabilly vinyl at Amoeba Records on the Sunset Strip while visiting my cousin in LA.    I noticed this guy on the other side of the bin dressed in a floppy hat and a loose fitting white shirt had a 101ers tattoo on his neck.   After a moment of disbelief, I realized that it was, in fact, Tim Armstrong.   We made eye contact and exchanged nods, then went back to browsing.   Two music nerds being nerdy in Music Nerd Mecca.  It was this amazing, quiet moment, something I will always treasure.