With The Methadones, The Ganges, The Leftovers, Regal Beagle
Safari Sam’s – June 17th, 2007
Why can’t I go to LA for one fucking day without being called names by a homeless dude? Psychotic bums, awful traffic and the shitty smell of smog, none of these mattered once I got into Safari Sam’s as local act Regal Beagle got under way. While these dudes did not look like the snot nosed riff raff that is known for making bratty, go-fuck-yourself punk, that’s sure what they did. Weren’t too shabby, either. Fuckers tore through their set with a fervor that I thought had long tailed it to the greener pastures of harder rock. The only criticism was the Ramones-esque simple drum beats can only go on for so long. I can’t remember what some tunes were called, but I do know that Safari Sam’s has Pabst on tap, right next to the Boddingtons. Weird, and not at all delicious.
Next up were the Leftovers, who were, well, leftovers in the roster of the evening, with a big haired bass player and a guitarist who made me wait because he broke a string and had but one guitar, the leftovers were not horrible by any means, but their name is some weird kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever, I’m over them.
The Manges are this Italian punk band, and they were up next. Now, I thought that maybe the Italians might fuck it up, but no, there was nothing lost in translation. With lots of “fuck yous” and the same bratty little shit attitude that I’ve come to know and love, The Manges brought the rock and brought it hard. Stripey shirts make for a far less common punk band uniform than black skinny ties and suits. Could I understand what they were saying most of the time? No. Did it matter? No. Well, I’ve been drinking more and more as I write this and can’t really think of what else to say about these dudes, but I’m sure it would be filler anyways.
The Methadones, Fucking A, The Methadones. I spent half their damned set trying to figure out why their singer looked fucking familiar. Oh, that’s right, he’s Danny fucking Vapid, formally of my favorite punk band, Screeching Weasel. That’s right, start something. Their set was rad as shit, and I couldn’t think of any reason why they shouldn’t open for the motherfuckin’ Queers. They spent about half an hour getting people pumped for the Queers, only to be done early. Now, normally this shouldn’t be a problem, but this leads to my only complaint of the night. The wait. I waited nearly forty minutes for the Queers to come on and melt my face off. Why? I don’t understand why! The drums were set up, because the drummer for the Methadones was the same for the Queers, they used the same amps, all they had to do was plug them in and we’d be rocking like none other.
Turns out, it was totally worth the wait. The Queers exploded out the gate, and kept the intensity throughout. Playing some seriously sweet tunes like Parasite (one of my personal favs.) and Goodbye California, the damned venue turned into a warzone. Fucking chaos. Bedlam everywhere you turn. A goddamned disaster. Exactly what I was hoping to see. I helped crowd surf some 12 year old, one of my amigas got kicked in the head and there were at least three distinct kids who didn’t know what a shower was. Quick fact: being smelly in no way sticks it to the man. Danny Vapid popped up on stage to do a couple tunes, which made me pop a woody like none other.
Did I give a fuck that I was being constantly punched in the back by the pit? No. What about the fat chick who didn’t know how to stagedive? Could care less. Was I stoked to see that the bands I grew up on still causing a near-riot and inspiring kids not to become the apathetic asshole that I have become. Fuck yea.
-Jonathan “RacketBoss” Yost
-Photos by Albert "random kid at the show" Adame