The enduring fire of the underground punk and hardcore spirit
by Campbell
Twenty years is a milestone I hardly feel qualified to speak on. In the early 2000s, publications that covered DIY and underground music generally, and hardcore specifically, were mostly hyperlocal; everything was centered around word-of-mouth and physical attendance at shows. There were scenes hiding a layer deeper than what you found in a copy of Alternative Press, snagged while you exited Tower Records. Maybe you could follow the trail of a flyer that only had aesthetic clues and no details to indicate the location -- is it someone’s parents house? A nicknamed rec center? What’s a VFW Hall?
Let us not forget the budding intersection of in-person and online communities of the time: the message boards, the street teams, the local show sites (shout out to The List) that first gave the space for discussions and an extended reach for local scenes. Webzines gave me a place to absorb discussions that would otherwise be inaccessible. They were an escape for those who shared the same appreciation for these underground scenes, protected and cherished, an access point into a world lived at shows.
When I discovered Scene Point Blank, it had a deep focus on the styles of hardcore I had fallen in love with, at a time when seeing hardcore bands and absorbing more historical context was the most important thing in my life, especially when feeling disinterested in participating in the traditional aspects of the high school experience. A former staff writer wrote fluently with a deep affection for the Northern California hardcore scene, and brought an intimate, first-hand knowledge of North Bay bands and the characters behind them; I had immediate respect for the site as a result. And I saw it wasn’t just hardcore -- the Scene Point Blank community had expertise in countless other genres, ones that I loved and others that I would come to understand more deeply.
Hardcore can be inherently protective, insular, at times exclusionary, or it can feel like that’s at the forefront of the reality, often at odds with the message. But SPB was a welcoming place that was more about celebrating and contextualizing, much less of the echo chamber of cynicism and gatekeeping that might be prevalent from jaded scene elders that held too tight to their past ideals. In the end I understood they were just fighting for the sanctity of their own space and identity.
Several years later I was given an opportunity to be a staff writer, even if my voice was far more Xanga than Stereogum: minimally insightful, obtuse in its basic assessments and context laying, grasping to describe albums to an outsider while struggling to offer an insight that those scene elders might appreciate. It’s tough to read those early reviews, the shallow opinions or downright incorrect details I gave, with occasional fabricated narcissism. When I dipped into depression for the better part of a year, my writing reflected it, a palpable disinterest as I hedged against my own takes, and I was lucky to have this as one of the lifelines used to pull myself back up.
But within a few years I developed a tendency for a long-winded, flowery style with telltale patterns, like recklessly unnecessary adverb-adjective descriptions and an uncomfortably candid focus on my own emotions and narrative; it left the reader without much to hold on to. Still, it became one of my most rewarding outlets, and gave me a chance to be a part of something that felt valued.
As I got older, like many of us, I basically fell out of the scene completely. I still listened to my favorite bands, albeit at a lesser frequency, kept in touch with a bunch of hardcore friends; despite not attending shows I still considered myself a hardcore kid. But I slowly lost the affiliations, and opportunities to converse about the things I cared so deeply about went from infrequent to almost never. My intense passion for underground music and the joy of discovery was still present but lay somewhat dormant. Perhaps it was impossible to replicate that youthful intent to pursue your obsessions “with an immense, furious eagerness.”* At times I felt isolated, existentially lost, with so few places to share my values and enthusiasm. And as you can see, my self-involved emotional style continues; we can’t all be perfect.
So when I was given a chance to return, it was fortuitously just as COVID lockdowns were about to turn from weeks to months, with a succinct and powerful open invitation from Loren - “We're still going and it's still a labor of love. I can only relay my own personal experience which...in short, is that writing for yourself is more satisfying than writing for others.” Can’t argue with that.
I was reinvigorated as I dove back into this community, one that satiated a desire to connect with the music and scenes that I had lost touch with. My tastes had shifted but my memories were still intact, burning bright and brimming with passion that was found again, past experiences revisited through rose-colored glasses. Now I was more of an out of touch old head, with thinly veiled cynicism that had softened with time spent away from the scene, a loyal dedication to my own perception of hardcore ideals, and a premature mid-life crisis intensified by the confines of my apartment. It was amplified by the fact that the 2020 American Nightmare reunion tour, my first hardcore show in nearly a decade, was one of the final public events I attended before lockdown. Perhaps some poetry can’t be written.
What struck me most in these recent years was the impressions this music makes and marks on our own lives, moments that we share at a distance and have a desire to describe to others. In some brief glance, we understand each other. We express and inform and articulate to unseen allies. The sense of connection is somehow tangible, and I felt it as much by reading as I did by contributing; a personal and communal “labor of love.”
So we’re here to celebrate twenty years of Scene Point Blank, and I’d like to show my appreciation for the institution and what it represents: the enduring fire of the underground punk and hardcore spirit, borne with a nod to and knowledge of the formats that came before it, a space built for a number of immensely passionate writers who wanted to share their viewpoints across all underground styles and yet-to-be-recognized subgenres.
I’m humbled by the dedication and depth of knowledge of this entire collective across the years, and I want to give a special thanks to Michael Phillips who originally accepted my timid first submission, Loren Green for inviting me back and providing constant wise support, Matt for his omnipresence and dedication to the site’s development and design, every reader who found solace or inspiration in this enclave, and every single writer who has graced this site with their contributions. May your excitement and devotion continue for far more than another twenty years.
[*from China Miéville’s This Census Taker.]
