There was a minute or two in my life where I would actively seek out (somewhat) underground punk bands that I loved and see them wherever they happened to be playing. There were a few dicey clubs, sure, uh, a polo field one time, and even a Jewish Community Center that had a gigantic mural of James Van Der Beek prominently featured. Yeah. Clearly that place was hardcore.
And had I ever been cool enough to actually talk to someone else that I didn't arrive with? Well, I figure there's only three things I would have desperately shouted into their ear:
If the band was good, I f--king love these guys!! They're incredible! Wanna dance?
If the band was bad, These guys? Oh, they suck. I'm just work here.
And, if pretty girl was involved...
Yeah, I'm with the band.
Luckily, any of those options, coming from me, would have simply been pathetic, but in 2015's Green Room, they would have been (increasingly) f--king catastrophic. Heading in, I didn't really know much about this horror-thriller, other than the fact that it was a bit violent and featured the late Anton Yelchin. And while you basically had me at Hello anyway, let me make this an even easier sell: it's by the guy who did f--king Blue Ruin [review].
No, it's fine. Go. I'd be more upset if you didn't...
After yet another dismal gig, would-be punk rockers the Ain't Rights are offered one last show before the tour, and potentially the band, is over. Rolling into some backwoods dive bar, it's clear that this club is owned and operated by some pretty grimy neo-nazi, white supremacist motherf--kers. Uh, cool. I guess. So they do what punk bands do: they open with a cover of Nazi Punks F--k Off. I guess skinheads aren't exactly fans of irony...
Actually, once our dudes bust out the original numbers (and stop telling everyone in the room to personally f--k off), the crowd chills out, digs the music, and the overwhelming tension in the room is tossed into the mosh pit never to be seen again.
And had I ever been cool enough to actually talk to someone else that I didn't arrive with? Well, I figure there's only three things I would have desperately shouted into their ear:
If the band was good, I f--king love these guys!! They're incredible! Wanna dance?
If the band was bad, These guys? Oh, they suck. I'm just work here.
And, if pretty girl was involved...
Yeah, I'm with the band.
No, it's fine. Go. I'd be more upset if you didn't...
After yet another dismal gig, would-be punk rockers the Ain't Rights are offered one last show before the tour, and potentially the band, is over. Rolling into some backwoods dive bar, it's clear that this club is owned and operated by some pretty grimy neo-nazi, white supremacist motherf--kers. Uh, cool. I guess. So they do what punk bands do: they open with a cover of Nazi Punks F--k Off. I guess skinheads aren't exactly fans of irony...
Actually, once our dudes bust out the original numbers (and stop telling everyone in the room to personally f--k off), the crowd chills out, digs the music, and the overwhelming tension in the room is tossed into the mosh pit never to be seen again.
