Hardcore times

Once considered a heavy-rock and independant haven, Worcester loses underground

by Kristen Lombardi

Sunday nights at the Fat Cat in Springfield are hardcore nights, and the fans, close to 200 of them on a late-March evening, mill about the stage's edge in heavy anticipation. They are young, mostly teens, dressed in full hardcore regalia: tattoos, piercings, and T-shirts that announce Shadows Fall, Blood Has Been Shed, Converge.

Their attention is drawn to the Worcester-area hardcore band Killswitch Engage, whose four members climb onto the stage, strap on their instruments, and then raise their fists in solidarity. The crowd, a mass of shouts and whistles, surges forward. Soon the beefy, boisterous lead singer emotes: he wraps his hands around his head, the microphone cord around his neck. As he belts out a roar of a song, fans get wild in the mosh pit, bouncing, kicking, and whirling.

It's an infectious energy, for sure, a taste of chaos -- too bad it wasn't here.

Just several years ago, this scenario would have played out Worcester-style at the Space and at Espresso Bar, two all-ages venues that served as the loci for the ever-burgeoning hardcore-music scene not only in the city, but also across the state. Back then, while Boston clubs shied away from all-ages shows, the underground sounds of young local bands like Bane, Fallen, and Garrison were heard in Worcester every weekend. Even such national acts as Botch, Dillinger Escape Plan, and One King Down made sure to stop here. So for the city's hardcore followers, there was always a place to see shows, meet friends, and to feel at home.

But all that ended last year, when the Espresso Bar, or "Ebar," and the Space closed because of financial and legal troubles. Ever since, the city's hardcore community -- a young, self-sustaining, and often alienated group -- has had to feed off the Internet, to swap CDs, and to travel out of state. Although a smattering of clubs, including Cafe Abba and the Palladium, do book hardcore shows, Worcester fans are growing more and more nostalgic for what once was.

As one fan bemoans, "Nothing is the same as the live show and, right now, we're hurting. . . . It's really bleak."

Some have found things so bleak they've decided to act. In recent months, a few dozen people have formed two fledgling groups. One, which is made up of former Space volunteers, intends to set up another artists' collective that may boast performance areas, galleries, and a cafe. The other, which includes Ebar owner Eric Spencer, continues to seek a new location for the club.

Yet the groups have a long, tough haul ahead -- and each day, the city's famed, furious hardcore scene grows dimmer. Which is why those who've supported it -- those who ran the clubs, booked the shows, pressed the records, and played in the bands -- cannot help but wonder whether Worcester will be forgotten. It's a sad notion, made bittersweet by the sense that the hardcore creed itself is at risk of turning into the very thing it's long rebelled against: popular culture.

Back at the Fat Cat, those fears may be reality. For as Killswitch Engage descend the stage, a tall, slight, young man, who sells discs, leans in over his crates to explain how he saw equally awesome shows at the Space and Ebar. He then shrugs and says, "It sucks the places closed. There's no reason to go to Worcester anymore."

Hardcore -- an umbrella term that includes tough-guy, straightedge, and emo-core -- grew out of the 1980s punk movement. Pioneering bands were loud, fast, and had no interest in melody, often shouting incoherent lyrics. Still, hardcore was hailed for its energy, honesty, and its disregard for cultural dictates, which manifests in its overriding sound -- an in-your-face, high-octane sound driven by a love for music and a desire for expression. Every song had a message, largely angst-ridden, soul-searching ones about being independent, thinking for yourself, and staying true.

Such traits continue to attract kids today. Paul Schwab, 20, a local scenester and former Space volunteer, still recalls his first show at the now-defunct Club 490 in Fitchburg six years ago. He walked into the venue, absorbed all the activity and novelty, and was hooked. "It was so different from anything I was used to hearing."

No doubt. Though hardcore is an ever-changing, blurred mix of punk, metal, and even jazz influences, its followers, ultimately, eschew commercial-rock excess -- the leather pants, the lusty women, the vanity. As Ken Cmar, president of the Boston-based Wonderdrug Records, which specializes in the genre, describes it, "Hardcore is a rebellion against being force-fed watered-down corporate rock."

Unlike today's Top 40 hits, hardcore oozes personality. "It is emotional," says Tor Champagne, 20, who's played in three local bands including his latest, At Will. "This is why the riff and screaming became so important. People are drawn to the release of getting out their aggressions."

Yet if the music draws folks, the social environment is what keeps them coming back: hardcore is rooted in "unity," "community," and "family." Shows create opportunities where fans can be themselves without the posturing and finger-pointing common in other settings. These fans take pride in looking out for each other, in being part of something bigger than a mere concert -- an especially appealing atmosphere for teens.

"The scene has given a home to so many young individuals [who] were outcasts in high school," Champagne says.

One of them was Justin Desroches, 22, a burly hulk of a man whose extremities are covered by swirling tattoos. When he was a student at Leicester High School, Desroches kept to himself. He disliked his school peers; some of the cruelest ones considered him a devil worshiper. But, at 17, he went to his first hardcore show at the Espresso Bar and found that, he recalls, "the kids there weren't fake." Soon he was hanging out at the Ebar enough to become a full-time bouncer there.

"The Ebar was like a giant clubhouse," Desroches explains. "It opened up a whole new world for me."

One that may be more diligent and preternaturally entrepreneurial, subscribing to a do-it-yourself, or "DIY," dogma. These kids -- mainly 10- to 25-year-olds -- don't just form bands and jam in parents' garages. They organize shows, put out fanzines, set up record labels. Tom Marino, 20, a longtime Space and Ebar attendee who books shows, attributes this drive to the music. "It's supposed to be about expression," he adds. "Not all kids play [music], but they have something to say."

Take Dominic, a sweet-faced, spirited 16-year-old from Fall River who approachs me at a Plymouth Elks Lodge show in March. Dominic doesn't look the part; he wears jeans, a rumpled button-down shirt, and a baseball cap. Yet he epitomizes hardcore's come-as-you-are outlook. He asks what I'm writing and replies:

You shouldn't write about hardcore. You should write about Northern Ireland, about Sinn Fein breaking the peace agreement. It's just terrible, you know what I mean? Or write about what's happened in New York with the cops who killed that black man [Amadou Diallo]. Talk about injustice, you know what I mean? There's so much suffering in the world, there are better things to be writing about.

He then continues:

I got into hardcore four years ago for the aggression. It was a release. Now I see all this suffering and realize these upper-middle-class kids are so pissed off for no reason. They have great lives, you know what I mean? . . . Look at how they're dressed. [He gestures toward the crowd.] If they were black kids, they would probably have a hard time standing on a corner with pierced ears and tattoos, you know what I mean?

Several years ago, hundreds of kids, including Dominic, flocked to Worcester to soak up the atmosphere at the Ebar and the Space. Every weekend night guaranteed a show: the Space, a non-profit, DIY organization, pumped out underground sounds like emo-core and post-hardcore; the Ebar offered everything from national mainstream to local underground bands. Fans could also count on gritty, grassroots shows at St. John's Gym in Clinton.

"It was the heyday," recounts Chris Haskell, 20, an Ebar fixture. "People came from all over."

Fans and bands, in fact, traveled from as far as Boston, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Maine, even Pennsylvania. Once, Haskell relays, a Detroit band called Cold as Life made their way to the Ebar in a brutal blizzard -- only to entertain 20 or so kids. "They still played their hearts out."

And last year, on Valentine's Day, the well-known band Hot Water Music drove up from Florida to play a Space benefit, arriving to find the show temporarily stopped by police in search of a college student who had penned a suicide note. Band members later tried to persuade officers to let the student stay -- a sign, for fans, of the once-thriving solidarity.

"When the Space was great," says Aimee Godin, 25, a former Space volunteer who now aids the new artists' collective, "it was really great."

That Worcester played host to such a thing was a treat, taken for granted like any other -- until the Space and Ebar shut down. The Ebar, located on James Street, went first, in February 1999, five months before the Space, located on Harding Street, hosted its last show. But both had struggled with problems for years: the Ebar, relying on ticket and soda sales, couldn't survive a $1600-per-month rent hike; the Space, forced to close by City Hall, couldn't obtain the necessary permits.

Beyond logistics, the venues suffered a poor image among certain neighbors as well. Although both were situated in commercial and industrial settings, and although they scheduled shows at times when most adjacent businesses were closed, neighbors complained not only about the noise, but also about the packs of kids milling outside.

As one Space member supposes, "Neighbors didn't want us there. . . . They're probably happy we're gone."

More than a year later, however, kids like Haskell cannot forget the "sad" day he and fellow devotees packed up the clubs. "It was like having your heart ripped out," he says, "watching something you had built being taken down."

Even though places like the Palladium and Cafe Abba book at least one show each month, the venues have yet to be embraced by those who remember the glory days -- partly because of ticket prices ($8 to $10), and partly because of alcohol at these clubs. Talk has circulated, too, of at least two episodes when Palladium bouncers beat up hardcore fans for kicks.

Kids, of course, keep doing what they've always done: set up their own shows in and around Worcester at legion halls, church basements, school gyms, and in their back yards. Recently, for example, shows have been booked at the Elks Lodge in Worcester, the Knights of Columbus in Southbridge, the Portuguese American Club in Attleborough, and even at the Police Athletic League in Fall River. But such events require effort and as much as $1000; and so, they cannot fill the void.

Indeed, MassConcerts agent Scott Lee, who's often cited for trying to resuscitate local shows, considers it virtually impossible to replace the Space and Ebar. "Kids knew where to go every weekend," he explains. "You can't fill the gap. If those places were still going, there'd be no reason for me to do anything in Worcester."

On a Tuesday evening in early March, four men dressed in baggy khaki pants or black jeans and black band T-shirts stand amid crushed seats, discarded papers, and broken crates. They are members of the progressive, artsy, "post-hardcore" band Fiesel, who first played at the Space in October 1998. Tonight, they're rehearsing at what remains of the venue -- a dingy, trash-strewn room dominated by a stage.

Under bright lights, guitarist Greg Mailloux (who quit the band on April 1 to return to school) plucks away and, one by one, his bandmates join in: guitarist Jerry Sivret, bassist Jesse Thomas, and drummer Dan Benoit. They circle among themselves, building up to a kind of catharsis. Sivret gets animated: he kneels before an amplifier and then delights in creating a screeching, droning feedback sound. Mailloux nears the microphone and, in a deep, throaty voice, bellows indecipherable lyrics. His face gets redder and redder as he screams.

An hour of jumping, squatting, and playing later, the four stand and wipe their flushed, wet faces. There is no applause. There are no cheers, no whistles. All is quiet, except for a lingering, high-pitched buzz.

Later, Benoit, a former Space volunteer who's helping the new collective, offers this observation: "Worcester is this industrial wasteland now. It's a shame. There are lots of bands but no places to play."

But local bands are managing to endure the lull. Champagne and his At Will counterparts have maintained a three-times-per-week rehearsal schedule in an attempt to write new material; right now, they're recording their latest CD. And other bands have hit the road, traveling to Vermont, Maine, and to New Hampshire on weekends.

Jay Contonio, 19, the drummer for the old-school hardcore band Fallen, who include Jake Metterville (vocals), Jon Williams (bass), Nick Ransomeran (guitar), and Matt Marsel (guitar), says he and his bandmates fear being stymied by the closings. "We play tighter sets live," he explains. So Fallen arrange as many out-of-state performances as possible. They intend to drive 13 hours for a hardcore-music festival in Indiana in late April -- for 40 minutes of stage time.

"It's worth it," Contonio says, though he begrudgingly admits he'd rather gain exposure at home. He then confides, "It pisses me off the scene is dead. . . . If my mom hit the lottery, I'd be on her to open a club."

After all, as Sean McNally, who manages one of the long-lasting hardcore bands, Sam Black Church, notes, the venue is what drives the hardcore community. "Venues validate the scene. Getting to see a band in a club is what it's all about."

Jacob Bannon would agree. The 23-year-old lead singer for Converge, who have gone on worldwide tours and have released at least three albums, credits venues like the Space and Ebar for helping fledgling bands when other clubs slam their doors. "Scenes tend to die out without a venue," he says, "and Worcester could be no exception."

What separates underground shows from any other is the intense intimacy between fans and bands. Take the Plymouth Elks Lodge show. As soon as the Taunton-based band By My Side assume the stage, the singer drops into the pit and screams, "If I fall, I won't quit. If I fall, I won't quit. If I fall, I won't quit." Six boys practically ricochet off him. They huddle around him, punching at the air. What they're doing is called "picking up change," one of many popular, well-orchestrated mosh-pit moves. As the singer growls, he wraps his microphone cord around some of the boys who jump higher, touching the singer's hair, nudging his head.

In a separate interview, McNally explains, "There is a real bond between hardcore bands and fans. It's an our-show-is-your-show attitude."

Today, though, this bond is in jeopardy -- at a time when hardcore, as kids know it, heads in what's called a "bad" direction: toward the mainstream. The rising popularity of such hard-rock bands as Korn, Limp Bizkit, and Godsmack helped lure more kids to the underground scene, making hardcore music bigger than ever.

Several years back, popular hardcore bands would sell 5000, maybe 10,000 records. But now local bands like Converge are reaching the 20,000 mark. The Connecticut band Hatebreed expect to see their four-year-old debut album go gold. And the larger independent labels, such as Chicago-based Victory Records, make as much as $1 million in profits.

"That was unheard of in the past," says Todd Blake, who runs his hardcore label, Old Glory Records, out of the Bancroft Hotel building downtown. He likens the genre's increasing popularity to the grunge-rock wave of the early 1990s. Hardcore is too fast, loud, and abrasive to go fully mainstream but, he adds, "It has gotten ugly."

Witness the Gap. The nationwide chain has TV commercials that feature kids in hardcore uniforms: baggy jeans, long-sleeved thermals, and band T-shirts. Recently, Hot Topic, which sells skateboard and alterna gear, has materialized at the malls; now, scenesters meet kids who know nothing about the bands plastered across their chests. Hardcore has become so cliché that almost all rock fans are pierced, tattooed, and eager to fling into the pit -- some with complete disregard for the hardcore-scene ethos.

"Bands like Korn and Limp Bizkit are about testosterone, beer, and getting kids fired up," Marino, the hardcore follower who books shows, says. "Their fans go to real shows but don't know what the scene is about."

None of this is exclusive to Worcester. Across the region all-ages venues, in particular, are disappearing. Jay's CDs, a record shop in Lunenburg, hosted hardcore shows as well -- until last January, when a prominent band attracted 250 kids, along with several dozen police officers. The landlord has allowed Jay's CDs to remain open on the condition it exist sans shows.

Then there are the venues that have pulled away from all-ages shows -- Studio 159 in Providence, Pearl Street Cafe in Northampton, and nearly every Boston club except Bill's Bar, which, in February, began booking all-ages shows again. The drought even stretches to hardcore's birthplace, New York City. At a February concert, members of the band Tree never made it on stage because the fire department closed down the club.

When asked why firefighters were called, River, the band's singer, chalks it up to perception, "It's hard to have hardcore shows these days. People will use any excuse they can to shut down the clubs."

It isn't startling that all-ages venues are fast disappearing, since clubs tend to stay afloat by inflating alcohol prices. But financial solvency is probably the last obstacle for those trying to revive the local scene. For starters, the new collective and the Ebar group must figure out how to raise enough money to open another venue, largely by hosting benefit concerts and selling benefit CDs; they must secure loans, create partnerships, and apply for grants. More important, they must find the perfect location, a place that isn't just the right size, but also in the right neighborhood.

"We're basically a loud music factory," Ebar owner Spencer says, "and this doesn't make us a desirable neighbor."

Indeed. If there's one thing that Spencer and his colleagues consider to be the biggest threat to their efforts, it's the Worcester community-at-large. For rather than view hardcore as a positive outlet for kids to express themselves, adults tend to see little more than blue hair, pierced tongues, and angry-white-boy antics in the mosh pit.

"People think hardcore is too aggressive and violent," Marino says, then wryly adds, "It's okay to play football and smash into each other, but we can't teach kids to be creative and play music."

This isn't to say that violence or unsavory behavior never happened here. The Space and Ebar had trouble with kids sneaking alcohol into shows, or arriving drunk, stoned, and eager to pick fights. On the night of Ebar's final concert, a handful of "really immature kids" ripped down the bathroom sinks and punched holes in the walls.

For a while in Worcester, there existed a certain hooliganism under the guise of clean living, when straightedgers, who adhere to a strict no-drinking/no-drugs/no-sex doctrine, threw punches at their less-enlightened peers. It doesn't happen anymore. Yet now that straightedge's grown tolerant, tough-guy music represents one of the last subgenres in which violence is accepted.

As Haskell, a member of the Ebar group, puts it, "Tough guys are called this because they have something to prove; they want to cause trouble."

But fans insist that hardcore shows are nothing like the violent free-for-all witnessed at Woodstock '99, where Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst urged a crowd on the brink of explosion to ignore organizers' pleas to calm down. The three-day July festival became a symbol of misguided youth after literally ending in flames. At local shows, fans maintain, violence is confined to the pit, and what goes on there, while violent-looking, is actually a lot of karate, kung fu, and safely executed slamming. Anyone who enters the pit, or stands nearby, knows full well how easy it is to break a nose. Kids even boast about such injuries. "If you get hit and are upset," Champagne scoffs, "you obviously don't understand the pit."

More often than not, a newcomer to the hardcore scene, upon getting hurt in the pit, is the one to instigate a fight. And lately, those newcomers have been the very people hired by clubs to keep shows safe. During the May 1999 New England Metal Festival at the Palladium, for instance, Bannon and Converge members watched as a friend was pulled off the stage by bouncers and then beaten up. Converge guitarist Kurt Ballou joined the fray, promptly ending the set.

"Sometimes people who don't know what the scene is about do security at shows," Bannon says. "They think kids are out of control but they're the ones overreacting."

Downsides like these notwithstanding, hardcore fans value their community for what it's given them -- a home, friendships, a world view. And while it remains to be seen whether the hardcore culture can survive without a hub, these groups are certain to plod along, to do "whatever it takes" to fulfill their dreams of opening another venue.

They may find hope knowing that the Boston scene, once an all-ages-show mecca, has managed to stay alive in spite of having nothing to feed on for years.

And perhaps more promising is the commitment to re-create what used to be great in Worcester. Blake, of Old Glory, sums up the sentiment best: "Hardcore is in my blood. It gave so much to me. . . . I cannot sit around, complain, and do nothing for the scene."

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Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com