Yesterday I helped a friend shoot some video footage of a Christian hardcore band called Grey Lines of Perfection (I have no idea what that name means), made up mostly of 16 year old boys. We drove more than an hour and a half down to southern New Jersey to watch 10 or so bands play to an all-ages crowd in a roller rink called Froggers, which lived up to its name by featuring the images of frogs all over the walls. There were even exotic frongs that lived in a little aquarium.
The show made me nostalgic for my yesteryears, when I was a budding hardcore kid with lots of conviction and emotion that found expression through the distinctive chugga-chugga of metallic emo-core, NYC-style. I played bass in a band that sang about… um, I never knew what they sang about because the singer sounded like he was singing into an car engine after drinking a gallon of Draino. But it was emotional; that was the important thing.
These Jersey hardcore bands all had conviction too, especially Grey Lines, who allegedly sing about Christianity and morality (again, I have no idea what they were actually saying). It was nice to talk to the band and hear them talking openly and honestly about their faith.
As the band finished their last song, a guy asked for the microphone and used it to address a member of the audience. “Hey faggot, you call me a faggot, you’re the faggot, faggot,” he said, and then he ran into the crowd and punched someone in the face. It sounded like someone whipping a rubber chicken on pavement.