by: Sasha Ormond

I went through a phase when I was in my late teens that I will call my ‘full of shit’ phase, (‘full of bologna’ phase – for all of the underage readers out there).  I’ve deemed it with this title so as not to pay any disrespect to those who genuinely belonged to this particular arena, this subculture, rooted in, what I thought, was the most important/cool/real/incredibly relevant/countercultural zeitgeist – the world of punk rock.  I had the belt with studs.  I had some shirts with the faces of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen silk screened across the front. Brand new, but obviously made to look old, as if I had found them in a thrift shop or borrowed the shirts from a friend I had met during my travels to the bridge and tunnel area of Manhattan.  I had some blue hair.  I had some stretched ears.  I had a genuinely ‘cool’ boyfriend who took me to shows all of the time.  I was a good actress.  Had I not been, I would have been immediately spotted as an impostor.   My stomach was always holding on to a knot of some kind and I’m positive it showed in my smile.  Thank God I was surrounded by crowds of equally oblivious and self-conscious teenagers.

I wasn’t completely fraudulent.  I genuinely liked what the music stood for.  I liked the people I met.  And really, at least I wasn’t trying to be ‘cool’ and make myself known as someone who was different from ‘the masses’ by trying heroin or pretending to be a member of the Crips or Bloods – (remember the local kids who actually did that?  Lord).  I came to enjoy the music quite a lot, mostly because I had the cliche boyfriend who played nothing but the best of punk rock music and did so all of the time, while explaining it’s origins to me with a big smile on his face, full of gesticulations.

One night, at a show, with my ‘knot in tummy’ smile and studded belt, I stood waiting to see one of my favourite bands play.  The opening band came onstage and me, being the seasoned connoisseur that I was *eye roll here*, looked around at the audience, being the original founders of the punk movement itself, clearly, and scowled.  Our eyes were rolling.  Our noses were upturned.  Rude things were shouted.  Scoffs and ‘pfffffft’s’ from every angle, simply because this band didn’t seem to fit.  They didn’t have the punk rock uniform on.  They had long hair and leather jackets and looked like they might ride motorcycles, but not in the cool way.  They looked like dads.  How dare they?  What the hell were they doing at this show, in OUR club, amongst OUR people?

Then they started to play.  We all tried to keep our heads held high in self righteous disgust but slowly, with every song, we sank.  There were looks around the crowd of shock.  Jaws agape.  Gasps.  Smiles.  Cheers.  I think I even remember an eventual mosh pit forming – the highest of punk rock honors.  We were all wrong.  We were all assholes.  We were all young little try hard idiots.  They were better than the band we had all come to see.  The best.

When the band finished playing, they angrily took off their guitars, unplugged from the amps and screamed into the microphone, something like (it was years ago, I can’t quite remember), ‘Yeah, you little fucks, don’t judge a book by it’s fucking cover, assholes’.  Then they spit on us and stormed offstage.  They are my heroes, still.  I will never forget that show.

I believe this event at The Little Bean Coffee Bar will be eerily parallel, metaphorically speaking, to my experience.  I believe that if I was 17 again and decided to go with my friend, begrudgingly, I would have a similar experience.

Don’t be fooled by it’s demure coffee shop exterior.  The Little Bean is hosting a FREAKISHLY amazing night of Halloween terror combined with the devastatingly bone chilling (and surprisingly popular) music of the Rob Zombie tribute band, Devil’s Rejects.  In the same vein as the Rocky Horror Picture Show types of cult parties, come dressed as a character from The Devil’s Rejects or House of 1000 Corpses and prepare to delve into the twisted world of ghoulish rock music and costumed people who have just escaped from a mental institution.

Pretend you don’t want to go.  Pretend The Little Bean could never facilitate such a night.  Pretend you’re too cool for such silliness.  Then, Go in spite of it all, because ‘there’s nothing else to do anyway’, and have the time of your life.  Leave with a memory and a story, albeit shameful, embarrassing and reveling to those being told that you were at one point a bit of a tit, to tell people years later.

Check out the event here.  https://www.facebook.com/events/137409696404457/
and get your tickets quickly.  Ten dollars in advance.