Scene LA: How I Found God at the Skate Shop Screamo Show
words and photos by sierra skinner.
I’ve always found the whole “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” question to be somewhat ridiculous.
Mostly because my honest answer is yeah, probably, and is that really so bad? I’m not saying I’m gonna drink the Kool-Aid or anything, but I get what might drive someone to that point. Existence is a slog in so many ways and the only rhyme or reason left to be found is belief in something. Belonging is a salve for all that aches in this life, to have something to turn to when it all goes to shit time and time again. This is what drives people to cliques, religions, cults, or fanaticism of any kind. We crave a doctrine to explain away the fact that nothing makes sense and nobody knows why.
But where do we go when dogma fails?
I remember my early days spent in youth groups in church halls, convinced that everyone around me must be faking it when they raised their hands to the heavens in worship, allegedly moved by some elusive higher power that didn’t seem to reach me. I thought either these people must be faking it or that perhaps I was just too far gone to feel it.
So this is how it starts, a ton of formerly delinquent kids turned maladapted adults congregating to try to make something out of their fucked-upness together or at least have some fun with it. At least, that’s how I got here: here, on this particular night being Frog’s LA storefront, as somebody who would ordinarily have no business at a skate shop.
This unlikely destination was the final stop on the west coast tour of New York based scene heroes Cash Only Tony’s and Holidays in United States. The rarity of the occasion meant that all manners of scene crawlers had designated this The Thing To Do for the night, which was extra incentivising to me given my proclivity for going wherever I’m likely to see the most friendly faces on a night out.
The tiny space was already packed out for the pre-show art exhibit curated by the visiting bands. Walls were adorned with pieces by bandmembers and their bi-coastal friends, consisting of everything from works on paper to textiles to a thematically relevant orange studded belt. This has become the identifier of Cash Only Tony’s genre-resistant presentation. The apparent theme was, simply put, friendship, and how these like-minds have managed to find each other and create together. Sappy, I know, get used to it. I can’t help it.
The viewing portion of the night was interrupted by the first of many treks across the street for a liquor store supply run. This is as close as I get to communion now: the body (american spirits, usually) and the blood (cheap beer always). We rejoined the growing crowd just in time for the mass migration to the neighboring venue space that would provide the setting for our very long but very good night.
The night opened up with local representatives and some dear friends of mine, Throw Spark. A very positive representation at that– these guys are every bit as proficient as they are lovely. MJ clutches a tea to her chest as she oscillates seamlessly between hushed vocals and echoing belts. There is a staggering degree of artistry present in the wall of sound they create. It’s every bit as technically sophisticated as it is discordant and liberating. This won’t be the last you’ll be hearing of them, not if I can help it.
Zachshots was up next, the tender-hearted side project of two fifths of Cash Only Tony’s. A Moldy Peaches comparison feels too obvious, but it’s apt. The only acoustic set of the night accompanied by gentle lyricism that is shared like a secret and every bit as sweet. I found myself at the back for this one, and embraced the lack of visibility as an opportunity to listen harder, and thank God I did. I’ve found myself streaming their ep and demos every day since.
In between sets we all mobbed outside to join the cloud of smoke overtaking the parking lot. During this intermission, my accompanying friend’s yawns grew comical. Midnight had come far too quickly and resolve was fading.
“How many more bands?” she asked. I held up three fingers as I took a swig from my now lukewarm tallcan.
“Oh my fucking god…… wait, don’t you have work at 6 am?” I simply nodded as I took another sip. I truly could not care less. I will likely be working damn near every day for the rest of my life unless the world caves in first. I don’t know how many more nights I have left of being young and dumb and perfectly drunk with all of my friends in this city.
Besides, I was having too much fun. I felt every bit as ecstatic as a kid staying up past their bedtime and the threat of pouring lattes sleep deprived with a brainsplitting hangover was not enough to take that away from me. Never stopped me before.
Speaking of fun, Ritornello Form might have singlehandedly redeemed my adverse opinion of Vegas on this night. LA crowds are usually notorious for crossed arms and hands in pockets, but not here, not now. Ritornello’s music is nothing short of emphatic and warrants an ardent devotion from those lucky enough to witness it. Abby commands a crowd both musically and literally, urging us to dance and jump just as she is. It was intoxicating, or I was intoxicated, or both. Whatever. It was a fucking revolution.
Another smoke break, another liquor store supply run (this time with snacks), and just in time for my favorite stage of every very long, very good night: when the whole crew is reaching that tender point of drunkenness in which we can’t shut up about how much we love the hell out of each other. Like I said, the theme is friendship. I think it always should be.
There’s an anthemic tone to Holidays in United States that I found myself both floored and captivated by. It’s engaging and liberating and awe-inspiring - all the things live music could and should be. The only time I looked away was to grab my friend's shoulders and shout “THEY’RESOOOOOOOGOOD” probably a little too loudly in her face. I meant it wholeheartedly, and everybody in that congested room screaming along to every word clearly felt the same.
I had to put out my barely smoked cigarette to rush back inside for the final set of the night but I didn’t mind; experiencing Cash Only Tony’s performance was worth a million wasted cigarettes. The experience of watching all band members move together like a screaming symphony cracked my godforsaken heart wide open. Every song they played was impossibly better than the last, visceral and consuming. Moshing and embracing overtook both audience and band members alike until you could hardly separate the two. I found myself as fanatical as the believers from my past, hands raised to the heavens with full conviction, uninhibited finally. Some might call it hedonism, I call it salvation. This might as well be heaven to me.
Maybe I’m disproportionately sentimental about this sort of thing, or maybe it really is just some kind of wonderful that we’ve all come together like this -that we’ve turned crashing our bodies together and screaming at the top of our lungs into a ritual of loving grace. Collectively embracing our volatility, being honest about it for once even if it’s under the cover of darkness with the speakers too loud for anyone to actually hear.
So yeah, I’m following my friends off of that bridge. The long way down isn’t so scary when the music is this good and we have each other to hold onto.
