Twenty years ago, in April 1981, the Wilson Center, a community space at 15th and Irving streets N.W., opened its doors for the first time to the burgeoning D.C. hardcore scene. Last Friday night, it opened again for one final show.
The Wilson Center, primarily a Latino community center, opened to the musical stylings of the seminal Minor Threat as the D.C. hardcore-punk scene exploded into national prominence. Hardcore, you ask?
It all began with straightedge.? Increasingly, political consciousness has become inextricably intertwined with D.C. hardcore. Most recently, the Wilson Center was one of the focal points for organizing the IMF-World Bank protests of 2000 and this September, and the D.C. hardcore community, founded on the Do-It-Yourself ideal, has itself spawned the community activism of Positive Force and Books to Prisons, among other projects. Friday night, among the CDs, T-shirts and 7-inch records ringing the floor (themselves a catalogue of radical political ideas) the anarchist Infoshop table sold books and distributed anti-war zines.
The show’s bill featured a full 11 acts (not bad for $5), headlined by Maryland thrashcore superstars Crispus Attucks, and D.C.’s own pop-punk sensation Q And Not U also played to the packed basement hall, which, though reeking of sweaty perfume, also featured a free root beer keg.
Pittsburgh’s Teddy DuChamps Army, fronted by Luke Skywalker look-a-like Andy Wright, started things off with an uninspired set, failing to get the first listless early-risers pumped up. To worsen matters, the root beer was found to be sweetened with honey, a product of bees, and as a result, non-honey-sweetened cans needed to be purchased for the inordinate number of vegans in attendance.? Further deepening the doldrums, the tap was discovered broken, and in the ensuing half-hour during which a replacement was found, non-vegans drank all the vegan cans, illicitly sustaining themselves until better times arrived.
Things began to pick up, however. Where Skywalker and TDA failed, Trial by Fire, lead by the lumberjack Cole Harris got the crowd going and, as always, the beginning of the descent into chaos was signaled by the obligatory appearance of a random stoned 11-year-old crowd surfing high above with a goofy smile on his face.
Next up, an uncharacteristically intelligible D.C.- and Richmond-based Del Cielo (Spanish for “Of the Sky”), an all-female trio sporting cat ears, really kicked some ass with their short set, including ”$5 Wasted,” reminiscent of Showoff’s recent best.? Formed just this summer, Del Cielo is the illicit brainchild of former Bald Rapunzel drummer Katy Otto, who is complemented by the dangerously angst-riddled vocals of guitarist Andrea Lisi and bassist Basla Andolsun.
The tap arrived, and sweet, sweet root beer flowed freely … for about 15 minutes.? At this point, nearly 8 o’clock, the crowd had grown exponentially, and the 30 or so plastic cups were greedily snatched up and hoarded by a select few, leaving the frenzied anarchist masses again refreshment-less.?
As the early acts left the stage, replaced by the hardcore headliners the hundreds of punked-out teens had come to see, a mutant undercurrent permeated the consciousness of the crowd. Boredom? Desperation? Disillusioned youth? Your faithful Voice correspondent was caught mercilessly between the crowd and the mosh pit, the temporarily forgotten keg again rumbled for attention?a veritable powder-keg of political unrest.
When the hellstorm that was Pg. 99 burned itself out with a 20-minute punk jam-session, the crowd disintegrating into a four-body-deep writhing mass of flailing corpses?50 people atop the stage itself, the keg again saw action … only this time with no cups. Drinking straight from the tap, thirsty, dirty anarchists one after another! Tapping unfettered into the root beer, this perversion of the social norm is representative of D.C. hardcore’s DIY ethic.
Of course, by the end of the night, anarchist youth and underground punk were jarred from their brief euphoria by unforgiving reality of market economics. The Wilson Center, bought out by a corporate-funded charter school, has cried its last glass tears. Leaving the show, and the center for the final time, trudging up the stone steps into the startlingly cold October D.C. night, one young woman yelled out, “Gloves?? Anybody got gloves?? I’ll buy ‘em for five dollars.”
