CONNECTICUT HARDCORE:

A Journalistic Expose on Punk and Hardcore

And DIY Culture in Connecticut

By Raymond Storez

All Photos by Katie Chirichillo

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the

Requirements for a

Degree in Writing

Journalism & Freelance

Submitted on 9 December 2010

WRT 465/Thesis Advisor: Prof. John P. Briggs

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Abstract

This thesis project compiles the first few articles from a planned series of journalistic pieces on the punk and hardcore music scene in Connecticut. The following articles provide an inside glance into Connecticut’s punk “do-it-yourself” (DIY) aesthetic and underground youth culture. Written in a “new journalism” style, the interviews and in-depth narratives aim to discover what it is that draws a certain demographic into this culture, as well as what differentiates the world of underground punk DIY from the other milieus of youth culture.

The articles compiled within feature a personal essay/introduction, a first person narrative-based review of a local hardcore show at State University of New York at

Purchase, an interview with the proprietors of Redscroll Records in Wallingford, and an interview with John Longyear of Audobon Records, an independent “bedroom” record label.

2 Table of Contents

Introduction: What It Means to Us…………………………………………4

Redscroll Records Keeps Wallingford’s Punk Identity Intact……………..12

Marching to the Beat of a Dead Horse……………………………………..17

Audobon Records Up’s the Punks…………………………………………28

3 What It Means to Us

The more I've talked to “the punks” - if we're to make them an entity – the more I hear them saying things that repeat my own inner sentiments, and usually in new ways or phrases that lean toward the profound.

A young man named Pete Judge wrote a short online essay titled “Long Island

Basement Shows” where he recounted his early teen years, when he began to delve into Long Island's punk music scene. His story begins the same as countless others.

If there is one thing to be said about punk and hardcore, it's the sense of solidarity – our experiences echo one another with such alacrity as to be shocking. We do this because, yes, we love the music, but the social causes are just as important; the sense of oneness, the quality of being, camaraderie, saying that “YES, this is us.”

Talking about Long Island's punk scene, which could be any punk scene,

Judge says, “Some of the best memories and friendships that I’ve made in my entire life took place in that basement, and I hope that it inspired at least one other kid on

Long Island to start doing what I did. You’ll never regret it.”

Following that sentiment, a semi-anonymous Connecticut blogger named

“Joel” writes the following on his cooking blog, www.cookeatlive.com, about his take on the punk aesthetic:

“These musical events are nothing similar to rock concerts or getting to see the NY Philharmonic. The type of show I am talking about is unique all on its own.

I'm talking about punk and hardcore. And ever since I become involved with punk rock and hardcore, I always felt that I had found somewhere I belong. No religion, boy's club or back stage pass could ever replace it,” Joel wrote.

4 I'd been sitting on this one for a while. Late last spring my friend, the ubiquitous Joshua Durkin, gave me a copy of this senior thesis to read over and help proof so he could get along on the editing process. At that point in time I myself was not so far removed from that very same undertaking. Always attempting to be a forward thinker, yet ever the procrastinator, I began to sort out what topic I'd want to attack in my own piece.

As vital as I find news writing to be, as politically and socially important as I think true reporting is, as much as I advocate the essential necessity of journalism as a maintained entity, the truth is that I find the writing to be untowardly dull. I believe that journalism, as “news,” is all about structure and fact – sure there's style, but how secondary it becomes when you're trying to prove a point on something.

The act of educating, of making aware the public, is based around saying the most you can with as little as you can, and always without the chaff.

I think that when I started thinking about this piece of writing, back in the spring, I was looking at it in a way that was very different from the reality it became.

The differences are many – what I started with, the seed of my then unnourished thought, was enormous in scope. I saw a strictly factual response to the question; I was going to write a feature, a lengthy one, spanning the history of Connecticut's punk and hardcore music from it's conception right up to this day. But how would I do it? The concept was grandiose, huge, and wholly unrealistic.

I remember reading Josh's thesis, and being impressed and pleased with it. A journalistic “memoir” or sorts, it compiled fact and narrative alike to tell the story of his internship with Jason Leopold's The Public Record, covering the mishaps and

5 stumbles surrounding the inditement and trial of the self-professed 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheihk Mohammed.

I wanted to write out the history of Connecticut's influential punk and hardcore experience, but I also wanted to tell a story. The hard question was, of course, whose story? I wanted to write about something that was important to me.

Something influential in my life. A thing that was conclusive and integral to the truth of me. It's my feeling that no matter how much I try to inform, the point I'm trying to convey is bound to get tied up and lost in facts and history. There's a feeling that needs to be captured, a feeling that is infinitely more important that the static facts, and that here is what I'm attempting to bring to the front.

A few weekends ago, I was getting ready to go to a local hardcore show in

Cheshire with a few of my close friends. The show was the record release party of

West Hartford's Make Do and Mend, who had just released their first full-length LP,

End Measured Mile, on Panic Records.

Boston-based band Defeater was also playing, we were all pretty caught up in the anxious anticipation of what wonders we were about to partake in, down inside the unassuming hall of some local Masonic temple. I remember driving to grab some dinner before the show, my friend Rich turned to me with extreme sincerity and said, “I want you there next to me during the pile-on.”

Perhaps, for most people, emotional sentiments between friends don't extend to clambering over piles of sweaty kids, or traipsing through mosh pits to scream out lyrics together while narrowly dodging the fists and feet of those few

6 overly aggressive dancers. For those who take such an interest, it's an ultimate profession of friendship and brotherhood.

I've met more amazing people than I can tally, and those pre-exisiting friendships have only strengthened. I feel blessed to live in a state where a things like this happen, a state with such a vibrant and healthy punk scene. I don't think there's any other place I could do better. Connecticut has amazing bands, promoters, labels, and supporters in it's punk scene. And I feel like I've only just barely scratched the surface. There's much more to be found and discovered, and I've no intention on quitting soon.

That same friend, Rich Rivera, said this to me: “I've been listening to punk and hardcore since I was fifteen. I still am [at twenty-two]. I'm in it to win it.”

Whatever it is that draws certain people into this type of music, it always seems to pull together the best people you can hope to know. Everyone could do better in their lives by living according to the “rules of the moshpit.”

If somebody jumps, you catch them. If somebody falls, you pick them up.

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11 Redscroll Records Keeps Wallingford’s Punk Identity Intact

Photo courtesy of Redscroll Records Redscroll Records sits on North Colony Road in Wallingford, CT. On any given weekend, this quiet and unassuming end of Route 5 will watch the day drift by with little disturbance to its placid ambiance, save perhaps for the occasional call of a train as it passes through the Amtrak line.

Encased within a red brick exterior, Redscroll’s sign flies the shop’s heraldry in bold black letters; the store proudly wears its heart on its proverbial sleeve, the words

“underground music and culture” emblazoned above the front window.

Inside, the walls are covered in wrapped vinyl records. CD’s and LP’s sit in homemade wooden shelves, accompanied by racks holding local self-published zines.

Within the smaller back rooms one finds even more vinyl; used stacks and quarter bins, great volumes of anything from Product of Waste to used Emmylou Harris albums.

An eclectic collection of used books and a few vintage arcade machines. Posters and stickers cover the walls. What could have one been a sterile, whitewashed office space has been re-knit with a punk aesthetic – this feels like a place where you come to buy records, and it’s that elusive feeling (halfway between nostalgia and rebellion) that is kept alive in the independent record store. It’s precisely what is killed by corporate aesthetic.

Redscroll founder and one of its owners, Josh Carlson, now of New Haven, grew up in Wallingford. Living in a town known as a center for Connecticut’s punk and hardcore culture gave Josh early exposure to the local underground music scene.

According to an interview with the online feminist straight edge hardcore community xsisterhoodx.com, Josh began walking the path to Redscroll by the age of twelve by

12 attending local bands’ shows. A few years later, at the urging of friends, he ventured into the business of booking local shows and acting as an independent record label.

“I got on this store path early when I put out a compilation CD-R for some friends

[bands] – Breed Extinction, Hamartia, The Awakened. I started doing trades and got a distro going, put out a few seven inches. The distro grew until the point came that I had to open a store,” he says.

Co-owner of Redscroll Records, Rick Sinkiewicz, grew up in Connecticut’s

Middlesex County, in the towns of Middletown, Killingworth, and Higganum. His involvement in Connecticut’s underground music scene began with work in community radio at multiple stations; most recently he has been working with Wesleyan University’s

WESU.

13 The same as Josh, Rick’s experience in the local music scene has also included show booking and promotions work, both independently and with New Haven based booking agency Manic Productions.

“I’ve put on shows by myself starting at Wesleyan, and then with my friend Josh

Kelly under the moniker ‘Shred Legion.’ I was [also] involved with Manic Productions for a couple years,” Rick says.

The vision for Redscroll, according to an e-mail interview with Rich and Josh, has been fluid, ever changing, but always with the drive to offer exceptional music and an authentic experience to people on a personal level.

“The store has been consistently growing and changing since it opened, and even before. Our vision is constantly changing, getting bigger and broader in scope,” the say.

Masses of vinyl LP’s, both new and used, occupy most of the store’s floor space.

Redscroll’s catalogue of vinyl is culled from titles across the genre spectrum –folk, punk, hardcore, metal, twee, pop, and all applicable subgenres coexist within the store’s stacks.

According to Rick and Josh, the quantities of vinyl present, as well as the selection of titles, is due to the demand of the store’s customer base.

“Vinyl is great. We both love it. We listen to it. We both collect it. Honestly, the amount of space taken up by vinyl in the store has mostly to do with what our customers dictate,” they say, “CD’s are also great. They have their place. Tapes do too. We love music in all physical formats.”

With their combined experience in Connecticut’s local music scene and their own individual genre expertise, both Rick and Josh endeavor to sell music that might otherwise be difficult to find, save for online. In an age where online markets offer a

14 precise shopping experience, the ambiance of the brick-and-mortar store is still welcomed by enthusiasts.

Record collector Richard Kokinchack, 20 of Southbury, CT, says that what makes

Redscroll superior to an online distributor is the act of physically immersing himself in the store’s aesthetic.

“I like the feeling of going through the stacks of records. If I’m buying music online, I have to know exactly what I’m looking for. When I go to Redscroll and check out all the albums, I find interesting things while I look for what I went there for. It’s an experience,” he says.

Moreover, purchasing music at Redscroll helps support a local Connecticut business - another major draw for customers.

“I usually make the drive to Redscroll Records because I’m supporting a local

Connecticut business rather than a large corporation. Corporate stores offer what they think will sell the best; Redscroll offers what they think is good music, and not just what will make them the most money,” says Kokinchack.

Dan Ravizza, 21 of Durham, CT, says that he supports Redscroll because he believes what they’re doing is at the heart of Connecticut’s music scene and it’s DIY aesthetic.

“Redscroll Records gives life to the Connecticut underground music scene. I’ve always been able to find what I need there, be it folk punk, straight edge hardcore, or just straight up weirdo jams. The ethos that Josh puts behind it brings Connecticut together,” says Ravizza.

15 Josh and Rick’s ties to the local music scene, which began with their individual work booking and distribution for local bands, have continued in their work at Redscroll.

In addition to acting as a record store, Redscroll has released some local bands’ albums on their own label, including Hostage Calm’s “Lens,” and Wrench in the Works’ debut album “Prodigal Transmission.”

Josh and Rick continue to work hand-in-hand with the local scene; Redscroll is the official box office for Manic Productions, one of the state’s most accomplished independent booking agencies.

“We sell Manic Productions tickets for every show,” they say, “Every once in a while somebody will ask us to sell tickets, and we’ll do that too. On special occasions we set up a distro [distribution] at a show. We even put on shows from time to time when we get the gumption. We sell anybody’s output that would like us to. We’re open to pretty much anything.”

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“Marching to the Beat of a Dead Horse”:

An Evening at SUNY Purchase I don’t know why Dreher threw the bottle, but I remember that we ran after it broke. We were climbing a wide set of concrete stairs, enormously steep and dauntingly slick in the cold September drizzle, that overlooked a paved courtyard. The evening’s gloom was solid; sealed shut by a night sky cut off from the stars or ambient light by immense, boiling rainclouds. Our raucous entrance was made small by the quiet in as much as it invaded upon it. Forty ounces of breaking class was cacophonous, and we moved to outrun the echo. Even having wandered all across the campus of SUNY Purchase that evening, I could not describe a single element of the campus’ design. Immense and silent, the university seemed stretched thin over too much space; the buildings we could see, the ones where small fiery points of waning yellow marked the lights of windows, always seemed far removed into the distance. The spaces between were sprawling fields of soggy grass or wide spans of paved concrete that evoked the visual taste of parking lots. All the rest was cloaked by misty rain and night – we walked throughout what felt like a featureless, soundless urban maze. There were six of us. Two cars. We’d come from Danbury to see a show. Only one of us had ever visited Purchase before. He was stoned and a little drunk, and seemed taken aback when we started following his lead. There were several false starts. He was walking with purpose and confidence, and we followed him until we ended up at some very obvious dead end – another parking lot, a bank of trees that extended out into forest, or a very solid wall at the end of a walkway. We passed several people, presumably students at Purchase, but so ingrained were we in our own sense of independent determination that we didn’t bother to ask for directions to the student food co-op, where the show was being held. It wasn’t until an

17 encounter with a square full of mine-like foot-swallowing puddles that we decided that, left to ourselves, we’d never find the co-op. Two young men walking ahead of us were wearing black hoodies and carrying backpacks covered in badges and pins. With an almost tribal-like regard, and Kevin’s urging of “follow those punks,” we started to shadow the two, whom we felt a sense of counterculture solidarity with. Inevitably, they were just as hopeless as we were. “Are you guys going to the show at the Co-op?” “Yeah, but we can’t find it. We don’t go to school here.” I cannot remember how we found out way to the Purchase student center, and can only imagine that it was only luck that brought us there. A lonely, washed out light shone over the bank of doors, and across the group of people standing outside. The rain and wind began to pick up as we moved into their mass. The smell of the damp night mixed with cigarette smoke, and the slight orangey scent of sweat. State universities have a sort of blankness to their being; I suppose it comes from being a state institution. SUNY Purchase is no different in this; the campus, the design, and the buildings – they all have a nondescript vanilla flavor to them. Red brickwork, black framed windows, poured pavement walkways. Despite the blandness that comes with state-funded faire, the soul of a school is defined through its students. Purchase has a reputation, defined best through the words of my friend Dan, who after seeing Dan Deacon play there in the early fall stated, “SUNY Purchase is full of hipsters.” There was more than enough plaid flannel and tight denim to go around, and thick-framed glasses adorned many eyes. Crusty old Vans, dark with rainwater, smacked the pavement as people walked about. A few crust-punks milled about, looking even more disheveled for the humidity and wind. A bank of bike stands sat full, despite the weather.

18 The student co-op at Purchase is a tiny room, perhaps no more than a 30-by-50 feet rectangle. A student-run café, they sell mediocre food (much of it vegetarian or vegan, predictably, as per their populace) and cups of decent coffee for a quarter. The room has one entrance and exit, a set of double doors that leads into a cramped hallway that exits out into the student center’s foyer. There are no windows, no ventilation. The coffee and snack bar takes up one side of the room, together with a smattering of Goodwill-plucked stools and tables. A tiny stage, more like a raised dais, sits against one wall. The room was already hot when we walked in. The dampness on our clothes and skins began to run and mix with sweat. The air was thick enough to swallow, with a taste like stale yeast, sawdust, and coffee grinds.

The first band to play, a local hardcore punk band called Heavy Breath, had already played and broken down by the time we walked into the room. My Heart to Joy, a band from Kensington, CT, was finishing their set-up and preparing to play their set. We milled about, talking little with one another, standing with folded arms, waiting.

19 When My Heart to Joy introduced themselves to the gathered audience, Rich and I worked out way to the front. The audience inside was not so thick yet. When they started playing, we rushed to the front – the goal, as we saw it, was to get to the microphone. After a few songs, we were drenches in sweat, both our own and the drippings of those around us. We moved with the crowd, threw ourselves into great piles. At the end of one song, vocalist Ryan ended up on the floor, knocked over by a sudden surge in the tide of the pit. Some fell with him. He regained his stance on his knees, sans microphone, and kept shouting. We shouted with him, and I vaulted onto Rich’s back, pushing down with all my weight to bring him to the floor too. His knees gave out, and we crashed into the pile. We sang. The floor didn’t feel solid; its surface was oily. We slid as we stood back on our feet.

When their set ended, Rich and I were feeling near spent, but exhilarated. Our blood was moving. There is nothing more cathartic in this existence than music and movement. We rejoined the rest of our company; they had stayed in the back during the set, but even they too were glowing with perspiration. I could feel waves of heat radiating off my body; it made my skin seem to hum, as if it were moving on its own locomotion across the bone and musculature of my body. We decided to sit out the next band, Zona Mexicana, whom we had never heard of, and exit outside to let our blood cool.

Outside the co-op smokers stood pressed against one another under the thin eave over the doorway. The steady drizzle had become proper rain by now. A curtain of water poured from the overhanging and slapped into shallow puddles. Breath emerged in wispy clouds of condensation. Our sweat instantly began to cool; I felt the running heat across my arms and chest turn cold and clammy. From inside the co-op we could hear the ambient noise of Zona Mexicana’s set.

There wasn’t much talking. We let the evening’s preamble cool and coalesce.

20 When Rich and I walked back into the co-op, the floor was already filling up. The crowd has bulked up considerably, and was lined up near-flush with the dais-like stage. The headlining band was setting up - Touché Amoré, a melodic hardcore punk band from Los Angeles, California.

We moved into the front of the crowd and joined the line. The first song seemed to come out of nowhere. The band introduced themselves, and there it was – the beginning of their first song, “Broken Records,” crashed down from two standing speakers. I felt my ears pop from the sound; my heart and bones were steadily vibrating from the bass and drums.

I was pushed to my left immediately, and from behind came a second wave of bodies. We were pushed forward relentlessly. Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the initial grip was viselike. We struggled to steady ourselves and keep our footing in the only way you can – you push back.

21 The experience is hard to distill into easy words, and to be honest I can't remember a lot of the details. It all runs together, and what I remember most is the feeling of oneness with those around me – the swirling mass of the mosh pit, the feeling of sweat bleeding through my t-shirt, the rank smell of body odor and beer-sour breath, the blunt force of fists and forearms striking my body, flailing at random, the shouting, the singing – I was screaming until my throat felt red and torn.

I remember the girl who grappled my arms, jumped on my back, and threw herself into the crowd. Her hands pulled the red wool cap from my head; her fingers had torn a wide hole in the fabric.

The zen of the mosh pit. We were sweating and bleeding together, and while none of us could really say why, we all knew. If there are no words for it, it's because those thoughts can only be expressed in the act itself. No distillation. Only the chaos, the movement of madness around you, and quiet thrumming calm that burns in your blood. A

22 better release than sex, than any drug you could put in your body. You move, and all else is gone. During the set, my entire world spanned between the four walls of SUNY Purchase's student food co-op. There was nothing else.

We regathered after the show. The crowd was quickly dispersing, ghosting off into the rainy night and it's promise of cool air. Rich and I, war torn, hobbled to the coffee bar and asked a young man with enormous dreadlocks, held back in a torn bandana, for water. He obliged, and we gulped it down greedily. My clothes were plastered to my skin, glued with sweat. No water has ever been so cold and refreshing as that glass.

Wordlessly we exited out into the night. Alone, I moved around back of the co-op into a cramped alleyway between the Student Center and a gargantuan dormitory building. The ground was rife with puddles, so I sat down on a pair of wooden doors leading down to a cellar. The wood was damp, and felt rotten beneath me. I worried slightly if they would give out under me, and send me tumbling into some forgotten dank basement.

I lowered my arms to my knees and sat, folded together like some lanky mantis. The night air was drying my sweat, but my breath was still coming in ragged gasps. My body ached. I lingered there for long minutes; I watched my arms as the tingle in them became a throbbing pain. Intense red marks and welts began to form across them. The pain was satisfying in a way. It mingled with my fatigue. It was a feeling of physical accomplishment. The same euphoria a marathon runner receives when they finish their final stretch.

The rest would come later – the stories, the excited retellings, the constant reminding of “man, wasn't that show fucking incredible?” There were war stories to be

23 told, and battle scars to show off. Who jumped on who, and who grabbed the mic when, and all the rest. The moments after, however, were a thing of serenity. As I sat on those wooden doors, I felt myself being put back together, and for the better. All of my frustration, all of my stress, fear, emotional pain, loathing, anger, and every negative emotion was wiped clean. You walk into the show carrying enormous weight with you – your self is shattered, all that dark is drained, and you mend feeling calm and satisfied.

There is nothing else to be said for it.

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27 Audobon Records Ups the Punks

A young man is sitting on a rickety drummer stool. It looks out of place in a bedroom; serving as a makeshift computer chair, it rests before the equally ramshackle wooden table that houses said computer. Posters and flyers cover the walls at uneven intervals; printed across their faces are band logos, promotional photos, tour dates, and album covers.

The room bears all the traditional hallmarks of a college student's living space. Flannel shirts and boxer shorts litter the carpeted floor. Text books have accumulated in a formidable pile by the unmade bed. A cold late Autumn breeze blows through an open window; an ashtray rests on the sill, along with a worn and ash-covered copy of American Hardcore: A Tribal History by Steven Blush and

George Petros.

Square cardboard boxes are heaped onto the couch. Some of them are torn open, revealing the stacks of 7” vinyl records inside. Some of the records have spilled out onto the floor; some have been pulled from their containers and are lain out in a semi-organized fashion on the couch's surface. The young man idly toys with them as he speaks.

“I started going to shows when I was about 14. I went to my first ska show freshmen year. All my friends got into it. I started getting involved with the ska scene, going to all those shows...it generally involved expanded my musical interests into ska, punk music, and generally all types of punk, all the music under that sort of umbrella.”

28 I ask him about his first show. He's visibly excited when he answers. He leans forward, and his eyes widen.

“My first show was Reel Big Fish, Big D and the Kids Table, Catch 22, and Rx

Bandits. They all played together at Toad's Place. My friend Kevin was talking to me about ska music one day, because he knew I liked Sublime a lot. I didn't know about the local music scene. He said 'you should start going to shows,' and he told me about these bands and the show. Me and a bunch of people from my class went, and

I fucking fell in love with the music scene.”

The young man perched on the second hand drum stool is John Longyear. A

21-year-old Communications major and music minor at Western Connecticut State

University, John is also the owner and sole manager of Audobon Records, an independently owned Connecticut based record label focused on helping emerging local underground bands gain exposure and gather a following.

The story of John's introduction to the punk scene is one so often repeated that it's telling has become something of an “punk everyman's” tale. The young and unguided youth, the wise musical sensei, the inaugural and unforgettable experience of attending one's first show – characters and events that are echoed countless time, in countless personal histories.

The end result, that vital catalyst that draws the youth into the punk scene and traps them there, is always the same.

“Felling accepted, really. [Feeling accepted] into the scene,” Longyear says about his first foray into Connecticut's scene, “I didn't feel like I was being judged or anything; everybody was just there to have a good time.”

29 Longyear's affiliation with the scene quickly shifted from simply attending shows to becoming a more active member and supporter, joining a number of bands and beginning to work with promoters and local record label representatives.

“Just going to shows, that's fine too. It's supporting the scene. But people who are more involved, I think they have more of an interest,” Longyear says.

Attending an arts magnet school in New Haven, Longyear's musical focus was within the school's string department where he picked up an interest in the instrument that he currently plays in the folk punk band New Year's Revolution – the cello.

“The cello isn't a traditional punk instrument. I liked the strings department; I'm not even sure why, but I was drawn to it. I was going to play the violin, but we already had too many violinists, and there were no cellists. Once I saw the cello I was like, 'I have to play that thing.' It looked so awesome.”

Longyear's first foray into punk musicianship was during his later high school years with the ska band Table of Three, where he played the trombone.

“It was called Table of Three because they were supposed to be a three-piece.

The I joined to play the trombone, but they didn't want to change the name. They added me, but we kept the name.”

After playing with Table of Three, Longyear joined several bands that never reached any level of local success. According to him, however, these unnamed bands provided a sort of musical proving ground where he was able to practice and grow as a young musician.

30 “There was a slew of unnamed bands. We were lazy and all we did was jam. [I don't think] we ever actually finished a song, but it was still fun times. [A lot of people] have these ambitions to start a band, but they'll get bored with it or the people just won't get along. I'm surprised I'm in a band now that's doing so much and getting things done.”

In addition to his work in the locally prominent New Year's Revolution, which has opened for internationally known bands such as the midwestern folk- punk band Defiance, Ohio on the Manic Productions bill, Longyear's involvement in

Connecticut's punk scene has been focused on running his own independent record label, Audobon Records.

With it's only “office” being Longyear's own apartment's bedroom, which is often littered with stacks of records, test-pressings, and promotion material,

Audobon Records embodies the grassroots aesthetic of punk's do-it-yourself (DIY) culture. The origins of such an endeavor are remarkably humble, beginning with his interest in New York City punk band The Motorcycle Industry.

“I was just sitting in my room one day....I had sold a bunch of my stuff to save up some money – I wan't to do something, I wasn't sure - and then I heard The

Motorcycle Industry. They didn't have a record label or anything. They were planning on putting out an EP (extended play), and I was like 'why can't I put that out?' So, I offered it to them. They were really stoked about it. I worked with them for a while, and we got those out. They did pretty well, got the band exposure.”

The Motorcycle Industry released their EP, The Only Friends Worth Having, on Audobon Records on February 9, 2010. It was pressed on vinyl as a 7” release,

31 and followed up the band's self-released full-length LP, 2009's Electric Education.

The EP was released to high praise from sources such as Alter the Press! (ATP) and

AbsolutePunk.

The Brooklyn-based band existed from 2006 until 2010, when they played their last show in Brooklyn alongside Connecticut's New Year's Revolution. The band cordially broke up following their final show, shortly after the release of their last EP, The Motorcycle Industry Reigns.

The break-up of The Motorcycle Industry has done little to waver Longyear's devotion to his record label.

“It sucks for me, but I still got a band that I love on my roster,” he says.

While deciding to make such an enormous investment as starting an independent record label while being a full-time college student sounds like an enormous leap in logic, Longyear says that the decision to make such a financial investment, while motivated by passion, was not done on a whim.

“I thought about it for a few months, actually, before I messaged [The

Motorcycle Industry]. I've met the best people from it. I got to put out [one of] my favorite band's records. I can't ask for anything else.”

The realities of any sort of financial venture into the independent music scene has some exceedingly high overhead costs – the price of doing business without corporate cash to back you. The story of Audobon Records is pure to the

DIY call, and mirrors the story of other independent labels, even ones that have risen to lofty and mythical proportions.

32 “I haven't broken even yet. That's going to take a while. I'm still pumping money into it, regardless. I don't really care if I lost money from it; I like where it's taken me so far. I'm sure it will lead to really good things.”

The current Audobon rosters is entirely composed of local Connecticut bands, featuring a short list of talented up-and-coming bands emerging into the scene with their first releases. Bands such as Midi & The Modern Dance, Fugue, Deadlights, and

Don't Say I Won't have all had recent vinyl pressings released under the Audobon name.

“I put out the Deadights and Don't Say I Won't split; I'll probably be working with them in the future. Midi & The Modern Dance, who I've been talking to for the past year, I'm putting out their new record very soon. Those are the only few bands on my roster right now, but I'm talking with this band from New York called

Broadcaster. I'll probably be working with them.”

Where corporate record labels seek to stomp out and outsell their competition for profit, the world of local independent labels is far more interlaced.

The emphasis is not on making money, as Longyear's statement attests to, but rather providing an authentic experience for bands and fans alike, in a way that lends credence to and supports the local scene.

“I'm working on putting out a compilation CD. The drummer in Steady

Habits, he just put out Fugue's new album. Rive Records. We're going to be working on a compilation together, mostly Connecticut bands. I'll work with anyone, any label, any band. I mean, it's not about profit. It's about exposing people to the music you love.”

33 “It's probably the most vibrant music scene in...maybe...the entire country,” he says of Connecticut's punk scene, “I wouldn't rather be anywhere else. I've traveled and I've seen other scenes. While they're enjoyable, I feel best right here, in

Connecticut, with all the music that's going on here.”

Longyear says he's also worked with booking and promotions outside of the

Audobon name, putting effort into setting up local shows – a vital and integral part of the local punk scene, and one where many involved parties first cut their teeth on giving back to the scene, instead of simply taking part as a supporter and observer.

“I've booked shows...at the Heirloom Arts Theater [in Danbury] and they've been great. But when it's a hall or venue that really isn't, first above all else, about the music they tend to only care about getting the money. They have no problem stopping a show if anything goes wrong. It's a bummer, because sometimes people have to ruin it for everybody. That happens anywhere with a scene, but it's sort of a problem right now in Connecticut, halls being shut down. Unless people start opening up their houses to shows to these sorts of bands, it's hard [to book shows].”

He swivels on his drummer's stool, spinning to face the computer behind him. The PC's tower glows bright blue. A faded back sticker emblazoned with the No

Idea Records logo is plastered across it's casing. He fiddled with the keyboard, and music starts to play.

'It's the Sidekicks. We all have Sidekicks shirts. Everyone in New Year's

Revolution. You know, we played a few shows with them.”

He digs about on the cluttered, makeshift desk and retrieves a beat-up pack of Newports. He sticks one in his mouth, and passes an orange Bic back and forth

34 between his hands. The menthol cigarette hangs loosely from his mouth; he starts quietly mumbling along with the Sidekicks song playing in the background. He begins to button up his black and white plaid flannel shirt.

“I'm going outside for a cigarette,” he says.

Longyear stands up and moves toward the door. He pauses beside the speakers, two enormous black bricks along with a subwoofer below, and turns up the volume. Before exiting the room, he turns back to where I'm sitting, and grins widely.

“Up the punks!” he says through the Newport, and is gone.

35