Punk Rock and the Socio-Politics of Place Dissertation Presented

Home , A Better Tomorrow, Best Night of My Life, Crowd surfing, Eugene (wrestler), Folk Devils, Formula 27

Building a Better Tomorrow: Punk Rock and the Socio-Politics of Place

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

Jeffrey Samuel Debies-Carl

Graduate Program in Sociology

The Ohio State University

2009

Dissertation Committee:

Townsand Price-Spratlen, Advisor

J. Craig Jenkins

Amy Shuman

Jared Gardner

Jeffrey S. Debies-Carl

2009

Abstract

Every social group must establish a unique place or set of places with which to facilitate and perpetuate its way of life and social organization. However, not all groups have an equal ability to do so. Rather, much of the physical environment is designed to facilitate the needs of the economy—the needs of exchange and capital accumulation— and is not as well suited to meet the needs of people who must live in it, nor for those whose needs are otherwise at odds with this dominant spatial order. Using punk subculture as a case study, this dissertation investigates how an unconventional and marginalized group strives to manage ‘place’ in order to maintain its survival and to facilitate its way of life despite being positioned in a relatively incompatible social and physical environment.

To understand the importance of ‘place’—a physical location that is also attributed with meaning—the dissertation first explores the characteristics and concerns of punk subculture. Contrary to much previous research that focuses on music, style, and self-indulgence, what emerged from the data was that punk is most adequately described in terms of a general set of concerns and collective interests: individualism, community, egalitarianism, antiauthoritarianism, and a do-it-yourself ethic. Next, the places most important to punk are explored: music venues. While the reliable use of such places is

ii essential for the subculture, obtaining and maintaining use of a venue is no easy task and

not all venues are equally well-suited to the subculture’s requirements. First, it is found

that those spaces most culturally compatible with the values of the subculture are most

ideal, corresponding with the conceptualization of ‘place.’ Such ideal places are

organized non-hierarchically, promote creativity and individuality, and emphasis sociality

and community bonds over profit. Second, it is found that the physical features of a

venue are also important factors in determining the value of a given place to the

subculture. Specifically, those features which facilitate social differentiation and

regulation are found to be most problematic for punks, whereas features that facilitate

interaction and intimacy are desirable.

Issues of place and space continue to be understudied, even though they are also

universally experienced and universally relevant concerns that are taken-for-granted. For punks, and for any other social group, not all socio-spatial designs are universally beneficial. Rather, specific designs promote some social agendas as they attenuate

others. For these reasons, researchers, planners, and policy makers alike should be

increasingly aware of both the causes and consequences of place relative to a variety of

social groups.

iii

Acknowledgements

Throughout the process of writing this dissertation, a number of people have been

instrumental in leading up to its successful completion whom I would like to thank. First,

I would like to thank the many individuals who generously gave of their time that I might interview them. The glimpses they have provided into their personal lives and experiences have been invaluable and, without these, the work that follows would not have been possible. While I cannot expect that each individual will necessarily agree with everything I have written and the conclusions that I have drawn, it is my sincere hope that I have not misrepresented anyone and that, instead, I have honored each of your unique perspectives and made evident how deeply I appreciate your contributions to this study.

I would like to extend further gratitude to those who, indirectly, have contributed to

this study by making available the many sources and places that were the subjects of the

study and without which their would be no punk subculture: the zinesters, bands, venue

operators, bloggers, and punk music enthusiasts who ensure that punk remains a vibrant,

relevant, and very much living movement. Where possible, these sources are credited in

the following pages. In a similar regard, I would also like to thank Peter Skirko for

iv providing me with the photograph that appears as Figure 7.7, and permitting me to use it

to illustrate one of the key features of punk shows.

Next I would like to thank the members of my committee for their time and contributions both to this dissertation and to my professional development more

generally. In particular, thanks go to Amy Shuman and J. Craig Jenkins for insightful

comments and suggestions, for providing stimulating coursework, general advice, and

enthusiastic support. Sincere thanks are also due to my advisor, Townsand Price-

Spratlen, for his unfailing support and expert guidance, for camaraderie and enthusiasm,

for providing a sympathetic ear, and for extending to me the unique opportunity to pursue

a topic which I am passionate about.

I would also like to thank my parents—Robert H. Carl, Jr. and Patricia L. Carl—for their love and support in all my endeavors over the years. From reading to me when I was young to listening with interest to each development or setback in my life, I can always count on their encouragement, even when my aspirations have taken me far away from home.

Finally, I would like to conclude by extending my love and appreciation to my

wife, Melissa, for her patience through all the hours my work has absorbed, for her affection, for having confidence in me even when I have questioned my own abilities,

and for being the extraordinary person that she is. My life is all the better for her sharing

it with me.

Vita

2002…………………………………………B.A. Sociology, Anthropology, Kent State University

2005…………………………………………M.A. Sociology, The Ohio State University

2002 to 2005………………………………...Graduate Teaching Assistant, Department of Sociology, The Ohio State University

2006…………………………………………Graduate Research Assistant, College of Education and Human Ecology, The Ohio State University

2007 to 2009………………………………...Graduate Teaching Assistant, Department of Sociology, The Ohio State University

Fields of Study

Major Field: Sociology

Table of Contents

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………ii

Acknowledgements……………………………………………………………………….iv

Vita………………………………………………………………………………………..vi

List of Tables……………………………………………………………………………..xi

List of Figures……………………………………………………………………………xii

Chapter 1: Introduction……………………………………………………………………1 Overview of the Study…………………………………………………….4

Chapter 2: Methodology…………………………………………………………………..9 General Research Perspective……………………………………………10 Sources of Data…………………………………………………………..12 In-Depth Interviews……………………………………………...12 Field Observations……………………………………………….19 Textual Analysis…………………………………………………24 Analytic Strategy………………………………………………………...26 Coding……………………………………………………………26 Analysis…………………………………………………………..28 Validity, Generalizability, and Reliability……………………………….30 Summary…………………………………………………………………32

Chapter 3: The Study of Youth Subculture………………………………………………34 An Overview of Youth Culture Perspectives…………………………….34 The Chicago School and Classical Youth Studies……………….35 Transaction and Labeling………………………………………...36 The Birmingham School and the Centre for Contemporary – Cultural Studies…………………………………………………..38 Post-Subcultural Studies…………………………………………46 A Critique of Youth Culture Perspectives……………………………….56 vii Monolithic Conceptions of Youth Culture………………………57 Style and Consumption…………………………………………..60 Goals, Rationality, and Outcomes……………………………….64 Summary…………………………………………………………………74

Chapter 4: A Critical Investigation of Punk Subculture…………………………………77 Punk Rock: More than Fashion…………………………………………..80 The Non-Material Culture of Punks……………………………………..92 Individualism and Communitarianism…………………………...93 Egalitarianism and Antiauthoritarianism……………………….102 The Do-It-Yourself Ethic……………………………………….110 Conclusion……………………………………………………...120

Chapter 5: The Significance of Place…………………………………………………...128 Conceptualizing Place…………………………………………………..131 Distinguishing the Material and Symbolic Dimensions of – Place…………………………………………………………….131 Causes and Consequences of Place……………………………..136 The Death of Public Space……………………………………………...147 Representational Space: A Subcultural Solution?...... 153 Research on Punk Subculture and Space……………………………….161 Summary………………………………………………………………..166

Chapter 6: Locating Punk Space………………………………………………………..168 The Importance of Show Spaces to Punk Subculture…………………..169 The Centrality of Punk Show Spaces…………………………...170 Show Space as Quasi-Sacred Space……………………………174 Resource Accumulation at Show Spaces……………………….177 The Loss of Space………………………………………………178 Options in Selecting Punk Spaces………………………………………180 Mainstream Venues and Punk Socio-Cultural Dissimilarity…………...182 The Profit Motive……………………………………………….183 Management and Regulation…………………………………...187 Mainstream Audiences………………………………………….189 Punk Cultural Dissimilarity in Mainstream Venues……………193 Outcomes and Considerations in Using Mainstream Venues…..199 DIY Show Spaces as Alternative to Mainstream Venues………………201 DIY Spaces as Solution to Punk Cultural Dissimilarity………………..218 Resolving Profit………………………………………………...205 Resolving Management and Regulation………………………..208 Resolving Mainstream Audiences……………………………...212 Resolving Punk Cultural Dissimilarity…………………………218 DIY Spaces: An Imperfect Solution……………………………………223 Conclusion……………………………………………………………...228 viii Chapter 7: The Socio-Spatial Organization of Punk Music Venues……………………233 Ecological Considerations……………………………………………...236 Weather and Climate……………………………………………236 Availability of Built Forms……………………………………..239 Population Density……………………………………………...241 Aesthetics of Punk Venues……………………………………………..244 Physical and Cognitive Spatial Differentiation…………………………249 Overall Spatial Differentiation Across Spaces…………………251 Monofunctional Spaces…………………………………………256 Public and Private Regions……………………………………..261 Seating…………………………………………………………..267 The Use and Design of Stages………………………………….270 Summary………………………………………………………..281 Regulating the Venue…………………………………………………...282 Entry and Inspection……………………………………………282 Segregating Performers and Fans………………………………285 Other Regulatory Devices………………………………………290 Summary………………………………………………………..294 Interaction and Community…………………………………………….295 The Physical Environment and Intimacy……………………….296 Space and Culture………………………………………………305 Conclusion……………………………………………………………...306

Chapter 8: Conclusion…………………………………………………………………..309 Punk and Subculture……………………………………………………309 Space and Place…………………………………………………………313 Concluding Remarks……………………………………………………319

Endnotes………………………………………………………………………………...321 Notes to Chapter One…………………………………………………………...321 Notes to Chapter Two…………………………………………………………..321 Notes to Chapter Three…………………………………………………………322 Notes to Chapter Four…………………………………………………………..323 Notes to Chapter Five…………………………………………………………..329 Notes to Chapter Six……………………………………………………………330 Notes to Chapter Seven…………………………………………………………334 Notes to Chapter Eight………………………………………………………….338

References………………………………………………………………………………339

Appendix A: Recruitment Posting……………………………………………………...360

Appendix B: Internet Forums used in Recruiting Participants…………………………361

ix Appendix C: Sample Interview Questions and Domains………………………………363

Appendix D: Overview of Observed Music Spaces……………………………………367

Appendix E: Texts Analyzed…………………………………………………………...370

Appendix F: A Modified T-Shirt……………………………………………………….376

List of Tables

Table 2.1: Descriptive Information of Participants………………………………………15

Table 3.1: Overview of Theoretical Perspective on Youth Subcultures…………………75

Table 4.1: Emic Perspective of Conceptual Differences between Punk Subculture and – Mainstream Society…………………...…………………………………….121

List of Figures

Figure 2.1: Sampling Framework for Field Sample……………………………………..21

Figure 4.1: Punk Style…………………………………………………………………...84

Figure 4.2: Band Names as Heuristic Signifiers of Affiliation…………………………..88

Figure 5.1: Ideal Types of Space and Place…………………………………………….133

Figure 7.1: Differentiation in an Institutional DIY Space……………………………...252

Figure 7.2: Spatial Differentiation in a Marginal Mainstream Venue………………….256

Figure 7.3: Spatial Specialization at a Marginal Mainstream Venue…………………..260

Figure 7.4: Visual Cues Around Doorway of a DIY Show Space……………………...263

Figure 7.5: Typical DIY Space Foyer…………………………………………………..264

Figure 7.6: Absence of a Raised Stage in a DIY Space………………………………...271

Figure 7.7: Proxemic Distancing at a DIY Space………………………………………275

Figure 7.8: Neglecting the Stage………………………………………………………..277

Figure 7.9: Symbolic Barrier between Performers and Audience……………………...289

Figure 7.10: Small Porch at a DIY Space………………………………………………303

xii

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

Much research has indicated that specific places and the social groups that use them are intimately linked in that each expresses the characteristics and concerns of the other (Castells 1983, Gregory 1978, Simmel 1997b). More specifically, every social group must establish a unique place or set of places with which to facilitate and perpetuate its way of life and social organization (Lefebvre 1991). Thus, for any intended set of social relations or ideas to persist, a group must maintain an environment conducive to those intentions (cf. Buttimer 1976).

However, the physical environment is predominantly designed to facilitate the needs of the economy, the needs of exchange and capital accumulation—it is not so well suited to meet the needs of people who must live in it nor for those whose needs are otherwise at odds with this dominant spatial order (Harvey 1985a, 1985b; Logan and

Molotch 1987). Worse still, those who benefit the least from this situation are also those who are least able to do anything about it (Logan and Molotch 1987): the poor, the powerless, and the marginal, are forced to make do with what they can. Nonetheless, regular people often attempt to resist the forces that assail them and carve out a

comfortable niche of space in which to live according to a set of priorities relatively different from those of the dominant economy in which they are embedded (e.g. Castells

1983, Chatterton and Hollands 2002, Petzen 2004). Such places can be used to either

1 “reinforce or undermine ideologies, and enable and promote some practices over others”

(Tickamyer 2000:806).

As the current study was designed to investigate the importance of ‘place’ for

unconventional social groups and their way of life, it was necessary to identify such an

unconventional group to research as a case-study through which to understand these

issues. Punk subculture was selected for several reasons. First, some three decades of

research have continuously identified punk as an unconventional subculture1 (e.g. Andes

1998, Davis 2006, Moore 2000). As such, punks were expected to vary considerably in terms of culture and, therefore, space use from the dominant cultural modes. Second, despite claims to the contrary, punk has survived throughout this duration (Clark 2003), making it a subculture with persisting relevance. Third, punk has distinguished itself in many ways as a group of particular interest in both the scholarly literature and in lay accounts. As Hebdige described it: “No subculture has sought with more grim determination than the punks to detach itself from the taken-for-granted landscape of normalized forms, nor to bring down upon itself such vehement disapproval” (Hebdige

1979: 19). Finally, while not a member of the subculture, the researcher has had some degree of interaction and participation with punk for many years. This quasi-familiarity placed the researcher as being neither fully an ‘insider’ nor an ‘outsider,’ but somewhere in between (Lofland and Lofland 1995). It is hoped that this perspective permits the greatest flexibility in that the subculture is neither so familiar that it is taken-for-granted, nor so strange that it cannot be appreciated.

2 Using punk subculture as a case-study for the above stated reasons, this dissertation explores how such an unconventional and marginalized group manages

‘place’ to maintain its survival and to facilitate its way of life despite being positioned in a relatively incompatible social and physical environment. To this end, two intentionally broad research questions were investigated: 1) What is punk and what are its general concerns or interests?, 2) How does place matter to punk (i.e. which places matter and in what ways)?

The first research question focused on exploring punk subculture. Having identified punk as a suitable case-study, it was first necessary to investigate the subculture to understand its general characteristics and concerns before attempting to understand its relationship with the places it occupies. Much of the existing research in this regard has been based on questionable assumptions or methodologies and, following from this, produced dubious portrayals of punk subculture and subcultures more generally (Greener and Hollands 2006, Hesmondhalgh 2005). Thus, rather than relying solely on previous research and theory of punk and subculture, an empirical, inductive approach was taken to better understand it.

Following this, it was then possible to address the second research question: how does ‘place’ matter to punk, which places, and in what ways? Having been trivialized and understudied for many years (Soja 1989), researchers are increasingly devoting attention to the ways in which our environment in closely related to everyday life. Place is a composite concept and consists not only of the physical characteristics of a place, but

3 also the subjective meanings that people attribute to these features (Lefebvre 1991, Tuan

2001). Both of these aspects of place were investigated systematically.

Overview of the Study

Chapter Two describes the methodology of the study which uses three qualitative methods of data collection - in-depth interviews, participant observation, and textual

analysis - to enhance validity (Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986). This study

investigates the ways in which punk rockers utilize places and place-making strategies in

constructing and promoting their way of life and system of beliefs. Interviewing is

commonly used with punk populations to obtain insider perspectives (e.g Baron 1989,

Fox 1987, Levine and Stumpf 1983) while observation is particularly useful for studying

spatial usage which is often taken for granted by individuals (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963,

Webb et al. 1973). Textual analysis is especially useful when studying subcultures in that, in addition to providing another point of entry into insider perspectives, it also tends to circumvent reactive effects that may occur when an outsider is present (Schilt 2003).

In Chapter Three (“The Study of Youth Subculture”), the scholarly literature on youth subcultures is reviewed. Four major perspectives were examined including: 1) the

Chicago School and Classical youth studies perspective, 2) Transaction and Labeling, 3)

the Birmingham School/Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies perspective, and 4)

Post-subculture studies. While each perspective is important for the continuing

development of the field of subcultural studies, each is also subject to particular

weaknesses. More importantly, as discussed in the critique of this literature, several

4 theoretical assumptions have persisted across these perspectives which are particularly

problematic when such theories are employed for the interpretation of subcultures. These

include: 1) the tendency to group all youth phenomena under a monolithic, conceptual umbrella, 2) a preoccupation with style and the consumption of goods, and 3) the assumed lack of rational, goal-oriented behavior found in subcultures and an accompanying inability or lack of desire on the part of subcultures to affect any sort of real social change. Such assumptions trivialize subcultures and, it is argued, may have lead to a priori understandings of these without adequate empirical grounding.

Having reviewed the associated literature and being apprised of the above stated

problems with many earlier approaches, Chapter Four (“A Critical Investigation of Punk

Subculture”) set out to explore punk subculture and understand its general characteristics and concerns. Special care was taken to avoid theoretical assumptions and, instead, to let the data inductively formulate an interpretation of punk. While variations exist across

individuals, inductive coding and analysis determined that a general description of punk

is most adequately expressed in terms of a more-or-less common set of general concerns

and collective interests: individualism, community, egalitarianism, antiauthoritarianism,

and a do-it-yourself (DIY) ethic. These findings diverge considerably from many

previous studies which typically portray punk, or subcultures in general, as nihilistic, as expressions of frustrations, or as aggregates of style-obsessed consumerists.

With a descriptive understanding of the subculture in hand, it was then possible to begin to investigate the second research question: how ‘place’ is important for the health and survival of punk. Before empirically addressing this research question, Chapter 5

5 (“The Significance of Place”) provides an overview of the related scholarly literature,

detailing the features and importance of place. First, the dimensions of place are defined, namely, the extent to which place consists of both a physical manifestation and the subjective meanings attributed to that physicality. Moreover, the significance of place as both cause and consequence of other social conditions is delineated. Second, current prevailing trends in the organization of space are discussed. In particular, the built environment is primarily and increasingly organized and designed to facilitate market arrangements and capital accumulation. These functions often operate at the expense of use-values and involve the destruction of public space more generally. Finally, the historical concern of subcultural researchers with place as a key concern is examined.

While place has, indeed, been an ongoing interest of such studies, the subject has previously never been explored to its full potential. It is suggested that subcultures—and

punk subculture in particular—through their alternative interests and associated spatial

tactics, might provide a source of resistance to the social and spatial dominance of

neoliberal capitalism.

In Chapter Six (“Locating Punk Space”), the socio-spatial needs of punk

subculture are explored as well as the problems punks encounter when interacting with,

or trying to adapt to, the mainstream socio-spatial order. First, spaces in which punk

music is performed are identified as the most important locations to punk subculture and

the reasons for this importance are delineated. Next, a distinction is made between

mainstream music spaces (venues) and punk music spaces (DIY spaces). It was found

that, in general, the former of these are far from ideal in terms of their compatibility with

6 punk culture and the use of them by punks often involves tensions and difficulties

stemming from this cultural dissimilarity. Then, DIY spaces—music spaces established

by punks—are explored as an alternative to these mainstream venues. It is argued that

many of the difficulties faced by punks in mainstream venues are alleviated or solved by

the use of these spaces more closely tailored to the needs of the subculture. However,

such spaces are not a perfect solution as a number of social forces are arrayed against the

unconventional socio-spatial practices of punks and threaten the destruction of the places

they create.

Whereas Chapter 6 largely explores the social and cultural significance of place,

Chapter 7 (“The Socio-Spatial Organization of Punk Music Venues”) focuses more

closely on the physical characteristics of place and their importance. It is argued that

different types of music spaces tend to have different physical features which in turn

facilitate a different set of social relations and enforce different social priorities. First, it

is found that the greater spatial differentiation of mainstream venues is used to facilitate

greater social differentiation, while the spatial homogeneity of DIY spaces is more useful

for maintaining the equitable relations valued in punk. Second, the regulatory features of

space, that manage and control crowds, are investigated. Again, these are largely absent

in DIY spaces, consistent with punk values of antiauthoritarianism and individual self-

determination, but are frequently found in mainstream venues which, on the other hand,

tend to make frequent use of such regulatory features, consistent with social divisions between producers and consumers of a cultural product. Lastly, those features which facilitate interaction and feelings of intimacy or community between audience members -

7 or between audiences and performers - are examined. Here, DIY venues are generally considered to possess these features in greater abundance than many mainstream venues.

However, further factors were found to modify these relationships between type of place and physical features which disallow so simple a dichotomy. Such factors are discussed in detail.

In Chapter Eight, the research is summarized and both the conclusions to the

research questions and their implications are discussed. Moreover, opportunities for

future research, in regards to each research question, are also suggested. While it cannot be expected that the specific findings of the study can be generalized across groups— indeed, punk itself is defined in part through its dissimilarity from other groups—it is argued that the significance of the study’s findings nonetheless may be applicable beyond this specific subculture. Place is a universal experience and of universal consequence, even if the details regarding how place matters and which places matter vary across groups. Indeed, this relativity of place is, itself, important to understand since, as the study determines, not all socio-spatial designs are universally pleasing or beneficial, but necessarily promote some social agendas even as they attenuate others.

CHAPTER 2: METHODOLOGY

As discussed in the previous chapter, the current study was designed to

investigate the importance of ‘place’ for an unconventional and contemporary subculture,

punk, and its way of life. As will be discussed in Chapter 5, ‘place’ involves not only an

objective, physical dimension, but also a symbolic, meaningful one (Lefebvre 1991, Tuan

2001). Therefore, to fully investigate this topic, a qualitative research design was

developed since the subject necessitates collecting and understanding the subjective,

constructed meanings of a social group in an exploratory fashion which, indeed, qualitative methods are well-suited for (Berg 2004, Lofland and Lofland 1995, Patton

2002).

Conducting qualitative research requires three interrelated and concurrent tasks:

1) gathering data, 2) focusing data, and 3) analyzing data (Lofland and Lofland 1995).

Gathering data, a self-explanatory task, involves collecting the data to be analyzed.

Focusing data involves asking questions of the data that reveal potential themes for

potential analysis or for refining the data gathering process. Analyzing data involves

combining themes, making meaning of the data, and determining findings, but also

informs revisions of the other tasks. While gathering data necessarily must begin before the other tasks are started, none of these tasks can be followed through to completion before beginning the others. Instead, each is ongoing and interactive such that one task

9 can be modified based on emergent patterns, problems, or insights arrived at through the others. Thus, the entire qualitative research process remains flexible: it is both iterative and reflexive. In this chapter, the methodology and design of the study, and the rationale for design decisions, are discussed.

This chapter is divided into four main sections. In the first section, the general research perspective and associated concerns are introduced. The study uses, primarily, a grounded theory approach (Miles and Huberman 1994) with the goal of avoiding the imposition of theoretical assumptions on the data and findings. Following this, the data collection methods are presented. For this study three sources of data were utilized (i.e. in-depth interviews, participant observation, and textual analysis) to strengthen the validity of findings through triangulation (Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986). In the next section, the analytic strategy for the study is outlined. Finally, in the final section of the chapter, issues of validity, generalizability, and reliability are discussed.

GENERAL RESEARCH PERSPECTIVE

Primarily, the research was designed to be consistent with a grounded theory approach (Glaser and Strauss 1967), that is, in such a way that themes and patterns could emerge from the data which, upon analysis, could be synthesized or developed into new theory independently of both preexisting research and a priori theory. However, it is impossible for a researcher to be totally free of previous work nor is such liberty necessarily desirable (Miles and Huberman 1994) as complete ignorance of a field of work would not be able to assure a profitable dialogue with prior studies. Rather, care

10 was taken to collect and analyze data in such a way that findings and themes could be emergent and, at the same time, existing ideas could be investigated without constraining the data to seek only these existing ideas. To this end, a familiarity with the literature

reviewed in Chapters 3 and 5 was useful in attempting to understand some of the

emergent themes in the data. However, explicit hypotheses were not formulated or tested

nor was the preexisting literature prioritized in terms of explaining these themes.

Particular care was taken to avoid certain theoretical and methodological

assumptions regarding the subject matter that, it was felt, may have biased previous work

and yielded questionable validity in terms of the findings and interpretations of this work.

Again, the current study was designed in such a way as to not fall back on standing

assumptions nor to prohibit the emergence of themes therein contained but, instead, to

allow them to emerge if they became relevant. For example, the next chapter considers,

among other topics, the preoccupation that decades of research have had with the

consumption of style and dress by subculturalists. The interview component of the

current study does not explicitly ask informants what their opinions of style are—how

important fashion and consumption are to punk subculture—but instead is constructed

with the intention that each informant could necessarily decide on their own terms what is

and is not key to a punk identity. In this way, the data provide for the development of

themes that in turn permit a dialogue with existing theory while, at the same time, do not

constrain informants to limit themselves to specific topics or focus solely on matters

deemed important by the researcher.

11 SOURCES OF DATA

Three means of data collection were utilized: in-depth interviews of punk

informants, field observations of music spaces, and content analysis of punk texts. Each

data source has unique strengths and weaknesses in regards to the research process. To

account for these varying strengths and weaknesses, triangulation of methods was utilized

(Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986). This method maximizes the validity and

consistency of any conclusion, reached by analysis of any particular data source, by

determining whether the same conclusion can also be supported via the analysis of the

other data sources rather than relying conclusions drawn from any single source. Data collection began with the interviews but, following an initial set of these, all three data sources were collected concurrently. This allowed the overall research design to remain flexible in response to emergent themes, findings, or limitations. All three data collection methods and their respective strengths and weaknesses are described below.

In-Depth Interviews

Since there is no known pool from which to draw a true random sample of punk

participants, two nonrandom sampling methods were used: purposive and snowball

sampling. Initially, interviewees were recruited by posting a call for research participants

on a series of websites known to be used primarily by punks. The text of the post is reproduced in Appendix A while a list of websites in which the announcement was posted can be found in Appendix B. A variety of websites was selected in an effort to recruit individuals with a potential range of backgrounds and interests who, moreover,

12 were less likely to be known to one another (as is the case, below, in the snowball

sample). For example, although there are certainly overlapping elements between the

two, individuals recruited from the Pop Punk Bored (sic)—a website used by individuals

with an interest in the less heavy, more popular form of punk rock—were expected to

vary in some ways from those recruited from Punk Rock Domestics—a website used by

punks interested in crafts and making things. Initially, this pool of individuals was to be supplemented by further purposive recruitment over the internet in order to achieve a more diverse sample covering a range of punk roles (e.g. show promoter, band member, etc.). However, as the interviewees progressed, it was found that such variation had been

achieved without the need of further restricting who would be recruited.2 Interviewees

recruited this way are identified in Table 2.1, under the column ‘recruitment site,’ with

the name of the website where they initially read the call for participants.

This purposive sample was supplemented by a snowball sample. At the end of

each interview, respondents were asked if they knew anyone else that might be interested

in participating in the study. Snowball sampling is particularly useful in recruiting

participants who are members of groups, like punk, that are otherwise difficult to reach

and identify and who might experience a degree of social stigma for their affiliation (Lee

1993). Whereas the purposive sample was designed to achieve a reasonable cross-section

of punks, the snowball sample was utilized to increase the number of punks in the

sample. Interviews joined the study in this way are identified in Table 2.1, under the

column ‘recruitment site,’ as having been recruited through ‘word of mouth.’

13 General background information for the sample is presented in Table 2.1. The

sample included 25 individuals, three of whom were interviewed at once as a focus

group, ranging in age from 18 to 56 years old with an average age of 26.04. Of this

sample, 17 individuals were male and 8 were female, and all but three identified as being

white or Caucasian. This is consistent with the estimated population characteristics of the

subculture suggested by previous studies (e.g. LeBlanc 2006). While the sample was not

globally representative, as indicated in the table it did achieve a considerable degree of regional variation in the United States and permitted a reasonable degree of comparative analysis. Moreover, a reasonable range of occupational and educational backgrounds are also represented.

The interviewees consisted of individuals who self-identified as either currently or having at one time been participants in punk rock subculture. This self-selection process was important given a concern that researchers have, in the past, imposed their own ideas of what subculture consists of and how it is defined. This concern applies to both the general concept of subculture, which is hotly debated (see Chapter 3) and in terms of specific subcultures such as punk. Hall and Jefferson (1976), for example, assumed that subcultures were almost always composed of the working class—as opposed to countercultures which were assumed to be middle-class—and, by definition, also assumed that they must be involved in some sort of struggle with the status quo.

Muggleton (2000), exemplifying another problematic assumption in previous studies,

selected his sample of respondents based on whether he felt they had an “unconventional

appearance” (2000: 171). Establishing a set of theoretically consistent attributes and then

14 15 imposing these on a selection process of participants would introduce the danger of

prioritizing a priori expectations over lived experience and threaten the validity of the project.

Having recruited the participants, interviews were conducted either in person, via telephone or, on two occasion, via email according to the respondents preference and to feasibility.3 The first question always asked attempted to establish a concept of the

meaning of punk at the individual level: “What does ‘punk’ mean to you?” (see Appendix

C). This question, along with many of the remaining questions in the interview, allowed

two things: 1) it allowed respondents to describe their subculture and its meaningful

aspects on their own terms and, 2) it enabled the researcher to determine the degree of

commonality of conceptualizations of punk among the participants. In other words, in

addition to providing a degree of protection against researcher bias, this method

permitted something of a test as to whether there was a fairly coherent concept of punk or

a diverse, individualist perspective with little commonality. Such considerations, as

discussed in the next chapter, are often the subject of scholarly debate but, again, often

rely on the researcher imposing their point-of-view on their data.

In addition to such initial questions designed to apprehend each interviewee’s

understanding or opinion of what constitutes punk subculture, two other groups of

questions were kept consistent across respondents to allow comparisons to be made: 1)

those questions designed to gauge the manner and degree of subcultural participation

(Appendix C: Section III: Participation in the Subculture), and 2) a set of general

background questions (Appendix C: Section XVI: Basic information). The questions

16 designed at gauging participation were general and based loosely on a reading of the

literature on punk and previous participation on the part of the researcher in the

subculture. Following these questions, interviewees were asked if they felt there were

other ways they participated that they felt were more meaningful, or equally meaningful,

as those asked. Different means of participation, whether those specified by the

questions or the interviewee, were then investigated with further questions as applicable

to each respondent. The second set of questions kept consistent across interviewees,

basic information, simply collected standard background information such as the

respondent’s race, age, education, and so forth to appraise the sample and allow further

comparison of interviewees.

In addition to these two sets of questions kept largely consistent across respondents, one partial exception to the practice of focusing only on what respondents felt was important consisted of questions regarding the importance of place: how respondents felt about particular musical venues or shows they had attended. Previous research has repeatedly indicated that many individuals often take their social and

physical environment for granted and that, therefore, they may not be able to always to

discuss it in detail (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963, Webb et al. 1973). Such questions aimed

at getting respondents to think about place without attempting to bias what they said.

Generally, such questions were indeed relevant for the respondents and, once probed,

they had plenty to say on the subject. Of course, not everyone had an equal amount to

say on this admittedly broad subject or found it equally important. Individuals were,

17 therefore, not forced to give further thought to the issue in the hopes of, again, avoiding

forcing expectations on the respondent.

The remaining questions put to respondents were open-ended and the questionnaire was not rigidly adhered to. A general effort was made to pay particular attention to those topics that: 1) were most relevant to a given interviewee, and 2) seemed important to the interviewee. In terms of relevance, for example, if a respondent had never played in a band, they were not asked further questions about playing in bands.

However, using this example to exemplify importance, if the respondent nonetheless wanted to talk about other people playing in bands because they considered this to be important, then they were encouraged to do so. Following each discussion of each topical area, and again at the end of the interview, respondents were asked if there was anything they would like to add that they were not asked or that they felt deserved further attention.

Interviewing is often used in studies of punk populations (e.g Baron 1989, Fox

1987, Levine and Stumpf 1983). This data collection method is a useful tool for acquiring large amounts of data and, particularly, for uncovering the insider meanings and subjective opinions of individuals (Marshall and Rossman 2006). Of course, no methodology is without it drawbacks and this is true of in-depth interviewing. In particular, there exists the potential for reactive effects in respondents. Moreover, it has been noted that issues regarding space and place are often taken-for-granted by individuals and, therefore, that information regarding these concepts may be difficult to uncover in interviews (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963, Webb et al. 1973). To balance out the

18 strengths of this method with its weakness, further data collection techniques were applied.

Field Observations

Both music and music venues are salient features of punk identity (Andes 1998,

Davis 2006, Fox 1987, Mateus 2004) and contemporary punk accounts further emphasize the centrality of punk venues (e.g. Edge 2004,Williams 2007). According to Baron, punk concerts are “widely attended and allo[w] them a place to gather” (1989: 230). In order to understand the places that punks occupy, direct observation of music venues was necessary.

It was noted in the case of the interviews, above, that no known sampling pool exists by which to randomly select punk respondents. This too, unfortunately, is the case for the field observations and punk music venues. Instead, a purposive sampling technique was again utilized which consisted of 1) an initial exploratory sample, and 2) a more thorough cross-section of punk venues sampled from a typology constructed on the basis of interview responses, ongoing textual analysis, and emergent patterns noted in the initial field observations.

The initial venues observed were those which a) were suggested by respondents during interviews and/or 2) were known, via internet postings, to be utilized by punks.

These locations were not geographically representative of the United States owing to the prohibitive costs, in time and funds, for such representation. Nonetheless, this initial set of observations, along with information gleaned from the texts analyzed and the

19 interviews as noted above, provided a basis by which to establish a more systematic

typology of venue types from which to base the remainder of the sample.

The sampling typology is portrayed in Figure 2.1. This figure heuristically categorizes

the range of venue types that are used by punks for musical performances. Each cell

represents an ideal type constructed for the sake of analysis and discussion (Weber 1949),

and should not be interpreted as representing an essential reality. The x-axis represents the mode of operation of a given music venue. Mainstream venues are business-oriented, licensed establishments while DIY spaces are not-for-profit, semi-illicit venues created by punks. In reality, some spaces may exist between these extremes. The y-axis represents a somewhat more subjective dimension: the stability of a particular show space over time and its relative importance to a given area. Places that have existed for a fairly long time and developed a reputation for dependably providing valued musical acts are labeled as more ‘institutional’ in character. On the other hand some music spaces are relatively ephemeral, sometimes existing only for a single night, and are less important.

Such spaces are labeled as ‘marginal’ in the typology. The extent to which a given space can be considered central or marginal is relative to its mode of operation (e.g. a DIY institutional space cannot be expected to also be institutional for mainstream culture). In other words, this distinction is only meaningful relative to a given cultural field

(Bourdieu 1983). Between these two extremes, again, range a number of possible cases.

These distinctions, and the typology in general, are discussed further in Chapter 6 where they were important in framing punk experiences within different places.

21 In total, 20 different musical venues were observed. These included cases representing each of the cells described, above, in the sampling framework: institutional

DIY (6), marginal DIY (5), institutional mainstream (4), and institutional marginal (6).

Although not mentioned by name to protect the identities of respondents who mention these venues as well as the venues themselves, a brief description of each venue and the number of times it was observed are provided in Appendix D.

Participant observation was used to investigate these venues. However, this

research technique allows considerable variation in the precise mode of observation

(Wiseman and Aron 1970). The researcher took on the role of audience member at these

settings to remain relatively unobtrusive and in an effort to not intervene in these

naturalistic settings. While casual conversation was engaged in with others present, and

while this conversation was treated as data, no effort was made to interact with other

individuals nor to elicit information strictly for research purposes. The researcher’s role

was not covert in that it was not actively hidden from others, but neither was an attempt

made to inform each person in these public or semi-public settings of this role. Such an

admission was judged to be both unfeasible—given the large number of people present at

a given concert and the constantly changing composition of many crowds—and highly

disruptive to the setting.

Liberal observations were taken at each venue. While such observations included

a range of data—including, for example, the weather, the type of people in attendance,

events that may have occurred and so on—special attention was directed at recording

subjects that were of special interest to the research project. These included the crowd

22 behavior, spatial features of each venue, the way these features were used or seemed to

modify crowd behavior, and how individuals in the setting interact with one another

(including patrons, workers, and so on). Particular attention was also paid to apparent instances of themes referenced during the interviews. Full fieldnotes were written in the mornings following concerts as these typically occurred quite late at night. To facilitate recall for this task, brief outlines were written in most cases immediately following each event and brief, discrete comments were made during observation periods when possible

(Emerson et al. 1995). Music venues are not conducive to the task of writing field notes

and, moreover, writing in this particular type of public setting would likely be considered

inappropriate, at best, and probably suspicious at some of the more illicit venues.

Participant observation is an integral part of many qualitative research projects. It

is “used to discover complex interactions in natural social settings” and immerses the

researcher in such settings (Marshall and Rossman 2006: 99). Moreover, spatial usage is

often taken-for-granted by individuals and not always consciously reflected upon

(Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963, Webb et al. 1973) and therefore, at times, may make directly

questioning subjects problematic. Observation is thus particularly useful for studying

space and spatial dynamics. The major potential drawbacks to participant observation, as

applicable to the current study, include 1) the danger that observations do not reflect the

understandings of members of the group under study but, rather, those of the researcher

(Singleton and Straits 1999) and, 2) that the presence of the researcher will result in reactive effects (Webb et al 1973). The first problem, the imposition of the researcher’s expectations, is addressed by the use of the other data collection methodologies (i.e.

23 interviews and textual analysis) which, as discussed elsewhere, are somewhat less subject

to this possibility. For example, interviewees were asked to supply their perspectives on

these spaces independently of the researcher’s own perceptions. The latter of the dangers

is minimized, in part, by the researcher’s relative unobtrusiveness in these particular settings since they are either explicitly public or quasi-public. Moreover, since space is often taken-for-granted by individuals, as noted above, this also means that this particular subject is less likely to be consciously manipulated by those being observed and therefore observations will yield more accurate results (Hall 1963).

Textual Analysis

The final category of data collected for this study consists of textual analyses of

magazines, books, and websites published or written by punks about their subculture and intended for public consumption. Again, since there is no known pool from which to draw a true random sample of punk texts (Schilt 2003), sampling was nonrandom and largely purposive. Initial texts surveyed for the analysis consisted of those suggested by interviewees. Such texts—if they were found to express views reflecting punk philosophies or perspectives on place and space use—were retained for further analysis.

Following this initial sampling procedure, further purposive sampling was conducted in order to represent a range of the different types of texts that punks utilize in the analysis. This range was determined through examination of the initial texts suggested by respondents. The categories of text included 1) punk books or magazines produced commercially, 2) punk books or magazines not published commercially, and 3)

24 internet-based texts. The first category includes mass-produced texts that are widely available through stores or other vendors. They typically can be identified as being commercially produced in that are cataloged in the Library of Congress and have a UPC code assigned to them to facilitate sales. The second category of texts, in contrast, represents items that are not commercially available. These include self-published magazines—called zines (Duncombe 1997)—and books printed on independent presses or simply copied on Xerox machines. Many of the printed materials used were generally printed only once and in small runs and, moreover, were never produced with an intention to make a profit (1997). Electronic publications included conversations posted in web forums, blogs, and other materials found on websites. A list of these materials and their respective categorization is presented in Appendix E.

The major strength of textual analysis is that it is not liable to the production of observer effects (Schilt 2003, Webb et al. 1981). Moreover, since these texts were specifically written by and to a punk audience, it can be expected that the opinions expressed therein may be more applicable to that population than, for example, those written by cultural outsiders (e.g. journalistic or scholarly accounts). According to Berg

(2004), two major limitations of content analysis are that 1) the researcher must rely on available texts and thus may experience difficulty in finding relevant materials and, 2) it

“is ineffective for testing causal relationships between variables” (2004: 288). Indeed, as noted above, the first of these limitations necessitated that many texts be thrown out of the analysis. Fortunately, the remaining texts allowed a reasonable sample with which to analyze the topic of interest and, moreover, data was available to make up for the relative

25 dearth of relevant sources. Second, the inability of this method to establish causation did

not present any particular problems since the current project, being qualitative in nature,

can at best make modest claims in this regard (Lofland and Lofland 1995) and, indeed,

was not designed or intended to do so.

ANALYTIC STRATEGY

Data analysis was ongoing and occurred simultaneously with data collection and

focusing (Lofland and Lofland 1995). This enabled the research approach to remain

flexible and responsive to emergent trends. To facilitate analysis, data were reduced into

manageable and meaningful segments through thematic coding (Miles and Huberman

1994). Consistent with the research design, such codes were largely established through

induction, however, some sensitivity to themes considered important in prior research

was maintained to more fruitfully engage in scholarly dialog. Coinciding with coding,

description, interpretation and analysis of themes—three overlapping activities (Wolcott

1994)—were also ongoing. Alternative explanations for themes or the concurrence of themes were consistently attempted and, when found reasonable, were presented in the final report.

Coding

The unit of analysis for this study was the ‘individual’: each interviewee, each venue observed, and each text was treated as a separate unit. The relative frequency of occurrence of themes was thus a function of the number of such ‘individual’ units which

26 reflected the same theme in a similar way. Coding, the process by which raw data are reduced to “meaningful and analyzable units” (Singleton and Straits 1999: 350), was performed in regards to each unit of analysis thematically. That is, rather than coding specific words or sentences within each unit, segments of conversation (or text more generally) that referred to and qualified the same theme were coded. Following Strauss

(1990), this process was initiated via ‘open coding’ and proceeded through ‘axial coding’ as discussed below.

The initial categories for coding the data were constructed in two ways. First, general ideas as represented in the questionnaire (Appendix A) were utilized as temporary categories until further categorical development progressed (Berg 2004).

Second, although concurrent with this process, open coding was conducted: the unrestricted,5 tentative assignment of themes, in this case, to establish grounded categories (Strauss 1990). Initially, numerous themes were emergent from the data.

Whenever a unique but potentially significant pattern emerged within a given interview, observation, or text that was distinguishable from the rest of the document within which it is was contained, the theme would be recorded in a memo (Lofland and Lofland 1995).

If the theme emerged more than once across individuals, all such instances of it were then recorded as an emergent, general code and further incidents were categorized accordingly.

Once the number of open codes seemed “saturated” such that no new categories were forthcoming, ‘axial coding’ commenced (Strauss 1990). Axial coding requires that the researcher return to the data, code according to the emergent open categories as

27 described above, and begin the construction of subcategories within each following a similar methodology. This relatively more intensive process thus results in data being further categorized, such that variation within each open category can be ‘reduced’ and identified for analysis.

Analysis

In qualitative research, analysis is not completely independent of coding or the other tasks described above (Lofland and Lofland 1995). Rather each task builds on the others in an iterative fashion. Of course, this construction therefore necessitates frequently returning to prior tasks and revising what was done in light of new information. Nonetheless, the distinction between coding and analysis is heuristically useful. Analysis began—during data collection and in the coding process—by recording potential patterns or other observations in analytic memos (Lofland and Lofland 1995).

These memos are used to record possible interpretations of data or correlations in themes and so on. However, memos are only possibilities, and do not suggest completed findings in and of themselves until further substantiated. As the coding scheme became more stable—that is, as new categories and revisions of coding became relatively few—a more distinct level of analysis was engaged in. According to Patton, this involves

“attaching significance to what was found, making sense of the findings, offering explanations, drawing conclusions, extrapolating lessons, making inferences, considering meanings, and otherwise imposing order” (Patton 2002: 480). This stage of the analysis necessitated several interrelated activities.

28 First, individual sets of themes were interpreted in an attempt to determine a

coherent set of meanings. Second, the relationships of different sets of themes were

considered. In addition to the researcher’s own interpretations, the suggested

interpretations or understandings of the subjects were considered as well. Third, an important part of the analysis included searching for alternative explanations to any given finding. Given the emergent nature of qualitative analysis, a single set of interpretations is not necessarily sufficient for explaining the findings. When reasonable, alternative explanations were developed which were compared to the original interpretation of the data. In most cases, both original and alternative explanations were presented in the report along with the relative merits of each. The theory and interpretations offered, therefore, are primarily grounded in the observations and were not developed inductively

(Glaser and Strauss 1967). However, after each set of interpretations was synthesized, the researcher returned to the scholarly literature in order to compare the findings of the study to what has been found in prior work for consistency or divergence. While this task is necessary to engage in a dialogue with the scholarly literature—sometimes highlighting potential shortcomings of either this prior work and/or of the current study— this also provided further alternative interpretation for consideration. Thus, in general, much of the analytic process therefore involved not only interpretation, but also integration and linking of themes with an eye to continuously revisiting and reevaluating

analytic findings.

29 VALIDITY, GENERALIZABILITY, AND RELIABILITY

The primary means by which internal validity was pursued was through

methodological triangulation (Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986). Interviewing is commonly used with punk populations to obtain insider perspectives (e.g Baron 1989,

Fox 1987, Levine and Stumpf 1983), while observation is particularly useful for studying spatial usage which is often taken for granted by individuals (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963,

Webb et al. 1973). Textual analysis is especially useful when studying subcultures in that, in addition to providing another point of entrée into insider perspectives, it also

tends to circumvent reactive affects that may occur when an outsider is present (Schilt

2003). Each data collection method, as discussed above, is prone to different biases and

possesses different strengths. Valid conclusions are likely to be supported by multiple

methods whereas erroneous conclusions are not. Additionally, all conclusions so drawn

were compared to rival interpretations drawn from relevant literature and elicited from

respondents. Such alternative explanations are presented along with the main findings in

the following chapters when they were found to be credible.

The small, non-random nature of the sample and the qualitative design of the

study both necessitate that any claims to external validity and generalizability are modest.

Nevertheless, certain steps were taken in this direction. First, as described above,

attempts were made to improve the likelihood that the sample used for each data

collection method represented a reasonable cross-section of the known, respective

populations. In the interviews, for example, it was noted that the demographic

composition of the sample interviewees is consistent with what is known about the

30 demographic characteristics of the punk population from previous studies. In terms of

the observations, for another example, noninterference in the natural setting was

maintained. This is known to increase external validity since the researcher has less

ability to influence what occurs (Singleton and Straits 1999).

Despite such measures, any efforts at generalization must be tentative. First, it is

likely that some subsections of the punk population were omitted from the study,

particularly from the interviews, since respondents were self-selected. There is no way to

know for certain what characteristics those who chose not to participate have relative to

those who did participate nor can a non-response rate be estimated with any accuracy.

Indeed, some respondents suggested that less constructive members of the subculture

might not be so inclined to take part in the study. As Chase said, for example: “I know a

million people who you probably would’ve hung up on by now that just don’t have

anything worthwhile to say.” Interviewees also mentioned the existence of other

subgroups of the subculture that are not represented in the sample such as Nazi-punks.

Such groups as this, however, seem to make up the minority of the subculture or, just as

likely, are more appropriately conceptualized as occupying a separate subculture.

Finally, no claim is made that the findings related to punk subculture can necessarily be related to members of other subcultures. Indeed, as discussed in the next chapter, such over-generalization has been a particular problem in subcultural studies over the years.

Finally, reliability was pursued separately for both the interviews and the textual accounts, on the one hand, and for the observations on the other. For the interviews, as described above, respondents were asked groups of closely related questions where

31 applicable. This allowed for repeated comparison of the association of themes. For

example, the characterization of the subculture’s core values could be examined

repeatedly—once for each participate—to determine if there was any consistency in such

accounts. The textual accounts were treated similarly as the interviews such that a given

account’s themes could be compared to those in the remaining accounts. Moreover, each

account was generally considered to be a separate unit of analysis based on the author of the text, not necessarily any larger text in which they were bound. For example, a magazine with separate articles was not considered to be a single account, but several.

Care was taken not to sample more than one account from a single bound item (e.g. a book), if that item had a single editor who might impose their own views on what was published therein. For the observations an attempt was made to observe each music venue more than once, while taking into account as many factors as reasonably possible

(weather, time of year, day of week, etc.) which might account for variations. For example, if a given venue was visited on the weekend, a repeat visit would be attempted sometime during the week. While crowd sizes certainly varied according to this manner of consideration, many of the themes discussed in the later chapters were considered to have held up reasonably well across observations.

SUMMARY

The goal of the current chapter was to outline and describe the methodology

utilized in this study to better understand the importance of place to punk subculture. The

overall design of the study was qualitative given the subjective, constructed nature of

32 much of the data to be analyzed (Berg 2004, Lofland and Lofland 1995, Patton 2002).

The approach taken was that of grounded theory, where theory is inductively constructed from an analysis and interpretation of patterns in the data (Miles and Huberman 1994) in the hopes of avoiding biased interpretations that might otherwise result from the imposition of theoretical preconceptions. Data was collected independently from three sources (interviews, field observations, and textual accounts) in order to enhance the validity of the interpretations via triangulation (Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986).

Coding, analysis, and interpretation were ongoing—along with data collection—and iterative while alternative explanations were sought for all conclusions drawn. With this methodology, with its multiple validity and credibility checks, the following representation of punk can be understood as fair and considered, and that it will yield useful information on both the subculture, itself, and on the importance of place for all social groups.

CHAPTER 3: THE STUDY OF YOUTH SUBCULTURE

AN OVERVIEW OF YOUTH CULTURE PERSPECTIVES

In exploring the phenomenon of punk, it is necessary to have some understanding of the youth studies tradition. The study of youth subcultures has developed over a number of decades and has undergone numerous revisions during that time.

Understanding and appraising the current state of this body of literature, in turn, requires a brief survey of this history. To this end, four temporally overlapping but relatively distinct conceptual periods or traditions of youth subculture studies can be identified which will be discussed: 1) the Chicago School and Classical youth studies perspective,

2) Transaction and Labeling, 3) the Birmingham School/Centre for Contemporary

Cultural Studies perspective, and 4) Post-subculture studies. The first two conceptual traditions paved the way for later developments in the field and are essential to any discussion of youth subculture in order to contextualize these developments. However, the latter two perspectives are more salient to current research and debate and will, therefore, receive the bulk of consideration in what follows. Each perspective is addressed chronologically, receiving an overview and critique of its unique contributions to the field. Finally, an appraisal of the overall, current state of the youth studies

literature is offered, along with some critical observations, which informs and situates the

34 remainder of the study. Table 3.1 provides a concise overview of these perspectives, and

their associated characteristics and criticisms.

The Chicago School and Classical Youth Studies

Youth culture studies can be traced at least as far back as the Chicago School

(Levine and Stumpf 1983). This body of work applied existing theories of crime,

delinquency, and social deviance to youth lifestyles and behaviors. From this perspective individuals in general, and youth in particular, may resort to deviant behavior as a result of insufficient cohesiveness with society—as a result of alienation or anomie. The status of being young necessitates a confusing period of life in which the norms of childhood existence have not yet been fully subsumed by the norms of adulthood resulting in role confusion and the inability to fully conform to normal standards. As such, youth culture was considered to be deviant culture and affiliation with such groups was believed to set one on a course for future criminality.

Underlying such claims was the causal assumption that these deviant behaviors resulted from the inability or refusal on the part of youths to successfully conform to societal norms and practices which, in turn, were overwhelmingly considered to be those of the middle class. This assumption anticipated a later development in the field of cultural studies tracing the emergence of youth subcultures to the unique structural position of working-class society but which, as will be seen below, derived an entirely different set of conclusions regarding the significance of this context of emergence.

35 Criminal or not, this tradition of youth studies represented a continuance of the

practice of directing naturalistic inquiry at relatively marginalized social groupings

(Roberts 1976). Youth studies in the Chicago School tradition were conducted as early

as the 1920s. Despite this early inception, work of this sort continued for some decades

and, as Roberts (1976) notes, was considerably reinforced by Robert K. Merton’s (1938)

revision of structural functionalism. Merton attempted to illustrate how the apparent

disruption of normality alleged to accompany deviant behavior could actually be

interpreted as part of the normal operation of society. In his work, he suggests that all

individuals try to achieve normality, but sometimes conditions render the desired

conformity difficult or impossible to attain. Failure may, in turn, result in the individual

adapting to their situation in deviant ways, as a sort of continued effort to achieve

normality, or shifting the emphasis on what sort of ends, and the means to get there,

constitute the attainment of success (e.g. Cohen 1955, Cloward and Ohlin 1960). While youth studies thus remained fairly consistent in perspective and scope for many decades, other events occurring during this same time period, would ensure that innovations in the study of youth culture were eminent, even if they would not immediately displace the preexisting perspective.1

Transaction and Labeling

Social and political events occurring during the 1960s brought the issue of power

back into academic discourse and into youth culture studies in particular (Roberts 1976).

Whereas the interaction perspective of earlier subcultural studies implied that such

36 exchanges occurred between equals, the emerging perspective recognized that such

equality in exchange was not always the case. This perspective, developed by a number

of prominent researchers (Becker 1963; Goffman 1961, 1968; Erikson 1962; Kitsuse

1962, Lemert 1967), argued that youth occupy a relatively powerless social position and

so the interactions of which they are a part are often characterized by a power imbalance,

an unequal ability to define a given situation. Whatever practices youth adopt or develop

are subject to the censure or approval of adults representing the established norms of

society who, collectively, have the power to define and maintain those norms. Once a

youth deviates from established norms, willingly or not, they may be labeled as some type of deviant as a means of social control. Fear of such a label may curb initial deviant

acts but, once the label is assigned, it may be self-fulfilling in that the deviant identity is

internalized by the youth who will go on to commit more deviant acts. Youths may thus undergo deviant ‘careers’ in which they learn deviance and eventually adopt or even embrace a stigmatized identity. This identity may crystallize over time as others reinforce the deviant youths’ perception of themselves as deviant through further interaction.

While, following from this explanatory scheme, this new development in youth

subculture studies continued to classify youth subcultures as deviants, it was innovative in introducing the concept of a relative deviance. Dominant, powerful segments of society were able to define what normality was in the first place and labeled other segments, here youth subcultures, as deviant. This labeling amounted to a process of social control, stigmatizing and marginalizing different lifestyles. It also suggested a social etiology of youth subcultures: they develop not out of individual pathologies

37 resulting, in turn, from alienation and isolation, but out of transaction. That is, out of social interactions where the power to define what is normal is not shared equally by all participants and which serve to maintain the status quo.

The transactional perspective shifts the ‘blame’ for youthful deviance away from youth themselves and their inability to conform successfully, it has been criticized on the grounds that it 1) denies agency to youth, suggesting that they merely receive and interpret sanctions from more powerful groups and, 2) that it downplays the role of social structure, of social context, on both sets of parties to the interaction (e.g. Akers 1967,

Mankoff 1971).

The Birmingham School and the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies

Since the end of the Second World War, youth subcultures in Britain had become increasingly visible and became of much interest to the media, to politicians, and to academics (Clarke et al. 1976). Researchers from the Centre for Contemporary Cultural

Studies (CCCS) at the University of Birmingham conducted a number of studies to better understand this emergent phenomenon. The Birmingham School of youth culture studies represents a revision of earlier approaches to youth studies as much as it entails a radical departure from those approaches. The starting point of this perspective borrows heavily from the American interactionist perspective. While abandoning the idea of individual, social pathologies, the perspective maintained a transactional approach in which unequal cultural power underlies all interactions: “The definitions of the world… express the life situation of those groups which hold the monopoly of power in society” (Clarke et al.

38 1976). However, these researchers soon found that however insightful this approach

might be, it was insufficient for explaining an obvious social structural aspect of British

youth subcultures—specifically, the role of social class. A deviant youth status may

result from processes of social labeling, but a pattern was noted in which working-class

youths were far more likely to be so labeled than youths from any other class background. Chambliss (1973) provides a classic example of this phenomenon in his study of two High School social groups. The first, which he calls the “Saints,” came from respectable middle-class backgrounds while the second, the “Roughnecks,” came from lower-class backgrounds. While both were involved in similar deviant activities— drinking, skipping school, fighting, and vandalizing property—and, indeed, the Saints seemed even more heavily involved, only the lower-class Roughnecks were actually labeled as deviant by the community. The double-standards revealed in studies such as

this revealed how a synthetic approach, combining both microsociological and

macrosociological approaches, was needed to account for the contributing factors to

subcultural formation and participation. Both interactively and structurally then, youth

culture could best be understood through its subordinate relationship to those segments of

society endowed with superior cultural power.

According to the CCCS, each social class within a given society shares a separate

understanding of how to live, that is, each class maintains a different culture (Clarke et al.

1976). Of these, the culture of the most powerful class is considered the dominant

culture. It has the strongest ability to set definitions and promote perspectives, and at the

same time portrays itself as the only culture of the society. The remaining class cultures,

39 while subordinate to this dominant culture, are also at odds with it and attempt to assert

their own collective definitions. Each class-based culture, dominant or subordinate, is not monolithic but contain variations, subcultures, within itself. These class-based cultures, then each serve as ‘parent’ cultures, providing sets of cultural assumptions and choices which can be selectively utilized or appropriated by the various subcultures which they contain. Willis (1977), for example, examined the working-class culture of teenage boys in their industrial jobs. The subculture they created is directly sampled from the working-class parent culture, placing emphasis on being tough, hard-working, macho, and street-wise. This system of values allows the youths to deal with their lot in life, their class position in society, and allows them to be contemptuous of other social classes, and their associated cultures, which may be seen as pampered and naïve.

However, this subculture also keeps them from ever aspiring towards attaining the status of a different class—of ever attaining greater affluence, prestige, and cultural power.

Subcultures, then, can be studied in terms of both their relationship to their class- based, parent culture, as well as their relationship to the dominant culture. Each subculture is different. They may reaffirm and reinforce, or challenge and dispute either the parent culture or the dominant culture. To the extent which they do any of these, they may be perceived as being “respectable, ‘rough’, delinquent [or] criminal” subcultures

(Clarke et al. 1976: 13). In all cases, subcultures are predominantly concerned with the same issues of their parent cultures: their unique social and material position in society and the specific difficulties this entails. Subcultures differ from their parent cultures in terms of the solutions they develop to solve these problems, even as they appropriate the

40 cultural, raw materials for such solutions from the parent culture, and even though they

are still recognizably members of that parent culture with which they continue to share

much in common.

The CCCS posited a kind of dual reality to the nature of the relationship between

the culture of youth and that of the greater society. Youth, on the one hand, are subject to market influence, to being mere consumers of cultural goods. But youth are also engaged

in resistance to the hegemony of dominant culture, and in pursuing class goals. Through

semiological analysis (Barthes 1985) these researchers located that resistance to cultural

hegemony in the appropriation and reinterpretation of these same goods from the parent

or dominant culture in an attempt to subvert their meaning and either promote a counter-

discourse or to simply disrupt taken-for-granted cultural assumptions—a process referred

to as bricolage (Lévi-Strauss 1966). In these ways, subcultural style is intended to offend

the mainstream, and to challenges the taken-for-granted meaning of objects along with

the social relationships and organization they signify (Clarke et al. 1976). Thus, rather

than focusing on mainstream interpretations of youth culture, as the British media and

classical youth studies research had done previously, the Birmingham School attempted

to adopt an emic perspective, examining youth subcultures through their view of the

social world. The importance of such a perspective can be gleaned when considering the

symbols youths implement and upon which such great emphasis was placed by

researchers. Such symbols may have entirely different meanings to the youth who adopt

them and identifying these meanings is the researcher’s most crucial task (Hebdige

1979). This is done primarily through homology (Brake 1985), through finding

41 associations between the visible, material culture of a group (e.g. attire, hairstyles, body

modification, etc.) and the non-material aspects of its lifestyle (e.g. values, beliefs,

behaviors, etc.). Style meaningfully signifies or reifies the intangible elements

underlying subcultural objects, rendering it a fit and insightful subject of analysis. Such an analysis is complicated by the necessity of decoding these meanings from the

perspective of subcultural insiders since, again, the meaning they invest in material

objects and practices will inevitably diverge from what other cultures within the same society would otherwise ascribe to those same objects.

The Teddy boys (AKA Teds), for example, were a working-class subculture very much concerned with their relatively low status and their desire to achieve membership in a higher class. To this end, they adopted the dress style, the Edwardian suit albeit with some modifications, of the upper-class as a way of displaying these goals (Jefferson

1976). While reflecting the interests of the working-class parent culture from which the

Teds emerged (i.e. socioeconomic mobility), this style also served to resist the inferior status ascribed to the working-class. Indeed, the Teds were so concerned with status, and

their own marginality, that they became well-known for 1) being extremely sensitive to

anything that might be considered an insult and 2) for responding to this apprehension

violently. These characteristics, then—sensitivity and pugnaciousness—can be

interpreted as serving a similar purpose as Ted style: as a means of challenging their

position in society.

Atkinson (2003) provides a more contemporary, middle-class example of

symbolic resistance. Concerned with a perceived increase in substance abuse, premarital

42 pregnancy, diseases, and similar problems among their peers, some middle-class youths,

‘straightedgers,’ chose to refrain from alcohol, drugs, sex, and the like. As such, they

shared the “middle-class ascetic” (White and Young 1997) of their middle-class, parent

culture. Tattooing became a prominent practice among these youths. While the purposes

of this are not obvious to the outsider, to the straightedger, tattoos are meaningful

symbols. Such tattoos are conceptualized as being earned, not simply purchased, through

maintaining the straightedge lifestyle and the painful process of receiving the tattoo represents the difficulty of maintaining the lifestyle. The tattoos themselves vary, and may represent a) affiliation with the subculture and its norms, b) success and oneness with the lifestyle, and 3) indictments of outsiders considered to be morally weak and indulgent.

While such symbolic warfare may be defined as important by the subculture that

is engaged in it, the CCCS researchers ultimately determined that such acts are ultimately ineffectual. The challenges to mainstream hegemony by subcultures are neutralized through a) commodification and b) ideological interpretation. Again, the relationship

between the market and the dominant culture, on the one hand, and subcultures on the

other, works in both directions. The symbols may be appropriated by subcultural

opposition, but these may in turn be commodified by the dominant power. They may be

copied, manufactured, and sold as hot, new fashions, and thus deprived of their potency.

Simultaneously, since subcultures, and their artifacts, present a danger to cultural

hegemony through their apparent disruption of taken-for-granted meanings and norms,

they can be neutralized by being interpreted in ways consistent with prevailing ideology.

43 They can be portrayed as little more than pathological individuals, as youthful deviants, or as quirky, but otherwise normal members of society. In either case, no social change is achieved in the dominant culture and no new gains or different social positioning are achieved by the subculture. Thus, while the symbolic strategies of subcultures are intended to serve as solutions to their class problems, the CCCS perspective suggests they constitute only a mythical or “magical” solution (Brake 1974, 1980; P. Cohen 1972)— meaningful, but not a threat to established social organization and cultural hegemony.

In the case of the Teds, of course, adopting the style of a more affluent class,

although socially meaningful and potentially beneficial on a psychological level, did nothing to alter their real situation. If anything, spending hard-earned money on fashionable styles perpetuates a marginal social position. Similarly, straightedge tattooing may be profoundly meaningful on a personal or collective level, but it is unlikely to effect social change. Again, from the CCCS perspective, such cultural strategies can be interpreted as meaningful to participants as well as astute researchers,

but they offer only imaginary solutions to real problems.

While unambiguously categorizing working-class youth subcultures as ineffectual

in pursuing class interests, in achieving “real” gains, the CCCS was somewhat more

ambivalent about the potential of middle-class youth subcultures. Generally, such groups

were affiliated with counterculture, with actively attacking and criticizing established

ways of life, with overt political opposition (Hebdige 1979). Their efforts, aimed at

achieving a more permissive and open society were interpreted, however, as being

“profoundly adaptive” (Clarke et al. 1976: 65). In other words, while this ethos was at

44 odds with the more fixed, traditional status quo, the needs of capitalist society, itself,

were becoming more flexible and open, and these youths simply represented the new type

of citizen that would be necessary for the emerging social form. Similarly, members of

these groups tended to practice a philosophy of living for the present, marked by heavy

consumption of market commodities, rather than engaging in the parsimonious saving

characteristic of prior generations. Again, far from threatening true social transformation, this shift in activity can be interpreted as quite beneficial to the expanding capitalist market. Yet, the CCCS perspective, again, is ambivalent on this point and suggests some room for real social change that cannot be entirely reduced to an adaptive shift. Middle- class youth, unlike their working-class counterparts, are uniquely positioned within a dominant position in society and so have greater potential power. Again, the countercultures of the 1960s and 1970s, whatever their specific form, were engaged in questioning the legitimacy of authority in all its forms. While some degree of antiauthoritarianism may be adaptive, allowing, for example, the potential for greater open- mindedness and innovation, there is also the capacity for a ‘crisis of authority” to be created (Gramsci 1971). This represents a condition of too much anti-authoritarian sentiment, which threatens the legitimacy of the state and its agents as well as anything resembling a dominant cultural consensus. This threat was severe enough that, according to the CCCS researchers, the more subtle means of state coercion became insufficient for maintaining its power and, as a result, this era saw considerable displays of the open use of force on youthful “agitators.” Open force is less efficient at maintaining social consensus than more subtle means and, to the contrary, may be regarded as an

45 illegitimate use of power by some people. The outcome of this conflict has been uncertain, but it remains possible that significant cultural change, not always socially adaptive, may at times result from youth subcultures.

Post-Subcultural Studies

For some time now, an emergent approach to subcultural studies has been popular among some researchers which has been of crucial importance in bringing youth subcultures back into academic discourse (Shildrick and MacDonald 2006). This approach—typically referred to as ‘post-subculture’ studies—does not consist of a coherent, new paradigm for such studies, but rather contains a number of related observations and conceptualizations of subculture which are explicitly critical of the

CCCS tradition. According to this perspective, the theories of the CCCS are either outdated and inapplicable to the current postmodern condition of social life, or inherently flawed and likely to be inapplicable even to the groups to which they were applied in previous generations.

For the most part, this critique of the CCCS argues that it is too structural, static, and modernist whereas contemporary youth inhabit social worlds that are more complex, constantly shifting and flexible, and greatly proliferated in scope and scale. This perspective accuses the CCCS of deifying social class as the sole, or at least most important, determinant in the creation of subcultures and the forms they take, while neglecting other important elements of life such as age, gender, and ethnicity (Stahl

2003). While certain applications of the CCCS perspective did indeed consider factors

46 such as race (e.g. Hebdige 1979) and gender (e.g. McRobbie and Nava 1984), these

factors are still treated as structuring forces that deny agency to participants. Such

insistence on the primacy of structure likely results from the imposition of neo-Marxian

theoretical assumptions on the subject of study and, therefore, reflects only those

assumptions and not the phenomenological realities of subcultural life (Muggleton 2000).

Instead, it is argued that social “class is willfully obfuscated by subcultural distinctions”

(Thornton 1995: 12), and consumption actually allows subculturalists to avoid structural impositions (Bennett 1999, 2005).

A concern with the inadequacies of the semiotic methodology of the CCCS also permeates the post-subcultures literature. It is argued that “[t]he discourse of style overemphasizes a symbolic response to exclusion, situating semiotic play with appropriated texts above that of the imaginative and concrete contexts in which cultural activity is enacted” (Stahl 2003: 28-9). Styles, and the meanings behind them, are constantly shifting and diffusing in a globalized world, such that no stable meaning can be decoded by the semiotician (Baudrillard 1983, Craik 1994). Without the ability to read the meaning of subcultural styles, the class concerns of subcultures, or indeed any other concerns, cannot be interpreted through semiotics, rendering CCCS approaches void of interpretive value.

Post-subcultural approaches also take issue with the essentialist characterization

of youth subcultures promoted by the CCCS. They suggest that a) coherent, consistent,

and homogenous subcultures with semi-permanent sets of shared beliefs, practices, and

47 identities do not exist, and that b) the loose categorizations that do exist cannot easily be

separated from each other or from other entities.

Starting at a level internal to a given subcultural unit of analysis, post-

subculturalists tend to take issue with the CCCS’ assertion of a “homological unity of

class-based practices” (Weinzierl and Muggleton 2003: 7), that is, with the agreement or

meaningful correspondence between various material and non-material aspects of the

subculture. This is especially true in regards to the alleged unity of style and music.

Whereas the CCCS semioticians generally argued that the meanings which could be read

in each of these would reflect and support one-another, post-subcultural approaches find

no such correlation. Instead, they argue that modern subcultural activity is more eclectic

and diverse. Participants sample from (i.e. consume) a number of available styles and

musical forms which do not generally reflect each other in any real way (Bennett 1999,

2000; Redhead 1990). Moreover, moving beyond issues of homology, post-

subculturalists argue that there is no such thing as a coherent, recognizable subculture, and therefore no such thing as “real” or “fake” (i.e. poseur) members or participants. To this end, Muggleton, agreeing with and quoting one of his informants, states that “There is no such thing as punk” (2000: 2). Thus, to even use the term ‘subculture’ is problematic since it is a term with no referent (Bennett 1999). While norms, rules, and shared understandings still exist and still matter, they are contingent, temporary, and fluid

(Grossberg 1984) and cannot be used to delineate a stable configuration that can be labeled ‘subculture.’

48 Finally, post-subculturalists, in perhaps the most telling departure from CCCS

theory, disavow that paradigm’s assertion “that both ‘subculture’ and the parent culture

against which it is defined are coherent and homogenous formations that can be clearly demarcated” (Wienzierl and Muggleton 2003: 7). Thus, moving beyond the level of a particular subcultural unit of observation, we find that post-subcultural theorists argue

that, just as we cannot locate a clearly identifiable subculture, neither can we distinguish

between subcultures or between subculture and external entities that are clearly not of the subculture. Global flows of people, ideas, style, and so forth, constantly diffuse and overlap, making nothing distinct, rendering no unit of analysis discrete, and rendering null any attempt to distinguish any subculture from the ‘other.’ For example, the CCCS theorists established an inimical relationship between youth subcultures, on the one hand, and mainstream media, on the other. Youth were portrayed as interested in maintaining freedom from media representation which would either demonize them (e.g. S. Cohen

1972) or coopt their image for sale and, therefore, remove its threat (Hebdige 1979). Such clear divisions are not evident in post-subcultural studies. Thornton’s (1995) work with

‘club cultures’ exemplifies this blurriness, in her attempt to locate subculture formation not as distinct from the media, but dependent on media representation to establish anything resembling coherence out of a mish-mash of individual styles and tastes.

Likewise, McRobbie has argued that subcultures are “born into the media” (1989: 39).

Thus, there is no distinction between a moment of subcultural authenticity preceding representation in the media. Grossberg (1984, 1997) has similarly problematized the distinction between subcultures and the mainstream or popular ‘other.’ What we might

49 otherwise attempt to understand as two separate and opposed social entities, are actually

interrelated and share numerous elements. Each incorporates “practices, codes, and

effects” (1997: 220) of the ‘other,’ resulting in an inability to clearly differentiate

between them. In short, no cultural phenomenon is self-contained and localized. Instead,

all are overlapping, locally experienced variations in a global stream. The more

postmodern strain of post-subcultural thought suggests that globalization effectively

homogenizes and allows for no truly “new” subcultural innovations (e.g. Muggleton

1997, 2000) while others in the post-subcultural arena suggest that local interpretation

and adaptation means that no such homogeneity need result but, instead, that

globalization results in a proliferation of styles and ideas (Klein 2003, Lash and Urry

1994, Stahl 2003). However, all agree on the importance of globalizing societies.

With these various attempts to blur distinctions between subcultures, and between

subculture and that which is not subcultural, post-subcultural studies thus take issue with the CCCS preoccupation with ‘authenticity.’ No distinction can be made between authentic members of a given subculture and “hangers on,” such as Hebdige (1979) suggested, nor can a distinction be made between authentic subcultures engaged in semiotic resistance to hegemonic culture and inauthentic subcultures which are not.

Indeed, subcultures are not viewed as being involved in any sort of resistance or oppositional activity—a point that will be returned to below. Rather “post-subculturalists no longer have any sense of subcultural ‘authenticity’ where inception is rooted in particular socio-temporal contexts and tied to underlying structural relations” (Muggleton

2000: 47).

50 Having established a powerful critique of the CCCS tradition and the concomitant

concept of ‘subculture,’ some post-subculturalist researchers have endeavored to

establish new concepts which they feel more adequately capture and describe the

phenomena of contemporary youth culture. The most prominent of these include ‘neo-

tribes’ (Bennett 1999, 2005), ‘club cultures’ (Thornton 1995), and ‘post-subcultures’

(Muggleton 1997, 2000). These terms, while varying from one-another to some extent in

detail, reflect similar understandings and together give a reasonable idea of what the

proto-paradigm has in mind when it characterizes youth cultures.

Bennett (1999) argues that the term ‘subculture’ “has now become little more than

a convenient ‘catch-all’ term for any aspect of social life in which young people, style and music intersect” (1999:599). Declaring that the term now has little theoretical or empirical utility, and drawing on Maffesoli’s tribus (1996), he proposes the concept of

‘neo-tribe’ as one more adequate to describing youth culture which is a phenomenon characterized by “consumer autonomy and creativity” wherein “those groupings which have been theorized as coherent subcultures are better understood as a series of temporal gatherings characterized by fluid boundaries and floating memberships” (Bennett 1999:

599-600). These groups, such as the dance music fans he studied in England, are engaged in a search for individual expression and “emphatic ‘sociality’” (Maffesoli 1996:11).

Here, mass society is seen not as an oppressive “other” to be resisted, but a mechanism through which individuals are liberated through the range of choices it permits them to choose from as they lead their lives. Thus, there is no homological unity of style, ethos,

51 or practice in these groupings nor, indeed, are their finite groups to examine since

membership is always transient and overlaps other groupings.

Thornton’s (1995) ethnographic work with ‘club cultures’ represents another

hugely influential characterization of contemporary youth culture. Her analysis suggests

that the CCCS researchers placed too much emphasis on economic capital as an

explanatory factor for subculture formation and proposes that ‘subcultural capital’ is the main, motivating force in youth activity. The concept owes its origins to Bourdieu’s

(1984) discussion of symbolic capital and distinction. According to Bourdieu, symbolic capital—signs and actions which display one’s cultural awareness or “hipness” in a given social sphere—is an essential basis for social stratification on par with economic capital.

Thornton adapts the concept to the subcultural field as ‘subcultural capital,’ as signs and activities which indicate to other’s within the grouping that the individual is “in the know” (Thornton 1995: 11) and deserves respect and prestige. Subcultural capital thus consists of keeping up to date on what fashions, dance styles, or musical forms are currently “cool.” It is the desire to accumulate subcultural capital, much like one accumulates economic capital, that is the goal of youth. Specific boundaries are fluid, consumption choices are seen as the primary, albeit transient, means by which to differentiate between groups.

Again, while there is considerable commonality between post-subcultural accounts of youth phenomena, there is no clear consensus indicative of a full paradigm.

Muggleton’s (2000) conception of “post-subcultures” illustrates some of the diversity in these approaches. For example, while he supports the claims made by Bennett and

52 Thornton that collective group boundaries are problematized and individualism is emphasized, he also finds evidence in his research that such boundaries are still maintained to some extent, as are distinctions from the mainstream. Moreover, while

Muggleton finds that subculturalists have identities less stable and homogenous than the

CCCS perspective would assert, such identities are still present in many of his informants’ conceptions of self and are evaluated in regards to authenticity, a concept otherwise disparaged by post-subculture perspectives. Overt levels of instability—too frequent changing of identity, subcultural affiliation, or signifying attire—are considered symptoms of someone who is not authentic, even while fitting too firmly within a given category without ever changing is viewed with equal suspicion. Gradual change, almost a modernist concept of personal evolution, is viewed as the norm—not a static identity nor a rapidly changing one. In general, Muggleton argues that post-subcultures are more fluid and individualistic, and less structurally determined then the CCCS perspective allows.

However, he also finds that they are not as superficial and free-flowing as other post- subcultural studies suggest. In his formulation, “[post-]subcultures are manifestations of self-expression, individual autonomy and cultural diversity” (2000: 167).

The majority of such formulations of youth phenomena under a post-subcultures frame—neo-tribes, club cultures, and so on—can be categorized as ‘lifestyles’: individual-level sensibilities deployed in the selection of commodities through which to engage in self-expression (Bocock 1992, Chaney 1996, Miles 2000). That is, youth phenomena are reduced to a series of individual quests for expression in the

“Supermarket of Style” (Polhemus 1994). They are not goal-oriented in any ‘rational’

53 way but, through shifting patterns of taste and consumption, seek only to assert their individuality. Subcultures, by whatever name, are not homogenous, coherent ways of life where the members share collective goals and sensibilities. Instead, youth phenomena are characterized by fluid, fragmented identities, shifting and overlapping boundaries, relatively low levels of commitment, and little concept of authenticity. At the same time, the “individual” becomes difficult to pin down, precisely because of the multiplicity of meanings—expressed through different styles, places of subcultural activity frequented, and behaviors engaged in—which are all inherently unstable and diverse (Shields 1992).

As noted earlier, however, while post-subcultural studies level a powerful critique against traditional interpretations of subcultures, there remains little consensus on the form or character of contemporary or past subcultures, and even generalizations such as these regarding the emerging perspective must be tentative and cannot be made without qualification.2

Post-subcultural approaches are not without their own criticisms. For example, just as the CCCS was accused of obscuring social reality by imposing a priori theory in a procrustean manner (Muggleton 2000, Redhead 1990, Stahl 2003), the same can also be said regarding post-subcultural research. While the theory imposed this time may not be grand or general theory, the expectations of the combined perspectives are still found to only partly hold in research designed to test the relative merits of the competing interpretations of youth culture (e.g. Greener and Hollands 2006). Just as it is possible to

‘read’ too strongly the effects of social structure at the expense of human agency, so too is it possible to selectively note instances of agency at the expense of the importance of

54 ‘real,’ material conditions. Social reality is more complex than any over-generalizing perspective can allow for. Thus, in a related critique, some researchers have argued that contemporary youth cultures have not been freed from structural constraints. Issues of class, gender, race, and so on, are not readily done away with or easily “negotiable by self-creating subjects” (Hesmondhalgh 2005: 25). Rather such structural forces still influence youth subcultural participation and its consequences (Hollands 2002, Nayak

2003). From this perspective, while some modern youth may partake in a vast variety of styles and activities, it is most likely those of an upper- or middle-class background that are able to most fully take part in these consumption activities and freely define their identities through them (Shildrick and MacDonald 2006). At the very least, the background of individuals, comprising a habitus (Bourdieu 1990), will influence the type and degree of subculture participation they “choose” to engage in (O’Connor 2004a).

The post-subculturalist insistence on absolute, individual agency, moreover, typically leads post-subculture theorists “to down-play the collective nature of subcultural practice… because their postmodern critique of the CCCS wants to give priority to the individual” (Blackman 2005: 12). Additionally, Blackman argues, that whenever theories of subculture become too focused on the individual level of analysis—as is the case not only with post-subculture approaches, but also with the pre-CCCS Chicago

School and Transaction/Labeling perspectives—they become “over-preoccupied with the particular, either in terms of ‘dysfunctionalism’ or celebratory hybrid pleasures… [and therefore] lack theoretical coherence and explanatory power at the level of the social”

(2005: 16-7).

55 In summary, while post-subculture studies have been immensely important in

reviving a dialogue regarding youth culture, many problems remain and little theoretical

consensus has been reached. This impasse has served to render youth subcultures

something of a continuing mystery to academic interpretation, if not to the individuals

that comprise them.

A CRITIQUE OF YOUTH CULTURE PERSPECTIVES

As illustrated above, existing perspectives regarding youth culture are considerably diverse. However, they do share certain fundamental tenets in common.

While each perspective may be subjected to a unique set of criticisms, of particular interest to the current study are three, shared elements of these perspectives that seem particularly problematic for the overall tradition of youth studies: a) the tendency to group all youth phenomena under a monolithic, conceptual umbrella, b) a preoccupation with style and the consumption of goods, and c) the assumed lack of rational, goal- oriented behavior found in subcultures and an accompanying inability or lack of desire on the part of subcultures to affect any sort of real social change. In regards to these issues, even the recent post-subcultural approaches offer very little improvement over the CCCS or other earlier perspectives and, instead, seem to largely agree with the same conclusions, even if they arrive at them through a different logic.

56 Monolithic Conceptions of Youth Culture

Early discussion of youth in society made use of the idea of youth culture, as

opposed to cultures or subcultures, suggesting that there was a shared state of social

being at this stage of life. Talcott Parsons (1942), for example, posited the existence of

such a monolithic, shared culture with which youth in modern societies were affiliated.

While clearly inaccurate in describing the phenomenon of youth culture today, it is

possible that such portrayals were once true. Indeed, some work suggests that until fairly

recently the concepts of youth and associated youth subculture did not exist at all (e.g.

Aries 1962, Mintz 2006). Instead, youth were drawn into the adult world, and therefore

adult culture, as soon as possible.

Whatever the historical reality of youth life might once have been, regarding

recent decades no serious observer would claim that all youth cultures are the same. Yet,

despite the admission of a multiplicity of contemporary subcultures, monolithic

conceptions of youth culture remain popular. In other words, the attempt is often made to

circumscribe a variety of cultural practices within a single, totalizing theorization.

Bennet (1999) has convincingly argued that the term ‘subculture’ has come to encompass so wide a range of phenomena that the concept has been stretched beyond the point of utility. Yet, to use a looser concept—such as tribe or post-subculture—does not necessarily solve this problem. Such concepts are, by the definitions of their creators, used to indicate a wide range of youth behaviors which cannot easily be classified and, thus, return us to the original problem of a concept that is too inclusive. Thus, while

“[t]he CCCS subculturalists might have overestimated the boundedness and permanence

57 of the group identities they were studying… simply to offer instability and temporariness as alternatives does not get us very far” (Hesmondhalgh 2005: 24).

The disagreement in findings over the years—the lack of consensus in what youth cultures are like—may be a result of the imposition of totalizing theories on divergent cases (Greener and Hollands 2006, Muggleton 2000, Redhead 1990, Stahl 2003).

However, the reverse may also be true, that researchers over-generalize their findings— usually ethnographic case-studies of a single subculture rather than representative quantitative studies (Hesmondhalgh 2005)—to all subcultures. While it is understandable and even praiseworthy, given the nature of the subject matter and the need for an insider’s perspective, that researchers will utilize qualitative methodologies, the usual cautions for generalizing beyond the observations should still apply (see, for example, Berg 2004).

There are many possible solutions to this problem. One is to establish a typology of different youth cultures based on their distinguishing characteristics. The CCCS likely represents the first clear attempt to distinguish between different types of subcultures: conceptual groupings of subcultures that represent similar configurations and concerns.

Specifically, they divided all subcultures into those with either working-class or middle- class backgrounds. As discussed above, the distinction was never fully supported and has been heavily criticized in the ensuing years. Another possible distinction is raised by

Cagle (1995), who notes that the CCCS failed to examine non-oppositional subcultures.

This suggests that typing cases based on their stance toward “mainstream” society might also be a fruitful endeavor.

58 Regardless of which distinctions one uses to distinguish between different youth

configurations, the practice will necessarily involve the use of ‘ideal types’ (Weber

1949): some characteristics of the subject matter will be emphasized at the expense of

others. While such an approach will not perfectly represent the subculture under study, it

will enable the recognition that not all youth cultures are the same and, therefore, cannot

be treated by theorists as though they have identical antecedents, identical concerns, and

identical consequences.

Fortunately, useful ideal types already exist. As already noted, there has been

considerable disagreement over the extent to which current conceptions of subculture

accurately reflect the phenomena in question. Empirical studies meant to compare

competing interpretations of youth cultures find support for some aspects of both CCCS

and post-subculture perspectives (e.g. Greener and Hollands 2006, Muggleton 2000). It

is likely that neither perspective, on its own, can fully explain all youth subculture experiences and that, instead, each perspective represents an ideal at the end of a continuum upon which actual cases may be placed.

At least two major studies have previously argued for such a perspective,

prioritizing neither a CCCS perspective of subculture nor a post-subcultures approach.

Hodkinson argues that subculture is still a relevant concept, but researchers must

“differentiate those groupings which are predominantly ephemeral from those which entail far greater levels of commitment, continuity, distinctiveness, or, to put it in general terms, substance” (Hodkinson 2002: 24). Using these criteria in his study of gothic subculture, Hodkinson finds that this group more closely approximates the CCCS ideal of

59 a subculture than a post-subculture, but this should not be assumed to be necessarily true

of all other groups. Muggleton (2000) similarly suggests two ideal types: 1) ‘liminal

subcultures’ and, 2) ‘crossover countercultures.’ The former are fairly coherent and

consistent configurations, where members can mostly identify with a particular category

but deny being a stereotypical exemplar of that category. This type clearly corresponds

most closely with a CCCS ideal. The latter, however, are so eclectic, that they cannot be said to fit into a single category at all, nor do they identify with a single category but, instead, feel comfortable and accepted in multiple groups. This type has also been referred to as ‘freak style’ (Gottschalk 1993), and represents an ideal more consistent with a post-subcultures perspective.

Thus, not all cultures should be assumed to reflect a CCCS approach or a post-

subculture approach, nor should any other characteristic be assumed to correspond with the totality of youth cultural experiences. The matter of characteristics becomes an empirical question which can be tested rather than assumed based on prior theory or overgeneralizations.

Style and Consumption

The preceding discussion of youth studies indicates that youth cultures are,

typically, and monolithically, viewed as groups—or aggregations of diverse

individuals—utterly preoccupied with consumption. For the CCCS, subcultures were

primarily engaged in taking styles from the mainstream or parent cultures and

reinterpreting them to signify subcultural concerns; that is, they were engaged in semiotic

60 warfare through consumerism. The post-subcultural approaches argue that style is unique to each individual and does not necessarily signify anything at all, much less something that is collectively meaningful (Kaiser et al. 1991, Craik 1994). Instead, such consumption practices still figure prominently in these perspectives and are seen as occurring at the individual level where they are interpreted as emancipatory: they free individuals from structural and social constraints by allowing them to express themselves via the “Supermarket of Style” (Polhemus 1994). Thus “priority is given to the individual to absorb and choose subcultural style, to explore personal emancipation and self-fulfillment…” (Blackman 2005: 15).

Both perspectives start out with an assumption that style and consumerism are central to all subcultures, then go on to establish the role of these without ever empirically testing the assumption. Thus while style and consumerism may have a role, and while this role may vary according to the particular group under study, the significance of that role may be exaggerated. This is particularly problematic if the researcher is an outsider to the group since spectacular appearances, and aspects of material culture more generally, will be the first and most obvious characteristic observable when encountering an unfamiliar group. Clark (2003) suggests that interpretations of subcultures as little more than fashion movements is likely the result of such an outsider perspective, and over the years insider perspectives are lost in the wake of hardier media and academic representations. However, even insiders are likely to work with these assumptions when they are also researchers. Muggleton, for example,

“selected [informants] on the basis of what [he] regarded as their unconventional

61 appearance” (2000: 171). We know nothing of the youth who did not place such

emphasis on appearances since they were purposefully excluded from the sample.

Moreover, of the 46 distinct questions listed in his interview schedule, at least 34 deal

directly with the style of the informants: type of dress, reasons for dressing the way they

do, and so on. While this is understandable in that the goal of his study was to interpret

the “postmodern meaning of style,” the methodology serves to exemplify the assumptions

in this field of study more generally.

While a full discussion of alternatives to a superficial analysis of consumption and

style will be addressed more fully later, some mention of these possibilities is appropriate

here. In one of the principle documents of the CCCS canon (Clarke et al. 1976), Marx is

invoked as guiding light of the perspective: “As individuals express their life, so they are.

What they are, therefore, coincides with their production, both with what they produce

and how they produce” (Marx 1970: 42, emphasis in original). Despite this emphasis on

production, however, the overwhelming tendency of most studies of youth subcultures

insist that their subjects are only engaged in consumption or, at best, at reinterpreting the

objects they consume which are provided by the parent culture. Indeed, they are silent on the matter of what new production might entail, what it might look like, and so rendered their claim invulnerable to falsifiability. Some recent work has begun to move away from the inertia of this tradition to forge new paths forward for research.

Moore (2007), for example, highlights the need to move beyond consumption, finding

that, at least for some subcultures, independent cultural production is a more salient

source of meaning for both group members and researchers.

62 While this study considerably improves on the issues inherent in much youth

culture research that prioritizes consumption, future research cannot address this issue by simply moving on to the study of the production of style either. Interestingly, despite his research model, Muggleton (2000) found that “contrary to what both sociology and our own assumptions might have led us to believe, some subculturalists did not hold style in high regard” (2000: 120) and that “We therefore need to explore the meaning of diversity in other areas” (2000: 69). The need to move beyond a focus on style, especially

‘spectacular’ style (Shildrick and MacDonald 2006), including the consumption of resources for the establishment thereof, has long been acknowledged (e.g. Clarke 1982).

Chatterton and Hollands (2002; Hollands 1995, 2002) offer a promising approach by expanding the analytic framework of youth activities to include not only an emphasis on youth relationships to production and regulation, but moving beyond style to focus on a more holistic set of cultural practices tied to different youth cultures in their respective socio-spatial settings. They note distinct patterns in their research: Some youth are engaged in relatively passive consumption in mainstream settings with individualistic emphases while others, for example, are more closely involved in producing and regulating their own cultural spaces. Such work is intriguing, and illustrates the possibility of moving beyond style while providing a meaningful alternative.

In summary, there is a need to determine the importance, if any, of subcultural

style and the role of consumption rather than simply assuming a necessarily high level of

such importance. Research cannot stop at the surface level of style and then presume an

interior without substance if that interior is never explored. Indeed, if one were to limit

63 an analysis to style only, the persistence of some subcultures over time may be lost entirely. Such, it is alleged, is the case with punk, which has been declared dead many

times because it no longer has a clearly recognizable, and therefore easily marketable,

style (Clark 2003). Moreover, consumption practices, no matter how important or

unimportant, cannot be over-emphasized at the expense of neglecting issues of

production and regulation—important topics that can also tell much about the

particularities and concerns of subcultures.

Goals, Rationality, and Outcomes

The preoccupation with studying subcultural style and consumption, the assumption that these are of primary if not sole importance, has led to the perspective that subcultures are engaged in irrational, ineffective behavior. In other words, the unsurprising conclusion is reached that clothing, piercings, hair-dye, and tattoos cannot change the world or social arrangements more generally. This conclusion is reached, either implicitly or explicitly, in each of the major theoretical perspectives on youth culture but, again, is based on a priori assumptions rather than empirical evidence.

This pattern is evident beginning with the earliest youth studies perspective, that

of the Chicago School and related classical approaches. As discussed above, this early

work emphasized that some youths are socially pathological. That is, that they have been poorly socialized, are isolated, or in some way experience insufficient solidarity with

society and its norms. As a result, they form new social groupings—subcultures—as

maladaptive, deviant responses to the strain otherwise induced by their incomplete

64 integration. Such “strain” models were popular in this early era of sociological inquiry

for explaining any number of social phenomena that did not conform to researchers’

ideas of “normality.” For example, social movement formation—another collective

phenomenon like subculture—was also believed to result from the needs of socially

pathological individuals (e.g. Kornhauser 1959, Smelser 1962, Turner and Killian 1957).

Social movements, like subcultures, were not believed, therefore, to be involved in any rational sort of behavior nor were they perusing any rational goals (McAdam 1982).

Indeed, on a conceptual scale of perceived irrationality, subcultures were ranked, along with cults, somewhere between crowds and riots (at the most irrational end) and social movements (as the least irrational) (Eyerman 2002). Instead, subcultures and collective behavior more generally were conceived of as providing a therapeutic release for social deviants while doing nothing to alter the causes of their symptoms. Such strain theories have been thoroughly criticized and generally discredited in most topical areas of sociology,3 yet they still hold currency within the youth cultures literature.

An exhaustive critique of strain theories is not necessary for the purposes of the current study. It is sufficient to note the faulty logic upon which assumptions of

irrationality and ineffectualness within youth subcultures are based. The assumption of

irrational behavior on the part of participants of any collective mobilization was based on

a functionalist assumption of stable and mutually beneficial social workings. If the

current system is functional, any efforts to work outside of that system must be, de facto,

dysfunctional and irrational, resulting from some pathological experience of strain on the

part of the individual or resulting from social change. Later theorists indicated that strain,

65 far from being experienced sporadically by a minority of the population at a given time,

is a common experience whereas collective mobilization is not (see Jenkins 1983). Thus,

the constant—strain—cannot be used to explain a variable—collective mobilization. In

short, just as strain models offer inadequate explanations for social movements, so too

should they be considered suspect in explaining other forms of collective behavior such

as subcultures. At the very least, assumptions of pathology and rationality should be

tested rather than taken as givens.

As noted earlier, in many ways the transaction and labeling perspective offers an

improvement over the classical models of youth subculture (e.g. introducing the concepts

of relative deviance and power into the model). However, this is still inherently a

perspective that emphasizes deviant, discredited identities and passivity on the part of subculturalists. Here, any potential a subculture might have in pursuing rational goals is immediately defused by the label “deviant.” Thus, resistance to powerful cultural authorities (e.g. teachers, parents, the media, etc.) can readily be redefined by those same powers as youthful rebellion or a pointless fad (Raby 2005). While the researchers in this perspective, themselves, may not agree with this valuation, they also assume that no actual change can occur outside of the boundaries of deviantized subcultures to infect the

rest of society. Moreover, as the discrediting labels are externally applied by those with

cultural power, youths are relegated to a position of passive recipient, being capable of

exerting no real control over their situation.

The youth subculture perspective of the CCCS is considerably more sophisticated

than these earlier perspectives and offers at least some degree of continued utility.

66 However, despite the pervasive influence of neo-Marxianism in its formulation, the

perspective still draws heavily on the strain theory of the prior generation and is subject

to the same criticisms. As outlined above, the CCCS suggested that subcultures are

indeed trying to change the real conditions of social life; it did not assume pathology or other irrational underpinnings of subcultural involvement. In fact, subcultures were responses to real social grievances: economic duress, unemployment, and so on.

However, while considered inherently political because of their subordinate structural location—again, itself a proposition rightly criticized by post-subculture theorists—the

nature of their opposition is indirect, located in style and symbolic resistance. As

Marchart notes, “to restrict the analysis to matters of style rather than political

mobilization will necessarily lead to a depoliticized account of subcultures—even… with the opposite intention of politicizing them” (2004: 420). Thus, it comes as no surprise that the solutions offered by subcultures are described by researchers in this tradition as

“magical” and, again, as serving only psychologically therapeutic ends (Brake 1974,

1980; P. Cohen 1972). This conclusion is indistinguishable, in logic and terminology,

from earlier strain theories in which: “The beliefs on which collective behavior is

based… are thus akin to magical beliefs” (Smelser 1962: 8). By the time the CCCS

became dominant in the study of youth culture, the Resource Mobilization (McCarthy

and Zald 1977) and Political Process (Tilly 1978) perspectives had vindicated social

movements, identifying them as rational, albeit unconventional, attempts to enact or

oppose social change. Yet subcultures continued to be distinguished from social

movements as “pseudo-political movements” that “exist at a mythical level” (Tillman

67 1980: 173) without any real agenda.4 While social movement activists were out in the

streets challenging the status quo, youths in subcultures were seen as simply “doing

nothing” (Corrigan 1976: 103).

Post-subculture studies, while disagreeing that rational goals such as social

change are even on the agendas of such youth subcultures (to the extent that such groups

can even be identified), tend to conclude that the end result is the same as those suggested

by earlier perspectives: no tangible or collective outcomes emerge from subcultural

activity. Indeed, in their apotheosis of agency most theorists in this perspective deny or

ignore the ‘real,’ material, structural conditions (disparities) which collective interests

might attempt to act against (Shildrick and MacDonald 2006). Instead, a series of

temporary and overlapping aggregates are caught up in consumption and leisure pursuits,

though which they hope to assert their individuality with little concern for social

transformation or collective goals however defined. Far from pursuing rational

interests—political or otherwise—the main occupation of youth is to express or lose

one’s self in a hedonistic bender of consumption (Bennett 1999, 2005), drugs, and dance

(Rietveld 1998). Any concept of “a rationalized ‘social’” is thoroughly superceded “by an emphatic ‘sociality’” (Maffesoli 1996: 11).

This sort of thinking pervades the post-subcultures literature. For example, it has been argued that the politics of ravers are not “concerned with ‘changing the world’, but rather with… alternative experiences of the self” (Pini 1997: 118) and with accruing subcultural capital or “hipness” (Thornton 1995). The punks and Mods that Muggleton interviewed, similarly, offer “not a challenge to the system, but a liberal declaration of

68 freedom of expression, including the right to dress in ways contrary to dominant social conventions” (2000: 161). It is the individual attainment of strictly expressive goals that

are the focus of such groups; (post)subcultures are fully fixated with “consumer

autonomy and creativity” (Bennett 1999: 599-600) within the “Supermarket of Style”

(Polhemus 1994). There are no external opponents, no causes for grievance that might

inspire collective action. At best, “subculturalists are as much reproducing as resisting aspects of the dominant culture” (Muggleton 2000: 162). They are ‘taste cultures’ (Stahl

2003), market niches, and little more.

Although post-subculture studies, then, portray youths as active agents and not

passive objects of structural conditions, as the CCCS did, they fail to locate any

rationality or resistance—even ineffectual resistance—within subcultures. As Blackman

indicates, “emancipation is retained within postmodern subcultural analysis as a form of

personal expression” (2005: 15). Yet, researchers are now beginning to recognize the

weaknesses of such a totalizing theorization for the contemporary study of youth cultures:

“post-modernist and other post-subcultural positions have been… guilty of under-

politicizing [post-subcultures],” a position that “has been significantly undermined by the

political activism and media visibility of new post-subcultural protest formations”

(Weinzierl and Muggleton: 2003: 14).

No existing perspective on youth cultures has yet emerged which allows for the

possibility of rational, goal-oriented—including politically-oriented— behavior.

However, many individual researchers have begun to take steps in this direction by

suggesting that the literature on subcultures can be fruitfully merged with that of social

69 movements (Martin 2002). While among such efforts no theoretical consensus exists in

terms of how such behavior should be conceptualized, many possibilities have been

raised. This work suggests that a) subcultures can serve as mobilizing structures from which more conventional movement activism can arise, and b) subcultures can offer a direct, cultural challenge to taken-for-granted social norms and practices. As such, some

subcultures may be said to “straddl[e] the conceptual boundary between subculture and

movement” (Haenfler 2006: 60).

Social movements are not shaped exclusively by objective factors such as

available resources, but also by shared cognitions (Snow and Benford 1992). As

Eyerman (2002) argues, subcultures, as contexts within which alternative ideas are

exchanged and reinforced through shared experience, can be fertile breeding grounds for

social movement activity. Similarly, Pfaff (1996) illustrates how the collective identity

developed from mutual trust and solidarity in informal social groups can result in

contentious movement activity—even with grim prospects for success. Just like

traditional social movements (e.g. Kriesi 1996), the course which this activity takes is, in

part, based on the greater socio-political context within which subcultural activity occurs:

whether the subculture will serve as a recruiting ground, transform into an overt social

movement, be institutionalized within the political arena, and so on. White power

subcultures, for example, have been received quite differently in nations with varying

opportunity structures. Eyerman notes that “Swedish neo-Nazi groups are larger and

more aggressive, as an underground subculture, than those in Denmark, where the

established political discourse has translated their ideas into more acceptable political

70 forms and language” (2002: 457). National factors, of course, do not trump factors

internal to the subcultures themselves. St. John’s (2003, 2004) studies of rave dance

cultures, for example, reveal how these groups—previously trivialized as simple taste cultures or hyperindividualist lifestyles—have often embraced political activity and emerged as an important component of a global protest movement.5 This subculture- based movement aims at achieving human rights, environmental protection, global justice, and the reclamation of public spaces for convivial—not capital—purposes: “Not merely seeking difference, DIY tribes have mobilized to make a difference” (2004: 423,

emphasis added). These ends are pursued not through an oblique, semiotic posturing, but

through direct action. “Activists” storm the streets, denying vehicular traffic, sometimes

destroying these same streets and planting trees, always creating a carnival-like, rave

atmosphere and spreading the idea that public space should not be simply space for

commerce. In cases such as these, subculturalists begin to resemble social movements

more than “taste cultures.”

Social movement scholars have traditionally focused on social movements as

“challengers” to established political systems (e.g. Gamson 1990), and subcultures can be studied as extensions of this practice as the preceding examples illustrate. However, it has been noted that strictly political challenges have been overemphasized (Giugni 1998) at the expense of other potential outcomes of movement action. In more recent years, the idea that social movements can be “a fundamental source of social change” as challengers to cultural hegemony has gained ground (Johnston and Klandermans 1995:

5). From this perspective, cultural change may be at least as important as political

71 change (Gamson 1998). As such, Haenfler’s (2006) characterization of the straightedge

subculture as a social movement stands as a compelling case-study. Stemming from the

discourse and collective identity of their subculture, many straightedgers find

encouragement to participate in more overt social movement activity (e.g. taking part in the women’s rights movement, environmental movements, etc.) much like St. John’s ravers. However, the cultural challenge inherent in such subcultures introduces new alternative ways of thinking and doing into dominant discourse; subcultures, like formal

social movements, “may also alter cultural understanding and the organization of

everyday life” (Jenkins and Form 2005: 349). The effects of such a cultural counter-

discourse can be limited; for example, maintaining traditions of resistance within local

subcultures that give birth to periodic bouts of activism (Van Dyke 1998). However, the

effects can be more pervasive as well. A subculture’s counter-discourse can serve as a

ready-made collective action frame, launching a social movement into contentious action

and, ultimately, becoming absorbed as part of a modified everyday culture (Tarrow

1992).

Staightedge presents a generalized challenge to many aspects of everyday culture

and includes a strong concern for global justice. Yet, for youth, it is particularly relevant

as:

[A] culturally oriented challenge that creates a space for young people to feel ‘cool’ for not using drugs. They interpret their individual choices as taking a stand against an alcohol-obsessed society, setting a positive example, and forging a personal form of resistance that has broader consequences… For many [straightedgers], being part of a movement means setting a positive example, particularly for other youth. (Haenfler 2006: 77-78)

As is normally the case when attempting to measure cultural change (Gamson 1998), it is

difficult to say how many youths have been inspired by this subcultural movement, to 72 adopt a drug-free lifestyle, and to work other aspects of the pursuit of social justice into

their everyday lives. While specific political changes may not be readily evident in such

examples, “the cultural outcomes of movement activity may generate longer-lasting and

far-reaching consequences than political or legislative victories” (2006: 200). Presenting

unconventional alternatives as legitimate alternatives, subcultures as social movements

may lay bare the illusion of cultural consensus, permitting sweeping change in the ways

people think, live, and dream. They can represent “oppositional subcultures within the

‘global culture’ [that] function as wellsprings from which oppositional thought and discourse flow” (Johnston and Klandermans 1995: 7).

Clearly, the capacity exists for subcultures to pursue instrumental or rational

goals, whether or not those are explicitly political in nature. Yet, as Marchart warns, “not

all roads lead to Rome, and not all paths lead to politics” (2004: 420). Similarly, the

intention of the current study, it should be noted, is not to suggest that all, or any, youth subcultures can readily be explained and reduced down by rational actor models, nor that all subcultures necessarily resemble social movements. Indeed, many are likely engaged in expressive, non-instrumental behavior as well.6 However, it is the case that such groups have the potential to be at least as rationally-motivated as other manifestations of

collective action. Conversely, they are equally subject to the limitations of rational

reductionism. Nonetheless, the extent to which they are rational—the extent to which

subcultures are in pursuit of collective gains—relative to the extent to which they are not,

cannot be determined unless one is willing to analyze the possibility. As the CCCS

argued in one of its guiding statements, “We cannot afford to be blind to [youth

73 subcultures] … any more than we can afford to be blinded by them (Clarke et al. 1976:

10, emphasis in original). Unfortunately, this has not been the case with the majority of

youth studies which, as illustrated earlier, have their starting point of analysis in

assuming pathology, irrationality, or passivity on the part of youth without considering

that there might be a point to all the apparent madness.

SUMMARY

This chapter summarized and provided a critical overview of the existing

perspectives on youth subculture, the main points of which are summarized in Table 3.1.

This discussion will provide a theoretical grounding for an exploration of contemporary punk culture, the subject of the next chapter, and provide a basis upon which to ask questions regarding that subculture.

First, while being careful of overgeneralizations, the general character and content

of the subculture must be established. While earlier perspectives, which tended to reduce

youth cultures to deviant or pathological behavior, have largely fallen out of favor,

considerable debate remains regarding the nature and character of the phenomena in

question. CCCS perspectives tend to deny youth agency, exaggerate stability and

boundedness, and provide an essentialist summation of subculture. Post-subculture

studies, on the other hand, prioritize agency while denying the effects of social structure.

They suggest that no coherent, clearly-demarcated subcultures exist and that participation and affiliation are fluid and in permanent flux. Treating these competing perspectives as

75 ideal types, rather than perfect representations of a given subculture, the characteristics of

punk can be investigated and placed on a conceptual continuum.

Second, issues of style and consumption will be investigated. Traditionally, youth

studies have prioritized these issues, without prior empirical verification: interpreting

style as an indirect and ineffectual form of resistance or as an individual means of self-

expression without instrumental intent. Rather than assuming these are key

preoccupations of punk in general or of individual punks, the extent to which style and

the consumption thereof are important, and the role they serve, will be examined.

Additionally, alternatives to a fixation on style will be considered which, it will be

argued, are more essential to punk identity and praxis.

Finally, the extent to which punk can be reduced to an expressive, non-goal-

oriented phenomenon, as opposed to a goal-oriented quasi-social movement, will be

examined. For this, again, it is necessary to conduct an empirical investigation rather than rely on prior theorization based on assumptions or overgeneralizations from other case-studies.

Having addressed these issues, it will be possible to highlight the strengths and weaknesses of current approaches to youth culture and suggest a course for future study.

At the same time, the same cautions apply that a single case-study, while instructive in theory testing, cannot be presumed to speak for all subcultures.

CHAPTER 4: A CRITICAL INVESTIGATION OF PUNK SUBCULTURE

In this chapter, an investigation of the specific subculture of interest—punk—is completed. The chapter has two goals: 1) to ascertain the explanatory power of current youth studies theory in regards to punk as well as to highlight shortcomings of such theory, and 2) To provide an understanding of contemporary punk culture. Such an understanding is necessary in order to understand how punk is experienced, expressed, and facilitated by the spaces it occupies—the goal of the following chapters.

By at least the 1970s, punk predominantly emerged as a coherent, cultural phenomenon in both New York City and London.1 Having its genesis in both locations amid a social context of deindustrialization, economic asperity, and Cold War politics, it has been argued that punk took the form of a cynical and nihilistic subculture in response to the conditions of its birth (Hebdige 1979, Henry 1989, Moore 2000). Others have argued that punk was “primarily social rebellion against boredom and the cultural climate of the Seventies… it became the natural outlet of a creative, active, do-it-yourself mentality” (Hurchalla 2006: 18). Whether or not either of these views represent accurate interpretations of punk’s roots is not critical to the current study. Instead, the focus will be on punk subculture, ethos, and practice as it exists today—over three decades after its

humble beginnings. It cannot be expected that punk has stayed static during the ensuing

77 time period and, thus, a survey of its contemporary character is in order.2 Most accounts of punk history and culture, moreover, make the mistake of “accomplish[ing] exactly what punk set out to destroy: they codify and glorify the star system by focusing on the innovators who held central positions in early punk” (Leblanc 2006: 34). Therefore, this survey will not focus on specific well-known individuals, bands, and so forth, as exemplars of punk practice. Such hero-worship, as will be seen shortly, can provide little useful information about the current subculture as a whole and, additionally, is not in keeping with punks ideals.

Yet, delineating the essential characteristics of subcultures is a problematic endeavor. Studies of subcultures typically attempt to isolate a specific set of shared norms, values, and beliefs that hold such groups together whereas, in reality, subcultures exhibit considerable internal variation as well as similarity (Wood 2003). Thus, while broad statements or descriptions can be made, specific members and cliques within the greater subculture may vary greatly in terms of a) their understandings of specific subcultural commonalities, b) their internalization of these commonalities, and c) their identities (2003). To make generalizations about specific individuals or groups within the subculture based on perceived, shared commonalties is tantamount to committing ecological fallacy (Robinson 1950). However, it is an overstatement to say that no such commonalities can be drawn at all (e.g. Bennett 1999). As we shall see, though tracing collective conceptions of a subculture is a complex task, it is by no means impossible.

As described in chapter 2, the data for the following exploration of punk were drawn from three sources: 1) in-depth interviews, 2) field observations, and 3) content

78 analysis of punk texts. In this chapter, the first of these data sources is emphasized while

the latter two were utilized as “checks” on the conclusions drawn therein where they

could be applied. For example, while it is possible to observe punk style (or the lack

thereof) it is not possible to readily observe “individualism.” Again, the overall approach

was inductive, allowing respondents maximum autonomy in deciding what was and what

was not important for them in terms of their participation in punk rock. Such an

approach is especially important given the strong possibility that prior work in this area

has imposed theoretical expectations too strongly and produced erroneous results

(Greener and Hollands 2006).

With this methodology and the aforementioned caveats in mind, it was possible to

make some informed generalizations of some more-or-less shared characteristics

associated with punk culture. Variance in these observations was largely of degree, not

of type. That is, there was a common conception of punk which was more-or-less shared

by participants. Departures from these conceptions were largely on the same continuum

and did not represent radical breaks such that no commonality can be drawn (e.g.

Muggleton 2000). First, contrary to what most previous studies have found, punk was

not found to be based on style or semiotic warfare (Hebdige 1979) nor was it found to be

predominantly characterized as an expressive consumer culture (e.g. Bennett 1999).

Instead, there were at least five core, overlapping values associated with the subculture that, together, were found to constitute something of a contemporary punk ethos: 1) individualism, 2) communitarianism, 3) egalitarianism, 4) antiauthoritarianism, and 5) the

DIY (do-it-yourself) ethic. While, again, particular punks or sub-groupings of punks may

79 vary in terms of the degree to which they maintain this ethos, the manner in which they

interpret such ideals, and the extent to which they live up to whatever their beliefs are,

this general ethos could be perceived clearly when considering the sample of

interviewees as whole. Finally, the significance of these findings for subcultural theory

are discussed.

PUNK ROCK: MORE THAN FASHION

As outlined in the previous chapter, the dominant youth studies perspectives all

characterize subcultures as predominantly organized around style, fashion, and the

consumption thereof. Bearing in mind the apparent tendency of such perspectives to

impose their theoretical expectations on their subjects (Greener and Hollands 2006,

Redhead 1990, Stahl 2003), and consistent with the methodology outlined earlier,

questions regarding style were not explicitly asked of respondents in the current study.

Instead, participants were asked general questions designed to encourage them to focus

on what they, not the researcher, found to be important about punk subculture and their

experiences with it. Not surprisingly, the issue of style was brought up repeatedly even though unprompted. However, style was not treated by the informants in any way consistent with these dominant theories. Rather than serving as a vehicle of semiotic warfare against mainstream culture (i.e. the CCCS approach) or as a commodity to be consumed which expresses individuality and frees the consumer from structural constraints (i.e. the post-subcultures approach), several interpretations divergent from existing theoretical perspectives were offered.

80 First, most punks acknowledged that a concern for fashion exists within the

subculture. However, they tended to a) deny that this was of any importance to the

subculture, b) assert that other punks (including younger versions of themselves), not

themselves currently, were engaged in the disreputable practice, c) that style served a

more pragmatic function as a signifier of affiliation, and/or d) that the active production,

not the passive consumption, of style was relevant to the subculture. In the case of the

latter, it is not style, itself, which is lauded or deemed important, but independent

productivity—a theme that will be considered in more depth later in this chapter.

Many of the informants acknowledged the existence of a popular perception of

punk as a subculture focused on a particular look or style and offered a negative appraisal

of this perception. Renee, for example, argued that:

[I]t seems like a lot of people today have a fixed idea of what punk is, you know, you need to have the spiked hair, it has to be orange, green, or purple, and you have to be wearing a studded belt, and the worn-out muscle shirts with like hardcore band names on them, and cutup jeans, but… Honestly, it’s just one of the faces of punk. I believe that there are a lot more faces, but the underlying theme in all of them is challenging everyday norms.

Others, like Ray, note with apparent annoyance that “Hair-dye and safety pins does not make you a punk. It does not.” Such sentiments, repeated several times by various informants clearly indicate dissatisfaction with the idea that punk can be reduced to fashion and, more importantly, that fashion really has anything to do with it at all. Yet not all of the blame could be placed solely on outsiders:

That was always a big point of contention too, it’s like “Oh if you’re not wearing the uniform, you don’t have boots and braces and a mohawk, you can’t be part of the scene.” Well of course you could. I mean I was part of the scene, I never looked like that. But that was also some thinking that went on. But, you know, we’re all human so not everything’s ever going to be perfect and that certainly includes the punk scene. (John)

81 These, and similar, statements seem to suggest not only that spectators external to

punk misunderstand it and overstate the importance of style, but also that some

participants in the culture erroneously fixate on style. Carolyn argued that “punk is not

hot topic ideals” and noted that “some of my friends are too concerned about the fashion

(…) and can’t be taken seriously.” Yet, allocating fixation on style to ignorant others

extends to younger versions of one’s self as well. Numerous informants mentioned how

they, like many people new to the subculture, were for a time very much taken by the

erroneous perspective that punk is about fashion. Implicit in such narratives, or explicit

as in the case of Calvin that follows, is the attribution of this behavior to naivety:

I mean for me, it was going to thrift stores, buying flannel shirts—which I later learned was grunge and not punk but I had to be told that—and buying slacks probably previously worn by, you know, retired men, that were way too big for me, making ‘em into cutoffs, and essentially trying to dress fucked up. To visually differentiate myself from others, but not wear a uniform, so, you know, uniqueness was valued…

Yet, if youthful naivety and lack of understanding of punk are the reasons for fixating on style, and punk itself has very little to do with style, then this fixation is bound to fade with time and with the accumulation of subcultural capital (Thornton 1995). Indeed,

Andes’ (1998) investigation of the life course of punk careers found that rebellion through style was a trait of new, younger members and that it was transcended with time.

This perspective is well illustrated by Andrea:

A: I think that appearance has a lot to do with it, especially when you’re younger. And once you get a little bit older I don’t think it matters any more. But I think that dressing a certain way at a certain point in your life is very very very important to someone’s identity as a punk.

J: But as you get older you think that becomes less important?

A: It has to me and it has to a lot of people that I know. Like I said, I’m clean now. [laughs] I wash my hair at least three times a week. [laughs]

82 Traits that are indicative of a younger phase of development, such as obsession with style, may be tolerated by other members for a time. However, prior research suggests that failure to grow out of these traits may lead to criticism and rejection by other scene members (Davis 2006).

Whether concerns for style are constructs of outsiders looking in at punk or of people not properly socialized into the norms of the subculture, the majority of respondents seemed to agree with Dan that “you can be punk, you don’t have to look punk.” This shared perspective runs parallel to Muggleton’s (2000: 120) finding that

“some subculturalists [do] not hold style in high regard” and by the fieldwork conducted for this study. Whereas at times individuals or groups were observed that clearly conformed to a popular perception of what amounts to punk style—e.g. outlandish hair, piercings, tattoos, and other paraphernalia—the majority of those in attendance at shows did not stand out so clearly.3 Figure 4.1 illustrates two audience members and a band member at a show who do not at all fit any imaginable punk stereotype. Such individuals were far more common than those sporting dramatic fashions. Also common were more subtle stylistic indicators of punk affiliation, a topic to which we turn next.

While most of the informants, then, suggested that fashion was unimportant and superficial, others offered a practical interpretation for why punks might adopt a particular, readily recognizable, “look.” In her interview, Helen concisely described this perspective and its implications:

83 Figure 4.1: Punk Style

…[Y]ou got to see people, different ages, both older and younger than you, and how they were experiencing the subculture which was remarkably identical throughout the country no matter where you went: it’s middle-class, white, suburbanites (...) [I]t meant that when kids came into town from Oregon, from Washington, from Georgia, from Texas, you’ll be damned if they weren’t wearing the exact same clothes you were, and they seemed like bizarre doppelgangers of friends you already have. And then at that point it was, there were cultural markers, visual cultural markers, such that if you’re going down the street and you see somebody who has a, I don’t know, what’s a shirt that would make sense? You see somebody who has a Screeching Weasel shirt on, you know that they know about Lookout Records, and they’ve probably been reading Larry’s column, and that you know, you can assume, just these things about them because that somebody who knows enough to listen to Screeching Weasel and have a shirt is probably enough into the culture to have these other things also be true. And if they’re reading Maximumrocknroll then they probably have been reading things by San Francisco activists, you know, like that activist hub of the United States, in such a way that they’re, they’ve been introduced to ideas about activism, anarchy, gender, that there’s no way they would’ve run across if they hadn’t been in this [subculture] in their Georgia or Indiana or Ohio, general culture. So even though it was just a visual signifier, what it could mean was massive in terms of ideas of social change and just what was possible.

84 This suggests that style, where present, is not necessarily an empty signifier (cf.

Baudrillard 1983, Craik 1994, Kaiser et al. 1991), nor is it intended to simply indicate or accumulate subcultural capital (cf. Thornton 1995). Rather, such heuristic indicators of identity are easily attainable, they can be recognized immediately by other members of the subculture, and may provide reasonable insight into the characteristics of a stranger when one is lacking more specific information (Bianco 1998). Thus, style could function as a heuristic indicator of affiliation and habitus (Bourdieu 1990): of similar backgrounds, concerns, beliefs, and interests. For example, in straightedge subculture— an offshoot of punk—tattoos and other symbols serve to immediately and unambiguously denote membership as well as adherence to a specific, shared moral code (Atkinson 2002,

Haenfler 2006).

In other contexts, it has been found that people are more likely to interact with, like, and trust strangers based solely on heuristic indicators such as race and sex which are readily observable (Mouw 2006, McPherson et al. 2001). However, punk subculture is predominantly white and, to some extent, male as well (Moore 2007). Clothing or other stylistic indictors could therefore be especially important for heuristic recognition, otherwise it would not be possible to identify a member of this minority subculture based on its majority physical traits. As one informant, Chase, noted:

When you go to a strange town, there’s a hundred people that look exactly like each other and stuff. And like what are the chances that some random guy who looks like them walking up to them and being like “Hey, man, what’s going on?” But like with a punk rocker, I can pretty much go into any town wherever, find some people, be like “Hey, man. What’s up?”

While such visual identifiers would appear, then, to serve the subculture well, as noted above many of the punks interviewed did not consider style to be important at all

85 and did not describe themselves as having this “punk look.” In this regard, Barrett stated that “My whole thing its, I’m wearing like fuckin’ flip-flops right now and I have a normal haircut, but I mean I was listening to Rancid before I left my house a minute ago.” Similarly, Bill described how other punks wouldn’t necessarily recognize him as a member of the same subculture:

[T]hose guys would probably not, they would look at me and probably think “that guy from [names record store where he works], he’s not really a punk rocker” because I don’t have tattoos and, you know, I do have a leather jacket but it’s a Hugo Boss leather jacket (…), I never had a tattoo. I never had a piercing.

Since not all punks utilize fashion even in the capacity of heuristic indicator, it cannot be relied upon as a meaningful signifier of identity or affiliation.

Additionally, some informants indicated that apparent instances of punk style, even when observed, cannot always be relied upon to correctly identify another member of the subculture. Consistent with the pattern described by previous observers (Frank

1997, Hebdige 1979), this was attributed to the shifting meaning of stylistic signifiers, especially given the commodification of punk by big business over the years. “Punk” styles and band merchandise have been made increasingly available for sale in ordinary stores where anyone, not necessarily members of the subculture, can purchase them.

Returning to Helen, it can be seen that:

[I]it isn’t the same way it used to be, it’s been very coopted, or at least the visual markers and a lot of the signifiers have been coopted in a way that would make it difficult for there to be an in-group in the same way it was beforehand. (…) [S]omebody who’s into punk probably looks like a hipster, and so does somebody who just showed up to grad school from, you know, BF Ohio, and thinks that’s the cool uniform to wear. Like, you can’t tell the difference looking at them, right? Like, there’s no way to know.

Showing similar concerns over non-members erroneously adopting subcultural signifiers,

Naomi mentioned that:

86 Just like people who dress, like jock-hawks [sic], like when you see, these are the guys who obviously were like jocks on the football team, and I mean have like mohawks. Like the jock- hawks, and you can spot ‘em right away. It’s like “You don’t listen to shit.” Or those girls that are like really preppy and they’re wearing like the Ramones t-shirts to be cool.

The ease by which non-members can appropriate punk-looking styles may

necessitate that members resort to increasingly subtle and obscure signifiers to visually

recognize each other. Phil mentioned that “I think if you saw me on the street you might

not recognize—unless you recognized like a t-shirt I was wearing or something—you

wouldn’t recognize me as a punk per se.” This subtle reference to particular bands one enjoys on one’s clothing seems to represent the greatest extent to which one can readily use style as a heuristic. This use of such subtlety to indicate affiliation likely serves more than one purpose. It may, indeed, serve as a signifier that is more difficult for those not

“in the know” to duplicate, but it also serves to steer away from dramatic fashion statements of the like which, as noted earlier, most punks seem to think have no place in the subculture.

Indeed, consistent with Clark (2003), who argued that punk has transcended style,

during field observations it was generally difficult to recognize a punk save through the

visible display of band names on clothing as exemplified in Figure 4.2. Yet even this

could not always be relied upon. First, as noted above, most punks do not seem to even

wear this level of “style” and could blend in with a non-punk crowd without difficulty (as

illustrated in Figure 4.1). Second, the multitude of underground punk bands in existence makes it impossible for any individual to know the names of each band and, therefore, to reliably recognize these on another’s clothing.4 For these reasons, even a practical

interpretation of the importance of style to punk subculture can be easily overstated.

87 Figure 4.2 Band Names as Heuristic Signifiers of Affiliation

88 One further interpretation offered by respondents in regard to the possible role of

style remains as exemplified in the following passage:

I’m really not into all the studded jackets and stuff anymore. And leather and stuff like that. I think it’s the least interesting part of the scene. Like I think when people make their own clothes that’s really really interesting, and that’s really cool, and that’s being self-sufficient, but I think a lot of people still get judged based on what they wear. (Mary)

Here, it is not the clothing itself that is considered important—either in terms of it being a

means of expression or as a signifier of affiliation. Instead, it is the process of producing

an object that matters. Moreover, it is not the style of the thing being produced, not

innovation or aesthetic ability that is lauded, but the ability to create rather than consume

pre-made forms. This valuation of productivity was in evidence repeatedly throughout

the interviews and was not confined to fashion:

J: Could you think of […] anything else that you’re into, or other people might be into, that sort of goes along with a punk identity […]?

M: Sure. I think DIY [do-it-yourself] is really important to the whole punk movement and anything involved with it. Because, anything from cutting up t-shirts, at the lowest end, to putting together shows, putting together venues, to putting together bands. Anything. Yeah, DIY is definitely at the heart of it. (Mollie)

According to Moore (2007) this DIY (do-it-yourself) ethic is at the core of punk

subculture. It involves prioritizing a “process of creative work and cultural participation

involved in the creation of commercially independent media” (2007:439). The

importance of DIY to punk subculture cannot be overstated and will be addressed, in

depth, below. Here, it is sufficient to reiterate that the invocation of DIY suggests a

further value extrinsically related to style—a value which subsumes, but cannot be

reduced to, style.

As a whole, the above observations fail to support the perspectives on style and fashion currently dominant in the youth studies literature as described in the previous 89 chapter. Contrary to the CCCS perspective, there is no single, coherent punk style which can readily be recognized among members of the subculture. At best, such indicators occur only on occasion and their meanings are lost, or mainstreamed, over time.

Moreover, very little can be read in terms of the semiotic significance of what style

remains. Rather than signifying “noise” or resistance to dominant ways of life by altering

the meanings of material objects taken from mainstream culture (Clarke et al. 1976,

Hebdige 1979), style serves, at best, an identifying function for group affiliation.

At first, these findings appear to better conform to a post-subcultures approach.

With the possible exception of certain groupings within punk, such as straightedge, there

are few stable and widely shared symbols or styles, which is of course consistent with the

perspective that all styles have become signifiers referring to nothing (Baudrillard 1983,

Craik 1994, Kaiser et al. 1991). Yet, at the same time, numerous respondents affirmed

that sufficient signifiers remained to allow a heuristic appraisal of the affiliation of others.

Regardless of whether or not such meaningful signifiers persist, no evidence could be

found to support the post-subcultural studies expectation that punk is characterized by

individualistic consumption of market goods, that an attempt is made to supersede

structural and social constraints by punks expressing themselves through the

“Supermarket of Style” (Polhemus 1994). Instead, production of cultural goods was

emphasized, in a process that is independent of dominant culture industries, nor was this

production defined primarily by attention to style.

While style may have some minor degree of importance in punk subculture—as

inauthentic youthful phase, as useful signifier of affiliation, or as an outcome of active

90 productivity—it is indeed not prioritized by punks nor can it be seen as integral to the culture (Clark 2003, Muggleton 2000). This finding begs two questions: 1) Why have so many previous determined that style is of the utmost importance to punk subculture if it is not? and 2) If style is not important to punk, than what is?

There are many possible answers available to the first question, which cannot be

definitively proven here, that are noteworthy. First, as noted in the previous chapter and

as several recent researchers have observed (Greener and Hollands 2006, Muggleton

2000, Redhead 1990,), many studies have invoked monolithic conceptualizations of

subcultures. In such cases, for example, a study of a single subculture may be passed off

as being representative of all subcultures. To remedy this, it has been suggested that

researchers distinguish between different types of subcultures that are more or less

dissimilar from one another (Hodkinson 2002). Thus, some style-oriented subcultures

may have been unfairly generalized as descriptive of punk. It follows that the present

portrayal of American punk in the 2000s should not be taken as representative of all

subcultural phenomena across time and space either. Secondly, again as noted in the

previous chapter, a related problem in the literature is the imposition of theory on

findings. The approach used by Hebdige (1979), for example, was not based on

empirical observation, but on semiotic theory. This renders the attempt to ‘decode’

subcultural meanings that by definition vary from mainstream meanings problematic

given that no insiders were interviewed to gain their point of view (Davies 1996, Stahl

2003). Without an insider’s perspective, it is not surprising that an outsider focused so

thoroughly on the most obvious aspects of an unfamiliar group: its material culture.

91 Similarly, Greener and Hollands (2006) suggest that both CCCS and Post-Subcultures

studies tended to impose their grand perspectives on their subject matter, accounting for years of studies with divergent findings. The current study purposely followed an

inductive methodology in the hopes of avoiding this imposition of theory. Finally, when

dealing specifically with punk, most studies of this subculture were conducted much earlier than the present work. It is possible that at one time punk was style-oriented but that this is no longer the case. According to Clark (2003) the old spectacle-based punk movement died: it has moved from “performance” to “practice.” (2003: 233). Early punk was attempting to shock the mainstream through style, but that style is no longer shocking. Thus, from acting out shocking roles with visual props that can be easily coopted and marketed, punk has shifted to an everyday life no longer based on images and style but on ideas and action.

Which explanations ultimately may account for the divergence of the current findings with those of previous studies is, of course, a matter for future research that maintains the cautionary words offered here. For the moment, however, we are still left with the second question raised by this section: if style is not important to punk, than what is?

THE NON-MATERIAL CULTURE OF PUNK

When asked to describe what punk is, respondents generally did not focus on aspects of material culture such as fashion. Instead they repeatedly referred to less concrete conceptualizations which will be explored here. In the most general terms,

92 respondents first suggested that punk can best be represented or described as a shared

attitude, mindset, or way of life:

Punk, to me, I guess you can say it’s a mindset. (Dan) -- Well, I think it’s, I mean the first thing that comes to mind would definitely be a genre of music, but it definitely goes beyond that. I mean there is the whole punk mentality and I mean there definitely is a certain tenor that goes along with the word punk. I mean there’s an image associated to it, there’s an attitude associated with it. (Aaron) Sometimes this attitude or mindset is directly contrasted to popular conceptions of punk

as a stylistic endeavor:

It’s not how you cut your hair, or what you put in your ears, or whose t-shirt you’re wearing. It’s more just this attitude that we are a subculture, into and of ourselves, and the more we can keep it in the family the better things are gonna be for everybody. (John)

The informants would then go on, either prompted or of their own accord, to

describe their perception of this perceived and shared, non-material aspect of the

subculture. While no two respondents gave the exact same response or categorization,

there was considerable overlap in the general themes that were discussed.

Individualism and Communitarianism

One such descriptor, which was often also the first element offered, had to do with concerns for individualism and, put in more negative terms, anti-conformism. That is, the ability and right of each person to be self-determined, to be who they would like to be and do as they what like to do without the need to give into the expectations of others or to other externally imposed constraints. The term used by the informants to describe this valued good, however, was generally ‘freedom’:

[W]hether it [punk] be like, you know, politically charged or angry or just rebellious in general, it’s just like, to me, your own personal freedom. Like, freedom to just, above all, not be afraid to be yourself. To do what’s in your heart and so ideologically that’s what it means to me. (Parker) -- 93 Punk to me means kind of a freedom to not have to follow the same rules, like a freedom to express yourself, and the freedom to live in a more kind of, more free way. (Mary)

Punks are, in part, interested in promoting and maintaining individuality in all its forms, at resisting external pressures to behave or think in prescribed ways. Punk concern with, and opposition to, conformity is perhaps the most well-documented of the values that constitute the punk ethos. Very likely it also the most universally held value of punks themselves:

Punks question conformity not only by looking and sounding different (which has debatable importance), but by questioning the prevailing modes of thought. Questions about the things that others take for granted related to work, race, sex, and our own selves are not asked by the conformist whose ideas are determined by those around her. The nonconformist does not rely on others to determine her own reality. (O’Hara 1999: 28)

These observations gave rise to the recognition of a potential difficulty: with punk, tracing shared norms, values, and beliefs is particularly problematic because the

“essence” of the subculture is not based entirely on sameness, but rather perceived difference:

Punk, as a term, was a paradox. It was “I’m belonging to a group, but mostly because it’s non- inclusive.” In other words, it was belonging to a group by being an individualist. Which is a contradiction, but yet it made sense because you defined yourself by what you weren’t. (Kezdy as cited in Hurchalla 2006:83).5

Punks not only view themselves as not fitting in with ‘normal’ society, but as differing from one another as well. ‘Difference,’ itself, is perceived as a shared trait that unites punk practitioners. Often this perception of shared difference was presented in response to questions about how informants got into punk in the first place:

Um, I never felt like when I was in High School, I was definitely the outsider (…) And, you know, when I came here and I got involved in this underground scene, I mean literally I was like “Oh, these people are just like me.” (Bill) --

Plus a lot of people also who are into punk kind of feel like, cause it’s a subculture, so a lot of times I know I always felt like I did not fit in with a lot of people. So it kind of like is a draw. Like “Oh, these people are like me.” (Naomi) 94

While an appreciation of being different and not fitting in was a common experience, it was not a universal one. Some of the informants described a very different situation where, although they appreciated themselves as individuals, their entrée into punk had more to do with liking the music, meeting people, or some interest other than feeling as though they didn’t fit in with the mainstream:

I mean like, I really think a lot of it has to do with, for me it was, I got into punk when Green Day was starting (…)Yeah, it was never like, then there’s the whole social outcast kind of aspect of it. I mean I was never like a really cool kid either, but I didn’t get into punk to like rebel against the mainstream sort of like a lot of people do. (Barrett) -- What I got into as a teenager was largely serendipitous, it was through me going to some shows and meeting some people and, as I recall, falling in love with a group of people who remain some of my best friends now. (Calvin)

Individualism constitutes one of the pillars of punk subculture. While the current study is intended as an exploration of punk, and not an explanation for its origins or the origins of subcultures in general, it is worth considering the place of individualism in the subculture relative to the rest of society and to other subcultures. According to the CCCS perspective, subcultures often adopt the concerns and ideology of the parent cultures which give them birth. For example, as Willis (1977) found, the youth culture of teenage boys in industrial jobs prioritized being strong, hard-working, and generally masculine— values directly borrowed from the working class parent culture. Similarly, Arnett (1996) traces the obsession with individuality in heavy metal culture to the value of liberal individualism in the dominant culture within which it is contextualized. Rather than being a radical departure from the mainstream, heavy metal’s exaggeration of this value—which Arnett refers to as hyperindividualism—simply reaffirms and valorizes the mainstream value. Muggleton (2000) found the same to be true in his sample of mods,

95 punks, and rockers, suggesting that not only is individualism shared by the mainstream

and by heavy metal fans, but by a range of subcultures as well. Other studies affirm that

individualism is a contemporary mainstream value in the United States (Bellah et al.

1985) and, indeed, constitutes part of a system of post-materialist values that has been emerging for some time in much of the developed world (Inglehart 1990). Thus, individualism is a widely shared cultural good. It is not a countercultural trait nor is it in any way unique to punk. This commonality across cultural groups could also be interpreted as support for the post-subcultures idea that subcultures are indistinguishable from each other and from the mainstream (e.g. Grossberg 1984, 1997; Thornton 1995,

Weinzierl and Muggleton 2003), but it remains to be seen if differences exist elsewhere in punk.

Whatever their reasons for becoming a part of this subculture which is based in

part on difference and individualism—even if this is not a basis that distinguishes punk

from other cultural groupings—most of the respondents seemed to be self-conscious of the apparent contradiction in a collectively held value of non-conformity which, itself, could be considered a value one is conforming to:

For me it’s [punk] not conforming, but I don’t know if I would say that punk in general is not conforming, because if somebody conforms to a group that isn’t conforming to another group, that can still be considered punk, and if they’re conforming to a group that’s doing something, that, if it’s conforming to a group and they’re doing something with some kind of passion, I don’t really see why I could, you know, get down on them just for conforming. (Ivan)

Understandably, respondents seemed to express some difficulty when trying to

describe what punk is all about. At first this fact also appeared to conform to a post-

subcultures expectation: subculturalists cannot describe their subculture with any degree of specificity because there is no commonality to describe. Rather than representing a 96 coherent set of norms and practices, as the CCCS perspective postulates, a post- subcultures approach suggests that each individual member of a youth grouping samples freely and without restraint from available styles and no fixed ‘subculture’ can be located

(e.g Polhemus 1994, Shields 1992). From this perspective, anything could conceivably be categorized as punk since, like all subcultures, it would be a “catch-all” term (Bennett

1999) which by referring to everything refers to nothing:

[E]verything could be punk or, I mean, I think people started challenging the musical style a long time ago. As punk was being made it was being challenged which is probably one of the good things about it. Albeit it fails at that more often than it doesn’t, but punk can pretty much be anything. (Chris)

Other respondents seemed to indicate that punk should be inclusive off everything and anything that individuals want it to be, but that in reality not every member lives up to this ideal. Some people in the subculture, it seems, have selected certain standards which they use to maintain, patrol, and enforce their ideas of what constitutes the subculture’s boundaries. This sort of behavior was described with disapproval by the respondents who, it seems, prefer a more openly defined subculture. Concerns over these issues were raised especially when respondents were asked to try to delineate punk by contrasting it to what it was not.

J: [A]re there things that it’s not, that it’s clearly either the opposite of or at odds with, or something like that? A: Well, there’s things it’s supposed to not be. For example, it’s not supposed to be conformity, which you find more and more today it is. (Aaron) -- J Would you agree then that different people have different ideas of what punk means?

M: Oh, definitely. I think some people get into it because it’s the only way they can be into something that’s exclusive. Cause they don’t fit in elsewhere, but at least they can be a punk and they can deny other people the right to enjoy the same stuff too. (Mary)

97 There is a tension here between a subculture that must exist as a coherent whole and yet

must also be defined in terms of inclusiveness. Most participants seemed to lean heavily

toward the side of inclusion, that is, they were more concerned with permitting the

greatest possible freedom to all members of the subculture than with losing any sense of

collective meaning by being too inclusive. For example, when asked to describe what

punk is, Parker said:

Like I said, I don’t liked getting bogged down to specifics because, I think once you start doing that you cut a lot of people out. And uh, I think especially like punk means today, like something completely different than what it did when it started. And so, I think it’s important to keep, you know pushing boundaries (…) (Parker)

One respondent, while also in favor of inclusiveness, recognized the need to

define and maintain some boundaries, distasteful as such an act might be, lest the entire

group become a meaningless, post-modern tribe:

But I think in terms of in-group out-group psychology you have to have markers to say “I recognize you and this is what makes us us and them them” and if you’re too inclusive, then you’re going to lose that sense of community that’s holding you together (…) (Helen)

This observation runs parallel with much relevant work in the academic literature on the

inclusiveness or exclusiveness of social groups. Punk individualism, as noted earlier, is likely traceable to a larger cultural discourse of liberal individualism. Both classical and more contemporary observers have voiced concerns that this social philosophy and its effects on society runs the risk of fostering alienation and isolation (Wolff 1968), and generally erodes social bonds (Maine ([1862] 1960, Wirth 1938) and the ties of civil society (Putnam 2000). Such was, allegedly, the case with Arnett’s (1996) metallers, many of whom were said to have experienced symptoms of alienation in their quests for individualism.

98 Similar problems may be encountered should punk be interpreted as a movement

with a cause—a perspective investigated more in-depth below. Many social movement

studies celebrate the idea of ‘collective identity,’ defined as “a shorthand designation

announcing a status—a set of attitudes, commitments, and rules for behavior—that those

who assume the identity can be expected to subscribe to” (Friedman and McAdam 1992:

157). Collective identity can be a powerful tool for movement mobilization and action

(Melucci 1995, Pfaff 1996). However, from the findings presented thus far, punks have a

problematic collective identity wherein what is shared is primarily difference through

hyperindividualism. Friedman and McAdam (1992) note that when a movement

becomes too successful at recruiting members, too many people can adopt the movement

label for themselves such that the status becomes meaningless—there are no expected behaviors or beliefs required of members and the movement becomes impotent to do anything at all. It is possible that this has happened to punk as well, but this cannot be concluded at this point. All that can be said for now, is that a movement based on individualism runs particular risks: isolation, meaninglessness, and impotence.6

Indeed, being too inclusive threatens not only the meaningfulness of the term punk or the sense of identity one can apprehend through adopting the term to describe one’s self, but excessive fluidity of boundaries can permit unsavory elements to enter the

subcultural stream. Returning to Ivan, we see recognition of this danger in excessive

inclusiveness:

Or you could say, you know, people like Stalin were punk because he just did what he wanted. Whenever he got paranoid about something he just got rid of it, which is kind of a punkish way of doing things, I guess. (Ivan)

99 While few people would likely label Stalin a punk in real life, the point of Ivan’s concern is made clear by this dramatic example. Indeed, the history of punk is riddled with real instances of problems occurring through the openness of its boundaries and emphasis on individuality. For example, intrusions by Neo-Nazis and other elements of the extreme right have not been at all uncommon over the years (Van Dorston 1990). Interestingly, such intrusions were seldom accepted by punks as simple expressions of individual autonomy. Indeed, violent clashes were common, and sometimes still are today, which suggests that there are indeed subcultural boundaries present, but that the ideology of inclusiveness and individual self-determinism does not permit one to readily acknowledge such boundaries. Such acknowledgement would seem to bluntly undermine a philosophy of hyperindividualism through radical inclusiveness.

Yet, if an excess of inclusiveness, of fluidity of boundaries, is potentially problematic, so is excessive homogeneity and enforcement of boundaries. Social groups based entirely on sameness may become insular and intolerant (Sennett 1976), incapable of interacting with other groups and obsessed with conforming to, and enforcing a collective identity. This type of community is no solution to alienation nor can such collectivism be reconciled with punk individualism. Yet, punks consistently refer to themselves as a close community with some degree of shared interests:

J: What does punk mean to you (…)?

C: I would say it just means a community of like-minded people. -- I feel like it was really important to me, especially as somebody that came from somewhere so isolated. Like that I was able to go shows, occasionally in [names city], and commiserate with people that kind of did the same things that I wanted to do. I mean that was very very important for me in terms of community. (Andrea)

100 Interestingly, the concept of punk community was often used in direct contrast to

the sort of homogenous, close-minded, and exclusive social groups that Sennett (1976)

condemned as insular communities:

Like, I don’t get too caught up in you know, rules of being punk because it’s important that it always keep changing as a subculture. Because it has to, otherwise it would be just some exclusionary club, if you don’t keep changing, and sort of relating as a community keeping it as a community where people help each out as opposed to pushing each other away. (Parker)

Indeed, sometimes participants who no longer affiliate with a punk identity attribute their

leaving in part to a local scene that had lost a sense of community, that become too exclusive and fixed in its meaning and requirements:

It seemed to me that it used to be much more inclusive. As long as you were trying and you were interested and you were outcast in some way you could probably belong. It got much more fashion oriented. Much more cliquish and generally less friendly. And I, while that kind of severe in-group thing I’m sure was a panacea for those who needed it, I found it off-putting and it kind of ended my interest in being part of it as a real community. (Helen)

The apparent tension between individuality and collective identity, between open

boundaries and closed boundaries, can be resolved by revising the concept of community.

There is a false dichotomy in discourse which pits an anomic, liberal individualism

against a homogenous, overbearing communitarianism (Young 1990). Tolerance of

difference itself can, itself, be a shared value that promotes a social atmosphere that

fosters peaceable, quasi-communitarian interaction. This, as argued above, seems to be

largely the case within punk subculture. As Muggleton notes: “for those with an insider

knowledge of the punk subculture, this combination of communal activity and

individualistic ideology comes as no surprise” (2000: 59). Individuality is acknowledged

and encouraged yet, as we have also seen, respondents also refer to shared interests and

beliefs and not all differences are tolerated. These issues are explored next.

101 Egalitarianism and Antiauthoritarianism

A second theme that reoccurred during the interviews when respondents were

discussing what punk was about had to do with a cluster of related concepts that seemed to reflect an egalitarian ideal. While this specific term was not used, ‘egalitarianism’ best encapsulates this constellation of thoughts and practices which were applied in a variety of contexts and to a variety of opposing, far from ideal, realities. Thus, a concern for the mutual equality of all people was often expressed in terms of a dislike of similar, existing social problems: inequality, social stratification, hierarchy, authoritarianism, and the like.

For example:

[I] really don’t think it’s fair that some people have so much more than others. I never thought that was fair. So that’s probably one of the things that really appealed to me when I first started learning about punk rock. (Andrea) -- Well, in my experience and for me, punk kind of involved fostering an environment of anti- oppression, about speaking out against, you know, anti-imperialism, globalization, exploitative labor practices, and all those things. And I think in doing that, alternative systems are formed and more self-sustaining communities are established. (Phil)

It is worth noting that, in such examples as these, egalitarian ideals are expressed not only

ideographically—as traits specific to the individual speaking—but instead that they are

attributed to punk subculture in general as an element of its shared ethos.

With this egalitarian ideal, it is not surprising then, to find that many punks are

apparently interested and involved in supporting a number of progressive causes:

It’s totally a positive movement. Because… there’s the Food Not Bombs thing, which is like a lot of punk shows really promote, food for charity. On PRD Miss Minx, one of the head people, is going to Tibet to help out, she’s in Tibet right now, like raising money, and women’s rights in Tibet. And I think a lot of punks are doing a lot of stuff. 7 (Naomi)

For many of the respondents, a concern for equality and rights extended beyond humans

to include non-human animals as well:

102 I’m much more into the well-being of my fellow man than the freedom, escaping the, I guess, authority and cops and stuff like that. And I’m really into animal rights. I think it’s disgusting how we treat animals and, you know, somebody once said you can tell how a country treats their humans by how they treat their animals. (Mary)

While formal social movement participation, in the interest of promoting equality, was

not uncommon among respondents, more informal participation seemed to be a nearly universal experience. In Renee’s case for example:

I’m not really involved from a political, like a very radical political way, but I am involved in, I guess, promoting women’s rights. I like to write about that, I like to debate that, I like to, let’s see, I try to organize stuff that will hopefully lead to better women’s rights. (Renee)

Egalitarianism in punk appears to result as a logical extension of individualism:

freedom to be one’s self is generalized such that everyone should have the same right to

self-determination. Yet, here egalitarianism seems to exceed this simple formulation. It

implies more than an individualized “liberal declaration of freedom of expression,

including the right to dress in ways contrary to dominant social conventions” (Muggleton

2000: 161). Instead, many of the punks surveyed seem to have an appreciation of the

interrelationship of the individual and social forces—what academics would call the

‘sociological imagination’ (Mills 1959). In this case, the recognition that individual autonomy cannot be fully realized in societies with immense “structural asymmetry in the distribution of power” (de Souza 2000: 189). Such a determination is supported through consideration of the many systemic sources of social inequality that punks target for criticism including polity, capitalism, and organized religion—social institutions largely considered to be authoritarian and inimical to individual rights.

103 An anti-authoritarian critique seems to emerge first in recognition of proximate institutions, such as school or the family, and then becomes generalized into those less proximate to the individual such as the polity:

I think what happens is people are pissed off about authority first, and usually it starts at a young age, right around preteen obviously, you start to have a problem with authority, through school, and you start to learn that authority is government and if you still have a problem with that then you start to associate everything in your life with that. (Dan)

Indeed, a general cynicism towards government and formal politics was not uncommon in the interviews. For some, this critique took the form of anarchist politics, that is, with a desire to replace authoritarian systems of government with stateless, more humanitarian, and populist systems based on voluntary relations (Guérin 1998). Their suggestions for desired alternative political organization are illustrative of the problems perceived in authoritarian governance:

P: I have a faith in the ability of people to know what’s right and wrong and act accordingly.

J: Without being told by others what’s right and wrong?

P: Yes, without being told, without being threatened into doing what someone else says is right or wrong. I guess it’s kind of a trust in the fundamental goodness of people. And I also believe in the ability of a community to kind of self-police itself. (Phil)

Others, though denying the anarchist label, described a very similar populist ideal in contrast to existing systems:

I believe in basically anti-hierarchy though that’s not anarchy. I think anarchy is too idealistic, it’s almost childishly idealistic (…) I’d like to see things being run off of consensus and I think, although it wouldn’t be very efficient, I think it would make up for it, the inefficiency, with consideration for everyone. (Aaron)

Not all of those interviewed had such radical critiques of the government. While still critical of it, a sizeable number of respondents seemed to express a more reformist attitude toward governance: 104 I definitely think we need big reform in the government because I think the government is kind of shit right now in general. (Naomi)

The majority of the respondents expressed an interest in political and social

issues—a matter that will be discussed below. However, rather than focusing on

government, a more common, seemingly universal concern had to do with economic

systems. At one end of a continuum of perspectives, some of the respondents opposed

capitalism itself. Carolyn, for example, described herself as being “a bit of a socialist,

not at all conservative, a bit of a libertarian, anti-capitalism, anti-communism, sort of

leaning to anarchy.” Those expressing this sentiment typically situated punk itself as

being, at least ideally, antithetical to capitalist economics in some way. In the context of

discussing punk music venues and similar ventures, Calvin noted that:

Making money was never part of it and, in fact, making money is frowned upon. This is an anti- capitalist venture if anything. So you don’t want to profit, you want to break even. Any money you make you want to reinvest back into the [music] space. Or you want to be like, “Hey, wow, we made a lot of money at this show, let’s pay the bands more.” (Calvin)

The focus here, then, is far different from the process of capital accumulation typical of

mainstream economics which is seen as antagonistic to a punk way of life. Similarly, the

large businesses that are seen as synonymous with capitalism, themselves, are often seen as somewhat suspect:

And then, I guess another aspect of punk that I, um, identify with is supporting small businesses and, you know, trying not to shop at big corporations, but even though that’s something that I try to avoid, sometimes it’s not avoidable. (Renee)

In such examples, distant social actors and institutions, already implicated in potentially

harmful social practices, are viewed as problematic. On the other hand, small-scale

ventures that can be interacted with on an individual level, and therefore that can become

known, are seen as a favored alternative:

105 C: Like I’m not gonna buy a 30 dollar record that it pressed on Virgin or something like that. I’d rather buy a five dollar record that’s been pressed on some no-name label that no one’s ever heard of.

J: (…) Why do you like that’s better?

C: It’s just kind of a matter of who the money’s going to. Like if I’m gonna buy a record from Virgin, I don’t know where that money’s going or who it’s going to or anything like that. But say I bought a record from like [?, names small record label]. If I really wanted to, I could go on their website and actually talk to the people that made the record. It just seems better to give to a small business than a big corporation. (Chase)

This observation begins to shed light on the other end of the continuum of respondent opinions of capitalist economics. Many, it would seem, do not consider themselves to be anti-capitalists per se, but are equally suspicious of large businesses and corporations for the same reason as those explored above. Here, as before, the small business is seen as a viable and respectable alternative. More interesting still, however, some respondents who shared this more moderate view on economics made a distinction regarding how business is conducted—that it can be done correctly or incorrectly at any scale although egalitarian behavior may be more common at the smaller end of things.

There’s a difference between making money and there’s a difference between doing it the right way. You just don’t want to, I don’t know—I wouldn’t want to do anything I’m ashamed of doing to make some money. It’s not worth it. (Ray)

Not surprisingly, this distinction often arose in the context of discussing punk bands and the record industry:

Making six figures would be great, you know putting out records. But if you’re a dick about it, then it’s a whole different story. I mean then you’re almost forced to use the same channels and the same sorts of tricks that everyone else does to get into Best Buy and whatnot. Then there’s really nothing punk rock about because you have to cater to a demographic that doesn’t give a shit about anything. But then again, if they’re doing it right, I’m not sure how much you can blame them as long as they’re paying people and treating people fairly. (Chris)

Thus, while the anti-capitalists viewed all profit-making ventures, and economic systems based on profit, to be inherently flawed and socially injurious, the moderates suggested that the scale of a business is not, itself, the problem but rather the way 106 business is conducted (i.e. whether anyone is harmed or exploited). Both groups,

however, shared a perspective that economic institutions were potentially harmful,

potentially authoritarian, and therefore threatening to egalitarian ideals.

Another institution criticized by many of the punks in the sample was organized religion. The majority of respondents, when asked, unambiguously classified themselves as not being religious. One common response was an emphatic “no,” and therefore shall not be reproduced here, while others had more to say on the matter:

J: Would you consider yourself religious at all?

A: No. I grew up very religious, I mean I was raised strongly Catholic but I’m strongly strongly atheist. I mean outspokenly so about it, but that’s a different topic, don’t get me started on that. (Aaron)

Several respondents affirmed that they were not religious, but moderated or

qualified their response in some way. For example, when asked if she was religious,

Helen made the distinction that she was “Very spiritual, not religious.” Agnosticism was

also not uncommon:

A: Not really. I would never have called myself an atheist, but I don’t think I’ve called myself a Christian since I was maybe six, even though that’s my family’s background. I’m not saying that there’s absolutely no higher force in this universe, but…

J: Maybe more agnostic?

A: That’s the easiest thing to say. Definitely. (Andrea)

A few respondents offered skeptical or materialist critiques of religious thinking

as grounds for not being religious. The apparent paranormal nature of religious belief

systems and the unsupported claims they make offered no appeal to their way of thinking:

J: [W]ould you consider yourself religious at all?

R: No, not at all. Straight up atheist. I always have been though, my whole life. My mom, she’s like, moderately Catholic, my Dad was like Baptist, but they don’t force it on me, (…), they’d take me to Sunday school or whatever, I’d just call bullshit the whole time. Like, “What is this? You 107 can’t live in a whale!” “A guy didn’t kill a giant with one rock! You can probably fuck him up but you didn’t kill him.” [laughs] (Ray) -- I’m a staunch agnostic about the origins of the universe. I believe that evolution is the most plausible explanation for the emergence of diversity of life on earth. I’m very, I’m unpersuaded by any religious claims I have encountered so far, and I’ve encountered many. So, I reject any religion, for myself, that I have ever encountered or become remotely familiar with. I have yet to encounter ay supernatural explanation for anything in the universe that I find superior to a material, mechanistic interpretation. (Calvin)

Yet a more common criticism of religion was not that it was implausible or unscientific. Instead, organized religion was perceived as an authoritarian force that violates the rights and freewill of individuals. For instance:

John: [J]ust speaking personally, to me the ethos of punk is kind of contrary to most religions.

Jeff: How’s that?

John: In that if you’re preaching self-determinism and nonconformity and individuality and rebellion against authority, it’s hard to reconcile that with most organized religions—made even more difficult by the fact that a lot of organized religions hold very contrary positions on issues like abortion and homosexuality and things like that. So, I don’t want to say that “punk equals anti-religion” because I think that’s a way over-simplification, but I don’t think that punk is naturally conducive to being religious. (John)

Here, again, organized religion is painted in authoritarian terms. Faith and obedience do

not correlate well with rebellious independence. Moreover, religion is traced to bigotry

which, rooted in authority, also violates radical individualist ideals. This portrayal of

formal religion also serves to explain why individual spirituality was considered less problematic. If the predominant objection to being religious was not due to the questionable plausibility of such systems of faith, but because of its authoritarianism, then personal faith not rooted in oppressive systems, and agnosticism as well, can be considered more acceptable even if they are no more scientific. Ivan, for example, made such a distinction:

108 J: How do you think, religion or spirituality relates with punk if at all?

I: That depends. If it’s personal religion, I think it fits perfectly. But I don’t know about organized religion. Seems kind of contradictory, you know?

J: Why is that?

I: It’s conforming to something that has very big consequences. I don’t know. Because… because organized religion is very much a dogmatic thing, and it just seems kind of counterproductive to the rebellious nature of punk. (Ivan)

Indeed, only two of the individuals surveyed mentioned interest in a specific, formal religion and, of these, only one was practicing.8 Interestingly, the religion mentioned by

both was Buddhism which, according to Inglehart (1999), is among the least hierarchical

of the world’s religious traditions.

For the most part even those punks who were not religious and felt that it might not correlate well with punk philosophy maintained a policy of tolerance, suggesting that each person should have an equal right to live as they see fit providing their choices do not infringe upon that same right among others:

No, I grew up with religion but, you know, I’m baptized, but I don’t associate myself with religion, I don’t go to church, my wife’s not religious. We just don’t associate ourselves with that. To each his own. I have no problem with it. So, unless you’re killing someone because of it, then I have a problem. (Dan)

A similar pattern was noted in the analysis punk zines (see chapter 2) wherein religion was largely treated as problematic primarily because of its authoritarian connotations and, to a lesser extent, because it relied upon faith rather than a critical inquiry as its basis. Indeed, one zine was devoted solely to the topic of Christianity in punk. The author writes:

[E]ach of us does have a right to believe as we please, and this publication will not argue that Christians have no right to their beliefs or practices. However (… ) I am certain that Christianity is in direct conflict with hc/punk [hardcore and punk subculture] in a number of important ways. (Banks 2000)

109 In print as well as in interview, punks largely express a disaffiliation with formal religions while, at the same time, generally maintaining a tolerant stance by affirming that the individualist value that everyone has a right to decide things for themselves.

Indeed, even in it’s most anti-authoritarian mode of expression, punks seem profoundly

concerned with becoming authorities themselves in their proscriptions:

But, yeah I guess, there’s only so much you can do, you know what I mean? There’s so much you can live by. I really don’t, I don’t want punk to turn into a religion, you know what I mean? Like I don’t want, you know, “you will never eat meat again,” “you will never shave your armpits or legs again.” You know? (Macy)

Authority is not always situated in high places, it would seem. One can accidentally act

in an authoritarian capacity in one’s daily life even when trying to oppose the same.

Thus, to understand punk, a closer look at the interactions and intended social structure of

the subculture is in order.

The Do-It-Yourself Ethic

One punk value that consistently reoccurred during the interviews was something

called DIY (do-it yourself). DIY is a fairly complex ethical stance that involves much

more than this simple name implies. The centrality of DIY to punk subculture was

reiterated by many of the participants and has been noted in previous research (e.g.

Fairchild 1995). John, who has continuously been involved in punk since its inception,

described this ethic and traced its emergence back to at least the 1980s:

Punk to me has always been more an attitude than a specific genre of music. When we first started using the word ‘punk,’ obviously it was in relation to bands like the Ramones and the Sex Pistols and what not, who were on big labels. But over time, and especially during the ‘80s, to me the term came to represent an attitude that probably is exemplified by three words: Do it yourself. So, during the ‘80s there was this whole movement where people said “I don’t want to go to Rolling Stone to find out about my favorite bands, I want to publish my own magazine,” “I don’t want to rely on Warner Brothers to put out my record, I want to start my own record label and put out my 110 out seven inches and albums by my friends’ bands, by my own band.” And it just (…) became this attitude that it was better if we could do it by ourselves than if we let somebody else do it, and especially if we let big corporations do it for us. So it manifested itself in all different kinds of ways: in media, in merchandising, and in the way you conducted your band. (John)

DIY constitutes both a set of interrelated values and a set of practices that lay at the heart of what contemporary punk means. Key to punk subculture, it is an expression of the interrelationship of individualism, community and mutual aid, egalitarianism, and antiauthoritarianism:

But overall, I’d say the punk that I knew then was very tightly-knit, about community, and the DIY ethic, and— how do I put this?—and non-acceptance of the status quo, in a positive way. (Helen)

At one level, DIY involves a willingness to do things for one’s self and to not rely on experts or other perceived authorities to provide whatever is to be done for a fee.

As Mollie—quoted earlier—noted, this can apply to “anything from cutting up t-shirts, at the lowest end, to putting together shows, putting together venues, to putting together bands.” In part, this component of the DIY ethic reinforces the themes of freedom and individualism described above. For example, one respondent (Aaron) had mentioned early in the interview that he believed DIY was incredibly important to himself and to punk, and was then asked to specify why this was so:

J: What do you like about the DIY attitude? Why does that matter?

A: I mean, because it’s self-reliance. I don’t really agree with other people having too much control over my own life. It’s basically having other people make decisions for you. Whether those decisions are good or bad, it’s the fact that they’re making them for you ,and everything you can do yourself, it’s more power to you. I mean it’s, it’s more empowering really. Don’t you enjoy something more that you’ve done yourself? It’s kind of like a meal. What tastes better: a meal you’ve cooked yourself or a meal someone cooked for you? (Aaron)

Thus, an idea of autonomy through DIY was often expressed. Apparently following from this perspective of autonomy, the second theme pertaining to the DIY

111 ethic was a joint emphasis on production and a condemnation of consumerism or

consumption more generally. For example:

And there’s also, I think, often a value in conservation rather than new consumption. So, there’s a value of reuse, and found goods are not negative goods, are not inferior goods, you know, not in punk culture. So, like, my dumpster diving constantly and eating out of the trash, you know, eating a bag of corn pops that I found in one dumpster on my way to another dumpster this morning gave me great pleasure and I remember going out on specific dumpster parties. (Calvin)

Indeed, contrary to CCCS perspectives which see youth cultures primarily engaged in

“doing nothing” (Corrigan 1976: 103) or post-subcultures perspectives which reduce the same phenomenon to a “consumer-based youth culture” (Bennett 1999: 614), respondents

were overwhelmingly involved in productive activities—in producing their culture. At one level, this applies to respondents describing their own activities. A number of respondents were involved in multiple activities that they related to punk in some way.

Macy, for example, continues to be involved in a range of activities. She has played in several bands, promoted shows, worked on a zine, ran a show space, and done activist work all while attending college and maintaining a job.

At a further level, productivity is also implicated as a characteristic of the DIY ethos, of the subculture more generally, and as a means of affiliating with these:

J: Can you think of other activities that you think would be consistent with a punk identity or what punks do?

C: Well, releasing and distributing records and also I guess zines. And that applies to me. What else? I guess there’s probably other kind of sidelines type stuff that people do that associate with punk rock like coordinating how people travel or how people hitchhike or how people get from one place to another. How, the booking of shows, the organizing of tours. (…) or like putting together bike coops or food coops or Food Not Bombs. (Chris)

While these levels of activity do not characterize all the respondents, these examples do reflect a general emphasis of the subculture on productivity over consumption and “doing nothing”: 112 I think that’s, yeah, to do something, not just like—well, some of ‘em do just sit around and do nothing, but I think a lot of them are either promoting shows, helping do artwork, making clothes, they’re usually doing something. (Naomi)

The punk values of egalitarianism and antiauthoritarianism are also well-

represented in the DIY ethic. Excluding experts and big business intervention, as

discussed in the previous section, is certainly part of this representation. Yet, while a

concern for the structural bases of inequality among punks is interesting, it is equally

noteworthy to observe that the link made between individual autonomy and structural forces is not limited to a macro-level focus. Instead, a profound concern for egalitarianism at the inter-personal level was repeatedly observed in the interviews. The respondents emphasized that punk is, at least ideally, marked by an interest in eliminating internal hierarchies so that all members are equal. One way this was expressed was through the elimination of what is perceived to be a standard division in mainstream society of “stars” (or performers) and audiences9—of the producers and consumers of cultural goods:

One of the really neat things about kind of the punk scene is that the rock star mentality of the unapproachable, the person on a pillar, doesn’t really exist. Regardless of what band it is, if there’s somebody that I wanted to propose a show to, I can usually just get in touch with them[.] (Phil)

A simple way by which this equality of performers and audiences is expressed is

through getting audiences to be involved in performances as active participants instead of

passive observers of a spectacle:

R: People are being involved in the show. One of the bands I saw actually gave the audience instruments even though they didn’t really play them that well, they at least included them on one of the songs.

J: So would you say that audience involvement is important?

R: Yeah, definitely, I mean shows are a lot more fun when the audience is being involved. One of my favorite local bands handed me a mic once and I was really happy that I got to sing with them (...) (Renee) 113

Similarly, the social distance between performers and audience members evident in

mainstream concerts is not evident in punk. As Helen noted, “[O]bviously we had

celebrities, but there was no real thing as a celebrity, right? Because there was nobody you felt you couldn’t go up to after a concert and talk to.” Such interaction involves a level of implied equality between different roles in the subculture, but there is still room to distinguish between these roles (e.g. producer/consumer) in such examples. The problem with observing single instances of audience interaction with performers is that this necessarily omits what happens outside of this event. DIY punk encourages all members to take part in the active creation of the subculture in whatever capacity they see fit, not just as it relates to bands and audiences. John describes this dynamic in-depth: first, by noting the difference between punk participation and mainstream performer/audience separation, and then by going on to explain how the DIY ethos encourages punks to participate as equal creators of the subculture:

John: [Active audience participation] is not something that would ever happen if like all you ever did was go out and see Dave Matthews Band. Except for buying like a t-shirt, you’re not going to participate in that process. (…)

Jeff: Why do you think that came to be? (…)

John: Yeah, well it’s just the very nature of do-it-yourself. (…) If you believe in do-it-yourself, then one of the corollaries of that is, “I can do it too.” (…) Once we established this subculture where the rallying cry was “we’re gonna do it ourselves” then part and parcel of that was “I can do that too” or “I can be a part of that too” so, it’s almost like what president Kennedy said in the 1960s: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” When you’re part of a punk scene it’s not just “what show can I go to, what t-shirt can I buy this week?” but “what can I do to actually be a part of this?” “Can I put on shows in my basement? Can I review my favorite band or interview my favorite band and get it published somewhere?” So I think the whole ethos leads to that participation. (John)

Thus, some extent of equality in punk culture is achieved through multiple potential roles

that one can adopt.10 Participants may interact with each other not on the divided terms of

114 a superior producer and inferior consumer but as co-producers, through a process of

generalized exchange or just as often direct exchange. This is illustrated in the following

excerpt where Helen was able to overcome her shyness and approach a musician whom

she respected via punk norms of exchange:

Well you know, having something to trade in a culture based on creative product is, you know, helps a shy girl every time cause it’s not about you, is it? It’s, you need to give him a free copy of your zine. (Helen)

This dynamic of minimizing hierarchical relationships by blurring the boundaries

between producers and consumers thus applies not just to music, but to every aspect of punk culture. Moreover, each aspect of the culture is apparently designed with a degree of amateurism intended to encourage participation. Such is the case with zines for example:

J: Why do you think you like them? [zines]

A: Because they don’t have that professional, bound look to them. You can be like “Hey, look there’s a typo right there. There’s a misspelling right there. I could have written this. One of my friends probably could have written this.” It’s kind of, it was kind of like it was written by us instead of to us. I think they just had a more authentic feel to them than maybe a hardbound book that you would get at the library. (Aaron)

Amateurism as a means of encouraging everyone to be an equal participant—a

producer and not just a consumer—is apparently evident in all aspects of punk culture.

The musical forms of punk, while diverse and difficult to pin down to a particular style,

have long been observed to reflect this concern for egalitarianism and inclusion (Fairchild

1995, Phillipov 2006). Punk music initially, and to some extent still is, characterized as music for and by amateurs, open to be listened to or played by anyone with a desire to do so even if they lack the skill of an accomplished musician or the knowledge of a music theorist. Jazz can be viewed as a clarifying counter-example. Jazz, like many types of

115 music popular around the time of punk’s inception, focused on virtuosity, on proficient

musicians. These musicians, in turn, maintained a studied distinction between themselves and their audiences, taken to such extremes as to rarely interact with them at all (Becker 1963). Moreover, jazz and many other musical forms such as opera

(Benzecry 2009) are not intended to be equally enjoyable to all people, but only to the initiated with special knowledge of the genres. Punk music tends to be simple, generally based on simple chords and incorporating little complexity in favor of speed. The intention behind such simplicity was best expressed in the fanzine Sniffin Glue, which along with an image of fingers on a guitar neck, stated “Here’s one chord, here’s two more, now form your own band.” To this day, the popular slogan appears in punk texts in various forms. This amateurism, this invitation for anyone to participate in the creation of the subculture’s music, was an intentional counter to virtuosity in other music forms, an attempt to destroy the distinction between the lauded performer and the passive audience, between cultural producer and consumer (Moore 2000). Intentional crudeness of style, although perhaps alienating on an aesthetic level, is inclusive on a social level.

In other words no one lacks the ability to produce punk music for themselves, even if they lack the willingness to consume it. In its simplicity, its apparent unfinished production, punk music “alienates the listener from the prevailing aesthetic of unobtrusive naturalism (i.e. the polished product). It leaves the studio door open”

(Hebdige 1979: 151, n.21).

The DIY ethic further differentiates punk from the mainstream and from some other subcultures by placing no emphasis at all on profit as a desired end of cultural

116 production and a desire to remain free of commodities and commercial institutions. For example:

I sew and screen print. So I like print my own band shirts, I sew my own clothes, some of my friends do that too. But we all make a lot of our own stuff, it’s just like I don’t want to have to go buy everything at like a big corporation. I like what I like and I’m gonna make it. (Naomi) -- I really don’t think punk is about profit, I don’t really, I honestly don’t think it’s about “Oh you know these people are really good, people like them, they’re able to make a living off of something they love to do, and people love to have them doing.” I don’t really believe in that, that’s not punk that’s like rock, that’s like being in a rock band or something. That’s like being in the music industry. I don’t really believe in that. (Macy)

Such statements can be used to clearly differentiate punk from other cultures, such as that of heavy metal, where profit and aspiring to live off of one’s band is not seen as problematic (Kahn-Harris 2007). Yet, not all of the respondents agreed that it is impossible to reconcile economic success with being punk:

Right, but then you got people like Glen Danzig, who probably makes a pretty good living, but I still think his band, at least with The Misfits, is still one of the fucking best punk bands ever. He probably has a Lexus. (Barrett)

This having been said, examples of bands that have maintained an authentic punk identity in the face of success were generally offered as exceptions to the rule. Rather, there remained a consensus that, at the very least, such success could be problematic and that profit, itself, should definitely not be one of the goals of DIY punk. Indeed, when asked why they took part in almost any activity relatable to punk from their perspective

(e.g. writing zines, playing in bands, etc.), respondents almost inevitably contrasted profit and business motivations to their actual motivations.

Now eventually we ended up co-promoting tons of shows together. And he was always getting on me, he was like, you know, “You gotta make money off of these, you gotta, you gotta treat this as a business” but I never did. And I never treated my record label as a business. I mean, that kind of stuff threatened me. (Bill)

117 Even if profiteering were a motivation for some individuals to become involved with punk, they would quickly discover that the odds were against them. Very often, participants end up losing money in any ventures they might engage in:

I’ve never made any money off of shows, I’ve lost a lot of money on shows actually, because sometimes, you know, bands forget to get PAs and I have to go rent out a PA out of my own money. And I have to pay bands sometimes, gas money, and we don’t really make a lot of money from the door and the really excellent bands that are going across, you know, the country or they’re going up to Canada or going down to Mexico and they really need some money. (Renee)

Such profit loss was apparently the case for many of the respondents, whether they were engaged in booking shows, playing in bands, making zines, or even running their own show spaces:

All four of us were working it cooperatively where I was handling the money side of things and whenever we fell short I was just paying out of pocket. I was probably loosing about, I was paying about $200 hundred a month for the privilege of the space existing about every month. (Calvin)

While the actual reasons given for working on any particular activity were varied and often highly individualized11 they often reflected some aspect of the DIY ethic as described here. One further element of this ethic, which also seemed to be a dominant theme in taking part in productive activities of any sort, was communitarian in nature.

While it is evident that the DIY ethic in many ways reflects the individualism of punk in general, it is also socially oriented—it is geared not only toward empowering the individual, but in helping individuals to empower and support each other as well:

J: I wanted to know what punk meant to you, so everything else we talk about, I can put it in perspective.

R: Well, personally it’s more like helping out everybody that you can help out possibly, and being the best person you can be. Pretty much the way I see it is more like, have as much fun as you can but try to help as many other people have just as much fun if you can possibly do that (…)

J: Why would you say people become a punk or take part in punk culture?

R: Oh, it’s definitely like a family kind of thing. You just feel like you belong. But, punk kids just take care of each other. (…) (Ray) 118

Again, it seems that punk, while highly individualistic, also has a strong community emphasis. This value is put into practice through a system of generalized exchange and reciprocity that is in keeping with a subculture that has little interest in profits or formal organization. This was especially evident in the case of helping out traveling punk bands:

For me it’s always been so much about the music rather than like the politics, the fashion of it, but the thing I have always liked about it that I’ve still stuck with is the whole do-it-yourself, help each other out kind of thing (…) like I’ve had bands sleep on my floor, I’ve done the whole [thing]. (Barrett) -- Not a whole lot of punk bands staying at hotels. We had a lot of bands sleeping on our couch. And being taken out to dinner, you know, late night dinner at Denney’s or some 24 hour joint after the show, getting them up in the morning, taking them shopping at record stores, things like that, showing them the sights. And this is how, you know, some band from Chapel Hill would come and you’d talk about Chapel Hill, and, you know, you’d talk about [names home town], you’d talk about bands you like, things like that. So there’s cultural transmission happening with these people who are, they’re the nomads and they stop in a town and share what they know. (Calvin)

An interest in helping others in the subculture and, indeed, helping the subculture itself, was often cited as reason for engaging in a number of the activities respondents discussed. Chase, for example, started a zine and phone list with his friends to help revitalize what he saw as a dying scene—a community in jeopardy:

J: Tell me about your zine.

C: Basically it’s just like me and my buddies, we get together and like every month we go and hit up all these websites and look at all our myspaces and like find what shows are playing. And then that’s basically all it is, like a list of shows and speakers and whatever’s going on. (…) There’s a lot of like people’s houses and stuff, they have like backyard shows and stuff, that are really hard to hear about. So we got to keep in touch with people that play shows at their houses and they’ll call us. And they’re like “Oh, so-and-so’s playing” and we make, we only do like 100 copies just for our friends and stuff.

J: Do you do it monthly?

C: Yeah. We do it every month but then we have like a phone list. The one at the beginning of every month that basically shows all the stuff that’s in stone, that everyone knows about, and then we have a calling list and like it’s a bunch of numbers and you just call everyone. Like “Oh, there’s a show here, there’s a show here.”

119 J: Oh, that’s cool. (…). Why did you choose to do that?

C: Really, once they started closing down venues and stuff, and the shows started coming less and less and like the scene started breaking up, at one point I had no idea where any of my friends were ever. Everyone disappeared and went their own way and turned into drug addicts and like vanished. I was like “No, this is stupid.” Just cause there was nothing holding the scene together anymore cause there’s no more venues, no more places to go, so everyone just loses each other and so I decided to put it back together. (Chase)

Again, it is evident, that punk subculture cannot be reduced to a simple venture in consumerism or semiotic warfare. Instead, punk offers an alternative set of social relationships and ideals that represent a quasi-utopian ethos in practice. This is achieved in part through living according to the DIY ethic, so crucial to punk, which involves 1) not relying on experts or others, but being willing to do things for one’s self, 2) therefore, an emphasis on not consuming the works of others and instead producing what is needed,

3) a concurrent blurring of the hierarchical boundary between consumer and producer, 4) an disinterest in profit as a goal—as antithetical to egalitarian goals, and 5) mutual support of one-another in this endeavor. DIY, like punk in general, may be oppositional in some capacities but it is also constructive; it may be individualistic, but it is also communitarian.12 It offers a challenge to mainstream society but, more importantly, it also offers an alternative.

CONCLUSION

This chapter provided an exploration of the general character and concerns of punk rock subculture (see Table 4.1). This was accomplished by 1) investigating the role of style and consumption within punk, 2) determining what other concerns or characteristics might exist beyond style, and 3) understanding how these findings relate

120 to those of previous studies and theoretical understandings of punk, in particular, and of

subcultures more generally.

First, style does not appear to occupy a position of central importance to punk. No

support was found for a CCCS perspective that categorizes subcultures as semiotic

guerillas nor for post-subcultures approaches that suggest expression through style as the

predominant activity of subculture. To the extent that style was considered important at all, it was only as 1) a result of inadequate socialization into the subculture (e.g. as when young members initially begin their participation), 2) as a heuristic indicator of identity and similar interests or concerns, and 3) as an outcome—albeit only one possible outcome—of productive activity. This latter finding represented another departure from prior work. As noted above, the vast majority of previous studies categorize punk—and all other subcultures—as little more than a consumer culture or market niche. Instead, it has been argued here, and in only a handful of previous corroborating studies (i.e.

O’Connor 2008, Moore 2007, Thompson 2004), that consumerism is precisely one of the things that punk can be described in contradistinction to. This finding was later investigated in greater depth.

Second, failing to find that style or consumerism held any great significance to punk, the general character of the subculture was investigated in regards to its non- material elements which respondents placed greater emphasis on. Here, a common set of general concerns and interests seemed to unite, to some extent, members of the subculture: individualism, community, egalitarianism, antiauthoritarianism, and the DIY ethic.

121 Mainstream Punk Social organization Hierarchical Egalitarian

Motivation Profit-driven Individual satisfaction and community improvement Division of Labor Strict and Overlapping roles with specialized, division emphasis on between producers interaction as co- and the consuming producers Mode of Passiveji spectatorship Active participation Participation

Table 4.1: Emic Perspective of Conceptual Differences between Punk - Subculture and Mainstream Society Note: These conceptualizations are intended to heuristically represent a general punk perspective, not a universally shared perspective nor an essential social reality

Punk is a broadly defined subculture which grants its members considerable liberty of self-definition. However, it is not so open that the term ‘punk’ is a meaningless signifier (e.g. Bennett 1999)—there is still a set of collective concerns that differentiates

the subculture from other social groupings. Tolerance of difference, in itself, is a shared

value and, in part, punk’s own emphasis on communitarianism can be made sense of as a

community of difference (Young 1990), not of intolerant homogeneity (Sennett 1976).

Beyond this, subcultural boundaries and shared interests can be identified, for example,

in a collective dislike of ideologies and groups which appear to be intolerant such as neo-

Nazis and authoritarian systems. Even in an ideal representation of punk therefore,

tolerance and self-determination can only be taken so far.

122 The subculture, then, cannot be characterized as only an aggregate wherein members have nothing in common except a heightened concern for individualism—other concerns are held in common which suggest an agenda for social change. Thus, punks seek a society based on a dual interest in egalitarian principles and freedom from authoritarian forces. Antiauthoritarianism for most of the respondents is at the very least the view that the exercise of authority and power is, at best, unnecessary to social life. A more typical concern, however, would be that authority in all its forms is actually inimical to life and liberty, and that many evils can be attributed to its practice.

Authority, so conceived, takes many forms. Governments are based in coercive authority, majority groups impose themselves over minorities, police officers derive their power from authority, so-called experts can be found for nearly any topic or subject who claim to be authorities, and even friends may try to boss each other around. From this point of view authority and power cannot be used for good, for beneficial change, at any level or in any context, but are inherently corrupting and dangerous. Whereas many mainstream groups, and some of the respondents, interested in social change view power as a neutral tool that is only as good or evil as its wielder, groups that conceive of power as inherently evil typically utilize organizational strategies and cultural tactics intended to both counter authorities and to dissuade the use of power over one another (Schiffman

1991). Thus, rather than organizing formally or hierarchically, there is a strong tendency for punks to organize in an informal fashion and to pursue social change through direct action, through extra-institutionalized means, and through the way they conduct their daily lives (Ferrell 2001).

123 This perspective goes some way toward explaining why the DIY ethic—a system

of values and practices—was maintained by nearly the entire sample. It provides a way

of life based on individualism, egalitarianism, and freedom from oppressive forces, all

reinforced by a non-competitive community of mutual-aid. DIY consists of an

alternative mode of operation—of living, working, and relating to others—than that

categorized by mainstream, commercial social organization. It is in part through DIY,

not in consumption or semiotic warfare, that one can locate punk praxis: an oppositional and yet constructive worldview that is offered as an alternative way of life (Moore 2008).

It seems clear then, that existing youth studies perspectives are inadequate at

explaining or describing punk as represented by the respondents in this study, although they may retain utility for other subcultures. Punk is not a stylistic nor consumption- based subculture, but instead focuses on the non-material elements of its culture, its values and ethics, as discussed above. It is neither an entirely homogenous grouping with clear boundaries as per the CCCS formulation (e.g. Hall and Jefferson 1975, Hebdige,

1979), nor a formless post-modern tribe with no boundaries or consistency (e.g.

Maffesoli 1995, Bennett 1999). Rather, the structure of punk seems to lie somewhere in between these theoretical extremes (cf. Greener and Hollands 2006). Moreover, in a departure from both these major theoretical perspectives, punk cannot be reduced to an expression of anomie and irrational behavior. One does not need to agree with a punk conception of, for example, egalitarianism and the inimical nature of authority to recognize an internal logical consistency to this way of thinking.

124 Consistent with Hesmondhalgh (2005), the findings indicate that no current conceptualization is entirely adequate to explain this particular cultural phenomenon.

However, rather than suggesting a new, over-generalizing concept, it seems more profitable to simply acknowledge variation in different subcultures (Hodkinson 2002).

Additionally, as Muggleton (2000) argues, although some groups are more likely to resemble one given conceptual extreme over another, it must further be noted that individual practitioners may vary as well since none will perfectly fit an ideal type, even when a given subculture itself has a general character to it.

Also contrary to theoretical expectations, punk subculture does have a degree of shared concerns and actively seeks to address these concerns on both the individual level of each participant and on a collective level. In other words, punks seek social change on a micro level and/or on a macro level, depending on the particular respondent’s point of view. While the extent to which it has achieved such changes cannot be determined from a single qualitative study (Lofland and Lofland 1995), several previous studies have attempted to address this issue (e.g. Haenfler 2006, Mattson 2001, Sabin 1999), and some additional observations can be offered here. First, despite multiple proclamations of its death (Clark 2003), punk has survived as a recognizable subculture since at least the

1970s This lasting existence, of at least three decades, alone sets it apart as being a lasting social force and not a fleeting trend.13 While it is not possible to determine how many members punk has at any given moment, if those members are anything like the respondents interviewed in the current research, it seems safe to say that for them, at least, punk has made a lasting change in their lives.14 As a persistent subculture with a

125 contentious ideology and social agenda, punk may offer a ready-made cognitive

framework which can be utilized for social movement mobilization (Tarrow 1992) as

well as an ‘indigenous organization’ from which to launch, recruit for, and maintain such

a movement (McAdam 1982). As noted above, many of the respondent were,

themselves, involved in various types of activism. Indeed, punk, since its inception, has

been linked to a number of progressive causes (Phillipov 2006).

For example, it has been suggested that “punk culture grew up partly as an

antithetical response to the reemergence of racism in the mid-70s” (Hebdige 1979: 116).

Whereas other subcultures of the time, like the Teddy Boys, blamed Blacks for their

troubles and would, at times, even physically assault them, punks generally championed

Black causes. Among other efforts, for instance, punks were active in the Rock Against

Racism program, so vital in combating the reactionary National Front and neo-Fascism in

general. Whatever long-term effects may or may not exist as a result of punk subculture,

it seems clear that the possibilities have been severely downplayed by a long history

academic trivialization. A pattern is evident in the data indicating, at the very least, some level of interest in politics, social issues, and social change rather than a preoccupation with stylistic warfare and consumption.

In summary, punk exists as a challenge and alternative to mainstream cultural

hegemony—much more than a fashion statement or a consumer niche. It asserts a

humanitarian priority over the market and other structural forces, egalitarianism over

hierarchies and the dominance of experts, all tempered by mutual aid and a communitarian spirit. Punk offers an alternative set of ideals and practices, a quasi-

126 utopian way of life that represents an everyday reality for those who have chosen to live this way or a goal which such individuals are trying to achieve. In order to more fully understand subcultures such as punk on their own terms, existing perspectives and future work should be grounded more thoroughly in empirical observation and rely less heavily on a priori theoretical expectations.

127

CHAPTER 5: THE SIGNIFICANCE OF PLACE

The preceding chapters have attempted to illustrate, in part, the inherent

weaknesses in an approach to youth cultures which assumes, a priori, that style and the consumption thereof are the defining features of subcultures. It was seen that fashion is an inadequate window into subculture or, at least, into what it means to be punk and what punks are concerned with (cf. Clark 2003). The current study therefore agrees with the idea that “subculturalists consistently define subculture in more than just stylistic terms

[and that] [w]e therefore need to explore the meaning of diversity in other areas”

(Muggleton 2000: 69, emphasis added). Yet, if clothing is not a useful indicator of

collective concerns, what is? What can an analysis of subcultures use to more accurately

appraise the subject of study?

Lyn Lofland (1973) has identified this same problem and has also offered a

solution. According to her argument, people were once able to differentiate each other—

in terms of social class, status, occupation, sex, and so forth—based on appearance, on

the type of clothing worn. A diversity of people could live, work, and interact in the

same parts of a densely populated city and still generally apprehend a great deal about

each other based simply on the heuristic of appearances. Consistent with others’ findings

(e.g. Kaiser et al. 1991, Craik 1994), Lofland notes that observing clothing is no longer

128 considered to be a useful indicator of one’s status or other relevant characteristics. New

trends in fashion such as “business casual,” unisex clothing, designer label knockoff

brands, and the like confuse attempts to discern facts about people based on what they

wear. The same problem applies to some subcultures, like punk as evidenced in the

previous chapter, where it is not always possible to know who is and who is not a

member based on their style of dress.

According to Lofland, while we can no longer rely on clothing as a revealing tool,

we can instead rely on place. Whereas cities were once heterogeneous places in the sense

that any given location within them would be teeming with a diversity of people, cities

have now become considerably more segregated, divided into homogenous areas where

particular types of people are more present than they are in other places (cf. Davis 1992a,

1992b).1 Different areas—whether general regions or specific and bounded places—are

used by a fairly specific group of people, with some degree of a shared orientation, for specific purposes, not entirely dissimilar from Robert Park’s (1925) view of moral zones within the city. Thus, place has become a more revealing tool of analysis, more intimately related with the statuses and concerns of individuals, than clothing or style more generally. Of course, place is no more a perfect predictor of type than was appearance, but it serves as a relatively accurate heuristic failing more specific, personal knowledge of each individual which, in any case, is impossible to obtain for everyone else one might encounter in a dense setting (Lofland 1973, Simmel 1997a).

In this chapter, the concept of place in regards to society and subcultures will be explored. First, the dimension of place will be defined and its significance as both cause

129 and consequence of other social conditions will be delineated. Specific places and the social groups that use them are intimately linked such that each expresses the characteristics and concerns of the other (Castells 1983, Gregory 1978, Simmel 1997b).

More specifically, every social group must establish a unique set of physical and symbolic spatial arrangements to facilitate and perpetuate its way of life and social organization (Lefebvre 1991). As such, the underlying perspective of the following chapters is that an exploration of the physical and cultural aspects of a subculture’s salient places will reveal more about the subculture itself than analyses of their semiotics and style are capable of providing.

Second, current prevailing trends in the organization of space and place will be examined. Specifically, although it may be true that every social group must construct its own spaces, all groups do not share the same capacity to produce such spaces. Instead, considerable asymmetries of this ability exist. The built environment is primarily organized and designed to facilitate market arrangements and capital accumulation

(Harvey 1985a, 1985b; Logan and Molotch 1987). Roads, railroads, skyscapers, housing

– most features of urban (and rural) areas are designed and laid-out in the interests of producing, consuming, and circulating goods and services (Walton 1993).

Following this, the historical concern of subcultural researchers with place as a key concern will be examined. It will be shown that while place has, indeed, been an ongoing interest of such studies, the subject has never been exploited to its full potential.

The final part of this chapter discusses the significance of this situation and suggests that subcultures—punk subculture in particular—through their alternative interests and

130 associated spatial tactics, provide a source of resistance to the social and spatial dominance of neoliberal capitalism.2

CONCEPTUALIZING PLACE

‘Place’ is a deceptively simple concept. To use the term in any but the most superficial of ways requires an exploration of its dimensions and its significance in social life. For the purposes of this study, two broad sets of differentiating characteristics of place will be distinguished: 1) Place as a physical or material reality as well as a meaningful, symbolic construction and 2) the extent to which places are both cause and consequence of other social conditions or arrangements.

Distinguishing the Material and Symbolic Dimensions of Place

The physical environment has been conceptualized and categorized in a number of complimentary ways. Researchers compartmentalize different aspects of it in order to more fruitfully understand its particular aspects or components of interest. For example, one can differentiate between the natural environment and the built or human-made environment (Lawrence and Low 1990), between pre-social space and social space (Gans

2002), between abstract space vs. experiential space (Gieryn 2000), between different magnitudes or extents of scales (Marston 2000), and so on. All such distinctions have an analytical utility suited to each project’s goals of inquiry.

For the purposes of the current study a similar analytical distinction will be drawn between conceptual aspects of the physical environment. This consists of two often

131 mutually-inclusive exclusive attributes which are socially relevant: 1) the real, material

side of the environment, and 2) the symbolic qualities or social significances attached to

this material dimension (Casey 1996, Tuan 2001). Figure 5.1 illustrates this heuristic as a

four category typology. Here the y-axis represents the extent to which a given spatial

form has a material dimension while the x-axis represents the cultural or social

dimension. Each cell represents an ideal type, and exaggeration of some feature of

interest, which can be said to exist to a greater or lesser extent in reality for analytic

purposes, but which does not faithfully represent that reality in all its complexity (Weber

1949). Overlaying these core distinctions, the shading of the diagram indicates the extent

to which the cases represented by these ideal types can be experienced in daily life.

The first cell in the typology, indicating a case with no material presence and no

cultural meaningfulness expresses a null case. Such a case is entirely unknowable and inexpressible, best encapsulated by non-existence. However, it is a useful starting place for a discussion of space and place given that as soon as one tries to render such non- existence understandable, one begins to move toward one of the other cells in the typology. 3

Moving horizontally across the typology, into the cell corresponding with pure

conceptualization and with no physicality, invokes a concept that is meaningful, that can

be discussed and expressed as a location, but which has no material existence—it is the

space of symbolism or myth:

132

133 Myth is not a belief that can be readily verified, or proven false, by the evidence of the senses. The questions posed were not, Is there a Northwest Passage? Is Paradise located in Ethiopia? Rather these places were assumed to exist, and the problem was to find them. Europeans once held tenaciously to the reality of places like the Northwest Passage and a terrestrial paradise. Repeated failure to locate them did not discourage explorers from making further efforts. Such places had to exist because they were key elements in a complex system of belief. (Tuan 2001: 85- 86)

Such places may or may not actually exist, they do not (yet) have an empirical reality.

However, they still have social and cultural importance regardless of their physical absence. That they can only be experienced through cultural discourse does not make them any less real in terms of their meaning and the consequences of that meaning

(Thomas and Thomas 1928).

Moving diagonally across the typology is accompanied by a shift away from meaning to abstract space. Here, space can be conceptualized as distance, size, or shape, but it cannot be interpreted or expressed as meaningful beyond such mechanistic expressions (Hillier and Hanson 1984). It is the “natural” space of mathematicians or, at best, the space of the philosophers (Lefebvre 1991). While this sort of natural space cannot be directly experienced, the category can be somewhat expanded to include a more material dimension while still remaining relatively abstract. In this case, natural space is rendered synonymous with “presocial” space, “literally air over dirt” (Gans

2002) which can be experienced as instances or configurations of the more abstract principle. While such spaces can be said to exist in some objective sense, they hold no cultural meaning nor are they used in any conscious way.

The final cell in the typology corresponds with “place,” a combination of materiality and meaning. Place has “three necessary and sufficient features”: geographic location, material form, and social meaningfulness (Gieryn 2000: 465). As such, it is 134 something of a combination of mythical space and abstract space and can be fully

experienced on both levels. One can touch and feel a place in a physical sense, but it is

also carries an “overload of possible meanings” and presents an “assault on all ways of knowing” (Hayden 1995: 18). A neighborhood (Modan 2006), village (Dodge 2007), or nation (Hirst 2005) for example, are physically-located spaces with material forms that are embedded with meaning and social practices; in other words, they are places.

Symbolic and abstract spaces both have significance, but social life is enacted in actual places. Indeed, ignoring the interaction of the dual nature of place has led to an historical “empiricist myopia”—where the importance of space is limited to its neutral, surface appearances—and “a hypermetropic illusion”—where the immediate physical properties of space are disregarded and it is interpreted as little more than a mental construct (Soja 1989: 125). The utility of the heuristic in figure 5.1, for the purposes of the current study, lays not so much in its ability to distinguish and type different cases in order to contrast them. Rather, it serves to illustrate the concepts that can be expressed within a single case—its physical significance and its meaning-laden significance—in order to exaggerate them for analysis. Hall provides an interesting example of this overlap:

In Latin America… people cannot talk comfortably with one another unless they are very close to the distance that evokes either sexual or hostile feelings in the North American. The result is that when they move close we withdraw and back away… Americans who have spent some time in Latin America without learning these space considerations make other adaptations, like barricading themselves behind their desks, using chairs and typewriter tables to keep the Latin American at what is to us a comfortable distance. The result is that the Latin American may even climb over the obstacles until he has achieved a distance at which he can comfortably talk (Hall 1990:180).

135 In this situation the furniture is probably assumed by North Americans to be an objective,

physical constraint on movement. The possible actions of the Latin American however,

reveal that although there is indeed a physical restraint present, it is also has symbolic

dimension which may not be shared cross-culturally and which is therefore easy to

overcome for people for whom that meaning does not apply. The objective and

subjective aspects of place are necessarily overlapping and, therefore, readily conflated.4

Nonetheless, the importance of each of these aspects must be analyzed in isolation before they can be appreciated as a whole, even if such isolation necessitates a certain degree of artificiality. A demonstration of the significance of the physical and cultural aspects of a given place is in order, and the successful completion of this task requires a more in- depth look at the causes and consequences of place more generally.

Causes and Consequences of Place

Place can be conceptualized as 1) a cause or influence of social outcomes and human behavior, 2) an outcome of other social arrangements and human agency, and 3) a more complex factor, along with other social factors, in a recursive cycle of causation.

The last of these conceptualizations, as discussed below, is now arguably the dominant perspective. It is, of course, inclusive of the preceding perspectives however, and does

not preclude their validity. Each perspective, then, can be treated as a different,

complementary level of analysis in regards to a given case. Furthermore, the causal role

of a place—as either (or both) cause or consequence—can be further delimited as the role

of its physical or symbolic dimension.

136 To the extent that the physical environment influences people, the nature of that

influence can be conceptually idealized as either physical or symbolic. A wall, for

example, physically interferes with movement and restricts the number of behavior

options available to one who encounters it. The individual does not need to know that the wall is intended to interfere with movement in order for it to do so—they do not need to apprehend any particular meaning in it. This simple observation can have profound implications however. One study determined that walls in military barracks limit interaction and control the formation of friendships (Blake at al. 1956). This is particularly interesting given the fact that the walls served as little more than partitions between rooms with no doors and that no regulations requiring one to stay within their own “room” were given. Instead, the close quarters encouraged small group interactions among roommates and discouraged it among others.

On the other hand, sometimes it is the symbolic aspect of a place, not its objective

or physical features, that motivate a response in individuals. In such cases, it is not the

place itself that has agency with which to cause the reaction, but the meaning or symbolic

quality ascribed to the place through social convention or routine (Giddens 1994). If

such is the case, of course, it is necessary for the subject to have an understanding of the place’s symbolic meaning in order for it to have any influence. For example, among the

Western Apache of New Mexico there is a place called ‘Trail Goes Down Between Two

Hills’ where Old Man Owl was once made the fool by two women on account of his lecherous behavior (Basso 1996). Among the Apache, places and their names have power because of the mythic events that are said to have once taken place therein and

137 because of the moral lessons associated with these myths. Basso recounts how it is

possible to tactfully rein in the immoral behaviors of members of the community by

obliquely referencing the appropriate place-name cum didactic lesson. Here, while there

are actual places involved with physical properties, it is only the symbolic aspect of the

place that influences behavior. To an outsider, however—to one unfamiliar with these

myths—the symbolism is lost and ‘Trail Goes Down Between Two Hills’ is no more than

a physical space resembling its admittedly evocative name.

Structuralist approaches to the built environment closely relate this perspective of

place (in both its physical and symbolic dimensions) as cause, by emphasizing how

particular spatial structures take on the function of social structure. In his famous study

of the Kabyle house among the Berbers in Algeria (1979), Bourdieu sets forth a rigorous

structuralist model of space which exemplifies this approach. The Kabyle house is

divided into conceptual and physical parts heavily laden with meaning for the inhabitants.

For example, one half of the house is considered the domain of men (and superior), while

the other half is considered the domain of women and animals (and inferior). Men,

additionally, are equated with civilization and women with nature. The built structure,

according to Bourdieu, reproduces the social structure of the Berbers and determines their

daily activities, relations, and beliefs. Thus, women are not allowed to sleep on the male

side, and men may at times sleep on the male side. Instead, the men will generally sleep

outside since the entire building, being domestic, is considered feminine even though it has a male compartment. Additionally, in everyday social life the males are considered the superior to the females. Though Bourdieu confesses that the Berbers construct these

138 houses themselves, he indicates that they have no real conscious apprehension of the significance of their actions and that they cannot act to modify the physical structure, its symbolic values, nor the social structure that it perpetuates and reinforces each of these.

While clearly an exaggerated example, the Kabyle house illustrates well the power place may have to influence social organization and behavior.5

Rather than considering places as influences on human affairs, one can reverse the order of causation and interpret them as the outcome or product of other social factors.

Some have argued that whole cities and individual buildings, as examples of the physical property of space, result from carefully planning meaning and moral codes into built forms (Kostof 1991, Perin 1974). From this perspective, it is argued that “cultural values, more than any other attribute, determine how we shape our man-made environment”

(Whitaker 1996: ix). As such, humans can be said to have considerable agency in their ability to manipulate outcomes in the physical realm of space. Indeed, from this perspective, cultural factors are viewed as more important in determining what form a structure or place will take than are available resources, technology, or even environmental factors (e.g. Rapoport 1969).

A similar case can be made for the symbolic quality of a place: rather than examining its outcomes, one can determine how it came to acquire its meanings through human action. Such qualities are not autochthonous, although the myths associated with them may claim that they are. Story-telling and ceremonial activity are particularly potent ways by which human agents saturate the landscape with subjective meaning (Feld and Basso 1996). Over time, such behaviors instill places with collective memory, with a

139 shared understanding of the meaning of the place and the events associated with them

(Boyer, 1994; Olick and Robbins, 1998). Nowhere is the conscious, human agency involved in this process so evident as when authoritarian powers purposely embed self- serving meanings into places under their control (Foucault 1975; Hayden 1994, 1995;

Jacobs 2003) or when competing powers destroy aspects of the physical landscape in order to destroy competing meanings (Bevan 2006). Such was the case “in the first days of the collapse of communism [where] the tearing down of statues of Lenin or the razing of the Berlin Wall, can be understood, at least in part, as the inevitable byproducts of the victor’s triumph over the symbols of the vanquished” (Chusid 2001).

For some researchers, the place is predominantly the product of social relations and treating it, instead, as a cause constitutes an error in analysis. Thus, Herbert Gans’

(2002) primary concern is with challenging what he calls ‘spatial determinism.’ Although he believes that the analysis of is important and can be very revealing, he also believes that many researchers have exaggerated the explanatory power of space. Such people credit space with direct and powerful influences over various outcomes whereas, he argues, space is at best an indirect or intermediating variable. For example, Gans suggests that if a farmer cannot feed his/her family due to the small size or inadequacy of a plot of land, this is a result of structural inequality, not a consequence of the land itself. The distribution of land is merely a result of that inequality and not the main cause of starvation. Here space is a mechanism, not an ultimate cause. Although acknowledging the existence of space that is ‘pre-social,’ Gans fails to attribute any importance to it save through the process by which it is transformed or interpreted into social space. This social

140 space, in turn, is infinitely malleable and only reflects other social realities—it has little

influence of its own. Thus, space can be used as a proxy measure for other things (e.g.

inequality) but it is not a cause, simply a correlated outcome.

At this point, it is likely evident that there is a certain validity to both approaches,

to treating place both as a cause and as a consequence of social arrangements and

behavior. Many observers have noted just this fact, that space and society are intimately

related and mutually codependent, that each perspective is the complementary “reciprocal

idea” of the other (Tickamyer 2000: 806). So has it been argued that “space is not a

‘reflection of society’, it is society” (Castells 1983: 4, emphasis in original) and that

“social structures cannot be practiced without spatial structures, and vise versa” (Gregory

1978: 121, emphasis in original). Such arguments beg the question: how can both perspectives be fruitfully conceptualized within a synthetic model?

Whereas some perspectives treat place as wholly deterministic or determined,

Thomas Gieryn (2002) has made considerable progress in synthesizing both perspectives and rendering them subject to analysis. Gieryn suggests 1) that place influences behavior, thoughts, and feelings, 2) that place is produced by people, and 3) that both of these are interactive processes which may be more or less evident at different times throughout the life of a building. Any given building is a combination of both physical and meaningful elements that can be analyzed in a series of stages or ‘moments.’ First, buildings do not spring forth from nothingness but at some point are planned or created.

The purpose of the building, its intended use and influence on its users, is ‘built-in’ at this moment. This point in the lifecycle of a building is most unambiguously the moment

141 when human agency is most obvious over place.6 Once the building is completed, it tends to solidify intended relations, behaviors, and so on within it as the builders had planned (cf. Simmel 1997b). This, the second moment in Gieryn’s model, is the moment when the structural power of place is at its most obvious. Users of the building may give little thought as to how it is influencing them, how their daily lives within are governed in part by the physical structure and its associated symbolic meanings and cues. However, the structural capacity of place is no more absolute than is human agency. The third moment represents the ability of individuals to act back upon the structural influences of a place with varying degrees of effectiveness. The two moments overlap so that such acting back may take place immediately after occupancy, long into the future, and at every time in between. Buildings may be physically altered or reinterpreted in order to change their meanings, purpose, and influences. A store, once built, can be bulldozed, rebuilt, subject to vandalism, or simply boycotted. At any given time in the life of a building, the place can be analyzed for these various elements so that we are not left simply with a vague idea of mutual causation. This ‘moment’ perspective has the advantage of being able to isolate space as cause, effect, and continually negotiated process. Arguably this perspective can be applied to places other than buildings such as landscapes, cities, and the infrastructure of nations.

One further influential synthetic model of place as both cause and consequence is provided by Henri Lefebvre (1991). According to Lefebvre, for any intended set of social relations or ideas to persist, a group must have a combined physical and symbolic place7 which is conducive to those intentions (cf. Buttimer 1976). Thus, capitalist

142 society, his primary concern, cannot persist without places physically conducive and

symbolically interpreted as being appropriate for manufacturing, distributing, selling, housing workers, and so forth, which reinforce the intended structure and organization of that society. Likewise, one cannot effectively challenge such a set of social arrangements without first having an appropriate system of places or successfully reinterpreting existing ones. The failure of planners in the USSR to achieve such a production of space, according to Lefebvre, is part of the reason why the Soviet social experiment failed.

The problems that arise from failing to produce or otherwise acquire suitable

places for a social group’s way of life are detailed in much recent research, even when

considering examples quite divergent from each other and from Lefebvre’s own

discussion of capitalist and socialist space. Kontos (2003) examined the activities of the

well-known gang ‘Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation’ and, specifically, the failure

of the Long Island chapter to maintain dependable places for meeting and other group

activities. This issue became something of a preoccupation and so members were

“constantly looking for safe areas to meet and hang out” (2003: 144). The persistence of

the group was owed to ingenuity in finding a range of temporary locations and their close

association with the New York City chapter which was more firmly emplaced. Petzen’s

(2004) study of Turkish queers in Berlin provides another divergent example of a

strikingly similar concern for places within which to maintain group identity and activity.

This group was doubly marginalized: first as foreign residents in Germany and, second,

as queer within a heteronormative Turkish subculture. There are firmly established

places in Germany that are defined as “straight” German and Queer German spaces,

143 neither of which are not welcoming to Turks. Moreover, those places welcoming to a

broad range of Turkish backgrounds are not so welcoming for queer individuals. As a

result of this double marginalization, those who did not fit wholly into any of these places

experienced a fragmentation of identity and were “placeless.” They identified as

German, as Turkish, and as Queer, but no such place allowed such a constellation of

identity nor were they able to construct one without a collective identity.

According to Lefebvre, place is produced though the interaction of three

elements: 1) Practices, 2) Representational spaces, and 3) Representations of space.

Practices are simply the things people do everyday. People, through their daily lives and

interactions, tend to influence what given places are for—what practices are most

appropriate within and, therefore, the meaning of the place. A street corner, over time,

might become a local hangout if enough people use it for such (e.g. Modan 2007, Whyte

1955). Similarly, a public place such as a tavern, can be transformed into a more

intimate, quasi-private place if a group of friends consistently spend their free time there

(Lofland 1973). Thus, over time behaviors or practice are often what make the place

takes on its character, but practice is not given free rein. The type of place also

influences behavior. Certain activities are considered more socially appropriate or

practically feasible to do in some spaces than in others (e.g. kitchens are for cooking in).

This is what is meant by representational space—place as lived, the meanings attributed

to place as acquired or otherwise learned through the experience of place. Practice and

representational space, thus, influence and moderate one-another in an interactive process.

144 Lastly, there are representations of space—space not as lived, but as designed by professionals who are given the socially-sanctioned authority to facilitate certain arrangements. To Lefebvre, this means predominantly the production of spaces to facilitate capitalist economics and more generally, following Gramsci (1971), the interests of hegemonic powers. While Lefebvre—whose argument was originally published in French in 1974—was one of the earlier theorists to rigorously establish this claim, it has since inspired many others and become one of the prevailing perspectives

(e.g. Castells 1983; Harvey 1985a, 1985b; Soja 1989). Representations of space follow and perpetuate a form of spatial knowledge, savoir (Foucault 1972), which is based not on everyday experiences and understandings, but on the interests of elites. By claiming this body of self-serving knowledge is the only knowledge, the only understanding of how place can be designed and used, elites and practitioners of savoir (e.g. architects, urban planners, etc.) are able to exert their interests and build them into the physical landscape and its symbolic significance. People’s everyday experiences of, and ideas about, place are influenced by this third element, these externally imposed representations of space. Thus, Lewis Mumford expressed concern over the rapidly developing “architecture of imperialism [which is intended to] regiment, limit, and constrict every exhibition of real life and culture” (1938: 272-3). A similar case illustrates how dominant knowledge and ideas are literally built into the environment:

Most modern institutions of education, despite the apparent neutrality of the materials from which they are constructed (red brick, white tile, etc.) carry within themselves implicit ideological assumptions which are literally structured into the architecture itself. The categorization of knowledge into arts and sciences is reproduced in the faculty system which houses different disciplines in different buildings, and most colleges maintain the traditional divisions by devoting a separate floor to each subject. Moreover, the hierarchical relationship between teacher and taught is inscribed in the very lay-out of the lecture theatre where the seating arrangements— 145 benches rising in tiers before a raised lectern—dictate the flow of information and serve to ‘naturalize’ professorial authority. Thus, a whole range of decisions about what is and what is not possible within education have been made… before the content of individual courses is even decided. (Hebdige 1979:12-13)

In such ways is Savoir encoded into the places of everyday life. Not only in schools, but

in homes, in business, and so on; across vast stretches of land, wherever professionals

have been charged with perpetuating representations of space (Lefebvre 1991).

The representations of space that emerge from this process of place building are

not immutable. People’s ideas and experiences of place—their everyday knowledge, or

connaissance—often run counter to imposed plans. While elite interests are backed by

powerful forces, their spatial plans can be opposed by representational space and by

practice. Skateboarders, street musicians, bicycle activists, and a whole assortment of

similar groups challenge laws and regulations, challenge representations of space, both

physically and symbolically (Ferrell 2001). By engaging in activities made illegal in

particular spaces and by vandalizing the physical cues of that illegality (e.g. painting over

“No Skateboarding” signs) such groups proffer an alternative way of looking at particular

places that run counter to elite goals and desires. In a similar way, the ecologies of universities in Beijing—their proximity to one another, their concentration of students in areas where they frequently encounter one another, and their being walled in from the surrounding areas—created an ideal environment for the 1989 prodemocracy movement to flourish (Zhao1989). Thus, an environment built to facilitate the interests of the ruling government was reinterpreted and used against to challenge its hegemony.

Causation, therefore, does not simply flow one way: from the powerful to the

powerless (Foucault 1972). Rather, there is power in everyday experience which can be

146 harnessed to counter such forces (de Certeau 1988). Thus, all three components in

Lefebvre’s conception of place influence one another. The interplay of these three processes, of multiple and interacting causes and consequences, produces place. While each process can be singled out to some extent for analysis and debate, it should be noted that Lefebvre considered such a dissection highly artificial and only useful heuristically.

Place is not a combination of parts, but a unified whole.

THE DEATH OF PUBLIC SPACE

Having outlined key theoretical elements of space and place in the abstract, it remains to apply this understanding to the real world. That is, what does the current socio-spatial configuration look like and what is its significance? The physical environment is predominantly designed to facilitate the needs of the economy, the needs of exchange and capital accumulation—it is not so well suited to meet the needs of people who must live in it (Harvey 1985a, 1985b; Logan and Molotch 1987). Worse still, those who benefit the least from this situation are also those who are least able to do anything about it (Logan and Molotch 1987). The poor, the powerless, and the peripheral, are forced to make do with what they can. An ongoing trend in the organization of the physical and symbolic environment has been the destruction of public space (Smith 1997): either privatizing it, building over it, closing it off, or otherwise rendering it usable, if at all, for only specific types of people under close surveillance.

These changes result from 1) the demands of the political economic sphere (Walton

147 1993) and, 2) the associated demands of “paranoid,” affluent consumers (Blakely and

Snyder 1997, Flusty 1994, Low 2001).

Whereas many past efforts in designing places seem to have been strongly

focused on the Olmstedian vision of bringing people together and encouraging them to

interact (e.g. Whyte 1980, 1988), contemporary efforts seem to be based more on

segregating populations and strictly regulating their behavior. Thus,

A… characteristic of th[e] new city is its obsession with ‘security,’ with rising levels of manipulation and surveillance over its citizenry and with a new proliferation of new modes of segregation… throughout America, city planning has largely ceased its historic role as the integrator of communities in favor of managing selective development and enforcing distinction (Sorkin 1992: xiii-xiv)

Davis (1992a, 1992b) was perhaps the first to systematically catalog this

pattern—at least in recent times—where public space for free interaction is being

destroyed for the sake of capital gain, and “where the defense of luxury lifestyles is translated into a proliferation of new repressions in space and movement, undergirded by the ubiquitous ‘armed response’” (1992: 224). Social classes are strictly segregated, with the well-to-do captured in panoptical spaces of consumption and fortified residential enclaves (McKenzie 1994) —a ‘forbidden city’ to the poor and ethnically undesirable who are imprisoned in outdoor internment camps, safely away from the affluent malls and shops. The elimination of pedestrian routes, erection of walls and barbed wire, security checkpoints, CCTV devices, and so on all serve to maintain each class’s respective ghetto. Moreover, unrelenting cold war is waged on the latter group— undesirable and desperate—as they are concentrated in a “sadistic street environment”

(Davis 1992: 232). “Bum-proof” benches, random night-time water sprinklers, the elimination of public restrooms and drinking fountains, and random searches all ensure 148 that the urban poor keep moving. All such built forms—whether designed to segregate,

monitor, or control—reify and reinforce an otherwise abstract social organization: “[t]he walls are making visible the systems of exclusion that are already there, now constructed in concrete” (Low 2001: 55).

The control of space, while often couched in terms of crime and safety, “is less

about precluding violence… than about proscribing non-normative social practices…

[and providing] a more comfortable shopping experience” (Flusty 2001: 664). Police and

governing bodies, although in collusion with these efforts, are not the sole agents of

enforcing particular sets of norms. Business interests themselves may lend an active hand, not only in the design and construction of space but, in monitoring and enforcing

selective norms. Duneier (1999) describes the operations of Business Improvement

Districts (BID) in Manhattan—coalitions of businesses that operate in a given geographic area—and how they supplement existing police efforts to monitor and control:

[In] the Fifth Avenue Association’s Field Bureau in the basement of Rockefeller Center… [a] uniformed [BID] officer sits at a desk with a radio and telephone wired directly to dispatchers of local New York City police precincts… ‘Please let me know if that shoe-shine guy has been removed,” repeats the operator… A few moments later, a safety officer calls in. “Food vendor still in the same spot.” (Duneier 1999: 233)

While clearly not presenting a real, criminal threat, people who engage in unauthorized

activities—even food vendors and shoe-shiners as seen here—are perceived as threats to this normative order. Like the homeless, panhandlers, loiterers, and other undesirables, they are viewed as a source of disorder (Wilson and Kelling 1982) and discomfort for shoppers and, thus, removed. The new spatial order of the revanchist city has no room for such symbolic threats (Smith 1997).

149 It is evident that for some people urban space has become a prison and, for others,

it has become a posh land of consumption, isolation, and security. While the problems

that the first of these populations are subjected to may be manifest, the second group does

not fair as well as one might expect either. Moreover, whatever the individual-level

indignities suffered under the dominant spatial order, the consequences of the elimination

of public space are far more sweeping and serious: “In the ‘public’ spaces of the theme

park or the shopping mall, speech itself is restricted: there are no demonstrations in

Disneyland. The effort to reclaim the city is the struggle for democracy itself” (Sorkin

1992: xv).

From antiquity through to contemporary times, public space has been linked to

civil society, freedom, and democracy. The attainment of such lofty goals requires a

‘space’ in both a physical and symbolic sense, where people can freely interact and

exchange ideas (Hénaff and Strong 2001, Oldenburg 1989). Thus it was believed that

“the life of a free man needed the presence of others. Freedom itself needed, therefore, a

place where people could come together—the agora, the market-place, or the polis”

(Arendt 1990). Likewise, the reform movements of the progressive era in the US were based, in part, on efforts to create public spaces designed to encourage interaction and “to strengthen habits of cooperation while not stifling individualism” (Putnam 2000: 395).

Tyranny, on the other hand, corresponded with the banishment of the public, the people, from public space and the public realm more generally, rendering these, and therefore the state, the sole domain of the tyrant’s will (Arendt 1998).

150 In more modern times, attention has shifted away from physical public spaces as

the focus of democracy to the more abstract ‘public sphere’ (e.g. Habermas 1989, Hunter

1995). However, physical public space “has hardly become obsolete or politically

irrelevant” (Weintraub 1995: 282), especially as a site of contestation and protest. The

idea of protecting public spaces as a “public forum” for assembly, speech, and protest has

long been an important element of the institution of free speech in the United States, as

well as a much litigated one (Post 1987). Places such as sidewalks, streets, plazas, and

parks have generally been legally protected as such fora, constrained only by

“reasonable” limitations such as time of day, as have a number of government properties

with the exception of places such as prisons. Private property, on the other hand, is not

protected under public forum legislation.

Recent research confirms that public places of these sorts (i.e. those that serve as

legally protected public fora) are also endangered. McCarthy and McPhail (2006)

identify a number of mechanisms that contribute to this pattern in the United States.8

First, following a related trend noted elsewhere (e.g. Kohn 2004, McKenzie 1994) public space is becoming increasingly privatized. For example, gated communities limit the use of their sidewalks and streets to members only and, even then, carefully regulate their

use. BIDs similarly govern the use of their spaces via private security. Second, while the laws governing public spaces protect the use of them as public fora, these same laws

“have been used by authorities to control those spaces” and “provide[e] the police tools to distance protestors—to displace them—from where they have sought to gather McCarthy and McPhail (2006: 234). Here, police determine when and where demonstrations will

151 be allowed, often placing them far distant from the target object of protest. Finally, it is

noted that the public places which still remain are no longer sites in which vast numbers

of people congregate or pass through. This fact renders the potential of such a context as

an effective forum much diminished. Large aggregations of people, it is argued, are more

likely to be found in places such as malls and stadiums, which are not protected as public

fora, rather than in the traditionally protected locales.

Physical public space continues to be important in less overtly political ways as

well. It is the extent and quality of public space that marks the quality of city life (Jacobs

1961). The more open the streets, sidewalks, plazas, and other public spaces are to

multiple types of people and uses, the more vibrant they are, the safer they are. More

generally, the quality of social life within a context can be directly linked to healthy public space. Public space provides a context for recreation and socialization (L’Aoustet

and Griffet 2004), a site within which to negotiate and unite diverse interests (Davis

2004), and generally allows for a social world of acknowledged and tolerated, even enjoyed, heterogeneity (Young 1990).

Despite their immense importance public spaces are not only being destroyed, as

noted above but, more insidiously, are being displaced by simulacra. A particularly

poignant example of this is provided by Flusty who describes:

…a high-end open-air shopping mall, picturesquely modeled after an Italian hilltown. Opened in 1998, this mall is named The Commons. There is no apparent consciousness of how the name is contradicted by a code of conduct threatening expulsion and/or prosecution for such infractions as boisterous play or the free exercise of political expression. (Flusty 2001: 662)

Contrary to the current trend encapsulated by this example, public spaces are marked by

the free, physical mixing of different types of people and uses, as well as the non-material

152 mixing of ideas and discourses. To externally regulate or limit the use or form of such

spaces is to combat this meaning of them as well (Ferrell 2001), to lose public space is to

eliminate free exchange from the public consciousness. Preserving public space, then, is

not simply a matter of aesthetics nor is it only an effort to preserve the rights of

marginalized individuals—as important as such a goal may nonetheless be. Rather, the

battle for public space is the battle of a free social order: “at stake is… a dream of spatial control that others of us might consider instead a dystopian nightmare—a potential police state” (2001:15).

REPRESENTATIONAL SPACE: A SUBCULTURAL SOLUTION?

The built environment thus faces a “wholesale deployment of surveillance and

control to extirpate the spontaneous, the unpredictable, free expression, dissidents, alien

cultural practices and the insufficiently affluent” (Flusty 2001: 662). Whether these

changes, this ordering of the built environment, are a recent trend or not is a matter of

debate.9 Regardless of the exact moment of its chronological emergence, few would deny the trend toward an increasingly restrictive spatial order that benefits some— especially those with an economic agenda—more than others; that constrains free interaction, segregates, monitors, and controls. Similarly, while it is possible that building trends in this direction may have slowed, it is equally true that the changes previously wrought have not been undone, and that “interdictory” functions are becoming more subtle (2001).

153 Rather than focus on such trivia, a more fruitful debate should focus on what is

missing from such an argument, namely, a solution or at least a response. The arguments

discussed above, regarding the destruction of public space, may accurately describe some

aspects of the contemporary world, but they are too general and too deterministic. They

privilege representations of space (Lefebvre 1991)—the world as designed and ordered

by planners and architects in accord with the requirements of elite interests—while

denying agency to individuals or groups within those spaces with which to act back upon

these forces or, if nothing else, to circumvent them. Planners and architects can arguably

shift their mode of producing spaces to one that is more democratic. However, they are

ultimately subject to the demands of their clients which, apparently, require the types of

places noted above. Rather, much research continuously points to subcultural

movements as one possible sector from which challenges to the spatial order emerge.

While often underemphasized in favor of analyses of style, there nonetheless has

been a strong, historical interest by subculture researchers with the concept of place.

According to the CCCS theorists, one of the key concerns of subcultures is to “win space

for the young: cultural space in the neighborhood and institutions, real time for leisure

and recreation, actual room on the street or street-corner. [Subcultures] serve to mark out

and appropriate ‘territory’ in the localities” (Clarke et al. 1975: 45, emphasis in original).

This historical concern with place can doubtless be traced to Cohen’s (1972)

landmark study which linked working-class subcultural emergence, in part, to the spatial

devastation of working-class Britain. Subcultural attempts at “winning space” or territory

154 were, in part, attempts to reclaim the social order that was lost along with the spatial order:

It is through the function of territoriality that subculture becomes anchored in the collective reality of the kids who are its bearers, and who in this way become not just its passive support but its conscious agents. Territoriality is simply the process though which environmental boundaries (and foci) are used to signify group boundaries (and foci) and become invested with subcultural value… Territoriality is thus not only a way in which kids ‘live’ subculture as a collective behaviour, but also the way in which the subcultural group becomes rooted in the situation of its community. In the context of the East End, it is a way of retrieving the solidarities of the traditional neighborhood destroyed by redevelopment. The existence of communal space is reasserted as the common pledge of group unity—you belong to the Mile End mob in so far as Mile End belongs to you. (Cohen 1972: 85, emphasis in original)

His study indicates, parallel to Lefebvre’s thesis, that spatial devastation is linked with

social devastation: social organization and accepted ways of life—in this case, working-

class society—cannot be maintained without a complimentary spatial organization,

without place. At the same time, it reflects an earlier concern over the consequences of

“redevelopment,” of spatial reorganization as directed by others who do not live or work

in the areas of interest. Finally, Cohen’s argument reinforces the idea that existing spatial

arrangements, including their symbolic value, reveal much about the concerns of the

social group that uses or plans them through an analytic process similar to homology.

While this constitutes an argument worth taking seriously, Cohen, again, goes on

to describe how this territorial “solution” to working-class problems, like all “solutions”

developed by subcultures, is wholly “magical” and completely ineffective at solving

these problems in any way other than through its therapeutic aspect. He fails to account

for the possibility and likelihood, as discussed above, that causation may flow both ways.

Specifically he acknowledges that place, through its dissolution, influences social

arrangements—in this case, radically altering working-class organization to the point

where it too could be considered destroyed in a very real sense. On the other hand, the 155 spatial tactics of the resulting subcultures, while constituting a strategy of place-making,

are not conferred the reciprocal power to build social arrangements. He, like Foucault

(1972) and like many of the contemporary studies of the loss of public space reviewed above, privileges authoritative power and knowledge (as savoir), without leaving room for the effective resistance of agents. Applying Lefebvre’s (1991) model of place to subculture requires not just cause and effect, but multiple levels of causation and tripartite interaction. In this way, the old problem of denying subcultures the power to be successful, to enact social change, can itself be resolved: social change may come with spatial change.

Researchers are paying increasing attention to the role of place in subcultural

groupings, but such efforts are still remarkably few and tend to reflect many of the more

general problems that youth studies traditionally suffer from as discussed earlier (e.g.

overemphasizing fashion, assuming subcultural activity is only symbolic and, therefore,

ineffective, etc.) (Valentine et al. 1998). In a similar vein, “research on social

movements and contentious politics has generally downplayed the spatial construction

and context of its central concepts such as identity, grievances, political opportunities,

and resources” (Martin and Miller 2003). Nonetheless, several studies have fruitfully

wedded subcultural perspectives with social movement perspectives to link the interests

of unconventional groups with spatial strategies by which to pursue those interests and, to

some extent, create change in the social world.

The most prominent examples of phenomena that appear to present combined

spatial and subcultural challenges to existing socio-spatial orders are generally drawn

156 from a new generation of youthful agitators displeased with liberal capitalism, its control

over processes of globalization, and attendant issues of ecological and social concern.

Such groups, while incredibly diverse, are interpreted as being engaged in a conflict over

the “global” commons (Klein 2000).

Reclaim the Streets (RTS) represents one such group that challenges social

conditions through spatial practice. As its name implies, RTS is an anti-capitalist

movement aiming to “take back” public space from private interests and excessive

government restriction (Jordan 1998, St. John 2003). The favorite tactic of the group is

to stage “illegal” parties in the streets and other restricted “public” places, restricting

everyday commerce, drawing attention to what is viewed as a destructive automobile

culture, and establishing an alternative sociality. Thus, public spaces are temporarily

transformed into a common good rather than serving specific, economic purposes—the

“festival” becomes the “temporary autonomous zone” (2003: 65), a politically motivated

party. At other times, spaces are physically altered through vandalism or even gardening.

Like many radical groups, RTS members thus have an interest in direct action, in seeking

change through their own efforts rather than relying on representative politics which are

perceived as serving only the interests of capital. This philosophy is perhaps best

espoused by an RTS banner—apparently inspired by a similarly entitled Sex Pistols album—that was flown over London’s Trafalgar Square during an action in 1997: “Never

Mind the Ballots, Reclaim the Streets” (Ferrell 2001: 133).

Another dramatic example of radical spatial tactics is the Black Bloc. This

movement, firmly grounded in anarchist and related radical subcultures, appears

157 periodically at major protest events where it supplements the actions of less radical

groups (David 2002). Members dress in black masks and other clothing as a political

expression and to blend in with one another, making arresting specific individuals

difficult. The tactical repertoire includes vandalizing specific targets perceived as

particularly inimical to global justice (e.g. Banks, fast-food chains, etc.), political graffiti,

and other transformations of the physical environment with symbolic purpose. As

discussed above, controlling when and where protesters can assemble (i.e. controlling and limiting the use of public space) has been an increasingly used tactic by law enforcement

(McCarthy and McPhail 2006). It is therefore equally interesting that the Black Blocs

tactics also involve direct confrontation with police and purposeful transgression of

spatial limitations imposed on marches through “refusing to remain on sanctioned parade

routes [and] challenging police barricades” (David 2002: 16).

Not all subcultures that challenge dominant representations of space do so in so

dramatic and so politically radical a fashion. Many cities, for example, are home to

members of a subculture based around a hobby called ‘urban exploration.’ This is:

[A] sort of interior tourism that allows the curious-minded to discover a world of behind-the- scenes sights like forgotten subbasements, engine rooms, rooftops, abandoned mineshafts, secret tunnels, abandoned factories and other places not designed for public usage... Urban exploration inspires people to create their own adventures… instead of buying the pre-packaged adventures so many of us settle for… it nurtures a sense of wonder in the everyday spaces we inhabit. (Ninjalicious 2005: 3)

Urban exploration, then, is about challenging spatial boundaries and redefining places. It seeks adventure in the many locales where private or otherwise forbidden zones are otherwise out-of-reach for law-abiding citizens and allows for a creative reinterpretation of what such spaces mean (Edensor 2005a, 2005b). It is an active, creative subculture

158 that enables a different experience of cities which, for most people, merely “consis[t] of

mindless travel between work, shopping and home” (Ninjalicious 2005: 3). While the

subculture, in this case, is not overtly political, it has a clear oppositional character in its

lack of regard for authority and symbolic transformation of private property.

Other examples of subcultural movements using combinations of social and

spatial tactics to challenge neo-liberal space and society abound. All such socio-spatial

challengers can be said to be in pursuit of “‘autonomous geographies’—those spaces

where people desire to constitute non-capitalist, egalitarian and solidaristic forms of

political, social, and economic organization through a combination of resistance and

creation” (Pickerill and Chatterton 2006). As examples of emplaced or spatialized tactics for social contention, they illustrate the potential for representational space (Lefebvre

1991), for space as lived, to serve as a powerful transformative force. Social conflicts are tied up in conflicts over space and particular places: over its meaning, purpose, use, and so on. Representational spaces as oppositional can therefore be conceptualized as

‘counterspaces’: “spaces of resistance to the dominant order” (Soja 1996) within which social movement subcultures can create and practice alternative ways of life and social organization. Research regarding such spaces provides the necessary perspective to correct the asymmetrical approach discussed above: privileging only structurally imposed

representations of space while ignoring everyday practices and lived space which

challenge these external forces.

Representational space thus has the potential to be oppositional space, but this is certainly not always the case. While an overview of the ways everyday people act back

159 upon their environment would constitute too far a departure from the current discussion

to be productive, a brief comparison regarding a more moderate alternative to such

radical reconstructions of space and social practice would be instructive.10 For example, considerably more scholarly attention has been focused on the collective efforts of

individuals—residents, local business owners, and so forth—taking active roles within

their communities than on subcultural movements. These community efforts often

include such tactics as participating in local governance (e.g. Ghose 2005), seeking

external investment (e.g. Brannan et al. 2007), and providing adequate housing (e.g.

Elliot et al. 2004). More conventional community action of this sort can certainly qualify

as lived experience of place manifesting itself in a way contrary to dominant interests.

Apart from generally seeking more “realistic” and immediate goals than the movements

discussed above, perhaps the most important difference between conventional community

action and the aforementioned is their relationship to government, business, and other

powerful actors. Anti-globalization movements, “autonomous” collectives, and similar

groups are defined, largely, in terms of their resistance and opposition to such powers

(Pickerill and Chatterton 2006). The goals and visions of these competing groups are

generally too divergent to be reconciled. Community groups on the other hand, while

often at odds with government and commercial interests, are not so divergent in their goals that coalitions are never sought and comprises never reached. Indeed, such coalitions are often considered to be one of the main ways in which communities empower themselves (e.g. Chaskin 2001). While this, indeed, may grant these communities a transformative advantage, it does not come without cost. Often, the

160 interests of the government and commercial actors within these coalitions come to

dominant whatever compromises result. Affordable housing schemes, for example, may

end up as homes for the affluent (Gibson 2005), redevelopment may serve as a guise for

revanchist urbanism where the needy are simply expelled (e.g. Davis 1992, Smith 1997),

and so on. It is for these reasons that scholars are often skeptical of the potential of such

coalitions or, at least, wary of its dangers (e.g. Logan and Molotch 1987). Thus, while

other courses for asserting lived space are available, each likely constitutes a different set

of opportunities and threats.

RESEARCH ON PUNK SUBCULTURE AND SPACE

If research on subcultures has had an historical interest in the places within which

such activity is enacted, studies of punk subculture have been no exception. However,

similar cautions apply as those stated earlier. A number of punk studies, like most subcultural studies, tend to trivialize the subject of interest and treat it as an ineffectual,

merely expressive, or pathological condition (e.g. Levine and Stumpf 1983, Willis 1993).

Nonetheless, there have also been a number of truly illuminating works and thus a brief

overview of some of these studies and their general accomplishments is relevant here.

Studies of punk subculture can be roughly placed within two temporally and conceptually overlapping camps: 1) those studies which capture an earlier wave of punk and tend to portray it as a nihilistic movement, and 2) more recent studies which offer a more optimistic interpretation. Whether the studies in the first of these categories provide an accurate reflection of the subculture at that phase in its development is debatable and a

161 separate matter which cannot be resolved here.11 Changes in findings across the two categories suggest, however, that there has been a change in the subculture, a change in the way researchers investigate it, or perhaps both.

Earlier studies of punk rock tended to be more preoccupied with fashion and style than place. Place, when considered, was often interpreted in ecological terms. That is, these studies are typically concerned with the places necessary for survival of the punk way of life as well as the literal survival of punks who live on the margins of society.

These studies portray spaces and space-use that reflect the subculture as it stood at that time (or, again, researchers’ perceptions of it). According to these studies, punks mostly adapted to and made do with the environment that was available and used it for nihilistic or, at best, solidaristic purposes. Baron (1989) noted that punks in his study tended to utilize a specific street, an adjacent alley, and a nearby restaurant. Most of their time would be spent at these locations. He found that males and those more dedicated to the subculture tended to use the outdoor locations while females and the less-dedicated tended to more frequently utilize the indoor restaurant. Both outdoor and indoor areas were primarily just used for socializing with one another. However, both also served important ecological functions. The street permitted the punks to panhandle or commit petty crimes, consistent with punk ethos of that era, while the alley provided some degree of shelter from police harassment and victimization from members of other subcultures.

The restaurant was generally utilized for cheap coffee and no illegal or violent activities were noted there.

162 Fox’s (1987) provides another relatively early example of punk studies, but also establishes a different view of punk sense of place. While her study predominantly addresses the social organization and commitment levels of punks, attention is paid to the physical context which, however fleeting that attention is, provides a different level of understanding than ecological perspectives alone. First, the region of the study is noteworthy. It is described as a section of the American southwest characterized by both religious and political conservatism and not entirely conducive to punk subculture. Fox states that the only place the punks could regularly gather was a dingy cowboy bar, which would allow regularly scheduled punk shows once a week. This local punk scene is described as having been small and on the decline. Nonetheless, this single bar, Fox argues—with its tolerant and somewhat interested audience of non-punks—provided a reliable place for punks to practice their way of life. The weekly shows constituted an almost ritualistic gathering and celebration of collectively held values. One is left with little doubt what would happen to the punk scene if the bar were to suddenly close or cancel its policy of a weekly punk rock night.

These exemplars of a pioneering wave of punk studies indicate that punks had

little choice other than to utilize and adapt to preexisting places that happen to facilitate

their various needs. No indication is made that the punks are ever active agents in the

creation of their own places. More recent studies tend to pay additional attention toward

the creative agency: punks as engaged in the production of place rather than as more-or-

less passive recipients of preexisting conditions.

163 Mateus (2004), in his contemporary study of Nuyorican punks,12 provides a very different image of punk place and ethos. The places of the most importance to Mateus’ punks are those used for musical performance, like those in Fox’s study. However, the exact type of places and the reasons for their use is seen to vary considerably here:

“Whether performing in the Museo del Barrio, the doomed green gardens and illegal squats of the ghetto, or the downtown punk clubs, these Nuyoricans share a political vision larger than themselves. [They are] [f]ed up with injustice, railing against oppression and fear-mongering, and regar[d] freedom as more than agitprop or pamphlet material” (2004:255). Here, the street corner and the diner are no longer salient features of the punk social landscape. Moreover, there is no mention of meaningless loitering, panhandling, or scrapes with other subcultures. The reason why performances and performance spaces are so important to the contemporary group in this study corresponds with the conception of a very different punk ethos. As opposed to the nihilistic punks portrayed in the older wave of punk scholarship, these punks are much more interested in progressive causes. Music is seen as a way to spread social messages, cultivate collective identity, and mobilize punks and other listeners that they might take action and promote social change (cf. Eyerman 2002). As such, Mateus’ punks travel across different locations, spreading their progressive, activist message like “guerilla minstrels”

(Hampton 1986 as cited in Mateus 2004).

While show spaces are important, they are not the only places that are useful for facilitating punk subculture. Clark’s (2004) ethnography of punk-eating practices focuses on a specific place in Seattle called the Black Cat Café. Unlike the diner used by

164 Baron’s punks (1989), this café was owned and operated by punks and served, more

generally, as “a haven” from the non-punk world, where one could find “an assortment of

young adults who exercised and debated punk praxis in and through the premises” (2004:

19). The café served as something of an ‘autonomous zone’ (Bey 1991), a place removed

from the dominant social order where an alternative vision of society can be practiced.

This symbolic removal from ordinary space was made clearly visible by a sign, stolen

from somewhere in the vicinity of the Rio Grande River and transplanted onto a fence

outside the café stating: “U.S. Border.” Within the diner, the same transformation of space is evident aesthetically:

[T]he façade and décor of the Black Cat Café suggested the antithesis [of modern authority]. The café was cluttered, soiled, its interior covered with posters, art, and canvas coffee sacks: packed with bulky, dilapidated furniture, it felt cramped. This ambiance is what drew punks to the Black Cat collective [whereas] others were repelled (Clark 2004: 21).

The meaning and purpose of this place need not only be inferred through a

semiotic reading however. Through observation, Clark found that the café generally

worked as a space for oppositional solidarity, as a locus of praxis, and a launching point

for activism. However, one of its main focuses was on a praxis of eating. Consuming certain foods—for example, food that is vegetarian, not mass produced, stolen, and so forth—was seen as a way of everyday living that promoted the punk ethos and opposed

what they perceived as an exploitative, capitalist monoculture.

The disparate ideologies of these two eras of punk (or, again, researchers’

perceptions of these ideologies) have yielded disparate productions of place to facilitate a

changing ethos and praxis. Early punk is characterized or portrayed by ecology, survival,

and nihilism. Its passive, cynical orientation toward society and politics is accompanied

165 by a passive, adaptive approach to the environment. More contemporary studies portray

a punk subculture that is active in its stance towards society, politics, and the places it

occupies. Contemporary punks actively seek to influence and change these things for the

better, even as they are influenced by them. Across all of these studies, and their different perspectives, the importance of place for maintaining, facilitating, and reflecting

punk subculture is continually reinforced. A network of places is established—a

representational space, and autonomous geography—that is distinct from, and stands in opposition to, the dominant pattern of the regulation and destruction of public space outlined above.

SUMMARY

As discussed in this chapter, place can be both cause and consequence, object and subject, of human behavior. To the extent that it is either of these things, it continues to be a composite phenomenon, consisting of both physical form and symbolic meaning.

Place and society are inextricable, such that each reflects the other. Place is, therefore, a powerful guiding concept for scholarly inquiry. By focusing on place, the current analysis will be able to achieve three goals. First, it will be able to more adequately investigate the nature of punk rock subculture than previous studies which focus on concepts, such as fashion, that are not as closely associated with key social practices.

Every social group requires a unique production of space and place to facilitate and express its needs to an extent that cannot be said of consumables like clothing. Thus, subculture can be “read,” not through a semiotic analysis of its fashion, but through an

166 understanding of the places it creates. Second, while it will not be possible to unambiguously determine the extent to which particular features of place cause or result from other social conditions under investigation, punk place can also be investigated in terms of what its intended or unintended outcomes are on the subculture. This will involve an examination of the physical environment, its symbolic meaning, and the ways punks interact with it. Finally, the less proximate consequences of punk spatial practices can be considered. What are the goals of these places and to what extent are these or other outcomes achieved? All of these considerations are contextualized by the dominant socio-spatial environment against, and within, which alternative social groups must contend.

167

CHAPTER 6: LOCATING PUNK SPACE

As argued in Chapter 4, punk represents an unconventional subculture with an oppositional and yet constructive ethos that sets it at odds with mainstream social practices. Moreover, as discussed in the previous chapter, every social group requires a place or set of places to maintain its way of life: an environment wherein desired social organization and interaction—a specific way of life or culture—can be enacted and facilitated (Lefebvre 1991). In this chapter, the socio-spatial needs of punk subculture will be explored as well as the problems punks encounter when interacting with, or trying to adapt to, the mainstream socio-spatial order.

First, spaces in which punk music is performed are identified as the locations most important to punk life and the reasons for this importance are delineated. Next, a distinction is made between mainstream music spaces (venues) and punk music spaces

(DIY spaces). The former of these, it is argued, are far from ideal for punk needs and the use of them by punks often involves tensions and difficulties stemming from the cultural dissimilarity of the subculture from mainstream culture as exemplified in mainstream venues. Then, DIY spaces—music spaces established by punks for their specific needs— are explored as an alternative to mainstream venues. It is argued that many of the difficulties faced by punks in mainstream venues are alleviated or solved by the use of

168 these spaces more closely tailored to the needs of the subculture. However, this is not a perfect solution as a number of social forces are arrayed against the unconventional socio-spatial practices of punk and threaten the destruction of the places they create.

Despite these shortcomings, it is argued that DIY spaces are generally better at facilitating the intended way of life of punk than are mainstream venues which, in a sense, are culturally alien. Finally, some theoretical implications of these findings are presented in conclusion.

THE IMPORTANCE OF SHOW SPACES TO PUNK SUBCULTURE

According to past research several different types of space were traditionally

important to punks. Places such as the street corner, alley, or café (Baron 1989) allowed punks to hang out, meet new members of the subculture, exchange ideas, and perform similar activities with members of their social group. Another such place mentioned by respondents in the current study was the local record store:

Well, the record stores were important because, you know, there were only two or three record stores in the whole town where you could get the kind of music we were looking for. So they were our, I mean aside from ordering them from the labels or buying things at a show, those were the other two options which we made use of. (…) So you’re always on the search, always researching a group of bands you’re looking for that you haven’t heard of before or, you know, “did you know that so-and-so did a mixed album that was produced by so-and-so back in 1992?” “No let’s go and find it,” right? So, that was a, and you run into other people in town that are doing that same thing (…) (Helen)

However, those still involved in the subculture at the time of the study, if they mentioned

record stores at all did so in disparaging terms; as locations that once were important to

them and the subculture but are so no more:

I think record stores don’t mean shit anymore. They were the best thing in the world when I was a kid, like you’d go there every week and you’d see what new releases came out from like the punk rock labels. You’d check the wall to see what shows were gonna be there, you’d hang out, you’d 169 run into some other punks or hardcore kids putting up flyers for their show and then, or the clerk would be like “Hey, my band’s playing this church basement.” I mean it’s just, the whole thing has lost itself. What it was. There’s no need for them because nobody gives a shit. (Barrett)

It is difficult to establish precisely why this change has come about from the

information gleaned during the interviews1 but, for whatever reason, record stores no longer appear to be important locations for the subculture. Instead, the primary locus of

punk social life seems to be located where one would, perhaps, most expect it: in those

places where music is performed. While these sorts of places were described as

important repeatedly by the respondents, no other type of place was mentioned by current

members of the subculture as being important beyond a strictly idiosyncratic level. The

importance of music spaces and going to shows2 for punk subculture was stated unambiguously by the majority of respondents. Carolyn stated that “[G]oing to concerts is key—music is life to some of us, it’s a breeding ground for socialization and music discovery.” Aaron, who no longer considers himself to be a punk, nonetheless continues going to shows because of their importance: “I still go to shows because that, for me, I mean the essence of it was going to shows.”

The Centrality of Punk Show Spaces

The importance of show spaces is further highlighted by statements which link their continued existence to the survival of the subculture. Ray stated that “We wouldn’t have a punk scene if we didn’t have venues.” Asked to clarify the relationship between the subculture and its places after making a similar statement, Renee illustrated this interconnection:

170 I mean, try to remove shows from punk rock, does that really look, does that really sound punk at all? I guess punk is rooted in musicians, it started out as a musical movement and now it’s a subculture, because a lot of people went to see shows, they went to see bands play that shared the same ideologies that they had. So they got together around these bands and they start talking, they start meeting each other, they start building networks, they, I guess, they start building art worlds, where, like art communities, where they shared their art with the people in that one community and they felt acceptance from their peers there. (Renee)

Indeed, so important are these places believed to be for punk, that often the concept of show spaces was brought up to describe what punk was. For example, upon being asked what punk meant to her, Macy stated:

[W]hen I think of punk I think of, it’s in the basements. It’s in the mindsets of the people in this basement watching these bands and it’s, you know, it’s like a way of life, as cheesy as that sounds, but it’s like this mindset that you have, and it’s kind of an ideology you end up forming your life around. (Macy)

Here the terminology used to describe the subculture and its ethos is emplaced; it relates these directly to the show spaces that punk occupies such that these concepts are indistinguishable from the place that embodies them and wherein they are practiced.

Show spaces were considered important for several reasons. Interestingly, despite the emphasis punks generally place on individuality, rarely were the reasons cited as being important to a punk identity of a purely individualist nature. Instead, the overriding

theme was that space served to facilitate community among punks and to reinforce or

share collective concerns and perspectives. Returning to Carolyn, for instance, show

spaces can be conceived of as places that “attract like minded people who share your

interests.” Indeed, it seems that the importance of such spaces for a sense of community

and collective identity is key:

J: […] Do you have any other just general thoughts about shows that were important to you that I didn’t ask about?

A: I feel like it was really important to me, especially as somebody that came from somewhere so isolated. Like that I was able to go to shows, occasionally in [city], and commiserate with people that kind of did the same things that I wanted to do. I mean that was very very important for me in 171 terms of community. In college we, my friend [name] and I, we felt that it was really important to try to keep this going, these shows. I went to [university] which is in a really small town. While there were plenty of sort of punk kids who went to school there, none of them were terribly active. They never really wanted to do anything aside from just like throw parties. So [friend] and I were the one’s who always thought it was really important to have shows because, I think it’s sort of needed. You need to have those kinds of events to kind of bring your people together and to do something other than just sitting in someone’s living room playing Nintendo. (Andrea)

In order for subcultures to flourish, it has been argued that a certain density of people with shared interests must first be present in a given area (Fischer 1976). Yet even given such density, excerpts such as these suggest that having a place for such people to congregate and participate in a culturally meaningful activity might constitute a further requirement. Indeed, it was evident that a sense of punk identity could not fully be realized in places that did not support the subculture, where contrary discourses do not permit the full expression of this identity:

So, a lot of people couldn’t be a punk at home, they’d have to sneak out to be a punk. And then you get together with all these other people and you all think you’re punks therefore you are. And it’s really exciting because it’s been this sort of bracketed experience of going and being punks and then you, it’s like your alter ego, and, you know, you’re walking the halls in High School getting, you know, getting shoved around and getting, having a hard time both from your peers and from authority figures, which makes you hate the mainstream and makes you hate authority even more. But then, but you can’t let out, let loose to the extent that you want to. I think you can’t be the punk you want to be when you’re at school or you’re in front of your parents [.] (Calvin)

In addition to these other factors tied to the importance of show spaces, another common theme in the interviews was that such places also just served an important recreational and socialization function. For example:

Shows are kind of like the big social thing here. Like if your friend doesn’t like to go to bars, like I don’t really like going to bars, just sit there and drink alcohol, we go to a show. The shows are one of the times when you can see everybody you know and have a good time with them. (Mary) -- It’s really fun to get out with a group of people you’re friends with and hear music you like and dance around. It’s the same reason anyone goes out to the bar on any given night, or dancing at clubs or whatever you’re into. It’s just a really enjoyable way to cut loose once a week or every couple of weeks. (Phil)

172 Yet, in apparently light-hearted sentiments such as this, it is apparent that even in a recreational capacity show spaces facilitate a collective interaction among members of the subculture.

Similar sentiments as those above, expressed by interviewees, were evident in the documentary accounts analyzed: show spaces are of crucial importance to punk subculture. They permit the expression of shared identity and allow the interaction and activities requisite of a punk lifestyle whereas other types of spaces do not. For instance, one punk-authored book describes a punk music space in San Francisco:

Gilman changes people’s lives. It gives them inspiration; it gives them hope. It’s what holds some people together when life is tearing them apart. It shows them that there are things in this world to care about, to take responsibility for. It instills in them the sense that some things matter, and perhaps most importantly, that they themselves matter, especially those who’ve been told that they would never amount to anything. (Edge 2004: 1)

The sentiment that certain show spaces are uniquely punk locations was expressed in the texts as well. One article discussed the history and importance of a now defunct show space in Kansas:

[F]or the teens and young adults (…) who congregated in the mud-soaked parking lot every weekend, the Outhouse [name of space] meant something more than music. It meant freedom— from parents, from authority, and from the banality of attending high school and growing up. (Ginowt 2003: no pagination).

Thus, show spaces provide a place for punk to exist and thrive. The ongoing importance attributed to such spaces by the respondents reinforces the importance of face-to-face interaction within subcultures which, it has been argued, cannot be replaced by virtual interaction over the internet (Hodkinson 2003).

173 Show Space as Quasi-Sacred Space

Interestingly, several of the respondents stated that part of the importance of shows spaces, of meeting face-to-face with other members of the subculture on a fairly regular basis—was because such an activity constituted something of a ritual for the subculture. As Renee explicitly put it, “Shows are like, I guess—I don’t really want to use this word, but it’s very true—shows are a ritual in punk rock culture.” Others used similar religious terminology to describe shows and show spaces. Helen described her favorite show space, now defunct, in the following way: “[name of space] was absolutely… it was holy ground.” Similarly, Parker made the following comparison between show spaces and spiritual communities when asked to describe what a punk rock show feels like: “Um, it just sort of has… I think a lot of it has to do with the people who come, because it is sort of like a church in that the church is nothing without the people who come.”

Further suggestions of a quasi-spiritual, communitarian experience at punk shows were in evidence throughout the study. This was especially so in terms of the sort of ritual-like quality attributed to shows by respondents. Among the elements involved in the performance of ritual, Durkheim (1995 [1912]) includes the following: assembly of a group with collectively held values and beliefs, participation in shared and repeated behavior (e.g. chanting, singing, gesticulation, etc.), shared focus of attention (such as on one who is presiding over the ceremonial or on a religious symbol), and an apprehension on the part of each participant of being a part of a collectivity larger than any single individual. These elements were readily seen during the fieldwork—except, of course,

174 for an apprehension of the collective which is not objectively observable—and were also specified by respondents describing their experiences at shows:

And you never have a show where the—a well-known punk band, where the audience is psyched to see it—where you don’t have, the audience very often sweaty, engaging in what really looks like, I mean it sort of has this Bacchanal, um, that’s not what I mean. You know, if this were church, people would be speaking in tongues or rolling on the floor, that it’s a transcendent experience for people. And I gotta say like, I don’t engage in social currents very well, and I don’t think of myself as much of a joiner, but I think the closest I’ve ever felt to, you know, religious transcendent experience (…) is being at a punk show, and having it be unbelievably loud, my knowing the songs and being really into them, and not slam-dancing but having the loose pit that isn’t really dancing, it’s having people falling all over each other in a semi-organized way, being pressed against bodies, pressed against the stage. I crave that. And I sort of regret that I’m not as into modern punk bands because I can’t have the same experiences (…). And you sort of need, you need a critical mass of people in the pit, feeling it, and then you feel very tied to these bands, because you’ve had this liminal experience by going to a show which otherwise is a pretty, you know, conventional commercial cultural experience. So, you know, you go to the show, you come out transformed. (Calvin)

Many of the respondents did not explicitly describe shows as ritualistic or religious experiences but nonetheless described them in terms that could be readily

related to ritual behavior or the outcomes thereof. For example, although having

described her favorite venue as ‘holy ground,’ as noted above, Helen used no further

religious allusions when discussing a particularly moving show experience. Nonetheless,

the account can certainly be interpreted as being of quasi-ritual significance:

I mean, I’ve never been one for being able to quote lyrics, I’ve just never in my life unless the song is actually playing. But being in the [venue name] was, what, twelve hundred kids from all over Ohio, bumping up in down as one and singing the song along with Ian [frontman for the band Fugazi] as he says “What are you going to do? If you’re just watching, then you’re part of the problem. You have to be part of the solution. What are you going to do?” And even though we’re jumping up and down and screaming, I think there were enough of us who took it to heart (.) (Helen)

In addition to themes of community and identity, themes of personal transformation and catharsis or ecstasy at shows were also expressed by many of the respondents in terms of the importance of show spaces. Such states are also commonly

175 linked, as outcomes, to ritual by researchers (e.g. Laughlin 1990). When asked what he liked so much about shows, Aaron gave a clear example of this:

I mean just making physical contact with someone and just going crazy. I mean I completely lose myself in the moment. It’s a better high than any drug I’ve done honestly. I mean, jumping off stage and getting kicked in the face. [laughs] It’s a rush, it’s fun. It’s the moment when you walk out and you walk back into reality, it’s kind of like, you just feel so light, you feel like a bag of feathers and you’re exhausted and you go and crash and you wake up and you can’t move all day because you’re sore as fuck. I don’t know what’s so addicting about that feeling but, I mean there’s nothing, I can’t rank anything higher than that. (Aaron)

A similar state of catharsis or ecstasy seems to pervade not just the audience, but the performers at shows as well:

And it’s fun. I like playing shows more than I like doing anything else regarding bands (…) playing shows is fun because you get sweaty and it stops you from punching 20 people a day. (…) I get a kick out of it. I mean it’s definitely a release. It used to be a huge release going to shows and being a maniac and running around like a kid. And I have to be a bit more encouraged to do that than I used to be. Before it was just like a can of soda and I was running around like a 4 year old, but now it’s a little harder to watch bands and get excited. But being in a band, you feel like you’re 12 again or something. Maybe more so 20, but whatever. (Chris)

As Bell (1997) states in her comprehensive treatise, no scholarly consensus currently exists over the role of ritual in society. Instead, ritual may hold multiple levels of importance for specific groups or individuals, and this importance thus changes across groups and across time. From the patterns discussed above, it seems like the non- religious rituals punks engage in during shows may allow at least two “functions” or outcomes. First, a solidaristic function wherein individuals become aware of a shared identity and shared interests with other members of their group (e.g. Durkheim 1995

[1912]) as detailed throughout this section. Secondly, there appears to be a transformative or cathartic aspect of punk ritual for at least some of the participants. This aspect, in turn, can be understood as serving to “vent” otherwise dangerous frustrations in a safe manner (e.g. Laughlin 1990) or to simply facilitate solidarity further by alleviating

176 tension and conflict within the group (Gluckman 1963). Neither of these outcomes of

course precludes the other nor do they supercede other possible interpretations for what is

actually going on at punk shows or during rituals more generally.3 Regardless of interpretation, the ritual importance of shows lends further support to a general perspective that show spaces lay somewhere at the core of punk subculture given that

“ritual-like action is activity that gives form to the specialness of a site, distinguishing it from other places in a way that evokes highly symbolic meanings” (Bell 1997: 159).

Resource Accumulation at Show Spaces

Finally, show spaces were also identified as being of importance in a more tangible way than those so far indicated: as a means of gathering resources for use in other respects. Money collected at shows generally goes to the venue and/or to the bands performing—a distinction which will be addressed more fully below—but at times shows may be organized with the explicit purpose of aiding some other cause. Such causes are highly varied and depend on the specific context of the show and the local punk scene, but they are generally of such a type that a good number of people can be expected to approve of the cause and, therefore, attend the show to support it:

[O]n two occasions I helped with kind of more in-depth promoting. One that was for an animal advocacy group here at [university], and it was like a benefit show, and the other was a benefit show for one of my friends who actually has leukemia and so all of the money was going to go to his family for the hospital bills. (Mollie)

Benefit shows for charitable causes seem not at all unusual. Two of the shows attended during the course of the fieldwork for this project were organized to provide funds for an activist organization called Food Not Bombs which provides free, vegan meals for the

177 needy and, indeed, anyone else that is interested. While the causes for benefit shows are

thus highly varied, sometimes they are also intended to directly support some aspect of the punk scene itself. John, who would later have benefit shows to keep his zine in print, describes such a scenario:

[W]e would get together, everybody back in those days, this was like the mid-80s, we all went to the [venue name] hardcore matinees. So every Sunday before the matinees would start we would meet some place and have a meeting and get together and come up with ways that we could like bring the scene together. It sounds incredibly naïve now [laughs], but we took it really seriously back then. And we actually managed to put on four or five benefit programs, benefit shows that raised money (…) (John)

Just as shows may be directly intended to support punk community through getting

people to interact and meet face-to-face, so may the funds accumulated from shows be

channeled back into that effort or, indeed, any other cause considered worthy of support.

The Loss of Space

Given the importance attributed to show spaces by the respondents in the

preceding section (and lending further weight to their conviction), it is no surprise to find

that the loss of such places corresponds with negative repercussions for the entire local

scene. For instance:

And I was so scared of when [venue] closed. There was a big shift in the [city’s] music scene when [venue] closed. Because a place where everyone went for years wasn’t there anymore, and it changed and it moved like three miles down to (…) a much bigger kind of, cold place, and people complained about it, people still complain about it. You know it’s been there for like eight years now, and people still bitch about it. (Bill)

Here, a shift in space is accompanied by a concomitant shift in the punk scene more

generally and a degree of social disorganization. It is evident that a given show space can

mean much more to a punk community than simply being a place to play and hear music.

The repercussions described by Bill, moreover, continued to be felt in this particular 178 scene for years despite the apparent triviality of a change in venue to just a couple miles down the same street.

The show space serves as a central point around which a local subculture orients itself and, in its sudden absence, the socio-spatial environment returns to a disorienting

“homogenous and infinite expanse, in which no point of reference is possible” (Eliade

1959:21). Interestingly, the interviews indicated that this sort of occurrence is not uncommon in the punk scene. Show spaces are important for identity, community, and so on, thus when these places close, these less tangible dimensions which they embody and facilitate are likewise placed in jeopardy. The following excerpt from an interview with Chase, cited previously in chapter 4, takes on new significance in light of this finding:

Really, once they started closing down venues and stuff, and the shows started coming less and less and like the scene started breaking up, at one point I had no idea where any of my friends were ever. Everyone disappeared and went their own way and turned into drug addicts and like vanished. I was like “No, this is stupid.” Just cause there was nothing holding the scene together anymore cause there’s no more venues, no more places to go, so everyone just loses each other and so I decided to put it back together. (Chase)

The health of the scene—of a local punk community—and also the health of the individuals within that scene, seem to be tied in some way to the health of the places in which members gather and reaffirm or renew their collective identity. Indeed, sometimes the concept of ‘health’ as pertaining to show spaces was used specifically by respondents to appraise the state of their local punk scene:

J: How do you feel about the scene where you are these days?

P: (…) I think the scene’s healthy now. There are a lot of people making music, more so than there’s ever been in the past. And while one venue that we used to have shows at closed, there’s another one that opened, so I think we’re kind of optimistic that that will work out too. (Phil)

179 Just as the death of a space can fragment the subculture in a given area, so can the

creation of a new space unite a fragmented scene. Such was, fortunately, the end result

for Chase who describes a now reinvigorated scene with the presence of dependable

show spaces. A similar case is described as having occurred in Los Angeles as one punk columnist writes:

In some instances, though, residents of a city or a town may never know what kind of community surrounds them until something serves to unify it. Jim Smith, for instance, co-founded The Smell [show space name] in 1998, and it has since become a locus for Los Angeles’ underground music scene. (Williams 2007: 62).

Thus, in sickness and in health, punk scenes are closely tied to the places wherein

members gather.

OPTIONS IN SELECTING PUNK SPACES

While it is thus in the interest of members of this subculture, as illustrated above,

to obtain and maintain reliable places to assemble and hold shows, it was evident that

achieving this was no simple task and, indeed, was an ongoing preoccupation for many of

the respondents, particularly for those who were more active in playing in bands, promoting shows, and involved in similar activities directly related to show spaces.

Punks have a range of options to choose from when trying to find a space to hold their shows. As Chase answered, for example, when asked what sort of places he’s gone to see shows at: “Did everything. I’ve been to large venues, medium venues, small venues, houses, garages, yards, behind a store.” However, each option encapsulates a different set of advantages and limitations that need to be attended to in turn. This range of options is portrayed heuristically in the fieldwork sampling typology first presented in

180 Chapter 2 (Figure 2.1). The cells and characteristics upon which they are typed are based on the show space types differentiated by respondents and on a reading of punk texts although the cells are not expected to perfectly conform to these understandings. Each cell represents an ideal type, an exaggeration of certain characteristics for the sake of analysis and discussion (Weber 1949).

The x-axis represents the major mode of operation of a given show venue: business-oriented mainstream venue, at one extreme, and not-for-profit DIY spaces at the other. The former of these possibilities was found to be particularly problematic for punks. The latter represents an alternative to this mainstream mode of operation which, while entailing its own set of problems and constraints, also has the potential to provide a more culturally appropriate space for punk practice. In reality, some spaces may gravitate toward the center of these tendencies, but the distinction, which will be explored in depth, remains relatively clear.

The y-axis is somewhat more subjective. This characteristic represents the stability of a particular show space over time and its importance to a given area. Some places may have existed for a very long time and developed something of a reputation, dependably providing valued musical acts over the years. In contradistinction to these, some music spaces are ephemeral, existing only as brief events and posses only fleeting importance. Between these two extremes lay a number of possible cases. Musical festivals, for example, tend to occur cyclically and thus take on something of an institutional character, yet they are by no means as dependable or as meaningful throughout the year. Similarly, some fixed venues are so small and marginal that they

181 cannot truly be called institutions. Coming and going over time, they represent a case

more similar in effect to an event and straddle the boundary between these and institutions. The extent to which a given space can be considered central or marginal is,

moreover, only meaningful relative to a given cultural field (Bourdieu 1983). For

example, a DIY institution is not likely to be of particular importance to the mainstram

music field and vice versa.

MAINSTREAM VENUES AND PUNK SOCIO-CULTURAL DISSIMILARITY

The range of mainstream music venues which host shows is fairly diverse: clubs,

bars, concert halls, amphitheaters and the like offer a variety of settings. An overriding theme in the interviews, however, was that such places present a set of problems to many

punks should they try hold shows in them. The predominant, reoccurring difficulties

punks experienced in trying to obtain and maintain show spaces seemed to pertain to the

conflicting cultures of DIY punk and mainstream music venues. These venues were

problematic in terms of: 1) their commercial nature, 2) their management and regulation,

3) the type of people that generally go to a given mainstream establishment, and 4) the

behavioral and perceived cultural dissimilarity of punk themselves. That is, that punk

bands and audiences who maintain the DIY ethic often experienced problems trying to

book shows at mainstream venues, in maintaining the reliable use of such venues, and in

reconciling the mainstream way of life and business with the alternative system which

characterizes punk subculture. Each of these specific sets of difficulties and partial

182 subcultural solutions to them are investigated in depth below, but first an important

distinction must be made between commercial punk bands and DIY punk bands.

The distinction made by respondents between DIY punk and commercial punk. is

not one of musical style but of philosophy.4 DIY punk, as described in chapter 4, denotes a subculture based on a constellation of values including independence from authorities

(including a diverse array of potential sources thereof: big business, government, organized religion, and peers for instance), a lack of interest in profiteering, and a cooperative/communitarian spirit. Commercial punk bands emulate a style, pose, or sound that is designed to resemble a stereotypical understanding of what punk is, but otherwise operate as mainstream popular music bands. One respondent described them as follows:

[T]he bands that are on MTV are the bands with actual record contracts, that sound like punk rock, you know, they’re playing thousand-seaters. So those kids looking for something to do that’s punk rock can just go to the mall and buy their CD and just see them for 20 dollars or whatever. (Chris)

This sort of commercial punk band may or may not encounter problems with mainstream

venues, but they are unlikely to be of the sort caused by cultural dissimilarity as some of

the following entail. Therefore, it is punk of the DIY variety—of a distinct subculture—

that is under consideration.

The Profit Motive

One problem that consistently plagues punks seeking to utilize commercial

venues is a difference in motivation. Venues exist for the purpose of making money

whether or not their owners enjoy this reality. DIY punk, on the other hand, is not

183 motivated by profit and indeed, as noted previously, attaches something of a stigma to anyone or anything that does. Instead, mutual support in creative endeavors—even at

cost—is considered sufficient motivation. This dissimilarity in motivation was

repeatedly discussed during the interviews, with profit-motivation painted in disparaging

terms. Bill, who used to promote shows, stated that for him “it was never about ‘how

much beer can we sell?’” Yet this is precisely how he believes many venue owners

think:

[I]f you want to have a venue to showcase music, then you have to really think of the audience, but I think a lot of these bar owners, they don’t think of it that way, because it’s a money-making-- they just want to sell the beer and they want to have the bands there so they sell the beer. (Bill)

Even those who were not wholly disparaging about commercial ventures—who themselves were not particularly interested in profit but were content to live and let live—acknowledged the difficulty of trying to play in a commercial venue, sometimes even for commercial bands:

If you’re a band that’s getting that kind of money, whose doing that kind of touring or whatever (…) well, fine, if you can do it. But most of those bands have to do it constantly, otherwise they lose money cause they operate at a higher overhead. They’ve got the nice bus or a big van even and they’ve got roadies and a merch[andise] guy and the label’s fronted them all these t-shirts and records and they owe their label and they owe their lawyer and they owe their booking agent 5 or 10% and blah blah blah. And then of course a guy comes to them after the show and says “we need 20% of your t-shirt sales.” And they have to give that guy 100 dollars or five dollars, whatever the cost is. And it’s just like “Oh, great, we made four grand tonight, but we only made 50 bucks each after we pay everybody off.” And they’re gone all the time so it’s not like they’re working a job. So it becomes a job, and it’s riskier, takes the fun out of it a little bit. (Chris)

Here, playing in a band is robbed of its pleasure by the commodification process inherent in commercial venues. Each detail is governed by an economic rationale that is alien to the DIY ethos.

A related problem associated with profit-driven venues is that they often restrict who can attend shows based on age. Given, as discussed in Chapter 4, punk’s emphasis 184 on inclusion and egalitarianism, it is not surprising that this exclusion was not generally taken well by the respondents. For instance, Macy said “There were so many shows I wanted to go to when I was fourteen that I couldn’t cause you had to be 16 or 18 or 21.

To hell with that.” While these general age restrictions reflect a concern for a range of liabilities, the most common reason cited for this type of exclusion revolved around the need for venues to make money and, therefore, to sell alcohol:

I feel like there is really no way for a venue to operate without selling alcohol or food because, what if a crappy band plays one night and they don’t really make any money from the door? How are they going to pay their electric bills? How are they going to pay their heating bills? How are they going to pay rent? They definitely need another source of income. (Renee)

Serving alcohol, in turn, often means that those individuals under 21 years of age are denied entry to the venue since, as Phil stated, “the alcohol serving establishments won’t let minors in because of liability issues.” Dissatisfaction over excluding people based on age was not felt only by those who, themselves, were too young to attend all shows. For example, at the time of the interview, Chase was 26 years old and thus was no longer personally affected by such age restrictions:

I hate booking bar shows and stuff, like talking to people in bars, cause I don’t like 21 and over shows, cause I think it excludes half of the scene. (Chase)

Since many punks are under 21, this exclusion becomes more than a personal issue—it becomes something of a collective concern for other members of the subculture. Even when younger punks are allowed entry, they are often charged a higher admission fee to make up for the money they won’t be spending on beverages. This too has consequences—alienating those paying a higher price—which shall be noted below.

Another common issue concerning profit is the perception—real or imagined— that punk bands are simply not capable of bringing in a large enough audience to allow 185 the venue to turn a profit. For this reason, even when bands are interested in using a

commercial venue, they run the risk of being turned away. Even worse, they may be

allowed to play and then kicked out during the show when venue owners experience a change of heart:

Even though there have been punk rock shows at bars and restaurants in the past, um, they [venue owners] were just really rude about it and they act like they’re doing you a huge favor which, you know, you’re bringing them more business. So, it’s completely rude of these owners to just shut down shows because they don’t feel like they’re profitable enough, like during the middle of the show, which is something I’ve had happen to me before [.] (Renee)

One possible reason for why DIY punk rock may not be a profitable venture for venue

owners to host is simply because there are so many bands of this sort in existence.

Interested audiences have so many possible show options in some locales that it cannot

be expected that a given audience will reach a critical mass wherein the venue makes a

profit out of its investment:

[W]ith this many bands in existence and this many records, this many shows, having a venue that will take 20% at the door and be able to pay these bands is usually not possible. I mean there’s not enough, with punk rock being mainstream or versions of it, there’s not going to be 250 kids looking for something to do on Wednesday night. (Chris)

On the other hand, this situation does not seem to apply to all scenes. In some places,

show options may be few enough on any given night that a large audience can be

gathered. Yet, whatever the specific situation may be at a particular venue, the

differences in motivation–between a profit-seeking commercial establishment and DIY

punk that has little interest in profit—are thus likely to evoke a range of tensions as noted above. Indeed, even when punk shows are able to make a profit for a commercial venue, other aspects of cultural dissimilarity are likely to be a source of friction.

186 Management and Regulation

Another set of problematic differences between punks and venues stems from the everyday operation and regulation of commercial venues. As noted in Chapter 4, punks dislike the exertion of authority over others, including among themselves, as well as any force that can be perceived as infringing upon individualism. Yet, mainstream venues operate according to a strict regime of control and supervision: audiences are monitored and coerced into behaving in certain ways and not in others. This practice is seen as a locally experienced manifestation of authority and is met with displeasure by punks.

When asked what sort of places they felt would not be suitable for punk shows, respondents commonly referred to a range of mainstream venues and, specifically, indicated problems with the standard management and regulation of these places:5

J: What kind of places do you think wouldn’t make very good venues for punk?

A: Maybe a bar? I mean there is some shows at bars here. I haven’t been to one, but I just don’t think that it would make a very good atmosphere, I don’t know why. (…) I’ve been to a show at [venue] that sucked. They would have their rules like “no chains, no spikes” and all that. And so I was kind of like “okay.” They have like their rules posted “no crowd surfing” “no moshing” in like, you know, quotation marks. You’re like “what the fuck? Seriously?” They might as well just give us like some seats and a seatbelt and, some helmets, and some elbow pads. You can sit down and take notes on the band, like seriously? (Aaron) -- J: What sort of venues would never work for a punk show?

C: I don’t know. Dance clubs with too many rules like “no smoking, no dancing.” We abhor rules. They put a limit on enjoyment. (Carolyn)

In addition to simply being a manifestation of authority, rules such as these are also seen as increasing the separation between performers and audiences which, again as illustrated in Chapter 4, punks actively strive against. When asked what he disliked about venues, Chris listed several characteristics, “Oh, I mean they’re huge businesses mostly.

I mean security, separation between the audience and the bands.”

187 Rules and regulation are thus problematic for punks, but so are the agents that

enforce these abstract policies. Owners, bouncers and security, and even the people

working more menial tasks at venues may be perceived as embodying these repressive

policies. Evident in the respondents’ accounts of regulation at shows is the perception of

the cultural dissimilarity of venue workers and punks. Individuals who are not punk

cultural insiders may misunderstand what is going on at a show and needlessly resort to

regulation:

J: What sort of things would make a club bad?

B: Well, like fucking bouncers that don’t understand slam dancing, mosh pitting, stage diving, all that stuff. When they throw kids out for having fun. (Barrett)

But it is not just cultural dissimilarity which is problematic since punk is a

relatively tolerant subculture. It is the contrast between the permissiveness of punk and an ‘other’ that is perceived not only as different, but also as an intolerant and coercive bully that revels in flexing its power:

J: What was it about security you don’t like?

B: Well, like, you know, the thing was is that the guys, I’m going to go ahead and stereotype, bouncers had nothing to do with what we were doing. Their attitude, these were the guys who picked on us in high school. These were the football players, for the most part. And we weren’t the football players, and they had no problem pushing you around. And, you know, back then I would say they were killing my buzz. But I mean they were just intimidating and it made for a very unsettling show. (Bill)

Barrett, cited above, similarly identified a perception of regulatory agents as standing in

the way of a good show experience. When asked what would make for a good show he

listed among his criteria: “non-dickhead bouncers, non-dickhead sound guy, which

generally the sound guy and the bouncers tend to be assholes at a lot of clubs

unfortunately.”

188 Yet not all venues are equally regimented. Some, for whatever reason, are more

permissive or casual than others, and these tended to be the places which respondent’s

preferred when choosing between mainstream venues:

M: Yeah. I like [venue A] better. [Venue b] has been around for so long and they’re a lot more strict. You can get in trouble a lot easier in there.

J: In trouble for like doing what?

M: For like drinking too much, or if you’re ID’s broken in half like mine they won’t take it. Because, I don’t know, all the people that work there. Stuff like that.

J: So there’s less like… ‘policing,’ I guess I’ll say, at [venue A]?

M: Yeah, and I know the people that work there, and they’re not as uptight and stuff.

J: What would the difference be? Like you could drink there and not get yelled at or…?

M: Well, I can drink at either place, but at [venue A] I can drink a lot, and I can eventually have to pay a lot less for my drinks. And I can be like “Come on dude!” and they’ll be like “Alright.” (Mary)

Such venues then, even though mainstream, tended to be spoken of more fondly than

strict, regimented venues.

Thus, in multiple capacities and instantiations, the regulatory regimes of

mainstream venues are perceived as being at odds with punk subculture and, even if

nothing else, a needless restriction on fun. That the agents that manifest these regulations

are perceived as inimical ‘others’ rather than just individuals with a different background further renders these differences between DIY punk and mainstream venues problematic.

Mainstream Audiences

Rather than focusing on the problems experienced with the management and regulatory aspects of mainstream venues, attention can be directed at the types of people who frequent such establishments as another potential difficulty for punks. Most venues 189 do not cater specifically to punks, and so problems pertaining to the cultural dissimilarity of punks extend to their dissimilarity from other patrons as well.

One problem seemed to occur when punk audiences merge with those of other subcultures with divergent sets of norms. Ray identified heavy metal fans as one such divergent and problematic group: “Metal people, they’ll just stomp on your neck. Even if you’re down, they’ll just stomp on you, kick you, whatever. It’s just stupid.” Mary made similar arguments about heavy metal fans and then went on to relate this problematic mingling to other groups, in general, that seemed too different from punk:

I don’t like it when they have metal bands and punk bands play the same night. That’s really annoying, because the metal fans, and I don’t want to stereotype too much, but they tend to be bigger than us. And they tend to be a lot more into stage diving and stuff like that. And they’re a lot more brutal. I don’t like getting hit. [laugh] I don’t think violence is very punk rock. I think it hurts and it sucks. But I don’t like having to go to clubs that aren’t typically where the punk shows are, and that will happen sometimes. Just like a weird crowd, the only people we’re expecting like a whole group of rock and rollers and punk kids to stroll into their typical place of leisure, and watch a band. (Mary)

Such difficulties with other patrons were a reoccurring trend particularly in regards to shows at bars which, in turn, also seem to be the most common mainstream venues for shows. Sometimes interviewees attributed this difficulty to the reason most people go to bars in the first place, that is, to drink and not to see bands perform:

I just don’t like bars period, but as far as places to go to have shows, like is anybody really going to go to a bar to hear a band play? Or are they just going to go to a bar to get drunk and harass someone? It seems like there’s a thin line between how much fun having a show at a bar actually is and how much it’s just getting drunk again. (Chase)

Yet, bars appear to be problematic due not only to the types of people that frequent them, but also in terms of the dynamic of the bar itself which is focused more on drinking than in enjoying or supporting bands that happen to be playing their. Sometimes it seems difficult to isolate one of these aspects from the other as in the following excerpt:

190 J: Are there any places there you don’t really like to go to see shows but you’ve been to anyway?

M: I really don’t, I mean I appreciate that I can now go to bar shows, but I don’t really like them as much because I don’t, I guess one particular one would be the [bar name]. It’s a bar here that has a lot of shows actually. And I just don’t, there’s always a really really drunken asshole guy that kind of ruins it. (…) Drinking’s okay in my book, but at bars it tends to get out of hand. (Mollie)

While not all bars, or all shows at a given bar, can be expected to be exactly the same,

other aspects of the culture of bars in general, in addition to a focus on drinking and not

enjoying bands, can be a source of annoyance. After mentioning that she did not like bar

shows, Andrea was asked to describe her reasons for this. Her answer reflects a such a dislike for the general atmosphere and behavior of bar crowds in addition to their disinterest in bands:

J: What do you dislike about the bar shows in general?

A: Well, I think it depends on the bar definitely. I have been to some really great bar shows. [But] I feel like there’s a lot of milling that goes on at bar shows. Like you spend a lot of time just sort of milling around. A lot of people aren’t really into it either. […] I don’t know, I guess I don’t dislike it quite as much as I used to. But I think it was kind of just the company that was there, it wasn’t always the best company, not the most comfortable, just yapping, milling. (Andrea)

Many of the respondents noted such difficulties with bars as not being appropriate

or comfortable for punks because of the people that occupy them. Yet, sometimes bar

crowds were seen as not particularly problematic depending on the punk band that was

playing. For example, sometimes specific bands are less focused on punk or punk ideals

and, instead, lend themselves to the sort of hedonism that characterizes bars. Chris cited

this as a reason he might try to book particular bands at bars instead of more thoroughly

punk spaces: “Or maybe it’s more about the party than the bands, but whatever. (…). I mean I think there’s certain bands where you just do it in the bar because they’ll draw

that kind of crowd.”

191 The mixing of audiences in any space may be at the very least uncomfortable, as indicated above, and this may ruin the fun or intended solidarity during a show.

Sometimes, however, the effect is much worse. Respondents at times mentioned that

fights sometimes occurred at shows as well. Chase noted that this was often the case,

again, at bars:

The thing at a bar though is you get people in there that don’t even want to be there, and they’re getting drunk, and they’re like “this is pissing me off” and then… they have a pretty violent scene here for some reason. There’s always a fight or a broken bottle or something stupid. There’s always cops and it’s always, I don’t know, it’s kind of depressing. (Chase)

Sometimes the occurrence of fights was traced more specifically to the mingling of different crowds rather than to the nature of a given space itself.

I ended up in a couple fistfights that were, my being on the edge of a [mosh] pit and a couple of us like shoving a guy hard when he would fall into us, because we wanted him to feel our unhappiness and that’s the way you communicate it. That the mode of communicating “I’m pissed at you for doing this” is not stopping someone and saying “Stop” or “Cut it out” or “No.” And in fact the people that do that, often are considered newbes, those are the people we’re like “Oh, that’s a tourist.” Because those guys don’t understand that you’re just supposed to shove, that the language is shoving and they just don’t understand the language. Similarly I think a lot of people who are unfamiliar with it (…) they don’t particularly know the culture, they’re really freaked out by all these people shoving and somebody runs into them, and it’s not because they were falling over it’s because they’re engaging in something intentional and those—we’ll call them tourists, that’s convenient—(…). For the uninitiated they might be more likely to get in fights, because they think that this is an act of aggression, that isn’t part of the norms, the larger set of norms that are loosely governing the group. (Calvin)

Thus in some cases fights were interpreted as occurring not because of subcultural rivalry, inter-group intolerance, or antipathy in general, but instead simply because of a lack of shared norms and therefore a lack of mutual understanding. In this particular

case, different crowds are interpreted as being unable to communicate accurately because

of the different meanings attributed to nonverbal acts of communication. A push, which

in the context of a punk moshpit is not considered an aggressive or challenging act, is

mistaken by outsiders for just that, and fights may ensue.

192 The cultural differences between mainstream and other subcultural audiences

with punk audiences are thus often experienced as problematic. Attempts to utilize mainstream venues necessitate that such commingling, not always peaceable, will occur

and exemplify another source of troubles for the subculture in its pursuit of space.

Punk Cultural Dissimilarity in Mainstream Venues

The dissimilarity of punks and their way of life may in and of themselves cause

difficulties in trying to obtain and maintain a show space. Thus, in shifting the focus

away from venue workers or owners and mainstream audiences as ‘other,’ punk

subculture itself can be interpreted as an ‘other’ that does not fit congruously or smoothly

into all social environments. This, indeed, is the perspective that mainstream society has

traditionally taken in regards to punk (Moore 2000). Whether fairly or not, punks are

often categorized as unwanted ‘others’ who not only don’t bring in much money to a

venue, but also bring in many problems.

One such issue which distinguishes punks from other groups is simply the music

of the subculture. Many club and bar owners will not allow punk bands to play simply

because they do not like their sound, do not think it is marketable (as discussed above), or

believe that it attracts the ‘wrong’ crowd:

[T]there’s a huge venue problem in [city], where, I guess there are only bars and restaurants in [city], and a lot of people who own those places are very very picky about what kind of music they want to have playing. (Renee)

Often the specific reason is not necessarily even communicated to the punks in question

but, whatever the cause of rejection may be, the result is the same.

193 Punk music, as all the data sources analyzed agree, is incredibly diverse and much of it does not fit neatly into the mainstream stereotype of how it should sound (e.g. harsh, loud, crude, etc.). A range of musical styles and instruments were observed during the field observations, for example. Styles ranged from traditional punk, to ska, folk, techno, and classic rock while instruments included such things as saxophones, acoustic guitars, and a mandolin in addition to the expected electric guitars. Instead of a particular style, it is some adherence to the punk ethic described in Chapter 4 that defines the genre.

Interestingly, punks who play very different types of music than the stereotypical understanding of punk are sometimes still rejected based on the same reasons as those who do play something resembling this stereotype. For example, in discussing how hard it is to get a show in town for his band, Barrett described the following as a typical scenario:

I’m 30 years old and there are places in town that will not let my band play because they’re like, they get the CD and they’re like “No this shit’s too loud.” And this is when we were doing ska shows, we’re like “Hey, it’s kind of like reggae music.” People still didn’t want it going on. (Barrett)6

Sometimes, then, being rejected from venues on the grounds of being a punk band is considered to occur regardless of the specific sound of the music to be played. Again, though, not all venues are the same, and it is possible to seek out specific venues to perform one’s music in that have a preexisting reputation for showcasing that particular style:

I guess for a punk show (…) I would say the most important thing in booking would be just a venue that would have you and that is conducive to that kind of music. And, uh, because like I said, if you call up [venue A] and you say “I’m in Billy and the Fuckheads” or whatever and “Our following is 18 and under” and “we’re really loud and aggressive and anarchist and everything” they’re not going to want to have you. But if you call and tell [venue B] that, they’ll be glad to have you. So, yeah I think it’s a matter of, and with all music too, you wouldn’t want to have a certain kind of, maybe like an acoustic folk sort of mainstream sounding group at [venue B]. 194 Where you’d be more likely to get a gig at [venue A] or anywhere else. Some venues will just have anyone and then the other places that I think mainly just get a reputation as being more suited for that kind of thing. (Parker)

Thus, it is possible that aspects of punk’s cultural dissimilarity can be ameliorated by

approaching appropriate venues and cultivating a careful presentation of self (Goffman

1959) that corresponds with venue owners’ expectations. It is interesting to consider

however that, in this case, the venue which Parker described as more willing to accept

aggressive punk acts, itself, has links between the owner and punk rock subculture

despite being a mainstream venue. This issue will be considered further below.

Of course, punk cultural dissimilarity is not limited to musical differences as

much of the preceding discussion has attempted to illustrate. Many of these normative

differences extend to the ways in which punks behave and organize the shows that they

are able arrange at venues. Venues, as businesses, are not considered to be particularly

flexible in their ways of running their establishments, and such differences seem to

frequently invoke the ire of owners. Calvin discussed one such instance:

The owner’s pissed off because it’s like nine o’clock and none of the bands has started. He’s used to jam bands that would play for seven hours straight and with like ten guys at the bar who drink all night but that’s their income. He’s like, you know, “Why the hell haven’t these guys gone on? There’s nobody here.” And we’re trying to explain people don’t show up until 10:30 maybe. And so by the end of the night, the guy doesn’t come to talk to me, he doesn’t say a word to my face, but [friend’s name] is there at the show, and she, he hands her $300 for the bands and says “Those boys gave me the best night of my life” or “best show of my life” or something. Apparently the bar ran out of beer. (Calvin)

This particular occasion, fortunately, had a mutually pleasing ending for all parties, but

most of the night seems to have been marked by considerable tension. Punk bands going on late with the expectation that this is when other punks will show up was a reoccurring theme in the interviews and the field observations. During one show, an audience member asked one of the punks coordinating the show when things would start and 195 received “We’re on punk time!” for a response. This invokes a cultural understanding

that punk shows always start well after the advertised time. When asked about this,

Chase agreed this was the case and explained that “You have to do that, like ‘Oh, show

starts at six’ so people will be there by eight.”

While this particular example may cause frustration for outsiders and venue

owners, not all instances of punk behavior are so benign: excessive drinking, fighting,

vandalism, and so forth were all listed as some of the behaviors that punks might engage

in at shows. Although not a universal pattern, some of the respondents noted that punk

behavior can get so out of hand that venues may ban any further punk shows. Aaron provided a representative statement of this pattern: “But, down there, there was the

[venue name] which is going on for a long time. They don’t allow punk bands to play

anymore because I guess too much shit got fucked up.”

Punk behavior may lead to punks being banned from venues, but sometimes

liability accrued through punk behavior was attributed as the cause of venues actually closing down:

C: Well, (…) the cops have closed pretty much any venue that’s been around down.

J: You said they closed?

C: Yeah. Like we’ve got a ton of venues everywhere, and then like slowly over time, stupid people doing stupid stuff got the venue shut down.

J: Like noise violations and stuff like that?

C: No, more like dumb kids drinking and getting hit by cars. (Chase)

This threat—real or perceived—of being closed down in addition to the monetary costs

of punk behavior, in turn, lends further credence to the idea that venues might be

particularly wary of punk shows and audiences. 196 Assuming that punks do indeed behave poorly at venues, Barrett suggested a

reason for it that runs parallel to much of the current discussion. That is, rather than poor

behavior itself being an intrinsic part of punk subculture, it is the perceived inimical

nature of the relationship between mainstream venues and punks that causes punks to act

out:

[I]f it’s some stupid bar or club that charges two dollars extra for kids anyway and the waters are three bucks and they can’t drink. They’re just like, it’s the whole “fuck the system,” “fuck the man,” “fuck this guy for charging me two dollars to come in and see this band here because I’m under 21, when everyone else had to pay five bucks I had to pay seven. I’m gonna do something stupid.” (Barrett)

Here, the antiauthoritarianism of punk and anger at the exclusiveness of venues, or at

their unequal treatment of people based on age, are perceived as being at odds with one

another. Disruptive behavior, here, can thus be interpreted as an aggressive reaction to the aspects of cultural dissimilarity adjudged to be unfair treatment by punks—not simply poor behavior for the sake of poor behavior or through some normalization of deviant behavior within the subculture.

Barrett continued to describe the outcomes of this behavior as problematic for both punks and venues:

But then that’s the other thing about punk is that 90% of the places that start allowing punk shows stop allowing punk shows and it’s always because of the fucking fans. Like “Oh, let’s take a shit on the floor of the fucking bathroom, let’s break the mirror, let’s all get drunk in the parking lot before the show and then go inside and start fights.” All of the stuff that, and that’s why punk rocks starts happening at such shitty places, because those are the only places left that will let it go on. (Barrett)

Again, poor behavior is traced to punks being banned from venues, reducing the number and reliability of spaces for their use. Additionally, those places that remain tolerant of this behavior, that will continue to permit punk shows despite the risk of liability and being closed down, are those desperate and marginal places that have little to lose: so- 197 called “shitty places.” Those places that are most likely to allow punks to use their

facilities, in turn, tend to be the most marginal and undesirable of mainstream spaces.

Phil affirmed this perspective and suggested a social consequence:

I guess it depends maybe on the bar, but some of the bars I’ve been at for punk shows tend to discourage other people from going because they’re often the grossest bars, they have the most dank basements or in the sketchy area of town depending on what city you’re in and stuff. So I mean that that kind of isolates and gentrifies the punks into the shadows. Which I think would be better if more people came out that weren’t necessarily in the little community. (Phil)

Again, not all respondents seemed to agree that punks represented a particularly rowdy or

problematic audience. To the contrary, and as the preceding section on mixed audiences

seems to suggest, punk audiences are probably no worse and, possibly better behaved,

than some other potential audiences. Nonetheless, the perception or stereotype of punks

as rowdy and dangerous seems to be manifest in popular discourse. Doubtless behavioral

problems occur at times to support this perspective, and it seems likely that these would be sufficient to reinforce stereotypes of the entire stigmatized subculture. Thus, through their own behavior, perceptions of their behavior, or through one of the other reasons discussed above, even if punks do not reject the use of mainstream space they, themselves, may be rejected. Those mainstream places which continue to allow punks to have shows, moreover, tend to be both marginal and unpleasant (cf. Ruddick 1998), thus further supporting negative appraisals of punks, within mainstream discourse, via association and contributing to a feedback cycle of self-fulfilling stigma and marginalization of the subculture.

198 Outcomes and Considerations in Using Mainstream Venues

Of the options presented in Figure 2.1, punks could simply try to cope with the

difficulties discussed above and approach mainstream venues in the hopes of being

accepted there. This option corresponds with cells 3 and 4. Of course, as this discussion

has attempted to illustrate, even this may not be a simple matter. Many of the respondents made comments similar to Phil’s that “Locally the options are kind of

limited. There’s only a couple of bars that regularly hold punk shows.”

The odds of a venue being willing to host punks shows in the first place may be

increased if owners perceive that a sizeable portion of their potential patrons are

interested in punk rock. Lofland (1973, cf. Cavan 1963) discusses how public spaces

may be turned into quasi-private spaces when a specific group consistently uses them.

For example, if a group of friends frequents a particular bar with enough regularity, they

may eventually come to think of it as something akin to a personal space they can utilize

in a familiar manner and, likewise, be recognized by owners or workers as deserving of

certain liberties not extended to the casual patron. On occasion respondents would

describe a similar process of colonization:

We had this crappy little, like out in the middle of BuFu, we had this little place called [venue name]. It was cool because nobody knew about it. It was only a punk club because so many punks hung out there, like it didn’t look like it at all, it pretty much just looked like a little, it was a redneck bar at one point. And we just kind of took over it and had shows there all the time. [Ray]

Here, a commercial orientation on the part of venues could work in the punks’ favor since

they have made themselves into a recognizable group of customers. However, this

merely provides a space for shows—not necessarily an ideal one as procuring a venue

199 does not, in and of itself, solve any other problems regarding the dissimilarity of DIY punk and businesses.

However, not all mainstream venues are equal. Large amphitheaters and arenas

that have had a long presence in a community (cell 3) are almost certainly out of reach

for most DIY punk bands, even if they wanted to play them. These spaces were rarely

mentioned as being used by DIY punk bands and, when mentioned at all, seemed to most

thoroughly exhibit the problematic characteristics surveyed above. Additionally, smaller

and more flexible mainstream venues (cell 4) are more marginal than are large concert

halls and may be more willing to accept punk bands in hopes of attaining any sort of

clientele. For example:

We had a cool place here called the [venue name]. Like I said it was a Sushi place upstairs, but they would have five dollar punk rock shows downstairs. People could do whatever they wanted. (Barrett)

Such spaces willing to host punks may thus include restaurants or any other sort of

mainstream venue that, while somewhat marginal, allows a greater level of autonomy to

punks then institutional spaces like dedicated concert halls.

Moreover, in some cases, venues of this type may have owners or staff that are

not so culturally dissimilar to punks and, indeed, may actually be members of the

subculture. Some of the individuals interviewed were directly involved, at one time or another, in operating or promoting for mainstream music spaces—almost exclusively toward the more marginal, less institutional end of the continuum.7 Phil, for example, owned a restaurant for a time that enthusiastically allowed DIY bands to play. As a further example, Bill promoted shows for a variety of mainstream spaces but seemed to prefer the smaller, more marginal ones when comparing them to one another because 200 they were more similarly aligned to his own perspectives. Describing the owner of one

of his favorite venues to promote for, he said: “I mean we had a very similar philosophy,

I mean he was a business man, but (…) eventually we ended up co-promoting tons of

shows together.” With a larger, institutional music hall, he described a much more

problematic relationship in which the venue “stole” acts from him and, eventually,

banned him even as an audience member because of his behavior.8

In summary, mainstream, commercial spaces are not culturally compatible with

the culture of DIY punk. Far from providing an ideal space within which to practice and

celebrate a punk way of life, use of these spaces entails a range of problems that often

incite conflict. This is not to say that all mainstream spaces are equally problematic. As

illustrated, some of the smaller, more marginal spaces may be better suited for punks

because of the increased freedoms they allow. However, these too are still not ideal and,

in addition to presenting many of the same problems as larger, institutional mainstream

spaces—albeit to a lesser extent—contribute to the marginality of an already stigmatized subculture.

DIY SHOW SPACES AS ALTERNATIVE TO MAINSTREAM VENUES

It is, perhaps, to be expected that a socio-spatial environment tailored to the needs

of the commercial mainstream will be at odds with the needs of an unconventional

subculture like punk when its ways of doing and living, themselves, vary so considerably

from that mainstream (cf. Lefebvre 1991). It is, furthermore, not surprising that the

solution sometimes put forward by this subculture, which places so much emphasis on

201 doing things for itself, is for punks to create spaces of their own rather than rely on these

mainstream spaces. Thus just as one can distinguish between commercial and DIY bands

so can the distinction be made between mainstream venues and DIY spaces.9 While mainstream venues, explored above, are conventional social spaces that exist for the purpose of accumulating profit, DIY spaces are alternative environments intended to facilitate and support a punk ethos and way of life. This distinction is of especial importance since, as it will be argued, the production of DIY space represents the primary means by which punks attempt to resolve the problems experienced within mainstream venues.

The effort to establish a DIY space may result from the lack of mainstream venues willing to host punk shows. On the other hand, sometimes there is no shortage of shows in a local scene and venue owners allow punk shows regularly and reliably:

[T]here were no lack of shows. It wasn’t like somebody had to pick up the slack and put on some shows or else we wouldn’t have any shows, right? It’s not like a small town. There were plenty of shows. In fact you had to choose which shows you were going to cut out each week. So the focus that there might have been in another kind of area wasn’t there. (Helen)

In such a situation, punks have less to risk in becoming selective and trying to establish a

space more closely suited to their cultural requirements. Helen, for example, took part in

an effort to establish a DIY show space in her city not because of a lack of options, but

because none of the options were culturally ideal. She formed a group with some

friends— members of the local scene—with the main goal of establishing an all-ages,

DIY show space.

Whether out of necessity or a search for a more ideal space, most punks do not

have much in the way of financial resources to create their own venues nor, when having

202 these resources, are many interested in simply recreating what they had hoped to avoid in the first place: a “legitimate” business. For these reasons, the types of places that are used as DIY music spaces tend to be far different in both vision and execution than mainstream venues. Instead of the formal music hall, storefront, or bar, DIY spaces may be found nearly anywhere punks have had enough creativity, ingenuity, and luck to place them: basements or living rooms, rented spaces, squatted buildings, or simply in outdoor

areas for instance. As one documentary account described them:

Some are art galleries while others are basements, and some last for weeks while others survive for decades… more often than not [they] operate well beyond the fringes of society and popular culture, (…) free of demands and expectations, criticism and prejudice, and the corruptive pressures of commerce. (Williams 2007: 62)

These spaces are thus, again, diverse and can be categorized according to the distinction

on the y-axis of Figure 2.1. That is, DIY spaces can be 1) of the more ephemeral, marginal variety or 2) of the more stable, institutional variety. The first of these categories encapsulates a range of practices that result in a very temporary—sometimes only for a single night—punk show space. One zine described the rationale behind this choice:

[E]verbody wanted a space to do something in. You know, we do posters and put them up at the bus stop because we have nowhere to do what we want. We put on illegal hit and run shows at the [public transit] station, do graffiti. So we’re always doing things that are kind of fleeting. (Iggy Scam quoted in Zara n.d.: 6)

When other suitable options or the resources to establish them are lacking, such

temporary places are better than no place at all. One common practice, for example, is to

rent out church basements, VFW halls, park buildings, and so on. One show observed,

for another example, occurred under a bridge on a public bike path. Barrett listed a wide

variety of such places where he had held shows:

203 Like we started at the coffee house, we did a couple of shows there. Renting out other clubs, we rented out a fire hall, rented out like a teen center, rented out a VFW hall, rented out a church, rented out another kind of like coffee shop place. We did one outside of a library, they let us do one there, like a parking lot of a library once. Anyplace that would let us do it. We basically would drive around out neighborhood, our town, and be like “hey, I wonder if we can rent that place.” Chinese restaurant, whatever. (Barrett)

The second category (i.e. more stable or institutional spaces) is equally diverse

and may be pursued in the effort to achieve a more dependable place that punks can exert

more control over. Although far from universal, perhaps the most common DIY space of

this sort is simply run illicitly out of residential basements as Chris suggested:

C: Oh, basements are always fun. Yeah, I mean it’s probably one of the common denominator venues I think for punk rock right now in the US anyways.

J: What do you mean by that?

C: Well, I think it’s where punk rock lives is pretty much in illegal venues, and basements being the most often used, you know zero overhead. So people practice in basements, so might as well play shows there. (Chris)

All but two of the institutional DIY spaces investigated for this study where actually

converted basement spaces. Of the remaining spaces, one was in a dilapidated storefront

and another was in a leased warehouse complex. Both of these straddled the boundary

between DIY and residual, mainstream space. Such spaces, despite their apparent

marginality, can last for years and be incredibly important to a local punk scene. They

are often given a formal name, even though they occupy informal spaces, and occupy a

semi-fixed social space within the subculture. Additionally, there are several famed

examples of legitimate, licensed DIY spaces across the country.10 These too are run according to punk principles (e.g. volunteer run, not-for-profit, etc.) but are less representative of the kinds of spaces most punks consistently frequent and experience.

204 Each of these distinctions—ephemeral, marginal space or more stable,

institutional space—has further implications for both the space in question and the punks

who use it. Keeping in mind that such variation will exist, based on

institutional/marginal status, the commonality of all these spaces will first be examined

before returning to their differences and examining their significance.

DIY SPACES AS SOLUTION TO PUNK CULTURAL DISSIMILARITY

Whether more institutional or marginal in character, all DIY spaces are more

closely attuned to the subculture that births them, and present a more suitable social

environment than mainstream venues for the practice of that subculture. The major sources of problems punks experience within mainstream venues, explored above, are now revisited to illustrate how they are partially resolved through the acquisition and maintenance of DIY spaces: 1) the profit motive, 2) management and regulation, 3) audiences, and 4) general punk cultural dissimilarity from the mainstream. In so doing, this section will also more fully delineate the distinction between mainstream venues and

DIY spaces.

Resolving Profit

DIY show spaces, like DIY punk, are not based on an effort to accumulate capital.

This distinction is one of the key criteria for defining a given place as a commercial

venue or a DIY space. DIY spaces are relatively less constrained by economic

requirements:

205 I guess also with having shows in the bars you’re tied to spending a lot of money. It’s not really a do-it-yourself kind of venue. You have to pay for, depending on the bar, to rent the space or hire a sound guy or, if nothing else, buy drinks all night. So you’re free to not have that happen when you have a house show or an alternative venue of some sort. (Phil)

Rather than charging admission, most of the DIY venues surveyed in this study—

observed through fieldwork, discussed by respondents, or written about in texts—did not

“charge” admission but, instead, “asked” for donations. The difference is not simply one of terminology, but of practice as well:

[H]onestly I’ve never really seen anyone, I’ve never seen anyone turned away from a show in [city]. If you show up and you pay the door money if you can afford it, and if you can’t then that’s cool, you maybe pay us a dollar instead of five dollars, or you can get in for free if you’re completely broke. That’s something I’ve emphasized. Then you’re more than welcome to show up to the show. It’s not something we’re opposed to at all (…) It’s just a donation at the door, no one’s really pocketing that money. The bands are spending it on gas, they’re spending it on equipment, they’re spending it on food on tour so they won’t starve and die. (Renee)

This excerpt illustrates at least two major differences that exist between charged

admission and asked-for donations although both constitute an apparently similar

exchange of money for the privilege of watching a band perform. First, unlike an

admission fee, a donation at a DIY venue is not a strict requirement. It is left to the

“patron” to decide how much money they are willing to spend and there is no “hard sell.”

Other respondents described the situation in similar terms: “It’s what you can give”

(Macy). Second, all or most of the donations go straight to the bands to cover the costs of travel, food, and so on. No accumulation of capital is achieved but, instead, all proceeds are reinvested in some way. As Calvin, previously cited in Chapter 4 stated, “Any money you make you want to reinvest back into the [music] space. Or you want to be like, ‘Hey, wow, we made a lot of money at this show, let’s pay the bands more’” (Calvin).

Sometimes, if a band is local, even donations may be waved in lieu of some other nicety:

“They’ll play in your backyard if you ask them to. They just want to be fed” (Ray). 206 Depending on the specific space, the extent of this freedom from profit may vary.

All but one of the mainstream venues attended during the course of this field work

formally charged for admission upon entry. Conversely, the general rule at the DIY

venues was that donations were asked for, but not required. Even here, it was not

uncommon for shows to be advertised as free. This seems to be particularly the case

when all the bands playing were local and/or when there was no cost associated with

running the space. Mollie mentioned trying to organized shows that featured only local

bands, in part, “to save money.” To exemplify the latter factor, a space with no inherent

cost, one show featured all local bands and was held under a bridge by a public bike path.

Since no special costs were accrued, no donations were asked for. Moreover, without the

need to worry about profit, none of the DIY venues surveyed practiced age discrimination but, instead, proudly proclaimed an all-ages welcome policy. Thus, while DIY spaces

provide punks the autonomy to be more flexible about charging, they also reduce the real

costs associated with performances:

Yeah, well I mean, the cool thing about a house show is there’s no-- Let’s say you had an option with doing a 50/50 door deal with a bar, or you pay the bar 200 bucks to rent it out for the night, and the cool thing about a house show is there’s no risk involved with it. You can all be a little bit more loose. Who cares if maybe 20 people come and nobody really throws any money at the door but maybe we give the band 30 bucks? That’s cool cause you don’t have to worry about anything. (Barret)

Thus, DIY spaces not only allow punks to avoid the cultural differences with venues and

venue owners that operate within a for-profit system, but in practical terms simply entail

lower costs which can be handled largely through donations or through everyday costs of

living.11 This latter fact permits a further disregard for issues pertaining to finance and

profit.

207

Resolving Management and Regulation

It is apparent then that punks place a premium on being autonomous and free from regulation. As noted above, this made their experiences at regulated venues less enjoyable and, sometimes, adversarial. DIY show spaces, in contrast to the majority of mainstream venues, have little formal regulation.

And a house show is more free, [whereas] you’re limited by the rules of the bar and the last call or the time that the bar closes or whatever. I think a house show is just ideal for those reasons (Macy) -- I like the lack of authority at the show spaces. It’s kind of nice. (Mary)

While DIY show spaces then, in part, are defined by a lack of regulation, this is

not to say that the ideal being pursued by all punks in such spaces is an ungoverned

chaos. Rather, the type of order that is desired is simply one that is not formally or

externally imposed but, instead, emerges from the mutual consent of those to which it

applies. As described in Chapter 4, punks maintain a communitarian ethic based on

mutual aid and tolerance. In this regard, a system of informal, voluntaristic norms

governs punk behavior to some extent. Many problems associated with mainstream

venues can be avoided by an appeal to this cultural logic. Calvin describes how theft of

equipment was never really much of a concern at a DIY show space he operated, despite

a lack of any formal means of monitoring, because of this community aspect of punk life:

On the nights when we had shows, we never had a show with fewer than a hundred people there so there were always plenty of eyes on stuff. And you have—one interesting phenomenon is, you have a high enough proportion of local musicians in the audience and people who are culturally pretty tight--socially tight not culturally tight, socially tight which may stem from cultural similarity—that I think the odds of stuff walking just wasn’t that great. (Calvin)

208 In this way, social organization within DIY spaces seems to operate much like Jacobs’ view of a peaceable urban community based on dense informal observation, mutual trust, and networks of interaction. Individuals can be counted on to maintain the social order and serve as “eyes on the street” (1961: 35). Moreover, formal regulation seems to be, at best, not necessary when this informal organization is in place.

Similarly, although mainstream venues seem to be concerned over members of uncontrollable crowds hurting one another, and thus constituting a liability issue for the venue, a community of punks maintaining a set of collectively held norms seems unlikely to be prone to such violence:

I have been going to punk shows since there have been punk shows. Very often with a camera in my hands, standing right up at the stage and I have never been trampled, punched, or seriously hurt. I’ve come home with a couple of black and blue marks maybe, but nothing seriously bad has ever happened to me. And I think that’s a) because I don’t look for trouble, and b) because I’m there for the right reasons, and people respect that. I think the violence at punk shows is exaggerated a little bit and it’s mostly caused by people who go there looking for violence. (John)

The danger of accidental violence in moshpits also seems to be moderated by a shared set of norms and practices:

Being five [foot] three [inches] and at that point like a hundred and five pounds, one fascinating thing about moshpits was that no matter what moshpit I went into— I was often either the only girl or one of two girls or whatnot—that no matter where I went into it, whoever was standing around me immediately decided that they were my guard, and I would have complete strangers’ elbows keeping me safe from, you know, getting knocked over or trampled on. That was pretty amazing. And there was also this feeling of, I’ve heard of shows or bands you go to where they also have moshpits but people get really badly hurt. Well, you might take a boot to the face when somebody dives in, but if anybody fell down, immediately people stopped and helped them up, like, that was just understood. And that kind of oneness with a group of strangers is I think a very rare thing to experience. (Helen)

Previous studies focusing on the dynamics of punk moshpits have indicated that such scenarios are generally the case rather than the exception. To the outsider watching the spectacle of punks dancing and moving violently in the pit, the scene seems to be marked by chaos and violence. Indeed, even a number of insiders may describe it this way, 209 explaining that such chaos is the product of each individual in the pit expressing themselves. However, as these studies indicate, punk moshpits are actually governed in most cases by a shared set of norms that sets limits on behavior, regulates the types of dance moves that can be used to express “individualism,” and encourages safety and helping other punks who have fallen or gotten hurt (Simon 1997, Tsitsos 1999).

The system of self-governance and shared norms at DIY spaces makes for a different atmosphere at DIY spaces than that experienced at venues. Instead of an antagonistic “us” and “them” situation, as in many mainstream venues, DIY spaces often achieve a social situation approaching a peaceable, voluntary community. Macy, who runs a DIY show space in her basement describes her situation in these terms:

I just feel that, I live with a bunch of people in my house, and then in my neighborhood live a bunch of people who would come to our shows. It just felt like more of a neighborhood feel, like “this our kind of little, complex that we got going on.” (Macy)

Renee described a similar situation at another DIY show space which also happens to be in a house:

I guess the people living in that house were vegetarians so they made food every once in a while and shared it with everyone, which was great because it’s really hard to find vegetarian, good vegetarian food, around here. And they just shared a lot of things from the house. They had a fund I guess, they had a beer fund, where they collected a dollar from everyone at the door, in addition to the dollar for each band, and they went out and bought a case of beer and shared it with everyone. Even had cookies sometimes, which was pretty awesome. I guess they, they even had some sort of an open bar in the back, that they bought the stuff from the beer fund and one of the guys actually put on a hat and started to bar tend. It was pretty awesome. It’s just a really fun party space. And then they had a really big backyard, where we built a bonfire and we did smores between sets, which was pretty awesome. (Renee)

A lack of formal regulation, where instead show spaces rely on a normative system, is not the exclusive domain of DIY spaces. However, it does seem to be the predominate mode in such spaces and something of an exception in formal venues. Yet,

210 some mainstream venues do more closely approximate this aspect of DIY spaces and are spoken of in favorable terms by the respondents:

There was never a bouncer, there was never, nobody ever got frisked. [Whereas] you know, we would go to [venue name] and they would have like five security guards. (Bill) -- I’ve been to a few [mainstream venues] and you kind of know right away that even though they’re legit, you’re going to a place that, unless it’s completely necessary, you’re not getting patted down, they don’t throw kids around for dancing funny. I guess the people who are basically part of the show versus in charge of the show. Even if they are in charge and they have to put their foot down for whatever reason, they’re still part of it. And you can tell in most cases, you kind of know who they are. Like they’re in that band, or they’re friends with that guy, or whatever. You pretty much know right away that you’re kind of among friends, if that makes any sense. (Chris)

In situations such as these, it often seemed the case that the venue was often more closely associated with the punk scene and not simply another impersonal business. In Chris’ comment, above, for example, the people who own or operate such venues tend to be punks themselves or in some way socially associated with the scene and are not just

business associates. As such, they likely maintain many of the same norms as their

customers.12

Yet even in mainstream venues where owners or workers are not part of the subculture and where strict regulation is used, punk norms and ethics are likely what

really maintains order or at least strongly contribute to it—not the imposition of external

rule. In potentially dangerous situations during shows at such venues, respondents

repeatedly refer to norms of behavior as a source of safety and predictability and never

mentioned, for example, security intervention. Ray describes such an event during one

particularly rowdy show:

And these kids were getting just like annihilated, it was crazy, but there’d be hands to reach out and pick these people up before they even hit the ground. Like everybody was trying their best, like there was not a drop of blood the whole night. And it was insane, it was close to getting shut down. Like the cops were everywhere, but they managed to keep it all under control to the point where the cops didn’t have to get involved. All they had to do, there was two police officers, all

211 they did was just walk around, they didn’t mess with any body. Like we know how to have fun and be kind of safe about it. That’s what I always admired. (Ray)

Similarly, problems begin to emerge when punk culture no longer becomes the dominant

culture at a given show or venue as a different set of norms, perhaps less suited to mutual

aid and support, permits the expression of violence:

Yeah, well I think that [venue] got more violent over the years. I think when [it] got sold, probably around ’97, it got really scary because a big drug culture came in there. And in the ‘80s and early ‘90s it was just a, it was a little bit different crowd. (Bill)

Whatever the specific situation under consideration, from this range of examples

it is evident that, just as the motivation behind the existence of DIY spaces differs so

greatly from that of mainstream spaces, so too do they differ greatly in the means used to maintain order. This means, largely informal and normative, again emphasizes an interest in distancing punk from external authority and honoring individual and collective self-determination.

Resolving Mainstream Audiences

The clash of cultures or subcultures that sometimes occurs in mainstream venues is a source of distress for many punks. Considering the composition of an audience or crowd also sheds light on a subcultural solution to the problems, described above, that punks sometimes experience among such crowds in mainstream venues. Given that DIY spaces maintain order through shared norms, this order can only be maintained if a majority of the people present at a given show are knowledgeable about these shared norms and willing to participate in the order that results in their maintenance. To this end, respondents often described DIY spaces as not being filled with strangers, as might

212 be the case at a mainstream venue, but rather: “it’s not really, it’s not really strangers coming to your house. It’s really more like friends of friends that you’re meeting”

(Renee). It is not strangers who attend shows, but either known others or, as Renee indicates, people in an extended network. Even if every other person in attendance is not known to a given individual, chances are they are known by someone at the show and therefore not subcultural outsiders with no interest in being accepted.

Similarly, the nature of DIY shows is such that they are considered by punks to not be equally appealing to all people and this therefore restricts what sort of person is likely to attend. Whereas bars and mainstream venues, as discussed above, were considered to attract people interested primarily in drinking or similar behaviors, DIY spaces are focused primarily as distinctly subcultural experiences:

Generally speaking the sound is not as good, cause it’s just some makeshift PA, but on the other hand, the sense of community—I mean people at a basement show are really only there, they only know about it, because they want to see the music. So it’s even more intensive of a DIY kind of experience than going to a bar and seeing a band. (John)

Given the generally poor quality of the sound, the makeshift environment of basements or similar spaces, and the emphasis on community, it seems unlikely that most outsiders would generally want to have much to do with DIY spaces, would not attend, and therefore would be less likely to disrupt the normative order therein than within a more accessible mainstream venue.

While the majority of people in attendance are thus likely to be similar to one another in cultural terms, this does not preclude the possibility that outsiders may attend as well. Indeed, many of the respondents felt it was desirable to be welcoming and tolerant of those interested in punk. Calvin distinguished between “tourists” and

213 “newbes” such that the latter were new to the subculture, but had an interest in it and

were therefore welcome. Phil’s comment that it would be “better if more people came

out that weren’t necessarily in the little community” shows a similar sentiment, and

Helen noted that “all you had to do is show up at a show” to be welcomed to a DIY

space. Interested or sympathetic outsiders are generally not sanctioned in DIY spaces—

an observation supported by the fieldwork. All teasing and bickering observed seemed to

be between friends or was expressed in other culturally appropriate ways such as

heckling performing bands.

Again, as long as a majority of those present are sufficiently acculturated into the

scene, it seems unlikely that such interested outsiders cause problems for the space or the

subculture. However, this generalization cannot be extended to all people who attend

shows at DIY spaces. Sometimes these spaces are intentionally infiltrated by problematic

outsiders. A number of outsiders were cited by respondents as sometimes attending DIY venues and causing problems. Often this simply referred to other young people looking for parties and fights:

C: Like right down the street from where I live (…) they have like these crews of people that will like find out about parties and stuff and they’ll just like come and try to beat everybody up. It’s really horrible.

J: What kind of people are they, what are they doing that for?

C: They’re like bros and people that drive motorbikes and have no lives. (Chase)

While the ‘others’ in this case aren’t quite specified, they clearly represent a class of

individuals interested in causing problems at punk show spaces. Apart from being of

similar age groups as the punks in question, such problematic outsiders also seem to be

geographically proximate to the areas where punks establish quasi-permanent, 214 institutional show spaces. Respondents often mentioned residential rental properties

surrounding college campuses as popular places for DIY spaces, and here the identities of

problematic outsiders are made clearer. Renee, for instance, specified that one problem

that might be experienced is “frat kids walking into the house.” While careful not to

stereotype this group, Renee went on to explain that their presence was often

problematic: “I just don’t feel like, I guess, like Greek culture and punk rock culture

would agree. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of clashes, especially on football game days.” In

this case, the proximity of punk spaces and fraternity houses to one another encourages

an uncomfortable interaction despite the absence of a mainstream venue.

Another problematic group that sometimes attends punk show spaces is neo-

Nazis. Despite, or perhaps because of, the obvious cultural dissimilarity between neo-

Nazis and punks, the former was often mentioned as a source of strife at shows.

Apparently this group attends for the same reason as some of the groups just discussed—

to look for fights:

R: [T]here was a big Nazi punk scene around here in like 2000 to like 2004, but we pretty much just tried to avoid those people. They’ve caused their fair share of problems around here, let’s just put it that way. They tend to bust up shows a lot.

J: Like when they just come in looking for fights or…?

R: Oh, yeah. And like the cops show up and shut everything down. Nobody leaves happy. (Ray)

While this constitutes another difficulty from outsiders not entirely solved by using DIY

spaces, this excerpt suggests an outsider that is even more problematic: the police.

Apart from other youth groupings, the police also constitute another outside threat to punk spaces. Despite their obscurity and lack of formal regulation, DIY spaces are nonetheless subject to police observation. Whereas fraternity members and neo-Nazis 215 may start fights, the police can shut down a DIY space for a night or in perpetuity. Yet,

sometimes the cultural dissimilarity of DIY spaces actually protects them from the police.

Phil provided one particularly interesting illustration:

[T]he police raided it thinking it was like an illegal bar. There was nothing to charge them for because they weren’t selling beer. There was just like people having fun in this space, and the police just scratched their heads they couldn’t understand why anyone would do this if they weren’t making money or they weren’t like selling drugs or anything. (Phil)

Despite raiding this particular space, the police did not find anything worth charging the

punks for. However, such happy endings are often not the end result of encounters with

the police. DIY spaces, because of their often illicit existence and location in highly

populated areas, are especially subject to police surveillance and action. Bill mentioned how just the presence of punks on a porch could be problematic since “then you introduce all sorts of problems like police driving by, the drinking ordinance and all, especially so close to the university.”

Thus while punk spaces are able to preclude a number of problems stemming

from mingling with culturally dissimilar audiences and outsiders, they are not able to

solve this difficulty entirely. Without formal means to regulate such dissimilar others,

many punks are forced to resort to maintaining a degree of secrecy to maintain their

spaces. Chase for example, who as noted earlier self-publishes a zine advertising local

shows and events, was asked why he chose a print format over a more accessible internet

posting:

C: Well, one, websites are too easy to look at by people that you don’t want looking at them. And, a lot of venues get shut done because they’ll see certain flyers and you’re like “Oh, we’re gonna go there.” And so I think it’s better to keep it small and like, everything else seems so much more easily attacked.

J: So you’re trying to keep away people that might be hostile toward it, right?

216 C: Yeah.

J: Not people that just don’t know about it that might want to be into it?

C: Yeah. Exactly. Like the way it is, it says like “Don’t just hand out to anyone, make sure it’s a friend of yours.” And on it it has little warnings “Don’t reproduce this on the internet or anything like that.” (Chase)

A similar example of using secrecy to protect DIY spaces was provided by Renee:

One way we’ve tried to get around the town getting angry about, you know, use of residential space for shows was advertising it as a house party and saying, “Bring your friends only. If you don’t know where the address is, you’re not invited.” Something that’s really rude but, you know, it keeps away unwanted attention, because people get noise violations all the time. I remember a place that, let’s see, they got a zoning violation, uh, notice, because they were stupid enough to post maps to their basement online. And the cops just looked at that and followed them. And they knew the address so they just mailed them a zoning violation ticket. And I guess that caused the death of a lot of house venues in [city]. (Renee)

While such secrecy may go a long way toward protecting show spaces from outsiders, it incurs further problems as exemplified in these excerpts. First, secrecy runs counter to punk ideals of inclusiveness. Knowledge of a show or show space becomes secret or exclusive knowledge which only some people are privy too. This, in turn, further marginalizes the subculture. Whereas, as noted previously, many punks have an interest in expanding their group, this cannot be the case when the only people that know about shows are those already closely affiliated with the group. Indeed, often even other punks—especially those less integrated into a local subculture—are excluded as a result of secrecy:

Plus it’s hard to find shows cause some of them, the good shows, are at punk houses, so they’re out in the neighborhoods. Unless you know someone who knows someone, or you constantly check the band’s website, you’re not gonna know they’re playing. I’m sure I missed some good shows. (Naomi)

A similar situation was encountered at times during the fieldwork when trying to locate

DIY spaces. Advertising for shows was usually provided on obscure websites or flyers placed in highly specific places (e.g. independent cafés known to be frequented by punk

217 or potentially interested parties). Sometimes no addresses at all were provided. Shows at

mainstream venues, on the other hand, were always well-publicized and featured in prominent places.

Audiences that come to DIY spaces are considerably less problematic, in general, than might be experienced at a bar or concert hall. However, such spaces are clearly not entirely immune to such dangers and attempts to further protect a space may lead to further problems. Punks must negotiate a situation that threatens a loss of space or a problematic experience of space, when they are too inclusive, or a marginalized and diminished subculture at odds with its own norms of inclusiveness when they are too exclusive.

Resolving Punk Cultural Dissimilarity

The majority of issues faced by being punks in mainstream venues, discussed previously, are resolved in part by simply not using those venues. Many of these problems and their solutions have already been addressed in previous sections, making a lengthy discussion of such issues is clearly superfluous. However, some problems previously described as associated with punk itself within mainstream venues deserve further attention in the context of a DIY space.

If a space is operated by punks, for example, it is not likely that punk bands will be disallowed simply on the basis of their punk affiliation. While the vast majority of bands that have any interest in playing a DIY space are allowed, this does not simply mean that “anything goes.” First, a process of self-selection likely occurs though it was

218 not directly observed. Many conventional or mainstream bands likely have little interest

in playing DIY spaces (or knowledge of such spaces). While such a determination is

entirely subjective, no such band seemed to be evident in the observations and no

interviewees described such bands as playing. Second, bands are usually allowed to play

only if they are DIY or at least independent of major labels though they need not consider

themselves to be punks. One punk message board clearly stated a policy of deleting even

posts advertising shows with corporate sponsors.13 Finally, in keeping with punk egalitarianism and tolerance, many promoters or space organizers seem to have a policy of disallowing bands that sing about such things as racism, sexism, and homophobia.

Macy, for example, runs a DIY space out of her basement and practices such a policy in order to “make sure they don’t sing about anything fucked up.” Macy went on to describe an occasion when the organizers of a show failed to check on a band in this way:

M: He played and he sang about some really fucked up shit, and was making people feel uncomfortable. I don’t want that to ever happen at my house.

J: What sort of stuff was he singing about?

M: He was starting to sing about, like a story of how he was going to slit his girlfriend’s throat, and I guess, I can’t really remember exactly what he was singing, but I know from people that were there and from me, like it was misogynist and just kind of not humorous or shocking, it was like, that line was crossed. And he was making people feel uncomfortable, plus he was really wasted. I think he was, he had like broken something.

Such instances illustrate that punks do have standards and limitations even if they tend

toward tolerance and permissiveness. Rather than reject bands on the basis of a style

perceived to be too different—as venue owners do—punks appear to reject bands on a

basis of their various ethical perspectives.

Another issue to consider is that of punk behavior. It was argued that punks often

vandalize mainstream venues and may otherwise behave poorly therein. However, in 219 part this was attributed to a perceived inimical relationship between venue owners and

punks—not as an intrinsic element of the subculture. When considering behavior in DIY

spaces, this attribution seems to be well supported. When referring to poor behavior

(except from outsiders), respondents almost always were discussing mainstream venues.

Exceptions such as that described by Macy, above, when punks behave poorly at DIY

spaces, are rare and always infamous. At DIY spaces, the majority of individuals in

attendance seem to behave themselves remarkably well:

J: So, you said there’s only house shows by you now? Do you still like those or is it not as good as--?

A: I do, I do. They’re not as crazy really as down there because you’re in somebody’s house and there’s furniture and stuff like that and it’s not as loud because there’s neighbors and stuff. I mean they’re more toned down, definitely. It’s more of a party atmosphere than just a show but they’re still a lot of fun. I still really enjoy the music and the crowds so.

J: So everyone’s just more kind of—what’s the word—I guess respectful of the house and the neighbors?

A: Definitely. And rightfully so, rightfully so. (Aaron)

Statements such as this seem to indicate that an animosity for venue owners is replaced by consideration for whoever runs a space—especially if it is a residence. Coupled with the system of informal monitoring outlined above, these two factors seem to largely solve issues of poor punk behavior at shows if not the behavior of outsiders.

One further matter to address regarding punk itself within DIY spaces has to do with variations in the subculture. Punk is, of course, not entirely homogenous despite the generalizations that have been drawn so far. As noted previously, such variation seems largely to be in terms of degree and not type, but there are prominent exceptions to this.

These exceptions largely concern schismatic groups that emerged out of punk and, although still associated with it, have become differentiated enough to be considered a 220 different subculture or near to it (Wood 2000). An example of one such group that has

become problematic is straightedge subculture:14

For a long time there was a huge violence problem in punk rock because, you know, there were the metal kids and there were the hardcore kids and then there were the straightedge kids, and especially straightedge got a reputation, deservedly so, for starting fights with people who didn’t think as they thought. If you brought a beer to a show and “boom” you get socked in the mouth[.] (John)

Interestingly, straightedge has become so differentiated from punk that many of its members do not consider themselves to be punks at all (Tsitsos 1999). Nonetheless, groups such as this can be particularly problematic since they share similar spaces and networks with the punk subculture for which they have become problematic.

Finally, there remains the issue of marginality in DIY spaces. As noted above,

when using mainstream venues punks often seem to be relegated to the use of the most marginal and distasteful of such places and this further marginalizes the subculture, discouraging new people from attending. A corollary of this is the marginalization that may be experienced by using isolated, semi-secret DIY venues where many of those present know each other—whether directly or indirectly. Such a close-knit group, subculturally homogenous relative to mainstream venues, may be intimidating or uncomfortable for some people and therefore, again, limit the potential for new people to come to the space. While all those interviewed were involved in punk to some extent, it was found that those less integrated into a particular local scene experienced such discomfort at shows. As Naomi put it regarding a house show she attended “Yeah, it would have been really nerve wracking to go by myself. It’s kind of awkward at first because like your standing in someone’s yard like waiting for a show to start.” Ivan

221 described a similar scenario as being somewhat uncomfortable because of the group focus of DIY spaces as well as his own disinterest in such things:

I enjoy the show experience to an extent, but it is weird being such an outsider in the punk scene. I guess it’s weird going to shows, because a lot of it is about going there and being like ‘Hey, what’s up guys?” and doing the whole group thing, which I’ve never really done, I’ve never really enjoyed that much anyway. So in that sense, I’m missing like this whole, that whole dynamic almost. It’s like, I go to a punk [show] and I’m, unless I go with somebody I have a horrible habit of just like, kind of standing on the outside listening to music[.] (Ivan)

Interestingly, this sort of discomfort in DIY spaces applies not only to new or somewhat non-integrated punks, but also to those who were once well integrated—and

thus familiar with the subculture—but who have been absent for a time and consider

themselves to have aged out of the scene to some extent:

However, the house shows are very, I’ve had an interesting time since moving here to [city], when it comes to my social life. I go to shows at bars typically. I have gone to a few house shows here, but they’re not very welcoming. Not so much as like people are particularly rude, but it’s more like I’m old and, like any other house show, the kids there are very close, and I’m not like part of their cliques so it’s sort of just awkward. (Andrea)

Like Andrea, Naomi also described the punks at DIY spaces as friendly and hospitable despite experiences some discomfort there:

So they say “we start at 9” they start at like 10:30, 11. So we got, it was with my friend [name], cause we were meeting someone whose driving in from like Kentucky, so she was like “Oh, we’ll get there on time because he’s coming in,” since he should be there, but he was like running an hour late. So we were like seriously sitting around, and some of the guys would come out and talk to us and they offered us food cause they like made food for the bands. But it was okay, but it was like we just sit around listening to punk music. Like “we’re in these peoples’ house, how awkward.” (Naomi)

That the punks at DIY spaces are typically described as friendly and welcoming raises an interesting conclusion: despite their friendliness, feelings of uncertainty in an unfamiliar

environment cannot be expected to totally alleviated since they stem not so much from

the people therein, but to one’s own dissimilarity or simply not knowing anyone within a

tight community. While some degree of discomfort is the case for less integrated 222 members, it can only be left to the imagination what non-members might feel should they attend a DIY space. Not surprisingly, mainstream venues such as bars, even if more rowdy, were described as probably being more comfortable and accessible for people not well integrated into a punk scene or new to the scene entirely:

Well, for me I definitely like to go see shows in basements. I feel like there’s a more domestic, casual feel to it, where people are like, you know, it’s so much more closely-knit because you’re going to someone’s house to see a band so it’s automatically more familiar. But, I guess as far as other people go, I feel like the best option for people who are being introduced to the music is, I guess a restaurant or a bar downtown where everyone can come in. (Renee)

Given that such mainstream spaces are likely to be more familiar, culturally, to people unfamiliar with punk subculture, it is no wonder that they might provide a more comfortable introduction to the subculture than a more thoroughly punk DIY space.

Generally speaking then, most problems experienced in mainstream venues that emerge from the characteristics of punk itself are resolved when punks operate their own spaces. Some problems of this particular type remain, stemming from infighting or internal policing for example, but the difficulties that remain in DIY spaces, as illustrated above, stem largely from the social world external to, and often hostile to, the subculture.

DIY SPACES: AN IMPERFECT SOLUTION

Many of the problems experienced with mainstream venues are thus resolved or ameliorated through the use of DIY spaces more closely related to the culture of punks although these problems are not completely eliminated and create new issues with which punks have to contend. One additional factor introduced through the use of informal,

DIY spaces further complicates the effectiveness of these spaces as a solution to punk

223 spatial requirements: representations of space (Lefebvre 1991), the design and use of

space deemed appropriate by planning professionals and dominant discourses.

As noted in the previous chapter, the built environment within which punks must try to establish spaces is largely constructed to facilitate capitalist exchange (Harvey

1985a, 1985b; Logan and Molotch 1987) and other aspects of mainstream culture.

Whenever punks attempt to create a DIY space, they necessarily must alter and adapt space that is not intended for such usage: houses, storefronts, backyards, and so forth.

Indeed, a lethal arsenal of legal devices is arrayed against punks who seek to change the representational meaning or use of this physical environment. Using a basement in a residential neighborhood is likely to invite a host of violations if discovered, for example, ranging from noise ordinances, fire codes, zoning laws, requirements of assembly and so on. Statements from the interview respondents such as “all the shows were illicit, we never had a license to assemble” (Calvin) illustrate that they are well aware of this fact.

Most DIY spaces then, by their very nature, are illegal or illicit spaces and therefore

endangered. Even legally rented spaces, like apartments, are problematic when put to

unintended use as DIY music spaces.

Punks come into constant conflict with mainstream social order when they use

mainstream venues—spaces which conform to dominant representations of space. As

discussed above, to some extent using DIY spaces removes punk from this milieu and

allows them to avoid a competing cultural discourse. The extent to which DIY spaces

solve old tensions or introduce new problems—the extent to which they are removed

from mainstream discourses on space use and organization—is further moderated by the

224 type of space itself and its context. That is, the distinction between temporary, marginal

DIY spaces and more stable, institutional spaces further modifies the degree and type of problems resolved or created by DIY spaces in general.

In the first case, punks can simply pick a suitably isolated spot (e.g. under a bridge, in a vacant lot, in abandoned building) or rent a space for a night (e.g. park buildings, church basements, VFW halls) to use as a temporary show space. Such fleeting spaces have the advantage of not being resource intensive and posses the potential for considerable evasiveness. In terms of this first characteristic, it seems that younger punks especially may resort to this option. Individuals in high school, for example, generally have little money to rent a more permanent house for use as a space and, even if they did, are not old enough to be permitted to do so. This pattern was supported by the field observations, where temporal spaces seemed to be organized mostly by younger people. Secondly, temporary spaces may be ideal for evasion—for avoiding the notice of police, neighbors, and so forth. They can appear and disappear before hostile interests can intervene or take an interest. Such spaces have been interpreted as ‘temporary autonomous zones,’ that is, “an uprising which does not engage directly with the State, a guerilla operation which liberates an area (…) and then dissolves itself to reform elsewhere/elsewhen before the State can crush it” (Bey 1991:

57).15 However, this approach has drawbacks as well. Such spaces are not reliable. In

the case of the rented spaces, especially, there is still a property manager or landlord to

deal with and thus the space may still be subject to the problems experienced with

mainstream spaces described above. The most common scenario seems to be the

225 relatively unproblematic use of a space for a single night as a DIY space and then being disallowed from further use. In Barrett’s words “I’m telling you man, most places will only let you do it once or twice before they wouldn’t want any more of it going on.”

Andrea provides another example of how such spaces that were dependable for a short time can quickly become unusable because of their mainstream affiliation:

When I was in college we had a venue on campus that we were allowed to use for awhile. Later like the guy who was in charge of that particular department, one of the residential guys, the position changed hands and the guy who took over didn’t want the kids renting out the shows anymore, or renting out the venue anymore, because he saw it as a liability. We were having high school kids show up and somebody got conked on the head, and his parents got mad and called the university. So we weren’t allowed to throw shows on campus anymore. (Andrea)

Such spaces are never likely to be as important as more fixed spaces are if for no other reason than the inability to use them consistently. Even if a space is not rented, it cannot generally be used dependably without becoming noticed by police or other outsiders. In those cases where temporary spaces are used consistently, they have the potential to become institutionalized.

More permanent, institutional spaces are perhaps less easy to obtain than temporary spaces, but they make up for this limitation by being more dependable. For example, one needs to be old enough and have enough money to rent, much less buy, a house in which to host shows. Once such a space—house or otherwise—is obtained, it can be operated fairly dependably and independently of mainstream intervention. As discussed above, there is still a need to maintain a degree of secrecy to protect the space and, once such a space is discovered (e.g. by the police) it is not so easy to avoid some form of sanction or observation and to move on as when using a more temporary space.

On the other hand, if such a space persists for long enough, it may accrue a degree of

226 fame within punk subculture, a reputation, which may be used to maintain further support

for its existence. Such famed spaces generally don’t have any problems getting

audiences to attend and can often raise funds for perpetuating the space. Interviewees

often spoke fondly of such long-standing institutions. Bill spoke of one DIY house

space:

And I knew people that lived there back in 1989, even before that, ’87 maybe ’88, I mean it’s always been a house, and there’s always been music going on there, and I always thought it was interesting that people would do that. (Bill)

Similarly, the house space that Macy operates functioned as a DIY venue and was

abandoned for a year before her and her housemates moved in. The institutional

character of the place, in part though its reputation, was stated as a major reason for them

reviving it:

I wanted to bring back how it was before, because I had been there before I lived there. So I knew the reputation of the house, and I knew that people enjoyed going there. So I wanted to kind of be a part of that even though it didn’t exist for a year. I kind of wanted to bring it back and so did the people who lived in my house, who lived there before it was empty. (Macy)

Being relatively fixed and without the ability to readily shut down and start up

again somewhere else like a marginal/temporary space, institutional spaces must contend

more regularly with outsiders. In addition to the police, fraternity members, and other groups that might pose problems, neighbors constitute a concern more-or-less unique to a fixed space. Renee, for example, mentioned problems with neighbors and the need to remain on good terms with them to protect the space:

I mean, you try to be nice to your neighbors no matter what they’re like, because they’re living right there next to you. So you have to be nice to them but, I don’t know, I guess because people move in and out a lot, because it’s a college town, they don’t really care. (Renee)

Other’s also volunteered that neighbors were an important consideration for institutional

spaces, even when they have no problems with those neighbors: 227 Yeah. And, uh, luckily the neighbors are cool and like we warn ‘em and tell ‘em when we’re having shows, so they never trip and call the cops on us so… the cops don’t really know about it yet. (Chase)

Whether intended to be more temporary or more permanent, all DIY spaces are

necessarily unstable to some degree because of their cultural dissimilarity from the norm, because they come into conflict with the excepted ways of doing that are built into laws and into the landscape. As John pointed out:

I mean there’s always a lot more uncertainty with a house show obviously. You never know if the police or somebody’s parents are gonna show and shut it down or if it will even happen at all. (John)

The extent to which this is so, of course, depends on many of the factors here explored,

but this ultimate marginality and undependability seems unavoidable.16 Yet, the other

option is to revert to using mainstream venues—an option which, as argued above, may

be no more dependable for this stigmatized, unconventional group. DIY spaces, despite their shortcomings, are more closely suited to punk needs and enable them to practice, for whatever length of time, a truly alternative way of life.

CONCLUSION

The difficulties experienced due to the cultural dissimilarities of punks and

mainstream venues reinforce the validity of the idea that every social group requires an

appropriate space within which to practice its way of life. The pursuit of such spaces by

punks—the amount of effort and thought that seems to go along with trying to obtain and

maintain DIY music spaces—further highlights this argument. DIY spaces are much

more pressing concerns for punks than, for example, clothing or style, and are more

closely related to the substance of the subculture: its values, practices, and intended social 228 organization. Moreover, this association between subculture and space is not an oblique one, that is, not a matter of semiotics in which the concerns of the subculture are expressed or “magically” resolved through symbolic resistance and imaginary attainment

(Brake 1974, 1980; P. Cohen 1972). Instead, it has been argued that there is a direct association between space and social practice and not all spaces are ideal for all practices.

The solution enabled for punks by the establishment of DIY venues is admittedly not a perfect one. As discussed, there are certainly further problems that are engendered by the illicit use of space for purposes other than those intended by the dominant culture or allowed by that culture’s laws. However, it was seen that these spaces, ceteris paribus, go a long way toward facilitating the subculture’s intended social arrangements.

In motivation, regulation, and culture, the genius loci of DIY spaces differs greatly from that of mainstream venues. Moreover, despite the threats posed by the dominant culture to DIY spaces, such spaces persist in countless numbers across the nation and beyond.

Thus, while representations of space—the socio-spatial environment as planned by professionals (Lefebvre 1991)—is indeed dominant and hostile toward alternative designs, it is not at all invulnerable or all encompassing despite, as argued in the previous chapter, discussions of the current spatial trends that seem to portray it so (e.g. Davis

1992, Flusty 2001, Smith 1997). Instead, punks, as social actors, are seen as not only reacting to environmental cures, but involved in actively behaving to shape that environment for their own needs—albeit imperfectly.

DIY spaces represent an alternative, social vision in microcosm: a society based on voluntarism, trust, community, and equality all free from authority, capital, and

229 bigotry. In this sense, they can be considered to be “public spaces,” and also to the extent

that they are free and open to anyone that wishes to participate, that they are marked by

free interaction, and that they are tolerant of a wide range of differences so long as these do not problematically interfere with the alternative social vision as described above. As a space of alternative ideas and discourse, spaces such as those used by punks are essential components of a greater democratic sphere and a democratic society (Arendt

1998, Habermas 1989). Yet, it comes as no surprise that these spaces face a number of external threats from the dominant order since, within this order, public space is everywhere threatened (e.g. Ferrell 2001, McCarthy and McPhail 2006, Sorkin 1992).

However, the capacity for DIY spaces to function as public spaces is likely limited by the fact that they are punk spaces. That is, not everyone is likely to attend such

a location in the first place to contribute their thoughts and ideas. Moreover, despite the variety of perspectives that exist within punk and its emphasis on individualism, a general punk perspective does exist (as described in Chapter 3) which may not be welcoming of all types. Additionally, as discussed above, a wide range of outsiders are actually considered to be problematic. Thus the range of social mixing and discursive negotiation that take place within DIY spaces are likely limited. Nonetheless, as free and tolerant spaces, it is very likely the case that these spaces are much closer to the ideal of public space than those mainstream venues, which operate largely based on a market logic, are capable of. Indeed, the commercial, privatized landscape has been found to be the main rival of public space. Again, as Sorkin puts it, “there are no demonstrations in

Disneyland” (1992: xv).

230 A more interesting conclusion that can be drawn from the relative tendency to

gravitate toward subcultural homogeneity within DIY spaces relates to contemporary

subcultural theory. Post-subcultures theory, as reviewed in Chapter 2, contends that no

distinctions can be made between contemporary youth groups or between such groups and a mainstream (e.g. Bennett 1999, Muggleton 1997). Instead, such groups are considered to be overlapping and temporary. Individuals and groups constantly shift and commingle unproblematically because no essential difference underlay these distinctions.

Contrary to these theoretical expectations, the findings presented here suggest a very

different conclusion. Specifically, that subcultural boundaries continue to be meaningful

and cannot be transgressed without consequences. This suggests that the free-wheeling

portrayal of contemporary youths drawn by post-subculture theorists may be an

exaggeration (cf. Hollands 2002). Sets of ethics, ways of life, and collective interests,

even when relatively loose, continue to exist and cannot be changed or ignored at will—

even within a hyperindividualistic and tolerant subculture like punk.

Another consideration has to do with the concept of place itself. As discussed in the previous chapter, while some theorists have argued that space is only cause (Bourdieu

1979) or consequence (Gans 2002) of human behavior, place is increasingly considered to exhibit both of these capacities (e.g. Gieryn 2002, Lefebvre 1991). Consistent with this perspective, punks were found to be affected by socio-spatial conditions but also to seek to alter them by establishing their own places. Linear causation, in this case, does not seem adequate for explaining the dynamics observed.

231 Finally, a related concern has to do with the theoretical nature of DIY spaces. As

previously discussed (see note 9), the term ‘space’ has been used throughout this chapter

to describe these locations in concession to the terms punks themselves use to describe

them. However, based on the scholarly literature and the discussion of these locales

above, it is clear that in academic terms DIY spaces can more precisely be called

‘places.’ In other words, they possess both meaning and materiality or, in Gieryn’s

(2000) definition, they possess geographic location, material form, and also social meaningfulness. While each of these elements has been investigated here to some extent, the emphasis has been on the social dimensions of these places and less on their specific, physical features. Thus, in the next chapter, we turn to an exploration of the physical environment of DIY spaces (places) and their relationship to punk non-material culture.

232

CHAPTER 7: THE SOCIO-SPATIAL ORGANIZATION OF PUNK MUSIC VENUES

In the previous chapter, mainstream venues and DIY spaces were explored. It was argued that not all places are the same, and that the social environment of different musical spaces should be compatible with the group that uses it. Failure to achieve a parallel configuration of social group and social space was interpreted as problematic for all parties involved. Significant though such observations may be for the individuals whom are affected by them, the previous chapter, on its own, is not sufficient for a full exploration of the concept of ‘place.’

As discussed in Chapter 5, places are laden with meaning—they are social—but places also have dimension—they possess a physical existence (Gieryn 2000, Tuan

2001). Thus, while the previous chapter explored the social aspect of place, other than acknowledging that such social configurations are located somewhere in geographic space, little consideration was given to the actual physicality of mainstream venues and

DIY spaces and the significance of that physicality. Such a one-sided treatment is incomplete in that it interprets space as little more than a neutral container within which important events occur and, unfortunately, such a treatment is also one of the most common approaches the concept of place receives in scholarly work (Soja 1989). Indeed, even when the term ‘space’ is used, physicality it usually neglected such that:

233 We are forever hearing about the space of this and/or that: about literary space, ideological spaces, the space of dream, psychoanalytic topologies, and so on and so forth. Conspicuous by its absence from supposedly fundamental epistemological studies is not only the idea of ‘man’ but also that of space—the fact that space is mentioned every page notwithstanding (Lefebvre 1991:3)

For these reasons, and because physicality itself is significant, this chapter will now set

forth to address this neglected aspect of place in regards to the subject matter of interest:

punk subculture.

It is not possible, of course, to focus solely on physical features when

investigating the built environment and still hope to achieve fruitful findings. While the

physical aspects of these environments will be prioritized in the following inquiry, they

will also be conceptualized in terms of their cultural or subcultural significance. As

discussed in Chapter 2, previous research has indicated that individuals usually take the

built environment for granted and, therefore, may not always be able to discuss it in detail

(Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963, Webb et al. 1973). To compensate for this, the field observations were somewhat prioritized over the other data sources in this chapter.

However, the remaining data sources were not neglected and were consulted to check for

validity and consistency with the conclusions reached via the field observations (Fielding and Fielding 1986, Lather 1986). Indeed, such an approach is desirable in light of the current subject since “[b]y matching the discourse of the inhabitants [of these spaces] with the ideological thrust of the material setting, we enrich our understanding of the social construction and social production of places” (Low 2001: 56).

Thus, the current chapter examines the built environment—the physical aspect of place—in regards to the musical performance spaces already examined from a social point of view. In the first section, the general socio-spatial environment of DIY spaces os

234 explored. Natural and social ecological factors are found to modify where DIY spaces are most likely to be found and, moreover, can present a range of advantages and hindrances to the establishment of such spaces in different localities. Following this, the unique appearance or ambience of DIY spaces is considered. This appearance is found to be an important feature of punk spaces that is expected by patrons and, additionally, signifies the subcultural allegiance of a space. The next three sections of the chapter focus on a comparison of the built forms within both mainstream and DIY spaces. It is argued that different types of music spaces tend to have different physical features which facilitate a different set of social relations and enforce different social priorities (cf.

Lefebvre 1991). The first of these sections examines the extent to which different types of spaces are physically or cognitively differentiated. Drawing on prior work, it is suggested that greater spatial differentiation is used to facilitate greater social differentiation—as identified in mainstream venues—while more homogenous spaces are used to maintain more equitable relations in social groups—as identified in DIY spaces.

Second, the features of space that have regulatory functions, that manage and control crowds, are investigated. Again, these are largely absent in DIY spaces, consistent with punk values of antiauthoritarianism and individual self-determination. Mainstream venues, on the other hand, tend to make use of such regulatory features, consistent with social divisions between producers and consumers of a cultural product. Lastly, those features which facilitate interaction and feelings of intimacy or community between audience members—or between audiences and performers—are examined. Such features include the overall size of a show space, design features which allow it to “feel”

235 comfortably full regardless of actual audience size, and other features which encourage

interaction between strangers. Here, DIY venues are generally considered to possess

these features in greater abundance than many mainstream venues.

Throughout this chapter, caution is maintained in making sweeping

generalizations about one type of space or another, particularly in regards to the

mainstream venues as opposed to DIY spaces. Indeed, it is argued that the other axis of distinction in the typology discussed in the previous chapter (i.e. institutional vs. marginal status) is equally important and disallows a simple dualism. Nonetheless, it is found that one set of physical features is more compatible with, and more closely associated with, DIY punk, and that such physical features have important consequences

which cannot be neglected in any investigation of place.

ECOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS

One factor that influences the shape of DIY spaces is simply that of ecology.

Both the natural and built environments play a role in determining where DIY spaces can

be located and what spaces are available for use. While a range of factors likely play a

role in this process, four specific factors were repeatedly noted in the data: 1) the

weather, 2) the available forms of mainstream buildings in an area, and 3) the population

density and, specifically, the presence of interested others in an area.

Weather and Climate

The weather itself was found to play an important role as an external factor that

influences where shows can be held. Simply put, cold weather and precipitation push a 236 show indoors whereas more mild or dry weather allow the possibility of an outdoor show.

As Ray put it: “The weather sucks, you can’t play backyards anymore (…).” All shows

observed for this study occurred in parts of the country which commonly experience both

precipitation and cold weather (i.e. Ohio and New York). Interestingly, even during the summer months, all but one of the shows observed also occurred indoors. The one exception took place under a bridge which, presumably, was intended in part to provide a degree of shelter.1 Interviewees from similar parts of the country tended not to mention the weather as a factor at all although, by and large, when discussing shows they almost exclusively discussed indoor shows.

Textual accounts referring to locations with similarly problematic weather also tended to treat indoor shows as normal. On the rare occasion when outdoor shows were discussed, these were treated as being somewhat novel or unusual. One account described such a situation in Newfoundland:

One thing that’s been happening here lately is there will be outdoor shows, which are always pretty fun. Once, on the day of a pretty anticipated show, we were told we couldn’t use the venue anymore. It was a church hall, and someone had tagged the side of the building, which had just undergone an expensive facelift. Everyone was hanging out on the lawn bummed out: kids were calling for rides when I heard someone shout, “ Here’s the deal, everyone meet in Bannermant Park in one hour—the show’s happening there.” Someone posted a note on the door of the venue and everyone headed for the park.2

In this case not only is the practice of outdoor shows treated as a new phenomenon, but it

is also interpreted as an outcome of being prohibited from an indoor location. Thus, in

locations without mild weather, outdoor shows seem to be something of an exception, as

an option when an indoor space is not available.

Such limitations were not expressed by respondents in warmer geographical

regions. Instead, outdoor shows seem to be fairly common: 237 And it’s California, so the weather’s always nice the majority of the time. Unless you come on vacation then it’s raining. And there’s plenty of room. Like I have a huge backyard. I think the biggest show we ever did was 220 people. (Chase)

Nonetheless, even in such moderate locations one cannot simply assume that the weather will always be hospitable. When asked to describe what she thought would constitute an ideal show space, Mary placed considerable emphasis on weather as a consideration in the design:

M: I’m trying to think of my favorite venue that I’ve been to. I would make a place that has equal outside to inside space, like stage space, cause I don’t mind if the inside’s smaller and the outside’s bigger, but when the weather, it can kind of depend on whether you’re gonna be outside or inside.

J: You mean if the audience had to stay outside to watch the band you mean?

M: Yeah, like if it’s nice out in Texas, which it typically is, you’re going to want to be outside to see a show. But if it’s like cold, we’re not used to cold, we don’t want to be out in the cold. (Mary)

Here, the relatively mild weather of Texas is again cited as a reason why shows are not limited to the indoors and, to the contrary, an outside show might be preferred. However, contingency plans must be built into a space so that audiences can go indoors according to the vicissitudes of the weather—when conditions are no longer accommodating for a strictly outdoors show.

Weather is, perhaps, both an obvious factor but also one of questionable significance. However, whether a show is held outdoors or indoors will influence the generalize amount of overall space present at a show and the degree of other physical features present (e.g. walls, a stage, etc.). Such considerations, explored below, greatly modify the show experience and a location’s suitability as a punk space.

238 Availability of Built Forms

As discussed in the previous chapter, houses seem to account for the vast majority

of DIY spaces for a number of reasons. Generally speaking, punks are able to exert the

most autonomy over these spaces and can limit the amount of problematic interaction

with hostile groups they might otherwise experience. However, not all regions are the

same in terms of the built environment and, therefore, punks will not always be able to

find a house within which to have shows.

Some places, particularly metropolitan areas, houses are simply not present. John described this as the situation for the New York City punk scene:

[G]enerally in New York, since everyone lives in apartments not houses, there wasn’t much of a house show scene so it was always suburban New Jersey. New Brunswick, which is a big college town, has always had a lot of houses that kids rent and basement shows. So that’s why the biggest place in New Jersey right now would be New Brunswick. (John)

The absence of houses, here, changes the whole nature of the local punk scene which

must find other places to utilize.

Interestingly, New York is also one of the few spaces that has a more formal DIY

space: ABC No Rio. This space is one of a handful of legitimate, legal, and

cooperatively run punk spaces that exists throughout the country, all of which seem to be

in or near metropolitan areas. The Gilman Street Project, previously mentioned, in San

Francisco is another such example. The mission statements or historical sketches available for these metropolitan, DIY spaces often describe situations of ‘placelessness’ that confronted punks preceding, and leading to, their establishment. For example, in

Louisville, KY:

239 [M]any voters/constituents had expressed concern that kids were wandering up and down Bardstown road. From one point of view, kids were causing trouble and should be swept off the street; from another point of view, the kids had no place to go and needed a place of their own.3

The result of this particular situation was an unusual coalition between local government

and punks to establish the BRYCC House (Bardstown Road Youth Cultural Center), a

collaboratively-run, legitimate, DIY punk space with IRS 501(c)(3) nonprofit status.

Such scenarios are probably the exception more than the rule, and most punks in regions without houses available for use need to rely on more accessible options (Anonymous n.d. [a]).

Sometimes there is no shortage of houses in an area and, therefore, these can be

counted on for consistent show spaces. However, the general construction of the house is

still a factor in the show space that will result. Returning to Chase, for example, some

regions do not have basements:

Well, we don’t have basements in California I don’t think. That one’s automatically out, and then doing it inside with a bunch of dirty kids that are running around, drinking beers, spilling and breaking stuff is never a good idea. (Chase)

Most punk shows held in houses utilize the basement for a performance space. Of the

house shows attended for this study, all but one were held in the basement. The

exception was a show held on the ground floor of a house in something resembling a

living room. Other respondents on occasion mentioned such living room spaces, but

basements seem to be the preferred option. No overriding reason seemed in evidence for

this. Two respondents, including Chase, suggested that things might be broken or made a mess of when using a living room space. Yet, most of the house spaces attended, even if performances did not take place in the living room, always allowed audiences to utilize

those spaces for conversation and so on. 240 Another possible reason why basements, where available, might be preferable

over living rooms is familiarity. As Cory stated:

So people practice in basements, so might as well play shows there. I think the first basement show I went to was in like ‘93, when kids from the suburbs, likewise kind of where I was from, started moving into parts of [city] that you could have basement shows. (Chris)

Here, the structural or ecological capacity for holding shows in basements is a necessary but not sufficient condition actually doing so. Familiarity with such spaces from having practiced in them renders them subjectively pleasing locations as well.

Punks rarely build their own spaces outright but, like most people, need to adapt or adopt other spaces for their needs. When ideal spaces, like houses, are unavailable, they thus must resort to less ideal spaces. Often this means relying on more formal, mainstream venues. As discussed in the previous chapter, in some cases sympathetic venues may be located that present no particular problems. However, very often the lack of houses may drive punks into an inimical mainstream environment or compel them to seek a wide range of other possibilities.

Population Density

One final ecological factor that was a recurrent theme in the research was a preference for establishing DIY spaces in areas with a sizeable local population. Some of the individuals interviewed grew up in rural areas where both shows and other punks were few. This was interpreted as problematic:

Yeah, I grew up on a farm in the middle of Illinois, about 40 minutes north of [city]. So if I wanted to hang out with other punk kids, I had to drive. (…) I never hardly ever went to Chicago, I mean that was out of the question. So, yeah, I went to shows when I could. (Andrea)

241 Although far from ideal, many punks seem to be willing to drive long distances to attend

shows when it is necessary. However, it is clearly better—for a given individual and for

the subculture—to have shows that are more accessible.

The vast majority of show spaces—observed, discussed by respondents, or

uncovered in textual analysis—was located in areas with a fairly dense population. This

applied to both mainstream venues and DIY spaces. As noted above, if an area is too

densely built up, it may be difficult to find suitable spaces for shows, but a certain density

of people seems necessary to provide for a local constituency—a punk scene that can reliably attend shows. Discussing her ideal show space, Macy stated:

And it would be in an area that is close to where those people live within biking or walking or bus distance. And an area that members of the community are supportive of. So maybe it might be in a community where people don’t give a fuck about anything. Or they don’t care about loud noise, or a community that would support it which, I don’t know. (Macy)

Indeed, Macy’s house, a show space, and many of the other house spaces observed were

in areas like this: semi-urban, residential areas near to commercial districts and/or universities. Often, particularly in areas near universities, these were student housing areas where residents are less sensitive too noise and loud parties. Often other punks seemed to live nearby as well.4

On occasion accounts of show spaces that existed away from such conducive environments were encountered. Such exceptions, although relatively infrequent, seem to occur a) for novelty or b) out of necessity. These factors, of course, are not mutually exclusive.

In the first case, sometimes punks seem to simply enjoy the novelty of a new space or a new environment within which to experience a show. For example:

242 And we went with a caravan of people to outside of [city] where there was a, I don’t know, some sort of hall that was basically just a building made of cinderblock in the middle of nowhere. I mean seriously, middle-of-freakin’ nowhere. And it had a, talk about well-lit and horrible sound, it was awful. But at the same time, it was something, it was like being present at a spontaneous happening of art, right? Like the band set up in one corner on the cement with the dust, and then everybody just kind of ranged themselves around them and it happened. And, you know, the doors were open, it was big metal doors, and outside was the country. It was beautiful. I mean the music was amazing, but, yeah, that was really fabulous. I don’t know if it would have made a good venue consistently. (Helen)

In scenarios such as this, out-of-the-way spaces may make interesting and novel locales to experience punk music. However, being so removed from a ready constituency, as

Helen notes, may make such places unreliable since only so many people can be expected to show up regularly.

Second, inconvenient spaces may be used out of necessity. As it has been consistently noted, punks generally have to work within existing conditions. Thus, when a nearby location in a dense neighborhood is unavailable, it may be necessary to find any location for shows, even when such a location is far away and far from ideal. One now defunct space in Kansas, The Outhouse, exemplifies a space that, while inconvenient, exists out of necessity. This space existed “Just outside the jurisdiction of the city police”

(Ginowt 2003: no pagination). This condition was favorable, in a sense since, in that it further removed the space from external control and observation, but was also a problematic condition since it required something of a trek to get to. Weather, again, was a concern here as well:

[M]assive flooding made the road impassible and turned half the parking lot into a lake. It got so bad that “ferrying people over the moat” in four-wheel-drive pickup trucks became common practice. On the worst days, they used canoes. (Ginowt 2003: no pagination)

243 Despite its inconvenient location and other environmental problems, The Outhouse remained an important space in the Lawrence scene for many years until other spaces, closer to the city, were established.

Given previous research that argues for the necessity of dense, urban populations as prerequisites for the development of vibrant subcultures (Fischer 1975), it is not surprising to find that such an environment is also beneficial to punk subculture. It is surprising, however, to find that the subculture seems to persist even in less dense areas, and is capable of adapting to an inhospitable social and physical environment.

AESTHETICS OF PUNK VENUES

Both the interviews and observations indicated that spaces used consistently for punk shows—whether mainstream or DIY—tend to have a particular “look” and “feel” to them that contributes to a sense of place (Feld and Basso 1996). Such spaces were generally described as being crude, dirty, or otherwise disordered. Describing her favorite places to see shows, Naomi stated that “you definitely have to have [them] a little bit tacky and a little bit dirty.” One respondent, Parker, referred to this as the “traditional look and feel of (…) your prototypical dive, punk club” and described one such place as follows:

[I]t’s dark down there and the PA kind of sucks. It’s grimey and there’s a lot of graffiti. It comes off as, you know, places I’ve been to who host those kinds of shows [punk] are very similar to that. (…) But it comes off as, sort of [city’s] version of a CBGB’s, New York. And just sort of, you know, sort of embodying what a lot of people consider punk to be. It’s sort of like, this very raw, very you know, let everything hang out, you know almost—I don’t know if brutal is the right word, but just sort of, like, you know, don’t give a fuck kind of aura. (Parker)

244 Other respondents agreed with this portrayal of many punk spaces and, indeed, many of

the places observed could be described in similar terms. This seemed to be the case,

particularly, for marginal mainstream venues and for institutional DIY spaces. The

larger, institutional mainstream spaces tended to be more maintained as did the more

marginal DIY spaces. At first this appears to be a contradiction, but the pattern is

explicable in the degree of use: both those places that were recognized as less disordered

were the places least used by punks. In the case of marginal DIY spaces, as describe din

the previous section, these are generally mainstream spaces unrelated to music—such as

rented VFW buildings or church annexes—adapted for use as punk venues. Such places

are usually put to a different use and maintained. They may be respected by the punks

who use them or disrespected and mistreated. In the case of the latter, the typical result is

that punks will not be allowed their continued use.

One reason punks seem to utilize disordered spaces was described in the previous

chapter. In the case of mainstream venues, an inimical relationship was perceived by

many punks to exist between themselves and the managers or owners of venues which

led punks to misbehave and vandalize the venue. Only the most marginal of mainstream

spaces with little interest in maintaining a clean, ordered environment permit behavior

that would further disorder a venue. Despite this, several of the respondents described

affection for this sort environment. Barrett, previously cited, who explained that “that’s why punk rocks starts happening at such shitty places, because those are the only places left that will let it go on,” nonetheless went on to describe such places in favorable terms:

245 [A] punk club should be a shithole, like it should have a barely functioning bathroom, no AC, graffiti on the walls, like I really like all those places. I’ve never pulled up to a club and been like “oh, it sucks that it’s so shitty.” It’s like that’s kind of what makes it cool. (Barrett)

This led to the obvious question of why one would like such a place:

J: What do you like about that? I’ve heard people say that, what do you like about the shitty side of the clubs?

B: I guess it just fits your expectations of what, it’s the same reason you’re parents don’t want you to go there, cause it’s in a bad part of town, why on earth would you go there to see a band play? It’s next to the strip club on one side and like a gun shop on the other or whatever. And it’s like that’s where you’re supposed to play if you’re in a punk band. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like that’s how you know you’re getting close. (Barrett)5

Implied here are two possible reasons why some punks might like disordered marginal

places: 1) they imply adventure and 2) they are familiar. The first explanation did not

seem to be much in evidence in the remainder of the interviews. Familiarity, on the other

hand, was a recurring theme used to explain why some aspects of punk spaces were

favored. As noted above, familiarity was a possible reason why basements were a

preferred over other parts of a house for shows. This theme will again be returned to

below.

Another possible explanation for a preference for disordered environment may be arrived at through a semiotic reading of punk space. Applying this argument, the space of punk in this context may operate in the same way that Hebdige (1979) suggested style

does. The ‘style” of the space is homologous to the non-material aspects of the

subculture. If punk is characterized, as Hebdige suggests, by a desire for social disorder

or anarchy, then this can be symbolized by a disordered environment. A similar reading

of a punk space—in this case a café—was suggested by Clark (2003). Whereas the

spaces of modern authority are demarcated clearly, kept clean and orderly (Sennett

1990), the café, which was owned and operated by punks, is described as full of clutter, 246 dirt, odors, with walls haphazardly covered in posters and flyers, and generally cramped.

Clark interpreted this space as representing a counter-narrative and challenge to modern authority via an attempt to “offend mainstream good taste” (2004, p. 21). Moreover, in practical terms, it has been argued that physically disordered environments contribute to socially disordered environments (e.g. Wilson and Kelling 1982). Thus, in this case and in the case of punk venues, such a possible reading may go beyond semiotics and suggest actual outcomes of disordered shows spaces. Indeed, in the previous chapter such disordered spaces were interpreted as being closely related to rowdy punk behavior.

Yet, not all of the respondents preferred disordered venues. As noted in the previous chapter, for example, one reason for this was that it was felt such places further marginalized the subculture and discouraged new people from attending shows. Others, such as Matt, had different reasons:

As far as venues go I'm not really picky, but at the same time I kinda hate playing some DIY spaces where you can tell no work has really gone into it, the sound is awful, its dirty, the bathroom doesn't work, etc. Have a little pride in your space. I've always hated the "its punk rock so its ok to be second rate" attitude. The point isn't just to do it yourself, it’s to do it yourself as well as you possibly can. (Matt)

Such opinions seem to suggest a concern for a space that is distinctly subcultural but which does not proclaim its difference through semiotics. In other words, rather that disorder symbolizing the negation of established social order, there may be a concern for simply creating an alternative order facilitated by clean, functional space. Consistent with the findings presented in Chapters 4 and, this alternative order is not one characterized by chaos, but by an informal, constructive, and voluntaristic order more in line with philosophical anarchism (cf. (Guérin 1998).

247 Following such an interpretation, disorder apparent in punk spaces may stem

more from its democratic, antiauthoritarian ethics. Whereas an orderly space may result from a single, enforced will, a disorderly space may result from not restricting who can act on a space. Macy described such a scenario as leading to the disordered look of many

punk spaces:

M: Because I feel like, I think, there’s also with, in the art punk scene, people who like to paint, who like to draw, or like to write, and I mean, I just don’t, I wouldn’t want to have a venue where you’d like have to completely—No. I’d want a venue where people would respect the venue, but not feel like they can’t express themselves in any way. Cause some people aren’t performers, some people aren’t writers, some people aren’t even people who are really interested in buying records or seeing every band. Some people just want to be there to be somewhere, you know? And just from like seeing what my friends had painted in my basement, what people have played jokes on us by painting shit in our basement, as long as it wasn’t anything offensive—which is a very blurry line, like, have you been to [DIY space]?

J: Yeah.

M: That’s a great feeling, like, no matter what you paint in this venue, it wouldn’t feel like a punk venue if there wasn’t expressions of how people felt. (Macy)

In many punk spaces, the prevailing image is of a small room covered in stickers, flyers,

and graffiti. As Macy indicates, it is often the case that this is because those in

attendance are allowed or encouraged to leave their mark on the walls or any other

available surface. Figure 4.1, for example, illustrates a typical space of this sort. The

materials covering the walls are not the result of a single plan, but the leftovers of

thousands of people over the years that have come to this space and left something

behind. It is not designed from above and imposed, but shared, interactive space. An

apparently discordant chaos of appearance may thus result from the efforts of so many

individuals, with varying visions and interests, made manifest in a single spatial setting.

It is likely that many punk spaces seem disordered for no single reason, but for

multiple reasons depending on those involved: marginality, desired chaos, and participant

248 alternative order. Whatever the case may be, it is interesting to note that the figure

discussed above, Figure 4.1—originally introduced to illustrate the lack of a specific

punk “look”—does nonetheless clearly identify those people present as punks. In this case, again, it is not because of the clothing worn, but because of the space occupied which, itself, is indicative of punk as here discussed.

PHYSICAL AND COGNITIVE SPATIAL DIFFERENTIATION

In comparing the different types of places that punks may use for shows (see

Figure 2.1), a pattern is in evidence concerning the degree of spatial complexity

displayed across these different categories of place. Specifically, mainstream spaces are

generally more differentiated than the DIY spaces of punks. This pattern appeared

throughout the fieldwork, wherein physical differentiation was observed, but was also apparent in the cognitive differentiation of space. Physical differentiation refers to the tangible separation of, for example, rooms or other areas by walls or other barriers. The latter component, cognitive differentiation, refers to the extent to which individuals in a setting utilize or conceive of space as being differentiated regardless of physical demarcation. To some extent this can be directly observed in terms of the behaviors that occur within different areas or zones within a given space, but the interviews and textual accounts were also necessary to corroborate the observations.

Spatial differentiation is significant because it has been found to correspond with social differentiation:

249 [A]s a society becomes more segmented, evidenced by the presence of stratification, hierarchies, specialization, and a rigid division of labor, its spatial behavior becomes more segmented with an increased frequency of functionally discrete loci [and] cultural material becomes more functionally segmented, with increased architectural compartmentalization, as the use of space itself becomes segmented. (Kent 1990: 148)

Whereas less differentiated groups tend to have more homogenous spatial designs, those

groups which are more differentiated—through stratification, specialization, and other

status distinctions—utilize spatial designs that are both physically and cognitively more

differentiated (cf. Hirst 2005).6

Punks seem to be more similar in social organization to the less differentiated

societies Kent surveys in that they are relatively egalitarian, have no specialized roles

(instead overlapping roles anyone can adopt), no formal leadership, and so forth. This, in

turn, is reflected in DIY spaces which have equally little differentiation in terms of either

physically demarcated spaces or spaces that are cognitively distinguished. However, a

comparison between a subculture and other societies seems to be somewhat unwarranted.

Subcultures are, after all, components of a larger society. For this reason, comparisons will be made between DIY spaces and mainstream venues with additional attention paid to the variations within those categories. Several physical characteristics of DIY spaces, with overlapping significance, will be explored and compared to mainstream music venues: 1) the overall extent of differentiation across different types of spaces, 2) the presence of specialized spaces, 3) public/private space distinctions, 4) the use of furniture and, specifically, seating, 5) and the use and design of stages (or the lack thereof). The primary method for identifying and understanding these spatial features was observation given the understanding that the design and use of space is often taken for granted by individuals (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1963, Webb et al. 1973). Despite this caution, however, 250 it was found that many of the individuals interviewed nonetheless recognized and

appreciate a number of these spatial features and their significance.

Overall Spatial Differentiation Across Spaces

The general spatial sophistication or differentiation of space was found to be minimal at punk spaces relative to mainstream spaces. Punk spaces have fewer actual partitions, fewer conceptual partitions, and fewer monofunctional areas (i.e. areas used for a specific function or associated with a particular role). Most punk house spaces can be roughly divided into only a handful of regions: 1) a stage or performance area, 2) an audience area, and 3) an area beyond the audience area. It should be noted that even these regions are not well-defined. Rather, the activities in one region often blur or overflow into other regions unproblematically.

Figure 7.1 portrays the floor plan of the basement of one of the observed DIY spaces that, generally speaking, is fairly typical of such spaces. The stage area is somewhat self-explanatory, but shall be returned to in more detail, below, as such areas also differ vastly—in form and use—from mainstream venues. For the time being, it is sufficient to note that most punks express skepticism toward having a distinct stage, stemming from a belief in “break[ing] down the standard barriers present in the performer/viewer relationship” (O’Hara 1999: 33) as discussed in previous chapters.

Instead, performers and audiences flow together, to some extent, during and after performances.

251 The audience area is similarly blurry, but can be further subdivided into two use-

based regions. One part, located closer to the stage and extending some distance into the

room, is marked by the potential for vigorous dancing, moshing, and “slamdancing” (see

Figure 7.1: Differentiation in an Institutional DIY Space

Tsitsos 1999). The areas just beyond this section, again poorly defined and constantly in flux, are used by more sedentary audience members. Individuals in this region tend to remain in the same spot, nod their heads, dance in place to the music, or remain 252 motionless. One division in evidence was who tended to occupy each of these spaces.

While there were plenty of exceptions to the observation, it was far more common to find men in the ‘moshing’ section closest to the stage while the majority of women present at a given show tended to remain in the ‘calmer’ region. Several of the interviewees confirmed this distribution. As Naomi explained: “I definitely know a lot of the guys are there just to like slam into each other, which I hate, but I think that’s a big thing for the guys.” Again, women were present in the more active region as well and did not seem to be discouraged, socially, from participating there. Instead, as described in Chapter 6, a sense of masculine “chivalry” seems to pervade this region, wherein women may be disproportionately shielded from moving bodies whether or not they wish to be so shielded.

The final region, beyond the area occupied by the audience proper, consists of sparsely populated areas without a clear view of the band. These spaces may be at the back of a basement, on the ground floor, or even outside, but are functionally similar.

These spaces are generally used for conversation, for breaks between bands, or for selling merchandise. The last of these functions is usually denoted by a small table or other surface with records, CDs, or t-shirts7 for sale at negotiable prices. Usually a band member or a friend of the band or, sometimes, even a relative stranger will handle the merchandise. It is not unusual for the table to be unoccupied, with merchandise unguarded, for long periods of time. Unlike vendors at mainstream venues, one can walk around, behind, or as close to such a vending table as one pleases—even if not looking at the items for sale—without being perceived as trespassing or being a potential thief.

253 Just as the conceptual boundaries between these regions are somewhat blurry, so are they rarely defined by physical boundaries. Walls or other partitions are rarely in evidence and, when so, are typically ignored. Returning to Figure 7.1, for example, there is a room in the top-center that the punks in this space could have put to some use. For example, this would have been an ideal spot to place the merchandise tables or to store the bands’ equipment. Instead, this room remained completely empty except for a water heater and the occasional punks wandering through it. The overall intent seems, here and in other DIY spaces with similar layouts, to disregard existing partitions in favor of throwing all the action together into one, poorly differentiated space. In a similar vein,

Phil, who ran a show space/restaurant out of a storefront-style location, noted that one of the few physical changes he needed to make to the place to ready it for shows was “to knock out a wall and re-drywall it” because “we needed a bit more room, we wanted to open it up as much as possible.”

Contrary to DIY spaces, mainstream music venues, even “alternative” music venues, reflect a much more strictly regimented environment. First, such places possess regions that are the rough corollaries as those described above: Fonarow (1997) similarly describes a stage side zone (with gendered subdivision), a middle ground, and an area beyond both of these. However, movement between these zones is strictly limited—a conclusion supported by the field observations of mainstream venues in the current study.

Rather than moving between these areas, audience members in mainstream venues tend to stake out a preferred zone and remain there, more-or-less, for the remainder of the performance.

254 Perhaps more significantly, the functions or roles associated with each of these

zones are comparatively more fixed in mainstream venues. The first zone is for active

dancing, the second for passive or ‘serious’ observing of the band, and the third for observing the audience itself and for supporting a range of specialized functions and

professionals. Found here are the disinterested onlookers, the bars, the merchandise

vendors, and a range of music industry professionals (press, agents, managers, crew,

etc.).8 Moreover, these social regions are usually reinforced through built forms— particularly in the institutional mainstream venues. The stage side region, for example, is often the lowest area, while subsequent regions are raised higher and often separated by railings. Many of the marginal venues also exhibited such divisions although these were not expressed via different elevations. Instead, features such as pillars, walls, and furniture were used to denote different regions. Figure 7.2 portrays the floor plan of one of the marginal mainstream venues observed, and illustrates such a division of regions.

Here several areas are clearly delineated from one another: the stage area, the bar, the billiards, an entry area, and a rear area which is further subdivided into public and

private (employee only domains).

Comparing Figure 7.2 to Figure 7.1, with the exception of some less-interested

punks and an extremely informal merchandise table in areas furthest removed from the

stage, none of this specialization was observed at punk spaces nor, if present, would it

likely be welcomed or used.

255

Figure 7.2: Spatial Differentiation in a Marginal Mainstream Venue

Monofunctional Spaces

As noted above, mainstream venues, and the third region in particular, are occupied by a host of specialized functions and individuals with specialized roles— features which, as noted above, though present in the mainstream venue are largely absent in the DIY punk space. Segmented spaces and roles such as these, again, are associated with socially differentiated and unequal social groups whereas relatively

256 undifferentiated spaces are more suited to undifferentiated groups (Kent 1990). Thus,

just as the hierarchy of roles and specializations described by Fonarow (1997) are

reflected in and facilitated by a differentiated social space, so is the relative equality of

punk subculture reflected in, and reinforced by, the relative homogeneity of its spaces.

One such specialized space that is lacking in DIY spaces is a fixed location where admission is collected. All of the institutional mainstream venues observed had such a specialized space with a built form to facilitate charging admission or, perhaps, to communicate the role of the space. This was always located immediately upon entry to

the venue and might take the form of a window or, more typically, a counter manned by a

worker whose job it was to collect money. Such admission did not seem to be negotiable.

The marginal institutional venues varied in this regard. One did not charge admission at

all as a policy nor did it have a counter which might be put to this use. Of the remaining

four marginal mainstream venues, half had a built-in space—counters in both cases—

where admission was collected. The other two, while lacking such build forms,

employed workers who stood near the door, usually with a stool, to charge admission.

None of the DIY spaces had a built form to facilitate charging admission at the

door. At only one of the institutional DIY spaces did anyone even stand at the door to

perform this task. At the remaining five spaces, one could simply walked into the space

and, at some point during the night, someone might go around with a bucket or just yell

into the room. At one such space, a bucket-wielding punk simply called out, “Hey, has

everybody paid? Has everybody donated that wants to?” On another occasion, a punk

calling for donations was heckled for his efforts—by a band from out of town that was

257 performing that night and would later receive some of the funds he collected to pay for gas. The punk, apparently a show organizer, said: “Hey, I’m working the door, but I’m also playing in the first band. So I’ll collect the money after we play. Thanks, we got two bands from out of town so we really appreciate it!” To this, members of the other band called out mockingly: “Yea money! He wants money! Money!”

Several significant themes were evident in this incident. First, the punk collecting the money said he was “working the door” despite the fact that he was actually nowhere near the door (which was actually upstairs). Secondly, this task was performed haphazardly and seemed either to rely on the goodwill of those present or it was intended to display a culturally prescribed disinterest in profit (as discussed in previous chapters).

This possibility seems supported by the behavior of the band heckling him which displays a similar disregard. Next, the fact that money was being collected after the first band played shows a similar lack of regard for profit and makes the DIY experience further divergent from even a small mainstream venue which would at least charge before the performance began. Finally, the announcement of overlapping roles—noted previously as being a hallmark of the punk scene as opposed to the specialization and professionalism of mainstream venues—seems to have served as a justification for his participating in the questionable act of collecting funds. As a member of a band, it is likely that this announcement would serve to announce his status as a participating, producing member of the scene and not simply a profiteer.

It was also a common experience at DIY spaces to actually experience difficulty trying to donate admission owing to the absence of a clearly defined space or person with

258 whom to do so. At one show, only a bucket full of small bills indicated to whom

donations should be made even though the individual holding the bucket was making no

effort to add anything it. At another show, a brief announcement was made asking,

again, for people who would like to donate, but the source of the voice was never located

and, as a consequence, the donation was never made and no negative repercussions were

forthcoming.9

Situations described in the interviews largely supported these observations

though, for the most part, respondents glossed over admission practices in the interview

just as punks apparently do at these institutional DIY spaces. However, a pattern of trust

at these spaces seems to replace the formal admission process of mainstream venues.

Calvin described this pattern and made just this comparison:

And, you know, I’d be a couple bucks short and I would promise to pay back, you know, “I will gladly pay you Tuesday to get in today,” and you’d be let in. Never at bars, never at the [mainstream concert hall], never at the VFW hall, cause those were considered one-off kind of things without continuity, whereas there was a social continuity to the house spaces where you could have somebody comp you or flow [?] you until the next show. And, and so there was a higher degree of trust I think, or just willingness to let things slide. (Calvin)

As indicated in the above excerpt, while institutional DIY spaces are liberal with

their admission policies, the same does not always apply to marginal DIY spaces,

particularly when it is known that they will only be used for a single event. At all but one

of the events, an individual was present near the door to collect funds or would make rounds through the crowd in a more systematic fashion than at the institutional DIY

spaces. In no case, however, was a specific built form (e.g. a counter, table, etc.) used to

facilitate the task, as would be the case at most mainstream venues, even when such objects were available. In addition to the lack of social continuity in such events being a

259 possible reason for greater sensitivity to collecting donations, as suggested by Calvin, it seems to also be the case that more direct costs are involved in most of these spaces. The only marginal space that did not ask for a donation was also the only one that was not rented at cost from a third party.

A wide range of other specialized zones were not in evidence at DIY spaces that could be seen at mainstream spaces: bars, billiards, eating areas, offices, employee only

Figure 7.3: Spatial Specialization at a Marginal Mainstream Venue

260 areas, and so on. Sound booths—spaces where specialized engineers modify the sounds of the bands—offer another example. Figure 7.3 illustrates such a room in a marginal, mainstream venue along with other clearly defined, monofunctional areas: a billiards table and a patio. Such specialization and unambiguous demarcation, again not observed at any DIY space, suggests the possible range of differentiation in mainstream venues.

Public and Private Regions

The distinction between areas that are public or private is an essential one in architecture and planning (Goffman 1959, Whitaker 1996). Public areas are those that are presented and accessible to the outside world, they present an intended self-image of a location, its purpose, and its owners. Private regions, on the other hand, are not accessible save to those who live or work in a place. The essential working functions of a business or the bedrooms and closets of a home, for example, might be placed here.

Private regions also provide a space for relaxation where the act of presentation can be dropped (Goffman 1959) for a time, and where one can act without concern for others’ observation and opinions. This distinction between public and private regions, while present in DIY spaces, is again much less pronounced than in mainstream spaces, and the status of particular areas is often subject to ambiguity.

In every DIY space investigated, first, the public face of the location turned to the world was nondescript. Whereas mainstream venues and other businesses generally advertise their existence and attempt to draw customers in (Whitaker 1996) these DIY spaces seemed to mask their presence. No flashing lights or billboards stated the name of

261 the space or indicated what sort of activities occurred within. Likely, this was due in part to the semi-illicit nature of DIY shows, as described in the last chapter, and the need to maintain a level of secrecy—a common practice used by subcultures attempting to keep a low profile (e.g. Hammers 2009). However, even the two DIY spaces that were semi- legitimate, having alternative business functions, used no techniques to advertise their existence to passersby.

This somewhat confusing public face can become uncomfortable when one approaches the venue as it can raise doubts as to whether one is in the correct spot. This, in turn, is problematic because the DIY space itself is not considered private space and strangers are expected to simply walk up and enter what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be someone’s home without knocking or ringing the door bell. At no time is there anyone at the door assigned to welcome guests or, as noted above, to collect donations. On occasion, a handful of other show goers might be present on the porch, smoking or just talking, but there is no easy way to recognize most contemporary punks to confirm the identities of such people without asking (see Chapter 3). Instead, one must rely on more subtle visual cues such as flyers or stickers on the porch as exemplified in

Figure 7.4.

In most cases, one enters the front door only to find a living room or foyer without further direction or instruction in evidence such as that illustrated in Figure 7.5.

From here, there is generally no way to know where the actual show space is. Generally,

262 Figure 7.4: Visual Cues Around Doorway of a DIY Show Space

it is in the basement but, even given this amount of insider knowledge, a profusion of doors and doorways must be tried before even this can be located unless one is willing to admit ignorance and ask someone for directions. This tactic, of course, still requires that someone is present to ask which was not the case at the time Figure 7.5 was photographed. Interestingly, one can wander around a DIY house space more-or-less freely. Kitchen’s, bathrooms, living rooms, and so on are all apparently considered semi- public spaces during show times and, indeed, long before a show starts. Naomi’s comment on this, cited in Chapter 6, takes on new significance in this light: 263

Figure 7.5: A Typical Punk Foyer

So we were like seriously sitting around, and some of the guys would come out and talk to us and they offered us food cause they like made food for the bands. But it was okay, but it was like we just sit around listening to punk music. Like “we’re in these peoples’ house, how awkward.” (Naomi)

Here, it is difficult to not experience some sense of awkwardness in a location that, in mainstream culture, is by all means a private space and therefore renders the stranger a

trespasser. In a DIY space, however, one is a welcome guest and sometimes even offered

food or other niceties.

264 The degree of liberties one can take in punk house, although indeterminate, seems

to extend to a degree far beyond what one would expect to get away with in a more formal space such as a mainstream business. This distinguishing characteristic is one of

the main things that members of the subculture like about DIY spaces as Macy indicated:

I like it, I like being able to hang out in someone’s kitchen, going into the fridge and getting some ice cubes for water or eat the food that they make, you know? It’s just such homier feeling. (Macy)

Indeed, at no time during the observations in DIY spaces were any areas specifically

labeled as being private or off limits as was the case in all of mainstream venues.

Presumably, bedrooms are off limits but no attempt was made to test this restriction.

However, there are no “employee” areas where workers relax or go about performing

tasks behind the scenes. All such things are done out in the open. For example, at the

mainstream concerts, especially the institutional mainstream spaces, bands often park

behind the venue and secretly unload their equipment through a backdoor into backstage

areas where they wait until they are ready to perform—segregated from, and invisible to,

the audience. In DIY spaces, bands park out front and bring their equipment in the same

door that everyone else enters, often having to move through the audience to do so. It is

common for audience members to help with this task as an act of solidarity.

It is further interesting to note that there are no “backstage” areas at DIY spaces

either for the band’s instruments and equipment or for the band members themselves.

Equipment was often piled in any convenient location, often near the stairwells where it was just brought down, but not particularly out of the way or protected.10 Band members, themselves, always simply mingle with the other audience members before and after performing and seem to receive no special treatment. The respondents made clear that 265 this was normative. As noted in previous chapters, punks try not to treat bands as stars and within the subculture roles are often reversed, meant to be conflated and not specialized, such that one can interact as a consumer of shared cultural goods at one moment and be a producer the next such that no one should be placed on a pedestal:

Like, the point is, the band you’re seeing, you can easily be changing places with them. (…) Punk is intimate music, it’s very “I’m you and you are me” and that’s important. (Parker)

Indeed, the field observations supported this conclusion. Once a band finished playing, they would generally merge with the audience, rather than disappearing to some backstage region, while former members of the audience would suddenly reveal themselves to be the next band up to perform.

Shunning specialized backstage areas and changing roles are so integral to the subculture that these might be attempted even at mainstream venues during a punk show.

At one such venue mentioned by a respondent, a backstage room existed but was used for purposes other than hiding the band and treating them like “superstars”:

And when a band got off stage, either they had to leave immediately, or they were right there, they’re in your space, there’s no private space for them to go into except I think there was a backroom, and you know, but I never went back there because I never smoked pot. (Heather)

Again, backstage areas only existed at mainstream venues and were only, apparently, used by mainstream bands as privileged, private band space. Such regions did not exist at all at any of the DIY spaces although there was certainly plenty of opportunity to create such a space should it be desired.11

In the case of switching roles, this too sometimes occurs even at mainstream venues. Audience members might spontaneously decide to take on the role of performer

266 without any prior agreement with venue owners or other members of the scene. Calvin

provided an example of this from his own experiences:

And then at the end of the show, three guys get up and start playing our instruments, talking about how we suck. So these guys get up on stage and start singing a song about how bad we were and this is funny, and the owner of the bar doesn’t know what to do because the show’s over [.] (Calvin)

While pleasing to the punks in attendance for whom such behavior is normative, this

blurring of boundaries presents a source of confusion and frustration for mainstream

owners.

In short, private/public space distinctions constitute another form of spatial

differentiation that can be used to reinforce and maintain status differences between

patrons and employees, audiences and bands, insiders and outsiders, and so forth.

Indeed, this is exactly the use such spaces are put to in mainstream venues. As Fonarow

affirms:

[T]here is an elaborate system of guest passes/lists at most shows. For many gigs, there are five levels of guest passes—guest, after party, photo, all access, and laminate—with different levels of access and different levels of prestige associated with each pass. (Fonarow 1997: 367)

Such status distinctions and hierarchical play are at odds with the normative system of

punks which emphasize equality and participation. Thus, the spatial division associated with social divisions—back stage areas, private spaces, and such—are similarly out of place within the DIY space.

Seating

The quantity and quantity of seating varies considerably across show spaces.

Institutional mainstream venues tend to have—but do not always have—fixed or semi-

267 fixed seating12 in various regions except those closest to the stage. Mainstream marginal

venues tend to have chairs, tables, and stools arrayed throughout the venue although,

again, these tend not be too close to the stage. In both of these cases, the presence of seating tends to remain relatively uncontroversial. This is not the case in DIY spaces where, according to several of the respondents, the presence and use of seating is sometimes hotly debated.

A number of respondents suggested that members of the punk scene, sometimes themselves, consider seating to be antithetical to the punk principle of audience participation. As Calvin put it:

And that—one thing that distinguishes, punk from, other music, when you go to see a live show— the inclusion of the audience in the show is usually much greater so, you know, you never have a sit down punk show. (Calvin)

Sitting is interpreted as spectatorship, as consuming a spectacle instead of being an active participant in a collective event. Aaron, as cited in the previous chapter, similarly attributed seating with a quality of passivity and likened it to motionless, non- participation:

They have like their rules posted “no crowd surfing” “no moshing” in like, you know, quotation marks. You’re like “what the fuck? Seriously?” They might as well just give us like some seats and a seatbelt and, some helmets, and some elbow pads. You can sit down and take notes on the band, like seriously? (Aaron)

Indeed, at many punk shows, seating is not abundant if present at all. Dan, similarly,

found this to be the case: I guess, listening to punk or whatever, the places I went to see

‘em, it was never like a sit down area or anything like that.”

At four of the seven institutional DIY spaces observed, no seating at all was

present in the actual performance space although regular house furnishings were present

268 in other areas of these houses. One of the houses had furniture for approximately four

people to sit on. The two remaining spaces were not houses and had some miscellaneous

seating available which was used primarily between bands rather than during a

performance. Four of the five marginal DIY spaces did have seating available in

abundance—stacked folding chairs since these locations were spaces commonly rented

out for events. Interestingly, only a minority of the people in attendance used these seats,

especially if a band was playing at the time.

Not all punks disagree with the use of seating. While no respondent advocated

seating as the main mode of observing a show (as is the case, for example, in an

amphitheater), there was a middle-ground perspective in evidence such that some

individuals preferred “not a whole bunch of seating, but like spread throughout [a space] so people can sit down” (Mary). Even this amount of disagreement—between no seating at all and moderate amounts of seating—seems significant enough to incite debate:

See some people are like, like my friend, [name], really wants to start an all-ages venue (…) And he was like “No seating whatsoever.” I’m like, you know, I want people to feel comfortable, and not everyone’s going to want to stand for four hours and watch bands, you know? And better to have some kind of booths or some kind of chairs inside (…) Anyways, but because then you’re going to have people who are going to sit outside, and when people sit outside—I mean people should do whatever they want—but when you get all these people sitting outside, probably drinking, probably smoking weed, probably you know like things (…) I think it would be better having seating inside than having all these people outside, just kind of like, just making yourself a target for cops. (Macy)

The debate here involves more issues than the immediate effects of seating on audience/band interaction at a show. Rather, it also calls into question issues of making people feel welcome at a show space and the general behavior of people at that space— behavior that can potentially threaten the space.

269 Seating constitutes another spatial form that, far from neutral, seems to be

associated with ideology and the practice of culture. The tendency is for punks to favor

less seating, rather than more, in the hopes of encouraging active participation in contrast

to the perceived image—real or imagined—of a commercial venue with fixed seating and

passive, consumer audiences.

The Use and Design of Stages

The height of stages is not uniform and may vary across different music spaces.

More importantly, it varies by type of space. At each of the institutional mainstream venues, the stage was several feet high, approximating the height of the average person.13

At the marginal mainstream venues, stages tended to be smaller. Sometimes they were only a foot in height, but they at times approached the size of those at the institutional mainstream spaces. At the DIY spaces observed—both institutional and marginal— stages ranged from about a foot in height, to only a few inches, to being absent entirely

(Figure 7.6).

One possible reason for this variation is simply the resources with which different groups have to work with. Those with more money tend to be able to afford a taller stage and, just as importantly, have the higher ceilings to accommodate such height. Yet, the interviews overwhelmingly suggested that most punks prefer smaller stages to higher ones—that one of the requirements of a proper punk space is that “the stage isn’t too high up” (Carolyn). Similarly, show spaces themselves were preferred if they had smaller stages, even mainstream venues, generally of the marginal variety, that had them:

270 And there was [venue name] which was really, really, really small, it’s really tiny, I mean the Stage was maybe a foot and a half off the ground. That was probably the best atmosphere for me, it was probably the smallest one, the smallest venue. (Aaron)

Similar preferences were expressed for spaces that lacked stages entirely:

J: What did you like about it [a favorite show]?

D: Well, obviously being close to them [band], they weren’t even on a stage, they were just right on the ground (…) (Dan)

Interestingly, it was not uncommon for respondents to compare the extent to which they preferred one space or venue over another, in part, in terms of the height of the stage

Figure 7.6: Absence of a Raised Stage in a DIY Space

271

present at each location. Bill, for instance, compared a defunct venue with the venue,

owned by the same person, that replaced it in such terms:

It’s [venue A] just, the stage is really high, it’s got high ceilings, the bar is so far away from, so far away from the stage… [Venue B] it was like, here was the stage, the stage was literally about this high [about 1’, 6”], so you were right on top of the musicians (...) and you were right there, I mean you could feel their sweat. I mean you can’t do that at [venue A], but [at venue B] you saw all these people who you really like and you were right on top of it. (Bill)

While small (or absent) stages may be more economically feasible, this fact does

not explain why they would be preferred. Three interrelated explanations for the preference of small stages emerged from the data: 1) Such stages permit a greater degree of interaction between bands and audiences, 2) small stages serve the ideological function of not “elevating” the band above the audience in terms of status—not just in terms of height, and 3) the prevalence small stages, stemming from resource constraint, is later rationalized and preferred because of familiarity or habituation.

First, large stages present a physical barrier that limits the potential for interaction

between audiences and bands. It is harder to move across this barrier, to share the

microphone, and so on across such a barrier than across a small stage or, better yet, to

areas of equal height. As Helen illustrated:

H: And it [stage at preferred venue] was raised about a foot and a half off the ground so, high enough so you could see it from everywhere but not so high that you couldn’t jump on stage if you needed to.

J: Is that important?

H: Um, yes [laughs].

J: How come?

H: Sometimes it’s just appropriate to jump on stage.

J: And it has to be small for that? 272

H: It makes it a hell of a lot easier. (Helen)

Comparing the same venues as Bill, above, Helen later contrasted this preferred stage to

that at a different venue, stating that: “the stage was ridiculously high, there was no

feeling of oneness with anyone on the stage because, the stage starts at like four feet,

right?”

In a very straightforward way, then, the interaction that punks value between

performers and audiences—so essential in blurring roles—is facilitated by a smaller

stage. Other respondent’s made similar comments, suggesting that such interaction is desirable not just from the audience’s perspective, but from the band’s as well:

J: So you mentioned either no stage or small stage, (…) like why not have a big six foot stage if you could do it?

M: Oh, well see, especially knowing the people that are in bands that I would want to play there, it would feel very uncomfortable about it because it’s really, it’s singing with the kids not to the kids, if you know what I mean, you want to be able to look people in the eye. Like if you’re the lead singer you want to be able to walk out and like have people sing with you or, being on the stage is, I think it’s confining to a performer, from a performer’s point of view, and as an audience it’s like a distance that you shouldn’t have in punk. Everyone should be sweaty, everyone should be covered in beer or soda. That’s what I think. (Macy)

Here, interaction between audience and band is again noted as a valued good from the

perspective’s of both groups, but preference for smaller stages is not just about interaction, it is also about reifying the equality of bands and audiences by not symbolically elevating the former. After all, as noted previously, punks understand that

such roles can be, and often are, reversed at any given time within the subculture. This

understanding of the symbolic dimensions of the physical characteristics of the stage was

often stated explicitly:

J: Is it important to have like a small stage then?

273 P: Right, like not so high where it sort of conveys the idea where, you know, these are people who you can’t touch or who you’ll never be which is important in punk. Like, the point is, the band you’re seeing, you can easily be changing places with them. (Parker)

Here, social distance is reified as spatial distance. In Anglo-Saxon derived

cultures, individuals of higher status are entitled to having a larger proxemic “bubble” of

personal space around them than those of lesser status—a space which others should not

intrude in—and are also entitled to superior positions—in this case, those with a

commanding height (Hall 1982, Henley 1977). Reducing the size of the stage, in part,

reduces the amount of imposed distance maintained between bands and audiences and

reduces variations in the quality of space as indicated by height. This greater

homogeneity of space and space use thus suggest a decreased social distance.

Additionally, superiors are permitted to enter this proxemic bubble of inferiors, but not

vice versa. Indeed, “crowding” bands seems to be a universal experience at punk shows, particularly punk shows at DIY spaces. Figure 7.7 illustrates this sort of crowding at a typical punk show where no stage is present. While it is to be expected that no proxemic bubbles should be maintained among audience members (cf. Fonarow 1997), DIY shows differs from mainstream concerts in that a similar spatial violation occurs for the band such that they are ‘crowded’ in by the audience. Indeed, in this figure it is difficult to tell which individuals are in the band and which are in the audience—a situation that, apparently, conforms to punk expectations and ideals. It should be noted, also, that the only individuals raised above the audience in this figure are other audience members.

While crowding the band was a typical feature of the shows observed, sometimes, for whatever reason, a performing band might decide that the crowding wasn’t sufficient.

274 On several occasion, bands were observed to ask the crowd to move closer until they

were within, according to Hall’s classification (1982), personal (< 4’) or even intimate

(<1.5’) distance.

Clearly the significance of the small stage is not just symbolic. As noted above,

actual interaction is also facilitated by smaller stages, such that the physical and symbolic

qualities of this built form reflect and reinforce one another. While spatial symbolism, as

noted above, is indeed significant, it cannot be reduced to symbolism alone. The physical features of the stage, or lack thereof, reproduce the intended, egalitarian social structure

275

of the subculture. This is best accomplished not with a small stage, but with no stage at

all:

R: I guess a punk rock space would not have a stage area, even though a lot of bands like that, like being elevated from the audience. I feel like punk rock band ethics will not really, will not, the band wouldn’t really like being elevated from their fans, they would like to be on the same level. They would basically just want to have a space on the floor that they could plug in their equipment and define their own stage. And they would like for the audience to be as close as possible and not be separated.

J: Why do you think that is?

R: Because I feel like, I guess, punks feel like we need to all be in this together. We’re not elevating ourselves, we’re not better than you. You can be a musician too. I mean I guess, Black Flag, saw one of their fans in the audience and I guess, they invited one of their fans to sing for them. So, that that’s very typical of punk rock mentality is that anyone can be a musician, anyone that has the passion for it can be a musician and just because we’re up here singing and we’re up here making music on, I guess, our so-called stage doesn’t mean that we’re better than you. You can also be like us. (Renee)

So crucial are these dynamics to punk subculture, that even when a stage is present, band members might elect to not use it. At venues, this could be problematic as

interviewees mentioned that the use of the stage might be enforced by venue owners. At

DIY spaces, small stages might be present that remain entirely unused. At one show in a

DIY space, for example, three bands performed. The second band performed on a small

stage (~6” tall) stage, while the first and third bands elected to play more-or-less-in the

middle of the room, somewhat in front of the stage. Figure 7.8 shows the third band with the stage, small as it is, barely visible behind them. While this, doubtless, facilitated more rapid switching off of bands, one would expect that if the stage were a valued location, than two of the three bands could just as easily have performed on it rather than the reverse.14

276 Figure 7.8: Neglecting the Stage

Thus, as noted above, the form and use of punk stages can result from a desire for increased interaction and related ideological equality between bands and audiences.

However, the third explanation must now be explored: that a preference for small or absent stages stems from resource constraint, becomes familiar or expected, and is later rationalized ideologically. One respondent suggested this possibility and is worth reproducing at length:

C: [Friend’s name] and I built the stage. We built it to be a punk rock stage. We had 12 foot ceilings so you could have had a stage up off the ground, but, um—

J: What’s a punk rock stage? 277

C: Punk rock stage is close to the ground or it’s the floor. Uh, in fact many punk bands, I should have mentioned this before, were known for not playing on a stage. So what they would do was they would said up in front of the stage, on the floor. Part of the argument was they didn’t want to be separated, they didn’t want to have this contrived separation from the audience—or they just wanted to be more comfortable like in the basements they were used to playing in where you had six foot ceilings and everybody’s hunched over watching a punk show in a basement. If you try to translate that feeling, which can be a good feeling even though it’s uncomfortable, to a bar or any other conventional space, you might try to replicate it because that’s what you know, and then what you may do is you may sort of post hoc rationalize it in this “oh, well, our punk ethic says we need to play on the floor.” In fact, it may just be because that’s what everybody had been doing all along in these smaller spaces.

J: Why do you think you built the stage like that?

C: Um, so part of it is resource constraints and also because bands were using it to rehearse, so the idea of getting on a six foot stage or something like that wasn’t very, you know, or a four foot stage, to have band practice didn’t make a lot of sense. But also, culturally I wanted to replicate the feeling I had of watching bands and having some guy’s chin at eye level so I’m not staring up at them where they’re, you know, down-lit from some multi-colored lights with tons of reverb on the voice in this sort of contrived, very theatrical presentation. Something that looks more like the band just happens to be there playing and you’re there too, which is, even if not natural, it feels more natural. Yeah, it replicates the spaces that I loved maybe, or the things that I was familiar and comfortable with. We also had, same thing, there was no back stage, bands gear were piled up on the sides of the stage. Sometimes people would come and, you know, they would just play my drums cause they happened to be there.

This except concisely expresses a number of the stage-related themes heretofore explored. Moreover, it illustrates that none of the explanations for the form and use of the stage are mutually exclusive. Instead, it is certainly possible that all are true to some extent, and that together they are mutually reinforcing.

One final pattern regarding stages seems significant—the location of the stage with in a given space. At all but one of the institutional DIY spaces, the stage was set off to the side in a corner of the room. At all of the institutional mainstream spaces and the marginal DIY spaces, it was centered, with audience areas around it. The marginal mainstream venues were somewhat more complex, and the stage seemed to be centered within region intended for the performance while it could be considered off-center, at times, when considering other portions of the venue that were not focused on the 278 performance (e.g. if half the venue was a café). According to Whitaker (1996),

centralization of built forms is a way of elevating the importance or status of that which is

centered. Thus, for example, pillars or rows may be used to direct attention to a

centralized altar at a church. Another is the radial street plan, common in Europe, where streets extend from a particular point rather than being arranged in a grid. At the center of the radial is typically a royal palace or cathedral, implying that these locations are seats of power and the social “center” of the society within which they are found. Similarly, it is possible that a centered stage may be used to set the performer in a status position superior to that of the audience. Indeed, amphitheaters, which are used for hosting popular musical acts, are literally built around the stage. Thus here, again, there is a possible indication that performers are no more important than audiences at punk shows.

That the marginal DIY spaces all had centered stages is readily explained by the fact that, as noted earlier, these defined by the temporary use of mainstream non-musical spaces.

Thus, a VFW hall, rented by punks for a night, will have a stage located where that organization placed it initially. Moreover, just as in the institutional DIY spaces, the presence of a stage does not necessitate the use of a stage, and it was not uncommon for bands to shun the use of a centered stage at these locations.15

Similar findings, as those presented above, were apparent in the textual accounts

as well. Despite the fact that stages in DIY spaces, where present, are small and put

together with few funds, considerable thought seems to go into these built forms and their

consequences for the subculture. One zinester, describing the construction of a show

space in Boston appraised the stage from this perspective:

279 All I can say is this stage is a thing of beauty. It is a good size: large enough to fit a band comfortably, and for jumps and thrashing about without knocking everything down, but small enough so that it’s only an easy hop on and off the stage. Perfect for that amazing chorus, when everyone can’t help but sing along with the band. And, the whole thing was built by punks volunteering their time and tools. Pretty fucking cool. The stage doesn’t even look like part of an abandoned tree house, or dip suspiciously. It is straight and level, and damn sturdy. The largest kids gave it a full on jumping test and nothing fell off or even sagged a little. It held firm and solid. Kick Ass. (Ransom 2002: no pagination)

A similar disregard for “real stages” as that described in this section was also noted in the texts analyzed. One punk, reporting his bands experiences while on tour in a zine, expresses unease at having to play at a venue with a tall stage: “The stage was… tall enough to ride an adult ride at Six Flags. This raised our suspicions about playing in a bona fide rock club—an arena we don’t generally fare so well in” (Craig-ums 2002: no pagination).

Clearly, then, the stage can be an important feature of a DIY space—even if that importance is in its ritual disuse. This ambivalence regarding the existence of the stage suggests that it might be a necessary evil. Its existence is linked to undesirable status distinctions, but it is also a powerful signifier—it indicates that this basement, for example, is not a basement at all but rather a show space. Thus, a small stage attenuates its potential for inducing inequality while still serving to symbolically transform a mainstream space into a subcultural one. The stage is thus particularly important if it is constructed to the culturally appropriate standards of the group. It is very unlikely that such a small stage designed by DIY punks would be acceptable in a mainstream venue for, more importantly, a mainstream band. The general disregard for the stage as a distinct or privileged zone seems to express a desire to soften the social and spatial distinctions between this region and other regions of the DIY space. What results is,

280 again, a less pronounced differentiation, a greater homogeneity of space consistent with an egalitarian subculture that does not possess—or at least does not want to express— formal status division in spatial form.

Summary

According to the social historian Ariés (1962), Western society has become increasingly differentiated in terms of social distinctions, and this increasing differentiation has been accompanied by a greater spatial differentiation. In its purest, most extreme form, such socio-spatial differentiation can be visualized in the form of the assembly line (Hall 1982) or the asylum (Cooksey 1989, Lofland 1973, Perin 1974)— spaces so fully ordered by function and status that they are in fact segregated and anything but egalitarian. Punk subculture, on the other hand, is intended to be egalitarian, and in many ways achieves this goal through the lack of spatial differentiation and segmentation. Roles, functions, and activities are all mixed together in the same relatively homogenous space such no clear spatial divisions can be put to use as social divisions.16 While such mixing of people and practices creates an apparently “messy” or

disordered environment (Hall 1982), punk space has the potential to operate like a true

public space (Hénaff and Strong 2001, Oldenburg 1989) spaces allow people and their

ideas to mix freely as equals.

281 REGULATING THE VENUE

One of the most thoroughly explored aspects of the built environment is its

capacity to regulate human behavior (e.g. Foucault 1975). According to Hirst, “Spaces

have characteristics that affect the conditions in which power can be exercised, conflicts

pursued and social control attempted” (2005: 3, emphasis in original). Such features

were indeed observed during the fieldwork for this study and discussed in the interviews, but these were exclusively associated with mainstream venues and, particularly, with institutional mainstream venues. DIY spaces, on the other hand, were noted to be conspicuously lacking in such spatial control mechanisms and respondents referred to their presence in mainstream venues with disdain. Thus, just as the punk value of equality is facilitated via a relatively non-differentiated environment, as discussed in the previous section, so are the values of antiauthoritarianism and individual liberty facilitated through a physical environment lacking control mechanisms for use over individuals

Entry and Inspection

Much of the regulation experienced at mainstream venues occurs before one is

even allowed to enter or, shortly after entering, before one is allowed to enter the show

space proper. Most mainstream music venues, regardless of the type of music being

performed, require that patrons wait in orderly lines before the venue is ready to allow

entry (e.g. Benzecry 2009). Meanwhile, locked doors and bouncers ensure that the

crowds remain outside until permitted to do otherwise. Once the venue “opens,” patrons

282 are allowed to enter, but they are not immediately permitted into the space where the

actual concert will be performed. Instead, one at a time, they are ushered into an

inspection area or security checkpoint where they are a) charged admission or required to

surrender a pre-paid ticket, 2) patted down and possibly swiped with a metal detector, and

3) required to conform to any venue regulations which they have been found to violate.

Once these conditions have been met, and only then, are patrons allowed to enter the venue proper where they will be subject to further regulatory mechanisms.

Some variation on this procedure was experienced at each of the institutional mainstream venues explored in the fieldwork. One such venue explored was also mentioned repeatedly by respondents, often in a derogatory fashion, and will be described here as an illustration. First, as the doors to the venue were locked, a line of patrons was formed on the street. As time went on, this line became several blocks long. When at last the doors were opened, the crowd inched forward, and it was some considerable time later before the space was actually entered. This structure appeared to have been, at one time, a theater, and upon passing through the doors, a large room was entered that seems to have been its lobby. Now that lobby had been converted into a security checkpoint and another set of guarded doors lay at the other end which could not be transgressed until one had been through the inspection process. For this, four tables had been setup, parallel to one another, which were manned by further security. Patrons were visually inspected and asked if they were currently carrying a number of forbidden items including such things as food, cameras, and drinks as well as weapons or anything that could be conceived of as a weapons (such as spikes, studs, or chains). Patrons were also

283 padded down and a metal detector “wand” was used to ensure veracity. Those with

contraband were permitted to a) leave and dispose of it in some way, or b) forced to

surrender it. In the case of the latter, the seized items were placed in large, plastic bins which covered the tables. Such items were not returned following the concert, and it uncertain what happens to them.17 Previous research also suggests that such guards often

play an important gatekeeping function at some venues as well (Malbon 1999, Thornton

1996), turning away people that do not fit a certain “image” that is found desirable

though this could not be confirmed through the observations.

More marginal mainstream venues have a greatly diminished version of this

inspection regime. First, lines are usually small or absent at such places, but this is likely

a function of the fact that marginal mainstream venues almost always have some other

source of income other than being strictly music spaces (e.g. bars or clubs). Thus, it is in

the venue’s interest to get people inside as long as it is open. Moreover, such spaces

generally have a person working the door near, but they rarely are charged with doing

more than checking IDs, charging admission, and performing an informal inspection for

potential problems. This serves as a considerably toned down checkpoint, but it still

controls the rate at which patrons enter the venue and ensures that they do not do so

unmonitored.

Regulatory measures such as these were referred to unfavorably by respondents.

In regards to the same institutional mainstream venue described above, Bill expressed his

dislike for how “you have to like wade through everybody, get through security, stand in

line, you know.” Such sentiments are not surprising since, as noted above, this sort of

284 experience was not at all similar to that at the DIY spaces (marginal or mainstream).

First, lines are minor if present at all at marginal DIY spaces and totally absent at institutional DIY spaces. If one arrives early, they are simply permitted to enter and do as they please. Neither type of DIY space utilized what can be called an inspection process: no IDs are checked, no one searched, nothing seized, etc. Indeed, only the marginal spaces seemed to be particularly concerned with even enforcing payment of admission which, in and of itself, was satisfactory for the entire regulatory process. Even in this case, the task was typically performed by a single person and seemed to rely on considerable trust in the audience to actually pay since there was no way to confine or

“check” anyone’s payment. At the institutional DIY spaces, again, no one monitors the door at all and, instead, patrons can enter freely and wander around the space more-or- less freely. Indeed, as discussed above, patrons who show up early, rather than been kept locked out, are welcomed in and sometimes even offered food.

Segregating Performers and Fans

Locked doors and inspection points, while significant, do not exhaust the array of regulatory mechanisms that one may experience at mainstream venues. Once patrons are allowed past this initial wave inspection, they are continuously subjected to further devises meant to modify or limit their behavior. One such type of mechanism that seemed particularly salient for the respondents was those devices used to segregate bands and audiences. As discussed above, one simple means of doing this is to elevate the stage. Higher stages, while not perfectly performing the task, undoubtedly make it more

285 difficult for audiences to get on stage or otherwise interact with performers. However, the stage alone is not the only such feature employed to this end by mainstream venues,

Some mainstream venues, particularly those of the institutional variety, in addition to utilizing a tall stage, also deploy a range of barriers to maintain the distance between performers and fans. These take the form of movable fences, fixed barricades, and sometimes even large pieces of sound equipment (e.g. amplifiers). Between this set of barriers and the second barrier, the stage itself, there is an empty space—a “no go” area for fans. In addition to providing an additional hindrance to fans seeking to approach bands, such obstacles also send a clear message that they are not supposed to be transgressed. If this were the only impediment in the way of the stage, doubtless it would be a minor one and easily overcome. However, the area between the barricade and the stage is generally filled with numerous security guards or bouncers—all generally scowling—who enforce the physical separation of audience and performer. Additionally, this location has a panoptical function in that guards observe the audience, itself often elevated in tiers for easy observation, and may send out forays to areas viewed as problematic. Side doors closely located to this area allow guards to efficiently apprehend and eject trouble makers out into the alleys surrounding the venue.

Measures such as these are, admittedly, rather extreme and exist only at the most institutional end of the mainstream spectrum. Smaller, more marginal venues tend to have greatly scaled down versions of these spatial techniques, if they possess them at all, relying instead on bouncers or employees who may take on the role of bouncer should the need arise. However, even this scaled-down version of regulating who can approach the

286 stage is greatly in excess of what is present at DIY shows (again, of any type). As discussed above, punk subculture values the physical mixing, not segregation, of bands and audiences as part of a wider philosophy of leveling social distance. Small or absent stages were noted as facilitating this and, as might be expected, a total lack of barriers of any other kind much less bouncers, with which to facilitate such segregation. This aspect of DIY shows was favored by respondents, who actively compared the imposed segregation of large, mainstream venues to the mixing present at DIY spaces. For example, when asked what he liked about DIY shows, Aaron stated the following:

A: [Y]ou’re a lot closer to the band. You can get up on stage, you can, you know, and there’s not like barriers and lots of security and all of that.

J: You mean like physical barriers?

A: Yeah. I mean I know at bigger ones you can’t even get up on stage because there’s like a wall of security right there. I mean, that’s kind of lame. (Aaron)

As discussed in the previous chapter, some marginal mainstream venues seem to be function more similarly to DIY spaces than to institutional mainstream venues, and reflect this function in their social organization. Moreover, it was found that such venues also tend to express this similarity to DIY spaces in terms of their spatial organization.

For instance:

H: Well the [mainstream venue A] has guards, and the [it] has a high stage, and [it] has, had little things it used as fences. It very much had an ‘us’ and ‘them’ feel to it. Whereas [mainstream venue B], you didn’t have to go through any, um, gating. If the person’s right there, like they’re 11 feet away, it’s just your courage, are you going to walk that 11 feet? It wasn’t about making sure you talk to the right guard who thinks you’re hot to let you in back to talk to the band.

J: Gotcha. So there were no formal barriers and no physical barriers just—

H: No formal barriers or no physical barriers, just mental barriers. (Helen)

287 Here, the marginal mainstream venue in question, despite being a business, makes no

effort to segregate bands and performers, and this is appreciated by participants who

value a greater equality and interaction between performer and audience.

Generally speaking, the only barriers between audiences and bands at DIY spaces, and some compatible mainstream venues, are those that are largely symbolic. Such barriers do not physically separate these groups from one another nor are they enforced by guards, but rather imply that such a separation might be preferred. As such, it seems entirely up to the audience, and indeed the band, whether or not the barrier will be respected. A six inch stage in a punk basement, for example, does little to nothing to physically keep people off of that stage. However, its presence seems to imply the existence of a separate cognitive space that should not be transgressed except by those with certain privileges (e.g. performers or show organizers). As noted above, even this symbolic divide seems to be at odds with punk ideology and, at most shows, did nothing to prevent audiences and bands from mingling to the point where they become almost indistinguishable (Figure 7.7). At some shows, however, this symbolic barricade nonetheless seemed to maintain a spatial division between the bands and the audience.

At one marginal, DIY show, for example, the only thing separating performers from the band were three small “push” lights. As indicated in Figure 7.9, this symbolic barrier, easily transgressed, seems sufficient for maintaining a proxemic bubble around the band.

Interestingly, this particular show also took place on an inclined surface, such that the band was on the higher end and much, but not all, of the crowd at a lower point. This too might have contributed to the distribution of audience and performers.

288 An explanation for such anomalies at DIY shows is interesting to consider, but also must remain speculative without more information. In the case described, it seems apparent that something about the symbolic layout of some show spaces plays a major role in segregating bands and audiences. However, this does not seem like a type of symbolism that is compatible with the rest of punk ideology as heretofore described.

However, subcultures are embedded within mainstream cultures. As such, many of the norms held by the mainstream culture are likely held, to some extent, by the member of

Figure 7.9: Symbolic Barrier between Performers and Audience

289 the subculture as well. It seems likely that this may, at times, result in a state of cognitive

dissonance where two sets of norms—mainstream and subcultural—are held that are at

odds with one another. Given sufficient symbolic cues in a particular context, either set

of norms may be invoked to encourage a particular type of behavior. Thus, the

abundance of cues in Figure 7.9 suggesting a separate stage area might be sufficient to

invoke a mainstream concept of an unapproachable stage. While, again, this explanation

remains speculative, it also seems to explain why so much effort, discussed above, seems

to go into maintaining DIY environments that are largely undifferentiated, and therefore free of spatial cues suggesting segregation or compartmentalization.

Other Regulatory Devices

The various means of monitoring and controlling entryways and stages are likely

the two most significant categories of spatial regulatory devices at venues. However,

several other relevant devices were noted as well, which will be briefly discussed, that

further set mainstream venues at odds with DIY spaces and highlight the social

differences of such places from one another.

First, mainstream venues—whether marginal or institutional—tend to employ

closed-circuit television (CCTV) monitoring devices: video cameras. Such devices,

increasingly used in entertainment locations such as music venues (Chatterton and

Hollands 2002), allow constant monitoring of a venue and can be used to record events

for later analysis. As symbolic deterrents, the presence of a camera likely functions much as any other surveillance device in that it cannot be known for certain when one is being

290 watched and, therefore, must assume that they are if they seek to avoid the potential

consequences of being monitored (Foucault 1975). Predictably, CCTV devices were not

in evidence at any DIY show. On occasion handheld video cameras, and very often still

cameras, were used by audience members to record performances. While the potential

for such devices to be used in a regulatory manner certainly exists, this was clearly not

the intended reason for their presence.

Second, as noted above, it is not uncommon for mainstream venues to

compartmentalize the space into different regions using fences, walls, railings, and the

like. Such is the case when dividing the stage, backstage, and security checkpoint, from

other areas, but also was used to divide regions of the show space proper such as the

mosh pit from other spectator areas, bar areas from audience areas and so forth (see

above). As discussed previously, this serves to facilitate status and function distinctions by creating a series of monofunctional spaces. However, more pertinent here, such divisions can also be useful in monitoring and controlling crowds. Such compartmentalization limits the size of crowds in particular areas and creates more

“manageable space” (Perlgut 1981). This may allow security guards, when spotting a problem, to not have to wade out into a single, crowded space, but into smaller, more

“manageable” crowds. Moreover, such compartmentalization may limit the spread of problems from one section of the venue to another. For example, the pushing and running that occurs in the moshpit, if surrounded by fence or railing was observed to limit the extent to which “waves” of people can be pushed through the venue.

291 Additionally, various features in such compartmentalized areas can be used to invite

people to linger within them or encourage them to move on. For example, people tend to

like congregating by pillars and to stay where there is seating whereas uncomfortable seats and open areas will encourage them to move on (Whyte 1980, 1988). This appeared to be the case at mainstream venues where areas such as the main entrance and fire exits tended exhibit few features that invite lingering and, consequently, also seemed to be those areas least crowded. Moreover, furniture, itself, sometimes seems to be have been used as low-intensity means of modifying crowd behavior. Two of the marginal mainstream venues, for instance, actually had a number of tables and chairs placed fairly close to the stage which, likely, limits the potential for moshing or other vigorous behavior and encourages patrons, instead, to sit.

One final issue regarding the disparities in regulation between mainstream and

DIY music spaces concerns ‘territoriality.’ Territoriality refers to environmental cues that a given space ‘belongs’ to a particular individual or group (Taylor 1988). When such possession is adequately expressed, trespassing, vandalism, and other violations of the space tend to be discouraged. Indeed, even less vicious acts are allegedly curtailed when territorial boundaries, and therefore curatorship, are expressed such that the space must be interacted with formally. For example, personalized office spaces tend to be treated and respected as private spaces which others will not enter nor take similar liberties without permission.

Multiple aspects of mainstream venues, and especially institutional mainstream venues, express that the venue is not really public space, but carefully restricted and

292 regulated territory with which patrons should not interfere. Charging admission,

checking tickets, searching patrons, opening at a specific time, the presence of guards and

barricades, and so on all serve to establish that the venue does not belong to the patron

and that they will be permitted few liberties within it. The absence of graffiti, stickers, or

any other personalization, moreover, indicates that this is a maintained space (cf. Wilson

and Kelling 1982) and that past transgressions have been literally erased.

Interestingly, such efforts at regulating audiences may, conceivably, be

counterproductive. By so thoroughly indicating that mainstream venues do not belong to patrons, patrons may in fact be alienated. As discussed in the previous chapter, this may result in the “us” and “them” feeling described by the respondents that led to a dislike of many mainstream venues and was attributed with causing behavioral problems—not

preventing them. One of the strengths of a instilling a sense of territory or possession in a

space is, after all, encouraging those who are owners to look after and maintain that space

(Kelling and Coles 1996, Taylor 1988). It could be more profitable for venues to instill

patrons with a sense of quasi-ownership and therefore responsibility—a shared stake in

the venue—then to alienate them.18

Indeed, this is precisely what DIY spaces accomplish, particularly the more

stable, institutional DIY spaces. Whereas the socio-spatial environment of many (though

by no means all) mainstream venues alienates and established a social and physical

barrier between patrons, owners, workers, and bands, DIY spaces suggest that such

divisions are illusory favoring, instead, to treat individuals as members of the same

community with shared interests in the space. Again, such inclusive cues include not

293 monitoring entry, not regulating behavior within, not segregating roles or differentiating

based on status, and in many cases allowing individuals to actively take part in the show

space. Even simply allowing visitors to graffiti or place stickers on the wall of a space

may contribute to a sense of shared ownership. Regarding this, Macy stated that that

“That’s a great feeling, like, no matter what you paint in this venue, it wouldn’t feel like a punk venue if there wasn’t expressions of how people felt.” One of the zines that expressed a similar concern devoted a considerable amount of space to discussing the decoration of a squatted DIY show space in San Francisco. The space, an abandoned pool hall, was painted by the punks with a series of large wall murals. According to the author, anyone that wanted to contribute to the task was welcome to do so, and the only guideline established, which was agreed upon by the group, was that the murals should depict what the punks supported and not what they stood against. The resulting paintings included a young women gardening, titled ‘A New Start,’ demonstrating hope in the future and doing thing’s for one’s self and community. Other murals included “Looking for a Home,” about the search for this collectively-run community space, “Community

Control,” about community empowerment, and a piece devoted to Native American

Activists. Actions such as these are not intended to alienate and threaten “customers”

but, rather, seem aimed at transforming them into participants.

Summary

Mainstream venues are largely expressions or components of mainstream culture.

As such, it is not surprising that the regulatory scheme put in practice by these venues is

294 consistent with the dominant trends in the built environment. Specifically, such places

are designed in response to fear of crime and of the ‘other,’ and include the built-in

means by which to monitor and control such perceived threats (Davis 1992, Ellin1997,

Low 2006). Such “closed” environments are “a dramatic manifestation of a new fortress

mentality growing in America” (Blakely and Snyder 1997: 2). In contrast, DIY spaces

are open environments. They are not designed in response to fear or a desire to control,

but out of a communitarian impulse and a desire for a more free society. Moreover,

despite this lack of regulation, as discussed in Chapter 6, DIY spaces seem remarkably

safe and free of violence, relying on self-governance and shared norms instead of

imposed regulatory regimes (cf. Chatterton and Hollands 2002).

INTERACTION AND COMMUNITY

Throughout the field observations it was apparent that the nature of interaction

seemed to vary across the different types of music spaces. While the larger venues were

certainly louder and busier, the number of interactions per person did not seem as great

as in the smaller spaces. In part, this was expressed by the number of small groups that

tended to form at a particular type of space and the extent to which individuals acted

across groups. That is, at the smaller venues, small groups seemed less insular and

interaction across group boundaries was observed more readily. The occurrence of

introductions was also taken into account. Thus, when individuals introduced

themselves, or introduced others, this was interpreted as a qualitatively different type of interaction than that witnessed in small, stable cliques. However, given the size of some

295 venues—where hundreds or thousands of people may be present—and lacking a more systematic means by which to make such measurements or comparisons, such a pattern must remain somewhat speculative when relying only on observation.

Fortunately, this subjective impression was also reported by many of the

respondents. Ivan for example, described such a situation when comparing a large music

hall—categorized here as a institutional mainstream venue—and a considerably smaller

punk space in the basement of a house—an institutional DIY space:

It’s just there were a lot of other people there that were in the same boat as me. Either, usually they had friends with them, and usually I’d have friends with me when I went to the [institutional mainstream venue], but when you go to the [institutional DIY space] there’s a lot more, you know, people are a lot more personable, you know, if they don’t know you. Even if people don’t know each other they’ll, you know, get together and act like they do at least or something. That doesn’t happen at the [mainstream venue]. (Ivan)

Similar to Ivan’s evaluation of such places, the researcher was able to meet and

talk to many more people at institutional DIY venues than at either type of mainstream venues despite the fact that there were fewer people in such places to meet in the first category places. This suggests, in part, another cultural difference between these various types of music spaces, such that those present in the DIY spaces prioritize not only the consumption of a music spectacle, but also take an interest in fostering friendly relations between the people present at shows: at encouraging community. Indeed, this is very much consistent with the core values of punk as described in previous chapters.

The Physical Environment and Intimacy

Again, the evidence suggests a cultural difference between mainstream venues

and DIY spaces, such that individuals at the latter are considerably more interested in

296 establishing meaningful bonds with one another. However, it is possible that spatial differences between these types of locations make a difference as well, independent of cultural composition. At least two patterns in the data suggest this: 1) Interviewees repeatedly, though not exclusively, note the size of a music space as an important factor in creating feelings of intimacy—even at mainstream venues and, 2) Observations of where interactions with strangers were most frequently noted to occur, within a given music space or across spaces, tended to be made more commonly in smaller spatial contexts.

First, the majority of interviewees suggested a preference for smaller music spaces. This preference was generally stated unambiguously as when Dan noted that,

“Probably the best places are the really small places.” Respondents having made such statement typically substantiated why they felt this way without being prompted to do so, but sometimes it was necessary to probe for additional clarification as to why smaller spaces were considered more pleasing. In all cases, preference for small music spaces was based in part on the intimacy and friendliness of such locales. Naomi, for instance, mentioned that one of her favorite bands would soon be playing and that she wanted to go see them. While she loved the band, she unambiguously expressed her disdain for the venue they would be playing at:

N: They’re playing with Rancid in [city] this summer. I have to go. They’re playing at [amphitheater], which is gonna blow.

J: Why do you think that?

N: Well, it’s a huge venue. It’s all concrete, you’re gonna be smashed in there. At least in the [smaller venue] you can stand up back on the steps or whatever, not with that place though.

J: So the experience is kind of cheapened by that—

297 N: By that huge concert venue, concrete, commercial feeling, like you’re in a giant commercial venue. Whereas when you’re in like [another smaller venue] it’s like homey and, you know? It’s more of a nice setting. Intimate setting I guess you can say. (Naomi)

Here, the physical characteristics of the place, including its general size, are attributed

with value net of any other considerations. Smaller venues are considered more

comfortable, more intimate, and more appealing.

This idea that smaller venues were in some way more intimate was expressed

repeatedly. Often this was expressed not only in terms of interactions with other show

goers or in regards to the general ambience of a space, but in the perceived social and

physical distance between the audience and the band:

Well, I mean in my life I’ve gone pretty much everywhere. I mean from basements to arenas. As I get older, I’m really less and less interested in going to giant stadiums to see a band. When I was younger I could still enjoy that. I really, at this point in my life, unless it’s somebody I really super want to see, maybe Bruce Springsteen I’d still go to, but most of the venues I go to today are pretty small. I like being like right up next to the stage, the band right in front of me, so I can see their faces, and be part of the music. (John)

Whereas larger venues, such amphitheaters, reinforce the perception that one is removed from a spectacle which they are passively observing, smaller venues facilitate a greater feeling of being part of what’s going on.

Interestingly, many of these effects, while having to do with the size of the audience in attendance, were actually attributed to the size of the venue itself and not just to the size of the audience. Describing her favorite venue, for example, Mollie pointed out the following:

It’s fairly small, but it’s, I don’t know, I guess a lot of the venues that I’ve been to have been like gutted out theaters and stuff like that, so they’re just like way too big for any show that I’ve ever seen. But [venue] is like a storefront space, so if that gives you any idea of how big it is. It’s never been so packed to the point where you’re feeling claustrophobic, but at the same time you can enjoy like, having a lot of people. Or even if there’s not as many people, it doesn’t seem overwhelming, you don’t feel like “Wow, I’m one of five.” (Mollie)

298 This suggests that while a venue can be too big and too full of people to accomplish a

feeling of intimacy, it can also be too big in the sense that there aren’t enough people to

fill it: too many people at a concert is problematic, but so is too few people.

This feeling of over- or under-crowding, however, can be influenced by the venue

space itself too. Some venues are large enough that they can accommodate an adequate

number of people, but are designed in such a way that smaller numbers of people can

make it feel sufficiently “full.” One venue with such a design was discussed by Bill and

contrasted to another venue that lacked such an amicable design:

[Venue A] could hold three hundred but, it was like, three hundred people and the floor would buckle. You could feel it. Like the place was packed. You know, three hundred was a sell-out. I think [venue B’s] sell-out is 450, maybe, but they could get more in there if he’s lucky. But, when you got all those people cramped in, the thing about [venue A] was you had, if you got 65 people, it felt crowded in front of the stage, if people came to the front. If you get a hundred people in [venue B] it doesn’t feel full. It’s just, the stage is really high, it’s got high ceilings, the bar is so far away from, so far away from the stage. (Bill)

The first venue Bill mentions in this extract is designed such that it feels comfortably full

even with relatively few people in attendance. However, it has enough room that

substantially more people can attend without it feeling suffocating. The second venue

mentioned, on the other hand, while capable of accommodating more people, is much

harder to make feel full. It is no wonder then that Bill elsewhere described this second

venue as being a “much bigger kind of, cold place.” The features that he indicates—

stage height, ceiling height, and locations of interest within the venue being situated far

from one another—all contribute to whether the space can accommodate crowds of variable sizes and, therefore, whether it tends to feel intimate or “cold.”

It has long been established, and confirmed by repeated studies, that the design of

a space can render it either sociopetal—where spatial features encourage interaction—or 299 sociofugal where interaction is discouraged (Osmond 1957). Many of the larger venues observed during the course of this study possessed features which may contribute to them

functioning, as described by interviewees and noted in the field, as sociofugal spaces.

Large amphitheaters and music halls in particular have many of these features. In his

treatise on use and interaction in social space, William H. Whyte describes one of the

features of such places that contributes to sociofugal tendencies:

Designers should be especially careful of amphitheaters. Too many of those I have seen in use have an integral flaw: there is a large gap between the first two rows and the performer. This makes difficult that arc of attention between performer and audience that is so critical. And it is not remedied by turning up the volume on the amplifiers. Watch a good street performer work a crowd. He beckons them closer. It’s the people in the first two or three ranks that he concentrates on. (Whyte 1988: 119)

As discussed in the previous section, it is entirely possible that sociopetal features such as these are intentionally built into such spaces to make them more easily regulated and to make audiences feel as though they can take fewer liberties within the venue.

Nonetheless, as seen above, those interviewed generally did not enjoy such spaces as much as those built—intentionally or not—to be more intimate.

Comparing the same two spaces as Bill, Helen expressed similar opinions about their relative merits. Whereas the preferred venue was “just right” the other was “a

disappointment.” She suggested nearly identical features as Bill that she considered

important in rendering one venue sociopetal and the other sociofugal:

[W]hen I think about [venue A] and then I think about Venue B], and I think of what a disappointment [venue B] was after [venue A], and how it was kind of difficult to define why it was. Part of the reason is because the bar was so far away from the stage. Second reason, the stage was ridiculously high, there was no feeling of oneness with anyone on the stage because, the stage starts at like four feet, right? Third, the ceiling’s way too high, there’s no feeling of intimacy at all. Whereas at [venue A], it was a squat, dark, ugly, little place but, part of that feeling of being in a cave with a bunch of other people did give one a feeling of being in a private space with strangers who you knew intimately because it felt like a private space. Whereas [venue B]felt like a large, concrete room with a band, high high up in the air at one end. The way the space affected the experience of shows, is just phenomenal. (Helen) 300

Much of what respondents such as Helen and Bill suggested as being essential sociopetal features at show spaces was observed as apparently making a difference in the fieldwork too. Those spaces which were smaller, either constituting part of a show space or the whole of a given space, tended to encourage conversations even among people who apparently didn’t know each other initially. Larger areas, on the other hand, tended to only facilitate conversations in small groups between known others.

Returning again to Helen, she indicated that other important features for facilitating interaction and intimacy included:

(…) enough dark corners to have conversations in, enough wide spaces to let nine people say hi to each other at the same time, enough openings to allow circulation so if you wanted to keep moving for a half and hour to see who else had come and it was fine (…) (Helen)

Part of the likely reason smaller spaces facilitate interaction is simply because one is more likely to be closer to others with whom to speak. Small areas, in past research, have been found to encourage greater interaction of small groups since such groups have more opportunity to interact (Blake et al. 1956).

Yet, proximity alone does not always seem sufficient to explain interaction— other factors having to do with small spaces likely play a role as well. Normally, when people are near one another they have a tendency to maintain culturally specific distances—a proxemic bubble (Hall 1982). This bubble varies in size by how well people know one another and by their relative status such that those with high status are permitted more personal space. In a large venue, one can simply move away from strangers and maintain the appropriate distance. However, in a small venue, often one does not have the ability to maintain an appropriate distance from others. In these

301 settings, one can choose to either a) ignore each other, or b) converse with one another to diffuse any discomfort at being too close.

During the observations, it was precisely at moments when strangers occupied a small setting and were forced to be close to one another that introductions and conversations were most likely to occur. This invasion of personal territory induces stress (Sommer 1969) which, if not diffused, can lead to hostility, arousal, or other outcomes depending on the specific context. In such situations, conversation may be useful as a coping response to stress—as a means of diffusing it. Through conversation, individuals may be able to reassure each other in a setting that is otherwise awkward.

Porches at DIY spaces, for example, make for excellent locations in which crowding, and subsequent diffusion through conversation were noted to occur (Figure 7.10).19

Moreover, in many of the small settings in which conversation was observed, ignoring the uncomfortably close presence of another would likely be more awkward than conversation. For example, many of the institutional DIY spaces observed had extremely narrow staircases that would reach a landing and then turn before terminating.

It was not uncommon to encounter a stranger on such stairs given the inability to see what was ahead of the turn. Ignoring the presence of another in such a situation, while doubtless an option selected by some people, is clearly more awkward than apologies, jokes, and other negotiations of the shared dilemma. On the other hand, many of the marginal DIY spaces observed were fairly large and presented plenty of opportunities for those present to maintain proxemic distancing and, therefore, to avoid each other.20

302 Figure 7.10: Small Porch at a DIY Space

While small spaces with relatively few people crowded in them may thus tend towards being more intimate and social, there are also potential negative outcomes to such an arrangement. First, not all people are likely to experience such crowding in the same way and some may find it so displeasing that the potential for amicable interaction is not sufficient to overcome their discomfort. This is particularly likely for individuals whom dislike physical contact or, as Hall refers to them, “non-contact” people (1982:

57). Interestingly, this term generally applies to a cultural distinction more than a

303 psychological predisposition. It is possible that people who are part of punk subculture are also more likely to enjoy contact with others and, therefore, enjoy small spaces where such contact is likely. Indeed, many of the respondents most enthusiastic about the moshpit at shows explicitly mentioned that contact with others was a major part of the experience. For example, Calvin, cited earlier, described how “it’s having people falling all over each other in a semi-organized way, being pressed against bodies, pressed against the stage. I crave that” and Aaron stated that he enjoyed “just making physical contact with someone and just going crazy.” Thus, people who do not enjoy contact—either stemming from cultural or psychological factors—are less likely to enjoy the enforced closeness of small venues.

Also, small group settings, while more intimate, also have the potential to experience heightened conflict (Simmel 1902, Caplow 1968). Smaller groups, although more intimate, are more susceptible to the consequences of infighting and therefore less stable In the case of small shows, encountering a problem with one person present might create a larger conflict with those present. Additionally, even minor conflicts could permanently alienate people from the space or venue. For example:

I mean, it’s a social environment, people get burned out by people being jerks (…) There’s some people who are a little sensitive about feeling ostracized or whatever. When you go to a show, it’s like you’re in a basement with 35 other people and if you don’t know anybody and someone’s a dick to you that’s pretty much it. You’re like “Ah, man. I don’t like these people any more.” (Chris) As suggested in these comments, a minor conflict with another individual is has a greater potential to be generalized as a problem with the whole music space when there are only a few people present. At a large amphitheater, on the other hand, it is unlikely that such an over-generalization would be possible.

304 Space and Culture

While such statements make an interesting case for the importance of the size of a space, it cannot be said that the physical qualities of a music space are necessarily more important than the cultural qualities. Indeed, it can be difficult to compare different spaces without conflating the two factors. It was on account of the cultural composition of audiences and bands that tend to occupy different types of music spaces that some respondents pointed out how it was difficult to draw distinctions between these places.

Having been asked if there was anything she liked or disliked about the physical environments at different music spaces, Andrea answered:

I think they definitely set an atmosphere. But I guess also the problem with answering this question is that the kinds of bands that play those different kinds of venues are all very different. Like you go to a house show and you’re either going to see like a hardcore band, like a crust band, on tour or like your friend’s bands from down the street. You go to one of these medium sized shows and your still going to see something a little bit smaller. And then as the bars go, you’ll get anything. So I think it’s kind of hard to compare how those shows feel because they all, they’re already just based on the kind of music that’s being performed. They all ready have certain feelings attached to them. (Andrea)

Both the size of a show space and the composition of the audience—whether or not they prioritize communitarian organization and relationships—are factors in sociability of a music space. Thus, DIY spaces are not necessarily more personable than mainstream spaces. Indeed, many of the marginal DIY spaces observed could not be considered particularly social or intimate relative to other observational settings. Such spaces tended to be more prone to clique formation—likely due to the relatively large areas in which people could disperse to in these contexts as opposed to the smaller basement settings. However, the institutional DIY spaces tended to be smaller than all other venues and it was in such places that the greatest attention to community building

305 was experienced. In this case, a combination of both pro-social values and socipetal

spatial design is the likely explanation. Thus, both spatial features and cultural values

can modify the social character of a place.

CONCLUSION

Just as the previous chapter attempted to establish that punks require a place that

is culturally compatible with their specific ethos, the current chapter has attempted to

illustrate how such places, ideally, should also be physically compatible.

Punks hold a set of values and associated practices that are at odds with

mainstream culture. However, the majority of available spaces within the built

environment are designed to facilitate the social organization of this mainstream culture

and are, thus, also at odds with the subculture of punks. To establish a space for the subculture, so crucial for the survival of any way of life (Lefebvre 1991), it is necessary for punks to first adopt these existing spaces and, second, to adapt them to their specific needs: to facilitate a subculture that is individualistic but communal, antiauthoritarian but egalitarian, and that values doing things for itself. To this end, adaptation of existing spaces is both physical and discursive—the form and shape of spaces must be changed in some ways but so too must the symbolic importance of these spaces.

According to Hirst, “spatial forms matter but in complex and socially conditioned

ways, as specific qualitative environments” (2005: 96). Such was found to be the case

with the various music spaces explored. Many mainstream venues, particularly the more institutional variety, were found to be designed according to principles which render

306 them spatially and cognitively differentiated, regulated, and sociofugal. These features facilitate commercial requirements found in mainstream social structure: status, hierarchy, control, and territoriality. Punk spaces, on the other hand, are—or are at least desired to be—largely undifferentiated, unregulated, and sociopetal. That is, they facilitate punk values of equality, individuality, freedom, and communitarianism via their design and features.

Ideally, then, both the form and the social organization of a given place will conform to the needs of the culture or subculture using it. As we have seen in the case of punk, varying so much as it does from mainstream culture, this is not always an achievable ideal. Punks have few resources with which to shape their space according to needs. Fortunately, these needs are fairly modest and can often be met in large part by something as simple as a basement with minimal changes being necessary. That this type of usage constitutes a quasi-illicit act, as discussed in the previous chapter, may present further problems in using such a space however. Moreover, as discussed above, basements and other locations that are readily adapted are not available in all places. In such situations, punks may need to resort to the use of mainstream venues which present a physical environment that is not always conducive to punk needs.

Institutional spaces of both types—whether mainstream or DIY—were found to largely be compatible in terms of their designs and culture. Audiences of one culture, of course, are not necessarily expected to find the environment shaped by another to be particularly pleasing. After all, although “man [is] an active participant in his daily environment; there is no such thing as a perfect fit between whole environments and

307 diverse people; instead adaptations are made and the interesting question is the form these adaptations take[.]” (Perin 1974: 32). Often, however, it seems to be the case that there is a mismatch in terms of the design of the place and the culture that occupies it.

The marginal spaces explored—again whether mainstream or DIY—presented such a mismatch. Marginal DIY spaces were often too large or had other spatial features, such as large stages, that were less than ideal for punk subculture. Marginal mainstream spaces, interestingly enough, often did possess these features which were pleasing to punks. Such venues were spoken of in fond terms, described lovingly, despite their mainstream mode of operation. Even if such places were technically profit-motivated businesses, that is, even if culturally they were not consistent or compatible with the punk values, spatially they presented an ideal environment which punks could utilize to facilitate their subculture. Further research would be interesting to see how audiences other than punks felt about these venues with features so compatible with an unconventional subculture.

308

CHAPTER 8: CONCLUSION

“A model of a transformed society must begin from the material structures that are given to us at this time in history.”

- Iris Marion Young

This goal of the current study was to understand the importance and consequences

of ‘place’ for an unconventional social group. To this end, two broad research questions

were investigated: 1) What is punk and what are its general concerns or interests?, 2)

How does place matter to punk (i.e. which places matter and in what ways)? In this chapter, the conclusions to these questions and their implications are discussed.

Opportunities for future research, in regards to each research question, are also suggested.

PUNK AND SUBCULTURE

Place is both physical and meaningful (Lefebvre 1991, Tuan 2001). Thus, its significance is not always objective but, in part, will vary by population and cultural tradition (Hall 1982). In order to understand the significance of place relative to a given group then, it is necessary to first understand the general, cultural characteristics of that group. With this end in mind, the current research initially set forth to understand the study group: punk. As discussed in Chapter 3, much of the previous research in this regard was based on questionable assumptions or methodologies and, following from this, produced dubious portrayals of punk subculture and subcultures more generally. 309 Such research generally assumed, rather than empirically tested, that all subcultures

including punk 1) can be described monolithically—that a variety of cultural practices

can be circumscribed within a single, totalizing theorization, 2) that such groups can

predominantly be reduced and explained as style- and consumption-based niche markets, and 3) that affiliation with all such groups is inherently irrational in that subcultures

either have no rational agenda or that they have no rational means by which to achieve an

agenda. It was necessary to inductively determine the characteristics of punk rather than

rely on these assumptions.

It was found that style does not appear to occupy a position of central importance

to punk: the subculture is not primarily engaged in semiotic guerrilla warfare (e.g.

Hebdige 1979), nor is it reducible to an aggregate of individuals trying to express

themselves through consumption (e.g. Muggleton 2000, Polhemus 1994). Rather, it was

determined that punk is more adequately described in terms of a more-or-less common

set of general concerns and collective interests: individualism, community,

egalitarianism, antiauthoritarianism, and the DIY ethic. Punk represents, in part, an

attempt to create an alternative way of life based on these values—a way of life

considered to be more equitable and free than that imposed by modern authority and

consumerism.

Again, these findings diverge considerably from many prior characterizations of

punk. This underlines the importance of not imposing expectations—whether derived

from scholarly assumptions or mainstream ‘common sense’—on the subject of study.

This is especially true with unconventional groups like punk that appear to be so different

310 from what a researcher might be used to. Instead, it is important to understand the group,

and members of that group, on their own terms before any attempt is made to generalize

or pass judgment on them. Failing this, such judgments can only be used to understand

the researcher and his or her ideas—they tell nothing about the subculture.

In terms of the study of subcultures more generally, further conclusions can be

drawn from the current work. Contrary to the CCCS portrayal of subcultures as internally

homogenous and strictly bounded, punk subculture is defined relatively broadly: its

members possess considerable liberty in terms of self-definition and express a range of

opinions on a variety of matters. However, it was not found that this latitude was so

broad that the term ‘punk’ or ‘subculture’ is a meaningless signifier (e.g. Bennett 1999,

Maffesoli 1995). Indeed, many of those interviewed used just these terms to describe

themselves albeit with qualification. Again, this implies commonality—of affiliation,

interests, and identity—but not uniformity. Like some contemporary work suggests, both

CCCS and post-subcultures perspectives thus continue to provide a degree of utility

(Greener and Hollands 2006, MacDonald and Shildrick 2006). However, neither

perspective is entirely adequate for explaining punk subculture much less subcultures in general. Indeed, no single general perspective is likely to be able to explain all subcultures without reducing them to one-dimensional concepts.

Despite various shortcomings over the years, which are to be expected in any area of inquiry, the study of subcultures has consistently presented a lively area of scholarly debate. Indeed, considerable opportunities for further work exist as well. In terms of the

current study, for example, certain questions remain which future work might be well-

311 suited to address. First, as noted in Chapter 2, it is possible that the sample upon which

these findings were based does not represent all punks. While it is unlikely that it will

ever be possible to achieve a random sample of a group such as this, it is certainly

possible to purposely focus on other known types of punks (e.g. Tsistos 1999). Perhaps

more importantly, further attention might be directed at minorities within subcultures,

like punk, that are themselves minority groups in many ways. For example, while some

attention has been directed at women in punk (e.g. Leblanc 2006), little research has

focused on African-American or Latino/a punks. Indeed, such groups were not

represented in the current sample at all.

Moreover, variations in the subculture across time and geography are also

potentially fruitful areas of investigation. Historically, punk has existed since at least the

1970s (Lentini 2003). It is not likely that it has remained stagnant throughout this period.

Similarly, while punk exists cross-nationally (e.g. O’Connor 2004b), given that it is a

subculture and therefore exists as part of a larger culture, it cannot be assumed that no punk variation exists contingent upon societal context.

Additionally, rather than focusing on punk itself, considerable work remains in

understanding the subcultural experience more generally. As noted above, existing

perspectives are inadequate at explaining punk and, even if they were, punk cannot be

generalized to represent all subcultures. Rather, existing perspectives might be most

useful if reworked in order to create a larger typology of subcultures (cf. Hesmondhalgh

2005, Hodkinson 2002). In doing so, it is important that researchers neither impose

theoretical expectations on the subject matter and, just importantly, that they take

312 subculture seriously and do not trivialize the lives of the very real people for whom the subcultural experience is a lived experience and not merely an academic exercise.

To this end, as a final suggestion, future research should not focus only on

subculture as a product of societal or psychological conditions, but also as a factor in

social and psychological change. As argued in Chapter 3, existing research almost

inevitably characterizes subculturalists as wholly determined by structural conditions—

even more recent approaches which claim subculturalists liberate themselves from

structure through consumption. Moreover, such research patronizes subculturalists and

assume both irrationality and ineffectuality. While the current study was not designed to

examine the potential outcomes of subcultural movements, there is ample opportunity to

perform such a badly needed test. Punk in particular seems a promising case-study to

examine this possibility. As a subculture largely characterized by an alternative set of

ideals and practices and a quasi-utopian way of life, punk offers at the very least a

potentially potent framing device for collective action (Tarrow 1992). Punk also offers a

number of tactics by which change might be achieved, one of which we turn to now: the

construction of place.

SPACE AND PLACE

According to Lefebvre (1991), every social group requires a unique physical and

social space—a place—with which to facilitate its intended way of life. The findings of

the current study supported this assertion and, moreover, found that this was also the case

in regards to an unconventional social group with an unconventional way of life: punk

313 subculture. As previously argued, understanding the unique spatial requirements or ideals of punk was considered to be especially significant precisely because most of the built environment, in theory, is designed contrary to those needs. Instead this environment is built according to the requirements of a society based on the principles of exchange and capital accumulation (Harvey 1985a, 1985b; Logan and Molotch 1987).

Interestingly, punks were found to continue to live their way of life and persist as a social entity even in the face of this contrary socio-spatial order. To do so, they adapted and adopted various components in the existing landscape for their own use with varying degrees of success. Success, in turn, depended on the cultural attributes of a given place as well as the physical aspects of that place such that some of these were more compatible with punk ideals and a punk way of life than others.

First, the cultural attributes of a place were examined. Mainstream, commercially

motivated music venues often rejected punks and did not allow them to host shows

therein. When they did allow punks to use them, further culture clashes often resulted.

Second, the physical attributes of place were investigated. Here too, a distinction was

found between those features which are most compatible for facilitating a punk way of

life and those which were most incompatible. For the most part, a distinction was made

between mainstream establishments—which often were both culturally and physically

dissimilar from punk—and DIY spaces which, since created by punks, often are more

closely aligned with their requirements.

Interestingly, a simple dichotomy such as this was not sufficient for explaining the patterns in the data. Instead, another distinction between institutional and marginal

314 places was found to further modify the relationship between a locale and its subcultural suitability. Institutional mainstream spaces—the largest, most important of the commercially oriented venues—were found to be particularly problematic for punks in terms of both culture and form whereas institutional DIY spaces were found most compatible. The marginal spaces, both mainstream and DIY, however, were not so clear cut. Marginal mainstream venues were found to be variable in that some of them were almost ideal. In such situations, it was often the case that, despite operating commercially, venue owners or workers were, themselves, culturally closer to punk or punks had successfully “colonized” the spaces (Lofland 1973, Cavan 1963), effectively rendering them subcultural spaces. Moreover, the physical features of these spaces more closely resembled those of an institutional DIY space. Marginal DIY spaces, on the other hand, were found to be not particularly ideal. In part, the inconsistency with which a given space was used led to social and cultural incontinuities. For example, the individuals who used them could not necessarily gather together regularly and, therefore, could not maintain the same level of trust and informal relationships that operate in a more stable space. Secondly, such spaces, having in many cases been rented from mainstream organization, were usually too dissimilar from punk spatial requirements in terms of their physical forms as well. Nonetheless, marginal DIY spaces were still important to the subculture because they were necessary. In many cases, they were the only options available. Even if these were not ideal options, having a less-than-ideal place is likely better than no having no place at all. Whatever option punks choose, as

315 long as they are able to maintain any place at all, they can be said to have “won space”

(Clarke et al. 1975) and, therefore, can be considered to be a successful subculture.1

One conclusion from these findings that may be useful to future researchers is that if a group’s preferred places are closely related to that group, then analysis of those preferred places may reveal much about the group. Indeed, Bennett implied the value of such a method in his study of club culture:

Urban dance music, because of the style mixing involved in its production, serves to provide a series of ‘snapshot’ images of such shifting sensibilities of musical taste being exercised by consumers. Indeed, in many of the larger clubs which feature urban dance-music nights, the desire of the consumer to choose from and engage with a variety of different musical moods has been further realised by using different rooms or floors as a means of staging a number of parallel events with club-goers free to move between these events as they please. Consequently, the nature of the urban dance-music event is becoming increasingly a matter of individual choice, the type of music heard and the setting in which it is heard and danced to being very much the decision of the individual consumer. Significantly, such factors in turn have a marked influence on the way in which urban dance-music enthusiasts talk about the actual process of music consumption. Thus, for many enthusiasts, ‘clubbing’ appears to be regarded less as a singularly definable activity and more as a series of fragmented, temporal experiences as they move between different dance floors and engage with different crowds. (Bennett 1999: 611)

Thus, an analysis of place portrays club culture as being “fragmented,” “temporal,” and

so on. Here, the music space Bennett describes can be interpreted as a metaphor for the

urban music culture experience. Its structure represents the structure of the group under

study: their characteristics, organization, and interests. Reflecting the description of neo-

tribes (Maffesoli 1996) themselves, the venue is not homogenous, unified, or permanent.

Rather, it is described as being comprised of different musical events with patrons going

to and fro as they please. However, this is no mere homology between social space and

the cultural forms it represents semiotically. Instead, there is an actual link between

physical space and cultural space that facilitates the fragmented and temporal culture of

the dance enthusiasts.

316 Of course, as discussed earlier, it would be a mistake to incautiously generalize such an analysis to all subcultures, much less to other types of social groups. Indeed, the analysis of punk space largely corresponds with an image of punk and punk places that is much different than that of clubbers and their places. Punks did not move about easily from setting to setting, sampling different cultures along the way as they please. Rather, it was found that punks have preferred places and feel uncomfortable in some other settings as discussed above. Again, those places that punks tended to like best were those that facilitated the values and ethics of punk—not transient and fragmented experiences.

Moreover, as alluded to in the previous section, punk places in particular may

hold further promise as a strategy for promoting social change or, at least, individual-

level change on the part of participants. Punk spaces are often remarkable instantiations

of an alternative society that yet could be. Largely egalitarian, self-regulated, informal,

and tolerant, such places represent living examples of the punk philosophy put into

practive, showing what is possible rather than merely theorizing it. Places are essentially

socializing agents (L’Aoustet and Griffet 2004) and punk, partially through its places, has

socialized several generations of youths with its progressive message, teaching lessons

which are maintained and applied across spaces and across time. The message of punk is

often carried by those who have experienced it into less egalitarian social spaces like

schools and the workplace where it has managed to germinate and thrive for over three

decades. Moreover, for many of the respondents interviewed who no longer consider

themselves to be punks, the lessons learned in the youth culture nonetheless seemed to

have stayed with them through their lives (cf. Andes 1998, Davis 2006). In short, punk

317 places represent, in microcosm, a vision of social change, of the more equal and free

society that is possible.2

Other matters remain to be explored that, while investigated in the current study, have yet to be resolved. As discussed earlier, studying an unconventional group was adjudged to be particularly interesting from an academic perspective precisely because such groups were expected to require a more divergent experience of place than more

“conventional” groups and, therefore, they are likely to experience a shortage of suitable spaces with which to contend. This indeed was found to be the case. Again, it was found that in terms of both cultural and physical factors, matters of ‘place’ were found to be important concerns for punks. Indeed, acquiring reliable places to gather and put on

shows was found to be so important that sometimes places which were far from ideal

were utilized, with various consequences, simply to have a place at all. Yet, Lefebvre’s

argument (1991) about the necessity of social space applies to all groups, not just the

unconventional. It cannot be said that the findings presented here are directly relevant to

more conventional social groups, that is, those which differ less radically from accepted

norms and culture. Further work is required to understand the spatial need of a range of

social groups. It is likely that considerable variation exists within the mainstream—a

word which, while useful to distinguish between broad areas of social difference, itself

contains a wide variety of different groups with different needs. Logan and Molotch

(1987) distinguish between “use” and “exchange” values in regards to different

conventional groups and find that these values are often in direct conflict within the

landscape of the built environment even though, technically speaking, neither of these

318 needs can be considered unconventional by any stretch of the imagination. More

research is needed to further elucidate the importance of place for all people.

Further research is also necessary to more fully disambiguate the various facets of place to the extent that it is possible to do so: 1) the extent to which place is the cause or

outcome of other social conditions, and 2) the relative significance of the symbolic and physical components of place. Prior work has suggested that these issues cannot necessarily be fully delimited. Lefebvre (1991), for example, argues that the factors that make up spaces are interactive and intimately related to one another, making it impossible to isolate a single, causal chain. Others (Buttimer 1976, Hall 1982) argue that it is not possible to disentangle the symbolic and physical dimensions of place for precisely the same reasons: they are intimately bound together. The current study, being qualitative in design (Lofland and Lofland 1995) was only able to make modest claims regarding issues of causation, and reinforces the idea that the physical and the meaningful are closely bound. However, the findings suggest that in specific contexts some of these issues might be more fully addressed rather than trying to unravel them more generally across contexts. Places, as exemplified in the current study, are not uniform but offer a variety of experiences that might make attempts at excessive generalization problematic.

CONCLUDING REMARKS

After many years of neglect, scholars are now paying increasing attention to the role of the physical environment and the cultural meanings associated with this environment—to place. There is, of course, good reason for this given that everyone,

319 without exception, experiences place continuously through their lives and that such places are important components of all societies. The current study has attempted to add to the growing scholarly dialogue, and it is hoped that others will continue to do so as well. Place is important, not just to researchers, but to everyone, and we are only now beginning to understand and appreciate it.

320

ENDNOTES

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

1. Following Fischer (1975), the term ‘unconventional’ is used loosely to denote group characteristics that differ significantly from commonplace or mainstream ways of doing and thinking. The term ‘subculture,’ moreover, as will be discussed in the next chapter, is hotly debated. Since there is no current consensus, this term is retained throughout the study, being that most commonly used in scholarly literature. Following Clark (2003), subcultures are distinguishable from the ‘mainstream’: “an imaginary hegemonic centre of corporatized culture… an archetype, rather than something with a precise location and character” (2003: 224).

NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

1. Triangulation was thus implemented wherever possible. Nonetheless, some data sources were prioritized at various points in the study. For example, Chapter 4 examines the ethos of punk subculture. For this method, the interviews and the textual sources were considerably more appropriate for analysis than the field observations which only occupied an auxiliary role. Such decisions and the rationale in making them are described where appropriate throughout the study.

2. Various forms of participation were anticipated and were asked about as part of the interview as indicated in Appendix C. These included such roles as listening to music, playing in a band, operating a show space and so on (Section III. Participation in the Subculture). Interviewees were encouraged to specify other important roles people might have or to state whether they felt the roles specified by the researcher were not of particular importance. As the interviews progressed, this classification seemed increasingly consistent with the opinions of the interviewees and, moreover, the roles specified were represented. Interestingly, most interviewees engaged in a number of these roles. For instance, it is not uncommon to listen to punk music, play in a band, read zines, and promote shows. However, no standardized way was developed to measure overall participation. First, respondents attached different levels of importance to particular roles such that no clear hierarchy of the value of roles could be established. Second, there is no firm way to measure how involved one is in any specific role. Thus, for example, there is no firm way to concisely compare a respondent who has played in a 321 single band for ten years to one who has played in several consecutive bands over a similar period. Finally, not all respondents agree on what roles qualify as participation in the subculture. Chase, for example, felt that traveling was very important to his punk identify while Calvin mentioned that dumpster diving was important. Activities such as these do seem consistent with the punk ethos explored in Chapter 4, but they did not occur often enough to justify inclusion in a scale. Moreover, such roles could not be thrown out of consideration entirely since to do so, in many cases, would eliminate what a given respondent felt their primary means of affiliation with the subculture consisted of. Thus, while a reasonably representative range of roles was represented in the sample and, additionally, while these enabled the researcher to determine general levels of participation and affiliation with the subculture, these data were too ambiguous to treat or code in any quantitative manner.

3. All respondents who could feasibly take part in the interview in person chose to do so. Email was not stated as an option for the interview, but was requested by two respondents. Respondents were simply given a copy of the questionnaire in Appendix C and asked to answer whatever parts they could. To compensate for the loss of interactivity that this medium affords, follow up emails were used to further investigate responses or elicit further information.

4. While open coding is considered to be unrestricted in that any repeated themes could conceivably become a new category for further coding, certain standards still apply (Strauss 1990). Essentially meaningless words or expressions, for example, do not generally qualify for such codes unless there are other compelling reasons for them to be treated so. Moreover, and somewhat more ambiguously, themes were required to posses a reasonable expectation that they bear in some way on the research questions. Nonetheless, these limitations were not strictly imposed in order to allow serendipitous patterns to emerge.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

1. Indeed, on occasion some researchers still regress to an explanatory perspective reminiscent of classical youth studies perspectives. This tendency has been particularly pronounced in the analysis of heavy metal cultures, the existence of which are frequently attributed to inadequate socialization (e.g. Arnett 1995).

2. Given the diversity of perspectives that fall under the post-subcultures category, this is not a surprising state of affairs. Again, Muggleton (2000), for example, represents something of a clear case of departure in many respects.

3. See McAdam (1982) for a more general critique of strain theories and for reference to further criticisms. See Useem (1998) for competing viewpoint.

322 4. It is interesting to note that Tillman’s (1980) argument that politics and culture, particularly subculture, are unrelated appears to be based exclusively on the single case of the Sex Pistols who often went on record saying they were not interested in politics. Tillman does, however, make a valid point that the structural position of individuals or groups does not necessitate that they be political, even subconsciously political, as overly-structured CCCS perspective argues. This argument is all the more interesting given its publication well before post-subculture perspective championed an emphasis on youth agency.

5. Consistent with some aspects of post-subcultural theory, this global movement is not homogenous or locally fixed. Rather, it is comprised of an alliance of disparate groups with overlapping interests: numerous other subcultures, such as punks, and more traditional groups, such as labor movements.

6. This is especially true given the acknowledgement that no clear distinction between the pursuit of instrumental versus expressive ends by social movements can readily be demarcated (Gamson 1991). Indeed, even when such distinctions can tentatively be made, each serves to facilitate the other. The same observation applies to subcultures. As Haenfler notes regarding straightedge, “Personal actualization and social transformations are not mutually exclusive” (2006: 198)

NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

1. The exact time and place where punk emerged is a matter of considerable debate (see, for example Lentini 2003, Sabin 1999). However, treating New York City and London as epicenters of the most influential scenes seems to be largely agreed upon.

2. Others suggest that punk subculture has actually displayed a fair degree of continuity over the years of its existence while still acknowledging that changes have occurred (e.g. Hurchalla 2006). Such consistencies will be acknowledged when they are particularly relevant to this discussion.

3. Since many of the interviews were not conducted in person, it is certainly possible that some informants were not giving an accurate description of their own style and practices. If so, the case would not represent dishonesty on the part of respondents, but would instead reflect a common practice among people to present positive portrayals of self. Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1990), in a study that included punks and members of other subcultures, determined that people may use comparisons (e.g. with other members, with younger selves, or with non-members) to present themselves in the best light. In the case of subculture, there is an interest on the part of the participant to ensure that they do not appear shallow or uncommitted to a meaningful ideal. For punks, as we shall see, authenticity comes in part through achieving individualism and uniqueness (O’Hara 1999). Thus, to assert that one is following a fashion trend common to all members, or 323 that the subculture with which they are affiliated is itself characterized by such a trend, would contradict this individualism and also denigrate the value of the subculture. While this may be the case for some punks, the face-to-face interviews and field observations largely support the argument that no such uniform style is strongly evident in the subculture.

4. The latter difficulty became clear preceding one of the in-person interviews. I had scheduled to meet with Macy at a café, but had failed to either provide a description of myself or acquire one from her with which to facilitate recognizing one another. Having not met before, there was no way for either of us to know what the other looked like save through whatever preconceptions we might have had. We had both been waiting in the café for about half an hour before figuring out who each other were, and this only from our actions: wandering around as though waiting for, and looking for, someone in a café where only about eight people were present. Later, during the interview when we were talking about punk bands, Macy referred to the band advertised on the shirt she was wearing. Considerable time would have been spared had I not failed to recognize either the band or anything else particular about the style of its presentation.

5. John Kezdy of the punk band The Effigies in an interview published in a fanzine, Big Takeover (#33). No year of publication available. Kezdy, himself, is noteworthy for being of a politically conservative mind in a subculture often simplified as being completely progressive.

6. In addition to punk’s hyperindividualism being traceable to discourses adopted from mainstream culture, it is also possible that historical events in its evolution have contributed to a nebulous definition of what it means to be punk. During the 1970s and 1980s, being a punk was a far from prestigious affiliation. Moore (2000) details the moral panics that accompanied the subculture’s emergence. Often punks would be subject to abuse, incarceration, commitment to mental institutions and so on. However, this seems to have changed over the years. Just as the meaning of punk, and its associated collective identity, may have become somewhat nebulous, so has punk become popular and perhaps even fashionable to a certain extent. ‘Why’ this has occurred likely corresponds to simple marketing, but ‘when’ is an interesting question as well. Here, it can be said with some confidence that the popularity of ‘grunge’ in the early 1990s, which is descended from the West Coast punk rock scene, and the subsequent popularization of accessible punk bands like Green Day and the Offspring (O’Connor 2008), marks the period in which this popularization has occurred. Several of the respondents in the study seemed to have a similar perception of the changes that have occurred:

It’s kind of like punk rock now is what a high school kid is supposed to listen to as opposed to something you got beat up for. So, I mean I can remember back in the ‘70s visiting Washington DC, my friend and I, we’d be walking down on the street, just wearing leather jackets, just normal haircuts, normal everything else, and having jeeps full of marines come careening up screaming “faggot” at us and threatening to beat us up because we were punks. So the world has changed a 324 lot since then obviously. And so, you know, you hear the Ramones on TV commercials now, or at Yankees stadium they go “Hey ho, let’s go” when someone comes up to bat. (John) -- People don’t take it as seriously as they used to. I used to get my ass kicked for being a punk. Like a lot. Just walking home from school. Now, you never hear of anyone getting beat up just because they’re a punk. Because it’s so much more acceptable but as a consequence of that it’s so much weaker, it’s so much more just diluted and just isn’t half of, it’s not dangerous anymore. (Ray)

Punks were initially targeted for various forms of oppressive action stemming from their cultural dissimilarity (Moore 2000). According to Gamson (1995), in such cases, it is efficacious to deconstruct a collective identity since that identity, itself, is what is targeted for abuse. However, if punks sought not just cultural freedom and acceptability, but also institutional change, then while identity deconstruction may avert oppressive treatment it, again, weakens the potential for collective action. With popularity, it seems, comes acceptability. However, as a whole the meaning and structural impact of the subculture may also be weakened as a consequence of this greater acceptability and cultural legitimacy.

7. ‘Food Not Bombs’ is an informal activist organization, with roots in punk rock, that provides free vegan food to whomever would like it, especially the homeless and others in need. ‘PRD’ refers to the website Punk Rock Domestics, which focuses on sharing skills, knowledge, and crafts.

8. It should be noted that while only one of the respondents considered themselves religious in this sense, many firmly stated that they knew other people who were involved in punk and were also religious. Thus, it should not be assumed that all punks are necessarily non-religious.

9. While particular punk artists may be respected for their talent or their ideas, hero- worship is generally frowned upon by punks as a potentially authoritarian relationship. Indeed, the concern for hero-worship is especially illuminating when it is the ‘hero’ who is the one troubled by the appearance of worshippers. Jack Grisham, of the band TSOL (True Sounds of Liberty), was perhaps a peculiar case of an individual for whom other punks had a great deal of respect bordering on hero-worship. During one TSOL show, the lights came on and the audience was informed that the police were coming to break up the night’s festivities. Grisham told the audience to sit down and stick together and the vast majority of the two thousand or so member audience did so (although they later stood to fight back against a violent police riot) (Hurchalla 2006). Concerned with the possibility that he might be receiving hero treatment, Grisham resorted to an unusual tactic: Unless you knew the truth of Grisham’s multiple personalities, it seemed like the singer changed every time they released a record until they kicked him out and the singer did actually change, which confused things even further. There was Jack Greggors, Jack Grisham, Jack Lalage, Alex Morgon… all of whom turned out to be the same Jack Grisham. (2006: 31)

325 Such caution over being viewed as a hero or authority figure is not uncommon—even among those who occupy positions in key institutions of the subculture. Tim Yohannan, founder of the Maximumrocknroll zine and radio show, both of which continue to be of immense influence, was said “to have been well aware of the power that Maximumrocknroll soon exerted on the scene as a whole [and that] this made him uncomfortable” (O’Connor 2008: 7). Rather than basking in their positions of power, many punks who find themselves in such situations are likely to be as critical of themselves as they are of others in respected positions.

10. It is of course possible to overly romanticize the subculture and whitewash it in pure heroism. Such a portrayal would certainly be inaccurate as punk is not without its dark side. Since this dark side is predominantly the sole aspect of punk that receives any sort of public attention, little attention will be directed to it here, but it would be remiss not to make some mention of it. Issues of violence, drug use, sexism, racism, and homophobia were mentioned by respondents as occurring within punk subculture which, although in many respects utopian, is not immune to these deep-rooted social problems. Even if an emphasis on allowing all members to be equal producers of punk exists in the subculture, prejudice and discrimination, or other social forces, can moderate the extent to which particular populations are allowed access to this productive potential. Sexism, for instance, has been of particular interest to scholars of punk as it turns up repeatedly in the subculture. While this may be true, there also seems to be a consensus that punk is no more sexist than the rest of society and, indeed, probably much less so. Rather, the emergence of punk has been “identified as a moment of opportunity for women” that “created cultural as well as practical openings” for women to be active participants (Clawson 1999: 195). This stands in stark contrast to the arena of popular music in general where women are limited primarily to the role of singer/songwriter. Through the world of punk zines, as well, women have found opportunities for self-expression and cultural production more open to their participation than in other social groupings (Schilt 2003).

11. It is difficult to pin down clear patterns in some of the other reasons cited for getting involved in various activities. The following instance, for example, illustrates a very specialized motivation: J: Why did you get involved? Why did you start a band?

P: I got involved in this band out of frustration with the, I had a lot of friends get mixed up in drugs really bad. There was a big crack problem, and I was like just feeling totally powerless to anything. So this was like a catharsis. It was a way to let loose and write some songs about it and align myself with some people that weren’t constantly bumming me out. That’s how it started and then it just snowballed from there. (Phil)

While this specific impetus did not correspond with anyone else’s reasons motivations, it does illustrate a general desire to be constructive, a DIY ethic, in the face of a destructive social problem.

326 Other motivations appear to be highly individualized as well but also reflect some aspects of the DIY ethic:

I started this band when I was 25 and I was just like “Look, here’s the deal guys.” (…) So I was like “Let’s start a punk band. We’re gonna be kind of like old school punk. We’re never going to make any money. Maybe we’ll play a fucking house party here or there. Maybe we’ll get asked to play a bar. And then in a year if we’re still doing it, we’ll buy a van and we’ll drive to a couple of other towns.” Just like really basic goals. And like three people responded, like guitar, bass, and drums, and I was gonna sing, and it was like boom. Start a punk band. (Barrett)

12. This analysis of the DIY ethic was supported by the analysis of zines as well. First, it is commonly referred to as being at the heart of the subculture:

[The] D.I.Y. ethic [is] perhaps the single most salient contribution of the original punk rock movement [and] a reaction to the idea that only so-called professionals can provide us with the services we need. (Williams 2007: 62)

Various aspects of the ethic, as described in this section, were reinforced by the authors of the zines that were examined. One series of zines in particular concerned itself fully with communicating skills that anyone can learn (e.g. silk-screening, putting out records, pirate radio, making zines, etc.) and exemplified well the general perspective across particular zines when issues of DIY were brought up. In the introduction, the authors note:

[W]e need to build a community in which we can share resources and rely on each other. [T]his includes sharing information and learning to be autonomous as a community. [T]hat is the purpose of this zine. [T]here is no scarsity [sic] of individuals (or teams) that can do amazing things. [F]uck specialists and professionals—we don’t need them. (Urban Pirates n.d.)

Another zine fully devoted to sharing DIY skills with the reader states similarly in its introduction:

Stolen Sharpie Revolution [zine’s title] is about DIY ethics. [T]his zine is about looking at things and saying “I can do that!”. (…) Recycling and reusing goes beyond just hippie Earth Day environmentalism and conscious consuming. It becomes a craft, an art form in itself. [T]he fact that the components are not viewed as commodities makes them even more accessible. [T]here is no need to purchase things that you can make for yourself and have a little fun while doing it. (wrekk n.d.)

The zines, then, ran parallel with the themes evident in the interviews in maintaining DIY as a non-commercial, community-minded, and empowering ethic that serves as an alternative way of thinking and doing and that is integral to punk identity and praxis. It should also be noted that most of the zines, themselves, appeared to have been produced independently of professional input (often simply photocopied and stapled or printed using low-cost techniques), lacked UPC codes ISSN numbers or other requirements of commercial sale, and were often labeled as “anti-copyright”—that is, that readers are free to copy and disperse the content of the zine on a non-commercial basis. 327

13. This observation, again, points toward problems with post-modern theories of the ephemeral nature of subcultures.

14. Indeed, many of the respondents have made comments in this regard. This is especially interesting in the case of those who no longer consider themselves to be punks but who, nonetheless, state that their participation has made a lasting impression. For example:

And, you know, it’s like “Wow, how fortunate for me that I found that.” Even though I’m not that involved in it today, cause I’m, you know older and I have different interests, and, but it was just like it’s special. And it really, and I see it wasn’t just a phase for me it was really a sort of philosophy. (Bill) -- J: Do you think you’ll still continue to feel that way for awhile?

D: I’m pretty sure I’ll feel this way forever.

J: Why is that?

D: I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the way a person feels and then you just associate it with the punk culture. I don’t think it’s that, you know I’m punk and I’m going to be this way forever. It’s just, “I’m this way and it closely resembles this, so I’m going to associate myself with this, but I’m going to be me.” And that’s not going to change. (Dan)

Another example of this is evident when respondents discuss how as they’ve gotten older, they try to incorporate the beliefs and attitudes of a punk identity into their mainstream life. For instance:

I really really hate consumerism, which is hilarious because I just stopped working retail after two years. I hated every single minute of it. I hated my job. I was miserable. Well, I’m going to school to be a librarian. And that’s always been, I don’t know. I’m specializing in archives because I really enjoy the idea of social history. One of the things that draws me to librarianship is that it’s for the people. I still have very, I mean it’s obscured after some of my life experiences, but idealistically I still have the, you know, everyone should have access to information, everyone should be given the same resources. People shouldn’t have to pay for these resource. You know, just, power to the people through knowledge bullshit [laughs]. I still feel very strongly about that. (Andrea) -- After art school I really wanted to do something active again after immersing myself in a very hedonistic, ‘let’s stare inward a little bit more” kind of culture, but not trusting [garbled] social activism very much, because I found that it burned me out emotionally to giving giving giving, give 100%, get 2% back, give 100% get 2% back. So I went towards something as basic as I could make it. Soils. So I got my degree in soils, right? Like, “everybody needs to eat. It has to do with the poor and the environment. Fuck, that’s it!” So, and it really was just that simple. (Helen)

328 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 1. More postmodern readings of the city suggest that place has become equally meaningless, rendered absolute by, for example, satellites and the internet (e.g. Dear and Dahman 2008, Sorkin 1992). However, these arguments also reinforce the idea that spatial segregation is becoming more prevalent. This perspective will be considered below.

2. As noted previously, not all subcultures reflect the same interests and should not be interpreted, therefore, as all being equally oppositional in character nor, indeed, all opposing the same thing. To the contrary, there have recently been increasing calls for studies of youths whose interests and concerns are entirely “mainstream” (e.g. Skelton et al 1998). Nonetheless, it is from some aspects of the subcultural sector that potent challenges to everyday capitalist society often come, as discussed below.

3. Such nothingness is better expressed, perhaps, by religious philosophy. A similar idea, for example, exists in the Buddhist concept asamskrta meaning, roughly ‘unconditioned reality.’ Similar to the concept of a meaningless, spaceless unit, to try to observe, describe, or otherwise relate unconditioned form is to necessarily impose spatial understanding or meaning onto it and change its essential character (Streng 1967). Here, again, while it is by definition impossible to express or experience such a thing, it is nonetheless a useful concept.

4. This conflation can be seen when considering how the physical importance of a place can be invoked through symbolic representations of that form. Simmel (1997c) discusses two instances of this phenomenon in the form of the bridges and doors. Both are physical objects that enable or constrain movement. Portraying these in art, for example, invokes these concepts symbolically: either as literal modifiers of movement or as less literal indicators of, for example, mental states. Thus an open door on a painting of a cathedral can imply an invitation to enter a space as much as it can indicate an invitation to take part in an idea or faith.

5. Given Bourdieu’s well-known attempts to bridge the gap between social structure and agency—a distinction which he considers largely artificial—it may be surprising that he interprets place in this way, and one may be tempted to believe it is simply product of his early career. In a later reconsideration of the Kabyle house and social space (1990), Bourdieu confesses that his original treatment was indeed too structural. However, he never brings his conception of space back in line with his theory of habitus and agent/structure interaction.

6. Of course even at this time agency is not complete. Other forces, such as accepted norms of design and available resources, play a role in the plan that results from this stage.

329 7. Lefebvre uses the term ‘social space’ rather than place. Social space for him is the interaction of physical, mental, and, of course, social components. These elements are divided somewhat differently into the categories of figure 5.1 which more closely follows trends in human geography (e.g. Bonnemaison 2005) but, as can be seen here, the concepts are largely parallel. Moreover, the typology presented by Lefebvre, and that presented here, both acknowledge the artificiality of any such division and stress, again, that any division should be made tentatively and only for heuristic purposes.

8. Similar patterns have been noted in other democratic countries even though such governance is partially based on freedoms including public speech and public assembly (Derbyshire and Derbyshire 1989). The UK, for example, has recently experienced a series of legislative acts which seriously compromise these freedoms even as attempts are made to protect them (see, for example, Segell 2007, Waddington 1994)

9. Some theorists, especially those of the Los Angeles School (e.g. Dear and Dahman 2008, Soja 1989) argue that we have entered a distinctly postmodern phase in urban organization while others disagree. See the inaugural issue of City & Community 1 (1) 2002, for a debate on these issues. Sui (1999) has also offered a scathing critique from the perspective of urban geography.

10. For such a discussion see, for example, de Certeau (1998).

11. Clark (2003) suggests that portrayals of punk or other subcultures, especially of the past, are media reconstructions with little validity. Ruddick (1998), whose study focuses on the Hollywood scene, argues that different generations of punk have had different ideologies or ethical perspectives. First, there was an initial, politically aware punk subculture circa 1977. This was closely followed by a second wave that was mentored by the first, and therefore had some understanding of the subculture’s anarchist politics, but who tended to be more interested in the music and style. Finally, a third wave is said to emerge around 1979, that was informed by media representations of punk and, therefore, were more prone to undirected vandalism and violence. It is interesting to note that Ruddick’s focus on these early incarnations of punk also has a strong ecological flavor.

12. The term ‘Nuyorican’ is a contraction of ‘New York’ and (Puerto) Rican.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 6

1. It can tentatively be suggested that part of the reason for this change is a shift in what type of music record stores supply. Gone are the days of the small, local store which caters in part to local interest. Instead, large chain stores which emphasize only the most mainstream and accessible music persist. In more recent times still, even these chains are suffering as music sales shift to the internet, often in the form of downloaded files. Moreover, the internet seems to have made it easier for punks to locate obscure music 330 without the need of ever setting foot outdoors. Interestingly, the need to physically gather with like-minded people persists, as the remainder of this chapter illustrates.

2. Throughout the data collection phase of this study, it was noted that the term ‘show’ was used rather than ‘concert’ to describe musical performances most of the time. This was true during the interviews, in the texts analyzed, and in conversations or flyers noted during the fieldwork. Generally speaking, it seems as though this is an intentional element of the subculture’s argot used to distinguish punk ‘shows’ from mainstream, commercial concerts. Thus, one punk author noted that “a ‘show’ is what Punks call a concert” (O’Hara 1999). The differences between these types of events will be explored in depth below, but it is for these reasons that the same terminology will be used throughout this report.

3. Bell (1997) reviews numerous interpretations of ritual which may be of some relevance here. In addition to simple functionalist and structuralist approaches more generally, she notes that another perspective is that social order is constructed through the interaction of rituals, not vice versa, and other perspectives take on a more phenomenological character. Again, no scholarly consensus exists, and it does not seem necessary to limit an approach to ritual to any single perspective since all such approaches might be used in a complementary manner.

4. This distinction, while made in some way by a majority of those interviewed and evident in the texts surveyed as well, does not imply any consensus in terms of which specific bands fall into one category or another. Some bands, like Green Day, who started out in a DIY scene and have since experienced immense commercial success constituted particular points of debate. Some interviewees suggested that they had “sold out” or that their commercial success rendered them non-DIY by de facto:

I mean before that I listened to like Green Day, but Green Day isn’t really punk. I guess they were punk at some point but, not right now because I guess they’re very commercial. (Renee)

Others consider bands like Green Day legitimate because, although they are successful, they are still perceived as keeping true to other values that some punks maintain. Thus Parker noted that “I think [they] are still very true to their beliefs.” Finally, illustrating again the contentiousness of how to classify a particular band, Barrett suggested that differential treatment of bands based on commercial success and maintenance of other standards was not necessarily applied evenly:

It’s kind of okay that Green Day’s rich, but then you look at Good Charlotte and it’s like “Well, fuck those guys.” But they didn’t really do anything differently you know? (Barrett)

Not all bands evoked this degree of debate and many were easily described as falling into one category or another. While there is no clear consensus in some cases, such lively debates indicate that the distinction between DIY punk and mainstream punk is an important one for the subculture. Additionally, it indicated a continued concern for 331 subcultural boundaries and authenticity which, as described in Chapter 3, many current post-subculture theorists argue to be no longer a feature of such groups as punk (e.g. Bennett 1999).

5. The assertion that there is an abundance of overt regulation at mainstream venues, relative to the DIY spaces discussed below, was supported by the field observations. Large, institutional venues in particular—such as music halls or amphitheaters— presented a formidable array of regulatory devices. These are examined in more depth in Chapter 7.

6. In addition to the perception that punk bands aren’t profitable, dislike of the music is another reason why venue owners might shut a show down while in progress. This occurred at one marginal, mainstream venue observed during the course of the fieldwork. Two non-punk bands had already played and a third self-described punk band was on stage setting up. The owner of the venue, who was in attendance, at this point seemed to have discovered that they were a “loud” band from some unknown source and told them they couldn’t play. At this, one of the band members and several of the audience members became incensed and began yelling. The owner then got on stage, threatening to first turn off the power and to then call the police. The first threat was followed through on and, given that it was clear the band would not be able to play, the crowd cleared out before the police had to be called.

7. Another possible reason why some marginal mainstream venues may not be so problematic for punks as the more institutional mainstream venues may not be because of the less drastic cultural dissimilarity between the former of these types and punks. Instead, it is possible that this pattern exists because of a wider difference between institutional mainstream spaces and marginal mainstream spaces than between punks and marginal mainstream spaces. Chatterton and Hollands (2002) discuss three types of nightlife spaces—bars, clubs, and so on—in which young people spend recreational time: 1) mainstream spaces, 2) alternative spaces, and 3) residual spaces. The first of these is much like the mainstream venues described here. Upscale, commercial music spaces often marked by corporate ownership and “branding”—carefully planned consumption experiences. These spaces are part of the dominant social order, often hailed by government and business alike as saviors of the city via redevelopment and urban renewal. They are also closely regulated spaces where only a specific set of behaviors are permitted and where hierarchies based, in part, on the strict division of consumer and producer are prominent features of social organization. The second category, alternative space, is inclusive of DIY punk space, but also includes a wider range of spaces used by subcultures marked by creative production, identity, or specific tastes that run counter to mainstream norms. Such spaces are rarely strictly commercial in nature, are informally regulated, and intentionally blur the lines of producer/consumer. Finally, residual spaces may be most closely related to what have heretofore been referred to as marginal mainstream venues. These include a range of traditional, working-class, and locally owned and operated bars, 332 pubs, etc. that are organized around neighborhoods and serve as places of class community interaction. While still businesses, the emphasis here is more on sociality and long-term personable relations than a branded commercial or consumer experience. Both alternative and residual spaces are threatened by a range of dominant social forces which seek to eliminate them and replace them with the consumer experience of the commercial space. Indeed, Chatterton and Hollands argue that mainstream spaces are ascendant while alternative and, especially, residual spaces are stigmatized, policed, and driven out. While alternative spaces are clearly quite different in character and culture than residual spaces, both are marginal relative mainstream spaces, and more similar to one another or, at least, probably less contradictory. Thus, it is little wonder that, for example, a ‘residual’ neighborhood bar would be more suitable for a punk show than an upscale, mainstream club.

8. Interestingly, the behavior that ultimately led to Bill getting banned from the music hall stemmed from his dislike of bouncers which, as noted previously, along with regulation in general is one of the major sources of contention between punks and mainstream venues:

I wasn’t allowed to book shows at [venue name] because I actually punched a bouncer, and they knew who I was, so I was kicked out of there for years. (…) But, I was just telling somebody today, that so much free drinks for doing that for like a year, people were like, “You’re the guy who punched the bouncer.”

It is, thus, additionally noteworthy to observe that this act, although punished by the mainstream venue, was celebrated by many otherwise peaceful punks.

9. During the interviews and textual analysis portions of this study, a distinction was noted in the terminology punks use to refer to commercial venues vs. DIY venues. While the generic term ‘venue’ may be used to describe either to some extent, it seemed far more common to use the term to refer to commercial venues since this indicated some sort of business. Other terms like ‘space’ seemed to be used more often as descriptive of DIY venues and so this terminology is adopted here. This distinction is sometimes explicit: “Some people are really biased against venues, and they’d much rather have basement shows and stuff” (Mollie). At other times the difference seemed somewhat less pronounced:

J: Did you ever help organize or build a venue or anything like that?

C: My house is kind of a part time venue. I don’t know if that counts. (Chase)

10. Two of the most cited examples are ABC No-Rio in New York City and the Gilman Street Project in San Francisco.

333 11. If, for example, the DIY space is in a house, those living there are already paying rent. Hosting shows does not become an additional cost because no separate place is being leased out as would be the case with a commercial venue.

12. In more formal DIY spaces—those which operate according to the principles of DIY punk and are not businesses but nonetheless have the necessary permits and licenses to operate—there seems to be a combination of formal and informal regulation. In the Gilman Street Project, for example, both paid and volunteer security is employed to maintain peace and order. Yet even here there is an emphasis on the norms of the subculture. After trying a range of informal and formal regulatory methods, the organizers of this space determined that:

The appropriate security [for Gilman] has always been people from, or knowledgeable about, the scene, sensitive to and respected by the kids, and capable of personally handling situations without requiring intervention of the police. (Jonathan D., interviewed in Edge 2004: 87)

13. This particular website lists addresses and contact information for a number of DIY shows and, therefore, is withheld to protect the subjects.

14. This term can be used to describe a distinct subculture or a lifestyle variation within punk (Haenfler 2006). In the case of the latter it is categorized, in part, through abstinence from drugs, alcohol and promiscuous sex. As a distinct subculture, this lifestyle choice also applies, but in other respects straightedge subculture differs dramatically from punk. In its most extreme form, straightedge members attempt to control these behaviors in others and to victimize individuals who do not conform to their expectations (Tsitsos 1999). It would be unfair and inaccurate, of course, to classify the entire subculture this way and, more so, to classify straightedge punks this way.

15. Bey purposes avoids defining the concept of the Temporary Autonomous Zone (TAZ) and avoids contempory examples. Therefore, he never specifies DIY spaces as examples but instead couches the TAZ in terms of an anarchist social vision consistent with DIY spaces and punk more generally. Additionally, this argument has been adopted by many in the punk scene to describe such spaces including the authors of some of the other textual accounts analyzed (e.g. CrimethInc. 2000, Williams 2007).

16. Again, even the legitimate DIY spaces such as the Gilman Street Project incur a range of problems of the sort described here (e.g. Edge 2004).

NOTES TO CHAPTER 7

1. Doubtless the acoustics of this location also played a role, especially since all performers used acoustic instruments and sang without amplification. Similar shows 334 were advertised near bridges and specified in the ads that, if the weather turned, activities would be moved under the bridge. One respondent, Macy, used to run shows out of her garage which, although technically indoors, involved participants spending much more time outdoors in the backyard than, for example, a basement show. Again, weather was not mentioned as a factor in using the garage over simply using the backyard.

2. Steve Dejected, interviewed by Juls Generic (2009) in Maximumrocknroll. No pagination.

3. From “The Brycc House.” (Anonymous n.d.[a]). This brief document provides historical information on the origin of this space which, since then, has closed but reopened in a new location. http://history.louisvillehardcore.com/index/php?title=The_Brycc_House Accessed December 12, 2008.

4. In addition to it being the case that punk spaces are established where there are enough punks nearby to support them, it is also possible that causation is reversed and that punks actually migrate to locations where there are already such spaces and a strong scene in existence. Indeed, such a process has been recognized with other populations where established cultural institutions function as a “pull” mechanism, encouraging migration of culturally similar others to the area (e.g. Price-Spratlen 1999). Indeed, many of the texts analyzed discussed lively punk scenes on both coasts of the United States which punks who live in other parts of the country speak of enviously. Some of the respondents also mentioned how they, currently or in the past, had hoped to move to areas with more established scenes. For example, describing one such city with a strong punk scene, punk stated that “It just seems so much better. Like every time I go up there I have a blast. I have two more years of school down here and then I’m probably moving there.”

5. Interestingly, this suggests a preference not only for a disordered space or venue, but also for a disordered environment or neighborhood within which the space is located.

6. Kent (1990) surveys a wide range of societies to validate this hypothesis. One brief comparison will, here, suffice to exemplify the range of socio-spatial variation that she found. The Basawara, in Botswana, are a group of nomadic hunter/gatherers and exemplify the least differentiated side of the socio-spatial continuum. This group is described as being organized around principles of sharing, decision-making via consensus by men and women, little to no formal leadership, and a division of labor that is both flexible and not highly specialized. This lack of differentiation is reflected in the design of their domestic spaces. The Basawara live in huts with no partitions wherein a number of different tasks may be performed (i.e. it is not monofunctional space). No distinctions are made as to who can use what part of the space or what it can be used for. At the other end of the continuum are those societies that are “the most sociopolitically stratified, hierarchical, stratified” (1990: 141). This complex differentiation is expressed

335 and facilitated, in turn, by an equally differentiated domestic space. Thus, typical Euroamerican houses are described as:

[S]egmented into gender-specific bedrooms except for the master bedroom. Houses also contain a kitchen, occasionally a dining room or breakfast nook, a study or den, and/or family room, sometimes a separate living room, one or more bathrooms, storage closets, and a garage/storage area. (Kent 1990: 146)

7. It is worth noting that the merchandise, itself, is often considerably different from that available at mainstream venues. Rather than being professionally produced, such merchandise, a might be expected, is produced in a DIY fashion. Thus, the records are often pressed by small, independently owned companies with their liner notes designed by the band, CDs similarly produced or burned onto CDrs on personal computers, and the t-shirts silk-screened or, just as often, silk-screened over existing shirts cheaply bought secondhand (see Appendix F).

8. With the exception of those individuals for who it was obvious (e.g. bar tenders and merchandise dealers), it was not possible to determine the statuses of many of the audience members in the mainstream venues using the methodology described in Chapter 2. Nonetheless, the comportment and behavior of such individuals was generally consistent with Fonarow’s (1997) observations and offered a stark contrast to individuals in the similar region of DIY spaces. Similarly, Fonarow’s observation that those who occupy these different zones occupy different statuses based on age, role, and relationship to the band, which they invoke discursively in an attempt to assert a higher rank of prestige or privilege than those in the other zones, could not be confirmed from observation. The respondents, moreover, overwhelmingly attended small mainstream venues or DIY spaces and did not mention such status plays.

9. While it was informative to note this lack of repercussions, later in the night I purchased records from the performing bands in the hopes of making up for the lost donation.

10. Indeed, on several occasions the equipment was mixed in the room with everyone else and presented something of a hazard. While thefts must happen on occasion, as noted in the previous chapter there seems to be a fairly strong cultural norm against this. This norm itself, regardless of the degree to which thefts actually occur, may explain the brazen placement of equipment and instruments in non-secure areas. It would have been a simple matter at any of these shows to move the equipment closer to the stage where it could be watched, but this was not the case. Leaving things in less secure areas might constitute a declaration of trust which, in and of itself, could be valued.

11. Again, the empty room portrayed in Figure 7.1 would have made for a workable backstage space. Other rooms in the house, too, could have been put to such use if this were a desired end.

336 12. Hall (1982) notes that “fixed,” “semi-fixed,” and “movable” are relative terms with regards to furniture. While some furniture (i.e. light, small) may be movable in practical terms, it may not be in cultural terms. For instance, moving such things in another’s home can be considered rude in a similar fashion as moving a chair in someone’s office without permission is rude.

13. A more precise measurement is not possible to obtain as many of these places do not actually allow patrons close to the stage, ringing it with barriers and security. Nonetheless, such stages often appear to be at “head level” or just below for many of those in attendance.

14. As a side note, it is interesting to point out that another common occurrence is for bands to not play in any particular order and, indeed, not to know beforehand what order they will play in. In the case discussed here, for example, no one seemed to know until the last minute who would go first or last, and the ultimate order of play did not reflect the order advertised on the show’s flyers. This seems to represent a similar disregard for status distinctions such as the superior “headlining” band and the inferior “opening” band.

15. The significance of off-centered stages must be considered considerably more tentative than the other findings here presented. First, no respondents commented on this particular feature as being important or not. Secondly, in some spaces, it is possible that a corner is simply more feasible than a centered position in small space. Thus, while this particular finding agrees with the rest of what is argued here and is consistent with architectural theory, and thus possesses a degree of criterion validity, it could not be corroborated through triangulation.

16. Contrary to the monofunctional spaces typically found in segmented social groups (Kent 1990), several respondents explicitly pointed out that using the same space for multiple tasks was quite desirable. For example, Mollie stated that “I think it would be cool to have a place that has another function during the day, if that wouldn’t be too complicated, like maybe a coffee bar or a bookstore or something like that.”

17. The researcher was wearing a chain wallet at the time of this observation which, apparently, was considered contraband and I was asked to surrender it. I asked how I would get it back and was told by the guard “You’re not getting it back tonight, man.” This ambiguity suggests that such seized items are more likely than not lost in perpetuity, but this cannot be stated definitively.

18. As a further illustration of the alienation inherent in mainstream venues, it is fruitful to consider how this applies to musical scenes other than punk. Kahn-Harris (2007) illustrates how in the extreme metal scene—which largely utilizes mainstream venues— an elitism flourishes among both venues and bands seeking status. The backstage region figures prominently as a zone off limits to those with out the proper status and Kahn-

337 Harris describes an incident where he was approached by a musician who had noticed that he had a backstage pass:

He wanted me to take two CDs and give them to the managers of two particular record labels. He then went on to complain, highly disgruntled and bewildered tones, about how difficult it was to promote the band and how alienated he felt from the backstage area. This incident raises questions about scenic infrastructure and divisions of capital[.] (2007: 60)

19. At the time this photograph was taken, a band was playing in the basement and all those in attendance were concentrated there. During breaks between bands, many people typically leave the basement either going upstairs or outside. The porch was the most convenient area to go to get fresh air or to smoke, but it was so small, as indicated in this figure, that it quickly became crowded. Rather exiting the porch, the majority stayed and conversed even though clearly many of them did not know each other.

20. In the show that took place under a bridge for example, the space was not bounded by any walls at all. While a band was playing the audience clumped closely together as indicated in Figure 7.9. In between bands, however, the crowd dispersed into small cliques that scatter across the nearby areas, only to regroup when the next band started. Minimal mixing between small groups was observed.

NOTES TO CHAPTER 8

1. Martin 2002 makes a similar argument for his New Age Travelers. Contemporary travelers, as opposed to earlier generations, generally resort to a nomadic existence as an adaptive response to poverty and homelessness—structural constraints which are equivalent to the grievances that, according to the CCCS, subculturalists mobilize in order to address. According to Martin:

Travelers may have posed a symbolic challenge that has largely failed yet, to couch it in the terms of the CCCS, they have won space and provided concrete solutions to their problems. By providing their own homes, for instance, the younger generation have solved the problem of being homeless or living in substandard accommodation. (2002 : 84)

2. Moreover, as a mobilizing agent or indigenous organization (McAdam 1982), it is certainly possible that punk could serve, and likely has served, as a launching point for more explicit social movements. Indeed, several of the respondents made similar statements, further suggesting that this possibility is worthy of additional investigation.

338

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APPENDIX A: RECRUITMENT POSTING

Let’s talk punk. I’m a graduate student in the Department of Sociology at The Ohio State University looking for people to talk to about punk rock and related music for a social research project. The project is aimed at better understanding the importance of music venues and live concerts in punk rock culture.

To thank you for your time and for sharing your thoughts, you will receive a $10 gift card. If you choose to participate, know that you can cease that participation at any time and still receive the gift card. I plan to ask you a number of in-depth questions regarding your experiences, past or present, with punk rock culture and music. I’ll ask about your ideas and experiences regarding punk itself, your personal opinions in general, your thoughts about music, and things of a similar nature. You may refuse to answer any of these questions for any reason at any time. Everything we talk about will be kept strictly confidential and your identity will remain anonymous.

If you have any questions about the study or are interested in participating, please feel free to email me at [email protected], or call me at (614) 841-0331. You can also contact my advisor, Professor Townsand Price-Spratlen, by email at price- [email protected], or by phone at (614) 292-5598.

360

APPENDIX B: INTERNET FORUMS USED IN RECRUITING PARTICIPANTS

1. Book Your Own Fuckin’ Life (http://byofl.org/) Once a print zine, this long-standing resource provides global information on bands, distributors, housing, labels, zines, venues, promoters, and so on. Users can post or find such information and comment on existing posts.

2. Infoshop.org (http://infoshop.org/) An “online resource of news, opinion, and information” regarding politics, activism, anarchism, and related interests.

3. Pop Punk Bored http://bored.knockknockrecords.com/) Web forum used primarily by fans of pop punk provided by Knock Knock Records, a pop punk record label that also provides CD duplication and printing services.

4. Profane Existence (http://www.profaneexistence.org/) An erratically published, Minneapolis-based zine by an anarchist punk collective of the same name, Profane Existence now exists as a record label and maintains a presence on the web where it offers news, interviews with bands, blogs, and a web forum.

5. Punk Planet (http://www.punkplanet.com/) Formerly a Chicago-based punk zine, now primarily a website although back issues of the zine and several books remain in print. The website provides blogs, forums, and reviews that appeal to a wide cross-section of punks.

6. Punk Rock Domestics (http://www.punkrockdomestics.com/) A relatively recent message board that appeals to those with an interest in the craft side of punk. As the home page describes it:

Feel more like a home wrecker than a home designer? Tired of 10,000 shows on the home and garden network that DON'T include decorating with spraypaint, or vegan recipes? Only know the names of flowers from your tattoo artist? Then you're in the right place. Never mind Martha Stewart, we're here to share recipes, decorating tips, even how to make your clothing better!!! (punkrockdomestics.com)

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Notes: One message board used for recruitment has been withheld to protect the identity of participants. Several boards were posted on which did not yield research participants:

Afro-Punk (http://community.afropunk.com/) Microcosm Publishing (http://microcosmpublishing.com/) Punk History Canada (http://www.punkhistorycanada.ca/portal/forum/index.php) Queer Control Records (http://www.queercontrol.com/)

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APPENDIX C: SAMPLE INTERVIEW DOMAINS AND QUESTIONS

I. Introduction and informed consent

II. Defining the subculture 1. What does ‘punk’ mean to you? 2. What is punk not? 3. Are there different types of punk?

(Possible probes: Why be a punk? How do people become punks?)

III. Participation in the Subculture 1. How have you participated in punk culture? For example, do/have you: A) listen to punk music? B) go to concerts? C) play in a band? D) write for a punk magazine/book? E) read punk magazines/books? F) promote/organize shows? G) built/managed a show venue? H) have punk friends?

(Possible probes: What other sorts of activities are important to you as a punk? Are there any activities that are inconsistent with punk identity?)

Note: Questions below apply as applicable to a given participant, based on answers given above.

IV. Punk music 1. What bands do you listen to? 2. Which bands are your favorite/least favorite? 3. What do you like/dislike about these bands?

(Possible probes: Do you think the lyrics are important? What kind of lyrics do you like/dislike? Is music important to the subculture? Why? Do you think it is possible to be a punk and not like punk rock?)

363 V. Going to concerts 1. Could you describe some of the concerts and the venues you’ve been to? 2. Where have you gone to concerts? 3. Have you been to a lot of concerts?

(Possible probes: What bands have you seen perform? What have been your favorite live concerts? Why? What sorts of things do people do at concerts? [e.g. dance, sing along, etc.])

VI Playing in a band 1. Could you describe the band(s) you’ve played in? 2. What was your role?

(Possible probes: Why did you want to play in a band? Did you ever play out to an audience? What were you favorite places to play? Why?)

VII. Music venues 1. What concert venues are your favorites? Which do punks seem to favor? 2. What sort of venues would never work for a punk show? Why? 3. Describe your ideal music venue. 4. Are there physical characteristics of punk venues that are important? 5. Are music venues important to the subculture? Why?

VIII. Magazines and books 1. What punk magazines do/have you enjoy(ed) reading? Why? 2. What are some popular punk magazines/books?

(Possible probes: Are magazines/books important to the subculture? Why? What sort of things do you enjoy reading about? What sort of things do you enjoy writing about?)

IX. Promoting concerts 1. How/why did you get into promoting concerts? 2. What sort of acts do/did you promote? 3. Did you pick specific venues to promote for? Why?

(Possible probes: Are some bands easier to promote than others? Is promotion important to the subculture?)

3. How did you plan what the physical structure would be like?

X. Running/building a venue 1. What were your experiences like running/building a music venue? 2. What were you trying to achieve?

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(Possible probes: Were their things you wish you could have done but didn’t? How might running/building a punk venue differ from another type of venue?)

XI. The role of the internet 1. What do you use it for? (e.g. email, shopping, etc.) 2. Do you use the internet much? 3. To what extent do you use the internet to communicate with other punks? 4. Do you feel the internet is a better medium than other methods of communication (e.g. magazines or “snail” mail)?

Note: Questions below apply to all participants

XII. Reflecting on the subculture 1. Generally speaking, how do you feel about the subculture? 2. What do you like best about it? 3. Are there things about the subculture that bother you? 4. Do you think the subculture is stronger now than it used to be?

(Possible probes: Do you think punk will continue for a long time? What keeps punk going after all these years? What, if any, are the major threats to punk subculture? Are there places/times you ever feel/felt uncomfortable being a punk? Why do you think people stop being punks in general? Do you think you’ll continue to be a punk for a long time? Why did you stop being a punk?)

XIII. Politics 1. What are your political beliefs? 2. Have you ever participated in any political activities? 3. Have you ever observed political messages at a punk show? 4. What sort of messages were they?

(Possible probes: What were your politics like before you became a punk? Do you think being a punk influences people’s politics? Are politics an important part of being a punk? If you could change society in any way, what changes if any would you make?)

XIV. Religion 1. What does it mean to be religious? 2. How does religion interrelate with being a punk? 3. Are you religious?

XV. Referrals 1. Do you know anyone that might be interested in participating in this study? 2. Would you mind introducing me?

365 XVI. Basic information 1. Pseudonym/random code 2. Date/time of interview 3. Sex 4. Age 6. Race/ethnicity 7. Occupation 8. Education

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APPENDIX D: OVERVIEW OF OBSERVED MUSIC SPACES

A. Institutional DIY Spaces (n = 6)

1. A well-established basement in a rented house in Ohio. The space has existed for many years, with various combinations of tenants moving in and moving out. The space dependably hosts shows, often more than once per week. (observed twice) 2. Another music space in the basement of a rented house in Ohio. Not as long lived as the space above, A1, but it has still existed for several years. Tenants, again, move in and out, but for a period of about a year no one occupied the house and shows ceased. Today, the space hosts shows on a fairly regular basis. (observed once) 3. A rented house in Upstate New York. Uncertain how long it has operated as a show space. Shows are hosted in the living room. 4. A rented house in Upstate New York that operated has operated for several years. Hosts shows fairly regularly in the basement. (observed twice). 5. A storefront in space in Ohio. One half of the space is used as an art gallery, the other half as a show space. The space operates extremely informally and does not sell anything (e.g. drinks, etc.). (observed twice) 6. A music recording studio, now defunct, that was unofficially used to host shows for several years until problems with the landlord ended this practice. (observed twice)

B. Marginal DIY Spaces (n = 5)

1. A single-room building in a public park in Upstate New York. The building is normally rented out for picnics, parties, etc. On occasion, it is also rented out by punks to host shows in. (observed twice) 2. Another rented building in a public park. This building, however, has two rooms and bathrooms. It was only used once during the course of this study. (observed once). 3. A small building in Upstate New York, rented for a night from the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW). Again, this space seems to only have been used for shows once during the course of the study. (Observed once).

367 4. An area under a four-lane bridge in Ohio with paved, park path cutting through it. Several bridges in this area seem to be put to occasional use as temporary show spaces. If such shows are not acoustic, a generator is employed. (observed once).

5. A rented room of a church in Ohio. Again, this space seems to have only been used once during the course of the research. (observed once)

C. Marginal Mainstream Spaces (n = 5)

1. A bar in Ohio that doubles as a café. Regularly hosts shows of a variety of music types. Approximately every two weeks there is a show here that is advertised as of interest on punk forums. (observed twice) 2. A small, basement bar and restaurant in Ohio. The bar occupies half of the basement and is also where shows are held while the other half is a restaurant. According to some of the interviewees, this bar was originally owned by someone in, or closely related to, the subculture. Today the bar hosts a variety of acts and occasionally hosts shows that are advertised as being of interest on punk forums. (observed twice) 3. A small café/bar in Ohio. Regularly hosts shows, but usually of a softer variety (e.g. folk, jazz, etc.). On occasion hosts shows advertised as being of interest on punk forums. (observed twice) 4. A small bar/restaurant in Ohio. Regularly hosts shows, occasionally advertised as being of interest on punk forums. (observed twice) 5. A now defunct bar in Ohio that regularly hosted shows of a variety of music types, some of which are classifiable as punk. This venue replaced an earlier one that was much more closely tied to the subculture. (visited once)

D. Institutional Mainstream Spaces (n = 4)

1. A large music hall in Ohio. Hosts several shows of a variety of popular—often nationally known—acts per week. On rare occasion, hosts more popular punk acts. (observed twice) 2. A large music hall in Upstate New York. Hosts several shows per week—often fairly popular national acts. Sometimes hosts more popular punk acts. (Observed once) 3. A medium-sized music hall in Upstate New York. Hosts several shows per week, often of interest to a particular subculture (e.g. metal, gothic, punk). Does not generally host nationally known acts. (observed once) 4. A medium sized music hall in Ohio. Hosts several shows per week. Similar to D3, these are generally of interest to a particular subculture and are not generally the largest, national acts. (observed twice)

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APPENDIX E: TEXTS ANALYZED

1. Commercial, Printed Texts (n = 18)

Banks, Abbie. 2007. Punk House. New York: Abrams Image.

Bey, Hakim. 1991. T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism. Brooklyn, NY: Autonomia.

Craig-ums 2002. “What Happens Next? goes to Brazil! A Tour Diary.” Maximumrocknroll (Nov) #234. No pagination.

David. 2002. “The Emergence of the Black Bloc and the Movement Towards Anarchism.” Pp.12-41 in David and X (eds.), The Black Bloc Papers: An Anthology of Primary Texts from the North American Anarchist Black Bloc, 1999-2001. Baltimore, MD: Black Clover Press.

Deville, Chris. 2009. “Sensory Overload: Under the Bridge.” Alive! May 28: 55.

Edge, Brian. (ed). 2004. 924 Gilman. San Francisco, CA: Maximumrocknroll.

Findlen, Timothy. 2007. “Punk House, USA.” Pp.10-13 in Abbie Banks, Punk House. New York: Abrams Image.

Fox, John (ed.). 2008. “Best Punk House.” City Beat, March 26 (Best of Cincinnati Supplement): 72.

Generic, Juls. 2009. “Stupid Attempts No Conclusions.” [no pagination] in Maximumrocknroll #311.

Hurchalla, George. 2006. Going Underground: American Punk 1979-1992. Stuart, FL: Zuo.

McConnell, Kitty. 2007. “The Sound Underground.” The Other Paper. August 16: 13-14.

McNaughton, Allan. 2009. “There’s a Democrat in the White House, so let’s party like it’s 1995…” [no pagination] in Maximumrocknroll #311. 369

Moore, Thurston. 2007. “Punks are Good People.” Pp.6-9 in Abbie Banks, Punk House. New York: Abrams Image.

Ninjalicious. 2005. Access all Areas: A User’s Guide to the Art of Urban Exploration. Toronto: Infiltration.

O’Hara, Craig. 1999. The Philosophy of Punk: More than Noise!. San Franciso: AK Press.

Ransom, Erica. 2002. “Ransom Note$.” Maximumrocknroll (Nov) #234. No pagination.

Rollins, Henry. 1994. Get in the Van: On the Road with Black Flag. Los Angeles: 2.13.61.

Williams, Devon. 2007. “Multi-Purpose Communal Space is the Place: A Conversation on D.I.Y. All-Ages Music and Art Spaces.” Skyscraper 23:62-5.

2. Noncommercial, Printed Texts (n = 18)

Anonymous. n.d.(d). The Door was Never Locked #3. [no publisher]. PO Box 4964, Louisville, KY 40204-0964.

Anonymous. n.d.(e). Squat the State. [no publisher]. [no contact information].

Anonymous. n.d.(f). Do it Yourself. Classifieds. Overground Distribution, PO Box 1661, Pensacola, FL 32591-1661.

Anonymous n.d.(g). Don’t Vote: It Only Encourages Them! Downward Mobility Press. PO Box 961, Lake Worth, FL 33460.

Anonymous n.d.(h). The Ghetto Garden: DIY Country Livin’. PO Box 344. Boone, NC 28607.

Anonymous. 2001. Evasion. Atlanta, GA: CrimethInc.

Anonymous. 2002. Mishap #13 ½: Chaos vs. Cthulhu: Anarcho-Punk Cthulhu Mythos. Mayhap Publishing, PO Box 5841, Eugene, OR 97405.

Banks, Robin. 2000. The Hardcore/Punk Guide to Christianity. [no publisher]. PO Box 4964, Louisville, KY 40204-0964.

370 CrimethInc. 2000. Days of War, Nights of Love. [no publisher information]. 2695 Rangewood Dr., Atlanta, GA 30245.

Dave. 2001. Dumpsterland. PO Box 267873, Chicago, IL 60626-7873.

Jesse and Ryan. 2003. Brains #1. [no address]. [email protected]

Larson, Christine Boarts. 2005. Slug and Lettuce #83. PO Box 26632, Richmond, VA 23261-6632.

Novotny, Mark. n.d. Shazzbutt! #4: The Travel Issue. 5413 6th Ave. Countryside, IL 60525. roth, mike q. n.d. “The Mr. Roboto Project: building punk community: the tale of mr. roboto.” [no pagination] in Here be Dragons: A Political Fanzine. [no publisher]. PO Box 8131, Pittsburgh, PA 15217.

Taylor. 2002. Sore #14. PO Box 68711., Virginia Beach, VA 23471.

Urban Pirates. n.d. “How to” Guide. [no publisher]. 201 N. Cedar St., Greensboro, NC 27401.

wrekk, alex. n.d. Stolen Sharpie Revolution: A DIY Resource Zine. [no publisher]. PO Box 14332, Portland, Oregon 97293.

Zara. n.d. 949 Market. [no publisher]. 3288 21 St. PMB #79, San Francisco, CA 94110.

3. Internet-based Texts (n = 18)

Anonymous. n.d.(a). “The Brycc House.” http://history.louisvillehardcore.com/index/php?title=The_Brycc_House Accessed December 12, 2008.

Anonymous. n.d.(b). “ABC No Rio.” http//www.abcnorio.org. Accessed December 13, 2008.

Anonymous. n.d.(c). “The Roboto Project.” http//www.therobotoproject.org. Accessed December 13, 2008.

Anonymous. n.d.(i). “Punk New Frequently Asked Questions.” http://www.punknews.org/faqs/general. Accessed January 15, 2009.

371 Anonymous. n.d.(j). “You Are So Not Scene: The Fall of Emo as We (Don’t) Knot It.” http://www.pastepunk.com/columuns.php?v=157). Accessed August 3, 2008.

Anonymous. 2009. “Bombsite Fanzine: Punks Not Dead.” http://whycontrol1977.blogspot/2009/05/bombsite-fanzine-punks-not-dead.html Accessed May 2, 2009.

Buncle, Ross. n.d. “The Orphans Story.” http://www.perthpunk.com/orphans_story.htm Accessed June 14, 2008.

Chong, Kevin. 2006. “The Thrill is Gone.” http://www.cbc.ca/arts/music/guitarsolos.html. Accessed June 14, 2009.

David. 2009. “Punk Rock and the Bush Presidency.” http://apunkrockblog.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html. Accessed May 11, 2009.

Ginowt, Richard. 2003. “Remember the Outhouse.” Lawrence.com. Accessed August 6, 2008.

Livermore, Larry. 2009. “Green Day and Wal-mart: ’There’s Nothing Dirty About Our Record.’” http://larrylivermore.blogspot.com. Accessed May 2, 2009.

Miller, Earl. 2005. “File Under Anarchy: A Brief History of Punk Rock’s 30-Year Relationship with Toronto’s Art Press.” http://www.accessmy.com/coms2. Accessed June 14 2008.

Van Dorston, A.S. 1990. A History of Punk. http://www.fastnbulbous.com. Accessed March 2009.

Various. n.d. (a). Book Your Own Fuckin’ Life. http://byofl.org. [search results for promoters and venues]. April 27, 2009.

Various. n.d. (b). Book Your Own Fuckin’ Life. http://byofl.org. [search results for bands]. April 27, 2009.

Various. n.d. (c) “Punk Subculture.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punk_Subculture. Accessed November 30, 2008.

Various. 2005 – 2009. “What to Wear to a Punk Show?” [forum discussion]. http://ask.metafiler.com/25524/What-to-wear-to-a-punk-show. Accessed October 14, 2008.

372 Various. 2007 – 2009. “Where is the Community?” [forum discussion]. http://columbusdiy.freeforums.org/where-is-the-community-t344.html. Accessed May 27, 2009.

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APPENDIX F: A MODIFIED T-SHIRT

374

Note: The band’s name is inserted at the bottom along with added profiles flanking the original t-shirt illustration 375