FINDING SPACE, MAKING PLACE: UNDERSTANDING THE IMPORTANCE OF SOCIAL SPACE TO LOCAL PUNK COMMUNITIES
A Dissertation Submitted to the Committee on Graduate Studies in Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Faculty of Arts and Sciences
TRENT UNIVERSITY
Peterborough, Ontario, Canada
(c) Copyright by Katie Victoria Green 2018
Cultural Studies PhD Graduate Program
September 2018 ABSTRACT
Finding Space, Making Place: Understanding the Importance of Social Space to Local Punk Communities
Katie Victoria Green
Independent music venues are important hubs of social activity and cultural production around which local punk scenes are both physically and conceptually organized. Through interactions with participants over extended periods of time, these spaces become meaningful places that are imbued with the energy, history and memories of local music scenes. When a venue is shut down, local punk scenes experience a temporary disruption as participants struggle to begin the process of re-establishing a new autonomous social space free from outsider interference. Therefore, moving from the local, to the national, to the international, from the small and personal to the vast and global, as well as from the physical to the virtual, this dissertation illustrates the actual, everyday practices of local scenes across Canada, addressing the larger issue of the loss of alternative music venues occurring on a global scale and the resulting impact on punk scene participants. Through the use of ethnographic research methods such as participant observation, photographic documentation, interviews and surveys, this dissertation engages with contemporary punk scene participants in order to give voice to those often ignored in grand narratives of punk history. As such, traditional concepts of punk as a utopic countercultural space are challenged to reveal the complexity and diversity that exists within contemporary local punk scenes, where participants often experience equal amounts of cooperation, competition, tension and struggle. By choosing to engage with contemporary experiences and interpretations of punk culture, this research addresses the
ii changing landscape of local scenes, as punk participants attempt to carve out spaces of representation for themselves in an exceedingly mediated world.
Keywords: punk, music venues, social space, subculture, scene, community, Canada
iii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to extend my deepest respect and gratitude to Dr. Alan O’Connor whose work inspired my initial application to Trent University’s Cultural Studies
Doctoral program, and whose continued support and guidance as my primary advisor was an invaluable asset to the completion of this dissertation.
This project would also not be what it is without the help of my advisory committee, Dr. Hugh Hodges and Dr. Michael Epp. In times when I needed it most, they gave me a push (sometimes a shove) in the right direction, and when it seemed like the end would never come, provided me with the confidence to continue. Thank you.
Thank you as well to Dr. Andrew Loeb of Trent University and Dr. Jeffrey
Debies-Carl of the University of New Haven who agreed to be part of my examination committee and whose enthusiasm added an extra level of insight into my work.
I must also express my sincere thanks and appreciation to the faculty and staff of
Trent’s Cultural Studies Department, particularly Dr. Jonathan Bordo, Dr. Liam Mitchell and Dr. Joshua Synenko, who all took the time to meet with me, offer support and discuss ideas. Thank you as well to Catherine, whose door was always open and who went above and beyond to keep all of us as organized as possible.
I never would have expected that undergoing a Ph.D. would result in finding some of the dearest friends of my adult life so far. To my friends and colleagues at Trent
- Laura Thursby, Janelle, Amy Jane, Anhiti, Jane, Moritz, David, Corey, Alison,
Nooshin, Troy, Laura Greenwood, Laurence, Eric and so many others - I will never be
iv able to thank you enough for the years of laughter, silliness, love and support. You are the literal best.
A very special thank you goes out to Dave Tobey and his staff at The Spill,
Wayne Kennedy, the Safe Amplification Site Society and all those who participated in interviews and surveys. From Peterborough to Vancouver and everywhere in between, I hope I have represented your scenes with as much honesty, respect and vibrancy as they are lived.
To Mum and Dad, Michael, Jodi, Matt and family: Through all the ups and downs, the triumphs and set backs, the laugher and tears and the excessive amount of swearing that occurred throughout this entire process – through absolutely everything, you were there. I love you all. Thanks for loving me too.
And thank you with love to Greg for his patience, encouragement and friendship.
You make every day an adventure and I can’t wait for us to hit the road together again.
Over the past six years, an innumerable number of friends, family and colleagues deserve acknowledgement for the role they have played in my life so far. If I have forgotten to include you specifically, please accept my apology and know that you are very much loved and appreciated.
Finally, I would like to dedicate this dissertation to the memories of Todd Serious and Angi Orchard. Gone but never forgotten, you live on through your beautiful memories and your music. Rest in Power, my friends.
The pain of being around for such a short time. The immortality you seek from being part of something more.
v
- ‘Bring ‘Em In’ by The Rebel Spell (2005)
vi
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Abstract ii
Acknowledgements iv
Table of Contents vi
List of Figures ix
List of Tables xi
Introduction: Why music venues? 1
1.1 Subcultures and Scenes 3
1.2 Space and Place 8
1.4 Methodology 14
1.5 Organization of Chapters 21
Chapter 1: ‘It ain't a sleepy little town’: Building and maintaining a punk rock scene in Peterborough, Ontario 25
2.1 Inside The Spill 29
2.1.1 Spatial adaptability and manipulation 34
2.1.2 Physical and social organization 39
2.2 The Peterborough scene: Cooperation, competition, tension and struggle 52
2.6 Case study: The rise and fall of the $2 Punk Shows 64
2.6.1 Audience survey 65
2.6.2 Material and physical analysis 69
2.6.3 Social dynamics: Elements of cooperation 71
2.6.4 Controversies: Tension and struggle 73
vi 2.7 Conclusion: What happens next? 76
Chapter 2: Finding a ‘home for the hardcore’: Spatial tactics of constructing punk social space in Vancouver, British Columbia 87
3.2 Interviews and survey findings 91
3.3 Locating punk in Vancouver, B.C. 95
3.4 Disruption and loss of social spaces: The Cobalt Hotel 100
3.5 Hidden in plain sight: Illegal and underground venues 108
3.6 Do-it-together: Legal strategies of rebuilding space 113
3.7 Conclusion: Having fun in ‘No Fun City’ 121
Chapter 3: ‘Why ever leave the house?’: Defending the importance of independent music venues in a post-internet era 127
4.1 Mediated spaces: An overview of punk’s relationship with technology 132
4.1.2 Xerography: Flyers and fanzines 135
4.1.3 Telecommunications: Toronto’s Hardcore Hotline 140
4.1.4 The Internet: Facebook and Bandcamp 148
4.2 Collapsing the boundary between online and offline: Pouzza Fest as a mediated punk space 160
4.3 Online surveillance and DIY spaces: Exploring the aftermath of Oakland’s Ghost Ship fire 170
4.4 A (virtual) space for (physical) place 178
Conclusion: Reflections and Next Steps 184
5.1 Challenges and limitations 186
5.2 Areas for future research 188
5.3 Final thoughts 193
References 196
vii Appendix A – Interview Information and Consent Package 209
Appendix B – Interview Participant Survey 213
Appendix C – The Spill Audience Survey 215
Appendix D – Copyright Material Permission 220
viii LIST OF FIGURES
CHAPTER ONE
Figure 2.1 Smashed Guitar, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 31
Figure 2.2 High Tops Neon Sign, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 33
Figure 2.3 The Spill Floor Plan (Triangle of Surveillance) 37
Figure 2.4 Bathroom Graffiti, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 38
Figure 2.5 The Spill Floor Plan (Micro-Zones) 41
Figure 2.6 Zone 1, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 42
Figure 2.7 Zone 2, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 44
Figure 2.8 Zone 3, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 46
Figure 2.9 Zone 4, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 48
Figure 2.10 Zone 5, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON 49
Figure 2.11 Zone 6, The Spill (Exterior), Peterborough ON 51
Figure 2.12 Lamp Post, Peterborough ON 60
Figure 2.13 Community Event Board, Peterborough ON 61
Figure 2.14 The Spill (Exterior) After Closure, Peterborough ON 77
Figure 2.15 The Spill Tribute Show Ticket 78
Figure 2.16 Assorted Flyers at The Spill (After Closure), Peterborough ON 81
Figure 2.17 The Spill (Interior) After Closure, Peterborough ON 83
CHAPTER TWO
Figure 3.1 Granville Street, Vancouver BC 97
Figure 3.2 East Hastings Street, Vancouver BC 98
Figure 3.3 The Cobalt Motor Hotel (Exterior) circa 2009, Vancouver BC 100
Figure 3.4 The Cobalt Motor Hotel (Exterior) circa 2017, Vancouver BC 101
ix Figure 3.5 Astorino’s (Interior), Vancouver BC 116
CHAPTER THREE
Figure 4.1 Live Facebook Stream, Programme Skate and Sound, Fullerton CA 128
Figure 4.2 Show Flyers 135
Figure 4.3 Map of Montreal Showing Pouzza Locations 163
Figure 4.4 Pouzza Fest iPhone App Interface 164
x LIST OF TABLES
INTRODUCTION
Table 1.1 Interview Participant Survey Results (Demographics) 17-18
Table 1.2 Interview Participant Survey Results (Activities) 19
Table 1.3 Interview Participant Survey Results (Venues) 20
CHAPTER ONE
Table 2.1 The Spill Audience Survey Result (Demographics) 66-67
Table 2.2 The Spill Audience Survey Results (Reasons for Attendance) 69
Table 2.3 The Spill Audience Survey Results (Safety and Responsibility) 75
xi 1
Introduction: Why music venues?
This is our future. For culture, for music, for attitudes about getting together and making things happen. The kids need a place to make that happen. […] Have you ever been to a place where there are no music venues? […] People need common spaces where they can get together and have […] fellowship. It’s needed. (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview)
This is a project about spaces. Namely, punk spaces where live music fills the room, woven around bodies clustered together in dance and conversation, its high-pitched feedback and low bass lines seeming to permeate every physical surface. This is also a project about the relationship that is formed between music venues and participants in local punk scenes, whose presence transforms such spaces into sites where meaningful experiences are solidified; that is, where cultural histories are made tangible and legitimized through their association with specific physical locations (Campbell 2013:
185).
Punk participants rely on a variety of independent physical spaces in which they can develop social relationships, create and distribute cultural products such as zines, music and art, and actively contribute to the on-going maintenance of their local scene.
For instance, college radio stations,1 which have a long history of DIY involvement in support of independent music scenes beyond that of punk, distinguish themselves from commercial radio through the promotion of independent record labels and artists, particularly those who perform ‘marginalized and at times challenging musical styles’
(Rubin 2015: 50), and regularly feature interviews and in-studio performances with independent punk musicians. In this example, the lines of connection between multiple nodes in the network of a local punk scene are clearly defined and maintained through the continued interaction with participants. 2
This analysis focuses on independent and DIY music venues because they are the main centres of activity for contemporary punk scenes. Unlike record labels or radio stations, music venues are not privileged sites where access is limited to skilled or formally-trained individuals. Within music venues, research can be conducted that reaches all levels of a scene’s social network, as they are sites where anyone, from band members to promoters to audience members, come to hang out and gain first-hand experience of their local punk scene. Previously, a case could be made for positioning record stores as the central meeting place for punk scene participants. This is not meant to diminish the importance of record stores for independent and alternative music scenes.
Vinyl record sales have been on a steady rise for at least the past ten years, resulting in the re-opening of vinyl pressing factories and independent record stores, and certainly record collectors and aficionados still make use of these spaces as integral sites of socialization. Yet, the central position these spaces once held within the context of contemporary local punk scenes has been compromised by the availability of vinyl records online, as well as the fact that participants can easily pick up records directly from bands at merch tables set up during live shows. In an era where everyday life is becoming increasingly mediated, physical music venues remain important hubs for the demonstration and proliferation of punk culture.
A punk scene’s reputation becomes defined not only by the vibrancy of its cultural products or the hospitality of its participants, but by the accessibility of its independent music venues that act as hubs of activity linking scenes together across vast geographical distances, like stars in a constellation. Music scenes need physical venues in order for participants to construct a coherent and organized social network. When independent music venues are shut down, punk scenes experience a disruption in their 3 social networks, where shared histories tied to physical spaces are lost and the continuation of cultural productions is threatened. Therefore, this project attempts to illustrate the importance of independent music venues to local punk scenes, championing such sites as legitimate spaces of cultural significance worthy of academic inquiry.
By focusing on contemporary punk scenes, this project aims to draw attention to the current state of punk culture and the actual, everyday activities and experiences of its participants. The first generation of punk rockers could hardly anticipate that the culture they participated in, built on excess, shock, self-destruction and nihilism, would gain such momentum. Future generations on an international scale established local punk scenes in a variety of locales, reimagining the culture to suit the needs of their current historical period. Over six years, data for this project was collected through ethnographic methods in order to illustrate the experiences of punk scene participants in their own words. Through attending events, sitting down for interviews, conducting surveys and travelling to multiple types of music venues in Canada, the United States and Mexico, the diversity that exists amongst punk scene participants emerged, challenging traditional concepts of punk which characterize it as a homogenous counterculture working on the outskirts of normative society. Instead, contemporary punk scenes are sites of cooperation and contention, where a variety of individuals actively work to maintain meaningful, permanent space for themselves amidst larger regulatory structures found within larger urban neighbourhoods (Straw 2002: 245).
Subcultures and Scenes
‘Subculture’ was a term first popularized by theorists at the Centre for 4
Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS) at Birmingham in studies on youth style and then later with post-CCCS work on the collective appropriation and use of music. Theorists working at the CCCS were primarily interested in studying what they referred to as tightly formed subcultures; that is, groups of youth who could be easily distinguished from their parent culture through their distinct visual style. Such groups would include
Teddy Boys, Mods, Rockers and Skinheads and eventually Punks. For Neo-Marxist theorists of the early 1970s, subcultural members were characterized as primarily lower to middle-class youth who used their subculture to construct identities for themselves that resisted those dictated by class, education, and occupation (Baron 1989: 208). However, work conducted by CCCS theorists has been criticized because of its over-emphasis on the importance of style and the implied inflexibility of the term ‘subculture’ as a labelling term for such groups (Bennett 1999: 603). To describe a local, national or global music- based community as a subculture assumes a degree of uniformity in terms of participants and their experiences, understandings and interpretations of the communities in which they interact. In other words, to describe the activities of local punks as a ‘subculture’ homogenizes an otherwise highly diverse culture that consists of a variety of micro- communities existing within an interconnected network of people and places.
In the words of Dick Hebdige, ‘the meaning of subculture is [...] always in dispute’ (1979: 3), and that is still the case in contemporary subcultural studies. An engaging academic debate has emerged over the use of ‘subculture’ as a label for music- based communities, with multiple theorists offering alternatives. Andy Bennett offers
‘neo-tribe’ as one possible alternative, which he argues acknowledges that there is no fixed relationship between an individual's class background and their musical taste or style, thus resisting the homogenization that subculture implies (1999: 605). David 5
Hesmondhalgh, while agreeing that ‘subculture’ requires revision, disagrees with Bennett that ‘neo-tribe’ completely resists the same sense of fixity (2005: 24). Moreover,
Hesmondhalgh finds that Will Straw’s offering of the term ‘scene’ is also not a suitable alternative, arguing that it is too ambiguous and could refer to an area as large as a city or as small as a neighbourhood (2005: 29), an issue that Straw himself acknowledged in his own writing (2002: 248). However, what Hesmondhalgh sees as ambiguity is, in actuality, the inherent adaptability and flexibility of ‘scene’, which offers far more possibilities for researchers in areas of subcultural studies, popular music studies and beyond, opening up such fields to new positions and areas of scientific interest.
Working from Barry Shank’s (1994) notion of scenes as ‘the relationship between different musical practices unfolding within a given geographical space’ (Straw 1991:
373), Straw utilized the term in his analysis of nightclubs and dance scenes, acknowledging its ability to ‘disengage phenomena from the more fixed and theoretically troubled unities of class or subculture, as well as invoke the more intimate aspects of community and the fluidity of urban life’ (2002: 248). In this sense, scenes move beyond mere musical affiliation or style, to a group of individuals with diverse backgrounds who play multiple roles in order to actively contribute to their local culture. For Straw, music scenes are distinct from older notions of musical communities, arguing that while the latter suggests a unified group preoccupied with an ongoing involvement with one or more musical styles, scenes are ‘cultural space[s] in which a range of musical practices coexist [...]’ (1991: 373). For Straw, flexibility of ‘scene’ that scholars such as
Hesmondhalgh have found to be problematic is in fact ‘the source of its generative power’ (2015: 477), and researchers internationally have adopted the term in investigations of their particular local music communities. While others have found the 6 unboundedness of ‘scene’ as unhelpful for developing a strong cultural analysis, this loose framework has been liberating for developing a project that attempts to deal with a culture that is interpreted and described by participants in a multitude of different ways
(Straw 2001: 250).
Straw would eventually grow disenchanted with the concept, stating that ‘the decline of music stores, music magazines and other “institutions” of music’ have changed what it means to engage with music-based communities (Straw, cited in Janotti Júnior
2012: 7). Moreover, Straw believes that the proliferation and popularity of Internet-based culture has resulted in music being ‘less important in peoples’ lives’ resulting in declining participation in local music scenes (Straw, cited in Janotti Júnior 2012: 7).
However, I would argue that music scenes continually experience cycles of growth and decline, and that changes in physical infrastructure or technological innovations may temporarily disrupt scene activities, but do not conclusively point to a permanent decline in interest or importance in the lives of participants. As evidenced by engagement with scene participants during field work for this project, ‘scene’ still resonates meaning its emphasis on the role of physical place1 continues to make it a useful term for an analysis of alternative music venues.
Ondřej Císař and Martin Koubek, in their study of a local hardcore/punk scene located in Brno, Czech Republic, define ‘scene’ in a similar vein as Straw, describing it as:
[...] the space of a specific (often urban) location formed by social networks of interacting individuals and groups with multilayered, but overlapping identity. There is a complex interplay of interpretations that help to construct a scene's
1 In his work, Straw acknowledged the relationship of the activities associated with scenes (i.e. public activities such as eating, drinking, dancing, and conversation) as being enclosed in the physical infrastructure of a city (2001: 247). In addition, Straw wrote that scenes allow for a mapping of ‘the city’s social regions and their interconnection’ (2001: 250). 7
identity. The meaning of a scene is always the temporary result of endless conversations taking place within the collective and between its segments and other spheres of society. (2012: 6)
Císař and Koubek's conception of ‘scene’ directly contrasts the fixed rigidity and formalism of ‘subculture’. This characterization of local punk scenes as diverse communities connected to an ever-changing network of people and places is echoed in
Shank's record of the Austin music scene, in which he describes it as a ‘constellation of divergent interests and forces’ (1994: x). Under these terms, local music scenes emerge as endless, fluid conversations and negotiations between people located within a specific geographic location.
The life of a local punk scene is cyclical, as the movement of people in and out of the scene resorts in periods of high and low activity. The continued interaction of people and physical locations is relied upon for a scene's continued growth and existence. A scene cannot solely depend on the talent of its musicians, just as it cannot survive without an audience to hear them or a venue in which to house them (Byrne 2012: 252). This reciprocal relationship between people and place underlies the concept of ‘scene’ described by Alan O’Connor, who argues that music scenes are not naturally occurring networks, but must be established and maintained by an active community of individuals:
The term ‘scene’ is used here in the same way it is used by punks. A scene is something that takes work to create. It requires local bands that need places to live, practice spaces and venues to play. To do this within the punk ethic of lowcost and preferably all-ages shows requires hard work, ingenuity and local contacts. A scene also needs infrastructure such as record stores, recording studios, independent labels, fanzines and ideally a non-profit-making community space. (2002: 233)
Unlike Bennett's ‘neo-tribe’, O'Connor opts for the term ‘scene’ in an effort to make use of language used by actual participants in the cultures he observes, thereby moving punk from a fixed, theoretical position to an active, real world experience. An emphasis on 8 practice and struggle emphasizes the importance of the everyday lived experiences of punk scene participants while acknowledging the fact that scenes arise out of a reciprocal relationship between people and place.
Space and Place
Physical spaces are engaged in a reciprocal relationship with the individuals who occupy them. In order to understand how each element affects the other, the work of
Pierre Bourdieu is helpful as a starting point. His analysis includes aspects of both the physical and symbolic dimensions of particular social spaces. Although Bourdieu's focus is on a domestic rather than a commercial space, his analysis of the Kabyle house (1979) in particular demonstrates that through continued use of a space over a long period of time, physical locations can give insight on the organization and culture of a particular group of people. As Bourdieu guides the reader through a floor plan of the house’s interior, he considers not just the practical physical dimensions (i.e. walls, location of doors, etc.) of the space, but the location and organization of decorative items and tools
(i.e. farming implements, and jars of dried veggies, figs and grains; items that can potentially move about the space but speak to how that space is used and what activities take place within it), as well as areas that are reserved for certain members of the household or animals.
For Bourdieu, the interior of the house is divided into a series of micro-zones of binary oppositions (i.e. inside/outside, east/west, dark/light, and female/male). Within the
Kabyle house, meanings were created not only on a ‘theoretical, disembodied structure of difference’, but by the individuals who occupied the space through their everyday actions 9 and use of the space itself (Lane 2000: 98). In other words, although the Kabyle house generated meaning through structuring oppositions of difference, these meanings were dependent on the particular individual occupying the space who brought with them their own social and cultural perspective (Lane 2000: 97). A music venue can become imbued with meaning over time through the movement and activity of local scene participants and these meanings can be discerned through an analysis of the physical dimensions of the space in question, as well as through observation of and interaction with scene participants themselves in order to reveal shifts in cultural perspectives in a given historical period.
Dick Hebdige's Subculture: The Meaning of Style (1979) is a classic example of the type of theory being produced through the CCCS, as it is a seminal work in the study of punk fashion and style that draws connections between music scenes of Jamaica, Great
Britain and America. Hebdige pays little regard to the agency of individuals, thereby rendering bodies in space as merely spectacles, or ‘site[s] of sartorial display’ (Driver and
Bennett 2015: 103). Equally, little attention is paid to the role of music venues in the eyes of participants at a time when punk was just emerging as an underground movement.
Throughout his account of the evolution of British punk culture, Hebdige only briefly mentions specific locations within London where punks socialized, including clothing stores and music venues. For example, in describing the Four Aces and Seven Sisters
Road clubs in North London, Hebdige notes that:
[…] an exclusively black audience would ‘stare down’ Babylon, carried along on a thunderous bass-line, transported on 1000 watts. Power was at home here - just beyond the finger tips. It hung on the air - invisible, electric - channelled through a battery of home-made speakers. (1979: 38-39)
Through this poetic imagery, Hebdige manages to unexpectedly capture the shift in energy that occurs when both music and bodies combine within a specific physical 10 location. However, he stops short of actively analyzing the inter-dependent relationship between bodies and space. Since Hebdige’s focus remains primarily on subcultural fashion and style, these locations are rendered as secondary characters in the long history of Britain's underground music scenes, and the role and importance of venues is only alluded to, rather than dealt with directly.
More recently, academics have gradually begun to acknowledge the central role physical space plays in the lives of punk scene participants. In Punk Rock and the Politics of Place: Building a Better Tomorrow (2014), author Jeffery S. Debies-Carl argues that the larger field of research in subcultural studies in general requires a shift in focus from subcultural style to physical space. While fashion often serves as an initial introduction to punk, a more direct link can be made between the physical venues punks inhabit and the social structure, interests and characteristics of the group as a whole. Following Henri
Lefebvre's (1991) notion that every social group requires its own unique physical space in which to socialize and enact their own customs, habits and traditions, Debies-Carl notes that the connection ‘between punk space and culture is not merely symbolic posturing, but one of physical interconnectedness’ (2014: 245-7). In other words, scene participants develop a close relationship with the physical spaces they occupy, building new locations or reclaiming old ones in order to tangibly create room for themselves within the already-existing built environment of the cities they live in. Therefore, social spaces (specifically, music venues) should be pinpointed as the new locus of action for local punk scene participants (Debies-Carl 2014: 96).
In categorizing different categorizations of punk spaces, Debies-Carl utilizes a four-part typology developed from the types of show spaces differentiated by interview participants, punk texts and first-hand observation (2014: 134). The four categories are 11 situated along an x-axis, measuring a venue's mode of operation (Mainstream vs. DIY), and a more subjective y-axis that measures the stability of a venue over time, as well as its importance to a specific scene (Institutional/Central vs. Marginal). Based upon this typology, The Spill (discussed in Chapter One) could be categorized as a ‘marginal mainstream venue’, because as a business its interests are largely economic, and its level of importance is relative to the small community of people that regularly utilize the space. In terms of supporting a local music scene, Debies-Carl argues that marginal mainstream venues are ideal because despite their commercial interests, their operators are often ‘culturally closer to punk’, and they provide a level of stability that DIY spaces lack (2014: 245-246).
In past studies on punk culture, the lack of attention paid to the physical spaces that punks inhabit demonstrates a general assumption that music venues are just neutral containers of cultural activity (Debies-Carl 2014: 179-80). This project builds on and extends Debies-Carl’s analysis of the social and physical organization of music venues in order to illustrate the idea that while participants enact both permanent and temporary spatial changes within music venues, these venues also help to shape a local scene both physically and conceptually. Therefore, an analysis of independent and DIY music venues helps to shed light on their inner culture and social organization of local punk scenes (Debies-Carl 2014: 246).
While the realm of academic research appears to be just catching on to looking at music venues as more than just neutral containers of cultural activities, several non- academic sources have already documented the varied histories and cultural impact of punk music venues. The sites chosen as worthy of documentation are often ones that, from a historical perspective, have played a significant role in the development of punk 12 or can be categorized as emblematic of punk's aesthetic or ethos.2 In David Byrne's How
Music Works (2013), New York City's most infamous punk club, CBGB, is framed in relation to the construction and maintenance of a local music scene, thereby directly inserting physical space back into the realm of scene theory. For Byrne, ‘CBGB was, from a structural point of view, a perfect, self-actuating, self-organizing system’ (2013:
252).
As part of Byrne's analysis, he outlines eight guidelines for making a music scene that are primarily concerned with venue policies and the concerns of owners/operators. It is notable that the first guideline places permanent physical space as the central organizing factor of a scene, stating that ‘there must be a venue that is of appropriate size and location in which to present new material’ (Byrne 2013: 253). For Byrne, the existence of CBGB facilitated the music scene that sprang up around it, but the type of scene that formed was affected by the actual physical attributes of the venue, writing that the club ‘was the right size, the right shape, and in the right place’ (2014: 253). By placing such central importance on the existence of physical venues in the creation of a music scene, Byrne illustrates the interconnectedness of bodies and space that Debies-
Carl argues is of vital importance to understanding the inner dynamics of a punk scene.
In rare cases, an independent or DIY (do-it-yourself) venue is well-documented with an abundance of oral histories, photographs and a myriad of ephemera collected and preserved by scene participants. An example of this is 924 Gilman Street, an all-ages DIY venue based in Berkeley, California that has been operating as a volunteer-run art and
2 Often these venues are located in major cities while those established in smaller cities or towns tend to be overlooked. The reason is partly due to the availability of pre-existing built formations (Debies-Carl 2014: 183). While not dismissing the role of scene participants located in London and New York in the early formation of punk culture, the built environments and increased spatial differentiation of these cities played a large role in the formation of more visually confrontational and noteworthy punk scenes. 13 music collective since 1986. 924 Gilman: The Story So Far... (2004), compiled by Brian
Edge, documents eighteen years of the club using a combination of photographs, correspondence, oral histories from seventy-nine contributors, newspaper clippings, posters and other documents relating to the day-by-day workings of the venue. When taken individually, the interviews and documents act as snapshots into the lived history of
Gilman Street and the music scenes that thrived around it. When taken as a collective, a pattern emerges that directly contradicts the homologous view of punk that the term
‘subculture’ implies. This archive does not present the venue's history as a palatable, smooth timeline. Rather, the story of Gilman Street is told from multiple vantage points.
Although the oral accounts overlap at times, they are each told from a different perspective, from all levels of the scene and at times directly contrast each other.
Disputes and tensions arise from the pages, illustrating a history marked with struggle to create a shared social space that could benefit all members of the community.
For CCCS theorists, decoding the meanings hidden within the sartorial styles of subcultural groups would be the key to understanding their inner structure. Yet, according to the work of Debies-Carl, the locus of action for contemporary scene participants should be switched instead to the physical spaces in which punks gather and perform music. If punks are able to carve out niches of space in the most unlikely of places, why then are permanent, independent music venues necessary as sites of socialization? As previously demonstrated by Císař and Koubek and O'Connor, it is the inclusion of place as a central importance to the life of music scenes that sets the ‘scene’ perspective apart from that of ‘subculture’. The idea that music scenes and their participants need established venues is a move away from the theory that subcultures symbolically win space (Campbell 2013: 185). In order for a scene to exist, even on the smallest scale, a 14 physical location is necessary to house the activities of participants and encourage the scene itself to grow and thrive. Therefore, a venue that retains an element of permanence, perhaps even working within the confines of the parent culture, is most likely to be successful in providing participants a space in which to enact the values and ethos of their community (Debies-Carl 2014: 247).
Methodology
In developing a methodological procedure, it was important to engage in research that moved beyond merely a theoretical analysis of punk culture in order to actively engage with participants and record their first-hand accounts of contemporary punk scenes. The primary methodological procedures used to collect data were participant observation, photographic documentation, semi-structured interviews, and surveys, allowing for an immersive experience that revealed the multiple roles individuals play within their local scene, and subsequently challenged more homogenized views of punk culture in general. By framing individuals as ‘participants’ in local punk scenes rather than ‘members’, this analysis resists rendering punk as a formal, organized club. Rather, participation implies that individuals informally volunteer to share in the creation and maintenance of a music scene. Whether through performing music, operating a venue, organizing shows or simply attending events, all levels of a local punk scene find ways to participate.
Conversations with participants reaffirmed the choice to use ‘scene’ over other labels, as it is a colloquial phrase that participants in punk regularly used to refer to the collective organization of their culture. However, while use of the term itself is intended 15 to avoid determinist or essentialist language (Straw 2001: 248-253), interview participants would often use it interchangeably with ‘community’, even while simultaneously acknowledging the dissonance that occurs within their local scenes. If
‘community’ is understood as a feeling of unity amongst a group of people due to common goals, interests and values, but participants repeatedly acknowledge the divisions within local punk scenes, and the existence of differing interpretations of their culture, then participants’ use of the term in reference to their local scenes reflects a desire for achieving community-like fellowship within their shared spaces.
In total there were twenty-one interview participants who contributed information for the entirety of this project, seventeen of whom also completed a short interview participant survey. Fourteen interviews were conducted in-person and digitally recorded, and three were conducted via e-mail. Eleven interviews were conducted as one-on-one sessions, while three included groups of two or three individuals together. Interviews lasted a minimum of one hour, the time and location of which were pre-arranged with participants via Facebook private messaging or e-mail. In order to build greater trust within these scenes, and to avoid being seen as some sort of parasitic interloper, the nature and purpose of the project were always made clear to participants at the outset of each interview (Appendix A).
As previously mentioned, seventeen out of twenty-one interview participants completed a short survey before their interview began (Appendix B). Survey data can reveal patterns that potentially challenge more uniform understandings of music scene participants. A larger sample of participants may have garnered different results, but even this small sample drew results that both challenged and conformed to expectations. The first half of the survey was designed to collect general demographic information about 16 participants (Table 1.1). Only four interview participants were female and all were
Caucasian, conforming to the general notion of punk scenes as being dominated by white, male participants. However, where this small participant pool did provide some interesting challenges to past characterizations of punk scene participants was in terms of age, with the age of participants ranging from twenty-four to fifty-one, and the average age being around thirty-one years.
Through observing the activities taking place at live shows, it became apparent that the concept of punk as strictly a ‘youth culture’ is quite ambiguous, particularly at the level of the local music scene. The majority of participants were introduced to punk in their youth, ranging from seven to nineteen years, with the average age of introduction being approximately twelve years old. Yet, through observation alone it was clear that the majority of scene participants attending shows were the legal drinking age or older. What
this demonstrates is that that while active participation in a local scene (i.e. attending
shows, performing in bands, organizing events etc.) may not take place until an
individual’s later teenage years or adulthood, introduction to and awareness of punk
culture can start much earlier). The higher age bracket of interview participants also
meant that they were more established in their lives, both financially and socially, with
four participants who identified as being married, one as being in a common-law
relationship, and seven who had at least one child. Older individuals who have remained
long-term participants in various local scenes accumulate a large amount of subcultural
capital, rendering them as leading figures in local scenes.
17
18
19
The second half of the interview participant survey was designed to collect information regarding the types of activities participants had experience with in relation to their local scene (Table 1.2). The most popular activity for interview participants in terms of their involvement in punk was tied between attending shows as an audience member only and acting in a primary role at an event (i.e. the promotion/organization of a punk show or other related event). The other activities in order of popularity were: acting in a secondary role at an event (i.e. assisting promoter, working sound, covering the door, etc.), performing as part of a band or solo act, writing in relation to a local scene (e.g., blogging, zines, CD reviews, newspaper articles, etc.), taking photographs or video of bands, working at a radio station and working at a record label. Other activities noted by participants included booking punk tours, recording, sound engineering, hosting out-of-
Table 1.2 - Interview Participant Survey Results (Activities) 20 town bands, self-promotion, running a non-profit, caretaking, bartending, security, watching for cops and self-releasing music. What this information demonstrates is the wide range of activities and practices that occur within local scenes, beyond that of performer or audience member. It is also noteworthy that many of these activities are done without formal training or, in some cases, without financial compensation. If these roles and activities are being performed voluntarily, then the compensation received by participants is an accumulation of symbolic and cultural capital, rather than monetary capital. The reward for such pursuits is the proliferation of a local scene’s cultural output which ensures its longevity.
In terms of music venues, the most popular type of venue frequented by interview participants was a bar/club, followed by coffee shop venues (Table 1.3). Shows at community centres and house venues were also attended, as well as record stores,
Table 1.3 - Interview Participant Survey Results (Venues) 21 restaurants, outdoor venues such as backyards and public parks, tattoo studios and warehouses. One participant made a point to say that they had attended or performed shows ‘almost anywhere you can imagine’, pointing to the fact that in the absence of legitimate music venues, punk scene participants are able to transform a wide variety of spaces into sites of socialization. Participants from Peterborough noted a lack of house shows (Piss Locusts, 3 February 2015 interview) and were dependent upon the city’s downtown core for the majority of their show spaces. For interview participants from
Peterborough, six participants stated that The Spill was the venue they most often frequented, while others mentioned The Red Dog (a larger Peterborough venue that catering to more professional or popular rock, metal, and punk acts). Other notable venues mentioned by participants from Ontario included The Bovine Sex Club (Toronto
ON), House of Targ (Ottawa ON), and The Atria (Oshawa ON), demonstrating the closeness of Ontario’s local scenes (made possible through geography and an accessible highway system).
Organization of Chapters
The organization of chapters moves in a deliberate procession from the local, to the national, to the international in order to draw threads of connection between punk scenes of various sizes located across Canada and beyond. The first chapter conducts a two-tiered analysis of The Spill; a former all-ages music venue in Peterborough, Ontario.
Beginning inside the venue itself, a micro analysis of the physical and material aspects of the space is conducted. The eclectic assortment of local artwork and memorabilia that 22 adorned the venue’s walls helped to connect The Spill to the larger history of music- making practices in Peterborough and imbued it with a large amount of cultural capital.
Governed by a loose set of curatorial practices and an embodiment of DIY ideals,
The Spill encouraged active participation on the part of its patrons who enacted both permanent and temporary spatial changes that turned the venue into a meaningful site for visual and active displays of participation in Peterborough’s downtown music scenes.
Through organizing and attending punk shows at The Spill, observation revealed that not only did scene participants influence the material, aesthetic aspects of the venue, but the physical dimensions of the space also affected the movement and organization of participants, thereby demonstrating a reciprocal relationship between bodies and physical space.
As a legal independent business, The Spill was required to maintain links to the outside world of which it was a visible and active member. Therefore, the second part of the first chapter moves outside the venue to undergo a macro-level analysis that considers the place of The Spill not only within Peterborough’s punk scene, but within the city at large. As an independent music venue catering to alternative forms of cultural and artistic expression, the relationship between The Spill, the city and local punk scene participants was a complicated mixture that encompassed moments of cooperation, competition, tension and struggle. In addition to abiding by local bylaws governing noise levels and show flyers, and attitudes towards the downtown core that stigmatized an already- struggling neighbourhood as dangerous, The Spill also had to navigate the social dynamics of punk scene participants who each held differing opinions on what their scene should consist of. To illustrate these issues, a case study of the $2 Punk Shows concludes this section. These monthly events demonstrate that Peterborough’s local punk 23 scene is not a utopic community with shared goals or ideals, but a constant process of work and negotiation. When The Spill suddenly closed in October 2017, participants were forced to contend with the reconfiguration of their local punk scene, both on a cognitive and physical level.
Moving on from the closure of The Spill, the second chapter bases its analysis on punk scenes located in Vancouver, British Columbia in order to investigate the effect the loss of space has on punk scene participants. Nicknamed ‘No Fun City’, Vancouver is a city whose relationship with its independent arts and music scenes is a contested site of debate where issues of city-sponsored projects of gentrification, zoning bylaws and the defining of urban spaces comes into conflict with the needs and ideals of punk scene participants, resulting in the closure of multiple all-ages venues catering to punk and underground music scenes. When faced with the dissolution of their music venues, punk scene participants utilize various spatial tactics of rebuilding or transforming space, even if only a temporary measure to address the demands of the community at large. These strategies may work within established legal guidelines, or outside them in an attempt to escape the threat of surveillance. However, additional difficulties may occur within the scene itself when participants disagree not only on which strategy is best, but also what type of space most closely conforms to their understanding of what exactly ‘punk’ is or should be. A comparison of such strategies is undergone through two case studies: 1) The
Cobalt Hotel, and 2) The Safe Amplification Site Society.
While the first two chapters illustrate the processes of active work and negotiation that goes into maintaining local punk scenes, as well as the importance of physical music venues to these social networks, the third chapter pushes these themes into new realms by characterizing contemporary local punk scenes as existing within two articulations of 24 space: the virtual and the physical. Looking at the nexus between punks and technology, the aura surrounding the use of Internet and mobile technologies in contemporary scenes is challenged in order to demonstrate that punk culture has always made use of available technological resources to create and disseminate cultural products and maintain connections to the physical infrastructure of local scenes.
While the purpose of this final chapter is not to frame punk’s use of technology as entirely positive or negative, the role of mobile technologies and online spaces on physical venues must be critically evaluated in order to understand how punks reconcile their use of corporately-owned online platforms to enact DIY strategies of scene building.
This chapter undertakes two case studies that both address the empowering and disempowering influence of mobile technologies on punk spaces. The first looks at
Pouzza Fest in Montreal as a mediated space and a form of creative tourism that imbeds itself into the cognitive and embodied experience of Montreal while encouraging attendees to share their experiences online. The second considers the aftermath of
Oakland, California’s Ghost Ship fire, where interference on the part of anonymous users on 4Chan fed into existing projects of gentrification in large cities, resulting in the closure of multiple DIY venues in both the United States and Canada.
25
Chapter One: ‘It ain't a sleepy little town’: Building and maintaining a punk rock scene in Peterborough, Ontario.
The following chapter is an ethnographic study of the practices and struggles of a local punk scene operating out of The Spill Coffee Bar; an independent live music venue located in downtown Peterborough, Ontario. Initially chosen as the focal point of this study because of its central and easily-accessible location, it quickly became clear that
The Spill was an ideal site for observing the lived activities and shared culture stemming from the interdependent relationship that exists between a venue and the diverse network of local punk scene participants that surrounds it. Over time, these spaces shape participants’ conceptual and embodied experience of their local punk scenes, and in turn are shaped by the activities of individuals who inhabit them. As research progressed, the underlying challenges to operating a legal venue catering to DIY and alternative artistic expressions emerged, revealing the realities of a local scene consisting of participants who differed in terms of the expectations regarding the larger role and function of independent music venues. The trajectory of this project took a sharp turn in October
2017 when The Spill suddenly closed and forced participants to reconfigure their music scene both mentally and physically, taking stock of the existing social and physical infrastructure in order to figure out how to fill the void that the venue left behind. In the end, through illustrating the relationship between individuals and physical space, this chapter aims to demonstrate the vital but precarious existence of independent music venues catering to alternative forms of expression.
Punk culture relies on access to adaptable, autonomous or otherwise independent physical spaces because it is in these sites that participants are able to form social 26 relationships, share and produce meaningful cultural resources and carve out spaces of representation for themselves within larger cityscapes. From bars and concerts halls, to community centres, record stores and private homes, punk scene participants actively turn various spaces into meaningful places that become important sites of socialization and central hubs around which local music scenes are organized. While punk scene participants utilize a wide variety of spaces, this study focuses on music venues specifically because watching bands and listening to live music is the primary reason punks gather collectively. Music, whether heard on a stereo in a bedroom, through headphones on a bus, or live on stage in a club, helps to delineate physical and cultural space for its listeners. Therefore, by positioning a local independent music venue at the centre of this study, such spaces are rendered as culturally and historically significant sites worthy of academic inquiry. In a larger sense, the arguments presented in this chapter are an effort to align with recent trends in subcultural studies that maintain shared physical spaces, rather than a shared visual style, are the actual locus of action around which punk scene participants organize and make sense of themselves as part of a distinct cultural movement.
Field work began by attending monthly live punk shows at The Spill, which were discovered either through flyer advertisements posted in various locations downtown or via Facebook. The movement and behaviour of individuals moving throughout The Spill was observed and recorded both through photographs and note-taking. However, sitting alone at the end of the bar armed with a pen and notebook was not the most ideal situation as it felt isolating to be absorbed in taking notes while the life of a punk show went on around and seemingly without my direct involvement. It was simple enough to 27 document the physical attributes of the space and the placement of people within it, but in order to understand the social organization of scene participants it was necessary to become an active contributor to the culture of the scene itself. Therefore, while field work began from an outsider position, initial barriers to entering Peterborough’s punk scene were gradually broken down through contributing to the scene in a more meaningful way as an event promoter. Organizing and promoting punk and acoustic-punk shows became an invaluable strategy, as it served as a more covert method of observing the interaction of space and bodies during live music events in addition to meeting and recruiting interview participants.
The punk scene observed in Peterborough being fostered by The Spill did not fit the strict categorization that the term ‘subculture’ demands. A venue such as The Spill must be adaptable to a variety of social groups and musical interests due its location which, unlike nearby capital cities such as Toronto or Ottawa, lacks the adequate infrastructure to support a larger variety of music venues, and thereby renders subcultural uniformity virtually non-existent. By shifting the focus from subcultural styles and deviant strategies of disruption to an emphasis upon the activities, practices and struggles of average participants, the term ‘scene’ emerges as a more accurate, fluid representation of the actual practices of contemporary music scenes, allowing for researchers to construct more nuanced understandings of the everyday lives of participants.
Starting within the venue and moving outwards into the surrounding city, this chapter conducts a comprehensive, two-tiered analysis of The Spill and its role within
Peterborough’s downtown alternative music scenes, with specific attention paid to the reciprocal relationship that exists with the city’s punk scene participants. Starting on a 28 micro-level, the physical and material aspects of the venue are analyzed in order to illustrate the various interactions between bodies and physical spaces. As a business that attempted to cater to more than just the city’s local punk scene, The Spill contained objects and artwork that linked the venue to the larger history of music-making practices in the area, imbuing it with a significant amount of cultural capital. Less rigidly curated than more professional cultural institutions, The Spill was an easily adaptable space that enabled punk scene participants to affect both permanent and impermanent spatial manipulations. Following Jeffrey S. Debies-Carl’s analysis of punk spaces (2014), a floor plan of The Spill constructed from photographic documentation is used to map and describe six micro-zones of activity observed during live punk shows, demonstrating the close connection between the physical space of a venue and the social organization of a punk scene.
Following this, the chapter moves outside The Spill to conduct a macro-level analysis that considers the larger scene network in which The Spill resided, paying particular attention to the specific challenges involved in maintaining a space that not only encouraged alternative modes of expression, but also functioned as a legal business attempting to abide by city-enforced regulations and bylaws. Punk scene participants develop a dependence on local independent venues, as such locations provide them with permanent and easily-accessible public locations in which to host events, allowing participants to carve out a space for themselves outside of the constraints of school, work or the home. However, no strategy for creating free social space is ever perfect and The
Spill faced its own set of internal tensions and external challenges. To underscore the main issues raised throughout the entirety of this chapter, a case study on a series of 29 monthly punk shows at The Spill known as the ‘$2 Punk Shows’ is conducted. In terms of attracting large audiences, these DIY events were arguably the most successful punk shows in Peterborough at that time but became a point of heated debate within the scene.
Therefore, these shows exemplify not only how punk participants change and adapt social spaces, but also the points of tension and disagreement that can occur in an otherwise active and vibrant local scene. By way of conclusion, the arguments laid out throughout the chapter will be framed within the context of The Spill’s closure in order to comprehend the impact of this loss on Peterborough’s downtown music communities.
Inside The Spill
Established in 2003, The Spill was not the first venue in Peterborough to garner support from a wide-range of individuals interested in creating an alternative free space for artistic performances. In 1989, a community-run venue called The Union was established in downtown Peterborough and featured not only a variety of theatre and cabaret acts but was also considered a key venue in Peterborough's punk, heavy metal, and industrial music scenes of the 1990s (O’Connor et al. 2016: 3).1 The closure of The
Union in 1997 displaced a vibrant community of artists and musicians and highlighted the need for permanent alternative cultural spaces in Peterborough's downtown core.
1 Pre-existing elements of Peterborough’s social and physical infrastructure assisted in the successful establishment of such a venue, including low rental rates, the availability of sources of public funding (e.g. a bi-weekly arts grant) and the fact that Trent University, known at the time as an ‘alternative institution’, attracted groups of young people who were interested in experimental modes of cultural production (O’Connor et al 2016: 3). 30
Although temporary spaces appeared, ultimately these attempts failed to reproduce or recapture the essential spirit of the original Union (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview).
Echoes of that physical location and the culture of alternative expression that sprang from it remained as an undercurrent throughout the downtown core. It is within this environment of community involvement, experimentation, and creativity that a venue like
The Spill was able to flourish.
Dave Tobey, former owner and operator of The Spill, described the venue as a
‘pirate ship of culture with worldwide connections’ (PTBO Canada 2012). This is a curious description as it conjures up a romanticized image of the venue as a rebellious, almost anarchistic entity operating on the margins of mainstream society, borrowing bits and pieces of art and culture through its many adventures and sharing this bounty with the Peterborough community at large. In a Foucaultian sense, ships are enclosed heterotopic2 spaces that are simultaneously open to the infinity of the sea (Foucault 1984:
9). The Spill could be read in a similar vein as it was a public space but operated within a comparatively small network of individuals. The importance of such spaces lies in the fact that they ensure there is a place for the representation of difference within the public sphere. That is, for individuals who feel alienated from more mainstream venues (dance clubs and sports bars were cited by several participants as being particularly uncomfortable), marginal independent live music venues offer alternative opportunities for cultural expression.
2 For Foucault, ‘heterotopia’ refers to a real, physical place that attempt to create some form of a utopia, but contains undesirable aspects of a society (e.g. a prison) (Wikipedia 2018). 31
At first glance, The Spill did not fit the stereotypical image of a ‘punk club’.
Rather than a dark, dingy basement3 covered in graffiti, The Spill's atmosphere, with its combination of red paint and exposed brick walls, was warm and welcoming. Large windows at the front of the venue let in a good quantity of natural light in the daytime, while at night kept the venue open to curious passersby. Above the entrance hung a smashed and splintered guitar; a visual representation of an attempt to freeze a moment in time and capture its raw, fleeting energy (Figure 2.1). The placement of this object is also characteristic of the spontaneous and sometimes absurd punk aesthetic, where the most ordinary of objects can be removed from their original contexts and elevated to the realm of ‘art’. Despites its attempts to create a casual and visually eclectic atmosphere, The
Figure 2.1 - Smashed Guitar, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014.
3 In Bourdieu's description of the Kabyle House, he describes the basement as ‘[t]he dark, nocturnal, lower part of the house, the place for things that are damp, green, or raw [...]’ (1979: 135). Such a description coincides with similar views of punk as an underground culture that exists in crumbling, dark spaces. 32
Spill was a moderately-curated venue (i.e. there were limitations to what could be placed on the walls and who could participate in its decoration). As Debies-Carl notes, marginal mainstream venues such as The Spill often cater to patrons who may not always be punks and therefore make deliberate aesthetic choices (i.e. creating a more ordered atmosphere) to appeal to a larger demographic (2014: 188).
Along with showcasing an eclectic assortment of local artwork, The Spill also featured signage from former Peterborough businesses. The focal point of the room was a large, vintage neon sign originally belonging to a Chinese food restaurant that existed directly across the street4 (Figure 2.2). Split into two pieces, its light bulbs rendered merely decorative, the functionality of the sign had been removed. Instead, its new function was to link The Spill to the historic discourse of Peterborough's downtown neighbourhood. Tobey emphasized the importance of the neon sign, along with other artefacts from Peterborough’s history. It became apparent that, at least on a personal level, Tobey considers these items as objects of important local cultural and historical significance:
[...] It's my hometown, it's part of my experience. I have the music workshop [sign] up there because [redacted] is such a fantastic person and he ran a fantastic business supporting all levels and all styles of music. Neil Young bought guitars from him, and you ask around and people my age and a little bit younger, we all bought our first guitar there […]. And the Hi Tops sign, it's history. I have a real love of Peterborough, you know? […] It's the memories, it's the light…and it's the last neon sign in town. (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview)
At the mention of Neil Young (a perceived authoritative and authentic cultural voice), a degree of legitimacy is established that ties The Spill into a longer, national history of musical tradition and practice in Canada. Within the space of The Spill, local artwork and
4 The restaurant (‘Hi Tops’) was opened in 1908, and its neon sign became an iconic symbol for downtown Peterborough until its closure in 2013. 33
Figure 2.2 - High Tops Neon Sign, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. objects belonging to former Peterborough businesses increased the venue’s cultural capital. Imbued with memory and coloured with nostalgia, these items situated The Spill within the history of Peterborough’s local, independent businesses and downtown neighbourhood. For those with the specific insider knowledge to recognize and read these objects as more than merely decorative items, the signs were representative of the social relationships developed through the shared memories and experiences that form the basis for local music scenes.
34
Spatial Adaptability and Manipulation
Despite the fact that The Spill operated as a legal, independent business as opposed to an anarchist or volunteer-based collective, Tobey still attempted to align the venue with DIY ethics, a set of principles that are deeply embedded in the roots of punk culture.5 Historically, punks sought to establish distinct social spaces that were seen as independent from the hyper-commercialism and consumerism of the culture industry and in which they could freely enact visually distinct subcultural identities (both on an individual basis and as a collective). For Tobey, The Spill was simply ‘an empty room with a PA and a bar’ (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview) and welcomed ‘anything from dance performances to full Marshall stack heavy metal, to poetry slams, to seventeen- piece bluegrass orchestras, to one person hanging from a string and screaming [...]’
(PTBO Canada 2012). The idea of The Spill as just an empty room invites the notion that it was an easily adaptable space that encouraged its inhabitants to participate in the manipulation of its boundaries, both literal and invisible. In conversation with participants, this aspect of The Spill was highly valued and contributed in a large part to why the venue was favoured above similar venues in the area:
Punk and do-it-yourself go hand-in-hand. That's what I like about The Spill, because The Spill makes you do it yourself. The Spill screams that. There's no kind of structure [...] So a place like The Spill is great [...] because it's like a blank canvas for [...] creativity in music. (Kennedy, 13 November 2014 interview)
5 In the 1980s, American Hardcore emerged as a reaction to the egotism and self-destruction of 1970s punk. Alongside a distinct change in musical style was a need to more clearly define the boundaries of punk, creating what Ryan Moore characterizes as a ‘culture of authenticity’ (2004: 308) exemplified by DIY practices (see Chapter 3 for a more in-depth analysis of punk’s relationship with do-it-yourself production methods). 35
In a world where everyday lives are shaped by a variety of outside forces beyond the control of the individual, the assertion of agency within local punk scenes is made not only through manners of dress, but through the manipulation of public space into something that resembles a second home for scene participants (Shortell et al. 2010: 2).
Although as previously mentioned, the organization of The Spill's interior was moderately curated, the venue did belong to some degree in the hands of participants who enacted small spatial changes (both temporary and permanent) in order to transform the space into a place that made their music scenes physically and publicly visible as a cohesive group.
Punks have an innate ability to effect physical changes in the spaces they occupy.
During live punk shows at The Spill, the wooden floor would literally vibrate with the invisible energy produced by the amps and PA system. This vibration would increase as audience members joined in, stomping their feet so that both bodies and physical space shook with intensity. In other ways, punks change spaces simply by breaking things
(Serious, 5 November 2014 interview) (accidentally or otherwise), although in The Spill this was actively discouraged. One example of a temporary spatial change observed at
The Spill was the placement and rearrangement of furniture. In the day, more tables and chairs created a larger seating area for patrons stopping by for coffee or lunch. Often the stage was put to new use as an area for extra seating when no afternoon performances or events were booked. In the evenings, specifically during a live music event, tables and chairs were easily removed or rearranged to create more empty space for audience members to move freely through the venue, mosh or dance. The exact number of tables and chairs taken away depended on the type of event taking place (Tobey, 29 August 36
2014 interview). Louder, more aggressive bands that were more likely to attract a similar audience required a larger amount of empty space, while an audience attending a quieter, more subdued event made better use of extra seating. Therefore, while some physical aspects of the venue, such as the location of the entrance or the narrow dimensions of the space itself, are fixed elements that cannot be changed without undertaking a serious re- construction project, the venue was still open to some degree of change and manipulation at the hands of the individuals who occupied it.
Looking at a floor plan of The Spill (Figure 2.3), a triangle of surveillance emerges between the bar, sound booth and stage, which enabled staff members to easily communicate (both verbally and non-verbally) with each other and with performers on stage, as well as survey a large portion of the crowd that fell in the middle of this area.
While this triangle demonstrates that a large majority of The Spill was open to the observation and intervention of staff members, it still contained pockets of space that resisted surveillance in which individuals attempted more permanent spatial changes. For instance, with walls adorned with scrawling, overlapping text, the venue’s two gender- neutral bathrooms located at the rear of the space served as ideal locations to conceal attempts by venue patrons to make their own permanent6 spatial manipulations (Figure
2.4).
6 Perhaps not always successful, as there are multiple ways graffiti can be removed (either deliberately or over the gradual, eroding influence of time). 37
Figure 2.3 - The Spill Floor Plan (Triangle of Surveillance), (c) Katie Green 2018. 38
Figure 2.4 - Bathroom Graffiti, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. Graffiti has been interpreted as marks of exclusion which, in the context of urban landscapes, mark out certain spaces as belonging to some while excluding others
(Shortell et al. 2010: 6). However, strictly adhering to such an analysis limits its productive social and cultural potential, as graffiti is also a micro-act of establishing cultural memory that anyone can participate in as long as they have access to a writing utensil or sticker. When a person carves their name into a table or grabs a Sharpie and scrawls their band's name across a bathroom wall, they are attempting to establish themselves as a permanent relic; to insert themselves into the very walls of a venue, as well as its living history. In the bathrooms of The Spill, names of individuals or bands
(accompanied occasionally by a logo or sticker), jokes, and even attempts at philosophical and political commentary created conversations and arguments that provided some degree of insight into the personalities, preferences, and tensions that exist within the scene itself. 39
Physical and Social Organization
The use of the term ‘scene’ in conjunction with Pierre Bourdieu's concept of the social field creates a more nuanced analysis of the social hierarchy that exists within music venues. This allows for a discussion about the organization of bodies in space that goes beyond the physical materiality of the venue itself and takes into account the social dynamics of a local scene and its members. Within the autonomous field of a local punk scene, individuals contribute to cultural production by enacting specialized roles, allowing them to move hierarchically through the scene over time based on their own specialized skills as well as their knowledge of how the scene works and their role(s) within it.
Through observing individuals attending live music events at The Spill, patterns of movement and spatial organization emerged that were influenced partly by The Spill’s physical dimensions, but also by an individual's amount of cultural and social capital.
While there were sections of the venue that remained restricted to staff only, the influence of DIY ethics meant that individuals could access more specialized zones based on their accumulation of amateur knowledge and personal experience rather than on trained, specialized expertise. Thus, participants were able to take on positions within the social organization of the scene itself that they may not have been able to enact in their everyday lives. For example, occupations of interview participants included office workers, restaurant staff, students, and general labourers, but within the space of a live show, they became amateur musicians, promoters, sound engineers, photographers, and journalists (Table 1.2). 40
In Debies-Carl's study of punk spaces, he identified three distinct zones within marginal mainstream venues similar to The Spill, including a zone for active dancing, a second for placid (i.e. non-participatory or stationary) observation of the band and a third zone for observing the audience (2014: 194). These three zones existed at The Spill but were spread over six distinct areas, most of which were subject to change and fluctuation during live events (Figure 2.5). Depending on their social position within the scene, participants moved through the permeable membranes of each of the six fluid yet distinct micro-zones within The Spill, some of which catered to individuals with specific skills sets or knowledge (e.g. sound booth, stage or areas restricted to employees).
This mapping of The Spill is based upon first-hand observations and photographic documentation, and not meant to stand as a totalizing taxonomy of all punk music venues. While similar zones of behaviour and movement can exist within a broad spectrum of music venues, ‘different types of music spaces tend to have different physical features, which in turn facilitate a different set of social relations and enforce social priorities’ (Debies-Carl 2014: 181). In other words, the specialized areas of social behaviour within The Spill were not permanent or even tangible elements of the space itself. They may appear within other venues, depending on the physical layout of a particular space, but their existence depends on the social/symbolic dimensions of the scene that utilizes a venue. Within each zone, a variety of different behaviours occur that are semi-regulated by both explicit and unspoken expectations of behaviour. It should be noted that the lines between each zone are not concrete but should instead be considered permeable membranes that allow for the continual free exchange of bodies in space.
41
Figure 2.5 - The Spill Floor Plan (Micro-Zones), (c) Katie Green 2018.
42
Figure 2.6 - Zone 1, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014.
The first micro-zone identified within The Spill (‘Zone 1’) was the stage (Figure
2.6). Being positioned on the stage is the most visible indicator of an individual's role within the larger scene dynamic, and often those who occupy this area have a high degree of social and cultural capital within the local scene network. When a punk venue does not have a stage, Zone 1 is moved to where ever performers are able to easily set up their equipment. In some instances, punk bands may opt to perform on the floor despite the presence of an actual stage in order to better engage with their audience and reject the symbolic hierarchy suggested by a raised platform. Popular performers are often perceived as leaders or voices of authority within local scenes, dictating trends and often representing the current climate of attitudes and styles within the scene at large. Like areas reserved for staff members, the stage assumes some degree of expertise or authority on the part of its occupants, yet its boundary can be more easily crossed during a DIY 43 show without repercussion.7 Due to a greater opportunity for interaction between performer(s) and audience, Zone 1 includes not only the platform on which acts perform, but the area of flooring that immediately borders it. Behaviour within this area varied from a high degree of audience-performer interaction (i.e. audience members were sometimes invited on stage to sing with the band, or otherwise felt free to grab a microphone of their own volition)8, to audience members who simply stood and held their ground while observing the action taking place upon the stage. Audience members who occupy this area often do so as a sign of respect to whichever act is currently performing. During high amounts of energy and physical activity at The Spill, audience members occasionally found themselves acting as human barriers, holding up speakers or protecting those entering the venue from being unexpectedly pulled into the action of the show.
The second observable micro-zone (‘Zone 2’) at The Spill contained the mosh pit, a high-energy area demonstrating the most obvious display of active participation on the part of the audience, and, in this instance, confined to the widest part of The Spill’s floor plan nearest the stage (Figure 2.7). The presence of this zone is not always guaranteed as it often depends on a variety of factors, such as the size of the audience and the genre of
7 Unlike larger, mainstream venues where a clear separation between performer and audience exists (i.e. performers are placed above and away from the audience on a higher stage, often behind security barriers and personnel), independent or DIY venues do not enforce strict rules against members of the audience crossing this divide and, in some cases, remove the stage entirely so that bands are placed on the same level as their audience, both literally and symbolically. 8 Not all audience-performer interactions are appreciated. During an interview with Peterborough’s Piss Locusts, one band member noted that during one show, an audience member grabbed the microphone during a trumpet solo. The trumpet player, upset at this interference, grabbed the microphone back and physically slapped the audience member. On reflection, the interviewee stated: ‘I was like, “oh, that’s probably a little too much”, but, I don’t know. Everyone was so into it because it’s such […] an emotional, energetic moment, right? So it’s things like that that make shows a lot of the time. Well, punk shows specifically’ (Piss Locusts, 3 February 2015 interview). 44
Figure 2.7 - Zone 2, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. music being performed. Mosh pits are emblematic of the prioritization of youthful activities and practices that have caused punk to be categorized historically as a predominantly youth-based culture.9 For scene participants, the mosh pit has become an inextricable part of their experience of punk shows:
A friend of ours […] who we introduced to the punk scene basically described it really well. She said: “You introduced me to losing myself in a crowd”, and I think that’s a good way to put [it]. [Y]ou can lose yourself. There’s no judgement in a mosh pit. (Piss Locusts, 3 February 2015 interview).
Seemingly chaotic and disorderly at their most active state, Silverberg et al. (2013) observed collective patterns of behaviour in mosh pits, developing a ‘Mosh Pit
Simulation’ model based on videos filmed by attendants at heavy metal concerts. The authors note that the movement of individuals in mosh pits are similar to ‘[…] the
9 In conversation with Tobey, he noted his awareness of getting old due to a growing reluctance or disinterest in participating in mosh pits (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview). Another interview participant also noted that the older they became, the further back in the venue they stood (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview), indicating a change in position based on maturation of the individual. 45 kinetics of gaseous particles, even though participants are self-propelled agents that experience dissipative collisions’ (Silverberg et al. 2013: 1). More than just an issue of physics, mosh pits also have unwritten rules of etiquette that govern an individual’s movements and actions:
[T]he thing that always struck me about those shows was the energy of the crowd and the mosh and the way people move together. And not only that, but how people responded. You’d see people go down in those crowds and that’s a scary looking thing, but somehow everybody just reacts immediately and sort of protects them and gets them back up on their feet and takes care of them. Everybody takes care of each other in that situation. That’s a pretty cool thing to see […]. (Piss Locusts, 3 February 2015 interview)
While participants require no specialized roles or skills to enter a mosh pit, they must have some knowledge about how to properly maneuver and behave within it. Targeted violence perpetrated by one individual against another is seen as a serious violation of scene ethics, as such behaviour threatens the reputation and continued existence of the scene at large if the violence escalates to a point where outsiders to the scene take notice or become involved (i.e. police or city officials).
‘Zone 3’ begins at the entrance to The Spill and stretches through the space, directing the flow of movement from the front to the back of the venue and maneuvering around pockets of high energy participation and placid observation. As individuals move through Zone 3, they experience every aspect of the scene’s connection with the building.
Cutting across all six zones, this area is arguably the most permanent as its presence was dictated by physical aspects of The Spill that could not be moved or changed without undergoing significant renovations to the building itself. The Spill’s only entryway held a unique position at the front of the venue directly beside the stage (Figure 2.8). Unlike other venues where the performance area is located at the opposite end of the building 46
Figure 2.8 - Zone 3, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. from the main entrance, upon entering the venue visitors to The Spill would immediately be greeted by the action occurring on the stage. Once they received the full blast of the energy and sound emanating from the stage, at times being welcomed by the musicians themselves, individuals walked past those leaning against the wall to the right of the stage and were greeted a second time by the door person (at times the organizer of the event or another volunteer) who would inform them of set times and the cover charge. After having their hand or wrist marked with an X, individuals navigated through the crowd either to the bar to buy a pint or to grab a seat at one of the tables. Movement through
Zone 3 is constant, as scene participants continually come and go and interact with 47 individuals in every area of the venue and at every position within the scene itself.
Therefore, to move through this third zone of The Spill was to fully engage with every aspect of a punk show and experience the full effect of the change in energy that occurred when bodies occupied the space.
The mid-section of the venue (‘Zone 4’) was primarily an area reserved for placid observation of the stage, and contained the majority of tables, chairs, barstools, and benches in The Spill (Figure 2.9). It was an adaptable space, as furniture was easily moved around to accommodate the crowd. However, along with serving as an area for comfortable seating, socializing and observation, this area was also the most strongly linked to commerce and scene economics. This was due in part to the fact that the bar occupied the largest portion of this area, but also because bands would often co-opt a portion of tables to serve as an area for the selling of merchandise.
The selling of merch is a vital source of income for a majority of local and touring independent acts, particularly if attendance at events is small.10 Larger, more well-known bands may ask for a ‘guarantee’ of a certain amount of money to perform, but most rely on what is left over after the venue has been paid. The Spill would only ask for a deposit on their more popular nights (i.e. Friday or Saturday), but for events taking place during the week, they relied on profits earned through beverage and food sales. For Tobey, not asking for a deposit to use the space was a sign of trust on his part that promoters would do their best to put on shows, since the entire scene would suffer if shows continued to
10 The price of admittance to a local punk show in smaller cities is most commonly five dollars or ‘pay what you can’, which is characteristic of DIY punk scenes that prioritize accessibility over financial gain. 48
Figure 2.9 - Zone 4, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. result in low audience turnouts (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview).11 Kennedy supported this stance, and emphasized the reciprocal relationship that exists between a venue and the people that organize events:
The bar needs to make money because that’s what keeps the place going and that’s important. It should be up to the promoter to entice people to want to come out. I can book a room and book the bands and do everything but the show won’t happen unless people want to come out. It's up to people to do it. That’s how a scene works. A scene is a community. (Kennedy, 13 November 2014 interview)
11 On the other hand, charging a deposit to use the space may encourage promoters to put more effort into advertising an event in order to ensure a higher attendance, and ultimately a high profit margin for all involved. 49
As much as some punk idealists may wish to eschew the financial realities of local scenes in favour of visualizing a utopic environment separate from capitalist concerns, these issues are vital considerations for a music scene’s on-going maintenance and reflect the actual relationship of cooperation between a venue and scene it supports.
‘Zone 5’ included the back area of The Spill and conformed the most closely to
Debies-Carl's third zone, which is reserved not only for observation of the audience
(either by staff of the venue or interested onlookers), but also for specialized functions of professionals (e.g. the sound technician) (2014: 194).12 There were two seating areas located within this area (Figure 2.10), but unlike those located in Zone 4, these seats were often occupied by individuals who were not preoccupied with observing the stage and
Figure 2.10 - Zone 5, The Spill (Interior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014.
12 When necessary, this zone was adapted into a storage area for instruments and sound equipment, or a place for bands to sell merchandise if Zone 4 was already completely occupied. 50 wished to sit back from the action of the event.13 Card and board games, comic books and a fully operational Nintendo Entertainment System with selection of games were available for anyone to play with while they waited for the next performer to take to the stage.
Hospitality is an important element to the on-going maintenance of local scenes and this area was perhaps the closest thing The Spill had to a green room for bands as one could often find performers seated in this area, playing a level of Super Mario while waiting for their set. Offering bands not only a place to play, but also an area to relax, sleep, eat, shower and prepare for an event helps to build a scene’s reputation as one that appreciates those who perform, and encourages repeat visits. If a venue cannot offer more than a stage on which to play,14 this hospitality falls to those willing and able to offer it.
For example, as someone who lived within a short distance to The Spill, I would offer up my own home for touring bands as a space to store equipment or relax before the show, a comfortable spot to sleep afterwards, as well as a shower and cup of coffee in the morning, if needed. What this demonstrates is that the network of a local scene is comprised of more than just music venues, including places where musicians can experience small acts of hospitality offered by participants, no matter their role within the scene itself.
13 As the volume decreased the further back one travelled through the room, individuals could hold conversations in this area without yelling over the amplifiers. 14 At one point, The Spill did have its own version of a green room. Tobey once had access to the studio space above the venue, which he offered as a hospitality area for touring bands. This included couches and beds, a bathroom equipped with a functional shower and bathtub, as well as clean towels and linens (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview). When new landlords took over the space, Tobey was asked to leave. In describing the studio space, Tobey expressed continued remorse at that thought of losing access to it and emphasized the importance of offering this level of hospitality to touring bands; an act he considered to be a display of gratitude and appreciation for those visiting one’s local scene (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview). 51
A sixth micro-zone of spatial organization (‘Zone 6’) is located outside of The
Spill, on the sidewalk to the immediate front of the venue (Figure 2.11). Sidewalks and alleyways that border music venues become transformed into areas of socialization during events; places for individuals to not only observe others at an event, but also be observed by others themselves.15 During live music events at The Spill, the action of the show would often flow out onto the sidewalk, as individuals would often step outside for a smoke, or to simply congregate and engage with friends away from the noise and action of the main event. Due to The Spill’s large front windows, individuals could also easily engage in passive observation, watching the show from outside (perhaps opting not to enter to avoid paying a cover charge). However, the presence of bodies is not the only element that extends the limits of a music venue, as sound and volume are forces that
Figure 2.11 - Zone 6, The Spill (Exterior), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014.
15 Similar to Walter Benjamin’s concept of the flaneur; the ultimate bourgeois spectator and consumer of the modern city who strolled the newly re-formed boulevards of Paris, allowing the burgeoning upper class to not only experience and see the city, but so that they themselves could also be seen by others (2006). 52 cross invisible boundaries that divide urban neighbourhoods. Therefore, the interior space of The Spill was extended by the music that spilled out into the streets, attracting the attention of passersby and making the venue a more tangible, visceral presence felt throughout the surrounding neighbourhood.
The Peterborough Scene: Cooperation, Competition, Tension, and Struggle
An analysis of the physical dimensions and material/aesthetic elements of a venue sheds light on the movement and actions of the bodies that inhabit it, but the complex interplay of social dynamics within and outside the scene must also be taken into consideration. The Spill, as it was known and experienced by its patrons, was shaped in part by the parameters of legal business practices set by local legislation, but also by its relationship with a diverse network of music scene participants. Through observing and speaking with various members of Peterborough’s local independent music scenes, it became apparent that scene participants certainly experience the positive effects of cooperation, but also an equal amount of competition, tension and struggle. Not only does this system of cooperation and conflict come from within but also from outside the scene, as these communities must find ways to function productively within the larger city network of which they are a part.
Nicknamed ‘The Electric City’, the history of Peterborough is founded largely on an economic base comprised of technology and manufacturing industries. While traditionally a working-class union town, the influence of two post-secondary institutions,
Trent University and Sir Sanford Fleming College, saw Peterborough develop a thriving 53 arts and culture scene. The downtown core is comprised of a variety of historical buildings which have been adapted and re-adapted over the years into speciality boutiques, cafés, restaurants, studio apartments, art galleries and an impressive number of both mainstream and independent music venues. The majority of these music venues are situated only a short distance away from each other in a three-block radius that extends along George Street North and Hunter Street (Pollock 2014: 13). Located roughly one hour and forty-five minutes northeast of Toronto and just over three hours southwest of
Ottawa, Peterborough is a convenient stop for touring musicians travelling between these two more major urban centres (Pollock 2014: 13) and is able to cater to more mainstream, professional acts as well as local, independent musicians who are just starting out.
In conversation with interview participants, it was clear that the infrastructure of
Peterborough’s music scenes was not only embodied physically by participants, but conceptually as interviewees were asked to describe what their scenes consisted of, resulting in a range of subjective descriptions. This perception of the city’s local punk and alternative music scenes also extended beyond its physical borders, as interviewees from outside Peterborough developed a characterisation of Peterborough based on their repeated experiences of playing shows there. For Todd Serious, lead singer of
Vancouver’s The Rebel Spell:
I look forward to coming to Peterborough […]. It's always just been small shows, but we always just had great hospitality. People are trying and thoughtful when they put together events here. There's a culture of that. There's a culture of taking care of the bands and each other and having created those inclusive spaces. I mean, they're not perfect. I've never been anywhere that was, but I feel relaxed when I get to Peterborough […]. (5 November 2014 interview)
When asked for his impression of Peterborough, Jesse LeBourdais (Vancouver BC) stated that the town seemed ‘OK’ and appreciated the variety and diversity of venues in 54 the city (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview). Jon Creeden (Stratford
ON), agreed that Peterborough’s assortment of differently-sized venues willing to put on a variety of events was an attractive part of the scene, and felt that the town was a good place to see bands playing original music as opposed to just covers (LeBourdais and
Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview).
For local interview participants, there was no consensus in terms of describing the music scene in Peterborough. Some described it as a divided scene based on the presence of a number of ‘cliques’ that do not attend similar events (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview), while others said it was not as clique-y when compared to scenes located in bigger cities such as Toronto (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview). Again, diversity was a theme that came up in interviews, as participants acknowledged a high number of shows (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview), as well as musicians producing different genres of music (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview). However, some interviewees hesitated to say Peterborough even had a music scene, let alone a specific punk scene, based on the idea that the dependence on bar venues as opposed to house shows (which interview participants acknowledged existed in Peterborough but rarely occurred) or other types of venues demonstrated a lack of a coherent DIY community (Anonymous, 7
July 2015 interview). The range of opinions on this topic makes it evident that for participants, what constitutes their local scene is at its core an understanding of
‘community’ that is subjective, situational and fluid. It would be impossible to characterize Peterborough’s music scenes as fixed and singular, as they are constantly subject to re-definition by participants. 55
While interview participants described the network of Peterborough’s independent music scenes as divided, it was not characterised as an acrimonious division
(Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). With so many music venues operating within a relatively close vicinity, Tobey acknowledged that there was a small degree of competition as many were trying to pull crowds from the same audience group but hesitated to describe it as a ‘visceral competition’ (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview).
Others agreed with this sentiment, stating that businesses within the downtown core were supportive of each other and often worked as a team to coordinate events (Cross Dog, 2
February 2015 interview). Members of local bands agreed that there was little competition between musicians in the area and a great deal of support (Piss Locusts, 3
February 2015 interview), with members of Cross Dog describing the scene as a ‘strong local community’ where bands help other bands (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015). However, in terms of the level of outside support The Spill received, there was a note of exasperation in Tobey's voice when discussing attitudes of Peterborough residents who are not involved in the practices and struggles of the downtown core:
There's a lot of people in Peterborough who just don't want to admit that anything is going on. It's our sleepy little town. Take a walk around at night on any club night. It ain't a sleepy little town. (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview)
While on an official level the city of Peterborough supports its local arts, music and cultural communities, these endeavours are still met with some degree of resistance and critique. Tobey acknowledges that while there are many aspects of Peterborough that are supportive of local venues, there are some elements that counter that position, describing the venue’s relationship with the city as a ‘push-pull’ relationship with a significant degree of struggle (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview). This is due in part to a territorial 56 stigma that has become associated with the downtown core, often directed by individuals living outside the area who deem it to be dangerous. Working from Goffman (1963) and
Bourdieu (1991), territorial stigmatization is a concept developed by Loïs Wacquant that attempts to aid in understanding how negative connotations of particular spaces are produced through government and commercial agencies, the media, and eventually re- produced by the average citizen (Wacquant et al. 2014: 1272-3).16 On the ground level, the denigration of place through territorial stigmatization affects residents, commercial operators (who may lose business due to avoidance of the area) and the quality of street- level services such as police, health care etc., extending higher to affect individuals responsible for the symbolic production of place (i.e. journalists, academics, etc.), and attitudes of state officials (Wacquant et al. 2014: 1275). Beyond this, the symbolic vilifying of a place provides justification for gentrification projects aimed at renewing and transforming lower-income neighbourhoods (Kallin and Slater 2014: 1353-4).
Evidence of territorial stigmatization targeted against downtown Peterborough can be found in the pages of local news publications. Amongst articles promoting and celebrating the city’s local culture are occasional glimpses into the fear and stigmatization directed at the downtown core and many of its residents. For example, on
8 November 2014, a ‘tongue-in-cheek’ list of ways to protect oneself while walking downtown was published that likened the area to a war zone (Tuffin 2014) where citizens are encouraged to travel in packs, wear non-confrontational clothing, and avoid acknowledging panhandlers (Moore 2014) in order to guarantee their safety.17 Though
16 See Collins et. al (2016) for a concise overview of the emerging body of literature on territorial stigmatization. 17 After receiving immediate backlash accusing the article’s author of victim blaming, fear mongering, and stigmatization of already-marginalized portions of Peterborough’s population, the article was quickly 57 written under a misguided attempt at humour, this type of discourse confirms not only the presence of territorial stigma directed against the downtown and its residents but also, as
Tobey suggested, that not every resident of Peterborough is fully aware of the diverse, often marginalized cultural communities that exists within their own city. The negative connotations of territorial stigma also do not always reflect the attitudes of residents living in stigmatized neighbourhoods. For example, in her study of Toronto’s Regent
Park, Martine August found that interviewees enjoyed their homes despite the neighbourhood’s poor reputation, with residents describing the area as convenient, service-rich, and well-located area with ‘a strong sense of community’ but were realistic about issues that needed attention from policy makers, such as poor-quality housing, a present drug-trade and ‘enduring stigmatization’ (2014: 1317-8).
In order for scenes to thrive, there needs to be accessible spaces to host live events but there also needs to be a community of people that is willing to grow and welcome new members. The desire and need for continued audience interaction and accessibility to shared social spaces is a vital component to the life of local music scenes (Shaw 2013:
349), yet the ability for scenes to attract new and younger generations is hindered by the effects of territorial stigma, which may result in parents restricting youth from attending events located in downtown bars and clubs. The importance of all-ages venues was emphasized by the majority of interview participants who feared that without the influx
removed (Tuffin 2014). Attempts were made to retrieve a copy of the original article (‘6 Ways to Stay Safe in Downtown Peterborough’ by Paul Rellinger), but editorial staff at My Kawartha declined my request. Thus, this discussion relies on the letters written as a reaction to that original piece. More recently, an editorial letter written by the owner of a downtown Peterborough business drew both condemnation and support for its argument against the presence of a safe injection site in the downtown core, blaming opioid use on the presence of methadone clinics and poor sales on ‘new faces’ and thieves (Hubbeard 2018).The author concludes by citing their ‘disgust’ with the city and begs both readers to keep Peterborough from ‘turning this downtown into the ghost town that you see in every other city’ (Hubbeard 2018). 58 of new, younger members, their scene would eventually cease to exist. As one interviewee stated, ‘if you don’t have all-ages spaces, you won’t have opportunities for people to come in and participate’ (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). Tracy A, lead singer of Peterborough’s Cross Dog, spoke in-depth about the importance for youth to be able to access all-ages shows, referring to her own experiences of attending live music events, feeling empowered by those moments that helped her to develop a stronger sense of self:
It’s really empowering for youth and it’s cool because it gives kids something they can do and feel like they’re doing something […] that maybe they wouldn’t be able to do in another capacity. […] A lot of kids feel powerless and if they can put on a show and have people come out and see cool music, that’s really powerful. […] I developed a lot of politics through going to punk shows and listening to punk bands, and it really opened my eyes to so much. And I got that because I was exposed to going to shows, and I lived in a town where there was lots of all-ages shows […]. […] It’s just not a thing that [is] as widely offered as I think maybe it used to be because everybody wants to make a buck off the booze sales or whatever. But I think it’s so important because what are these kids going to be? How are they gonna be getting that huge formative experience? (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview)
With a music scene network comprised of mainly bar venues, accessibility for those under the legal drinking age is harder to maintain in Peterborough (Durose-Moya 2016:
10). In addition, there are difficulties in finding information about where and when events happen. While Peterborough’s mainstream newspapers and radio stations cater to more conventional musical genres and large-scale events, information about the independent or
DIY arts and music scenes can be found via student media outlets, such as Trent
University’s student paper, The Arthur, or Trent Radio (Pollock 2014: 13), both of which cater to older audiences. Alternatively, as one local entertainment guide suggests, ‘just come downtown; keep your ears open and wander towards whatever sounds good’
(Pollock 2014: 13), which may not be possible for teenagers whose parents might not 59 allow them to wander through the neighbourhood at night on their own. While many interview participants struggled to think of ways to attract younger generations to shows
(Piss Locusts, 3 February 2015 interview), one interviewee believed that a successful strategy would be to find a sustainable way to actively target a younger demographic and ensure that younger participants are made to feel validated and included by the scene at large (Anonymous 7 July 2015 interview). Several participants agreed such a strategy would have to involve directly targeting high schools (typically isolated from the downtown music scenes), whether through flyers or community-based programs
(Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview; Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview).
As previously mentioned, The Spill used sound and volume to increase its visibility but this was also done through distribution of the traditional show flyer, which is perhaps the key promotional tool for punk shows aside from social media and word-of- mouth.18 Relatively easy and affordable to produce, such advertisements are common sights in a number of major cities but some municipalities attempt to reduce the number of flyers posted within certain neighbourhoods, raising a debate that echoes arguments made for and against graffiti in urban locales. That is, the question of whether graffiti is art or a form of vandalism is similar to the question of whether flyers attached to hydro poles should be considered examples of the freedom of expression or litter. In
Peterborough, a fifty-year bylaw was imposed that prohibited the placement of posters or flyers to any city-owned property (Global News 2017), arguing that the flyers were a safety hazard for hydro workers, a visual distraction for drivers and a ‘visual and
18 See Chapter 3 for a discussion about the history and development of the traditional punk show flyer. 60 aesthetic blight’ that could be considered litter if left hanging for too long (Ramsden v.
Peterborough (City) 1993: 1085).
Over the years, individuals attempted to challenge the ban but it was not until
1988 when local musician Ken Ramsden was charged and found guilty of violating the bylaw (Global News 2017) that the debate escalate and trigger a lengthy legal battle. For
Ramsden, Peterborough’s existing ban was an infringement of the right to freedom of expression (Ramsden v. Peterborough (City) 1993: 1085), and the two sides went back and forth until the city of Peterborough took the case to the Supreme Court of Canada
(Global News 2017). In 1993, the court ruled in favour of Ramsden, arguing that hanging posters on public property is a protected right under s. 2(b) of the Charter of Rights and
Figure 2.12 - Lamp Post, Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. 61
Figure 2.13 - Community Event Board, Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2014. Freedoms. As a result of the court’s decision, which set a precedent for other cities in
Canada dealing with the same issue (Global News 2017), the city was required to install specially-designed lamp posts (Figure 2.12) and community event boards (Figure 2.13) throughout the downtown area to ensure permanent locations for flyers and posters that did not pose a risk to safety or aesthetics (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview).
Unfortunately, over the years many of these have been removed, so flyers continue to be posted in areas owned by the city where they are likely to be quickly removed (e.g. standard hydro poles, electrical boxes and exterior walls of businesses).
Marginal mainstream venues such as The Spill, unlike illegal punk houses or squats, must meet a standard for business practices set by local legislation, including bylaws regarding capacity, cleanliness, noise etc. (Campbell 2013: 73). Tobey and his staff were largely responsible for ensuring that they and their patrons adhered to city rules and bylaws. The binary of inside/outside plays a central role in many of these bylaws, 62 determining which behaviours and activities are allowed to be performed out in the open in the name of public safety.19 Volume and alcohol sales were central parts of The Spill’s business, and Tobey and his staff often had to deal with police responding to noise complaints (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview) or alcohol inspectors conducting random visits. When neighbours complained about the sound, Tobey would do his part to ‘protect the citizens’ by closing the door (Tobey, 29 August 2014 interview). Signs hung near the front entrance warned people not to bring their drinks outside and if inspectors were concerned about the number of people in the venue, Tobey would ask whoever was working the door to keep track of individuals coming in and out of the space.20
Within local punk scenes there is a question of where responsibility should fall when issues arise that can potentially affect the future of the scene itself. While some believe that the venue is responsible for the behaviour of its patrons, others feel that ultimately it is up to scene participants to uphold their own system of ethics (Anonymous,
7 July 2015 interview). Ultimately, The Spill’s motivation behind implementing measures to ensure the safety of patrons was to maintain their business, which had the potential to conflict with scene participants who are motivated by a multitude of different needs and desires outside of commercial interests. As mentioned, some participants may only be interested in using the space as a place to party and relax, but others make a tangible effort to self-police events, understanding that too many incidents that attract the
19 For example, in Ontario the legal consumption of alcohol must remain indoors, and cigarettes must be consumed outside and away from venue entrances. Even sound is regulated as a force that has the capacity to infringe upon the general public’s right to a certain standard of living. Peterborough’s twenty- four-hour noise bylaw, for instance, restricts any noise (i.e. sound equipment, loud speakers, instruments, voices or music) that disturbs inhabitants of nearby residences, resulting in fines for businesses that fail to control their sound levels. 20 Legally, The Spill was only allowed to have thirty-five people inside the space at one time, although from observation and experience it appeared that this rule was not strongly enforced. 63 attention of police or other authoritative outsiders may lead to the venue’s closure which would have a larger effect on the scene at large. Beyond this, some participants look to create a music scene consisting of safe spaces21 that support and validate a diverse range of identities and look to music venues and their operators to take the lead in such endeavours. As one interviewee stated, in an ideal world, music scenes are engaged communities where participants and venues interact in a constructive manner and work together to ensure that their mutual needs are being met (Anonymous, 7 July 2015).
However, this individual also acknowledged that not every person attending shows is interested in participating in the scene as a member of a community, and in such cases the responsibility to ‘mitigate potential messes’ would fall solely on the venue and its operators (Anonymous, 7 July 2015).
As much as The Spill was favoured by a large majority of interview participants, it was far from a utopic space. Attitudes towards venues and their owners are subjective and circumstantial (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview), and even The Spill would come under fire from scene participants who felt that the venue was slow to respond to issues regarding violent or misogynistic behaviour at punk shows, resulting in occasional unofficial boycotts of the space by certain factions of the scene (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). By refusing to attend shows or patronize a venue, scene participants attempt to symbolically remove power from the space itself (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview).
However, this is not an ideal solution as it reduces dialogue between the venue’s operators and the scene at large, limiting the potential to enact significant change
21 Durose-Moya succinctly defines a ‘safe space’ as ‘a space where anyone, and especially those belonging to minority groups, can walk in and feel safe from discrimination, harassment, and other forms of oppression’ (2016: 10). 64
(Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). A truly safe space may be impossible to create in a scene composed mainly of bar venues, but by thinking about the concept as the alternative ‘safer space’ helps to communicate the idea that all people within a local music scene, regardless of their position within it, are able to contribute to making a scene’s spaces open and accessible (Durose-Moya 2016: 11).
Case study: The rise and fall of the $2 Punk Shows
At the time field work for this chapter commenced, a series of monthly shows geared specifically towards showcasing both local and touring punk acts began at The
Spill. Known as the ‘$2 Punk Shows’, these events became emblematic of not only the relationship that exists between scene participants and their local music venues, but also the complicated inner dynamics and relationships of a local scene network. Organized by
Wayne Kennedy, a local promoter and musician from Port Hope, Ontario, these shows were arguably the most popular regular punk events happening in Peterborough at the time, attracting large audiences and gaining notoriety throughout the scene. However, despite the regular schedule of the shows, their growing audience, cheap cover charge and large set lists, Kennedy and the shows were not immune to criticism. As the primary organizer of the events, Kennedy became the target for debates on safe spaces in music scenes and what some argued was the inherent misogyny of punk culture. After public critique and pressure increased, the shows were effectively cancelled in April 2016. The following section briefly chronicles the beginning and end of the $2 Punk Shows, 65 discussing the monthly event’s relationship to the physical space of The Spill, as well as to the larger local music scene network.
Audience survey
A large majority of both scholarly and non-scholarly work on punk culture focuses primarily on the experiences of band members or venue owners, individuals deemed to be the primary leaders of local music scenes. To focus only on scene participants who actively contribute to a music scene in more visible ways would be to ignore the agency, contributions and opinions of the myriad of audience members who attend events, purchase merchandise and contribute to the scene in more subtle ways.
Therefore, an additional survey was conducted during the final $2 Punk Show which was designed to specifically target audience members and their attitudes regarding The Spill
(Appendix C). Participants were approached at random during the event, but as the night progressed the crowd became more energized and disorderly. This, coupled with the increasing noise and the fact that many had been consuming alcohol throughout the night, made it gradually more difficult to collect survey information. When it became nearly impossible to communicate in a constructive manner with participants, the survey closed at thirty-six anonymous participants.
This larger sample compared to the interview survey data yield more diversity in terms of demographics (Table 2.1). Out of thirty-six audience survey participants, nineteen were male and fifteen were female. Only one participant identified as having a fluid gender identity, and one did not provide a response. Five participants indicated a 66
nce Survey Results (Demographics) [1 2] of Results (Demographics) Survey nce
The Spill The Audie
-
2.1 Table Table
67
[22] of
The Spill Audience Survey Results (Demographics) Results Spill (Demographics) Survey The Audience
-
.1 .1
2
Table
68 distinct religious affiliation, while the large majority either identified as Atheist,
Agnostic, or stated no religious affiliation. The age of participants ranged from thirteen to forty-four, with the average age being twenty-two years of age. In terms of the highest level of education, twenty-two participants having completed some form of post- secondary education, with two holding Masters degrees, and eleven had completed high school. Parental occupations varied from careers in teaching, business/management, agriculture, engineering/technology, and customer service, while very few survey participants worked in professional fields themselves. The majority of participants identified as being single or in casual relationships, with two in married/common-law relationships, and only one had children. Only nine participants stated that they lived outside Peterborough, indicating a predominantly local crowd.
As the first band took the stage for the last $2 Punk Show, the venue quickly began to fill. With barely any room to manoeuvre through the crowd, it was obvious that the venue was filled beyond its legal capacity. There was an atmosphere of excitement typical of any other event, but also with an added tinge of sadness that the shows were coming to an end. This feeling was echoed by survey participants, as several indicated that their reason for attending was because it was the last show and they wanted to support Kennedy (Table 2.2). In fact, looking over the reasons why people were in attendance, it became obvious that ‘support’ was the predominant theme. Whether through showing support for Kennedy, The Spill, a friend’s band or the Peterborough punk scene itself, audience members wanted their physical presence to demonstrate an appreciation of the scene and its cultural endeavours. It is interesting that despite this strong communal support, very few audience survey participants identified as being part 69
Table 2.2 - The Spill Audience Survey Results (Reasons for Attendance) of a ‘scene’ (only nine identified as being part of a scene, while seventeen did not).
While the term ‘scene’ was used when referring to Peterborough’s music-based communities, there was hesitation to personally identify with the term. What this indicates is that while the term ‘scene’ is commonly used by participants to refer to the communities they interact with, and it often denotes feelings of mutual support and comradery. Using it as a label for personal identity is complicated by the fact that participants may each define their scene (i.e. punk, metal, etc.) in different ways. Since
The Spill was highly rated amongst audience survey participants (garnering an average score of eight out of ten), a conclusion can be drawn that this is partially due to the fact that it catered to a larger demographic of the city beyond that of punk scene participants.
Material and physical analysis
On any average day, The Spill’s front window was a key feature of the venue. In the morning, it provided the largest amount of natural light to brighten the otherwise dark 70 interior. In the evening, it allowed for a transformation of the sidewalk into an extension of the venue, giving individuals outside an intimate view of the frivolity and mayhem happening within. Even when the venue was closed, one could often find someone pressing their face to the glass, shielding their eyes with one hand in order to search inside for some signs of life. However, on the evening of a $2 Punk Show, the window was always covered by a large bedsheet emblazoned with the event’s name in black paint. By removing the window’s basic functionality, the bedsheet symbolically sealed the boundaries of the venue. It broadcasted a clear message to outsiders: in order to share in the experience, one must actually enter The Spill and physically engage with the combination of bodies and space that music scenes are comprised of.
The combination of an old bedsheet, paint and a small cover charge was a deliberate strategy on the part of Kennedy to recall the classic DIY aesthetic of Black
Flag, and other examples of 1980s independent punk shows (Kennedy, 22 September
2015 interview). Too young to have personally witnessed the rise of American Hardcore
(at the time of his first interview in 2014, he was twenty-four years old), there was nonetheless a nostalgic yearning on the part of Kennedy for what he personally considered a golden period in punk’s history. The attempt to recreate this stripped-down aesthetic is at its heart an attempt to construct an environment that contains within it the means to reproduce the same level of energy and participation that Kennedy associates with punk scenes of the past. Recreating the past means reclaiming the current means of cultural expression and production through DIY strategies which are themselves a form of creative resistance to overproduced mass culture (Greene 2016: 25). Like Tobey’s inclusion of objects significant to the local history of downtown Peterborough, 71
Kennedy’s bedsheet banner helped to link the $2 Punk Shows to the larger history of punk culture and DIY traditions.
Social dynamics: Elements of cooperation
Kennedy provided detailed insight on his process of organizing and promoting a single show, illustrating the high amount of preparation and hard work that goes into organizing a single DIY punk show. One month before a show, Kennedy would begin promoting which involved ensuring bands that had been booked six months ahead were still able to play (22 September 2015 interview). Once the set list was confirmed,
Kennedy would send this information to a friend who would design the show flyer, and then regularly update his social media pages over a period of a few weeks (22 September
2015 interview). Kennedy would also reach out to local media outlets but understood that more often than not he would not receive a response (22 September 2015 interview). One week before the show, details were worked out with the performers via Facebook (i.e. figuring out set and load-in times and arranging for gear sharing) (Kennedy, 22
September 2015 interview). At this time, Kennedy would continue to post information about the show online, which he admits is an annoying but effective method of promotion, believing that such repetition increases awareness of a show and the chance of people remembering to attend (22 September 2015 interview). The day before the show was spent tying up loose ends. Kennedy would once again confirm that all the bands were still playing, prepare the supplies he needed to work the event (i.e. a cash box, markers and duct tape) and ensure that the show banner was folded up and ready to go (22 72
September 2015 interview). As the show was taking place, Kennedy would mostly supervise, collecting money at the door and ensuring that the audience was respecting each other and the space (22 September 2015 interview).
Local music scenes, as networks composed of the relationships that emerge between the interaction of bodies and physical spaces, are also symbolically organized by the knowledge, skills and training of their participants. As Kennedy discussed his process, stress and motivations behind organizing the monthly shows, what emerged was a sense of the intricacy of the local scene network of which he was a part, as well as the relationships and social positions of different people within it. While the majority of work was performed by Kennedy, and his name was attached to the events, there was an underlying reliance on the skills and knowledge of various other sections of the scene.
Cultural and artistic products are social in nature, and even something that appears as a solo work contains divisions of labour, where multiple individuals trained in specialized areas help in the production process (Becker 1974: 767-8). While Kennedy conceived the idea for the $2 Punk Shows, as a venue owner Tobey was able to provide a space for the event. In addition, Kennedy’s friend had the right skill set required to design the show poster, local and touring bands were needed to perform and entertain, different media outlets were required to help advertise the event and an audience was needed to both attend the event and help spread word about it. Kennedy’s role as a promoter was to initiate communication between these different facets of the scene but also between the scene and the larger, outside community, as well as to identify and address any potential issues that could disrupt this process. Therefore, local music scenes rely on a system of 73 cooperation based on mutual understanding of accepted customs and practices (Becker
1974: 770).
Controversies: Tension and Struggle
In February 2016, Kennedy and the $2 Punk Shows came under fire. Complaints were lodged from various individuals who argued that the shows, and by extension
Kennedy himself, promoted a misogynistic attitude that created an unsafe and unwelcoming space for female attendees (Corman 2016). The evidence cited to support these claims included a lack of female representation amongst performing acts and numerous reports of individuals feeling unsafe at the shows due to being physically or verbally harassed in a way that constituted sexual assault (Corman 2016). Kennedy’s immediate reaction to these accusations was to cancel all future $2 Punk Shows, a move that was criticized by some as a knee-jerk reaction that did nothing to address the serious issues raised by the complaints and cancelled any potential positive contribution the shows made to the scene (Corman 2016). After receiving feedback from scene participants via social media, many of whom argued for the importance of the events for
Peterborough’s punk scene, Kennedy decided to run the events on a trial basis after conferring with Tobey on how best to address the issue of safety at shows. After posting a list of rules outlining expected behaviour, asking for volunteers to work security at events and reaching out to bands with female members to play shows, Kennedy ultimately decided to cease his involvement with the shows altogether, with the last show planned for 15 April 2016. 74
Kennedy’s decision to end the $2 Punk Shows sparked a large debate in the scene concerning safe-spaces and who should be held responsible for enforcing anti-harassment rules. The majority of online reactions were supportive of Kennedy but expressed disappointment in the decision, while a small portion of individuals were happy with the announcement as it meant that it reduced the possibility for even more people to be put in potentially harmful situations (Corman 2016). In terms of responsibility, the majority of audience survey responses indicated that it was the responsibility of everyone involved in a music scene to create safe spaces, while only two stated that it was the venue owner’s responsibility. Audience members overwhelmingly stated that they felt The Spill was a safe and inclusive environment, and certainly the venue had posted signs indicating its role as a ‘safe space,’ but this does not mean that harassment and abuse did not occur within its walls (Table 2.3). For some, simply putting up a ‘safe space’ sign does nothing to confront actual instances of abuse (de Moraes, cited in Durose-Moya 2016: 11).
Having scene participants act as allies for each other and actively call out incidents that they personally witness is potentially more effective (Durose-Moya 2016: 11). However, not every individual feels comfortable speaking out themselves or approaching security/police and look to prominent figures in the scene (i.e. promoters, venue owners, band members) to speak on their behalf and set a positive example for the community at large.
The $2 Punk Shows were an ‘interesting experiment’ (Anonymous 7 July 2015) in terms of creating and maintaining a local punk scene. The inherent flexibility and adaptability of The Spill allowed these events to occur and contributed to their popularity.
In execution, the shows were successful in that they consistently attracted large audiences 75
Table 2.3 - The Spill Audience Survey Results (Safety and Responsibility) and lengthy set lists. While the majority of work was done by Kennedy, and his name was attached to the events, this success may not have occurred if it were not for the intricate network of help and support generated by the combination of people and spaces in Peterborough’s punk and independent music scenes. Despite the fact that many participants saw these shows as a positive contribution to the scene, no strategy for creating such a community is able to cater to all participants and their individual perceptions of what exactly constitutes a ‘punk scene’. In the end, while participants in the punk and independent music scenes observed in Peterborough were largely supportive of each other, this support did not translate into actively assisting Kennedy continue these shows, nor did anyone fill the gap left by the monthly event. Without continual support and active contributions from multiple participants, local music scenes run the risk of losing their shared culture and spaces.
76
Conclusion: What happens next?
On Wednesday, 18 October 2017, I was sitting at a coffee shop in Lafayette,
Louisiana watching a disappointingly awkward open-mic comedy show. As comic after comic failed to make the audience even snicker, my phone started to glow with messages asking me where I was, because The Spill was closing for good and if I wanted to say goodbye I had better get down there quick. My partner who I was travelling with was also receiving similar messages, as he was scheduled to play an up-coming show at The
Spill (incidentally, a show that I had booked). I felt helpless, unable to answer the rallying call that was rapidly spreading through cellphones and over social media. I sat forlornly at the bar as the amateur comics and their audience slinked away, and my partner took the stage to an empty room. He asked me what song I wanted to hear, but I was barely listening, as the larger impact of what had just happened slowly began to dawn on me. While cities are mapped based on the layout of naturally-existing elements and physical infrastructure, they are also mapped conceptually based on an individual’s interaction with certain spaces that are meaningful to their embodied experience of where they live. In terms of my own conceptual mapping of Peterborough, The Spill had been a central, organizing hub. Its removal meant scene participants in Peterborough would now be forced to reconfigure their scene physically by finding new spaces in which to congregate, as well as conceptually, as they gradually came to terms with the reality of saying goodbye to The Spill (Figure 2.14). 77
Figure 2.14 - The Spill (Exterior) After Closure, Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2017.
On 8 November 2017, a tribute concert to raise money for Tobey took place at nearby Market Hall, where a variety of musicians and audience members spent the evening playing music and saying thanks to Tobey and The Spill (Figure 2.15). Amongst the gossip and hearsay regarding what happened, the most prominent rumour was that the closure had something to do with fines resulting from an over-capacity issue, but this remains unconfirmed. If true, then The Spill’s closure is representative of a larger issue facing independent music venues across Canada as operators lacking sufficient financial backing struggle to stay open in the face of increasing rental rates, fines from noise or liquor bylaw offences and costs associated with general building maintenance and upkeep. Tobey attended the tribute show, but has chosen not to speak publicly about the reasons behind his decision. Regardless, the potential closure of the venue was always a present threat, as most public venues are inherently fragile spaces. By actively working to 78
Figure 2.15 - The Spill Tribute Show Ticket, (c) Katie Green 2017. protect and maintain venues through the organization of shows and community-based events, as well as assisting in ensuring codes of conduct are upheld, scene participants demonstrate an awareness of the precarious existence of their shared social spaces.
To say that there was a degree of struggle in coming to terms with the loss of The
Spill would be an understatement. As with the passing of a dear friend, its absence triggered a deeper reflection regarding its legacy and the resulting impact its closure would have on Peterborough’s alternative and independent music scenes. Certainly, there were other music venues in the area, some of which opened their doors to re-house as many of The Spill’s now-cancelled upcoming events as possible. So, if The Spill was just one of many music venues in a relatively small area, and punks lacking access to independent music venues are able to construct social spaces in a variety of locations, what exactly was The Spill beyond just a container of cultural activity? In considering what exactly music venues are, Straw asks:
Are [music venues] hosting places for pre-existing scenes, spaces productive of their own scenes, moments in the itinerary of a scene (in the course of a night or over many years), local examples of scenic phenomena whose true scale is 79
international, or points within networks of social, cultural, and economic inter- connection which are themselves the real scenes? (2002: 249)
After analyzing the physical attributes of The Spill and the activities and behaviours that took place there, I conclude that music venues act in one or more of these roles, at times even simultaneously. On the one hand, The Spill filled a void within the city’s pre- existing art and music scenes left open after the closure of The Union. As previously mentioned, the life of a local punk scene is cyclical and therefore it would be a mistake to assume that the closure of The Spill signifies a death knell for Peterborough’s independent music scenes. In the last communication received from Dave Tobey, he stated that ‘The Spill was just a short blip on the cultural timeline of Peterborough. Stuff happened before. Stuff will continue to happen’ (2018). Yet, Tobey’s original vision for the venue as a ‘pirate ship of culture’ signified the production of a scene uniquely connected to the physical attributes of the space itself, one that was defined by the day-to- day operations of The Spill, its promotion of DIY ethics, prioritization of local community and interactions with patrons and the city at large. For long-term participants,
The Spill acted as a key, centralizing entity in their personal history of engagement with their local music scene, while for those whose involvement was much more fleeting, their memories of The Spill may only consist of a single night. Finally, by supporting local artists and musicians, as well as hosting both national and international touring acts, The
Spill was representative of the large, intricate network of global music scenes, and as such was also linked to systems of power, economics, social relationships and bureaucracy.
The ability for The Spill and similar music venues to operate in this multifarious manner is due to defining such spaces through the theoretical framework of ‘scene’. 80
While ‘scene’ as an alternative label to subculture has been criticized for being too overarching a term, its inherent flexibility and adaptability to a variety of cultural manifestations makes it a useful label for communities through which no single lens of definition is suitable. Through the use of ethnographic research methods, the music scenes observed in Peterborough were seen to consist of a diverse population of participants who exist across a wide spectrum of class backgrounds, education levels, religious beliefs, ages, etc. and who hold differing opinions regarding the conceptual mapping and function of their local scene. One commonality amongst all participants, however, was a belief in the importance of physical places to the organization and daily operation of a local scene. Therefore, music venues that allow for the expression of underground, alternative, or otherwise marginalized identities hold greater significance for participants in terms of constructing personal and communal identities than traditional scholarship initially considered.
Following a Bourdieusian analytical model, social spaces are symbolically divided based on binary oppositions of interior/exterior, male/female, insider/outsider, etc. In terms of punk music venues, there is a great degree of symbolic and cultural meaning tied up in their existence that can penetrate even the physical walls of a space.
While participants carve their existence (at times literally) into the walls of a music venue over long periods of active engagement with the space, these traces can be removed if determined not worthy of preservation. For The Spill, years worth of ephemera and memorabilia that once adorned its has since been removed and placed in boxes, not by professional curators of cultural institutions, but by volunteers from the community;
Tobey’s friends who offered assistance in archiving the vast amount of material that 81
Figure 2.16 - Assorted Flyers at The Spill (After Closure), Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2017. stands as a physical representation of The Spill’s lived history (Figure 2.16). In addition, the Hi Tops sign, once an iconic feature of The Spill’s interior, has been housed in a nearby restaurant, along with other elements of The Spill’s décor that eventually found their way to new homes in neighbouring downtown businesses. Therefore, Dave Tobey's attempts to root the venue to the history and culture of downtown Peterborough through filling the space with an eclectic assortment of local art and artefacts had come full circle, as the memory of The Spill was now spread throughout Peterborough’s downtown core via these items. 82
The Spill was also symbolically divided through a series of six micro-zones formed by repeated social roles and behaviours that allow individuals to organize themselves within a given location. Through observing the actions of individuals at The
Spill both during punk shows and the venue’s daytime hours, the relationship between people and physical space emerged as a series of reciprocal interactions based on a combination of the unique characteristics of the building, the venue’s role as an independent business and knowledge of the social hierarchy that existed within the local music scene itself. The micro-zones observed at The Spill during live music events were not fixed elements of the space and changed as the venue itself changed. After its closure,
I was allowed to enter the building one last time and saw that while the physical dimension of the building remained the same, the removal of its roles as a business and music venue had altered the existence of its micro-zones and removed any social hierarchy that had once barred entry to certain areas. For instance, the back room, normally reserved for staff members, was now free to explore. The removal of sound equipment erased its use as a music venue, just as the removal of the seating areas located in what were once Zones 3, 4, and 5 signified that this was no longer a space for the facilitation of social relationships (Figure 2.17). Local music scenes need physical venues in order to base their activities around a central hub and generate a visible public presence, but at the same time, these venues would simply be spaces devoid of significant cultural meaning without the influence of the bodies that occupy them. As The Spill stated in their last Facebook post addressed to their patrons:
The Spill is closed. This is a heartbreak on so many levels. But remember, The Spill was merely a location. It was great because YOU made it great. Things happened because YOU made them happen […]. (The Spill 2017)
83
Figure 2.17 - The Spill (Interior) After Closure, Peterborough ON, (c) Katie Green 2017.
In other words, a music venue on its own is just another building. When that music venue is populated by a culture of people who actively work together to create an alternative community for themselves, it becomes a necessary site for the creation and demonstration of individual/group identities and alternative modes of creative expression within a larger public sphere that does not always cater to marginal communities.
The Spill was utilized by a variety of individuals all invested in local music- making practices who enacted multiple strategies to keep their scene alive. Through meeting and interacting with various members of Peterborough’s punk and independent music scenes, my position as an outsider gradually shifted as opportunities arose to 84 participate and contribute to the scene in increasingly creative and productive ways, such as organizing and promoting shows. Reaction to my presence was largely positive, although a degree of skepticism and suspicion was experienced from some scene participants who felt protective of a community that they wished to keep free of interlopers who could potentially threaten its existence. At two separate instances while conducting field work in Peterborough, I was verbally confronted by individuals who felt that my research would misrepresent their scene. After explaining the nature of the research and offering to include them in the interview process, these individuals remained suspicious of my motives and declined to participate. A consequence of being part of the public sphere is that such groups are also open to the potential for outsider surveillance, interaction and interference. The issue for local punk scenes is that they ‘get inscribed in local geographies and re-inscribed in global ones. They are at once intensely local and always already prone to spectators, intruders, and enterprising parasites’ (Eichhorn 2015:
366). In other words, as long as local music scenes continue to occupy public spaces
(specifically independent music venues), they will always remain open to the potential threat of intrusion.
During interviews, participants were asked to hypothesize what effect the loss of
The Spill might have on Peterborough’s punk scene. For members of Cross Dog, they saw Tobey as a ‘cornerstone of the scene’ and felt that the loss of The Spill would weaken the community (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview). Another interviewee believed that the closure of The Spill would cause confusion and sadness throughout the scene, and a recovery period would be needed for the scene to reorient itself
(Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). While this participant thought the closure of the 85 venue might open up a new space for individuals to try create something different, they were also skeptical that anyone would have the ability to do so (Anonymous, 7 July 2015 interview). While these predictions have proven to be accurate, it remains to be seen for how long the alternative music scenes that The Spill supported will be in this disrupted state.
The internal structure of alternative music venues strives to physically manifest a form of freedom that may not be accessed in other locations such as school, work, or the home. Arguing for the more positive potential of such locations, Debies-Carl writes that alternative music venues are:
[…] remarkable instantiations of an alternative society that yet could be. Largely egalitarian, self-regulated, informal, and tolerant, they represent living examples of the punk philosophy put into practice, showing what is possible rather than simply theorizing it. (2014: 247)
The Spill operated as a venue that promoted freedom of expression in an informal atmosphere and attempted to put punk ideals into practice. Although I strongly argue for the positive creative and social potential of punk culture, local punk scenes are far from utopic. The activities and practices observed at The Spill were clear evidence that the label of ‘subculture’ is no longer sufficient. Rather than a unified group of people with the same goals, feelings, and thoughts about their local music scene, what was observed in Peterborough was a scene in a constant state of flux. Although there is cooperation, there is also competition, tension, and struggle, and the issues that arise within local scenes can sometimes mimic mainstream narratives and discourses that subordinate specific individuals based on personal identifiers, such as ethnicity, gender or sexuality.
Therefore, attention must be paid to the strategies employed by scene participants to 86 overcome such inequalities and establish ‘safe’ space and generate support from both inside and outside their subcultural community.
Local independent music venues are important to scene participants on both an individual and collective level. They make visible what is often invisible; that is, the cultural expressions of often over-looked or otherwise marginalized groups. They are also sites where punk scene participants can express themselves through alternate means not available to them in other areas of their professional or personal lives. Within these shared spaces, scene participants engage in real life social interactions, reinforce punk ideals of unity and collective action, as well as reap the more tangible benefits of generating financial income for bands, venues or select charitable causes. However, describing such spaces as completely open cultural vessels, and the punk scenes that occupy them as singularly-defined, homogenous communities, ignores the real, active practices scene participants enact to maintain their scene, as well as the challenges and barriers to maintaining independent music venues in the contemporary period.
When punk scenes, or indeed any social or cultural group, lose their shared spaces, the aforementioned benefits are also put at risk. Therefore, the following chapter moves outwards to look at the loss of independent, alternative music venues as a nation-wide issue to directly address the different strategies employed by scene participants to not only establish but protect their shared social spaces and culture. 87
Chapter Two: Finding a ‘home for the hardcore’: Spatial tactics of constructing punk social space in Vancouver, British Columbia
I won't be offended if you don't make it out tonight, I know how it goes. It's pouring outside, and it still feels so cold. I can't believe it's gone, can't believe it's over. How many times were you there for us? I won't turn my back on you and it ain't ever gonna be the same.
This town will swallow you whole, please take me home. These nights don't seem as long as they used to be, but maybe they weren't good at all and we didn't care; we still had time to lose. (LeBourdais 2015)
These words begin Jesse LeBourdais' ‘Take Me Home’, from his 2015 release Long
Winter. Based out of Vancouver, British Columbia, LeBourdais' words read as a farewell to an old friend and the lamenting of times gone past. In this instance, the old friend in question is not a person, but a music venue. Specifically, the Cobalt Hotel located in
Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. Once known by some scene participants as the ‘home for the hardcore’ (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview), the Cobalt is still in operation. However, when new management took ownership in 2009, it caused a rift in the local punk scene who saw the renovation as an appropriation of their local history and culture. While local news articles at the time celebrated the new Cobalt rising from the ashes of the old, and some community members supported the changes, many others expressed anger towards the new owners and began to refer to the venue as the ‘Fauxbalt’
(Mack 2010), suggesting that it was now an inauthentic reproduction of the original.
During an interview, LeBourdais summed up his personal feelings of resentment and betrayal at the perceived loss of place: 88
[...] If they would have changed their name, they would [have] avoided so much of a shit storm [...] They were obviously people who were too scared to go to The Cobalt when it was the original Cobalt, [...] This is a space that was so important to so many people. These guys just didn't get it [...]. Because it's like, you could've just [...] changed your name, you know? Nobody believes that it's The Cobalt. [...] It's just become a generic bar that nobody is remembering how awesome, or shit-ily awesome [it was]. It was a great place to get stabbed but it was one of a kind. [...] I went [to The Cobalt] for the first time in four years [...] I won't be going back [...]. I hated it! Everyone was like, “it looks exactly the same in there”. And I walked in there and I'm like, “What the hell are you talking about?! It is completely different in here!” (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview)
This particular example demonstrates the strong emotional connection individuals can develop with specific physical spaces that are seen to house and bear witness to the development of meaningful shared culture. Upon LeBourdais' return to the Cobalt, he perceived a change in the environment that was not immediately evident to others, as it was a change that occurred on a symbolic level more so than a physical one. Long-term engagement with shared social spaces develops into a fixed, almost naturalized aspect of a music scene participant's everyday sense of self (Driver and Bennett 2015: 112-113).
Therefore, while the closure and subsequent re-opening of The Cobalt may not have registered on the radar of a vast majority of the population of Vancouver, for the punks who saw it as a second home, its renovation represented a personal affront to their local culture and scene network, as well as a significant loss of symbolic and cultural capital.
Music scenes are products of the social, political and cultural climates in which they exist, and are developed in response to the needs of scene participants in a given historic period (Dunn 2008: 205-206).When participants use the term ‘scene’ to describe the music communities they are involved in, they are not necessarily talking about a specific regional sound, but rather the wide range of practices employed to actively create social spaces, build an audience and disseminate music and ideas (O'Connor 2002: 226). 89
Therefore, local music scenes are sites of a reciprocal relationship that develops between a physical location and the bodies that occupy it. While scenes play a role in producing subcultural identities on both a collective and individual level, these bodies also enact a high degree of agency in terms of influencing these spaces and are thus ‘the means by which scenes must be continuously reproduced’ (Driver and Bennett 2015: 100). If scene participants and the physical venues they utilize are engaged in an active, inter-dependent relationship, then a question that remains at the forefront of this study is what happens to local punk scenes when music venues, as the primary locations in which punks gather, are lost or disturbed?
Music venues are centralizing nodes in the often-intricate local scene network.
When faced with the dissolution of these gathering places, punk scenes initially disperse before regrouping and continuing practices of spatial transformation in a new location, even if only a temporary fix needed to address the demands of the scene at large. A variety of factors can directly affect the continued existence of punk music venues, including changes in government legislation and urban re-development. In the past few years, this has been the case in Vancouver, British Columbia. More specifically, these changes include processes of gentrification within older, low-income neighbourhoods brought on by the 2010 Winter Olympics, as well as recent restrictions implemented by
B.C.'s Liquor Control Board, resulting in the closure of many all-ages alternative live music venues.
The scope and variety of strategies utilized by scene participants in reaction to these changes is the primary focus of comparative analysis in this investigation, the intent of which is to argue that the city of Vancouver, through its attempt to re-organize, re- 90 codify and re-new its inner-city neighbourhoods, fails to recognize the direct impact such an agenda has upon the already marginalized portions of its population who create local culture within alternative music venues. As a result, all levels of a punk scene's population attempt a multitude of strategies to either establish new shared spaces or reclaim old ones. These strategies may work within established legal guidelines or outside them in an attempt to escape the threat of surveillance. However, additional difficulties may occur within the scene itself. What may be more accurately described as punk scenes, are highly diverse communities whose members hold contrasting understandings of what exactly punk is, which ultimately has a direct effect on their opinion regarding which strategy is best for creating a social space as well as what type of space should be built.
This chapter begins with a brief outline of methodological procedures and presents the findings of survey data collected from participants from Vancouver.
Following this, the discussion briefly maps the history and development of Vancouver’s punk scenes, contextualizing them within the geographical and historical context of the city, as well as paying particular attention how the city has been portrayed in both academic and non-academic texts. Finally, the chapter moves towards the current climate of Vancouver’s punk scenes by conducting a close, empirical analysis of two case studies. The first focuses on the Cobalt Hotel. More specifically, on the reaction of punk scene participants to the eviction of its previous manager and the continued use of the space under new management. Touching on issues regarding gentrification and the appropriation of (sub)cultural spaces, this case study draws attention to the effects of the loss of place on local punk scene participants. When faced with the loss of independent 91 music venues, participants may resort to establishing illegal, underground spaces in order to avoid interference from authority figures or other outsiders to the scene.
The second case study, therefore, contrasts these illegal strategies of building and maintaining social space by looking at the organization and policies of the Safe
Amplification Site Society; a non-profit organization based in Vancouver whose mandate is to cooperate with city officials and work within the legal confines of the British
Columbian government in order to guarantee the creation of permanent all-ages music venues. Both illegal and legal strategies of establishing alternative music venues have benefits and drawbacks for local scene participants, but each of these examples helps to demonstrate the diverse range of practices and viewpoints that exist within urban punk scenes, directly challenging more unified, homogenous conceptions of ‘subculture’ by illustrating the tangible elements of co-operation, competition, and struggle that exist within contemporary local punk scenes.
Interviews and survey findings
It bears mentioning that I am not a member of Vancouver’s punk or other alternative music scenes. Before research for this chapter commenced, I had visited the city only once several years ago, while touring with three independent punk bands through Western Canada. With past experience in punk scenes located throughout
Ontario, and personal connections with members of various punk scenes across the country, I had a large amount of insider knowledge about the language, symbols, and dynamics of punk culture (Glass 2012: 700). However, no matter how much social and 92 cultural capital I had accumulated, I was still a relative stranger to Vancouver whose role as ‘researcher’ was met with suspicion, particularly by operators of illegal venues who had experience with undercover interlopers attempting to gain access to their spaces, collect information, and report them to the authorities. To enter into a scene as both a researcher and a newcomer presents several challenges, all of which speak to the social dynamics of local scenes in general. In order to collect data, I had to rely on the already- established network of people and scenes in Canada that overcomes the geographical vastness of the country, stretching across provincial borders and creating a national system of support for touring bands and music venues. The benefits of having insider knowledge allowed for a greater understanding of the need to not abuse this network, as its usefulness is dependent on elements of trust and mutual support. Therefore, researchers of alternative music scenes must strive for openness and transparency about their intentions, make use of ethnographic methods that allow participants to speak about their experiences in their own words, and respect the important role punk spaces play in the everyday lives of participants.
Along with attending events at various types of punk venues in Vancouver (i.e. mainstream independent venues, and DIY/illegal venues), a total of seven interviews with participants from Vancouver were recorded. Two interviews were conducted in
Peterborough, Ontario in 2014 with Vancouver-based musicians who had travelled to the city while on tour. The others were conducted in Vancouver for one week in June 2016.
While some participants were previously known through personal connections, others were contacted via Facebook and in turn, these participants shared contact information with others they felt might be interested in contributing. Since I was new to Vancouver, 93 and punk scene participants do not carry a resume of their past scene experiences, there was no proof that I had earned the right to not only enter such spaces but also ask questions and make observations on the activities therein. Despite the assurances made by participants to their peers regarding my legitimacy, only two participants voluntarily reached out and offered to participate (one of whom ended up being previously known to the researcher).
Yet, similar to my experiences collecting research data at The Spill in
Peterborough, there was a degree of hesitance and suspicion on the part of those who saw me as a stranger asking questions about their scene and venues. In this instance, the role of researcher may have resulted in less people reaching out by their own initiative due to, as previously discussed, an inherent mistrust of academics within local punk scenes whose members may see such researchers as connected to a form of bureaucratic authority that they generally mistrust. Another explanation for this suspicion may have been due to a perceived social class difference, where scene credibility clashes with academic capital. To overcome this, researchers must establish that their work is beneficial to the scene (perhaps taking on an advocacy role that argues for the importance and necessity of such underground cultures), or else contributes to the scene’s culture by recording participant experiences and preserving the scene’s legacy for historical records
In terms of the demographics (Table 1.1), at least five interview participants from
Vancouver had parents in professional occupations (e.g. careers in teaching, government, administration, and information and communications). At least five also worked in professional fields themselves (e.g. careers in the performative arts, government, and community planning), while two had obtained post-graduate degrees. At least six 94 participants held jobs that related directly to their interest in and involvement with music, suggesting that over time, participation in a music-based community can lead to a life- long commitment where individuals search out careers that allow them to continue either a direct or indirect involvement with the scene as they age. For instance, while some participants sought careers where they would be working with local government to advocate for public music spaces (i.e. community planning, civil service), others opted for more central roles in the scene as booking coordinators or musicians. In one instance, a participant created their own title as ‘punk for hire,’ meaning that their income was earned through offering to complete odd jobs at shows. Since all participants stated that they had experience in various roles within the scene (Table 1.2), it can be assumed that not all of these services were done for financial gain. In a social environment that relies on mutual support, jobs within local punk scenes help to maintain the larger scene network and garner cultural and social capital for participants.
Whether family, friends or fellow punk scene participants, interviewees cited these personal and social relationships as the key factor for their choice to live in
Vancouver. This suggests that the feeling of belonging to a place is linked to an individual’s ability to build social relationships within their immediate vicinity. Having physical infrastructure to support such relationships is therefore necessary for the population of a city to continue to seek out social environments in which they can build a meaningful shared culture. Over time, music venues become more than just locations for entertainment and leisure, as members of local music scenes continually use such spaces to gather and socialize which makes the physical space an integral part of such interactions. In order to cope with the loss of such central sites of socialization, members 95 of Vancouver’s alternative music communities opt to seek out or create their own venues, reclaiming control over the city’s cultural terrain in an effort to carve out spaces for themselves that mirror the world as they wish to see it. As will be discussed in greater detail, all interview participants were involved in the creation or maintenance of alternative music venues. What participation in local punk scenes provides for its members are the tools to explore, create and seek out alternative ways of living.
Locating punk in Vancouver, B.C.
Along with Toronto and Montreal, Vancouver is often cited as one of Canada's key cultural epicentres of punk. While Canadian contributions as a whole are often overlooked in larger historical discourses of punk culture,1 sources do make note of the influence of Vancouver’s D.O.A. on the development of 1980s American Hardcore, demonstrating evidence of a vertical, cross-border exchange of culture and aesthetics
(Rachman 2007). While academic research on Canadian subcultures is slowly emerging as an area of interest for scholars, there is already a large, ever-growing collection of non- academic sources seeking to document the people and places that comprise a national network of local punk scenes. In terms of documenting Vancouver punk, non-fiction sources focus primarily on biographies of bands and musicians (Armstrong 2001;
Keithley 2004; Walter 2014; 2015), while works of fiction construct vibrant stories in
1 The lack of attention paid to Canadian contributions to punk is related to a dismissal of Canadian youth cultures in general, which have been described as largely derivative and lacking in any dramatic, confrontational opposition, in contrast to those found in London or New York (Brake 1985: 145). This dismissive attitude is soon contradicted once one takes into account the first-hand evidence provided by oral histories that demonstrate that Canadian youth were developing a sound and style similar to British and American youth, even before the word ‘punk’ and all its implications were introduced to the public by the Canadian mainstream media (Worth 2011: 16). 96 which the city acts as both backdrop and supporting character (Walter 2004a; 2004b;
Haley 2014). In these sources, cities are more than just neutral containers in which local punk scenes are spawned but have a direct influence over where and how scenes developed, as well as punk participants’ perception of their scene culture.
In Perfect Youth: The Birth of Canadian Punk (2012), author Sam Sutherland provides a brief account of the history and development of the early years of Vancouver’s punk scene, which focuses on a select number of regional bands, such as D.O.A. and the
Subhumans. In his chapter on D.O.A., Sutherland constructs a story about the larger relationship that exists between a city and the network of bands that call it home, writing that ‘the world needed D.O.A. But D.O.A. needed Vancouver' (2012: 197). Local scenes arise out of a reciprocal relationship between people and place, and require physical infrastructure (i.e. venues, record stores, recording studios, and jam spaces) in order to spread and grow (O’Connor 2002: 233). The spatial mapping and organization of a city largely determines where and for how long an alternative social space, such as a punk music venue, can operate. What Sutherland helps to illustrate is that Vancouver, at that specific moment in time, contained within it the right combination of elements to support the development and spread of a thriving, influential punk scene, which in turn would have a global impact.
The city itself is divided into twenty-three distinct neighbourhoods which are organized into an East/West dichotomy (with the West Side understood as being more affluent than its working-class East Side neighbours) (Lynch 2016). Two areas on either side of this divide are the Granville Street Entertainment District, and the Downtown
Eastside (DTES). Granville Street (Figure 3.1) is an area that since the 1990s has been in 97
Figure 3.1 - Granville Street, Vancouver BC, (c) Katie Green 2016. the process of being re-zoned as the city's official entertainment centre (Boyd 2008: 104).
A variety of more conventional bars, clubs, and other nightlife-oriented venues cater to a large influx of local residents and tourists (Boyd 2008: 104). In opposition to the tourist- friendly image of Granville Street, the DTES is one of Vancouver's oldest neighbourhoods, known for its largely working-class population, and its post-war decline into an area characterized by a high degree of homelessness, criminal activity, drug use, and prostitution (Liu and Blomley 2013: 121). It also happens to be a neighbourhood that houses a large number of independent music venues, most of which cater to Vancouver's underground music scenes and provide an alternative to the clubs and bars of Granville
Street. However, with glaring lights, crowd-control barriers, and a heavy police presence, 98
Figure 3.2 - East Hastings Street, Vancouver BC, (c) Canadian2006 2012. the Granville Street Entertainment District has been described as a ‘hostile’ area (James and Kroll 2010), with multiple interview participants affirming that they felt safer walking through the streets of the DTES (Figure 3.2). What this demonstrates is that in terms of the characterization of Granville Street and the DTES, a schism exists between the official city of Vancouver's understanding of its self image, and the experience of those who actively seek out alternative spaces for creative expression.
In the early 2000s, Vancouver started to be known as ‘No Fun City’ due to the city’s restrictive cultural practices that led to the closure of many independent music venues. From dancing permits that restricted audience participation at shows (e.g. moshing/slam dancing), to building codes, and noise by-laws, music venues attempting to operate legally must meet the standards set by the city, which can take years of negotiations and thousands of dollars to complete. While many of Vancouver's more popular music venues have been purchased by multi-million-dollar conglomerates (James 99 and Kroll 2010) who have the means to meet such standards, many independents struggle.2 One of the most contentious issues affecting legal music venues in Vancouver is the province’s changes to legislation regarding liquor licenses. Previously, liquor- licensed music venues were allowed to apply for a temporary ‘delicensing,’ which allowed for the hosting of all-ages events at venues with a bar. On 27 November 2012, citing an increase in delicense applications, the Liquor Control and Licensing Branch of
British Columbia (LCLB) enacted legislation that made it so ‘liquor-primary establishments’ would only be allowed to temporarily delicense in order to host all-ages events four to six times per year (Zeschky 2013), and only if the event in question had nothing to do with their primary mode of business (Woo 2013).3 The policy states that it is an issue of public safety, as police, LCLB and communities found that minors attending all-ages events at licensed venues were often consuming alcohol before or outside during the event (LCLB policy directive no. 12-09). However, critics argue that such legislation is counter-productive and only succeeds in pushing youth towards illegal venues that do not abide by building codes or fire safety regulations.
2 The navigation of such struggles is the subject of a 2010 documentary entitled No Fun City (James and Kroll 2010), which places city officials, members of a local condo board, and the police in the role of antagonists to the creation of alternative social spaces. Each of the venues featured in the film (i.e. The Cobalt Hotel, The Rickshaw Theatre, and the Emergency Room) contrast greatly in terms of location and legality, but all are seen to cater to a multitude of alternative music scenes whose members feel more comfortable in underground venues than those located on Granville Street. 3 This meant that a music venue relying primarily on the sale of alcohol at gigs would only be able to delicense for an all-ages event that was not a live music show (but would, for example, be able to delicense in order to host an exercise class or other non-music related event) (Woo 2013; Zeschky 2013). 100
Disruption and loss of social spaces: The Cobalt Hotel
Located in the heart of the DTES at 917 Main Street is The Cobalt Hotel (Figure
3.3). Built in 1911, the upper floors of The Cobalt house single occupancy, low-income residences, while the lower portion of the building is devoted to a music venue and bar.
From May 2000 until September 2009, under the influence of its manager, wendythirteen, The Cobalt had established itself as one of Vancouver’s premiere punk and hardcore live music venues, before being issued a 60-day eviction notice4 on 31 July
2009 (McLeod 2005). Continuing as ‘The Cobalt,’ the venue still hosts live music events,
Figure 3.3 – The Cobalt Motor Hotel (Exterior) circa 2009, Vancouver BC, (c) Gates of Ale 2009.
4 The reason cited for the eviction was that the owners of the building felt that the venue’s liquor license was being under used and wanted The Cobalt to begin opening at 9am rather than 8pm (Harding 2009). Wendythirteen contested this request, fearing that opening the bar for morning hours would invite troublesome clientele and see the venue ‘[…] regress to the drug-infested unlawful das of yore […]’ (Harding 2009). Attempts to discuss the matter with the landlords, as well as a fundraising campaign to raise money for a legal defence were both unsuccessful, as new renters who could afford to pay more for the space were quickly found (wendythirteen, 17 May 2016 interview). 101 but has cleaned up its physical attributes in an effort to transform the venue from an underground, alternative cultural space into one that is more suitable for broader, mass consumption (McCormick 2017: 1-2) (Figure 3.4). In conversation with interview participants, it was evident that some still harbour resentment over the changes, seeing the renovations made under the original Cobalt name as an attempt by the new owners to co-opt the history of the club and its patrons, enacting a form of (sub)cultural appropriation. Faced with ever-growing waves of gentrification targeting lower-income areas in which a majority of alternative music venues are housed, Vancouver’s punk scene participants are continually pushing back against a perceived ‘mainstream’ culture
Figure 3.4 – The Cobalt Motor Hotel (Exterior) circa 2017, (c) Candace Metzgar 2017 102 that threatens the existence of such spaces. With the case of The Cobalt as a starting point, the central role independent music venues play in the lives of scene participants becomes more apparent, helping to introduce the reasons why participants may opt to create spaces of their own.
In 2003, the International Olympic Committee announced Vancouver as the victor in the bid for the 2010 Winter Olympics. As with other Olympic host cities, Vancouver prepared for the event by polishing up its international image. This included introducing legislation designed to ‘clean up’ older neighbourhoods, without considering that many of the targeted areas were populated by low-income youth and other marginalized residents (Kennelly and Watt 2011: 770-1). While certainly a financial boon for the city, critics argued that a new, intensified focus on gentrification would have long term negative effects on lower income areas of the city, particularly the DTES (Kennelly and
Watt 2011: 767). What the Olympics inadvertently brought to Vancouver, therefore, was a renewed debate between the concepts of ‘rejuvenation’ and ‘gentrification.’ While members of city council, provincial government, and developers stated that the project to clean up the DTES was ‘a rejuvenation that will help the neighbourhood thrive,’ and ultimately increase the amount of affordable social housing for DTES residents, the
Downtown Eastside Neighbourhood Council and local activists saw the project as nothing more than ‘harmful gentrification,’ where increased rental rates would displace a large portion of the neighbourhood’s population (The Canadian Press 2012).
In such a dense urban environment as Vancouver, economic issues and a general lack of available space aid in heightening the competition for residential and industrial spaces (Anonymous, 18 May 2016 interview). There is persistent pressure on the city to 103 rid itself of its ‘no fun’ reputation through supporting its local culture, with particular emphasis on valuing a diverse range of cultural practices (Shaw 2013: 338). However, a paradox is created when the strategies a city employs to boost its creative sectors focus on new businesses and the tourist industry rather than local residents, driving up the cost of rent and land, and thus ‘driving out marginal cultural producers and destroying what genuine diversity the city had in the first place’ (Shaw 2013: 338). As older, historic neighbourhoods such as the DTES go through stages of re-development and gentrification, marginal spaces such as alternative independent music venues are amongst those that are often pushed out. As one member of Vancouver’s music scenes stated,
‘when the stuff on the inside gets push to the margin, then the stuff on the margin gets obliterated’ (Anonymous, 18 May 2016 interview). Although those who participate in local punk scenes are not always marginal in terms of class, they are often marginal in an economical sense (Shaw 2013: 338) and are therefore unable to compete for spaces against those who have greater financial means, such as venues owned by professional entertainment corporations. ‘There’s just no room for The Cobalt anymore,’ states a member of a neighbourhood condo board interviewed in No Fun City (2010), which is perhaps the most succinct way of describing the ultimate effect of Vancouver’s gentrification project.
In terms of individual reactions to The Cobalt’s new ownership, some interview participants were angered after seeing the changes made to the venue’s aesthetics.
LeBourdais, for instance, recounted his dismay at seeing the destruction of artwork that had adorned the walls, stating that the renovations were a prime example of Vancouver destroying culture in the name of culture (Lebourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 104 interview). Pushing this idea further, LeBourdais’ comment speaks to a larger question regarding who determines the value of local culture; that is, which cultural activities, practices, or objects are deemed worthy of preservation. Punk’s material culture also helps to visibly express dissent from what punks perceive as popular, ‘mainstream’ culture, in addition to connecting places and participants not only to a local scene, but to the larger historical discourse of punk culture. Governed by a loose set of curatorial practices, punk venues allow for scene participants to actively participate in the transformation of space into a punk place by adding their own significant and meaningful traces. Marks of memory, like graffiti or the application of band stickers, or the accumulation of show flyers, become permanent messages for the scene at large which acts as a layered archive chronicling the activities and experiences of the venue and its patrons through time. When these elements are removed, it represents a symbolic destruction of a social group’s lived history and culture and can have detrimental effects on individual participants’ sense of their local culture and history.
Despite The Cobalt continuing to operate as a business and music venue under its new ownership, some interview participants strongly refused to acknowledge its continued existence. In one instance, during one interview the subject of The Cobalt was introduced and the interviewee was quick to interject matter-of-factly that ‘The Cobalt’s not around anymore’ (CDP, 19 May 2016, interview). In conversation with Todd Serious, lead singer of Vancouver’s The Rebel Spell, when asked if he had been back to The
Cobalt since its renovations replied that the venue was ‘dead’ to him (5 November 2014 interview). When pressed further on that statement, Serious replied:
Maybe dead [or] just destroyed, whatever. I mean, it’s a nebulous community there, as are most of these things, but that [renovation] just broke that. Those 105
people won’t be there. It’s just a different thing. It’s a business now, it’s not a place for people. (5 November 2014 interview)
What Serious’ comments suggest is that despite The Cobalt continuing to operate as a public music venue, the changes overseen under the new ownership and the ousting of wendythirteen were seen as changes in the fundamental ethos of the space, thereby rendering it non-existent in the eyes of some of those who were frequent patrons. The comment regarding the new Cobalt being a business rather than a place for people suggests a critique of venues whose priorities are more so associated with financial gain than the building or supporting of a community-like scene. Before the changes, Serious described the space as having a ‘clubhouse vibe’ that had a guaranteed returning audience because ‘it was a nice place to be for a lot of people’ (Serious, 5 November 2014 interview). This inclusivity was echoed by second participant who stated that:
It was a great space and wendythirteen did a lot of great things with it. That’s what really brought a lot of the community together because she gave space to everyone that didn’t fit in […]. (CDP, 19 May 2016 interview)
In other words, when participants no longer gain meaningful social or cultural benefits from the scenes they engage with, the loss of space occurs. In the case of The Cobalt, the feeling of losing the space meant that for some scene participants, the new owners were perceived as not living up to the expectations of punk scene participants, particularly in regards to the large hole left behind by wendythirteen and the responsibilities that come with supporting a local underground music scene network. As such, when an individual no longer feels as if they have access to a place that was once a refuge and safe space for the expression of alternative cultural practices, that space can appear to no longer exist, even if the venue is still physically present and in operation. 106
In interviews, the new owners of The Cobalt were described as ‘gentrifiers’
(wendythirteen, 17 May 2016 interview), ‘hipsters’ (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October
2014 interview), and essentially individuals who had sanitized and destroyed elements of the venue valued by participants (House, 16 May 2016 interview). In each of these accounts, the new owners are held in a negative light, placed in position of outsiders in opposition to the subcultural communities that saw The Cobalt as their personal space.
The changes made to the venue (i.e. cleaning up the interior, increasing drink and ticket prices, etc.) were seen as counter to the values of the music scenes that frequented the venue, and the ease with which they were able to move in was built on the ‘blood, sweat, and tears’ of wendythirteen and others who put time, money, and energy into not just the venue, but the surrounding neighbourhood as well (wendythirteen, 17 May 2016). The labels of ‘gentrifiers’ and ‘hipsters’ also suggest that the owners were part of a perceived
‘mainstream’ culture who were less interested in contributing to the scene but making a profit from it.
The binary opposition of ‘mainstream’ and ‘subculture’ is one that is often discussed, but not thoroughly investigated (Huber 2003: 4). Scholars in the CCCS at
Birmingham understood the mainstream as a synonym for hegemony, a cultural entity that appears natural and ahistorical (Huber 2003: 7). The existence of a coherent punk scene is built upon the existence of an oppositional mainstream, something to which local participants can compare and evaluate themselves and others. In the case of The Cobalt, its new owners are part of an external mainstream, something outside the punk scene that is determined to be an inauthentic or shallow representation of the original (Hannerz
2003: 54). Before wendythirteen’s eviction, even while attempting to operate as a legal, 107 standard business, the venue set itself against an external mainstream culture both in terms of visual elements and sound/volume. However, the diversity that exists within contemporary local punk scenes does not allow for a singular conception of the mainstream. As Erik Hannerz found in his comparative study of Indonesian and Swedish punks:
[…] the binary subcultural/mainstream was constantly being worked as the meaning of the mainstream was disputed and reaffirmed, drawing boundaries between participants, actions, and spaces. The only thing that the punks I followed agreed upon regarding the mainstream was that it had to be fought and kept at bay. (2003: 52)
As much as participants in local punk scenes attempt to separate themselves from mainstream culture, or even seek to destroy it, their conceptualization of their social world is dependent on its existence. Alternative music venues, whether operating as legal or illegal/underground spaces, are constructed based on this binary, and thus different types of spaces emerge depending from where and what type of mainstream culture participants view as threatening to their social spaces.
The effects of the loss of alternative or underground music venues goes beyond the ‘individual indignities’ felt by participants and speaks to larger issues regarding the restriction of public gatherings, demonstrations, and speech for marginal social groups
(Debies-Carl 2014: 109). The appropriation and loss of independent, legal music venues like The Cobalt leads to a push for scene participants to create their own spaces outside the reach of bureaucratic or authoritative groups, allowing for spatial autonomy to remain in the hands of scene participants. The strategies for creating and maintaining space for alternative music venues are as varied as the scene itself, with different members preferring either illegal or legal methods. Each strategy has its own unique benefits and 108 challenges, but both provide insight into how scene participants view themselves in relation not only to each other, but also to the wider cityscape in which they live.
Hidden in plain sight: Illegal and underground venues
In J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (1997), the protagonist is brought by the school’s caretaker to the entrance of the wizarding world.
Unfamiliar with the culture he is about to be thrust into, he fails to recognize the outward signs that indicate that the pub they are about to enter is anything but just another vacant building:
It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. (Rowling 1997: 53-54)
In this passage, the pub the characters enter appears to the average pedestrian as just another storefront: rundown, unassuming, and inconspicuous. In the world of Harry
Potter, however, this appearance is the result of a protective spell that hides the pub in plain sight from those who could threaten the existence of its inhabitants. While researching Vancouver’s alternative music venues, I was brought by one interview participant to a popular underground (and illegal) venue. It was a grubby storefront that I had passed by several times during my visit. Rundown, unassuming, and inconspicuous, the building did not outwardly display any signs that it was anything but an empty and abandoned building. This was not magic, but the work of active members of one faction of Vancouver’s underground music scenes. 109
When access to legal alternative music venues is limited, some punk scene participants choose to establish illegal sites which operate out of pre-existing, retrofitted locations (e.g. basements of houses, warehouses, storefronts, etc.), existing at times literally on the edges of the city. The outer façades of such locations are left unadorned in a deliberate attempt to protect both a venue and its inhabitants from unwanted detection.
In the case of the Vancouver venue mentioned previously, once inside the building, its role as a music venue and its operator’s efforts to conceal any signs of activity from the outside world were more apparent. Black curtains were placed over the windows and entryway in order to contain any light from escaping into the street and concealing the movement and actions of those within. The name of the venue was not displayed on the building’s exterior and was only learned through word-of-mouth.5
Such venues call to mind Hakim Bey's concept of the Temporary Autonomous
Zone (TAZ) (2003), as they are strengthened through their ability to remain invisible from the State (Bey 2003: 99). Like the TAZ, once an illegal venue is named, it must disappear temporarily in order to re-appear in a different location (Bey 2003: 99). The location of illegal music venues is kept secret in order to protect not only the space itself, but also its owners, operators, and other scene participants who may leave themselves open to legal prosecution for not abiding by city bylaws and provincial regulations. Trust and secrecy6 are therefore vital components of the ongoing maintenance of illegal music venues that house the activities of local punk scenes. While such secrecy may appear to run counter to punk ideals of openness and inclusivity, it is also a means to protect an
5 The name and address of the venue, along with any photographs of the building’s interior and exterior, have not been published at the request of the venue owner. 6 In this instance, “secrecy” is used rather than “privacy” as the former implies secrets kept by groups of people rather than the latter, which implies secrets kept by individual persons (Lingel et al., 158). 110 illegal music venue (Fine and Holyfield 1996: 29) and its operators from police, city officials, or perceived outsiders to the scene who may draw the unwanted attention of such authoritative groups.
Social connections are key for increasing the validation of new members to an unfamiliar punk scene, but these connections must be built on a foundation of established trust. For real, lasting trust to be established, a long-term engagement with the scene is necessary in order to build relationships based on a foundation of shared experiences
(Fine and Holyfield 1996: 28). As an outsider to Vancouver’s local punk scene, knowledge of, and access to underground or illegal venues would not have been gained without first making social connections with other local scene participants who accompanied me to such locations, made introductions with venue owners, and vouched for my trustworthiness. Despite the fact that I had entered the space with an individual who was known to the owner, my presence was still greeted with a slight wariness and suspicion. Without trust and secrecy, subcultural groups engaged in potentially illegal or semi-illegal activities lose their sense of group cohesion which brings the continued existence of the group into question (Fine and Holyfield 1996: 22).Individuals that are new to a particular music scene build a reputation of trust through adhering to the group’s norms of secrecy, thus signalling to others that they have the group’s best interests at heart, and share in the same cultural values (Lingel et al. 2012: 159).
Fine and Holyfield, in their ethnographic analysis of mushroom collectors (1996), noted that despite the fact that the locations of collecting spots are rarely shared, it is assumed that members have the ability to discover these locations on their own (31).
However, this assumption is incorrect as it pertains to new members of a subcultural 111 group as these individuals ‘may not even know where to look’ (Fine and Holyfield 1996:
31) for locations where scene participants congregate. Advertising for events at underground, illegal venues differs from the standard punk gig. For instance, if flyers and posters (often the primary form of advertisement for punk gigs) are used, the information they contain is kept to a minimum. More specifically, the address of a venue is privileged information, and keeping it secret is the most primary method of avoiding police detection (Lingel et al. 2012: 158). When information must be protected for the sake of the group at large, word-of-mouth becomes primary as a means for drawing participants to events. With the increase in the use of social networking sites, these exchanges move into the virtual realm, with text messages, Facebook event pages and message boards becoming common means for new members to locate venues and events (Lingel et al.
2012: 159). In the age of online communications, trust and secrecy become ever more important to operators of illegal music venues. As virtual methods of communication and online interactions become the preferred method of advertising, the scene opens itself to becoming more accessible to new members. However, with the increased openness and accessibility of social networking sites comes an increased visibility of illegal venues and therefore a greater need to maintain autonomy over the boundaries of local scenes (Lingel et al. 2012: 159).
The appeal of illegal music venues is that they not only represent an attempt to create a social space outside bureaucratic supervision and control, but to achieve a larger goal of creating ‘a society based on voluntarism, trust, community, and equality’ (Debies-
Carl 2014: 173) that does not depend on a large amount of financial capital, or specialized training on the part of scene participants, reinforcing the central importance 112 of do-it-yourself (DIY) ethics to contemporary local punk scenes. In conversation with a volunteer who had experience in both legal and illegal spaces, they advocated for the productive and positive potential of spaces run independently by punk scene participants:
I’m an advocate for anything that benefits the community. I’m not real big on governments and bureaucracy and pointless red tape that just creates more paperwork and obstacles for people. There are a number of illegal spaces in town that I think have been a huge benefit for the community, because it brings people together and because it’s something they’ve created together. It gets everybody involved and creates a lot of camaraderie and community, and gives people pride in the community they’ve helped cultivate. Also, […] a lot of those spaces are run by young people. It teaches them a lot of those skills and how to run a space, how to work together […] and all kinds of useful business skills that you can use later on in other parts of your life. (CDP, 19 May 2016 interview)
The idea of finding or creating a space and turning it into a meaningful, subcultural place without assistance from the city or other professional organizations provides participants with a sense of reward and accomplishment, helping to foster deeper social relations between participants. Punk scene participants gravitate to illegal venues due to a frustration with dealing with non-punk outsiders (Culton and Holtzman 2010: 273), as well as a desire to enact a level of freedom that may not be accessed in other social spheres, such as work, school, or the home. In these spaces, mainstream culture is positioned within the scene itself (Hannerz 2003: 51). Confrontation with that which is seen as antithetical to punk comes not from outside sources, but from individuals who are seen as consumers of the culture rather than contributors to it (Hannerz 2003: 54). These peripheral, DIY locations hold a greater importance for punk scene participants than that of a shared visual style, as these spaces are ‘more closely related to the substance of the subculture: its values, practices, and intended social organization’ (Debies-Carl 2014:
172). Within these autonomous underground spaces, local scene participants set their 113 own standards for social order and organization, developing both individual and collective identity (Haenfler 2014: 54).
Do-it-together: Legal strategies of rebuilding space
In contrast to participants who prefer the secrecy and self-sufficiency of illegal venues are those who choose to work in partnership with city officials to establish legal and permanent all-ages music venues, turning ‘do-it-yourself’ into ‘do-it-together.’ One such group working out of Vancouver is the Safe Amplification Site Society (known colloquially as ‘Safe Amp’). Safe Amp, a non-profit organization founded by ‘a group of passionate indie and punk musicians’ (Safe Amplification Site Society 2013: 4), was established in 2009 after the closure of several popular music venues in Vancouver triggered a surge in illegal underground venues (Anonymous, 18 May 2016 interview).
The name is a nod to Vancouver’s safe injection sites, with members drawing a parallel between the need for safe spaces for drug users and the need for safe spaces for people to play music as loud as they want without fear of police intervention (McCormick, 19 May
2016 interview). The idea of a ‘safe space’ moves beyond just the ability to perform music without police intervention and also includes the idea of a space as an area free from discrimination. DIY culture and punk in general are often associated with liberal politics, although examples of scenes with more conservative views do exist, and it is possible that within punk spaces, inequalities and discriminatory practices/language still occur. Therefore, to create and maintain a truly ‘safe’ space requires cooperation within all levels of a scene and continuous, on-going effort: 114
People need to work harder creating safe spaces. There’s too much sketchy stuff going on in a place where people should know better. Too much sexist language, creepy jerks, not enough people calling people out. […] It’s a DIY thing. If you want to make the world better then do it around you. […] It’d be great to see people start pushing for that all over the country instead of just in some of the more metropolitan areas. (Serious, 5 November 2014 interview).
Through establishing a working relationship with city officials and building a positive reputation both outside and within Vancouver’s local punk scenes, Safe Amp’s ultimate goal is to create a permanent, all-ages space that is versatile, sustainable, legal, and accessible. However, in choosing a legal strategy of building and maintaining a permanent alternative music venue, the organization has come up against their own set of financial, bureaucratic, and organizational barriers and must tackle challenges from both outside and within their organization.
After losing some of Vancouver’s most popular independent venues, Safe Amp’s founding members came together to figure out how to establish their own space and determined the attributes of their ideal music venue (Safe Amplification Site Society
2013: 9-12). Above all, the space had to be legal, or else the permanence and longevity they desired would never be realized. In addition, the venue also had to be versatile, meaning that it would be a space open not just for a specifically punk event or audience, but any live performance (Safe Amplification Site Society 2013: 9). As a result, the boundaries of the space would be opened up to accommodate a larger, more diverse local scene, whose need for sites of socialization goes beyond live music events to include educational workshops, theatrical performances, or other community-based meetings.
Third, the venue had to be a sustainable space, meaning that it was, on the one hand, financially sustainable, but also worked to build solid relations with its neighbours (e.g. through participating in community outreach programs), thus helping to strengthen the 115 venue’s endurance. The first three aforementioned features of Safe Amp’s ideal space are all intricately tied to the final characteristic: accessibility. In this instance, accessibility refers to more than just the venue being physically accessible for people of all mobility levels, genders, age, etc., but also to events being financially affordable, with no restrictions placed on the genre, popularity, or skill level of performers. With this final requirement, Safe Amp is attempting to create a space that is a viable alternative to both commercially-owned and illegal venues, deliberately countering the negative aspects of each while encouraging ‘youthful resistance against the increasingly sanitized night-time entertainment infrastructure […]’ (McCormick 2017: 13).
Operators of both illegal and legal music venues share a common goal of maintaining spaces meant for the express use of alternative and underground music scenes. These spaces are united in their attempts to abide by DIY ethics, both in terms of operating practices and their emphasis on featuring independent musicians, which distinguishes them from larger, more conventional, professional venues. However, the differences between each strategy go well beyond the fact that some venue owners abide by city laws and regulations, while others do not. In terms of location, while illegal venues are often found in low-rent, non-residential or industrial areas of the city in order to avoid attracting unwanted attention (Shaw 2013: 334), legal venues are not concerned with maintaining secrecy, and can therefore choose a location in a more central area where visibility is high and public access is encouraged. Operating in some ways more as a community centre, Safe Amp’s primary focus is not to maintain separation between members of Vancouver’s punk/underground music scenes and a perceived ‘mainstream’ or ‘dominant’ culture, but to become a visible part of the city’s cultural milieu. 116
As a registered non-profit, Safe Amp expected to contend with a general lack of financial resources which had a direct effect on their ability to obtain space in a city with increasingly high property rental rates (McCormick, 19 May 2016 interview). Money was generated through applying for grants or receiving donations, both of which required volunteers to learn the process of writing such applications. Unable to purchase their own space, or build one from the group up, Safe Amp relied on renting venues for events, eventually establishing a relationship with Astorino’s, located in East Vancouver (Figure
3.5). Originally a catering/dance hall, Astorino’s had been bought by developers who worked in partnership with the Britannia Community Centre to rent out the space to
Figure 3.5 - Astorino's (Interior), Vancouver BC, (c) Katie Green 2016. 117 different groups (McCormick, 19 May 2016 interview). After negotiating a contract with the owners, Safe Amp began to use the space as their central location, hosting community-based workshops and as many as nine shows per month (Powell 2016).
Examples of some of the events Safe Amp organized included educational workshops with an emphasis on skill-based training that would be useful for continued participation in a music scene, such as screen printing, sound mixing, blog writing, show booking, music lessons, and album recording (CDP, 19 May 2016 interview). For live music events, Safe Amp would divide the space in half in an effort to make the catering hall feel like a more personal, intimate venue, complete with a ‘ramshackle’ stage (Anonymous,
18 May 2016 interview). After every show, equipment would have to be put away or covered up to make way for other community groups, emphasizing the fact that the space did not truly belong to Safe Amp (Anonymous, 18 May 2016 interview). Over time, competition for the space increased as other groups who could afford to pay more in rent moved in and Safe Amp found themselves becoming less of a priority (Anonymous 18
May 2016 interview), which led them to eventually end their relationship with the venue.
As a volunteer-based collective, Safe Amp must negotiate with a wide variety of music scene participants who differ not just in terms of background, but also in terms of opinions regarding whether or not working with the city conflicts with the DIY ethos of the punk scenes the organization serves. While some members of the committee had experience working with the city on regulatory matters such as grants, permits, and insurance, the other side of Safe Amp included those with experience in actually organizing, planning, and promoting events (CDP, 19 May 2016 interview), thus turning the committee into a fully collaborative effort where all levels of a scene combined their 118 knowledge and expertise in order to achieve a shared goal of creating an all-ages venue.
A former Safe Amp volunteer described their involvement as feeling like ‘[…] being part of a political party […]’ citing elements such as the taking of minutes at committee meetings as being ‘not punk at all’ (House, 16 May 2016 interview). In trying to abide by formal, legal bylaws and regulations, Safe Amp understood that they would not be able to please every member of the alternative music scenes they sought to serve, which did result in members leaving the organization, some of whom went on to operate their own legal and illegal spaces in the city (Anonymous, 18 May 2016 interview):
I think that was kind of a dividing moment for Safe Amp because some people were like, we need to keep putting our energy and resources into petitioning the government and trying to change these laws. We’re trying to secure a city- subsidized space […], that was some people’s idea of the solution, and then other people were like, fuck it, let’s take it underground. Screw these guys, let’s just break the law and let’s just rent a space and do it our own way […] (House, 16 May 2016 interview).
Once again, the division between ‘punk’ and a perceived outsider or mainstream ‘other’ comes into play, influencing how punk scene participants construct their own social world. The spaces in which Safe Amp operates are ‘[…] sites of public life [which] are not always able to cater equally to all members of a town or city’ (Makagon 2015: 78).
Therefore, in their attempts to enact real change to structures of power in Vancouver that exclude marginal groups and push them further underground, Safe Amp faces several real limitations. Not only issues regarding finances and legalities, but also challenges related to ‘[…] creating an organizational culture in which people can work together, […] developing a collective project that of necessity excludes some people and ideas’
(O’Connor 1999: 695). 119
At the outset, Safe Amp’s founding members decided that they would place no age restrictions on who could attend their events (McCormick, 19 May 2016 interview).
As a former founding member of Safe Amp relays, ‘we [couldn’t] be everything to everyone, so in our minds we were filing a need. There’s plenty of places where you can get wasted at a show, but there isn’t as many places that allow minors in a legal way’
(McCormick May 19 2016 interview).7 In Canada the classification of an event or space as ‘all-ages’ means that a venue has programs and events geared specifically towards youth, and allows the admittance of individuals under the legal drinking age (i.e. eighteen years of age in Alberta, Manitoba, and Quebec; nineteen years of age in all other provinces and territories) regardless of whether or not alcohol is sold on the premises.
Safe Amp’s understanding of ‘all-ages’ transcends the category of youth, arguing an all- ages venue is not just a youth-oriented space, but one that is a ‘centre for intergenerational and intercultural exchange’ (Safe Amplification Site Society 2013: 19).
As punk scene populations age, and scenes struggle to find ways to attract younger participants, the push for family-friendly spaces makes sense, as those who wish to maintain their connection to the scene and raise children within it will seek out multi- generational spaces. For others, their opposition to this concept is based on a desire to keep the social microcosm of the punk scene separate from elements of the home or family life, which are both more directly linked to a perceived ‘mainstream’ culture.
Other reasons for opposing multi-generational spaces include not wishing to censor
7 A recent study on music venues in Vancouver cited that the age range of music scene participants was sixteen to thirty-five, meaning that laws that prohibit the inclusion of minors restrict participant attendance for three of an individual’s twenty prime musical years (i.e. 15% of an individual’s life) (McCormick 2017: 14). Even unlicensed venues may restrict access to minors out of fear of being held liable if injuries occur due to underage drinking (McCormick 2017: 14). 120 behaviour due to the presence of children, or a belief that punk shows are not safe spaces for children (either due to the aggressive or mature nature of events, or a concern regarding the damage loud volumes can cause to children’s hearing).
The difficulty of finding a legal location in which an all-ages venue could exist caused at least one Safe Amp member to sympathize with operators of illegal venues, stating that ‘[…] it wasn’t really their fault for being illegal because there was no process by which it’s really easy and user-friendly to do it legally’ (McCormick 19 May 2016 interview). Keeping volunteers interested and willing to work without any guaranteed financial compensation was a primary challenge that Safe Amp did not anticipate
(McCormick, 19 May 2016 interview). Putting such a high amount of effort into an endeavour that is often unsuccessful or undermined is frustrating, and while each step forward is a cause for celebration, renewed enthusiasm, and a sense of accomplishment, each step backward can cause feelings of frustration, disillusionment, and burnout
(Makagon 2015:77). While many of the City of Vancouver’s attempts to implement strategies to ensure the creation of alternative cultural spaces are well-intentioned, with regulations specifically designed to address the safety of underage patrons, these efforts actually result in reducing access to safe spaces and increasing the likelihood that such patrons will opt for illegal venues that disregard building and fire safety codes
(McCormick 2017: 2). Despite these challenges, Safe Amp stands by their commitment to working with city officials in order to implement lasting social change guaranteeing the future creation of permanent music venues which they argue will ultimately assist in ending ‘[…] the stigma of ‘no fun city’ and aid in the city’s quest to realize its full creative potential’ (Safe Amplification Site Society 2013: 18). 121
Conclusion: Having fun in ‘No Fun City’
Whether or not Vancouver’s nickname of ‘No Fun City’ is completely justified is a matter of debate. One interview participant, who had first-hand experience working with the city, asserted that the nickname is an outdated sentiment, and insisted that
Vancouver is supportive of having a localized, do-it-yourself creative culture
(Anonymous 18 May 2016 interview). Other participants insisted upon the city’s continuing restrictive regulations governing cultural spaces (wendythirteen 17 May 2016 interview), and lack of effort to follow through on promises to establish programs to support this emerging DIY culture as evidence to the contrary (McCormick 19 May 2016 interview). Regardless, the reaction to the closure of several popular music venues in the early 2000s, in addition to the increasing frustrations with the city’s gentrification projects, was strong enough to trigger a multitude of proactive strategies to rebuild social spaces, and ultimately reclaim portions of Vancouver’s cultural territory.
However, the challenges that independent music scenes face (i.e. gentrification of older neighbourhoods, strict zoning regulations and operating bylaws and increasing property values) are not unique to Vancouver. Starting a live music venue in any city comes with challenges in terms of finding sufficient funding, dealing with landlords who may be resistant to allowing their rental spaces to be used by punk or hardcore groups, as well as issues between scene participants regarding the internal organization and purpose of the venue itself (O’Connor 1999: 694-5). Each of the cases touched on previously - the reaction to the closure and re-appropriation of The Cobalt, the establishment of underground, illegal venues and the work of the Safe Amplification Site Society - helps 122 to navigate the complex terrain of Vancouver's local punk scenes, thus creating a more nuanced understanding of not only the scope and diversity that exists in contemporary subcultures, but also the necessity of alternative music venues in the everyday lives of participants who participate in local cultural practices within these shared spaces.
One interview participant, while acknowledging that Safe Amp received a generous amount of help from the city, also strongly believed that other venue operators and underground musicians do not receive the same level of acknowledgement or support
(CDP, 19 May 2016 interview). In their opinion, the city is supportive of marketable forms of culture; that is, music and spaces that are commercially-friendly and can appeal to a larger portion of the city’s population (CDP, 19 May 2016 interview). This skepticism comes once again from a tension that exists between the city’s self- perception/selectiveness regarding which aspects of their local culture industries to promote, and the population of underground and DIY musicians that live there. When asked what they would say to the city to convince officials of the importance of all-ages alternative music venues, after first expressing disbelief that the city would even be interested in such spaces, nonetheless outlined their argument:
I would talk about how it’s an important artistic outlook for people that don’t necessarily fit into the mainstream, conventional forms of what some people consider to be art, and the community of it and the camaraderie. And how a lot of these people grew up going to these shows, the things they learn about life, the friendships and bonds they formed with the people they run these spaces with. […] How music and all forms of art can be a universal form of expression for a lot of marginalized communities to be able to come together and do something together and creating something and learn something about themselves. […] Within the punk scenes, there’s a lot of people from a lot of different backgrounds. You’ve got people that come from really marginalized, low income backgrounds. You’ve got people that have struggled to fit into society because of different mental health things. You’ve got people from queer and trans communities that come and get involved because they want somewhere where 123
they can feel welcomed. Just like people from all walks of life being about to […] put aside differences and be able to be in a community together […]. (CDP, 19 May 2016).
Music venues play several important roles in the lives of punk scene participants. On an individual level, music venues are places for participants to express themselves through alternative means that may not otherwise be available to them in other areas of their lives.
On a collective level, music venues are important for the punk scene at large because they are gathering sites in which shared interests, concerns and goals are emphasized. Within these locations, scene participants engage in real life social interactions, reinforce punk ideals of unity and collective action, as well as reap more tangible benefits such as raising money in support of bands, select charitable causes, or the day-to-day operations of the venue itself. The loss of alternative independent music venues, whether an actual, tangible loss or, as in the case of The Cobalt, a loss on a symbolic level, can light a spark for scene participants to actively seek out or create their own spaces. Whether hidden from sight or an active force in a local community, venues operated by members of
Vancouver’s local music scenes are an attempt to push back against encroaching gentrification that threatens to push marginalized communities far outside of the city proper.
Those who prefer illegal venues rely on the division between ‘us’ and ‘them’, between ‘insider’ and ‘outsider,’ between ‘underground’ and ‘mainstream.’ Setting up such a clear divide helps to solidify a cohesive subcultural identity, as well as form a more coherent scene network (Makagon 2015: 39). The threat of police or city intervention, whether real or imaginary, helps to justify increased levels of secrecy in order to protect the venue (and by extension, the scene at large) from outsider strategies 124 of spatial control. By cooperating with the city in such a capacity whereby the city has direct influence over the everyday operations of a venue, some punk scene participants feel that they are compromising an essential punk ideal of independence from corporate interests. However, opting for illegal strategies of building and maintaining spaces comes with several consequences that render these sites as inherently fragile. As Vancouver maintains greater spatial control over urban neighbourhoods through gentrification projects, zoning regulation and bylaws, illegal venue operators are involved in an on- going project of continually finding new, unoccupied space, and must maintain a heightened sense of suspicion regarding who is allowed to enter their spaces, thus potentially limiting new members’ access to the scene as a whole. Operating out of older, retrofitted locations, the physical attributes of illegal venues often do not meet current safety standards, and with increased secrecy over where and when events take place, not only is accessibility reduced, but also the odds of operators contacting police or firefighters should an emergency arise (McCormick 2017: 21).
Finding and maintaining legal independent venues is another option that presents its own benefits and challenges. Not bounded by the secrecy and restrictive protectiveness of illegal venues, legal venues are more accessible, broadening their outreach to accommodate the needs of a more diverse local punk scene. Within such spaces there is a greater emphasis on broader community engagement, mentoring/teaching (i.e. through community-based public workshops) and working within the legal limits not only to create permanent alternative music venues, but to enact real change to city bylaws and regulations in order to ensure long-lasting protection of 125 cultural spaces for the representation of marginal groups. Unlike illegal venues, their ideal space is not one that is separate from the city but is an integral part of it.
Several of the founding members of Safe Amp believed that in order to be taken seriously, they needed to adopt the language and practices of traditional advocacy groups that the city would be familiar with (House 16 May 2016 interview), and for many volunteers it was their first time navigating legal and bureaucratic terrains. Debates regarding the ethics of working with the city and law enforcement brought to light the diverse range of scene participants’ definitions and understandings of what ‘punk’ means.
In addition, the frustration of working for a high-commitment/energy enterprise with little to no reward led to several volunteers burning out and abandoning the organization.
While Safe Amp was on hiatus at the time fieldwork for this article commenced in May
2016, as of November 2016, the group had re-started under new directors (Powell 2016), but to date has yet to realize their long-term goal of creating their own permanent venue.
Each strategy highlighted above demonstrates several insights regarding the social dynamics of contemporary local punk scenes, as well as their positioning within urban locales. First, the local punk scenes I observed in Vancouver were far from the homogenous, unified conception of subculture that paints participants as working-class youth united in their fight against a singular State. Music venues are not utopic spaces, but sites for disagreement as much as cooperation, and the accumulation of cultural and social capital, all of which helps participants to map their local scene network, attaching meaningful memories of shared experiences and history to these locations. Investigating the multitude of punk scene responses to the loss of independent music venues not only underscores the importance of such locations but raises new questions in the debates over 126 projects of gentrification and issues associated with access to public space, control of urban infrastructure/population and representation of cultural groups (Tonkiss 2005: 59).
The preference for either legal or illegal strategies of creating social spaces reflects larger divisions that exist between punk scene participants. Depending on the source of disagreement, these divisions may be based on differences in generation, class or educational background, etc. Therefore, an analysis of punk music venues is, at the same time, an analysis of underlying assumptions regarding the understanding and formation of punk identity. 127
Chapter Three: ‘Why ever leave the house?’: defending the importance of independent music venues in a post-internet era
One evening in January 2018, I found myself at an acoustic folk-punk show in
Fullerton, California. It took place at Programme Skate and Sound; a skateboard/record store transformed into a music venue with the simple re-organization of a few clothing racks and the addition of a PA system. Along with the five solo performers, the only other people in the room were myself, two members of staff and around three other individuals who came and went as they pleased. With people coming and going from the space for the occasional bathroom or smoke break, at times there would only be three or four people who were physically present to watch and applaud whoever was performing.
If the success of a live music event is dependent on the number of people in attendance, then at first glance this show would appear a dismal failure (although an enjoyable one).
However, about thirty-seven other invisible entities were also present, watching via a
Facebook livestream made possible by a smart phone someone had set up on a tripod
(Figure 4.1). Once the livestream had commenced, the next musician grabbed his guitar, greeted his virtual audience and declared: ‘Technology to the rescue! Why ever leave the house?’
The recording of live musical performances is quite common, particularly during punk shows. The camera set up at Programme Skate and Sound did not appear to be an overly intrusive presence, nor did the audience seem to mind that it was there. A constant awareness that the camera was recording was indicated by the attention paid to it by its operator repeatedly checking to see if it was still working, by the performers gesturing to their unseen audience and by everyone physically present who carefully avoided blocking 128
Figure 4.1 - Live Facebook Stream, Programme Skate and Sound, Fullerton CA, (c) Katie Green 2018. the camera’s view or bumping into it. This experience differed from the standard recording of punk shows in that not only was the smartphone’s camera transmitting sound and image beyond the boundaries of the venue, but at the same time it allowed an unseen virtual audience to enter. Yet, no one questioned what power was being given to this technology over their space. As everyday life continues to become increasingly mediated, punk scene participants fail to fully question the direct impact online technologies and platforms have upon their shared physical spaces and communities.
While such technology is helpful for increasing accessibility to independent or DIY punk venues, once a livestream is uploaded to the Internet those who created it do not 129 determine the limits of where it is shared and who will have access to it, therefore calling into question the effect such technology has on concepts of DIY ethics and punk autonomy.
Punk culture participates in a form of ‘subcultural evolutionary process’ (Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 284), where participants adapt punk to their current historical moment through the use of new media in order to carve out spaces that suit the diverse needs of in-coming generations. Illustrative examples of the early nexus between punk spaces and technology include photocopied flyers which brought awareness of physical music venues into their surrounding neighbourhood, independent fanzines that act as counterpublic spaces by encouraging discussion between participants in multiple scenes, and telecommunication networks which assist in connecting punk scenes separated by vast, geographical distances to create a globally-based, interconnected web of punk culture and conversation. While this chapter does not intend to give a complete history of punk’s relationship with technology, as the breadth of such an investigation would be beyond the limits of this project, the three chosen instances of this nexus (i.e. xerography, telecommunications and the Internet) help confirm the point that while the means of communication may change, punk’s ultimate goal of using current technological resources to maintain the physical infrastructure of their local scenes remains the same.
The term ‘scene’ is often used in conjunction with ‘network’ which in itself connotes a sense of technologically-facilitated interactions. According to Miranda
Campbell, ‘as a concept, networks might be a way to register ‘normal,’ ‘calm’ grassroots activities and foreground the mechanisms and infrastructure that are needed for these activities to maintain a sense of normalcy and calm’ (Campbell 2013: 176) Therefore, it 130 is clear that both ‘scene’ and ‘network’ imply the same sense of active practice and struggle that ‘subculture’ lacks. Yet, while both terms acknowledge the diversity and productive actions that exist within music-based communities, ‘network’ on its own implies a total online experience and an abandonment or replacement of physical space
(Woo et al 2015: 289). If such a transcendence of physical space were actually successful, there would be no need for music venues or festivals, and yet scene participants continually attend events and carve out their own sites of socialization in order to establish and maintain meaningful personal relationships in the physical world.
Moreover, while referring to music-based communities solely as ‘networks’ captures the linear process of information exchange that occurs across and between abstract spaces, it fails to evoke the reality of lived experiences and the ‘totality of circulation and exchange of cultural energies’ that ‘scene’ implies (Woo et al 2015, 290). Therefore, rather than a complete substitution of physical space, contemporary music scenes encompass online networks as participants use virtual methods of communication, production, and dissemination to support both online and offline spaces and relationships. Referring to a music-based community as a ‘scene network’ underscores the intricate relationship that exists between processes of human interactions and technology.
Contemporary technological resources such as mobile technologies, social networking sites and online streaming services have become ubiquitous entities within contemporary punk scenes, allowing participants a greater degree of autonomy over their cultural productions and opening up local scenes to a larger, global audience. The use of genre- and/or geographic-specific hashtags with online platforms creates a user-generated digital archive and mapping system that emphasizes the continued importance punk scene 131 participants place not only on the formation of social connections, but of localized identities linked to music and place (Audette-Longo 2017: 68). However, despite the appearance of increased creative freedom for users, many of these applications and platforms are the products of large corporations that often only provide the illusion of user-based control and whose business practices often come into direct conflict with punk’s central organizing mandate of DIY ethics.
While such technology increases access and awareness to new music, bands and venues, online interactions are also open to surveillance by authoritative groups or others who may wish to see these venues shut down. Therefore, while new media and mobile technologies have further empowered punk scene participants in their social relationships and cultural productions, the question of how operators of independent or DIY alternative music venues protect and maintain their spaces not only in the face of both city- sponsored gentrification projects, but also of online interventions is a necessary point of consideration.
The purpose of this chapter is not to categorize online interactions as inherently utopic or corrupt, but to frame the use of such media in the larger history of punk’s relationship with technology in order to understand how contemporary punk scenes continue to maintain physical venues in a highly mediated world. Contemporary punk scenes exist in both online and offline realities, therefore continuing to think of spatial concepts of ‘physical’ and ‘virtual’ as separate ignores the actual lived experiences of participants who continually navigate a sense of presence through these two spheres
(Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 278). One cannot separate physical space from punk’s use of technology and media, as the resulting cultural products are resources not only for 132 increasing awareness of local scene activities, but for creating and maintaining social spaces.
The first half of this chapter is devoted to an analysis of the ways punk participants have adapted and utilized available technology as resources to disseminate cultural products and maintain the physical infrastructure of local scenes. From ephemeral media such as zines and flyers, to telecommunication networks and popular online platforms such as Facebook and Bandcamp, this section uses these examples to provide a brief historical overview illustrating the nexus between technology and punk spaces. As part of this discussion, traditional theories regarding subcultural spaces will be re-evaluated, since while the Internet provides the means through which individuals can overcome geographic and temporal boundaries, viewing online experiences as essentially different from face-to-face interactions ignores the fact that these two forms of communication are inter-related (Bennett 2004: 165). This chapter concludes with two case studies: (1) Pouzza Fest in Montreal, Quebec and (2) The aftermath of Oakland
California’s Ghost Ship fire, both of which demonstrate the increasing overlap between online and offline spaces as well as the ways in which the nexus between punks and technology both empowers and disempowers punk scene participants.
Mediated spaces: An overview of punk’s relationship with technology
Global punk scenes have always made use of available technology to help produce and disseminate their culture, music and ideas. While the Internet has helped to accelerate the spread of punk culture and broadened its reach, this new media does not 133 mark a distinct break from previous subcultural practices which have always been defined by their use of inexpensive methods of production and reception (Kruse 2010:
626). Through acknowledging pre-internet methods of subcultural communication and cultural productions, the aura surrounding the use of new media technologies in contemporary punk scenes is challenged and understood instead as a continuation of punk’s ability to adapt to the needs of participants in their current historical moment.
Motivated by a wish to disconnect from the corporate, commercial and professional spaces of a perceived mainstream parent culture, scene participants create and maintain their own gathering spaces through utilizing methods of communication and production that eschew any specialized training (Eichhorn 2015: 364). Thus, DIY (do-it-yourself) ethics and the ability to create and disseminate cultural products outside of corporate or professional assistance is highly regarded in a majority of punk scenes up to the contemporary period, which sees scene participants transformed ‘from consumers of the mass media into agents of cultural productions’ (Dunn 2008: 198).
While punk productions such as fanzines encouraged readers to make their own publications, in terms of recording and producing albums there were no clear guides for the average punk fan to get started (Bestley 2018: 7). In the 1970s, this was especially difficult as the technology needed to easily record and produce music in the comfort of one’s basement was still decades away from being realized (Bestley 2018: 17). Therefore, despite early punk pioneers’ passionate refrain of ‘do-it-yourself’, they still relied on a network of established production processes, technicians and manufacturers in order to produce and disseminate their cultural works. Punk scenes exist in a sphere similar to
Howard Becker’s concept of the ‘art world’ (1974), where networks of trained specialists 134 and professionals collaborate with the artist/musician and contribute to the creation and distribution of a standardized cultural product. However, regardless of the reliance on a pre-existing system of production, the ideology of DIY, if initially more of an idea than an embodied practice, still made room for innovative and underground cultural practices
(Bestley 2018: 22) which would later inspire and be taken up by new generations of punk scene participants.
As discussed in Chapter One, organizing shows became an ideal method of meeting potential interview participants, but with little experience in event promotion and even less money to invest in such an endeavour, various forms of advertisements were experimented with in order to determine which was the cheapest way of attracting a large audience. Dave Tobey provided a list of free local media outlets where information for events could be posted online and subsequently shared via various social networking sites
(SNSs). However, more traditional forms of advertising were needed as each event still needed its own unique show flyer in order to grab attention both online and in the streets
(Figure 4.2).1 Using the Internet in combination with more classic, analogue methods of poster design highlighted the myriad of resources punks have used since its inception to establish lines of communication between participants and music venues. Therefore, beginning with early production methods of creating ephemeral media such as flyers and zines, to the use of a telephone and answering machine system as an underground
1 The standard 8-inch x 10-inch flyer was ideal as it was easy to reproduce and abided by poster etiquette by not taking up too much room on the already-cluttered event boards and hydro poles. Coloured posters were more eye-catching but expensive and had to be printed in limited quantities. Photoshop allowed the creation of more original designs, but the usefulness of such computer programs is dependent on an individual’s knowledge of the application and its capabilities, as well as their willingness to continue paying beyond the initial free trial download (neither of which I had). In the end, using the Internet as a resource for scavenging free images and fonts combined with the classic punk method of cut, paste, and photocopy allowed for the most creative freedom within a very restrictive budget. 135 communication network, and continuing up to the present moment with online platforms such as Facebook and Bandcamp, the following section looks at five unique instances in punk’s relationship with technology in order to understand both the positive and negative impact of this nexus on independent music venues.
Figure 4.2 - Show Flyers, (c) Katie Green 2014 - 2015.
Xerography: Flyers and fanzines
The creation and dissemination of early flyers, handbills, and fanzines (known colloquially as ‘zines’) relied on xerography and the availability of copy machines.
Modern workplaces triggered the initial demand for efficient and affordable copy 136 machines but as these machines became more accessible to the general public, their popularity was heightened by those who experimented with the medium by copying more than just official documents (Eichhorn 2015: 368-369). Increased access to photocopiers created a democratized culture of creation where the average citizen was encouraged to participate by producing their own original designs (Ensminger 2011: 5). Downtown neighbourhoods soon became papered in layers of photocopied flyers slathered with wheat paste (Eichhorn 2015: 369), advertising events, artwork, political statements and other forms of guerilla marketing. Valorizing amateurism and immediacy in their use of media and technology, the first generation of punks presented a challenge to hegemonic forms of production by exposing the aura of the so-called professional, and the attributes and capabilities of early copy machines were perfectly suited to develop a minimalist, stripped-down aesthetic. Both early punk flyers and zines consisted of black and white, photocopied sheets of paper covered in a combination of cut-out photographs and capitalized, hand-written or typewritten texts (often including crossed-out spelling and grammatical errors) (Triggs 2006: 71). This unpolished aesthetic emphasized a sense of urgency in the information being communicated and contrasted more conventional, professional media outlets (Triggs 2006: 72) who typically rendered the means of production invisible to the average individual.
According to Kate Eichhorn, copy machines functioned as an early, more material form of social media (2015: 369-370). Both resources help to deterritorialize local punk scenes and open up these communities to encourage participation from a wide array of individuals who might otherwise not have the means to do so (Eichhorn 2015: 372).
However, unlike social media sites, copy machines not only encourage but require a more 137 direct, active role on the part of the individual user (Eichhorn 2015: 373). The resulting documents are the material evidence left behind after a long and slow process of work involving much more effort than simply clicking a button to post or re-post an event online (Eichhorn 2015: 373). From the initial design concept, to obtaining materials, printing, distributing and re-distributing flyers throughout a neighbourhood or city, this process (which may or may not be the collaborative effort of a ‘street team’) takes place a month or so before the event being advertised. Therefore, punk flyers and handbills represent a direct link to the spaces of a local punk scene, its participants and the history of their culture and activities. Ephemeral media like flyers and fanzines epitomize DIY production techniques and help to sustain local scenes by connecting fans and audience members not only with each other, but also with the physical infrastructure that comprises local music scenes (Moore 2007: 456). Such documents invade local neighbourhoods, spread awareness of the activities of a local scene and extend the boundaries of independent or DIY venues into the city proper.
Taped to the windows of coffee shops and restaurants, stapled to hydro poles and community event boards, distributed by hand at events and high schools and plastered to major intersections, bus shelters and construction sites, photocopied flyers remain a primary method of discovering information about upcoming punk shows even for contemporary scene participants (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview).
Within the space of a music venue, flyers taped to the walls become meeting places for scene participants to debate and discuss upcoming events (Ensminger 2011: 5), similar to the type of ‘water cooler talk’ that takes place in more conventional workspaces. In conversation with Jon Creeden, he felt that posters add a sense of history to a music 138 venue and provide insight into what types of music and artists are welcome in a particular space (LeBourdais and Creeden, 9 October 2014 interview). Over time, the walls of venues, as well as nearby hydro poles, swell and shrink with the addition and removal of flyers, but traces still remain that ‘embody a living, not-so-secret visual history’
(Ensminger 2011: 9) of a local punk scene. Glimpses of flyers for past events trigger waves of nostalgia for scene participants (Ensminger 2011: 5) and create a stronger feeling of connection not only to the local punk scene but also to the street corners and sidewalks, as if these flyers are a transient way of inserting individuals into the physical infrastructure of the city.
Just as physical spaces such as independent music venues and record stores are vital hubs of social activity that make local punk scenes visible beyond the boundaries of a single city, hand-drawn and photocopied fanzines function as spaces that bring together a myriad of voices for the expression of attitudes and trends prevalent in a particular music scene (Triggs 2006: 70). As sites for discussion that are often the product of collaborative effort, fanzines act as forums for scene participants to engage in political debates and commentary (Triggs 2006: 73) and adhere to Michael Warner’s (2005) third concept of ‘public’ in that they are collectively organized, text-based publics that are capable of addressing not only friends, but strangers located across multiple spaces
(Ferguson 2010: 196). For example, Maximumrocknroll (1982 – present), a monthly independent American publication known for its left-wing politics and support for independent, non-commercial punk bands (O’Connor 2008: 7), facilitates lines of communication between scene participants across multiple locations through the inclusion of reader-submitted articles and reviews to create a more tangible sense of punk 139 identity and community (Triggs 2006: 70), even while at times inspiring debate and disagreement amongst its readership. In addition, the zine’s ‘scene reports’ (exposés on international punk scenes written by local participants) are representative of
Maximumrocknroll’s commitment to representing the global scope of punk culture
(O’Connor 2008: 7), drawing attention to scenes that have been largely ignored by grand narratives of punk history.
The relationship between punk culture and xerography is one of the first instances of an accessible technology enabling scene participants to take the first steps towards gaining independence over their cultural productions. When copy machines moved from the privileged space of the corporate office into places such as corner stores and libraries, this increased accessibility democratized a means of production that allowed the public to experiment with creating new methods of street-level marketing. Show flyers are tools used by punks to construct lines of communication between individuals and the venues they inhabit. The independent artists, musicians, and event promoters responsible for designing and distributing such documents transformed their physical urban environment into a ‘resource for cultivating the self’ (Woo et al 2015: 439).
In other words, punk’s relationship with technology has a direct link to physical space, evidenced not only by the fact that these documents made scene participants aware of local venues, but that their presence endowed said venues with a sense of history and nostalgia which made them vital meeting places for scene participants. In addition, the city itself became a playground in which punks increased the visibility of their local scene. The use of xerography to produce fanzines resulted in the creation of text-based spaces in which punk scene participants could transmit their culture and ideas through 140 and beyond spatial boundaries. Whether freshly printed or faded and tattered, these photocopied documents are evidence of the actual, lived experience of local scenes, representing years of hard work on the part of promoters, artists and musicians, and through their changing aesthetic and methods of production help to document
‘technological and culture shifts in contemporary history’ (Ensminger 2011: 9).
Telecommunications: Toronto’s ‘Hardcore Hotline’
Before desktop computers and access to the Internet became commonplace in most Western homes, the telephone was an early example of a similar technology that, with the speed at which it was able to overcome spatial boundaries, gradually became a central feature of both professional and personal spaces to the point where it became an almost mundane aspect of daily life (Fischer 1992: 176). The primary function of the telephone is spatial in nature, as in supporting communications across great distances, it collapses that distance in order to make living in urban spaces possible (Green 2002:
283). Cities are built around telecommunications infrastructure, thereby concentrating pockets of the population within given geographical areas. As cities grow in density, new methods of transmitting and receiving information are needed in order to keep pace with the speed at which social interactions occur (Green 2002: 282). Therefore, in transmitting and receiving sound and voice across space, the history of the telephone in Canada is that 141 of a technology which is strongly tied to supporting local communities through the facilitation of personal relationships.2
In the December 2000 issue of Maxiumrocknroll, a scene report was published that covered he latest news and gossip from Toronto.3 Included along with descriptions of the infrastructure of Toronto’s punk and underground music scene (i.e. record labels, music venues, zines, radio programmes, etc.) is a brief mention of The Hardcore Hotline
(Equalizing-X-Distort 2010). Established in the early 1990s after a series of community meetings facilitated by Spencer Mak and Ted Wong, the Toronto Hardcore Hotline consisted of a basic answering machine system that provided pre-recorded, outgoing messages relaying information regarding up-coming punk and DIY events and enabled callers to leave in-coming messages (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview). In addition to the messages left by callers, information about shows were also gleaned from a hardcore/punk radio show on York University’s CHRY FM known as ‘Fast n’ Bulbous’ operated by Stephe Perry (Mak, 15 July 2018 interview). These messages and listings were then compiled into a chronological list of events read by the Hotline’s operators who updated the recorded message about once a week (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview). In order to add a sense of energy to their recordings, Mak and Wong would often record themselves speaking over top of the newest hardcore songs from their personal record collections (Mak, 15 July 2018 interview). According to Mak, this process ‘took forever’,
2 For instance, in 1881, Canada’s first public telephone was installed at a stationary store in Hamilton, Ontario, requiring individuals to travel to a central location in town and pay the storekeeper in order to use it (International Telecommunication Union 2000). 3 The majority of the article focuses on Toronto, but also includes information from scenes located in Hamilton, Windsor, Mississauga, and Montreal (Equalizing-X-Distort 2010). 142 as neither he nor Wong were professionals and had to accommodate for the many mistakes that were made during recording (15 July 2018 interview).
Inspired by DIY scenes in Europe and American projects such as New York’s
ABC No Rio and San Francisco’s Gilman Street Project and Epicenter Records, Mak and
Wong began the Hotline in an effort to inspire Toronto’s punk and alternative music scenes to create their own steps towards collective action (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview).
For Mak, the reasons behind the Hotline’s creation were a lack of information on shows and scene-related events, and since this was a time before social media, the telephone line provided a means through which ‘real-time’ information could be shared beyond face-to- face word-of-mouth (15 July 2018 interview). Although long terms goals of creating a related newsletter a punk-run music venue were never realized, Toronto’s Hardcore
Hotline was seen as a tangible outcome that ‘could take shape irrespective of whether any larger collective efforts succeeded or failed’ (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview).
The early years of the telephone saw individuals attempt to use the medium beyond its intended use as a conversational tool, such as broadcasting news programs, church services, weather reports and sales announcements, most of which would only remain popular in rural areas (Fischer 1992: 66).4 This re-imagining of the potential capabilities of the technology extended to punk scene participants who found ways to incorporate telecommunications into their regular social interactions. For example, during an interview for The Varsity, a Toronto-based concert promoter, Mark Pesci talks about how he was first introduced to punk and metal:
4 Similar to the smartphones of today which are advertised as a substitute for a variety of other resources or applications, early telephone companies marketed the technology as a multi-purpose tool allowing for the transmission of ‘sales by telephone, get-out-the-vote campaigns, lullabies to put babies to sleep, and long-distance Christian Science healing’ (Fischer 1992: 66). 143
I had friends playing records for me over the phone and sort of opening my eyes to the underground things going on, and then from there it was really just word of mouth and trying to research things the old fashioned way [sic]. Back in the ’90s there was this thing called the Hardcore Hotline where they would have this phone number you’d call and it would tell you what shows were happening over the next month. At the end of the message there was a beep, so if you were doing a show you left a message with the information, and when they updated the machine your show would be on there. It seems so archaic now to think of, but really, I called that thing twice a week just to find out if anything was going on (cited in Watson 2013). As the above example demonstrates, punk scene participants used the telephone not only for conversations, but also for sharing music and recruiting new participants to the scene.
While the primary goal of the Toronto Hardcore Hotline was to advertise and receive information regarding up-coming events of interest to the city’s punk and underground music scenes (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview), it played a larger role in terms of acting as a conduit for individuals to enter Toronto’s network of local music scenes, regardless of their geographic location, and gradually build social and cultural capital.
While the use of copy machines to create flyers and fanzines aided in the creation of text-based punk networks, it is only one level of a much larger, informal and decentralized network (Dunn 2008: 202) of communication created by participants to maintain their local scenes. In contrast to flyers, the Toronto Hardcore Hotline was much more convenient and reliable, no longer requiring individuals to leave their homes to wander the streets on the look-out for notices. Daragh Hayes, who operated the Hotline from 1993-1998, stated that although its official title was the ‘Toronto Hardcore Hotline’, the events advertised stretched beyond the boundaries of the city, including shows located in nearby cities such as Oshawa, Peterborough, Pickering, Burlington, Oakville and Guelph (9 July 2018 interview). Citing his own experience using an earlier iteration of the Hotline that briefly operated in the late 1980s: 144
I used to call the number from my hometown of Belleville, Ontario to find out what was happening in the city at that time. This was especially useful as I was so far removed geographically from physical evidence of shows in the form of flyers on street poles, at record stores, or by word of mouth in Toronto. (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview).
The use of Toronto’s Hardcore Hotline is an example of a technology overcoming geographical barriers, extending the reach of word-of-mouth exchanges and modernizing the communication network of local scenes both within and around Toronto.
Telecommunications technologies altered the form of person-to-person communications, allowing for a greater number of interactions to take place between individuals in disparate locations. As a result, these interactions were broken up into smaller, more fleeting moments (Green 2002: 284), as participants were no longer required to physically travel to a certain location and take time to engage in conversation with others which added a new sense of immediacy and flexibility to these social exchanges. This subcultural use of the telephone tangibly represents the continuing cycle of information exchange that takes part in local scenes, where participants rely on each other to give and receive content, keeping lines of communication open not only person-to-person, but person-to-venue as well.
While new forms of media and technology can have a profound, transformative effect on how a particular culture communicates and produces cultural products, these new methods of interaction merely add to a ‘spectrum of communication forms’ rather than erasing the need for older methods, although they do change the frequency at which those older forms of media and technology are used (Meyrowitz 1985: 19). Photocopied show flyers could still be found pasted throughout Toronto at that time, often advertising the Hotline’s phone number (Mogkenstein 2010; Hayes 9 July 2018 interview), 145 demonstrating a merging of different forms of media in a mutually-supportive, symbiotic relationship. While show flyers exist in visible, physical spaces (and by extension, bring the activities of scenes out into the open), telecommunication exchanges are potentially much more covert. For instance, teenagers, looking to escape the surveillance of their parents, hide in their bedrooms to speak with friends over the telephone in an attempt to
‘override physical distance and create a backstage area apart from the adults with whom they live’ (Meyrowitz 1985: 37). By operating an independent hotline, the organizers and users of the Toronto Hardcore Hotline were attempting a similar strategy. That is, to increase the speed and frequency of communications between scene participants while simultaneously moving the space of interactions into a semi-private5 sphere where only those who had knowledge of the Hotline’s number would have access.
According to Hayes, the Hotline cost about thirty dollars a month to operate, which was paid for through ‘infrequent benefit shows’ (9 July 2018 interview). During periods when the funds raised from benefit shows had been used up, Hayes would pay out of his own pocket until another show could be organized (9 July 2018 interview).
Therefore, in terms of the challenges of operating the call-in line, the financial burden was minimal (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview). However, challenges did arise in terms of navigating the often-rocky terrain of the multitude of contrasting opinions on defining the limits of punk’s culture, mandate and ethics (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview). Along with leaving messages to advertise up-coming events, callers to the Hotline would also voice
5 By ‘semi-private’, I refer to the idea that the space of the Hotline contained both public and private elements. That is, while the phone number was advertised on flyers positioned in public areas of the city, and there were no restrictions on who could use the Hotline, the influence of insider-knowledge and scene-based cultural capital meant that its use and operation was ultimately restricted to a smaller, intimate group of people. 146 their frustrations, questions and complaints regarding what was being promoted as well as the definitions and politics of punk music (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview). On Hayes’ part, he attempted to maintain an open policy in regards to what events were featured, occasionally making exceptions for major label bands or events (Hayes, 9 July 2018). In his own words:
I wasn’t interested in adhering to an overly narrow definition of punk and hardcore or even DIY and preferred to let people make their own decisions regarding what they might find appealing. I realized that it would never be possible to keep everyone happy all of the time and I look at the [H]otline as being a conduit of information rather than an event needing a personal stamp of approval to merit inclusion. Indeed, I feel one of the strengths of the hotline that enabled it to persist for as long as it did was that it was rather a solitary individually-run operation. Had the [H]otline required a consensus from a wider collection to function, I don’t doubt that the scope of its coverage would have been more limited […]. (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview)
For Hayes, this broadly defined and open strategy resulted in accusations of elitism by those who perceived his inclusion of particular events as personal endorsements (Hayes n.d.). Reflecting on the negative feedback occasionally received through Toronto’s
Hardcore Hotline, Hayes likened the messages left by angry, repeated callers as engaging in a form of ‘trolling’ (n.d.), a common practice in online platforms defined as attempts to deliberately ‘upset people by spreading grisly or disturbing content, igniting arguments, or engendering general bedlam’ (Coleman 2014: 4). In this way, the Hotline serves as a precursor to Internet platforms such as email lists, message boards and social networking sites where users are emboldened by a shield of anonymity that allows any type of comments to be left without impacting a person’s social or cultural reputation.
For both Mak and Hayes, the Hotline was made out of an ‘information deficit’ that existed in the 1990s, where access to knowledge about shows and other scene activities was hindered by geographic barriers (15 July 2018 interview; 9 July 2018 147 interview). In Mak’s opinion, there would be no need for a similar project today, as the
Internet and social media provide constant access to information regarding events (15
July 2018). While Hayes also does not believe a similar project would be successful today due to the over-influx of information available online, he points to a rising popularity of older media formats such as vinyl records and cassette tapes as evidence for a nostalgic interest in anachronistic technologies (9 July 2018 interview).
The Toronto Hardcore Hotline represents the continuing nexus between punk and technology where the use of low-cost resources enables scene participants to increase the frequency of their communications, overcome spatial and temporal barriers and maintain tangible links between participants and the larger infrastructure of their local scenes. In other words, the development of the Hotline was the next evolutionary step for scene participants looking to open up their communities beyond the limits of a single neighbourhood and connect their networks to a larger, nation-wide infrastructure of communication. The Hotline was an example of telecommunications technology that enabled a level of interactivity that surpassed the capabilities of flyers and fanzines.
While fanzines print debates and discussions prevalent to multiple punk scenes, responses to editorials are not immediate and are limited to the amount of space within the publication itself. In comparison, the Toronto Hardcore Hotline heightened the speed and ease of responses but lacked the permanence of the printed word. 6 However, the rapidly changing world of technology and media ultimately rendered the format of the Hotline redundant (Hayes, 9 July 2018 interview), as scene participants moved their social relations and interactions into an online, virtual sphere.
6 Hayes began to save a portion of interesting or entertaining messages but chose not to publicize the more violent or hateful comments in order to avoid inviting more conflict (n.d). 148
The Internet: Facebook and Bandcamp
The nexus between punk and technology is characterised by efforts to independently use available, affordable technology and media in ways that benefit local scenes and maintain physical venues. As technology changes and evolves, the means through which punk scene participants communicate and produce/disseminate cultural products changes, but the activities they participate in, although pushed into
‘geographically unbounded settings’ remain the same (boyd 2014: 8). Flyers advertising shows are still produced, lines of communication are still maintained between participants and the larger infrastructure of their local scenes and punk culture continues to be distributed through multiple channels, but these efforts are now amplified via virtual communities. However, instead of achieving transcendence of the physical world, the
Internet grounds local identities to physical spaces and should be understood as both a resource and a space used by individuals to help them navigate and understand their participation in local music scenes (Bennett 2004: 166-168).
Once considered a subculture of nerds and outcasts, by the mid-2000s participation in online communities became a normative, mainstream practice that has developed into an innate part of the experience of everyday life (boyd 2014: 7). Early uses of the Internet in punk communications involved e-mail lists, online chat forums and rudimentary fan websites, which increased exposure of particular styles of music and bands, helped to establish certain cities as vibrant punk scenes and advertised the existence of smaller punk scenes (Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 297). While these 149 resources are still used today, social media and social networking sites have dominated many of the social interactions that take place online (boyd 2014: 6). A plethora of online spaces have emerged that enable users to easily create, publish and share original cultural products such as blogs, videos, music and visual art (boyd 2014: 6), as well as participate in a variety of social forums connecting individuals to a large global population of online users. SNSs, as defined by boyd and Ellison, allow individuals to:
(1) construct a public or semi-public profile within a bounded system, (2) articulate a list of other users with whom they share a connection, and (3) view and traverse their list of connections and those made by others within the system. (2008: 211)
These platforms have become so deeply ingrained into contemporary understandings of social relations, time and space that it is worth contemplating how punk participants have reconciled the use of these corporate entities in their DIY productions and communications. While multiple online platforms exist, this analysis focuses on two that are arguably the most popular amongst contemporary punk scene participants: Facebook, because of its over-arching dominance and social networking capabilities, and
Bandcamp, because of its current popularity amongst independent musicians and their fans.
In conversation with Greg Rekus,7 an independent folk-punk musician based out of Winnipeg, Manitoba, clearer insight was gained into the ways contemporary punk scene participants make use of online resources to build and maintain links between themselves and their local punk scene at large. Over the years, Rekus has found information about shows through flyers posted to hydro poles, signing up for e-mail lists
7 Rekus has been an active member of the Winnipeg punk scene for over twenty years, having first been introduced to punk culture through watching Green Day videos on television in the mid-nineties (12 June 2018 interview). 150 and even calling venues directly, but with the increased popularity of SNSs, the majority of these interactions have moved online, leading to a heightened feeling of inclusivity due to the reliance on personal invitations to events or groups (12 June 2018 interview). In order to maintain the public image of an active scene participant, Rekus has developed a large online presence.8 Although he admits to feeling a degree of pressure to be proactive in terms of updating his various profiles in order to keep his followers feeling as if they are connected to his life on tour, Rekus still believes that having an online presence is a necessity for working, independent musicians:
Virtually all booking is done online and if [promoters have] nothing to check out it’s a lot harder to convince people to book your band or act or whatever. I’m sure I could get rid of a few social media things and still make it work but unfortunately Facebook has just become too much of an establishment in everyone’s lives (Rekus 2018b).
Rekus appears to have accepted the significant role Facebook and other online sites play in his life and the lives of his friends and acquaintances, but there still is a sense of reluctancy behind his words. What his language and attitude about the platform suggests is that Facebook, for better or for worse, has become a monolith of contemporary life, a dominant technological shift that has altered the social structure of everyday life for punk scene participants.9 Over the years the conception of Facebook has changed from an online directory for college students to find information about each other, to a more open social network for the widespread sharing of information, to a ‘core social infrastructure’ of both the Internet and the world (Hoffman et al. 2018: 204-206). While operating as a
8 In addition to operating a personal website that contains tour dates and links to his music (www.gregrekus.com), he also maintains accounts on Bandcamp, Instagram, Twitter, Reverbnation, and Songkick (Rekus, 12 June 2018, interview). 9 As of 2018, Facebook will have been in operation for fourteen years and has amassed over 2.19 billion active monthly users (Statista 2018). 151 musician without a Facebook profile is possible, it makes advertising or finding out about the activities of local scenes difficult. By diversifying his online presence across multiple platforms, Rekus takes advantage of available technology, using the Internet as both a tool to conduct business and a place to meet contacts in order to maintain his connection to punk scenes located in the physical world.
Before Facebook took over as the dominant social media force that it is today,
Myspace was a site highly favoured by independent bands and artists. In contrast to
Facebook’s ever-changing feed of updates, Myspace’s platform design was static, meaning that when a user uploaded media (i.e. photos, videos or music) it was easier to access (Ramírez Sánchez 2013: 49). This simplified design was ideal for punk musicians, as features such as top ten friends, separation of personal and professional pages, and displaying the number of plays a band’s music received, helped to streamline the networking process and made it easier to gauge a local punk band’s popularity as well as whether or not they were still active (Rekus, 12 June 2018 interview). For Rubén
Ramírez Sánchez in his work on the underground Puerto Rican punk scene, a line can be drawn between fanzines and MySpace, arguing that while zines represented a material
‘point of convergence’ for punk participants where their scenes and cultural products were described via the written word, ‘MySpace provides the space where entire scenes become alive’ and ‘becomes the ultimate network where virtually any band is immediately accessible’ (2013: 51). In this way, MySpace is the predecessor for SNSs and other mobile technologies that, while not inherently punk in essence, echo DIY values via their design which calls upon punk scene participants to incorporate them as resources for scene contributions (Ramírez Sánchez 2013: 40). 152
In July 2006, MySpace experienced the peak of its popularity as the most accessed website in the United States but was soon surpassed by Facebook in June 2009
(Schenker 2015). The collapse of MySpace is linked to the idea that its creators were part of the entertainment industry, rather than tech experts, thereby hindering their ability to keep up with their competitor’s technological innovations (Lee 2011). In other words,
‘Facebook “perfected” the social networking concept, whereas MySpace just introduced people to it’ (Schenker 2015). In addition, while MySpace’s use of anonymous pseudonyms was helpful for bands and musicians, ultimately Facebook’s introduction of profiles linked to real identities was proven to be more attractive for the general population of Internet users (Schenker 2015) and led to its eventual demise.
The Internet is often thought of as a place of empowerment in which individuals are free to construct and perform multiple identities outside of who they might be in the real world. Here, the concept of ‘real’ or ‘authentic’ is a point of contention, as some online users may perform identities that are just as real for them than the ones embodied in an offline capacity (Haimson and Hoffman 2016). Punks have a long history of playing with the construct of identity, as many use pseudonyms (known as ‘handles’) in lieu of their legal name (e.g. Johnny Rotten, Sid Vicious, Joe Strummer etc.). However,
Facebook has its own conception of authentic identities that often comes into conflict with punk and other marginalized or non-normative identities.
Positioning itself as a social infrastructure in which users can present ‘real’ and
‘authentic’ versions of themselves, Facebook has enforced a ‘real name’ policy that forces individuals to create profiles using their names as found on official documents, thus maintaining a link between their online and offline identities (Haimson and Hoffman 153
2016). Facebook’s concept of ‘authenticity’ defines it as something inherent to a natural or fixed identity, ignoring the fact that identity is a social construct that changes over different periods in a person’s life (Haimson and Hoffman 2016). This policy has repercussions not only for punks that use pseudonyms to protect their legal identities, but also for transgendered individuals whose names might not reflect what is written on their birth certificates or individuals with non-traditional or non-Western names, all of whom can be potentially targeted by Facebook and accused of creating fake accounts. As a result, these individuals must make a choice to either create a false name that fits
Facebook’s standards (a concept that runs counter to the idea of a ‘real’ or ‘true’ identity that Facebook promotes) or have their accounts deleted (Haimson and Hoffman 2016).
Staying ‘connected’ is a central motivation behind the nexus of punk and technology. Whether it is connection between participants or a connection of participants to their local scene in general, it is the maintenance of networks of social relations that supports economic goals and the distribution of cultural products (Ramírez Sánchez
2013: 51). Therefore, social networking sites would appear to be ideal resources for punk scene participants, but often the interests of these corporately-owned sites run counter to punk ideals of non-commercial independence. For instance, at the heart of Facebook’s mission statement, themes of ‘caring, empowerment, community and especially connecting and sharing’ all emerge (Lincoln and Robards 2014: 1047), but the social mission of the platform comes into conflict with its commercial commitments which are often hidden behind this idealized rhetoric (Hoffman et al. 2018: 205-206). As founder
Mark Zuckerberg’s language concerning the purpose of Facebook changed, so did the 154 discourse surrounding its users, who are considered both ‘empowered social and political actors’ and ‘consumptive audiences’ (Hoffman et al. 2018: 210).
Marjorie D. Kibby, arguing that online spaces share similar traits to those in the physical world, found that while not every online interaction lead to an offline social relationship or connection, online spaces provide scene participants with a similar sense of belonging that can be found in physical venues (2000: 94).While logged into
Facebook, punk scene participants can interact with members of their own local scene and access specialized interest groups that allow for social connections to be made with individuals located around the globe. Similar to Wilson and Atkinson’s discussion of the straightedge lifestyle, punk is often thought of as a culture that is performed through experiences in physical venues, although participants continue to interact with each other virtually (2005: 301).
For some, the openness of online interactions, even within groups marked as
‘private’ or ‘closed’, has resulted in ‘unintended ideological and representational shifts’
(Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 302) within punk culture, as allowing access to anyone means that scene participants lose some degree of self-determination over who is allowed into their shared spaces. Yet, among the debates concerning punk culture or the current states of politics, participants also post a wide collection of memes and jokes relating to punk, demonstrating a self-deprecating humour and awareness of their shared culture.
The internet in this instance acts as an additional space for scene participants to actively engage, produce and consume media related to punk (Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 303) which ultimately helps to develop a subcultural identity where distinctions of online and 155 offline are bound together into an individual’s self-perception of their role and engagement with punk on both a local and global level.
The Internet has also become a vital tool in the circulation of music, particularly for independent punk bands who might otherwise not be able to afford the cost of producing and distributing physical albums (Wilson and Atkinson 2005: 297). The rise of
MP3s and file sharing networks in the nineties caused a significant shift in the structural and spatial landscape of the music industry (Hracs 2012: 442).10 This new, non-physical music format was standardized in such a way that it allowed for users from anywhere in the world to download files without the use of expensive or highly technical equipment
(Hracs 2012: 446). The removal of the necessity for intermediaries (i.e. major record labels) in the distribution of independently-created music has both positive and negative effects. On the one hand, it has resulted in a more open and direct artist-fan connection, as musicians can now communicate directly with their fanbase. On the other, it also has resulted in an overloaded virtual marketplace characterized by heightened competition for artists to be both seen and heard (Kribs 2017: 4). As digital music became a more common method of distribution, online sites emerged that specifically catered to this inexpensive, sharable format; taking power out of the hands of major labels and putting it
10 While major labels were slow to respond to this new music format and responded in some cases with legal lawsuits against file sharing platforms and users, some smaller labels embraced illegal downloads as an alternative to the expensive process of record pressing that harkened back to earlier methods of free music sharing such as cassette tape trading (O’Connor 2008: 81). Ryan Moore, in his ethnographic study of punk’s field of cultural production, pinpoints the inherent differences between success on a major label versus an independent, which ultimately comes down to valuing the ‘democratic methods of production and a populist ethos’ that facilitates social relations in a scene over monetary gain (2007: 452). Signing to a major label meant that artists could focus more on song writing and less on marketing, promotion, or distribution, but it also meant a loss of autonomy as labels could place limitations on what a band could or could not produce (Hracs 2012: 444-445). While some punk bands find success on major labels, many others seek out independent labels in order to reclaim creative freedom and autonomy, producing music for music’s sake as opposed to corporate interests (Moore 2007: 450-451). 156 directly in those of the artists themselves. However, in their attempt to democratize music production and distribution, these platforms became the new intermediaries (Srnicek et al. 2017).
One such site that acts as an online resource for independent bands and record labels to sell music and merchandise is Bandcamp. Founded in 2007, Bandcamp has been touted as an indispensable, innovative tool for discovering alternative music (Bandcamp
2018). According to Ramírez Sánchez, the ability to easily share music online results in the creation of virtual spaces that are technologies of geography that enable the movement of music (2013: 2014). The movement of music generates networks of commerce and economics (Ramírez Sánchez 2013: 51), which ultimately help to sustain local punk scenes. Similar to physical music venues, Bandcamp acts as an important hub of activity within the larger scene network, where economic practices and cultural exchanges take place which helps to sustain local scenes and reproduce necessary lines of connection between participants.
While Facebook is useful for networking, its design does not support the playing, selling or downloading of music, thus requiring the tandem use of alternative SNSs such as Bandcamp (Rekus, 12 June 2018), whose design directly reflects its primary function as a music retail site. However, the design of Bandcamp still emphasizes the importance of social connections and identities linked to specific musical genres and places (Audette-
Longo 2017: 66). Through its discourse, marketing and design, Bandcamp promises that users will receive an enriched experience of discovering new music and supporting local, independent artists (Audette-Longo 2017: 66). These promises fit perfectly into existent social and cultural dynamics of local scene networks (Audette-Longo 2017: 68), and the 157 prolific use of Bandcamp amongst contemporary punk bands and audience members demonstrates the ease with which scene participants have adopted this technology into their everyday activities and social interactions.
While Bandcamp certainly is a beneficial source of support for underground scenes and independent artists, it has become the virtual reiteration of a classic record label in that it provides a space for musicians to sell their work, rather than producing an original product itself (Kribs 2017: 6). As other SNSs, Bandcamp relies on user- generated content and on-going participation.11 Artists with Bandcamp accounts are responsible for uploading music, providing information related to band biographies and recording information, setting prices, and receiving preparing, processing, shipping orders (Audette-Longo 2017: 66), and the company’s mission statement emphasizes that all artists ‘must be compensated fairly and transparently for their work’ (Bandcamp
2018).12 The ‘sharing economy’ (Srnicek et al. 2017) that Bandcamp participates in can be thought of in two ways. First, as a democratized platform where content is generated by independent artists for independent artists in support of local punk scenes. Second, as a commercial platform reliant on a voluntary labour force for the lowest possible price
(Srnicek et al 2017).
11 Nick Srnicek points to the 1970s as a key moment when large businesses experienced a ‘crisis of profitability’, meaning that in order to cover lost revenue, corporations began to cut wages and outsource their work force (2017). After the tech boom of the late 1990s began to dwindle, digital platforms became a ‘hyperextension’ of this moment (Srnicek et al. 2017). 12 In the early years of the site, the commission structure was that Bandcamp took ten per cent from each individual sale, hanging on to that percentage until an artist sold ten records (Rekus, 12 June 2018 interview). Once an artist sold ten records, Bandcamp would collect one sale as their own, meaning that if a band or solo musician sold less than ten records, the site would not take any of their profit (Rekus, 12 June 2018 interview). Today, Bandcamp takes 15 per cent of each sale (Rekus, 12 June 2018 interview) which is then lowered to 10 per cent if the artist reaches $5000 in sales (Kribs 2018: 6). 158
For those who have regular access to the Internet, downloading, sharing or creating music online has become a taken for granted facet of life. This rapidly evolving technology helps to facilitate social relationships between participants around the world
(Kruse 2010: 636) and is a regular part of participants’ experience in local and global punk scenes. However, as both Kruse (2010) and O’Connor (2004) have argued, a discussion about the relationship between punk scenes and technology would be lacking if it did not address the imbalance that exists between punk scenes in different areas of the world. O’Connor, exploring the inequalities in the global flows of media, people and ideas between Barcelona and Mexico City, uses Bourdieu’s concept of ‘habitus’13 to argue that scene participants, aided by the resources available to them within their given locale, adapt punk culture to suit their individual needs (2004: 178). This results in differences not only in the physical infrastructure of individual scenes, but also in the types of technologies utilized by participants.14
Since O’Connor’s study, the number of Internet users in Mexico has increased.15
In February 2018 at a punk show in Tecate, Mexico, audience members were observed using smartphones to take pictures and videos. Posing with the touring acts (visiting from
Canada and the United Kingdom) for photos, they then immediately uploaded these files to Instagram and Facebook, tagging both the venue and the artists in order to draw
13 As an individual becomes used to their social role within a punk scene or field, expected and practiced behaviours associated with that role gradually become internalized and form what is known as the ‘habitus’. Persons from the same social, cultural or class background often share the same ‘habitus’ which informs how they perceive and experience the world around them. 14 For example, cassette tapes (popular in the 1980s and pushed out of the limelight by the advent of compact discs) remained popular in areas like Mexico and Latin American due to a lack of access to more expensive stereo system (O’Connor 2008: 81). 15 O’Connor observed that while Mexican punks made use of free e-mail accounts, very few had Internet access in their own homes (just 4 percent compared to 53 percent in Canada and 59 percent in the United States) (2004: 182). As of January 2017, the number of active Internet users in Mexico stood at over 70 million, with a projected increase to 91.6 million by 2021 (Statista n.d.) 159 attention to the event, the venue and their scene at large. Throughout the evening, they expressed gratitude for touring bands who visit their city, while also lamenting the barriers impeding their own ability to travel both within and outside their country.
Therefore, despite increased access to new media and technology and the apparent freedom offered to participants that allows them to virtually transcend the physical boundaries of their scene, inequalities still exist between global punk scenes in terms of geographic, political and economic barriers.
Mediated environments such as SNSs are thought to differ from physical sites in terms of the persistence and durability of online content, the heightened visibility of posts, the ‘spreadability’ or ease at which information can be repeatedly reproduced or shared and the ability to quickly search and find relevant content (boyd 2014: 10).
However, these characteristics are similar to those found with other forms of media and physical environments. For instance, the hanging and re-hanging of flyers is a persistent activity, graffiti on venue walls can remain visible for long periods of time, and information communicated via telephone lines or word-of mouth can quickly be spread over short periods of time (boyd 2014: 12-13). By offering heightened ways of engaging in the traditional activities of local scenes (boyd 2014: 12-13), SNSs have altered the dynamics of subcultural processes of production, distribution, and reception, but the shared goals of independently producing cultural documents, facilitating social relationships, and building a local scene within shared spaces remains the same.
Just as the physical attributes of music venues help to determine what type of activities can take place within them, the particular characteristics and design of online sites encourage certain behaviours and actions (boyd 2014: 10) while restricting others. 160
In this way, corporately-owned sites such as Facebook and Bandcamp act in ways similar to mainstream, commercial music venues in that they provide a space for punks to congregate but determine the limits of what is possible in their spaces (O’Connor, personal communication). For Ramírez Sánchez, punks are unable to remove themselves from their ‘reliance on capitalism as a structural system’ (2013 56-57), meaning that while punk as a culture is based upon a fundamental rejection of commercial or capitalist interests, these new technologies have mimicked the structure of DIY practices to such an extent that they draw punks in and become ingrained in their everyday experiences of local scenes. As the nexus of punk culture and technology continues to adapt to new forms of virtual and online media, contemporary punk scene participants must find methods of navigating the interests of corporately-owned SNSs and websites (often associated with marketing, advertising, and security) that run counter to DIY ethics and the ideal of punk independence.
Collapsing the boundary between online and offline: Pouzza Fest as a mediated punk space
To examine the changing landscape of local punk scenes and illustrate the ways in which contemporary scenes challenge traditional concepts of space by blurring the boundary between online and offline, one can turn to the example of Pouzza Fest (2011 – present), a three-day punk and indie music festival that takes place each spring in downtown Montreal, Quebec. Inspired by No Idea Records’ ‘The Fest’ in Gainesville,
Florida, Pouzza (named for the tantalizing combination of ‘poutine’ and ‘pizza’) was founded by Hélène McKoy and Hugo Mudie. Featuring an international mixture of bands and musicians, Pouzza also includes a variety of other events and activities that 161 accommodate an increasingly diverse audience (e.g. daily yoga, family-friendly events geared towards children, a baseball tournament, stand-up comedy, and a round-table discussion panel on the role of women in the scene). The structure of the festival is heavily dependent on Montreal’s physical infrastructure, yet Pouzza also operates in an online, virtual capacity that allows attendees to construct their own experience of the event and share such experiences online. For those not in attendance, the festival can be lived out vicariously via Pouzza’s multiple social networking sites which construct a vast archive of media documenting first-person viewpoints. What this example demonstrates is the multiple ways in which contemporary punk festivals are becoming not only open to a wider variety of concert attendee, but increasingly mediated spaces. Aided by the relationship between humans and technology, the boundaries between physical music venues and virtual communities are blurred and exist in a co-dependent relationship where physical bodies oscillate between online and offline spaces, maintaining a connection between these two realms through participatory actions.
As previously discussed, while the composition of music-based communities was initially thought to be formed by a communal identity dependent on a shared visual style, collective knowledge of a particular genre or scene and meeting face-to-face in physical venues, the advent of the Internet has problematized these assumptions. As the potential outreach, speed and diversity of their communications is increased, scene participants are now able to interact in a multitude of virtual spaces that enable the same set of social interactions found in physical venues without the requirement of confirming membership through visual semiotic codes or regular interaction in physical locations. However, physical locations such as music venues and festivals have not disappeared in the wake of 162 online spaces. Rather, these physical locations and the cities that house them have become mediated spaces that are extended and enhanced by technology that attempts to overcome the limitations of human abilities and geographic restraints (Renò 2005: 182).
In the case of Pouzza Fest, it is a mediated space in the sense that its use of technology does not replace its physicality but enhances audience experience and attempts to recreate this experience online.
The physical organization of Pouzza works within the already-existing infrastructure of downtown Montreal (Figure 4.3).16 An all-ages outdoor area located at
Parterre du Quartier des spectacles acts as the centralizing hub of activity for the festival and is accessible without a wristband (Pouzza 2018b).17 The remainder of the schedule takes places within six smaller, independent, 18+ music venues located within a short walking distance to each other and reachable via Montreal’s transit system (Pouzza Fest
2018b). Yet it is not just the physical attributes of the city, but Montreal itself that stands as an emblem around which Pouzza organizes itself and from which it cannot be separated:
For the festival-goers, it is a space set apart to which they come seeking an extraordinary experience. This experience can have an emotional and symbolic significance, which they then come to associate with the place itself. (Morgan 2007: 1)
Pouzza is an elevated experience of Montreal that only exists during a specific period in time but remains in the memories of both attendees and organizers. When Pouzza attendees flood into the city for those three days in May, in-between sets they stroll the
16 As Geoff Stahl writes in his study on music-making practices in Montreal, ‘[…] the socio-musical experience of Montreal becomes intimately bound up with, and inextricable from, those institutions that support musical activity’ (2004: 57). 17 Within this area, attendees can find booths for event registration, merchandise, food trucks, a beer garden, and the main stage which hosts Pouzza’s headliner acts.
163
Map of Montreal Showing Pouzza Locations, (c) Google Maps Pouzza (c) Map2018. Showing Montreal of Locations,
-
4.3 Figure Figure
164
streets, dine at local eateries, check out nearby record stores and take in the sights of
Montreal all the while identifying fellow concert-goers by their brightly coloured wristbands. Throughout all of this, the city becomes an inextricable facet of their experience of the festival.
Pouzza also exists beyond physical boundaries by inviting attendees to engage with the festival via a virtual platform. In order to stay organized each day, smartphone- owning attendees can download the Pouzza Fest mobile app where they can customize a personal schedule, set notifications to alert them when their favourite bands are about to perform and access an area map with directions to the different venues (Figure 4.4). This
Figure 4.4 – Pouzza Fest iPhone App Interface, (c) Pouzza Fest 2018. 165 schedule can then be compared in-person with fellow concert-goers, enabling attendees to quickly coordinate with friends. According to media theorist Eric Kluitenberg, apps differ from the staunch practicality of ‘software’ (typically associated with work-related tasks) by transforming mobile phones into devices that contain an endless assortment of tools, games and programs that assist in the tasks of daily life (2014: 99). Beyond their practical functions, apps offer possibilities for users to overcome their physical or mental limitations, promising that through the use of such apps individuals will become more efficient, less wasteful and better connected (Kluitenberg 2014: 103). The Pouzza app offers all of this to its users by allowing them to construct the perfect festival schedule personalized to each individual, thereby eliminating wasted time and energy and promising the most optimal festival-going experience.
Pouzza, much like its counterpart The Fest, has become a rite of passage for those who can afford the high cost of admission18 along with any expenses related to travel
(e.g. gas, bus tickets, airfare, etc.) and accommodations. The reliance on smartphone technology reflects the current popularity of mobile technologies and its interconnectedness to the experience of everyday life, but coupled with the high expense associated with attending, it cannot be denied that Pouzza is a festival that caters to a primarily middle-class, adult audience. For those who cannot make the annual pilgrimage, whether due to economic restrictions, mobility issues or age restrictions, the
18 In 2018, a three-day pass to Pouzza cost $101.75 CAD (before taxes). Daily tickets could be purchased for $51.76 CAD (before taxes) each. Single tickets for individual shows could also be purchased depending on availability and ranged in price from $10 - $30 CAD (Pouzza Fest 2018a) In comparison, wristband for admission into both the 2017 Pre-Fest and Fest cost $190.00 USD, or $165.00 USD if purchased before July 1st. Passes could also be purchased for each individual event. Admission to Fest was $135.00 USD ($115.00 USD if purchased before July 1st), and admission to Pre-Fest was $70.00 USD ($60.00 USD if purchased before July 1st) (The Fest FL 2018). 166 experience of attending Pouzza can be partly lived out online. By following the event via its multiple social media accounts (e.g. Twitter, Facebook or Instagram), users can receive continuous updates throughout the year informing them of ticket sales, line-up additions and the location of last-minute secret shows, as well as gain access to a large collection of audience-generated media. This digital archive stiches together a variety of positions and perspectives in order for attendees to re-live their experiences online, but it also creates a virtual space for online users to attend the event without the necessity of being physically present.
When an audience member takes a photograph at Pouzza and uploads that file to the Internet, it coalesces with other media to form a cybernetic system of memory associated with the event in a particular moment in time. However, rather than a curated selection of media produced by professional photographers and videographers, this eclectic assortment of amateur first-person viewpoints at Pouzza includes not only photographic and video footage of live performances, but a seemingly endless and somewhat mundane collection of snapshots featuring (but not limited to) wristbands, tattoos, plates of food, selfies and group photos. In this way, Pouzza provides a creative space in which the audience members who upload these documents are participating in the co-creation of the festival experience (Morgan 2007: 3). Taken together, these snapshots act as pieces to a roughly-sewn quilt that emotes a rapid, hyperreal experience of the festival from the position of its attendees. This form of creative tourism prolongs the initial experience of the event and allows scene participants to cement these moments into their memories and impressions of a specific locality (Morgan 2007: 3). 167
In order to discover this cybernetic system of memory, users must search on SNSs using relevant keywords and hashtags which results in the retrieval of a large cache of digital information including videos and photographs. Hashtags are a form of ‘user- generated metadata’ that allows information to be searched and retrieved via multiple online platforms (Audette-Longo 2017: 67). According to Geoff Stahl in his work on the socio-cultural dynamics of the music scene in Montreal, where a band comes from or where their music is created is an inseparable part of their conceptualization in the minds of fans and other scene participants (2004: 55). Geographically-specific hashtags (e.g.
#montrealpunk, #pouzzamtl, etc.) help to ground these online interactions not only to the punk genre but to local identities, embedding physical places in online spaces (Audette-
Longo 2017: 67). In addition, location-based hashtags link local bands, musicians, and scene participants to a sense of locality and physical place. Hashtags that rely on locations or nationalities are digitalized examples of how music scenes become spatially- coded. For Stahl, ‘[…] city-as-sign and city-as-scene are often conflated in a manner that privileges an aesthetic experience of, and commitment to, the city’ (2004: 55). In other words, through marking online content with hashtags linked to specific places, scene participants recognize the important position place plays in the experience, history, understanding, and in the imagining of punk bands, events and scenes.
Topographic maps are objective representations of the physical layout of cities, however subjectivities emerge in digital representations (Bliss 2016). With the increased use of GPS (Global Positioning System) technology in cars and on smart phones, maps have become increasingly interactive as users can now find easy-to-follow directions for driving, walking, cycling and public transportation. Google Maps goes further by 168 collecting user-generated data (collected from popular web searches, online reviews, and hashtags) and layering this information over a city’s physical geography, providing users with a large breadth of information regarding local businesses and places of interest. The question of subjectivity lies in understanding exactly how Google Maps determines what results appear when users search for ‘punk’. For instance, typing ‘Montreal punk’ in the search bar of Google Maps garners seven results, including Pouzza Fest, two music venues/bars associated with the festival (i.e. Katacombes Coop and Foufounes
Électriques), two venues not associated with the festival (i.e. Piranha Bar and Rockette
Bar), and two retail stores selling apparel and CDs (Google 2018).19 The results shown by
Google Maps are socially-constructed, but the platform aims to render them as the natural outcome of a rational, unbiased process (Zook and Graham 2017: 1322). 20 These results merely scratch the surface of Montreal’s punk scene, as a corporate-sponsored event such as Pouzza, while drawing attention to music-making practices in Montreal and Canada’s punk scene in general, overshadows less visible, underground or DIY methods of cultural production. Google Maps therefore reduces a city’s culture to a few select businesses or locations, regardless of their actual contribution or link to a local scene and obscures the underground practices that provide the ‘white noise’ of an urban centre’s cultural backdrop (Stahl 2004: 53).
19 By moving the map around and re-searching, other bars and retail stores appear in the search results, yet the further one moves away from the centre of downtown Montreal, fewer results are received which suggests that Montreal’s subcultural practices are concentrated in the downtown area where the densest combination of people and places occurs. 20 Unless privileged with knowledge of the inner workings of Google’s data collecting algorithms, the platform’s process of retrieving and organizing information appears natural or even magical in nature, particularly in terms of the speed and ease at which such data can be obtained. 169
To experience a music festival such as Pouzza is to engage in a multi-tiered conception of place that blurs the boundaries between online and offline. On the one hand, Pouzza is a festival that is deeply embedded into physical spaces and localities. Its physical organization generates a network of support between the festival organizers, independent alternative music venues and the city of Montreal. As the festival grows in size and popularity, it becomes inseparable from Montreal so that the memory and experience of Pouzza for attendees becomes emblematic of the city and vice versa. On the other hand, this place-based experience has extended into the virtual realm, creating a heightened, amplified version of the event that relies on voluntary contributions and participation on the part of festival attendees. The constant influx of new additions to the collection of digital media distributed through multiple online channels and platforms renders Pouzza as an omnipresent force despite the event being situated in a specific physical place and time. The hyperreality of Pouzza images online does not distance users further away from the physical realm, but towards it, as such media triggers a feeling of FOMO (‘Fear Of Missing Out’) on the part of Internet users, ensuring continued attendance at Pouzza in the future. While Pouzza occupies a space between online and offline experiences, the vast collection of digital documents relating to Pouzza are ultimately a carefully-framed representation of the festival that privileges lived experience in physical spaces.
170
Online surveillance and DIY spaces: Exploring the aftermath of Oakland’s Ghost Ship fire
As has been previously discussed, the impact of mobile technologies on contemporary punk scenes is dependent on the presence and actions of physical bodies willing to record, document and share their experiences online. When a live music event is recorded and uploaded to the internet, there is an audience whose presence is always assumed if not directly observed. Thus, with mobile technologies, local music scenes
(and by extension, venues and the bodies that occupy them) are left open. For Michael
Warner, such spaces allow for a non-threatening presence of strangers (2005: 75) but in the case of illegal or underground DIY music venues, strangers still pose a threat. Behind the shield of anonymity, internet users have the potential to be anyone, including police or individuals who are only present in order to report activities or find ways of dismantling the scene at large. Therefore, the following case study looks at one instance of the negative repercussions stemming from the overlap of online and offline spaces, as well as the ways in which operators of independent or underground music venues must adapt their spaces to safely exist in both virtual and physical capacities.
On 2 December 2016, a fire broke out during an electronic music concert at The
Ghost Ship, a former warehouse that had been converted into an artist collective located in Oakland, California. Thirty-six people ranging in age from seventeen to sixty-one lost their lives, which at the time marked the fire as the deadliest U.S. building fire in over a decade (Associated Press 2017). The tragedy sparked conversations regarding the safety of DIY spaces, as the public debated how such an event could have been prevented and who should be held accountable. The city of Oakland received a large share of criticism 171 for failing to ensure that the warehouse abided by legal safety standards and bylaws, allowing the building to ‘function illegally as a cluttered living space for artists with no fire alarms or sprinklers’ (Associated Press 2017). Immediately following the fire, a public campaign raised $900,000 for the families of the victims and Oakland mayor,
Libby Schaaf, promised $1.7 million to help create sustainable DIY spaces, as well as issued ‘an executive order promoting cooperation with DIY spaces instead of shutting them down’ (Smith-Engelhardt 2017). However, her response was criticized by those in the arts communities affected by the fire for focusing too much on building codes and permits and not enough on the pre-existing housing crisis in Oakland preventing access to safer, legal spaces (Neutron 2016).
While on a governmental level, the city of Oakland’s response to the tragedy was largely directed towards productive strategies of building safer spaces for independent arts/music groups and other marginalized communities, a small group of 4chan users took the opposite approach (Smith-Engelhardt 2017). Launched in 2003, 4chan is an image- based online message board consisting of multiple forums in which anonymous users can post on a variety of interests and topics (Coleman 2014: 41). Characterised by an
‘extreme permissibility’, and cited as the source of some of the Internet’s most viral meme sensations, no topic is too taboo for 4chan’s userbase who are encouraged by the anonymity of the site and the impermanence of the posts which are not officially archived and disappear once their popularity dissipates (Coleman 2014: 42-43). There is a complex duality of 4chan that sees it as the birthplace of activist groups spanning the entire political spectrum, from the left-leaning Anonymous to members of the alt-right. It is from this environment that on 7 December 2016, only five days following the Ghost 172
Ship fire, an anonymous user took to 4chan’s ‘Politically Incorrect’ board and posted a capitalized call-to-arms. Entitled ‘REPORT ALL “ARTSPACES” AND ILLEGAL
VENUES TO CRUSH THE RADICAL LEFT’ (Anonymous ID: ggEJtPg8 2016), the user made use of deliberately provocative language (reminiscent of Donald Trump’s rhetoric leading up to and during his presidency) and encouraged their fellow users to collect information on underground DIY venues then report such spaces to police and fire marshals:
These places are open hotbeds of liberal radicalism and degeneracy and now YOU can stop them by reporting all such places you may be or may become aware of to the authorities, specifically the local fire marshel [sic]. Watch them and follow them to their hives. Infiltrate social circles, go to parties/events, record evidence, and report it. We’ve got them on the run but now we must crush their nests before they can regroup! MAGA my brothers and happy hunting! (Anonymous ID: ggEjtPg8 2016)
Referring to members of groups that utilize DIY spaces as living in ‘hives’ or ‘nests’ suggests that such individuals are an animalistic faction of society who swarm together and plague the streets with liberal sentiments. In a similar thread under the 4chan’s /diy/ board titled ‘Right Wing Safety Squads’, users repeat Trump’s campaign slogan,
‘MAGA’ or ‘Make America Great Again’, as well as ‘MASA’, a deliberate play on
Trump’s catchphrase meaning ‘Make American Safe Again’ (Anonymous ID: vGp8ESsv
2016). Such statements reflect larger arguments against open immigration policies, seeing minorities and other marginalized portions of the population as threats to a perceived normalcy of Western life and the larger population in general.
Kibby, in her analysis of an online chat page used by fans of musician John Prine, theorizes that online spaces are subject to the same social dynamics that exist in face-to- face situations but with increased potential to remain anonymous (2000: 91). The nature 173 of computer-mediated communications allows for increased frequency of abusive comments and behaviours online not only because anonymous profiles reduce social inhibitions, but because of the ease and speed of sending and receiving comments (Kibby
2000: 97-98). When users are able to engage in social interactions without revealing the indicators of their personal identity, social inhibitions decrease as individuals believe that there are little direct consequences for their behaviour. The extreme, dramatic tone of the
4chan posts could be seen as simply ‘trolling’, where individuals participate in such behaviour simply for the ‘lulz,’ meaning that the reward for their malicious actions are simply the laughs that ensue (Coleman 2014: 4). However, a small faction of 4chan users who took part in the exchange followed through with the initial plan to collect information on underground or DIY spaces and report them to the authorities and took credit for the closure of at least seven independent venues in the Oakland area (Doctorow
2017). The impact of the actions on 4chan extended beyond Oakland to affect venues in other parts of the United States and Canada.
One such incident occurred the January following the Ghost Ship fire, when a man named Jason Wydra received a visit from a fire inspector to his four-bedroom apartment in Toronto. The apartment was known amongst Toronto’s local underground music communities as ‘Soybomb HQ’ (or in some instances, simply as ‘Soybomb’).
What began as a complaint regarding minor infractions such as a blocked fire escape, grew into an investigation from senior fire officials who questioned both Wydra and his landlord about illegal night club operations (Smith-Engelhardt 2017). Searching for the cause of the sudden interest in Soybomb, Wydra and friends discovered posts under the
‘Right Wing Safety Squads’ 4chan thread that confirmed anonymous users had made the 174 initial report (Smith-Engelhardt 2017). Referring to Soybomb as a ‘den of degeneracy’
(Anonymous ID: gkWwOqRe 2016)21, the posts included a screenshot of an e-mail sent to Toronto’s Municipal Licensing and Standards and a link to a YouTube video featuring
Wydra being interviewed about the space. The user who posted the link highlights the concerning elements of the video, such as ‘no fire sprinklers, skateboard ramp doubles as dance floor, dark, lots of obstacles, poor wiring’ (Anonymous ID: gkWwOqRe 2016).
While the reporting of Soybomb provided initial justification for fire officials to conduct an investigation of the space, for Wydra the issue was bigger than 4chan, as he believed that the city and fire officials were not interested in making the performance space safer, but simply looking to shut Soybomb down as part of a larger project of gentrification intent on closing DIY and alternative cultural spaces in Toronto (Smith-Engelhardt
2017). Although Wydra tried to work with fire officials to keep the space open, neither side could come to an agreement on how to bring Soybomb up to code. After his landlord was asked to sign documents vowing that no more events would take place at Soybomb,
Wydra took the initiative to cancel all future events before the documents were delivered
(Smith-Engelhardt 2017).
For participants in illegal or underground DIY music venues and online communities such as 4chan, the attraction lies in how much independence each type of space offers to participants. This feeling can stem from the ability to freely create and
21 In addition, the 4chan posts identify Soybomb as ‘a (((DIY space)) and (((venue)))’ (Anonymous ID: gkWwOqRe 2016. The triple parentheses, also known as (((Echo))), is a form of Internet slang used by anti-Semitic, alt-right groups to identify Jewish communities or individuals (Schimkowitz 2018). When used around a word or phrase, the intent is to imply that the word ‘Jewish’ be added to the beginning, whereas when it is used around a user’s name, it indicates their non-Jewishness (Anti-Defamation League 2017). In reaction, online counter-groups and individuals have adopted the reverse triple parentheses (i.e. ))) (((( ) to indicate their role as anti-hate activists (Anti-Defamation League 2017). 175 perform alternative identities without repercussions, or from determining how and to what extent individuals are able to interact with each other (Markham 1998: 20). As discussed in the previous chapter, scene participants may opt for underground or illegal venues due to a sense that they are taking over control of their shared social spaces from the hands of government officials, using their knowledge of local bylaws to circumvent these same laws to avoid police intervention. For members of 4chan, the Internet itself a tool that is expertly wielded to determine the form, transfer and flow of information in an effort to effect changes beyond the limits of the site (Markham 1998: 137). Anonymity is another tool used by 4chan’s userbase that enables participation in potentially illicit activities without ‘the interference of reputation or social capital’ (Coleman 2014: 45-46).
The issue for contemporary punk scenes is finding ways to exert their independence and protect their social spaces while navigating outside forces of control and surveillance.
Spatial metaphors are often used to describe virtual or otherwise intangible spaces, such as ‘global village’ or ‘information highway’, as well as the items found within online operating systems, such as ‘windows’ or ‘desktop’ (Albrechtslund 2008).
The use of such discourse is an effort to categorize spaces that are otherwise not subject to the limits and boundaries of physical spaces (Albrechtslund 2008). As such, while public and private physical spaces are subject to both voluntary and covert methods of surveillance, similar attempts have been made to apply these methods to online spaces.
While a site such as Facebook offers the appearance of a private space of communication
(i.e. users can craft their own profile, have choice over who to add as friends, and set limits on which friends can access certain posts), it is ultimately a mediated public space
(Albrechtslund 2008), where the activities of users can be observed and recorded. 176
Traditional notions of surveillance characterise it as a ‘hierarchal system of power’ associated with metaphors such as Big Brother and Foucault’s Panopticon which places power in the eyes of the observer (Albrechtslund 2008). However, since they are not bound by the same limits as physical social spaces, the essential characteristic of virtual spaces results in a different form of surveillance known as ‘participatory surveillance’ (Albrechtslund 2008). Anders Albrechtslund, although cautious to ignore the real dangers associated with web-based surveillance, nonetheless argues for the empowering potential of the forms of participatory surveillance offered by SNSs:
The practice of online social networking can be seen as empowering, as it is a way to voluntarily engage with other people and construct identities, and it can thus be described as participatory. It is important to not automatically assume that the personal information and communication, which online social networking is based on, is only a commodity for trading. Implicit in this interpretation is that to be under surveillance is undesirable. However, to participate in online social networking is also about the act of sharing yourself – or your constructed identity – with others. (2008)
For Albrechtslund, participatory surveillance is empowering for users of SNSs because rather than a hierarchal relationship where the gaze of a single observer renders the observed as a passive, powerless object, this form of online surveillance involves a mutual process of creation and sharing where individuals know they are being watched and freely participate in the construction and sharing of their identity. However, the nature of the Internet means that it is a space not only for creativity and play, but for exploitation (Coleman 2014: 35). Processes of surveillance on SNSs are not always about the empowered sharing of identities and information. From individuals looking to snoop on the lives of their former high school classmates, to employers scoping out potential candidates, to police groups collecting information on the practices of local punk scenes 177
(such as in 2013 when officers with the Boston Police Department were accused of impersonating punks online in an effort to find out information regarding illegal venues
(Kerr 2013)),22 online forms of surveillance can range from the passive to the threatening.
As time passed, the panic regarding the actions of the ‘Right Wing Safety Squad’ began to fade as the Internet’s short-lived attention span moved onto its next target, yet the long-term effects of this virtual intervention on physical spaces continue. In the aftermath of the Ghost Ship fire, operators of DIY venues and other scene participants used the Internet a space to discuss methods of affordable harm reduction and as a tool to reach out to scenes around the world to offer information, support and advice. In
December 2016, a public Google document was published, entitled ‘Harm Reduction for
DIY Venues’ (Red Gate 2016). Targeted to venue owners, promoters, and scene participants in general, this document listed ideas for low cost/free building and safety modifications, high cost modifications, as well as supportive, proactive strategies for both venues and the public (Red Gate 2016). Links to other online resources were provided, such as DoDIY.com’s instructional PDF guide entitled ‘Building: A DIY Guide to
Creating Spaces, Hosting Events and Fostering Radical Communities’ (Campau 2012).
What the actions of 4chan ultimately created for punk scene participants was a heightened awareness of the overlap between virtual and physical spaces that reiterated the vulnerability of punk and other alternative cultural spaces. While operators of independent venues are often unable to compete with increasing rental prices and the cost
22 When a local Boston band received an email from a person using the pseudonym ‘Joe Sly’ and asking about DIY concerts, suspicions were aroused at the incorrect use of language (e.g. ‘concert’ instead of ‘show’) (Kerr 2013). In this instance, whether officially the work of the Boston PD or not, an attempt was made to use both the Internet and classic punk tropes as tools to construct an identity with the intent of infiltrating/controlling the spaces of a local, underground punk scene. 178 of licenses and building safety modifications, using the Internet as an accessible resource to educate, inform and coordinate participants across a vast network of scenes is an empowering, strategic method of navigating the contemporary mediated world of local punk scenes.
A (virtual) space for (physical) place
The advent of the Internet has forced a re-evaluation of theories regarding subcultural spaces. Online communities are established through a ‘ritual exchange of information’ (Kibby 2000: 95), so rather than a shared visual style, what unites participants now is a culture of shared ideas where social interactions are played out within virtual spaces (Bennett 2004: 163). Yet, referring to the Internet as ‘subcultural’ and online spaces as ‘virtual subcultures’, re-enacts the same issues with earlier theories on subcultures and assumes a rigid definition of community based on exceptional online visual displays and behaviours that are distinctly different from those played out in physical venues. In the wake of the increasing use of online interactions and virtual spaces in conjunction with those experienced offline, the term ‘scene’ gains further credence as a label for music-based communities as its inherent flexibility allows for a more nuanced analysis of the socio-spatial dynamics of music-based communities and sits comfortably in the junctures between different types of cultural spaces, both virtual and otherwise (Stahl 2004: 53).
As punk participants produce, copy, share and receive cultural objects and information, different nodes in a scene’s physical infrastructure are brought together, 179 which in turn perpetuates an on-going cycle of production and reception, support and collaboration. As music is shared, events are planned, flyers are distributed, and bands tour, the actions of scene participants create the need for the presence of physical venues that support them, including record stores, radio stations, jam spaces, recording studios, printing shops and of course, music venues. This cycle of production and reception has existed in punk scenes since the culture’s inception, therefore the use of mobile technologies and Internet platforms is simply the next step in punk’s (sub)cultural evolution. Analog technologies utilized by scene participants are themselves forms of social media, as the intent of all productive scene activities is to facilitate the interactions and relationships that help local scenes stay connected to the physical sites in which participants gather. Each example touched on through the course of this chapter – show flyers, fanzines, telephone hotlines, internet platforms and mobile technologies – are demonstrative of the social nature of punk productions that continues to prioritize concepts of local scenes and shared cultural practices linked to physical locales.
Punks have historically always made use of new media in order to help disseminate their cultural products, extend the boundaries of their spaces and bring awareness of local independent or underground music venues into the public sphere.
However, early punk scenes were restricted by a lack of access and ownership of production technologies, representing what Russ Bestley refers to as a ‘time-lag between the ambition of doing-it-yourself and the widespread availability of technologies that allow full artistic control’ (2018: 23). As the aura surrounding punk scene participants’ use of Internet media and technologies is removed, questions regarding the nature of DIY practices also arise. The establishment of DIY ideology in relation to punk culture helped 180 to inspire new generations of entrepreneurs by demystifying production processes and techniques, but often there was still reliance on paying for specialized services (Bestley
2018: 22). Viewing local punk scene networks as akin to Becker’s ‘artworlds’, the concept of ‘do-it-yourself’, as with the case of Vancouver’s illegal, underground venues, is more accurately described as ‘do-it-together’, as local punk scenes relied on a larger network of independent technicians, artists and workers. As digital technologies became more widespread, punk culture further embraced a DIY mentality that made use of low- cost or free programs and platforms, not only to record and sell music, but to design flyers, zine layouts, and design/advertise various forms of merchandise, from lapel pins to hand-embroidered patches to silk-screened tote bags. In the post-Internet era where sites such as Instragram and Facebook dominate the construction and presentation of everyday life, DIY has moved from an idealistic rallying call to a widespread, normative practice.
Mobile platforms and SNSs are the products of large-scale businesses that often advertise community-based support while camouflaging commercial interests. The discourse surrounding ‘community’ on these sites is represented through the continued use of place-specific hashtags, mapping programs, and location services such as geo- tagging, demonstrating the continued overlap of virtual and physical spaces. In the case of Bandcamp, hashtags related to musical genre and location were introduced in an effort to build community via a ‘collective intelligence’ consisting of contributions by users of the site (Audette-Longo 2017: 68). For Pouzza, its reputation rests on a direct link to physical music venues and the city of Montreal itself. This reputation is further propagated by attendees who continually upload, share, and tag photographs and videos 181 perpetuating this relationship and generating the sense of an online community of participants, despite the fact that many photos are tagged simply to increase a photo’s searchability as opposed to purposely contributing to a distinct community of like- minded individuals with shared goals and interests. Regardless, as hashtags are generated and spread across multiple SNSs, the repetition of references to specific localities, genres and local identities reiterates the of ‘historical and contemporary value of local music scenes’ in the creation and circulation of punk productions (Audette-Longo 2017: 68).
Traditional theories of youth culture define music scenes as communities bounded by geographical proximity which are demonstrated in physical locations (Bennett and
Robards 2014: 2). Contemporary punk scenes have extended the boundaries of their communities into the virtual realm, using the Internet as both a tool to facilitate social relationships and a space in which participants can interact without the necessity of semiotic codes to indicate their membership to a particular scene. In some cases, the performance of identities and the social relationships formed through engagement in virtual communities are as real and meaningful to scene participants as their experiences in offline environments. However, despite the ability of mobile technologies and virtual platforms to overcome human limitations and spatial/temporal barriers, physical independent music venues continue to be important sites of socialization and hubs of activity for local scenes. As with the case of the Safe Amplification Site Society in
Vancouver discussed in Chapter Two, the need for accessible, all-ages music venues is a pressing priority for local scenes. With the ability of mobile technologies to live stream punk shows for a global, Internet-based audience, the spaces in which punks gather are becoming increasingly open to a wider, more diverse population of people. However, this 182 ease of access results in a loss of autonomy these independently-operated spaces, whose inherent fragility is left exposed to potential exploitation.
In the face of the increased use of SNSs and Internet platforms in everyday life, are punks resisting the mediation of their shared social spaces or acquiescing? The case studies of Pouzza Fest and the aftermath of the Ghost Ship tragedy both help to underline three realities of contemporary punk scenes: (1) the overlap between online and offline spaces, (2) the empowering and disempowering influence of Internet technologies and new media on physical spaces and (3) the continued interest and need for physical music venues as sites of socialization for local punk scenes. Contemporary punk scenes are situated within a highly mediated world overrun with competing images and information.
As such, independent or underground punk music venues must work harder to either maintain visibility amongst the networked mapping of cities, or to stay invisible and avoid both online and offline forms of surveillance and interference. Punk scene participants are finding ways to navigate the complex duality of Internet platforms that offer opportunities for new forms of creative freedom within particular constraints.
While the various technologies discussed throughout this chapter are not inherently ‘punk’ in nature, they have been adapted by punks to produce and disseminate their culture and spread information regarding the safekeeping of DIY venues across the globe. What this demonstrates is a continued focus on the part of punk scene participants to maintain social relationships and gathering spaces located in the physical realm. As contemporary punk scenes experience a renewed interest in physical media formats such as fanzines, LPs and cassette tapes, the continued use of analog forms of communication is emblematic of a desire for the tangible elements of punk culture, including physical 183 music venues. Therefore, the answer to the question of resistance or acquiescence lies somewhere in between, as punk scene participants continue to act as they always have; that is, to find space for themselves by working within and around the larger power structures that shape their world.
184
Conclusion: Reflections and Next Steps
If the roots of this project were to be traced to a starting point, it would begin with the words: ‘Whatever you do, go through the side door, not the front. Go through the front and you'll get stabbed’. This was the first piece of advice I received when I moved away from home for the first time at eighteen years old. It was given to me upon asking where a good place to see a band might be and I was pointed in the direction of The
Shadow; a punk club located in the basement of a low-rent housing site that has since been renovated into a twenty-room boutique hotel. There were holes in the ceiling, a dilapidated couch in the back with its stuffing pouring out, and a bathroom only the brave or exceptionally drunk would enter. I spent years in that smelly, decrepit basement.
Music brought the scene together, but often that was not the only attraction for gathering as a group. It was a place to be seen, to be part of something and to actively participate in the spatial practices of sustaining a local punk scene. It has been several years since The
Shadow shut its doors, but its absence is still felt when I return to Guelph, and echoes of it reverberated through the similar experience of the closure of The Spill.
What these experiences highlight is the inherent fragility of independent music venues and the relationship that can develop between individuals and their shared social spaces. A venue may run for a finite period of time and then shut down, leaving only traces in the form of old show flyers, oral histories and in some cases, photographic or video documentation. The loss of shared, meaningful space has direct effects on the function and organization of local scenes, which hinders participants’ ability to form social relationships and take part in alternative forms of cultural and artistic expressions.
However, as Debies-Carl writes, ‘just as the death of a space can fragment the subculture 185 in a given area, so too can the creation of a new space unite a fragmented scene’ (2014:
132). What this project demonstrates is not only the effects of the loss of space on punk scene participants, but the active strategies participants utilize to maintain their social and cultural networks.
Through the use of participant observation, photographic documentation, surveys and semi-structured interviews, this project strives to illustrate the actual lived experience of punk scene participants in order to demonstrate that local punk scenes are the result not only of the combination of bodies and physical spaces, but of the active processes of work employed by participants who experience equal moments of cooperation, competition, tension and struggle. For instance, moments of cooperation can be found in the examples of Toronto’s Hardcore Hotline, the Safe Amplification Site Society and relationships between promoters, venue operators and other levels of a local scene as demonstrated by the activities of Peterborough’s local punk scene operating out of The
Spill. Competition can emerge as a tension between neighbouring venues, between promoters working in the same vicinity or, as was more clearly experienced through the case studies of The Cobalt Hotel and Oakland’s Ghost Ship fire, as the competition between punk scenes and outside groups to maintain autonomy over available urban spaces. Finally, a sense of both tension and struggle emerged through conversations with participants who discussed the disagreements that arose over defining ‘punk’, while the case of the $2 Punk Shows illustrated the amount of work that it takes to organize events while navigating the rocky terrain of scene politics.
This research is important because it addresses a need within subcultural studies to move beyond static frameworks that define punk on what it was rather than what it 186 continues to be. The first generation of punk rockers could hardly anticipate that the culture they participated in, built on excess, shock, self-destruction and nihilism, would gain such momentum. Future generations on an international scale established local punk scenes in meaningful spaces, and as the needs of these audiences changed, so did punk and so should scholars. By choosing to engage with contemporary experiences and interpretations of punk culture, this project addresses the changing landscape of local scenes, as punk participants attempt to carve out spaces of representation for themselves in an exceedingly mediated world where competition over ownership of physical spaces is increasing. Through this investigation, arguments emerge that encourage a reconsideration of how social space is defined as well as the reciprocal relationship between bodies and space (rendering music venues as more than just neutral containers of cultural activity).
Challenges and limitations
While attempts were made to survey a diverse population of scene participants, including band members, venue operators, promoters and audience members, results were limited due to the small-scale of the sample collected. A larger sample could have collected further demographic information (i.e. gender, race, age, class background etc.) to help realistically illustrate the diversity within local scenes, as well as provided more insight into the opinions and attitudes of participants. With a larger sample size, relationships between different sets of data could also have been illustrated via statistical analyses, such as correspondence analysis. 187
The majority of interview participants were previously known to the investigator due to long-term involvement with punk culture in both professional and personal capacities. Researchers who conduct investigations of the cultures they participate in must do so with the full awareness of their own potential biases. To counter any potential researcher bias, participants were given the opportunity to review transcriptions of their interviews and, when requested, provided with draft copies of chapters specific to their input. By doing so, participants were allowed to review the analysis and make any amendments that they deemed necessary. If this project were to be repeated, bias could be further avoided through organizing interview panels, where multiple participants could be invited to collectively review and comment on the findings of the study. Due to financial and geographic restraints, this was unfortunately not possible with this particular sample of participants.
The remainder of interview participants were either referred by other participants or contacted via Facebook. In some cases, particularly when conducting researching on
Safe Amp and Toronto’s Hardcore Hotline, Facebook proved to be an effective tool for locating individuals whose names were only briefly mentioned in news articles found online and no other contact information was available. In these instances, aware that some individuals might not respond kindly to being located in such a manner, a private message was sent to the individual that explained my identity, outlined the nature of my research, provided links to sites where their name was mentioned, and attached copies of the participant consent package. These individuals were then invited to contact me via my personal email address, but there was no obligation to participate. 188
Conducting the audience survey at the last $2 Punk show provided its own challenges. While interviews mainly were sourced from venue operators, musicians and promoters, it was deemed necessary to collect a larger sample of anonymous audience responses, as those are the experiences that are often overlooked in texts on punk culture.
Surveys were distributed and collected in-person at the event without extra assistance.
While this began as an easy task, as the night progressed and the crowd grew in size and energy, it became too overwhelming for one person. Towards the end of the night, one individual questioned my research methods, and since I was open to the criticism, I offered to sit down with them at a later date to conduct an interview where they could fully express their opinions regarding their experience of punk. When this was refused, I offered to discard their survey, as they were not required to participate. When this was also refused, the individual began to question my knowledge of punk music and openly mocked me. It was clear that as the hours passed into the night, the effects of alcohol on the crowd were impeding my ability to responsibly collect data, so the survey was called to a close. Future researchers should take this as a cautionary tale that recommends if research is to be conducted during a live event, steps must be taken to ensure that the main investigator is not working alone, and a more organized method of collecting data is implemented.
Areas for future research
While this project maintains focus on only a select number of examples and case studies of local punk scenes, the long-term implications of this research holds significant 189 value for a number of disciplines beyond cultural studies. The following section puts forward suggestions for future research with the acknowledgment that the potential applications for this project are not limited to what is outlined here. The interdisciplinary nature of cultural studies invites multiple interpretations, approaches and inquiries, which helps to move the findings of this project beyond its existing boundaries and frame it within new contexts that may shed further insight into the activities and practices of local music scenes (Crane 2000: 4-5). While punk culture is the object of study in this instance, it should be seen as the impetus for beginning to speak about a variety of cultural groups that define themselves in relation to a perceived ‘mainstream’ or ‘normative’ culture and give voice to those who are often overlooked in larger cultural narratives. Therefore, future scholars from any discipline would do well to conduct a comparative analysis of different cultural scenes, whether music-based or otherwise, in order to defamiliarize the subjects and reinvigorate the field of scene analysis (Straw, cited in Janotti Júnior 2012:
5).
The physical and material analysis of The Spill is rooted within disciplines of art and visual culture. Future research could further consider how physical objects and spaces become imbued with the history and memories of a culture within a particular locale in a given period of time. Such an approach would occupy the space between the study of subcultural fashion and subcultural spaces. Through the use of a similar methodological approach as applied in this project, researchers could collect information on the actual significance scene participants place on objects found within music venues, which may result in greater insight into how individual participants perceive, interpret and experience their scene. A study focused on the multiple meanings and memories 190 attached to objects found within music venues would have significant ramifications for the question of how particular items, artwork and spaces are determined to be important signifiers for the history and culture of a society and worthy of preservation.
Such an investigation could include research into the actual cultural policies and legislation put in place for the support and protection of certain cultures over others.
In Canada, the establishment of a federal cultural policy is largely connected to an on- going project of establishing and preserving national identity (Campbell 2013: 74).
National museums and galleries reinforce a sense of national identity while uniting a population that is spread out across a large geographical range (Campbell 2013: 75). The practices of local scene participants are attempting a similar project through the establishment of permanent, alternative music venues which creates a cross-country network that unites a vastly distributed collection of individual scenes. Opportunities are available for cultural funding, but many of these programs are structured so that they are unable to accommodate ‘the hybrid and intentionally small-scaled nature of some contemporary youth cultural production’ (Campbell 2013: 181), which independent venues are often the site of.
As the third chapter illustrates, punk scenes have a long history with technology and new media, with contemporary punk scenes existing in both virtual and physical capacities. Scholars working within the realm of media studies could expand upon this section in a number of ways, including a look at how popular media (e.g. television, film or literature) help to shape public conceptions of punk culture. In addition, investigations on punk’s relationship with technology could include a reconsideration of subcultural spaces and further investigate the influence of online activities on spaces located in the 191 physical world. Future studies on the nexus of punk and technology would do well to contemplate the long-term impact of the use of corporately-owned websites and SNSs on anti-capitalist punk ideals of autonomy and DIY independence.
Future scholars could also interpret the actions of scene participants discussed throughout this project through the lens of resistance. The choice to operate an illegal or underground venue, or even to build a legal space that caters specifically to alternative forms of expression or marginalized communities, is a micro-act of resistance as the actions of participants bring into question larger power relations that structure the organization of a city and problematize the inequalities that result. If ‘resistance’ is solely defined as large-scale movements designed to effect change on a worldwide scale, then these smaller, individual acts of resistance would be rendered invisible. A project that frames strategies of building alternative social spaces as micro-acts of resistance could potentially conduct a cross-cultural analysis that draws lines of connection and comparison between punk and other alternative music scenes on a global level and illustrate the full collective weight of these small-scale revolutions.
Practical applications for this research could also be found outside of academia, in fields of social work, community planning and groups that advocate for youth or marginalized communities. In all of these areas, there is a need to address the power imbalances that exist within urban locales, as well as to find strategies of building productive relationships between alternative cultural groups and members of authoritative institutions and organizations. Accessible resources on harm reduction in DIY venues, such as those discussed in Chapter Three, could be used as tools for empowering members of the public to create safe, permanent spaces for their community groups, as 192 well as educate government officials on the importance of such spaces to local scenes, as well as the real issues and challenges facing operators of independent venues. Through public consultation, community planners and advocates could potentially act as mediators between local government and alternative cultural groups in order to enact changes to legislation regarding building and safety codes and bylaws. However, in terms of local punk scenes the challenges to such a strategy would be finding a way to work with government officials, police and fire organizations in such a manner that respects the autonomy and ethics of punk participants.
One issue that must be addressed by those involved in city planning is understanding not only how music venues are used, but how they are defined by participants. An individual’s understanding of a particular space may come into conflict with city officials who create zoning bylaws that determine where music venues and other independent businesses are allowed to operate, and what activities are allowed to take place within them. In the case of Soybomb discussed in Chapter Three, for Wydra the space was not a music venue or a business, but his home where he and his friends threw parties (Smith-Engelhardt 2017), whereas elsewhere Soybomb is referred to as a live music venue (Slingerland 2017) or a ‘DIY space’ (Rancic 2017). These differing interpretations are the source of some misunderstandings between officials and scene participants that result in the closure of independent venues.
To navigate this terrain, one could look to the example of the work of the Music
Venue Trust, a UK-based registered non-profit organization established in January 2014, or its American counterpart, the Music Venue Alliance Austin, established in 2016. In an effort to prevent the closure of spaces within the UK’s small venue circuit, the primary 193 focus of the Music Venue Trust is to secure the long-term future of historically important venues in the UK. Their argument is that these venues have played a key role in the establishment and development of the British music scene, ‘nurturing local talent, providing a platform for artists to build their careers and develop their music and their performance skills’ (Music Venue Trust 2018b). In order to save these sites, the MVT hopes to attract individuals to act as ‘champions’ for their local music venue and work within government legislation to have such sites deemed as Assets of Community Value
(ACV) (Music Venue Trust 2015). Their report, entitled ‘Understanding Small Music
Venues’, is available via their website and presents empirical research data collected via social media that attempts to illustrate the role and cultural significance of grassroots music venues. In addition, they supply resources on defining the social and cultural role of grassroots music venues (GMVs) which could be beneficial for Canadian cities struggling with these same issues (Music Venue Trust 2018).
Final Thoughts
During interviews, participants were asked to describe their ideal venue.
Throughout each of these accounts, the personalities of scene participants emerge.
Commonalities in responses include an emphasis on intimacy, the importance of history and culture and a preference for venues that are open to a wide variety of artistic expressions. However, to actually build a venue that suits the needs and desires of all punk participants would be an impossible, albeit interesting, task. 194
Some participants focused on the physical attributes of the space, such as the members of Peterborough’s Cross Dog, who laughed and joked while considering their preferences, determined after years of performing in various locations:
I like smaller venues where it’s a little more intimate. […] If there’s a stage, I like [it to be] ground level. Décor-wise I would say like a vampire lair […]. I just like the mood and vibe of that. […] And just the right type of music being played, if it’s not live music all the time […]
I would like a venue that is just a medium-sized room painted white with one comfortable chair across from a window […] and there’s a beer fridge that is stocked and it’s very quiet and no one is allowed there but me [laughs]
I’m partial to grimy, dirty basement bars. I love shitty. Anything goes, stickered- up shitty. Postered. The history’s on the walls, I love venues like that. […] I love those kind of places where you don’t see outside. It could be any time of day, you know? […] That’s what I would have and […] all I would care about is the music that’s being played in it when bands aren’t playing, and I would just want it to be a place where people could feel like they could do whatever the fuck they want. Just party. […] With working heat. (Cross Dog, 2 February 2015 interview).
In the case of The Rebel Spell’s Todd Serious, he talked about his least favourite type of venue while emphasizing the intricate relationship that exists between a venue, performers, and an audience:
Giant empty [music venues], they’re the worst. […] Your job [as a musician] is to try and bring whatever energy together in the room you can so everybody can be pressure cooked in it. When you have a vast space, that’s harder to do. […] The audience doesn’t get enough credit in music. An audience is so much a part of the show and whether it’s good or not, it’s so affected by the number of people and they way they’re feeling, how comfortable they are in the space. (Serious, 5 November 2014 interview) Some participants only had a vague idea of what their ideal music venue might consist of.
In conversation with Peterborough’s Piss Locusts, a venue’s physical attributes were secondary to the symbolic openness of the space. In this account, the ideal venue becomes personified through one band member’s preferred type of person to socialize with: 195
I have no idea what it would look like. I have no idea. […] It would be something that’s open to a lot of different kinds of music. I would never want to own a bar that played one kind of music, no matter what kind of music it was. [T]hat’s what I like in a bar, that’s what I like in a person. It’s just this individual who is tolerant of others and open to things and all that crap.
Finally, in conversation with Wayne Kennedy, his idea of the perfect venue was shaped by one that had already played a significant role in his life and the experience of his local punk scene:
I've played a good handful of good places but I think my favourite place to play is The Spill. Because, the thing I like about The Spill specifically more so than anywhere else is it's kind of like a neutral art zone. [I]t's welcoming to everybody […]. I’ve always dreamed of wanting to open my own venue specifically for all- ages shows. I would literally do it exactly like The Spill, except there wouldn’t be a bar […]. The reason for concluding with this small sample of interactions is to emphasize why qualitative analysis of punk scenes is a fruitful and intriguing endeavour, and the large majority of interview participants were eager to contribute and have their experiences documented. To engage with participants on a more personal level helps to break down the barriers between researcher and subject, and I could not help but reflect upon their words in relation to my own introduction to and experiences with punk. Whether organizing events at The Spill, strolling through the streets of Vancouver’s Downtown
Eastside while being given a tour of former venue locations, or simply sitting with participants in their venues, jam spaces or homes, it was a privilege to be invited into their lives and their spaces.
196
References
Albrechtslund, Anders (2008), ‘Online social networking and participatory surveillance’ First Monday, 13:3, http://journals.uic.edu/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/2142/1949. Accessed 4 July 2018.
Ale, Gates of (2009), ‘The infamous Cobalt Motor Hotel in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. Located at 917 Main St.’, digital image, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cobalt-Motor-Hotel-Vancouver- BC.jpg. Accessed 29 June 2018.
Anonymous (2015), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough, ON, 7 July.
Anonymous (2016), interviewed by Katie Green, Vancouver BC, 18 May. Anonymous ID: ggEJtPg8 (2016), ‘Report all "artspaces" and illegal venues to crush the radical left’, 4chan, 7 December. https://archive.4plebs.org/pol/thread/101951584/. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Anonymous ID: gkWwOqRe (2016), ‘Comment: Anon reporting from Toronto…’, 4chan, 13 December, https://archive.4plebs.org/pol/thread/102706147/. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Anonymous ID: vGp8EWsv (2016) ‘The Oakland warehouse fire…’, 4chan, 13 December, https://archive.4plebs.org/pol/thread/102706147/. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Anti-Defamation League (2017), ‘Echo: General hate symbols’, https://www.adl.org/education/references/hate-symbols/echo. Accessed 2 July 2018.
Armstrong, John (2001), Guilty of Everything, Vancouver: New Star Books Ltd. Associated Press (2017), ‘Anniversary of deadly Oakland Ghost Ship fire brings heartache, reckoning’, https://www.billboard.com/articles/news/8054903/ghost- ship-oakland-fire-anniversary-heartache-reckoning. Accessed 9 April 2017.
Audette-Longo, Michael (2017), ‘Hear the world’s sounds: Locality as metadata in two musical platforms’, Imaginations, 8:2, pp. 64-73.
August, Martine (2014), ‘Challenging the rhetoric of stigmatization: the benefits of concentrated poverty in Toronto’s Regent Park’, Environment and Planning A, 46, pp. 1317-1333.
Bandcamp (2018), ‘About us’, https://bandcamp.com/about. Accessed 21 June 2018.
197
Baron, S.W. (1989), ‘Resistance and its consequences: The street culture of punks’, Youth and Society, 22, pp. 207-37. Becker, Howard S. (1974), ‘Art as collective action’, American Sociological Review, 39:6, pp. 767-776. Benjamin, Walter (2006), The Writer of Modern Life: Essays on Charles Baudelaire. Michael W. Jennings (ed), Cambridge; London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. ---- (2004), ‘Virtual subculture? Youth, identity and the internet’, in Andy Bennett and Keith Kahn-Harris (eds), After Subculture: Critical Studies in Contemporary Youth Culture, Houndsmill, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 162-172.
Bennet, Andy and Robards, Brady (2011), ‘MyTribe: Post-subcultural manifestations of belonging on social network sites’, Sociology, 45:2, pp. 303-317.
---- (2014), ‘Introduction: Youth, culture practice and media technologies’, in Andy Bennett and Brady Robards (eds), Mediated Youth Cultures: The Internet, Belonging and New Cultural Configurations, Houndsmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 11-25.
Bennett, Andy and Taylor, Jodie (2012), ‘Popular music and the aesthetics of ageing’, Popular Music, 31:2, pp. 231-243. Bestley, Russ (2018), ‘Design it yourself? Punk’s division of labour’, Punk & Post-Punk, 7:1, pp. 7-24.
Bey, Hakim (2003), T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism, 2nd ed. Brooklyn: Autonomedia. Bliss, Laura (2016), ‘The problem with ‘areas of interest’ on Google Maps’, https://www.citylab.com/design/2016/08/google-maps-areas-of-interest/493670/. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Bourdieu, Pierre (1979), Algeria 1960: The Disenchantment of the World, The Sense of Honour, The Kabyle House or the World Reversed, Richard Nice (trans.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ---- (1991), Language and Symbolic Power, Cambridge: Polity Press. boyd, danah (2014), It’s Complicated: The Social Lives of Networked Teens. New Haven, London: Yale University Press. boyd, danah m. and Ellison, Nicole B. (2008), ‘Social network sites: Definition, history, and scholarship’, Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 13:1, pp. 210- 230. 198
Boyd, Jade L. (2008), ‘Gentrification and playful disregard,’ Resources for Feminist Research, 33, pp. 103-124. Brake, Michael (1985), Comparative Youth Culture: The Sociology of Youth Cultures and Youth Subcultures in America, Britain, and Canada. New York: Routledge. Byrne, David (2012), How Music Works, San Francisco: Todo Mundo Third Printing.
Campau, Neil (2012), Building: A DIY Guide to Creating Spaces, Hosting Events and Fostering Radical Communities, 1st edition, July, http://www.dodiy.org/building_web.pdf. Accessed 5 July 2018.
Campbell, Miranda (2013), Out of the Basement: Youth Cultural Production in Practice and in Policy, Montreal, QC: McGill-Queen's University Press. Canadian2006 (2012), ‘East Hastings Street, Vancouver BC’, digital image, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:East_Hastings_Street_Vancouver.JPG. Accessed 1 August 2018.
CDP, Noelle (2016). Interviewed by Katie Green, Vancouver BC, 19 May.
Cisar, Ondrej and Martin Koubek (2012), ‘Include 'em all?: Culture, politics and a local hardcore/punk scene in the Czech Republic’, Poetics, 40, pp. 1-21.
City of Vancouver (2017), ‘Geography’, http://vancouver.ca/news-calendar/geo.aspx. Accessed 18 April 2016. Coleman, Gabriella (2014), Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy: The Many Faces of Anonymous, London and New York: Verso.
Collins, Alexandra B., Parashar, Surita, Closson, Kalysha, Baltzar Turje, Rosalind, Strike, Carol, and McNeil, Ryan (2016), ‘Navigating identity, territorial stigma, and HIV care services in Vancouver, Canada: A qualitative study’, Health & Place, 40, pp. 169-177.
Corman, Roger (2016), ‘Thoughts on Wayne Kennedy’s punk shows’, http://trentarthur.ca/thoughts-on-wayne-kennedys-punk-shows/. Accessed 23 August 2016 Crane, Susan A. (2000), Museums and Memory, Stanford CA: Stanford University Press. Cross Dog (2015), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough, ON, 2 February. Culton, Kenneth R., & Holtzman, Ben (2010), ‘The growth and disruption of a “free space”: examining a suburban do it yourself (DIY) punk scene,’ Space and Culture, 13:3, pp 270-284. 199
Debies-Carl, Jeffrey (2014), Punk Rock and the Politics of Place: Building a Better Tomorrow,New York: Routledge. Dobinson, John (2014), interviewed by Katie Green, email correspondence, 17 November. Doctorow, Cory (2017), ‘4chan's trumpist trolls are exploiting the Ghost Ship fire to narc out other DIY venues’, https://boingboing.net/2017/01/05/4chans-trumpist-trolls- are-e.html. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Driver, Christopher and Bennett, Andy (2015), ‘Music scenes, space and the body’, Cultural Sociology, 9:1, pp. 99-115. Dunn, Kevin C. (2008), ‘Never mind the bollocks: the punk rock politics of global communication,’ Review of International Studies, 34, pp 193-210. Durose-Moya, Calla (2016), ‘A safe scene: Can a community make harassment and oppression unwelcome?’, Electric City Magazine, pp. 10-11. Edge, Brian (2004), 924 Gilman: The Story So Far, San Francisco: Maximum Rocknroll. Eichhorn, Kate (2015), ‘Copy machines and downtown scenes: Deterritorializing urban culture in a pre-digital era’, Cultural Studies, 29:3, pp. 363-378. Ensminger, David A. (2011), Visual Vitriol: The Street Art and Subcultures of the Punk and Hardcore Generation, Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.
Equalizing-X-Distort (2010), ‘Toronto scene report in MRR – 2000’, https://archive.org/details/TorontoSceneReportInMrr-2000. Accessed 15 June 2018.
Evers, Clifton (2009), ‘‘The Point’: surfing, geography and a sensual life of men and masculinity on the Gold Coast, Australia’, Social and Cultural Geography, 10:8, pp. 893-908. Ferguson, Kathy E. (2010), ‘Anarchist counterpublics’, New Political Science, 32:2, pp. 193-214.
Fine, G.A. & Holyfield, L. (1996), ‘Secrecy, trust and dangerous leisure: Generating group cohesion in voluntary organizations,’ Social Psychology Quarterly, 59:1, pp 22-38. Fischer, Claude S. (1992), America Calling: A Social History of the Telephone to 1940, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press.
Foucault, Michel (1984), ‘Of other spaces: utopias and heterotopias’, Architectur/Mouvement/Continuité, Jay Miskowiec (trans.), pp. 1-9. 200
Glass, Pepper G. (2012), ‘Doing scene: identity, space, and the interactional accomplishment of youth culture,’ Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 41:6, pp 695-716. Global News (2017), ‘‘Flashback’ to the laws around placing posters on city lamp posts’, https://globalnews.ca/video/3648527/flashback-to-the-laws-around- placing-posters-on-lamp-posts. Accessed 15 March 2018.
Goffman, Erving (1963), Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity, New York: Simon and Schuster.
Google (2018), ‘Montreal punk’, https://www.google.ca/maps/search/montreal+punk/@45.5107354,- 73.5803919,14z. Accessed 23 June 2018.
Green, Nicola (2002), ‘On the move: Technology, mobility, and the mediation of social time and space’, The Information Society, 18:28, pp. 1-292.
Greene, Shane (2016), Punk and Revolution: 7 More Interpretations of Peruvian Reality, United States of America: Duke University Press. Haenfler, Ross (2014), Subcultures: The Basics. Routledge: New York. Haimson, Oliver L. and Hoffman, Anna Lauren (2016), ‘Constructing and enforcing “authentic” identity online: Facebook, real names, and non-normative identities’, First Monday, http://www.firstmonday.dk/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/6791/5521. Accessed 3 July 2018. Haley, H. (2014), The Town Slut’s Daughter. Vancouver: Howe Sound Publishing. Hannerz, Erik (2003), ‘The positioning of the mainstream in punk,’ in S. Baker, A. Bennett, and J. Taylor (eds.), Redefining Mainstream Popular Music, New York: Routledge, pp 50-60. Harasim, Linda M. (1993), ‘Networlds: Networks as social space’ in Linda Marie Harasim (ed.), Global Networks: Computers and International Communication, Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England: MIT Press, pp. 15-34. Harding, Tanya (2009), ‘The Cobalt has 60 days to eviction’, https://livevictoria.com/article/385/view. Accessed 11 July 2017. Hayes, Daragh (n.d.), The Toronto Hardcore Hotline Tapes, unpublished YouTube draft. ---- (2018), interviewed by Katie Green, email correspondence, 9 July. Hebdige, Dick (1979), Subculture: The Meaning of Style. Oxon; New York: Routledge. 201
Hesmondhalgh, David (2005), ‘Subcultures, scenes or tribes? None of the above’, Journal of Youth Studies, 8:1, pp. 21-40. Hoffman, Anna Lauren, Proferes, Nicholas, and Zimmer, Michael (2018), ‘“Making the world more open and connected”: Mark Zuckerberg and the discursive construction of Facebook and its users’, New Media & Society, 20:1, pp. 199-218.
House, Laura (2016), interviewed by Katie Green, Vancouver BC, 16 May. Hracs, Brian J. (2012), ‘A creative industry in transition: The rise of digitally driven independent music production’, Grown and Change, 43:3, pp. 442-461.
Huber, Alison (2003), ‘Mainstream as metaphor: imagining dominant culture,’ in S. Baker, A. Bennett, and J. Taylor (eds.), Redefining Mainstream Popular Music, New York: Routledge, pp 3-13. International Telecommunication Union (2000), ‘Historical Timeline of Canadian Telecommunications Achievements’, https://www.itu.int/newsarchive/wtsa2000/english/media/timeline.pdf. Accessed 8 June 2018.
James, Melissa & Kroll, Kate (2010), No Fun City, Vancouver: Make Believe Films. Janotti Júnior, Jeder (2012), ‘Interview – Will Straw and the importance of music scenes in music and communication studies’, E-compós, 15:2, pp. 1-9. Kallin, Hamish and Slater, Tom (2014), ‘Activating territorial stigma: gentrifying marginality on Edinburgh’s periphery’, Environment and Planning A, 46, pp. 1351-1368.
Keithley, J. (2004), I, Shithead: A Life in Punk. 2nd ed. Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press. Kennedy, Wayne (2014), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough, ON, 13 November.
---- (2015), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough, ON, 22 September.
Kennelly, Jacqueline & Watt, Paul (2011), ‘Sanitizing public space in Olympic host cities: the spatial experience of marginalized youth in 2010 Vancouver and 2012 London,’ Sociology, 45:5, pp 765-781. Kerr, Dara (2013). ‘Police said to use Facebook to stop punk rock house parties’, https://www.cnet.com/news/police-said-to-use-facebook-to-stop-punk-rock- house- parties/. Accessed 3 July 2018. Kibby, Marjorie D. (2000), ‘Home on the page: a virtual place of music community’, Popular Music, 19:1, pp. 91-100.
202
Kluitenberg, Eric (2014), ‘The app as an extension of man’s desires’, in Paul D. Miller and Svitlana Matviyenko (eds), The Imaginary App, Cambridge; Massachusetts Institute of Technology, pp. 99-110.
Kribs, Kait (2017), ‘The artist-as-intermediary: musician labour in the digitally networked era’, eTOPIA: Canadian Journal of Cultural Studies. https://etopia.journals.yorku.ca/index.php/etopia/article/view/36768. Accessed 21 June 2018.
Kruse, Holly (2010), ‘Local identity and independent music scenes, online and off’, Popular Music and Society, 33:5, pp. 625-639.
Lane, Jeremy F. (2000), Pierre Bourdieu: A Critical Introduction, London: Pluto Press. LeBourdais, Jesse (2015), ‘Take Me Home’, from Long Winter, CD, Toronto: My Fingers! My Brain! Records. LeBourdais, Jesse and Creeden, Jon (2014), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough ON, 9 October. Lee, Amy (2011), ‘Myspace collapse: How the social network fell apart’, https://www.huffingtonpost.ca/entry/how-myspace-fell-apart_n_887853. Accessed 31 July 2018. Lefebvre, Henri (1991), The Production of Space, Oxford: Blackwell.
Lincoln, Siân (2014), ‘Young people and mediated private space’, in Andy Bennett and Brady Robards (eds), Mediated Youth Cultures: The Internet, Belonging and New Cultural Configurations, Houndsmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 42-58.
Lincoln, Siân and Robards, Brady (2014), ‘10 years of Facebook’, New Media & Society, 16:7, pp. 1047-1050.
Lingel, J., Trammell, A., Sanchez, J., & Naaman, M. (2012), “Practices of Information and Secrecy in a Punk Rock Subculture,” in Proceedings of CSCW, Feb 11-15, Seattle, WA, USA. Liu, Sikee & Blomley, Nicholas (2013), ‘Making news and making space: framing Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside,’ The Canadian Geographer, 57:2, pp 119-132. Lynch, Dana (2016), ‘Newcomer’s guide to Vancouver neighbourhoods’, http://vancouver.about.com/od/neighbourhoodshousing/a/Newcomers-Guide-To- Vancouver-Neighbourhoods.htm. Accessed 18 April 2016. Mack, Adrian (2010), ‘917 Main rises from the Cobalt’s ashes’, http://www.straight.com/article-296948/vancouver/917-main-rises-ashes. Accessed 18 June 2017. 203
Mak, Spencer (2018), interviewed by Katie Green, email correspondence, 15 July. Makagon, D. (2015), Underground: The Subterranean Culture of DIY Punk Shows, Portland, OR: Microcosm Publishing. Markham, Annette N. (1998), Life Online: Researching Real Experience in Virtual Space, Walnut Creek CA: AltaMira Press.
McCormick, Ryan (2016), interviewed by Katie Green, Vancouver BC, 19 May. ----- (2017), ‘Opening up community music venues in Vancouver’, MPP thesis, Vancouver: Simon Fraser University. McLeod, Khaos (2005), ‘Save the cobalt in Vancouver’, www.punkglobe.com/cobaltarticle0909.html. Accessed 4 September 2017. Metzgar, Candace (2017), untitled, digital image, https://www.instagram.com/p/BTUSr57B-XKkYMtAY9b_vg9ddaCwhrl- Kc3hS80/?taken-by=cametzgar. Accessed 29 June 2018. Meyrowitz, Joshua (1985), No Sense of Place: The Impact of Electronic Media on Social Behaviour, New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Mogkenstein, Hardcory (2010), ‘Punk rock flyers from Toronto’, Hardcory Mogkenstein’s Blog, 10 October, https://hardcorymogkenstein.wordpress.com/2010/10/10/punk-rock-flyers/. Accessed 17 June 2018.
Moore, Jeffrey (2014), ‘Leave fear at home when you venture into downtown Peterborough’, http://www.mykawartha.com/opinion-story/4989747-leave-fear- at-home-when-you-venture-into-downtown-peterborough/. Accessed 12 October 2015. Moore, Ryan (2004), ‘Postmodernism and punk subculture: Cultures of authenticity and deconstruction’, The Communication Review, 7, pp. 305-327. Moore, Ryan (2007), ‘Friends don’t let friends listen to corporate rock: Punk as a field of cultural production’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 36:4, pp. 438-474.
Morgan, Michael [2007], ‘Festival spaces and the visitor experience’, in Casado-Diaz, M., Everett, S. and Wilson, J., (eds), Social and Cultural Change: Making Space(s) for Leisure and Tourism, Eastbourne, UK: Lesiure Studies Association, pp. 1-17,http://eprints.bournemouth.ac.uk/4821/1/99Morgan.pdf. Accessed 18 June 2018.
Music Venue Trust (2015), ‘Understanding small music venues, Institute of Contemporary Music Performance, https://www.musicvenuetrust.com/wp- 204
content/uploads/2015/03/music_venue_trust_Report_V5-1.pdf. Accessed 1 August 2018. Music Venue Trust [2018], ‘Grassroots music venues (GMVs) – Definition’, http://musicvenuetrust.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Defining-Grassrots- Music-Venues.pdf. Accessed 1 August 2018. ---- (2018b), ‘About us’, http://musicvenuetrust.com/about/. Accessed 1 August 2018.
Neutron, Conan (2016), ‘Mayor Schaaf’s response to Oakland fire was a total disaster’, https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/5843dd42e4b0b93e10f8e2ec. Accessed 4 July 2018.
O’Connor, Alan (1999), ‘Whos Emma and the limits of cultural studies,’ Cultural Studies, 13:4, 691-702. ---- (2002), ‘Local scenes and dangerous crossroads: punk and theories of cultural hybridity’, Popular Music, 21:2, pp. 225-236.
---- (2004), ‘Punk and globalization: Spain and Mexico’, International Journal of Cultural Studies, 7:2, pp. 175-195.
---- (2008), Punk Record Labels and the Struggle for Autonomy: The Emergence of DIY, Plymouth: Lexington Books.
O’Connor, Alan, McLachlan, Ian, and Longhurst, Paul (2016), ‘The creative class on Hunter Street: Neo-bohemia in a small city’, International Journal of Arts and Humanities, 2:2, pp. 1-6.
Piss Locusts (2015), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough ON, 3 February.
Powell, Christine (2016), ‘Safe Amp Society’, http://www.citr.ca/discorder/november- 2016/safe-amp-society/. Accessed 18 June 2017. Pollock, Gabe (2014), ‘A crash course in the Peterborough music scene’, The Arthur 49:1, pp. 13.
Pouzza Fest (2018a), ‘Passes and tickets’, https://pouzzafest.com/en/tickets/. Accessed 18 June 2018.
---- (2018b), ‘Venues: venues, bars, and outdoor site’, https://pouzzafest.com/en/venues/. Accessed 12 June 2018.
PTBO Canada (2012), ‘Video: A Look Inside The Spill Coffee Bar in Downtown Peterborough’, http://www.ptbocanada.com/journal/2012/5/28/video-a-look- inside-the-spill-coffee-bar-in-downtown-peterbo.html. Accessed 20 March 2018.
205
Rachman, Paul (2007), American Hardcore: The History of American Punk Rock 1980- 1986, California: Sony Pictures Home Entertainment. Ramírez Sánchez, Rubén (2013), ‘From zines to MySpace: A case study of media infrastructures and counter-power in the Puerto Rican underground punk scene’, Journal of Latin American Communication Research, 2:1, pp. 37-60. Rancic, Michael (2017), ‘Toronto’s music scene reacts to Soybomb’s closure’, https://nowtoronto.com/music/features/torontos-local-music-scene-reacts-to- soybombs-closure/. Accessed 16 May 2018.
Ramsden v. Peterborough (City) (1993), 2 S.C.R., pp. 1084-1109.
Red Gate (2016), ‘Harm reduction for DIY venues’, http://redgate.at.org/archive/harm- reduction-for-diy-venues-do-it-yourself-do-it-now. Accessed 5 July 2018. Rekus, Greg (2018), interviewed by Katie Green, Winnipeg MB, 12 June.
---- (2018b), email to author, 20 June.
Renò, Lucia A. (2005), ‘Presence and mediated spaces: a review’, PsychNology Journal, 3:2, pp. 181-199.
Rowling, J.K. (1997), Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Raincoast Books: Vancouver. Rubin, Nick (2015), ‘‘College radio’: the development of a trope in US student broadcasting’, Interactions: Studies in Communication & Culture, 6:2, pp. 47-64.
Safe Amplification Site Society (2013), ‘Feasibility study for a safe amplification site (part one)’, City of Vancouver, http://safeamp.org/feasibilitystudy.pdf. Accessed 21 September 2017. Schenker, Marc (2015), ‘Former MySpace CEO explains why MySpace lost out to Facebook so badly’, https://www.digitaltrends.com/social-media/former- myspace-ceo-reveals-what-facebook-did-right-to-dominate-social-media/. Accessed 31 July 2018. Schimkowitz, Matt (2018), ‘Triple Parentheses / (((Echo)))’, http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/triple-parentheses-echo. Accessed 2 July 2018. Serious, Todd (2014), Interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough ON, 5 November. Shank, Barry (1994), Dissonant Identities: The Rock'n'Roll Scene in Austin, Texas, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. Shaw, Kate (2013), ‘Independent creative subcultures and why they matter,’ International Journal of Cultural Policy, 19:3, pp 333-352. 206
Shortell, Timothy and Krase, Jerome (2010), ‘Place, space, identity: A spatial semiotics of the urban vernacular in global cities’, ESA Research Network Sociology of Culture Midterm Conference: Culture and the Making of Worlds, https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1693110. Accessed 8 July 2018. Silverberg, Jesse L., Bierbaum, Matthew, Sethna, James P., and Cohen, Itai (2013), ‘Collective motion of humans in mosh and circle pits at heavy metal concerts’, Physical Review Letters, 110:22, pp. 228-701. Slingerland, Calum (2017), ‘Toronto DIY venue Soybomb HQ forced to close’, http://exclaim.ca/music/article/toronto_diy_venue_soybomb_hq_has_closed_its_d oors. Accessed 16 May 2018.
Smith-Engelhardt, Joe (2017), ‘Soybomb founder says shutdown is bigger than 4chan’, http://ontheaside.com/uncategorized/soybomb-founder-says-shutdown-is-bigger- than-4chan/. Accessed 14 September 2017.
Srnicek, Nick, Huws, Ursula and Leyshon, Andrew (2017), interviewed by Laurie Taylor, Thinking Allowed, BBC Radio 4, London, 22 February, https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08fgvln. Accessed 4 July 2018.
Stahl, Geoff (2004), ‘‘It’s like Canada reduced’: Setting the scene in Montreal’, in Andy Bennett and Keith Kahn-Harris (eds), After Subculture: Critical Studies in Contemporary Youth Culture, Houndsmill, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 51-64.
Statista (2018), ‘Number of monthly active Facebook users worldwide as of 1st quarter 2018 (in millions)’, https://www.statista.com/statistics/264810/number-of- monthly-active-facebook-users-worldwide/. Accessed 20 June 2018.
---- (n.d.), ‘Internet usage in Mexico - statistics & facts’, https://www.statista.com/topics/3477/internet-usage-in-mexico/. Accessed 20 June 2018.
Straw, Will (1991), ‘Systems of articulation, logics of change: Scenes and communities in popular music’, Cultural Studies, 5:3, pp. 361-375. ---- (2002), ‘Scenes and sensibilities’, Public, 22:23, pp. 245-257. ---- (2004), ‘Cultural scenes’, Society and Leisure, 27:2, pp. 411-422. ---- (2015), ‘Some things a scene might be’, Cultural Studies, 29:3, pp. 476-485. Sutherland, Sam (2012), Perfect Youth: The Birth of Canadian Punk. Toronto: ECW Press. 207
The Canadian Press (2012), ‘Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside feeling gentrification squeeze’, http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/vancouver-s- downtown-eastside-feeling-gentrification-squeeze-1.1190127. Accessed 11 July 2017. The Fest FL (2018), ‘Tickets’, https://thefestfl.com/tickets. Accessed 18 June 2018.
The Spill (2017), ‘Hello friends…’, Facebook, 21 October, https://www.facebook.com/pg/The-Spill-355577846531/posts/?ref=page_internal. Accessed 20 March 2018.
Tobey, Dave (2014), interviewed by Katie Green, Peterborough, ON, 29 August.
Tonkiss, Fran (2005), Space, the City and Social Theory. Cambridge: Polity Press. Triggs, Teal (2006), ‘Scissors and glue: Punk fanzines and the creation of a DIY aesthetic’, Journal of Design History, 19:1, pp. 69-83.
Tuffin, Lois (2014), ‘6 ways to stay safe in downtown Peterborough: story removed’, http://www.mykawartha.com/opinion-story/4945767-6-ways-to-stay-safe-in- downtown-peterborough-story-removed/. Accessed 12 October 2015.
Wacquant, Loïc, Slater, Tom, and Borges Pereira, Virgílion (2014), ‘Territorial stigma in action’, Environment and Planning A, 46, pp. 1270-1280.
Walter, Chris (2004a), East Van. Vancouver: GFY Press. ---- (2004b), Boozecan. Vancouver: GFY Press. ---- (2011), Up and Down on the Downtown Eastside. Vancouver: GFY Press. ---- (2014), SNFU: What No One Else Wanted to Say. 2nd ed. Vancouver: GFY Press. ---- (2015), Under the Kilt: The Real McKenzies Exposed. Vancouver: GFY Press. Warner, Michael (2005), Publics and Counterpublics, New York: Zone Books.
Watson, Nathan (2013), ‘What’s a punk like you doing in a place like this? Mark Pesci on bringing together Toronto's punk and hardcore communities’, https://thevarsity.ca/2013/03/25/whats-a-punk-like-you-doing-in-a-place-like- this/. Accessed 15 May 2018. wendythirteen (2016), interviewed by Katie Green, Vancouver BC, 17 May. Wikipedia (2018), ‘Heterotopia (space)’, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Heterotopia_(space)&oldid=85209469 5. Accessed 9 September 2018. 208
Wilson, Brian and Atkinson, Michael (2005), ‘Rave and straightedge, the virtual, and the real: Exploring online and offline experiences in Canadian youth subcultures’, Youth & Society, 36:3, pp. 276-311.
Woo, Andrea (2013), ‘B.C. to ban clubs’ all-ages events in bid to restrict underage drinking’, https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/british-columbia/bc-to-ban- clubs-all-ages- events-in-bid-to-restrict-underage-drinking/article7028298/. Accessed 17 June 2017. Woo, Benjamin, Rennie, Jamie and Poyntz, Stuart R. (2015), ‘Scene thinking’, Cultural Studies, 29:3, pp. 285-297.
Worth, Liz (2011), Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond 1977-1981, 2nd ed. Toronto: ECW Press. Zeschky, Jan (2013), ‘LCLB unlearns its lesson with all-ages licensing directive’, http://theprovince.com/life/food/lclb-unlearns-its-lesson-with-all-ages-licensing- directive. Updated 15 June 2016. Accessed 17 June 2017. Zook, Matthew A., and Graham, Mark (2007), ‘The creative reconstruction of the Internet: Google and the privatization of cyberspace and DigiPlace’, Geoforum, 38:6, pp. 1322-1343. APPENDIX A 209
APPENDIX A 210
APPENDIX A 211
APPENDIX A 212
APPENDIX B 213
LIST OF SAMPLE INTERVIEW QUESTIONS
Title: Following the Sound: Investigating the Importance of Social Space to the Identity of Local Canadian Punk Scenes
Please see below for a list of sample questions that may be asked during your interview. Keep in mind that other questions may come up during the course of any conversations between you and the Investigator that pertain to this study. All participants reserve the right to keep any pieces of information confidential. All participants reserve the right to not answer any questions asked by the Investigator or withdraw from the study at any time. Name:
Name to be published in study (full name, first name only, pseudonym, other):
Age:
Gender:
Father's Occupation:
Mother's Occupation:
Own Occupation:
Own Highest Level of Education:
Religious Affiliation:
Married/Single:
# of Children:
Reason(s) for living in ______(city):
1.
2.
3.
Other (please describe):
Age at which you were first introduced to Punk:
Venue that you most often frequent:
Which of the following types of venues host events that you've attended (select all that apply): Bar/Club Coffee Shop House Trent REB approval date: Consent Revision Number:
APPENDIX B 214
Community Centre Other (please describe):
Which of the following activities have you participated in (select all that apply):
Attending punk shows as an audience member only Performing either as part of a band or a solo act Acting in a primary role at an event (i.e. the promotion/organization of a punk show or other related event) Acting in a secondary role at an event (i.e. assisting promoter, working sound, covering the door, etc.) Taking photographs or video of bands Writing in relation to your local scene (ex// blogging, zines, CD reviews, newspaper articles, etc.) Working at a radio station Working at a record label Other (please describe):
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Describe your first introduction to punk. What first attracted you to this subculture and why? What expectations, if any, did you have about the punk scene?
2. Describe the first venue you went to. Where was it? Is it still in operation?
3. What's one of the best experiences you've had at a show? What was one of the worst?
4. How would you describe the scene of your current hometown? What venues are most popular? Is it the same group of people at each show? What challenges has the scene faced since your involvement in it?
5. In your opinion, how supportive is the community towards youth and music scenes? What opportunities are available for youth to participate in punk or other subcultural scenes?
6. How supportive of members of your scene to each other? What is involved in becoming accepted? Is anyone excluded?
7. Have you seen many changes in the punk scene since you first became involved in it? Why or why not? If it has changed, do you think that this was a natural change? Positive? Negative?
8. Do you think that participation in punk changes as its members get older? Do you think that your role in this subculture has changed from what it was when you were younger? Why or why not? Have you found new ways to participate?
9. Have you gone to many shows outside your own scene? In your opinion, is your own local scene different from the ones happening in other areas?
10. In your opinion, what is the future of your local scene? What would you like to see happen or not happen? Is there anything that needs to be changed within this scene? How would this be accomplished ? Trent REB approval date: Consent Revision Number:
APPENDIX C 215
Survey #: "THE SPILL" - AUDIENCE SURVEY
Research Title: "Following the Sound: Investigating the Importance of Social Space to the Identity of Local Canadian Punk Scenes"
You are asked to participate in a research survey conducted by Katie Victoria Green (herein known as the "Student Investigator"), from the Cultural Studies Ph.D. program at Trent University. The results from this survey will contribute to the completion of a Doctor of Philosophy in Cultural Studies.
Please feel free to contact the Student Investigator if you wish to receive further information regarding your involvement in the study:
Address: Email: [email protected] Katie Green Cultural Studies, Ph.D. Office Scott House, Room 208 300 London Street Peterborough ON, K9H 7P4
If you have any questions or concerns about the research, please feel free to contact Dr. Alan O'Connor, Primary Faculty Supervisor (Telephone: 705-748-1011 ext. 6098, Email: [email protected]).
PURPOSE OF THE STUDY
This project investigates the importance of social space (i.e. venues) and their importance for participants in the Canadian punk scene. This study will therefore focus on understanding why social space is important for those who identify as part of the punk scene. The information collected through the course of this study will be used to complete three interrelated research projects as part of the completion of the Cultural Studies Ph.D. program at Trent University. In accordance with the guidelines of the program, these three projects may be presented at conferences, submitted to scholarly journals, or assembled for publication as a book.
PROCEDURES
If you volunteer to participate in this study, we would ask you to do the following things:
• Read this information package in full. Before agreeing to participate in this survey, please make sure you have the Student Investigator answer any questions you may have. • Submission of completed survey to Investigator indicates consent to participate in research.
POTENTIAL RISKS AND DISCOMFORTS
There should be no potential risks or discomforts to any participants in this study. If you feel that you are uncomfortable at any point in the study, please inform the Student Investigator or Primary Faculty Supervisor (see above) and you will have the option to withdraw (see below: 'Participation and Withdrawal').
POTENTIAL BENEFITS TO PARTICIPANTS AND/OR TO SOCIETY
Literature on Canadian punk is only just emerging as a topic of academic interest. My research fills a gap that exists in the current scholarship of Canadian youth subcultures by examining the ways in which participants actively participate in punk Trent REB approval date: 14-April-2016 Consent Revision Number: V3
APPENDIX C 216 culture through the creation of social space. Ultimately, this project will contribute to the reshaping and development of academic work on Canadian youth subcultures. There is an overall societal value in terms of capturing and recording these spaces and the experiences of participants. It can be argued that these spaces allow youth a certain degree of freedom that they would not experience in other spaces, such as work, school, or home. It is my intent to advocate for such freedom in the hope that this research could pave the way for the active creation of permanent youth-based community organizations and social spaces. Canadian subcultures and the youth who participate in them need greater representation within the academic and scientific community. Therefore, the punk communities that will be included in this study will be preserved and added to the growing collection of academic literature on Canadian youth subcultures.
PAYMENT FOR PARTICIPATION
No payment will be offered to participants for involvement in this study.
CONFIDENTIALITY
Every effort will be made to ensure confidentiality of any identifying information that is obtained in connection with this study.
All participants will remain anonymous.
All information collected for this study is strictly for educational purposes. This study will be published through Trent University. No financial gain for the Investigator or commercialization of this study is expected. No information collected through this study will be sold or used for other purposes outside those outlined in the information package.
Information collected from this study will be encrypted and permanently archived by the Student Investigator.
PARTICIPATION AND WITHDRAWAL
You can choose whether to be in this study or not. If you volunteer to be in this study, you may withdraw at any time before submission of completed survey without consequences of any kind. If you choose to participate but then withdraw before submission, the partially completed survey will be destroyed. You may also refuse to answer any questions you don't want to answer and still remain in the study. The Investigator may withdraw you from this research if circumstances arise that warrant doing so.
RIGHTS OF RESEARCH PARTICIPANTS
You may withdraw your consent at any time and discontinue participation without penalty. You are not waiving any legal claims, rights or remedies because of your participation in this research study. This study has been reviewed and received ethics clearance through Trent University's Research Ethics Board. If you have questions regarding your rights as a research participant, contact:
Karen Mauro Certification and Regulatory Compliance Officer
Mailing Address: Phone: 705-748-1011 ext. 7896 1600 West Bank Drive P.O. Box 4800 Email: [email protected] Trent University Peterborough ON, K9J 7B8
Trent REB approval date: 14-April-2016 Consent Revision Number: V3
APPENDIX C 217
PLEASE NOTE THAT ALL AUDIENCE SURVEY PARTICIPANTS WILL REMAIN ANONYMOUS. EACH QUESTION IS OPTIONAL (FEEL FREE TO LEAVE ANY ANSWER BLANK). COMPLETING AND SUBMITTING A SURVEY INDICATES CONSENT TO PARTICIPATE IN RESEARCH.
Age: ______Gender: ______Highest Level of Education: ______
Religious Affiliation: ______Married/Single: ______# of Children: ______
Father's Occupation: ______Mother's Occupation: ______Own Occupation:______
Do you live in Peterborough? Yes, I was born here. Yes, but I live here for work Yes, but I live here for school Yes, but I live here for other reasons not related to school or work. No, I'm actually from ______
How often do you attend live music events? How often do you attend live music events at The Spill? Rarely ( A couple times a year) Rarely ( A couple times a year) Frequently (A few times per month) Frequently (A few times per month) Often (At least once a week) Often (At least once a week) Regularly (More than once a week) Regularly (More than once a week)
Which of the following types of venues host events that you've attended (select all that apply): Bar/Club Coffee Shop House Community Centre Other (please describe): ______
How important are live music venues? How important are all-ages live music events? Not important at all Not important at all Somewhat important Somewhat important Neutral Neutral Very important Very important Extremely important Extremely important Trent REB approval date: 14-April-2016 Consent Revision Number: V3
APPENDIX C 218
On a scale of 0-10, how would you rate The Spill as a live music venue? ______
QUESTIONS CONTINUE ON OTHER SIDE
Do you consider The Spill a safe and inclusive venue (yes/no): ______
Reason(s) for answer: ______
Who is responsible for the creation of a "safe space"? No one is responsible. It is the responsibility of local bands. It is the responsibility of the promoter/organizer of live music events It is the responsibility of the venue owner It is the responsibility of people attending events It is everyone's responsibility
Which of the following activities have you participated in (select all that apply): Attending live shows as an audience member only Performing either as part of a band or a solo act Acting in a primary role at an event (i.e. the promotion/organization of a punk show or other related event) Acting in a secondary role at an event (i.e. assisting promoter, working sound, covering the door, etc.) Taking photographs or video of bands Writing in relation to your local scene (ex// blogging, zines, CD reviews, newspaper articles, etc.) Working at a radio station Working at a record label Other (please describe):
Which of the following genres of music do you enjoy (select all that apply): Punk Metal Other: ______
Do you identify as belonging to a particular subculture or scene? (yes/no): ______
If yes, which one? ______
Trent REB approval date: 14-April-2016 Consent Revision Number: V3
APPENDIX C 219
Reason(s) for attending tonight's live music event: ______
END OF SURVEY - THANK YOU
Trent REB approval date: 14-April-2016 Consent Revision Number: V3
APPENDIX D 220
APPENDIX D 221
APPENDIX D 222