There’s a sub culture that has recently been booming in D.C. Some argue that it sprang forth from the bass amp-vibrated basements of Brooklyn, and spread its thirsty roots to D.C., and some protest that’s it’s been here all along, undetected. If you were to consider the definition of what a social movement is, I suppose you could call it that. It’s powerful enough to make kids shave sections of their hair off to the scalp, and put tattoos and holes in places their mother wouldn’t approve. The symptoms of its followers include, but are not limited to a nihilistic view of the world, an affinity for acts of rebellion against anything that reeks of stability or maturity, and a tendency to use an excessive amount of eyeliner. So what is the latest phenomenon? No, it’s not a new classification called ‘teenage-ism’ (though that, too, has a nice ring to it.) I’m referring to the development of the punk scene in D.C., and its faithful, sullen-faced members.
In many respects, the sub culture is the same here as it is in other cities where Punk reigns supreme, except venues that used to be packed to brim with only white teenage masses are now hosting evenly mixed crowds of black and white youths. At first, the black kids just barely peppered the audience. I would attend an event and methodically scan the ranks of punk rockers for another brown face. We’d lock eyes, or give a perfunctory nod. There was no space for warm introductions. Besides, we were there to rage…even if we had the opportunity to greet, we wouldn’t do it inside. There were those awkward moments outside, though, when I stood in line feeling alone and looking the part of ‘token black girl’ for the night, adjusting and readjusting my studded vest, and shuffling my scuffed combat boots on the pavement. In those cardinal moments, right when ditching seemed a feasible inevitability, some pierced up, band tee clad girl or guy would saunter over to me and manage a feeble ‘Hey’.
As recent as two years ago, that’s how it went. Members of the Afro Punk scene would spot each other at the tattoo shops, underground parties, skate parks, school, etc. If someone let you bum a cig outside in the midst of the typical post-concert loitering, you were all right with him or her, and if you survived the mosh pit with a fellow partier, you might hang together for the rest of the night. Often, being the only brown faces in a setting where we were always outnumbered allied us. The notion of our unanimity resonated with me: We belong to something. That something grew, became a community, and acquired a name. All that angst, rage, and perplexity finally found its home within the evolution of Afro Punk scene.
Washington, D.C. is, and always was a political city, and was thus doomed to have its youth swept into any scene or culture that challenges the upright and grey-suited nature of the place. The allure of punk music and culture is the same for most preteen to twenty-something-year-olds around the world: there’s a sense of unity in being anti-everything, a sense of salvation in it. I used to think of myself as the odd woman out when professing my adoration for Billy Joe Armstrong, and I thought, surely, that my Fefe Dobson impersonation would fall on deaf and indifferent ears. (The latter is true; listening to my rendition of Fefe Dobson’s Bye Bye Boyfriend could possibly make anyone hearing-impaired.) But, I wasn’t alone. Even a quick survey of our Trilogy team revealed some people that are–at least partially–down with some Punk. The Afro Punk scene used to exist in small, intimate pockets of my social life, always overshadowed by hip hop, the presumed ‘taster’s choice’ of black kids in D.C. So, I scrambled for a way to keep up with the scene, and follow new bands. That quest (which solely consisted of typing the words ‘afro punk’ into that magical little Google box) yielded the hyperlink that blew me right out of my deliberately demolished Chuck Taylors. I clicked on the afropunk.com link and immediately felt as if they’d summed me up wholly with their subtitle alone. ‘The other black experience.’ Amen.
I was one of many who thought Afro Punk was in its infancy. When someone would ask me to describe the music, my mind made a beeline to bands like Bad Rabbits, and artists like Santigold. I had no idea my mother had her own insight into this matter. Afro Punk has always been the undercurrent to punk, flying under the radar undefined and underexposed for many reasons. In a lot of North American cities, the racial climate kept black kids out of the scene, and in some places, there wasn’t a prevalent punk scene to begin with. Unbeknownst to me, and a large number of my peer group, was the fact that Afro Punk arguably began here. She informed me about bands like Death and Bad Brains that were out in the early 70s. Bad Brains, a band now synonymous with the term ‘Afro Punk’ was formed right here in D.C., and they still tour today, performing reggae and punk cuts. I saw them last year in Brooklyn. I went to the annual Afro Punk Fest—now called ‘AP Fest’—and soaked them in, along with enough punk culture to produce a sensory overload. The only thing that was taller than the Technicolor hairstyles were the towering skateboard ramps, and my own heightened sense of accomplishment. I’d found where I belonged…at least for a time.
I stood up there and watched the sun set on the event. The BMX bikers had long ridden off, and the organizers were almost done breaking down the sponsors’ tents. The low roaring sound of too many skateboard wheels grinding the blacktop grew distant, and then disappeared. The crowd became prismatic, dispersing browns, caramels and crèmes into the surrounding Brooklyn streets. I sat there, three-fourths fulfilled. I thought about heading home to D.C., and once again absorbing myself into the obscure scene there. My excursion was nearing an end, and in the anti-climax of that day, I developed a sense of resolve about it all. The Afro Punk culture would boom and thrive in D.C. It was imminent, and the reason was simple. People are unified in their need to belong, and they always will be. My mind was snatched away from that thought process as an angry worker yelled for me to get down from the skateboard ramp, because it was time for it to be broken down. I gave him the finger, and stayed up there a few moments longer, though, because anything else just wouldn’t have been punk.
