Sneer and Bowling in Las Vegas: A Review of the 14th Annual PRB Festival

EDITOR’S NOTE: I must admit that I know not who this writers is, but he hath talent.  His depiction of the festivities at this year’s Punk Rock Bowling showed up in our inbox this morning and it was so entertaining/accurate I knew we had to publish it.  It’s a bit of a long read but worth it if you’re curious about what you missed or, for those of you who were there, if you’d like to relive some of the weekend’s events.

Read the full review here.

Words By Luke Rouda

Popular bench-psychologists like to identify the last-born child as the craziest and loudest, a lost cause, malnourished, outrageous, spoiled rotten. Punk would certainly fit this description when examined amongst its historical rock brothers, but it’s been about 40 years since the 70’s, so where are we now?

This past Memorial Day weekend, Las Vegas was saturated with degenerates from around the nation as Rancid, NOFX, Pennywise, and 60 other bands stitched together from the punk timeline staged a festival for three days of Sin City-style debauchery, mindlessness, and attempted 7-10 splits.

When will a small child get tossed down a lane? What will the beer/vomit/blood ratio be in the pit? Who will drone on about the danger of the good old days? These were the questions I pondered as I streaked East along the desert floor at top speed to witness the awful pageantry of Punk Rock Bowling roll into the gutter.

Fellow travelers to the event were obnoxiously obvious: they bore tattoos, bad hair, piercings and laid on top of one another in bottomed-out, dilapidated death-trap commuter cars decorated with more obscure stencils on the fenders than tires with tread.

These overburdened workhorse vehicles faded quickly into the stark landscape of my rear-view mirror as I pushed onward – I needed to hover around triple digit speeds to maintain the working order of my own air con.

Across the perfectly straight and flat Highway 15, the Promised Land loomed. GG Allin probably loved a place like Las Vegas: the town epitomizes institutionalized depravity. With the right amount of cash and/or substance(s), at the right place and at the right time, you can get away with literally anything.

After bypassing the Mickey Mouse hotels adorning The Strip, I made my way Downtown, where the second-class hookers and crack heads neighbor an artificial sky of lights overlooking Fremont Street.

The Las Vegas Club Hotel was crawling with attendees. In the elevator, I greeted the occupants of a black Mini Cooper that had tailed me into the desert. A photographer with a 3-foot Mohawk was snapping shots of a gorgeous work of inked art sliding her way against a girder.

The ubiquitous nature of this aesthetic had myriad effects, not only on the scenery, but on the local populace as well. There was a suppressed air of panic about those who had shown up for the $6.99 prime rib and loose slots. Whole families took to the corners while roving packs of attendees stumbled between half-smirking kiosk employees.

I desperately needed a press and photo pass, but decided to bank on a rejection of elitism, while holding faith in commiseration with a strong DIY mentality. Credentials, after all, were at a Premium.

After eating at the Heart Attack Grill (one of the most honest restaurants I’ve ever had the pleasure of dining at), I stepped into a next-door liquor store for whiskey. Alcohol is cheaper than water in the desert, so I stocked up.

The next order of business was to ponder how rare ice was and think through the events for that evening. While the main event did not begin until the following day, there were several club shows available to kick things off.

The format for the weekend packed music into nearly every possible waking hour: doors at the main event opened at 3 PM, with club shows overlapping the headliners between 11 PM and 2 AM. The actual bowling tournament began at noon; the lanes filled with the sounds of The Dead Kennedys and crashing pins. Free pool parties at local hotels began at 1 PM, with select names performing for aquatic mosh pits. It would take a supremely sick and twisted individual to walk away unsatisfied with the sheer volume of music on hand.

There was an additional issue – tickets for most of the ancillary club shows were sold out, and my colleagues debated the likelihood of entrance for those unfortunate souls not holding. They were, of course, forgetting the power of a dollar in Las Vegas, so as soon as the sun was firmly nestled on the far side of the western hills, I weaved my way towards Tequila Azul, 7 and 7 in hand. The promise of “Very Special Guests” alongside Youth Brigade, The Generators, and The Civilians was too good to pass up.

I was not disappointed – after only half a cigarette outside the venue, I suddenly found myself saying “I am Jasper McMurphy and I belong here” with a (hopefully un-photocopied) ticket and $20 hole in my wallet (a supremely good price for the scalped commodity considering it originally sold for $17. It was clear from the outset that these deviants cared little for profit).

Inside, the patrons got down to the very serious business of intoxication. There was purposefulness to the consumption, an impatient lust for the result and an anxious giddiness for its arrival.

This atmosphere ratcheted up as local NV boys The Civilians took the stage. The cool, dry air was blasted apart with “Company Man”, and there was no doubt that PRB 2012 had officially launched.

After a quick set, SoCal crew The Generators took up arms for a selection of songs spanning their 15-year history, plus a cover or two. The circle pit formed as front man Doug Dagger fed from the crowd’s energy and vice versa.

Youth Brigade followed. As a prominent motive force behind the event, the Stern brothers were paid fantastic lip service all weekend for putting on the “best party of the year”, and the crowd showed their appreciation by getting on stage for a slam dance that literally tore down barriers.

Finally, the “very special guests” stepped off the short bus from merry ole England and revealed themselves as the Cockney Rejects. This sent many into a frenzy as vocalist Jeff Geggus shadowboxed his way through Oi! classics like “Power and the Glory”. In a zealous rage, one fan decided to stage dive into a sparsely populated section of the crowd. He must have been a descendant of Moses because the bodies parted and he crashed into the cement face first to the grimacing “oohs” of onlookers. It’s no fun until someone gets hurt, and we didn’t want the good times to stop, so as the music ended we were released to the public in search of more entertainment and self-destruction.

And with that, a word or two on drugs: while I traveled fully prepared with an assortment of various psychotropic substances, including amphetamine salts, hydrocodone, MDMA/speed cocktails, and two powerful medicinal cannabis strains, one did not have to go very far to find their personal poison of choice. The risks of dealing shady transactions with questionable characters was definitely exaggerated for the holiday weekend, but the experienced drug user merely had to follow their nose, as it were, to sniff out the proper source of chemical fun. Cash and an ear to instinct could yield positive results if one accepted the possibility of a somewhat mediocre product- a gamble, to be sure, but one worth it to the unprepared. Alternatively, the enthusiasm of fellow drug-addled attendees could be harnessed if properly approached.

Thankfully, there was to be no drug testing at the bowling tournament that blearily began the following day at Sam’s Town. Bowling is an appropriate sport for punk rock- technique is emphasized over physical conditioning and alcohol consumption is encouraged. Who can deny the symbolism of destroying pristine rows of white pins by heaving massive, multi-colored orbs at them?

The tournament itself offered a prize pool of $15,000, with teams like Occupy Ball Street, Cereal Bowlers, Volcom Stoners, Pigeon Kickers, One Shot Gutters, and Sloppy Hookers vying for top rank. Competitors consisted of the cream of athletic talent drawn from bands and attendees alike, with average individual scores firmly in the low 100’s. Despite the stakes, the atmosphere was like an ego-free alleyway-pissing contest amongst close friends and family. Lovely uncensored punk music blared across the PA and beer was cheap.

In order to keep things on a level playing field, the tournament implemented a handicap system far too complex for the average competitor to ever possibly comprehend. The result was a very real chance at winning money for all, regardless of talent and intoxication levels.

After finishing my drink, it was time to don swimming apparel for the first pool party at the Gold Spike. Entrance was free and the bar line was short, but no band showed. A disappointment, for sure, but the DJ did his best to supplant the missing musicians.

The sun started to dip when I decided to exit the pool party and begin the appropriate mental preparations for the main event. After an extensive pre-show meeting with my associates, we fumbled our way to the dust bowl gravel pit that housed the main stage. Predictably, it was here that I ran into my first real setback.

My severe lack of credentials meant that any kind of decent recording device (as in the trusty Cannon I carried in my backpack) was strictly forbidden. There were proper channels to allow such a thing, but without knowing immediately the run dates and publication that would carry my work, my pleas were met with shit-out-of-luck stares.

Appeals and promises of professionalism meant little to those who held power at the front gates. Apparently, journalists aren’t working unless they have paper to prove it. Never mind my intentions to fully promote this foul event with the best I could muster. All I heard, in so many words, was “You’re fucked, better luck next year.”

Indeed. Undeterred, I made contact with an undercover agent already inside. A plan for a quick transfer up and over the chain-link fence was hastily hatched. Roving teams of law enforcement and security officers made the scheme risky at best, but I required Full Coverage.

After observing their movements, a breach in the defense was found. Contact with the agent was made, and with a fast toss, the expensive camera gear was in.

The move was a dangerous one, for sure. Incarceration at Guantanamo for terrorist intentions to photograph was not something I wanted to face, but our boldness was for your benefit, dear reader. Enjoy the ill-gotten images.

With that, I was in and fully equipped. A rundown of the available commodities for sale revealed acceptable pricing for all necessary foodstuffs and libations. Individuals expecting regular festival prices ($20 tacos and $10 water bottles) would be pleasantly surprised by low food truck rates and free H2O at the medical tent. The only complaint stemmed from absurdly long lines for alcohol, however, this was mercifully remedied for the remainder of the festival.

Making my way up to the main stage, bagpipes filled my ears and kilts flashed before my eyes as The Real McKenzies ripped out some Celtic punk tunes. Front man Paul McKenzie made several tributes to Freedom as I pulled out my camera for a few shots, staying far away from any up-skirts.

After a quick 15-minute turnaround, The Briefs came on for their first show together in six years. Never missing a beat, fans were not disappointed as they indulged in catchy tunes like “Stuck On You”, singing along to the lyrics: “A gummy bear in your underwear/I’m stuck to you, yeah, I’m stuck right there/ You’re sweet like gum, you’re the brand I chew/ I’ll chew it and stick it right on you.”

The sun was setting as The English Beat took the stage under freshly lit lights. The large assembly of talent got the crowd skanking immediately with strong party vibes from their unique blend of ska, reggae, and punk. Classics like “Rough Rider” drew appropriately large clouds of weed smoke as the desert wind whipped through the audience.

With the moon high and the sky dark, a quiver of nervous anticipation rippled through the crowd as the soundtrack to “Clockwork Orange” announced the arrival of The Adicts. With a resume that dates back to 19-fucking-75, the English punk group has extensive experience entertaining a crowd, and it showed. Classics like “Joker In The Pack” and “Viva La Revolution” were complimented by copious amounts of confetti, streamers, and beach balls. Halfway through the set, vocalist Monkey left briefly in order to come back for the next number decked out in a blinking suit of LED lights, complete with hat, taking on the appearance of a psychopathic clown that somehow managed to tear away half of the Strip to sew into his clothes.

Finally, half an hour late, headliner NOFX meandered on stage. One of the few punk bands in the world that can get away with chatting as much as playing music, the set started with a round of shots and discussion about how drunk everyone was. There was no question- these musicians were proudly fucked up and would play music as awfully good as they wanted, regardless of the crowd and their expectations. The set was a monster- NOFX played every song from the album Punk in Drublic, plus a variety of other tunes drawn from their extensive catalogue. Front man Fat Mike antagonized several in the crowd throughout, such as chastising one attendee for smoking a joint: “You can’t smoke weed here! Only smoke weed if you’re about to go to sleep. The only thing you can smoke at PRB is coke or heroin.” At several points towards the end of the set, the amplifiers actually cut out for several bars. Unfazed, the quartet kept chugging along, almost as if they expected a fuck up or two. Fat Mike ended the night with a little ditty he claimed to have written earlier that day. Transcribed here, for your enjoyment, are the lyrics: “Whose gonna be the first to OD/ At PRB?/ Whose it gonna be?/Is it gonna be you, is it gonna me?/ Whose it gonna be?/Whose gonna be the first to OD?”.

Who, indeed? With a new tune stuck in everyone’s head, the crowd spread out into the Vegas night for club shows, so I made my way to the Beauty Bar.

The final highlight of the evening was Laura Jane Grace, formerly Tom Gabel of Against Me!, who was a few months into hormone therapy for her sex change. The crowd supported their transgender performer with cheering and dancing. Laura proves that, yes, you can rock out with your cock out.

Playoff Sunday at the bowling alley began at 11:30 AM, much to the chagrin of those who had sampled heavily from the Vegas nightlife. This muted perspective was quickly remedied with several Bloody Marys, and before long, the athletes were assembled and rolling. As your loyal and intrepid reporter, I tagged along for a few photos, and although minor investigation was required to find the results of the competition, I frankly don’t give a fuck and suspect you don’t either.

With that done, it was back to the Gold Spike for another free pool party. This time, the band on hand, The Real McKenzies, had arrived, still moist from their performance the previous day on the main stage. Late arrivals were relegated to the outskirts, but the view was good whether you were waist deep in the pool, causing a fire obstruction on the stairs, or slobbering over the railing in the surrounding balconies. Sound was good too- the acoustic set was amplified clear out to the street.

After toweling off, I reconvened with my colleagues, eager to get on with the second day of the main event. The camera bag was left in the room. Perhaps it was drug-induced paranoia, but pulling off a stunt like the one perpetrated the previous day had overtones of extreme personal danger, so the lower technology of iPhones and disposable camera was elected instead. I’m a shitty photographer, anyway.

A restock of cheap beer from an adjacent 7-11 meant that quick consumption in the parking lot parallel to the event would be momentarily necessary. Thankfully, this vantage provided ample viewing for Old Man Markley’s set (more on the parking lot later). This self-proclaimed “whiskey drenched bluecrass” special combined feverish fiddle and washboard with a punk attitude. The result was a moonshine bender that blinded the uninitiated.

Finely saturated, I went in. The crowd had swelled considerably from the previous day, and finding the right spot to take in the next band was difficult. Oblivious to my plight, the Street Dogs started their set with songs like “Get Up”, which prompted sing-alongs from the crowd.

Temperatures dropped with the sun as Hepcat came up next. The laid-back reggae/ska sound united the crowd as hips swiveled under brass horns and shuffling guitars.

This peace was shattered as the Cockney Rejects strode back onstage for their special brand of hooligan riot music.

Celebrating 20 years together, quintessential 90’s punk band Rancid was employed to put day two to bed. The crowd rocked with a severe determination as front man Tim Armstrong abused his instrument in thrashing turns and string-destroying strumming. Matt Freeman and Lars Frederickson supported alongside the insane flailing of new drummer Branden Steineckert, and hits like “It’s Quite Alright”, “Ruby Soho”, and “Olympia” were chanted back with perfect off-key precision. “Fall Back Down” wrapped up the set, but a few minutes of chanting from the crowd was all that was needed to usher in a 3-song encore.

And with that, the floodgates of patches and piercings once again opened to the Vegas streets. I wandered back to Fremont and found a growing line outside the Country Saloon, where The Seriouslys, Agent Orange, The Avengers, and The Dickies were slated to make an appearance, so I purchased another scalped ticket at bargain prices. Waiting in line, I heard a sudden whoosh behind my ears and felt the splash of cold suds against my elbows. Looking down, I saw the shattered remains of a New Castle that had been flung from the top balcony and missed my head by a margin of centimeters. A shouting match ensued between those in line around me and the smirking perpetrators above us: “You fucked up! I’m going up there and beating your ass, you hear me? You fucking dick smears, I’m coming for you!”

The vibrations were getting nasty, but before I knew it, I was inside. I had missed The Seriouslys, but Agent Orange was up next, so I grabbed a drink and took in the crowd. Despite the camaraderie championed by those on stage all weekend, the punk rock community is as fractured as a smashed windshield, a huge spider web catching all flavors of deviant behavior, cut from the same pane of glass, but embracing obvious and clear distinctions.

Agent Orange was a blast from the late 70’s; a wipeout of surf punk that immediately got the circle pit frothing with songs like “Everything Turns Grey”. In that seething cauldron of twisted movement, I could already see trouble brewing. Violence is as acceptable as anything else at a punk show, but it is possible that some take their fun too far for others to handle.

The Avengers kept temperatures high with songs from their self-titled pink album, like “The Amerikan In Me” and their cover of “Paint It Black”.

Things got serious, however, when The Dickies came onstage. Security had been a cursory element throughout the weekend, but the hired muscle at the Country Saloon was looking mighty anxious that evening. A few direct hits between two individuals in the pit nearly erupted into an all-out brawl, but the punk community is self-policing: several bystanders stepped into the altercation to prevent it from ruining the fun for everyone else. Security, however, decided that the mosh pit was getting out of hand, and began grabbing people at random. Despite the best efforts of those watching to block the bulk of those “in control” and let the unlucky escape into anonymity of the crowd, several were put back onto the street for doing nothing at all.

Depressing, but the show, as they say, must go on. Two pool parties were on the docket for Monday. Old Man Markley was in store for those lucky enough to make it into the Golden Nugget, but entrance was denied to anyone who was not either a guest at the hotel or part of a playoff bowling team. Sneaking in was definitely a possibility, but I instead opted to return to the Gold Spike for La Plebe.

I arrived early and was able to secure a shady spot, talking amongst fellow attendees. Overheard from one jaw dropping sandy-blonde: “these pool parties are like tattoo conventions.” Indeed. It was a place for backflips into the deep-end mosh pit, the chaos of the roiling water a fitting compliment to the raucous music. Revelry was infectious. Flabby tummies shook with reckless abandon, an unspoken pride in “who we are”. La Plebe was electrified and belted out their bilingual hardcore style with meticulous energy.

I was running late by the time I arrived for the third and final day of the festival. The drugs and alcohol had taken a mighty toll on my mind and body, as I’m sure it had on the rest of the attendees. The crowd was noticeably thinned.

Back in the thick of it, 7 Seconds was happily taking and denying requests. After 32 years of making punk music, they had plenty to complain about, but the back braces were off and the energy was high.

Then came Hot Water Music, bearded and badass. Not much chit-chat, just lots of gravely screaming and post-hardcore thrash.

The iconic UK82 band GBH was up next with a nihilistic jeer. After releasing their first album on Hellcat after a 6-year hiatus, the quartet kept the crowd moving with a huge and frenzied circle-pit that was embodied by the song “Kids Get Down”. The music was new but the spirit remained the same.

Pennywise was the final attraction for the weekend. Touting a new album with a new singer (Ignite’s Zoli Teglas), I was interested to see how the live dynamic may have changed. Pennywise blazed through the set, rarely stopping to catch their breath, playing a few songs off their new album, such as the title track “All Or Nothing”, but mostly sticking with old favorites like “Fuck Authority” and “Alien”. Teglas and guitarist Fletcher Dragge verbally sparred at several points, much to the amusement of the crowd: “You ever have a fat, asshole stepfather?” Teglas asked.

Towards the end of the set, Dragge acknowledged the crowd of punks in the parking lot next to the venue. The crowd had been there all weekend, dancing on dumpsters and taking in the show without spending a dime. Instead, pocket change was spent at the gas station and adjoining watering holes, which were undoubtedly alcohol free by the end of each night. Despite the inevitable property damage, a profit was certainly made from a seemingly endless appetite for liquor and beer. And who could argue with the logic? The same view as those sitting in the bleachers, for free, plus cheaper alcohol and the Freedom to take any pictures you want?

Dragge mentioned something about uniting together to break down the fence and getting in for free. At this comment, local law enforcement visibly stiffened. “I’m not saying you should,” Dragge corrected, “I’m just saying you could.”

And with that, Pennywise ended the weekend with the sing-along anthem “Bro Hymn”, a tribute to all those who had come and all those who could not. It was a celebration of the oneness and unity felt by all those in attendance. For good or ill, punk rock had taken over Downtown Vegas. Attendees had partied their fucking asses off, that much was sure, and as dawn broke Tuesday morning, it was time to slink back to whatever slimy hole they had crawled out of to nurse a mother of a hangover.

As a culture, punk rock is leaderless and splintered, a central idea of essential worth tying together flailing appendages that seek to bring the rest of the world, kicking and screaming, into the reality that it has refused to see. If we wanted, we could have easily torn down that fence. Truth of vision, in all its ugliness and beauty, was the goal, and it was found in the stomping circle pit and pulsing power chords of Punk Rock Bowling.

Until next year…

LR