at The Rat
Entering through the back of the Rat, I was greeted with the sight of around twenty people in the audience, all standing around disinterestedly in ripped jeans, mohawks and black hair, and disintegrating tee-shirts. The band was bashing out the end of their set, throwing the instruments and drums to the stage floor. The only decipherable lyrics were “Fuck America!” Punk Fuckin’ Rock, man.
I settled near the bar, waiting. One hour and five beers later, we were still waiting for the Lunachicks to hit the stage. The booking agent from the club came on stage and announced that they were waiting for more people to show up. A Machiavellian tactic, but it worked; the size of the crowd tripled. Finally, the Lunachicks. From the get-go, they were damn good. Destroyed baby-doll outfits and disarray. Good, sloppy, old-fashioned punk. They tore through songs like “Fingerful,” “Light as a Feather,” and “Buttplug,” with a release of energy that the CD just can’t convey. The kids responded with moderate rowdiness. Between songs, they joked with the crowd: “Hey, you guys coming from the game? We LOOOOVE baseball.”
Then the inevitable happened. Provoked by one too many flailing body parts, or perhaps by the anti-jock jokes, one guy decided that he didn’t like another. An argument devolved into fisticuffs. Who knows why? For all I know, G.G. Allin’s naked drummer could have been responsible. At song’s finish, they delivered their diatribe: “Hey, you’re in Boston now. The kids are just trying to have fun. If you don’t like it, leave.” Love it or leave it, kids. Punk Fuckin’ Rock indeed.
The set was short after that, lasting a total of perhaps half an hour. No encore, of course. I swallowed my drink and headed upstairs past sycophants chatting up the band.