It's Never Too Late to Go Home

I’m 43 years old, and I’m anxious about going to a hardcore show.

I grew up a hardcore kid. I know what these rooms feel like. I know the energy, the chaos, and the sense of belonging that comes with being surrounded by people who understand why this music matters. But I haven’t been to a show in exactly ten years, and there’s a part of me wondering whether I’m going to feel out of place.  Then I remember where I’m going.

My last show was Thrice and The Bronx at Revolution in Fort Lauderdale. Shortly afterward, a five-year relationship ended. I changed jobs and homes. Eventually, COVID hit. Life kept happening, and the gap kept getting longer.  Music remained an extremely important part of me through all of it. It was still my therapy. It still helped me get through a lot. I didn’t dig as deeply as I used to, but it never stopped mattering. Now, on October 19, I’m going to Nashville to see Boundaries, Denzel Curry, and Knocked Loose.

And the person who finally got me back to a show is my kid.

She’s 13. She wants to experience different things, and while she isn’t necessarily a big fan of this music, she wants to see what this is like. That’s enough for me. The thought of going to a show with her for the first time is fucking incredible.  We’ll be in the balcony. The floor is too much for her right now, and I’m happy to watch from up there with her. It’s a whole different thought process from the one I used to bring into a show.

Back then, I’d go in mentally ready to come out beat up. There wasn’t any elaborate preparation. I just knew what I was stepping into.  And I was always smiling.
One of my clearest memories is Poison the Well, Thrice, and Dillinger Escape Plan. Sheer chaos. Bodies flying. People falling down. The most violent show I’ve ever been a part of, yet I never once felt unsafe.  There was this sense that everyone was going to take care of each other. It didn’t matter who the fuck you were or where you came from. You could give yourself over to that chaos, with the understanding that you still had a responsibility to the people around you. The understanding boils down to one word:

Respect.

That’s the mutual agreement. You know what you’re stepping into when you go to a show like this. Chaos and pain are part of what makes this music so personal, and the shows reflect that. Respect is what we owe each other inside it.  That’s something I want my daughter to understand when she sees the floor from above. I also want her to see a part of me that helps explain the rest.

This is why I’m so in-your-face. I don’t hold back. I say what I mean and mean what I say. If I’m telling you something, there’s a reason. Hardcore helped shape that part of me. It’s blunt. It’s honest. Authenticity matters because being fake works against the very thing that makes this feel like somewhere you belong.

The environment is what I’ve been away from. We’re all there to give love to the music that has shaped who we are today. There’s a sense of belonging to something bigger than yourself without having to make the attempt at belonging.

These are my people. This is my energy.

I may be twenty years older than much of the crowd. That’s where the anxiety comes from. I’m aware that I’m walking back into a youth movement at 43. But I also know where they’ve been. I know what this music can mean to someone, because it has meant so much to me.
I’m going back with a different perspective, too. I’m not expecting to stand there awestruck.  I’m returning to something that’s already part of who I am.

This time, I’m not preparing for war. I’m going to a show with my kid.

You’re never too old for this shit. We may be too old for a pit, but if we called this home at one point, it never stops being exactly that.

The drapes may change, the inhabitants may evolve, and the door may be a different material, but it will always be home.

-THE Aging Hardcore Vet