Live! at the Living Gallery
By Ian St. Germain
There’s something electric about parties. I still can’t put my finger on it. Is it the smell of pot and cigarettes that hits your nose blocks away? Is it the way the bass sucks the breath out of you every time it drops? Or is it the random assortment of cuts and bruises, the torn vocal cords and the general soreness you’re left with in the morning? Whatever it is, I can’t get enough. I’ve always longed for a crazy Project X style party to tell my kids about one day. One where the cops come and shut it down, forcing me and a handful of friends to scurry through the crowd laughing, realizing we just had the best night of our lives. That hypothetical can’t top my summer if it tried.
I don’t go to many parties these days. I’ve gotten sick of dancing to soulless songs with strangers. I can’t stand wasting money on an hour of awkwardness before DTs (undercover cops) show up and shut the function down. Instead, I’ve fallen in love with Brooklyn’s DIY scene, where kids my age put on concerts in claustrophobic venues with blown-out amps for directionless punks. For 5 dollars a ticket, you’ll end up with a night to remember. Acts like Clara Joy, Hello Mary, Verona, Clovis, The Rat Bastards, Arvene, Max the Kid and especially Big Pity have really defined the sound of New York’s growing Zeitgeist. Aside from being incredible musicians, these are some of the warmest people I’ve ever met. Through their nightly shows over the summer, I managed to find a home in the mosh pits. A family in the chaos. A love for New York’s grimy nightlife. My first taste of the scene was the Living Gallery.
Sophomore year had left me disillusioned. I was done with tests, cliques and homework. I needed a break, but I knew my summer vacation would be spent stuck in Brooklyn, studying for the SATs. Somehow, I stumbled upon an Instagram post advertising “Living Artist Prom” at the Living Gallery, organized by Big Pity. Though I was aware of my friend Mavis’s band, I knew nothing about them, and I hadn’t seen Mavis since the 7th grade. I was anxious about going alone, knowing that I’d run into a lot of kids from my middle school, so I invited this girl I’d been talking to for a bit. I was less focused on the show, more focused on hooking up with her, as I wanted to make it obvious I’d changed and “glowed up” since then without having to talk to my old classmates. She canceled last minute, sending my anxiety through the roof.
In an effort to prove she was missing out, I decided to go alone. My uncle Lionel had exposed me to punk music through black bands like Bad Brains, Fishbone and Basement 5, so I was interested in checking out the local scene. Why waste another weekend sinking into the cushions of my friends’ couches? So I hopped in the shower, lathered my hair with shampoo, doused myself with cologne and threw on my overpriced, neon pink Search and Destroy shirt covered in revolvers. My legs bounced up and down with anticipation as the Uber pulled in closer and closer to the venue. Thanking them for the ride, I hopped out of the car and wondered to myself, “What the hell did I get myself into?”.
Before me stood a canvas, larger than a storefront but smaller than a warehouse, covered in ivy, cartoons and graffiti. My legs locked in place, and I couldn’t help but stare at the groups of girls in fishnet stockings & Doc Martins clumped around each other trading cigarettes outside. Coming from Stuyvesant High School, a school packed to the brim with nerds, it was a lot to take in. After waiting outside for a while, looking for friends of mine, I decided to go in. If this scene was a canvas, I ought to make my mark.
Inside, I found the cramped drywall oddly cozy and somehow familiar, despite having been there for only 20 seconds. Towards the center of the room, a crowd of kids were forming around the first act, “Max the Kid”. Max was a one-man-band, armed with nothing but a teal blue Stratocaster, a loop pedal, a delay, and a drum pad. Greeting the crowd with an awkward chuckle, he began to play. Instantly, I was lost in undulating, psychedelic chords. The crowd faded from view, and soon I stopped worrying about my clothes, or my hair, or the opinions of those around me. Instead, I stared at his hand positions and effects board, soaking up all the inspiration I could. I was so enamored during his set that I decided to talk to him after the show, no matter how awkward I felt.
To my surprise, Max was incredibly disarming. I explained how I loved his set, and that this was my first show, and he embraced me. He answered all my questions about his gear and how he writes his chord progressions. Throughout our conversation, I learned that he lives in Connecticut and comes down to the city whenever he can to perform. Impressed by his dedication and willingness to play for strangers, I started mulling over the idea of performing myself. I’d always had a love for music, and I had been writing lyrics for as long as I could remember. Seeing his bravery made me wonder about taking music more seriously. At the very least, I began to feel a little less alone in the gallery.
Soon enough, it was time for the next set. Whereas Max’s music was serene and nostalgic, the next band’s was aggressive and full of energy. The hard power chords of the lead guitarist’s Gibson cut through the gallery and the crowd found its pulse. Someone pushed me, I pushed him back, another person joined in, and in a blink of an eye, we had a mosh pit. Suddenly, everyone from the girls posted up front to the guys slouched in the back began jumping, pushing, and shoving with animalistic rage. Sweaty bodies bounced off each other like pinballs. Max caught my eye in the madness, wading over to me and grabbing my arms. Without warning, he started swinging around with me, using our centripetal force to knock people down and open up the pit, like a punk rock tornado. By the end of the set, people were walking off with battle scars, limping through the cramped exit door and collapsing on nearby walls. I was forced to hobble over to a nearby table and repair my beat-up and soulless Nike Uptempops with neon pink electrical tape before limping out myself. As I flip-flopped through the streets, I heard cheers and kids commenting on how ‘punk’ that was. Suddenly, I no longer felt alone; I felt safe within the gallery’s walls.
Finally, it was Big Pity’s set. The anticipation felt through the house was exhilarating. As the headline act and the ones organizing the show, they had a lot to live up to...they completely smashed my expectations.
Mavis’s smooth hums and thudding bass lines, Dave’s masterful guitar solos and Max’s intricate and driving drum patterns put them on par with professional bands twice their age. Starting off slow and trippy, their set gradually gained energy, building up to their masterpiece, “Saturnalia." “When the beat drops, you know what to do.” For 15 minutes, Big Pity transported me into a hazy new world, surrounded by my new found friends. Soon enough, Dave whipped out a Rubix cube, bowing it across his effects-driven guitar. Lifting it to his head, he threw the cube into the crowd and began sliding his teeth and up and down the neck of his Ibanez, as we started to cheer and roar with excitement. Soon enough, the psychedelic chords faded, as Dave switched guitars and began to play dark, menacing licks across his Yamaha. This was the moment we were all waiting for. “Open up the fucking room!” some kid screamed, as the crowd split and parted to the walls. Dudundun-dududon-dun-dun-dun. Dudundun-dududon-dun-dun-dun! DUDUNDUN-DUDUDON-DUN-DUN-DUN! Everyone began to scream!
I remember charging into the random dark figures opposite me, ramming into some kid half my size. Elbows hit eyes. Heads hit stomachs. Some kid was thrown across the room. Another was lifted above my head and began to crowd surf. It was something out of a punk-rock biopic! By the time the song was over, it felt as if I had gone to war. Everything fiber of my body ached, and. I knew I’d need days to recover. After the show, I found Mavis and her band mates. I thanked them for the incredible night, to which I received the warmest hugs.
***
A while ago, I returned to the Living Gallery. After weeks of begging my parents to allow me to host a show for my birthday, they acquiesced. I invited every band I’d seen over the summer, and everyone who was able to attend said yes. They didn’t treat it like a gig, rather, a celebration among family. And when the day finally came for our messed up punk family to come together, the Gallery felt like home. As the night went on, I saw familiar faces walk through its spray-painted doors, as well as friendly-looking strangers. I heard all my favorite songs as well as new ones to add to my discography. I even got the chance to play some songs of my own with my band, creatively named KIDS. No matter how unprepared we were (we’d technically only had one rehearsal together), we brought the punk attitude, and that’s all anyone seemed to care about. By the end of it, we’d gotten three noise complaints and were told the cops were on their way. It was the only way I could have celebrated my birthday, and it was one of the greatest nights of my life. I left the gallery sweaty, tired, and fulfilled, knowing I’d finally joined the ranks of the bands I’d looked up to just a few months before. No matter how crummy my set was, I felt like a rock star.
The Living Gallery isn’t particularly big, or inviting, or iconic. It’s just a venue used by the DIY scene every now and then. It's the people and the memories housed in the gallery that make it feel larger than life. In the gallery, it doesn’t matter who you are, who you identify as or where you’re from; all that matters is that you’re there. That sense of freedom allowed me to find myself in its cramped graffiti-covered walls, and find my voice through its blown-out amps and cruddy microphones. And as much as I’d like to, I just don’t have the words to describe all the memories and good times I’ve had there. I don’t have the words to describe the sense of euphoria that comes with watching your friends rock out all night until the police arrive. I can’t explain what it's like to feel at home with strangers.
You’d have to be there. You’d have to play live at The Living Gallery.