NOFX are a tricky band to write about.
Unless, of course, you’re in NOFX — who dropped into the Harvard Book Store yesterday afternoon to sign copies of NOFX: The Hepatitis Bathtub and Other Stories. A sample chapter from the autobiography co-scribed by Jeff Alulis includes frontman Fat Mike recounting the first time he drank his wife’s urine, and a handful of subsequent occasions in which he also drank his wife’s urine. Other topics covered include the time Fat Mike’s parents (accidentally?) took him to a porno theater when he was three years old, and when he saw his first official punk show — Killing Joke at the Whiskey A Go Go in what must’ve been 1980-something.
I bet the rest of Hepatitis Bathtub is totally neat-o, and right this very second, I kind of wish I signed up to review that instead of the wall-to-wall sold out show at The Paradise that followed the bookstore appearance. I’m very glad I went to the show, of course. But it’s easier to produce lively copy out of kinky sex anecdotes and regrettable yet hilarious drug stories culled from 30 years of rock and roll shenanigans than it is to write a compelling review of a punk concert.
Most punk-related writing is terrible, and only partly because most of the people who want to write about punk music are idiots. It doesn’t help that punk music-related experiences don’t tend to comfortably translate into tidy 500-word recaps. Boiled down to a set of bullet points, punk shows all kind of sound the same.
For instance, I could write…
“Iconic Los Angeles punk outfit NOFX played a mad bonkers show last night. The Paradise was so packed that it was real hard to get around, and the de-facto pit extended almost all the way back to the bar by the front entrance. Lots of people slammed into each other, more often than not, on purpose. Everybody sang the words to numerous NOFX classics like ‘Dinosaurs Will Die,’ ‘Murder the Government,’ ‘Stickin’ In My Eye,’ and to a lesser extent, ‘Franco Un-American.’ Fat Mike himself didn’t appear to remember 100 percent of the lyrics to that last one, which was fine, because NOFX played it way faster than the recorded version. It was fucked up! But the good kind of fucked up!”
And you might say…
“How is that ‘mad bonkers?’ That sounds like a normal punk show.”
And I could explain…
“No! It was not normal! Punk shows are the goddamn worst most of the time, but this one was really good instead of bad!”
And you might continue…
“Yeah, but I want specific evidence of that.”
So I say…
“Uh, a fight of some kind broke out during the encores, between ‘Linoleum’ and a catchy new song I believe they announced as ‘I’m An Oxymoron.’ I couldn’t see much from the other side of the room. My vague understanding of the situation is an individual scuffled with a bouncer, or scuffled with someone a Twitter user confused for a bouncer, someone’s head hit the stage, and one of the parties involved may have had long hair. Fat Mike jumped in to play peacekeeper, and we were lucky the fracas didn’t preclude the rest of the show.”
To which you might retort…
“Oh, wow. A Fight At A Punk Rock Show?! In-con-fucking-ceivable and not at all just the tritest cliché ever!”
And I’d say…
“Ah, and there was a ton of between-song banter, as is typically the case with NOFX. Fat Mike saw a guy standing on the far side of the stage who might’ve been Korean and made a joke about fermented food. Fermented vegetables are a Korean thing, I guess? I’m not sure if I understood the reference. Anyway, I think the joke landed more like Tina Fey-style tongue-in-cheek, making-fun-of-racism racism, as opposed to, like, racist racism.”
To which someone else might retort…
“I fucking hate Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. Now I’m typing a Facebook comment that calls you a stupid idiot.”
So, yeah, like I said earlier, reviewing NOFX is hard.
Openers Direct Hit! claimed to have heard many a “Fuck You!” from impatient audiences as NOFX’s supporting act on this go-round, and voiced appreciation for the comparatively welcoming Boston crowd. Though one gentleman standing behind me declared “You Suck!” in reference to the Milwaukee quartet, he was wrong, and possibly some sort of asshole. Not unlike fighting at a punk show, there’s nothing trailblazing about four dudes playing fast tunes about Satan, drugs, and murdering their boss from their old day job at a call center. But there isn’t really a good version of a concussion, as opposed to the aforementioned paradigm we’ve all heard before, but remains the sort of thing we’re predisposed to enjoy.
I thought Mephiskapheles, also on last night’s bill, perished back when Gwen Stefani ordered the execution of all ska bands in 1999. Turns out I was half-right — Mephiskapheles reformed in 2012, and offered an efficient, under-30 minute display indicating ignorance or obliviousness to the passage of time.
Follow Barry Thompson on Twitter @BarelyTomson.