Fuck The Sex Pistols. Long Live Modern Life Is War.

I remember within the first quarter second having someone bull rush me to the ground. I was angry and after picking up the person that got pushed by my body, I remember smiling. I remember thinking there was no way I'd chance the ravenous circles of people in front of the small stage for the microphone. The arms and arms and mouths. It was too nutty. I'd get hit on the head by a crowd surfer for sure.

I remember grabbing the guitarist's microphone for the end of closer D.E.A.D.R.A.M.O.N.E.S. (It was the D-E-A-D-R-A-M-O-N-E-S part) I remember the look of absolute delight on Jeff's face when some kid from the crowd grabbed the microphone for D.E.A.D.R.A.M.O.N.E.S. and wouldn't let go. He let it go and watched the onstage pandemonium happily. Maybe even with glee. He could watch his own band and be a part of the celebration. He did.

I remember it raining lightly after the concert, nothing meaningful, but enough to make the post-show air magical and moist. If there is another genre of music where the aim, after making enough money to survive on, is to have the stage assaulted and the instruments ripped from the players, I don't know it.

The sense of joy, celebration and communal catharsis is in every genre of music, in every live performance, and pretending otherwise is a hack's game. There is something special here, though. There is a sense of power, that no matter how pedestrian and how unremarkable a punk show with "energy" is, even beyond that, last night there was a celebration.

We missed you, Modern Life Is War. Thank you..