Sympathy for the Crusty Punks
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When I was a young close-minded musichead, I was often confused by a certain genre of concertgoer. Mid-30s and up, balding (for guys) or with graying hippie hair (for girls), they dressed in faded concert Ts of dead bands and jeans of an indeterminate age. They bopped to bands 20 years younger than them, drank good beer and hit on the college kids. They were the crusty punks.What do you make of a 40-year-old guy with a balding Mohawk that starts at the top of his head pogoing in the front of the club? Naturally, nihilistic clods that we were, we resented them for being at OUR concerts in OUR bars. How dare they walk around imposing their oldness on us? Didn’t they know they were supposed to be playing solitaire and listening to Kenny G. by now?You can see where this is going. I noticed that I was the oldest guy at the show a few years ago, the guy the cool kids were edging away from near the bar. I can’t blame them: the “scene” wasn’t built for middle-age ex-punks who can’t mosh due to their lumbago. Still, from all of the withered back row listeners at the next concert, all we ask is a little space to hold our beer (the only one we’ll be having) and a head start for the restroom. In exchange, we’ll stop crapping on your taste in clothing and save the stories about the great concerts we saw 20 years ago for our MOGs. Can’t we all just get along?And I promise i'll never be "that old guy" at your house party.









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