Cro-Mags Show No Mercy

It was not even close to show time, but it was obvious that trouble was brewing. Harley Flanagan, founder of Cro-Mags (arguably the forefathers of American hardcore), posted an Instagram photo claiming that he had just entered the American stinky brown eye of cultural division. He was landed in a gas station where confederate flags and chicken livers are hot commodities in redneck commerce. It’s not often that New Yorkers are confronted with racism at the retail level. One as unapologetic as the fowl organ fare these restaurants are cooking up in the back. Many of us who linger anywhere near the hemorhoidal itching of the South are, at times of course, accustomed to passive-aggressive tokens and imbecility. But not this multi-racial group from the East coast. If there was an underlying sentiment oozing from Flanagan’s fingertips it was, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”Sheeeeiiiit! Conflict was everywhere. It was everywhere. Flannagan, a black belt of Brazilian jiujitsu and chaw-spitting locals, could make a mistake and snap one of their legs. She would then be able to get them crying for their mommy in an axle grease and urine puddle. I knew that by the time they reached Evansville, Indiana to perform their show at StageTwo this bald bastard would be carrying a keychain with a hillbilly’s feet. The only thing that could have saved this southern cesspool from serving up chitlins for the average fowl-eating fascist was a Ramones or Led Zeppelin flag next to a couple dreamcatchers at the cash register. It was possible that it was a sign America’s divisions were beginning to narrow. Flanagan and crew would arrive at their show without incident. It was perhaps the most promising omen this nation had seen in a while, suggesting that we might just get along in end. Although the unlicensed band merchandise was not exactly an indicator of equality, it was a start. Cro-Mags, I was certain of that, could handle themselves. I had my own problems. Flanagan was looking down at a line of ethnocentric wares within one of Tennessee’s most shabby pump and dumps. I was also in the middle of a preshow meeting with Holly, my photographer partner, to ensure she had everything she needed for the band’s performance that night. As is the case with many conversations, it included one of my borderline lunatic ramblings about logistics and how we needed a transcendental mindset, where hack jobs are not allowed. While I was distracted by Netflix, Netflix was still playing in the background. My theory is that Holly likes to have some noise on in order to distract me from the paranoid madness that accompanies the 11th hour. This is when I feel most inclined to agitate anyone’s nerves, even those I love. This time, it was YOU, a series about a serial killer and obsessive bookselling who tries to make a family out of nothing. I won’t even mention the insignificant details of what happened before attending a show. “What the fu The dead dick quickly caught me attention, not because it was large enough to be kept in morgue-frigid conditions but because it wasn’t at all real. I said, “That’s not how a dead dick looks.” My sudden revelation about the continuity in the corpsecock was met with total disregard. Holly didn’t blink an eye. Holly didn’t seem to let my ignorance of human anatomy distract her from the task at hand. However, I would find out that her pre-teen and her borderline criminal aversion for homework would be a problem. We were supposed to meet at 7 p.m. to ride together to the venue. After I got myself in the right mindset to enjoy a few IPAs, a pull or two Blue Dream, I was able to get into the right mindset to mix with others. A missing science assignment would be a test of our professionalism. She texted me at 7:30 to say, “You’re going have to go without us,” knowing full well that such a sudden change of plans, which could leave me without a photographer, could lead to me suffering an aneurysm. “I’ll meet with you there, though,” I received a second text. This gave me some comfort that I wouldn’t have to use my iPhone to shoot the whole thing. Photo by Holly Crolley. I had no choice but to take a taxi and walk alone to the venue, anxiously. I didn’t want to miss a second of the CroMags. This show was important to me. You can check the archives of punk rock history and Harley Flanagan (now 56) is there. He’s everywhere. Flanagan was barely old enough for him to wipe his own sex, and he was constantly rubbing shoulders with the elite of New York’s weird and wonderful. Look! He is there with Joe Strummer and Andy Warhol. He is now with Debbie Harry. Flanagan almost secured his place in the well-documented narrative of New York punk. This scene was only possible because he refused to leave. His 12-year-old story of playing drums in The Stimulators at popular NYC spots from CBGB’s to Max Kansas City reads a lot like Forrest Gump. We are all that sweet, old lady on the park bench, watching intently and wondering if he really shook hands or if he’s just making up stories. Flanagan’s story is a true story. He was having a good time. He’ll be the first one to admit that it all seems dreamlike. Despite the fact that he had some of his heroes to help him along the way. Flanagan stated that “The Clash played some of the most memorable live shows I have ever seen.” High Times also interviewed Flanagan. Because I understand how important it is to be a young fan, and to meet someone that matters to you. That is the difference between treating you with respect and being treated like a human, or being a complete rockstar asshole who fucks you off. They were so kind to me, and I try to do the same for others. It meant a lot to me, they were really cool men, and I will always be respectful of them.” Yes, from the beginning of New York punk, when it was black and white. Then, the transition to color photos of the 80s and 1990s saw legends like Jeff Hanneman, Henry Rollins, and halle-fucking, lujah, God himself, Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead. Flanagan’s longevity in rock ‘n’ roll history may be due to his ability to give in to the trumpets when they roar. Flanagan recalls that Lemmy once asked him how he manages to keep going with all the bullshit he has to eat in this industry. “His response was “would you rather be slicing Bacon for a living?” I still remember that question every time I feel ill. The best part is that he knew that I was a vegetarian, so it was more like “would you rather be slicing bacon for a living?”. Growing up in one of the small, chicken liver-slinging Southern Indiana towns, I was a young turd who, like many snot-nose adolescents, was still listening and learning to jerk off. Wait, Hank? Yes, even young metalheads have a little bit of shitkicker! There weren’t any record stores in our area so I didn’t own an album if K-Mart didn’t have it. I did, however, often wander in the magazine aisle of my local grocery store and flip through the latest issues, Circus, Hit Parader, and other music publications looking for new bands to devour. Flanagan was first discovered in the back pages of one. I had never seen anyone like him. Flanagan was branded with a huge tattoo of a fire-breathing, gnarly Devil across his chest. His head was shaved and he looked like Charles Manson’s younger brother. He had just killed 40 people to get out of a mental institution to form a band. He wasn’t the typical malnourished rockstar who appears in those pages. Flanagan was slim and slender, but he posed like a serious sexy sexster. The man seemed healthy and unhinged enough for it to be true. While the rest of those spandex-wearing wusses were busy cleaning out their parent’s retirement savings trying to make it with their shitty band, Flanagan’s attitude resonated a certain gutter authenticity–starving yet always wired up enough to take it on–whatever that may be. “Holy shit,” was what I said to a friend who was there with me at that time. “Look at that dude!” The inclusion of the band, if I remember correctly, was a blurb about New York’s rise to hardcore. Flanagan was the perfect poster child for the movement and I was certain of it. I didn’t know what hardcore was back then. Cro-Mags, or any other band, was something I had never heard of. The buzz-cut, military-style hairstyle was part of the official garb. Cro-Mags was the first band I knew that had a bald club. Metallica was the most angriest and heaviest band I have ever seen. They had all had their pompadours almost down to their tummies. To me, a pastoral pipsqueak hailing from Indiana, with three pubes swinging from the nuts, they looked like the kind of guys you would want to be there if the shithit hits the fan. Their hyperbole and clenched fisted postures paled in comparison with Flanagan’s probity and machismo. He was the real deal.Photo: Holly Crolley. My best assessment of all this hardcore stuff was that it required having the courage to back up any vinegar or piss being sprayed from the stage. You shouldn’t write a check if your lyrics aren’t cashable. Do you want to bark all you want, or do you want to plunge headfirst into the pit and grab a hand to the jaws? It is not possible for anyone to take the plunge from passive to active and make it out alive. It could have been a metaphor for the life that produced this genre. Perhaps that’s how the seemingly insane skinhead managed to slip past the editorial gatekeepers at a music magazine that caters to glam rock and hard rock. His mug, with its intense, gnashing teeth and a man who would inevitably eat his grandmother if she got too close, soul, colostomy bag, and all, was burned into my stupid, impressionable brain. I thought the Bon Jovi’s and other ineffectual cockrock crooners of that era were doomed forever, and their pouty lips were about to die. It was goodbye. It was not owned by any of my friends, nor did they know who the fuck CroMags were. So it was a difficult task to get a decent copy. My mom had already bought into the PMRC’s satanic panic suicidal revival and drove me to the nearest town to check if it could still be purchased from a record store. But she refused to make any further contributions to my life of degeneracy. I met this man, dressed in black and wearing a leather jacket with Joey Ramone and Ed Gein on one side, a few years later. I demanded, “Play this one. Play this one.” He replied, “Oh man Cro-Mags is a frightening band.” That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Cro-Mags was, from the beginning, the antithesis to what I had grown up with as rock ‘n-roll. It was far different from what the heavy-drinking, down-picking chunk-chunkers of the Bay Area were putting out. The lyrics were also more personal than usual, and were like a warning sign written on the walls of a dive bar. It let everyone with piss on his zippers know that they should not be fooling around. “What does it take for you to be proven a fake? I believed it anyway. “Won’t show any mercy today!” I thought so, coming from a podunk community where I didn’t fit in. The band was manned by an apparent ruffian, someone who looked very much like me. However, the overall message was one of strength. I didn’t take shit from the weak hierarchy of imperialistic peckerweeds and never gave up, no matter what, and fighting back, win-or-loose. Show no mercy! Flannagan was a long-time infiltrating the systemics a drug-addled, rock ‘n’ roll lineage. He resorted to punching his idols in their throats, if only to prove that it wasn’t enough just to get mad for politics’ sake, but also to show that you needed to use a tire iron occasionally to get your point across. Cro-Mags was, along with Black Flag, one of the first bands to incite a cult among young born-losers to cut hair, get up from the couch, and fight for something, anything other than complacency. Those who bought into the movement were dangerous to society’s sheep-lapping. Anybody who didn’t show the boy respect back then would be reprimanded by the man and they’d lose. Fast forward to today and all the pseudo tough men who emerged from Flanagan’s influence in the world of heavy music and hardcore, many now with beer guts and bloated relics a philosophy they weren’t strong enough to uphold, got squishy. Flanagan is still as hard as nails. He just keeps getting better as he gets older. If you have ever wondered why Flanagan is still on stage, battling it out night after night, it is because the true primogenitor of his church remains the steeple. Flanagan may have drank the same narcospiracy as he did in his youth, but all that this legendary monstrosity turns to now for levity are casual beer and cannabis. When I asked him how he could still enjoy cannabis and keep his slim figure, he said that he didn’t drink it every single day. He said that cannabis helps him with his head and medicine, but that smoking can cause a lot of problems in my lungs, so he does take breaks. “I think the plant is amazing. It has many benefits and can be used for so many purposes. It is becoming more widely explored. It’s a great drug that is being recognized as more than a stoner hippie drug. Too much of anything is not good. But I am a fan. I used to grow. It’s a beautiful and rare plant. It should not be demonized, but respected.”Photo by Holly Crolley I was able to see the impending collision only seconds before it happened, but there was nothing I could do. My hands were too full to protect Holly from the body’s full speed. I had the small task of holding Holly’s beer (so that she could fool with the camera), and two of mine. Not without us both drinking enough beer to become hyperthermal by the end of the night. It didn’t matter in the end. Smaaaaack! The beer of the three boys in front of her fell on top of her like a bag of potatoes. My photographer arrived, but it seemed that there was more trouble in the wings. The lens was covered in brew, the lens was scratched or smudged and Cro-Mags were next. A weaker journalist would have packed it all up and sent a scathing message of disapproval to his editor, telling him to ‘fuckthe fuck off’. But, what’s the matter? The show must continue. We needed more beer, too! Cro-Mags was out and it seemed like the stars of rock journalism had finally aligned. If you believe all the hippie-dippy, cosmotheistic crap. All I know is that the man-made camera worked properly and my photographer, the trooper she is, was there to capture the spectacle. My job would come later, I couldn’t bother with logistics anymore. It was out of my control now, I’d already given up to whatever snaggletoothed ghost was haunting me from the ether. Let that snarl sort it out. My teen rebellion had been unleashed and I was left to swim in the nostalgic sea of testosterone with that new brute scent. Despite being raised in social contempt, Flanagan’s presence indicated that I had not pushed the system hard enough for a long time. This was something that needed changing. As Flanagan took the stage, I thought about this as I watched him belt out with more conviction that any other howling stripling his age. Fuck the new heavy, modern hardcore, and all other genres moving in the direction American pussification. It was nights like this, which were reminiscent of a simpler time, when we sometimes got our noses bitten by our friends and laughed about it. We must ask ourselves why we can’t go back to the days when we frothed at our mouths like animals. Or was it too late? Or was this a swan song for all punk culture’s? One left the show with only a few faded tattoos and a look that tells the story of the “born-losers”, those who have seen some shit but resolved to never take more. This show was one of the most impressive I’ve ever witnessed. My generation, which has seen its share of decline over the years, while others see a rebirth in Act 2, is made up of diehard fans whose devotion is carried on their sleeves. We had grown up in a time when music was the power of power. Now, we, Flanagan and I, are proof that old man strength was real and we would also need it. It’s true that Flanagan said it from the middle of the show that night. Perhaps he was doing so as penance for a young life that went, at times, unpleasantly awry. We cannot change the past, violence, or despicable acts of the past. However, we can live today with kindness and love and lead better lives than the last. “Life is amazing. It’s amazing. Flanagan said that she never would have imagined I would live this long. Flanagan said, “What else could I want?” It’s great. I’m living the dream, and enjoying the ride. It doesn’t matter if I’m performing in front of a few hundred, fifty, or 100,000 people, or if I’m training, or whatever else I do, I love every second of it and give it my best every time. This is how I live my daily life.