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The Commune: Or, a Love Letter to DC’s DIY Music Scene

Dear Assholes,

Somewhere, somehow, and somewhen, I am going to play at your establishment in DC. Might not be March, might not be next March. Might not even be tomorrow. But at some point, your 500 bands per square mile of DC are going to kneel their inept little heads down to meet my guitarfucking hand. You will kiss that hand, and you will revere that hand like it were your own mother.

Just a Warning.

Signed, Trashcan Sam

P.S. I invented Trashpunk, baby. I’m from Thee Trashcan, after all.

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Punk Pop vs. Pop Punk, Ramones-core vs. Hi-Fi Punk

The Offspring, unfortunately, was how I was introduced to Punk. “Punk”.

Growing up a Beatles aficionado, arguing constantly to more musically knowledgeable classmates that Ringo Starr was the world’s best drummer (Hey, he’s filthy rich and Keith Moon is dead, I thought that theory held weight), I still would tune in to DC 101 and listen to that Kevin Smith-humored radio host recycle the same Southern California songs over and over. I loved the Offspring, but really only because it was my sole access to that noise back then.

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