Basement Shows

On the list of modern-day punk-rock capitals, you'd have to rate New Brunswick, N.J. among the country's elite. But bands like Pavement, The Bouncing Souls, Midtown, Thursday, and Armor For Sleep didn't get their starts playing open mic nights or bars. Instead, these future pioneers came up through the underground, literally.

Basement shows like the ones at Hamilton Street still thrive today, and their spirit is reflected no better than in the old Souls' tune "Party at 174," referring to the band's old digs. It seems New Brunswick isn't the only area with more D.I.Y. bands than venues for them to play.

When the original location of Wilkes-Barre's Cafe Metropolis closed during the late '90s, the Wyoming Valley's D.I.Y. movement and basement bookings really took shape. It was in a Kingston basement, called the 717, where the bands played in a small room separate from the audience. The crowd only had a good view through the doorway.

Adam Vinson, a local artist/musician, recalls one of his favorite reoccurring basement shows at the 717, "We played a small show there in the dead of winter. We had developed a reputation for chaotic performances. During our first song, we freaked, and in the process, kicked dirt and dust all over the place. By mid-set, with a thick fog of dust in the air, our drummer totally flipped and started to thrash his drums around. Drums were flying all over. The energy was unmatched with a stellar climax where I was screaming in people's faces."

Basement shows provide bands with an intimate connection to an audience that attends for no other reason than to see the band. There is no drink special. No karaoke. No $2 appetizers.

You'll often times hear a band talk about a preference of playing to 10 or 15 people who are into the music, rather than 100 people who ignore the set in favor of the football game. That's the draw of a basement show. You'll see an average of 20 or so people who are wired into the buzz, and they make it worth it.

Mark, who hosts shows in his Wilkes-Barre area basement (and withholds his last name for that reason), recalls the first show he held in his parents' home. "I heard that Magnus was playing at someone's house in Swoyersville. I was blown away and I thought that throwing a show at my own house was a great idea, he said. "So, the first show ever in this house was in 1998. My dad was out of town and I held the show in my garage. Ironically, everyone from Magnus was at the house and they just decided to play. That was the first show here and probably the first show I ever booked."

And as much as basement shows can be an inspirational experience, they can equally be a nightmare depending on how much (or how little) the people putting on the show care about the bands and music. Phillip Price, keyboardist for An Albatross and M80, is no stranger to basement shows. He remembers his first time playing with An Albatross.

"In New Jersey, we showed up to this kid's basement wearing uniforms, which were just black Dickies, and we all had gas masks on," he said. "We didn't talk to anyone. Instead, we just made hand motions to each other. I could tell the people there didn't seem to like the showmanship very much.

"We played our set, which was about 10 minutes long or so. (Singer) Eddie wound up naked on the floor with a concussion and he had to be taken to the hospital."

At the time, An Albatross was playing more than 40 percent of shows in basements across America, using unconventional stage antics to shake up the audience right from their earliest beginnings.

Now, as an international touring band with three CDs, a six-page spread in Decibel, and features in Metal Hammer, Modern Fix magazine and others, Price explained the importance of basements, houses, and other alternative venues.

"I don't know if our fanbase grew as a result of basement shows, but if you are somebody who's going to show up to a house and go into a nasty basement to watch a band with a single light bulb and no sound system, then you're probably the kind of person who is really truly interested in music," he said. "And you're really hungry for being creative.

"You're the kind of person who will stick around and be involved. So those friends are the people that you would really want in your corner as a band. That's why independent music is what it is and why the tradition of D.I.Y. punk and hardcore and whatever-core is so strong ... because of the contribution to everyone to create something larger than the sum of its parts."

Recently, Mark ran his show total to 18. The last big turnout was for prominent local band Tigers Jaw. "It's nice to see more kids trying to do things on their own again," he said. "I guess that had a lot to do with me starting up the basement shows again. I really want to help them out as much as I can. Adam from Tigers Jaw booked the most recent show for my basement. It was all word of mouth and people were talking about it on the Internet. We had a turnout of about 60 kids. It was so packed that I didn't even know what was going on."

A unique venue makes for a more interesting show. In the past two months, Mark has even taken the extra steps to accommodate the bands and fans. "I spent $200 on renovations," he said. "I bought paint, fabric, speaker cables, microphones, and a bunch of other music gear. I had to Shop Vac the floor multiple times, and I probably emptied out about 100 pounds of dirt."

After the surgery, the decorated basement looks like the TV show, Twin Peaks, (a town where everyone knows everyone and nothing is what it seems). "There's a room in 'Twin Peaks' which is actually the gateway to the dark side in the woods. It's this mystical room. It has red fabric walls and a black and white zig-zag floor. This place is a gateway for everyone who walks down those stairs and into the basement."

But one of the most important parts of a basement show is the D.I.Y. crowd involvement. Mark explained, "I thought the most recent show should be free, but Adam suggested I take donations at the door. So we put a can outside, not expecting anything. People just kept putting money in it. At the end of the night there was $100 in the can. And even though I tried to give the bands money at the end of the night, they insisted that I keep it because they liked playing here. I didn't need the money or anything, but it's nice to have that sentiment shown to me." A family of friends is cultivated from inside the close quarters at basement shows that allows natural generosity to happen.

Because of that kinship, Mark has been inspired to continue the shows in his basement. He says, "If it wasn't for the passion of these younger kids, like Tigers Jaw, coming to my house, enjoying the shows, and giving musical inspiration, I probably wouldn't do it. They are really the people I do it for. I definitely wouldn't have gone through the trouble of cleaning the basement if it weren't for these bands. They are the kids who are going to carry it on."

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