NOFX // LIVE at the Forum

I went to a punk rock show. Here is what happened at it. After THE BENNIES play like long-haired punk children of Christ (who IMO are both underrated and have more talent in their little finger than most have in their entire body – Even if they don’t know it on account of them being so blazed at all times) FRENZAL RHOMB filled in for Bodyjar who had to pull out of the show. No one knows why. Later, I think crack the case.

Lindsay’s dress tonight is demure, just grazing his shins. He is a pretty lady, a pretty girl. Jay’s dreads are hanging by a thread, despite all attempts to unhinge them in the way he’s throwing his head around. He talks about taking 4 tabs of ‘contraband’ with The Bennies and The Bennies confirm that from side of stage. Yes, we did that. That is correct. They punch through Russell Crowe’s Band (a lyrical masterpiece), punch into Punch In The Face and then Bird Attack (which I completely relate to more than any song ever written by anyone ever in history ever). I’ve grown up with these fools. I know the words and look up at the beautiful faux sky of the Forum, just in case a wayward bird mistook the inside for outside.

NOFX — Photo by Neal Walters

“We’re old as fuck. We don’t make much money,” says Jay. “We don’t really know how to pay rent. A completely stranger at the airport took pity on me and goes ‘here you go mate, have a beer’. It was a $9 beer!”

Jay looks at Lindsay. “I don’t even know who Ahren Stringer is.”

He’s the pretty one,” says Lindsay.

—

An adult (albeit infantile) man showing his dick to a sold out room of other adult men? If that’s not punk rock, I don’t know what is.

—

I’m tapped on the shoulder. Behind me is a large jovial man with a thin-lined beard (the one like Craig David) who smells like sheep.

“Do you like NOFX?” he asks, his shiny face dripping sweat onto his blue shirt. I frown. He has been sitting next to me for half an hour and hasn’t moved. Why the sweat, I wonder.

Sure, I say. He lights up a smoke and kicks into gear for a conversation that I am already trying to creep out of.

“I’m from the country; I’ve never been to the city before.” Sheep smell, I FUCKING KNEW IT. “I was in jail for 4 years…”

Now he has my attention. Why volunteer that information to a woman within the first 3 minutes? I’m glad I stuck around. I whip out my phone and start taking notes.

What for?

“I bashed someone.”

You got 4 years for bashing someone?

“We drink a lot in the country… and I beat someone with my wallet chain. I used it as a weapon, I guess.” He smiles, simply. WALLET CHAIN. Here we GO.

I look down at his wallet chain. Is that the same one? Is that THE evidence? Have you washed the blood and possible trace DNA that got you thrown into the big house?

What town did you say you were from?

“Stawell.”

How do you spell that? I ask, typing furiously into my phone. I feel like I’m a journalist for CNN getting an exclusive.

“S-T-A-W-E-L-L. You wanna know what my favourite bands are?  All I listen to is Pennywise and NOFX. Is the after party on at Next? Do you know? You have pretty hair.” He lifts the bottom of his shirt, exposing his gut and using it to wipe his face.

That’s nice.

NOFX — Photo by Neal Walters

NOFX’s Fat Mike shares shots of Jameson with the band and opens his mouth. I’m waiting for the car crash moment, the moment where voyeurs and arm chair critics wait for someone else to fuck up so they can destroy them for their candour or nudge their mate like, ‘Oh no, he didn’t. He did NOT just say that.’ Fat Mike tells everyone how he drugged Cam from Bodyjar by shoving MDMA caps up his ass so he couldn’t leave his hotel room – That’s the reason for their absence and why Frenzal Rhomb filled in their place. I’ve met Cam. I feel like this might be in the vicinity of the truth.

They play the hits; they play Dinosaurs Will Die like dinosaurs that survived the decades of their career. I’m so happy and so is Country Mate behind me, cat-calling Fat Mike to play Stickin’ In My Eye, which they don’t. Country Mate does not let up and gives me a shock every time he screams and throws his arms in the air, dousing me with his flailing body excretions.

72 Hookers, Eat The Meek, and The Separation Of Church and Skate make everyone go fucking ballistic – some dude is just holding a shoe up in the air like it’s lighting the way towards the punk afterlife. The clown tonight though is the clown that stripped off naked and jumped on stage: Fat Mike face turns from mock horror to complete acceptance, allowing Nudie-McRudie to jump around on stage with them. An adult (albeit infantile) man showing his dick to a sold out room of other adult men – If that’s not punk rock, I don’t know what is. Maybe going around pinching cocks is a hello or greeting between friends. I don’t know. I just grin knowing I’m the asshole who thinks this is hilarious; I’m the asshole who would have held up my shoe when I was 17. The crowd switches from balding men who still have their sunglasses on their head from long after knock-off, men with children and mortgages. They all for an hour forget they are adults kicking themselves and each other into behaving the way they did back in 1995. I smirk. I’m the asshole.

Country Mate asks me to come to the after party with him.

I’ll meet you there, I say. His face lights up. He takes it a step up, confidence blooming.

“I don’t want to drive back; I’ve got nowhere to crash tonight…”

I’ll meet you there, I repeat, smiling sincerely.

I do not.

—

IMAGE GALLERY