The band that got me
into hardcore was Sick of It All…I saw the video for “Step Down” on Headbanger’s
Ball one night and was instantly hooked. From there I started reading In Effect
zine which was based out of NYC so all my early favorites came from that scene.
This was when “alternative” or underground music was seen as commercially
viable so a lot of those bands (SOIA, Civ, Quicksand, H20, Shelter, and many
others) were on major labels and were touring a ton. One band from that era who
I absolutely loved was Orange 9mm. Their first LP “Driver Not Included” had the
grooves of Quicksand, the aggression of SOIA, plus an unmistakable hip-hop
influence delivered by the commanding Chaka Malik. I was blown away.
Orange 9 toured as much
if not more than those other bands so I must have seen them a dozen times from
95’ to 98’, mostly at either St. Andrews Hall in Detroit or The Reptile House
in Grand Rapids; I even caught them on the first rendition of the Warped Tour. Their
second LP “Tragic” held much of the same power as “Driver”, although it also
began to show off a more experimental side of the band. After “Tragic” I
stopped paying attention for the most part, although years later in 2004 when it
turned out that their drummer Matt Cross was in a grad school class I was
taking on Congress & the Courts I almost shit my pants.
I wore an SOIA sweatshirt
to class one night so he walked over to me and was like “Oh hey, I used to know
those guys, my old band toured with them. Yeah, I recorded with 108 too and
pretty much knew all the bands from that time.” Needless to say when he went on
to tell me who he was and that he was in Orange 9mm, I was pretty much in
awestruck fanboy mode. Unfortunately, I never really worked up the nerve to
talk to him after that brief encounter and we never crossed paths again during
the rest of my time in grad school.
Then about two years ago
I heard that he was still in the Detroit area and had a new band, a raging
hardcore punk project called Collapse. Shortly thereafter I worked up the nerve
to friend him on Facebook and came to find out that like me, he’s a teacher. Alright,
I figured, I know this guy has tons of awesome stories and we seem to have a
lot in common, I’ve gotta talk to him for the blog.
He immediately agreed
and we started exchanging questions and answers several months ago. This has
turned out to be probably the most extensive and far-reaching interview I’ve
done thus far, but then again Matt’s history in punk and hardcore is deeper and
more wide-ranging than anyone else I’ve ever talked to.
What has struck me most
about Matt is his humility, honesty, and deep commitment to humanity. He is truly
an inspiration, musically and otherwise.
Matthew Cross ladies and
gentlemen…
I'm curious to learn
more about your background. You've obviously spent time playing music all over
the world; are you a native Michigander or did you land here later in life?
I
was born in Michigan, and grew up in the suburbs just north of Detroit. I
started playing drums around age 13. After high school I lived in Detroit and
Hamtramck until my early 20s. I moved to New York City in the early 90s to join
Orange 9mm, and was there for about 8 years until I moved back to Detroit in 2000
to go to school. The band ended in ’99, and by then I had grown disillusioned
with music generally, and didn’t have much confidence in my own abilities as a
musician. While I really liked the direction Orange 9mm was going those last
couple years, and the chances and risks we were taking with music, it was also the
lowest point in my life in terms of my faith in myself as a player, and being
in a band generally.
That
was around the same time when my interest in politics and history moved from a
general curiosity to a passion. By the late 90s when Orange 9mm would tour, I’d
bring an extra bag with about 12 books in it, and would run off to find the
local library to do research between load-in and our set. My bandmates would
laugh, but they also encouraged me to consider going back to school, like
“You’re doing more work than most students do, you should get college credit
for it.”
After
the band broke up, I took a couple years off from playing as I started my
undergrad work. The next thing I did was a project called Firewerk, with some people
I’d played with before moving to NYC. It was a guitar-heavy industrial band,
and I had a blast with that. It got me excited about making music again, in
part because my drumming was minimal and easy, but also because we were more
focused on making and enjoying the music than on the business end of things. It’s
impossible to find the words to describe the joy I’d always gotten from playing
and performing, and when I lost it, it was like my heart had been cut out of my
body. So I really owe a lot to that band and those people.
I
stopped playing with Firewerk in 2004. I was in the middle of my MA program at
Wayne State University, and between work and school I just didn’t have the
time. When you and I met at WSU, I’d been in Detroit for four or five years.
When I started playing with Collapse in 2012, I hadn’t played drums since 2004.
I mean, I’d set up my kit and play for an hour or so every few months, but nothing
beyond that.
Like me,
you grew up in the pre Internet era, so how did you discover punk and hardcore?
From your perspective, what’s gained and lost by discovering the subculture via
digital means as opposed to randomly stumbling upon it or having a cool older
sibling or whatever?
My
brother was into new wave in the early 80s, and as a pest of a younger brother
I was always in his room going through his tapes. That’s where I first heard
bands like Sex Pistols, The Jam, and the Ramones. I loved new wave, and still
do, but was really drawn to the energy of punk. He’d bring me along once in a
while to hang out with his friends, where I was exposed to bands like Vice
Squad, Motorhead, and Discharge. A friend of his turned me on to a local high
school radio show that played punk and hardcore, and I filled up several
cassettes in my bedroom recording those shows. That’s where I first heard and
fell in love with Minor Threat, 7 Seconds, The Offenders, MDC, Black Flag, and
other early hardcore bands. Man, I really wish I still had those tapes…from
there, I started going to independent record stores, buying zines, and going to
shows at the Graystone Hall. I was hooked, completely.
I
always felt out of place as an adolescent. I played basketball, but was never a
jock. I was in theater, and played in the school band, and was always into
reading, so I was pegged as a nerd and a “queer” (as if that’s a bad thing)
early on, and got a lot of shit for that. I hated Reagan, didn’t trust the
police, and had issues with authority in general, so for me – like so many
others – punk and hardcore became this space where I felt, for the first time,
some sense of understanding and community. It was a place in the world that
helped me make sense of the world, you know? That scene had, and still has, so
many troubling aspects – it’s not until recently that I’ve really gained
clarity on just how fucked up those spaces can be, especially around gender and
race. But at the same time, ironically, it was through hardcore that I started learning
about those issues.
I
can’t really speak to what it means to discover the subcultures of punk and
hardcore in the digital age. People talk a lot about the internet and digital
media keeping people disconnected and isolated from others, but I felt like
that for almost 20 years before the internet. It seems to me that if people
want to be in community with others, they’ll make it happen. And many people
suffer, to varying degrees, from a lot of anxiety and trauma. So for them, the
internet allows for a kind of community that might feel safer for them, and I
think that’s a good thing.
And
for me, I don’t think I really knew that I craved community, or being an
active, present participant in a subculture, until I went to a few shows. At
first I was just there to see the bands, you know? When I started talking to
people and learned what other people were doing as “punks”, I started to have a
sense of what a scene was about, and how important it was to have other human
beings to share this experience with.
Today,
I’m still discovering new bands by going to shows, talking to people, reading
zines, etc. But I’m also discovering a lot of incredible music by exploring online.
For example, I was looking for old videos of Los Crudos on YouTube, and
eventually came across an anarchist hardcore band from Portland called
Adelit@s. Now I have all their records, and they are straight up one of my
favorite bands. When I listen to them, my heart jumps in my throat just like
when I was 15 listening to Bad Brains’ ROIR Sessions. I might have discovered
them eventually – Mikey and Jhone from Collapse are into them – but maybe not.
So I’m personally really excited about how easy it is to discover new music
online. The only downside for me is the terrible sound quality of mp3s.
However
people get into punk and hardcore today, whether it’s through a friend, a zine,
or browsing the Profane Existence website, I hope they find something that
moves them to eventually do something real – to start a zine, to start a band
or open a space for shows like you’ve done, or to become active around some issue
in their community.
Oh man, I've always
heard about shows at spots like the Black Cat and Grounds Coffeehouse, but this
is the first I've ever heard of Graystone Hall. Indulge me and drop some
Detroit punk history...where was this spot at and what were some of the most
memorable shows you went to there? Aside from national
bands, what were some of the locals you got excited about when you first
started going to shows?
I
loved the shows at Grounds Coffeehouse, it was such fun space. The Graystone
was on Michigan Avenue west of Livernois. I actually live just a couple blocks
away; it’s a laundromat now. Not exactly sure of the timeline, but I think they
had shows there from around 1983 until 1987. I saw a lot of great bands at that
space: 7 Seconds, Black Flag, Youth of Today, Cro-Mags, Dag Nasty, Life
Sentence, Bad Brains, Scream, and more. I wasn’t around for the first wave of
U.S. hardcore, so there were a lot of shows at places like the Freezer Theater
and the old City Club that must have been just insane, like Minor Threat and
Negative Approach. As for local bands, I really liked Angry Red Planet, Inside
Out (not that one, the Detroit one), Heresy, and I loved State from Ann Arbor.
Their “No Illusions” EP is still one of my favorite punk records.
You
know, memories are funny…I don’t really trust them, and I want to be clear that
what I’m saying is framed by where I’m at now. So I loved going to shows back
then, but shows used to frighten me. It had nothing to do with being in Detroit;
it was the violence and the constant threat of violence, whether the show was
in Detroit, Redford, or Warren. You had
this really intense white male aggression that was so much a part of that
scene. I mean, it’s still there today, but this was just out of control. You could
feel it in the air, choking you…like half the crowd was just begging for the
chance to fight someone. For the longest time there was a significant presence
of racist skinheads at Detroit shows. They weren’t the only ones making
trouble, but they were definitely the worst, and you really started to question
whether it was worth going to a show or not. That’s why I enjoyed later shows
at Grounds or 404 Willis, because it was a much more positive, peaceful energy.
I
know a lot of people try to romanticize this period, or explain those attitudes
away, like “Oh, you just didn’t know them; they were really sweethearts when they
weren’t beating the shit out of people.” And to be fair, I know a lot of these
kids – myself included – were struggling with serious problems and trauma that
deserved real help and attention. And that’s perhaps what attracted us to this
scene in the first place. Going beyond that, I don’t know if it’s possible to
be a young white male in a patriarchal/apartheid society – with all the
entitlement that comes with that – watching this industry you assumed would
employ you as an adult crumble and fall, and not be emotionally jacked up.
But
the fact of the matter is, those shows and those spaces were often dangerous,
aggressive, and just a fucking bummer. And that’s before the police arrived,
which always made it worse, because they were just looking to get their rocks
off harassing and beating up these kids no one else cared about, and who often
needed real help. But it was still a bad scene, and like I said, you wondered
at some point why anyone bothered. Who wants to go to a show and get smashed in
the head for no reason by some skinhead on dust? What’s the difference between
that and getting beaten up by some homophobic jock at school? The soundtrack, I
guess.
What
made it worthwhile for me was seeing these bands play, and meeting people who
recognized this culture had the potential to be something so much better than
the dominant capitalist/colonialist/celebrity culture we’d all been raised on.
When Collapse toured this past summer, there was almost no slam-dancing, and
every space we played felt safer, at least from what I could sense, for most
people there, and especially for a 15 year old kid, you know? So “back in the
day” had its moments…I’m grateful for the experience, and it had a huge impact
on me and how I was shaped as a person, but at the same time there are aspects
of it I don’t miss at all, and I don’t want to minimize them.
It's insane to hear you
say "Yeah I just moved out to NYC to play with Orange 9" so casually,
haha. How did you get to know those guys and how did they come to recruit you
to play with them? Given their resumes, especially Chaka's, what kind of
expectations did you have when you joined the band?
I
didn’t mean for that to sound casual; it definitely wasn’t casual for me when
it all went down. In terms of expectations, I knew it would be life-changing,
but I couldn’t imagine to what extent. In some ways, I’m still processing that
time and the effect it had on my life.
I
loved the late 80s/early 90s era of Revelation Records, and how these musicians
I’d been listening to for years were going in these new directions. The Quicksand
and Burn EPs were favorites. I’d go see Quicksand anywhere I could, and struck
up an acquaintance with Alan Cage. Actually, I think I just forced it, like
“I’m a drummer, you’re an amazing drummer, and you are gonna talk to me now
because I drove three hours to watch you play.” At the time I worked in a drum
shop, and would hook him up when they came through. I knew a lot about drums,
and eventually he asked me to come on tour as their drum tech.
But
before that could happen, he called a few weeks later to tell me I should try
out for Orange 9mm, who was looking for a drummer. He told me if he wasn’t
doing Quicksand, he’d want to play for Orange 9mm, and had recommended me to
Chaka. I said I was interested (in my head I was freaking out), and then Chaka
called a few minutes later. He sent the Revelation EP recordings to me the next
day, I learned the songs, and drove out to NY a week later to audition. They
said I was in, and within a few days I put my stuff in storage and moved.
And
yeah, it felt intense to try out for a band with Chaka, because that Burn EP
was like a book I couldn’t put down. A lot of people who love that record talk
about it in almost mystical terms, and I was totally one of those people, yet I
hadn’t heard his new band yet and wasn’t sure what they were about. When I
spoke with him on the phone, I started to question if I could pull it off. I
was still a hardcore kid, and in my head I was thinking “Burn, Absolution,
Nausea…” But on the phone, Chaka was saying “Zeppelin, Jesus Lizard, Curtis
Mayfield…” I was like “oh yeah, Jesus Lizard, man. Sweet…” and thinking I’d
better go buy one of their records immediately so I don’t look like an idiot. But
once I got there, it didn’t matter. I just fell in love with what they were
doing sonically, and I was able to evolve as a player into what they needed at
that time.
Aside from working at
the shop and getting to know Alan a bit, were you in any bands at that time
that Alan had actually seen you play in, or did he just trust that you had
chops?
I
was in a band at the time, but I don’t think Alan had ever heard me play before
that phone call. He probably just assumed I knew how to play because I knew
about drums. Chaka had asked him if he knew any drummers around the country who
might be interested in trying out, and Alan mentioned me. It is kind of funny
when you think about it; here’s a band from NYC, a city up to its neck in
talent, and they’re looking across the country for someone. Maybe they liked
the idea of reaching beyond what was already familiar to them. I really couldn’t
say.
I'm sure the thought of
being in a band that you knew would be able to tour was pretty mesmerizing in
and of itself, but what about moving to NYC on top of that? Were you
intimidated at all or was the excitement of that moment enough to just
completely overshadow it? Was your family supportive or did they give you the
"you're throwing your life away" speech?
Touring
was a possibility that definitely excited me, and so was the sense that the
band was going to be signed, but the main draw was the music – I wasn’t going
to leave Detroit to play music I thought was boring, regardless of who was in
the band.
I’m
not sure I was intimidated by New York City any more than I would have been by
any city I was unfamiliar with. The cultural shift was difficult; how people
spoke and interacted was a real shock, and it took a while to adjust. But I came
to love and appreciate how up-front people in NY could be with one another,
while in Michigan it seemed like so few of us will come out and say what the
hell we mean. My cultural environment growing up was often about repressing
feelings and avoiding personal conflict. So being there led to many moments of
discomfort, but also a lot of personal growth.
My
family was pretty supportive, and that was very important to me. No, I never
got that speech about throwing my life away, thankfully. The speech I wish I
had gotten was the one where I was reminded why I had started playing music in
the first place, and where I was reminded what corporate music is all about. Looking
back, I shouldn’t have needed that speech. And I’m not sure it would have made
a difference in my decision, but I really wish I’d heard it.
You guys toured so much
and with so many great bands. When you think back on it, what were some of the
highlights from that time; either in terms of friendships you made, experiences
seeing the world, etc.?
The
most obvious highlight would be meeting my wife; I don’t have the words for
what that relationship has meant to my life and my evolution as a human being.
She’s the best person I know, straight up. But it was a really special time,
and an incredibly privileged opportunity to meet and bond with a lot of really
great people.
Some
of the highlights are obvious: touring with Sick of it All means you get to
watch Sick of it All tear it up every night, you know? But it also means
getting to know these people as human beings, and eventually as friends, and
that was special. As a coffee lover, it was so much fun to explore the cities
and towns we were in and find great coffee with the people I was becoming
friends with. I could go on for pages and pages about this. I’m glad you asked
this question, because depending on the day, I might be more likely to focus on
the negative aspects of this period. But you know, I met really fantastic,
talented, and remarkable people, got to play music every night, and most of the
time just had a blast. The aspects of touring I enjoyed with Orange 9mm are the
same I enjoy now with Collapse; what makes touring with Collapse more enjoyable
is that it’s just us – we’re not thinking about selling records, radio, the
label, or anything like that. It’s just five of us getting in a van and trying
to have as much fun as possible.
Another
high point was reading. Touring gave me the opportunity to read so much, way
more than I have time for now. And living in NYC and taking the subway
everywhere was great because I always had at least a half hour at the beginning
and end of each day I could dedicate to reading. On the last tour with Collapse
I was able to read a lot more; I actually started and finished a book. I can’t
remember the last time I’ve done that.
But
I think the most significant takeaway of that period of touring with Orange 9mm
was seeing the U.S. as a country, and recognizing some common themes related to
politics and economics. That sparked a real shift in my perspective. I’d always
had an interest in those issues, but after a couple years I started seeing
patterns. Every city had, to varying degrees, similar elements of inequality –
here’s the really rough part of town where people of color live, here’s the
really nice, secure white suburbs, here’s the financial or business district
that is either crumbling or being redeveloped, and here’s the once-depressed area
being gentrified by young, “hip” white people. And everywhere I met and talked
with people who were really, really struggling. This was the 1990s, during the
so-called “Clinton Boom,” and yet shit was not booming. I knew Detroit was
going through a really hard time, for a long time, but I always had this sense Detroit
was an outlier. Like no other city was dealing with what we were dealing with,
to the same extent – this decades-long toxic combination of white supremacy, male
supremacy, job discrimination, housing discrimination, capital flight,
corruption, etc. Yet now I was seeing signs of the same things in all these
other cities, big and small, around the country. I wasn’t sure why these things
were happening, and I wasn’t aware of the larger systemic and institutional
structures responsible for it all, but it moved me to want to start digging in
and find out.
The band obviously
evolved and incorporated a lot of different styles as time passed...I guess I
have two questions related to that. 1) You always hear about major labels
trying to push bands in certain directions, I'm wondering what your experience
was there. Was there constant pressure to write a certain kind of song or were
you given more creative freedom? 2) I know for myself I appreciated the
earlier, more straight-forward material more than the later, more experimental
stuff. How much push and pull was there within the band in terms of where to
take things sonically?
For
the first question, I don’t remember too much pressure. When we were on major
labels for the first two full-length records, I felt the expectation that we
needed to deliver something they could work with, but I don’t remember anyone
telling us how or what to write. Maybe that happened in conversations with
Chaka and Chris (our first guitar player), but I never heard about it. In fact,
I doubt a lot of bands were told what to write. I think someone at the label or
management says “We would love to get you on the radio,” and then you go listen
to the radio and try to do your version of what’s there. Or at a different
level, you’re hiring professional songwriters.
As
for the second question, the Revelation EP and the first full-length defined
our sound for a lot of people. And yet we never wanted to be defined by
anything. I knew we’d never make a straight-up hardcore record, or a metal
record, but Chaka and Chris, and later Taylor, were into so much different
music that it was hard to know what was going to inspire us year to year, or
month to month. There was one summer when we were rehearsing and recording
demos in Taylor’s basement on Long Island. We wrote and recorded an entire
record, at least, worth of material that no one has ever heard. Some of it is
really rough, but some of it was just incredible. We were using keyboards, percussion,
messing with odd time signatures, and just going off in whatever direction the
day took us. A kid who loved the EP might have showed up and said “What the
hell is wrong with these people?” but for us, it was just a beautiful
experience.
That’s
why “Pretend I’m Human” is my favorite Orange 9mm record. I know, I’m seriously
in the minority on this one, and when I hear it today I think we went in the
wrong direction in terms of production. But I love those songs; I just don’t
think we captured them the way they deserved. Except for one or two songs, we
wrote that whole album in the studio. We were at the studio by 9:00 am every
day ready to work. We’d have coffee, listen to music, and talk about how we
were feeling that day, what it meant to be human, what it meant to create art,
and what we felt like exploring. We’d listen to Jay-Z, Talking Heads, Rush,
Curtis Mayfield, or Miles Davis, and then go jam until noon. By 1 or 2, we’d
have the foundation of a song, lay it down, work out the kinks, and then get up
the next day and start again with a new song. Taylor was really coming into
himself as a songwriter and a guitarist, and Chaka was writing the best lyrics
of his life, as far as I was concerned. So the experience of that record was
really special, and I can hear that in the recordings.
You mentioned earlier
that you felt at a creative and musical low by the end of Orange 9mm.....would
you attribute that to being burned out on the road, playing with the same
people for so long?
No,
I wasn’t burned out on the road. I loved playing with those people, I loved
playing those songs, and it felt good that people wanted to hear them. I always
was excited to play new material live, but I respected the fact that people
liked the older stuff. Not many of us pay $10 to see a band thinking “I hope
they don’t play any songs I like.” When we played something off the EP or the
first record, and someone just started going off, that always filled me with
such joy, and made me dig deeper as a player. Like I wanted to give that person
every ounce of my energy, to make that moment as good for them as it could
possibly be. I never got tired of that.
At
that level (corporate music), when you put out three records and they each sell
about the same amount, it’s hard to keep going, unless you’re Motorhead – they
can sell the same number of records each time, tour, and be sustainable. On the
one hand, you’re thinking “Man, 30,000 people bought this record, that’s so
amazing” and you’re still high from the kid at the show last night telling you
how one of your songs is basically keeping him alive. But on the other hand,
the label is looking at you thinking “Only 30,000 records? We need to get rid
of this band as soon as possible.”
On
the last tour for “Pretend I’m Human”, our label pulled our funding in the
middle of the tour because the record wasn’t selling. It was like artistic
austerity, or something – “The record’s not selling, so rather than do our job
and find creative ways to get it out there, we’re gonna make life on the road
even harder for you.” Maybe there was more to it than that, but that’s how it
was communicated to me. This happened in the middle of other problems, like personality
shifts (me included) in the band that started to pull us apart, along with this
sense that no one at the shows knew who we were or even cared. When the tour funding
was pulled, it was just the last straw. Like, what the hell is the point of
doing this anymore? And I took some of it personally. It felt like every day
there was a comment from someone in the band about how my playing was somehow
the problem, yet no one could tell me what I was doing wrong, or what I should
be doing instead as a player. I don’t know how much of that I just projected
onto myself, but I didn’t have the maturity or the self-confidence to rise
above it.
So
we broke up on the road. I had a couple opportunities to audition with other
bands, and Chaka asked me to continue working with him on music, and I just
said no to everything. I was really into studying by that time and wanted to
get into school as soon as possible. School felt like something I could be good
at, and that was important to me at the time. I think I was really hard on
myself at this point; I questioned whether I had made any real progress as a
person during that 8 or 9 years. I’d been playing drums since I was 13, and it
was tough feeling like I wasn’t good enough to do that anymore. But I think I
had progressed, in the sense that I had been self-educating more and more, trying
to be open to new and challenging ideas, and by the time the band was done I
was ready to take my education to the next level.
Alright last set of
"back in the day" questions and then I wanna ask about Collapse. So
one of the other things that made my eyes bug out of my head when I first met
you is when you told me you played drums on a couple of the early 108 records.
So of course I have to ask...how did you get hooked up with them and what was
that experience like? Rob and Vic are obviously pretty strong personalities and
they were certainly more intense about their Krishna beliefs back then as
compared to their recent reformation the last few years. Was that an issue at
all or were you just happy to be involved with them creatively? Lastly, I’ve always
loved Battery and Mcternan’s studio work...what was it like to have him
manning the boards?
I
think it was their third record, “Threefold Misery”, and the “Curse of Instinct”
EP. We also recorded songs for a Bad Brains tribute record and a Misfits
tribute record. We recorded them all in the same session with Brian. I saw 108
in California when Orange 9mm was there recording our first LP, and I was
really impressed with their energy. I’d heard their records and liked them, but
was really moved by their live performance. I don’t remember how the connection
happened; either Rob or Vic got in touch with me…I want to say it was through
Norm Brannon, but I’m not sure. I was excited to play hardcore, and when Vic
gave me the demos for the record, that’s when I was really excited to do it.
The songs were so fierce, and his guitar playing was just on fire. And I also
realized at one point that I really loved everything I’d heard Vic do. I think
he’s one of those people who bring a signature, unique sound and energy to
every project he does. I’ve been lucky to play with a lot of people like that.
So
we rehearsed for a week or two, and then went up to Brian’s and finished all
the basic tracks in a day and a half. I was happy to do it, and I felt like we
all got along well. Triv was great, I really enjoyed playing with him as a
drummer, and he became one of my favorite bassists after that. Their faith
wasn’t an issue for me, or mine for them; they just liked my playing and I
liked their band. In fact, I was grateful for the opportunity to see what they
were about, and what their faith meant to them. It also meant a lot that a band
like that, of people who took seriously what they were trying to do, had trust
enough in me to do right by them.
Brian
was really cool and laid back. I recall him staying in the background and letting
us do our thing. Except for the covers we did, Vic, Rob, and Triv came in
knowing what they wanted, I knew my parts, and so Brian was just there to get
it all down. I didn’t know anything about him until that point, to be honest, but
I remember it being a really good, fun, and easy experience, which is exactly
what you want from an engineer/producer.
Alright, so give us some
insight into the formation of Collapse. Y'all are obviously a diverse bunch
whose backgrounds span across age and experiences, how did the five of you come
together?
It’s funny about the generational differences…once in a while something comes up where that difference is more obvious – maybe a cultural reference – and I’m like “Oh that’s right, I’m 20 years older than you.” But for the most part, I’m not aware of it at all, though I can’t speak for the others. It just feels good playing with these people. Probably the most obvious aspects of that generational gap are the aches and pains I get from playing, and the fact that by 10:00 pm I want to be in bed.
I’d realized for a while I really missed playing punk, this music that was such an important part of my life. I knew Jhone a bit, because our wives are friends. Every once in a while we’d talk about music, and I knew he was into a lot of cool and different stuff, like Crass, Neurosis, and Voivod. But when it was first brought up, Jhone was kind of noncommittal. He was busy with other things, like work and his writing, and I think he was questioning what he wanted to do artistically.
It’s funny about the generational differences…once in a while something comes up where that difference is more obvious – maybe a cultural reference – and I’m like “Oh that’s right, I’m 20 years older than you.” But for the most part, I’m not aware of it at all, though I can’t speak for the others. It just feels good playing with these people. Probably the most obvious aspects of that generational gap are the aches and pains I get from playing, and the fact that by 10:00 pm I want to be in bed.
I’d realized for a while I really missed playing punk, this music that was such an important part of my life. I knew Jhone a bit, because our wives are friends. Every once in a while we’d talk about music, and I knew he was into a lot of cool and different stuff, like Crass, Neurosis, and Voivod. But when it was first brought up, Jhone was kind of noncommittal. He was busy with other things, like work and his writing, and I think he was questioning what he wanted to do artistically.
He
attended the 2012 Allied Media Conference (AMC), and was inspired by that
experience to start making music again. It’s funny, because it was on the last
day of the AMC that we finally got it together. Adela and I ran into him and
his wife on Anthony Wayne Drive just as we were all leaving the conference. I
remember them dropping some papers in the street, and I ran out to help him
pick them up. As soon as we got them together, I think I blurted out “Um, so
let’s get together and just play Black Flag songs. Something, anything. We
could just play the 'Damaged' album.” Or something ridiculous like that, thinking
in my head, “Please, I really need to do this.” And he was like “Fuck yeah,
let’s do something.”
Jhone
asked two of his good friends (Mikey and Eric) who played guitar and bass, and
who both lived at TrumbullPlex, if they wanted to jam with us. The first
practice felt good, and both Jhone and Mikey thought Ashleigh would be good to sing.
Anderson, who works at Allied Media Projects and used to be in a great band
called I, Crime, started playing bass with us a few months later when Eric left
for personal reasons. At the time I was teaching an Audio Recording/Podcasting
class at AMP, and happened to mention to a mutual friend that we were looking
for a bassist, and Anderson wanted to do it.
When Jhone was first playing hard-to-get, I’d thought about trying to find someone else to play with, but I wanted to play with him, or at least someone like him. First, he just seemed cool. There was also the fact that like me, he was over 40 and still loved punk, and we’d had similar experiences and perspectives living in metro Detroit. As he says, “It was as if two old heads found each other and fell in love all over again.” But another reason I wanted to play with him is that politically he’s on the anarchist spectrum, and that felt like the right direction for me. I just wanted to write, play, and record music. I didn’t want to mess with the bullshit of being “in a band” – the ego, the sense of entitlement and self-importance, or worrying about money – and I think having that kind of perspective on life, power, and art struck me as being the most conducive to making good music, being inspired, and having fun.
For most of my life, I was always missing a political approach to playing music. I never reflected, in a deep and intentional way, on what it means to produce art in community with others, or recognized that so much art in our capitalist culture reflects and helps maintain dominant, oppressive power dynamics. If I were going to do something artistic at this stage in my life, it had to have some political foundation. That doesn’t mean I had to make overtly political music, although I wanted to do that. It was more about having a sense of what drives us to do this in the first place, how we’re going to treat one another in this collective process of creation and delight, and how our work will reflect our principles and our responsibilities to the broader community. Those are crucial, fundamental questions I’d never really considered in all my years of playing. And because those questions are now central to what I do, in many ways I’m feeling today, at 44 years old, like I’m just beginning.
When Jhone was first playing hard-to-get, I’d thought about trying to find someone else to play with, but I wanted to play with him, or at least someone like him. First, he just seemed cool. There was also the fact that like me, he was over 40 and still loved punk, and we’d had similar experiences and perspectives living in metro Detroit. As he says, “It was as if two old heads found each other and fell in love all over again.” But another reason I wanted to play with him is that politically he’s on the anarchist spectrum, and that felt like the right direction for me. I just wanted to write, play, and record music. I didn’t want to mess with the bullshit of being “in a band” – the ego, the sense of entitlement and self-importance, or worrying about money – and I think having that kind of perspective on life, power, and art struck me as being the most conducive to making good music, being inspired, and having fun.
For most of my life, I was always missing a political approach to playing music. I never reflected, in a deep and intentional way, on what it means to produce art in community with others, or recognized that so much art in our capitalist culture reflects and helps maintain dominant, oppressive power dynamics. If I were going to do something artistic at this stage in my life, it had to have some political foundation. That doesn’t mean I had to make overtly political music, although I wanted to do that. It was more about having a sense of what drives us to do this in the first place, how we’re going to treat one another in this collective process of creation and delight, and how our work will reflect our principles and our responsibilities to the broader community. Those are crucial, fundamental questions I’d never really considered in all my years of playing. And because those questions are now central to what I do, in many ways I’m feeling today, at 44 years old, like I’m just beginning.
This past summer you did
a week or two long tour that took you through the Midwest and out East a good
bit. I was particularly intrigued by the show up north in Traverse City which
took place at a children's museum of sorts if I remember correctly. How did you
guys get hooked up with that show and what was the atmosphere like playing in a
space like that? How was the rest of the run/what were some of the highlights?
That tour was so much fun. It shouldn’t have been fun for me, as I was in pretty awful shape physically, to the point where I had to take a month off afterwards to recuperate and heal. But it was good. Last summer we went out for about six shows, and this time we were able to go out for two weeks.
That show was in Marquette at the Upper Peninsula Children’s Museum, and was booked by a friend of Jhone’s. It was one of those places where you walk in and think “Okay, this is really cool, but where the hell are we going to play?” But it was so fun, and so magical and colorful. We had a blast running around and exploring that place, I can only imagine how amazing it must be for kids who go there. The setting creates a good energy for the people there, and it also sounded really good in that room – we played in a little walled-off area full of children’s toys. That show was a highlight for everyone in the band, I think. Marquette is also a really beautiful town, and Jhone’s wife grew up there, so it was a pretty special couple of days.
There
were so many high points…at Guide to Kulchur, a really great bookstore in
Cleveland I bought Zora Neale Hurston’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God” and
Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath,” and those were my tour books. In Minneapolis we
went to Extreme Noise Records, which is one of the best record stores I’ve ever
been in. And since I’m in a band of hilarious people, especially Anderson,
there’s a lot of laughter and ridiculousness in and out of the van.
But
the best parts of the tour for me are the bands we played with, and you’ll
forgive me if I go off on that for a minute. For our kick-off show in Detroit we
played with a great local punk band called Social Werq, and in Marquette we
played with a really cool folk-punk band called The Gray Beast. Both bands have
great drummers. I love watching and learning from drummers with different
styles and approaches to the instrument, and on tour I got that pretty much
every day. In Minneapolis we played with Rifle Diet. They are one of my
favorite bands right now; to the point where it’s sometimes hard to be normal
around them because all I want to do is talk about how amazing they are. In
Chicago we played with a couple bands we’d never heard: Nerve Damage from
Texas, who were really powerful and incredibly nice people, and Sick Sad World,
a punk band from Chicago. I think SSW were my favorite of the whole tour. Great
songs, I loved the singer’s energy, and their drummer Jasmine is really good.
She plays a double-bass pedal, but didn’t use it in the typical way most
players do; she got me inspired to pick one up again and start working with it.
Finally,
we played a couple shows with Toska from Philly. Kane, their singer, used to
sing for an amazing hardcore band called Stockpile, and Toska is his new band. We
played with them at the Philly DIY Fest, and again at a house show in Richmond,
VA the next day. Their drummer Derik is incredible. At both shows I constantly wanted
to interrupt their set and ask “Wait, what was that beat you were playing?
Could you slow that down and show me?” I don’t know enough about that genre to
describe them properly or who I’d compare them to, but if you like aggressive,
blistering, heavy yet dynamic music played by people who know what they’re
doing, get that record. They are not fucking around.
Collapse obviously
touches on a broad spectrum of political topics in your lyrics....I'm curious
if those are written collaboratively, if you all discuss certain topics in
advance and then hand em' over to Ashleigh to flesh things out, or if she takes
the reigns so to speak in that department?
The
collaboration is primarily between Ashleigh and Jhone. Mikey, Anderson, and I
will often chime in, but usually it’s between those two. One or the other will
often have complete lyrics for a song, but as a general rule if Ashleigh wants
to use her lyrics for a song, that’s what we’ll use. And as we work on songs,
some lyrics shift and evolve.
We
do have conversations about lyrics, not just in terms of how they work as part
of the song, but also the content. When Ashleigh came to rehearsal with the
lyrics for “Disarm,” she said “I have lyrics for this song, and it’s about
cutting off rapists’ dicks. Does anyone have a problem with that?” And that
turned into a long, complex conversation about sexual assault and violence,
misogyny, the use of fear as a political weapon – the fear so many women feel
on a daily basis, compared with a song that might make some men uncomfortable
for three minutes – male privilege, and more. I think that was when I knew I
was in the right band, with the right people. It also made me more aware of how
important it was to support Ashleigh, not only as a fellow musician and band
member, but also as a woman and a human being who was stepping into this very
vulnerable, visible space and speaking about something real to her.
A lot of
Collapse/Trumbullplex info of late has come with the tagline "bros fall
back" which seems to correspond with your song from the latest record
"Broinsinuation"... I'm wondering if you could speak to the impetus
behind that a little more, and elaborate on what you all see as being necessary
to create spaces where everybody can participate in a meaningful way.
I’m
pleased you phrased the question that way. So many people, primarily men, see
“bros fall back” and get defensive and threatened, often because they don’t
understand it and don’t bother to learn what it means. And at the same time,
maybe those of us using the phrase have a responsibility to be clearer about what
it means. I should say I’m not a member of the TrumbullPlex Theater collective,
so I can’t speak for them.
Bros Fall Back was a zine produced by some folks in Philly in 2013. It’s a great zine, and I highly recommend reading it; you can find it online. It speaks to certain behaviors we see in many spaces, but especially in punk. These include taking up space in ways that are aggressive or dominant, making the moment all about you and your interests/desires, not considering the experiences or feelings of others, and refusing to be aware of the larger contexts and issues surrounding the show we’re at. The authors of the zine call on themselves and others to practice accountability, to be conscious of these behaviors, as well as to think and behave differently.
Bros Fall Back was a zine produced by some folks in Philly in 2013. It’s a great zine, and I highly recommend reading it; you can find it online. It speaks to certain behaviors we see in many spaces, but especially in punk. These include taking up space in ways that are aggressive or dominant, making the moment all about you and your interests/desires, not considering the experiences or feelings of others, and refusing to be aware of the larger contexts and issues surrounding the show we’re at. The authors of the zine call on themselves and others to practice accountability, to be conscious of these behaviors, as well as to think and behave differently.
Some
hear the phrase as telling people they can’t enjoy themselves, and their
response is “What the hell, I’m at a show just trying to have fun, and now
you’re telling me I can’t.” Well, if you can’t have fun without being a jerk,
or intimidating someone else, or disrespecting the neighborhood and the people
who’ve lived here for decades, we’d prefer you stay home, or go see a show at a
place where they don’t care how you act. And if you come, be prepared to be
called out on your shit. The universe is about more than just you.
House
shows happen all over, but they are often in poor, working class areas, and
often communities of color. In many cases, a house show is a symptom of
gentrification. I know punks would prefer to think we’re above all that, but in
fact we’re often right in the center of it. So we could show up and party, and
be loud and disrespectful, because fuck it. Or we could consider the lives,
experiences, and preferences of the people around us, both at the show itself
as well as in the broader community. If punk is going to survive in any
meaningful way, it seems like we have to do the latter. And a lot of people in
scenes around the country are taking real steps in that direction.
The
word “bro” suggests a dig at men; our song “Broinsinuation” reflects the gender
component of this more than the zine, I think. And yes, this behavior is
typical of many men in our society, but it isn’t so much about gender as it is
about behavior, and a refusal to be aware. Related to this, the authors
emphasize our responsibility to understand ourselves in the context of the
systems of domination and oppression that have shaped us. Those of us with
advantages and privileges, and all the opportunity and entitlement that accompany
them under these systems – in other words, those of us with power – should
“fall back”, examine where this thinking and these behaviors come from and what
they mean for others, and start doing the work. It’s not easy work; even with
those advantages, many of us are carrying a lot of trauma, and maybe it’s impossible
to fully complete the work. I’ll quote the zine here:
“Safe spaces don’t
exist. We can attempt to protect each other, and even make moves to screen who
we deal with, but until we end the world there’s no way we’ll ever be safe,
even amongst ourselves. We’ve all gone to similar messed up schools, grown up
among creeps, liars, and bullies and we can’t simply undo everything that has
led us to become the people we’ve become, not without actively unlearning who we are, and without
undoing what made us. This isn’t to say that we shouldn’t take care of each
other, heal each other and empower each other – only that we need to understand
our context.”
Reflecting
that last line, I think of it as a healing process, in a way. I’ve been
poisoned and traumatized my whole life by racism, sexism, colonialist ideology,
and more. But as someone who is on the dominant side of these – those systems
and ideologies were invented and implemented for the benefit of me and people
like me – I have a responsibility to resist, and to support those who suffer most
under these systems. Most of all, I have a responsibility to find for myself another
way of living and being. I think the zine reflects the work and thinking of
people who are trying to move punk – the genre of music that has, at least
rhetorically, been the most unapologetically outspoken about the inhumanity of
these systems – in a more humane direction.
It’s
funny, when Ash first brought the lyrics for “Broinsinuation” to practice, I
really liked them. The slow part especially, when she says “Take a step back,
you stupid fuck”; that always makes me smile. But it also became clear that the
song was about me. Not that she was targeting me personally – the song was
inspired by an actual, infuriating experience Ashleigh had at a show – but that
I have a lot of these tendencies and behaviors. To some degree, I’ve been a
“bro” most of my adolescent and adult life, unfortunately, and I recognize in myself
the need to do this work.
What's next for
Collapse, we gonna get an LP from y'all at some point?
Yes!
We’re writing new songs now, and hoping to record sometime in the spring. The
plan is for an early summer release, and we’d like to make vinyl happen.
Depending on how the songwriting goes, we may also re-record some earlier songs
we’ve changed up since then. There’s a lot happening with different members of
the band right now, so we’re struggling a bit to figure out our timelines and
what is possible in terms of recording, getting the record out, and touring this
summer. But we definitely want to make it all happen, and I like how the new
songs are evolving.
I feel like you have
such a comprehensive perspective on punk and hardcore not just because you've
been involved for so long but especially because you sort of came up through
the ranks as a kid, joined a band that was a part of the biggest commercial
wave in the history of these genres, and now have come back full circle playing
in a band that's doing things super d.i.y. That said, from your perspective,
what have been the most striking changes over the course of your involvement
with this music? What's for the better, and what's for the worse?
Before
I say anything, I want to stress two things: first, I’m still a hardcore kid.
That’s how I think of myself, and I’ll always think of myself that way, at
least to some extent. Hardcore punk shaped who I am in such fundamental ways.
So I speak here as someone who loves and cares about this music and this
culture. At the same time, I also speak
as someone who is not active in the hardcore scene. There are a lot of people
who stayed in the scene and never left, or continued to find ways to
contribute. I didn’t. So I want to be clear and honest with anyone reading this
about who I am and where I’m coming from.
In
general, I think the negative aspects of punk and hardcore, at least in the
U.S., are the same as when I first started going to shows in 1984 – the
continued dominance and influence of white supremacy, male supremacy, capitalist
culture and values, and the violence that is an essential component of each of
these. Punk and hardcore are not alone in this, of course; these infect every
aspect of our culture in some shape or form. Many punk scenes have shown some
real evolution around these issues, thanks to very dedicated and active people
who continue to make change possible.
Speaking
to the racial dynamics of hardcore punk, it is still an overwhelmingly white
scene. While there has been real progress around awareness, I’ve personally
seen less progress around practicing inclusion and intentional engagement with
other communities. Too many punk spaces take a “Well, the door is open to
anyone who wants to come…” approach, without actively finding and creating ways
to engage with people outside this narrow spectrum. And the danger of this is
that in our culture when white people are around other white folks 98% of the
time, it becomes difficult for us to avoid adopting or assuming white
supremacist ideas and behaviors.
While
racism and sexism are not exclusive – they depend on and reinforce each other –
I am starting to see scenes evolve in positive ways around gender. That
evolution is thanks to the work of women, and the few men who openly support
them. But because so few men are active around this, we’re still stuck in many
ways. I’ve gone to shows recently where every single person performing is a
straight white man, and 90 percent of the crowd is men. At some point, you’d
think we would look around and wonder “hey, what are we doing if so few women
would consider coming here?” How “punk” are we when we’re essentially
replicating one of the worst elements of corporate rock? But a lot of people
around the country are working to reverse this trend; in some spaces, like
TrumbullPlex, there won’t be a show if all the bands are exclusively male or
cis-gendered. On our last tour there were unfortunately a couple of shows where
Ashleigh was the only woman performing, but for the most part there were far
more women, as well as more queer people, than you see performing at most
shows.
As
an example of what I’m talking about, take the Black-n-Blue Bowl which was held
last year in Brooklyn, NY, and featured two full days of both established and
up-and-coming East Coast-style hardcore bands. It’s a great event for people
who love this music, especially because – as I understand it – the people
organizing that festival are fans of the music and want to celebrate it. They’re
doing it for the love of the music, and they’re not out to screw anybody over.
At the same time, you look at the 2014 line-up and you see there is not a
single woman performing. It’s usually the same with the This is Hardcore
festival, Rain Fest in Seattle, and others.
In
addition, there is no one on these line-ups who appears to be openly gay or
queer. Think about it – would these shows look any different if they put up a
sign that says “Hardcore Show – Straight Men Only”? This means the complete and
utter absence of any woman’s perspective or presence is considered normal and
acceptable in these spaces, and the flip side of that is that female expression
is minimized, devalued, and rejected. At some point, when what you’re promoting
reflects dominant gender (and often racial) power dynamics to such an extreme
extent, you have to ask why, and critically examine your answers. It’s not the
music, by the way – even metal is more open to gender diversity than hardcore,
though not by much.
Again,
I appreciate the motives and the dedication of the people who put these shows
on every year – it is months of very hard work, and they do a great job. And
it’s important to stress that they are doing this work within a scene, and
within a larger culture, that has no expectation of men to consider these
questions and issues. More than that, it’s a culture that often punishes men
for stepping up and supporting women. But I think we need to keep pushing the
idea that it shouldn’t be normal, it isn’t acceptable, and intentionally set
examples of a new way of doing things.
Of
course, the commercialization/corporatization of punk falls under the “worse”
category, and is something that troubles a lot of us. Yet at the same time it was
completely predictable, given the system in which we are living and working. At
the beginning most of us would have laughed at the idea that this kind of music
would wind up on the radio. And most of the “punk” on the radio has almost
nothing to do with hardcore punk – they are essentially Beatles or Beach Boys songs
played with a “punk” esthetic. No one is playing Negative Approach’s “Ready to
Fight” on the 80s station, you know? No one is playing Public Enemy’s “Fight
the Power” either, for that matter.
If
you can get 500 people in a hall to see a band, there’s a company somewhere
that wants to get in the door with them so they can sell them shoes, or hook
them into a cell phone contract. In fact, we’re at a point now where if the
message of the music is at all radical, it probably helps the company. It
reinforces the idea that we don’t need to go outside the corporate system to
access “different” or “radical” music. Like, “Oh, you hate the system? That’s
great – we’ve got Rage Against the Machine for you here, or maybe Rise Against
is more your style?” I’m not dissing those bands; I use them as examples to
emphasize that what these companies care about, above all, are consumers –
people with disposable income who will come to them when they want music. The
companies don’t care that the community where that show is happening has a 40%
illiteracy rate, or that more than half the men under 30 in that community are
in the prison-industrial system. And they have helped to maintain a culture
where most “consumers” don’t even consider those issues. Or even if they do,
the company can sell them something, too. Whether you’re into Beyonce or Bad
Religion, they’re still getting your money.
So
that’s something that has changed…punk is now a corporate subculture. That’s
hard for me to accept, because of what this music meant to me personally, and
what I believe is its revolutionary potential. But I also get why people jumped
ship. I understand – believe me, more than most – the attraction of being
signed, of the possibility that you might actually be able to scratch out some
kind of living making music. And connected with that is the deeply entrenched
capitalist idea of equating “value” with money. I want to be very clear on this
point; I don’t criticize anyone who makes that decision. I gave up any right to
do that a long time ago. And we live in the world we live in, you know?
But
at the same time, what I consider “real” punk survives, and in many ways is
thriving. It’s struggling with a lot of issues, like I mentioned earlier, but
the survival of punk speaks to its potential. It also speaks to the potential
of D.I.Y. principles, and what it would mean to have a much stronger artistic
culture rooted in those principles. Take someone like Jason Navarro, who had
success with Suicide Machines. He’s in two other great bands, Hellmouth and
Break Anchor, and he’s also busting his ass working full-time. Leaving aside
the fact that he seems to be (I don’t know him as well as I’d like) a genuinely
good person who cares about helping other bands and supporting the scene, he
happens to also be talented as hell. He should be able to support himself and
his family just doing music, if that’s what he wants. As a fan, I don’t want
him, or anyone in his bands, working some 9 to 5 that saps his energy and drive,
I want him working on music, you know? What would it mean if there were different
systems in place that were sustainable, accountable, and cooperative, in which
people could survive as artists? Because it’s not just him – there are more
people like that than we can count.
That
leads me to another change. D.I.Y. strategies have evolved to a degree where more
people can not only create art and stay alive, but have a good life. Many of us
can’t imagine a life like that – in part because our idea of a good life is so
distorted with capitalist preconceptions about what we need, and fear of going
without all those shiny things – but there are people making it happen, because
more of us are willing to support them. And
we see it not just in punk and hardcore, but with folk music, Hip-Hop, and
other genres in which artists are rejecting the capitalist/commercial approach
and finding new ways of making and sharing their art. So the energy is there,
but there still aren’t enough of us chipping in to make possible the kind of
transformation we’d like to see.
So in addition to
banging the drums for Collapse these days, you teach Politics at the community
college level. This could be a complete stereotype, but if they're anything
like the American electorate as whole (or my high school kids); they're
probably not always the most stoked about political affairs. As an instructor,
what strategies have you found to engage people in your course content?
No,
they are generally not stoked about political affairs. I can’t imagine why,
considering the effective, honorable, fair, and humane system we currently
enjoy.
I
remember one of my teaching mentors leaving their classroom at the end of a
class, cursing their students because they didn’t know who the Speaker of the
House was, or didn’t know about some important Supreme Court case. And I
thought, “Who in their right mind would want to know any of that?” I obviously agreed
it was important information, to an extent – I was in school for it – but I
don’t think a lack of interest in politics or civic participation is something
to hold against my students, or anyone. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, as
the saying goes. And the fact is we have a political culture that discourages
participation and engagement, and presents not just the system, but the
practice of politics in general, as unattractive and nasty. That’s not an
accident. It is the often-stated intention of the people who run the system(s)
to keep us marginalized, fragmented, disillusioned, and disengaged. “Nothing
works in D.C., they’re all crooks, government doesn’t work, both parties are
lying, etc.” And then in the next breath, they’re saying “But capitalism works!
Now look at this new shiny thing over here! Only $99!” And of course for the
people who run the economy and sell us the shiny things, government works very,
very well. But when we have that anti-politics message everywhere, 24/7, what
do we expect? It is so pervasive, sometimes I think the fact that people
actually resist this culture and still try to make change is a miracle we need
to celebrate.
So
I see the lack of interest as a natural result of the systems and culture we’ve
created, and I don’t fault or judge anyone for it. But I also know most of my
students really do want to understand their world, at least a little better. They
don’t like not knowing or understanding what’s happening in the world, and they
don’t like the sense that there’s nothing they can do about the problems they
see.
And
that’s where the work is so challenging. As a teacher, I can’t compete with
years of socialization and programming. I’m not Bain Capital or Comcast with my
own media empire. And I can’t compete with all the personal struggles so many
of my students are dealing with that take precedence, rightfully, over what
we’re doing in class. But I can be someone who is supportive of them and their
goals. I can be someone who is willing to explore different ways of engaging,
of analyzing and understanding the world, in a way that meets students where they
are in this life and culture. That requires an awareness of myself, too, and
where I am in this life and culture.
As
far as strategies, I owe a lot of my recent growth as a teacher to the Rida Institute,
a three-day education training held in Detroit in February 2014. “Rida” refers
to “ride or die, which comes from Hip Hop and Chicano cultures, and means someone
who can be counted on during times of extreme pressure. The Rida framework is
inspired by Paolo Freire and other liberatory education theorists, as well as
studies of effective teaching approaches in urban classrooms. What impressed me
most about the framework is the importance of big and essential questions, like
“What does it mean to authentically serve our students?” and “What would it
mean to humanize education?” Like I mentioned earlier with music, I taught for
years without ever really considering these questions. Instead, I was focused
on how to be a better lecturer and catching “cheaters.”
The
Rida Framework is complex, or at least I found it to be, but two important
components are 1) having an awareness of context before content – I need to understand,
as best as I can, my students’ concerns, interests, experiences, and
perspectives. And that leads to 2) delivering the content in a way that
prioritizes them and their experiences, and allows them to direct their own
learning as much as possible. As I go down this path, I find I’m not teaching
so much as facilitating – creating a space where they can come together to
analyze the material in a way that they can see themselves in it, and come to
care about it. There’s always room for improvement in any work, but so far I’m
seeing engagement from far more students now than when I first started
teaching.
And
to be clear, I’m making plenty of mistakes. It would be wonderful to decide,
“I’m gonna be a better teacher now,” and then just walk into the classroom and
do it. But like with anything worthwhile, it takes a lot of work and practice,
and mistakes are part of that process. Also, it is really difficult to undo
years of habit, practice, and perspective. I came up most of my life with
teachers, especially at the college level, who believed teaching means talking
at students for two hours. And when I first started, that’s what I did. It’s
hard not to fall back into those patterns and that thinking, because they’re
easy and still culturally and institutionally supported.
I’ve
also benefited from the work of the Center for Teaching and Learning, a
department at school tasked with providing support and training for teachers.
There are some people in that department who care about the human value of
education, and being able to work with and learn from them has been very
helpful.
Secondly, how (if at
all) would you say your background in punk and hardcore informs the perspective
you bring to your classroom?
That’s
something I hadn’t considered before, but it makes sense. In “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”,
Friere describes what he calls the “banking model” of education, which is
hierarchically structured. The teacher is above, the students are below, and the
teacher deposits their knowledge into the (presumed to be) empty heads of
students. Friere argued that teachers had a responsibility to see and treat
their students as equal, fellow human beings, who are capable of examining
their worlds critically, in collaboration with others. Conventional education was
a form of oppression, he argued, because its purpose was to maintain the status
quo power structure. For education to meet its full liberatory and democratic
potential, it had to be humanized. Education had to be rooted in both the belief
and the practice that all people have the intellectual and creative potential
to understand their socio-political reality and deal critically with it.
In
some ways, hardcore punk was the U.S. working class response to a similar
hierarchy in rock music, where the band was high up on a stage, 50 feet away
from anyone, larger than life, full of celebrity entitlement, and the most important
people in the room. I’m ashamed to say one of the reasons I liked teaching in
the first place was because I enjoyed being the center of attention. That’s one
of the worst motivations for teaching, because I am not the most important
person in the room. From an institutional and cultural perspective, maybe I was
– most classrooms are still physically designed in a way that presumes that
hierarchy. But I think that mindset ultimately fails most students. It fails
the teacher, too, because it’s really difficult to keep that facade going without
becoming bitter or burnt out.
Punk
also inspires people to get involved and get to work. The best punk scenes are
the ones with a culture of involvement, inclusion, and participation, and I
think those factors also make the best learning environments for students. But
most important, they help students realize that another world is possible with
education. When they see that a classroom can be organized in a way that their
experiences are valued, and they see themselves in the work, you’ve suddenly
opened the door to the idea that maybe other things, bigger things, could be
organized differently, too.
Did
you ever have that feeling when you went to your first hardcore shows, the
sudden, sweeping awareness that “music” and the culture surrounding it could be
so refreshingly different from what we’d previously known? Education needs to go down that same road. Not
by privatization or “market” solutions, but through democratic values and
practice.
Another
connection with punk is that I generally say what I think in my classes, and I
don’t shy away from issues that are controversial or uncomfortable. It’s
important to stipulate here that I try to do this only when it is relevant and
meaningful to students and their learning process. And before I say anything
else, I want to make it clear that this is easier for me than for other
teachers. First, I’m at a community college and most of my students are adults.
But most important, I have real autonomy in the classroom, thanks to my union. If
I learn about some radically different lesson plan from another teacher and
decide to try it out, I can do it. I also have an easier time as a white,
“straight” male – if a woman raised the same issues and questions I raise about
gender, many students would probably call her “angry” and complain to the Dean
that she hates men. But when I do it, they think I’m “provocative” and “thoughtful.”
That’s some serious bullshit, but it’s also the reality, so I feel I have an
obligation to use that power conscientiously and responsibly.
But
continuing with that point about saying what I think, with punk you express
yourself in music and lyrics. And like in a classroom, you’re expressing ideas,
questioning some things, praising others. With punk, the person on the mic has
some faith that the people in the room are willing and able to listen, to
consider what’s being expressed. Punk is about being real, about stripping
things down to their root, and saying “This is what is happening, and here’s
what I fucking think about it.” And why are people are down to listen? Because
they know once you’re done you’ll step away from the mic and be with them for
the next band. You’re not running for your limo, surrounded by security, or
heading backstage. There probably isn’t a backstage, but you know what I’m
saying.
So
I think education has to be real, too, and we have to have that same faith in
our students. I tell them that I will express my ideas because I have faith
that they can handle it and because I want them to express themselves too. That
helps establish a sense of trust in the classroom – they know that what they
say might be challenged by me or others, but in a supportive way – they also
know I won’t punish or demean them if I disagree with what they’re saying. If I
don’t believe they have the capacity to handle complex or unconventional ideas,
why should they believe I can handle what they are thinking? Why should they
trust me with anything? I have to prove to them, and this takes time and
effort, that they can count on me. They need to know I’ll be straight with
them, they can be straight with me, and that in this process I have their back.
Thank
you for this question, by the way. I was thinking as I finished that last
paragraph that I want to organize an education workshop called “The Punk Rock
Classroom: How D.I.Y./Punk Principles Can Revolutionize Education.”
Lastly, what still keeps
you motivated and inspired to be making a racket with people a decade or two
your junior in rooms of what are usually a few dozen people at best?
A
lot of things motivate and inspire me. The most important is that hardcore punk
is still in my blood and in my heart. I’m not done playing drums, and I’m not
done making music. Another is I feel like I have value as a player, that I have
something to offer other musicians, and that other musicians have so much to
offer me. Lastly, what I spoke to earlier about having a political, or
philosophical, foundation helps keep me motivated, and keeps me examining and
questioning why I’m doing what I’m doing. I still make mistakes; like anyone,
there are days when I’m not the best person to be in a band with. But I think
I’m better at it now than I’ve ever been. Maybe that’s one of the benefits of
being older.
As
far as how many people are in the room, I want enough people in the room so the
touring band has at least enough for gas and food. Beyond that, I don’t care
how many people are in the room. I’m just excited to play music. I want to play
well for everyone in the band because they’re my friends, and I want each of
them to feel good playing, because that will inspire me to do better. I’m so
full of gratitude for the fact that I can still play, and that there are people
who want to make music with me, who want me to back them up.
I
don’t know about the age thing…so far, no one at a show has yelled out “hey, is
that your Grandpa on the drums?” Maybe in my next band, I could be the youngest
person instead of the oldest. I might be ready for that; I think it could be
great.
Collapse HQ: http://collapsepunk.com/
Collapse in Detroit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QROZeU1vylE
Orange 9MM in Philly at The First Unitarian 97': https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYCPkSUcN-g
Photo credits for this interview go to: Salvatore Aiello, Damien Dissonance, Daymon Hartley, and as always, Google Image.
