RIFFRAFF story and photos by Jonnie Coutu

By the time I was seventeen, my friends and I had seen our fair share of shows: all age shows and 21 plus shows, shows at VFW halls, churches, community centers, high school gyms, basements, and abandoned houses. We had seen shows in cities and towns up and down the east coast (and also one of the best hardcore festivals I have ever seen, with bands like Avail, Strife and  Mouthpiece, in Dayton, Ohio).  Today I can take a step back from those days and call what we were in to an “underground scene.” We were outside of the emblematic, popular music of the early nineties. Our shows were organized by bands and kids that all wanted one thing, and one thing only: to play music and have an audience.

In those early days of my music education, I faithfully carried instruments from van to stage, hoping to get an entry stamp for bands like Knockdown, Thundercock and Sidewalk. I followed Fugazi and Slapshot around wherever they went, or wherever they went in reach of a teenager bumming rides. And I saw venue after venue get shut down like they were hit from an Ali right in the first round. The Old Harvard Square Church (Cambridge, MA), the W.A.G. (Worcester, MA), St. John’s Gym (Clinton, MA) and the Space (Worcester, MA), to name a few, all came and went. Fire codes, fights, noise disturbances, injuries, over capacity, suspicion of drug use (at straight-edge shows, no less)… there was always a reason for the gun and badge to come in and shut a venue down.  Somewhere along the way I guess they shut me down as well as it would be a decade before I would venture to go to another show that did not require a valid ID for entry. But some things don’t leave a person. The bands, the music, the energy and freedom. The dance and the hope in anything that wasn’t force-fed brought me, a decade later, to The Wheelchair.

I had heard about The Wheelchair from some of the local hardcore/punk kids and thought: I have got to get there, let the camera loose on this scene, and see we come up with. Witchhunt, Mouth Sewn Shut, Crom, and Red Thread filled out lineup on the Friday I decided to go. On the way through the door (no cover; only donations for bands) I recognized a couple familiar faces: Melissa, one of the organizers, and Pat a.k.a. shins, who gave me the lowdown on the place—the bands that played and practiced there, upcoming shows, and finally an introduction to Gin. Gin was the renter of the venue as well as one of the organizers; Gin was definitely in control and wanted me to know it. She was holding a flush to my pair of deuces and called by asking, “Are you a cop?” I naturally took quick offense and replied, “National Guard actually, with narc school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But seeing as how today is Friday, I guess we are all safe.” She was amused enough to be reassured that I wasn’t a cop, but I think she only genuinely warmed up after she realized I was an old beer-slinger from one of her past favorite haunts. After the face-off ended, something hit me like that ton of bricks I keep hearing about: Was I a cop? No cover?? Flyers for shows, but with no address???  People that seemed to be in to each band, without the fringe of baseball caps and college emblems that you see on the outskirts of other venues???? Was I a cop?! The people at The Wheelchair really cared about the music. They were there to see a band and appreciate the scene created for them, by them… and if you couldn’t appreciate it, they didn’t want you there. Plain and simple. Truly underground. No signs, no flashing lights, no promoter. Suspicious of everyone and to be destroyed by no one.

I believe that I have sat on both sides of this thing we call the American Experience. I have played the homeowner, the married man, the taxpayer, and the tourist. I have photographed the dark nights of so many unfriendly cities, skated every inch of pavement in this county, surfed the beaches of our cold coastline, ridden a motorcycle across the country, and heard music that has changed my life with just one note. Without any resignation or doubt, I prefer the latter, the underground and freedom.  And so as you create your own American Experience, maybe you will take this as parting wisdom from someone who has danced with both parties and maybe, just maybe, you will see me, camera in hand, with you as my subject. If you can find the place. No sign, no flashing lights. If you don’t have any luck… sorry brother, we are trying to keep out the badges, billy clubs, and city councilors. You know, the riffraff.

You can contact Jonnie Coutu at: info@blankcanvasmagazine.com