(Not) So Quiet on the Southwestern Front: A Punk Rock Scene Report in ABQ, NM by Kirbie Bennett
Huddled with 30 other people outside a tiny rundown building, our excited skin bursts into goosebumps as we wait in the winter chill of a November night. My friend Rinda and I drove 200 miles from Farmington, New Mexico to an abandoned-lot-turned-concert-venue known as The Gasworks in Albuquerque. Bundled up in coats and cigarette smoke, we shiver with nervous energy as four underground rock bands unload from humble little vans and U-Haul trailers. All of them have arrived from the East Coast to play a show in the Southwest desert, in a space the size of a garage.
This is my first time at Gasworks. But unfortunately this is the last show ever for the four year-old venue. Forming in front of me is a scene that embodies the importance and fragility of such independent spaces. When the doors open, the little room grows with warmth and chatter as people file in — everyone knows each other and a bittersweet joy fills the air; all anyone can talk about is the coming end. A sublime passion for the subterranean has brought us together.
Every inch of space in this tiny building is put to use. Near the entrance door, tables full of merchandise are set up — records, posters, shirts, and stickers are spread across like a four-course meal. Rinda and I briefly rummage through the merch, keeping tabs on what we’ll come back for later. We squeeze our way into the performance room. The opening band sets up on a stage-less ground — they are on the same level as us and the crowd keeps a respectable distance from the band, giving them enough room to go mad.
The band Gates kicks things off with a cathartic, ambient sound of post-hardcore rock. Pedal boards like an artist’s canvas lie on the floor for the guitarists: for 30 minutes, they create a dreamy, swirling sound of reverb and fiery distortion, backed up by pummeling drums and booming bass lines. One song starts out with a trickle of twinkling guitar riffs, a hushed tap of drum cymbals and the vocalist delivers a croon with slapback delay effects that create a subsuming echo. The sounds dangle in the air like drops of rain and it gradually builds up with intensity. The whispers turn to guttural screams and the guitarists let their fingers dance across the fretboard, while their feet tap into different effect pedals. They compose a dramatic, cinematic buildup — raindrops turning into rainstorm; thunder and fire from the bass and guitars scream out from the amps. The vocalist’s guttural cries reverberate around us and the drumming becomes erratic as they reach the apex and suddenly — there’s a pause: they let the notes hang in the air, and we are spellbound. Before we become too lost in this void, they dive back into a frenetic outro, digging into their instruments, pounding out scorching notes, extracting the soul and sending it out across the room. After that performance, Rinda looks at me with wide eyes and dropped jaw, summing up everyone’s reaction.
A heavy swell of scents gradually fills the air — the mossy messy whirlwind of body odor, dirty hair, cigarette-soaked clothes and that trickle of marijuana coming from someone somewhere. The next band comes up: Foxes. They keep up the cathartic sound of post-hardcore punk rock. Distortion-drenched octave chords cut into the atmosphere, followed by the clean sound of jangly guitar riffs. It’s a manic monster sound of 21st century despair in the underground. When the vocalist isn’t dancing with the microphone, in between his shouts and whispers, he takes the trumpet in his right hand and blares out a melodic cry amidst the chaos of odd time signatures and bouncing basslines.
Things come to a calm when the next act takes the “stage” — a man with glasses and an acoustic guitar who goes by the moniker Into It/Over It. I see a boy standing at the front of the crowd — he looks about 16 or 17 and he’s enthralled with the singer-songwriter, crooning out every word. Rinda and I withdraw to the back of the audience for a breather. We swing by the merch area in the entrance room; the tables nearly fill up half of the cramped room. Still steeped in the glow of the moment, Rinda buys a tour shirt and I pick up a 7” single from Lemuria and an LP from Gates. And now I have the burden of preciously holding onto these records for the remainder of the show.
When Into It/Over It ends his set, the headlining trio known as Lemuria take over. While setting up their equipment, the crowded room cheers in anticipation, eager for their infectious sound of quirky pop rock, complemented with the female-male duel vocals. The male bassist and drummer wear simple blue jeans and white tees while the female guitarist, Sheena, dons a flowery dress with bangs and black-framed glasses. No guitar pedals are needed for them — just cables connecting to amps pumping loud distortion. At one point, Sheena croons the lyrics, “I’m not a Stevie/I’m a Christie McVie/I find comfort in being second best.” I then fixate on these words; how it sums up this place and all in attendance.
During Lemuria’s performance, a young girl makes her way to the front, accompanied by her older brother. She stares adoringly at Sheena as she grooves back and forth singing sweetly, as her fingers crawl across the guitar fretboard. When the group finishes their set, Sheena reaches down to grab her setlist sheet and hands it over to the young girl. The girl’s face lights up with a bright moonlight smile. Then, with members of the night’s previous bands joining in, Lemuria break into an encore: a cover of “I Melt with You” by Modern English. Everyone in the crowd erupts into an ecstatic singalong, belting out what will be the last words to the last song performed at the last show for this venue. We become baptized one more time in the bittersweet sweat and scent of each other.
And then show ends. The lights turn on and the venue owner says one last goodbye. A crowd of a hundred or so cheer and applaud the life and death of Gasworks. As we mournfully pour out into the night, “We Are the Champions” by Queen plays over the PA system. Rinda and I look back at the venue. “All my favorite shows happened here,” she says. “I’m gonna miss this place.” We get in my car and make our long way home, leaving the punks huddled together, making plans on where to go next.