“What time warp of music is this?!” Why, it’s a small tide of third-wave ska. Photo by Evan Semón.
If you’re ever at 13th Avenue and Washington Street, head past sentries Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Tommy, plow back through the Pop/Rock A-Z, and, when you hit the wall of the back room, stop. Turn around slowly, look up and fix your gaze on the posters by the entryway of Wax Trax. There’s Wolverine, blades-a-poppin’, telling you to WAKE UP AND SMELL THE ’90S. Why he’s the spokesman of such pertinent propaganda is immaterial. The message, as is inferred by its all-caps typeface, is crucial.
All professional doubting Thomases: get thee to the Gothic on November 27th, 2009. This’ll be a Herculean feat for you, as you’ll first need to suspend your disbelief long enough to locate and utilize a small time machine. Set the dials not to 11/27/1997, as you might have smugly presumed, but to 11/27/2009 — barely 72 hours in the past. Goodness gracious, you must steel yourself. The customs and attitudes of this bygone culture closely resemble those of your own era, but with a few glaring differences.
Thus, you shall bear witness to the sweaty, wilted mohawks, the pillowy skate shoes, the cargo pants, the T-shirts festooned with skulls and flames and cartoon monsters and checkers, checkers, checkers. Hark — third-wave ska with its chugging guitars and brass section klaxons. Ageless — if only because their outfits and hairdos haven’t changed — bounces around the stage, the audience mirroring them in mass pogo.
This veers dangerously close to a sulphuric blast of millenium-era nostalgia (c’mon, if you remember living through the ’90s, you also remember being unable to believe anyone could get misty-eyed over them) but try telling that to an undulating sea of suburban punkers who’ve had the lyrics tattooed on their frontal lobes since middle school.
The exuberance was catching. Less Than Jake, in high spirits, played brightly and energetically, pulling mostly from the “Losing Streak” and “Hello Rockview” catalogues. A massive banner with their logo towered behind them, depicting a spaceman in fisticuffs with a certain Tokyo terror. The lights flashed in rainbow order; the speakers blared; the floors shook. Such pep might have been relegated to the original tours for the aforementioned albums, but here it was again, having wriggled easily from the clammy grip of assigned indoor row seats. For these kids, a lit Bic and a sedentary torpor didn’t trigger any memories. Dancing did.
On that note, one of the highlights of the evening was an onstage skanking contest between two fellers. One seemed easily winded and was booed accordingly, while the other strode off with a setlist and a poster. The real victors, however, were the two sweethearts called down mid-set from the balcony. When they got onstage, the girl took to one knee and asked her honeybuns to marry her. He said yes — to the great amusement of the band, whose attitude towards gender was the only crusty thing about the evening.
When Wolverine has something to say, you’d better listen, regardless of the context. In this instance, you’d better believe the ’90s ball is gathering speed, rendering us all “Raiders”-era Dr. Joneses. Strap on your low-riding pants, pull your socks to your knees, and button your enthusiasm into at least one of those pockets.
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Alex Edgeworth is a Denver-based freelance writer and regular contributor to Reverb.
Evan Semón is a Denver freelance photographer and regular contributor to Reverb. See more his work .
