My brief experience with the inimitable lifestyle of Hardcore

Like many a wayward rebel youth, I had become deeply embroiled in the various rejectionary and willingly snot-nosed philosophies of the DIY Punk scene by the age of 18. Never was sure what it was in particular that drove me to punk, but then that’s just sort of how it happens; you fall into an identity very suddenly, usually because it’s the only option that makes sense. Many nights I found myself in the only truly pure and sacred venues for live music: dingy basements, sweaty garages, and rented living rooms. The heat was always unbearable. The smell was some ungodly combination of stale tobacco, sweat, bad weed, and cheap beer, with the occasional waft of smoke as a transistor blew in someone’s amp stack. Through young and angry eyes, it was as close to paradise as I could find — they’re all like me, and they’re sick of it, too. 

By the time I turned 20, I found myself progressing from the more college-house-oriented DIY punk scene to the booze-fueled and bar-bound culture of Hardcore, the modern offspring of Punk and Metal that physically dominants underground rock music. In most of the American South, and especially in the Carolinas, the predominant style of Hardcore music you’ll find is called Beatdown. To put it lightly, Beatdown Hardcore is a slow and brutal style, performed in the hopes that the crowd will act out cartoonish levels of reckless abandon. Each song was hand crafted with the intention of encouraging an intense and aggressive style of dance that — while being a clearly defined form of dance — is nearly indistinguishable from outright physical violence. The band slows the tempo down, the vocalist growls like some sort of demon-ape, the china cymbal cracks like a ring bell, and something wicked is coming alive within you. You pick a friend and throw punches over his head. You won’t be the only one doing it. Anything went, and you didn’t tend to stick around if you weren’t at least interested in seeing what would happen. If someone hit you pretty good (with as good of intentions one can have while enacting full-contact combat)  the proper etiquette is to hit them back and compliment the shot later. Hardcore meant Hardcore, and the scene was ready to test if you were really about it. If you whined about it or stood up for yourself with too much emotion, you’d be met with the same refrain from scene veterans and young acolytes alike: “Grow the fuck up. This is real life. This is Hardcore.”

 I never considered myself a true disciple of the Hardcore way, and I was never hesitant to make that known. I could never bring myself to claim the mantle of “Hardcore”, always self-describing as a “Hardcore-adjacent Punk”. I wasn’t plugged in to the national scene for the music,  I didn’t like cocaine, and I never clicked with much of the hyper-macho tough-guy shtick. Hell, I wasn't even much of a drinker.

Though I wasn’t truly one of them, I admired their unceasing dedication to unflinchingly facing the brutality of life, and their willingness to express that through what seemed like a combination fight club / band scene. Immanuel Kant described the sublime as needing to contain an element of clear and present danger; its beauty must threaten to kill you. In their pursuit of compelling art through copious anger — paradise through violence — there was something beautiful to their fury. There was no half-stepping. The danger was real, the music was real, the anger was real, and it was all so beautiful. The best part, that part that made it feel so real, was that it could kill you if you weren’t careful. Every show was a two hour adrenaline rush, somewhere between a boxing match and an ancient caveman cult ritual. Then, at the end, everyone goes outside. They finish someone else’s beer, smoke someone else’s cigarettes, and vanishes back into the real world to attend their crap day jobs in pursuit of funding another weekend of glorious boot-stomping hell.

As you’d imagine, the kinds of people that make up such a Neanderthalic community were quite eccentric, and it’s their presence and participation that truly makes your various local scenes unique. My own home scene was flooded with various motley crews of colorful characters, each with a particular angle to their own participation in Hardcore: Some found community. Some found purpose. Some found strength. Some found motivation. Some found a release. Some (many, in fact) found a really good excuse to hit people they hardly knew with closed-fist punches every Friday night.

Among them, there was a clear champion. The living, breathing, rotting soul of the scene, a manifestation of Hardcore’s storied history and wildman spirit within one schlubby New Jerseyan.

Among the various tribes of NCHC, there was none more Hardcore than Joey Hopeless.

Joey was relatively simple in his character. Wasn’t too much to know about him, really. Early 30s, born in Jersey, Half-Puerto Rican-half-Jewish, has lived and breathed Hardcore for as long as he can remember. In the Summertime, you would find him wearing a backwards Yankees cap, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, basketball shorts, and sandals. He named himself Joey Hopeless because he believed that hopelessness was the key to freedom of mind, that to be Hopeless was to be Free.

That about does it in terms of complexity. What you could never account for was sheer intensity.

Joey was the wildest of wildcards, and his presence at a show, though infrequent, nearly always meant that something memorable would happen — for better or worse. His signature move was to pitch-launch objects into a packed moshpit. Never really had a preferred projectile either, just whatever was in arm’s reach: Trash cans, bar stools, whole pizzas, pitchers of beer, all turned into glorious missiles on a mission of pointless, purposeless, reckless chaos. If you were anywhere near the pit, you were in bombing range, and you were incredibly liable to get bombed.

(At least two locals have stories of their parents being clocked in the head by Joey’s pit bombs while their bands played, even though they were by the bar. He apologized. They took it well.)

Given our mutual friendships, Joey and I became close by crew association. We often found ourselves in the same 6-10 person group at shows and at our usual haunts, and as a result developed an surprisingly lasting sense of camaraderie and brotherhood. He saw me as a fledgling to the scene, and I saw him as the grizzled young veteran. He would miss my shows and apologize, I’d hit him full-force in the pit as payback. I always figured that if there’s a maniac around, it’s always better to have him on your side, and Joey was a good maniac to know.

What you can’t predict about knowing a maniac is that they will often drag you headfirst into their mania. The worst part about knowing a maniac is that it’s usually pretty fun when they do.

Sometime in the dog days of the Carolina summer, I woke up inside a friend’s place after a party the previous night. I realized I had never seen their apartment in the daylight: Trashed out, roach-infested, littered with cigarette butts and beer cans, writings and drawings on the wall.  It was, to say the least, rough. Regardless, I pressed on with my daily plan; being as unemployed and broke as I was, I figured I’d slum it around the local scene’s homebase bar for the day; waiting for the usual Beatdown show to begin, begging for drinks, and complaining about band demos from five years ago. When I arrived, I found a few of the usual suspects, and with them one particular person of interest: Joey Hopeless. After our usual greeting that consisted of a tradeoff of insults, we established that we both had nothing to do, time to kill, and an itch to act like degenerates.

Joey acts, turning to the bartender and ordering two Trash Cans.

This decision would initiate the unfolding of a series of events that even to this day I cannot truly make full sense of.

(For context, imagine a Long Island Iced Tea with even less regard for your wellbeing.)

(For further context, I was not yet of drinking age.)

(For even further context, it was Eleven-Thirty AM.)

As we slug down the concoction of red bull and just about every liquor on the shelf, Joey turns to me and produces a deck of cards, asking me to pick any one I like. Despite my disbelief at his carrying a deck of cards and the out-of-character realization that he knew card magic, I reached and drew from the deck. He tells me to stare deeply into the card and memorize it. As I’m staring into the jack of clubs, I see Joey’s hand in my peripheral vision, stealing the last of my drink. As he shoots it down, he points and shouts “pretty good trick, right?!” laughing like a vacuum was pulling the oxygen from his lungs.

He then proceeds to demonstrate honest-to-god card magic for the next hour, to anyone who would entertain him, managing to never repeat a trick the entire time.

I ask him if card magic is Hardcore. He tells me that anything Joey Hopeless does is Hardcore. He spoke in third-person a lot.

Our usual daytime activities of loitering around the UNCG college town helped kill time. You’d see the cast of characters rotate in and out all day, like a never-ending one-act play. We drank, we wandered, talked to strangers, dumpster dove, and split cigarettes with the homeless folks. It’s really another world for the daydrinker, one that clearly cannot maintain without sustained damage over time. All the same, there is a self-perceived glory in walking on the wild side, to allow yourself to move like jungle creatures. Two big dumb apes killing time, swinging on vines and flinging shit between the trees. Freedom in an animalistic way. We were not successful, we were not respected, and we were not revered. But we were fringe, we were social dropouts, we were indeed Hardcore. 

Showtime rolls around. Joey had been drinking hard all day, so we knew that it was going to be a particularly eventful night. The bar was packed, and the bands were ready to put on an ultraviolent spectacle for our past-capacity corner of the world.

First band, first song: Joey throws himself through the pit like a tornado, clobbering anyone unfortunate enough to be near him. He was a bigger guy, and knew how to throw his weight around like an acrobatic freight train, clearing full-on tracks wherever he moved. After the initial bulldozing, Joey hung by the bar for the rest of the band’s set. He was warmed up, soaking in and storing the energy needed for whatever big stunt he had planned. He had that big, wild-eyed smile on his face, and I knew he had something special in mind, whether or not he was aware of that. 

Second band, no Joey participation. The rest of us take the opportunity to dance and faux-attack each other, working out our own aggression of the week.

Third band, still no Joey. A relative normalcy is established on the dance floor; nothing is too aggressive, nothing is too dangerous. All in good fun. After all, This is Hardcore!

Fourth band steps up. An infamous local unit whose sets would inspire the most caustic spirits in their audience: Neglected. 

Neglected were the heaviest, nastiest, most brutal band to step out of the local scene. Their shows were renowned for being the ultimate place to unhinge oneself and give in to the vile red-tinted energy that Beatdown Hardcore had to offer. Several of their sets had ended early due to crowd injury, knockout, or the destruction of key equipment. To see Neglected play was to step into the Thunderdome, where violence was not a possibility, but a guarantee. To make matters worse, we were all friends with the band, and as such had a responsibility to show up and show out any time they played. We didn’t do our part if we didn’t hurt someone. 

This was where Joey’s plan came to fruition.

The band begins. Droning, menacing guitar tones ring out. Drums thunder, drawing out the troglodyte from every last member of the crowd. The vocalist shouts into the mic with disturbingly clear diction, true hate in his voice, murder in his eyes:

“THIS IS REAL HARDCORE, YOU COWARDS.”

Two beats pound out like the drums of doom.

“STAND YOUR GROUND OR DIE LIKE THE REST”

The rest of the song kicks in. It sounds like the world is ending around me.

Without awareness, I am suddenly and swiftly relocated to the floor. I look around; Someone in the crowd is picking up a large plastic trash can, likely what took me down. As I start to stand, I see a pizza box soar through the air into the crowd. Then another. Then another. I reach my feet, backing into the crowd for cover. There goes a stool. Then another trash can. Then the trash bag itself. I scan the room to make sense of the scene. My head snaps left, and suddenly the truth of the situation is revealed to me: Joey Hopeless is throwing everything in sight. He spots me from the crowd, pointing straight at me like Hulk Hogan, wordlessly informing me that my time had come in his little scheme. He seizes me in a bear hug, dragging me through the crowd with reckless abandon. He’s swinging me back and forth as my limbs helplessly flail into the crowd like whips. I feel my combat boots connecting with ribs, heads, backs, extremities, and at least one crotch.

Joey Hopeless had turned me into a weapon. This is Hardcore. 

The set continues. It doesn’t get much prettier. Despite what you may believe about the Hardcore community, nobody actually wants their fellow participants to get seriously hurt, and the show-stopping injuries are usually the result of genuine accidents. This time was no different: A newer member of the scene took an unintended shot, and was knocked unconscious. The band stopped playing to check on them. After waking them back up, they called the set over. Didn’t seem like there was a point to continuing.

Blood was drawn, bodies were dropped, and brutality was celebrated; Were we not entertained? After all, This is Hardcore.

The show wrapped up around midnight. I had already spent 14 hours straight with Joey Hopeless. Somehow, he had not had enough. I suppose the insanity of his daily life left him wanting more. What followed was six hours of bar hopping, cashing in favors, being introduced to other such sketchy characters, and interacting with strangers through card magic. Somehow there was always something free waiting for Joey: free food, free drinks, free coke, free attention. 

By 4 AM, we had wound up back at… someone’s house, though neither of our own. I was exhausted. My body ached, my face felt drained, and my brain had gradually been reduced to a light mush by the general excitement of the night. Yet somehow, I wasn’t tired. I was too frustratingly intrigued to be tired. What the hell is Joey Hopeless? Who could possibly sustain this level of living for so long? 

I got tired of wondering, so I asked. I spent the final six hours of my time awake watching Joey do cocaine while I interrogated his worldview, his experiences, his philosophy. What emerged in his responses was a brand of nihilism that could only exist in someone like Joey.

He was a nihilist in the pure sense, being someone who recognizes that all things in life are ultimately meaningless unless given other meaning. But he was a joyful nihilist. He explained to me that in his view, hopelessness is the state of being free from expectations, to be free from desire and want and hope, and therefore be free from the bindings of those things. When you are hopeless, you are free to choose. Only as a prisoner can you be freed. He was, in a way that would never dawn on him, a bent Buddhist. I told him I didn’t know if I bought it. He told me he didn’t care if I did. The crickets roared on into the nighttime heat of the Carolina Summer. 

We were filthy and felt like hell. We were bruised, beaten, fried, and exhausted. We hadn’t slept for Twenty-Two hours. I felt more alive and real than I ever had.

I passed out on a couch on the front porch at around 9 am and woke up in the evening. I went home and slept for another full day.

This is Hardcore.

——————

 When the pandemic hit, the Beatdown scene completely shattered, and never really came back in the way it was before.

Years passed.

Another scene had replaced us, full of younger and wilder kids. The old guard had lost their seniority, though still maintained some semblance of legacy. Some members became parents and had to give up the Saturday night violence. Some went back to school and began careers, transforming into the yuppies they swore they’d never be. That’s the ironic thing about Hardcore: The ones most dedicated, the most Hardcore among us, they never quite go anywhere. Crowdkilling and spin-kicking doesn’t really pay the bills, and it’s not always the best foundation to build a healthy life on. If you want to make it out to the Good Life, you’ve gotta be willing to betray your punk credibility. It sucks, but it’s the bitter pill at the bottom of the Hardcore cocktail: You can’t do it forever. Eventually, we all step to the back of the venue and fold our arms instead of windmilling and two-stepping

Ultimately, I do think there’s truth to what Joey told me that night. Though I never could fully buy into it myself, I cannot bring myself to reject it either.

The expectations we hold for our own lives often prevent us from taking leaps of extremity. Our hopes can be our heaviest chains. It’s the bitter-yet-resilient message at the heart of Hardcore: This life will do everything it can to beat you down, so prepare to fight back. Give up on your hopes. Give up on your dreams. This world will reject them anyway. It will not go the way you think, and even if it did, how much of it would be real? Realize that you are hopeless, and rage with us against the dying of the light. You will not make it out alive, but no one ever does.

There is still the meantime. There is still now.

Demand better. Fight for what’s right, even if you lose. Live Hopeless and Free in the face of impossible odds.

This is Hardcore.