Exploring the Mexico City punk scene through house shows and tumultuous SF pit stops
Their conversations lapsed into Spanish as another stressful development arose when a band showcase they organized at the last minute for Friday night was suddenly jeopardized by greed (the person who was going to lend the art space was now asking $300. It wasn't clear to me if that meant pesos or US dollars). For a moment my stomach sank and I thought there might be a shakedown, but a house was secured. They'd throw a party, free of charge.
Despite the free hors d'oeuvres and Dos Equis we stumbled upon at a Volcom party for a new shoe line, it probably paled compared to any exclusive party. I passed on the Growlers (a few of the band members snuck in) since Friday's showcase would be the main event.
"THIS IS ALL FOR YOU, MAN"
Nico called my name to join him for a walk to the liquor store. Bleached-blond with shades, there's no way he's not in a band. He plays guitar and sings (they all sing) and was the final Headache I met in Mexico City. He described the common response from girls when they ask what he does and he tells them he plays rock'n'roll: they're not interested. I said freelance music writing doesn't pay well either. "We are losers," he joked.
They don't often get paid to play, but the determination to simply do what they love with their lives seemed to be the core of their existence. The showcase came together in a series of sweaty, passionate, punk-rock performances. Grandma Boys, Suca Suca, and Los Reverse demonstrated spirited, supportive roles for the aforementioned bands.
"This is for you. This is all for you, man," Twist! said, almost staring through me with intensity. Party mode had climaxed, but the profundity of what transpired didn't sink in until later. The day before I left, Fosi asked, "Did you get what you came for?" I told him "And then some." Humbled, lucid, and feeling alive, I left fulfilled. My reward is that I remember everything.