JUST WHEN IT seemed like time to write off punk as the domain of disaffected suburban white youth, a punch line on Fox soap opera The OC, I found myself touching base with the underground. That was the agenda on a chilly Sunday afternoon, traversing the pigeon crust of Sixth Street to Bindlestiff Studio for a multiband bill of globalized punk.

Bindlestiff is a theater space that has played host to the annual piNoisepop festival, a cross-genre showcase of Asian American musicians. Though piNoisepop ended a few weeks prior, its mandate seems to have transferred to the new blood willing to keep punk shows happening at the theater. It shouldn't be a surprise: the first generation of San Francisco punk was housed at a Filipino nightclub, the Mabuhay Gardens, and immigrant kids have more fuel for rebelling against mainstream culture.

Compared to the back room Mission Records sweatbox, Bindlestiff is like a coliseum; it's a spacious if rickety venue, with a friendly volunteer staff selling dollar sodas and joining in the pogo. I cringed when a crowd surfer came precariously close to the overhead mics and exposed pipe system, recalling how a similar activity caused a flood at Epicenter a few years ago. Cops came by – the loud music was rattling a neighbor. Bindlestiff has also had an ongoing battle with the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency over the proposed demolition of a nearby residential hotel, and one would presume that with the recent cuts in arts funding, the studio is finding punk an empathetic companion.

This show had an international flavor, with Japanese visitors La Anagoten, Brazil UFO, and No People representing transplanted genre mutations. No People had the best set, adding goofy antics to its pop punk formula, spouting lyrics and fluids with an impish glee.

The home team fit in with the multicultural agenda. Coed trio Hunbot even sang in credible Mandarin. La Plebe, who sang in Spanish, played a sort of mishmash mosh of horns, jocky posturing, and political topicality, dedicating one song to deaths incurred by border crossing. They seemed to have brought the most pit activity, and I was reminded of seeing ska-punk bands at pay-to-play clubs in high school. It wasn't my thing, but I could also see how anyone who liked Andrew W.K. or the Mighty Mighty Bosstones would have felt at home. Except for Hunbot and Brazil UFO, there were no female performers, which seems like a minor point, but one that stands out.

Charmin looked like they were about to indie rock us but proceeded to toss toilet paper everywhere, which mixed with beer and the mosh pit in a sweaty mess. Eskapo sang in Tagalog and English, an uncommon combination in these parts. The Vallejo-bred band skipped around styles, sometimes busting out with speedy hardcore courtesy of drummer Max Fajardo, other times doing rousing beer-soaked chants. There's something incongruous about a bunch of Filipino American guys with shaved heads chanting, "Oi, oi, oi!," and the bizarre levels plateaued around the time diminutive singer Rupert Estanislao walked up to the mic. A hurricane force who, if corralled, could solve California's energy crisis, Estanislao climbed the P.A. and dove off in between songs about American imperialism and historical atrocities. Guitarist Bruce Webb kept getting unplugged, but the screely feedback added an aleatoric element to their sound.