Tampa Calling

Restless again. My band stops playing and a smattering of applause fills the void of sound as the barkeep kicks on the punk jukebox. Love Comes in Spurts pipes through the shitty speakers as Richard Hell’s whiney voice affirms the nihilistic undertones of modern living. I look down at my sweat-stained shirt and a tiny button of Hell’s vacant stare pinned above my left breast pocket catches my eye. For a second, its blank straight-mouthed expression curls into a shit eating grin and he whispers up at me, “I know punk sounds better through the filter of a canned, thought-out and planned recording” as I rub my eyes, pick up my amplifier and carry it hastily out the back door.

Fresh air stings my lungs, billowing smoke escaping through the closing door behind me. I drop my keys, set the amp down on the pavement and pick them up. After throwing the amp in the back seat of my car, I reluctantly re-enter the bar from the back to finish cleaning up.

Unexpectedly, the door leads directly into my parents’ house three towns over. The sun burns through the large windows as my hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I must have really shaken something up in my head last night with that show, I tell myself in a panic. I can hear my parents arguing in the next room:

“Why can’t you use your gift of music to serve the Lord?”

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I have always been a terrible skateboarder. Lord knows I’ve tried: the aesthetics of physical activity, reckless abandon and risk of personal injury appeal to me on an ideological level, but my lack of skill and commitment caused many bad and embarrassing falls. I even listen to semi obscure hardcore punk bands like Big Boys, who’s fast rhythms and anarchy driven lyrics characterized skateboarding (in the 80s at the very least). Regardless of my personal abilities, celebrating 16 years of the Skatepark of Tampa seems very worthwhile, especially since SPOT along with Transitions Art Gallery remains one of the safest and best places for the kids of Tampa to hang out and spend their time instead of raiding their parents’ liquor cabinets or just being bored to death with TV brainwash.

Walking into the Czar on Saturday night with a friend, we navigated ourselves through three rooms of schizophrenic, non sequitur rooms filled wall to wall with scenesters and club personalities of all ages. In the third and decidedly more “rock n roll” room, I walked into a band playing generic sounding punkish music with those whiny vocals that I don’t really associate with very easily. The voyeur in me snuck back into the second room and watched all the people at and around the bar acting silly and trying to get to know each other. Amazing how many senses these places tickle in such a short period of time.  Flashing lights, red walls, perfume, sweat, hairspray, flesh, pounding beats and the buzz of constant chatter flourished all around the room while my friend and I yelled at each other about art and crap.  Not wanting to miss the bands No Age or Les Savy Fav, we meandered back into the third room, got some free Pabst and settled into the much more boring people watching of scensters and hipsters who looked more or less the same as one another…

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