An Ode to Cincinnati Crust Punks

At freespaces and dimly lit dives, they helped 20-something-year-old me make sense of the world.

Cincinnati radicalized me. In old alleyways between historic homes — some picturesque and others ramshackle — dressed in wannabe punk revival meets ‘90s chokers and black denim, I discovered a foundation for inner peace. The Comet, our “home bar,” was my safe space, perfectly liminal with its ambient pink neon lights and checkerboard floor. I’d chainsmoke Camel Silvers and sip on a Hudepohl or PBR at the beginning of each week on the back patio for “Monday Night at the Comet,” a recurring event, live music buzzing in the background. 

Sometimes it was Flesh Mother performing inside, John bellowing atop a table — a more modern Melvins meets Sepultura — with a worshiping mosh pit beneath him. To avoid getting trampled in the small confines of The Comet, I too would stand on a table and observe the chaos surrounding me, stray beer cans chucked in the air, sometimes grazing me or splashing me with foamy backwash. Every time there was a DIY show at a dive bar or in an abandoned church, basement, backyard, living room, warehouse, or even barn (because, Ohio), I was there for it.

I was 25 and still young enough to be able to throw back well drinks and cheap beer three or four nights a week while at shows or readings or protests. I needed to get out. Growing up in the suburbs, a half hour away from the city-center, as a first generation American born to immigrant parents, I was tortured behind a desk in my room during my pre-teen and teen years. I was sheltered, repressed, and miserable. The rambunctious child in me, who always had scraped up knees and the biggest grin, was beginning to fade. Feeling inadequate at all times, I wanted to please my parents and be their golden child. This continued in iterations of: depressed undergrad, depressed yuppie-in-the-making, depressed grad student.

The Comet by Andy Erb

Flesh Mother, from their Instagram

When I managed to escape all of that, I was fully onboard for those late nights in Northside, Cincinnati, that ran on “punk time,” dubbed so unironically. Events never started before 10 p.m. The point was to drink late into the evening, despite the presence of many straight edge kids. Cincinnati is a place where you drink because you are in a red state surrounded by some of the worst people and ideologies this country has to offer. When you are battling against so much oppression in your tight-knit progressive enclave, you fight back hard. Plus, sometimes, there’s just not much else going on.

Between drinks, I encountered people I have yet to meet anywhere else, including Los Angeles, my current home. It was a time warp. There were Cinci punks with true-to-form ‘70s colorful mohawks contrasted against all-black leather, studs, pins, and piercings, more extreme versions of Darby Crash or Sid Vicious. There were others who thrifted, painted, patchworked, sewed, and DIY’d everything on their bodies. There were the neo-Riot Grrrls. You could tell apart the ‘trust punks’ from the less privileged non-trust fund kids. Were the rich ones in their immaculate outfits cosplaying? Weren’t we all? I didn’t care. I wanted to tear off my skin — mark it up and stick ‘n’ poke it to fill in the blank canvas of a previously unlived life. 

We hung out at freespaces and dives, often discussing how fucked up Ohio politics were. We protested the killing of Sam DuBose, an unarmed Black man, by the police; marched for women’s safety when rapists in the community surfaced; did workshops on how to protect the trans community; provided free resources and safety tips to sex workers; and offered mutual aid. The people in my newfound community were anarcho-communists, anarchists, and democratic socialists. When I was first introduced to the philosophy of ACAB, for example, I was just green enough to question how the police could possibly all be bad. It took some explaining from fellow activists for me to grasp the full scope of oppressive police tactics used to maintain class structure, and to fuel the prison-industrial complex. This anti-capitalist knowledge made the world, in all of its horror and beauty, suddenly make more sense.

I googled “crust punk” and this royalty-free Shutterstock photo came up. I literally recognize these people from Cincinnati.

After completing undergrad, working some office jobs, unwittingly becoming a rising yuppie, and then attending grad school in L.A. — where I’d ultimately end up  — I first returned to Cincinnati. I was planning to move to the East Coast, but landed a job at the local NPR-station as an assistant producer for a daily news program. That’s when I moved to Northside, my beloved historic neighborhood filled with some of the best food and cafes, a renowned record store, and as many drug houses as there were dive bars. It was a grungy, sometimes hopeless feeling place, at least back in 2015. Not everyone was perfect. Like anywhere else, there were problematic people and the insular nature of it all eventually became suffocating. But when it was good, it was good. I’d met some of the most progressive people I know, up to this day.

A side street in Northside, captured by me

The general vibe of Northside, captured by me

The personal is political. Our sociopolitical views aren’t just private, compartmentalized bits of us; they inform who we are as people. As a leftist, Marxist, and democratic socialist, I finally feel in touch with myself and my values. Politics can be a litmus test for connecting with others too. While I wouldn’t rule out befriending those whose worldviews differ from mine, I find I am instantly attracted to those who share my beliefs. In broad strokes, these are deeply empathetic and kind people who understand systemic injustices, and how we all experience it. We see the power in collective action for all marginalized communities, and band together. 

We heal together. Where there’s music, alt lit, visual art, performance art, cinema, or anything like it, there’s community. I have personally found overlap in artists and leftism anywhere I go, as was my experience in Cincinnati for the years I lived there, during which I learned to shed my neoliberalism. However, in Cinci, I was a token Asian. I both hated and loved it. I felt othered and I felt special. I’m no longer a token Asian in L.A. There are almost always BIPOC around me, and I’ve found community beyond just white punks (and feel even more special and cherished). 

Now, in my 30s, I can’t imagine living anywhere other than L.A., a diverse megalopolis enveloped by nature. We’ve got mountains, beaches, bluffs, canyons, forests, deserts, lakes, caves, and coves. With no hint of irony, I see nature as my cathedral. I no longer need to drink or chainsmoke to get by — though I am Cali Sober, also unironically. The proximity to national parks is something I wouldn’t trade for anything, and a luxury we didn’t have in the midwest. I adore how the rugged deserts of the Southwest meet the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, blossoming out in a lovely obtuse angle from L.A. on the map. I guess I needed to get out even farther than I thought.

Man, do I love it here. Photo by me from a lovely hike.

Sometimes I can’t believe my life is my life. I feel an overwhelming sense of freedom; as much as one can in the confines of this cisheteronormative, white supremacist patriarchy we call the U.S. I work hard but I have had help with my transition from freelance writer to social justice communications professional, while establishing a new home in L.A. I recognize that privilege. I am grateful and acknowledge it every day. I’m also grateful I now have the ability to travel abroad: to Europe and South America, most recently, and to wherever I’d like to go. Even though I love kids, being childfree helps, and that’s a whole other topic I will delve into in the future. I had been on the fence for so long, brainwashed by a pronatalist agenda to reproduce, but think I know my answer now. 

Mostly, I feel free in my mind because I finally have an idea of who I am. And who I am not. I know what I stand for, and what I will never tolerate. This gives me purpose and a sense of control. I owe so much of that to Cincinnati — to the crust punks and activists and art kids who helped educate me, radicalize me. I don’t take them for granted and I look forward to visiting Cinci every holiday season, always noticing new and compelling developments. The spiral of time that is non-linear and happening all at once, showed me that one day, I’d get to where I am. That kid, tortured behind a desk, always had a glimmer of hope. I remember that. I remember her. She’s still existing in between, but she’s radicalized in all of the ways that have made her softer and more whole.