“Even at 61, he’s got that earnestly curious smile I remember from reruns of The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”

“Fuck Greg, gimme that white shirt,” I tell Dr. Know’s merch person. Greg Gonzalez is like a brother to me, and I’m attending this show at The Casbah because Dr. Know is one of his favorite punk bands. And tonight, he’s replacing his classic design shirt with a new one. The one I wanted. I love Greg, but I will be damned if I’m risking being twinsies. Irate at the stifling of the expression of my individuality through the purchase of mass-produced band gear, I go to check out the bands. But before I can do that, I find myself engrossed in conversation with Bart Mendoza, a man who was immersed in music at a young age and who seems to have done it all, writing and producing songs as well as working for record labels — including his own. He’s got Iron Maiden stories, which I soak up like Spongebob Fanboy, but our conversation on the future of music and journalism results in a respectful disagreement. Eventually, the chatting gets me anxious, because I realize I’ve heard most of the Strychnine 99 and Pancho Villa sets from just outside the performance room. I’m starting to feel like one of those twits who just wants to say they were there — to be seen, instead of being in the moment and supporting the bands.

Moments before Stalag 13 comes on, I’m still replaying conversations I’ve had with people during the opening sets and prior to the show. The pop culture references tonight were myriad, but their vintage has relegated most of them to modern obscurity. None of that matters when the band starts playing and the crowd responds with a mania of crashing bodies and the congregational screaming of every word. The energy multiplies through covers of 7 Seconds’ “Young ‘Til I Die” and Minor Threat’s “Filler,” songs I’ve played myself in 86Fix; I start to feel a kinship with bass player Danny Altimara, who nails the lines with an attack I envy. Then, akin to a raging fire sucking in oxygen to fuel itself, the music draws a group of underage fans who burst through the side door, jump on the stage, and dive off it before being escorted out. The laughing doorman gives a “Whatcha gonna do?” shrug, but still makes sure he guards the door more attentively after that.

After the set, the band hangs out at the venue, and I snag a vinyl reissue of their classic album In Control. I’m pleased that original singer Ron Baird recently rejoined the band after a relocation to Australia, and I ask him and the rest of the band to sign my new acquisition. The guitarist is reluctant. That may be because he’s not on the record, and doesn’t look old enough to have been in kindergarten when it was released 20 years ago, never mind whether or not he’s seen Hogan’s Heroes, the source of the band’s name. But after some encouragement from his bandmates, who tell me he’s never given an autograph before, he steps up and signs it.

Speaking of old TV shows: I’ve seen Brandon Cruz walking around the venue tonight; he’s impossible to miss because, even at 61, he’s got that earnestly curious smile I remember from reruns of The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. Back in the ‘80s, when “Where are they now?” shows were all the rage, co-star Bill Bixby — who played Eddie’s father — was greeted by a grown Brandon in full punk regalia. As the audience laughed, Bixby asked a simple question: “Are you happy?” Cruz said he was, and they walked off into a fake sunset, talking about the things that were important in life. My young brain translated the exchange as, “Fuck what other people think, be yourself.”

That memory plays in my mind as Dr. Know starts its set, and I’m seeing nine-year-old Eddie’s smile on Cruz as they tear through their classics — with the exception of “Fist Fuck,” which is sung by an audience member because Cruz’ daughter is disgusted by it.

Alas, it turns out the saying, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old” is bullshit. Because no matter what your age, it’s too loud to even make out the songs until a few bars in. It’s bad enough that the band requests a sound correction, but it doesn’t happen.

When the show ends, I get to the stage and Cruz takes a selfie with me. I don’t get to tell him the impact that long-ago TV interaction with Bixby had on me, but the moment still makes my night. I meet Greg outside the venue and show him my shirt, which he loves. I think he intends to go purchase one, but it turns out the excessive distortion from the volume may have thrown off his equilibrium, and he’s dazed. I tell him my cool shirt will always be known as the “Fuck Greg” shirt, and he suggests stenciling it on the back. Like a genuine friend.