Gonzo Report: 16 bands and one pair of boots highlight inaugural Summer Slam

“What’s with the boots?” I ask several people as they pass the empty footwear resting on the overpass leading to Corazon Del Barrio. The boots, sturdy workman types, could be protecting the feet of any of the attendees, or those belonging to members of the 16 bands playing this inaugural Summer Slam. But instead they just sit there, emblematic of a scene that never really went away (and even survived the repercussions of becoming a commodity). No one moves the boots. People walk around them, stare at them, remark on their quality. One couple takes pictures with them.

This is a hardcore festival, so it surprises and tickles me to see a man sporting KISS’ 1974 debut album on his shirt. I flash him my Rock and Roll Over tat and we fist bump, bonding over a band that is the antithesis of today’s festival lineup. I’m even more surprised to see this fellow member of the KISS army onstage shortly thereafter, doing kicks higher than his own head as his band Dispersed tears into the opening salvo of the all-day bill.

As things get underway, I wonder if perhaps I have a faulty memory of the days when Hatebreed frontman Jamey Jasta was hosting Headbangers Ball on MTV decades ago. Maybe I overestimated the havoc caused by all that hardcore dancing, with its emphasis on fists and elbows, when it invaded the mosh pits of punk and metal. Oh! Nope! There they are: the elbows and fists, along with some cartwheels thrown in for good measure. Fuck it, there’s plenty of space on the floor, let ‘em have their violent fun — though some dancers insist on trying to drag outlying patrons into the action.

These boots were made for gawking...

The venue is attached to Salud! Tacos and was once home to La Bodega art Gallery. The Til-Two Club took over management, and promoter Nino Nunziante is part of the hardcore scene. His personal relationships with bands — partly aided by his clothing line The Firm — provide added authenticity. The audience and bands hail from all ages, and clothing ranges from that KISS shirt to Goatwhore band merch, while makeup runs from plain faces to intricate death metal adornment. No one gives anyone shit for their choices. Everyone is here to support the bands, with people traveling from as far as Phoenix and Seattle. A foursome from Arizona — three of them below drinking age — tell me it was worth the road trip because their city often gets passed over. Then they excuse themselves to go check out Cinderblock. Post-set, I walk out to see the sidewalk filled with the bands’ merch tables. After each set, another table is added, and everyone seems to do well selling shirts and physical copies of their music on CD, vinyl, and even cassette.

The sound improves with each band, showing that someone is paying attention and making adjustments as the bodies fill the room. This attention to detail makes the experience that much more enjoyable. That, and the bassist for Nowhere Safe forgoing a pick and playing with four — count ‘em, four — fingers. It’s the sort of music nerd moment that makes me smile, but it ends as I dodge a petite woman named Sophia who has flung herself toward those of us on the edge of the dance space.

All the bands I see display a degree of technical accuracy that makes the rapid time changes look easy. I know they aren’t, and marvel every time a band pulls one off. By the ninth band, I’m exhausted. It’s the sixth hour of the music festival, the energy is swirling, and the roomy floor giving way to circle pits as Nunziante and artist Iain Tran move gear to set up for the next acts. Maili Bibbins holds down the clothing line’s booth amidst all the chaos. It’s reminiscent of the early days of a scene, but the truth is, hardcore never went away. It just stopped being marketed through major channels, weeding out the bandwagon jumpers in the process.

On my way out, I chat with a few of the bands. They all report being happy with Summer Slam; they got paid and enjoyed the green rooms catered by Salud,! plus they had the opportunity to sell merch and perform. I notice the empty pair of boots is still there, and I still have no idea why. But I’ll think of them whenever I recall this inaugural show. And I’ll consider the event as a moment of pure musical innocence in a venue that has the potential to be the new stronghold for all-ages hardcore shows. How could it fail, with the best rolled tacos and chips in town next door?