As published in Five Cent Sound Fall 2021
My life has been a love affair between two cities, both with histories far longer than I could ever imagine mine being. Providence and Boston: pillars of the East Coast, patrons of the arts, hotspots for cold weather and young people with lukewarm ambitions. Boston's primary cultural acclaim is its intellectual reputation, Providence's its pervasive artsiness. Lesser known are the uniquely vibrant music scenes that thrive in both.
The hardcore punk movement took hold of both cities in the 1980s. In many ways, Providence and Boston were ripe for it: the movement grew out of small cities and towns across America, which sprung up in unison and in rage. Driven by typical youth angst, a political dissatisfaction with the Reagan administration, and a visceral reaction to the culture of alienation he brought on, punk ideologies found a welcoming host in the young, liberal East Coast cities.
Punk (as a music genre and a movement) shaped not only the underground music scenes of small cities like Boston and Providence, but also people. Chris Wrenn, founder of Boston-based hardcore label Bridge Nine Records, got involved with punk growing up in Connecticut and was able to make a career out of it. The scenes he participated in introduced him to friends, idols, and more. "I felt like my world expanded quite a bit through music," Wrenn shares.
Providence's music scene was born and spread through clubs. In the 1970s, they were seemingly organized by genre. The Met hosted the blues, Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel favored roots acts and Americana music, and the Living Room famously fostered Providence's hardcore punk scene.
The Living Room, in all three of its locations, was the heart of Providence's music scene for many. Alex Caimano, of Providence-based band Toad and the Stooligans, grew up seeing shows at The Living Room's final location and affectionately described it as a "piss palace." Providence's collection of legal, condoned piss palaces were a home for the enthusiastic punk crowds. The spirit of the movement lived there, in the fans that always showed up, the art and zines created for shows, and the local tradition of having big-name touring bands open for local acts.
The geography of Boston's scene looked different from the start. A slightly bigger city with a larger business sector, its existing venues were quick to dismiss the unservable youth of the punk movement — which put no hitch in their enthusiasm. Instead, the movement took root in artists' basements, abandoned warehouses, any space that could host music and an unjuried crowd.
There were legal venues, too; the Rat in Allston was a regular stop for major punk shows. But the often-illegal occupation of space for the purpose of shows heavily influenced the scene and the music that came out of it: there were stronger networks of bands and fans, who would have to communicate about location; an early resentment towards police, who would pose as fans online to get venue addresses and then raid them; and in the 1990s, a philosophy of stagelessness — in these basements, everyone was equal.
Close in proximity, size, and spirit, the music scenes of Providence and Boston inevitably engaged with one another, for a while, as partners. The Providence scene had merit and energy, especially for hardcore bands, but it didn't last forever.
"When we were growing up, Rhode Island used to be a middle point between New York and Boston for every national group. They stopped putting shows on the map for Rhode Island, and I think at that point everybody sprung up to support the local people who were still doing their thing," Caimano explains.
This "springing up" manifested in the institutions and spirit that dictate Providence's current local scene: AS220, a famed alternative art space, WBRU's annual Rock Hunt to find a local headliner for their free summer concert series (RIP), and a community that is reputed for being "super supportive," according to Reddit users.
Subversive movements like hardcore punk, which lit the local scenes on fire, very rarely remain in the larger cultural zeitgeist. Punk is still a considerable force in the music industry today, but no longer as huge as it was in the 1980s. For small scenes, even a slight loss of enthusiasm had great impacts on the wellness of the scene as a whole. Providence was being rapidly gentrified, and the unjuried venues that fans and performers loved were time and again removed by noise complaints. As the movement lost energy, both cities had to focus on nurturing themselves rather than the larger New England music scene.
For several years, each scene affirmed its position in its respective city: local musicians made names for themselves among the fans, and new fans got involved. As clubs got shut down in downtown Providence, the enthusiasm moved to Olneyville, a more affordable and less populated neighborhood. Illegal venues continued to move in and around Boston — so many that local punk veteran Chris Strunk compiled an entire zine of them last year.
The cities were entrenched in a familiar cycle: their passionate music scenes create cultural capital, attracting people with money who move in and are subsequently repulsed by the noise associated with the source of said cultural capital, using their power and economic standing to have that noise removed. Both scenes worked hard to survive within this pattern; there was extreme focus, dedication, and some lingering resentment between the cities. What had once been partners in a raging movement became isolated acts, rebuilding alone. Rivals.
Following the pandemic, every music scene in the nation is rebuilding. In the case of Providence and Boston, it means rebuilding together. Providence hip-hop artist Nino Francis tells me he's excited to see artists "starting to build those bridges with Boston... in ways that we can all feed off of each other and really just connect and build."
Boston hardcore band Pummel's Matt McCarthy, who has been involved in Boston hardcore for over a decade, expresses nothing but love for Providence's hardcore scene. "It feels like a second home to us," McCarthy says, noting that the band's drummer is a member of the Providence scene.
The post-COVID music scene is not unlike the original punk scene in that its main focus is fostering community. Wrenn explains, "I think people really want to reconnect in a way that maybe they weren't doing prior to the pandemic."
Fans and artists are able to form real bonds within and between their unique scenes. Social media has made this much easier, an innovation that was in effect long before the past year.
"The way people find out about bands happens much more quickly," Wrenn explains, compared to when he started putting out 7" records. McCarthy similarly expresses, "It's something special to be able to connect to so many different people from all over the country, from different walks of life, through music."
The two cities, and many more, are now united by a common goal. Every fan or artist I spoke with offered me the same answer in regards to what was most exciting in their local scene right now: the return of shows. With solid bases and eager fans in both, Boston and Providence artists alike are making the one-hour commute between cities to play as much as possible. They're more connected than ever, two small but mighty scenes on fire once again.
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *