Day to Day

All That Scratchin’ is Making Me Itch


Hair spiked into jagged points and a chain around his neck, the scene was dwindling but strong enough. His body, adorned proudly with the markers of his dedication, gleamed in the light with steel points affectionately pressed through a weighted leather skin. Boots were always tightly laced in full and polished to a mirrored finish as to differentiate oneself from those who lacked the conviction of mind to do so.

He found comfort in the constant restrictions of leather and skin tight denim which, to many, would have been an unreasonably laborious task to maintain. It was also the subtle details he enjoyed. A hyper-aware game of cultural appropriation where nothing was done by chance and not even the choice of lace was to betaken lightly. They could be round or flat so long as they were carefully aligned with the surface of the shoe and always cotton never polyester. Black or yellow were popular choices as they often came with the boots themselves and had no strong political affiliations, unlike red or white which could be an indicator of a communistic or fascist alignment. He no longer wore braces hanging from the waist as traditionally it was a sign that the wearer being ready for a violence, an activity for which he had no interest as fights bored him immensely. This tradition was passed on from UK skin culture but was mostly ignored as many simply enjoyed the extra adornment of objects hanging from the waist.

The anarcho crowd, would take this further with the addition of a butt flap that would blow gently in the breeze of a passing train but the look was indicative of a certain sound for which he was not involved and if you didn’t live by the sound in your heart you were truly a poser, the greatest, most offensive of labels in the scene. Aesthetics and culture and sound were one and the unwritten rules were highly restrictive but sometimes the greatest creativity is born of the the tightest restrictions. Unfortunately in the scene creativity was more the exception than the rule, which is why many grow tired of the scene just a few years. But this was before the scene grew too old in his heart.


It was 2006 and he disliked both softcore and hard. His tastes for music currently aligned with the street, skate, horror and old school genres. He lived out these sounds in his attire and fed the music back into the scene with a own band of his own. In five years they had almost played every band room in the expansive city from which he was raised though Australia was, and remains, far too sparse and expensive to tour for a small to medium sized band.

So there he stands tall, guitar in hand, laces tight in front of 300 of New Zealand’s finest drunks. It was only the fourth show of the ten they were to play that week and half way through the set came, “Play some Sex Pistols,” by some old geezer who continued “Play some Sex Pistols! Play some Sex Pistols!”  So his guitarist began to play the notes which began the revolution 30 years before. Two bars into God Save the Queen and he says with conviction “Get f-ed, we don’t play covers for anyone.” That’s how in in 2006, by the age of 22 he had told Bob Geldof and the now late Malcolm Mclaren to get f-ed from the great height of a five foot stage in international waters.

They took it as the compliment it was meant and bought all the bands merch.


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