In its 19 years, The Punk Rock Bowling and Music Festival (PRB) has grown from a bowling tournament that had a couple of club shows associated with it, to a ten-thousand-plus person full-scale music festival that also happens to have a bowling tournament.
Most people hear of PRB and think of spares and spikes, gutters and gobbers, but that ain’t the case. Only a very small percentage of the people who come out to PRB actually bowl. Most don’t even know where the bowling takes place. We couldn’t tell you and we don’t care. Knocking down pins is reserved for punk record industry insiders, musicians, and probably a few diehards who love bowling enough to do it instead of enjoying eyefuls of skin and ink by the pool all day. The rest of the band-shirt-wearing horde is there to drink, show off patches, foot-high liberty spikes and tattoos, drink more, and hear their favorite punk bands while standing on an asphalt slab in the desert heat.
We flew in from Long Beach on Saturday afternoon, seated next to a guy who was coming to Vegas to see The Dead (I guess they’re no longer grateful) play at the MGM arena. His raised eyebrow hinted he thought it lowly that we were going to see Iggy Pop downtown that night, but of course he told us all about how Sublime had played at his house when he was 20-something, because everyone wants to be a little punk.
After check-in at The Golden Nugget, we passed Keith Morris walking alone from his room to go to a book signing. We gave him a sort of bow and nod of appreciation. He nodded in return. And therein lies some of the glory of the whole festival: the most praised icons of punk walk among us all weekend. Moreso if you can afford or schmooze your way into the VIP section. In an unfortunate turn of events, we missed OFF! that night, and we don’t even have a good excuse (it was a lukewarm blackjack table and we were waiting for someone, but we really should’ve been outside hearing Keith scream his dreads off).
When we finally got our shit together and made it across the street, the sign listing the rules was was billboard-sized and would take ten minutes to read, but it said you could wear studs, so most everyone just rolled with it. A guy behind me had to throw away his weed vape pen, which really seemed the opposite of punk, or even OK for that matter, in a state where marijuana is legal.
Me First and the Gimme Gimmes came on just after we were fondled by security at the entrance. That’s a band I don’t know if anyone ever really plays on purpose. They come on in a mix and you have a bit of a chuckle and then you play some Rancid. But they were a perfect Vegas lounge act on punk pills. Wearing matching pink metallic jackets and playing other bands’ hits with guitars that riffed fast and fun and loud while the rhythm section stayed in that thunderous pitter-patter of West Coast punk tightness– turning John Denver into something your grandfather would be pissed about. And the singer joking, “This next one’s a cover,” before each and every song never got old.
Ten dollars for a Pabst and a shot of Jameson only feels like a good deal when you’re being fleeced everywhere else.
Iggy Pop had a band with him that felt closer to the sound he made last year with Queens of the Stone Age frontman Josh Homme and his California desert rockers than to the wild bursts of The Stooges. That made show opener “I Wanna Be Your Dog” a hair off, but it wasn’t long before the power of this band was obvious, and in true Iggy fashion, he took that polished energy and channelled it through his skinny leathery frame, and hopped and spun and kicked and bent and made a spectacle of himself in a million fascinating and captivating moves. Less a dancer than a downed power wire shaking about behind what the band generated, Iggy yelped out “Fucking thank you!” with panting sincerity between songs. He and the band played Iggy’s best known songs from The Stooges and his solo career (and if you don’t know what those are why have you read this far?). They closed with “1969,” which could have been the oldest song performed that wasn’t a cover played at PRB, but they nailed it with a forceful rage proving this really was the well from which every other band that graced that big-ol stage has been drawing from for all those years.
The best performer in any kind of punk or rock or metal music is 70 years old, and his name is Iggy Pop.
Those ten dollar PBRs with a shot of Jameson sure went down easy, and what a bargain! Thank goodness the shadow of the hotel itself blocks out the direct sunlight in parts of the pool area, so our stupification on Sunday could be spent hydrating and hair-of-the-dogging poolside. It’s the Lord’s day, after all.
Propped up on stomach-wrecking energy drinks because we’re too old for soul-wrecking nose drugs, and having some confidence because of the air conditioned bathrooms with actual flushing toilets, we felt temporarily energized enough to go check out Bad Religion on night two. Their new drummer can play, but he’s not doing gymnastics behind the kit like we’d come to expect from Bad Religion’s last drummer. And with Greg Graffin dressed like he just got off work at Chili’s, the band felt less stinging than we’d seen them before. But it was a great selection of songs, capped off with the always relevant “Fuck Armageddon, This Is Hell,” and perhaps only those in the crowd with sour stomachs and dehydration didn’t think it amazing. Oh, and Fat Mike from NOFX came out in a dress and did some punking around, which seemed to please most everyone.
So, yeah, we missed most of the festival on day two, but Iggy was so great on Saturday, the pool was so relaxing, and Monday promised so much more fun that rest won out (you’ll get there one day, kiddies). Day two was the part of the marathon where we walked (to the bathroom and back several times).
By day three, the previous day’s energy drinks, revitalizing booze, and all that desert heat made it feel like someone had poked a hole in our skull, popped a straw in and sucked out any life-sustaining fluid. We were not cool enough to get into the secret Cock Sparrer club show on Sunday night, so we drank our sorrows away and maintained a twenty on video poker until three AM. The rooms at the Golden Nugget are dark-curtained, so it’s easy to sleep as long as you need. That is, unless your room is near the main festival stage where sound check starts at 11AM. Wishing we could be that old coot who yelled out the window for those punks to shut up, we put our head under the pillow until the kick drums and guitar tunings morphed into a morning miracle. Behold, Cock Sparrer playing “Riot Squad!” As we sprung from our beds to see what was the matter, opening the thick curtains, we looked down on the nearly empty downtown backstreet and the slab of a government building across the street. It was an ugly view – the stage was around the corner and out of sight from the window – but we opened the window the three inches that we could, and the sound wasn’t perfect, but it was one of those unexpected moments that make you remember why you spend all the money to come out to something like this, singing along to a punk classic played loud through the streets of downtown is a nice way to wake up.
That surprise and a bunch of water had us ready for just enough time to eat breakfast and think about seeing The Dickies play a pool party at another hotel pool in the 99 degree sunshine. A healthy bloody mary helped us rally and make it through the holiday weekend crowds on Fremont street, only to find the pool party packed and the band finishing “Gigantor” and calling it a day. There is something incredibly incongruous about punk rock (even that as cheeky as The Dickies) in the bright hot blistering daylight (the wake up song of Cock Sparrers sound check, you’ll remember, was heard from the air-conditioned hotel room).
Another nap was in order, but the pool area was too hot and the hotel room was full of the music of whoever had the opening slot on the festival stage. So we turned once again to the unhealthy bastard energy drinks to be our spinach when the day was beating us like Brutus.
Someone had been plastering these little two-inch stickers around with Trump’s mug on them and the words, “Please Pee on Me.” There was one on an elevator door as we rode up to our room with some squares who were confounded and silently shaking in their pastel shirts and pleated white shorts as people with patches they could not understand seriously contemplated doing what the sticker said. Gotta speak up for the squares for a minute: They mingled amongst people wearing things meant to offend (“Fuck Cops,” “There Is No Excuse For What I’m About to Do,” “Fuck Off and Die,” “Teach Children to Worship Satan,” “What the Fuck is Fidlar Doing at PRB” and other such vile provocations) and they rolled with it. Perhaps they felt outnumbered, awestruck, or just downright disgusted, and probably they felt all of the above, but they saved their complaints for the Cracker Barrel back home. Funniest scene of the weekend: a couple of blue hairs stood in front of the hotel as Discharge barked the opposite of dulcet tones from the festival stage across 3rd street. They were looking up in the sky for the four horsemen. The old woman literally put her hands together in prayer, as they took steps to move away from the punk fans spilling out the front door. Discharge is grating even to my punk-loving ears, so imagine the shock of someone who still thinks of Downtown Vegas as Wayne Newton territory. I suppose some might say it’s kind of mean, but we found it harmless and humorous to think of what unholy thoughts were going through those heads when all the freaks wanted was a good time. Methinks our souls were prayed for often over the long weekend.
Anyway, The Adicts put on a parade/carnival of a good time, complete with beach balls bouncing amongst the spiked hair. We saw a cocktail resting in the bottle holder of a baby stroller, and watched as the bros in the back of the crowd traded places with the old-schoolers and the kids not from Orange County after the Clockwork Orange-loving band yelped their last bit of fun. Everyone took their respective positions for Pennywise. It was a cultural shift that could’ve been studied on NatGeo: spikes and vests with patches walking to the beer lines, and flat-billed hats and Dickies shorts walking in Vans toward the stage. Passing in the downtown desert asphalt without violence or harsh words.
But there would be symbolic violence later, as Fat Mike and a whole lot of pals took some time to smash up a naked Trump statue with a baseball bat. Kathy Griffin had nothing on this. Trump was decapitated and eviscerated to the tune of “Hail to the Chief,” and Fat Mike proclaimed Trump supporters should get the fuck out. We didn’t see anyone head for the exits, so it was either really good company all around, or some people are getting better at lying.
Pennywise had a hundred people on stage, bro-hymning their lungs out. They played some Circle Jerks, Bad Religion, and even Minor Threat, much to our surprise and delight.
Cock Sparrer still makes new music where it seems they turn ordinary phrases into soccer chants. Everybody claps along and chants whatever phrase they put in the chorus. Their early 80s British street punk anthems still held up partly because chanting things like “Take ‘em all, take ‘em all, put ‘em up against the wall and shoot ‘em!” can never get old, and partly because they sound like a snottier version of The Clash when they’re nailing it. After three days of boozing, enough of those damn energy drinks to run through a wall (and probably tear a hole in our stomach), poor eating, and a return to our 20-something sleeping habits, jumping up and down and shouting along to some springy punk was just about all our mind could make our body do anymore. The band said they’d be at the bar at the Golden Nugget after their set, and they were. They hugged all the girls that came up to them extra tight, enjoyed the free drinks, and were all-around swell blokes.
We often tell people that we can’t do festivals any more, but PRB is a special event that even middle-aged fuckers who have to get up at 5:30 in the morning on weekdays can manage to pull off. Perhaps it’s that mythical oxygen pumped into the casinos, perhaps it’s just the constant human entertainment of crazy and creative people and their clothing, bright lights, and loud, fun music. Perhaps it’s that there is a room or a pool lounger that’s fit for a bit of rest whenever one needs it. Really, it’s that there is the greatest people watching in the world all day, and there’s a good band or three playing each night.
It’s rough getting back to reality where finding someone in a Black Flag t-shirt only happens once a week, and you’re lucky to see a mohawk twice a year. But this convergence of punks, freaks, grimy street kids, artists, druggies, hardcore kids, denim fetishists, tattoo aficionadoes, lushes, degenerates, lovers, fighters, fuckers, and various other people who might secretly wish they’re ne’er-do-wells stays with you for a while.
When the boss is droning on, or traffic is crawling, when the goober in the supermarket is trying to pay with a check….thoughts of PRB come floating back…would Charles Bukowski really approve of having the VIP section of the bar named after him? Fuck no! But good times nonetheless.
Follow J Floyd – @JFloyd_Popwell
What bands do you want to see play at future PRB Festivals? Dream reunions? Must see bands?