Off the bus, six in the evening, walking by Satyricon on the
way to the NW Hoyt post office. (Open the latest?) Gotta pay these
credit card minimums. Have to send ’em priority mail this month. (Or
everything falls apart?) There’s a homeless kid wearing a threadbare
punk T-shirt, his skin bronzed by equal parts filth and sun. He’s
staring at a show flyer. Smirks at first, scratches his partially
shaved head, smiles warmly, and appears to remember: the
Casualties.
In all likelihood, he and I both consider the band a work of good
fiction. Formed in the grounded halcyon days of melodic
punk—after the reign of New York hardcore and before commercial
emo—the Casualties brought fantasy to the VFW halls with liberty
spikes and bondage trousers. They looked like the Exploited, sounded
like a pop-punk Charged GBH, and sang self-referential, rule-breaking
illusions about the “punx” and pounding 40s in New York City. “Sniffing
glue/drinking beers/don’t give a fuck how the hippies feel,” goes “Made
in NYC,” their ode to the Ramones.
“Somebody said one time that we’re a ‘gateway band,'” recalls
guitarist Jake Kolatis on the eve of the release of their new LP, We
Are All We Have. “And you know what? I’m fine with that. If we can
get some new kids into the scene, it’s awesome. Don’t get me wrong, I
love the underground. We started in that. In 1993, we were playing
squats in New York City.”
Since then, with punk hubs such as St. Mark’s Place giving way to
the gentrifying influence of nearby New York University, the Casualties
have been forced to cross one river or another. Half wound up in Jersey
City, where students can be seen running home from middle school, and a
studio apartment can be rented for $500 a month.
Their fable continues—four chords, Oi! in the voice,
bottle-smash percussion—but the new album is more sobering than
intoxicating. Vocalist Jorge Herrera has stopped drinking (“Looking
Thru Bloodshot Eyes”). “Who doesn’t listen to Slayer?” asks Kolatis (in
regard to the thrashing “War Is Business”). There is an acknowledgment
of their Jersey ties (“Lonely on the Streets”). There are two reggae
songs. It’s a balance the homeless kid and I don’t seem to be
feeling.
We’re just punks: sniffing glue, drinking beers, don’t give a fuck
how the hippies feel.