My friend Ben called me up in the morning (read: afternoon) to tell me we’d missed what was undoubtedly a fantastic show in Austin the night prior, headlined by one Nobunny. You may or may not be familiar with this artist. Nobunny plays what amounts to the mutant child of the Ramones, the New York Dolls, and Jay Reatard, burned at the stake and raised from the dead to declare war on the living. Or something like that. Really it’s just a dude in a bunny mask who plays excruciatingly bad-ass rock-’n’-roll roll music, a musician whose newest record, Love Visions (Bubbledumb), is a solid number two on my list of the best albums of 2008. And we missed him. Single tear.
I put on the record and sulked around my apartment for a little while, closing my eyes and imagining myself at the show. As a punk fan in San Antonio, this is common practice in exchange for the precious few relevant shows we get in this town. And as I sat there with “Tina Goes to Work” blaring in my headphones, I made another move undoubtedly familiar to the rest of the disenfranchised SA Punk Youth: I checked out the MySpace of the band who had just played in Austin the night previous on the off chance it might be passing through our humble little burg on the way out of Texas. Of course, this is almost never the case. It was with that knowledge of impending disappointment in mind that I sat at my computer, the MySpace page loading before my eyes, and there it was:
Nobunny was playing a show in San Antonio. Better yet, Nobunny was playing a house show in San Antonio. A house show! I didn’t think that kind of thing even happened around here!
Excitedly, I picked up the phone and called Ben back to tell him the news. Our combined enthusiasm for the impending onslaught of rock awesomeness that would be Nobunny’s set was enough to power this city for a year, and it was dimmed only slightly when we attempted figuring out the specifics of the show.
All Nobunny’s page listed was the name of the venue and the opening bands. No start time, no address. I looked up the venue to see if they had a MySpace. It was friends-only. Which, you know, is helpful, when you’re putting on a show open to the public, to make it so anyone who might want to go is unable to get details. Thanks, fellas. I looked up the other bands to see if they had any info. Eventually I found a flyer. Still no start time, but we did have an address. I went to Google Maps and typed in the address. Nothing. It didn’t exist. Later on, we would discover that the address had been misspelled on the flyer. It was as though the people putting on this show were actively trying to prevent anyone from coming out to it.
Hours passed, and my detective skills, combined with phone calls and emails to everyone I knew, finally yielded some results. We found the address, and we found a start time. I bought a six pack of Lone Star Light (I’m watching my figure), threw on a hoodie, and began my drive to the show. All the while Nobunny blasted on my car stereo. This was going to be a night to remember.
I showed up, my friends showed up, and we stood around in the yard drinking for a while, waiting for the rock star to take the stage. And by “stage,” of course, I mean the corner of some poor punk’s soon-to-be-demolished bedroom.
And demolished it was, when the time finally came. Holy crap, you guys. Have you ever seen a mosh pit break out in a 10-foot-square room? Mayhem! Nobunny absolutely destroyed, playing every song I wanted to hear. The technical difficulties were minimal (especially considering the circumstances), and even being assaulted by my twin allergies of cats and cigarette smoke was bearable. It was that good. A light fixture was shattered. Several people fell down, occasionally almost knocking over speakers. The crowd sang all the backup vocals for every song themselves. At some point, people were tossing around a large, plush banana. Yeah, I don’t know either. All I know was I had a great, great time.
The band finished, everyone went outside, and my friends and I stood around in the yard a while longer to watch people make out by their cars, buy merch from the band, and urinate in the corner of the fence. One of the best shows I’ve seen all year, my friends. Punk fucking rock — in San Antonio of all places. •
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