The Death and Life of Punk Rock AKA: The Inland Invasion by, d-grrrl SOMEBLEEDINGHELLHOLEINTHEMIDDLEOFNOWHERE—There we were. The masses of suspecting and unsuspecting punk rock fans waiting for the Gospel Truth. For the Word, as handed down from our Gods: Johnny Rotten, Exene, and, of course, Mike Ness. There we were, assembled like a herd that not even sheep would count themselves among, mulling about in frying temperatures, paying $8 for a Coors Light, and trying to catch a glimpse of the stage from what seemed like a mile away. It didn’t feel very punk rock, but my friends Cat and Colleen and I remained optimistic. I mean, all our favorite old school legends were playing—how bad could it be? Before the prices register, I order two beers and a 7-Up. "Twenty dollars and 75 cents," replies the nondescript cashier who jealously guards the precious cargo until my bills prove to be real. Once she hands them over I guzzle, then choke. "Wait. How much did I just pay for a 7-Up? FOUR SEVENTY FIVE???" This does not bode well. Also, I can’t drink Coors Light. But, if it just cost me $8, I guess I’m gonna try. I pull out my handy band line-up printout and realize we can catch TSOL at the Festival Stage. Brilliant event planners they are, all of the opening bands are scheduled to play at the farthest end of the venue, a hike and a half in searing noon heat. We walk the length of Blockbuster Pavilion, drinking large amounts of the dreaded Coors Light and begin realising that all of this is clearly part of some Evil Plan. We finally reach the Festival Stage only to find it engulfed in a dust cloud. The front is a whirlwind, a tornado of punk dust that serves to enrage an already overheated crowd. It’s at least 100° and way too much dirt and testosterone is circulating. Fights start breaking out. TSOL, who are obviously being vastly underpaid to get this ugly timeslot, publicly announce their phone number and try to solicit a gig after the show. "Just make sure your parents aren’t there," homeboy advises, "I don’t wanna have to hose someone’s mom like I did last year." Sad that the real O.G. punk bands—those angst-filled delinquents who started it all (Distillers, Adolescents, TSOL, Circle Jerks, GBH, Vandals) got so hugely dissed by this punk fest. Relegated to a side stage like freaks with two heads, these bands cranked out their old stand-bys to an angry crowd at high noon. Everything about it was wrong. Punks and heat. Punks and the Great Outdoors. Punks and daylight. Even if they were going to stick them on a side stage, they should’ve at least had these bands play later in the day. Disappointed by the Festival event, we decide to try our luck at the Main Stage. But, from the get-go this set up, too, flies in the face of the whole concept of punk rock. First, at a punk show there should never be a "main" stage. There should only be one, small stage that everyone paid a couple bucks to rush and slam in front of. If you’re really punk rock, you buy beers or whatever for the band and have them play at your house (like TSOL wanted to do). But you never, EVER, pay $35 a ticket, $8 for a beer, and have seats on the lawn where you can’t see and instead watch your punk rock heroes on a big screen. This is what Led Zeppelin did (though, I’m sure, for much cheaper). Zep was a good band, granted, but this type of corporate greed is what punk rock is supposed to be against. Or was against. Now, frankly, I’m confused. Nevertheless, the show went on. The Damned played a solid set (though I couldn’t see the band very well), then X came on. I love X, I really do, but every time I’ve seen them over the last five years they’ve played the same set. They played it again at the Inland Invasion. Good but, hey, I wanna hear something different! Next, New Found Glory played. I have to admit that during their set I ate a cajun turkey dog and took a cat nap. The heat and Coors Light had done me in. Also, I’d just witnessed a young little "punk" girl pay someone for their spot at the front of the lawn railing. She PAID! This act, coupled with everything else I’d witnessed that day, signified the end. I felt like I’d just seen the death of punk rock. It was all about money now, like everything else. What a sad day, I lamented. I just wanted to mourn in peace. And then the Buzzcocks played. The Buzzcocks represent everything that is punk rock. They are unapologetic, loud, fast, and furious. If they can’t get your blood pumping, you, my friend, are brain dead. Pennywise followed the Buzzcocks and life seemed good again. As Fletcher kept trying to get us poor sods on the lawn to rush the stage I realised maybe punk wasn’t dead, after all. Perhaps there was a jag or two on that cardiograph after all… Blink 182 aside (they don’t even deserve mention), the next bands resurrected the whole event. With that distinct guitar twang, Social Distortion invaded the airwaves, sounding better than ever. They did a solid punk rock set, throwing down oldies: "Mommy’s Little Monster"; goodies: "Story of My Life"; and even a new one, "Angel’s Wings." Mike urged the crowd, especially the youngsters, to be themselves and not be bigoted or prejudiced. "You have enough to deal with in your own fucking lives!" he said, urging the kiddies to get their own acts together instead of worrying about what other people were doing. The crowd sang at the top of their lungs (me included!) and really came to life during Social D’s set. The sun had set, the heat had abated, and the Les Pauls took over. No one wanted it to end. The Offspring picked up where Ness and Co. left off. Doing almost everything off their hit CD, "Smash," the Offspring proved that they are the legitimate progeny of O.C. punk. "Our generation sees the world not the same as before / We might as well just throw it all and live like there’s no tomorrow" ("Nitro"). That about sums it all up—Dexter, Noodles, Greg and Ron really get it. And the crowd got it too. Literally every tune instigated a massive group sing-along, especially "Bad Habit" and "Self Esteem." You could see a real connection between the audience, no matter how old or young, and the band. And they shredded. Great, great stuff. After a slight delay, the Sex Pistols ended the event. Doing their classics as well as tunes from the Monkees and the Stooges, the band sounded tight. Johnny Rotten, always the pissy front man, heckled the crowd and made fun of some young punks. "You’re in the wrong generation, man!" he ridiculed. "Ironic, isn’t it? Me telling you that!" Though it was kinda weird seeing 70s icons in suits, aged about 50, playing outside in San Bernardino, the Sex Pistols produced. I was afraid it might be a little pathetic but it wasn’t. It was still punk—ties, wrinkles, and all. We left while the Pistols were still playing, hoping to get out ahead of the other 40,000 in attendance. No such luck, however, as the organizers blocked all but one exit. An hour and a half later we made it the five miles to the freeway. We had almost forgotten that we had a good time. What started as a nightmare and huge disappointment ended up being a great show, thanks to Social D, the Buzzcocks, Pennywise, and the Offspring. Though the event organizers are clearly greedy pigs, the bands prevailed. I’ll never go to Blockbuster Pavilion again and I’ll never go to a daytime punk-rock-o-rama again (I still prefer my punk in dark, seedy clubs or in my living room) but I’ll rush to see those four bands—and probably even the Sex Pistols—again anywhere else. Those bands proved that real punk rock can conquer corporate greed; they proved that punk is not dead (it just can’t live in San Bernardino).