It is extraordinarily lucky to be able to see a band like Fucked Up play live even once a year. It is a massive treat to see a band with so much energy, so much enthusiasm, so much force behind their performance. Seeing Fucked Up live is an all around experience; you are not only aurally assaulted, but you may be physically assaulted as well. Whether you get smashed by crazed dancers moshing like it's 1992 or frontman Pink Eyes picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, there's the very real chance that you're leaving the show covered in bruises and someone else's sweat. Even if you're a wuss and stand in the back, chances are you'll be brushed up against by Pink Eyes as he makes his way to the bar, to climb on top of, dance, and take a flying leap off of it. Being perfectly well heard over the blare of three guitars and a throbbing rhythm section, the strength of his voice is only apparent when the mic is held to some skinny hardcore kid who proves inaudible.
On leaving the venue, some bewildered girl asked her companion, "Was that supposed to be ironic?" as though asking if an avocado were organic before consenting to take a bite.
No darling, it wasn't supposed to be ironic. And that's the beauty of it.
Photo by Amanda Farah.