Hello everyone,

It’s been too long, but as I am sure many of you know, once a body breaks it simply cannot be rushed anymore.

Coming at you from deep in my sickbed I bring you the first Exhausted Music Review, a segment that will hopefully be easier to keep up with while I am Very sick with a capital V, as apposed to just the usual very sick.

I still have some cool things on the back burner, including some submissions from you the community. While I am currently too unwell to offer up a timeline, I’m excited for whenever those are shared.

In the meantime, if you have a band or an album you’d like to see reviewed, send it here or over Instagram or email. I’d love to focus on small local acts, and/or disabled musicians, but all things considered.

Take care of yourselves and each other, and don’t forget to do things that make you feel alive whenever you can find them.

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New York City! Join Cripple Punk Mag and Culture Push for NYC Crip Open Mic, a place for disabled musicians and fans to connect and celebrate crip music. New York's music scene is full of venues without elevators, basements with no seats and filled with rooms of people without masks. It's time to make our own scene!

Sunday October 12th ON ZOOM

Early evening: doors 6:15 /music starts 6:30 PM

Sign up to perform or attend at link in bio

All genres, all disabilities welcome

Open to performers in NYC- Build local community online

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This is the mag’s first fiction piece - I would never have thought to publish fiction of not for Black Punk Now, a multi-media and discipline book archiving the Black Punk scene and reflecting its present. This suprised me to realize, because I love fiction, and as someone stuck in bed more often than not, I think that what we are able to accces in our inner worlds, our dreamscapes, and imagination, is just as important as what were able to do pysically. Reflecting on it, I realized that disabled fiction is important to being able to imagine ourselves in the future. Thanks for being here for our first piece.

The pit was already bleeding before the opening act tuned their second string. The overhead lights stuttered—on, off, on—like a dying TV signal. Sweat gleamed in the fractures of the uneven concrete underfoot. Stale beer and something sharper—iron? oil?—hung thick in the air.

The crowd pulsed like a single feverish organism: elbows jabbing, shoulders slamming, voices tearing over each other. And me—wheelchair wheels locked, gripping the armrests, calculating angles through the human current. One wrong shove and I’d be a ramp for drunk boots.

This was the venue. A two-room dive bar on the edge of town, where punk meant something raw and untouchable, but accessibility was an afterthought buried under years of neglect and loud guitars. It was the kind of place where the air was thick with rebellion but thin on empathy. I came here every time because the scene was mine even if the venue wasn’t. I’m Jay, disabled and pissed off, living with spastic cerebral palsy that twists my muscles and makes my body betray me on bad days. But punk gave me a voice and a spine. It’s the fire in my veins and the safety net for my scars. Tonight I was supposed to review the show for a zine, but all I really wanted was to survive without feeling like an afterthought. The bandon stage? Broken Gears. Old school punk veterans with more attitude than patience for venue rules or my kind of presence.

I rolled to the bar, elbowing past fists and flailing hair, the bass shaking my frame. The bartender barely looked up. “You’re in the pit?” she scoffed. “Watch yourself.”

I did, barely. The stage was a raised slab of plywood, no ramps, no rails, just a trapdoor for the reckless and lucky. The backroom toilets were inaccessible, the only bathroom on the main floor was a cramped nightmare. The sound system was blasting at a dangerous decibel, and every crash of the cymbals was like a spike in my chest.

I found a spot near the front, wedged between two spitting punks moshing like their lives depended on it. The crowd thinned momentarily when the lead singer grabbed the mic and shouted, “This venue’s a fire hazard, and so am I!” The roar that followed wasn’t just about the band—it was an anthem for every misfit, every ignored, every disabled body squeezed into spaces not built for us.

The conflict exploded in an instant. The floor, slick with beer and sweat, vanished beneath me. My wheelchair pitched forward, my fingers clawing the armrests as the world flipped. Then—a fist in my shirt collar, wrenching me back from the edge.

“Stay put, man,” a voice growled. It was Mia, a skinny girl with a mohawk and a grin full of broken teeth. She wasn’t disabled but knew the terrain of this chaotic scene better than most. “You shouldn’t be here if it’s gonna kill you.”

I wanted to tell her that surviving was the point. That being here was rebellion, a refusal to disappear. But words tangled in my throat. Instead, I nodded, eyes fixed on the chaos around us.

The night blurred between noise and sensation. Broken Gears ripped through their set, sweat flying, snarling lyrics about freedom and rage. Every song a grenade lobbed at the world’s indifferent walls. My body screamed in protest against the noise and movement, but my mind found a strange solace in the disorder.

Then came the twist. During the last song, the lights cut out completely. A hush fell over the crowd, confused murmurs rising. A voice rang out from the shadows—”Is everyone okay? Can you see me?”

Mia’s hand found mine in the dark. The crowd shifted, a collective breath held tight. A voice cut through the dark: “Lights are dead—show’s still alive!” Suddenly, a hundred phone screens flared to life, painting the crowd in flickering blues and whites, some faces frozen, others grinning wild.

The band didn’t miss a beat. Just unplugged and roared louder, voices raw as open wires. For the first time all night, the silence between notes meant something. No walls, no barriers—just voices and bodies, connected through sound and will. The crowd quieted, listening harder, feeling closer. I realized something then. The venue was a fire hazard, a death trap for some. But so was the world outside, designed to erase people like me. Tonight, in this dark, dangerous place, punk meant more than noise. It was a community that refused to silence disabled voices, a space where awkward bodies and rebellious spirits found each other and survived.

Mia squeezed my hand. “You good?”

I smiled, a twitch in my lips I didn’t expect. “More than good. Alive.”

The lights snapped back on with a sharp buzz, the crowd erupting around me. But I lingered, that raw acoustic melody still vibrating in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

Stepping outside, winter air slapped my cheeks as I wheeled away from the venue, arms aching but chest light for the first time in ages. The city loomed same as ever—cold, unwelcoming—but for two hours in that sweaty death trap, I’d tasted something like belonging.

Punk was flawed. I was broken. Yet in that beautiful chaos of feedback and fists, we’d built a kingdom where misfit bodies like mine weren’t just allowed —they were sacred.
Turns out, that’s all I’d needed.

—Fendy is a writer and field worker based in Malang, Indonesia. He listens to music that rejects violence used for the sake of good, and prefers that over soft words wrapped in hypocrisy. His favorite bands include Rise Against, Rancid, NOFX, and Greenday’s 90s era, when the lyrics were sharp and full of challenge. @fendysatria_

Cripple Punk Mag is and will always be pay what you can, no one turned away for lack of funds. Please consider supporting disabled arts and culture by becoming a paid subscriber today.

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Email merlin.sabal13@gmail.com

In 2017, I started Xingonas in the Pit (XITP), a San Antoinio-based feminist punk collective aimed at creating a network of safe music and art spaces. We launched Texas' first Black and Brown Punk Fest and organized various festivals, shows, and workshops, all while developing a safer space team to foster supportive environments for all participants. However, the onset of COVID-19 in 2020 brought this momentum to a standstill, significantly impacting many local venues, including La Botanica, an all-ages queer vegan bar that hosted our festivals before its closure.

As someone who is immuno-compromised, the pandemic and health challenges forced me to take a break from organizing festivals, which has been really hard after dedicating a decade to this work. In response to covid, XITP has concentrated on launching our Covid Conscious Craft Club from my garage, which we've transformed into a craft studio. This club offers a safe and inclusive space for all ages to create art and connect with others who are covid conscious, particularly individuals with disabilities who have experienced isolation since the pandemic began. Thanks through the support from the Covid Conscious Bloc of San Antonio (@ccb.sa), we have masks available (including kid’s sizes). We also offer dry erase boards and markers for folks who are hard of hearing, along with ramps for wheelchair users and an accessible restroom to ensure everyone can participate comfortably. Our goal is to accommodate all needs.

As we look to the future, XITP plans to organize more music festivals and events, but this can only happen if we prioritize the inclusion of disabled folks, just like we’ve been doing with our craft club. Our dedication to this work is deeply rooted in Disability justice, a framework that emphasizes the connections between ableism and other systems of oppression. Disability justice connects to punk culture because punk philosophy has long emphasized the importance of uplifting the most marginalized individuals, and this should include folks with disabilities. By prioritizing community health, XITP aims to foster a punk scene that is truly inclusive, where everyone feels safe and empowered to take part. Because the fight for liberation is interconnected and this inclusivity must extend within the punk community.

Our vision for future music festivals includes mandatory mask-wearing, air purifiers, outdoor settings, and ensuring accessibility for disabled and immunocompromised individuals who are the most vulnerable during health crises. This includes ensuring that venues are accessible, providing resources for those needing additional support, and fostering an environment where everyone feels empowered to voice their needs. It may be hard to accomplish these goals in venues who only prioritize drink sales, but it’s possible to find spaces that genuinely value inclusivity. We have to work to find each other.

While some people may be tired of hearing about covid, imagine how tiring it is for disabled people who can’t just turn away and whose lives are threatened every day by the things most people are choosing to ignore. Trust me, I know it’s not fun to talk about, but we have to face reality. Covid is still one of the leading causes of death in the world. We can’t just pretend it’s over or else it will continue to spread and mutate, and the death toll will continue to rise all in the name of capitalist “normalcy.” But it doesn’t have to be this way. While the government and media continue to play it down and fail us, we still have a responsibility to take care of each other. Apathy about covid only benefits the ruling class. We must resist that shit!

It's important to recognize that choosing not to wear a mask in indoor public spaces poses a significant risk, particularly to disabled individuals. This reality extends to punk and alternative spaces alike. We must prioritize disability justice and covid precautions as integral components of our community. Punk culture has always been a platform for liberating marginalized voices, and it is past due to extend that spirit to encompass health and safety.

The punk scene has long been a politics of radical expression and defiance against societal norms, and it is crucial that we apply this same spirit to our collective well-being. It’s not solely about the music. It’s about fostering a community that actively protects and values each member. We need to reimagine punk as a movement that champions collective care and health, where the voices of disabled individuals are not only acknowledged but celebrated.

We must understand that covid can be transmitted by asymptomatic individuals, meaning anyone could unknowingly spread this virus, potentially resulting in long-term health issues or even death. Those who choose not to wear masks indoors in public venues and spaces often downplay the significance of masking for the well-being of the community to avoid inconvenience or societal judgment. But each day they are faced with this decision and the consequences their choices bring to those around them.

I have worked tirelessly to advocate for disability justice, only to encounter resistance. I believe this backlash stems from an underlying guilt in those I set boundaries with regarding testing for covid or masking. They feel their morality is threatened when called in, especially when they feel there are others who are even less concerned for the disabled. They adopt a victim mentality to evade the uncomfortable truths and create their own narratives.

The cognitive dissonance and denial is used as a shield because people would rather avoid confronting the harsh truths of reality. They shy away from revisiting the painful experiences from the onset of the pandemic, which may include the loss of loved ones, alienation, or economic hardship. However, how can we heal from our trauma if we refuse to confront it head-on? We must prioritize the protection of the most vulnerable and reject the notion that disabled individuals should be sacrificed at the altar of capitalism. This mentality echoes harmful colonialist and eugenics practices, especially since Black, Indigenous, and people of color communities are impacted the hardest by covid. If we care about racial justice, we should also be taking actions to mitigate covid spread. Historically, disease has been weaponized as a tool of colonialism and genocide. To support disabled people, we must kill the colonizer inside us.

I am committed to disability justice, even if it strains relationships, limits opportunities, or alienates me from the scene. Why? Because disabled lives matter. It's as simple as that. Also, even if one is not currently disabled, anyone has the potential to becoming so due to an accident or illness. This includes long covid, as the risk of developing it increases with each covid infection. Disability knows no boundaries. We are all susceptible. We share a collective duty to protect those who are most at risk. It's always a good time to begin wearing masks again and taking precautions to reduce the risk of covid.

As we move forward, let’s reimagine the punk scene with a renewed commitment to inclusivity, transforming our shows into spaces where safety and creativity coexist, and where everyone feels encouraged to participate. The ethos of punk, which embodies rebellion against oppression, should extend to the disabled community and prioritize health and well-being. Because caring about others is at the heart of what it means to be punk. True freedom cannot exist until everyone, including those with disabilities, is liberated. In the end, the spirit of punk lives on not just in rebellion but in compassion and solidarity for all.

Daisy Salinas is a Xicana feminist zinester, punk, activist, & rabble rouser living in Yanaguana aka San Antonio, Texas. With the mission to uplift the voices and talents of artists of color, Daisy is the founder of the decolonial Xicana feminist zine Muchacha Fanzine and the feminist punk collective Xingonas in the Pit. Through her art and the work of fellow people of color, Daisy aims to advance struggles for liberation on a global level. You can follow her work on instagram @muchachafanzine and @xingonasinthepit. You can also visit her website at www.muchachafanzine.com and become a monthly subscriber at www.patreon.com/muchachafanzine.

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Early into being housebound and searching for live show recordings, I was introduced to Hate5six, an archive of thousands of hardcore shows filmed nearly entirely by a single man named Sunny Singh, using a handheld camera. The crowd-feel in these videos is incredible, the camera tumbling and soaring across a hundred dark and glowing basements and back rooms.

Sunny conceived of Hate5sixTV as a hardcore version of MTV's Total Request Live. A 24/7 viewer controlled live stream of clips from the over 7,000 videos Sunny has filmed and collected. Hate5six is one of the largest and best laid out community-based archives I’ve ever seen, and this new tool makes it easier than ever to explore.

I first reached out to Sunny to ask about the watch parties he had hosted during lockdown, sharing how much I missed watching music with other people. Would they ever be coming back?

Through a really beautiful stroke of luck, he'd just finished coding Hate5sixTV, a project with the same aim, to connect digital audiences again, and he was kind enough to let me test it out before its official release.

I had never met Sunny before sending that message. He and I hung out in the chat while he demo’d the the different features like the band request que, and he generously answered some questions for me.

Warm, friendly, passionately intense, Sunny has a sharply honed vision of his work as an archivist and a member of a principled community dedicated to authenticity. While not initially conceived as a disability tool, Hate5six is at its core an accessibility project: building digital bridges, rejecting the demands for polished perfection, and creating kinship in unexpected modes and places.

MERLIN:

What inspired Hate5sixTV.

SUNNY:

A driving factor with everything I do for the channel is rooted in wanted to build digital bridges and communities. For the last 17 years hate5six has been a place for people, bands, and scenes to discover one another. It's been a gateway for people to hear and about "see" bands they haven't encountered before, and it's allowed bands to get a feel for what scenes/venues to play in the future.

There are over 7,000 videos I've filmed and archived on the channel and it would take over 2,800 hours to watch all of it. As a kid I found so much music just by leaving either MTV or the radio on so my vision was to create my own version of MTV's Total Request Live — a 24/7 stream of all things Hate5six, selected at random and through viewer request. The hope being this would be a new avenue for people to gather and enjoy bands together.

During the lockdown I did many "watch parties" which brought people together. I'm hoping this will fill that void for people who are looking for an online community, or even for places like bars, tattoo shops, skate shops, et cetera, that want a fresh loop of live hardcore/punk videos.

MERLIN:

You've already talked about the importance of institutional memory on your website and I think that's a really interesting concept for something like hardcore because it is so fringe, the idea of the institution of hardcore feels a little oxymoronic, but as the genre ages I think it is settling into, if not a traditional institution, its own history and memory. Hardcore community is something that is very tied to "who is in the room" with you. What does the act of putting that on film do in your opinion?

SUNNY:

Videos should never and will never fully supplant the visceral feeling of being in a room with people. Even if we extend this out to a time when we're watching shows on VR headsets. It won't feel the same, nor do I want it to.

My vision with preserving these moments is more about creating a record of what both the band and room were like at a certain moment in time. I want the channel to serve as a time capsule of sorts, as a resource that enables people to move through time and see a band's evolution from playing small rooms to big arenas. For me, the purpose of tracing that affords people the ability to recognize their own potential through dedication and perseverance.

Lately there's been a trend of bands asking to have certain sets redacted to put on hold because of imperfections. This has forced me to stop filming those bands altogether, because revisionism of this order is a betrayal of the integrity and mission of the channel. Obviously there are really bad sets where everything is out of tune, instruments break and the band never recovers… But getting those requests for minor flaws goes against the organic and unrefined nature of what hardcore punk is meant to be. There are no perfect sets and expecting such creates an unattainable standard. You can't appreciate the highs in life without knowing the lows.

Reference and context are key. We are constantly living in a digitally curated world where everyone is the happiest and the prettiest at all times. I want Hate5six to reflect the raw nature of this music scene in all its unfiltered forms. That, to me, is a rejection of the standard of perfection that is constantly forced upon us.

MERLIN:

Have you ever conceived of your work as a disability access tool? And what do you think makes a strong online community as opposed to irl?

SUNNY:

I always viewed my work as forming bridges that span spatial and temporal divides, by enabling people to watch a band's live presence regardless of restrictions that keep them from physically attending.

I had not considered it being a disability access tool, rather ignorantly, until a few years into the project when I started getting feedback from viewers. I was hearing from people laid up in hospital beds, to others struggling to leave the house due to anxiety, who universally felt the channel was both creating spaces for them to experience a show and giving them hope for a day when they could physically attend.

Some of the feedback included recommendations for streamlining the channel to help the visually impaired, which I went on to implement. Others who were at shows I shot, but were relegated to the back of the room for safety reasons, have also said they enjoyed reliving a show from my close-up perspective after the fact.

The strength of an online community is rooted in communication and gathering people around a shared interest. Trolling and negativity are endemic in any community, but I believe the vast majority of people who enter underground music scenes are there to find kinship and share interests. I remember being in Japan for some shows and talking to locals about their influences, specifically late 80’s New York hardcore. The fact that art has the ability to make an impact across decades — on the other side of the world — is evidence of the need to continue finding new ways to increase accessibility and foster cross-cultural exchange. Online communities afford us opportunities to raze the spatial silos that prevent us from seeing ourselves in other people, their lived experiences, and how they interface with this world we share.

It was serendipitous that you reached out to me about reviving the "watch parties" I hosted during lockdown, on the day I finished coding the prototype for Hate5sixTV no less. That to me was all the validation I needed — to see the utility in creating a new virtual community for people seeking alternative modes of camaraderie.

Sitting in a chat with Sunny, watching band footage and testing his new site features, was fun as hell. Whether you’re yearning for the experience of being back in a small sweaty basement, looking to help build the hardcore scene in the modern digital landscape, or just interested in exploring an incredible archive, you’ll have to join me in live chat.

You can watch Hate5sixTV and submit requests at https://hate5six.tv or youtube.comhate5six/live, if you also want to access the live chat. Go check it out now.

This interview was lightly edited to correct spelling and grammar.

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I'm mulling over a project about music accessibility and I'm wondering which way to go. Try to make the existing shows and venues more accessible, or build something specifically by and for disabled people?

What do you think?

Today I had intended to go to a show, but I overdid it and eneded up sleeping the whole day, barely able to move . It is what it is.

But here's why I bring it up now:

Would anyone want to work on a community sourced cook book for ppl with cfs?

Even when I look for easy or fast recipes they're written as easy for a tired but relatively healthy person, not someone with a severe energy limiting condition.

I want to collect the recipes for what you eat when ur in a crash, if you're able to get to the kitchen. If you're bedbound, do you keep specific snacks do you keep? What's the most tolerable protien shake in your opinion (this question has been devisive)

It could include things too simple to be considered "real" recipes by healthy people- but I want to know of there's a specific brand of hot sauce you use on microwave rice. This brand of instant mashed potatoes. If you have to stand up for 2 min verses 5 min to make it. That level of detail.

If anyone is interested I was thinking of making a form to collect them but I'd love if other ppl wanted to get involved (crip time ofc)

Is this about music? No. But it's deeply diy. So I hope you'll forgive the diversion.

Before the discovery of half/access I used to take notes at every venue I went to. Now after the demise of that database I'm back to scrounging up what information I can from websites and reddit, so I thought I'd start posting those venue notes the way I'd been meaning to.

TV Eye in Ridgewood is one of the more wheelchair accessible bars I've been to in NYC so far, which doesn't mean it's perfect, but it is significantly ahead of many others I've been to (not including the ones, of course, I can't get into at all anymore now that I'm using my chair nearly full time.)

I had the absolute pleasure of seeing Theophobia play this past Monday, my favorite glam rock band, to celebrate the release of their excellent new EP Most Wanted Woman in Estonia/Chili Dog Incarnate. This new set of songs was recorded by Paul D Millard who has elevated the band's sound to a new level that I'm really really excited about. (From Paul’s website: Recording, mixing, mastering Weird music without computers)

Now clearly, this is not an unbiased review, at least regarding the music. I have been a fan of Theophobia for a long time, since they occasionally practiced in what was technically the living room of an old and extremely narrow railroad apartment of mine.

But, as someone with a lot of chronic pain and very limited mobility, I take what I recommend leaving the house for seriously, and I hope you check them out.

Bandcamp

Influenced by musicians like Sparks and Jim Stienman and incorporating surreal and irreverent humor into their energetic performances, Theophobia are brilliant and earnestly weird in a way every quirky Brooklyn hipster wishes they were.

That theatrically is supported by some really skilled musicianship and creative, evocative lyricism, especially on the part of guitarist/singer/songwriter Matt Ellin. If you've been a little bored of the art you've been seeing lately and you miss a sense of glam in your musicians, or you want to see a band who recently passed out celery during their set, check them out.

And luckily, I was able to get in to this show in my wheelchair. Theophobia also tends to attract a friendly kind of crowd and I've been comfortable in the GA section in my chair at every show of theirs I've been to. They also were on a stacked line up with I’m Going To Marry Your Dad and Dexter the Angel, two more excellent acts who much like Theophobia were bursting with energy and unafraid of a little artistic confrontation. I regret that more about them didn't make it into this write up because my hands are starting to hurt, and I haven't even got to the venue details yet.

Speaking of the Venue:

I used a Merit Sport Powechair during this review, and for this show I did not contact the venue for accommodations, I just showed up. It also is limited to the areas accessible to the audience. If you've had a different experience with a different mobility device write in to let me know! While they do NOT have much access info on their website, they do have pictures here.

Location:

1647 Weirfield St

Ridgewood, NY

Off the L & M Train

Accessible stop is Myrtle-Wyckoff (M, 12 min walk)

Wheelchair accessible:

Bar, show floor, all gender bathrooms, patio are all wheelchair accessible.

-Entrance: Here is the biggest flaw. The front door is not wheelchair accessible, but up one steep step, so you need someone else to open the door and get someone from staff to open the side accessible entrance. Maybe there's a bell that I haven't spotted? However someone smoking outside the venue spotted me and immediately offered to go ask security about the door for me, so I didn't have to wait in the cold, but I'll be reaching out to them about this soon to see if there's a buzzer I didn't notice or if they could make some improvements.

The side door, once opened, leads through the patio and quickly into the bar. Once you actually make it in to the venue, I found it to be smooth sailing.

-Bathroom: The bathroom is all gender. It has one wheelchair accessible stall at the end of the row (relatively narrow but not a total squeeze). The stall itself was much roomier than I expected and I could turn and park fairly easily. The sinks are roll under.

-Bar: The bar was large enough to move around in comfortably in a power chair. Which is rare in my experience. (This obviously fluctuated as the venue filled up but in the rooms are a good base size.) Seating in booths around the bar.

-Show and show floor: There were no seats and no ADA area in this room. However, I also had not asked for a chair or if an area could be cordoned off. Please feel free to fill in my knowledge gaps here! Fast moving lights were used during the show hut not strobes.

Reentry:

Wristbands given out. I was able to go out to the smoking area and come back with no issues.

Jump the line option:

Unfortunately I have no info here since I got there so early there was no line.

Parking/street drop off:

I took a wheelchair Uber to and from this show. The street itself is quiet enough that it was not stressful getting in or out of the van, and there is a driveway pretty close to the front of the venue, so there is a curb cut nearby. Keep in mind that it can be hard to get wheelchair accessible Ubers after a certain time of night. I was taking a gamble here.

Transit:

The closest accessible stop is Myrtle-Wyckoff (M, 12 min walk)

TLDR:

Overall Accessible: Yes

Biggest flaws: getting someone to let you in and a lack of access info on the website.

Greatest strengths: Big and roomy, reentry from an accessible patio, all flat once you get inside

Comparable bands: Lemon Twigs, Greta Van Fleet, Will Wood, Meatloaf, Gogol Bordello, Rock bands in the Muppet universe probably

Rating: Worth leaving the house for

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Even during a "good" week trying to pilot my wet rag of a body and wandering hazy mind is a massive effort. I'm sure a number of you can relate. So I'm jumping right in to the meat of what I've been thinking about this week (and for many weeks tbh).

I love music. I love that people make it. And I'm tired of how the industry has made it harder and harder for people not only to make their work but to live and feed themselves. Streaming. Merch cuts. No health insurance. The constant demand for more and more "content" with less and less return. And then with all of that, one bag of groceries cost $70 in New York City. Maybe $50 if you really commit to eating only the cheapest and most basic of whatever there is. Rent for a single shitty room is $800 if you're really lucky.

I know being a musician has always had an element of roughing it. And it probably always will. Traveling that much is hard no matter how well you're taken care of. But here's the thing. Have our artists EVER been taken care of?

Reading about Black Flag crossing the country in a van many might call not fit for human habitation and eating moldy cheese sandwiches in Our Band Could Be Your Life I thought to myself "surely it didn't need to be that rough".

I've done the whole suffering for your art thing, working in live theater and film and television. It feels good to work on something that feels so important and urgent. Many of us find community through work that tells us it's the thing that matters most. It feels good to have a direction and to an extent it feels good to suffer. Putting in long hours of hard physical work, its a fast track to building a sense of belonging unlike anything I had ever experienced before. But here's the thing. Putting on a live show is hard. But it doesn't need to be THIS hard.

And not only that, but HOW can we make it easier?

Ultimately music is experiencing the same thing as every other industry. Capitalism is always trying to squeeze as much money out of people as it can before throwing them away, but the music industry is largely without protections against this- and so musicians are particularly feeling the squeeze.

On the one hand, bigger people than me are going to need to start talking about how suffering for your art to this degree is not noble, or even part of paying your dues, its just exploitation. I can't see any reason why a record label shouldn't provide health insurance at a minimum. How many people become quietly disabled simply because they cannot access medical treatment?

If you're a musician I encourage you to start talking about this. To your band, your scene, to me!

In the mean time while I try to stir up this conversation, Cripple Punk Mag will be launching an experiment: Giving out micro grants to musicians in NYC, with the aim of helping people to invest in their art while they're living paycheck to paycheck. If the industry wont take care of its people, what will happen if we try to?

More on that soon.

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This week I’ve been researching live streams- specifically streams in small venues. If an artist is big enough to tour arenas, you can usually find someone who is planning to live stream the show from their phone by diving deep enough into Twitter or Instagram. I’ve had a great time watching live streams of My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy. And I’m late to the party, but I just found out that King Gizzard And The Lizard Wizard are streaming their tour for free on their YouTube, a move I would be thrilled to see other bands adopt. I hadn’t spent much time with King Gizzard before, but rest assured I’m about to get extremely into them.

Also: Check out their policy on bootlegs and harm reduction, both extremely cool.

But though I treasure these arena streams, they doesn’t really fill the void left by going to small local shows. So when I found myself watching a Halloween cover band playing as Blink-182 on a gritty feed looking at a dusty black club stage, I felt myself tearing up a little.

Punk Rock Night Indianapolis

“Punk Rock Night the longest running weekly Punk Rock showcase on the planet, operating since the year 2000. Our weekly shows are at The Historic Melody Inn in Indianapolis every Saturday. All of our Saturday night shows at The Melody Inn will be on a live feed. The Feed usually starts right at 9:10pm”.

Watch Here

The audio quality was not great, but it was still listenable and enjoyable. The image quality was somewhere in the middle- better than a phone camera, not as good as an arena pro-shot stream. But it didn’t need to be. The camera positioning was good and the stream was stable. Best of all they have a clear, consistent streaming schedule.

I still miss being in the room. But watching this stream of a little venue did a lot to soothe that ache, so I’ll be tuning in again. And for all I miss getting to be there live, it was amazing to get to watch a show and not be fighting against the pain I would be in if I was there in person.

I’ll keep researching this topic as well, so if you have other streams you know about send them my way, and let me know if any of y’all want to hop on a stream together.

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by Paul Hostovsky

It may sound oxymoronic, but there is music in sign language. Even if you don’t understand a word of it, you probably enjoy looking at it. Most people do. They say it’s beautiful and expressive, that it kind of looks like dancing. And if you’re like most hearing people, you probably also enjoy listening to music. In fact, you might say you can’t imagine a life without music. Well, ASL has its own music, and when you watch Deaf people signing—and especially when you understand every word of it—you can see the music.

Sign language, in the hands of Deaf people, isn’t linear the way spoken languages are linear–one discrete word following on the heels of the next. Rather, ASL is symphonic. It creates meaning simultaneously with the hands, face, eyebrows, eye-gaze, lips, tongue, head-tilt, shoulder-turn—all the various sections of the body’s orchestra creating meaning at the same time. A visual-gestural symphony rising up all at once, like a controlled explosion.

ASL has its own rhythms, assonances, crescendos and decrescendos, riffs and repetitions, most of which have grammatical functions. For example, one beat versus two can indicate the difference between a verb and a noun; a single movement versus a repeated movement can be the difference between simple present and present continuous, or between modified and unmodified verbs. Additionally, much of the grammar of ASL occurs on the face, such as negation, imperatives, interrogatives, adjectives, adverbs, and something called ‘sound imagery’, a way of visually representing certain environmental sounds with the lips, teeth, tongue and eyes. Hearing people often comment that Deaf people are very animated. And while it’s true that facial expression in ASL also expresses emotion, it’s usually more about grammar than emotion, more about sense than sensibility. More semantic than romantic.

And the thing is, it feels good to sign. The physical pleasure one derives from signing and watching other people signing is not unlike the physical pleasure one derives from making music and listening to music being made. Interestingly, sign and sing, but for two inverted letters, are the same word. A happy accident? Perhaps. And yet, signing and singing are just two different (or maybe not so different) ways that the body expresses energy, shaping meaning and emotion out of thin air, putting it out there for the world to take in. And the manual dexterity required to play a musical instrument is not unlike the manual dexterity required to articulate the handshapes and movements of ASL. In fact, ASL teachers report that hearing people who have learned to play a musical instrument at some point in their lives seem to have an easier time learning ASL than those who never played a musical instrument. Go figure.

But silence, to Deaf people, who are intensely visual people, isn't lack of sound; it’s lack of movement. Sound IS movement, in fact. It’s energy moving in waves. Which is what music is, after all. And when Deaf people look into the faces of hearing people, what they usually see is silence. They see silence because hearing people, for the most part, do not use their faces to express meaning or emotion. Compared to Deaf people, they have very little facial expression when they talk. Hearing people are pretty poker-faced, if you ask Deaf people. And that’s because their intonation is all in the voice, which is invisible to Deaf people.

But when Deaf people look into the faces of other Deaf people, what do you think they see? They see music! Movement, beauty, energy, meaning. They see intonation. They see gymnastic eyebrows, eloquent eyes, adverbial tongues, and all the risible muscles being put to good, resounding use. They see their language, a visually stunning and musical language, full of inflection, anima, soul.

Hearing people who don’t know ASL can, of course, see the hands and faces and bodies of Deaf people signing, but they can’t really appreciate the music of it, not if they don’t understand what they’re seeing. But when you understand what you’re seeing, you’re wowed by the creativity, the echoes, the prosody, the embodiments and shifts, the flights of playfulness and artfulness, the cinematic effects, so much so that it almost makes you want to stand up and applaud.

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Gerard Way Reads Susan Sontag in a Basement in Jersey: Illness as Metaphor and The Black Parade

This piece was originally published in UNKILLABLE: A Zine on Disability, Community, and My Chemical Romance

Disability is woven into the fabric of My Chemical Romance, whether or not the members themselves identify as disabled. While disability as a label has been personally liberating for me, a big and brightly lit tent that I am eager to invite folks into, for the purposes of this piece, I will try to refrain from speculating on anyone’s potential diagnoses, although many of the band’s members have been open about struggles with mental illness, injuries and chronic pain- in light of which, it would also feel wrong to ignore the influence of disability on the band’s work, especially their lyricism and visual imagery.

The trappings of disability- hospitals, medication, addiction and alienation, appear across all four of My Chemical Romance’s main albums, but are, of course, the most present on their third studio album, The Black Parade. Tracing the death and afterlife of a character known as The Patient, the album focuses heavily on cancer, self medication and depersonalisation. Like so many other teenagers, I latched onto this album with all the ferocity and desperation of youth. While I did not have the language to describe it at 14, I was especially hungry for any kind of depiction of chronic illness that I could relate to. I did not know any other sick teens, and I was barely allowed to watch television. Since I would not be diagnosed or have my own health issues taken remotely seriously by doctors until my 20s, even the vaudevillian antics of Gerard Way being wheeled on stage on a gurney made me feel less alone. And more crucially, while The Patient is a gaunt caricature, not a nuanced portrait of disability by any means, he was still there, conjured up by my favorite rock star, and thrust into the spotlight alongside a cast of other fabulous characters- The Black Parade was more than a way to locate myself and my sick, rebellious body within pop culture, it was a meaningful demonstration that you could use art to take ownership of your own narrative, and embrace your own less-than-ideal circumstances. 

There is a well known quote among My Chemical Romance's fans, spoken by Gerard Way, that “It’s okay to be messed up, because there are five other dudes who are just as messed up as you”. While not as eloquent as some of their lyrics, it was a missive I clung to just the same. Perhaps this is less praise of My Chemical Romance, and more a condemnation of our broader culture, but as I rack my memory, I truly believe this was the first time I had been told, even indirectly, that I could be unashamed of my illness, that my body could be truly unfixable and I could still forge a life and an identity. 

This is not to say that every disability, or perhaps any disability, should be viewed within the paradigm of fixable vs unfixable, normal versus abnormal. But it was important to me at the time, because so many messages were and still are about “overcoming disability” and miraculous recoveries, and it was becoming clear to me that I was not going to get better, I was going to get worse. In 2006, and with limited internet access, this was what I had to work with: over the counter painkillers, a set of divorced, angry parents shuttling me to various doctors, and Gerard Way in a hospital gown.  

Now, in 2023, I have significantly more resources to understand myself and my social and political position as a disabled person. In 2020, during the first full year of the pandemic in the US, once again desperate for ways to understand what was happening in my life, (and coincidentally when I and many other now-adult fans experienced an My Chemical Romance renaissance) I first read Illness as Metaphor by Susan Sontag. A brilliant book, it traces the long use of cancer, and before it tuberculosis, as metaphor, and the ramifications of this on cultural understandings of illness. Her central argument is that we should resist metaphoric thinking about disease, and largely, I agree with her that treating disease as a metaphor, especially for social and political conditions, often results in stigmatization of the disease and the people who experience it. Despite this, her essay starts with its own metaphor, stating that  “​​Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.” 

Ironically, this is a fantastic metaphor for conceptualizing how illness shapes the way we move through and interact with the world. For all its brilliance, the essay fails to examine in depth the liberatory aspects of fantasy; Another brilliant opening line comes to mind, this time by horror writer Shirley Jackson in The Haunting of Hill House. It says that “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream”- Humans need the respite of fantasy, the chance to briefly live other lives when our own seem unbearable. 

While the album absolutely does what Sontag condemns, which is to reinforce the link between cancer, death and the macabre through metaphor, it also subverts this trope by starting with the opening tracks of “The End/Dead!”, and finishing with the refrain from” Famous Last Words”, "I am not afraid to keep on living".

Given only the information publicly available about Gerard Way's life, it is very likely that The Patient's story was not his to tell. After all, disability is not a monolith, and one narrative of sickness cannot simply be swapped to tell another. But I am lucky enough to be getting older, and as I am, I’m working to improve my ability to navigate the gray areas that seem to make up the majority of life. Ultimately in my mind, all language, the literal and the metaphorical, is an intricate system of illusion. The Black Parade was the dream I needed, a metaphorical, metaphysical resting place, that facilitated my own transition to the kingdom of the sick. 

Submit to Cripple Punk Mag at merlin.sabal13@gmail.com. Seeking: Essays, criticism, news and reviews, literary nonfiction, fiction, rants and raves, comics, and beyond.

Thanks so much for agreeing to talk with me.

You commented on a post I wrote “What does being a hardcore kid mean if you can't leave your bed?” I’ve been thinking a lot about the shifting landscape of live music right now- Both the pandemic and the progress of capitalism have changed the music scene a lot, touring is almost impossible for smaller artists, historic venues are closing, and the future looks really uncertain for everyone.

I wanted to talk more with you about what the future of your project looks like, because I feel like there are always a lot of questions on how to make something happen when you’re disabled.

Do you have ideas about the future of the band?

JAKE: Uncertainty is the name of the game for sure. We started this project before the pandemic, and even then we weren’t 100% certain on how to execute on all of our goals for the project. We knew we wanted to write and record music and eventually figure out how to play it live, but we didn't specifically know how to achieve doing these while acknowledging certain imitations of mine. Add the uncertainty of a pandemic to this exploration process, and I think it makes a lot of sense why it took us six years to complete the five songs that made up our debut EP.

Now, with the knowledge that we learned in the process of the first EP, I'm really excited for the future of this band. Were in the process of writing new music right now, but we can't decide whether it's going to be a full length LP or another EP. And knowing that we have the ability to write and record songs pretty reliably, my personal focus for the next project is figuring out how to do a live show is a way that works for us. Live music is so important to me, and I think we want to show the world that disabled people can put on a show!

What are the challenges to performing live you're figuring out right now? And what parts are you most excited about?

JAKE: Time for some honesty; I haven't made a lot of progress on that front yet. The challenges for performing live for us are multifaceted; ranging from my own personal physical limitations to the accessibility challenges that most venues force upon disabled people. For pragmatism, I try to focus on the concerns that I can most directly address on my own. I've been experimenting with ways to improve my singing voice and stamina, to moderate success, but I often wonder if I'm going to eventually meet a ceiling for my physical ability. The broader societal accessibility issues, I fear, Will only be addressed whenever we decide to center the needs of disabled people, but my hope is with greater visibility of the disabled experience/culture, maybe we might start seeing real tangible changes (1/2)

I'm most excited about meeting and collaborating with more disabled artists. I've met and discovered so many talented and unique voices since releasing our EP, and I know that there is so much that we can all figure out together if we put our minds to it! There's probably so much knowledge out there to be shared and improved upon!

I often remind myself that even my most able bodied friends and peers eventually hit the limits of their ability. Art and especially punk music has been shaped by its constraints and I think the edges of limitation can often be really generative spaces. I'm excited to see what you come up with.

Who are some of the other musicians you've been meeting since the ep came out?

JAKE: Not every artist has necessarily been musical, but two acts that immediately come to mind are Teddy Cosmo and blind Adam And The Federal League. And I haven't gotten to literally meet either of them yet, I found Teddy through Instagram and Blind Adam was recommended to me by my friend Ty, but I'm hoping our paths cross eventually. A lot of the newfound disabled artists that I met were actually Visual artists, writers, and content creators, and it was fascinating to get some insight on their various creative processes!

I'd love to know their names as well if you've got them

JAKE: Certainly! I worked with Visual artists Craig Wilderman, Emma Lockwood, Julia Wroble, and Nanditha Reddy on most of the Visual assets associated with the debut EP. Each of them we're immensely talented and a joy to work with! I also did a few podcasts with Natalie Lomske and Dominick Trevathan, and it was so much fun to talk with people who understood the unique challenges that we navigated!

What does going to shows look like for you? How often are you able to go to shows, and how else do you participate in music? What’s most meaningful to you?

JAKE: I try to go to as many shows as possible, and going to local punk shows was kind of what inspired me to want to make music of my own. I am extremely fortunate that I haven't had a lot of experiences of being outright blocked from entering a venue because of accessibility concerns, Atlanta's venues I have been pretty good at accommodating my needs. That isn't to say I haven't had moments that were sketchy, but I'm also fortunate to have amazing support system that helps me overcome accessibility concerns that sometimes appear insurmountable. The pandemic probably slowed me down a little bit in terms of the number of shows I was attending, but I still try to safely attend ones the really important to me!

I feel like you can't replace the camaraderie that you feel at punk shows, and I think that feeling is what keeps drawing me back

Is being punk a meaningful part of your identity?

JAKE: I think the term "punk" is an idea/attitude/genre that has been gatekept to a certain degree and means a very specific thing to certain groups of people, and so I've always felt a little bit uncomfortable outright claiming as some sort of tenet of my identity. Achieving that "standard" is certainly not something I consciously strive for, but I think the person that I've grown into kind of naturally exists in that space. It's my assertion (and the central theme of our debut) that existing as a disabled person in today's world requires a certain rebellious punk spirit in order to not become overwhelmed by it all, but that's just my definition and I will let the capital-P Punks out there decide if it fits.

Coming up sometime next week: An interview with Jake Walker of Faulty Wires. Give them a listen

Antifa, Autism, and The Border Wall Around Punk- Free Download

I’ve never been particularly good at the social stuff. Punk has always appealed to me for that reason, but I’ve always been on the sidelines of punk looking in, unable to perform my own unintelligibility and rage in the proper way for acceptance.

Building: A DIY Guide to Creating Spaces, Hosting Events and Fostering Radical Communities- Free Download

Building is a comprehensive guide to hosting events as a means of creating radical communities. The zine primarily provides a thorough guide to creating spaces (whether they be opening your house or some other type of space) for hosting events.

Black Punk Now

Black Punk Now is an anthology of contemporary nonfiction, fiction, illustrations, and comics that collectively describe punk today and give punks—especially the Black ones—a wider frame of reference.  It shows all of the strains, styles, and identities of Black punk that are thriving, and gives newcomers to the scene more chances to see themselves.

diary of a sista grrrl zine: Buy from the creator

htx based zine about being a black lesbian in the punk and alternative scenes

Harm Reduction for DIY Venues- Free Download

Our title has most often been interpreted as [DIY Venue] Harm Reduction (harm reduction for DIY Venues). But we think of it more as [DIY] Venue Harm Reduction -This resource centers the needs of low-budget, precarious DIY situations, while expanding beyond ad hoc strategies.  

Fag School #1 - Free on The POC Zine Project Issu

Fag School, a series of publications featuring interviews, photographs, writings and more from a predominately gay selection of contributors.

In issue #1, Alvin Orloff, The Husbands, Coloring, Ask Allison, Scream Club, and other queer tastemakers are lauded for their candid descriptions of a punk and free-wheeling lifestyle. Fag School also printed tongue-and-cheek reviews of public cruising grounds that entice and entertain those who have dabbled in these areas of life (and those who haven’t).

The First 7-inch Was Better: How I Became an Ex-Punk- Free on The POC Zine Project Issu

By Nia King

Making Spaces Safer: A Guide to Giving Harassment the Boot Wherever You Work, Play, and Gather - Internet Archive

Shawna Potter, singer for the band War On Women, has tackled sexism and harassment in lyrics and on stage for years. Taking the battle to music venues themselves, she has trained night clubs and community spaces in how to create safer environments for marginalized people

Muchacha Fanzine #16: Decolonize Punk - Free on Issu

Aimed at celebrating the overlooked contributions of punks of color, Muchacha Fanzine’s “Decolonize Punk” explores how punk is a political identity and radical subculture that Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) use as a tool to resist systemic oppression.

No Bystanders: by Mike Nowotarski- Free Download

A zine dedicated towards addressing the twin issues of harassment and abuse of power in DIY music. Click the image to purchase on Bandcamp.

Outset: Women and Nonbinary Black, Indigenous and POC in Punk Rock

A zine about the roots of punk and the women and non-binary BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and/or people of color) pioneers at the movement’s advent.

Sing It Like the Kids That Are Mean To You: A Collection of Works by Emos of Color

a collection of works about what it means to exist as a person of color in emo/punk/alt-rock/etc scenes and in online "bandom."

Shotgun Seamstress: by and for Black Punks since 2006 -Free on Issu

Shotgun Seamstress was made by Osa Atoe. The zine came out of the experience of being the only black kid at the punk show. Shotgun Seamstress is a black punk fanzine turned book written, compiled and laid out by hand by Osa Atoe

Weirdo Zine:

WEIRDO is a UK-based zine and platform documenting the experiences and perspectives of South Asian people in the alternative scene across the world.

Women Who Rock 'Zine: Making Scenes, Building Communities- Free on The POC Zine Project Issu

Women Who Rock ‘Zine #1 is based on material created for, during, and inspired by the Women Who Rock Conference, which highlights both contemporary and past movements in and outside of Seattle by bringing together musicians, activists, writers, advocates, and scholars to talk about questions of female representation and access for women with music scenes.

Hello! Can you introduce yourself a bit! You're a really dedicated concert goer. What kind of music do you go see, how many shows have you seen this year?

SYDNEY: Hi, thank you! I’m Sydney, I’m 19, and I’m both disabled and a very dedicated music fan, determined to prove that those two things can and do coexist. Concerts are my primary hobby and music is a huge part of my daily existence.

I’m always listening to music (writing this interview in my headphones), at a show, or working on my record collection. I collect setlists, guitar picks, and signed records. I go to all kinds of shows - and being so into live music has hugely expanded my tastes - but most of what I see is somewhere in the indie rock realm, and almost always female, non-binary, and/or queer musicians. I’ve also gotten into other fun things in 2022 like hardcore & hyperpop. I saw a grand total of 47 shows last year alone! I want to beat that record in 2023.

Can you also let readers know anything that feels important to you about your disability?

SYDNEY: I have a genetic disability that has been progressing over time (as well as other chronic illnesses) that affects everything - but especially my joints, muscles, nerves, etc, and I’m autistic. I’ve used all kinds of mobility aids in my life and now use a power wheelchair full time, as well as my service dog Wish (she’s a Golden Retriever) to do pretty much everything I can’t or find difficult - picking up dropped objects, helping me take socks and jackets off, opening and closing doors, flipping light switches, pushing door opener buttons, and more. She’s a smart girl! Wish doesn’t come to shows if I’m in the pit, but has been to a few where it’s safe for her in the seats or separate accessible seating (and in her hearing protection). Otherwise, I use a “service human” in the form of a friend or my mom.

What kind of chair do you use?

SYDNEY: I use a power wheelchair. I also think that being a power wheelchair user enables me to go to shows and be up front in a way that is not available to (or easy for) all wheelchair users, since I have an elevating seat, so I can get eye level or even a bit taller than the people next to me. I have a manual wheelchair with power assist that I use only when absolutely necessary since it’s physically more difficult for me - I get tired faster, my baseline level of pain is much higher, I can’t do even half as much, I’m shorter in it, etc.

Where do you usually sit at shows?

SYDNEY: I half-jokingly say that I’m a “front row or don’t go” kind of person - you will almost always find me in the pit, at the barricade, front and center. Usually if I’m anywhere other than the front row, I either wasn’t able to buy a pit ticket because they sold out too quickly or the venue was discriminatory and tried to prevent me from being there because of my wheelchair. Or, I did intentionally stay further back from the stage at a hardcore show recently because I can’t really mosh in my powerchair. (I totally would, but I don’t want to get tipped over or accidentally squish toes. Hahaha.)

What advice do you have for other wheelchair users who want to go to shows? I only recently started going back to shows because I got my chair, but it can be really intimidating to think about taking a chair to the pit.

SYDNEY: I think it’s important to check in with yourself and ask yourself what you want to do for seating and shows. I’ve met lots of wheelchair users who find what I do exciting, and just as many others who find the idea of being in the pit or on the floor scary, or simply not something they’re interested in. Both sides are valid, and the whole point of my advocacy these days - and in this space specifically - is for the right of choice. Really, I just want us as disabled music fans to be given the same amount of choice that abled people get, but I am in no way suggesting that the pit is right for every wheelchair user.

Just as an abled person doesn’t have to be in the pit because someone like them enjoys that experience, the same goes for us! Disability is so individual.

For the pit, you need to consider many things: how big is the venue? Are you ready that if you’re in the pit, you will not be able to leave it during the show, and it will be very crowded and tight? Are you ready to be pushed and bumped accidentally by other fans (especially dependent on the genre & artist you’re seeing)?

If you do want to be in the pit, I also strongly recommend researching and/or contacting the venue in advance and making sure that there are no physical barriers to you being in there and that the venue does not have a policy against you doing so. Even though those policies are discriminatory and technically illegal, we still live in a time where they are unfortunately out there. On the other hand, many venues welcome me to the pit/floor and remember me!

I am lucky to say my positive experiences far outnumber the negative ones. Smaller shows are generally easier as well, I will say that I don’t really do arena shows or stadium shows. The biggest shows I go to these days are for Florence + the Machine.

Lastly, if the venue has a barricade (the metal fence between the stage and the crowd that generally comes up to a standing person’s chest), you probably won’t be able to see over it in a manual wheelchair. Venues that have a barricade should be able to offer you an alternate accommodation if this is your situation (such as seating you in front of the barricade off to one side, or a separate accessible section). I have done two shows in my manual wheelchair where there was a barricade, and I was able to see just enough, but this will vary from venue to venue and individual to individual. (If you want to be behind a barricade in a manual wheelchair you also have to be prepared for the fact that you must be front row to see. Many venues will let you in first if you ask.)

You mentioned doing advocacy for disabled people's right to be at shows, can you talk about that?

SYDNEY: Yes, I spend a lot of time talking to venues, staff, managers, etc. about accessibility and our right to the floor. Because I often line up to get a good spot in the pit, it gives me time and I will really talk to anyone at the venue that will listen! I always make friends in line as well and my advocacy usually comes up- I think educating our peers is important too.

I’m currently working on pressuring two of our venues in town to fix those policies I mentioned earlier that keep wheelchair users out of the pit for no good reason, and when I’m talking to venues I’ll explain the importance of having an accessible seating section separate from the pit and an accessible floor. If walking people get to pick between seats and the floor, we should be able to as well! The only reason that venues still have accessible seating but no accessible floor (or won’t allow wheelchair users to the floor or pit) is plain ableism, and the assumption that we are less worthy of autonomy and independent choice, or the assumption that we don’t deserve an equal experience. Society often does not view us as people, even subconsciously.

Any etiquette advice for non wheelchair users at shows when they’re in the crowd with someone using a chair?

SYDNEY: Honestly, use the same etiquette that you would for a walking person! I had a frustrating experience in the pit at Beabadoobee in December where people felt they could lean on me or grab onto my push handles, which isn’t at all appropriate. How I explained it to people later, and how I still explain it now, is that the same things that are okay for a walking fan are okay for a wheelchair-using one. Accidental bumping or pushing is understandable absolutely, and I won’t be mad, but treating me like furniture isn’t. My armrests are for me to rest my arms on, not strangers. It’s like leaning on some standing person’s shoulder in the pit… you just wouldn’t. My wheelchair is my body, and leaning on me makes me incredibly uncomfortable at best and could damage my (expensive, custom) wheelchair at worst.

Aside from that, just talk to us normally and don’t make weird disability jokes if you’re a stranger (but you can also laugh at my jokes if I do make one, I promise!). I can always tell when people are speaking down to me, or are surprised to see me, or are amused by my presence in the pit as if I don’t deserve to be there. Just talk to me like you would if I were a standing person, I promise I’m nice and would love to talk to you about anything music related!

Anything else you want to add?

SYDNEY: I would encourage other disabled people to try out anything that interests them and see if there’s a way they can make it work. Ableism (both our own internalized ableism as well as the more obvious societal ableism) loves to tell us where we do and don’t belong, but that decision should be yours. I’ve always loved music and concerts, but only started going so frequently and being up front and advocating for my place there when I randomly had the opportunity last spring to be front row. It was some of the most fun I’ve ever had, and I wouldn’t have even known I love that experience (and eventually learned I love being front row and in the pit at all kinds of shows) if I hadn’t just tried it. Whether it’s at a concert or anywhere else, you deserve to be there if you want to be and you are allowed to take up space both literally and metaphorically.

Showing up to a space especially as a visibly disabled person is a powerful act of resistance, and I’m proud of every disabled person reading this and finding their place in the world.

@sydneymakes_

Originally published in print in Cripple Punk Mag 3, March 2023.

Want your work featured in Cripple Punk Mag? Submit at merlin.sabal13@gmail.com

PS follow the People’s CDC for information on the Covid Pandemic, which is very much still ongoing

People's CDC on Substack

by Rybecca Quinn (she/her)

I’m Rybecca Quinn, a doing-whatever-it-takes to pay the bills freelancer who has worked across the multiple entertainment and media industries. On Monday, I’m photographer; Tuesday, I’m writer; Wednesday, I’m a business student; Thursday, I’m running a networking group for disabled creatives on the internet; Friday, I’m rocking out; Saturday, I’m a YouTuber and streamer known as Emotastic for the channel the Glitch Ghouls; and Sundays, I f—ing rest.

As a passing cripple, I’m trying to expand the idea of what the public thinks when they hear someone is disabled. While I can pass through a door or some stairs, that whole “passing” thing becomes quickly false when people see how bad I shake from nearly decades of having tremors. I was lulled into the punk community when I was in middle school by Green Day leader singer Billie Joe Armstrong, one of the first modern artists I had heard who let their voice shake freely. After years of never fitting the mold as a tremor-y mezzo soprano, I found fellowship in the punk community.

My younger years were riddled with mental illness, bullying, unfortunate events beyond my control, but I found peace in music. Some of the singers who helped shape the musician I became include Armstrong, Geddy Lee of Rush, David Lee Roth, Steven Tyler, Mary Hopkins, Stevie Wonder, and Danny “Sexbang” Avidan of Ninja Sex Party.

I put every ounce of emotion into what I sing like Armstrong and Wonder, long to take listeners on a journey like Lee and Hopkins could, start a party like Roth and Tyler, and create self-confidence while also being able to laugh at myself like Avidan.

Nowadays, I spend my time catching local punk shows at the Star Bar and working on an upcoming album without even naming my work-in-progress band. This is where we’re gonna need that drummer, so my lovely and elusive drummers hear me out.

My lovely guitarist Ian Rich and I have a dastardly dream, a musical mission, a goofball goal; we pose to you, dear drummer hopefully located in Atlanta, Georgia, We Fixed It, Phil. A “tribute” album where we can create an image and sound ourselves while updating an honestly (maybe just a teeny, tiny bit) dated catalog.

The perfect long-term drummer for our nameless band (that you have the chance to help name) is someone who understands the struggles of being disabled, someone who has a burning passion for all things rock ‘n’ roll. Many of rock music’s best drummers are disabled, Rick Allen of Def Leppard and Robert Wyatt of Soft Machine.

What the punk community has always excelled in are what my friends and I like to call “sick kid anthems”. Did you hum Blood by My Chemical Romance every time you had to get your blood drawn? How about 21 Guns by Green Day when a medication was kicking your ass? Or what about Death Dance by Palaye Royale when the pain was blending into that numb agony that’s been eating you alive?

To our future drummer, we can’t wait to write the next generation of sick kid anthems alongside you, homie. You’ll probably get so sick of me both ironically and unironically calling a homie or homeslice, but we’ll be great friends if you can laugh at misery, like anime and other nerdy shit, and prefer animals over people. We’re gonna steamroll those ables, all while being loud, jittery, and chasing down our next gig like a pack of hungry piranhas.

To contact me about the drumming position, please email me at rybeccaquinn@yahoo.com . Those who want to keep up with how the drummer search is going, feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter (if you still use that) at @rybeccaquinn

Originally published in print in Cripple Punk Mag 3, March 2023.

Want your work featured in Cripple Punk Mag? Submit at merlin.sabal13@gmail.com

PS follow the People’s CDC for information on the Covid Pandemic, which is very much still ongoing

People's CDC on Substack

Hello! I’m the Quinn behind Quinn Gatsby music and the main writer/editor of the Peaches ’N’ Scream zine! I’ve been pretty heavily involved in my local scene in Corvallis, Oregon since I moved here in the summer of 2021. Corvallis is sort of a nestled college town haven among many rural towns. I was honestly surprised to find such a diverse queer community in the north west part of Oregon. Other than towns like Portland and Salem, there really aren’t a ton of progressive cities in terms of being a disabled queer person and in terms of a progressive music scene. As an artist and as a zine writer, I want to bring attention to local bands in my scene and to talk about issues I’ve gone through in my life. So when I was made aware of this project I was really excited to be a part of it!

My experience as a disabled person in the scene has been both good and bad but thankfully, the good outweighs the bad a million to one. I have always loved punk, emo, and hardcore growing up and admittedly, I was a little worried about going to local shows. I have chronic pain so I was worried about how being at a punk show might potentially hurt me. The very first show I went to in Corvallis was put on by two lovely people who make up Bitter Half Booking. They made it very clear that people moshing needed to steer clear of those who had no intention of being in the pit and even spoke before the show about how the environment was a safer space for everyone. I mean, hell, half of the people at the show had canes like me and trans flag pins on their jackets like I did.

They definitely left a really good first impression. I can only count on one hand the few times I didn’t feel safe at a venue out of the dozens of shows I’ve been to.

At most venues I’ve been to, there’s always some kind of seating in the back for people if they ever need to sit down and nearly everyone I’ve spoken to at shows has been nothing short of supportive when I have an episode or a flare up while I’m in public. Within the past year, I discovered that I have DiD. There was one show in particular where I had an episode on stage and had to quit playing early due to the circumstances. While there may have been a couple of jerks in the crowd, I had a large group of people on their toes to help me out in any way that they could, even if it was just to listen to me talk about what had just happened. In many other towns that I’ve gone to shows at, it’s a very dog eat dog kind of vibe that you get but Corvallis has a very tight knit group of people that’ll always step up to offer help whenever they can, even if you’re strangers to them.

In my case specifically, the biggest thing I’ve come across has been misinformation regarding my Dissociative Identity disorder. Even in a place where a lot of folks at shows are educated people, there seems to be a stigma around mental health issues that people deem as ‘worse’ than anxiety or depression. I’ve gotten strange looks from people when I explain the reason why I did or said something the way I did and 90% of the time, it’s because of the disorder that impacts nearly my entire life. Sometimes even from people who I’ve known for months, suddenly I’m treated differently even though we got along just fine before I gave them one piece of information. Thankfully these instances are few and far between but truly the only way for them to get over this hump is to have an ounce of empathy.

The best way that I’ve seen people bring various issues to light has been through zine distribution at shows. From zines about how to support your disabled friends (written by other disabled people) to zines about at home remedies for chronic pain if you can’t afford a doctor. I’ve seen many people get up on stage and talk about these issues too. I’ve also seen posters all over town about resources for disabled folks and shows put on with the intention of raising money for someone in our community that needs it. I know that some of these things won’t be as possible as it is in our scene but for those reading this, the best thing you can do to support and assist disabled folks in your local scene is to shut up and listen. There are zines galore about so many issues that are far more articulate than I could ever be and so many musicians who’ve put a melody to struggles I couldn’t even begin to digress.

I was lucky enough to find myself in a small college town full of amazing disabled queer folks who stick together like glue. If you put on shows, have some extra chairs in the back for folks who can’t stand for the whole set, set some ground rules in place before any of the bands play, and have a zero tolerance policy for any kind of discrimination. If you go to shows, don’t be afraid to speak up. If someone’s being an asshole, do what you can to get it to stop. Be aware of your surroundings and if someone looks like they need help, don’t hesitate to ask if they need it.

There seems to be a new wave of people coming into local scenes where their motto is ‘if you can’t handle the pit, then stay at home’. Which goes against the very ethics of punk music. Punk is made by and for those who have been victim to constant punching down from an able-bodied, neurotypical, cisheteronormative, white supremacist society. And from my experience we are nothing if we don’t look out for one another.

@peachesnscreamzine // @quinngatsby

Originally published in print in Cripple Punk Mag 3, March 2023.

PS follow the People’s CDC for information on the Covid Pandemic, which is very much still ongoing

People's CDC on Substack

By Will Xia

In July 2021, I broke my leg and one of my best friends died. In December 2021, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. In May 2022, I got into emo music again.

As a fourteen year-old, I’d been devoted to the mall emo bands of the 2000s as much as any other teen destined to discover they were transgay in the future, but I was never really into the scene. Looking up LiveJournal band primers was as close as I got. I had not yet figured out how to keep track of that kind of social signaling. As I got older and bands broke up or went on hiatus, my interest waned for a time.

Something about the past year has made it come back alive for me. Maybe something about my shifting gender, the wear of the pandemic, and the loss of friends makes the almost- childish raw expressiveness of pop-punk and adjacent genres a comfort. I spent all of May and June listening to Gerard Way’s “Action Cat,” the echo of “Do you miss me? ’Cause I miss you’’ in my headphones. I started watching livestreams of the My Chemical Romance tour and felt fireworks go off in my head at the high of going on new antidepressants and seeing Gerard Way in funny little costumes. I bought tickets to see them at the nearest tour stop.When I started rabidly telling anyone I could about My Chem, my friend who is one of those people with an encyclopedic knowledge of indie music told me I might like an emo act called Proper.

I listened to “Jean,” a song about an old friend dying in immigration detention, and sobbed to the feeling of “I always thought I’d see you again eventually” howled over a massive guitar riff.

I don’t intend to belabor the usual alt kid of color representation politics lament, but I was surprised and pleased to learn Proper is queer-fronted and all-Black. It’s not so hard to find incredible pop-punk/emo/post-hardcore etc bands these days that are gayer and transer and more ethnic than the majority of the mall emo scene had been in its prime.

See, like what is probably 30% of My Chemical Romance’s fanbase, I am a transmasc who relates to Frank Iero. The usual reasons apply–he’s short and irreverent, but he’s also chronically ill. His interviews and solo lyrics are dotted with references to his lifetime of constant nausea, fatigue, and stomach issues. He’s played a show with an oxygen mask and a clock pendant Sharpied with “TIME TO GET ILL.” He is, by all accounts, immunocompromised too. And I watched as he, alongside his bandmates, shed their masks and toured massive arenas. Simply being ill does not create any kind of solidarity with other ill people. Identifying with celebrities always requires some measure of cognitive dissonance anyway. This is just a particularly painful sort.

On a smaller scale, the state of things is easier to understand in some ways. If you are in an indie band and it’s impossible to make enough money to survive off streaming, you need to tour.

If you have no choice but to be exposed to unmasked people at work and on public transit and via your children, why not do risky things that make life enjoyable? In other ways, for people and bands and scenes closer to understanding ordinary life, a lack of care gets harder to understand.

I went to a show in October. Pinkshift, an all-POC punk band with unusual technical chops and incredible live energy, was playing a tiny venue in town. The venue policy required masks and proof of vaccination. I had the best time. Even perched on a stool in the back, feeling the crowd’s energy while I screamed along and banged my cane to the beat was transcendent. It was the most excited I’d felt in a year. It was stupid of me to go. No one checked for vaccine cards. My friends and I were some of the only people masking. Looking at the crowd of kids, it was hard to hate them. But it was also hard to feel like professed progressive politics and inclusive ethos actually amount to anything.

I don’t have an unusual experience. I would argue that becoming chronically ill in your twenties is a deeply normal life path for the kind of people punk music is supposed to be for. I broke my leg and lost my friend and all I got was lupus. Being autistic, transgender, and a child of refugees makes me a decent staging ground for trauma-mediated Weird Diseases, and I’m fairly well-off. Having physically stressful jobs, unstable housing, losing friends to suicide, and other demographically typical experiences makes the slow collapse of the body ever more likely. Immunocompromised people live among society’s re- exposed eugenic bones, and we don’t even have any good shows to see while we’re here.

This is a place that’s hard to end on. I could add some advice about mitigating and communicating about risk to make safer events, but it feels hollow at this point. I am a stranger to most of the people reading this piece. I am fortunate enough to have a community that is willing to keep accessibility in mind enough that I have a social and political life that sustains me outside of the music scene. There are immunocompromised people in your community, or immunocompromised people that could be in your community. The life that you can collectively give to them is up to you.

PS follow the People’s CDC for information on the Covid Pandemic, which is very much still ongoing

People's CDC on Substack

Song: Hold On (Skitch) by Faulty Wires.

1. I've started to help book shows in a DIY space and I love it even though it's definitely bittersweet to help organize a show I don't get to see. But there's a lot potential to build something cool there, especially in a location that's all ages and physically accessible, and I hope I'll get to go in person one of these days. Our first show was masked and I'm going to push for future ones to be as well.

2. The culture of livestreaming big shows has been devisive I know, whether it's  people on their phones on instagram or big professional platforms like Veeps. I won't relitigate that too much here, but I think it's hard to argue that streaming shows makes them way more accessible than they are otherwise.  And even over stream, live events are fun and exciting in a way that's different from a recording* - sports have built an entire culture around this, why is it different for music? While I know it's exhausting to imagine being sold yet another streaming service, I would buy a season pass to a venue or a band's tour in order to see a good quality stream every week.

*although I'm also in favor of filming more concerts professionally.

3. We need to get more creative and less rigid about how live music happens

I've been looking everywhere in my neighborhood for live music. While I usually go to punk shows, I've been so thirsty for music I could physically get to without tanking my body that I would basically go see any genre at the moment, and there is nothing within walking distance, which I imagine that's true for a lot of us. Until I find a friend with a car, what's the solution here? Meet ups in the park? In my living room?


4. And finally, what does being a hardcore kid mean if you can't leave your bed? Punk more than many other scenes is defined my whose in the room, but I want to know who else is out there. I need this music as much as any able bodied fan, and that love and that need contribute to the scene even if its in ways that are invisible, like background radiation.

Do you have thoughts? Answers? Questions? Reach out

Mi nombre es Vanessa Garcia. My artist name is Whirlynn. Yo soy Boricua. I have brittle type 1 diabetes. I’ve had this invisible chronic illness 80% of my life and have almost died over 100 times. This isn’t a badge of honor and I am not complaining. It’s just very complicated. Creating art and music has always been my therapy to maintain my mental health. Only 5% of all diabetics in the world are type 1. Only 3 in every 1000 become brittle with no explanation. Every single day is a gamble and I am grateful for every passing waking moment spent among a community that understands the importance of being inclusive when it comes to disability.

When I play music I feel free, and I’m releasing a lot of trauma. It’s a way for me to let it go. Often through my music I would profess words of doubt and painful reflection through bass heavy drum beats, synth and more.

My last album, Yákakeitiwa (We are still here) is my expression of a reconnection with my Indigenous Arawak- Taíno heritage, and journey to decolonize myself.

“Anti-colonial themes weave through the lo-fi synth-pop music of Yákakeitiwa.” -Justin Garcia of Creative Loafing, Tampa. Album was released on Orlando based label Popnihil: (Find it bandcamp.com)

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Yákakeitiwa is my first official release with this project. Through the lauded underground label Popnihil, I have found a home for my sound and message. The cassette tape version of Yákakeitiwa sold out through the Orlando based label’s Bandcamp. It’s Popnihil’s 137th release.

I also promote others through my radio show called Florida Showers, streamed on Nett Nett Radio based out of Mexico, which airs every Tuesday from 10-11 p.m.

NettNettRadio is an expansive network of activists, artists and cultural agents who make radio to cultivate information channels that aggregate experiences and stories from citizens around the world. As a freethinking radio community, we advocate for accessibility, the exchange of knowledge and the development of safe spaces for the production and broadcasting of diverse cultural and artistic practices - essential processes for social, physical and mental well- being. We operate as a self-organized, non-profit, non-corporatized group of artists, activists and innovators that believe in revolution through radio. Now, more than ever, we must work together to develop solidarity among a diverse and impactful web of trans-continental voices.

Cripple Punk Mag is once again taking submissions on a rolling basis. If you are a disabled music fan, performer, or nightlife worker, please email merlin.sabal13@gmail.com with your pitch or submission. If you are an artist who would like to be interviewed, you can also reach out via the email. Any questions or suggestions, feel free to message. Feel free to suggest your local favorite artist as well.