This project officially began on June 4,2008 in Oklahoma City at a concert called the Buzz’s low dow show. It was sponsored by the local radio station 94.7 The Buzz, an alternative scene that frequently came in second place to the long standing rock station The Katt. Thirteen dollars at the door, I’ve paid better, but I’ve sure as hell paid a lot worse.

There were about ten of us out there, waiting for the doors to open like bums outside a soup kitchen. In fact, I’m not certain that some of us weren’t straight off the street. Brian and I were standing around joking to kill the time; the random bullshit that any of our conversations eventually dissemble into. Three girls in their late twenties to early thirties stood leaning on a fence railing, each puffing away on their cancer sticks. The one of them that had a chest put it on display seemingly hoping to get backstage once we all got inside. An old couple were leaning on the wall opposite me, probably counting their teeth, I thought. She approached us.

“You’ve been to Ozzfest?” she said looking down at the 2007 tour shirt I was wearing. As with any decision of attire that any person at any concert makes, I wore it as a statement. It said that I set myself apart from the regular crowd of Buzz listeners, the fourteen and fifteen year olds who came to see Violence to Vegas and Course of Nature because their songs fit the pop rubric of the time. It aggravated me to see the posers, those kids that sat inside so they could be pale and then shopped at Hot Topic because they thought it would get them attention to set themselves apart from the rest. A crowd such as this got out of a Buick down the street that was driven by a balding forty year old man in a polo who hugged the one that got out of the passenger seat before driving off to it doesn’t matter where. They stood giggling at the base of the stairs leading up to the platform we were standing on. I turned back to the hag.

“Yeah, Ozzy’s not what he used to be, but he’s still Ozzy.” She looked amazed.

“Let’s go inside it’s hot out here,” she said to her husband. They stood just inside the door as a scrawny bald guy in a black shirt and jeans came outside.

“Hey how’s it goin?” he said patting my shoulder.

“Great, how ‘bout you?” I responded.

“Awesome. Hey thanks for coming out.” He said, shaking my hand and moving on to the convenience store across the street.

“Hey check your phone.” Brian said.

“You were texting me? Do you know who that was that just walked by?”

“No, probably some jackass wanting to talk about a bunch of different shows like that one stupid bitch.”

“Dude, that was J. Loren,” I said waiting for some sign of recognition. “The lead singer of Hurt.” I added after receiving a quizzical look. His jaw dropped.

“Really, was it him?” one of the kids asked looking at me like I was about to deliver a message from God himself.

“Really? You’re going to a concert and you don’t even know what the band you’re going to see looks like?” The kid looked pissed. I’m certain that in a basement somewhere later that night he was sitting at a Ouija board with his friends begging the forces from beyond to rip my soul to pieces. That or posting myspace message talking about the “concert asshole.”

Brian started laughing as the kid walked off with his friends to the corner of the deck. But I could see behind the laugh. He was still furious with himself for missing the chance to meet one of his icons. And even deeper, he was furious with me for getting the attention of this demigod.

“It’s okay man, we’ve forgotten more concerts than those little bastards have even been to,” I said pushing him even further toward a good mood.

The concert turned out amazingly. The guitarist of the first band Violence to Vegas, which fit the screamo-punk taste of the day, fell off his speaker and kept playing as it landed on him. Faktion covered Ac/Dc to reach out to people about the age of sixteen at the show, a demographic that was very well represented. Course of Nature seemed to be the frat-boy punk music. And Hurt, the band we had come to see in a crowd of one hundred, the members of the opening bands among us. After the concert the band came and mingled with the remaining audience members, of which there were roughly a third left. Brian got his chance to atone. Neither the old amazed ones nor the teenage wannabes were anywhere to be seen.

The point that I’m making in this story is that there is a definite society that lies beneath the socially acceptable one, comprised solely of the other element. This sub-social group is stratified. It holds its own values. And it integrates into the main society as well, although rather begrudgingly. In the words of Tyler Durden, they “are the people you depend on, they cook your meals, they haul your trash, they connect your calls, they drive your ambulances. they guard you while you sleep.”

Many are appalled by this sub-culture, others are curious. Metalheads, rockers, headbangers, there are many names for this cultural phenomenon, but despite their stratifications, there is still a fraternal spirit within the culture that is symbolized through the throwing of the horns.