By A Thread

Zak, an old Punk devotee attempts to keep the culture alive.

Words 1343
Post-Punk cultural reflection

Zak Shaw hadn’t noticed the light of day disappearing, the room almost in darkness. The only source of illumination was the ghostly glow from three monitors on his desk.
Aged fifty-something Zak, his thin frame accentuated by the tight-fitting black jeans and washed-out Sex Pistols tee shirt, was absorbed in the images he’d taken the night before. His long greying hair, always in need of a cut, fell over his eyes.
He gave a satisfied smile when he saw the image of a girl frozen in motion. ‘That’s the shot,’ he nodded as he examined the picture. He’d captured the hair whipping across her face as she danced and the split second her dark eyes caught the spotlights. Despite the girl’s natural beauty, Zak’s critical eye focused on the composition, the lighting, and the energy. ‘No one’s gonna fake that,’ he muttered.
His jaw hardened when he thought of all the deep fakes and photoshopping which had taken the skill out of photography as far as Zak was concerned.
As he often did, he glanced at the photograph of his band, The Dead Ends on his desk. He studied the image of a much younger version of himself, a moment frozen in time and could almost hear the noise, feel the chaos. He picked up the photograph and studied it, relishing the memory. Eventually he stopped reminiscing and returned to the editing from the previous night’s gig.
He'd selected as the shot of the night the young woman with dark eyes and flying hair, caught in a moment of pure abandon.
The venue had been a derelict factory, earmarked for demolition. Its cavernous space had been packed with young and not-so-young devotees of Punk, despite the secrecy surrounding the gigs. They were usually illegal gatherings, which no doubt added to the excitement. Punk culture was surviving on a knife’s edge, Zak unsure if it wasn’t already dead but didn’t know it.
Zak felt as if he’d come home when he’d arrived at the factory. Fearless he’d pushed into the crowd, desperate to capture the essence of a disappearing culture.
Despite being way too young to remember any of the band names sewn on to his leather jacket, a pimply youth, safety pins attached to an eyebrow, screamed the lyrics of the song being belted out by the band.
There was the usual smattering of older punks in their 40’s 50’s and even 60’s who’d never left the scene, and of course the usual inquisitive outsiders. His camera click-click-clicked away at a girl. Her denim jacket bore the names of some of Zak’s favourite Punk bands from back in the day, such as Black Flag and Crass. Silver duct tape, used as a hasty repair caught the spotlight. Sweat darkened the collar as she threw herself into the music.
Zak felt most at home in these dark, abandoned places, the bad lighting, loud, raw sound, and bodies packed too tight. He allowed himself to be swept away by the music and the sense of belonging and nostalgia.
He always felt a sense of satisfaction when capturing images of abandoned buildings before they disappeared—basements, warehouses, temporary squats—lasting all of three weekends before the counsel boarded them up. At the same time he was documenting the history of Punk. But most of all he wanted the answer to the question: Is punk dead or just invisible?

Zak finished editing the images from the warehouse and exported a small batch into the folder he’d been building for almost a year. He’d titled it WHEN IT MATTERED.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He let it ring a few times before reaching out to answer with a tattooed hand.
‘Yeah?’ his gravelly voice suspicious.
Are you the guy who was taking photographs last night?’ a young female voice asked, with no preamble.
‘Depends on who’s asking,’ he said.
She didn’t answer straight away, and Zak wondered if she could be the cops. He waited and listened to the background sounds. He thought he heard a train.
‘I got your number from Jules. You know him. Right?’ She paused, ‘You took a shot of me, I saw you.’
He pulled up the shots from last night. ‘Lots of people there. You gonna narrow it down?’
‘Denim patched jacket. The sleeve taped up.’
Zak smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember you.’
‘Can I see them?’
Typical, he thought. Not, ‘can I buy them?’ Just, ‘can I see?’
For some reason he couldn’t figure, he said, ‘I’ve heard there’s a gig at the old Saleyards tomorrow night.’ He paused. ‘Y’know it?’
‘Yeah. I know it,’ she said.
‘Be there, I’ll give you the shots.’ Zak hung up.


There was no moon, the roads slick with rain. Feeble street lighting gave the abandoned area a ghost like appearance. The Saleyards were once a place of life and death as livestock were bought and sold, their fates to live or to die. The streets surrounding the previously frenetic area held an air of neglect and despair.
Chain link fences sagged inwards where they’d been cut and repaired many times. Faded signs warned trespassers of Danger and told them to Keep Out. They leaned at precarious angles as if even they didn’t believe their messages any longer.
Zak slipped through the gap Jules had told him about a few months ago, his boots crunching on gravel and broken glass. He listened. At first nothing. Then he heard it, a faint deep, rhythmic beat of sound. He followed it until he saw lights flickering ahead.
There was no stage, just a flat piece of concrete and a tangle of wires criss-crossing the ground and the deep growl of generators. Someone had rigged up a spotlight to a pole.
The crowd wasn’t large, perhaps eighty or so. The sound of overloaded amplifiers screamed out, and a solid beat reverberated through his chest.
‘Yeah,’ he spoke the word softly to himself as if he’d come home after a long journey. The rain continued, a gently soaking drizzle, yet no one seemed to notice.
Retrieving his camera out of the bag, adjusting it in the darkness using muscle memory, he began to shoot, knowing the first shots were never good and were to get a feel of the vibe.

He saw her. Ripped jacket. A flash of silver. Just like before she was dancing as if no one was watching, eyes closed, arms flung out wide, hair wild and free, facial piercings catching the light as she abandoned herself to the music.
As if she sensed him watching her, she opened her eyes and looked straight at him. She came over. ‘You came,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can I see the photos?’
Zak pointed to the three young band members; one had one foot on a milk crate leaning into the crowd as if he was a part of them. He shook his head and spoke into her ear. ‘You never stop a set for things like that,’ he told her.
The girl stared back at him, her almost black eyes flashed with perhaps annoyance, or it could have been respect. He didn’t know. But she nodded and turned to re-enter the fray and began to dance. Zak continued watching the crowd. He noticed the old Punks on the sidelines, the ones who no longer had anything to prove, who still had that Punk look, worn leather jackets, bandanas, covering what would have been mohawks now balding heads, tattoos softening and fading. He smiled at the young, recently converted, trying so hard to fit in. Heads shaved, eyebrows, lips and noses pierced or mohawk-styled hair a riot of colour.

The set finished, there was a hurried swapping of cables as another band prepared to take over. Zak looked for the girl. She saw him watching her leaning forward, hands on knees as she regained her breath. He raised his camera slowly, slow enough for her to say no to him taking the shot. She didn’t. Perhaps she’s the real deal he thought. SNAP.
Yeah. Punk is still alive.



Written for

SURVEY

Journey Through Genres: Official Contest  (E) Write a short story in the given genre to win big prizes! #1803133 by Writing.Com Support

Prompt: PUNK.