God Save the Punks: the Rock n’ Roll Underbelly of NYC
Text & Images by Obadiah Casperson
Punk isn’t dead, but it is buried.
I spent five days with six bands pumping through the underground veins of New York City. From practice rooms in Queens to renowned venues in Manhattan, I heard narratives from the punks shaping New York’s sound.
Punk music, as a genre, was conceived to be strangled in its cradle. Bred at CBGBs as a retaliatory ‘fuck you’ to the 60s, punk was never a clean-cut genre, but an attitude-based welcome mat laid out for the freaks behind the Ramones, the Damned, the Talking Heads, and whatever band had a member who had zero clue how to play their instrument.
Now, there are tongue-twister genre adjacents like sludge and hardcore, but they all have the anti-authoritarian, ‘do-it-yourself’ oppositional thread to Joe Strummer and Patti Smith. There may be a point where the genre veers far enough off the road that it slips off altogether. For now, I can still see its inspiration.
Some ‘punk’ artists aren't even musicians. Take Non Kuramoto, the lead singer of the first president of Japan.
STARE DOWN: Non Kuramoto stares into the audience, part of their two-way consumption philosophy as a performer.
Kuramoto is a clown.
With hot pink tights, platform Crocs, and neon hair, this performer came to punk incidentally. The band, named after a childhood joke about Kuramoto’s inability to become the president of either the United States or Japan, comes from the artist’s comic, not from musical prowess. The gigs, discography, and legacy are just part of their slapstick playpen.
“I am not a musician, I have never been a musician, I do not identify as one.”
We stood outside the door of Bowery Palace, built on the bones of Bowery Electric. Kuramoto just wrapped their performance, but I was somehow the sweatier of the two of us. Mid-conversation, a fan interrupts. DJ and producer Crystal Durant paused to catch her breath.
“I’m knocked down by that fucking show…like, it’s the best thing in decades,” Durant said. When she left, I heard her muttering, “Wow.”
Durant’s diagnosis isn’t wrong. This was a captivating show with performances that can only be done with the lead being a clown…or at least possessed by one.
BOWERY BANSHEE: Non Kuramoto peaks through the dark during their set at Bowery Palace.
The banshee of Saturday night sifts through the guttural yells and the loud performance of their body. Their eyes pop. It seems the musicians’ bodies move before they’re commanded to be – haunted on a stage that will always be cursed to be too small. These are not one-way shows for a nonchalant viewer with a filled cup. Kuramoto jumps into the audience and demands that onlookers entertain, too. The consumption goes both ways, a philosophy Kuramoto explains to me afterward.
In-your-face, in-your-space. While the rest of the band makes its accompaniment, Kuramoto makes their way through the audience, the microphone cord slithering beneath their feet. It’s nerve-wracking and sultry, this recognition of being recognized. Kuramoto’s shows, first and foremost, are theater.
Being a performer over a musician is not an anomaly in punk. The Slits worked on chaos, not talent. Sid Vicious did not have the faintest idea how to play the bass. The Clash brought Paul Simonon on because he looked cool. So, why not headline a clown?
PUNK ROCK: The crowd at Rippers show their love for the Gymshorts’ performance at Rockaway Beach.
Just before arriving at Bowery Palace, I was running from Rockaway Beach.
Sitting on the red, salt-crusted tables, I take in the crowd collecting at Rippers’ seams for the upcoming Gymshorts concert. Compared to other venues with four walls and a bouncer, this is a safe space for ironic button-down, a Van Dyke beard, and those with a ‘no shoes, no shirt’ ideology. The Gymshorts’ frontwoman, Sarah Greenwell, is not so different from the attendees. With sun-washed blonde hair and a carefree gait, Greenwell prepares for her final summer concert in NYC.
Greenwell and I talked about comedy, or more specifically, how her music’s tied to wordplay: a stand-up routine with a strong bassline.
“I just recently rebranded, without telling anyone, as a comedy band,” said Greenwell, laughing.
To Greenwell, there is nothing better than a fan telling her her set is “hilarious.” In fact, many of her lyrics are jokes, like one of her personal favorites: “You blew your chances when you blew your load, now I’m blowing you off and hitting the road.”
I asked Greenwell what her job would be if she wasn’t a musician. Without skipping a beat, she belted, “a puppeteer on Sesame Street.”
On stage, Gymshorts operates as a well-oiled machine; Greenwell works the stage as a seasoned performer with 15 years of experience. Coercing onlookers to the front row and traversing the main stage, she beats away at her guitar. Both new fans and old have their voices involved within the set. In her single “Date Kate Jones (You Can’t),” the crowd funnels to the first row, chanting along.
Gymshorts’ latest release, “Seymore Sid,” is an ode to Greenwell’s grandfather, but her other music sways from comical to political themes. For punk rock, besides the Ramones, who were not so savvy with the times, it is common to be anti-capitalist. Gymshorts’ 2025 single “DUI IUD” follows women’s reproductive rights in times of American fear of loss of bodily autonomy.
Riddled in the DIY and political angst, this brings me to my next story. This one begins in a Mexican deli.
FEELING POLITICAL: Frontperson Jorge Ivan Velez writes their music as a comment on the current political climate in the U.S and the Middle East. Bassist Charly Sheinberg backs them up.
Brooklyn’s El Regalo de Juquila is where post-punk band Fear Not Ourselves Alone holds an unofficial residency.
Whether a pre-show munch or for a first date, this venue-before-the-venue has a history with this group. They pulled up a fifth chair for me to cozy into. Lead singer and guitarist Jorge Ivan Velez explains that the band is bred to be political and is sustained by the D.I.Y community.
Following the release of their July 2025 single, “Parasite Club,” the group finished their summer performance spree in the basement of House Party Cafe.
“It feels really bad when it’s people in positions of power doing so much to wreck the world we’ve built,” said Velez before the concert, explaining the inspiration behind their songwriting.
Heavily impacted by the genocide in Palestine and worries for the legacy of the new generation, Fear Not Ourselves Alone asked the question, “What are the things we’re leaving behind?” with its answer as a post-punk call to action.
Their 2023 album “DEAD DOG PARADISE (OR LIFE LIKE PARASITES)” is a grocery list for leftist ideology, from women’s rights issues (“PRO-LIFE CLUB”), mental health emphasis (“ESTRELLA”) to capitalist critiques (“MUTUAL AID”). However, these punks’ pre-show rituals are not so political as they are masochistic.
Drummer Eric Dryburgh has a unique philosophy he has named the “artificial bottom.” It’s no shock that performing live in a rock n’ roll environment carries nauseating performance anxiety and an open door for technical mishap. Dryburgh decides to take misfortune into his own hands.
HANDS UP: Leading a clap amongst the sound crew, Jorge Ivan Velez prepares for the show.
“If you control one of the bad things that happen that day, then, when things go bad, it may not be as bad as the thing you experienced earlier,” Dryburgh told me with guitarist Jona Baron and bassist Charly Sheinberg wincing. Let’s take a tour through a few "artificial bottoms.”
Rolling up the car windows and blasting the heat through the Jersey interstate. Vice-versa in the wintertime. Playing the same song on repeat, 75 times straight…and packing away equipment in secret to let the band scramble over a pseudo-theft.
Beyond band gags, the group’s created a space in the community of political post-punk, attributing the attitude to finding common ground as their most punkish feature.
90 SQ/FT: OBOY! rocks from their Brooklyn practice space, regardless of its tight configuration.
Though I would always prefer to see a band with all of the costume, pizzazz, and community a live show offers, there is something special about seeing a group in the place they hide away.
OBOY! is a sludge rock trio made up of lead singer and guitarist Mara Northland, bassist Cue Pierre, and drummer Chris the Roxymoron. The rehearsal space entryway has worn through to the rusty aftertaste from years of metalheads’ sets. Artists like TV On the Radio and Coheed and Cambria also practiced in these Brooklyn rooms.
I situate myself in between the rockers, taking up a game of I Spy. Jagermeister. Cigarette butts. Chewed-up Velo containers. Guitar picks.
Northland hugs the microphone facing Chris. At any concert, my eyes focus first on the drummer. If the guitarist is the flesh of the music and the bassist is a nerve, then the drummer is the entire fucking skeleton. This drummer positions his cymbals over his head, which immediately stands out. As far as artists’ decisions go, this Grohl-esque move is visually iconic and, in my opinion, reserved for master players whose style can outweigh the many ergonomic difficulties, awkward bell placements, and fatigue associated with the position. OBOY!’s spine is dead straight.
Their summer 2026 debut album “Blood & Love” is a collection of new and old. This ten-song, 38-minute album is a grungy, whining love letter to the underground. Classic to the notorious reputation of rock n’ roll, songs like “Ain’t No Fun” had their roots knee-deep in psychedelics, but if you see a show, you’ll probably only catch a swig or two.
“Everything is exaggerated,” said Northland in relation to the rock image.
Regardless of amp settings, earplugs, or the stuffing in Chris’ bass drum, the reverberation changes your heart rate. I sit on the floor, in between the OBOY! triangle. Pierre straddles the E and A strings, holding a tight flare to Northland’s manic rock. When Northland’s voice peaks out through the instrumentals, there is something special. My personal favorite is “Without Anyone,” which features Northland’s whimpering vocals.
Usually performed in leather, dark makeup, and punk, beyond-gender and aesthetic styles, their concerts continue throughout NYC.
SINGING OUT: Producer Ian Knapp straps on a guitar to practice beside the rest of Dirtbag Ivy.
Interested in the more experimental categories of punk rock, I shadowed Dirtbag Ivy’s practice in Astoria Soundworks, where I was informed that the world was ending.
The early August release, “Seven Nights,” is Dirtbag Ivy’s first album. Two and a half years of work condensed to 22 minutes, the concept album captures the imminent demise of New York.
“It’s the last seven nights before New York City gets bombed and we all die,” explained drummer and vocalist Zen Fiasco. Fiasco and the lead singer/guitarist Jake Takeo shared their philosophy that developed the album.
“I don’t think that much shit would change [if the world was ending]. I think we would still have to go to fucking work, I think people would still be on Tinder and Hinge…you can be existentially nihilistic or you can be absurd about it,” said Fiasco. The band chose the latter.
In their space, the group plays me through the seven tracks, with new noise and synth additions. Dirtbag Ivy’s mission has been built in DIY, influenced by bandmates’ prior knowledge and connections. Their own Ian Knapp, aka MKULTRA, served as the producer.
PLAYING HEAVY: Lead singer Jake Takeo [right] plays opposite producer Ian Knapp in the Astoria practice space for Dirtbag Ivy.
“Life inherently doesn’t mean anything, so do whatever the fuck you want,” said Fiasco, adjusting his seat. The band itself is an ode to their alter egos—, or perhaps past selves—their dirtbag versions. Breathing the dirtbag new wave, they jam through their set with screeching and screaming, synths and distortions. They play in the noise.
The tension of watching a band in their private studio can be palpable, especially when it’s a chick with a camera in their face scribbling on a notepad. Dirtbag Ivy’s members, however, eye me down and play at me as if I were a crowd. Roaming their studio, dancing over cords and Takeo’s swinging guitar, I set my eyes on the faded-out snare of Fiasco’s kit. Worn through from years of practice or from the abuse of channeled anger, it felt emblematic of their single “Bad Love.”
SET PRACTICE: The Gnarcissists crowd in their Bushwick rehearsal space to prepare their 30-minute set for a show the following Saturday.
Bouncing from practice room to venue, I take the train back to Bushwick. Walking into the Gnarcissists’ rehearsal space with their frontman, Matthew Orr; we can already hear riffs through the doorway.
Squeezing into their room at Danbro Studios, I make my place behind Orr, looking out at the five other members in the heat of their Sisyphean task to not trip over equipment. Already tuned, strapped, and locked in, the music begins.
Circled around a small floor fan, the three guitarists, bassist, vocalist, and drummer seem to fight for air to breathe. The dialogue between the founding members, drummer Jerome Peel and Orr, doesn’t need to be verbal, with fluency between their nods, groans and eye dialogue. Perfectionists to the craft—or slaves to the trade—there is a clear motivation to keep the sound to a clockwork.
“We’re not fucking around,” Peels told me after their set.
The Gnarcissist’s (writer proclaimed) wild card, Matt Tillwick, was brought into the band with an open offer. Then, despite having two guitarists already with Tillwick and James Hernandez, the pop-rock band added Ben Arauz as a third strumming Gnarcissist. Their bassist (and band proclaimed wild card) Baby Delgado holds down the rhythm while stirring up the crowd with his “diversity of moves.”
Talking with six people is thrashing to get a singular answer or lassoing chatter back to discussion. What is harder, however, is balancing six rockers on a stage.
“Things always get stepped on, things always get unplugged,” says Peels as the band recounts the wilder nights of performing. “[Orr] used to punch himself and fall a lot.”
The Gnarcissists’ 2025 self-titled album squeezed 14 songs into a punchy 33 minutes, reworking both music from prior EPs and developing new creations. Each set begins with “Dr. Ed,” their first billed song. The album then ends with the ironically named “Intro.”
As the band has grown more technically complex and has naturally filtered out their more metal-sounding songs, their discography looks forward to a more structured sound.
Whether punk died with Sid Vicious or with Green Day’s “Dookie,” there is still a line from the underground siphoning drug-fueled fanatic inspirations from the 70s. So, grab a shovel and get digging; NYC is swimming with rockers.
