ABSTRACT
Sometime in the early 2000s I went to several hardcore and punk shows at a “venue” called the Junkyard. The site had earned its name by being an actual junkyard, strewn with stacks of decomposing auto carcasses and surrounded by a chain link fence. In the midst of the wreckage stood a small machine shop in which the owner of the yard, an old punk, stripped cars of their parts for customers in need of repairs. On the night of a show, he cleared the shop floor to make space for bands, merch tables, and a mosh pit. The Junkyard was in a polluted, industrial suburb of Denver, Colorado, past a row of mobile homes and in sight of an enormous oil refinery. Difficult to find, only those “in the know” were likely to ever attend. In short, the Junkyard was the perfect place to see underground, no-frills, “authentic” DIY punk and hardcore; no one was making much money, the bands and kids were there for the love of music and the hardcore community.
