Words by Charlotte Foreman, Photos by Sal Rispoli
Sal Rispoli, one of the diligent documentarians of South Florida’s punk and hardcore scenes, began going to shows in and around Miami in the winter of 2019. Their photographs reveal the mess of each moment that comprises a show: Mic cables and vagrant limbs are slung across the mosh pit's tumultuous ecstasy. Teens in leaden eyeliner embrace in the crowd. Leather-clad band members slouch against their tour vans, studded in metal, shotgunning Modelos.
Rispoli’s first show was at Churchill’s Pub, a locally infamous dive bar and live venue that has hosted more performances than any other venue in the United States, according to a Rob Goyanes feature in the Miami Rail. “Our beloved shithole,” as Goyanes lovingly refers to the pub, has been temporarily closed since the onset of the pandemic, although local organizers have recently taken to hosting DIY shows in its parking lot.
When the virus arrived, South Florida’s punk scene lost everything: shows, skate meetups, historic venues like Churchill’s and Lozer Lounge, the ability to come together with family and friends. Some crucial members of the scene moved cities or states, and we lost others to addiction and to other tragic circumstances exacerbated by isolation—among them Austin Ashley: the guitarist of Zig-Zag, a punk rock legend, and a friend to all. Many remember Austin as the binding agent within the South Florida punk scene; his absence is sorely missed at every show.
When punk shows returned, Rispoli attended every one with their roommate’s DSLR in tow, determined to document what remained of the scene. The surviving vestiges of the community—local personalities Headfoam, The Creature Cage, The Ruffans, Glass Body, gravess., Thembo, Spur, and Eternally Fucked—have become, through photographing, some of Rispoli’s closest friends. Photos of the band members beyond the stage (like the one of Real People’s Connor, Michael, and Syd captured in the back of their van before a set), reveal the vulnerability and familial care that has allowed the scene to withstand and recuperate from those months of musical impossibility.
“[Photography] is a way of touching somebody—it’s a caress,” said Nan Goldin. “I think that you can actually give people access to their own soul.” Capturing those moments of ecstasy within sustained pain, Rispoli turns the prototypical beauty of life in the subtropics on its head, revealing an alternate paradise where the queer and outcasted youth of Miami’s suburbs come out to play.
When did you start going to punk shows?
I actually know the exact date that I went to my first punk show. I went to Churchill’s and it was New Year's Eve 2019. I met Austin that night. I met Michael that night. I met Connor that night. I met a lot of really important people in the scene that night. It feels so special in my little brain. To see where we are now is crazy.
How long have you been photographing for?
I shot my first show in July 2021. I don't even remember the bands playing. My roommate was shooting photos before COVID happened. After quarantine, when I started going to shows again, they were working all the time and weren't going to shows. I was like, “Hey, do you mind if I take your camera and shoot shows?” And then I didn't stop. I literally brought the camera to every show. Now it's turned into what it is currently, where I'm just “the camera guy.”
You’re the documentarian.
So many people have said that to me in the past five days. I didn't think of it like that; I was just taking pictures. It's turned into taking pictures of every show, and people look forward to them, and it's getting serious. People come up to me every show and thank me for what I do, saying it’s gonna go down in history. I'm like, Oh my God, I'm just this stupid little guy hitting the button. I honestly don't know anything about cameras. Other photographers will come up to me and start talking cameras, and I'm like, “What does that mean? What does that do?” I think it's really funny that people think I'm some serious photographer guy. I shoot on manual sometimes, but I mostly shoot on auto, especially at Rosa's. The lighting is so bad there.
Tell me more about your relationship with Rachel, aka Madonna Pap Smear or Thembo.
I didn’t see them much before COVID. I remember the first time I saw Rachel was at Lozer Lounge. They were wearing this babydoll dress with a sex harness, and their hair was so big and beautiful. And then they winked at me! I was like, Wow, I would die for that person. They started booking shows at a storage place up in Boca. I went to the first one. I loved the names because they changed a little bit every time, but they always started with “Big Gay Punk.” There was “Big Gay Punk R&B,” “Big Gay Punk Drag R&B BDSM Party.” Near the end, cops kept showing up, because it was Boca. One of the last times I went, they shut it down. They came and were complaining about the parking, and then a couple of hours later, they said there were too many people in the unit. So Rachel decided it wasn’t a safe space anymore, and it stopped.
Rachel started it because they fell in a mosh pit at a show and no one picked them up—which sucks, and is scary, and shouldn't happen. They wanted to create a safe space for femmes and LGBTQ to just go nuts. I remember them telling me, “I want a place where we can go crazy—where we can release all the anger we have or whatever emotional shit we have to the music, and have a safe spot to do it.” And that's what it was. It never got too crazy. I don’t think there were any mosh pits, but it was still really beautiful. Rachel was booking whoever the hell wanted to play: There was Yoko Oso doing drag, and the music that they do. There was this one girl who had an amazing voice, and she would just sit on the floor and start singing covers. Those were some of the first shows I shot. Rachel really hyped me up. It gave me a space to practice and do whatever I wanted.
Knowing now how much we stand to lose, creating an archive of local shows seems that much more important.
I have been seeing a lot more photographers since the pandemic. Every time I see another photographer, I'm like, Oh sick, someone will get another angle of what's happening. Or someone will be braver than I am and take candid pictures of people. Sometimes I get scared to casually snap a picture while they're talking. Especially because most of the time I have to use flash and I don't wanna bother them, but some people just do it anyway. I've been trying more and more, especially with the film camera.
Are there ways that you get past feeling uncomfortable taking candid photos of people?
With the DSLR, I still feel very awkward taking pictures randomly. Maybe the more I use the film camera, the more I'll get more comfortable taking candid pictures. With the film camera, I can snap a quick picture and if I got it, I got it. If I didn't, I didn't. It takes the stress out of it, I guess.
Has photographing changed your relationship to the punk scene?
Immensely. I feel so much more involved. Before, I would go to almost every punk show with my roommate so I had someone there to talk to. And I knew everyone, but it wasn't like I was close with everyone. When I came back with the camera, it was like, Okay, I'm not with my roommate. I have no one to talk to. So I started shooting pictures and it opened more doors for me, relationship-wise. I've met so many people and gotten to know them a lot more through the pictures, because I send them to every band after the show, and when they see me in person they'll thank me, and I'll thank them for performing and for being so interesting to photograph. It gives me something to do while I'm at shows, so I don't feel awkward and weird standing there—which is fine: you're allowed to stand there and be awkward and weird, to take up space. But it makes me feel more comfortable. If I don't know anyone at a show or if no one I know is near me, I'm okay with standing around doing nothing now. I used to be so scared to do that. I've been going to shows by myself all the time now. It’s a big step in the social anxiety field.
What does the South Florida punk scene mean to you?
Oh, God. It means a lot. Where I am right now, I don't want to leave Florida at all. The only places I would even think of going are Philly or New York, but… I don't want to. It's just so nice to be around so many of these talented-ass people! How could I leave when I'm surrounded by so many different kinds of artists? And everyone has so much energy, even when they're tired.
We've been in a state of rebuilding since COVID started. People are putting a lot of hard work into putting on shows. Fang from Stage Coach is doing shows in the Churchill’s parking lot whenever he wants. Sometimes people don't show out, but when they do, the parking lot is full of punks and random people chilling in their cars. It's like a football game, but a punk show; we're all drinking beers out of our trucks. We want Churchill’s back so bad that we're literally camping out in the parking lot. Flipp is doing such a good job mixing DJs with punk shows. The energy is very similar.
My favorite part of the scene is hearing everyone uplift each other. The gushing. My friends are getting the recognition they deserve and it means they're gonna keep making: You can make art, but if you don't get any feedback, it's detrimental. It's like, “I'm useless, my art is nothing.” I love seeing everyone hype each other up. I love everyone so much it hurts. I don't know if they consider me a friend. I consider them all friends, whether they like it or not.
I feel like there's more of a sense of community in the scene than there was before COVID.
We lost a lot. We lost the scene, and we lost people in the scene. Now that shows are back, we know that we can lose: We can lose everything. We can lose live shows and we can lose seeing each other. Now we’re just living in the moment and in the music, like, Okay, this could be the last show. Who’s to say? Before, there were shows every week, multiple times a week. And then it stopped.
I remember the last night of shows. We were gonna go to a show at Rosa's, a band called Dog Night Terror. And then they were like, “Okay, maybe we're not playing because this is getting serious.” After that, there was nothing. Everyone just stayed inside and suffered and stole from Walmart. [Laughs]
My first show back was in May 2021. Maybe it was a little soon to be going out, I ain't gonna lie, but I missed my friends. The first shows I went back to were at Lozer Lounge, and I miss Lozer Lounge a lot. It was lawless land, like you were just hanging out with your friends at their band practice. I miss a lot of the pre-COVID bands. I miss Spur. I miss Zig-Zag. We don't have Austin anymore, but I would give absolutely anything to be able to photograph Zig-Zag. God, there was so much to lose.
The refrain I hear from everyone I know here is, “I hate Florida. I wanna leave Florida as soon as possible.” Then they get involved in punk, and they don’t want to leave anymore.
Someone recently said to me, “I didn't know the metal/punk scene down here was that alive.” I was like, “Yes, we’re here!” There's so much happening. It's crazy that people don't know about it. I just want them to come to one show, take a little taste. The only thing is, not a lot of touring bands come down to South Florida because it's huge, and it takes so long to get out of. The punk scene is tight knit here because of that, but it also suffers from it. We could be getting a lot more out-of-state bands. It was sick that we got twompsax down here, and that Daisy-Chain recently came down from Orlando.
Austin made the scene here really welcoming. When I first met him, he was like, “Hell yeah, I love that you're here.” He would see people standing outside at Lozer and say, “Get the fuck in here, the music's in here!” He was such an important part of the scene. It's really nice to see bands doing tributes to Austin, or people randomly pouring one out for him. Austin wanted everyone to be there. He didn't give a shit who you were. He didn't give a shit what you did. He just wanted you to show up. Austin's still alive in this scene.
Charlotte Foreman is a writer and creative based in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Her writing has been featured in Yew! Magazine, Icarus Magazine, and Waterproof: Evidence of a Miami Worth Remembering. Get to know her better: @heart.type.beat.
Lead image: Connor, Michael, Syd of Real People at The Drip Gallery, November 23rd, 2021.
