When it comes to music, I never thought of myself as part of a ‘scene’. It all felt too cliched, niche, and a bit too much like being labelled.
Part of that is because I have lived most of my life in and around Lincoln, a place that, for the large part, was devoid of a scene. Bivouac was pretty cool for a while, but it passed me by a little. We weren’t even really in Lincoln; we were Wragby, the heart and soul of nowhere. By the time I ventured merrily into my music odyssey, we had to travel to Sheffield and Nottingham for decent bands, or so it seemed. Bivouac was for the Lincoln lads, and we were just little fish in the little pond in a village only we cared about.
In recent years, music has become far more accessible, to the detriment of a band’s earnings. I’m not sure many artists would expel the virtues of Spotify, but for me, it’s been unreal. I’ve discovered so many artists by simply listening to an album I like and letting it play afterwards. I’ve been to see those artists, watched the support and found another artist to enjoy. It has resulted in this growing love of music that may feel like it is underground, but is as mainstream as it needs to be.
Let me ask you this – do you know who Black Water County are? Millie Manders and The Shutup? Hell’s Ditch? Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Nine times out of ten, when I go to a festival or a gig, and I get asked who I’m going to see, I get a blank look when I say who they are. It’s not me trying to be achingly cool and listening to bands nobody has heard of (we all knew that twat back in the nineties who was so indie that they couldn’t possibly listen to Pulp or Blur because, you know, they’re soooo mainstream). That’s not me. I like what I like, and it seems I, along with my foolhardy gig companions Dave and Chris, have stumbled into a scene.
I’ve talked about belonging here before, about going into a pit, and I’ve reviewed gigs such as the last Badlands and the recent Millie Manders gig at Wroot. I’m not going to come on here today and tell you how good these bands and gigs are because if you’re the sort of person who just paid £300 for a sitting Oasis ticket, I’m not 100% convinced you’d be that into this. It’s a different experience, and our definitions of ‘a gig’ are very different. I’m not snobby about it – if Oasis and stadium gigs are your things, crack on. I hope you have a great time. I’ll stick Live Forever on sometimes if I want to sing or feel nostalgic, so I won’t be a condescending bellend. I just like something different. I don’t go to these gigs to be cool; I go because they’re bands I love.
I’ve always liked music that mattered to me. In my awkward teenage years, I liked songs about unrequited love, hating being young, all the sort of dorkish stuff Green Day sang about. As I got older, I wanted songs and artists that reflected my anger at the world, and as I tumbled further to the left in terms of my politics, I found folk punk more embracing than ever. The Levellers and the Pogues were my gateway drug, the doorway through which I had to pass to where I am now.
Where am I now? Well, last weekend, I was standing in front of my favourite band, screaming lyrics about Gaza back at the band like a fangirl at a Taylor Swift concert. That doesn’t tell the whole story, though. That’s not Badlands for me.
Badlands, for me, is a community. It’s a once-a-year community to a degree, but it’s such a cool place. 300-odd people passed through the doors of the Drill Hall over the course of the day to watch a collection of punk bands. Honesty shout – I missed five or more of the bands because I immersed myself not in the music but in the scene. It felt like a gathering of friends I don’t yet know, and some whom I’ve not seen in a while. As the morning tumbled into the afternoon, before staggering into the evening, I conversed with strangers and friends about politics, life, and fucking good music. Much beer was drunk, and the world was put to rights (but not the right) with more people than I care to remember.
At dinner time (which I think was around 4:30) we wandered into Lincoln, where a food market was taking place. The selection was ridiculous, and we all ended up with something continental and exciting (and a bit messy). We went into the new indoor market for dessert (Dave was with us, it’s a given we have dessert), and I grabbed a couple of Danish custards. This is my Lincoln, this is my city. Great food, nice new places and a gig that brought people together.
Back at the Drill, the evening disappeared like water going down a plughole. It was inevitable with my two favourite bands on back-to-back, but even before that, time just drained away. There were so many like-minded people, the sort of which you don’t normally see if you walk into a city pub. The Falcon, Barracudas, (to a degree) Cubes, even the old Brewer all served as a place for the scene to evolve, but it now has a new yearly meet in Lincoln, Badlands. It’s not even about the music (which is great); it’s about the people. Who knew that the guy who sold me my wedding suit was also a liberal, left-leaning punk? As he measured me for my waistcoat, there wasn’t much opportunity to say ‘so, fuck the Tories, yeah?’. You don’t, do you?
At Badlands, you kinda do. That hate for not just the Tories but the violent, right-wing fascists and those who peddle hate is evident across the whole event. I briefly spoke to a random girl at the bar as we waited, and she said she wasn’t there for the music as much as ‘being a part of the anti-establishment scene in Lincoln’. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I never thought I was part of a scene. It turns out I am; it’s driven by music, where guitar and drum are catalysts, but I’m increasingly realising that music is secondary to common causes, beliefs, and ethics. A desire for a fairer world beamed out not in violent protests, civil disobedience or anger but in chords and melodies, verses and choruses.
So yeah, that is my scene, and Lincoln Badlands is my local branch. Back in my ‘day’…. actually, scrub that. What is my ‘day’ – when I was young enough to go for 36 hours but too poor to do it properly? When I used to get out of bed without aches and pains? Why is that my day?
This is my day. This is our day. Every day can be your day, and the collective of people who I met last weekend only serves to underline that. Saying ‘back in my day’ implies we’re done, a spent force. Badlands Lincoln, through the medium of great music, has utterly convinced me that’s not the case.