Slamdance

I used to be a punk teenager with anger issues who loved destroying things, breaking them, or burning them. I had so much pent-up energy that I literally rocked in place, unable to sit still. When I was fifteen, I found an outlet in the frenetic energy of the mosh pit.

My first experience was voyeuristic. I watched snippets of pits on late-night cable, Night Flight on the weekends, or rented punk videos if I was lucky enough to find a copy at a local video store. One film that stuck out was Suburbia (1983), which reminded me of my punk and new wave friends. Images of muscle and hate drew me in with their ritualistic aggression and acceptable violence. The punk scene hooked my imagination, turning me on to its fast music and bare skin.

I listened to a show on public radio, KPFT 90.1, called The Funhouse. The DJ was Chuck Roast, and he played the coolest punk songs. I recorded his shows at eleven o’clock at night and then played the tapes in my mom’s “borrowed” ’82 Firebird when I went cruising on the Westheimer strip with my friends.

On his broadcasts, he announced venues that were hosting shows, and one that always piqued my curiosity was Cabaret Voltaire. It moved locations a lot. Chuck would announce on the radio that the police were raiding the club and warn punks to stay away.

He would say, “Cabaret Voltaire is currently closed. Don’t go there.” We thought the audacity was hilarious and cool.

Later in the broadcast, he would sneak a few words in between listing songs by bands like The Circle Jerks and JFA (Jodie Foster’s Army) and say, “The Cabaret Voltaire is now open. Repeat: The Cabaret Voltaire is now open. Plan accordingly.”

The notoriety of the club made me want to see it in person, so I took the Firebird and went to find it in November 1985. I drove to the club with my best friend, a punk girl (who liked me), and her brother. The Funhouse show was live on the radio, just in case something went down. The club was in a seedy area of Houston, near downtown on Chenevert, in the warehouse district. Tough-looking dudes and chicks—a motley crew of older punks—filled the grimy parking lot.

Underage, we went past the door guy right to the edge of the pit to see a bit of D.R.I. (Dirty Rotten Imbeciles). The air was humid, and the sweaty, mostly shirtless bodies formed a cyclone of angst in sync with the fast-paced punk rock that raged out of the speakers. The moment I let myself go into the chaos was sublime. It was a pure adrenaline rush.

After a flailing arm struck me upside the head, I quickly learned how to block with my hands. I laughed at the insanity and kept going, skipping around the violent fringes of the vortex. The energy of slamming into strangers, who pushed me away so I could continue in the circle, was powerful. I fucking loved it!

The camaraderie was real. If a punk fell down, other punks would pick them up and shove them back into the mosh pit to slam it off. It was an experience that made me feel truly alive. I completely lost myself until random rough hands throttled me and forced me outside into the parking lot. Sweaty and shirtless, I cursed at them and panted, feeling full of life.

I only got into Cabaret Voltaire a few times, but it was totally worth it. The minutes I made it inside were always golden. I feel lucky to have been a part of the tail end of the original punk scene and have those memories seared into my brain.

Dean Cade

Direct Tension at Cabaret Voltaire 1986