You’d be hard-pressed to find a more welcoming space than the Boston Hardcore scene.
Of course, I had no way of knowing that at 10, when an older friend in my neighborhood in NJ turned me on to SSD and Slapshot. More than a bit militant, yeah? Intimidating, too. And I’d hear stories about Boston straight-edge guys beating people up for smoking and drinking. Whether fact or fiction (I suspect the latter), it was a lot for my young schoolkid mind to take in.
Fast-forward to 2009, and I move up to New Hampshire. Where are the shows? Boston. I start getting out to see what’s going on. Thanks to my old friend Drew Stone, I start meeting people: Mark McKay, Chris from SSD, Larry Kelley. Tough guys? Pfft. Nicest people ever. Even Choke ends up being a sweetheart. Who knew?
Eventually, I reach Boss Level: Al Barile.
He pops up in the comment section of my guest appearance on Drew’s NYHC Chronicles in 2021. I chain-smoke through the entire show. No threats of violence land on the screen.
I meet him at the private party the night before the official opening of Bridge Nine. He spots my SSD shirt and smiles. We get to talking. He’s immediately endearing and impossible to dislike. An everyman without a shred of ego. Gentle, in a way. He hands me a stack of SSD guitar picks. We see each other again a few times over the next year or so. Never a wasted moment or unpleasant conversation. I meet Nancy along the way. A wonderful lady.
Is there another couple on Earth more suited for one another than Nancy and Al?
September 2023. The SSD book party at a hotel in Boston. I run into Al and Nancy outside. Always the gentleman, he tells me how much he likes my YouTube channel. I ask him if he needs help with anything. He hands me his SSD guitar to bring in.
I become a roadie for SSD for the next two minutes. No words.
The night is fantastic. Many happy people and wide smiles. Al is in his element, signing books and posing for pictures. I can tell he’s basking in the well-earned glow of everything he and the other fellas in SSD contributed to this music scene that means so much to so many.
I can also tell he’s in pain.
Things are winding down. I hunt down Al and Nancy for a selfie on my way out. They’re exhausted but accommodating, because of course they are. Three minutes later, I’m in my car on the way home.
I never see Al again.
That guy mattered. And he is loved.
EMAIL JOEL at gaustenbooks@gmail.com