The unholy trinity of 3 Cent begats a new era in Bakersfield rural rock punk - By N.L. Belardes

And so there came the beginning. In that beginning there was an angry birth. And in that angry birth there was a Bakersfield punk music filled with ravenous bitter decrepit youth, angry at MTV and their parents . Some hid in the Oleander Street Collective and lost friends to bullets and fell in love with their toy drum sets; and so they rebelled and found their way into Vidals and strange punk havens in a dusty Bakersfield refuse pile called “burnin’ angry music of the anarchic 70s, 80s and early 90s". Years later they infected the Bakersfield underground, Bakersfield punks hung out with cowboys under trees smoking and angry and fighting…

And there was a darkness…

Some punks traveled the countryside in beat cars, in love, angry all the way from Carolina and back to Oildale and Oleander Streets, even to Europe with four more feet…

And there was more darkness…

Somewhere in the darkness of filthy Bakersfield rural rock punk, active ingredients and hardcore punk dreams begat 3 Cent Nickle. 3 Cent Nickle stuffed newspaper ballot boxes in angry polls and ripped their punk music into the ears of the deaf. Then 3 Cent Nickle begat its first bastard son, Flabbergasted, who shocked, shrieked and died on a hillside. But everyone heard.

3 Cent Nickle also begat another bastard son, the 28s. There are 28 lessons to learn, 28 songs to be decreed, 28 years of average age to behold, 28 punk milestones to reach in its fledgling punk dreams that will fly and shit on you with a pigeon punkness that is as raw and exotic as dishes of Filipino pancit and lumpia.

The Holy Ghost of 3 Cent Nickle met up with another ridiculous band from the darkness, and, squeezing through the holy mother Earth’s tilted uterus begat the punk baby, Box Jumper. Flabbergasted, this baby denies rural rock punk in its hardcore Los Angeles smoggy punk half, while beholding agricultural dreams of angry punk grape and almond strewn hillsides and cornfields in its ridiculous half.

There is an old remnant of 3 Cent Nickle hidden away in the mysterious corners of the Earth, tucked into the darkness in an angry Gollum of punkness as bitter and anarchic as its youth ever was. “Punk is precious!” it screams, its big eyeballs glare from the caverns and chasms of the final lasting spirit of 3 Cent Nickle. In denial of itself, it vows to never perform punk again and yet continues to curse its very own riddle, “Where is my precious??! I wants it!!” And so from the final trickle of 3 Cent Nickle IN-denial was born.

Oh what will become of such angry punk spawn begat from the Holy Trinity of the broken 3 Cent, all come to Earth in outlines of their former self, but with such freewill and determination to wreak punk havoc on the Bakersfield music scene? Let us pray each do not call out, “Holy Father why have thou forsaken me?” Amen.

This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on Tuesday, January 31, 2006. You can leave your response.