A Belated Live DC: Rancid

August 19, 2008 by Matt Siblo  Send to a Friend

Punk rock was more born out of a principle of eating its young as opposed to exalting its elders, a paradigm that has shifted since its inception some thirty years ago. With Johnny Lyndon now an embarrassingly rotund, apparently racist caricature and third tier ’77 acts making countless victory laps, a generation of punks has turned its lonely eyes elsewhere, anywhere. One of its most beloved, if relatively inactive, players has been Rancid, a band whose infamy and vitriol within the punk community has slowly faded over the years. Perhaps this can be seen as a testament to the band’s perseverance or maybe it’s because every generation (even punks!) needs a band to define them. Or, more likely, it can be attributed to the short attention spans of its audience, who as time goes on sport fewer mohawks and more cargo shorts. So when Rancid took the 9:30 stage, it did so with the air of elder statesmen, no longer burdened by the trifling admonishment suffered at the hands of zine writers and taste makers. They have become an institution.

The band burst onto the stage with “Radio” from its breakthrough Let’s Go. As the familiar opening chords rang, the floor of the club erupted, swirling in predictable patterns: squishing up front and circles in the rear. Lead singer Tim Artmstrong leapt unto the stage with a tightly fastened black trench coat and a fedora slinked low on his still boyish face, resembling more a creepy uncle or a shadowy figure at the bus depot than a punk rock vet. His energy was sporadic through the band’s marathon 28 song set (when the mood struck him, he simply sat down) but when at his best, he flaunted all of his slurred charms. He slammed his slunk down Epiphone whenever he pleased, leaving the heavy lifting to the more than apt Lars Frederiksen. Matt Friedman once again proved he’s the most capable bassist in punk today (for whatever THAT’s worth) on a mind-numbingly speedy solo during the bridge of “Maxwell Murder.

Behind the band, a screen flashed monochromatic footage reflecting the songs moods. They ranged from flesh eating zombies to police riots and even Travis Bickle interspersed among numerous iconic images of the band’s 17 year career. It’s a career whose output has been spotty at best, nearly mimicking The Clash (with somewhat less imaginative results) at every twist and turn, with Rancid’s last, the flaccid major label disaster Indestructible, equally as abysmal as The Clash’s swan song Cut the Crap. But tonight the band put the sting of its former mistakes behind them, playing a mere handful of Indestructible tracks including the Brody Dalle kiss off (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Armstrong ) “Fall Back Down” which was (inexplicably) one of the most well received songs of the evening. The rest of the set was overwhelming stuffed, 12 songs to be exact, with material from …And Out Comes the Wolves, proving the band needs no reminding of where its strengths lie. Less enthusiastic were the few offerings from the reggae tinged Sandinista-esque Life Won’t Wait, including a flat-lined version of “Bloodclot” and the dubious inclusion of a mumbled rendition of “Glass Pipe Murder.” Rancid also surprised most by breaking out Operation Ivy’s “Knowledge,” a song long adopted into Green Day’s set. Here it wasn’t quite a cover nor an original, but instead just another means of driving the already rapturous crowd into a frenzy.

By the night’s conclusion, the band’s tenacity had seemingly outlasted its audience, regaining its bearings for the 120 Minutes endorsed one-two combo of “Ruby Soho” and “Time Bomb,” after which the band engaged in a classic bit of pandering. “We’ve got a new album coming out soon… on the 100% independent Hellcat Records,” Fredrickson proclaimed to deafening shrieks and hollers, although its subtext read more like a dutiful resignation rather than a reaffirmation of ethical principles. But these kinds of arguments now feel trifling, questions and contradictions which have long been debated and forgotten; they are as much a quaint relic of the past as the band itself.

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