Scenes, Pt. II - Painted Birds

I used to pride myself on being the sort of people that would show up pretty much anywhere.  You know, just be willing to take people on their own terms.  Show up, respect the scene, take a look around, expand my own horizons.

When I was younger and living in San Francisco, I seemed to know a disproportionate number of people that were involved in San Francisco's goth scene (and for some odd reason, a disproportionate number of them seemed to be from Minneapolis).  My roommate at one point was the brother of the guy that started Information Society (and a touring member of the band), who was pretty heavy into the whole thing.  Leather boots, piercings, dyed dreads.  Kris was a pretty cool fucking guy. 

It's a sensibility I can definitely understand.  Jerzy Kosinski, in The Painted Bird, offers a wonderful metaphor for what it means to be an outsider.

Sometimes days passed and Stupid Ludmila did not appear in the forest. Lekh would become possessed by a silent rage. He would stare solemnly at the birds in the cages, mumbling something to himself. Finally, after prolonged scrutiny, he would choose the strongest bird, tie it to his wrist and prepare stinking paints of different colors which he mixed together from the most varied components. When the colors satisfied him, Lekh would turn the bird over and paint its wings, head, and breast in rainbow hues until it became more dappled and vivid than a bouquet of wildflowers.
     Then he would go into the thick of the forest. There Lekh took out the painted bird and ordered me to hold it in my hand and squeeze it lightly. The bird would begin to twitter and attract a flock of the same species which would fly nervously over our heads. Our prisoner, hearing them, strained toward them, warbling more loudly, its little heart, locked in its freshly painted breast, beating violently.
     When a sufficient number of birds gathered above our heads, Lekh would give me a sign to release the prisoner. It would soar, happy and free, a spot of rainbow against the backdrop of clouds, and then plunge into the waiting grown flock. For an instant the birds were confounded. The painted bird circled from one end of the flock to the other, vainly trying to convince its kin that it was one of them. But, dazzled by its brilliant colors, they flew around it unconvinced. The painted bird would be forced farther and farther away as it zealously tried to enter the ranks of the flock. We saw soon afterwards how one bird after another would peel off in a fierce attack. Shortly the many-hued shape lost its place in the sky and dropped to the ground. These incidents happened often. When we finally found the painted birds they were usually dead. Lekh keenly examined the number of blows which the birds had received. Blood seeped through their colored wings, diluting the paint and soiling Lekh's hands.

One is attacked for one's differences.  There are quite a few reactionary movements predicated on flaunting one's difference.  Siouxsie and the Banshees offer the concept as an anthem for a movement.  As a way of understanding the goth subculture, it's pretty spot on.  You want to judge us for our differences?  We will flaunt them.  We'll take everything that you say is freakish and carry it to an extreme.

As much as I knew a lot of goths in San Francisco, I never really spent that much time hanging around their scene.  I came to an enjoyment of industrial and post-punk later.  I did try popping my head in once or twice, just to look around.  One of the funnier times was the one where I stopped by Bondage-A-Go-Go once to visit an acquaintance that headed security for the club.

It was an interesting experience.  Some pretty cool music.  Lots of cute goth women dressed in black.  It was funny, though.  I, being me, pretty much just wore what I would have worn anywhere at the time.  I think it was a pair of Gap Khakis and a cashmere sweater.  Baby blue?  Black?  I don't specifically remember.

I was a pariah.  In the two hours I sat in the club, my friend Frances was the only person that even bothered to speak to me (or acknowledge my presence) aside from a bartender.  As a reaction to attacks for being different, I can definitely understand the idea of banding together with like-minded people.  Oddly enough, though, if you throw a bunch of painted birds together, it's just another flock.  I wasn't welcome in their scene, because I didn't do enough to blend in.

Welcome to the scene.

Counter-culture?  Sounds like just another culture.