Start Today: Mental Health and Hardcore

(Photo/Gabe Becerra)

Throughout the global sphere of hardcore and all the genres it ebbs and flows with, there is a constant it offers in a world of constant uncertainty, suffering, and conflict: community. Although communities can seem small or far when experiencing mental health struggles, there are ways to feel its embrace during those difficult times.

Over the short time I've been involved in the hardcore scene -- and the DIY music scene Chicago in general -- I have met people from all different types of backgrounds, locations, and perspectives. I met a firefighter that I had a very tough conversation with on our first and only time meeting, a vocalist with an incredible eye and talent for composition and graffiti, and countless amazing musicians. I love seeing the different kinds of personalities, dialects, and ways of processing conversation that people have when I meet them for the first, second, or however many times. When I meet artists in general it's always cathartic in some way. There is something very special about getting to know someone for such a brief moment but engaging with someone's passions months in advance.

Some people I've seen around go to UIC, some are hours away, some are twice my age. I have seen people leave venues with noticeable injuries, sweat and blood all over their face, but with the biggest smiles contrasting their disheveled appearances. The adrenaline and questionably hazardous rowdiness of a crowd bring a kind of joy and mindset that is rare to find anywhere else. Faces you see every other night will greet you with open arms and genuine compassion, and many times you'll never know when you'll see them again.

There have been times even in the most chaotic moments of a set where I would think, "I could just lay down on that stage and fall asleep right now." It is a strange way of thinking, but at shows I feel like they are some of the only places I feel mentally and physically safe. Getting a foot to the head or getting your hat lost in the crowd is something sudden, but you can expect it. You can often confide in the fact someone will be able to pick your hat, or you, up from the ground.

I try to be the person that will pick someone up from the ground every single chance I get. Being at these shows is a perfect opportunity to help people and take care of them when they get hurt. Though I believe the community is pretty solid in taking care of people, I want to identify others' needs and get the water or medical attention they need with the certifications I have. Despite this, I have recently learned that I cannot help everyone all the time.

At a recent show I was running around trying to help people who started to get bloody noses, as it was a pretty violent crowd that night. One guy in particular was hit pretty badly. I offered him some Tylenol that I got from the gas station next door and more paper towels to plug his nose. I told him to pinch his nose and look down, but he only shook his head and nodded; his nonverbal responses didn't seem to coincide at all with what I was saying. He barely made eye contact the whole night and never said a word. Between sets, he went outside and sat down on the sidewalk with a glassy-eyed stare that focused on nothing in particular. By the end of the night, I was yelling at him to stay back and not stay at the edge of the pit, but he just kept going there. There was a noticeable splatter of blood across the tiled floor of the venue when the last set ended. There were traces of his blood on the back of people's hoodies and the sleeves of their shirts. That night made me realize that how much I care about someone won't magically make them ok or want to be ok in that moment.

On April 2nd of this year, a very important figure of Chicago hardcore -- and hardcore worldwide -- passed away. Bo Lueders was a guitarist of the legendary Chicago hardcore band Harm's Way and co-hosted the beloved podcast Hardlore beside Colin Young of Twitching Tongues. He is infinitely more to those who had the pleasure of interacting and bonding with him. I unfortunately did not get to meet him. What transpired shortly after his passing gave me a lot more perspective on the community and the world of hardcore. The several concerts I attended starting April 3rd were the catalyst to this insight.

In times of unimaginable and sudden grief, a space parted in the community for unity and reassurance. Although I've always believed hardcore to be an outlet of vulnerability, it was front and center in the concerts following the passing of Bo. Messages of reassurance, urgency, and empathy were expressed in many different words, all of equal importance and value.

Something I heard on the stage of Concord Music Hall on April 10th did stand out significantly. Jeremy Bolm of Touché Amoré implied that even if you didn't know someone like Bo, in a way you did because you recognized the love he put into the world and the people he uplifted. Hearing these things from figures in my life that are part of my safe space affirmed the sentiment that even though we may not all know each other, we are here for each other and can feel the compassion throughout the communities we interact with.

It was eerie seeing so many influential people in my life, whether I have met them or not, all coming together so close in time and proximity. It made me realize that regardless of what band you're in, what bands you like, what people you know, we are all much closer than we think to each other. It has permanently seeped into my mind that every conflict, discourse, or joke is insignificant to the fragility of human life.

From all that I've seen and heard over this month, we may not be able to help everyone, but we can do what we can, not without taking care of ourselves too.

If you are having thoughts of suicidal ideation or self-harm, text or call 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline and reach out to friends and loved ones.