Issue 1: Trial – Are These Our Lives?

A tale of yearning for more than we have, of hope through acknowledging the darkness around us, and of connection. And of worshipping a sick as hell record.

Part I: The Confusion

A moment of silence for the record stores who have not survived the ravages of commercialism. A moment for the captains of these once deemed worthy vessels, who kept flying the flag of ‘niche’ while their ship was already fully under water, the flag itself breaking the water line when all else was already lost.

One such place in my youth in the late ‘90’s and early ‘00’s was De Platenworm (The Record Worm) in Groningen, one of the most remote cities in The Netherlands, nestled against its northern shores, standing as a beacon of urbanism amidst a province of seemingly endless farmland. A city of students, owing to the presence of the only university in a radius of well over 100 kilometers, and as such it had much of what we as youth in the surrounding small villages craved: culture.

Or at least, a different experience of culture beyond whatever hyperlocal traditions the village elders had to offer. A visit to The City for a teenager from a tiny rural community in that time and place, was like a feast for the starving, thanks to multiple diverse concert venues and, of course, a bevvy of record stores that ranged from the ultra-commercial to the ultra-niche.

De Platenworm established itself firmly in the latter category with a selection of underground garage, punk, metal and electronica records, and it was here that my brain was scrambled to such an extent that I confused two of the greatest hardcore punk bands of the era: Bane and Trial.

The first one I became familiar with due to owning a sampler CD of the underground label Equal Vision Records. The song (and to those who know the genre: get ready to roll eyes and say ‘of course’) was Can We Start Again, a cultural touch point for hardcore kids the world around. From the tiny included booklet I managed to learn that this track was from the album It All Comes Down to This.

Please remember: this was in the Before Time and information in the broader sense of the word wasn’t as accessible as it is now, when at any moment the world’s knowledge can be recalled through a device in your pocket. And thus, lacking the ability to quickly look it up in the moment, I knew I would have to rely on a mental note from ‘that time I listened to that sampler’ so that the next time I was confronted with a crate of records that might contain something of my liking (a rare occurrence due to the limited scope of my genre interests), I could pick it up.

(Years later I would realise I am horrible at remembering things, so I guess my Mistake was inevitable from the start.)

Where I got to know Bane through a track on a sampler CD, I got to know about Trial  through sheer fucking up. This happened at De Platenworm. Here, at roughly age 17 or 18, I flipped through the Punk/Hardcore bins and encountered It All Comes Down to This. Which of course didn’t actually happen because I’m an idiot and it was actually Are These Our Lives? by Trial. The brain fog was real. Once at home I of course immediately wondered what the fuck this was, because it sure as hell wasn’t Can We Start Again. But that wonder turned to amazement when I sat down and actually experienced the record I had purchased instead.

As much as I now might hate missing out on scoring a first press of Bane’s debut album (also a banger, do not misconstrue), I think the trade-off worked out in my favor.

Part II: Catchy but not catchy

Anyone whose personal Venn diagram of ‘friend of mine’ and ‘lover of hardcore punk’ is simply one circle, agrees with me that Are These Our Lives? is probably one of the best hardcore records ever made. I believed it when I first heard it twenty years ago, and I still believe it now. So for all intents and purposes, it’s an objective fact.

Seriously, listen to it:

The intro to opening track Reflections to this day can not be safely played in my house as I would most likely just mosh the building into the fucking ground upon hearing it. Just imagine:

DADADADADADA DUMMMMMMMM!

and WHAM! There goes the coffee table right out the window.

DADADADADADA DUMMMMMMMM!

the songs goes again and KABLOW! There goes the couch against the wall, splintering into a hundred million tiny pieces, the fabric evaporating from the force with which the pillows hit the concrete. Within the first minute of the song, my entire house would be reduced to rubble. Later, I would ask myself: “How did I gather the strength for this?”

And the answer is simple: the intro to Reflections is the hardest any hardcore band has ever gone. The members of Trial collectively are the Chuck Yeager of hardcore punk music, pushing the limits beyond what anyone thought was humanly possible and subsequently propelling all of us as listeners into the danger zone.

It goes so hard that listening to it, your body will transcend physical limitations and you turn into a moshing GOD. Trial could’ve written this intro, pressed it onto vinyl and could’ve called it a day and it would still be a hardcore classic.

Every hardcore kid knows this. Go to a Trial show, hear the first notes and watch the sheer concept of chaos unfold in front of your eyes because upon hearing the first notes, you are no longer in control of your body.

But then: lyrics.

I don’t believe singer Greg Bennick has had to actually sing a word of this song for years, because as soon as the vocals kick in, the entire room is shouting every single goddamn word of that song, from start to end.

Which in turn inspires amazement, because despite its brilliance, Reflections is not a catchy song per se, at least not in the classic sense of the word. It’s not a tune one hums while walking down the street to the local health food store to grab some oat milk. I would argue it doesn’t even really get stuck in your head, the way pop music producers would be desperate for so they could push a few more records.

Yet, at any Trial show I’ve been to, from small local venues to big festivals, I’ve witnessed dozens to hundreds of people simultaneously belting out the words, forming like Voltron to become one ultra-Greg.

Do not misunderstand me: the lyrics to every song on this record are brilliantly constructed. They are poetry, layered and multi-faceted, yet consistently explicit and understandable throughout. You will get the message, but it will feel amazing to receive it.

I’m not quite sure if Reflections is simply the best song or it seems that way because it’s the first song after the intro of the album and thus it just makes such an indelible impression that it seems that way, but it sure left its mark on me.

Seriously, watch this:

The wreckage of humanity has been strewn across the land

And now the hour of desperation is at hand.

We, the maggots, feed off the dead,

Seeking solace in a bed of broken glass.

We bleed infected water

Beneath bright skins of polished steel

Through empty, yearning, starved, frustrated hearts

Which long for risk and reason

This is an empty, standard, half-life to lead

Empty facades conceal slow decay.

Did you just see that shit? I typed out the entire first verse up there without looking it up and not having heard the song in months.

And it’s so good.

You know exactly that it’s about living unfulfilled lives in a capitalist hellscape that only provides for the rich and powerful, all while the have-nots are yearning for a meaningful existence that is denied them by the realities of our current society.

But it flows, it’s open to being examined through any lens and it’s compact. It takes what could easily have been platitudes (“Wreckage of humanity” / “Hour of desperation”) and fills them with meaning. A meaning, I might add, that is more relevant today than it even was over twenty years ago when it was first unleashed upon the world.

And that’s why people know this song inside out: they can relate. “I feel unfulfilled!” screams the man on the song. “As do I!” the listener screams back. “This system is designed to exploit you for your labor without giving you a meaningful existence in return, only offering a myth of eternal salvation” the man shouts again. “I KNOW, SAME!” screams the listener, now slightly worried they’ve found themselves yelling at their speakers.

So now here you are, a young person entering the working force in a society that does not seem that just to you. A society that favors the people who already have so much, yet seem incredibly bored with that wealth. A society that will have you work 40 hours a week (if you’re lucky) in a job that might not mean that much to you. A job that will not allow you to feel filled with meaning. And now, you’ve heard someone verbalize something you’ve felt for the longest time. So you internalize it, and make it your mantra.

Part III: The connection connection

We are the tortured and insane

Disillusioned and mundane

Unknown and unnamed

Desperate and enslaved

And we want something more.

These are the final words of Reflections. When they first came through my speakers in my bedroom in my parents’ house, they left a mark on my soul. This was not my first punk record – far from it. I knew there was a scene full of weirdos that I felt at home in. People who looked at society through a skeptical lens. But this was the first time that the way I felt was so specifically put into words.

It wasn’t long after first hearing these words that I took a permanent marker and wrote them on the ceiling of my room (absolutely infuriating my parents for fucking up the paint, I might add) so that I could look at them while listening to the music.

A simple mix up in a record store led to the understanding that there are people in the world who not only know how I feel, but can make beautiful art out of it. And that there are other people who are willing to engage with it on as deep a level as I am. Who are willing to climb over each other to get to the front of the stage and scream these words together. Even if I had to bike for an hour and half to get to the venues where this was happening.

Even if I had to sit on a bus for an hour just to be able to buy some records from a shop whose owners at some level felt they  had to carry music like this. Music that connects. Music that forms communities.