beer’s frontman fucked up his foot before the basement show

Across the street from a neighborhood church on a warm August night, a bunch of Minneapolis punk youths were blasting cigs and drinking tallboys in a backyard. The promised 7 p.m. start time slipped well past 8 p.m.; the touring band hadn’t made it yet, which was just fine by me because I was an hour late getting there. Locals Visual Learner played their first hometown show as a trio after an ill-fated West Coast tour saw one member depart the band. They sounded really good, though—“road taut,” as they put it, and I’d agree with that.

The South Carolina egg punks Beer pulled up in a big ass van and gradually hauled their merch and gear into the house. Punk friends of mine from around the country had been raving about the Beer live show, and now here was the frontman steadying himself down the sidewalk with a shiny cheetah print cane. This was a pretty sharp contrast from the maniac I’d seen in recent live footage running around the crowd and climbing on stuff. They were late for the Minneapolis show because Dakota had spent the morning in a Milwaukee emergency room. 

“It was fuckin’ stupid,” he told me later, smoking and winded in the backyard after their set. “I jumped off a bar last night and part of it fuckin’ broke. It was at the High Dive in Milwaukee, and for the record, I am suing. … I’m kidding.” He caught the particle board edge of the bar, fell awkwardly, and bruised a bone pretty bad. His walk up and down the unlit basement steps visibly took some concentration.

For Beer, I’m sure a basement show hampered by injury and instrument issues was a frustrating one. They had to borrow both a guitar and a bass from American Muscle (who, later, would absolutely fucking crush their own headlining set). Dakota’s attempts to venture out into the crowd were short-lived; the concrete floor was super wet, so he spent a decent chunk of the show in the corner by the P.A. in a largely unsuccessful attempt to get the vocals up. At some point in the middle of a set, a neighbor shoo’d all the kids into the house and threatened to call the cops if they kept playing. Zac from Visual Learner discreetly walked downstairs and closed an open window that was spilling ultra-loud egg punk into the street.

In this environment, folly is forever the only mode of operation, and Beer absolutely fucking crushed. Their guitarist Andrei’s wireless rig meant that he was spinning around constantly, ripping their signature solos from their stellar first three EPs. It was almost astonishing how well their recorded sound translated to a live setting—the tone, jumpiness, and precision all fell perfectly into place. Dakota was screaming while pounding his Walgreens cane into the joists.

For a touring band’s basement show, it was also a testament to the overall health of Minneapolis’ punk scene. It was a well-attended show, yet the scene vets in Visual Learner didn’t recognize most of the kids in this particular crowd. People were enthusiastic, dancing, and complimenting the bands after the sets. It was a good night for party music played and performed at a high level. Beer even brought one of those spinning party light balls you can get at Spencer’s. It was basement show revelry; thank Christ nobody got dunked into the clogged utility sink nearly overflowing with brown water.

“I wanna go watch the egg punk band,” I’d overheard someone say outside the house before the set. Their tone had this smack of morbid curiosity—an “I wonder what this is going to be like” edge. For a genre so rooted in a goofy and vibrant home-brewed aesthetic, egg skeptics are almost definitely ignoring the fact that some of the best live bands in the world are behind those records. (See also the Gobs or Billiam and the Split Bills.)

Last summer, Beer shared Live in the Dish Pit, which was filmed in the back of a South Carolina pizza spot where Dakota still works. It’s this short film of the band absolutely destroying in tight quarters while Dakota’s brother literally washed dishes right next to them. This was a crucial document, proof that their stellar direct input and faceless cassette songwriting translated to a must-see charisma-explosion live show. It turns out, that was still the case even after dude fucked up his foot.