Punk-rock Chic I am Not

In the spirit of expanding my horizons I recently attended a punk rock show. And, in this spirit, I have come to invaluable realizations about myself. Namely, that I will never be a punk rocker.

"Don't get scared" was the encouraging words accompanying my entrance into the (literally) cellar bar where the gig was taking place. Mohawks, studs, chains, large boots, nose rings, and multi-colored hair also greeted me, but they didn't scare me. Punks are amazing people- some of the nicest I have ever met, which is interesting considering the amount of anger within punk songs. However over the course of the night (in which there were some enjoyable beats and funky bass-lines, I will say that), the only lyrics I ever understood was "I'm not sorry/I'm not sorry/Fuck you", and after that unintelligible screaming. I love lyrics- I love the stories and the emotions the words invoke with the added emotionality of the music- but if you're gonna put words in a song it would be nice to understand them. Otherwise what's the point? Of course, just screaming with this kind of hard-core punk is definitely word-music agreement. Frustrated by my lack of ability to hear anything other than 'fuck', I turn to Andy, resident punk rocker and lover of the music,
"What's the difference between this and heavy metal? Cuz it sounds exactly the same to me. "
"Oh no, metal is played in drop D and this is in E" Matter-of-factly.
"There's only a step difference inbetween them?" That's it? Really? Well you could have fooled me.
So now not only do I not understand a word, but all I'm hearing is rage and all I can see are people throwing themselves wildly at each other in what some call dancing and I call possesed.
After warily watching a drunk man spill every last drop of his recently-bought beer upon everyone in the vicinity, I realized that I was quite angry with him for no real reason other than that he might spill some of his drink on me. The music made me angrier and angrier, and as the rage built, so did my frustration at being upset for no reason other than listening to angry music. I boiled and boiled until I reached critical mass and then made a bolt for the door, scaring Andy half to death. With hardly a word of explanation other than "I'll be waiting outside" I plowed my way through the studs and mohawks, dragging a confused Andy behind. "You look like you've been raped!" He says as we get outside, and I can only agree. My mind and musical appreciation have been raped by angry men with spiky hairdos, and I only want to not be angry anymore. This wasn't fun at all, and neither was it cathartic.
Don't get me wrong, mentally I appreciate and even agree with the political and social agnst of punk, yet emotionally and pathetically I can't handle it.

Horizons broadened and experiences gained. Now let's not do that again.