Puntala Punx

Zhu Lei also proved to be the one most hungover (not necessarily the most drunk, since there is confusion over how it was that Kang Mao was able to it back to the cabin in the wee hours of day two of the festival); at 9pm -- 24 hours after last night’s partying began -- he was still curled in the fetal position having now crashed out on three of the four beds in the cabin. The first words out of his mouth this morning: ‘ma BI wo he le tai duo’.

An added observation:

The inverse relation between my enjoyment of musical options around me and the amount of blogging I get done. Much of this entry (and the one previous) has been put together inside the cabin and sitting on its porch while, every twenty minutes, a new band takes to one of the two stages. In a bit of a twist, the main stage is, for me, kicking it on the porch, at a comfortable volume, while the side stage is wall-shakingly loud.

We end our Finnish leg here, in Puntala. Sunday we board a ferry to Sweden, where four shows await us. Nice bookends, though, first and last Finnish shows at festivals.

Take a summer camp kind of area in the woods outside a small city:

Then take as many punks as you can find

Add a stage, or two.

And you start to have the Puntala Rock idea.

(You can pronounce it, if you like, as Kang Mao does, making it sound almost Italian: Boooon-dah-la)

A festival with a long history, installment #1 was back in the 80s. After a successful run, it stopped, and, sometime in the 90s, started up again. Now, it’s in full swing. Last year saw 1200 punks descend on the site; so it’s not the biggest festival around, but it certainly is the punk-est.

A tent city;

Vegan (natch) food;

a merch tent hawks all kinds of band/political gear, music, patches, posters, books and more

a bar (Vastavirta) sets up shop;

a total of, according to my count, four toilets (2 male, 2 female) and 10 port-o-potties;

PHOTO

NOT
SUITABLE

FOR
ALL

READERS

Some random thoughts that have struck me throughout the day and a half run:

1. Statistics I wonder about. Like this equation: Passed-out punks in the summer sun + hairstyles running mainly along the scalped or combo-scalped/mohawked end of the spectrum (with dreadlocks finishing a close second) = How many miles worth of sunburnt scalp at the end of the two days? Or: After how many punks’ bladders’ worth of deposits does the field/forest take until it buckles under the pressure of so much urine? Or: How many soya beans needlessly sacrificed their lives for the vegan mega-wok? And how many cows didn’t? And: How much money did some lucky enterprising soul make off of the massive deposit of glass bottles (banned inside the festival site) left just outside the gate?

2. Day one, all ‘hawks were coiffed, makeup applied, accessories accessorized. But I couldn’t help wondering what the following morning would bring; after a day of rockin, drinking, passing out, stumbling around the site, crashing and waking. Turns out most folks managed to keep their ‘do’s intact. Even on the morning of day three! Did they sleep in strange positions? I will not reveal their Secret.

3. If I haven’t made clear my observations that Finns can drink like you would not believe clear enough, let me take this opportunity to do so again: You have rarely seen a People that can put away as much sauce with gusto. And I’ve been to frat parties. “Finnish people are always drunk,” one partying local lass told me as she stumbled by our cabin. Ok. Or, as Kang Mao put it: “This is more of a drinking festival than a music festival.”

4. Now. Scroll, if you would, upwards, back to the photos of the two stages, but note the small cabins off of stage left (ie: the right side of the picture). The first thatched hut is ours. This is the ‘side stage’, if you will, reserved for the acts, one might say, not quite ready for the main stage. Now, I’m the first one to admit that punk isn’t my music of choice, but I’m not some old fuddy-duddy that can’t appreciate a bit of oi-oi-oi now and then. But to be awoken (granted, at noontime, but awoken nonetheless) by the sounds, not 20 metres off our starboard, of a hardcore scream act, is a burden more than anyone should have to bear. No? Let us, then, turn to a punk fan, a dude who told me that, actually, I was right: There were too many hardcore bands here. “After a while,” he said, “they start to get boring.” The Same, is how I was hoping he’d end his sentence: I’m going to be haunted by the doom-pah, doom-pah, doom-doom-pah, doom-pah rhythm for a long time. And: I’ll ask nobody in particular, and hope that it’s not just me: “Can anybody understand anything that’s being screamed?”

Enough ranting from me. Let’s turn to tidbits overheard on this, day two:

“Today, it’s been about speed”

“Every band is faster than the last”

“I hear the next band is supposed to be known for speed. I’m kind of scared to go see them.”

“Most of the bands are pretty much the same.”

But now, on to the (yesterday’s) show.

Yes, I censored this one. And it’s for your own damn good.

And, of course, copious amounts of b.y.o. booze (which is only barred in glass containers; otherwise, it’s a free-for-all), and you’ve got a big punkin’ festival. And, again, over a thousand people, counted through a completely unscientific method. And you can quote me on that.

This guy liked Subs soooo much that he wanted them to be able to find his car later.

The answer to your question is: “When punks gather around the campfire, they sing ‘Kumbaya’ too.”

While Kang Mao certainly attracts the most people in an average walkabout (“I kind of don’t want to wander around,” she said earlier in true rock star style. “People are constantly taking pictures and stuff.” [including one fan -- far too drunk to be considered obsessive -- who demanded, on at least three different occasions, autographs from each member on different parts of his body] She added later that since, on day two, she wasn’t drunk, her English skills were lacking.), Zhu Lei, once again, proves to be the member consistently befriended by eager fans.

(This one being ours)