Band t-shirts rekindle teenage memories

At the request of my parents, over the course of the summer I began the slow process of cleaning out a series of ridiculous things I’d kept over the years in the attic. 

Among old journals and half-attempted art projects, movie posters and stuffed animals, I found a laundry basket containing my collection of old band t-shirts: the t-shirts I’d picked up from sketchy bars during my teenage years, the t-shirts I wore proudly to high school the next day, after dancing and rocking out all night to some local band.

Decorated with the name of a band no one else had heard of, save a few corduroy pant wearing shaggy-haired boys, I wore them proudly as if to say, “Yes, that’s right. I’m more indie than you. I may be 14, but I can stay out until 2 a.m. and still make it to school the next day!”

Unfolding each shirt was like Christmas and a flood of memories returned with each one.

Somehow, at age 14, my friends and I were able to weasel our way into 21 and up shows on a regular basis.

I’m not sure how we did it. But we did. And it was awesome.

We’d sneak out of our houses and push our way up to the front of The Brewery or The Lincoln Theatre or any number of downtown Raleigh sleezeball bars.

My complete disregard for my personal safety is now completely appalling to me, but I was 14, and untouchable.

Our favorite band was Brown, composed of some of the former members of famed Raleigh rockers Corrosion of Conformity.

Drummer-turned-vocalist Reed Mullin was singing just to us, with the angst that could melt any 14-year-old wannabe rebel’s heart.

He understood what our parents could not and what Good Charlotte only pretended to.

It seemed the dirtier the venue, the better. The more beer bottles on the floor, the closer the music came to shattering our ear drums, the tighter we were packed in, the crazier the clientele.

Never mind the gross violation of our safety; we were ticking off our parents. “Mission Teenager” accomplished.

For the four years of high school, this was my life nearly every weekend and too many school nights. Four years of pseudo-rebellion, of angsty rock, of glorious quintessential teenagerdom represented in a stack of old t-shirts that would eternally reek of cigarettes.

I thought about giving them to a thrift store so some indie kid could have the pleasure of finding my old t-shirts in the dollar bin, but it didn’t seem right to give up a stack of memories to some kid.

It didn’t seem right to give away my nights of staying out until the sun came up, of driving too fast with the windows down and the summer breeze in my hair, of reckless behavior and the glory of being a teenager in love with rock ‘n’ roll.

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