A friend recently posed the question to me: are Gun Outfit really good, or are they just really cool? I didn’t know the answer, with only limited experience listening to the lauded underground band, but all it took was a short walk on a Monday night in February to formulate some thoughts on the matter. Gun Outfit were slated to perform at Beautiful World Syndicate, a record shop whose modest, slapdash in-person appearance belies their unprecedented Discogs business; records are priced to move, graded fairly, and sold by the truckload. As of this writing, their account has 232,297 ratings with 99.9% positive feedback… it’s like if Doordash was owned and operated by half a dozen punks who smelled like weed. Alongside renowned local shredder Emily Robb, Scena and Sam Silbert rounded out the bill, two acts that were new to me. All that’s left is to roll through!

Up first was Sam Silbert, though he was far from alone. Seated with his dime-store acoustic guitar, Silbert was surrounded by friends on drums, bass, a second acoustic guitar, and keys. With multiple hoodies and ballcaps in position (the bassist even pulled off an impressive sunglasses-on-hood-over-hat technique), the group strummed along to Silbert’s rootsy indie-folk. Perhaps too weary for his young age, Silbert sang with what I would chalk up as more nerves than pretentiousness, his words obscured by his hesitant, mic-avoidant delivery (though what I could hear revealed a capable voice). The band were having a fine ol’ time together, catching each other’s eyes to hit the chord changes and song endings. I liked the tune where they bopped around a bass-line redolent of Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker” in their Realtree outdoor hunting gear, though it remains unconfirmed if any of them have actually split firewood or simply looked the part. MJ Lenderman and Ryan Davis came to mind as somewhat responsible for this particular resurgent strain of knee-slapping rural-rock; there’s plenty of time and opportunity for Sam Silbert to become one of their peers.

Scena were up next, though not in any apparent hurry. As if there wasn’t enough inherent sadism in a four-band Monday night bill! Performing as a duo (or a trio, depending on how you value technology) – bass-guitarist, guitarist/vocalist, iPhone for backing tracks – Scena’s soundcheck bled into meandering, ambient drones that may or may not have been their first “song”. From there, they moved into a suite of morose, hypnotic guitar music that disregarded time in a rewarding way. The second song’s hushed chords over looped trip-hop drums recalled Duster; other pieces reflected the grey tide pools of Jefre Cantu-Ledesma and the narcotic swirl of Flying Saucer Attack. More music emanated from the pre-recorded iPhone tracks than the two human players for quite a large portion of the set, but until this becomes a typical trope, I find it to be an odd yet entertaining juxtaposition in a live setting. The crowd noticeably thinned out during Scena’s set, to the point where the temperature in the room dropped; a satisfying effect for music that felt so desperately lonely. I simply put my winter beanie back on and gazed into the pale blue light reflected from the foil-embossed patterns of a copy of Danzig’s Danzig 4P on the wall, drawn in by the mysterious sound of Scena.

With Silbert’s friends smoking outside and Scena having artfully siphoned away the remaining audience’s energy, the blowtorch guitar of Emily Robb arrived in the nick of time. Unaccompanied and unbothered, Robb exuded a confidence found in both master musicians and Mardi Gras drunkards. After a couple shorter pieces, she asked the crowd if it was loud enough, and when someone meekly quipped, “It’s never loud enough”, she hollered back, “You asked for it!”, cranked her amp and left the people next to me no choice but to plug their ears with their pointer fingers for the rest of the set. Huzzah! With so much touring under her belt at this point, Robb was comfortably in command, harnessing the primitive origins of fuzz guitar and doing donuts in the parking lot with it. One song seemed to meld the first part of Television’s “Friction” with Link Wray’s “Rumble”, though it was the extended closer that took us higher, a chugging biker-metal loop that she scattered, smothered and covered like ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres gatefold image.

This leads us back to the original question. Are Gun Outfit a style-over-substance ensemble championed by hip elites since the mid ’00s? It’s kind of an unfair question, or at least an unfair place to start, but their set provided a decisive answer: they’re the real deal! Now based in Los Angeles, and boasting none other than living legend Henry Barnes (of goddamn Amps For Christ and Man Is The Bastard!) on bass, this charming quartet delivered the goods: a polished mix of tender Americana indie and desert-dry garage. Drummer Daniel Swire carried the poise, pizzazz and prescription glasses of ’90s Max Weinberg, raising and lowering his volume with impressive ease. Swire brought a tasteful, sophisticated spark to the patina-rich melodies of Dylan Sharp and Carrie Keith – I’ve been searching for a word to best describe the delicate, complicated emotions their songs conjured, but keep landing dumbly on “beautiful”. Sharp has a friendly speak-sing, a thoughtful and reserved middle child between Stephen Malkmus and Kurt Vile, and Keith’s voice held it like hands, soft and firm. With the aura-cleansing presence of Henry Barnes in the back, the neck of his bass occasionally bobbing dangerously over Swire’s head, I felt foolish for being a suspicious outsider to this nourishing band mere hours earlier. After hearing one song in particular, I knew I wanted to hear it again, so I memorized as many lyrics as I could to look it up when I got home. Turns out it’s “Teardrops (Classic Hell On Earth)”, listed to appear on the group’s sixth formal full-length Process And Reality (set for a May 2026 release). There’s a Mike Stoltz-directed live video of “Teardrops” out there on the web that I’m happy to recommend – it’s been tiding me over as I wait for the studio recording. If you’ve been reading Yellow Green Red for a while, this surely won’t be the first time my folly is your gain.

It’s the mark of a good hardcore show when you arrive forty-five minutes after doors and have already missed the opening band (in this case, Down To The Wire). Hardcore (both its capital H and lowercase h varieties) is a musical culture that demands urgency, immediacy, and if you’re slacking or aloof, you have no one to blame but yourself. This was the first in an ongoing series of matinees booked by local hardcore impresario Bob Wilson at the appropriately dive-y Nikki Lopez bar/venue. If you judge the quality of a show by its attendance, this one was a smashing success, the shoebox-shaped room packed with a variety of hardcore-types, from grizzled elders to ne’er-do-well teens (keeping the eyebrow-piercing industry alive, I couldn’t help but notice).

Dead On Your Feet took the stage without much fuss, a Gen Z straight-edge hardcore band whose first gig took place earlier in 2025. Featuring members of Scarab and Gridiron, they’ve got Philly roots, with plenty of mosh-happy friends in the crowd to prove it. It would seem the Muted Chug is a pre-requisite for any form of hardcore band nowadays, and while Dead On Your Feet did not diverge from this, I appreciated the equal presence of fast-core drumming and under-a-minute song lengths. Their sound wasn’t great – for a five piece, one guitar unintentionally dominated the mix – but I liked the way the bassist’s long hair was tucked deep within his hoodie, and the mosh antics from their younger fans kept things lively. Bodies shifted to the front when they fired off a cover of Youth Of Today’s “Positive Outlook”, and then once again when they closed with another cover song that I couldn’t place. I asked around, and my elder quorum decided it must have been a straight-edge hardcore band from the ’00s or later. Fire off in the comments if you were also there and can enlighten me.

The breakdown / setup time between bands was so efficient that I didn’t bother stepping outside before Fightback. Making the dreary drive up from Baltimore (“we passed so many accidents on the way here”), they were the scrappiest band of the afternoon, looking like a bunch of high-school seniors, college-acceptance letters fresh in hand. Their form of hardcore was derivative in the manner of early Revelation Records, and their stage sound was just as uneven as Dead On Your Feet’s, but they bopped around plenty on stage and the crowd followed suit. Technical prowess is never high on my list, particularly with loud energetic guitar music, so I was perfectly content watching them do their thing for fifteen minutes or so. Of note was their fall-apart cover of Judge’s “I’ve Lost” – the drummer didn’t seem to know the song, and yet they soldiered through it, never more than two of their five members playing the same parts at the same time in the way that Judge had originally written it. My one buddy, whose life-long dedication to hardcore is unbreakable, was there as well, and he couldn’t help but storm up front and sing along, unconcerned with the craftsmanship of Fightback’s rendition. It’s been a minute for me, but I eagerly anticipate the moment that I might feel that same magnetic pull into the pit from some unexpected cover song if I keep going to shows like these.

Speaking of eager anticipation, the excitement was high for C4, undoubtedly the main reason the room was wall-to-wall packed. Known for putting a naked guy with an erection on the cover of their 2025 album Payback’s A Bitch, it was clear that no apologies were forthcoming. After all, C4 hail from the pervasively negative city of Boston, these four mooks perfectly embodying the hate-filled hardcore/metal crossover they performed. From the jump, their sound didn’t suffer from the thin mix of their openers – their filthy Power Trip / Overkill-style riffs were towering and mean, and the crowd responded in kind, the pit easily doubling in size. Their meaty, unrepentant hate displayed a dry comedic edge if you watched closely, from the singer’s repeated C4 shoutouts (he worked the band name into most of their songs, not least in “C4 Goes To War”) to their decision to open and close with the same song, “Me And The Boys”, a lyrical tale which I can assure you ends not in heartfelt friendship but in beating someone’s ass. Halfway through the set, I watched a guy get knocked out on his feet, wobbling on sea legs and grasping at random shoulders to keep from collapsing entirely. Others quickly came to his aid, but he brushed them off, stumbling back into the battlefield of backwards flying forearms before the song ended. The back of his shirt read “PRICE OF PAIN”, and if irony shared the chemical properties of carbon monoxide we’d all be dead right now. All in all a pretty masterful set of unrepentant mosh music, the way it was meant to be experienced: in a crowded, dangerous little windowless room, not on colored vinyl in the comfort of your suburban finished basement.

Wrapping the show was the main reason I found myself in attendance: the “only East Coast appearance” from Zurich straight-edge band Monkeyfellow. The twist here is that Monkeyfellow is, in reality, a Euro-edge parody band from someone in leading Floridian vegan-edge unit Ecostrike, piss-taking our well-meaning European hardcore friends whose NYHC straight-edge tributes sometimes miss the mark in delightfully silly ways. To be clear, Monkeyfellow are a joke band, and while the name doesn’t make sense to me from any sort of hardcore perspective, it still got a chuckle or two. The same could be said for their live presentation, with each of the four performers wearing t-shirts over their hoods-up hoodies (Floorpunch, Nike, Youth Of Today, Crank X Call fanzine) along with funny sunglasses(?). It’s a joke that’s here for a good time, not a long time, but they received a rousing reaction from the crowd, who to my amazement knew the words to “Simple Youth” and “Still Has The Spirit”. Everyone in the house could sing along to “Zurich Straight Edge, Go!”, seeing as the lyrics are the title chanted repeatedly (and with the same trick as C4, they performed it twice). One thing that seems to unite all walks of Americans is an eagerness to harmlessly mock Europeans if given the chance (I think it’s a jealousy thing), and Monkeyfellow did a sufficient job of imitating the roadies of a Crucial Response youth-crew band, bantering about trading for “an Ignite shirt, size middle”, offering a moment of silence in memory of Raybeez and denouncing “eating hamburger”. Take that, you people with functioning health-care systems and an obligatory month of paid vacation! The younger straight-edge contingent that fell back for C4’s creatine-ingesting moshers were back up front, proudly sharing the mic with a band whose mockery belied a true love for its source material. After the entire Monkeyfellow songbook was performed (four songs, one twice), the amps were turned off, the house music came up, and I was shuffling past the friendly members of Quarantine (now Damage) out of the venue and onto the street.

By 4:00 pm, we were back home, fully ‘core-satiated and couch-bound, and only a little bummed to miss The Effigies, who were set to headline the same stage later in the evening for an entirely different show. If the hours of the day allowed for a third hardcore show to take place, I’m sure the folks at Nikki Lopez would’ve squeezed it in.