How one poster changed the trajectory of my teen years.
Mia Lancaster (she/her) // Zine Manager
Mena Mcgill (they/she) // Illustrator
We used to take hours getting ready for an outing.
My outfit: An old band tee, tucked into ill-fitting, thrifted mom jeans cinched as tight as possible, with an actively disintegrating grommet belt. Huge pins on my smelly corduroy jacket. I didn’t know how to do makeup yet and my greasy forehead was deprived of bangs.
Your outfit: A short plaid skirt with a grommet belt even though it didn’t have belt loops. An oversized t-shirt tucked into that concoction, with an even more oversized denim button-up thrown over top. You may have worn some sparkly pink eyeshadow from the Too Faced “Sweet Peach” palette. We heard a rumor that it was edible, so one time we tried to sample it.
I think we were both really nervous. After all, it was the sort of thing that holds a lot of potential for thirteen-year-old weird girls: new romances, style inspo, rare music—all kinds of cool underground shit that only we would know about. This was uncharted water, and as far as we knew, we were the first to sail it.
A few weeks prior, I found this very poster on a table in my English classroom advertising an event which had long passed. The intriguing mish-mash of retro magazine cutouts and ransom note lettering really appealed to my Riot Grrrl tendencies. I immediately pledged my social media allegiance to the instagram handles of the local indie bands featured on the poster. Soon, a new event surfaced on my feed.
There was this legendary venue called the 333. It was an old auto shop-turned-venue in East Vancouver, where all the other makeshift venues lived, too. My very supportive parents drove us there and my little brother came along. Leaking from the doors of the grey establishment was a purple glow that drew us inside where we would hand over maybe 15 clams to get in. At future occasions, we would try 20 for the both of us.
The 333 was packed with strangers. Strangers with dyed hair, vintage plaid pants and beanies cuffed up to the highest degree. Strangers with tattoos and platform boots, expressing themselves however they pleased. Strangers who were older than us, juul-ing, smoking and spilling beer all over the place. To our luck, my mummy and daddy were cool with it. They would stand at the back of the venue, by the “bar” for the rest of the night, and watch us get destroyed in the pit. My dad’s reasoning: “You were really into music and we didn’t think it would be that bad, because we’d been living in London. We would keep an eye on you and you could have a different type of experience.”
This was very exciting for us—sort of divine. As if someone had overheard our tween prayers for a space just like this, and created it for us to play in. Within the graffiti coated walls of this venue, we were able to probe ideas and people that we found truly intimidating, yet alluring. For heaven’s sake, the whole venue smelled like a heinous potion of Pabst Blue Ribbon, cigarette butts, bong water and B.O. It was equally as disgusting, as it was completely epic. Although, God forbid you ever needed to pee while you were there. The bathroom was the worst I have seen in my entire life. The door had a giant hole, no lock and the toilet roll was somehow always on the perpetually wet floor. There might have been a toilet seat, but that depends on who you ask.
None of the grime really mattered, though, because I had never danced like that before: pressed against so many people, smashing into them and sweating. The purple lighting cascaded over the bands that played so loud. Between sets, we cooled down in 2018’s January air and eavesdropped on the groups of tumblr baddies outside. On the drive home, we couldn’t shut up about whatever crazy thing happened that night. It always filled us with energy and stories.
I never did find out where that mysterious poster came from; I’ve always accepted it as my destiny. The shows I went to informed much of how my teen years unravelled. My friends, my parents and I became regulars to the alternative music scene. It was just part of our weekends to go to venues like the 333. It expanded my social world past the little circle in North Vancouver. Now, many years down the line, these spaces have been forced to close their doors. It’s extremely disheartening, but it’s important that we keep what we have left up and running. Go out to support local venues and bands so that more weirdo thirteen-year-olds can have fun on the weekends.
