.Generations Come Together at Punk Rock Flea Market

At the San Jose Punk Rock Flea Market, the entire club felt like a stage. 

The Ritz was jammed for the occasion. At opening time, high noon, people were already lined up outside. After I shelled out a five-spot to get in, I was told that if I wanted to leave and come back, there would probably still be a line outside. And there was.

Inside, even at 12:30pm, the place was packed to the gills. A good thing.  

Most of the vendors were on the floor or the bar area, with a few set up on the stage itself. And from the stage, looking out over the whole mess, there was no way to avoid the grand sweep of history. Not in a nostalgic way, but in a hopeful way, with no necessary end or beginning.

In my view, The Ritz can be understood as the reincarnation of the Blank Club, which itself functioned like the reincarnation of the Cactus Club. And Cactus was like the reincarnation of Laundry Works. Each was a different building, of course, but the chain of karmic momentum endures. In that sense, everyone at the Punk Rock Flea Market seemed to fulfill the karma of every building and every band that played on every one of those stages, whether they cared or not.

Now, before the OG punks complain that I’m not going back far enough—and they will complain, I assure you—the point here is that punk rock existence in San Jose is beginningless. Every phenomenon arises due to the coming together of previous phenomena. There is no absolute beginning.

At the flea market, I saw people who attended shows in that same building 25 and 35 years ago, but now with their offspring helping to peddle the goods. Offspring who were too young to even remember what MySpace was. Think about that. These kids never got to peruse MySpace and choose tribute accounts for Lemmy, Wendy O. Williams, Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene for their top four MySpace friends, like I once did.

But there they were, the kids, hawking their dads’ thrash metal LPs that came out before they were even born. It was refreshing to see people exchanging real life experiences, tangible objects and interactions, not some overhyped AI slop.

Indeed, this was the most rocking aspect of the flea market, the multigenerational aspect. People in their 50s were unloading their old clothes to 19-year-olds. When these things happen, it’s not just about the clothes. There was probably a story behind every U.K. Subs patch on every vest, every rip on every jacket, each LP, every piece of fishnet, every tarot deck, all the leather and plaid. Just like patches sewn into vests, the stories are sewn into us also. I didn’t have to hang around for hours to understand this. It was obvious. Who wants a brand-new vest with brand-new patches anyway?

Ultimately, it didn’t matter, though. The community marketplace vibe was flowing. Witchcraft books, vintage clothing, candles and pulp paperbacks. I saw a few Misfits shirts, but it was no big deal. You can go to Old Navy and get a Misfits shirt.

And did I mention the stage? At the Ritz, not everyone gets the opportunity to actually walk on the stage whenever they want. From that point of view, center stage, looking out across the floor at all the vendors jammed into that club, things started to get a little mystical. The punks hate it when I get mystical—they equate it with hippie shit—so I’m doing this on purpose, but there was no way to avoid such an experience. Standing there, I felt the presence of every singer that ever belted it to the rafters from that very stage. I became the alchemical fusion of David Yow and Gwen Stefani, transcending all binary opposites. 

Am I making this up? Who cares?

Part of punk’s appeal from the beginning was that it slaughtered all boundaries between performer and audience. And that was surely the case. Everyone was selling stuff to everyone else. Bands and fans. Traditions and stories were handed down. Just like on this page.

The next punk rock flea market unfolds in the spring. Get ready.