Blood, sweat and Pabst: A field report from inside the underbelly of the Punk Rock Bowling beast

In today’s political climate, there’s no better way to celebrate Memorial Day Weekend than with sweaty cans of Blue Ribbon, subversive debauchery and archaic punk rockers in the middle of the Mojave desert. It’s both the antithesis of this country's current administration and the kind of party Uncle Sam killed for – in the name of democracy, of course.

LINK TO GALLERY https://punk-rock-bowling-20.nodicenews.com

LAS VEGAS – Punk Rock Bowling, now roaring in its 25th year, is a three-day convergence in paradise for punks, by punks. Defenders of the DIY ethic make the annual pilgrimage from near and far to the desert paradise in the spirit of rebellion and insurgency-themed song. 

For the virgins, it's an initiation ritual. The rite of passage is earned by survival — or by evading the @passedoutpunx Instagram page. For the oldheads, it’s an ephemeral meeting of the minds with a nostalgic soundtrack. For everyone in between, it’s a damn good time. 

The beers are flowing, the hugs are handed out by the dozen and the music is louder than what’s considered safe for the aging ear. In this Disneyland for misfits – it's almost impossible to remember the reason for rebellion in the first place. 

Youth Brigade on Saturday May 24, 2025. All photos taken at Punk Rock Bowling in Las Vegas, Nevada by Ava Rosate.

But, behind the beer sweat and pit dust, punk still beats like a war drum – Shawn Stern, co-creator of PRB and Youth Brigade’s frontman made that clear during YB’s Saturday set.

“This one goes out to the Christian white nationalist pieces of shit who think they can take over this country,” said Stern, reminding the crowd of America’s current political spiral and punk's unshakeable stance in the fight.

They ended the set with a battle cry, Stern snarling out the lyrics to What Are You Fighting for like a manifesto. 

“Fight for life, fight for your rights, be an individual, never lose sight, knowledge is the way to see – ignorance is your enemy.”

No shoes - no problem.

The main show is the heartbeat of the gathering – a celebration of community. Families with strollers mingle with punks running harm reduction tents, while club managers steer the ship, sound techs keep the chaos loud, and runners hustle behind the scenes to make sure everything stays on track – all forming the spinal cord that keeps the PRB body standing.

“This is our first year — it’s amazing. We need to keep punk rock alive for future generations. The camaraderie here is incredible," said Nicole who traveled with her family from Oregon for their first Punk Rock Bowling.

Then comes the second shift.

When the gates to the grounds close – the doors to the clubs swing open. 

The club shows are the reward for those tough enough to outlast the day. No Tylenol, no toddlers .

Upon entry to Backstage Bar & Billiards, or more widely known — Triple B’s I’m met with a gracious manager who escorts me under his wing for a tour of the holy grounds.

This bar is full of history, starting with a piece of concrete in the entry doorway, inscripted by finger with the pseudonym ‘Makaveli,’ said to be pulled right out of the ground outside of the Los Angeles men’s jail, where the rapper did stints of time.

Every brick on the back wall was hand grouted a few owners ago by their kid during a summer break. Puppets made by famed ventriloquist crafter Chance Wolf line the top of the Fremont Country Club hallway, where the two clubs meet, and inside the FCC, walled are lined with wallpaper from one of Frank Sinatra’s favorite Vegas hangouts.

Upstairs, the green rooms where bands are preparing for their stage time are reminiscent of clerical offices, a nod to the office spaces that were occupied by the Metropolitan Police Department oh so long ago. 

Triple B’s is more like a historical altar than a bar — recognized by those with eyes to see. 

As our members only tour comes to a conclusion inside their converted food bus doubling as the DJ quarters, I’m approached by a man who looks like he should be behind an accountant’s desk. I ask for his name but am meant with incoherency, though he is able to ask if I’d like a drink exceptionally well.

My new sweater vested friend orders two Pabst’s and two shots. He downs the first shot and chases with a beer, missing his mouth completely and pouring the rest over his face and down his shirt. I give him the second beer and his party trick is repeated, afterall, the Adolescents are playing and it’s almost midnight in Vegas. Live a little. 

I take a page out of my sweater vested pal’s book and ask the bartender for a taste of Motorhead’s infamous whiskey release. Underwhelming is an understatement. The single malt whiskey tasted like Lemmy’s leftover Jack glass that’s been sitting out at The Rainbow Bar overnight, with a note of cigarette ash. Thanks Lem.

And thanks to my newfound pal who threw twenties across the bar top in an attempt to pay our barstaff. 

As Triple B’s show culminates, the militia of mohawks flood under the blinding Freakmont lights. 

The morning pool show may be a few hours away, but the night is long from over.