Photos by Hafsa Ahmed

You may think that October 3rd is as good a day as any to bust out your platform Doc Martens. With Toronto summer in the rearview, the weather will surely allow for a 5lb insulated leather boot. After all, it’s the weekend of Project Nowhere. What better place to show off your Very Cool Shoes than at the Mod Club-formerly Axis Club-formerly Mod Club? You’d be wrong to think this. I know this because on October 3rd, my platform Docs were chafing against my ankles and I was swaddled in one too many layers. It’s tough to say whether I’m uniquely prone to abysmal weather conditions whenever I cover a show for Demo: I braved torrential winds to cover Exclaim!’s Class of 2026 and suffered borderline heatstroke during Loveless Festival. Here I was, now nursing a blistered foot on an unusually mild fall day. But that weekend, there was nowhere else to be but Project Nowhere. No platform shoe or humidity will keep me from a DIY festival, let alone one that takes place in Toronto’s humble west end. Joined by my trusty photographer Hafsa Ahmed, I gritted my teeth and bore every step to catch LICE, Uphuck, and Death at the Mod Club.

Little did we know that Brampton-born LICE was one of the scene’s more punctual hardcore acts. So punctual, in fact, that I was frantically washing my hands when their set started. I’d rationalized my bathroom trip under the pretense that “these shows never start on time,” but LICE was quick to open up the pit. For better or for worse, I’m not one to bring ear plugs to a show. Although well-meaning friends beg me to invest in a pair, I’ve been long-convinced that I’m somehow immune to hearing damage. As the band all but barreled into their opening track, I realized how naive I’d been. I was convinced I’d develop tinnitus by the end of the night.

All of this is to say that LICE is decidedly hardcore – their rhythm is borderline neurotic and their volume is patently imposing. At a time when so many hardcore acts fancy themselves the next Narrow Head, LICE sticks to the tried and true.

Their sound is anti-melodic, textured in a way that almost feels claustrophobic. Some artists immerse their listeners in an atmospheric soundbath, but LICE drowns them in a sea of distortion. Boasting arthropodic album art and songs like “Oldhead,” LICE is irreverence repackaged. They’re also a bit of a Flower City hardcore I-Spy. I may not be a Bramptonite, but I spotted more than a few FCHC heavyweights on stage: Xingyu Campbell of Dear Evangeline, Mile End’s Jake Thompson, Gonz of Body Nest/Terry Green/Influx, and Robert Ortiz of DEAR-GOD. Thanks to my honorary Bramptonite Hafsa for letting me know that Bramptonian is decidedly not the correct term. At this point, the scant audience consisted largely of Gen X guys in Peaky Blinders caps and ironic graphic tees. Despite the valiant attempts to form a few-person pit, majority rules – and the majority are too busy clutching their overpriced IPAs to mosh. Point is that while crowdwork surely factors into a good performance, you can’t work an unwilling crowd. An underrated element of performance is the ability to play despite the audience. Safe to say, no Pitchfork-loving geezer could stop LICE from two-stepping with the best of them.

Although the space had begun to fill out by the time Upchuck took the stage, lead vocalist Kaila ‘KT’ Thompson wasted no time whipping the crowd into shape. The band was still tuning when she instructed us to “tighten up,” and I half expected the audience to meet her with a dead-eyed stare, but lo and behold: tighten up we did. Whether it’s the tell-tale chorus of their 2023 single “Freaky” or the garage pop tones of last year’s I’m Nice Now, this Atlanta five-piece needs no introduction. I can usually lump the bands I like into broad, overlapping categories – whiny, melodic, “can’t play their instruments,” etc. However, Upchuck lies beyond the Emma Venn diagram altogether; they’re unlumpable. This is due in no small part to Thompson’s unmistakable vocals, which deliver rapid-fire refrains with animated precision. I may have had Bite the Hand That Feeds on repeat during undergrad, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer stagecraft I was about to witness.

Technical skill aside, Upchuck had the stamina of an up-and-coming band playing their first house show. Although they’ve been performing together for nearly a decade, I got the impression that each Upchuck gig is anything but rote. While no member was stationary for more than a passing second, it was Thompson who manifested a moshpit out of thin air. For Thompson, the body is an instrument in its own right. Alternating between slapping herself and hitting a ghoulish eye twitch, she’d break up songs by spraying us with sips of her beer. I couldn’t have imagined this crowd embracing a transitional spit-take, but you can’t underestimate the power of a hardcore lead hellbent on forming a pit. I’d be remiss not to also mention drummer Chris Salado’s solo performance of “Hierba Mala,” one of the band’s Spanish songs written by Salado himself. While the body may be Thompson’s instrument, the stage is Salado’s playground. In addition to being a killer presence on the drums, he barks lyrics with the ease of someone who’s in it purely for the love of the game. He was still coasting off of a high when I spotted him in the smoking section twenty minutes later.

Come time for the headliner, the room – once sparsely populated by disaffected wallflowers – was more akin to a band called Death fanclub than a festival gig. Safe to say that more than a few people pulled up for Death and Death alone, which tracks given that this was the band’s first time back in Toronto in over a decade. Having started out as a funk trio in 1971, Death is a multi-genre product of its time. Straddling the cusp of classic rock and punk, their sound is more or less dad rock’s grittier, grimier cousin. While they may sound dated to some, the band’s reputation as proto-punk prophets clearly precedes them. Nearly everyone around me was chattering in urgent, hushed tones, as if waiting for Jesus Christ himself to emerge. I mean, …For the Whole World to See (2009, originally recorded in 1975) is nothing short of a seminal punk text so, understandable.

We’re barely through the first chorus of “Keep On Knocking” when I’m nearly taken out by a water bottle whizzing past my ear. I whipped my head around in hopes of catching the culprit, but was met with a much more touching sight; three men holding each other in a sweaty and slightly drunken embrace. Despite their collective inebriation, they sang along like there was nowhere they’d rather be. I overheard one of them proclaim that if he lost his hearing, he was glad this concert was the last thing he’d ever hear. This is what’s unique about a legacy set: when an older band tours, fans don’t show up by happenstance. There’s nothing noncommittal about catching a favourite band for what might be the last time, or what might have been the first. I found myself wondering how many people’s parents showed them Death, and how many of them might have been here with those same parents. A band like Death, whose appeal spans genres and generations, couldn’t overstay their welcome even if they tried. Frankly, any group that can orchestrate a crossgenerational crowdsurf has earned an encore or two (or three). There’s nothing quite like seeing a 20-year old prop up a grey-haired punk so he can stage dive into a pit of Death superfans. It seemed that being collateral damage to a wayward water bottle was a small price to witness this level of dedication.

Upon mentioning the lineup to a friend, they mentioned that it sounded like “what a medieval peasant would go through after contracting a preventable disease.” Whether it be getting spat on, butchering my ankle, or being nearly taken out by shrapnel, I’d also survived many a preventable disease that evening. While my ankles may be sustaining permanent bruising, I’d take any number of water bottles to the face if only to catch another Project Nowhere gig. Maybe next time I’ll just wear my loafers.