Not that kind of era…

Published January, 2025
by Easterndaze

Ever since it exploded into public consciousness, the punk subculture has been subject to a discourse that questions its legitimacy, its credibility, and sometimes even its existence. Beyond stylistic limits and posers, the subculture is simultaneously facing expectations of creating a utopia while being dismissed as noisy but powerless infantilism. This entrenchment is a breeding ground for disappointment and conflict, which can unfortunately obstruct and derail any movement in the punk scene, as well as glueing much of the discourse on punk to its starting point, the question of what it is, and what it’s for.
Talking about culture on a theoretical level is something we can—and at times, even should—do. But thankfully, life isn’t just imagined; it unfolds, leaving its marks. And even when it doesn’t, we can still tell its story… and in doing so, it leaves its own trace.

The second part of the book series “Who’s Not Punk…” focuses on the period from 1990 (regime change in Hungary) to 2004 (Hungary joining the European Union), aiming to present who and what was going on in the Hungarian punk scene in that time.

This period is exciting because of its events, not its achievements—more so than the earlier years that are so frequently cited and have since been canonised. This holds true despite this subversive subculture trying to carve out its own space and meaning in a country enroute to democratisation.

The book is formally composed of interviews, monologue-like (mostly brief, autobiographical) recollections and collages that nod to important bands that didn’t provide statements of their own. We pick up the thread from the late 80s, not strictly the 90s, a point in time when the punk subculture had already been taking shape for more than 10 years. The low barrier of entry in terms of musicianship musical entry threshold allows for new bands to emerge constantly, keeping the genre—which is fundamentally fuelled by the fury of the youth—fresh and alive.

On the other hand, the subculture’s narrow framework can easily push out those who aspire to more either musically, spiritually, or intellectually—even beloved bands and figures can fall out of favour if they experiment with their sound or embark on new projects from time to time. And thus, the genre ossifies: together with its formulas, frameworks, sub-genres, unwritten (though some might say, set-in-stone) rules, delusions and misconceptions.

The ideas and motivations of those who have been around for longer and longer evolve, mixing or clashing with the interpretations of newcomers, while simultaneously desiring, defending or simply making use of the independent structures and opportunities at hand. For some, this scene is liberating, aesthetically enthralling, or just plain hilarious—a place where you can rattle and shove things around as you please.

New media appearing in households through (music) TV, punk radio shows and later the internet, then new audio formats such as CDs, later mp3s and the proliferation of DIY methods like fanzines, music reproduction and exchange all have a knock-on effect on the genre.

Self-expression becomes an exercise in style, freedom becomes a possibility. Scenes fracture, separate, disappear or fossilise. Conflict is universal, but arises from prevailing political views, economic models, with teachers or perhaps other teenagers depends on the bands and their audiences.

New genres emerge outside punk in this era, too. More experimental or mainstream sounds successfully divert some of the musicians and their audiences. It’s interesting to note how different age groups, who arrived on the scene at different times and with different motivations, react to electronic music: some move between basement clubs and outdoor raves, some are pulled away from rock by the party scene—others dismissively label everything as “disco”.

Meanwhile, it’s unclear who actually attends punk concerts. Free releases and official gigs initially pull huge crowds, only for attendance to drop to a tenth over time. One of the book’s blind spots is the question of who these people were, why they came, and ultimately, why—and where—they disappeared. One of its most powerful sentences has to do with this, too: on Rupaszov‘s first major disappointment, when only 300 people turned up for a Trottel/Chumbawamba (before the release of their hit track Tubthumping, back in their One Little Indian Records era) concert on a Thursday.

Other defining elements of this era include drugs—tragically claiming the lives of many young people—, the anti-political “better to stay out of this” mindset of party politics, Hungary joining international alliances, and the subtle appearance of religion—mostly as a way to escape drugs.

As Hungary awakens with the regime change, the postmodern world crashes down on it in the guise of freedom, disrupting and overwhelming society. 

By now however, no-one seems to fear that punk poses a threat to the system by now. While some old reflexes persist—controversies sparked by a stray fanzine or a poorly timed festival—these overreactions tend to fizzle out, and rather than facing repression by state forces, punk is now eroded by the numbing promises of the new system.

At this point, some claim that history comes to an end, and there’s nothing left to rebel against. Freedom is here, or rather, a dictatorship of freedom, which might still be worth grumbling about. In reality, everything continues as before; we’re just getting more news about it all, in greater detail and at a faster pace—so much so that this overwhelming flood of information makes people care less and less.

The Yugoslav Wars are mentioned in just 3-4 sentences despite the fact that people were shooting each other, then being bombed in a neighboring country. Similarly, despite the emblem appearing on the book’s cover, there is barely any mention of NATO or the protests surrounding Hungary’s accession, the organising efforts of anarchist movements, or the EU—nor of the market-driven and policy-directed cultural landscape and more specifically, of gig opportunities in cultural halls, pubs and clubs, the role of state or private funding, or how the subculture was perceived by society. The broader context in which Hungarian punk existed at the time barely registers as background noise in the interviewees’ accounts.
Instead, the book is filled with stories about refunded train tickets, waiting for band members, and typical, rowdy nights of young people. Interviews with the most famous bands are all oddly short, and often focus on topics that have no real connection to the era in question.

This sense of timelessness permeates the book. The interviewees focus inward on their personal experiences, giving more space to nostalgia than to actual cultural achievements or events as they dwell on their childhoods and how they found their way to punk—these recollections often fail to relate to the era in question, to the bands themselves, or even to each other.

We learn a lot about the first rehearsals of several bands and the adolescent years of their members, but little about the scene they were part of, the experiences that shaped their motivations, musical tastes and identities—how these influences helped them achieve anything, who they worked with, what they accomplished, and how. 

This dilutes the purpose of the book, with many bands that existed before the ’90s or are still active today discussing topics unrelated to the era, often repeating stories they’ve told dozens of times elsewhere (how they formed, why they chose their name) or ones that are wholly irrelevant—because what part of someone getting extremely drunk, falling over, and laughing about it 30 years later should be interesting to read about?

In response to that, editors and authors can—and have every right to—say that anyone who would write or read a different book should write their own. But it’s astonishing how the Baracka and Shitheads/Snobs chapters barely mention or completely skip over Kamikaze Festival, the NemArt infoshop/record store and label, their DIY clubs (NemArt, Music Factory), or their nationwide tours that brought together various subgenres. Instead, the focus shifts to a Southeast Asian tour (maybe just after 2004) and the punk scene there—undoubtedly an interesting topic, just one that has nothing to do with this particular period of Hungarian punk.

Or they go through the Büdösök–Ápolók–Élettér Elmélet–Lyuhász Lyácint Bt.–Csermanek Lakótelep synth-driven post-punk micro-scene, but in a scattered way—without providing overarching context or connections, the bands just float next to each other, even though they formed a distinct and seemingly coherent alternative in the era’s musical landscape. The hardcore scene, he Oi! wave that emerged and burgeoned at the turn of the ’00s, the scene of joke band names playing uneventful rock music are barely visible either—a whole array of musicians, cities, clubs, and organisers are left out almost entirely.

We’re still given about 570 pages’ worth of stories—packed with images—, but are mostly left to drift aimlessly among the free-flowing anecdotes of reminiscing punks. It feels like being at a crowded concert, meeting a lot of people, but never getting past the “Hey, how’s it going? Alright, nice one!”—level in any conversation. Still, it’s nice to see everyone, too bad for those who didn’t show up.

Of course, the latter is not the fault of the book’s creators: they dedicated plenty of pages to the era’s bands, including the aforementioned collage-like tributes with lyrics and photos. As I understand it, many of these bands were contacted, but they didn’t want to or couldn’t participate in the book.
In other words, what’s included often feels unnecessary, while what’s missing leaves a noticeable gap—yet the book still stretches to nearly 600 pages. A more determined editorial approach and a bit more time might have helped, had they not insisted on publishing the second volume within a year. If the book had been shaped by more than just chronology, if it had a clearer direction, trimming irrelevant parts and pressing for deeper insights—it could have been far more effective.

Instead, we get this paradoxical mix of brilliance and emptiness, a dense yet fragmented collection of narratives that, when read together, feel more disjointed than cohesive. Rather than invoking nostalgia, the book reflects aimless chaos, decline, and a lackluster restart—mirroring, in this sense, life itself.

Of course, readers can investigate, piece things together, and draw their own conclusions—because, as with life, any meaning or takeaway is something we must unearth for ourselves.

We’re left without a clear picture of the scenes, trends, conflicts, and connections—they remain weightless. While there are some interesting—even inspiring—recollections from rural organisers and distributors, they fail to form a cohesive network or an image of club and festival life along with its changes, challenges, and survival strategies.

There’s more discussion about dodging mandatory military service and reducing postage costs with soaping stamps than about who organized concerts in Budapest after or besides Fekete Lyuk. Tilos Rádió gets a page, but beyond its abstract spirit, its connection to punk remains discussed. Meanwhile, there’s no mention at all of the era’s punk radio shows (Kézigránát, Time Bomb, Csipariadó, Páholy), even though many of their creators are featured in the book. Nevertheless, the book does manage to present a fairly solid overview of fanzines, their makers, and their role in the scene.

Maybe that’s exactly how life was in Hungary in the 1990s, nothing really leading to anything, just living that bloody life. One of the book’s painful takeaways is how deeply fragmented Hungarian society became during the socialist years, making it almost incapable of cooperation, integration—for lack of a better word—, or seeing beyond itself, and thus to create or sustain scenes.

A surprising number of bands managed to play abroad at least once, most of them describing it as a powerful experience, yet very few engaged with the ongoing international cultural exchange by taking the initiative to invite foreign bands to Hungary or attempting DIY touring beyond following occasional invites. The recollections of those active in organising feel much more vivid and dynamic, while memories of band members who were more into “being in a band” than the subculture itself often come across as dull and disconnected.

This kind of narrow focus strongly recalls Rozsdatemető, a novel where characters eat their way through the 20th century—through shifting terrors, world wars, regimes, and revolutions—without ever really seeing beyond their own petty intrigues, because no matter what happens, there’s always túrós csusza (Hungarian savoury curd cheese noodle dish made with pasta) next to the harcsapaprikás (Hungarian catfish stew). Similarly, many of the book’s interviewees remain absorbed in the noise of their own distorted guitars, too lost in their micro-environments even when looking back from the present.

A similar sense of rootlessness comes through authentically in the book because that era truly left behind little usable legacy. Even if that’s disheartening to read, this isn’t the book’s fault—it’s just our reality. However, it can also serve as a lesson. Cultural histories like this one are valuable precisely because they allow us to learn from them, to see—comfortably and without risk—what can go wrong and what might actually work. That drug addiction and alcoholism can be fatal; that experimental, almost professional-sounding departures from punk’s roots sometimes lead to dead ends; or that signing to a bigger label doesn’t necessarily take anyone much further than they would have gone otherwise.

Fortunately, the book also makes it clear that those who took organising their own punk scene into their own hands had some degree of success, even if their enthusiasm later waned. But then again, no single person is obligated to dedicate their entire life to independent radical music. It’s more of an opportunity for everyone, even if it’s not a duty for anyone.

Several accounts, particularly from small-town and rural scenes, describe creative ways they cut costs on postage, phone calls, and fanzine printing, how they built connections, or how they made use of abandoned wine cellars, nightclubs run by enthusiastic criminals, or even the grant money of political parties. This is DIY at its core: passion fuelling ingenuity.

This book is the result of major effort and ambition, and based on comments from those involved, there’s plans for a continuation. Meanwhile, a podcast series has emerged—not by the editors, but inspired by the book—a format that might actually fit such a vast and unfiltered amount of information a lot better.

Despite its scattered nature, the book is likely an authentic account of the era, showing that at certain times, there are simply more pressing concerns than ensuring a country has a thriving punk scene… or perhaps things just played out that way because of the people involved.

Either way, it’s worth noting that in 2025, the scene is in a better state than it was during the period covered. 

The main reason I was interested in the sequel in the first place, was because books should be written about the bad times, too. It’s just a shame if they don’t turn out so well.

Originally written by Viktor Vargyai for MMN Mag.

Translated from Hungarian by Gabriella Gal.

This article is brought to you as part of the EM GUIDE project – an initiative dedicated to empowering independent music magazines and strengthen the underground music scene in Europe. Read more about the project at emgui.de.

Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.