DIE YUPPIE SCUM! at The Handlebar

The flyer features a photo of Patrick Bateman—Christian Bale’s character from American Psycho—with red X’s over his eyes, and is emblazoned with the exclamation, “DIE YUPPIE SCUM!” Aside from the unfortunate Star Wars allusion, the name of the event evokes mystery and allure. But I didn’t allow myself to be taken by some simple shock advertising. Actually I did—that’s exactly what happened—and I was not prepared for the night that awaited me.

Just so everyone is on the same page, a yuppie is someone who is young and successful—perhaps they have a secure, well-paying job—and the implication of the name’s derogatory nature is that the demographic in question is not very well-adjusted. These qualities might be accompanied by a poor sense of style and a self-righteous attitude, all brought on by the individual’s early success. Patrick Bateman is probably one of the most accessible examples of a yuppie, which would explain his appearance on the event’s flyer.

My plans to attend DIE YUPPIE SCUM! actually came to fruition nearly two weeks prior, when my desperate need for human connection drove me to ask a waitress at a local brunch spot if she knew of anything worthwhile to do in the area. To my delight, she informed me that she was in a band and that they would be performing at this very event. A DIY show at a solid venue I was already familiar with? Perfect. Of course, it wasn’t until I saw the flyer that I realized it would be a bit more than just a concert. 

And speaking again of the flyer: now that I’ve attended the event, I can say with confidence that the flyer detailed exactly what would happen that night—graphic violence? Yep. Action? I will concede there was some action. Comedy? I laughed. The only exception was that they had to push back the start time by an hour for some unexplained reason—another case of me arriving twenty-five minutes late in hopes of walking head on into the action, but instead having to sit at the mostly empty bar for a time and wait for the action to come to me. I stroked the old orange cat on the bar who cut me off as I walked in (and whose name unfortunately escapes me), and stared off into space as I drank.

Nearly every person that came up beside me to order from the bar appeared to be not only a local, but a regular as they received by-name greetings from the bartenders, and resumed earlier conversations about life and the sort—you know, typical bartender stuff. DIE YUPPIE SCUM! was for all intents and purposes a variety show, brimming with drama, and chock-full of references to local people and places that were entirely lost on me.

Pictured: Good Real Estate (stay tuned)

At approximately 9:00 PM, a young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit took the single step up to the stage to a raucous applause from the 30 to 40 youths in attendance (there were more people out of frame, I promise). Our unfashionably late host introduced himself as Johnny Palafox, perhaps the only reference I understood (Pensacola’s busy Palafox Street was named “one of the great streets in America” by the American Planning Society, according to visitpensacola.com. But after a quick Google search, it would appear there is no such thing as the American Planning Society. If they meant to attribute this claim to the American Planning Association, I was not able to find any foundation for it—all links lead to a dead end. What a silly thing to lie about, Pensacola! I like to imagine that a local journalist once took a representative from the APA out for a night on the town, who mentioned in passing that Palafox seemed like a great street to grab a bite or something of the like, after which the eager reporter reached into his breast pocket to jam the stop button on his concealed tape recorder—“Gotcha!” he sneered deviously).

ANYWAY—Johnny opened with a series of bad jokes, which I found hilarious in an awkward, juvenile sort of way. These jokes gradually escalated to cracks about mayor DC Reeves (whose first descriptor when Googled is “James J. Reeves’s son,” which is uncanny, considering I am also MY father’s son), and after rattling off two or three of those quips, someone in the audience shined a laser pointer on his forehead, which was followed by a comically earsplitting gunshot sound effect. Johnny Palafox fell to his “death” over the drum set behind him, becoming the first of the yuppie scum to die that night.

The bystanders roared once again, and the wait staff stormed the stage to carry him off. I was a little surprised when they returned to pick up the other instruments and launch into song, but then I realized the first band of the evening had just coordinated outfits that happened to make them look exactly like edgy servers. (That was a joke, okay, I’m not an idiot—I knew they were a band from the very beginning because I obviously recognized the person who had told me about the event in the first place, who actually does happen to be a waitress, but that’s not the point. You’re just going to have to trust that I knew they were a band, and a well-dressed one at that.)

The band is called Mid Evil Times—solid name—and my review prior to seeing them live, which is based on what I heard from Bandcamp, is that they are a great sounding DIY and self-proclaimed new wave band, with one crucial exception: their sound craves a different vocalist. A certain band I went to high school with (who will not be named) suffers from the very same issue, albeit not quite as acutely—they are all talented musicians who are good at their instruments and play well together, but the vocals are poor, heavy, and unfortunately leading.

It’s sad, really, knowing those bands could be so much better if they ditched their singers, but as is often the case in these situations, the frontmen seem to be the primary glue holding the whole ensemble together. I always wonder if the band hears it too, but it’s probably just not that deep: Mid Evil Times brought energy, joy, and clear enthusiasm to be doing what they love, surrounded by their friends at a cool venue. They also sounded fantastic in a live setting, allowing the casual listener (me) to round out any preconceived opinions. If I’m nutshelling, their music is southern charm with a northwestern Florida edge—skillful instrumental navigation behind vocals that simply fall short, despite best intentions.

Following Mid Evil Times’ performance, the next band began setting up the stage under the hot pink lights, a man to my right ordered a Jack and Coke, Talking Heads blared over the bar’s PA system, and I enjoyed a brief moment of clarity—a reminder that life can be far simpler than it often seems. Lackluster performances aside, this event was a pocket of rich culture—one of those one-time things that knew exactly what it was and didn’t bother trying to be anything more. It was pure, unapologetic, and alive—a feeling and an experience impossible to recreate. I am not exactly raving at the quality of the event, just advocating for its authenticity. I glanced out the windows behind the bar to see the first band making their exit around back, lit from behind by the warm glow of cars passing above on Highway 110, and a dialogue started back up from the stage to interrupt my pondering—another yuppie-inspired skit!

Bald man with glasses enjoys bar

This sketch featured a young artist—an NYU graduate—being interviewed at a restaurant in Manhattan, seemingly poking fun at the perceived frivolity of the New York City art scene (at least that was my best guess). With the stage set, a waiter approached their table, and the interviewer ordered “a burger for him, and a Negroni for him and a Negroni for me.” The artist displayed some of his art, of course inspired by “Banksy, and mostly just Banksy.” I couldn’t quite make it out, but it appeared to be some mockery of modern art. I’ll spare any further details and just summarize that the artist ultimately dies (becoming the second yuppie death of the evening) and his security guard ends up strangling the interviewer (third). Then I think the security guard was shot, but I can’t remember for sure (what do I look like, some kind of guy who remembers stuff?). I have no idea what this skit was supposed to say about New York City or society, or anything really, but it was entertaining as hell.

Shortly after that hilarity, the second band of the night took the stage. Good Real Estate hails from Tallahassee, and consists of a guitarist, a bassist, a vocalist, and a backing track so loud I couldn’t hear any of them. One lyric that I could just barely make out says, “Yeah we have Disney+, yeah we’re eating shrimp, you’re not invited.” Okay. I am so grateful that I can’t quite recall anything further lyrically or musically from them. It was just a muddy mess that left me shocked, and their final message was, “buy stuff.” Yes, after that atrocity of a performance, they had the nerve to not ask, but command their audience to buy their merch. Overall, Good Real Estate was absolutely horrible (more like BAD Real Estate, am I right?), but I will at least give them credit for really putting themselves out there—there is no way I would have performed in front of anyone if I made music that bad. They also mentioned about halfway through their set: “we’re a professional group. Go ahead and leave a bad review.” Done.

It was at that point I decided to close my tab and make an early beeline for the door. I’d like to say that Fuck George Bush put on a wild performance, and that the finale was a yuppie massacre, but I can’t—I wasn’t there.

Ultimately, I could not have asked for a better way to spend a solo Friday night. I certainly felt like an outsider that evening, but The Handlebar—although sparsely attended—was alive with a deep sense of community I have not borne witness to in some time.