By the time The Nihilistics took the stage, Shows in Tompkins Square Park had devolved into a primal swamp of denim, spit, and half-mad dogs barking at the feedback gods. The sun had not dipped below the skyline yet.
They came on like ghosts with switchblades. Ron Rancid—New York’s punk prophet of doom—clutched the mic like it was wired to a bomb. Joe Dread stood to his right, chiseled from noise and hate, his guitar screaming like a banshee locked in a Brooklyn basement since 1979. They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to. The music said it all—loud, fast, and snarling with the kind of conviction you only get from 40+ years of not giving a damn.
They opened with Working Class, a sonic gut-punch to late-stage capitalism and anyone within 100 yards. Then came Welfare for the Rich, a track so blisteringly bitter it peeled the paint off the food truck parked stage-left. There was no pacing. No breathing room. It was like getting jumped in an alley and thanking your assailant afterward for the experience.
The crowd? Frothing lunatics. Ankle-deep in crushed beer cans and anarchy. I saw a guy in a leather vest scream the lyrics to My Dog directly into the face of an actual dog, who howled back in perfect harmony. No Friends turned the pit into a cyclone of elbows and old grievances. Black Sheep dropped like a scud missile—pure, undiluted hardcore fury.
Then, without ceremony, they detonated their set with Kill Yourself, a closer so raw and terminal it felt like the band was dragging the entire audience into a nihilistic void with them—kicking, screaming, smiling.
When it was over, there was no thank you, no goodbye—just feedback, sweat, and the distant echo of a scene that refuses to die. The Nihilistics didn’t perform. They exorcised. They reminded us all why punk isn’t fashion—it’s a scar… 
NextUp: The Undead
#### Note: All pics free for all to use for whatever – no copyright bullshit. If the bands, venues or organisators find something usefull – just drop me a message i send you a download link with the hi res pics.
