By the time The Undead took the stage, I was at least three tallboys deep into a vicious cycle of deli-run debauchery, my bloodstream running 40% alcohol, 60% raw adrenaline. The sun had no business still being up. The park was a war zone—moist, mad, and vibrating with that strange electric pulse that only comes when the old gods of punk come crawling out of their crypts.
And The Undead—hell, they were the crypt of the Shows in Tompkins Square Park. Bobby Steele, the phantom shredder himself, stepped up to the mic looking like a man who’s seen too much and survived it out of spite. He founded this beast back in 1980 after parting ways with the Misfits, and here he was, four decades later, still louder and meaner than a car crash in a graveyard.
They opened with Desire, a slow burn of menace and melody that crept under your skin like black mold in a tenement bathroom. The East Village in its purest, rotted form. Hollywood followed, a sleazy blast of sneer and swagger that had people moshing with one hand and filming with the other, like they couldn’t decide whether to fight or document the apocalypse.
Diana Steele—guitar, vocals, keys—added a spectral energy to the chaos, part banshee, part razorblade. And Joe Stoker on drums hammered out rhythms like a man trying to crack open hell itself. The pit swirled around them like a bloodstained carousel, bodies flying, dogs barking, one guy in a Misfits shirt losing his shoe, his mind, and probably his wallet.
They tore through Behave, Destructed, and Undead like a chainsaw through wet cardboard, the crowd howling every word like it was gospel carved into their ribcages. Bobby didn’t speak much—he wailed. He screeched. He grinned like a corpse with unfinished business.
Their closer, 84, hit like a tombstone to the teeth. I don’t know what year I thought it was when it ended. Time was a blur, reality a suggestion. I was soaked in beer, sweat, and possibly someone else’s blood. None of it mattered. We were alive, dammit. Or at least Undead.
The park was packed with punks, weirdos, maniacs, and legends. The organizers? Saints in crust-punk clothing. The deli across the street? A temple of survival. I made so many runs I think I transcended space-time somewhere around can #7.
Final verdict: 10/10. Would get possessed again…😘😘😎👊