It was a goddamn Tuesday night in Münster. The kind of night where the rain doesn’t just fall—it hammers down like the wrath of an old, forgotten deity who’s pissed off at the world. RARE GUITAR was buzzing, its usual blend of beer and stringed magic in the air, but tonight, it felt different. Something grimier, louder. You could smell it, like a shot of whiskey about to spill over the edge of the glass.
@Generation Exit ( https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100086576017558 ) was on the bill, straight out of Austin, Texas. A Frankenstein’s monster of former punks from Sniper66, Born To Lose, and Riddlin’ Kids. Street punk? You’re damn right. It wasn’t just street punk, though—it was street punk after a few too many beers, wrapped in a leather jacket that had seen more fistfights than it cared to remember.
The stage, wedged between racks of vintage Gibsons and the clink of bottles, was about to catch fire. And not metaphorically. These guys didn’t mess around.
Chris, the singer, had the presence of a mad preacher—half shout, half sermon. You could see it in his eyes, like he was trying to fight off demons only he could see. Clint, on bass, was all muscle and menace, a low-end rumble that you felt in your spine. And April? Jesus Christ, she was a machine on drums. No human could beat skins like that unless they were possessed, and I was halfway convinced she was.
They opened with „Wax Wings“, a track that felt like being kicked in the chest by a steel-toed boot. Chris’ voice was raw, jagged like broken glass, and it bled over the crowd, who didn’t seem to mind getting cut up a little. Then they ripped into „Pull The River“—heavy, dark, like some lost road anthem you’d hear from a car barreling down a desert highway at 90 mph.
I’d never had so much fun snapping shots in front of a stage. Not this close, not this chaotic. Each shot felt like a freeze-frame in a war zone—flashes of leather, sweat, and a relentless, pounding rhythm. The floor was shaking, the crowd was howling, and somewhere in the back, I swear someone was trying to surf on top of a speaker.
By the time they hit „Time“, the place was in full riot mode. The rain outside didn’t matter—inside was a storm of its own. „The Barstool“ was a tribute to all the lost souls who had ever found salvation in a pint glass. It was dirty, it was raw, and it was exactly what the night needed.
They closed with much wanted encore, which wasn’t a serenade —it was more of a final battle cry. Chris was practically foaming at the mouth by then, while Clint’s bass threatened to crack the very foundation of Rare Guitar. April? Well, she was still there, pounding away like she’d just been given the devil’s own drumsticks.
When it was over, it wasn’t just a show—it was survival. You walked out into the rain, soaked from the inside out, knowing damn well that Generation Exit had ripped something loose inside of you. Something primal 
