Local Scene, Legendary Band: FEAR
Live at the Broom Factory, Tuesday January 20th, 2026
Life tip: when the world is garbage, see live punk shows.
Ever since 2020… when time stopped working properly and we all fell headfirst into a societal vortex… the world has been weird. Bad weird. Like, “did someone replace reality with a low-budget indie horror film?” weird.
Times have been tough. Bleak, even. And when times are tough, the only reasonable response is loud, fast punk music played by people who look like they’ve survived things. I’m fairly certain that’s an ancient proverb. Or at least it should be.
So on January 20, while January continued doing what it does best (being cold, dark, and emotionally abusive), we found ourselves at the Broom Factory for a night that felt like a small but essential act of rebellion. Not one, not two, but three killer punk bands… hometown favourites The Beta 58’s, London’s Mvll Crimes, and punk legends FEAR… reminding us why the local scene still matters.
Because in a world that’s gone increasingly bananas, there’s something grounding about standing in a room with humans who still show up, still make noise, and still believe that live music can actually punch existential dread in the face.
It was untamed, rowdy, and deeply cathartic… the exact dopamine blast required to survive another week of winter without screaming into the void. (Or at least screaming slightly less.)
Before the show started, the first of several perfect local-scene moments played out. One concertgoer spotted Gary and made a beeline to say hello, thanking him for letting her know about the show when she’d come into the record store. Scenes don’t survive on algorithms, they survive because humans still talk to each other, tip each other off, and actually show up. Wild, I know.
The Beta 58’s wasted no time getting the room moving. Songs with teeth. Cheeky stage chatter. Pure mischief. During their set, they gave a shout-out to someone standing directly behind me… my former roommate, who I hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. I’d suspected it might be him, but I wasn’t about to confidently tap a stranger and be wrong. Once his name hit the mic, I spun around, nearly creating a beer geyser, and yelled: “WELL, I’LL BE DAMNED, IT IS YOU!”
After the show, I caught up with him and his brother, (someone I also go way back with) and asked if he was still in a band.
“Yes,” he said. “We just played.”
”No way,” I replied, delighted and several beers past observant.
”It’s okay,” he cracked a grin and opened his jacket like a magician to reveal a shirt that read: I PLAY IN THE BETA 58’s.
”That’s why I wear this!”
We laughed, then took a moment to appreciate the passage of time and the audacity of our continued existence.
The second band that played, Mvll Crimes, absolutely stole me. I laughed out loud multiple times… at lyrics, at banter, at the sheer confidence of it all. Big Amyl and the Sniffers energy, but entirely their own. I went from zero knowledge of the band to full-on obsessive fan in the span of a single set. At one point, they toyed with the idea of calling themselves “The Alpha 59’s.” A sly nod to The Beta 58’s, or a math lesson I failed in high school. Either way, I was entertained. They also have a song called “Limp Bizkit 4 Evv",” with lyrics that feel deeply resonant with record store life. I met the lead singer while buying merch… cool as hell, the kind of front-person who makes you want to see a band again immediately.
Then there was FEAR.
From the first chord, it was clear this was not a polite “oh hey, remember us?” tour stop. They came out fast and aggressive… multiple woah, these guys are still killing it moments.
It didn’t feel like a history lesson; it felt present. Loud. Confrontational. Alive. (They called us “patriotic Americans,” keeping up their long-standing beef with geography.) The lyrics didn’t feel dated, they were a punk-sized slap to your frontal lobe: “Reality check, dummy. Problems are eternal.”
Watching FEAR now felt less like watching survivors and more like watching proof of concept: punk doesn’t mellow with age. They weren’t there to relive the past… they were there to rip through it, loud and unapologetic, reminding everyone in the room why this music still matters.
There was something oddly comforting about that. In a winter that’s already been long and a world that feels increasingly unhinged, FEAR sounded like controlled chaos… the good kind. The kind that shakes something loose instead of piling it on.
The crowd was electric: old punks, baby punks, and everyone in between. I’ve been in wilder pits, sure, but I was happy to stand back and watch the younger crowd throw themselves into it (after making a personal vow to wake up functional). Something deeply satisfying about realizing the music didn’t stop with me… even as I spent years accidentally ghosting punk shows for bedtime routines and panic attacks… it just keeps going, like an anarchic, sweaty relay race.
By the end of the night, it struck me that this crowd felt different than ones I’ve been in for a while… in the best way. Familiar. Comforting. Like being briefly dropped back into my youth, standing in rooms like this on cold nights like this, where live music felt essential and sanity optional.
And maybe it still is. Because on a freezing Tuesday night, when the real punks showed up anyway, it felt good to remember that some things don’t fade… they just wait for you to come back.
Civilization may fail, but the pit remains.
Salute to everyone who shows up, jumps in, or just watches from the edge while pretending it’s fine.
And finally, because I refuse to stop talking about the cold until spring arrives…
Cheers to FEAR for leaving a reasonable climate to come scream at us in this deeply inhospitable one.
Related albums we’ve got in the shop right now:
Punk Lives Here
Our punk section is it’s own kind of pit: rowdy, unpredictable, and entirely worth diving into. Sharp riffs, sweaty energy (the safe kind), and enough attitude to keep your headphones honest… consider it your warm-up for the next time the floor gets chaotic.
More from the night:
