There’s something about punk rock and the ocean that just makes sense, both restless, both unpredictable, both louder than they have any right to be. On October 4, Punk in the Park took over Berth 46 at the Port of Los Angeles, turning San Pedro’s waterfront into a two-day celebration of old-school fury, new blood, and everything in between. The smell of beer, sea salt, and sunscreen hung in the air, and from the first chords to the last feedback ring, it felt like Southern California punk had come home.
The Briggs, a local favorite who came out swinging like they had something to prove. Opening with Bored Teenager and Mad Men, the band played with the kind of scrappy intensity that defines L.A. punk at its best. Frontman Joey LaRocca worked the crowd like a veteran rabble-rouser, his voice cutting through the afternoon sun as circle pits started to spin. One Shot Down and Back to Higher Ground got the fists pumping, while their Cock Sparrer cover, Because You’re Young, felt like a love letter to punk’s working-class roots. They closed with This Is L.A., a rallying cry for the city and everyone in it. By the time that last chorus hit, the crowd was shouting it like gospel. It was the perfect way to set the tone for the day: proud, defiant, and unpretentious.
Agent Orange blasted out with the kind of raw intensity that only they can conjure. They didn’t need an extended set; with a handful of familiar songs, they were able to light a fire under the audience. That unmistakable surf-punk riff tore through the midday heat like a buzzsaw, and for a few glorious minutes, it felt like Huntington Beach circa 1980 all over again. Short, sharp, perfect.
Manic Hispanic brought humor, heart, and attitude in equal measure. Between jokes about lowriders and punk rock clichés, they ripped through Paisa, Wasted, and National City, turning their set into a bilingual, beer-fueled block party. Chancla Abuser had the crowd laughing and moshing at the same time, and Teardrop on My Eye somehow managed to sound both ridiculous and sincere, a balance only Manic Hispanic could pull off. Their set was pure joy, proof that parody can still have power when it’s done with love.
Then came Voodoo Glow Skulls, and the energy shifted into overdrive. Horns blared, pits spun, and for the next half hour, the ska-core veterans owned the stage. Shoot the Moon, Fat Randy, and Delinquent Song turned the asphalt into a skanking free-for-all. The crowd’s movement was almost primal, a mix of joy, chaos, and rhythm that pulsed all the way to the food trucks. The Glow Skulls remain one of punk’s great live acts: weird, wild, and completely in their own lane.
Street Dogs took things in a more traditional direction, bringing Boston grit to the California coast. Mike McColgan’s voice, part bark, part sermon, carried through Savin Hill, Punk Rock and Roll, and Back to the World with absolute command. The band’s blue-collar defiance resonated in In Defense of Dorchester and Not Without a Purpose, while Drink Tonight turned into an anthem of camaraderie shouted between sips of beer. When they covered Sham 69’s Borstal Breakout, the pit exploded. Street Dogs are the sound of work boots and bruised knuckles, and San Pedro welcomed them like family.
About half way through the day, The Adolescents took to the stage like a spark to dry tinder. Tony Reflex might have a few more miles on him, but his voice still cuts like it did back in the day. Songs like Brats in Battalions, Rip It Up, and 5150 or Fight reminded everyone why this band helped define the sound that built Orange County punk. When they hit Amoeba and Kids of the Black Hole, the crowd lost it, voices shouting every word, arms in the air, an amazing combination of warmth and chaos. It was loud, messy, and perfect.
Next up, Face to Face kept things rolling with their trademark mix of melody and grit. Trever Keith sounded great, leading the crowd through No Way Out but Through, A-OK, and Walk the Walk with a mix of energy and humility that felt genuine. By the time they closed with Disconnected, the place was a sing-along in full swing, that chorus echoing across the port as if it had been waiting for this exact spot all along. Between songs, Keith cracked jokes, clearly having a blast. Punk might grow older, but it doesn’t have to grow up.
Stiff Little Fingers brought a dose of history and heart. Jake Burns and company tore through Suspect Device, Nobody’s Hero, and Alternative Ulster with the kind of conviction that makes their songs feel as urgent now as they did in the late ‘70s. Their cover of The Specials’ Doesn’t Make It Alright landed especially hard, a reminder that punk has always been about more than just noise. It’s about empathy, resistance, and the will to stay human in a world that keeps trying to grind you down. You could feel that truth ripple through the crowd, heads nodding in rhythm and recognition.
As the sun started to dip, Pennywise stormed the stage like they owned the place, and honestly, they kind of do. The Hermosa Beach heroes came out swinging with Fight Till You Die and Rules, feeding off the crowd’s energy from the first note. The pits opened up, beer cans flew, and everyone from teenagers to gray-haired vets was bouncing in rhythm. The covers in their set added a loose, party vibe, NOFX’s Bob, Sublime’s Same in the End (with Jakob Nowell joining in), and Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie from Black Flag. But the heart of the show came in the homegrown anthems: Fuck Authority, Society, and of course Bro Hymn. That last one hit like a tidal wave, arms around shoulders, people shouting every line, the kind of moment that makes all the sweat and bruises worth it.
Then came Bad Religion, closing the night with surgical precision and the kind of authority only decades of consistency can earn. Opening with Recipe for Hate, they wasted no time diving into a set that felt like both a history lesson and a warning. You Are (the Government), Candidate, No Control, and I Want to Conquer the World all landed with a relevance that’s hard to ignore. Greg Graffin, calm but commanding, led the crowd through each chorus like a choir of the disillusioned. The harmonies were still sharp, the guitars crisp, and the lyrics, as always, terrifyingly prophetic.
Mid-set, New Dark Ages and True North proved that Bad Religion’s modern catalog holds up just as well as their classics. And when they hit 21st Century (Digital Boy), the place erupted, a mix of joy, rage, and recognition. They closed with Sorrow and American Jesus, leaving the crowd sweaty, hoarse, and weirdly uplifted. For a band that’s been dissecting the world’s decay for forty years, they still make you believe in the possibility of clarity through noise.
But Punk in the Park wasn’t just about the headliners. Between sets, the festival had that unmistakable DIY community energy, friends catching up at the vinyl booths, kids discovering bands their parents grew up on, craft beer flowing from every direction. You’d walk past the Punk Rock Swap Meet and hear snippets of conversations about everything from vintage T.S.O.L. shirts to new underground bands. It felt alive, not corporate, the way punk festivals are supposed to feel.
The atmosphere stayed friendly and feral at once, pits spinning, people helping each other up, and everyone united by that strange punk mixture of aggression and belonging. The sound of laughter, distortion, and the Pacific crashing in the background blended into something that felt bigger than nostalgia. This wasn’t just about remembering; it was about carrying it forward.
By the end of the night, as the amps cooled and people drifted towards the many parking lots, you could feel the exhaustion and joy in equal measure. Punk in the Park didn’t just bring back the legends; it reminded everyone why this scene endures. The music still matters. The words still hit. And the people who show up, sunburned and smiling, are proof that punk isn’t a relic. It’s a heartbeat that refuses to fade.
In a world that keeps trying to polish and package everything, Punk in the Park San Pedro stood proud in its grit, loud, unfiltered, and alive as ever.
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