The sky blue 1965 Ford Econoline Supervan cruised into the inky murk of a 1983 Montana night as we, the band I was in, made our way across America. The mission? To play hardcore for huddled masses, specifically, the few hundred people nationwide tuned into the loud, fast mechanics of music that sounded just as pissed off as we were. The music we played and the music we listened to often exploded from a 1-2-3-4 drum-stick click into two-to-three minute paeans to all kinds of Reagan-era anomie.