Last time we saw The Casualties in Miami, the circle pit opened up wider than Bicentennial Park. It spread from Biscayne Bay to the Metrorail and swallowed up everything from manatees to high-school girls, giant tattooed heshers, spike and leather punks, hardcore kids, metal mamas, stoner crusties, skateboard hooligans, OG rockers, chola pinups, and tons of normal fast, hard, loud music fans.
When someone fell, they got picked up. When someone pushed, they got pushed back. Spin kicks flew like Ninja Scrolls, rolling dives took bodies down like bowling pins, and everybody had a smile on their face. Even The Casualties' trademark proud-of-ugly sneers couldn't disguise their revelry in this moment of abandon.
Ever since starting up 22 years ago in New York City, these street stalkers have lived and breathed punk rock harder than an emphysema patient on an oxygen tank. They've put out more music than the censors could burn in a lifetime. They've played more shows than there are countries in the world. They've kept the spirit of the Ramones alive, all with a distinct British edge and endless gobs of aggression.
The world says thanks for nuthin', ya lousy punks.