Punk style

The front door of the rundown rental house in southeast Minneapolis has no doorknob. The roof leaks, there are bats in the attic and asbestos in the basement, according to the six young musicians who live there. But they're not complaining to the landlord. He leaves them alone. And they want to keep it that way. "We're trying to stay under the radar," said Seth Rosetter, a University of Minnesota student who plays guitar in two bands, Sarah Johnson and Voyager. It's a mutually beneficial relationship: The landlord doesn't have to fix up the place; they're free to spray paint on the walls and let beer bottles and dirty dishes pile up while they jam together and host shows featuring other bands in the cave-like basement, which is hung with rugs in an attempt at soundproofing.

"We want people to come," Rosetter said. "But it's not a legally sanctioned venue."

It's a punk house -- a grungy home, practice space and performance stage all rolled into one, where like-minded musicians can pool their creative and financial resources.

Cash-strapped artists have long teamed up to form funky households, from the 19th-century bohemians in their European attics to the 1960s hippies and their crash pads.

Today's punk houses, the latest incarnation, are a natural extension of punk music's evolution, according to Mark Nelson, a volunteer at Extreme Noise, a punk record co-op in Minneapolis.

"Twenty years ago, most shows were at First Avenue or Seventh Street Entry," he recalled. "Then it went slightly underground. Punk wasn't cool for the longest time." Not welcome in mainstream venues, punk bands moved to basement shows. "A big thing in punk is DIY [do-it-yourself]," Nelson said. "A lot of it came out of that."

Documenting ephemera

Now in the HGTV era, with a market niche for every demographic and decor style, punk living has moved from the underground to the coffeetable via a new book: "Punk House: Interiors in Anarchy" by Vermont photographer Abby Banks.

Some have vilified Banks as a "sell-out" for putting punk homes in the spotlight. But the book is her attempt to celebrate their spirit of self-expression, she said. "These are really cool people, with positive, crazy-fast energy."

She got the idea for "Punk House" while hanging out at a particularly memorable house in California, she said. "I started thinking, 'Wow, it's really important to document these places.' They're ephemeral. It's rare for one to be around for more than a couple of years."

Indeed, the four Minneapolis punk houses featured in her book all appear to have been demolished or disbanded since she photographed them in 2004. But others have sprung up to take their place.

How many is anyone's guess. While punk-house residents often promote their shows and their venues in a low-key way, on Web forums and homemade fliers, most prefer to stay under the public radar, the better to avoid police and landlord attention.

"You can get evicted if you're not careful who finds out," said Stef Alexander, known in local music circles as P.O.S. from the hip-hop group Doomtree, who lived with his bandmates in a Minneapolis punk house several years ago. He still lives with one bandmate, but now it's in a duplex that he describes as "an artsy little co-op" rather than a punk house.

"We grew out of having people in our house to play shows. You get sick of it as you get older," Alexander said. "We're keeping our place a lot cleaner these days."

His bandmate and former housemate Dessa Darling has fond memories of the Doomtree house and all-night recording sessions in its basement studio. "It was Ground Zero for everything social and musical," she recalled. The stairs were littered with cigarette butts and beer cans, there was a second-story closet with a slide into the kitchen, and a snake, lost by a previous tenant, slithered in the ceilings.

Life in the Doomtree house was "pretty raucous, but a great way to make music," she said. "Sometimes I miss it. But in the midst of it, I missed bedsheets."

Not all punk houses are messy and squalid, Banks said. "Some are very organized."

But "mess" doesn't begin to describe the house shared by the six musicians. It had been vacant for several months before they moved in last summer. "It wasn't clean," one housemate noted. "And we didn't clean it."

The house is slated for demolition later this year to make room for a redevelopment project. In the meantime, the musicians avoid the cost and hassle of renting a separate practice space.

"Here we just walk downstairs -- and throw giant parties every other weekend," said Tyler Peterson, Rosetter's bandmate in Sarah Johnson. Their basement shows provide a venue for "experimental bands that are too weird for bars," Peterson said. "The people who couldn't play anyplace else play here."

Sharing 'punk ideals'

Laura Larson, who shares a Minneapolis punk house with four other bandmates, plays bass and guitar in two bands. One of them, Baby Guts, has a wide enough audience to play bar shows, while the other, Kitten Forever, plays primarily "punk spaces," including private basements.

In addition to their music, Larson and her bandmates share "punk ideals," which she defines as a belief that "You can do anything. You shouldn't be hindered by someone telling you you can't write the music you like or put on shows in the basement. It's a sense of freedom."

They also share a strong feminist viewpoint, she said. "We're really big on that, that girls can be in bands, write their own songs and put out their own music. Some punk houses are more male-centered, but we try to provide a safe, comfortable environment for everyone."

In the summer, Larson and her housemates host shows three or four times a month, she said. They've attempted to soundproof the basement. "We have pillows stuffed all over and foam on the walls." Still, there have been a few police visits prompted by noise complaints.

As for the landlord, "I think he knows," Larson said. "But he doesn't bother us, and we don't bother him."

Kim Palmer • 612-673-4784