HONG KONG FUCK YOU TURN 1720 WAREHOUSE INTO A BLOODBATH OF SOUND AND SWEAT
WORDS AND PHOTOS BY RICHARD VELAZQUEZ
The stage at 1720 Warehouse was primed for something unholy. The air buzzed with tension, and the crowd wasn’t just ready; they were starving for release. I rolled in just before Vomer took the stage, and from their opening note, it was clear the night was about to unravel. Distorted riffs tore through the air, drums cracked like thunder, and that familiar pulse of anticipation hit hard. You could feel something building, heavy and electric, but impossible to name.
Then came Deviated State, and the whole room detonated. They didn’t play; they attacked. Raw, guttural vocals, filthy guitar tones, relentless drums—it was a sonic assault. The stage shook, and the pit came alive. Fans were headbanging, shoving, and clawing their way to the front. When “All Bite No Bark” hit, the entire warehouse screamed it back in unison. That was the turning point. This wasn’t going to be your average night out.
Next up was Spunk, repping Hacienda Heights. By now, the venue was bursting at the seams. You could feel the excitement in your gut—the kind that makes you grin before the first chord even lands. The second they plugged in, the crowd erupted. Bodies were flying, kids were climbing over each other to get to the stage. One finally made it, sprinted up, and launched into the crowd with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen before vanishing into the pit. The set built like a storm. When it ended, the crowd roared “ONE MORE SONG!” until Spunk obliged. Under crimson lights, bodies collided, people dove, piled, and screamed. It was sweaty, loud, and absolutely unforgettable—one of the most fun sets I’ve ever shot.
Then came Desmadre, and 1720 turned into a full-on battleground. The pit was ruthless—people getting thrown, caught, lifted, slammed, and somehow still smiling through it all. Every bit of energy the crowd gave, the band sent back multiplied. It stopped being a performance and became a test of stamina, a shared dare to see how much each person could endure. Desmadre made it clear this wasn’t about watching a show. It was about being part of it.
Finally, the night’s closer: Hong Kong Fuck You, straight from Tijuana, Mexico. The moment they began setting up, the air shifted. The crowd went silent, hearts pounding, eyes locked. The lights dropped. Feedback screamed through the mic, and with one crushing note, the room exploded back to life.
Stage dives from every angle. Beer and water flying. Feedback howling. People shouted until their voices cracked. It wasn’t chaos anymore; it was communion. Everyone was part of something bigger, something wild and beautiful.
If you fell, someone was there to pick you up. If you jumped, someone caught you. Everyone moved together like one living thing.
This wasn’t just noise. It wasn’t just a show. It was released. It was a connection. It was everything live music should be. Loud. Unapologetic. And absolutely unforgettable.
