My band played in places yours probably didn't (small, weird places on tour feature series)
Marystown, Newfoundland.

In the middle-south of Newfoundland, there's a little leg of land jutting out into the sea with a burgeoning hardcore scene. Burgeoning means we had to watch something slow and metallic and with keyboards. But it's the Burin Pensinsula, isolation stacked on top of isolation crammed in a corner behind some more isolation. That shit happens. Anyway, who cares? We were stoked. These kids obtained permission for our crappy bands to play in the gazebo outside of town hall. Ambulances and firetrucks, on duty but with not much going on, pulled over to see what was happening. Teenagers moshed from the rafters. There were pile-ups. Dog piles. Overheard: “That was the most fun I've ever had sober.” What more could we ask for? A place to stay? Whatever.
An unfortunate but wacky-fun aspect of playing in Marystown is that although the local townspeople seem to want to encourage these alcohol-free youth events, the general public (as in, the parents everyone lives with) is completely terrified and/or disgusted by the scumbags who make the trip to play these shows and are uncomfortable with having them in their homes or establishments. Before the show, we followed the kid putting on the show in his car and he took us to an unpaved cul-de-sac on a hill overlooking the town WalMart and ate some apples and watermelon he had for us in the trunk of his car. After the show, we had the most respectable-looking members of band/road crew book a motel room for six of us to sneak into because the hotel has a “no-band” policy. (“No skinny jeans, no bandannas, no tattoos, no lip rings.”)
Of course, yes, staying in a motel on tour is not punk, but snowing at the end of May is also not punk, so we had to make some compromises. C'mon, judgers, lay off. It was mitten weather and we slept three to a bed.
After the motel was secured, we were taken to see the town, which was mostly a mall gutted of the normal shops and replaced with the business ventures of now: A call centre that employed a giant chunk of the local young and a bar across the hall with a doorway of vertical blinds. We checked out the bar. Some local men guffawed at me on my way in. The bar tender gestured at me with a poolstick, saying to one of the kids, a regular, I walked in beside, “I needs to see some ID from the little missus.”
He's 18. I'm 25.
I said, “I'm 25!”
“Soes am I.”
“Well.”
“Wells, I looks older than you.”
I stand there, wondering if I'm really being asked to leave a bar for being underage.
She says, “What was on da go there at the gazebo with all youse emos after?”
What do you say to that? I left and went back to the motel to watch C.S.I. with our roadies.