Hardcore wasn't my first musical love, but it's where I found my home and identity in the late '80s and early '90s. In those days, I proudly drew Xs on my hands, pulled up the hood on my Champion sweatshirt, put Judge and Gorilla Biscuits stickers on my car, and danced through every seven-band bill in the Midwest. But that was a long time ago. The current narrative is that hardcore is having a moment as Turnstile and Knocked Loose bring new attention to the genre. And as hardcore kids are required to do, they all opine on the implications of that – hopefully while pacing menacingly across the stage and clutching a microphone at an all-ages gig, but more often from behind a keyboard. Sometimes it's an invective aimed at gatekeepers who refuse to admit new faces into the scene, sometimes it's aimed at new faces who don't follow established unwritten rules. I heard one frontman explain that listening to hardcore wasn't hardcore, and that only dancing in the pit was truly hardcore. I'll confess that I don't know what hardcore is anymore – I don't listen to the genre much, I don't keep up with new bands very well unless they're local, you won't catch me (I hope!) in the pit, but you might spot me in the wings with my camera. You may not be able to distinguish me from the half-dozen hate5six-inspired photographers determined to capture every flex, every spin kick, and every stage dive. But if it's a reunion show for a local legend, you can bet that I'm in there somewhere.

The reunion began with Conflicts. The Kansas City quintet has just returned to action after five or so years of inactivity. Somehow, I missed the gigs and albums associated with its first run. I guess I'm even less informed about my own scene than I thought. The band is fronted by vocalist Nigel Williams. He fits the stereotypes: working the crowd, delivering speeches about unity, feeling the energy, spitting his lyrics, and stomping about the stage. Around him are guitarists John Tennal and Joshua Tandy, bassist Lucas Dills, and drummer Tanner Baze. The band's half-hour set had the breakdowns and chugging guitars you'd expect from any hardcore act. It also had some metallic horsy noises from Tandy and pulsing rhythms that added metalcore flavorings. After three songs, I slipped my spot at the front of the stage and retreated to the balcony. Definitely not hardcore of me, but it was a fine vantage spot to watch cartwheels in the pit, a stage diver or two, and plenty of flailing arms. I look forward to catching the now-active Conflicts again, listening for the nuances it brings, and reveling in its passion.

Spine followed twenty minutes later. Is the band big? It seems big. It seems like it has been the biggest hardcore thing in Kansas City for a long time. The quartet is led by Antonio Marquez. It was his birthday, and I suspect he's spent a third of his life in this band. He paced and strained shouting into his microphone, and provided several inspirational soliloquies including one professing his admiration for the headliner. He also bounced and danced. Spine's sound draws more from my era of hardcore – the punk-infused youth crew era. Lone guitarist Alex Tunks still chugged with crunchy palm mutes, but he also added chaotic explosions. Rhythm section Max Vantilburg (bass) and Dillon Bendetti (drums) were pummeling and unrelenting. The foursome plays short songs at a lightning pace, seldom establishing the grooves that came with metalcore and never left. Nearing the end of the band's twenty-five-minute set, Marquez announced that there were three more songs, adding this meant only "about a minute" more. Before that minute was up, several more stage divers launched themselves over the crowd abutting the stage, and into the open pit patrolled by dancers with fists of fury. I caught a few of those punches earlier in the set before I again moved to the balcony. I know, you can take my hardcore card. Thankfully Marquez and Spine are great ambassadors for Kansas City hardcore and won't care if I'm still credentialed – they welcome everyone new and old into the scene.

Several weeks ago, I wrote about a different reunion of a hugely influential local band happening at the sold-out RecordBar. In that article, I explained how post-hardcore act Boys Life was influential in my move to Kansas City, but how I arrived weeks after its final show. My relationship with headliners Coalesce was different. The group started in 1994 and was still going strong when I landed in 1997. I saw the band frequently until it broke up (one of its many times) in 1999. Back then, despite being locals, every Coalesce show was treated like an event, and everyone showed up. I'll confess that I was never really a fan, and yet I tried to be at every show. This night was no different. I spied the old heads from those gigs in the '90s standing alongside younger locals aware only of the act's legacy. I also met a number of rabid fans who had driven or flown great distances to be at this show. It was the first announced reunion gig in a dozen years and anticipation was high. So were expectations.

Coalesce announced its return with a chaotic hardcore number complicated by shifting time signatures and tempos. I didn't recognize the song, but I knew it as the sound that birthed both metalcore and mathcore. For the first two numbers vocalist Sean Ingram stood at the edge of the stage clutching his microphone with both hands, screaming himself red, and scowling. It was intense. Guitarist and co-founder Jes Steineger came forward as well, wielding his instrument inches from the wall of fans that lined the stage. When his guitar dropped, his hands danced mudras reminding the audience of the act's Krishnacore roots. Bassist Nate Ellis and (new) drummer Jeff Gensterblum worked in lockstep, carrying the foursome through the band's convoluted art. There was still some chugging guitar, and still some established grooves, but breakdowns were rare. Song structures, however, did break down. One moment Gensterblum would be pounding away on the deep floor toms of his big kit, as if expelling some demon from the band's collective heart, the next he'd lead his cohorts through a sparse and perplexing passage that broke all the rules. These changes also kept the sound engineer on their toes in an effort to keep Ingram in the mix whether he was screaming above the audience, whispering from the stage floor, or shouting into a megaphone. A cover of Black Sabbath's "Supernaut" suffered from lost vocals, though Steineger helpfully nailed the iconic riff.

Despite the charged audience in the sold-out room, there were few dancers. Maybe the band's take on the genre is too unpredictable for that. Instead, most fans merely nodded to the downbeats and shook their heads at the complex changes they knew by heart. Plenty shouted along with Ingram, bolstering a voice that may not have retained the freak-of-nature shredded croak it once had. But the band wanted more, calling out to the audience, "Just because you're old, it doesn't mean you should dance like you're old." Indeed, the crowd didn't create the violent and chaotic scene that was sometimes part of the band's previous runs. Is it possible then that no one at the show was hardcore? Again, I don't know the current rules, but I'm sure hardcore is in my blood, and I suspect I'll just keep showing up with my camera, doing my little write-ups, and losing myself in the breakdowns until I'm crowd killed into dust.