Filmmaker Ben Devenezia has two weeks left on the Kickstarter campaign for Where the Kids Still Scream, a raw, ground-level documentary that examines whether punk in New York City still has a pulse—or just a playlist. With cameras already rolling, the doc pushes into the places where basement shows still happen, and the memories that didn’t make it to tape.
The film isn’t about polishing up a scene for museum display. It’s about tension. Between aesthetics and message, between visibility and survival, between screaming to be heard and just screaming to scream. “The commercialization of punk has been a pain point almost since the beginning,” Ben admits, but he’s not here to wave a purist flag. Instead, he’s trying to understand what punk still does in 2025, and whether the ethos that once broke down walls has outlived its venues.
Ben’s own entry into the scene didn’t start with a show flyer—it started with a back alley, a skateboard, and some older kids who didn’t tell him to fuck off. “I tried to ollie while they played some punk band I pretended to know and that was probably the first time I had felt like I was where I was supposed to be.” That feeling—of being accepted without conditions, of being part of something rough but real—threads through the entire project.
The documentary aims to be immersive, not performative.
“We’re shooting with vintage lenses, working mostly handheld, and hosting interviews in true DIY spaces,” he explains. The point isn’t to reenact punk—it’s to match its grit and spirit in real time. He’s not romanticizing the past, but digging into the harder question: what does it even mean to be punk in 2025?
The film tackles three central themes: punk and profit, the shifting ethos of the culture, and the decentralization of the scene since iconic venues disappeared.
“Punk today feels more like something you have to chase. It’s migratory, not rooted.” That might sound like decay to some, but for Ben, it’s more like evolution under pressure. “Punk may not have a permanent home anymore but maybe that’s part of the point. It’s not supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to move.”
It’s not just about bands.
The doc also shines light on the unsung supporters—zine makers, bookers, floor crashers—“the people who create the spaces, buy the tickets, throw on headphones and find inspiration to go out and do something.” They’re the backbone of the culture, and often the ones holding the whole thing together when the noise dies down.
Still, the doc doesn’t pretend that documenting doesn’t alter the thing being documented. “I often find myself more in love with the real-life experience I’m living than with the actual moment I manage to capture.” Ben knows that a camera adds a layer, but he also believes that, when approached with respect and honesty, a frame can still carry a piece of truth.
That same honesty threads through how he interviews, too. “When you approach an interview with honest intentions… people sense it. They drop their armor fast.” He’s not chasing viral moments or set narratives. He’s after something slower and more sincere—an actual conversation.
Where the Kids Still Scream is being funded through Kickstarter, and part of that reality is another tension: using digital platforms to support DIY work. “Posting on social media today feels a lot like slapping a poster on a wall in a high-traffic spot,” Ben says. “You’re just trying to get a few more people to look up, notice, and maybe show up.” It’s the same hustle, just in a different hallway.
When asked what makes him trust someone’s authenticity, Ben doesn’t pretend to have the answer. He’s aware of the risks—of romanticizing, of flattening nuance, of projecting his own ideals onto others. But he also knows that sometimes it’s just about showing up and listening. “If I believe something will continue the conversation in an honest and thought-provoking way, I’ll include it.”
This documentary isn’t trying to tell you what punk is.
It’s asking what it still is, and what it could be. From graffiti in suburbia to mosh pits that double as mutual aid, Ben isn’t handing out answers. He’s following the noise, the questions, and the contradictions.
Read the full interview below for thoughts on the contradictions of punk and platform, the glue that holds the scene together, what’s shifting in 2025, and why chasing fleeting chaos still matters.
Alright, let’s start at the root—what was the first real moment where the NYC punk scene didn’t just feel like something you liked, but something you belonged to? Like you weren’t just watching it—you were in it.
I grew up in a small town in the northeast of England before moving to the U.S. We lived in a small house that backed into an alleyway where the “older kids” would skate, smoke ciggies, and listen to music. I was maybe 10 or 11 at the time and I had just bought my first skateboard and built up the courage to go out there and hangout. They accepted me, or at least they didn’t tell me to fuck off. I tried to ollie while they played some punk band I pretended to know and that was probably the first time I had felt like I was where I was supposed to be.
You’ve got cameras on this thing now, mics, gear, budget talks… but before any of that, when it was just sweat and noise and showing up—what made you wanna document this instead of just keep living in it?
I have always been drawn to telling stories. There is something really special to these environments. Whether it’s graffetting some wall in suburbia, skipping school to skate, or just letting yourself and your mind go in a mosh pit and realizing that the public perception of this “violence” is actually a collective of misfits who protect and love each other.
Part of my drive to document is to understand how the scene has evolved and what it looks like today and just as important, to humanize the experience and shine a light on the relevance of the political and social conversations that have always been part of the culture. I feel like I owe it to the community, and to myself, to make this documentary, to give the outside world a glimpse into these rooms and what they really mean, especially to those who’ve never understood them.
Punk’s always walked this tightrope between myth and moment. Are there any nights, shows, basements, or even random subway conversations that you feel are already lost to time—but still burn in your memory? The stuff you wish the camera had caught, but didn’t?
I’m an avid roadtripper. I’ve driven across the country 5-6 times now, mostly living out of my car. When you live that way – new cities, new people, new scenery every day, you end up meeting some pretty unforgettable characters.
I remember one night walking down Charles Avenue in the Garden District of New Orleans. I ended up sharing a cigarette with a local tattoo shop owner who casually showed me the scars where he’d been shot five times. One thing led to another, and I found myself drunk at his house later that night, playing pool with a bunch of local drug runners, where they were swapping stories about shootouts and other incriminating experiences, all the while laughing like old friends.
I don’t know if moments like that could ever be legally broadcast anywhere but man, I wish I had some kind of recording of that night, and all the others like it. Some memories live better in the mind, but part of me still wishes I could show the world just how real, strange, and human it all was.
This doc doesn’t feel like nostalgia-porn, it’s got questions in it. So let me ask one of those out loud—have you seen the scene change in a way that made you question your place in it?
The commercialization of punk has been a pain point almost since the beginning – the monetization of an aesthetic, culture vultures picking it apart, the dilution and softening of the music and the message.
What feels unique to the last 15 years is how social media and the flattening of distribution have changed the game entirely. The ability to be fully DIY, to record, release, and promote your own music is both beautiful and destructive. On one hand, there are no gatekeepers to stop you from making noise. On the other, without the infrastructure of labels, artists are forced to become marketers, CEOs, influencers, merch designers, and tour managers all at once.
Sure, label services still exist, but as corporate belts tighten and predatory contracts get exposed, more artists are steering clear. Even if you’ve got a crew you trust, even if you’re equipped to wear all the hats, human capacity is limited. And I wonder how much that constant need to focus on everything except the music ends up bleeding into the music itself.
Artists deserve healthcare, housing, and food. They deserve to survive doing what they love. But sometimes it feels like the copy-and-paste mentality of social media cheapens the overall effect, like something vital gets lost in the noise.
How do you make peace with the fact that filming something inherently changes it? That the second you hit record, you’re putting a frame around chaos that doesn’t really want to be tamed?
It’s an interesting dynamic and one I struggle with daily. I often find myself more in love with the real-life experience I’m living than with the actual moment I manage to capture.
My personal philosophy centers around intention and messaging. I believe it’s crucial, both as creators and as consumers, to approach images with a nuanced perspective. A photograph or a frame of video can never fully define or encapsulate the depth of a person, a place, or a moment. It’s just a sliver of reality, a fraction of a second, filtered through the biases, instincts, and emotions of the person behind the lens.
At best, an image can assist in conveying a piece of history or an emotional state. It can act as a window into something larger – a feeling, a struggle, a fleeting truth. But it can never tell the whole story. It’s important to remember that humanity isn’t something that can be fully frozen or explained in a single shot.
The danger lies in forgetting that. In mistaking an image for the full truth. That’s why, whenever I document something, whether it’s a person, a scene, or a culture I try to approach it with humility. To recognize that what I capture is not THE story, but A story. A single thread in a much larger tapestry that deserves respect, care, and a willingness to be explored beyond the frame.
Punk has this thing where everyone’s trying not to look like they’re trying. What’s your approach for getting past the armor—how do you get someone to drop the performative part of being a punk and just talk?
It’s an interesting question that comes down to the art of the interview and the intention of the interviewer.
You see it all over social media: people setting up environments and interview dynamics designed to confirm a narrative they already believe. Instead of doing the work to find the nuance, the real voice inside these environments, they chase the soundbite that fits their preconceptions.
Take Instagram, for example. You’ll see accounts that post clips of Americans who can’t name how many states there are. It’s entertaining, sure but if you had to interview a thousand people just to find the one who says “54,” you’re not accurately representing anything. It’s manipulative. It’s about laughing at someone else’s expense, not about seeking any real truth.
When you approach an interview with honest intentions when you’re genuinely curious and open people sense it. They drop their armor fast. Real conversations happen when there’s real respect.
That’s not to say it all has to be deadly serious. Good journalism can be fast, entertaining, even funny but it still has to be rooted in a desire to actually listen, to ask real questions and let the answers rise naturally, without twisting reality just for clicks.
If you go into a story trying to prove a point you’ve already decided on, you’re not documenting, you’re performing.. It’s important to me that I always approach people and places with respect and care.
It seems like this isn’t just about bands, but about the in-between—the glue holding the scene together. Who are some of those unsung people keeping things alive? Zine makers, door people, bookers, late-night floor crashers?
A large portion of the documentary is dedicated to the people who consume. The ones we don’t often see, hear about, or celebrate, but who ultimately carry the message of social movements forward. Bands are, of course, a crucial part of the scene, but just as important are the people who create the spaces, buy the tickets, throw on headphones and find inspiration to go out and do something.
We are all vital pieces in the ecosystems that make life and culture meaningful. Sure, it’s cool to grab a selfie with your favorite artist, but at the end of the day, it’s your friends and your neighbors who are there to lift you up when you fall. These scenes are living, breathing organisms, self-sustaining networks, and every part, from the biggest headliner to the kid in the back of the room singing along, matters just the same.
I’m curious about the neighborhoods too—do you feel like there are certain pockets of the city that are still fertile ground for something new, or is the heart of the scene something more abstract now? Something you gotta chase between boroughs?
I think the idea of punk having a “home” is a lot more abstract now than it used to be. You can definitely still find pockets – a DIY basement in Bushwick, a warehouse in Ridgewood, a pop-up show under the J line – but is it still centralized? Punk today feels more like something you have to chase. It’s migratory, not rooted.
The closure of iconic venues has had a huge impact, not just physically but psychologically. When places like CBGB or more recently smaller DIY spaces shut down, it feels like the narrative around punk and underground culture loses some of its public legitimacy. Without visible physical spaces, a lot of people assume those movements either died out or were just youthful phases that didn’t mean much.
If cultural and political revolutions only exist online, I think we lose something essential. We need the fuel of real-world interaction, conflict, collaboration, and energy that can’t be curated through an algorithm.
Punk dies without the infrastructure that allows real, messy, imperfect human connection Without physical spaces, the culture risks becoming an aesthetic, just another image to scroll past.
That’s why finding and documenting these remaining spaces, even if they’re fleeting or imperfect, feels so important right now. Punk may not have a permanent home anymore but maybe that’s part of the point. It’s not supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to move.
The doc’s got this raw, analog feeling. Like it wants to smell like beer breath and duct tape. How intentional was that? Did you set out to make something that feels like the scene, not just shows it?
Our intention while filming is to visually capture the sound. The goal is to create an experience where the visuals don’t just accompany the music, they represent it.
We’re shooting with vintage lenses, working mostly handheld, and hosting interviews in true DIY spaces. Attempting to pay homage to the scene and the spirit that defines it. We want the locations, textures, and atmosphere to echo the rawness and authenticity of the genre and the social movements tied to it.
At the same time, we’re aiming to craft a visual experience that feels like a true cinematic piece, something that’s raw but intentional, beautiful without losing its edge. We’re taking risks, pushing ourselves outside traditional filmmaking comfort zones, and embracing the unpredictable moments that come with filming in these environments.
In the end, it’s not just about documenting a scene it’s about creating something that feels alive, layered, honest, and deeply connected to the music, the people, and the culture it comes from.
How do you handle the contradiction of punk and platform? You’re promoting a DIY doc on Kickstarter and socials—has the definition of “DIY” shifted in 2025? Or are we just adapting the tools to the ethos?
I absolutely love this question.
Commercialization and commodification of punk is a major theme throughout the documentary. We’re exploring the dynamics of social media, influencer culture, and the endless fight for eyeballs and ears through online exposure.
How punk is it, really, to do a trending TikTok dance just to gain listenership? Could it actually be punk? adapting to the tools of the day to push a message forward?
Maybe.
But that’s one of the tensions we seek to explore and shed light on throughout the film and you’ll have to watch to see how those dynamics unfold.
Personally, it all still feels rooted in the true DIY spirit. The drive to share the project is about creating something meaningful, something that sparks real conversation. That, to me, is still in the spirit of art.
Posting on social media today feels a lot like slapping a poster on a wall in a high-traffic spot: you’re just trying to get a few more people to look up, notice, and maybe show up. It’s the modern evolution of grassroots promotion.
Of course, there’s always that little voice asking, “Can I monetize this?” And that’s an important conversation inside the artist community but it can’t, and shouldn’t, be the core motivation to create. Especially not here.
Punk has always walked that line – a self-sustaining community that, when it grew bigger than itself, had to fight to stay true to its roots. In a lot of ways, this documentary exists as a question more than an answer: Does modern-day punk still carry the ethos it was born with, or is it time to redefine what punk means in today’s world?
There’s a danger that punk becomes museumified. How do you steer clear of that? What are you doing—consciously or instinctively—to keep this doc alive, not embalmed?
This isn’t a documentary built on nostalgia. While we do feature and have conversations with artists from the early days of the NYC scene, the focus is on how punk has adapted to modern times and whether it still holds any real weight today.
Does punk still have a place in social and political discourse? Does it still speak out against injustice? Or has rebellion been commodified to the point where it’s lost its soul? How does the fight for followers, interactions, and streams fit into the punk ethos? These are the questions the documentary seeks to answer.
At first, I wanted to make a love letter to the genre I adore. But I quickly realized that many others could make a far better movie on that front. I had to be honest with myself, my voice isn’t about maintaining the nostalgia around the genre or the scene. It’s about taking a journalistic approach to uncover what still exists in the spirit of punk, while exploring how it’s evolving to fit modern problems, people, and dynamics.
Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything less punk than holding on to the past and trying to preserve some idealized version of “how things used to be.” Punk was always about breaking what doesn’t work and rebuilding it for yourself all the while flipping off anyone who says you can’t.
Once you watch the documentary, I hope we’ll all walk away with a clearer sense of what it really means to be punk in New York City in 2025.
Let’s talk about 2025. Who hit your radar this year? Any artists, collectives, or small labels you discovered that genuinely gave you that feeling of, oh shit, this is real?
A few times a week, my mind gets blown when I come across a band or an artist collective that truly embodies the human capacity for creation. This week, I’m obsessed with Bodega, a band out of Brooklyn. Their lyrics are raw and unapologetic, while directed at political and social issues without being preachy. They acknowledge the game they’re playing, all while recognizing how dangerous that very game can be.
I try not to get too caught up in the rabbit hole of conflicting feelings between wanting to create meaningful art and wanting to make money. It’s an unproductive mindset that often leads to self-doubt and inaction. But bands like Bodega manage to toe that line really well, creating something powerful while staying aware of the realities of the system they’re operating in.
I’ve also come across this great Instagram page, FN Good Music, that highlights artists of any size if the curator likes them, he gives them a voice. I think local tastemakers deserve to have louder voices in the conversation, especially when we’re up against the endless feedback loops of industry-driven algorithms and streaming platforms that often overshadow true, raw talent.
What’s the last local show you went to where you felt that old-school pit energy, where everything clicked—the crowd, the band, the noise, the unspoken code?
The most recent time I really felt this sentiment and was inspired to write about it was when I saw Jack Kays perform at Irving Plaza. It’s a step above “local,” but the atmosphere felt incredibly special. In the middle of the show, there was a collective moment of silence among a thousand people for those we’ve lost to suicide and drug overdoses and then in the next moment someone’s head is getting shaved on stage, shoes flying off in the pit, and the whole place is alive with chaos.
I was in the pit with my camera, the crowd getting rowdier and rowdier, when out of nowhere someone noticed my camera and said, “That’s a really nice camera, don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
That right there, that moment, is the perfect embodiment of the punk spirit. Yeah, we’re in there fighting for our lives in some sense, but at the end of the day, we’re all in it together. It’s this raw, unspoken protection and camaraderie that so many people overlook. In the chaos, there’s a sense of unity. It’s a mess, but it’s also something that only exists in these spaces, and it’s what makes or made punk so powerful.
What’s your personal barometer for authenticity? Like, when you’re editing footage or hearing someone talk—what makes you think, yeah, this is someone who’s still screaming for the right reasons?
I’m not going to pretend that I’m some great judge of character, able to always differentiate between a sociopath trying to explain their actions and someone who genuinely cares. I have to fight against the urge to seek out people who just agree with me because it feels good and comfortable. The idea that I might interview someone while having the mindset that they are “screaming for the wrong reason” means I’ve failed before I even started. I’m not the arbiter of truth in this space, nor do I think anyone truly is.
But will I highlight someone who I think is just saying things for attention? Probably. Honestly, it’s an impossible question to answer. It reminds me of the antagonist in the film Heretic – even though he couldn’t fully embrace a nuanced position on religion because of his own personal narrative, he still raised an incredibly interesting analogy about corporate marketing tactics and religious outreach. Whether you agree with him, or his motivations, or his truth, sometimes the most important thing is simply having the conversation.
The truth is, I will never intentionally include something just because it fits a personal narrative, nor will I include something solely to be controversial. My goal is to tell a story and seek answers, even if those answers challenge my own beliefs or the direction I thought I was heading in. If I believe something will continue the conversation in an honest and thought-provoking way, I’ll include it.
And on a personal level—do you think this project changed how you show up in the scene? Are you more observer now, or has it made you even more of a participant?
This process has really exposed something that I hope comes through in the film. There’s a broader social epidemic surrounding the commodification of culture. Have the aesthetics of social movements outpaced the messaging and sentiment behind them? This issue goes beyond punk. It’s about what it truly means to be an active participant in 2025. Is it enough to post on social media, wear a certain brand, or make a film? Or is there more we can all be doing, in small ways, to tend to the parts of the garden we can touch?
What I’ve realized is that, at one point in my life, I embodied the voice of defiance. I acted in ways that were anti-authority, I challenged the status quo, and I broke things just to see if I could rebuild them. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve become the authority of my own life. I’ve built the environment around me, and I no longer need to break things to create something new.
Now, I find myself somewhere between participant and observer in the social hierarchy. I’m not entirely sure where I fit. But my true intention is to figure out if this thing I love, this culture, this movement, is still what I knew it was, or if it’s better suited for a new generation of people who feel the same way but express it in a way that resonates more with their reality.
Is this thing alive? Dead? Evolving? Never really existed? Always existed? I’m not sure, but I’m really excited to find out, and I hope you are too.
