It’s a Saturday afternoon in April and daylight is shining through the windows at Flying V as Psylo rips through an urgent set. Among the teens and 20-somethings are a few middle-aged folks still ready to throw fists. There are tattoos and piercings, baggy jeans, and dark clothes. An emo aesthetic prevails and two young people have even painted their faces, Joker-style. This is "The Great Midwest 10 for $10."
“It’s our first time here, and it won't be the last time,” singer Mark Idstrom says. “Best fucking venue.”
Flying V started hosting shows last June and has since become a hub for the Twin Cities hardcore music scene. Located at 1312 Broadway in northeast Minneapolis inside what I'm told was a boxing gym connected to an Italian immigrant center during the 1920s, the all-ages venue has spread through word of mouth. Idstrom learned of Flying V from bandmates involved in the hardcore community. Psylo’s bassist, Nicky Steidel, heard of younger musicians practicing at the location after school and has since played the venue with all of his bands: All of God’s Children, Everybody Takes One, Reticent, and Psylo.
Working the ticket booth at "The Great Midwest 10 for $10" show is Jen “Ms. V” VanRiper, the owner of Flying V. “Cooper runs Flying V, I just own it,” she tells me, and points to the person wrapping cables and adjusting amps on the stage. That’s Cooper Broms, the 17-year-old who handles the venue’s operations.
The Substitute Teaching Gig That Started It All
When I sit down with Broms at nearby Pilllar Forum Cafe a few days later, he has bruises on his arms from stage-diving during Psylo’s set. Broms doesn’t have an official title, but let’s call him the venue’s manager. He schedules rehearsal and practice time requests from bands, operates the live sound system, sets up and tears down equipment, monitors instrument inventory, and works with bands and promoters to book shows. He also performs often with his band xSERAPHx.
“In the beginning, it was stressful because I think I went a little over my head,” he says. “I knew that it was going to be a challenge, and I thought I was ready, and I was.”
But how exactly did this all start? “We could be here forever if I tell you the whole story, because it's just such an out of the blue, once in a lifetime occurrence,” he says with a look of disbelief. “Everything just lined up right.”
In October 2023, Broms’ sophomore year, a substitute teacher, VanRiper, began instructing band class at Edison High School in northeast Minneapolis. Broms had recently started a rock cover band with other students; after finding drums, guitars, and Fender bass amps in the school’s storage room, they started practicing after school and during lunch. VanRiper was impressed watching the group perform ‘90s covers like Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” at the school’s biannual concert and wanted to help them acquire quality equipment.
“I grew up in an affluent city, and people had their own quality instruments,” she says. “Teaching at Edison and being more in the city, the kids had instruments a lot of times, but they found them for 40 bucks at a garage sale type of guitar; it needed work.”
Students had pieces to play, but VanRiper knew poor quality could hold them back. Luckily, she came across the resources to help.
“My father had recently passed, and he was not a good guy,” she explains. “So the money that he left me—I did not want to use on myself.”
The catch: Teachers can not give students gifts, per Minneapolis Public Schools policy. VanRiper’s solution was starting a nonprofit. Now she can lend instruments to kids for free through the organization. People need to apply, but she says she’s never denied an application.
As VanRiper, Broms, and other students acquired equipment, they realized they needed somewhere to store it, so they found a building on Facebook Marketplace to lease. The practice space is free for all bands under 18; people over 18 can book time for a fee. Using the building for live shows was Broms’ idea, and VanRiper trusted him to take the lead.
“He just had a big impression on me,” she says. “He had so much drive and so much talent. He just didn't have the physical tool to make things happen.”
Where Hardcore Bands Go to Thrive
One of the promoters Broms works with is Kyle Young, the singer for Out4Blood and an organizer of Snow and Flurry Fest, a Twin Cities hardcore promoter collective. Broms has looked up to Youth since he was 14; his first hardcore show was Out4Blood in someone’s garage. Broms got thrown into the mosh pit, was kicked in the face, and cut his lips open. “I got my ass beat, and I loved it,” he says. He got stitches and couldn’t wait to go back.
“The venue has just been great to work with,” Young says. “It's just very straightforward; show up and do your thing. It's a place that strives to be a safe place in the community for all different kinds of people.” His first show for Flying V included Gnaw, Slut Intent, Spaced, Psylo, and Identity Crisis.
Eliot Dingman, is the vocalist for Identity Crisis, a hardcore band from Sartell, Minnesota, calls Flying V the hotspot for hardcore in Minnesota. He’s known about the venue since its inception—he attended Flying V’s first show last year to see the Kansas City powerviolence band SPINE. At age 18, Dingman and his 16- and 17-year-old bandmates used to turn toward all-ages gigs at Klash, Pilllar Forum, and St. Paul's Caydence Records, but lately the focus has shifted to a new place for youth to rage. Like most hardcore shows, there’s a risk of injury in the pit at Flying V.
“It’s kind of like any contact sport that involves risk to your personal health,” Steidel says. “There's mutual understanding in that space that you're exposing yourself to the risk of injury by participating.”
He explains that it can be challenging for hardcore bands to book shows because venues make money on alcohol sales, and many hardcore communities are straight edge. Flying V is a straight-edge venue—at the cafe, Cooper is wearing a numberless watch with an X in the center, a mark that symbolizes the lifestyle.
“The kids asked for me to make it officially straight edge,” VanRiper says. “I’m like, ‘Well, this is what you guys want, and this is your nonprofit, and let’s do it.’”
Musicians say they see less actions spill over out the pit when substances are not involved. “I think it's awesome that it's a sober venue, because I don't like being around people who are intoxicated at shows,” says Dingman, who prefers a crowd with a level-headed understanding of what is going on. “There's no bullshit,” Idstom says. “The only reason to be there is to witness the music.”
And what does VanRiper think about hardcore?
“I am a classically trained trombonist,” she laughs. “I have a minor in cello, clarinet, and orchestral percussion. And I'm a band teacher—if it's not 200 years old, I probably don't know the song.”
Yet she’s never had a bad experience at Flying V.
“I've had some small concerts, I've had bands that I didn't really like, but nothing has ever been like, ‘Oh, I hate this,’” she says, adding that she enjoys the company. “A weird thing that I found is the harder the metal, the nicer the people. They're just screaming and jumping around and threatening to punch people. And they are just the nicest people you've ever met.”
Looking Ahead
Broms and VanRiper don’t intend for Flying V to be a strictly hardcore venue. “I just want it to be known as 'Flying V music,'” Brom says, noting that anyone who wants to play there is welcome. And there isn’t only rock gear available.
“My intention was to have any kind of ensemble in there—that's why I bought a piano,” VanRiper says. “It’s usually just covered up with blankets in the corner. I was anticipating jazz on up.”
Though the old boxing gym on Broadway has been good to the organizers and fans, there have been a few challenges, and VanRiper is in the process of finding a new location. The building has serious accessibility issues: The only way to enter the venue is by stairs. More than one restroom would also be helpful, and VanRiper would like a separate merch area so people don’t mosh into tables.
Broms speaks about Flying V with a confidence and sincerity that makes it difficult to think that changing locations will change the energy around the project. Musicians see Flying V as something greater than a physical location. It’s a coming of age destination—a place to dance defiantly, to yell unabashedly, to delve into societal frustration and personal turmoil.
“There are a lot of young kids at Flying V,” Idstrom says. “It just makes me happy because you see that the kids are all right. This is the kind of music that they're fucking with right now.”
“The ultimate goal of the venue is just to make music more accessible for kids,” Youth says. “I just hope that they have continued success in their mission, and while also being a pillar of the community, allowing us to have our crazy shows that we have there.”
The first group of young people VanRiper worked with are now juniors and seniors in high school, and she wants to get younger students involved. She aims to have a total of 100 guitars by next February. Flying V receives 30% of ticket sales (with a minimum of $300), and that revenue goes right back into the project.
“I don't take any pay from it,” VanRiper says. “It's totally a passion project for me. Every cent we take in goes right back into either paying rent or buying more toys for more kids.”
When Out4Blood closed the evening at "The Great Midwest 10 for $10" event, Broms joined them onstage with his stealth guitar.
“Kyle was one of the first people to talk to me inside of the scene, and I always wanted to get up there with those guys and play because they're just really important to me,” Broms said from the stage. “That was my first time playing with them. Hopefully it won't be my last.”
