HILKEN MANCINI AND Maura Jasper bound into the upstairs room at Spontaneous Celebrations, a cultural center in Jamaica Plain. They're flustered and sweating. Two women in exercise gear are waiting on a bench along the wall, chatting. "Ohmygod," gasps Jasper, 35, whose long blond hair is in two pigtails. "I'm so sorry we're late. Our friend lent us this black Jag. We got to Watertown and all of a sudden it just stops." Mancini, 31, whose shock-blond hair is pulled back with a bobby pin, bounds over. "This cop comes and tries to help us move it over to the side," she adds. With Mancini at the wheel, and Jasper and the cop pushing, the Jaguar still wouldn't move. Time was passing, and they were pressed to get the car off the road. "We were, like, 'We have to go, we have to get back to teach our Punk Rock Aerobics class,'" recounts Mancini. The cop shook his head, bewildered and skeptical.
The women seated on the bench coo appreciatively. "Like anyone could make up Punk Rock Aerobics," one says.
BUT THAT'S precisely what these two just did. Mancini, a local rocker in Fuzzy and two other bands, and Jasper, the former assistant director of the now-defunct Gallery Bershad in Somerville, had one of those light-bulb ideas a few months ago. "One day you're sitting around and talking, saying, 'You know, I'd love to do aerobics to punk-rock music,'" Jasper says, explaining the genesis of the class. "We would always dance around in the living room to punk-rock music and, you know, the music would come on, and you'd be drinking a beer, and you'd be like, 'Yeeeeahh,'" Jasper acts out, nodding her head to an imaginary beat. "At first we were talking about it like it was really silly, and then we were like, 'No, we should really do this.'" Within weeks, both found themselves unemployed, and the once "nutty" idea began to seem like an ideal day job.
So Mancini, a former dance student at the Boston Conservatory, went through a rigorous certification process with the Aerobics and Fitness Association of America. They trademarked their name; they registered the Web site (www.punkrockaerobics.com); they enlisted the help of a publicist, Kristen Driscoll, of Midnight Feeding public relations; they scheduled classes at the Middle East in Cambridge and Spontaneous Celebrations in Jamaica Plain; and they got to work putting together mix tapes and choreographing a one-hour workout.
Over the past few months, Mancini and Jasper have used their friends to test pop turns and air-guitar moves in casual prototype classes. Even last weekend, vacationing on the Cape, they hashed out their routine in the living room where they were staying. They've fielded countless interviews from most news organizations in the local media, including the Boston Globe, WBUR's Here and Now, and Boston magazine, which gave the girls a laudatory peg in their "Best of Boston" issue. Driscoll admits that the class is conceived with "tongue slightly in cheek," but before they've even given their first class, Jasper and Mancini are finding people drooling all over them.
TODAY IS Day One of Punk Rock Aerobics, and I show up ready to sweat to the not-so-oldies. The scene downstairs at the Middle East seems like the exact opposite of a cardiovascular-workout room. It's so dim it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I see cases of beer stacked to the ceiling. Red, yellow, and green lights shine from the stage, and a stray cigarette butt missed by the late-night sweep-up and hose-down languishes in the corner. Just 12 hours ago, people were smoking, drinking, and possibly puking in this room. The stale scent of all three lingers. But now, the goal is to get healthy.
Mancini and Jasper are decked out in matching outfits: New Balance sneakers, pompon socks, black skirts over spandex shorts, and slashed T-shirts with buttons, patches, and PUNK ROCK AEROBICS scrawled across them.
Three people show up to class. (Though the turnout is far from impressive, a few days later Jasper and Mancini find themselves overwhelmed with 20 or so attendees at Saturday's more conveniently timed class.) Melissa Green, 39, drove an hour to get here from suburban Groton. Jasper hands her a disclaimer form. "I've never taken aerobics because I've never liked the music," Green explains. "I read about this in the Globe and thought, 'This is something that I can stand.'" She makes a joke about nights spent at the Rat, the famed former rock club in Kenmore Square, and everything seems to slip into place.
Green hands Mancini the $7 class fee. Mancini seems a little stunned. "My first seven dollars," she says, holding it up in wonder. "I guess I should mark this down somewhere."
A few minutes later, the crew assembles, facing the bar. Next to me is Sue Mikes, 24, a Somerville resident with blunt-cut black bangs, a loose navy-blue T-shirt, and baggy shorts. Next to Mikes is PRA publicist Kristen Driscoll, 27, wearing a preppy Urban Outfitters-esque ensemble, her curly brown hair neatly pulled back into a short ponytail. In front of me is Jean Paul Beck, 35, in a loose red tank and shorts. He is one of those friends who helped test moves in the prototype classes, and this is his fourth round of Punk Rock Aerobics.
"Okay, you ready?" shouts Mancini. We nod a little nervously.
Jasper plunks down the play button on a boom box planted on the bar and shuffles back to her spot in the front of the room. As the first few notes of Love Is Lies by the Buzzcocks pump out, Mancini and Jasper slam their arms in the air - the international sign for "rock on." We follow. Yeah, I think - this is punk, all right.
The class includes two 20-minute aerobic segments, or "waves," which are part intricate moves, part playful freestyle. We march in place to start getting our heart rates up. After 20 minutes of cha-cha-chas, arm swinging, V-stepping to Fugazi, and kicking tae-bo style to Bow Wow Wow's I Want Candy, it's time to cool down to Debbie Harry. Beck is impressively with it, as is Driscoll. The two newcomers are picking it up. As for me, well, Punk Rock Aerobics is clearly kicking my ass. I'm far from smooth, flailing and tripping all over myself, but Jasper assures me I shouldn't worry. "This is not the place to feel too cool for school," she says.
Before I know it, the first wave is over. Mancini instructs us to hydrate and offers up cups of Poland Spring. We pick up our weights - two-and-a half-pound cinderblock bricks spray-painted with the letters PRA in green or orange - for the lifting portion of class. It's tough going, but Mancini eggs us on, saying: "You should feel pain, you should suffer like Iggy Pop when he rolled in that glass." Counting down our arm curls, Mancini accidentally skips the number four, and she and Jasper erupt into giggles: "That's why it's punk rock. We can't count." As we finish up, she reminds us to "make sure that your brick doesn't hit your face."
