How Punk Rock Failed Me, Part One
No matter how you define “punk rock,” one thing is for certain: the medium is (at least) as old as I am.
I’m not the slightest bit squeamish about my age, so here’s another giveaway. When I was in high school, “indie rock” — a term which has long since become meaningless — equaled independent or alternative music. Music which was eventually co-opted by major labels for repackaging, and force fed back to us as “grunge.”
The timing of “grunge” coincided with a mass interest in punk’s roots. See some works by Greil Marcus, a man with terrific and original ideas but whose unfortunate lofty writing style mitigates the relevance of much of what he has to say. In the 90s, many last-gasp Gen-Xers professed to love their punk. (The bulk of whom went on to become hipsters and yuppies, naturally.)
I can’t listen to Nirvana these days. It was never my favorite then, and it sure as fuck doesn’t stand up now. If Cobain hadn’t killed himself, Nirvana would have remained the cultural flash in the pan it was meant to be. Do you know anyone who still listens to Pearl Jam? Really? (Which, incidentally, was always a much better band.)
In New York, punk rock is considered, overall, an aesthetic. It’s the music, sure. But it’s also an “attitude,” and purists would have raucous debates with you about punk rock’s origins.
“Punk rock: the Sex Pistols. The Clash.” “No way, man! CBGB’s! That pussy Malcolm McLaren nicked the New York Dolls’ sound and Richard Hell’s look.” “They stole their shit from Detroit! MC5, the Stooges, hell you better believe it, Iggy Pop!”
Et cetera. Ad nauseum. Yeah. And I used to live for those debates.
I was a misfit. I bought the whole rigmarole: I was supposed to enjoy what misfits enjoyed. Plus I had the added bonus of getting to watch it all disappear just as I was arriving, which made it all just so poignant. A counter-cultural death rattle! Right here in plain view! Tatty (and affordable) New York goes up in smoke to make way for soulless gentrification. What else is a young outsider to do but rally “Punks not dead!” at the top of her lungs, making sure all and sundry can hear the missing apostrophe in the battle cry.
Oh, I was a good little soldier, all right.
To Be Continued.
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