781.66 Rock music

Man, I am so late posting this piece, from my cyber friend Nathan, who sends me cool CDs and stuff. Nathan, sorry it took so long and thanks for your patience!

Ok, punk, yes, I was a punk. At the time you wouldn’t look at me twice. I didn’t have a leather jacket with punk band logos painted all over it, I didn’t have a Mohawk or shaved head; I did sport a rat-tail for a few years, but I didn’t wear anything or do anything “extraordinary” to make people look and identify me with the punk scene. This was high school, 1983; I walked the halls with hundreds of my peers, yet I felt so out of place I wanted to literally be absorbed by the hallway walls and get from class to class undetected. Although I wasn’t a nerd by any stretch of the imagination, I wasn’t one of the more popular kids either; I had a few friends, but part of me was so alienated with seemingly everyone else in the entire school. I couldn’t fathom what they talked about; the parties, the drinking, the pot smoking, “cruising” around with heavy-metal champions of the time such as Ozzy or Iron Maiden blaring from your car speakers. There were after school sports, school activities like fund drives or carnivals; but I just wanted to get home every day after school and not think about it until the following morning. But what was the disconnection? I felt naïve, like everyone else had so much going on, was so much more mature than I was. They smoked, they drank, did drugs, things I didn’t view as particularly entertaining or “cool.”
Why doesn’t he want tons of friends
Says he’s bored when we hang around

-Dead Kennedys

Of course, at the time I didn’t realize this is what *every* teenager thinks about him or herself, and the friends, the activities, the wanting to be accepted and a “part of the group” is a way to deal with the awkwardness. Some fit right in, and they had a genuinely good time during their school years; the jocks, the freaks, the chess club. And some didn’t – and I certainly fit into that latter category.

However, things changed a bit when I befriended a senior who was in band with Maine (we both played the drums). He was nice, I think his name was Keith, and he was spinning tales about bands like the Dead Kennedys and Black Flag; super-fast music that told the masses to fuck off. At the time I was really into New Wave, and enjoyed the antics of groups like DEVO (who I also “got” as far as what they were trying to accomplish through their music and antics) and Wall of Voodoo. I also loved Jimi Hendrix and I was always amazed that a guy who could play with his *teeth* could be shot down and ridiculed by my percussion partner. I was intrigued. I bought a copy of the Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables LP and prepared for the sonic assault. What I heard was not quite as fast and furious as Keith had described. The lyrics were incredible, the music was catchy, and there was an insert with all of this gruesome artwork culled from newspaper articles and pasted together to resemble some sort of black and white nightmare. These images by Winston Smith along with the Kennedys smirking in the background created a cold, cruel reality that whirled around my head and somehow boosted my moral. I was hooked; in my mind, I lived that same type of cold and scary reality every day in school. All the kids, they would turn into government puppets, sports jocks, macho policemen, mailbox looters, they loved to pick on people and act tough – the music gave voice to my own fears and disgust at the actions of my contemporaries.

It seems so unreal to me
So much hate and so much pity
I can’t take another day –
It’s such a bore,
It gets me really sore…..
– Dead Kennedys
I pursued more records. Plastic Surgery Disasters was next; and wow, it had an entire book of Winston Smith artwork, I took it school and showed all my friends.

Keith graduated that year, but he told me about a college radio station that played punk rock on Friday nights. I tuned in and started my quest to find the bands I heard on the radio, I taped the shows and frequented the used records section of my local indie record shop. I painted my notebooks with LP covers. One year it was Black Flag’s My War, the next it was Government Issue. I had a pair of Chuck Connors high tops with the DK logo painted in where the star usually goes. I got an olive-green trench coat from Sunny’s Surplus and copied the Scream painting onto the back complete with billowing mushroom cloud from Winston Smith. Lastly, I made my own homage to Winston Smith by submitting my own collage clipped from off-beat newspaper headlines, and disturbing AP photos surrounded by a hand-drawn dead soldier border

Finally I started going to shows. There were a few clubs around that had all ages shows, and I either got a friend of mine to go with me, or more often than not, I actually went to these shows myself. Now this was quite an accomplishment for me. I’d drive out to these seedy parts of town late at night and park my hand-me-down Ford station wagon on some dimly lit parking lot for the night. But once I was inside the club, I felt so comfortable, everyone was friendly, they said “hello.” You could walk up to the bands who were selling merchandise before the show and talk to them. I asked the lead singer of DRI if that was really his dad’s voice featured on their song Mad Man (it was). I just soaked it all in, the crazy outfits, the Mohawks, and the incredible energy unleashed by the bands and the crowd once the music started. I never had a problem at the shows, and never witnessed the skin-head violence that would later plague the music scene here in Baltimore.

One thing that really strikes me now is that we were just a bunch of kids doing this. 16-17 years old, no money, no dependable transportation, living at home; yet there was the music, there were the shows, the ‘zines – quite an accomplishment.

I saw the final tour given by the Dead Kennedys, winning tickets from the college radio station that Keith clued me in to a few years back (Towson U’s WCVT 89.7). My Dad drove me and a friend down to Washington, DC so we could catch the bands. It got so late in the evening that my Dad made us leave before the Kennedys were finished their set – but it’s a night I’ll never forget. The huge hall was packed and people leapt from the balconies into the crowds below. Years later I would actually find a video tape of this very show and finally be able to see the whole thing.

I still enjoy this music today; matter of fact, I still have those audio tapes made from weeks of gathering music during Friday night’s “Pandora’s Box.” I have my notebook paintings, and I still have my jacket. And of course I still have all those LP’s. These are my fond memories of the high school years; the time I found a sort of “musical salve” to waylay my very-real fears of social ineptitude, mob mentality, unquestioned authority, and selfish attitudes.

I’m now 40 years old, and punk is still very much a part of me, and I’m glad to have been a part of it. Punk reinforced an my attitude of wanting to know the truth, of not settling for just anything and everything that you’re told, and for standing up for what you as an individual believe in no matter how popular or unpopular those ideas might be.

781.66 Rock music

A couple months ago, a nice young man named Nathan, who reviews music at a site called Weirdo Music, got in touch with me about writing about my experiences with Government Issue. That was 25 years ago. Maybe in another 25, I’ll have enough critical distance to give that subject the fair treatment it deserves. Or I’ll be able to sort out all the thoughts I have about those years in some sort of coherent fashion. Something like that.

Nathan and I did decide, however, that it would be cool to take a look at the whole punk thing from the point of view of those of us who aren’t household names. At least I think that’s what we decided. I haven’t talked to Nathan in a while, so it could be that I’ve bolluxed the whole thing up. But anyway, I asked a friend named Chris to kick the whole thing off with 500 words on “What Punk Means to Me.” And I think she did a damn fine job. Herewith are those 500 words:

What Punk Means to Me

1979 was when I discovered punk, so I was really “post-punk” in my tastes. That didn’t matter. It still had plenty of meaning for me. My first punk album was the first Pretenders album. It was extremely raw and important. I was so sick of mainstream rock; I knew all the words, the drum breaks, the boredom. Punk was like a big surprise party that went on and on. But it was more than that: it was an eye opener and gave me a reason to think there was hope for the future, through personal growth without the need to always be nice to people; “nice” meaning being a perfect girl that didn’t talk about the shit going on in the world and pretending everything would be okay if we just kept smiling.

Through punk, confrontation was encouraged: confrontation of injustice, mediocrity, apathy, phoniness and prudishness, to name a few. Punk also encouraged (and still does) individuality, self-exploration, and self-identification by urging you not to look to others to give your life meaning or to give you the ways to define yourself. Screw keeping up with the Joneses!

There was no need to be afraid of “standing out.” Being different was a goal. Clothing was very do-it-yourself (DIY): buy a pocket T, dip liberally in bleach, or add a safety pin here and there. All those trendy people now might not realize that piercing eyebrows and other areas started as a DIY thing in the 70s (I pierced my second earring holes myself).

I was very shy and insecure before I got into punk, new wave, goth, what have you. It came into my life just as I graduated from high school. I definitely could have used the mindset during high school. The songs themselves ran the gamut, with many different instruments, more synthesizer, amazing vocal styles from operatic to guttural crooning. Mostly they were much shorter than the arena-rock tributes. What a relief that was to me. You could be enraged, amazed, saddened and amused then happy after 10 minutes of listening to the radio. So often, you’d hear several new songs a day. I feel there was no other time in music history like it.

Every day, there were new bands coming on the scene. WBCN in Boston was actually really good and played new stuff from inside the US and tons from Europe. I wrote all the names of the bands that I knew of on my bedroom wall (the wallpaper sucked anyway)!

It’s funny, but every generation thinks their rebellion was the best (since the 50s, I suppose, with the beginning of recorded rock), and I am no exception. I truly feel that if it weren’t for the punk/new wave rebellion, I probably would not be here today. Life was just too stifling and dead-ended (and would have been literally) if I hadn’t had that outlet, and especially the opportunity to be me without apology.