Thanks to my parents, the soundtrack of
early childhood resounded with The Beatles, Janice Joplin, Errol Garner, and
Bach. After that, I was on my own.
For years I turned the dial,
continually underwhelmed by what vibrated through the speakers. Billy Joel was
lame, early rap clunky, and new wave had as much soul as the supermarket aisles
over which it now plays.
Then a girl in tenth-grade social
studies let me borrow a Memorex mixtape starting with The Dead Milkmen’s
“Bitchin’ Camaro.” I replayed that snotty, sarcastic lo-fidelity raving until
my Sony Walkman chewed it up, and then spent an hour performing surgery on the
tangled mess of magnetic ribbon so as to salvage the cassette as well as my chances
with this chick.
But the Milkmen are to punk what Dan
Aykroyd and John Belushi are to the blues, so it was quickly on to the
legitimate intensity of The Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains, Circle Jerks, Minor
Threat, and early D.R.I. That shit?
Made me wanna kick down doors, burst through walls, and whirlwind-destroy every
room therein!
In a good way.
Punk was uniquely cathartic and motivated
fans to surge toward any goal set to its soundtrack: causes fought for;
democracy exercised; broken hearts welded; workouts conquered. Most
importantly, the scene connected scatters of colorfully awkward outcasts too
creative and brave to surrender, but nonetheless worn down by Top 40
expectations. Minorities in our far-apart high schools, suddenly
five-hundred-strong in a charged concert hall.
So, what happened?
Like the hippies it replaced and the
hip-hop that’s replaced it, punk’s
just another iteration in the grand timeline of counterculture. A stop along
the evolution of revolution… eventually a mohawked anachronism.
In the meantime, for those old enough
to remember, the fire that music ignited continues to light the path of
our current endeavors, fueling productive rebelliousness and keeping us
spiritually honest until we slam dance into the great beyond.
I hope they blast “Rock for Light” at
my funeral and catapult my studded coffin into the grave at the center of the ensuing
mosh pit. My last stagedive.
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