You Want Punk? Fuck You

Good article from the NY Times, although the author, one Jon Pareles (a man of a certain fame within high-end journalism), completely abandons his premise by the end of the article. Too lazy to click the link? Then I'll just tell you: he wants CBGB to be closed, immolated, and the bones ground into dust, in order that punk might be saved from self-mockery either through the commercialization of the club of its birth--already done, bud--or through the franchising of "CBGB, the Restaurant"-type joints in Vegas and elsewhere. His original point, which, as I say, he forgets by the end of the article, is that punk rockers don't do nostalgia. We ain't hippies; we don't keep photo albums and autographs and we don't get misty over a place. Punk is an idea--and one rooted in frustration and self-sustaining anger, not physical location. If punk has a lesson to impart, it is that we can reject all conventions, norms, possessions, and people--in short, we can be entirely inner-directed--and still make it. It's like the angry Buddhism of music. It's all a lie, of course, and a selfish, Republican lie at that; but that's the original intent. Oh, besides the desire to get on stage despite a complete lack of talent (see: Ramones, Talking Heads, Sex Pistols, all others).

As regards Pareles' point, I agree completely. I have, for years, taken this position to its logical conclusion and I am the proud owner and wearer of a shirt I made in the off-hours of my first job out of college, that of a night shift supervisor in a printing shop. The shirt, a simple black ink-on-a-white-tee affair, says simply "I'm Glad Joey Ramone is Dead." That's it.

I have received innumerable innocent queries about the shirt (and I actually have six of them; I made one for all my punk friends but for some reason they didn't want them), dirty looks from "punks" too scared to actually say anything (did it take all your courage to go outside with that hair, kid?), and even a few mumbled condemnations. Most of the latter have come, not from vengeful punkers, but from ordinary adults who have no idea who Joey Ramone was but don't think it's appropriate to celebrate anyone's death. You should have seen his haircut, lady. And Jesus H. Christ, has there ever been an uglier East Side Dago than him? Think of all the groupies who came out of a stupor to find that grizzled countenance hovering over them...

The point of the shirt, which is quite the same as Pareles' article but gets it across in about 500 fewer words, is that you ain't punk if you care about Joey Ramone's hard death from cancer. If you weep over a dead guy--and especially if you get punchy over a T-shirt mocking that death--then you ain't punk. Observing respect for the dead is conventional, and punk is about spitting in the face of convention. If you are going to stand there, looking like a skinny idiot in your leather and Doc Martens, and tell me that marriage, the church, family, school, employment, and very damn near all of society is one big deathtrap; if you are going to scorn every human connection and become one with the punk rock postmodern, then you can't tear up over the death of the head blasphemer. It would be like praying for Aleister Crowley, or hoping that Ike and Tina will get remarried and live happily in the suburbs. Some shit just doesn't work, and you can't party, fight, and fuck for twenty years and then turn on a dime and say, "hey man, don't disrespect my icons."

You want punk, fuck you. Memorize it, live by it; that's the punk mantra. Better yet, get a silk-screening kit and make some T-shirts...