Or the week. Month. Lifetime.
This wonderful vital force that was articulated by the music was really about corrupting every form—it was about advocating kids not to wait to be told what to do, but make life up for themselves, it was about trying to get people to use their imaginations again, it was about not being perfect, it was about saying it was okay to be amateurish and funny, that real creativity came out of making a mess, it was about working with what you got in front of you and turning everything embarrassing, awful, and stupid in your life to your advantage.
—Legs McNeil, when asked to define "Punk."
I gloss over this once every few weeks—hours in a rough or guitar-laden patch. It reminds me to stay vital, to stop being ashamed—because if the Ramones did it, then so can you. Let's dress up & be stars tomorrow: so said the ad Joey answered, & so says the ink on my forearm.
Long live Punk Rock.
Today's Headphone Fodder:
Though perhaps not the best known figure of the '70s New York punk scene—in a time when Delia's sells Ramones shirts alongside fluffy pink skulls & stripe-y tights—Richard Hell left, dare I say, one hell of a mark. For a preliminary taste, I recommend the album Spurts: The Richard Hell Story—or, if you'd rather, a read-through of Please Kill Me: An Uncensored Oral History of Punk, where you'll find tidbits like this:
One night I was lying in bed thinking about her, how gorgeous and irresistible she was, and I remember thinking, I wish she was there when I got hit by a car. Then I could say to her, ‘Mimi, I’m dying, would you hold my hand?'