So now that September has ended, I woke up today determined to talk about punk rock.
That was a joke. Well, sort of. You see, back in 2005 – and you may remember this, actually, considering the ridiculous amount of media attention it got – Green Day released the single “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” which was blasted from tweenagers’ stereos nationwide, much to the consternation of “real punks” everywhere. We (and yeah, I include myself in that group because in 2005 I was convinced that as far as my friends went I was the punkest of all of us) felt betrayed. We knew that Green Day had been on the downslide away from punk and into the mainstream for years, and now this horribly sentimental ballad with accompanying anti-Iraq War music video seemed so totally not punk that we wouldn’t have been surprised to see Fiona Apple’s name next to Billie Joe Armstrong’s in the liner notes. My self-righteous high school self thus publicly disowned Green Day at every opportunity for being total sellouts… and then I listened to that song on repeat all the damned time.
Keep gloating, Billie Joe. I still hate your hairdo. And the rest of the album.
Yeah, I’ll admit. I liked the song. I still do. Hell, I even think that from a certain point of view it’s kinda punk.
Don't give me that look, Skywalker. It's not like I'm lying about your father's identity here.
See, punk rock is about as static of an ideology and art form as… well, hip-hop. Every year there’s a whole new crop of kids discovering just how fun it is to get really mad at their parents and the establishment and wear shabby clothes and swear and jump around like a ferret on PCP to the sound of badly tuned guitars. In a sense, the half-life of a punk is pretty short, as you’re theoretically supposed to grow out of it and be an adult once you get all that silly adolescent rebellion out of your system. That’s why we say Green Day can’t really be punk any more, or why Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros are nowhere near as relevant as the Clash ever were, or why we think it’s better the Sex Pistols split or even why people think it’s best that the 27 Club all beefed it way too soon.
Maybe I’m an immature basket case for saying this, but I think that’s bullshit. Well, except for that last bit, because the thought of Jim Morrison going the way of Marlon Brando is… depressing. Anyway, that’s why last week I did the most totally punk thing of my life: I took my middle-aged, folk- and chick rock-loving parents to see Andrew Jackson Jihad open for Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls at a complete shithole of a dive bar in Baltimore.
It wasn't this metal, but it was close.
They fucking loved it, strangely enough. See, I was worried about that. This voice in my head told me that my parents wouldn’t exactly take a shine to Andrew Jackson Jihad’s tendency to sing cheerful songs about serial killers, or the rampant profanity usual to punk performers with access to beer tickets. And yet my parents actually wound up having a great time. From where I stood in the middle of the crowd, I actually could see them having fun. They clapped, they sang, they even danced around a bit, especially to this particularly jaunty number:
Now, if you didn’t start dancing in your seat to that I recommend you rush to the emergency room and get your pulse checked, as you are likely dead inside and I don’t want your continued undead existence to be in any way my fault. But my point is that my parents – who are fun people in their usual environment, sure – got into that while wedged into the corner of an overcrowded, overheating dive bar with walls that looked to be more made of layers of gaffer tape and old posters than actual sheet rock. And why did they get so into it?
Well, I could go on a rant about the musicology of it – and I’d love to do that, sure – but since it’s two in the morning and I want to go dance to a song about a ninja, I’ll leave the dissertation about the legacy of Bob Dylan for another day and just put it simply. They got into it because punk – real punk rock – isn’t about exclusionary teenaged angst. It’s about creating an atmosphere of camaraderie. The kid from Into It/Over It (the opening act, who I personally wasn’t all that into but will definitely give props for the performance he put on) put it pretty well during his set, and I’ll attempt to clumsily paraphrase him: “We came to punk rock because everyone else was fucking us around and we just wanted to find a place where we belonged.” In other words, don’t confuse the messengers (with their extremely heated opinions on music and questionable fashion choices) with the message. Punk doesn’t mean “fuck you for conforming to something different from me.” Punk means we’re all different, so fuck you for thinking your way is better than anyone else’s. As Frank Turner put it in his single “Try This at Home”:
The only thing that punk rock should ever really mean
Is not sitting round and waiting for the lights to go green,
And not thinking that you’re better because you’re stood up on a stage.
If you’re oh-so-fucking-different then who cares what you have to say?
And there’s no such thing as rock stars, there’s just people who play music,
And some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks.
There you have it. Old people can be punks. Young straightedge kids can be punks. My Chemical Romance fans and Black Flag fans are both punks. So go ahead and hit some guy in the face in the mosh pit at the next Against Me! show – but don’t be a dick about it. Help him back on his feet afterwards, hand him a beer, and keep rocking out. Celebrate the message and don’t get lost in the details or the aesthetic.
She does have a point, though. Don't be a poser. Eat your cereal, don't up the punx.
