Who I am, Part 2: Gabba Gabba Hey!
Moving on from the cosmological definition of me, we proceed to the aesthetic. As the song might go, Andrew is a punk rocker. At least, he might be. He's a bit suburban, a bit un-nihilistic, a bit
old to be a full part of the tribe. That's leaving aside how he manages to fit liking such a deliberately obnoxious, not to say Luciferean, musical genre and the admiration of the serene yet imperious mysteries of the Catholic Church together in the same head.
And to those who demand ideological purity, I'm sure it's something of a problem. Those who can use the phrase "true punk" without irony think religion is bad because it like, restricts your mind and stuff. And if many christians think Rock n' Roll is the devil's music, then punk is probably the hymns sang backwards and upside-down in the Ninth Concentric Circle while Satan is getting a deep-tissue massage from Stalin and Judas. Believe me, I've been through all this.
More to the point, just how relevant is punk today? I rented
24 Hour Party People a few weekends ago, and I was struck by how the advent of a band like the Sex Pistols in Britain could inspire a scene (that of Manchester) which would yield "the beatification of the beat," as the film's narrator puts it. The Beat is most definitely what rules pop music nowadays, be it hip-hop or shiny teen pop or even country (at least, going by Shania Twain, who is less than country in some circles). It's getting so bad for reg'lar rock bands that any stylistic throwback to the Glory Days of Alternative Music will be hailed by the critics as the Dawn of the New Age, whether they actually sell any records or not. In this our multicultural world, can the Aryan strains of grooveless distortion really matter?
Frankly, I could care less. Taste is a very personal thing, and musical taste a growing and evolving personal thing, if it is to have any legs. I call myself a punk, but I could just as well be called a jazzman or a blues-funkster or a yo-boy or a mod or a rocker, if liking any particular genre of music was enough for membership. I go with calling myself a punk because it is the largest category in my collection, and because I deliberately support the underground elements of it as an act of minor threat against the music industry which is a grotesque overflowing septic tank of lame. That attitude plus a fairly apt Sid Vicious impression ought to be sufficient credential.
Besides, the purpose of punk was never really to conquer and destroy rock music as it was to simultaneously ground it in its primal roots and enlarge its possibilities. Punk's aggression was the cool despair of blues driven outward, to the logical extreme, exploding like a hand grenade that never leaves your hand. It's message was simple: anyone can do it, any image can be used, any sound can be embroidered into the vibe. To an intellectual such as myself, this is a fascinating tradition, even when it trespasses against my moral compass. The political and sociological screeds that accompany the more self-important bands are to a large degree empty oppositionality, weren't invented by punk (Country Joe and the Fish, anyone?) and continues today in non-punk forms (Rage Against the Machine, anyone?). They can and should be safely ignored. Revolution? You better free your mind instead.
Besides, the songs are short, so I can indulge my attention span. 'Nuff said.