history lesson

One of my favorite lines in a song comes from the Minutemen, a band you've probably never heard of. It goes something like this,
Punk Rock changed our lives
We'd drive down from Pedro
We were f-ing corndogs
We'd drink a pogo,
The Minutemen called themselves that due to the brevity of most of their songs . . . one minute was about average. They were founded and emerged out of the Los Angeles punk scene in the early eighties, alongside other bands such as Black Flag, Agent Orange, the Circle Jerks and Social Distortion. Their minimalistic style was stripped down to the bare essentials--a guitarist, a bass player and drums. The singer and guitarist, D. Boon, also handled their vocals as well, a big booming voice that leapt out of his oversized frame, while the bassist, Mike Watt
pogoed and jumped all over the stage in an epileptic frenzy of activity.
I'm sure you've heard at least one song by them, even if you don't realize it--
Jackass, the show and the movies, used their song "Corona" as their theme song. I was never a fan of Jackass, but that song has always been one of my favorites. Simple, direct, full of feeling, quintessential Minutemen in a quieter more introspective moment. On other songs, the band showed their jazz roots quite often, crazy improvisational jams book-ending jarring speed changes. Just a short
breather before they ripped into another full frontal assault. D. Boon's guitar had some distortion, but it was never the defining part of their sound. The assault was moreabout energy and lyrical ambition then it was about pure unadulterated noise.
I like to think that Punk Rock saved my life, but that might be overstating matters. Punk Rock did something for me that no other movement or philosophy has done before or since. It helped to open my eyes and open my mind, even if it was just for a short period of time. I slam danced (before they called it moshing) and drank, drove down to Detroit from Sterling Heights, and was I ever a corndog. But those were some of the best times of my life.
I think MTV and Rolling Stone Magazine were somewhat to blame--they had started the whole ball
rolling for me back in the eighth grade when I thirteen-years-old, late 1982 and early 1983. It started out pretty innocently with bands like U2 and INXS, with their fashion statements and swirling guitars, a far cry from the heavy metal bands that I was into like Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Rush and Led
Zeppelin. It got worse and worse the next few years and I searched out bands and music and literature wherever I could.
Public television showed "Urgh! A Music War" which had a huge cross-section of early-eighties New Wave and Hardcore Punk bands and public radio out of Montreal, by the way of Windsor, Ontario showcased different bands and genres five nights a week. A song would catch my attention here or there, or a sound or a riff or a lyric stayed with me for days and weeks. I started asking around and kids would tell me to check with this dude or check with that dude, I heard that he's into Punk Rock.
I hit paydirt one day at lunch, while in the tenth grade, standing in the Oaza Polish Bakery and Deli on East Nine Mile Road when I met a tenth grader named Mike Webb. A football teammate with spiky hair and punkish wardrobe reffered me to him during a converstation about music in the locker room after practice one day. Mike Webb spent his summers in Los Angeles with his dad, and he had picked
up quite a few Punk fanzines and records and tapes while staying there. He also had this humungous skateboard which was popular with the kids out in Southern Cal, but had yet to make it this far east. KROQ in L.A. issued numerous fanzines in the early eighties and I borrowed as many as I could from Mike. The fanzines had a a do-it-yourself feel to them--pictures of the band and maybe a brief biography
with a graphic or song lyrics. The style was cut-and-paste, ala ransom note or underground dispatch from some subversive element of society. I borrowed whatever mixed tapes Mike had and I started buying Thrasher Skateboard Magazine as well, because of the music and fashion tie-ins. Mike had moved on from Punk Rock and was really into some band called Metallica by then, but they were a little too thrashy
for me.
The anger and the nihilism, but most of all the humor and intelligence that I discovered in Punk Rock drew me more into the scene. I had started listening to Minor Threat, the Misfits, the Butthole Surfers, Government Issue, Husker Du and MDC. New Wave was stuff that girls, i.e. potential girlfriends, listened to but I was all about the Hardcore Punk. I turned sixteen that next year and life changed
dramatically when I started working and driving.
My parents hard started spending weekends and vacations on the shores of Lake Huron, almost to the tip of Michigan's thumb. I went along with them because I didn't really have a choice, but suddenly I had a reason to stay home. I had to work, first at McDonald's, then later at thrift store that my cousin's best friend
managed. I started going to Punk shows that summer in Detroit--talking classmates, co-workers and anyone
else to go with me.
The very first show I went to was San Fransisco's MDC with a host of opening bands like Detroit's own Angry Red Planet and So-Cal's D.I. Five bands for seven dollars or something like that. In the formerly famous Greystone Theatre on the far west side of Detroit where Punks and New Wavers were milling about, squattting in spots and chatting as the wall of noise hit us. The smell of marijuana and clove cigarettes spiraling above us as we stood there with cans of Red White & Blue beer. They patted us down at the door and we stepped into near darkness and the drum beats so heavy you can feel it in your chest.
Standing at the edge of the slam pit as a new band starts and the crowd swells and starts spinning in a clockwise circle, bodies flying every which way and you have to shove them back into the pit just to save yourself. At some point time seemed to freeze and I caught my breathe before plunging into the fray, sweat soaked bodies spinning and swaying to the sound. The crowd spins by as I hit my stride, trying to ape the logo from the Circle Jerks, fists and elbows and knees pumping, every inch of my body thumping with the drums, the bass. Speed changes stop and start the flow, as we scan the scene for a split second, before the guitar crunch revs and whips us back into a whirlpool of bodies.
At some other point, I decide to jump on stage, the bouncers lumbering toward me in their heavy combat boots. I do a little dance under the hot lights and feel a thick meaty hand on my scrawny neck and they shove me back into the crowd. Hands fly up from the first few rows, catching me and guiding me slowly to the floor, this body this form just an illusion.
My shirt is soaked with sweat and I cut a slow path through the crowd, making my way back outside. I stand up against the building and let the cool night air dry me off, watching kids skateboard on Michigan Avenue. Thick fat wheels rolling on the concrete until they slam their tails and ollie up onto the sidewalk, seven-plys barking and fish shaped boards cut through the air. The bikers from the bar next door come out to check out us freaks, shaved heads and mohawks and everything in between.
For that one moment everything feels fine, feels like everything is as it should be. No hopes no fears, just being in the moment. I look onto the world with brand new eyes and nothing seems out of reach. I chat with some dudes and realize
they're the opening band, talk about music and God knows what, feel like I belong somewhere for the very first time.