from the LP Suicidal Tendencies, Frontier Records, 1983
Got together with a close friend from my adolescence yesterday, and the trip down memory lane has left my head spinning a bit; although we hadn’t seen each other in over a decade, it felt just like old times---well, apart from the beautiful & intelligent daughter she brought along with her, that was new. Me & S had actually dated for a brief time way back in high school, and she was one of the people who had written to me during my time in hell (see: abusive evangelical boot camp outside the country), which still means a lot to me actually. All out-going & in-coming mail was read, much like jail, only they had even stricter rules down there regarding what would be allowed through: for example, if you got a letter from someone not on the “ok” list, or a note that mentioned rock music or a TV program or something which could potentially take one’s mind away from their attempts at brainwashing, you weren’t allowed to have it. However, they kept those letters, and when you are finally freed they hand them all back to you---I can’t put into words swell of emotions I felt upon looking at that bundle of envelopes, after 27 long months of torture, knowing that my friends not only remembered who I was, but they wondered where I had gone & they had missed me. In all honesty, it was the strength I needed to handle fallout from the PTSD, something which I still struggle with to this day, albeit to a much lesser extent now. S gave me lots of updates on some of our other friends or yore, and similar to my experience in Florida around Xmas, it’s left me with a renewed intention to seek out some more people from my past---not merely due to some voyeuristic desire to see what they’re doing, but to thank them most heartily for supporting me at a time in my life when I needed it the most. This track, from one of the loudest punk-metal bands ever: Suicidal Tendencies, hits home with any of us (by now, surely a sizeable number) who were locked away as kids because we were different, or rebelled against our parent’s wishes; if someone reading this has recently gone through a similar type of experience, take heed my brother or sister, I know how you feel, and I can promise you this: things do get better!
from the LP No Control, Epitaph Records, 1989
Shooting dope never held any allure for me, thankfully, although virtually every other drug on the planet did, but opiates just never really made a lasting impression; this is perhaps atypical, considering my enthusiasm for almost all other downers, but smoking heroin a few times was enough for me to decide that I didn’t need to explore any further. To be totally honest, I was sort of like: really? this is what people throw their lives away for?! Not to judge those who love(d) it, seeing as how I quickly went about destroying my own life too (with a plethora of other substances), but I just never got it. Thus, excepting for the “…needle & a spoon…” reference, this mid-career burner from hardcore mainstays Bad Religion is pretty damn close to autobiography for me in my angsty youth, in more than one way (wink); believe me, I don’t take anything for granted, and I fully recognize that had any number of minor variables not worked in my favor along the way, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now typing this. I can only imagine how many peers the band’s founders Greg Graffin (vocals) & Brett Gurewitz (guitar) had lost in the decade leading up to this album and song; considering Gurewitz took a substance-related leave of absence from Bad Religion in the mid ‘80s, I’d guess quite a few probably. In any critical situation where there are survivors and also those who pass away, the people left alive are often crippled for years after with a strange form of guilt surrounding why it’s them still walking around and not X, Y or Z person. It leaves you questioning everything, “…so where is the justice when no one is at fault and a human life is tragically wasted…how fragile is the flame that burns within us all, to light each passing day, yeah…” I guess the only solace to be had for those of us left behind is trying to pass that good luck along, in word & deed, with the earnest (delusional?) belief that we can somehow atone for our continued existence in this way…
from the 7” single, SST Records, 1978
Widely regarded as the godfathers of hardcore punk (although this claim can be debated, and often is by scene purists, since the Middle Class played faster and the Germs came earlier, we’re going with the majority opinion here), Redondo Beach crew Black Flag is often remembered for their early ‘80s period with Henry Rollins at the helm, but their story really starts right about here. Back in 1978, Ketih Morris (later of Circle Jerks fame) was the one screaming into the mic, “…I'm about to have a nervous breakdown, my head really hurts; if I don't find a way out of here, I'm gonna go berserk ‘cause, I'm crazy and I'm high, head on my shoulders…it's going... berserk!” The one static figure through every incarnation of the band has been guitarist and main songwriter Greg Ginn, who also started SST records on his own rather than slumming a demo around to all the small indie labels; this track is a great example of his penchant for time signature changes and jittery, doomy guitar shredding, a style which would go on to seriously influence the thrash metal scene.
from the 7” single, Alternative Tentacles Records, 1981
I used to runaway a lot as a kid, before getting locked up, so between the ages of 12 – 15, never for all that long mind you (the longest I managed to sustain one of my leaves of absence was the last split before getting duly sent away, about 2 months, and that itself was uncharacteristic compared to the usual adventure of one or two weeks); there were a handful of pads which always offered a couch/floor for a night or two, dens of rapturous deviance in varying degrees of squalor, but a beggar can’t be choosy and besides, I kinda liked all the grime back then. Anyways, this one girl and her older sister always took me in, even picking me up often times from all sorts of random places one winds up as an unhappy teenager, and I fondly recall one evening spent chain smoking cigs, drinking 40 ounces & smoking the schwiggiest of schwag, somebody wound up shaving, by request, a giant DK into the back of her head, where the hair was already buzzed pretty short. The DKs were always the thinking man’s hardcore band (see: Jello’s big vocabulary), but sometimes they just got right down to business, “…nazi punks, nazi punks, nazi punks, Fuck Off!!...” Simple song, simple message, right on point. Any free thinking alt-kids needed to dig them, and the DKs made it both fun & simple to do so. So many loose nights spent chasing our angst & wildest dreams… thanks Bernie!
from the EP Polly Wog Stew, Rat Cage Records, 1982
What a long strange trip it has truly been for this trio of white-boys from NYC known to the world as the Beastie Boys, quietly transforming themselves from a hardcore rock band into a hip-hop troupe (thanks to record impresario Rick Rubin and, to a lesser extent, Russell Simmons), and in so doing, managed to become one of the most well-known and loved music groups in modern American history. At the time this was recorded they were a foursome, including Kate Schellenbach (later of Luscious Jackson fame) on drums; they quickly changed their name from the Young Aborigines to the Beastie Boys, “BEASTIE” standing for "Boys Entering Anarchistic States Towards Internal Excellence”. What’s most incredible to me is that they actually got to open shows for some very famous hardcore punk bands back in the day, including the Dead Kennedy’s, the Mistfits, & the Bad Brains. While most of this EP consists of bare-bones, second-rate early ‘80s hardcore, this one track has always caught my ear---and not just due to the funny pot references, “…get my bong and do up some heavy weed man, I got some heavy Mexican stuff…lets get back to my bong…” The drumbeat is clearly influenced by fellow NYC band ESG and their danceable version of post-punk, but I love the quick few measures of gnarled hardcore riffage they give you in the middle of the song, in case you fell too deep into the delay and echo-laden madness and forgot. The Beastie Boys didn’t look back much once they jumped the hardcore ship, but this EP will always exist as a reminder to everyone that, much as it seemed later on, these cats were absolutely not bred from the ghetto.
from the LP Victim In Pain, Rat Cage Records, 1984
Back in the halcyon days of the hardcore scene in America, it seemed as if there was some unspoken contest between all the bands to see who could find the most viscerally charged photograph with which to adorn your album cover; for real, between these guys, the Dead Kennedy’s and the Angry Samoans alone fans hardly got a rest for their gag reflexes. Agnostic Front were a NYC hardcore band that eventually wound up splicing in some thrash metal leanings, but on their debut album here it’s all hardcore; all the members of the band were skinheads, but not the racist type, as evidenced by their lyrics, “…why should you go around bashing one another, if they look or think different, why let it bother; everyone’s got their own style, their own thoughts, don't let it bother you, don't let it get caught; your fascist attitudes, we need the least, with a scene that's fighting for unity & peace…”
from the LP Milo Goes to College, New Alliance Records, 1982
The Descendents were about as fun as American hardcore got in the early ‘80s, for instead of ranting about the same stale talking points which literally every single other hardcore band was composing elegies about (i.e. the police state, racism, poverty, et al), these guys wrote about average Joe, day-to-day bullshit---parents, girls, school, even fishing for fuck’s sake! Frankly, being a current homeowner in the suburbs (HELL), this song has taken on an entirely new sense of painful sincerity since listening to it as an angsty teenager; I ain’t got no shame though, fuck that, homes in the ‘burbs are cheap…but they do kinda hit the nail on the head when they say, “…I don’t want no hippie pad, I want a house just like mom & dad”. Ouch.
from the LP Group Sex, Frontier Records, 1980
Never one to deal in subtlety or allegories, lead crooner Keith Morris (formerly singer and co-founder of legendary group Black Flag) basically serves many of us our misspent adolescence on a platter here; summing up the common experiences of myself and so many other angsty kids growing up at the beach in under a minute, he totally resists the urge to digress, “…I was a hippie, I was a burnout, I was a dropout, you know I was out of my head, and I was a surfer, I had a skateboard, I was so heavy man, you know I lived on the strand…I was so fucked up, I was so screwed up, I was so jacked up, couldn't get any higher than that, and I was so pilled up, I was so nebbed up (mmmm, Nembutals…), I was so jacked up, I was out of my head…I was so wasted, I was wasted…” Only in his 20s when he wrote this song, Mr. Morris continued to be wasted on various drugs for another couple of decades before getting cleaned up, which isn’t hypocritical really, since he doesn’t mention quitting here, just reeling over crazy times past.
from the 7” single, Bad Brains Records, 1979
For those of us who grew up on skateboards and for whom the term “hardcore” isn’t just an adjective describing how wasted you were last weekend, the Bad Brains are a most hallowed and loved entity. For starters, they are specifically responsible for getting Henry Rollins on stage as a young punk, imploring him to sing long before he was to join Black Flag; they are credited as being the direct inspiration for no less than the Smashing Pumpkins (professed by the mighty egghead himself, Billy Corgan), the Red Hot Chili Peppers (Flea & Kiedis), and the Beastie Boys (all three of them agree on this openly); they provided bands like Fisbone and Living Colour the confidence needed to break the mold, which goes for groups like 311 and Sublime also, and countless others. Listening to this song now, 30 years on from its inception, it might be easy to merely honor it only for being among the first really fast punk/hardcore singles from the east coast---to be sure, this track blazes by so quickly it makes the Germs, from that same time period, sound as slow as Sabbath! If one manages to hear (good luck with that), or more likely to research, the lyrics of this track, it begins to sound even better, “…I came to know now with dismay, that in this world we all must pay; pay to write, pay to play, pay to cum, pay to fight…and all in time, we soon will find, what’s left behind…” While it certainly isn’t unorthodox for punk and hardcore bands to rail against society, they typically do so in a micro- or, sometimes, myopic way; these guys speak broadly of truths which you can tell they were still just digesting themselves. Many people mistakenly presume that the Bad Brains hail from Jamaica, due to the fact that they also played reggae (that’s right, reggae), but they all grew up in the United States and came together in Washington DC; actually, they only converted to Rastafarianism the same year this single dropped, so these lyrics are timely and deeply personal. Having formerly played jazz-funk (?!) in the mid ‘70s, the quick time signature changes and more technical elements within that blistering speed make sense; the bouncy bassline and insane drumming pace (extra points for the cowbell) really impress. When you imagine seeing this song played live, by four black Rastafarians, in 1979, it’s duly understandable that they created big waves and near-infinite ripples.
from the EP Salad Days, Dischord Records, 1985
This EP was the last official release by the seminal American hardcore band, coming out of Washington DC, Minor Threat. Ian MacKaye, who served as the band’s singer, lyricist, and all-around mentor, had grown up a lot in the 5 years his band had been performing and putting out records; to be sure, the brooding and introspective path he would carry into Fugazi is detectable on this, his swan song with Minor Threat. I gotta confess: that other endeavor of Mr. MacKaye’s just never lived up to the hype for me---sure, there are a handful of keepers in those thirteen songs, but back in the day, if I had seen one more “THIS IS NOT A FUGAZI T-SHIRT” tee on another overwrought, angsty kid with their shaven-head held a little too high…ugh. Somehow, back here with his other band, he always managed to keep things both serious & playful; this specific song find’s him reeling quite a bit, actually baring his soul rather vulnerably, and yet he’s quick to poke fun at himself and the scene in general by including some achingly stereotypical chatter in the background: “do you, remember the times…back then man…I don’t know what went down…what happened man? These days, I just don’t know…” It’s not all shits & giggles however, as he lays some very pensive and scathing words at the door, “Wishing for the days, when I first wore this suit; baby has grown older, it's no longer cute… look at us today, we've gotten soft and fat; waiting for the moment, it's just not coming back…” Of course, he was all of 23 years old when he wrote this stuff, but didn’t we all think we had arrived after the haze of adolescence cleared?! It’s a tough balance, trying to preserve bits of our youthful and spirited rebellion while, at the same time, assimilating into the greater realities of the jaded and cynical world at large. “So serious, about the stuff we lack; dwell upon our memories, but there are no facts…” The touches of acoustic guitar during the bridges, while Ian is recounting old times, really set you adrift on memory bliss; Baker and Nelson, on bass & drums respectively, hold it down like they always do. I know it’s the first day of spring, which is all about renewal and growth, but sometimes looking back gives me the jolt of fresh energy I need to get off my ass! “Do you, remember when? Yea, so do I…we’ll call those ‘salad days’…salad days…”
from the EP Beware, Cherry Red Records, 1979
Seemingly sprung forth from the very B-movie horror flicks which inspired their visage, The Misfits are easily one of my all-time favorite bands. The fact is, beneath all that black makeup and long, pointy devil-locks, under all the admittedly mediocre and rough musicianship, lies some of the prettiest songs you’ve ever heard, sang by one of the all-time greatest howls in American music---one Glenn Danzig. With all the rat bastards who’ve fleeced our nation in the news of late, I couldn’t help but lean towards this exquisitely gruesome track. With a strikingly pure ‘50s-style panache, Mr. Danzig delivers some of the most eye-bulging lyrics ever put to paper: “Well I got something to say, I killed your baby today, and it doesn’t matter much to me as long as it’s dead…well I got something to say, I raped your mother today, and it doesn’t matter much to me as long as she spread…”; no wonder they couldn’t find any labels to release their stuff back then! I swear, if it wasn’t for the ghastly words and the speed with which he delivers them, this could easily be some old 1950’s rock-n-roll relic. So, I hereby dedicate this track to all the Bernie Madoff’s and AIG’s in the world, who seemingly balk in the face of mass human suffering. “…sweet lovely death…waiting for your breath…come sweet death, one last caress…”
from the LP Suicidal Tendencies, Frontier Records, 1983
