Anarchy in the U.K.

from the LP Never Mind the Bollocks…, Warner Bros Records, 1977



I’ve purposely avoided posting these guys for nearly two years now, and frankly, I’m not even sure why I’ve decided to do so now… Much like the perennial “Beatles or Stones” inquisition, there has always been a similarly banal (and ultimately fruitless) deliberation given to us alternative folks, that being: the Clash or the Sex Pistols? Although I mostly loathe these social litmus tests (…Clash, obviously…), they do serve in clarifying for an individual part of what you look for in your musical experience, substance or symbolism. While I adored these ugly blokes as a teenager, their catalog hasn’t aged quite as well to my ears as has many of their peers’ stacks---granted, this lone LP was their only fully legitimate studio work apart from compilations, so one could argue that they are at a disadvantage there; and anyways, PiL was leagues more interesting & revolutionary than this stuff. That said, a couple of the more iconic numbers from this album, including this cut (my all-time favorite), will forever serve as ancestral anthems to the disillusioned, discombobulated, disenchanted & disgusted masses.

Telling Them

from the LP Mommy’s Little Monster, 13^th Floor Records, 1983



Darlings of the entire punk rock universe, and for good reason, Social D has been feeding the angsty masses for over three decades now (excepting for a brief recess in the mid ‘80s while singer & guitarist Mike Ness got off dope), endearing themselves to each successive generation and providing the template that Vans-era crews like Pennywise & The Offspring have used to much accomplishment; as much bickering as there was between all of punk’s subgenres through the years, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about Social D, no lie, they were (are) truly that revered. This was their first full-length album, and though the vibe might be a tad bit immature for someone my age these days (re: “…well I love the sound when I smash the glass, if I get caught they're gonna kick my ass; my mommy's worried ‘bout the way I drink, my daddy can't figure out the way I think…they wake me up, tell me, "get to work," I slam the door, say, "shut up you jerk"; I can't wait ‘til the show tonight, when I'm with my friends every things alright…”), this shit is like the fucking BIBLE when you’re a misunderstood teenager, and so it remains timeless, like much of this great band’s lengthy archives

Billy

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…

Nervous Breakdown

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.

Nazi Punks Fuck Off

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!

Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue

from the LP Ramones, Sire Records, 1976



So I’m down here visiting my folks for the holidaze, and I gotta admit, sneaking around and getting high inside your parent’s house is every bit as fun & exhilarating now as it was when we actually lived with them as kids; granted, dad knows I’m a confirmed head now, and the threat of getting locked up in rehab doesn’t loom over my dazed head the way it used to (thankfully...), but there is just something about the whole process: stuffing a bunch of fabric softener sheets into an empty toilet paper tube and putting a single sheet over one end, standing atop the toilet lid in an effort to be as close to that little vent thingie as possible, holding your hits in extra long so there is less smoke to exhale. Frankly, one doesn’t have the time to get high as much as usual when your playin cards and shootin the shit with your folks all day, so my tolerance drops, which always makes for a giddy and all-around stronger stoning; something about being baked in this house also leaves me more prone to getting an enjoyable case of the giggles, a stoner luxury mostly reserved for novices. The last time I lived with my parents was over 15 years ago now, but a part of me still feels like I never left (once I am down here visiting anyways), and I suppose the fact that I was a snotty, sneering teenager when I was living with my folks last, it’s probably that adolescent spirit which imbues the tone of the stone. I hope everyone is enjoying a good holiday season, be that Xmas, Chanukah, Ramadan, Tet, Kwanzaa, or for you atheists out there, celebrating the birth of baby Santa. Peace ya’ll!

Police & Thieves

from the LP The Clash, CBS Records, 1977



Though I loved both bands with all my eager, pubescent heart at one time in my life, when push came to shove, I would always fall down on this side of the Clash vs. Sex Pistols debate / rivalry, something about their unyieldingly curious nature I suppose---oh, and they could actually play their instruments. What really set them apart though, right from the beginning, was their willingness to fiddle around with different genres and influences, even as the punk scene was still trying to find its own voice; I’ve almost wondered at times whether P.I.L. was initially just Lydon trying to play catch up in the “boundless interests” game…? This peppy cover of a Junior Murvin classic was a nice respite on the Clash’s paint-peeling debut album, forging a bridge between punk rock and reggae which still exists to this very day; hell, Sting & the Police went on to work this idea into a very successful career for themselves. Even though these lyrics were informed by the mean streets of Jamaica’s ghettoes and shantytowns, they are relatable to anyone that’s felt the pig’s heat or the tendrils of violent crime, “…scaring the nation with their, guns & ammunition…”

Suburban Home

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.

Suspect Device

from the 7” single, Rigid Digit Records, 1979




Irish punk band that really worked the hell out of minor chords and odd melodies, almost proto-hardcore, but a little too late.

Wasted

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.

Yellin' in My Ear

from the EP Hectic, Lookout! Records, 1988



A long time ago now, after the first wave but before bands like No Doubt made ‘ska’ a bad word, there was a foursome of smart-asses in Berkeley who decided they were gonna be the hardest-core ska band on the scene---and I’ll be damned if they didn’t pretty much prove that, though they only left us one album, one EP, and a small handful of singles as proof. British groups like Madness and the Specials had long appropriated ska from Jamaica and made it their own, but Op Ivy were one of the first hardcore-punk bands to speed things up this much; notably, the guitarist and bassist here went on to form the now legendary punk band, Rancid. Best line, “…when I wanna talk sense to you, it’s like spitting back at rain…”!

Lexicon Devil

from the 7” single, Slash Records, 1978



If ever there was an American rocker that truly espoused Neil Young’s sentiment of, “…it’s better to burn out than to fade away…”, Darby Crash was it---baring his needy soul to the masses for a brief, blinding flash of guttural salvation, then promptly overdosing a couple months past his 22^nd birthday. This was the group’s second single, and having changed his stage name from Bobby Pyn to Darby Crash, he mockingly rails against cults of personality, “I’m a lexicon devil with a battered brain, and I’m searchin’ for a future, the world’s my aim; so gimmie gimmie your hands, gimmie gimmie your mind…gimmie gimmie this, gimmie gimmie that…” Pat Smear’s guitar playing was full of nuance and style even back then, and Lorna Doom’s bouncing bass sits right upfront in the mix; they got drumming help from The Weirdos’ Nicky Beat, having lost their first drummer, one Donna Rhia…clearly, nicknames were compulsory.

Orgasm Addict

from the 7” single, United Artists Records, 1977



“Well you tried it just for once, found it alright for kicks; but now you found out that it’s a habit that sticks, and you’re an orgasm addict.” Thus begins the tale of Johnny (he will fuck you always and always…), and every other young boy on the planet once the cat is out of the bag. The usual stipulations and rules which had made many rock stars masters of the double-entendre over the years went out the window with punk music, and the Buzzcocks leave no doubt in anyone’s mind as to the level of obsession within their main character here, “…you're makin' out with school kids, winos and heads of state; you even made it with the lady who puts the little plastic robins on her Christmas cakes…” Extra points for the sassy cover art, and I have to agree, “…it’s a labor of love fucking yourself to death…”!

Chinese Rocks

from the LP L.A.M.F., Track Records, 1977



Serving as guitarist for the New York Dolls gave Johnny Thunders a number of things: some extra cash, a badass reputation with a crapload of street cred, and one exceedingly nasty dope habit; all of those evolutionary adjustments make themselves well-known on this most excellent ode to opiates. First of all, compared to his career with the Dolls, this LP actually managed to sound rougher and cheaper than his former band’s albums---an arduous task indeed! Though the lyrics are buried in the mix, they basically sum up the entire life of Mr. Thunders, “…I’m livin’ on a Chinese rock, all my best things are in hock; I’m livin’ on a Chinese rock, everything is at the pawn shop…” Thunders finally overdosed in 1991, making his words back in ’77 sadly self-prophetic, “…it’s hot as a bitch, I shoulda been rich, but I’m just digging this Chinese ditch…” Btw, “L.A.M.F.” stands for “Like A MotherFucker”, text speak b4 there was such a thing; as if you needed to be told…

Last Caress

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…”