As an inverse to how Kissinger’s winning of the Nobel Peace prize rendered Tom Leher’s career no longer relevant, Whitney and Michael’s deaths have given GG’s demise a dignity that he would have found repellent. How low can a punk get? Pretty low. My view of the state of punk is the same as my view of the State of Israel; entirely indefensible but I don’t want it to die. And both are like the music of Lana Del Rey; sure I’ll make fun behind closed doors, but get me in the bar and I’ll take positions no sane man could support just to remain, in my mind, in stark opposition of the stupid, stupid faces of the naysayers. My god, I’ll defend ‘90s era Bad Religion before I concede the point. What point? Any point. That’s what being a punk is about.
I was once asked, after GG Allin’s death, if I wanted to try out to sing for the Murder Junkies. I was threatened with bodily harm for making some Johnny Thunders crack and asked if I liked rape rock. That’s not my story. I’m just establishing my credentials.
Listen, it’s late and you’re the only paying customer here, so please don’t let me bring you down. I know I rolled my eyes when you said Nina Simone was the first punk, but you have to understand; giving the souls of black folk the unasked for validation of a Minor Threat t-shirt is a sucker’s game. One you should stop playing at the exact moment you stop pretending to enjoy Greil Marcus. But I’m here to serve you, not insult you, not shave you with my eyes, not rearrange the letters of your neck tattoos so that they no longer spell out the names of all the line cooks who have died on your watch, but instead say something true like: “Given the choice between getting all the pussy in Gainesville while actually Being in the Moss Icon reunion and President Obama being re-elected and National service being instated therefore ensuring a genuine rebirth in civic pride and actual community rather than the half assed insular compromises of house shows and bike clubs, I don’t actually know what I’d choose. Probably the tan lines and Sub Springsteen sing alongs of the Against Me! pool party. Sorry. PS. Not really sorry.”
So let me get you another drink. No, we don’t have Lonestar. Yes, I know where you first had it…