What began as a relatively blissful fifteen minute journey around the florescent lit aisles quickly went south. I was lost (in the supermarket)... when my playlists began to fail me.
It started out as just a detour of one playlist, then two, then the whole damn library. It escalated to stopping in every aisle (whoops,excuse me, sorry) just to swipe to the next song. I was desperate. Instead of my usual aptitude to find a song to block out the noise in my head; I was floundering. But then, by the grace of Apollo, I spotted a young man looking for fish sticks in the frozen aisle. Neon yellow mohawk, torn sleeveless denim jacket with obligatory Black Flag, Bad Brains, and Seven Seconds 1 patches and finally a lovingly worn in pair Doc Martens. Unbeknownst to him, his attire was my muse. No more indie, no more rap, no more seventies contemporary, no folk, no new wave, no goth. No techno beats, no whining, no neo-art rock.
Fuck you playlists. Except for you Punk A Dunk.
It was time for punk. No, no lower case letters. IT WAS TIME FOR PUNK.
Oh Punk…How do I forget you? I’m sorry! It had been at least four months since I created a playlist to showcase what I think to be your best.
"Wait. No." I thought. I’m not sorry and even if I was, you likely wouldn’t care. I would wager that you would, if you could, just tell me to shut up, fuck off, and to hand you a beer.
Woefully accepting an apology is better left for indie, goth, new wave. No, I won’t apologize. I’ll simply say I forgot you and well, fuck you too…now here’s your beer, I’ll grab mine, let’s drink up.
It was time to reconnect…time to feel left out, unheard, hurt, and in a most primal sense, angry. It was time to scowl, time to swear, and time to cry. It’s time to scream so loudly that our throats feel like sand, the voices that resonate from them undoubtedly strained, but definitely not silenced, never.
And silenced was exactly how felt in 1986. After THE DIVORCE my mother chose to get as far away from my father as possible: California. It was a town that was equivalent in size to my former home of Independence, Missouri and a few aspects where ideal. Almost everyone had a pool, the sun was always out, and I had been bestowed the privilege of riding my three speed around it's smooth, wide, palm tree lined streets. I had a made a few friends even, one introduced me to the Cure, another to skateboarding,and lastly, one to kissing someone for more that 20 seconds. I learned the joy of scouring thrift stores for the most worn in, blackest, parent shocking, clothing I could find.
But aside from that, I still received jabs about my mid-western accent. Due to her two jobs I saw my mom less and her creepy, unemployed, alcoholic boyfriend more. Ronald Reagan was president, and even though I didn't know much about politics, I did know in conversation his name was included with the expression " to hell in a hand basket" and that I couldn't do anything about it except hope that the hand basket was made of titanium instead of wicker.
And looming over my sun-bleached, shaved-on-one-side, head an event much scarier than a nuclear bomb hitting the US: High School.
But this blog is to be centered on music.
Somehow, I was
Whether or not you're a crusty punk like myself, a newborn punk, or just someone who has realized that their music tastes are limited and need to hear something new, I think you'll enjoy Punk A Dunk. Silly name? Sure. One of the most exciting, original genres of music to come out the late 70's- early 80's? DAMN sure.
https://open.spotify.com/user/12101629978/playlist/6OBTjMWGlRE2bK6zYiKmRI?si=PV0kbU4tSI2w0WWK_zyF8w
And silenced was exactly how felt in 1986. After THE DIVORCE my mother chose to get as far away from my father as possible: California. It was a town that was equivalent in size to my former home of Independence, Missouri and a few aspects where ideal. Almost everyone had a pool, the sun was always out, and I had been bestowed the privilege of riding my three speed around it's smooth, wide, palm tree lined streets. I had a made a few friends even, one introduced me to the Cure, another to skateboarding,and lastly, one to kissing someone for more that 20 seconds. I learned the joy of scouring thrift stores for the most worn in, blackest, parent shocking, clothing I could find.
But aside from that, I still received jabs about my mid-western accent. Due to her two jobs I saw my mom less and her creepy, unemployed, alcoholic boyfriend more. Ronald Reagan was president, and even though I didn't know much about politics, I did know in conversation his name was included with the expression " to hell in a hand basket" and that I couldn't do anything about it except hope that the hand basket was made of titanium instead of wicker.
And looming over my sun-bleached, shaved-on-one-side, head an event much scarier than a nuclear bomb hitting the US: High School.
Despite being friends with one of the most popular girls in
middle school, I was always a little bit on the fringes. Not rich enough to afford
the latest clothing trends, still carrying a little baby weight, and again the
damnable Midwestern accent. But as noted, the summer of ’86 had afforded me a
modicum of confidence in which to enter the next stage of learning, or as many,
(myself included) see as another battle in a constant emotional war. On my side
were soldiers named “Self Deprecating Humor” and “Increasing Jadedness”. Despite
their long rule, the dictatorship comprised of cheerleaders, jocks, and popular
kids were not going to ruin my year. That’s right, my platoon was prepared for
a total social coup de tat.They were not however,
prepared for the very realistic skirmish that happened on the day that we were
supposed to get a layout of the battleground, known by its less threatening
name of Freshman Orientation.
It happened soon after I got out of the shower. Wrapped in a
towel, ready to don my black skirt and a moss green turtleneck (despite it
being 90 degrees outside) I stopped to glance in the mirror. Should my hair
cover the left or right side of my face? Should I wear an all-knowing smirk or
an exasperated frown? What (clichéd) persona should I allow to people to see? How
would these posers and trendies remember Jenny (at the time) Kautt, the girl
who stood dripping wet wandering down the path of superficial awareness?
Who should I be? Who should anyone
be? Why should we be at all? Are we really even being? Wait. Is this all a
dream? All thoughts I had before I dropped
to the floor and started convulsing.
And just like that, the battle of
Freshman Orientation was won by a mysterious and much, much stronger force.
Needless to say I missed Freshman
Orientation.
I could create an entire blog on that one day, even those few
seconds and how they not only affected my life, but of those around me: lover, friend,
or foe. Whatever stereotype I chose to embrace from that point on would include
epilepsy.
But this blog is to be centered on music.
Before that day I had only dabbled around in alternative
music: New wave, Goth, speed metal. When
the tests were over, the diagnosis made, and I was allowed to return to the
trenches of Redwood high, punk told me it was time to jump, kick, and skank my
timid ass into music that not only rejected the thoughtless noise on Mtv but
challenged the system that had allowed it to happen. https://youtu.be/0oCPNMZuWwI Punk seemed
to mirror the anger and isolation I felt after being diagnosed as an epileptic.
The members of the bands were misunderstood and feared, as epilepsy was. Surely I would find someone who had the same fears as I did. (if not directly stemming from something physical, but from feeling out of touch socially) Surely there was someone among the some odd thousand teenagers I saw everyday that had stumbled onto this rebellious genre of music.
The first few weeks were hard, as they are for all freshmen. New campus, new classes, new teachers, new peers. But for someone who felt as outcast as I did, these freshie fears seemed amplified.And the aforementioned dictatorship, well they were there, more powerful if by only sheer number than they were in Middle School.
The first few weeks were hard, as they are for all freshmen. New campus, new classes, new teachers, new peers. But for someone who felt as outcast as I did, these freshie fears seemed amplified.And the aforementioned dictatorship, well they were there, more powerful if by only sheer number than they were in Middle School.
Somehow, I was
Whether or not you're a crusty punk like myself, a newborn punk, or just someone who has realized that their music tastes are limited and need to hear something new, I think you'll enjoy Punk A Dunk. Silly name? Sure. One of the most exciting, original genres of music to come out the late 70's- early 80's? DAMN sure.
https://open.spotify.com/user/12101629978/playlist/6OBTjMWGlRE2bK6zYiKmRI?si=PV0kbU4tSI2w0WWK_zyF8w
1
Also obligatory, the thought that went through my head "I'll bet that poser doesn't even know five songs from those bands!" shows how crusty this lover of punk is.
