The usual edicts of the pop world were there for the serious punks and
boy did they want them. Fame and fortune, forever lurking round the corner
from the Marquee, WAG Club or Students' Union. In the same way 'Rock
and Rollll, Hey!' minced out of the transistor radio from Gary Glitter,
the heart sank at the punk sound. What was the point anymore? Any arsehole
was shitting - that was the anarchic attraction.
But in hindsight the punk rocker was the precursor of the High Street
McD*n*lds syndrome. Most of those who partook now consign their teenage
activities to natural development, something they grew out of. Those
that remain fortysomething punks are looked upon suspiciously as retro
retards receiving the same curious side-glance afforded to Elvis lookalikes.
After twenty five years, cars are awarded 'vintage' status. You too now,
guys. Jubilee time.
I was there, yet I wasn't. My Bromley associates were looking for the
very things their parents probably wished upon them. It was apparent
that their movement was as shallow as the aural adverts they threw together.
And as impetuosity begat revenue, it was a.o.k. Yes, you screamed, fuck
the folkies, fuck the boring rock stars and fuck everyone over thirty...
Your sound was the soundtrack for a generation that consequently knew little
about craftsmanship, aural perception, patience or study, let alone musical
and performance skill.
It seems perfectly fitting that a generation who presumed adrenalin
meant artistry now sires little bastards who thrive on computer games and
have little understanding or appreciation of muscianship at all.
Yes, you really fucked us all.