Not Punk-A poem by Aaron Lee Tasjan
Somewhere between smokin’ Joe Strummer and a man who changed his name from Gordon Sumner is what we have come to know as “not punk.”
First, the real punk: Lenny Kaye’s Nuggets.
Built from the underground it was a collection of the largely ignored at the time.
American bands grasping the American dream as it carefully eluded them.
96 tear drops are shed on the turntable as the record goes around again and here we are today still listening.
Someone says, “Dude, that is so not punk,” as Blink-182 stumbles around gacked up on hair dye and long shorts.
Mean while Iggy sits with Tom Waits and smokes another ciggy.
As I sit in an arm chair in Peru, David Johansen explains to a reporter that his band “did not invent punk.”
He resembles Dylan at his press conferences in the 60s…he is articulate and bewildering.
Flights of high octane guitar soar through the hotel lobby as God Save The Queen comes out of the radio.
There is Steve Jones…perhaps punk’s very own John Wayne.
Perhaps the pawn shop receipt for Bowie’s stolen gear should have been signed, “Marion Robert Morrison.”
And now, the shape of punk to come!
And it’s out there…waiting.
In the mean time, I can’t trade in my guitar at the pawn shop for a trust fund lap top and a pitchfork review.
But why would I want to?
That shit is so not punk.