ANARCHY IN C.A.N.A.D.A. (This one's for you, Rich!)

As a friend of mine from Canada likes to say, “Sorry, laudy mama, I gotta ramble!”

After the latest cash-in travesty that is the SECOND Sex Pistols reunion tour I am officially deleting them from my I-pod. Please bear with me while I do this. If I don’t do it immediately I run the risk of their songs infecting other, more HONORABLE tunes in my library. Sorry ‘bout this………………………………..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, that feels MUCH better.

But not good enough.

In order to completely exorcise the Pistols I need to come clean on my own safety pinned past. All right, let’s just get this out of the way: I was a punker. Yes, I owned a tattered leather jacket, knee high Yugoslavian army boots, torn jeans and an ‘EAT THE RICH’ tee-shirt. I had buttons with anarchy symbols on them. I spit a lot. Sneered at people. I even published a monthly newsletter in high school called ’The International Anarchist News”, which had less to do with the actual ideology of anarchy and more to do with weird, terribly written and totally fictional fake ’news’ stories. I am, however, extremely proud to say that I never, ever, adopted a phony English accent.

And then there was the music. Growing up in Canada we believed that the English punk bands were the TRUE punkers ( boy, does that sound STUPID now…I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I write this!), the ones from impoverished, squalid neighborhoods replete with race riots and class warfare. The Pistols were de rigueur, of course, but there were others: The Exploited (loved their Mohawks!), The Clash (gotta say right here: still great!), 999, the Buzzcocks, GBH, Crass, The Damned and Sham 69, to name but a few.

The local hardcore punk scene in Canada was fairly vibrant, especially in a little industrial town aboot 30 minutes from Niagara Falls called Hamilton. I had a friend named D. Hawthorne who rented the top floor of a three story house in a not-so-nice neighborhood. His place was always filthy; dirty dishes in the bathtub, piles of smelly clothes scattered aboot, piles of D.O.A and Asexuals records in and out of their sleeves, overflowing ashtrays and a veritable cornucopia of empty liquor bottles. “D” was a true punker, only did things he wanted to do and didn’t care what people thought of him. He was a great guy, very intelligent. I used to crash on his couch after a night of drinking and pogo’ing to a local punk band called the Forgotten Rebels. Surfin’ On Heroin was their big ‘hit’ you may remember.

No? Oh, well.

We came back to his pad after a night of drinking and slam dancing to the great Vancouver band SNFU to find the lead singer of the Rebels, an amiable chap named Micky DeSadist, chewing on a chicken bone straight from ‘D‘s‘ garbage tin.

Micky is the fashionable one pictured at the top of this entry.

So we chatted for a while, talked about his band’s newest release, and then he skittered back into the night like a paranoid sewer rat.
What a cool, punk rock thing to do, I thought. Hungry and homeless, what a wonderful role model!

I had a friend, though, who REALLY WAS a rebel, and here is one of aboot a million stories I could tell about him.

There was a great restored Victorian house/ turned pub in Hamilton, can’t recall the name, that we used to frequent because they served great draught beer and allowed us to ‘rent’ out the top floor for private parties. We would rent and haul our own sound system (on which I would blare my famous mixed cassette tapes--God, I‘m getting‘ old), and they would supply our very own private bartender who would serve very strong and very cheap drinks.
During one of these parties another true punk friend of mine, one P. Crowe, got fairly smashed and ended up on the very precarious third story roof with his 6-pack of Molson Canadian Lager (’P‘, if you‘re reading this: WAS it a six pack, or was it hard liquor? I can‘t be sure). Crouching there like some demented spiky-haired Gargoyle, ‘P’ decided it would be a good idea to throw some of the bottles (or glass) down to the street below. Problem was, there were people down there, sitting on the patio and trying to enjoy a quiet cocktail. I can only imagine their horror as they hear the glass explode at their feet, look up, and see my friend leering down at them, all glowing red eyes and demonic laughter. Needless to say the patrons grab their babies and loved ones and scatter, but not until one of them calls the cops, who quickly pull my friend off the roof and probably save his life.

Then there was the time I, and my friend Dave and his lovely bride (then girlfriend) witnessed ‘P’ Crowe tumble down a flight of stairs with a large Vodka and OJ and land head first into our sectional sofa. ‘P’, always aware of his priorities, never spilled a drop. Simply magnificent. A true punk rocker!
More blog entries on 'P' will be forthcoming, I can assure you!

I still listen to punk rock, but with a different ear. I appreciate the anger, and the fact that most of the songs still fill me with adrenaline when I hear them, but the politics, although probably heartfelt at the time, feel dated and a little silly. When the Dead Kennedys come on my ipod,though, I still sing along to the lyrics.

But not the Sex Pistols.

So, anyway, I think I’m done ramblin’ for the night.

Thanks for reading.