The thing about punk rock that a lot of people don’t get is that it isn’t quite about the chords. Sure, there’s gotta be some kind of musical hook that makes it a song, or some kind of melody to contain the chaos, but there’s much more to it. The words, the emotions, the feelings are all very relatable for so many of us. These songs encapsulate our angst, our despair, but also the hope and love we share. They’re anthems, ballads, battlecries, and sometimes, our armor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kind of camaraderie that happens at punk shows anywhere else; strangers embracing while singing along to those anthems, picking each other up after a major bump happens in the pit, or just a slight nod and acknowledgement of a shared experience.
The unfortunate side to punk rock is that in the early days of its formation, it was quite the opposite. Jack Grisham, a modern day raconteur, touches on some of the more depraved aspects of the SoCal scene. A hotbed of testosterone infused with a variable amount of substances and contraband led to a lot of destruction and broken lives in the 1970s and 80s. The next generation of punk was much different, for me anyway, but to ignore or not even acknowledge the tumultuousness of its foundation would be a disservice.
Rooted in adolescence, there’s no way anyone can just casually get into punk if they missed that window during their formative years. Chances are, it’ll just sound like unintelligible noise, or even worse, childish and nonsensical. But for so many of us, it was an opportunity to escape; a chance to really have something for ourselves that no one else could take away. Whenever things would get dicey at home (which happened a lot), I would just throw my headphones on and be transported into another world that not only embraced me, but also helped me flourish. I could get lost for hours in those songs, doodling in my sketchbook or tackling the plethora of mundane chores that needed to get done. As long as I was armed with my music and those emotionally charged hooks I felt safe.
After all, “Where do you go now when you’re only 15?”
I remember one instance in school where we had a group assignment in which we had to share a song that meant a lot to us, pick one from the group, analyze, and share those findings with the class. The people I ended up being grouped with didn’t really have a lot of options – they all came up short or shared some hollow and catchy pop song. When it was my turn to share with the group, I chose The Bouncing Souls – Kate is Great.
I expected ridicule, or at least a few eye rolls. Instead what I got was even more surprising; they really liked it. Now, to be fair, the only thing we shared with each other were the lyrics, not any of the actual music, but the entire group unanimously chose this song. It was a small victory, but further validation in knowing that there is more to these songs than audible violence.
With the music execution and the talk of revolution
Roots Radicals
It bleeds in me
In no particular order, the following albums saved my teenage life.
Swear-wolves 