Aggroculture
Track #3
Summertime. 2016. Volunteering at a garage sale fundraiser for high school students dreaming of heading to Europe. Families drop off items to donate: these things once meant something to somebody. Somebody worked some hours to pay for it initially. Huh.
I sift through the odds and ends to put out a display. By the fifth box, I start boring of it. Then. There it was. A Misfits T shirt. You know it. That crude skull. Shot me back to sitting in my angry teenage room with my headphones on, wearing out that cassette, listening to that underwater guitar rumble out the beginning of Where Eagles Dare. Fuck, that was great. I notice quickly that the shirt is in pristine condition. No pit stains, no shabbiness. Shit, the sleeves were still on. What the hell? Was this bought to make an unknown statement – did someone just think it looked “cool”? I hold up the shirt, wave it at my daughter and raise my brows. Her nostrils flare and she simply mouths my other alias “mom??!!?” I quickly tuck it back in with pile of shirts. I start screwing around with another table that has Christmas ornaments, picture frames (complete with family photos) and unopened packages of plastic spoons. This pleases her.
Adults apparently aren’t allowed to display their homage to the tough sound. Do the youth think they own this? Was punk a momentary necessity to help us teenage loners, freaks and sinners feel like we were part of something? I feel lucky having grown up with 80’s punk. Hang out at the indie record shops and get home to catch an episode of The Young Ones. Ordering music from catalogs simply because the name looked amazing. How else could you find out? There was no internet. Here I am now as a 40 something: are us adults the oppressors/establishment that are cursed against in the verses? “Wash up some dishes, would ya?”, “do your homework”, “you are wearing that out in public?” At work I have deadlines, run reports, try to sell things to people. Fuck, am I that person?
We settle in the lawn chairs and watch people stream in and out. The tee doesn’t sell but the Christmas ornaments do. OK, maybe I’m a little old to sport that tee. But I’ll never outgrow that blood pressure surge of an intro that’s simply drumsticks clinking and someone hollering “one-two-three-four!”
Vowel Pellet
Track #3
Summertime. 2016. Volunteering at a garage sale fundraiser for high school students dreaming of heading to Europe. Families drop off items to donate: these things once meant something to somebody. Somebody worked some hours to pay for it initially. Huh.
I sift through the odds and ends to put out a display. By the fifth box, I start boring of it. Then. There it was. A Misfits T shirt. You know it. That crude skull. Shot me back to sitting in my angry teenage room with my headphones on, wearing out that cassette, listening to that underwater guitar rumble out the beginning of Where Eagles Dare. Fuck, that was great. I notice quickly that the shirt is in pristine condition. No pit stains, no shabbiness. Shit, the sleeves were still on. What the hell? Was this bought to make an unknown statement – did someone just think it looked “cool”? I hold up the shirt, wave it at my daughter and raise my brows. Her nostrils flare and she simply mouths my other alias “mom??!!?” I quickly tuck it back in with pile of shirts. I start screwing around with another table that has Christmas ornaments, picture frames (complete with family photos) and unopened packages of plastic spoons. This pleases her.
Adults apparently aren’t allowed to display their homage to the tough sound. Do the youth think they own this? Was punk a momentary necessity to help us teenage loners, freaks and sinners feel like we were part of something? I feel lucky having grown up with 80’s punk. Hang out at the indie record shops and get home to catch an episode of The Young Ones. Ordering music from catalogs simply because the name looked amazing. How else could you find out? There was no internet. Here I am now as a 40 something: are us adults the oppressors/establishment that are cursed against in the verses? “Wash up some dishes, would ya?”, “do your homework”, “you are wearing that out in public?” At work I have deadlines, run reports, try to sell things to people. Fuck, am I that person?
We settle in the lawn chairs and watch people stream in and out. The tee doesn’t sell but the Christmas ornaments do. OK, maybe I’m a little old to sport that tee. But I’ll never outgrow that blood pressure surge of an intro that’s simply drumsticks clinking and someone hollering “one-two-three-four!”
Vowel Pellet
