Twinkle Punk

Lately I’ve been I’ve been thinking a lot about my punk past. How an early entanglement with that so called "anti-establishment" music scene shaped me fundamentally. Yes, dreamtripping painter-of-Neptunian-realms me, I spent my early adult years in the throes of punk rock and it's on my mind. Is it because Punk turned 30 years old last year? Maybe it’s because I’ve been meeting people lately who have a similar history. Whatever the why, I’ve been musing on the incongruity of those experiences with my introspective even spiritual nature, wondering what it was all about for me. What led me to fall in so rapturously with a scene that looked so nasty from the outside but had such a profound impact on my psyche?

In 1982 I was freshly graduated from the clutches of high school and looking dubiously forward to the dry little package my future offered. Naturally tuned to odd frequencies, I instinctively bumped against the jagged edge of a thing called punk and it snagged me.

I was young, burning with a strange mix of idealism/nihilism. Real world horrors were crashing in and I was developing a social conscience along with my measure of despair. I knew the human race could be doing so much better and I was damn disappointed. I guess punk was the perfect context for my dark outlook.

It was admittedly a pretty caustic scene. Thrash metal sounds grinding away, mosh pits, stage diving, drunken stupidity, some violence, drug ugliness and large doses of sexism raging around in a rampant spiral and yet I immersed myself with abandon. Stripped down, ripped open and unapologetic was the glory of punk and I plunged right in. No rules, at last. Make what you want of it.

I shaved off my hair, pierced holes in my head, cut and drew on my clothes. I wore my outrage on my sleeve, literally adorned with anger. I ingested the words of Emma Goldman, Kropotkin and others with “answers”. I became an anarchist and listened for hours to rants by CRASS. It was like my friends and I were caught up in a seething surge of collective rage, embodying the repressed fury for an entire culture spellbound by the toxic mimicry of Reaganomics. If nothing else, it felt authentic.

Of course these epiphanies were all submerged beneath more superficial priorities. Working the weekdays away in the City and saving dollars, strategizing for shows. Heading to Berkeley or San Francisco to see Fang, Crucifix, Dead Kennedys, Social Unrest, Trial, X, Circle Jerks, whomever…. The world had became honed to clear basics: a loud show, comfortable boots for walking nights away in urban landscapes, creature comforts like snuff and clove cigarettes, enough cash for Bart fare, club charge and contraband alcohol. It was a simple recipe for a really good time and seemed the best game around. “Enjoy it while it lasts cuz it won’t last long.” I really thought we were about to nuke ourselves into oblivion.

For some, punk meant to party hard, some got off on the raw energy, for others it was a supercharged outlet for anger and creativity; some were just in to be in. For me it was a sounding board that reverberated back an image of myself. Every step I took more clearly defined who I was. Ignoring the stupidest crap erupting on the periphery, I followed what turned me on. The hyperkinetic sounds were the cathartic expression of just how pissed I was about the world. The shock “screw you” modus was frankly refreshing and the antithesis to my own people pleaser persona. I reveled in the sense of tribal connection (punk meant ally). The primitive-style body adornment (tattoos, piercings, bones and such), dangerous hair and the anti-fashionable ripped up thrift store castoffs were all a pull (shocking people makes good sport). I was enamored of any disruption of the numbing effects of Reagan era business as usual.

Ironically it was in the depths of the punk scene that I was introduced to my first psychedelics and was irreversibly cracked open to new and wondrous worlds. Hello, Neptune. At the center of the turbulence, a luminous quiet opened up. Suddenly the city was a creature, the trees were calling with arms thrown open, the moon smiled down like a benevolent eye, colors shimmered, yellow and green were there just waiting to slip under my skin to dissolve all the hard and dark. Beneath all the brutality and oppression, the world was still quietly and radianty alive.

So all these years later, what good is a punk past? Well, it is mighty good ballast, for one. Keeps me anchored when I get lost in the clouds. It grounds me when the woo factor gets too high. If I sog out in the sea of oneness or get tangled in starry veils, it helps to toss the mess on a pyro fire, bitch, laugh, drink a beer. An anything goes attitude and a healthy irreverence is what I gleaned from being a teenage punk. But mostly I came to understand the beauty and power of darkness. Embracing it keeps it contained and makes the world whole.

Yes, I hold a great fondness for my punk past from which I emerged not only unscathed but absolutely enriched and fundamentally transformed.

Note: “Twinkle punk” was a term of endearment I gave to some young punks who inspired me back when. I have a vague memory of a band fronted by two young girls but I clearly remember being struck by their smarts and integrity. They were vegetarian, eschewed leather and wrote righteous political songs. The “twinkle” referred not only to the faceted glass bits they wore on their person but also a certain laserbright sparkle in the eye. They struck me as sharp and insightful for being so young. I may have only seen them once or twice. I think it was a Dead Kennedys show at the On Broadway in SF. I had forgotten their name until I dug about on the Internet. I think I’m remembering Atrocity (here are some pics) and (myspacepage). They were some of the first “peace punks” I encountered and reinforced my crossover into more hippiefied territory. Love, Peace and Anarchy.

Photo: Exene Cervenka of X, 1981 by Ann Summa.