When I was younger, I loved punk rock. I loved the screaming, the swearing, the freedom. I was raised in a Baptist family with a Catholic dad. My mother listened to classical music and christian music. We didn't watch very much television. I read a lot. I was the oldest kid.
When I discovered punk rock- a friend made me a mix tape of Dead Kennedys, Crass, the Subhumans- I wore out the tape in my 1981 Rabbit's tape deck. I would drive down PCH to go surfing at the cliffs with my sunroof open, the windows down and I would scream along with the music.
Last night, a friend and her husband invited us to see a punk rock show in our own hood, at the Que Sera, famous former lesbian bar (they are very nice- with a charming sign on the desk where you pay your cover that says, "The Que Sera is not a lesbian bar- everyone is welcome" and the girl who says cheerfully, "Give me your little paws" as she stamps my hand).
I haven't seen or heard punk rock recently- my punk rock phase was relatively short and long ago. (Although I did buy a couple Crass CDs a year ago- nostalgia). It was strange; I felt as if I was watching my younger self bounce around screaming along, as I sipped my Guinness and played pool in the back. It was fun, although I felt about a million years old. Everyone was wearing black, so I stood out. Actually, all of my friends stood out- none of us were dressed terribly punk rock. There's something kind of poignant about punk rock to me, something kind of amazing and lost- that ability to stand and scream what you feel to a rocking drum beat and thumping guitar. It's hard to give words to the feeling... But I felt something akin to nostalgia.
So I sit here in my house and my ears are still ringing. It makes me remember myself back when, and I feel a little sad to lose that girl. The girl who wanted to scream along with the punk rock.
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