My Punk Rock Euology; F**k You Hipsters You Murdered Punk Rock

I love Punk Rock but the Hipsters are murdering it. Here is my Punk rock euology, soon to be forgotten.

Somewhere transiently-existing, there is a memoir-forgotten that explains to society what it means to be a Punk Rocker. It seems that the modern-day 'Hipster' has chosen their commonly-recognized look based purely on a bi-product of Punk Rocking, the inevitable style that is generated by the lifestyle. It's time to set the record straight. There are some foundational reasons why hipster's are so-often confused with Punk Rockers these days.

Roll up a doobie and get ready for some good old-fashioned venting from this crusty old-fart.

This is my Punk Rock Memoir, never to be forgotten.

Inhaling the fresh, tangy and manure-soaked air (that seemed to coat my lungs in a delicate poop-tapenade) through my 1989 Ford Bronco's ventilation system, I traveled eagerly to my band's final practice before our show at the El Mocambo on Spadina in Toronto.

It was 1998 and was also the rare time of year when all three of us were the same age, 16 years old. Our jam-space, at our guitar player Goyter's parent's place, was proud-to-host us that day it seemed. Our Henry Rollins poster seemed to dance with the pulses from our amps and our NoFx flag was rippling peacefully along side our cork-board which was stabbed repeatedly with band pins and Crass badges. Today was a good day.

Landslide, our drummer, made sure to grab a quart of whisky to put in our bong before our set. Band tradition. Goyter pre-rolled 6 blunts and they were in his smoke pack like we organized. And I, as the lead singer, made sure to bring as many severed doll-heads and as much fake blood as I could squander.

We wrote a song called "The President is a Pedophile-Predator".

The chorus went like this:

"Pedophile Bill, your wife is a maggot.
She stabbed Monica's p***y as she called you a f****t.
I got one doll head for every woman you abused.
I'll chew my tongue right-off and spit their blood all-over you.
 You rapist. You bully. This aggression won't stand.
F**k the pedophiles with Bill's deep-state hands."

At this point in the show, I planned to throw an open bag of doll heads into the crowd and spit a mouthful of blood all over everyone in the front row. It was going to be rad.

As you probably imagined, this was during the time when Bill Clinton was about to be impeached for power-struggling and extorting his intern Monica Lewinsky into sucking his c**k repeatedly.

We rolled into the El Mocambo that evening and were stoked to see our friend-band doing sound check. "The Cradle Protectors". They were a straight-edge four-piece punk rock band from Montreal. We loved playing with them because they would always be sober and drive us around. We liked getting s**t-faced for our shows and they liked reinforcing our self-destructive behavior as a testament to their dedication to free will. Really, it was a match made in heaven.

Here we were throwing severed heads into, and spitting blood onto, the crowd. Playing our Punk Rock music all sloppy and drunk. Loud and proud. And here they were, The Cradle Protectors, stone-sober playing really tight and aggressively-political Punk Rock music. All together we represented the polar ends of the same idealism, which was "Here we are and go f**k yourself if you don't like it". It was beautiful to see they were there with us that night.

We killed our set and the doll head situation went perfectly. I got some blood in one dude's mouth and eyes and he was f*****g loving it. We thrashed in the pit for The Cradle Protectors and were all floating high way up on Punk Rock Cloud-Nine.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

There must have been 8 or 9 teenagers on the stage. Two dude's were setting up a f*****g computer!? It's 98 dude's, were all still watching scrambly b***s on Showcase for Christ-sake. This band had lights, cameras and an excessively-nervous set of demeanor. A God-damned fashion show. Totally not Punk f*****g Rock. All of them tuning and fiddling with their instruments and amps.

It was taking them forever to get going and the crowd began losing their patience. I began to hear chirps about how well-dressed these guys were. They were all in suits. People in the crowd started yelling about how they were all wearing the same fedora-style hats.

We weren't accustomed to seeing brass instruments on stage either. Trumpeters, a trombonist and a saxophonist all seemed to be tuning together in some kind of twisted-agony.

We all, in the crowd, felt their fancy-s**t did not belong at a punk rock show. This is not an Orchestra. This is supposed to be a revolt! They were all so pretty and seemed richly-spoiled. They didn't fit in but we were all passifists and also didn't fit in most times, when push came to shove, so we heard them out.

This is when the Hipsters, or their predecessors the "Ska-Kids", infiltrated the Punk Rock scene.

A few months went by and we played a few more shows. Not one of us had ever heard of these bands and not one of us had any idea where they were coming from, but every show seemed to have more ska-influence present. We didn't know what to think. All we knew was that these fuckers were not Punk Rockers and they were replacing good Punk Rock bands at literally all of our shows.

They were all so pleasant and kind, however. They seemed to really like us.

The destruction of our sacred-lifestyle was silently-snowballing, soon to leave us Punk Rocker's flabbergasted at the instant vacancy of our articulated, defined and lush Punk Rock Spirits.

We would play our politically-driven songs and get drunk. These ska bands would showboat their magnificent musical talent, expensive style and flaunt the 100 teenage girls wearing designer clothes they would bring to our shows. It was sad.

It is during this very era, in the mid-to-late nineties, that Punk Rock was officially murdered. It was murdered by Ska-Kid-Hipsters who envied the 'style of Punk Rock'.

The irony is that style has nothing to do with Punk Rock. The tattooed, messy and frequently devalued appearance of the common Punk Rocker is simply a bi-product of their anti-social lifestyle. The common 'don't give a f**k' style of a Punk Rocker is simply the residue left on one's skin from a lifetime of  non-conformist-action and obsession. The Hipsters evolved from Ska-Kids. And along the way they invaded Punk Rock culture, stole the so-called appearances and then threw out the values.

Now in 2018, this social-thievery has resulted in the majority of citizens seeing  real Punk Rockers as Hipsters. The difference is that Hipsters are concerned about looking like something they are not. Punk Rockers just don't give a flying f**k.

So we got some tattoos because that would set us farther apart, we all thought. Nothing more awesome than getting a fresh tattoo that symbolizes something special, even if albeit hard to define.

Punk Rocker's usually have a bunch of singular tattoos that eventually all join into a twisted design of their respective life's journey. Sometimes it looks pretty disorganized and messy. Sometimes it's clean and sharp but if a True Punk Rocker has a 'sleeve' it's purely because the space ran out and now things are squished together.

But now of course, like the soul-crushing little emotional-whiners they are, the Hipsters have stolen this too. You can spot them because they have a giant full arm sleeve that is really one giant tattoo done in one or two sittings. Like some kind of sacrifice to look cool. Sitting 20 hours in 2 sessions over 2 weeks to chastise themselves for not being more like a True Punk Rocker. Couple this with a stunning haircut and you have a Hipster.

So what do we do? I don't f*****g care any more.

This is my Punk Rock Memoir, soon to be forgotten.

Stay Clean, Stay Green

Conshinz

Author's Note

Can you lick your own bag?