Bombsite Fanzine ; Punks Not Dead

In the early '80s, I found myself in the unlikeliest of places: Toledo, Ohio. A city where punk rock was as foreign a concept as vegan cuisine in a Texas barbecue joint. Sure, there were a few who'd caught wind of it through newspaper clippings, and they'd chuckle about it over their morning coffee. But the truth was, the world back then was vast, and punk hadn't yet seeped into the marrow of Middle America. To quench my thirst for that raw, unadulterated three-chord energy, I'd make pilgrimages to the Big Apple every chance I got. New York City was the Holy Grail, the epicenter of punk's primal pulse. Closer to home, Detroit and the Cleveland Agora occasionally hosted a band or two, but it was a ragtag crew of diehards who'd bother to show up. I remember the Lords of the New Church rolling through in '82, and it felt like a secret gathering, a hundred souls drawn to the music on a nondescript Wednesday night. Then there was that fateful night in '96 when the Sex Pistols graced the Nautica stage in the Flats. The venue was far from packed, but let me tell you, those who were there witnessed a classic. Punk has this uncanny knack for igniting in the places where it's most needed, like a spark in a dark room, and then it vanishes, moving on to mend another societal sore spot. It's a living, breathing entity that shuns commercialization, but vultures are always circling, looking to cash in on its authenticity, as punk quietly slips out the back door, ready to crop up elsewhere, far from the grasp of those who seek to tame it. That's the essence of the "Punks not dead" mantra that's been echoing for over three decades. Now, let me address the naysayers who claim that punk was nothing more than a fashion statement in '76 across the pond. Sure, there was a touch of style on display, and London's Kings Road was a surreal epicenter of it all. The street, a tale of two worlds, boasted wealth on one end and destitution on the other. Kids from every corner of the globe descended on that pavement, drawn by an insatiable curiosity. Over in Europe and across the Atlantic, they'd squat and work in those chic fashion stores, bars, and boutiques, skirting the law just to soak up the vibrant scene. But punk is a restless beast; it moves swiftly, and it found new homes in places like Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow, and Ulster. These were cities marred by violence and plagued by unemployment, where designer boutiques weren't exactly thriving. Here, the kids pilfered clothes from thrift shops and army surplus stores, transforming them with reckless abandon, spray paint, and dye. The Pistols had already called it quits, and the Clash were deemed sellouts. Yet, punk was too busy trying to mend the fractures of these society's ills to care about appearances. And so, the anthem remains the same: Punks Not Dead. It's an eternal teenager, always seeking its next hideout, its next adventure, before the suits come knocking. For all those who hunger for its unrestrained energy, the journey continues. Punk lives on, ever restless, ever resilient. Thanks, Mart, for the memories and the reminder that punk, like the soul, never truly dies.