The phrase "old punk rocker" destroys me.
There is nothing in this world except math that I can view as "Pure", but punk rock is the closest thing to what I would consider "holy". A violent, ugly, painfully truthful expression. The sounds of the screams of an agonized soul. I listen to the words of discontent and they ring truer than any gospel, any hymn, any secular love song or poem. It's emphatic, above all, and there is joy to be gleaned from its frustration. There's a sense that, finally, it's out there. Finally, with grievances aired out, we can seek some answers or some solutions, maybe; but mostly that now, I can stop hiding pain. I can drop the act that things are okay. In this moment, in this roar, I am more honest than I have ever been, how things are not okay, and only now can I rectify myself with reality. No guilt, no well-wishing, no grins and grimaces and optimistic twisting. This is what this is, and I can live it.
A man who I am led to believe wears a mohawk, hosts a podcast, where he and two other non-broke, non-starving men discuss horror movies. And he makes an offhand comment about his past-influenced philosophy, something about inherent dislike and distrust of authority, and passes it off - "old punk rocker," he explains. Once upon a time, things were... the same. Different, but what there is now has been forever. The youth have always had counter-culture. The aged have always been in stability - those whose lives remained roller-coaster-shaped crashed at some point before they got there. And in the meantime, change was not enacted. Some kids didn't get the memo and they grew up to be billionaires anyway. not everyone hears the message, and the tragedy of the commons happens, and someone defects in the prisoner's dillemma, and the robber barons built libraries so jeff bezos could learn how to code.
I suppose there will always be punk rock. And it might be my duty to amplify those voices, until I am old and forgotten. And perhaps I am already forgotten, to myself, but that's another story.
there will always be a voice of dissent. As long as there are those being oppressed, there will be voices calling out that oppression from the inside. And even after we regulate fair treatment of minorities and the world gets together to sing kum ba yah, one of the priveledged, pampered children will spit out the silver spoon and say hey, listen, all this stuff is great, but I've still got questions you can't answer.
and there always was. And this pure gem of expression, that I am currently maxing out my voice box and ear drums to sing along with, is not unique. we are inside a bubble in the sea, one of infinity. a concert might unite us, but a concert cannot bring about the singularity.
Punk rock will not save us. Nothing will. And that's why we play punk rock.