#372

One of my favorite Buzzcocks songs is “Harmony in My Head.” It’s one of my favorite songs too, one among a million. I like it because as Flux of Pink Indian’s Punk, it concludes - of course in a quite different way - most of the things I like in punk music. It’s melodic and at the same time it’s really heavy. The singer, Pete Shelley, sings like an angel while he is screaming like an evil little prick. It’s a perfect song for those who can relate to it. I can—‘cause I love harmonies in my head.
Punk and pop as well use a short vocabulary when it comes to fabricating lyrics and the head is one overused place where the action usually takes place. But at the same time punk is reflecting on life, and life is: overused, cheap and clichés, full with wonders if you are lucky to find some but most of the times just boring. Whatever.

            Why I love harmonies in my head is the fact that I love to own things. When I was a kid I used to take photos of my favorite comic strips. I paused the cartoons to put a paper on the screen and how the paper became transparent thanks to the lights of the TV screen I copied the frozen picture to my paper.

            I wanted things to be mine. It wasn’t a selfish gesture. I did not try to rob anything from anyone. I was afraid that these things would vanish as easily as wind blows away papers—even if they contain important sentences. Thus while I was afraid that good things will disappear from my life, and I will end up with nothing, I also wanted them to be around in a reachable distance. And here I am being a freakish fan of punk rock. And I love to buy records and have them. I have a real small record collection—up to how big I could expand it. But it always feels weird when I talk about a band and I say I have their record. Because I only have their record as information stored among the high-tech parts of my laptop. I do not own them. If I had them on records I would, but now I could only encounter them as information.

            Although I feel like I own those records when I’m listening to them, when those harmonies are in my head. When everything that I like is running through my mind, raging between my ears.  When it is just the noise and me, things get intimate and really personal.

            Listening to music that actually blasts into your stupid skull, AKA through a headphone, is intimate. People not gonna bother you when you do that in the public. Reading a book is nothing. Everyone knows that’s not real and they will start to rob your attention with asking stupid questions like what are you reading. People will never start to talk to you when you have music in your head because then it’s clear you don’t want to communicate with them—but you wanna communicate with your kind. The kind that makes noise, not hides in ignorant silence. Music through headphones is a told secret whispered into your ears.

            I hate loud things—except when I’m at a show or one of my bands are playing a song. Other than that, noise for me is painful. I like to listen to music not super loud because I respect some and fear the rest of my neighbors enough that I don’t wanna force them to listen to what I listen to. I don’t wanna educate them if they are stupid enough the exclude themselves from the fans of mutant noise—they could go and fuck themselves. I’m not gonna do them a favor.

            I miss music. My mp3 player died. I’m out there alone in the crowd of the bitter and sour, of those who mumble for themselves in a drunk daze already in the morning of a barely sleeping capitol of eastern European madness. My walls that once gave me protection are gone. I can bury my face into my books, but people start to ask questions because they know I can hear them. My life sucks. It could be worse and I’m surprised how much time I needed to miss music in my daily travelling. But I do miss music even if I had the same bands on my mp3 player for months—some for years and I was only listening to two or three of them. But I had them and I had this fucked up fantasy that at some point someone will stop me and search my player and see all the amazing bands I collected together. It felt like I’m carrying around some of the best things on this planet in my pocket and in my head. Now this is a memory.

            One morning between turning pages I looked up and saw a punk girl standing at the tram stop a bit further from me. I was going to work so I did not look punk. I looked like someone who has a favorite TV series and only talks about that to his friends who are from either high school or from work. All right, I had my boots on, but I keep them clean, and I had a pin on my coat but even punx don’t recognize: the back cover of the Salad Days 7” that looks some hippy shit/dog shelter thing for the unfamiliar eyes. Through some coincidental way she came to me and asked for direction then asked for book recommendation since she saw I was reading a book. Then we began to talk. She looked punk, way too punk. She had a mohawk, piercings around her mouth, She had knuckle tattoos and some sketchy Mad Max like whip-scar over one of her eyes. She looked like a punk warrior from some utopist movies. We talked casually. I did not reveal her that I’m one of her kind. I was afraid she would ask me what kind of music I listen to because I looked so unpunk and she looked sooo fucking punk. I supposed she would think that I’m just a poser, and the awkward attempt to prove her how true I am was something I did not want before eight hours of work.

            I always felt weird around those punx who engaged themselves more in the philosophical idea of punk and “no future” and barely became nerds of its culture. They are the hardliner followers of being outsiders. In a way I feel like I’m a lower caste of punk than they are. I never had the experiences that their life is. I slept on the streets, were way too drunk, been kicked out of places, been harassed by cops. I always ask for cigarettes and change from my friends, I have dirty, shitty cloths and even some prison-like tattoos. Still, I think they have all the right to look down on me. I remember once these wild teenagers invaded a bus I was on and they were busting open plastic wine bottles and yelling, falling on each other and I had this lame attempt to raise the volume of the Black Flag song I was listening to.

            Later that day I went to a train station to pick up Jon from Rank/Xerox who was on a vacation in Europe. He looked like a mod and was telling me that in Brighton he felt like an outsider when he went to a mod shop and bought a pin there.

            It’s strange to be an outsider even in a field you are familiar with. I always thought the only thing a person needs to not feel alienated by his awkwardness is the understanding of the situation and surroundings. If you do, then it shines from your aura that you belong here. But even if I understand a part of punk I can’t understand many people’s attitude and craziness, thus they make me feel like an outsider. 

            That girl is just as punk as I am against my standards. But for her it’s a completely different thing—something more serious. I try to balance my life—it will allow me to be punk in my spare time while she is just going for it. But it is true that I can’t undress my punk even when I’m dressed like a norm. Still, these things are in my head—not just the attitude, but the sounds. Songs, noises, parts.

            I might have grown a thick skin, but it’s for protection. I’m not participating in an on-going war. But I’m in a cold war since forever. I look angrily at cops, I hate the system, I think for myself, I will never blend. I could cheat myself into the system so I’m safe for a while, but I’m waiting for all this to crash. I have a secret world, a constant slumber party, a beautiful parade that saves me. I can think on self-expression, on evil jokes, on amazing creations of fucked up humans. This is punk for me. Discovering the awesome creepiness of Jerk Ward at night in my bed while skinny dipping into literature. Planning fanzines on my way home. Stealing working hours to make drafts, sometimes on the toilet. Watching Flipper perform on a cable show while my girlfriend is sleeping next to me. Getting hooked on aggressive French punk from the ’80s. Losing my shit to this Austrian band called Plastix. Being inspired by Nuts!. Improving my bass skills on Friday nights before Saturday night shows. Becoming a fan of hardcore bands from countries that have a beach on the sea. Finding truth in the guitar sounds of Oma Hans. Thinking the only good thing that comes from America is punk music—the core of a society that is spoiled by humanity. Wearing my pin, my boots, not giving too much fuck—suffering from wanting more but being too lazy to work on it most of the times. Being self-indulgent over the fact that I’m not a fucking asshole. Making fun happen for myself. These things are not much, but for me these are my knuckle tattoos, the scare in my eyes, my leather jacket. I’m a fucking nerd and you would probably hate me—that’s why I don’t care about your boring shitty life.

            Put cool punx, you can hit me up here