While the tune isn’t particularly great, the lyrics and delivery are are perfect. And even though it came out in 1985, it’s even more relevant today. Pop music gets more and more insipid each day, and there are fewer and fewer diamonds in the rough to pick out. It seems like EVERY song that tops the singles chart is related to partying, which isn’t inherently a bad topic for songs, but when that’s all you can sing about, you can no more claim to be a musician than Rick Santorum can claim to be a normal human being.  

This song got me through many homework assignments this year. Jello Biafra’s voice is legendary in its power, uniqueness, and its strangeness, but that’s definitely a good thing.   

I feel bad for not putting a respectable amount of content here, so prepare to witness some awesomeness.

The reviews feel (And are) like they’re written by fans, and if you want to avoid mainstream reviews, which often overlook bands like the Offspring, which aren’t exactly loved by critics, but have huge fanbases. And what the fans think is always more important.

That’s right, I didn’t just walk into the bookstore and read it all there.

This is a tale of unmatched depravity, rampant drug abuse, angsty young people, and most importantly, music. It’s continually fascinating, all because of the unique way it is presented: Nothing but the words of the people who made punk rock happen appear on the pages. I don’t know if that’s the best way to write a book in every case, but it really works here. Every insane event that occurred in the lives of Sid Vicious, Johnny Thunders, Patti Smith, and countless other social deviants who lived in New York, Los Angeles, London, Cleveland, Detroit, and Ann Arbor. They spin their tales with blunt language and the glee of middle-aged adults who look back on the 1970’s with part nostalgia and part regret. 

The story begins in a strange place: Andy Warhol’s art scene of the mid 1960’s. I was amused that punk rock could possibly begin in such an “Artsy” locale, but as I read on, it all sort of made sense. From what I can deduce, the first Punk band was the Velvet Underground, a jumbled assortment of eccentric, though extremely talented musicians. Why were they the first punk band? Because, unlike Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, their songs were not all “questions”, and they flew in the face of what folk singers were doing at the time. Most important of all, the Velvet Underground was headed by guitarist Lou Reed, probably the greatest songwriter of the era. Lou stays relevant throughout the book, and he always has the most insightful things to say. 

As the book goes on, I was both surprised, thrilled, but also disappointed in some areas. The authors do a great job of describing the earliest New York punk bands like the Dictators, the New York Dolls, and the Ramones, but they completely neglect the Clash’s enormous influence on music, as well as denigrate the music of the Sex Pistols, whose obvious talent is ignored for the most part. Oh well. I guess you can’t have everything in a book, and the stuff it DOES cover is pretty brilliant. I could go on over this for a lot longer, but like any good punk, I know the value of brevity, and you’ve got other things to do. I’d definitely recommend this book for those who like depraved testimony and other fun-filled excursions. 

Final Score: 7/10  

For those in need of Head Banging.

Here we have it, folks. The big one. The main attraction. The punk rock album that defined the 90’s and created millions of Mohawk-sporting Rancid fans. Forget “Dookie”. Forget “Stranger than Fiction”. Forget “Punk in Drublic”. THIS album brought the movement back. Despite its relative unpopularity when compared to an album like “Dookie”, this one was much more important, is more innovative, and is much more authentic. I’m talking about “…And Out Come the Wolves”. You should be listening to it. Like, right now.

First off, there is not a bad song on this album. There is not a good song on this album. EVERY song on this album is GREAT. It’s rare to find an album with this much skill and conviction poured into every track. Secondly, each song is unique. From the first seconds of each one, you can identify it and then prepare yourself for the greatness that is about to overwhelm you. “Maxwell Murder” is a short blast of expert riffs connected to the greatest bass solo I’ve ever heard. “Junkie Man” is heavily ska-based and is almost the exact opposite of “Maxwell”, but it’s just as important with its poignant lyrics and spoken words written by brilliant poet Jim Carroll. And then there’s “Roots Radical”, which is impossible not to like. It has the power to make anybody head bang. 

And then there’s the talent behind the songs. For that, we have to thank Tim Armstrong and Lars Frederiksen, two friends since early childhood who refined their musical abilities while growing up in Albany, California and rising to Bay Area popularity at 924 Gilman Street, Berkeley’s CBGB. When this duo got together, nothing would ever be the same. They share the lyrical and guitar work on their songs, a sign of trust and collaboration that is very difficult to attain in a band. Their individual voices flow through the tracks seamlessly, with the ease of a single voice. And the separate guitars supply their own memorable riffs in a way that sounds perfect.

Sadly, this album is not as popular as it should be. I expected it to be on Rolling Stone’s top albums of the 90’s, but it was nowhere to be found. I suppose that’s the price of staying on an independent record label. In the meantime, more people need to listen to this, and hopefully it will be put into its rightful place as a classic. Final Score: 10/10        

Oh Yeah…Live video from an Old Jawbreaker Concert…And in our very own Austin no less!