It's always a bit monotonous to be around folks who came up with different music than you. Sometimes I think nobody came up with the music that I did but then I remember just how the Beatles knocked me for that loop that changed it all for me.
Punk always falls into one of those decades that I pretty much missed all the way around. Now, I have to say, some of these folks really get tedious. Let's face it, by the time Malcolm McLaren managed to get the Sex Pistols signed to Warner Brothers in the middle seventies, there was no such thing as punk. I mean, designer safety pins! Give me a break.
Nobody's ever more for returning to the music than I am. When rock'n'roll puts on a few pounds I say we fire the orchestra. Put the drum sticks back in the hands of the kids.
You want a punk? How about a skinny, hillbilly truck driver from Memphis wearing pink pants and a black lace shirt, sneering from the stage at your girlfriend while he shouts country versions of old blues tunes and warbles bluesy renditions of bluegrass standards.
Maybe four irreverent greasers from Liverpool in tight Levis and leather jackets onstage in Hamburg, eating sandwiches and guzzling booze between covers of the Coasters and Gene Vincent.
Speaking of Gene Vincent, ever take a good look at any of those publicity shots of the Blue Caps. There were some serious punks, boys.
Yeah, nobody loves the punks more than I do. That manufactured attitude that Warner Brothers tried to sell me never quite got there, though. Hank Williams whacked out on pills with the wrong boot on the wrong foot- that's my idea of a punk.