Royal Court Of Punk

Imagine a palace the day of a royal ball. A magical place where fashion and fantasy collide, where mythical characters adorn themselves with pseudo-tribal skin etchings and multi-colored hairdos as bright and lively as an urban circus. Imagine a Royal Court of Punk. The dance has come and the courtiers smile with glee. The smell of Pabst permeates the smoke-filled room as each participant glances around the ballroom, hoping to appear larger than life, aided by 3-inch Creepers and freshly ironed mohawks. Around the punch bowl, tales of suburban bravado and drunken debauchery are told and retold to fellow attendants, each believing themselves the quintessential essence of the dance, the wolf among sheep. Using personas built around last names like "Vicious" and "Rotten," clever mystiques are cultivated and presented to the court like bright, shiny razors carving "heroin" across a pasty white chest. As the dance progresses, mates are chosen by the number of studs on their jacket and the pattern of plaid on their pants, signals of their rank and status among the courtiers. Eyes are lost to glued tri-hawks and spinning wallet chains. Still, they dance on. The night begins to fade, the carefully crafted hairdos, each more elaborate than the largest peacock, begin to go limp. The frenzied energy of before gives way to alcohol-induced slumber and the reapplying of layers of white foundation and the blackest of eye shadow. Curfew, commonly called "Mommy" begins to set in. One by one, the younger members of court filter out, leaving the floor to the grizzled veterans of yesteryear. The music, always secondary, can hardly be heard over the constant whines of "the way it used to be." Trapped in a world long ago, these specters, these Dukes and Earls of another age, haunt the dance reminding those around that they where "there when it started." Much to their dismay, these ghosts are dismissed. Youth is king, or so they say. Yet at this dance there are no kings, only feuding princes dueling for the elusive throne through the ancient ritual of punk points, accumulated through acts of daring and feats of magic, through references to obscure Swedish bands and an extensive knowledge of Japanese hardcore circa '83 to '86. Tonight, however, there will be no kings. Only discussions on the merits of a 3-row studded belt vs. a 2-row. Amidst the earth-shattering political discussions, manipulative courtiers maneuver themselves into coveted positions of power also know as "zine editors." These select few dictate the rules of the dance; develop the rituals the court must follow. An unsaid yet universally agreed upon code envelops the crowded ballroom, "Dance, children, dance. Do not question what we have told you. Surely you like the dance we have prepared for you?" Like aged school teachers at a Junior High dance, authority is strictly maintained. The Court must remain as it always has, the pomp and circumstance must remain unchanged. So, on they dance, lost in the revelry and ritual of the spectacle, caught up in the simplicity of a one-track mind. Yet, in the shadows lurks a threat: the dreaded Opinion. Courtiers gasp and dictators of cool are alerted as the Opinion joins the dance. Quickly he is removed. "You do not belong here," the bastions of hip mumble as he is quickly escorted out of the dance. The threat has been removed. The dance may continue. Shocked faces quickly subside as the purveyors of punk assure everyone that this will not happen again. And so the Court remains, to this day, dancing to the same broken record, chanting the same hollow rhetoric between glasses of cider.

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