In
its quest to recreate the magical mayhem (read: long lines and big $)
that accompanied the 2011 Alexander McQueen exhibit, the folks at the
Met conceived of “Punk: From Chaos to Couture,” a truly
ridiculous tribute to what was a lively and often ugly “movement”
distinguished by its anti-fashion and back-to-basics attitude.
I
am reviewing this uncommonly "pretty!" tribute to an intentionally
garish way of dressing and accessorizing — that was inextricably linked with an important musical movement —
a few days after it has closed. But I’ve noticed that The
New York Times frequently “gets around” to reviewing
art exhibits just as they’re closing (more fun to make the rabble
scamper to something interesting), so if they who are paid can do
that, I can most certainly conduct a post-mortem on the punk show for
the no-pay that blogging confers upon its participants.
I
was underaged when punk hit NYC, but the “fashion,” if it should
be called that, was everywhere, and the music was indeed getting
airplay on certain fringe radio stations (I vividly remember a show
called “Punk-o-rama” on WHBI at the top of the FM dial – “rip
up my school books/tear down the dirty looks/this/is punk-a-rama!”).
By the time I was attending concerts “new wave” music was in full
effect – these shows took place in venues with no liquor license.
In
the decades since that galvanizing explosion – which took some time
to be heard in other parts of the world (thus the docu title 1991:
the Year Punk Broke) – it's become apparent to anyone who
listens to the music that there were excellent punk bands and many,
many shitty ones. There were people grouped under the punk umbrella
who didn't make “punk rock” at all (Blondie, Television, even Patti Smith).
It was a musical movement that thrived on the live concert
experience, but those concerts are long gone (as are the venues), and
so the “summing up” began as early as the late Eighties.
And
then there was the fashion. As with hippie fashion, it was basically
dressing “down,” wearing shitty clothing that shocked older folk,
getting jarring haircuts and affecting whatever was the utter
opposite of the hippie/hard rock look (long hair, bell bottoms,
sideburns, halter tops, whatever). It was rebellion pure and simple,
and it fed off of the rebellion of the past. And like past rebellious
movements, it gave birth to a bunch of shit culture in its wake. When
a rebellious sense of fashion is codified, it officially is dead
(even though wildly colored mohawks were still seen in the Village up
until the early Nineties).
What
the Met programmers did with their little punk outing was to show how
“ugly fashion” was transformed into “pretty!” dresses
and ensembles. They wanted to show how the punk movement lived on,
but instead they emphasized how its worst poser aspects influenced
subsequent generations of posers. They acknowledged the music, but
truly rooted the show in the fashion world – all the better to
recapture that McQueen vibe (his stuff was present in the very first
room of the exhibit, natch – and I did like his crazy-ass goth-meets-H.R. Giger exhibit, by the way).
So
you entered and saw a recreation of the CBGB men's bathroom – oh,
for the sweet cuteness of a disgusting toilet recreated as a museum
exhibit (idea for true modern art experience: not only visual input,
but *smell* and stickiness on the bottom of the shoes score points
for verisimilitude). And not even rendered in its truly, truly
graffiti-covered nastiness (the source photo used was from
early on in the club's existence – that men's room was fucking
disgusting, and therein lay the “mystique” of the place. Life
as it lived, no prettifying anything ever, deal with it or go home).
That
little intentionally shabby nook was followed by several rooms of
punk fashion, progressing from a recreation of Vivienne Westwood's
shop “Clothes for Heroes” to several groupings of dresses and
outfits that looked weird and spacey (paging Alex Mc), and finally
ending with items created for Dolce and Gabbana and Dior in the 2000s
that were “inspired” by punk.
Gone
was the shocking, disturbing, and abrasive edges of the homemade punk
look. As with most haute couture, this stuff could never be worn on
the streets of any city anywhere, and if it was you wouldn't wind up
bleeding for your troubles (or having the fabric tear).
Surrounding
the fashions were some punk sounds (the most famous artists from NYC
and London), plus filmed images on video – of which the only one
that was truly jarring was a person in a bondage mask (or was it a
scuba mask – who the fuck knows, it was jarring and that's all that
mattered) in some cityscape standing around being generally weird and
impressively disturbing. The walls had graffiti on them: mottos like
“Destroy Capitalism,” “Punk is a revolution for countries that
don't allow revolution,” and other items like that.
Throughout
the five or so rooms of high fashion, one got the distinct feeling
that the only way to make the show “legitimate” would be
to have the galleries trashed by people who had a true sense of
artistic vandalism (a fashion show based on punk is dying for a
Magic Christian-like statement in which everyone
who enters the gallery gets randomly gobbed on or some such).
Graffiti slogans and cleaned-up digital video doesn't quite convey
the anarchy and randomness of whatever could be called the punk
“ethos.”
I
saw Brian Eno speak at MoMA back in the Nineties during a “High and
Low” art exhibit, and he lamented that Duchamp's Fountain – the
famous toilet with the name “R. Mutt” inscribed on it –
couldn't be used for its initial purpose. He mused on the fact that
it was under glass (in that show – subsequently I'm sure I've seen it
out in plain air) and secured from the touch of bystanders.
He
fantasized about getting urine in the bowl and thereby cheering up
Duchamp, and anyone who had a sense of humor and playfulness (and
utilitarianism). The closest the punk exhibit got to any sort of
acknowledgment that punk clothing was CHEAP clothing by its very
nature were the wall-texts that explained the derivation of punk,
including John Rotten's famous quote that “when the arse of your
pants falls out, you use safety pins.”
So,
what did tourists experience? A quaint look at a long-ago pop-culture
movement that rebelled against everything that was mainstream, and was
(as per the usual) gobbled up by the mainstream and transformed into
something “pretty!” and worthy of aesthetic consideration. It was
bullshit, but then again Orson reminded us in F for Fake
about the question the Devil himself asked when he saw the first man
make the first crude drawing: “it's good... but is it art?”
The
last word on this artistic farrago – where one of the more
affordable items in the gift shop was a set of pencils with quotes
from Sid Vicious on 'em (!) – was provided by a guy who I am *sure*
never went to the exhibit and also never was the biggest fan of punk.
But he was around at the time, and he respected the rebellion enough
to summarize cogently what the Met's exhibit “meant.” Read the
words of decoder of popular culture tropes (and one of America's best
writers) Nick Tosches writing for style.com. A few paragraphs (read the whole article here):
"Have
you ever read a definition or description of any kind of music, be it
plainsong or punk? Lifeless and untelling compared with hearing even
just a few breaths of the music itself.
"Nobody can say
where it came from or where it went, and we should beware always of
those who would bring sociology or any other ology to rock 'n' roll.
"[...]Thus,
we have Punk: Chaos to
Couture at the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not the Museum of Modern Art, but the big
one. The vast Gothic Revival mausoleum of the greatness of the ages.
Giotto, Botticelli, Raphael, Rembrandt, mummified Egyptian guys. The
big one.
"Museums. "Art
appreciation." If you have to be taught to appreciate something,
it can't be much good. Who ever heard of sex appreciation, drug
appreciation, pork-chop appreciation? I shall not forget being asked
to extinguish my cigarette at the Apocalypse
exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts in 2000. Welcome to the end
of the world: No smoking allowed."
Epilogue:
Research shows that the theme song to that “punk-a-rama” was the
product of a Kim Fowley prefab, post-Runaways teen guy-fronting-girl-band combo,
Venus and the Razorblades. My fond memories of this defiant ode, as
is always the case, are tarnished (or at least made into quaint
kitsch) by the reality involved – kinda like mindset that
produced the Met show.
Jeezis, this is a ridiculous ditty, kinda like the “Life is a Rock (but the radio rolled me)” of punk. Enjoy (if ya can):
Jeezis, this is a ridiculous ditty, kinda like the “Life is a Rock (but the radio rolled me)” of punk. Enjoy (if ya can):
******
As
I walked through the punk exhibit, I did begin to wonder if there was
a fitting “punk anthem,” since the music chosen by the Met was
painfully obvious. There are many, many seminal punk tunes, all of
which could be declared to present the punk “sound” (right,
right, there WAS NO punk sound, it was a conglomeration of influences
and rebellions against arena rock and “album-oriented” MOR).
Iggy's
“I want to be your dog” is probably the archetypal punk tune (the
live versions, without the lovely bells), but there are several other
songs that could qualify as anthemic punk tunes.
First
and foremost, the Dead Boys' “Sonic Reducer.” The influences are
here (Iggy, Yardbirds and the louder Sixties British bands), but
everything else is new. And short, man – short songs were the very
essence of punk:
The
Sex Pistols were either the epitome of a punk band (esp. with the
inclusion of the absolutely unable-to-play El Sid) or the ultimate
concept in fake entertainment by Mr. McLaren. Whatever the case is,
John Lydon's hooks are still catchy, and you can't possibly fault a
band that sings the immortal lines “We're so pretty/oh so
pretty/vacant.”
When
it comes to bands that transcended the label punk, the Clash are the
prime example. The tension between Joe Strummer's pure and simple
rock 'n' roll and Mick Jones' refined pop songsmithing produced some
eternally playable albums. As for their punk anthem?
A key song in any history of punk is the item below from
X-Ray Spex. It is incredibly important because it voices the female teen’s
point of view, something which was not heard much in punk. The
late, great Poly Styrene wrote and sang the song, which is as close to a
teenage cri de coeur as you’re going to get during the punk era
(yes, yes, Poly was actually 20 when the single came out, but it distills
everything that repulses teens about adult culture).
Poly’s lyric rejects men’s oppression of women and age’s
oppression of youth, but she could equally have been talking about the bondage
strain in “punk fashion.” Her own outfits were pure thrift-store style —
it’s hard to imagine her being chosen by Westwood as a model for her duds.
Those music producers packaging “punky chick” teen pop-tarts
(looking at you, Avril Lavigne) might wanna take a listen, just so you know
what you’re ignoring:
The Met had certain individuals spotlighted as “poster children” for the punk exhibit. The key figures who wound up on the merchandise they were selling in the gift shop (I'm talking refrigerator magnets in addition to postcards) were Debbie Harry (alluring, a great singer, but punk – ??) and Richard Hell.
Hell
is a fascinating subject, in that he did create some great music and
has established himself as a fine writer and reviewer in the years
since his music career dissipated or was suspended, or whatever went
on there. The song has been labeled his ultimate statement by
critics is this snappy ode (which McLaren admitted had inspired
“Pretty Vacant”), “The Blank Generation”:
What
makes it hard to declare the above a true punk anthem is that its
melody and concept were swiped from a novelty record (or is the
claiming of someone else's work part of the artistic statement?). Bob
McFadden and “Dor” (Rod McKuen) had a big novelty hit with “The
Mummy” in 1959, and around the same time released a single called
“The Beat Generation.” Hell appropriated the tune and the concept
and is still listed as sole composer of “Blank Generation.” I
love his lyrics for “Blank,” but it's wild to compare the two and
realize that one is a direct swipe of the other:
I
would also put into contention as an anthem this ditty by the Cramps
that in 1979 already acknowledges the poser component of a lot of
punk in its opening lines (“You ain't no punk, you punk/you wanna
talk about the real junk...”).
I
have an endless admiration for Lux Interior and the exquisite
and talented Ms. Ivy Rorshach, and there is something timeless about
all the great recordings by the Cramps. Their style was more
“psycho-billy” than punk musically, but their approach was
minimalist, absolutely pure rock 'n' roll – and they wore their
influences on their sleeves so wonderfully that it's no doubt that
they (and Lenny Kaye – all credit to those who matter) who really
spearheaded the “Underground Garage” concept decades before that
radio enterprise began. This is garage, and it is punk also (and
yeah, the video is the template for a lot of goth):
Patti
Smith's music wavered between brilliant hook-driven rock and pure
poetry (obviously). The closest she came to providing a punk anthem
of sorts is “Rock and Roll Nigger,” a song that never got air
play for obvious reasons. It combines her poetry, her concern for all
things aesthetic and beautiful (not “pretty!” mind you, but
beautiful), it has a hook to kill for, plus it's very minimal and
angry. The fact that the song ends with the refrain “outside of
society...” sez it all:
The
only place to end this is with the band who are identified by most as
being the ultimate punk icons. Again, their music was very different
from basic punk – they combined surf, bubble gum, garage, and the
bliss of sailing right through a set. All the acts above were terrific (I am an addict for them all), but it's hard to pick
a more goddamned FUN band than the Ramones.
And,
screw fashion, Joey and crew dressed in torn jeans because they were
goofy, no-budget guys from Queens. All hail the guys whose records
were never played on the radio, but we loved 'em so (fuck that –
love 'em, present tense). Now the t-shirt with the emblem designed by
the late Arturo Vega is *everywhere* on the streets of every major
city, and they are seen as “stylemakers.” Life is funny, fashion
pathetic.
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