Last night I started watching The Decline of Western Civilization. This is the first one, filmed in 1979 and 1980, and I don't even think it's available on DVD. I snagged this one from the Internet and found it to be a fairly clear VHS rip. Wait, can you rip a VHS? I probably just meant "copy."
The film documents LA hardcore punk in its toddler years. The kids are brutal, just happy to have an outlet for all of their anger and frustration. It was like Fight Club before there was Fight Club. A whole generation of disillusioned youths, unable to constructively or progressively express themselves, are only able to destroy everything around them. And it sure looked violent and fun.
Except for X, who were brilliant in every way (apart from their self-tattooing skills), the scene's music sucks. The speedy bands sound like lawnmowers bouncing down a steep hill. The Germs sound awful live. But the hardcore movement was less about musical quality and more about vicious rebellion.
That's not to say the music is unlistenable. If I bust out early Black Flag in my car I'll be rockin' out (and driving way too fast). The music serves its purpose, and that purpose is to aggravate and accelerate.
But man, kids were retarded back then. I want to shake a lot of these people and tell them how stupid they are. But there is no use getting angry at the dimwits in a thirty-year-old film. These kids are now either 50 years-old or dead.
This is the old codger in me talking. Yapping.
I've accumulated some wisdom over the years, but I was young and mental once. I never used my fists, but I would've like to have watched the whole world burn to a too-loud soundtrack.
Youth is wasted on the young.
Darby Crash, frontman for the Germs, embodied this. He was living breathing walking talking self-destruction. And it's sad to see him plead for beers, talk about his drugs, and attempt to participate in this leaderless revolution in his plastered on-stage state. It's sadder still when you know the outcome: before the film was even released Crash intentionally overdosed on heroin. He was 22.
Rebellion is futile without an iota of self-preservation.
Self-sacrifice is worthless if nobody is inspired by it.
I can almost see it in Pat Smear's blank expression. It says, "Geez, I can't wait until I join the Foo Fighters."
I was going to watch the last half of the movie tonight, but I typed this instead. This really is a thought-provoking documentary, even if the punkers featured in the film haven't given things a whole lot of thought themselves.
And actually all of these thoughts I've laid down are unfinished and unrealized, but it's time for me to go to bed.
Really I'm just trying to put some space between posts about Phil Collins.
Part II: The Metal Years, is next on my imaginary queue.
The film documents LA hardcore punk in its toddler years. The kids are brutal, just happy to have an outlet for all of their anger and frustration. It was like Fight Club before there was Fight Club. A whole generation of disillusioned youths, unable to constructively or progressively express themselves, are only able to destroy everything around them. And it sure looked violent and fun.
Except for X, who were brilliant in every way (apart from their self-tattooing skills), the scene's music sucks. The speedy bands sound like lawnmowers bouncing down a steep hill. The Germs sound awful live. But the hardcore movement was less about musical quality and more about vicious rebellion.
That's not to say the music is unlistenable. If I bust out early Black Flag in my car I'll be rockin' out (and driving way too fast). The music serves its purpose, and that purpose is to aggravate and accelerate.
But man, kids were retarded back then. I want to shake a lot of these people and tell them how stupid they are. But there is no use getting angry at the dimwits in a thirty-year-old film. These kids are now either 50 years-old or dead.
This is the old codger in me talking. Yapping.
I've accumulated some wisdom over the years, but I was young and mental once. I never used my fists, but I would've like to have watched the whole world burn to a too-loud soundtrack.
Youth is wasted on the young.
Darby Crash, frontman for the Germs, embodied this. He was living breathing walking talking self-destruction. And it's sad to see him plead for beers, talk about his drugs, and attempt to participate in this leaderless revolution in his plastered on-stage state. It's sadder still when you know the outcome: before the film was even released Crash intentionally overdosed on heroin. He was 22.
Rebellion is futile without an iota of self-preservation.
Self-sacrifice is worthless if nobody is inspired by it.
I can almost see it in Pat Smear's blank expression. It says, "Geez, I can't wait until I join the Foo Fighters."
I was going to watch the last half of the movie tonight, but I typed this instead. This really is a thought-provoking documentary, even if the punkers featured in the film haven't given things a whole lot of thought themselves.
And actually all of these thoughts I've laid down are unfinished and unrealized, but it's time for me to go to bed.
Really I'm just trying to put some space between posts about Phil Collins.
Part II: The Metal Years, is next on my imaginary queue.
No comments:
Post a Comment