Looked at with any sympathy at all, late Seventies punk rock in Britain was an astonishing thing. Punk rockers looked ugly, partly because, being ill-favoured, gangly and for the most part poor-white geeks, they were to the manner born, and partly because they wanted to. They sounded ugly, partly because not many could play their instruments very well, partly because they were out of their heads most of the time, but mostly because they wanted to. The words, the images, the gestures were ugly, but often gripping. The behaviour - gobbing, pogoing, self-immolation and fighting onstage, drink, drugs, throwing up in public - was stupid and horrible. But the kids just lapped it up. Some of them followed their heroes into speed habits, drink habits, cynicism, burn out and an early grave. But an awful lot more seemed to find this stuff inspiring. I'm not going to try to explain why: you either sense it or you don't. So many writers have already hoist their prose to look ridiculous on the petard of the Sex Pistols and punk rock in general, there's no need for another to join them.

LRB 19 December 1991 | PDF Download