Imagine the exhilaration of knowing that you are part of something that is completely and utterly new and different. Imagine that all your life you have felt cut off from the rest of humanity at the most elementary level—you do not communicate well with others. Imagine feeling so lonely and twisted that at times you have really, really tried to kill yourself, even though you were just a kid. Imagine that the people who were supposed to love you, your family, have Continually and deliberately brutalized and betrayed you in ways other people couldn’t begin to imagine. Imagine that you are at the end of your rope. Then walk into a room where for the ﬁrst time in your miserable, horrifying life, you feel a part of things. These people understand you because these things have also happened to them. There’s no need to explain your silence, your shyness, your need to get totally obliterated every night of the week and to maybe fuck some really cute boy against a wall in a dark corner of the club without ever asking his name and then go dive into the sea of bodies pogoing. There’s no need to explain the way this music, this noise, makes you feel. There’s no need to explain why, when you get dressed every day, you do everything you can to make yourself look as ugly on the outside as you feel on the inside. There’s no need to explain your hurt or your anger or the damage you feel because it is perfectly self-explanatory in this place, in this music.
|Detail of photo of a Sex Pistols show, by Dennis Morris. Via Rolling Stone.|
Image of Nicole Panter via flickr.