I was convinced punk was a lifeless, bloated corpse, arrogant even in death, unhitching the bottom hatch of its compartmentalized pants to show us all its pasty white ass at the open-casket funeral of CBGB. People — i.e., voracious promoters — tried to tell me they saw punk live and in the flesh at some truck-stop diner in the middle of nowhere, but I never believed 'em. “Tell it to Darby Crash, you plug-ugly yeg,” I’d say before crushing out a cigarette in their left eye while they screamed for mercy like a squealing pig.
I was doubtful, to be sure. However, signs of life are emerging from the underground. It took a few years for punk to be revived à la Dawn of the Dead, but now that it’s drawn a few breaths into its corroded lungs, you can find activity all over the map in the work of bands like Le Joshua, Modern Machines, and even seemingly disparate electroshockers like The Mall. Some would say it was never dead, and I’m not gonna put their ignorant balls to the band saw just yet; I’m too busy digging the ever-fuck out of bands like Sailboats Are White.
Keep in mind that SAW don’t approach punk from the same angle as, say, The Germs. They’re too busy deconstructing their junkyard anthems with icy Joy Division synths. They’re too busy sousing the listener with sloppy-joe screams of “I love you/ You love me/ We’re a happy family” at the end of a song that has long lost its center.
They’re too busy rocking your god-fearing socks off, and lord bless them, they come on like gangbusters with Turbo!, an album that rocks your genitals harder than a vicious strain of herpes. Moreover, they keep the punk aesthetic alive through exceedingly snotty vocals and a thorough disregard for anyone and anything that you’ve heard before. Their press junket mentions MC5 and the like, but it’s mostly horseshit; MC5, to my knowledge, never employed drum machines, much less drum machines that make one wonder at the necessity of a living, breathing stick slasher. They also didn’t prod the conventions of brawl-rock so convincingly, if you want to get right down to the Ps and Qs of the matter.
And there you have it: I’ve committed punk sacrilege! But man, comparing a band favorably to the ’5 never felt so good. They’ll never be constantly discussed or revered like New York Dolls or the ’5, but Sailboats Are White are too good to remain secret for too long, too good to sink into the folds of a lost, overcrowded era in independent music where tastemakers are eagerly waiting to baste our noggins with the latest chalky retread. Modern punk quite possibly starts here, people.
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