Blood Tangent | Sarai Nissan
I wish I was 21 in 1977. When Stiv Bators was still alive, Richard Hell was still hot, and I didn’t have to spend so much money on vintage T-shirts that would have been brand new back then. When the music was still raw and the world was fucked up in a different way. When no one cared about Instagram followers, when I wouldn’t get fired from a salon for not brushing my hair, when New York was filthy(er), and the rent was still cheap.
When entertainment wasn’t Keeping Up With The Kardashians but Andy Warhol’s Factory or CBGBs and Max’s Kansas City. When cigarettes were 0.36 cents and you could smoke inside. Man, I’m even sick of listening to myself. I sound pretentious and shallow, I know. But I kind of am.
I don’t really listen to new music anymore. I am stubbornly trapped in a loop of The Dead Boys cycling through The Misfits leaking through my headphones. In high school I could name any contemporary and or hip alternative band with pride, but now I am completely clueless and I only care about those who died.
Ask me about The Cramps, I bet I can tell you all about how Lux and Ivy first met. Ask me about Lords of the New Church, and I can tell you how Stiv was smart to go from punk to goth. Ask me about Christian Death, I’ll tell you exactly what happened before Rozz Williams hung himself, and I’ll show you the $180 vintage shirt I bought off of Etsy with Rozz’s face on it.
“Do you know this band, ____?” So-and-so asks me, name dropping some musician off Sergeant House or Sacred Bones or some other alternative label.
“Uhh, no, sorry,” I say hazily racking my mind for whether or not that name sounds
familiar, reveling in the irony of a Music Editor not being able to keep up with this century’s bands.
I am stuck in the past. I want to live fast. Thanks Johnny Thunders for your words of wisdom and rhythm: Born too loose, born to lose. I just can’t choose.