The Bastards and the Buzzsaw: The Rise of Punk Rock

March 30, 1974, at the Performance Studios in New York City:

In the span of just six minutes, four very strange individuals have finished ripping through three songs. The commanding officer of this blitz is wearing a leather jacket, torn jeans, and sports an unflattering bowl cut. His name is John Cummings.

His compatriots routinely fall in and out of ectomorphic spasms before reverting back to their statuesque postures. In an era of Billy Joels, Bruce Springsteens, and Rolling Stones, such a facade was taken as just another phase-just another band of misfits who would thrive at the local CBGB's. However, it would soon spark a revolution in the United States and beyond-one that would be carried through the underground until its eruption from obscurity to worldwide acclaim and eventually, immortality.

One year and a half later at Saint Martin's College in Holborn, London, John Lydon and his friends have just been kicked off the stage after only six minutes of play time. They are awful, they are unruly, and they are unworthy of the college's attention. However, almost a year later, they will be on the cover of every national newspaper worldwide in what would be known as "The Filth and The Fury."

Two people of a similar cloth, two very different substances in an otherwise controlled ecosystem-and yet, the paths each would take would help define the era known as punk rock. Cummings would become Johnny Ramone, the staunch but steady frontiersman of the Forest Hills' very own Ramones-while Lydon would douse himself in the identity of Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols, which would become both a crown jewel and a royal nuisance for the people of Britain. While starting a new aural experience on their respective sides of the world, there is no denying that they were instrumental in concocting a new, volatile set of ideals in the formation of a new musical genre. Nevertheless, there is also no denying that a singular debate still rips through the amicable similarities between the two patriarchs and begs the question: who could rightfully and truly claim the scepter? Who was really responsible for piloting an engine of such force that it permeated beyond its roots and managed to infiltrate every corner of the musical spectrum for decades? The answer, while difficult to reach, can be examined by way of analyzing the long term effects of each group, the overall content contained in their image, and what they contributed to the idealistic ambition of rebellion they so claimed to have championed.

At the very beginning, the wheels of punk rock started turning in 1974, when Johnny and the three other Ramones-Joey, Dee Dee, and Tommy-united over a mutual admiration for Iggy Pop, who was a precursor to what the Ramones would take and mold to a new level. This was mostly through the admiration shown by Joey and Dee Dee, but it was epitomized by Johnny's overall steering of the group's image and sound. As the brains of the operation, Cummings made sure that if he was going to be a rebel, he was going to do it conservatively and logically. For starters, the band's aforementioned attire was the brainchild of Johnny, who insisted that everyone follow a strict coda of uniform-much like the Beatles had done. Interestingly enough, it was Paul McCartney's alter ego-Paul Ramone-that had inspired the group's own moniker. Johnny took an idea and twisted it till it warped, effectively keeping the soul of the image, but served as a surgeon for the extreme makeover.

And more importantly, the modifications did not end at aesthetic devices. Johnny also anointed what would become a new style of guitar play; the "buzz saw," which was an invention of strokes that would considerably speed up the flow of a song and like force his band mates to do the same. Relatively a simple change, it would nevertheless become one of the most important themes in their progeny to come after them for decades to come. Despising the slow, almost monotonous pace of "your parents' music," the band decided to play as fast as humanly possible, often blazing through sets so quickly that they would run through them a second time. Sharing the blame for this new style was Johnny's hate for winding solos, which he did away with when the band composed their music.

All of these things served as the groundwork for a successful franchise-which is why Malcolm McLaren paid absolutely no heed to any of it. While the Ramones were playing a few shows and gaining in popularity, McLaren had his own pet project-a troupe of "artful dodgers" to crash the music scene and gain nothing but the most outrageous notoriety in the process. Having served as the manager for a few minor groups, McLaren persuaded his employee Glen Matlock to help build his envisioned dynasty and possibly serve as its frontman. Matlock's friends Paul Cook and Steve Jones agreed to take part, as well. The only thing missing from the equation was the lead singer. Naturally, the band picked the worst contestant they could find: John Lydon, whose rotten teeth and even grimier demeanor earned him the iconic name of Rotten. Originally a mainstay at McLaren's old clothing shops, he had little to no actual vocal talent, but made up for it in his "enthusiasm" for the job. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for him to pirouette around the stage like rag doll, or even verbally spar with the raucous crowds; for Lydon, it was all just a game, and he was winning even when he threw snake-eyes.

The Sex Pistols were something entirely original and unknown; they dismissed every authority, even to the record companies that signed them. It took three tries before they even settle on a label that wouldn't fire them for lewd actions that occurred days after a business proposal. (The fact that their bassist had once vomited on the general manager's desk hadn't helped, either.) But despite the lack of professionalism they might have oozed in their sophomoric days, the Sex Pistols eventually became sort of a mainstay in the culture-sort of. Through word of mouth, Lydon and co had effectively sucker punched the NME and all manner of media hounds, staging an uprising of attitude that would eventually lead to one of the single most controversial moments in music history-which would prove to be the cement for the House That Rotten Built.

But before I get into that particular incident, it might help to backpedal a bit and evaluate why people even as uncouth and unorthodox as Lydon and his droogs found superstardom in their endeavors. Back in New York, mainstream artists like Elvis, Billy Joel, and Simon and Garfunkel were still fairly popular-but calling them rock n' roll idols was considered a sham to others. Tommy Erdélyi of the original Ramones lineup was especially unimpressed, and expressed his overall disappointment with the state of music in his time: "In its initial form, a lot of 1960's stuff was innovative and exciting. Unfortunately, what happens is that people who could not hold a candle to the likes of Hendrix started noodling away. Soon you had endless solos that went nowhere. By 1973, I knew that what was needed was some pure, stripped down rock 'n' roll"

Naturally, Tommy wasn't the only one who held the ideology of revolution; and one of the most recognizable fronts for the outcry was at the now-defunct CBGB's club, embedded deep in the threshold of New York's Bowery. It was here that the Ramones played many of their very first acts; a laboratory of sorts where the fearsome foursome experimented with a rhythm that defied long, drawling ballads and replaced them with sessions that were as frantic as Johnny's fretwork.

Now, here we can understand that this was purely an "aesthetic" means of counter-production; the attempt to produce something quite the contrary to present-day musical recording artists who had found great success in a quality of sound that was tried and true. Beyond that, there wasn't much of else to tell. The story grows more complex, however, if we were to look back at the sociopolitical climate in England at the time of John Lydon's metamorphosis. From the embers of the last World War up until the late sixties, the United Kingdom had been frothing with occasional riots and a relatively poor economic foundation. None of this had a particularly unifying effect on the mid-to-lower classes, and around the mid-70's, this was about to reach a climactic point in terms of brazen, unrestricted social commentary. Through the efforts of McLaren as acting manager, the Pistols eventually found themselves on national television after having gained moderate success. The culmination of this would be found within Steve Jones using incredibly foul language to an equally drunk and disorderly newscaster (who was later fired for this conduct) and would be deemed worthy enough to sell more papers than the Armistice signing. The Filth and the Fury, as the ruckus was called, would stir up the interest in the Pistols across the UK and beyond, and would play a heavy hand in an even more intriguing turn of events.

On the heels of the Pistols' debut album would be their second single; a satirical anthem known as "God Save The Queen," which ribbed the whole of the English culture preoccupied with their government and trust in their "betters." Here's the fun part: While it was expected that Rotten and the gang would garner a respectable slot on the Top 10 that week, no one could predict that they would rocket to number one-and on the queen's jubilee celebration day. The radio stations decided not to risk airing the top-rated song, instead leaving a blank on all documents where the single should have been listed. Doing something like that is almost unimaginable these days-free speech has stretched itself beyond even self-righteous "good taste." But to manually draw the curtains and hide a monster from broadcast hours, in fear that the lyrics would inspire more riots...that was the definitive moment in the band's legacy. And of course, riots did ensue; and most were aimed at the band themselves. Lydon managed to escape with his life on a few occasions, getting into scraps so bad that he once just barely avoided losing an eye.

But still, they were admired-oh yes, they were admired, and by countless of fans spanning the globe thanks to a U.S.A. tour to soon follow their success. In spite of all the threats and the efforts to defame them, the Pistols proved too hard to dismantle, and seemed set to fire on all six barrels for a long time. Unfortunately, as all fairy tale rock bands go, a quarrelsome split between Lydon and McLaren proved to be the end for the quartet, and still the worst was yet to come. Matlock's replacement, John Ritchie-aka Sid Vicious-succumbed to his own psychosis coupled with the death of his girlfriend and took his own life. Soon after, Jones and Cook went their separate ways, and just as quick as they had united, they had disbanded-a sign of very hectic times they grew up in.

The Sex Pistols definitely had a larger influence in their country and their culture at the time that they performed; whereas the Ramones took three or four albums to gain widespread review and recognition and an amicable following, McLaren's kids pulled off a deus ex machina and set the country on its ear with a paltry single studio album. And the cultural impact didn't hurt, either-the Pistols' rise was partially due to the shoulders they sat upon, and the benefit of having become an icon for troubled and confusing times. Their youth was more fragile, more intertwined with what everyone had on their minds, but were not courageous-or perhaps crazy-enough to say it. However, no matter how good the times had been, their longevity would not be something of note, or something as notable as what the Ramones had.

To make a long story short, the Sex Pistols disintegrated without grace, and with much pain. Sid Vicious, Matlock's sub-par replacement, began to spiral into a terrible cycle of drugs and depressants, partially due to his equally depressed companion Nancy Spungen.

The Ramones had better luck, though. In the many decades they survived, the original line-up of Johnny, Joey, and Dee Dee stood solid as reminders of a forgotten age that seemed to keep haunting the masses. Though it was common knowledge at this point that John and Joey did not get along, it wasn't severe enough to sever the ties between considerable fame and fortune. One of the benefits they had in the future years to come was the opportunity to evolve from a notably raw sound and transform something feral into a precise, calculated act-something Lydon and his band never had the time to accomplish at the speed which McLaren thrust them into the fray. And though their early incarnation was one of a relatively small cult following as their idol Iggy Pop had once been, eventually their influence and overall originality became bigger than themselves, spanning several generations and beyond. Although they had a steady finger on the trigger to keep a certain sound to their performance, the Ramones did have brief stints in new wave songs and more psychedelic material-and even touched upon a brand of "horror" punk with the Pet Sematary song, which may or may not have inspired a certain Lodi, New Jersey resident to construct the Misfits. As history shows, the Ramones came first and fathered many of the staples of punk rock, from the outer image to the inner chemistry.
Johnny's insistence of sticking with a specific cut-time and moving in unison with one another gave a kind of order to the chaos, which helped the band maintain a certain air of professional mastership behind the ripped shirts and dirty tennis shoes. It may have also been the reason why despite their rebellious ideas in music, they maintained a good faith between promoters and record deals-unlike the consistent hired-and-fired situations the pre-natal Pistols endured.

Musically, the Sex Pistols could never match the synergy that the Ramones did, instead preferring to flail to their own beat-though that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; after all, it was John Lydon who embodied only his only code of ethics, abandoning every other ethos and embracing a devil-may-care attitude towards "progression." Still, at least the Ramones had a bassist who could actually play-so that counted for something.

Though I will say this for Lydon: what truly rendered him a "punk" among his peers was the refusal to play even by his own "rules." After the dissolved Sex Pistols, Lydon finally defied McLaren's previous veil of influence and came into his own with Public Image Ltd., a band that explored the roots of dub, world music, modern rock, and new wave. Previously, Lydon's ambitions and interests in other spectrums of music had been viciously quelled by his manager, who assumed any credibility of rebellion would be lost if Johnny's other hobbies got out. Lydon himself went as far as to say that "Malcolm wouldn't speak to me...he would turn around and tell Paul and Steve that the tension was all my fault because I wouldn't agree to anything. It was all very bitter and confusing," which would be the final straw

The issue of longevity would come to an ironic and rather grim end for the Ramones. One by one, each of the Ramones slowly fall to incurable addictions or sicknesses. Joey's obsessive compulsive disorder, coupled with advanced lymphoma, would prove to be too much for the vocalist. One year later, Dee Dee died from heroin toxicity. Soon after, Johnny succumbed to a five year battle with cancer. The fact that they had never been as close as perceived was even more depressing; even whiole he lay dying in the hospital, Johnny refused to phone his old bandmate Joey due to petty squabbles that had still endured between them. As for Dee Dee, he had stated that Joey had always been depressed, and that he had nothing to look forward to outside of the Forest Hills of Queens-where he apparently never escaped, according to Dee Dee.

The irony here is that John Lydon, Steve Jones, and Paul Cook survived the altercations and tragedies between Malcolm McLaren's coup and Sid's fatal mistakes, and reunited on a few occasions to perform classic Sex Pistols sets. And a few years after the Ramones received their Hall of Fame vote, the Sex Pistols followed-though, as Lydon so famously put, "I don't know who these people are-and I don't care," and the Pistols flat out refused to attend the ceremony. While Johnny and what few of his progeny were left took the stage, we were left to wonder what justice there was; that they had spent decades to reach this zenith, only to finally claim it in stitches and battle scars-while Rotten and his cohorts had flagellated through the years and still emerged unscathed.

It's not all tears and flowers, though. Collectively, it could be argued that both the Ramones and the Sex Pistols had an equal influence on the scene, as Johnny had said a few years back: "Great, it's gonna be a movement. The Ramones and the Sex Pistols will become the biggest bands in the world. I'm all for that. Bands can't change music by themselves. You need a whole bunch of bands coming out..."

Which had been uttered by him at the time of punk's birth, of course. But it is still dubious that the Ramones and their crusade, while having been started a year before McLaren's gene splice, would have been buoyed the way it was without a foil to their own agenda. Lydon was the complete opposite to the quiet, introverted Joey, and was probably as far away from compulsive as you could throw it. It might have been John Lydon who was really the stronger leader, though it would not be apparent for several years. Joey's debilitating condition would not be the glue to hold them beyond the late 90's-but by then, it didn't matter; they had a good run, played some good shows, and that was that.

Looking back at the chaos that both of those bands caused so many years ago, we can still see the influence they had in the children they fathered-both in their prime, and in their waning days. Less than two years after the Ramones and the Sex Pistols broke through the brick wall like Kool-Aid Men, drops of their dreams poured forth to create the Clash and the Misfits. From there, it only branched out more; but no matter how different they sounded, you could always tell that they "looked like their father."

The Ramones were the definitive punk rock band; they took an idea and ran with it before anyone else, getting a head start and blowing off some steam before the gas mileage became too much of a hassle. But when the car needed a push, the Sex Pistols provided the punk movement with the fuel it needed to stay alive and stay fresh (or Rotten, if you prefer.) It is unquestionably obvious that McLaren's pet project became even larger than himself-or even Lydon's swelling ego. To create a phenomenon outside of the music scene, and explode into a cultural lash of almost philosophically challenging ideals was to become the true fathers of a revolution. Though they might not have had the same effect as Einstein's theory of relativity, in their own circles, the Sex Pistols were rocket scientists plonked with wine and dancing on the lab room tables in nothing but boxer shorts and safety goggles.

I'm sure that the cultural negativity towards this statement still remains; the battle of USA versus the UK might still undermine the conclusion I've come to believe as fact. I won't seek to dive into that just right now-but I can leave you with just one more image: Johnny Ramone and his friends preparing for a set, and striking the opening chords for their cover of "What A Wonderful World." Except something is different: Johnny plays the first few notes of Lydon's epic "Pretty Vacant" in place of the original opening, perhaps as a fitting tribute; to acknowledge the presence of those drunken gits, those artful dodgers, the Sex Pistols. And it's in that acknowledgement that the necessity of their existence is made wholly true.