That was me working the makeshift hamburger stand
at Godzilla’s night club. The music was wafting through
the club’s speakers. The Sex Pistols, God Save The
Queen, flooded my senses while my boyfriend tried
flipping burgers like it was a pizza joint. All I could do was roll my eyes and act like I was busy. I didn’t put too much into this job, obviously – for me, it was a way to see cool bands for free. Free was the magic word since I didn’t have a job. I mean, a real job, one I took seriously. I was too busy being a punk and everything that went along with that. Punk was not a fad to us. It had a violent image that was not always deserved. They said we were out of control. A bad reputation followed us around, and we were considered angry youth. Maybe, we were more than that. I mean, we were teenagers and outcasts. Who is not a little bit angry when you are being told what to do all the time?
We simply wanted to have a good time – and boy, did
we ever! Late nights playing around with friends.
Laughing and goofing off without parental supervision.
Creative with our hairstyles and clothes. Talking non-stop about the bands we were going to see next.
This was not the rebellion that people thought it was.
No. Maybe, this was the case in the U.K., where the kids
couldn’t get jobs and had good reason to be pissed off,
but for us, we owned the land, and the music thundered
through our veins.