I made a first acquaintance with the punk scene as it had developed in Detroit in the late Seventies. A bored adolescent, I hoped that regular visits to Detroit’s most dangerous neighborhoods would put in the past all my suburban, middle-class antecedents and bring to the surface the feeling that I was destined to be a misfit. The most extreme solution the punk scene offered was to take the idea of “dress” and gather it close, so as to include the very body; the cutting of the skin was supposed to give the impression of a fashion somehow more profound. In Detroit the ground for this punk mind-set had been broken as early as 1968, when Iggy Stooge—considered the founder of the transatlantic movement eventually called Punk Rock—rolled on glass, vomiting and singing “Now I Wanna Be Your Dog.” In the end, though, I was disillusioned with the otherworldliness of suicide chic and...


A Message from the Editors

As a reader of our efforts, you have stood with us on the front lines in the battle for culture. Learn how your support contributes to our continued defense of truth.

Popular Right Now