"Art is a lie that tells the truth" -- Pablo Picasso
(Since I could never say the following at MP's, without attracting enormous grief directed at my Clueless Person)Who?[Maybe it's because I spent the better part of the 70s learning how to play jazz . . . but I could never get punk.]
I was a latecomer to punk. I didn't start listening to it much until I was in my 30s and in New York. I was fresh out of art school (my third go 'round, and my last degree; I was a professional student for a long time), I lived in the East Village, and I knew a bunch of guys who played in punk bands. I used to go to their shows in the wee hours of the morning in Alphabet City.My great regret in life is that I had an opportunity to see one of the great legendary moments of punk rock history, and I passed it up. I was invited to go see the Sex Pistols perform at the Long Horn Ball Room in Dallas, the very gig where Sid Vicious got clocked in the nose with a beer bottle and kept on playing. Uptight young shmendrick that I was, I said "No Thanks."
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