By Garth Paulson

Three years ago my most cherished albums were by bands like Pulley, Millencollin, Goldfinger and Strung Out. Those glorious soundtracks to teenage discontent are presently gathering dust; they’re nothing more than relics from the past. Three years ago, a cross between Pennywise and early No Use for a Name would have seemed like the next Beatles.

I’ve come a long way, I suppose.

Gone are those blissful days of musical oblivion where anything that was neither on Fat Wreck Chords or Epitaph was automatically questionable. Suddenly, I just can’t seem to enjoy soulless new school punk.

I don’t know exactly what happened but something changed. I think The Clash’s London Calling had a lot to do with pulling me out of the deep pit of punk rock exclusiveness. It’s strange thinking of The Clash being responsible for getting someone out of punk as opposed to into it.

Now I want more than the same old three chord thrash. Song after song about girls and resisting authority no longer sound vital, dangerous or even worthwhile. Most current punk is about as vital as Theory of a Dead Man, as dangerous as Michael Bolton and as worthwhile as that new Bangles album.

Sigh, I’m getting old and I’m not even 20.

1208? Oh yeah 1208, I nearly forgot. They’re okay, I guess. Three years ago I would have loved them.

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