A record is taken out of its battered sleeve. Placed on the turntable, the record spins and the scratches on the vinyl surface are ready to leave the visual and enter the aural. The needle, like a sword of Damocles, hovers over the record surface trying to find the right rim, the right entry. A decision is made and in a loosened up dip the needle digs once again into that vinyl rim. That one vinyl rim. A second and a half of hiss and click and it’s 1977 all over again. The guitar rips through your eardrums and a destitute Stiv Bators is ready to walk down another cold street. The Dead Boys are resurrected and punk is re-invented in front of your eyes. Let Stiv sing his perverted hymns for a cup of soup or a cup of coffee. Give him a quarter for the movies so that he can stay awake for he’s afraid of sleepin’ and freezin’ to death in his sleep. For the churches have locked all their doors and George Orwell has turned on the radio in a down and out cellar of a restaurant cleaning plates. That taxi driver in Paris changes the radio station as he enters the boulevard. Then he hears the voice. And the voice brings the scene vivid once again in front of his eyes. It’s ok, I am not hurt, you can’t hurt me anymore. I was just waiting for the dawn but let me lay down for a little while in a warm dry place.
The Dead Boys - Not anymore