A Genre Full of Bittersweet Memories

They say certain songs can take you back to a time and place once forgotten. For me a whole genre is increasingly returning me to entire relationships with people I'm no longer close to, whether it be because of a mere drifting down separate paths in life, or a hostile situation left unresolved. Every morning I wake up at 7 am, I open my dresser drawer, and I dig to the bottom of my shirts. Down past the nice, unripped shirts, all the way to the torn and tattered. I pull on my Screeching Weasel, Jello Biafra, or NoFX shirt, the ones with big holes in the armpits and tiny ones spotting the front, and I go running. The bands whose shirts I once coveted and wore with pride, are now my workout clothes.

Music used to be meaningless to me, I could care less about it. It was only through the guidance of people I looked up to, a relative and a good friend, that I was introduced to punk. When you're low on the social ladder you tend to idolize and want to be other people that actually pay you attention and that you see as cool. Punk music fell hand in hand with this process, since those I looked up to liked it, so did I. It was my gateway into the world of music, but ironically as your musical tastes mature, so does the company you keep.

I find it harder and harder to separate my fondness for the old punk bands I used to love, with the bittersweet memories of those I've moved on from. Screeching Weasel, Dead Milkmen, and 88 Fingers Louie are all reuniting for Riot Fest in Chicago this year, and I have both an urge to go see them as well as a sinking feeling about the memories these bands bring back. I probably won't go, but I can't help but miss that time of my life, and want to return to it a little bit.