Punk: Chaos to Couture
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
I could feel my grin starting to reach shit-eating territory. It was the early morning of New Year’s Eve 2005, and I was walking up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’d gone somewhat regularly for awhile, but this was the first time as a member. My sister had recently bought me a year-long membership as a Hanukkah gift, so I’d been very happy that this would be the first of many free visits. But that’s not the reason I was smiling.
The museum was open exclusively to members an hour before everyone else. The Met can get sardine can crowded, which is why I like to get there early. As I neared the entrance, a 70ish couple that had been on the other side of the steps got closer to me, with the woman giving a disapproving glance in my direction, as if I had excrement smeared on my forehead. (I did not.) She then blurted out, “This is for members only!”
I have nothing but contempt for people like this. With those five words spat at me, she had conformed to the negative cultural stereotype of the rude, elitist Upper East Side snob. For a split second, I was seething with anger. But I had to keep in mind that no matter what kind of grotesque caricature this woman may have been, she still could’ve been someone’s mother or grandmother. Plus, losing my temper and saying something rude back only would’ve confirmed her own foolish, preconceived notion about me, whatever that was.
Taking the membership card out of my wallet and holding it up, I replied, “I am a member.” My response was firm and calm, but I could barely contain the venom dripping from my voice. The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and shame. I never got an apology from her, but that was ok, as she seemed to be humbled. That was enough, hence my shit-eating grin.
I was smiling also because I thought of that scene in The Last Detail, when the bartender tells Jack Nicholson that he’s going to call shore patrol. Nicholson’s classic response is, “I am the motherfucking shore patrol, motherfucker!” I suppose that was my “shore patrol” moment.
By the way, her husband was silent during this encounter. I felt bad for him. Can you imagine what this poor guy had to deal with on a daily basis?
Almost a decade later, I was at the Met’s Punk: Chaos to Couture exhibit, looking at their replication of the CBGB bathroom, when I suddenly thought of that woman. If she were somehow aghast that a nice, well-dressed, clean-cut guy like me could be a member, what would she have thought of one of the world’s most treasured museums recreating perhaps the world’s most notorious, repulsive, filthy bathroom? (http://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2013/punk/gallery-views)
It had graffiti all over, most notably, the proclamation “Dead Boys Rule.” The same Dead Boys who in the summer of ’78 released We Have Come For Your Children. Thankfully, the Met saw fit to refrain from duplicating the bathroom’s odor, which I suspect would’ve ranked up there with some of the all-time worst smells. Some Ramones songs were played, but slightly muffled. This was done to create the sensation of being in the bathroom during their set. Good to see they made it to the Met in some form. When the Ramones started, people in the music industry found them so threatening, they wouldn’t be allowed to visit radio stations.
Throughout the exhibit, you’d hear snippets of stellar songs like “Blank Generation” by Richard Hell and the Voidoids, “Toilet Love” from Wayne (soon to be Jayne) County and The Electric Chairs, and The Damned’s “Neat Neat Neat.” To experience the propulsive drums of Rat Scabies, grimy guitar of Brian James and the slurry, fuck you vocals of Richard Hell (whose spiky hair, torn clothing and air of menace/goofiness helped inspire the look of punk) at the Met with a crowd of soccer moms and adorable grannies is one of the more surreal moments you will ever have.
Speaking of which, one room had mannequins decked out like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, with the phrase “No Future” prominently displayed on the wall. This was a reference to “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols. Johnny Rotten was addressing the youth of Great Britain, acknowledging how bleak things were and would continue to be for them. Unemployment was high back then and prospects for even a relatively comfortable middle-class existence were low. (Why does that sound familiar?) When the Met had their opulent opening gala for this exhibit back in May with people like Kim Kardashian, Miley Cyrus, Tiger Woods and Seinfeld’s wife attending, I wonder if any one checked out the “No Future” room.
Overall, it was a fascinating show. Fashion born from poverty and anger was now being lavishly celebrated. Chaos to Couture, indeed. While at the gift store, I bought a Richard Hell refrigerator magnet. Couldn’t help it, just too odd to pass up. Yet another example of how punk, which was once considered part of the fringes of society, had become viewed as safe and respectable.
Or maybe not. I recently stopped by the Barnes and Noble on Broadway and 82nd to pick up Detroit Rock City, an oral history on that city’s incredible music history by Steve Miller (not to be confused with the gangster of love/space cowboy/Maurice Steve Miller). When the woman behind the counter rang up my purchase, she gave no eye contact, and in general, radiated misery. This wasn’t unusual. People who work at bookstores can sometimes project an aura of comatose surliness. But aside from the customary anti-social tendencies found in some bookstore employees, she appeared to be disturbed at something. What was up with her? Maybe she was just going through a tough time. And why was I overthinking this in the first place?
That being said, even a minute or two of a complete stranger’s bad vibes is a minute or two too many. After this mysterious encounter, it felt almost cleansing to take the 20-block walk to Lincoln Center’s Midsummer Night Swing show at Damrosch Park. It was another beautiful NYC evening, and I was headed to see a free concert in one of the crown jewels of the city. Life was good.
Arriving at Damrosch, there was some time to spare, so I took the book out of my bag to read a little. Glancing at the cover, I had my eureka moment. The cover was Robert Matheu’s iconic photograph of Iggy Pop fellating the microphone. That’s probably why she acted so awkward. The provocative image more than likely offended her. If this was the case, the notion that punk could still cause offense was oddly comforting.
A shit-eating grin began to form.