Punks Among Us

Punk lyrics are sincere in feeling rather than in literal meaning. For example, in the hilarious "Landlord BBQ" on Anxiety Attack's BBS 7-inch (the red disc in the package), singer Laszlo Toth screeches: I called you nine times/But you didn't pick up the phone/But if I'm late for my rent/You won't leave me alone/The walls in my bedroom are decaying with mold/Broken-ass furnace is leaving me cold. And the closing threat: Going out to Johnson County/Gonna burn your house to the ground.

Punk is the perfect format for airing societal complaint. Or, to put it another way: If the punks don't say it, who will?

Mamas, don't you want your babies to grow up to be punks?

Anxiety Attack's record's liner notes, however, remind us of what's so important to any punk scene — and what our town lacks.

"Thanks," says Anxiety Attack, to "Jordan at Valhalla, Mott-Ly at the MoMO, Mean Caffeine, Jeff and Noah at the Haunted Kitchen, John at the Slaughterhouse (STL), Ricky at the Anchor, and all the other places that gave us a place to play."

Look at the picture on this page. Betterton took it in 2006, at El Torreon, when the all-women group Crap Corps had packed the joint and was raising holy, sexy hell. Look at that kid down front, with the jawline beard and the ridiculous but also perfect outfit of the velvety swim cap and goggles. Look at the bodacious punk-rock chick onstage, pointing her microphone at him. Look at Barack Obama Jr. over on the right, signaling his approval with a pointed finger and a Yeaauh on his lips. Or that girl to the side of the stage, frozen in the act of taking her own picture of the picture.

Don't you wish that could happen again here?

Maybe this year, Kansas City can give itself a present and let the punks have a fuckin' place to play.