Punk Is Forever

Living on unemployment: like a long-term money-junkie, only lazy and sucking on the government tit. Thursdays were the big days! Every Thursday you stood in a long line of stoopshouldered, coughing, impatient incompetents or incontinents like yourself, waiting to file whatever form the fat gray bitch at the Window had ready (the pens never worked) or else be shunted off to some corner of the bureau where you could sit batting at flies with week-old newspapers, waiting to be interviewed as to why you hadn't come up with a job, or hadn't reported in early, or why they had stuck your card in the wrong file: "Oh, sorry... Could you please get back in line until we can process your form?"

But alternate Thursdays were the ones that made it worthwhile: the one thing that always came through was the check. U.S. certified and all you had to do was a little waiting.. .Shut up and eat your nice titty. I'd lie around in bed "til about three, then go down, cop the mail, walk to the corner drugstore and cash the payoff . First purchase was two six-packs, then to the magazine rack; in those days, the last Thursday of the month was when CREEM came in. Along with a couple Marvel comics and twelve-odd beers, the laughs and info and pix made CREEM a fitting closer to a long hot day of serious unemployment.

So now I write for CREEM; I am, in a sense, employed.. .the government no longer plays Sugar Daddy, and Thursdays are just like Sundays (hint to you guys in the mailroom: I haven't gotten an issue on time since I first drew a paycheck!). But since I still like to drink

a few six-packs and chuckle at the stupidity of the 20th century's only worthwhile artform/pastime (rock "n" roll), what's to read?

Punk, that's what. A rag put out from a storefront on Tenth Avenue in NYC, run on a shoestring so tight they don't even typeset, everything is hand lettered! But on good paper, with lots of clean photos and some excelsior graphics. As for editorial content, well, the first ish (now a collector's item) had a hysterically wacked-out interview with Lou Reed (funnier even than L. Bangs" "Deaf Mute in a Phone Booth") with dialogue/photos cut-up by maniac cartoon strips. Also a short but well-written analysis of Marlon Brando as "the original punk," which might not be Pauline Kael, but stands on its own, a supposed interview with "Sluggo" (of "Nancy" — these guys are really into comix) and a super contest entry blank for the "punkiest punk" that should be reprinted six issues from now when a few people can get hold of it.

Second issue: Patti Lee Smith on the cover, interview with her; story on Talking Heads — NY's art-as-bubblegum band; interview with the usually taciturn Tom Verlaine of Television — NY's Art-as-ps.ychoneuralgia band... and an interview with a dog!The fucking hound that always hangs out at CBGB's in NY, and with a photo of the" mutt in a leather and shades! Also more comix, graphics, record reviews (Sample: "Bob Dylan — Desire (Columbia) —Sludge Mud Suds. ")

Punk #2 is now also a collector's item.

Now, if this all sounds a bit New Yawhk City oriented, remember that a) The people who work fQr Punk havebarely the beer money to drink a set at CBGB's, let alone bus fare out of Manhattan; b) CREEM started as a cheap rag writing Detroit-Ann Arbor scam on White Panthers, dope, the

Stooges, the MC5 and other Such forgotten but seminal phenomena (look where we are now: Led Zeppelin interviews, international distribution, professionally inept mailing department!) ; and c) The Creeps at Punk assure me that they intend to expand and conquer, given the time, money and readership.

So...it's up to you, CREEM kidz, to support still another branch of this creeping mindmold in media form — at least you sustain the illusion that you're actually reading!The best (and virtually only) way to get Punk outside NYC is to send a $5.50 check or money order (no cash please) to: Punk Magazine, Subscription Dept., 356 Tenth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10011. Or if you're still skeptical, or unemployed, send 75 cents for one sample issue. You got nothing to lose.

Metering Out Justice

TAXI DRIVER

Directed by Martin Scorsese

(Columbia)

The Moralist — from the smut fighter to the S.L. A. member — is not an admirable human being. He must be tolerated and understood and helped to cope with the world with which he feels at odds because to do otherwise would be to become him, to become intolerant and, if it's not too corny to say, unloving. He must not, however, be glorified as is Taxi Driver's Travis Bickle.

Travis (Robert DeNiro) stalks a presidential candidate for whom his would-be girlfriend works, but when his assassination plans are thwarted he kills a group of pimps who prey on young girls. Travis Bickle is cleaning up what he sees as "the scum" around him.

After the pimp killings, the headlines declare him a "Taxi Driver Hero."

But, in actuality, Travis, the jilted lover, the failure son, the man whose job it is to stop when and where people decide to flag him down, is a totally alienated and frustrated man. But just as he lies in letters home to his parents about his imaginary government job, he lies to himself, construing his alienation as noble moral outrage and the explosion of his frustration as an Heroic Act. And we, society, then lie to ourselves, validate it and so encourage it.

We lie to ourselves because life would be easier it there were absolutes. We would never have to think; we could just follow the rules. That's why when the Moralist, whichever one we choose, comes along we kow-tow; the Moralist makes our lives easier.

Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver exposes this speciousness. It uses a version of the classic Mistaken Identity comedy routine. A Crazy Travis is deemed a hero by the press. And the morality ostensibly defended by his "heroic" actions is exposed to the audience as completely arbitrary. Four dead: ha, ha, haj

Robert DeNiro as Travis gives a chilling performance. Jodie Foster as the teenage hooker more than lives up to her rave notices, too, and is the first "child" actor J've ever seen who is completely convincing, as well as inventive. The rest of the acting is fine for what is called for in the rest of the characters, which is comic strip level—Cybill Shepherd, an uptight WASP princess; Harvey Keitel, a low-rent pimp; Peter Boyle, a Joe-type (again), etc. Essentially this is DeNiro's movie.

It's probable, top, that DeNiro's performance was originated mostly, totally maybe, by the actor himself.

The director seems more concerned — to the point of over-concern — with cinematic techniques. While his references to classic movies, particularly Hitchcock's, have stunning immediate visual impact , they finally become obtrusive and jar the flow. The spare score,.however, by the late Bernard Herrmann, no matter how reminiscent of his Psycho music or other of his great thriller scores, works beautifully to enhance and maintain the tension. In the end, though, the best thing the director did was to cast DeNiro, whose acting is the glue — Super-Glue, in fact — to this mildly disjointed movie which is one of the tensest and most disturbing film experiences I've ever had.

Scorsese may have overdone it,*but he's overdone with an extreme amount of consideration and talent — considering Mean Streets and Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore and this, the man is definitely up to do a true masterpiece.

As for Travis Bickle, if I were a moralist, as sometimes we all are, I might turn his own words back on him: "Someday a real rain'll come and wash him away. " Robert Duncan

Robert Duncan