Slash Mag

Indispensable pour tous ceux qui s'intéressent à la scène punk de Los Angeles de 77 à 80 mais ...

The SlashMag archive, tous les numéros mis en ligne ; dommage, la résolution est insuffisante pour lire les articles !

J'essaierai de scanner "lisiblement" l'édito "Your values are worthless" et le compte-rendu (assez sévère (*)) du disque de Clash du numéro 3 par Claude "Kickboy" Bessy (et aussi ici).

(*) Les pièges de la mémoire ! En 77, c'était la critique au contraire fort élogieuse du premier disque, évidemment ; la critique assez sévère que j'avais en tête est celle de London Calling, deux ans plus tard.

En attendant, l'éditorial du premier numéro (c'est assez court), toujours Kickboy à la manœuvre :




So This Is War, Eh ?

This decade's biggest musical fad has been the dreadful dripping sounds of disco music. Up to now. Because lately there've been rumors of strange goings-on on the fringes of the music world. Violence at concerts both on the part of the performers and of the audience, outraged editorials in daily newspapers, foul-mouthed interviews on live TV and frightened record companies dropping contracts faster than a chimp would a hot potato, oddball fashions of slashed clothing, repulsive make-up and bondage parapher-nalia, and of course music ... dirty primitive music that has little to do with the stuff music stations have seen pouring in our ears for what seems to be an eternity.

Today this madness is mostly an English phenomenon, but there are signs that it will not stop there. This publication was born out of curiosity and out of hope. Curiosity regarding what looks like a possible rebirth of true rebel music, hope in its eventual victory over the bland products professional pop stars have been feeding us. May the punks set this rat-infested industry on fire. It sure could use a little brightness !

So there will be no objective reviewing in these pages, and definitely no unnecessary dwelling upon the bastards who've been boring the living shit out of us for years with their concept albums, their cosmic discoveries and their pseudo-philosophical inanities. Enough is enough, partner ! About time we squeezed the pus out and sent the filthy rich old farts of rock 'n roll to retirement homes in Florida where they belong. Let them play at Saturday night dances for the mink and Geritol crowd at the Sheraton hotels, let them remember the old days when they'd rather die than be seen with socialite creeps and being heard talking trash, and then let them shit in their pants with envy. As the Clash say, No Elvis, Beatles or Rolling Stones in 1977 !

(Kickboy, mai 1977)