You’re a Punk, so Play Like One
Before jumping on stage, you are simply just another musician — one amongst millions, if not billions, of other scrappy musicians. Your milieu is structured, constituted and regulated by the expected platitudes of playing the same sundry music: with your cute notes, chords, verses and choruses, tempos and time signatures, maintaining the same tranquil tides, the same ole campy songs which can be heard on any other day. But damnit! up on that cold stage, right after sound check’s done, when the first dissonance-filled measure begins to kick off, and the sea of the world pulls and parts and smashes into hot fucking bedlam right in front of your glazed, opened eyes, then and there you are condemned to die as something much, much more than a mere musician: beautiful martyr, faced against the moshing fourth wall, you are now performing the purest song of all existence — the rose-tinted stupidity of a pulsing moment of moments.
Anyways, please remember to stretch.
