boyfriend blazer, Forever 21. cargo capris, American Rag. boys beater, Hanes. gladiator sandals, Steve Madden. studded belt, thrifted. feather earrings, vintage. wooden bangles, sister's.
Photography by Angie Candell
Taking personality cues from my tough girl get-up, Angie had me climb precariously all over the butt of this supremely graffitied and down trodden train car in my four inch, open-toed heels. Trusting that I wouldn’t fall in my attempts to climb the thin rung ladder and walk along the porous single foot wide platform, or rather hoping that if I did fall I could do so gracefully, like the model that her lens made me out to be.
Any time I wear a studded belt, regardless of what other garments and accessories fall into place on my limbs, I feel as if climbing on a parked train car in the Strip District with a storm brewing in the distance, is the least extreme of my purported actions. Moshing to The Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, or The Circle Jerks would be more appropriate. I might read speeches by Stalin, Mussolini and Marx; because ironically, anarchists like the way those men organized their governments. I’d pierce my ears with safety pins, quote Henry Rollins and prattle about how Billie Joel Armstrong sold out; shave my hair into a Mohawk, and let me be clear, that’s “MO” not “FAUX,” because punks of any kind are never fake, unless they shop at Hot Topic, though if you give those kids a genre identifier, say “mallrat punks”, then they can be legit too.
I could ride this train down south and trade in my safety pin jewelry and cargos for creepers and a moto jacket. Morph my Mohawk into a pompadour and call myself a psychobilly. That would of course entail blasting Me First and the Gimme Gimmes in my garage whilst I pinstripe my choptop Mercury. Chucking my former pretensions for communist dictators, I’d take on a more chill apolitical stance because there’s nothing fun about politics. My past punk extremist ways would subsequently be channeled into campy sexploitation, B-grade horror films and anything taboo.
Back to reality…I can’t really claim that I’m any sub-genre of punk, mostly for fear of offending those who are (you know how they are about their “identity”). But I do really dig Patti Smith regardless of how much metal studding is on my person, and that counts for something, right?