G.G. Allin & The Murder Junkies

Presenting you footage. . . . .

Tangentially related, say– to the musical fancies of one, Lydia Deetz as a bubblegum death-rocker and punk princess whose tastes veer into “the strange & unusual”.

If not, “oppositional”– as you have these ragged, fringe-figures on the concert scene who don’t live on much else, but sneers and street-cred with their terminally broken-down tour van.

This clip is from “Hated”, a documentary about G.G. Allin who put on the craziest, most violent rock shows ever. Dinginess, depression, and heroin-needles hanging, tacked-off one’s veined arm as it’s bleak and angry and hopeless.

I guess you could call it, “having something to say” as this guy would flail-around naked on the microphone, leap out and attack the audience, and otherwise– literally “take a dump” on stage. Bleak this, bleak that– but his albums managed to net a sizable minor following, standing on each others’ heels to get a glimpse of the transgressive and exciting.

You would see “some of the spirit” in the overgrown, rehabbed areas of south St. Louis along the streets with endless chunks of feldspar and classic French city architecture amid skate-parks and sculpture-gardens where girls would walk around in black pantyhose, leather jackets, and mini-skirts with hair dyed jet-black and their skin as pale as a ghost.

(Lydia’s spiritual home-coming)

The punk scene comes with its own brand of marijuana-stoked creativity, putting things together in odd ways, or in reverse, or forwards/backwards like loopy thinking, proud of being “an individual” as it’s edgy and juvenile all at once.

It’s “shock-rock”– openly embracing the boggled, bulgy-eyed, more-grotesque facts-of-life over a communal wall of cigarettes, like a part of “the resistTANCE” and opening up a wide vista of personal and cultural expression as the night  is open and the street urchins running loose.

I thought this clip from the introduction was pretty funny– and from G.G. vowing to commit suicide on stage, some day– he eventually overdosed on heroin at a party as everyone kept having a good time, all around him and only figured-out later, he was dead.

I’m “no dead rock-star”, but keep on chuggin’ along as we know you have more fun– not “being dead” and we’ll be back, tomorrow with more educational programming. . . . .


G.G. Allin & The Murder Junkies

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