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I hate Blink 182 wannabes - hate them hate them hate them hate them with a total fervor. This isn't like the way I hate neo-nazis (political reasons) or the way I hate uncomfortable shoes (personal reasons). This is an entirely irrational hatred, based on nothing more than the fact that they offend all of my sensibilities, from the purely aesthetic to the philosophical. They have done nothing to me, except to ruin the view, but I still want to slice them open and paddle in their blood. They've been spreading and multiplying over the years, like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers in sweatbands; what started out as a small, select group of wannabes in the late 90s has spread like the common cold. Go to any gig, and there will be a group of them there [they operate only in groups, this being the only way it is possible to feel comfortable when you are vaguely conscious of the fact you look like a tosser], stood proudly in the middle of the room when they should by all rights be skulking in the corner with their heads hung low. Forced-casual pose, artfully-dishevelled hair, unsmoked cigarette held out at the perfect angle to burn any passer-by; subtly checking out girls from behind a gel-heavy fringe with a look that promises to write them poetry. If you've ever seen one of them in the mosh pit, it is a hilarious sight; they are trying so hard to lose themselves in the music ("just like the girl in the Avenged Sevenfold video... she's fucking fine - not like a video girl at all"), but unable to rid themselves of that sinking feeling that they don't actually enjoy this sort of thing. Their faces are towards the stage, but their eyes are searching for the nearest emergency exit. And I think that's the essential conflict at the heart of the whole movement [not an organised movement, admittedly, but still co-ordinated despite it] - they all feel like they should have the kind of life that lives up to their t-shirt slogans, but they're not sure if they actually want to. And so they throw themselves into what they patronisingly refer to as 'the scene' with bad grace, subconsciously trying to ruin it for everyone else so they won't have to bother any more. And they're all so incredibly pretty that you can't help but accidentally check them out, and they're so incredibly aware of this fact that you just want to punch their Clearasil'd faces in and smash their perfect cheekbones to pulp. It's the way they hold themselves, too: strutting around like we're all looking, obviously really proud of how incredibly punk rawk they are, and probably a little smug at how they've found this little underground 'scene' (that word again!). And in five years' time, they'll find the punkette Steptford Wife that they've been looking for all this time, and together they'll gradually phase out everything that they once used to define themselves with. In twenty years' time, you can see them all sitting around the garden table together, drunk on white wine [straight-edge vows having been conveniently forgotten], bragging to their kids about how they were young once too, and they've got the tatoos to prove it. THEY MUST DIE! |
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