..You need tattoos. I do tattoos...
...as for Stan Finchem....
....Waaaaaaaaay back before you could buy good punk rock music
anywhere outside of an "Imports" section in a mom and pop record
store, before you could buy anything punk off of the shelf at all, and
before you could even wear a black T-Shirt in public without people
thinking you were some kind of frikkan wierdo, there was a get-
together of creative outcasts that just couldn't seem to fit in anywhere
else. I'm talking back in the early 80's when punk rock was actually
alive and spitting, the "Punk Culture" was 100% do-it-yourself home
made yummy goodness, and chicks weren't whipping their panties
off out from under their skirts to throw at bands because they weren't
wearing any.
If you lived in Virginia Beach during those days and took part in the
punk scene- you no doubt remember the likes of The Corner and
The King's Head Inn (Norfolk) <[i>comparable only to CBGB's, only
with friendlier bathrooms... which isn't saying much...], the Starz
music hall (Virginia Beach) and the raging scene that revolved
around The Sundial (Virginia Beach's tragic attempt at sculpting a
larger than life concrete sundial to draw attention away from the fact
that there were two huge free standing public toilets smack dab in
the middle between the boardwalk and the trashy strip full of fancy
hotels and ass-tastic tourist shops).
At any time during those summers you might have seen anywhere
from 10 to 100 punkers (easily identified by spiked neon colored hair
and mohawky wierdness) with nothing to do hanging out at The
Sundial waiting for news of the inevitable show or house party that
would be the place to go for that night. Some would panhandle
tourists for beer money- often posing on their beat up skateboards
doing hand plants for 5 dollars a picture- but most were just bored
silly and passing the time collecting lighter tops, safety pins and
bottle caps to decorate their clothing with before something better
to do came along.
The thing about our group in particular, the ones that got it,
was what we had in common. It didn't seem like much at the time,
but it turned out to be a rock solid foundation that allowed most of
us to live true and lead successful lives. We, as individuals,
simply couldn't swallow any of the bullshit TV/radio culture that was
marketed to us by society. As an alternative, we rejected it entirely,
and we fabricated our own culture out of the things we truely valued.
We formed our own bands, made our own posters and flyers, made
our own clothes (often with little more than bleach or spray paint),
we even made our own scene 'zines, etc.... and somehow manged
to live by our own rules. There was a vibe, then and there, a buzzing
undercurrent of adolescent angst and raw power, the seedier side of
the Amerikan Dream, the one that kept the 7/11's open all night and
kept us buzzing on wierd little projects in the wee hours...
Our sketch books were full of skullz, atomic explosions and good old
Ronnie Reagan fingering USA in the poop shoot. Chains, spikes,
leather, distorted guitar riffs and violent hardcore bloody imagery that
was scary and brutal by design. Our songs and our pictures told
stories of personal strife and told the government in no uncertain
terms that we knew that they were up to no good.
This was what punk was before it died. Before the city chased us out
of the ocean front. Before Electric Smiles closed. Before Starz, The
Sundial and even the ledgendary Kings Head Inn fell victem to the
iron blade. "Progress," the local corporations call it. I call it murder,
but I digress...
Eventually, as more kids flocked towards faster/harder music and
ideas (and had nowhere to hang out outside of the mall) the
mainstream corporate america caught wind of it all. Corporations
that manufactured the New Order of Punk Rock®. Soon they hand
picked the more harmless stuff, blunted the dangerous stuff, the
things that we created from nothing, and they turned it to shit.
They mass produced it, packaged it and sold it back to us- to the
generations after us... and the kids bought it. All of it. Like sheep...
No, not sheep. More like moths to a flame. Pre-stressed cut off
camo shorts with pyramid spikes already attached to them?
$50.00 at Wallmart. I swear to you I am not making that up.
A big part of me died the day I stumbled across that...
So those of us who still cling to the Old Order Punk, us Freaks of a
Feather, still flock together even now. With our cranky demeanors and
bitter sarcasms we reminisce the days of drawing band flyers and
mimicking all the Daddy Roth and Robert William's stuff that we could
get our hands on. The walls we've tagged and the things we have
corrupted with the grace of our brand of imagery. Today, we all still
crank out mind altering works of our own. Tweaked, twisted and, in
my case, permanent works of art meant to make the viewer stand
up and take notice.
I've been tattooing since 2000. I work in many mediums, including 3D
graphics and musical composition, but tattooing consumes most of
my time and brings me the most enjoyment. I still cling to my roots,
but noone was more surprised than me to find that as a tattooist, I
get just as much satisfaction and enjoyment designing colorful floral
works of nature as i do black and grey evil skulls that when you peer
into their empty eyes, they stare back at you. And you just know
they are up to something...
.skem9
