Punk is really more of a catch-all genre term than a unified sound; everything from Black Flag to The Clash to Television falls under the umbrella, but you’re unlikely to confuse any of those radically different bands for each other. If anything, punk is defined by an attitude more than any specific sound: it’s defiant, primal, and wholly cathartic. These are 11 of the best films about punk that embody that ethos of liberation through rock n’ roll. Jubilee (1978, Derek Jarman) Derek Jarman was an iconoclast in everything he did; never one to make a conventional film, his work stretches from Blue – a solid blue screen with him providing voiceover for 90 minutes – to The Last of England – an impressionistic vision of the apocalypse with poetic narration in place of a plot or dialogue. Jubilee is decidedly less extreme than those two films, but it’s still far from box-office-friendly. It’s hardly heavy on narrative, and what plot there is is pretty bleak; the story follows Queen Elizabeth I as she time …
Long-ago memories, ones that last from generation to generation. Glimpses of a childhood past. Sorrows of the estranged ancestral motherland, China. Cindy Song finds herself somewhere in between.
Drawings and scratches from Brandon Yung.
Words and photos by Angel Fabre felix’s poem
the anger in one’s soul will soon prove to no longer have meaning the urge for violence will soon take over
and all that will be left is
the blood of the innocent and not so innocent soon the world will be faced with the world’s blood on the world’s hands
nobody’s sins will be forgiven
suppose we are all condemned?
monday until you are comfortable with being alone
you will never know if
you’re choosing someone
out of love or loneliness.
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke By the age of sixteen I had a will that could’ve sprung only from the conception of a particularly well-traveled child. I wasn’t actually well traveled—most every airplane ride of my youth was between some state and Massachusetts—but my father raised me in an America balanced somewhere between a tray table and a pack of salted peanuts. It was June and hot and Trip and I were on a flight home from Minnesota, our last one together. “Got anymore snacks?” Trip said. “Pretzels?” I said. “Just not raisins.” “Whatta you have against raisins?” Trip sipped his ginger ale, “I’ve seen more raisins then Sloane Colby.” “That the girl whose father—” “Yeah, manufactures ‘em or something,” he said. He wore a particularly unattractive green sweater and close-mouthed amusement. “Races on?” Trip shoved three pretzels in his mouth, “Belmont at four and—” “You betting today?” “Yeah,” he said. “You see the McAlister’s? Racing family, you know. Spent six mill last year on breeding. There to the left. And not Arden. Kick myself …