King of the Punks
In all the years he’d spent writing about pop and rock music, interviewing those in the business, Glenn’s biggest pet peeve was when some sell-out would try to justify what they were doing with some self-serving definition of “punk”.
They’d make some asinine pronouncement like, “Yeah, so when I decided to produce Barry Manilow Sings Neil Sedaka’s Greatest Hits, I just figured, ‘What could me more punk than that?’”
Everything. Everything could be more punk than that.
By that logic, Glenn thought, my Dad is King of the Punks. He wears suits. He works in an office. He loves golf. He listens to 104.9 FM, The Mountain: The Best Mix of the 70s, 80s, 90s, and Today.
What could be more punk than THAT?
But the more Glenn thought about it, the more it made a weird kind of sense. His Dad is all of those things, that’s who he is and what he likes, and he doesn’t apologize for it or try to pretend he’s anything different and doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it. That is pretty punk.
Glenn decided that’s what he’d think about the next time one of his interview subjects started jumping through verbal hoops explaining how, say, their decision to co-write a power ballad with Diane Warren was “punk”:
I know punk, he’d think. My Dad’s King of the Punks, and you, sir/ma’am, are NO punk.
*For my Dad. Happy birthday to J. Delton Plank: King of the Punks.*