The Blank Generation Reviews

Blank Generation: The Birth of Punk is an exciting film for me to watch as someone who has grown up with much of this music since I was in utero. Once, and only once, my family took a trip to New York City. I wore a Blondie t-shirt that I found in a vintage shop in Melrose. I begged and pleaded with my parents to take my CBGB’s. I didn’t have to go inside, just seeing the outside and taking pictures was enough for me. I even dubbed it my holy pilgrimage since the alternative rock music that I love so dearly was sprung from the head of that club. I was never able to go, but Blank Generation has allowed to me to take a trip inside. I am eternally thankful.

I love that a film about a music genre so fully birthed by the underground art community refuses to play it safe. Anyone expecting a normal concert documentary, like, oh I don’t know, Woodstock need look elsewhere. The film infamously uses grainy black and white 8mm footage and overlays it with live recordings or demo tapes. The sound and vision often have nothing to do with one another. That is highly punk rock. In fact, it’s best to not think of this as a documentary. An art instillation could work, or perhaps a video scrapbook? Whichever you prefer.

I just wish that Suicide got some love as well, but it’s fantastic to see the New York Dolls, the first of the group to have any kind of ‘success,’ included in the proceedings. It’s also great to see that the ‘punk rock’ movement included wildly different sounds. You can’t tell me that the Ramones, Blondie, Patti Smith, Television, Talking Heads and Wayne County have anything sonically similar with each other besides being rough around the edges and different from what was popular at the time. And God bless them for it.

Seeing Patti Smith just starting isn’t very jarring, just update the wardrobe and she’s still the same. But seeing a trio version of the Talking Heads is. Same goes for seeing the original four Ramones, which has more to do with the fact that three of them have now passed on then how much their look updated over the years. Naturally since Debbie Harry is involved, she remains the most beautiful image in the entire film with her Cleopatra makeup, purposefully bad dye job and bored Nico-like stare. But Jimmy Destri pops up shirtless and Richard Hell appears at the very end – they were the closest things that punk rock ever had to pin-up boys. At least, I think so. I also love the ending roll call where every band’s name is spelled out on a leather jacket. How fitting.

I realize that much of this review has been from the point-of-view of someone who idolizes this specific movement, these specific performers and this specific sound/look/ideology. But I am probably the target audience for this. I get it, I understand it so instinctively that I can’t help but love it. I am such a pretender to their effortless cool that this allows me to have a brief glimpse into mid-70s underground avant-garde rock scene.