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Its been a day since Buzzcocks front manPete Shelley diedand theres not a well, actually in sight.
In the summer of 1990, I turned 15.
I cant imagine a better time and circumstance to discover the Buzzcocks.
Sad girls and solipsistic boys; pop-punk in a bottle.
Arguing about the pop-punk is as fun as arguing about punk is dreary.
Its a perfect album from a band that never fetishized perfection.
Presumably Shelleys ghost will maintain the graciousness he was universally known for in life and forgive me.
Heres where you did something cruel, only to realize just how cruel you were years later.
But when I hear in your dreams / Does your lover have my face, I still sing along.
Pete Shelley never wrote a terrible song.
If he did, I havent heard it.
Shelley maintained a knack for tapping into angst without any embarrassing pretensions of eternal boydom orfaux-naivete.
Not an easy task when heartbreak and speed are ones bread and butter.
Never being embarrassing may seem like faint praise, but you go ahead and try it sometime.
His art answered a confounding and essential need.
