Product Description: The “punk house” may come in any number of forms. The most common type is often where a large group of like-minded punks cram into a house usually intended to accommodate two or three people, resulting in low rent and, thus, extended hours of leisure for the residents to pursue their true interests.
Punk House features anarchist warehouses, feminist collectives, tree houses, workshops, artists’ studios, self-sufficient farms, hobo squats, community centers, basement bike shops, speakeasies, and all varieties of communal living spaces. In over 300 images of fifty houses in twenty-five cities in the US, photographer Abby Banks finds the already weathered face of a seventeen-year-old runaway; the soft hands of a vinyl junkie (record collector); the mohawked show-goer; the dirty dishes in the sink; silk screened posters on the wall; and many other revealing glimpses of these anarchist interiors.
I understand why D. RAYMOND and others feel that way. He's really hit the nail on the head with this one. I've wanted to speak out against this book for months now, but it wanted until after reading the review "THWARTED" that I found the courage to do so. I worked on this book with Abby and I have to say, now that she has been published, she has really changed. My first clue came when I went to visit her last autumn. I arrived at the train station and to my surprise, she wasn't on time to pick me up. "Nothing out of the ordinary there," I thought. "She's always late". I put my pack down, and busied myself by admiring a fully restored 1950 jet black Rolls Royce convertible in the parking lot. I don't know much about cars, so it didn't keep my attention long. The train whistle blew I turned to watch it roll out, and I found myself playfully kicking the ground as the sound of the mighty behemoth gradually faded down the rails.
"It is good to see you, my old friend," I heard someone say in a muffled voice. I looked around, but didn't see anyone nearby. All of the passengers had left the platform. Then suddenly the convertible's top began to slowly open, revealing the driver: a man with a top hat and a thick, well groomed handlebar mustache. I was confused, and to tell the truth, a bit scared, until I saw upon the dashboard, next to a tin of brilliantine and a box of Cuban cigars, a copy of PUNKHOUSE! I looked a little closer at the motorist. "Abby?" I exclaimed, now starting to recognize in this stranger a few familiar vestiges of the woman I once knew.
The eyes.
The jaw line.
It was her alright. With some hesitation I entered the passenger's side, and as I sat down Abby extended her left hand toward my chest with her pinky outstretched. I looked at her blankly. "Oh, of course!" she said. "You don't know the secret hand shake! All the boys down at the publishing house do it! I'll have to show you later. Anyway, can you believe I'm a world famous photographer now!? Oh, enough about me! I want to hear about you! What do you think of the car? Pretty nice, huh? VERY expensive. Oh but you must be tired! Tell you what, you can take a nap in my guest cottage if you'd like. It's not much. The hot tub's not working right now so you'll have to use the one in the main house. I'll call ahead and have Roscoe make up the bed!"
"Abby! slow down!", I interjected. "First of all, take of that mustache."
"Oh this?" she said, gently twisting the ends with her fingers, which I now noticed to be adorned with diamond rings and precious stones. "Why, it's the real thing! I got it when I sold my soul to publish the book! I think I got the better deal on that one! What says 'high class' like a mustache? Look at this puppy! It really completes to picture, doesn't it?"
I let it go at that. We went back to her house, an elaborate Queen Anne painted flat white that sat on a well trimmed 6-acre lawn in an up-and-coming suburban neighborhood. "You know, it's funny", she commented as we pulled in the driveway, which was paved in he shape of a dollar sign. "When I bought this house there were a bunch of squatters staying here. You should have seen the condition it was in--the neighbors are very grateful to have me taking care of the place now. Anyway, I took great pleasure in having them arrested. The police around here are just great."
I tried to get some sleep, as I was quite tired, but my concern for Abby and her new lifestyle kept me tossing and turning under the tiger skin blankets of the king-size waterbed in the guest cottage bedroom. I went out to the balcony and signaled down to the 100-piece orchestra playing on the lawn below, who Abby had instructed to play lullabies until I fell fast asleep, to cease their dreamy music. Closing the French doors behind me as I returned to my quarters, I turned on one of the room's many chandeliers and sat down in an antique rosewood armchair near the bedroom's library. I pulled out an old leather-bound volume from the shelf, and glanced at the front cover, which I couldn't quite make out. Squinting intently, I blew a layer of Time's gray residue from the musty tome. I could just make out the title, which I muttered to myself: "THWARTED: A TALE OF BETRAYAL".
I coughed dryly as the dust cloud settled around me. I started thumbing through the brittle pages and immediately became engrossed in the story of a piteous maiden who was torn away from her evil stepmother and forced to pursue a fulfilling career. The narrator's enlightening passages not only provided a window into the characters' thoughts and emotions, but also contained a brilliantly laid subtext on the hypocrisy of those who think it is okay to follow their dreams, to create art, to find beauty in an often hideous world, to try to capture a fleeting moment, to want to share that moment with others, and, most importantly, to not live in the boiler room of the restaurant they work in. I read with great interest until at last the narrator's elegant cadence hypnotized me, and no longer reading words, but making lines out on a yellowed page, I succumbed to my fatigue.
When I awoke, I for an instant was filled with the joyous hope that all I had witnessed earlier had been merely a dream. The hope did not last very long. I made my way back to the main house, and began to look for Abby. I opened doors at random in a long hallway, until I was confronted by a truly surreal vision in what looked like it could have been a parlor room at some point. Abby had filled the entire room up with all the $100 bills that had come pouring in after the book deal went through. I watched silently from the doorway where she could not see me as she climbed atop a massive collection of priceless antiques which she had stacked in one corner and, with obvious delight, dove into the heap of money, maniacally throwing gold coins in the air and shouting "Finally! After all these years, I have commercialized PUNK!"
I closed the door.
That evening, we were scheduled to attend a banquet for photographers who have no compassion for or understanding of the people they objectify, but the Hummer limo took us to the wrong five star restaurant and we accidentally ended up at a banquet for people who love spending thousands of dollars on dinner. I wasn't in the mood for either, but since everyone else agreed that spending thousands of dollars on anything was a good idea, so long as the money was earned in a way that made others feel as though they had lost a piece of their identity, we stayed.
Joining us were Thurston Moore (who spent a majority of the night on his cell phone, downloading songs with the word "money" in their titles to use as ringtones), and his best friends Benedict Arnold, Edward Curtis, & J.P. Morgan.
"Eggs Benedict! Now there's a real humdinger of a breakfast dish", said Mr. Morgan, having some innocent fun with the General. "Used to eat that stuff all the time back in my Holland-Days!" Food was on everyone's mind as we waited for our platter of veal sweatbreads and foie gras.
"John," retorted Mr. Curtis, "you wouldn't be able to remember your experiences in Amsterdam even with the memory-aid of the photographic camera!"
"Well, while we're on the subject, Ed, why don't I tell you what you can do with your little machine?" said Mr. Morgan as he slipped on a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, and searched for his cigars. "If you want to document a Vanishing Race, enter me in an Eggs Benedict eating contest with the best of them, and photograph the whole thing! I will prove to be the victor, and the results will be picture perfect!"
"Allow me," insisted Abby as the laughter subsided, pulling a Hercules Club from a jewel-encrusted handbag and offering it to Mr. Morgan.
"Why Miss Banks!" exclaimed Morgan, closing his eyes to sniff deeply the long dark roll of tobacco as if it were conjuring up a memory of lost love. "It's authentic! I am in your debt."
"Think nothing of it, Sir," she said as she pulled a candelabrum from the center of the table and brought it to the beginning of J.P.'s Havana daydream. With Morgan in a smoker's paradise and quite content to remain silent, I cleared my throat and asked Thurston how he had the chance to meet Benedict Arnold.
"That's an interesting story, Tim." began Moore, glancing warmly at Arnold and then addressing the table. "Well, as you may know, the kind General committed...how do I put this delicately...high treason."
A series of gasps broke the general air of frivolity in the dining room. At an adjacent table a young man who was clearly old-of-his-league and in what was most certainly his only suit, unable to control his shock reflexively spit his Pinot Noir all over a distinguished blue-blooded millionaire, who appeared to be his potential father-in-law.
"That does it!" screamed the bearded man, throwing his napkin on this table as he stood up in infuriation. "My daughter is a princess--no--a goddess! And she will never marry a two-bit carpenter's son from the Midwest as long as I have breath in my lungs!" Disregarding the pleas for him to sit down and not cause a scene, he stormed out the restaurant in an arrogant rage.
"It was some time ago," Moore clarified.
"Which reminds me," awoke Mr. Morgan in an effort to extinguish the tension. "Mr. Arnold, they have the most exquisite seafood here. You'll have to join me for some lobster backs after the next course!"
"With pleasure!" agreed the General, his wit not punctual. "Although I must say I do prefer the tail to the--". His face quickly reddened: "Now you wait just one darn minute!"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Abby mediated. "We're all rich and insensitive here; away from the troubled world outside, we should dine in peace. I for one would like to hear the rest of Mr. Moore's story." She inched closer to Thurston's side, playing with the stem of her wine glass as she gazed deeply up into his long flowing dirty-blonde hair. Thurston waited for the table to settle down, then continued.
"Well, I was getting to the point in my career when I was ready to sell out. Gee, it must have been almost 30 years ago now! How the time flies! I was starting this band called Sonic Youth, and I thought we'd really stick it to our fans by recording an album, and then asking them to pay money in order to listen to it! A friend of mine suggested I take some tips from old Benedict here. We met for cocktails, and the rest is history."
The guests spent the rest of the evening feasting on silver platters of fancifully garnished world cuisine, taking turns congratulating Abby on tricking all "those dirty punks" into signing 134 individual release forms, thereby giving consent to have their portraits and the interiors of their homes appear a book that Abrams Image, Inc. cleverly marketed to, of all demographics, the GENERAL PUBLIC!
"Three cheers for Abby Banks!" said J.P. Morgan cheerfully. "Hip! Hip--"
"Gentlemen, please!" she interrupted as she bit ferociously into a giant turkey leg, wiping her mouth with a back issue of Slug & Lettuce pouring herself another golden chalice of exotic wine. "Instead, let us make a toast: To commercialism and the death of small communities!"
________________________
Well, for those of you who have never met Abby, I hope this brings you some insight into her character and motivation. Please continue to write negative reviews and help keep the punk aesthetic within narrow bounds, where it can still have meaning.
-Timothy Findlen
This book is the reason there isn't punk anymore obviously not this exact book, but this exact mindset, a certain, i guess opportunistic (money) approach to "being punk." I highly doubt that any one of the individuals living in any of these quarters had given abbey permission to take their picture and place them inside a book. Not to mention any of the folks approving of Thurston Moore (come on, you know this is the only reason it got published) who is at the top of the largest sell-outs in "punk" history. and NO most people will never see the inside of these homes, and NO those individuals will never understand the ideals behind the homes. Punk's largest concern is anti-commercialism, and small communities, this book is another let down in both circumstances.
frozen in time Some art is ephemeral and I find that sad. I suspect that Abby Banks does too. Punk House provides a window into a world that most people will never see in person -- in many ways as mysterious and remote as the Serengeti. Photography is all about access and Ms. Banks was able to get access to 42 homes across the country populated by a an insular and distinct group of people. Her photos are stark and beautiful, the layout simple and attractive -- and the result is all visual, as thick as a Sears catalog. The sad thing about Punk House is that most of these places probably won't exist next year -- it is an ephemeral culture. In photographing them, Ms. Banks has saved some bit of what they were in a style true to the subjects, with great care, and with obvious love. Punk House would have made an incredible zine but it would have been impossible to produce.
Excellent Documentation of our Lives I don't usually write reviews on Amazon, but I wanted to say something about this book. I found Punk House to be one of the most beautiful, colorful depictions of punk life that I've seen outside of the zine world. Living in and visiting some of these houses, they certainly don't feel as vibrantly alive as Abby Banks' photography makes them appear. I was looking over one photo of dirty dishes with a vegan cookbook,mostly torn apart from overuse, and it made me fall in love with the punks again (not that I ever fell out of love, but like you would a lover who you see in a new light after years of relationship). So much heart is captured in this book, and so much life. Fleeting life. It says somewhere in these pages that 90% of the houses photographed are now gone. Maybe not the house itself, but the people inside and what made it a punk house in the first place-punks. So few think to document their lives, thinking that they'll remember or that there will always be time to take pictures. Then, as the years go by, they find that they'd wished they'd at least had a few momentos of a time gone by. Abby Banks took the pictures for us and presented them in a tasteful manner, with permission of those featured, that captures an ongoing moment, a piece of our history, and a slice of life that is usually marginalized at best. Punks don't need to see their pictures in print to know they matter. But it doesn't hurt sometimes. Hassled by the power structures that make our lives somewhat on the fringe, we need few reminders that much about our way of life is fleeting. I lived in one of the houses featured in this book and had no fewer than 50 roommates over 8 years (not including a dozen or so dogs, 4 cats, mice (some as pets and some living in the walls). Some of the people who lived in our house are in other countries now, some became ex-punks before our eyes, some moved on to other houses, and others simply moved on with their lives. Memories are good, but photos are more clear. However, few took pictures or thought much about the unique moment they were living in. That's why Abby Banks' book is so important. It's somewhere between a yearbook, anthropological study, and a beautifully illustrated history book. Everyone I have talked to, including many of those that were featured in this book that live in the houses featured, had nothing but praise for this work. Criticism from within the elite statospheres of anarcho-punk are certain to come, mainly because of how professional this book looks and because it documents something that some may feel protective of. But I have to say that the professional feel takes little away from how beautiful these photos are. It is not overdone and feels mostly like it was made by punks, which is was. While feeling protective of our culture is understandable, I feel that the fact that Banks documented a piece of our history is worth the very slight "intrusion" into our dirty laundry (literally) to show us realistically portrayed in all of our beauty. We're smart, well read, active, and political. All of that is captured here. From the books we're reading to the people we're seeing. And, not to mention, we look good! No use shying away from it. Punk, not only are good people (as Thurston Moore says in his introduction), but we look good. From the dirtiest crust lord to the musician with guitar, we look good. This book is a celebration of punk culture for once done by a punk. Not by some corporate jerk trying to make a buck off of us, or some has been aged ex-punk who happened to have glory years at the right time-later to become an accountant and come back to punk when it's profitable. This done by a punk, of punks, and inside their homes. I think that means a lot. I highly recommend Punk House to punks and those interested in our culture. Abby Banks Rules! Stay punk.
Credit where Credit's Due You'll be hard pressed to find a real negative reaction to this book. Even supposed "critiques" such as the previous review admit that the content of the book is amazing. This alone should suffice as reason to buy the book. As to the allegations stated under the heading "What We Do Is Secret: For a Reason" I have every reason to believe that they are almost totally unfounded. Having known the author throughout the process of traveling and collecting photographs for the book, I can safely attest that she did everything under the sun to obtain permission from the subjects (a process that took months) and approached the topic with utmost sincerity. A recent book tour (that took the author through many anarchist book stores,house shows, and food not bombs feedings) revealed how many people were not only satisfied with the work but also grateful that someone had taken the time and labor to document punk house culture in a tasteful and nonexploitive manner. If this book has truly made a lot of people angry, I certainly haven't met them. Nor have I come across any "Beware of Corporate Zinester" bulletins. Perhaps its because most people who've read the book recognize it for what it is; an honest portrait of a unique cultural lifestyle. My guess is that these people have learned enough from 8 years of Karl Rove than to rely on unfounded accusations and "facts by implication". Don't Believe the Hype!!! The book is the Real Deal!!!
Anything Goes Trivia
Megaton Man
Trevor
