Diary of a Punk
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Mike Hudson was founder and lead singer of legendary Cleveland punk band the Pagans. In a prose style reminiscent of Hunter Thompson and William Burroughs, Hudson paints a stark insider's portrait of a life lived outside society's boundaries. Hudson, co-author of last year's highly successful Niagara Falls Confidential, has turned out a classic rock and roll memoir that dishes the inside dope on the groundbreaking American punk rock movement and many of its top stars.
the girl's house who lived in a squat, but still. One night Brian came over. He told me cockroaches were crawling over him all night and he was starving. "Why didn't you just eat the cockroaches?" I said. That time he threw the first punch. You'd think that playing CB's and Max's would have made us happy. We'd been listening to the Velvet Underground's Live at Max's Kansas City since we were in high school. I remember walking across Union Square that night with Metoff. Guys were trying to
drunk. I put together a band with Tim and guitarist Tom Fallon -called IAO after some Aleister Crowley nonsense-and we opened for Alien Sex Fiend at the old Lakefront downtown. My days of creative financing hadn't ended, and the band quickly became known as IOU. I remember walking out of the bar, pockets and boots stuffed with wads of cash from the door. Later I joined Bobby Richey and Cheese Borger's band, the Pink Holes, as second guitarist. Most of the time I didn't even turn my amp on. We
spend a couple of weeks out there each summer. There were cows and shit. I made a call, got on a bus and didn't look back. I meant to stay for a week or two but ended up living in Pennsylvania for the next eight years. V In January 1985 I took a reporting job at the Evening Journal, a 5,000 circulation daily in the rural hamlet of Corry run by the legendary Pennsylvania newspaperman George Sample. It turned out to be one of the most bizarre coincidences that ever happened to me. In the
smashed the barriers between underground celebrity and mega-stardom. The major labels were flush with cash following the introduction of the compact disc, having convinced millions of idiot music consumers to go out and basically reassemble their old record collections in the new format. The money was burning a hole in their collective pockets and they were signing new bands left and right. Somebody called it "the year punk broke." For us, it was the year we broke up. VI Brian was
reasonably well. But disaster struck moments before we were to go on at the Pirate's Cove when Lou walked in and found me banging his wife on the dressing-room floor. Talk about awkward. He pulled me off her by my hair and then booted her in the face. You never know how a guy's gonna react to something like that, but he left the premises in a rage and his wife ran hysterical out into the night after him. Denny-who despite being a Catholic had adopted some kind of Protestant, born-again