faq afropunk! by sacha jenkins

By Sacha Jenkins for AFROPUNK

Some people have been talking out of the side of their mouths when it comes to AFROPUNK’s commitment to punk itself. So now might be a good time to kick some plain-speak, in an effort to bring forth a more fluid understanding of what it means to be punk.

Let’s start at the beginning: In the late 1970s, when the so-called punk thing first popped off, people were scared — or should we say, the media and the police and “everyday” people were scared. Safety pins. Spikes. Studs. Green Mohawks. Ripped-up attire, etc. To the uninitiated, punks seemed like hooligans who must be watched — and eventually stopped. Billy clubs upside the head — yes, on the regular. White kids! White kids brutalized by the police. Can you believe it?  Because of the way they looked! Because of the color of their hair…but mainly because what they represented seemingly opposed the system. Like hippies before them. As for the punk youth of color, they were getting billy clubs about the head anyway. Because to the system, their very existence was an opposing force. In essence, when you’re black, you’re punk all the time.

If we use this notion to frame what it means to be punk, we are all under that plentiful black umbrella:

Nat Turner was punk

Nikki Giovanni is punk

Jesus was punk

RuPaul IS punk.

To be punk to is to have a perspective that you are true to; a way to go that you won’t waver from. It’s not about following a little beat-up rule book that’s been spat upon by a group of squatters with Discharge patches on their piss-stained, spike-festooned jean jackets. When you are a person of color in Trump’s America, every move you make, every step you take, is inherently punk. Our Latino sisters and brothers who stare down ICE and fight for their right to be here and breathe just like the rest of us — they’re punk too. For some odd reason, in the minds of a select few, we folks of color in America are a threat. Our mere existence somehow stands in defiance of a system built to serve and protect those who can trace their recent lineage back to the Caucasus Mountains. (Mexico is way closer to the good old US of A than the Caucasus Mountains, FYI).

Don’t get me started on rock and roll itself: our slang for getting down in bed (and eventually on-stage and in the studio). With that said, what could ever be blacker than AFROPUNK?!

Punk rock music and the sentiment that came along with it was a mirror for disenfranchised youth in general. White kids, supported by varying degrees of privilege (yes, there are oodles of poor, white folk out here), saying to themselves: “I want to feel feared and dangerous, I want to go against the system, and I want to feel free while I’m doing my thing.” Their subconscious idea was to denounce privilege — even if, in the end, their earnest quests led them to benefit. When you’re white, you can put those safety pins through your nose; but when the time comes to get a “real” job and contribute to “mainstream society,” one can simply remove the safety pin and start anew. Patti Smith may have sang about being a “rock and roll nigger” back in 1978, but she had benefits even back then that so-called “niggers” still don’t have in 2018. (Shout-out to your homegirl Rachel Dolezal, whose recent welfare scandal is refreshing, and so very “black” of her.)

This whole AFROPUNK movement started with a documentary film, which was a meditation that punks of color thirsted for, a “conversation” that wasn’t being had on the punk scene at-large. At the time, animal-rights discussions took precedence over anything having to do with black, brown, yellow, red or beige folk. The film was bold enough to shine a light into a dark room that stayed that way because, regardless of how progressive individuals in the scene might be, systematic racism can’t get knocked on its ass by killer, anti-racist Reagan Youth songs.

There was organization around the film too. Punk bands of color would get together and jam, and people of all hues would come out to support. Every year the show got bigger and bigger, attendance-wise. And in the years since, the scope of talent has expanded far beyond the satisfyingly effective three chords of punk, because there is something beautiful about black people who aren’t buying into what the system is selling them, coming together under the sun — as artists, as audiences — at a festival that’s become so much more than a festival. A festival, I might add, owned and operated by folks of color — which in itself is a major victory and a statement all the same.

We love the Stooges and The Ramones and the Sex Pistols and The Clash and Minor Threat. We also love Chuck Berry and James Brown and Sly & The Family Stone and Bad Brains. Erykah Badu too. AFROPUNK is all of that and a bag of chips. BBQ ones. With complementary bamboo earrings inside the bag (along with conveniently-placed wipes, because you also gotta stay fly). Music shifts, genres shift. The constant is who we are and how the art we create is a reflection of our environment — and a reaction to it as well. That is the blues. That is Jazz. That is R&B. That is Disco. That is hip-hop. That is house. That is punk. We are the music. We are the attitude. We adapt. This is why we are here. We are survivors. We share the stories that our ancestors passed down to us. And our stories don’t just matter. They define.         

Oh, and make no mistake, there is still straight-up punk music every year at AFROPUNK. This is my fourth year playing. My new band is called The 1865. If you want to get snuffed by some hard-ass chords, and serenaded by a sister who makes Sid’s crooning seem not so vicious, come check for us on the Pink Stage. Get there on-time because my man Mathew has us playing super early.

Want more new punk rock by young people of color? We got you. Read “The 8 Punkest Bands on the Planet Right Now”