On rebellion, ideology and growing up. Lily Burana

Maybe every single generation goes thorough something like this (from I Love a Man in Uniform):

Of course, I was only a fraction of the rebel I used to be, having come to favor country music just as much as Rock ‘n’ Roll High School. Sometime in my early twenties, I had realized that punk rock might not be able to deliver on its messianic zeal. Even my idol, Dead Kennedys singer Jello Biafra, had started sounding less like a mordant political wit than a cranky old man shouting, “Hey you kids, get off my lawn!” In one of his later songs, he asked a question that echoed my own doubt: “Anarchy sounds great, but who would fix the sewers?”

I mourned the loss of my outlier faith as much as I welcomed the drift inward from the margins. The punk scene wasn’t hallowed ground or some infallible brain trust, it was just a bunch of strivers flailing around in search of answers, no better (though surely no worse) than anyone else. The far-flung dream of anarchy wore itself thin. Ideologically, I was fair game.

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