My punk, on reflection, in the light of twenty-first-century prosthetic memory platforms, wasn’t very punk at all. Not in 1977, anyway.
Where I had been more Stones than Beatles, 1977 saw me more Clash than Pistols, but not really all that wildly Clash. My primary ’77 diet, Google and Wikipedia now suggest, consisted of Stiff acts, idiosyncratic pub rock: Costello, Dury, Lowe, Wreckless Eric even. I liked that stuff quite a lot and still do, and whereas I would have been delighted to meet other people who liked that stuff as well, I was more likely then to meet people who spent their lives ticking off the artists and bands they had decided utterly sucked. Eventually, I sensed, they’d tick off all of my current favorites. And I hated that.