Bands break up nightly and reform daily. The line-up changes but the pattern is circular. Incestuous dynasties, in which every third princeling takes a step to the left. Some partnerships struggle on with admirable stick-to-it-tiveness, devoted and often obtusely sadomasochistic. And there are always the lonely front men, those in search of the choir that will boost their solos to the limits of Heaven. With some it is a matter of genuine talent. Others just happen to own the P.A. system. Rumors start up, yeast for a spell, bloat, die, and are replaced by something newer, trendier, more outrageous, or better yet, conservative enough to dispel the gathering doubts. So-and-So is back in rehab, spin-dry set on ‘merciless’. The Knobpolishing Cowgirl’s been born again. Does only the kitschiest of gospel medleys. Doesn’t drop her aitches on stage anymore, or her trousers, and it’s been a month of Sundays since she mimed a blowjob during the drum solo. And thus the gossip-junkies stay horsed and hooked. Who’s making all that noise? It’s inevitable someone will ask this. And someone will do a Saint Sebastian at Breakout Pass, mumbling ‘I’ll hold them here for as long as I can, but go, go now, I’ve only enough ammo left for ….’ They’ll fill in the blanks on Remembrance Day, toasting Old What’s His Name who let them run away on the lick of a frightened promise. Sundown brings the natives out for plunder, posing as fans or critics, with nicknames like ‘Pelican’ and ‘Cricket’ and ‘Balls To The Wall’. You can take the punk out of the suburbs but you can’t take the suburbs out of the punk. Bands break up nightly and reform at high noon.