The Franks

Tell the Franks that punk rock died on the very day it was defined and they will tell you to piss off. Remind them that Sid Vicious died almost a decade before they were even conceived and they'll laugh in your face.

Talk about Detroit or London and they'll interrupt you with a smirk so sardonic you will crawl back into the old folks' home you came from with your bigot tail tucked so far in between your legs you won't walk right for days.

The Franks know it all. They've read Please Kill Me, they've played their Nips records flat, and they've no intention of letting their long dead heroes and the music that once defined youth and rebellion rest in peace.

The Franks first emerged on the LA scene not long after front man Jean Don't - having spent 21 years throwing fits and raising hell inside his own head - finally got sick of thinking and breathing punk but having yet to live it out loud. Drummer Mimi Malone and bassist Ron Ray Gunn were recruited more than asked nicely to join him on his mission; to bring it back, what ever it was that got lost when The Clash threw in the towel leaving the punk scene empty of anything but eye-makeup and radio promoters.

The songs they wrote were earnest, raucous, loud, free of gloss and impossible for anyone within earshot to ignore. They contained the desperation of an entire generation in political coma, the blasé squalor of a hooker made legal, and they were fucking good.

So, talk to the Franks about how punk rock was at least a little resurrected when Britney Spears shaved her head, how it died all over again at the sight of her extensions, tell them that living in L.A. looks shitty on a punk's résumé, and tell them that they'll be fighting a venomous enemy taking on a world of commercial artistry.

Frankly my dears, they won't give a f***.