For fifteen years there has been an enigmatic force, burrowing underground, pulling people by their roots down toward the core of white-hot rawness. Gripped by this power, one is doomed forever, to stalk the earth in search of a primitive sound that remains as elusive as a bad photocopy of a ghost. One cannot read about this awesome omnipotence in the Holy Bible or the Rolling Stone History of Rock & Roll, but the story of its impact is a remarkable tale indeed.

Hindsight labeled it "punk rock," a catch-all term endorsed by fans and collectors (and perhaps conceived in this very mag when it was just a struggling zine) that has come to represent an attitude, a lifestyle, and an aesthetic. By definition, of course, punk means "bunkum," "a hood," "someone inexperienced," or "inferior trash," but recently it has come to suggest hostility and nihilism. Today's concept of punk includes everybody from Elvis to Iggy under its umbrella, and demands stringent rules of order (eat burgers, drink, puke). Its pose is sanctioned and even standardized.