FROM THE VAULTS The Manifesto: I’m A Contaminant In The Program

Happy Birthday to us! Presenting The ‘Stack’s opening shot in the war against listicles, metrics, and shitty rock journalism, period.

Yeah, I know: Same pic as last year. Whaddaya want?! I’ve been busy writing another book!

Greetings, Napalm Nation. Yeah, we’re this many! *holds up two fingers*

The ‘Stack is two years old! How about that?! Which means it’s been 730 days since I walked away from the magazine to which I’d devoted 32 years of my life, because a new editor showed disrespect to me and my work. Trouser Press publisher Ira Robbins wrote of punk rock, as it first began loudly announcing its intention to take over the world in the summer of 1977: “When your culture abandons you, create your own.” I took that to heart as my motto when I first read those words. And it served as my guide that sickening, depressing day. I should probably get those words tattooed on me. Maybe a rose, with that legend written on a ribbon encircling it?

Two years later, and much has changed for the profession I have held since I was 19 and writing my first record reviews as the rock critic for my campus newspaper. The experience just bolstered my defiance and hardened my resolve to never compromise, as I seemingly entered into permanent battle to write about The Replacements and Black Flag, not Def fucking Leppard, as the rest of the student body and my editors and publisher at The South Texan seemingly wanted me to.

Well, even in the year since The Stack’s first anniversary, the landscape of my profession has changed drastically. As explained in this piece I ran back in January,  journalism is on life support at this moment, never mind the particular journalistic subset to which I belong. I only recently returned to penning the occasional show preview for The Austin Chronicle, although I did recently pen this piece on what the state/Federal antitrust suit against Live Nation means for Austin music, for a new outlet, The Austin Free Press. Otherwise, the only publication regularly featuring my work is Ugly Things, which is a fanzine, which means it hardly pays my bills. Much like all my other journalism anymore.

But, as announced a month ago, I am writing books finally. I began my 2nd one this week, and it will be out at the end of the year, one month after Anarchy In The Studio. But while book contracts substantially help pay the bills for a while, the funds are finite until you sell books and pay off your contract.  And The Tim “Napalm” Stegall Substack has grown to generate pretty okay money annually, according to those metrics I claim to not give a fuck about. But that’s a good metric. No, it’s nothing that pays the rent yet. But it might get there, over time.

The day I posted the words you are about to read, I was excited that 500 people read it in its first 24 hours, maybe 50 of whom subscribed, half becoming fully dues-paying citizens of the Napalm Nation.  Today, there’s 890 of you, 136 of you paying to join.  My average post gets anywhere from 750 to 1500 unique views. Those numbers are more than double last year’s numbers. That’s a decent audience enabling me to write about whatever the fuck I want, in whatever manner I choose.   

I owe you what’s left of my so-called “career.” Thank you so much for your support. It means the world to me  that so many of you want to read what I have to say, especially considering some very loud voices at the time I began The ‘Stack telling me I had no talent, and that no one was interested in what I had to say.  One such troll even subscribed, just so he could post such negativity in the comments! Thank you for quietly shouting them down for me. Thank you for giving me an environment where I can be myself, and indulge my creativity. As I wrote last year, “I am honored and humbled. That kind of direct support…I honestly have no words. I am virtually in tears as I write this. I will never take your belief in my work for granted. Thank you.”

Now let’s see what this pissed-off punk rock journalist had to say two years ago, as he launched this thing….

The journalism program in college belonged to Texas A&I University, in Kingsville, TX. The lab was the student newspaper, The South Texan. There was also a two-issue self-published punkzine, Noise Noise Noise. Next came national fanzines such as fLiPSiDe and Your Flesh. After six years, no degree was forthcoming, thanks to a chronic inability to grasp mathematics and numbers. The school no longer exists, long since absorbed into the Texas A&M system. So it goes, to get quite Vonnegutish about it.

That final semester at A&I felt like a final semester from the get-go. Becoming the first paid freelancer at Alternative Press in 1989, under the leadership of Founder Mike Shea, experiencing its initial growing pains in transitioning from fanzine to magazine, proved a lot more fun than dealing with undiagnosed learning disabilities. And how crucial was knowing the square root of Pi when writing about the new Mudhoney album?

Apparently A&I’s journalism department chief, Dr. Plaid Pants, reached the same conclusion. Called into his office one spring afternoon, his beady orbs clamped onto me, as the tiny hole about three inches above his 3 ft. wide tie announced, “You’re a contaminant in the program.”

20 years later, his assessment was proudly spray painted onto a stage shirt worn in my punk band, The Hormones.

Indeed, I am!

The second sentence he grunted was almost as good: “Stegall, you’re not a journalist — you’re a GODDAMNED WRITER!!”

Thank you, Ol’ Plaid Pants. That’s an honor.

Lester Bangs was a writer. Hunter S. Thompson was a writer. Tom Wolfe, Gay Talese - writers, to a man. True, all were also fine journalists. But they changed the game, because they wrote. Like James Joyce. Like Jack Kerouac. Like Terry Southern. Like Bukowski. And like those above listed role models, the urge to write was unquenchable. Still, a grasp of the tools of proper journalism was necessary, to give the writing form and structure. Otherwise, it’d just be the literary equivalent of free jazz, right? Which is not a bad thing. But hopefully the work features a good tune, a catchy chorus, and a nice beat that’s easy to dance to. It’s gotta be rock ‘n’ roll music, if you wanna read with me.

(And yes, every above listed scribe/influence was a white male. Those were the times. Rock journalism, until fairly recently, was about as Caucasian and testosterone-drenched as early hardcore. Creem was a notable exception, employing amazing female writers like Jaan Uhelszki and Sue Whitall through the ‘70s and early ‘80s. Julie Burchill and Vivienne Goldman dominated punk coverage in the UK weeklies. Then there was Claudia Perry, the then-rare Black woman writing about music. With maturity, the writings of Fran Lebowitz, Joan Didion, Eve Babitz and James Baldwin, among others, certainly enriched my life and impacted my work. But yeah, my teenage bookshelves were a sausage-on-white-bread party, for sure. Until a time machine is invented, there’s not a lot to be done about that.)

I got pretty good at it after awhile, once I stopped imitating Bangs and figured out who Tim Stegall is, and what his voice sounds like. I don’t think I was some great or revolutionary writer, but I was alright. Burnt out by 1997, I walked away for 15 years, concentrating on playing the music more than writing about it. Relearning how to be a music fan was also needed. By the time of my retirement, which seemed permanent at that point, listening to music for pleasure was impossible. The brain required rewiring, so it no longer searched out the hook, or wondered what the lyrical subtext was, or mused, “Oh, isn’t this redolent of Big Star?”

I wanted to again be that kid in my childhood bedroom in Alice, Texas, bouncing off the sheet rock to the tune of “Blitzkrieg Bop,” because it was fun.

The return to the fray came in 2013, after a chance meeting at a Public Image Limited gig with my former editor at The Austin Chronicle, Raoul Hernandez.  Years were spent schlepping from one American city to another prior to that, from one soul-destroying job after another, never quite finding the right fit. I was grateful Raoul brought me back out of the wilderness after all that time. But understanding that the game had changed arrived when a colleague 30 years younger introduced himself as a “content provider.”

The problem with modern rock journalism is it’s now all produced by content providers. They'd rather cut-and-paste from a press release, maybe change an adverb or two to “punch it up,” make it more “original,” than write or report. Or else they craft a listicle, one of the worst concepts the content provider generation has devised. “Hey, how can we get a buncha clicks on our pieces? I know - let’s write a list trashing what Boomers like! And no, we don’t have to be knowledgeable about the topic! Just sarcastic!” Yes, I eventually found myself writing a whole buncha those, upon my return to Alternative Press 3+ years back, to answer its readership’s pressing question, “Mommy, what’s a Sex Pistol?”  But I figured if I had to compile lists, they’d better be substantial, and some research needed to be put into the topic at hand. Y’know, journalism and all that shit.

So, yeah. Alternative Press added “punk historian” to my resume, in addition to “punk journalist” and “punk musician.” Which aided immensely upon instigating a book on Austin’s punk history, serialized in The Austin Chronicle as its written. The AltPress work was enjoyable. And it was a good run, until last week. The brand’s new management didn’t fire me, but decided I’d thoroughly answered that Sex Pistols question. Fine and dandy. Focus, like the times, changes. I get it. Oh, well. No big deal, the world moves forward for all of us. 

However, this plops another problem with modern rock journalism right into the middle of the table like a damp, flopping squid – magazines once focused on music and misfit culture morphing into a “brand.” This is not supposed to be about selling the rubes a t-shirt, or some prefab lifestyle. This is supposed to be exciting, electric prose about musical art that shakes up your ganglia and makes your liver quiver. It’s supposed to be about whatever music is still alive and throbbing, be it time machine dwellers such as New York Dolls or the true faces of Rebel Rock 2022, California’s The Interrupters, whose excellent forthcoming album is fueling the hunting-and-pecking you’re reading now. Fuck the metrics and the t-shirt sales! The only metrics here are what makes my big toe shoot up in my boot! And if what stiffens your toe is +44 or Machine Gun Kelly, then this won’t be the place for you.

You will find punk history here. Not punk nostalgia – HISTORY. You will also find punk’s present here. You will find analysis of culture - not just music, but books, movies, TV, art – through a punk lens, rendered in prose hopefully as excited and excitable as an isolated Tommy Ramone drum track. This Substack will not be constrained by the historic. There will be no such limits placed on the author here. My only rule is: If I don’t like it, I won’t write about it. I’d rather advocate for my passions than waste time and energy on something I can’t stand, or on music I find mediocre. And contrary to popular belief, the tastes governing the prose here are catholic and not beholden to a certain time or musical genre, be it then or now.

Count on at least two posts a week, three if ambition grips the fingers. Your $5 monthly subscription nets you an average of 5000 words per week, be it a feature, an interview, or record/book/film reviews. Yep, you get 20,000 words written by Tim Stegall, monthly. And with this particular model, the Radio Napalm podcasts can now reactivate as part of this page's features. You can also have direct access to the editor. I welcome your feedback, be it a pat on the back or a swift punch to the gut.

Also: The definitive article in band names will be capitalized. Sorry, that band is called The Clash, NOT the Clash. Also, the term is rock ‘n’ roll. Not rock & roll. Or rock and roll. 

To celebrate our two year anniversary, take 20% off an annual subscription to The Tim “Napalm” Stegall Substack, normally $50. To free subscribers, here’s your opportunity to directly support my work here, gaining access to special exclusive content such as multi-part interviews with great musicians such as Glen Matlock, Keith Morris, and Captain Sensible. And you will save money in the process, and only have one renewal per year hitting your credit card. Take advantage of this offer by clicking that button below.

#timstegall #timnapalmstegall #timnapalmstegallsubstack #punkjournalism #ourtwoyearanniversary #themanifesto #theroadmaptothepresent #waytoomanyhashtagsforthisspace #isuregettiredoftypingthisshit #doyouevenreadthesethings #itdbefunnyifyoudid  #thankyou #punkrock #punk #subscribe #fivedollarsmonthly #fiftydollarsannually #twentypercentoffspecial #upgradeyourfreesubscription #bestwaytosupport