The Manifesto: I’m A Contaminant In The Program

I’m NOT a “content provider.” I’m a goddamned writer. And proud of it. Why I just joined Substack.

The view from the laptop screen

The journalism program in college was Texas A&I University’s, in Kingsville, TX. The lab was the student newspaper, The South Texan; a two-issue self-published punkzine, Noise Noise Noise; then 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.”

Thanks for the inspiration, Dr. Plaid Pants.

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

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.

Lester Bangs, proudly displaying his prime writer’s physique.

(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, the 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?”

The all-too-briefly-reunited Replacements at ACL nearly ten years back, rocking like murder through their ode to Big Star’s leader. Because why not?

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 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. 

Tomorrow: Viewing Dion’s greatest record through Cancel Culture’s lens. Plus: Did you catch Monday’s Better Call Saul? Coming Friday: A conversation with Lenny Kaye about his amazing new book, Lightning Striking. Until then, keep your feet on the stars, and keep reaching for the ground.