Was hanging out at Headline Records (thee prime place to satisfy all your punk rock needs, by the by [I’ll be expecting my payola check in the mail, John]) the other day and found myself and the shop’s owner spending a good amount of time trying to convince a younger kid that the Minor Threat record with their first two EPs on it was a sound purchase. The whole time, I’m thinkin’, “Why are we having to work so hard to convince this little mocoso that goddamned Minor Threat—specifically the very release I did the happy dance over when I found it in Lovell’s Records’ racks back in 1983-84 after spending an ungodly amount of time and effort looking for anything by ‘em—is worthy of his (probably short) attention span?” At that precise second, I realized that another of those so-called “generation gap” moments had just hit me square in the fuggin’ forehead. I’d gone through this previously, sometime in the mid-’90s, when I ran into some spiky-coiffed nincompoops who were all for the punk du jour band at the time but had neither clue nor interest who TSOL were. No, in neither case did I scream “POSEUR!” and proceed to steal their boots/creepers/Chucks. I instead tried to hep ‘em to what I thought was a touchstone band, and one that had a serious impact on my when I was of similar age, without sounding like the old curmudgeon punker asshole I probably sound like right about now. What’s the point to this long-winded diatribe, you ask? Suffice to say that, given recent events, I feel it imperative to direct what follows to the potential handful of folks who may not have come across this album before: forget whether or not you like punk, if you have at least one working ear, YOU NEED TO OWN A COPY THIS ALBUM. This is one of those albums that is a clarion call for all that is good, and right, and wonderful about punk rock, two twelve-inch sides of pure perfection that has changed lives, fueled whole swaths of a certain social movement, and has enjoyed a phenomenal thirty-year influence on an inordinate amount of bands, including a few you probably have heard before. What’s it sound like? Like tens of thousands of kids giving the finger to what their world expects them to be. It’s dark, funny, angry, seeping with teenage angst/frustration/alienation, blahdeeblahdeeblah, backed by some of the choicest punk/hardcore you’re ever gonna hear—fast, slow, melodic, still frighteningly topical, and stuffed to the gills with hooks that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Frontier’s honcho Lisa Fancher has not only made it danged easy to procure a copy by keeping it available for at least the bulk of the thirty years since it was initially released, she’s now added the incentive of colored vinyl to further sweeten the deal. I appeal to your good sense not as an overly opinionated windbag, but as a fellow music worshipper within whose life this very album has served as a soundtrack and stress with every fiber of my being: this, dear heart, is about as worthwhile a purchase as you’re ever going to make. I know I’ve said it before, and I hope my track record is good enough that you’ll listen when I say: trust me, and if you don’t, I’m sure the folks at Headline (shirts, books, patches, and a fine selection of tuneage for purchase [still waitin’ on that check, John]) and danged near anywhere else you can find a copy will concur. While yer at it, I suggest you also buy bigger speakers, ‘cause, as you’ll soon find out, you’ll need ‘em to play this bad boy as loud as possible ‘n’ share the love. Go. NOW.