No surprise here. Every song's a punk classic on this, the Sex Pistols' one and only studio album. With Johnny Rotten, the most grating, faux genuine front man ever, and murderer/suicide Sid Vicious on bass, the Pistols epitomized punk like no one else.
Representative lyric: Fuck this and fuck that, fuck it all and Fuck the fucking brat. She don't wanna baby that looks like that. I don't wanna baby that looks like that. (from “Bodies”)
The only double album on my list (after all punk was given more to 7"s than double LPs and this one wouldn't likely have happened if CBS weren't eager for The Clash to breakout), this is another choice that some punk purists would have a problem with. But to dismiss The Clash's genre-bending third album from the punk archives is to discard punk's most innovative variations and sophisticated sensibility.
Representative lyric: Spanish songs in Andalusia, The shooting sites in the days of ’39. Oh, please, leave the ventana open, Federico Lorca is dead and gone.
Bullet holes in the cemetery walls, The black cars of the Guardia Civil. Spanish bombs on the Costa Rica, I'm flying in on a DC-10 tonight. (from “Spanish Bombs”)
My poems have appeared in six books (most recently, Wahoo Sunset, 2019) and in journals such as Court Green, Failbetter, Mudlark, and New York Quarterly.