Punk-101: "Folk-Punk (Whiskey and the Truth)"

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[Verse 1]
The Pogues in London, 1984
Shane MacGowan drunk on poetry and something more
A punk band with a fiddle and a tin whistle too
Proving that the old songs could be born again new

"Streams of Whiskey" pouring from a broken mouth
Songs about the leaving, the losing, the going south
The London Irish diaspora singing in the rain
Folk-punk was the sound of dispossession and pain

[Pre-Chorus]
And you don't need a Marshall stack to tell them you're pissed off
You don't need distortion to be angry at the cost
Of living in a world that never wanted you around
A wooden box with six strings is the loudest fucking sound

[Chorus]
This is folk-punk, this is the glass
Raised to the future and the past
This is folk-punk, this is the stain
Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain

This is folk-punk, this is the song
That rises from the ones who don't belong
And finds a home in any voice that sings along
Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs

[Verse 2]
Against Me! in Gainesville, 1997
Tom Gabel with an acoustic guitar and a vision of heaven
Not heaven with angels, but heaven with friends
Where the music never ended and the night never ends

"Crime as Forgiven By" and "The Disco Before the Breakdown"
Songs that sounded like a basement, like a place you could be found
Before the drums, before the band, before the world knew their name
Folk-punk was the beginning, folk-punk was the flame

[Pre-Chorus]
And you don't need a record deal to tell them you exist
You don't need permission to raise your voice and fist
A campfire and a circle and a song that someone wrote
Is louder than the radio, is more than they can vote

[Chorus]
This is folk-punk, this is the glass
Raised to the future and the past
This is folk-punk, this is the stain
Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain

This is folk-punk, this is the song
That rises from the ones who don't belong
And finds a home in any voice that sings along
Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs

[Verse 3]
Days N Daze in Houston, 2008
Whitney Flynn and Jesse Sendejas, screaming at the state
With a washboard and a trumpet and a banjo out of tune
Folk-punk was always rising, folk-punk was always June

Pat the Bunny in Vermont, writing from the edge
"Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of Your Fist" the pledge
That anarchy is not a dream, it's just a way to live
Folk-punk was the giving, folk-punk was the give

[Pre-Chorus]
So pass the bottle, pass the song, pass the night along
The only thing that matters is that you still sing along
The world will try to kill you, try to make you feel alone
But folk-punk is the fire, and the fire is your home

[Chorus]
This is folk-punk, this is the glass
Raised to the future and the past
This is folk-punk, this is the stain
Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain

This is folk-punk, this is the song
That rises from the ones who don't belong
And finds a home in any voice that sings along
Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs

[Bridge Music pulls back to just acoustic guitar and voice. Strummed, simple, weary.  close, warm, tired],[Sprechgesang:] 
"In 2013, Pat the Bunny retired. He said he'd said everything he needed to say. He was twenty-six. He'd spent a decade writing songs about addiction, about anarchy, about trying to find a way to live in a world that made living hard. And then he stopped. Not because he failed. Because he succeeded. Because he understood that folk-punk was never about him. It was about the songs. And the songs would keep going. They always do."

[Final Chorus Full band returns, but now with multiple voices—group vocals, warm, ragged, like a pub at closing time. The music is huge but acoustic, raw, alive]
This is folk-punk, this is the glass
Raised to the future and the past
This is folk-punk, this is the stain
Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain

This is folk-punk, this is the song
That rises from the ones who don't belong
And finds a home in any voice that sings along
Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs

[Break: Band strips away gradually. Accordion fades first. Mandolin fades. Drums stop. Bass stops. Single acoustic guitar remains, strumming the chord pattern, slower now, letting each chord ring],[Sprechgesang:]
"In 1840, a man named Joe Hill was born. He wrote songs for the workers, for the strikers, for the ones who had nothing. They killed him in 1915. But the songs didn't die. They never die. That's folk-punk. That's always been folk-punk."

[Outro],[Spoken Word:]
"Class dismissed!... —Keep singing..."

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[Intro: Single acoustic guitar, strummed hard, slightly out of tune. A mandolin joins, playing a simple melody. An accordion drones in the background. Voice warm, whiskey-soaked, weary],[Sprechgesang:] "Some say punk is electric or it's nothing. Some never learned that the first punk songs were played on acoustic guitars in hobo camps and union halls. This is for the ones who know that three chords and the truth don't need an amplifier." [Verse 1] The Pogues in London, 1984 Shane MacGowan drunk on poetry and something more A punk band with a fiddle and a tin whistle too Proving that the old songs could be born again new "Streams of Whiskey" pouring from a broken mouth Songs about the leaving, the losing, the going south The London Irish diaspora singing in the rain Folk-punk was the sound of dispossession and pain [Pre-Chorus] And you don't need a Marshall stack to tell them you're pissed off You don't need distortion to be angry at the cost Of living in a world that never wanted you around A wooden box with six strings is the loudest fucking sound [Chorus] This is folk-punk, this is the glass Raised to the future and the past This is folk-punk, this is the stain Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain This is folk-punk, this is the song That rises from the ones who don't belong And finds a home in any voice that sings along Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs [Verse 2] Against Me! in Gainesville, 1997 Tom Gabel with an acoustic guitar and a vision of heaven Not heaven with angels, but heaven with friends Where the music never ended and the night never ends "Crime as Forgiven By" and "The Disco Before the Breakdown" Songs that sounded like a basement, like a place you could be found Before the drums, before the band, before the world knew their name Folk-punk was the beginning, folk-punk was the flame [Pre-Chorus] And you don't need a record deal to tell them you exist You don't need permission to raise your voice and fist A campfire and a circle and a song that someone wrote Is louder than the radio, is more than they can vote [Chorus] This is folk-punk, this is the glass Raised to the future and the past This is folk-punk, this is the stain Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain This is folk-punk, this is the song That rises from the ones who don't belong And finds a home in any voice that sings along Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs [Verse 3] Days N Daze in Houston, 2008 Whitney Flynn and Jesse Sendejas, screaming at the state With a washboard and a trumpet and a banjo out of tune Folk-punk was always rising, folk-punk was always June Pat the Bunny in Vermont, writing from the edge "Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of Your Fist" the pledge That anarchy is not a dream, it's just a way to live Folk-punk was the giving, folk-punk was the give [Pre-Chorus] So pass the bottle, pass the song, pass the night along The only thing that matters is that you still sing along The world will try to kill you, try to make you feel alone But folk-punk is the fire, and the fire is your home [Chorus] This is folk-punk, this is the glass Raised to the future and the past This is folk-punk, this is the stain Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain This is folk-punk, this is the song That rises from the ones who don't belong And finds a home in any voice that sings along Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs [Bridge Music pulls back to just acoustic guitar and voice. Strummed, simple, weary. close, warm, tired],[Sprechgesang:] "In 2013, Pat the Bunny retired. He said he'd said everything he needed to say. He was twenty-six. He'd spent a decade writing songs about addiction, about anarchy, about trying to find a way to live in a world that made living hard. And then he stopped. Not because he failed. Because he succeeded. Because he understood that folk-punk was never about him. It was about the songs. And the songs would keep going. They always do." [Final Chorus Full band returns, but now with multiple voices—group vocals, warm, ragged, like a pub at closing time. The music is huge but acoustic, raw, alive] This is folk-punk, this is the glass Raised to the future and the past This is folk-punk, this is the stain Of whiskey and the truth, of pleasure and pain This is folk-punk, this is the song That rises from the ones who don't belong And finds a home in any voice that sings along Folk-punk is the place where everyone belongs [Break: Band strips away gradually. Accordion fades first. Mandolin fades. Drums stop. Bass stops. Single acoustic guitar remains, strumming the chord pattern, slower now, letting each chord ring],[Sprechgesang:] "In 1840, a man named Joe Hill was born. He wrote songs for the workers, for the strikers, for the ones who had nothing. They killed him in 1915. But the songs didn't die. They never die. That's folk-punk. That's always been folk-punk." [Outro],[Spoken Word:] "Class dismissed!... —Keep singing..."

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