The first time I went to London was in 1985. I was a wannabe preppy preteen from Cincinnati, Ohio, dressed in Jordache and Forenza — just on the cusp of full adolescence … and radiating the “nobody understands me” angst that comes along with puberty. It was a trip to Trafalgar Square in London that changed everything for me. There I saw punk rock kids hanging out in Doc Martens and leather jackets, sporting Mohawks, piercings, and tattoos. I was fascinated. It was like nothing I’d seen in Ohio. And then I heard their music. It was raw, edgy, angry … and I was hooked. I didn’t bring home the look, but I did bring home the music. Years later, I still listen to the Sex Pistols, The Clash, and the Ramones — and on a recent trip to England, I wondered: Where has all the punk gone?
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