Dead Boys Tell No Tales (Under An Hour, That Is)
Richard Riegel, Creem, February 1979
FIVE MINUTES into my first-ever meeting with the Dead Boys, and already I have an angle, a metaphorical hook for my story on the band: scars. The Dead Boys, Cleveland's own incisive contribution to the global village of the New Wave, are into scars. Not that their publicity hadn't promised me as much — Dead Boys fans have reportedly made a practice of etching their heroes' arms with cigarette burns, in punk salute — but when I'm suddenly confronted with the mass of scar tissue that passes as Stiv Bators' upper lip, dangling rather ominously over my Heineken, the surprising reality of the hype hits home.
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