By the time this thing came out, in 1981, my parents had already abandoned pop radio, and they were trying to raise us without much TV (a feat at which they largely succeeded, so well that I missed many of the defining experiences of Gen X). When friends had anything that hinted at pop culture—music, non-literary writing, Little Debbies—I grabbed for it frantically, sensing the pornographic allure of the forbidden. This is why I still love comic books and graphic novels, and it probably has something to do with why I'm an artist, too: pop culture was transgressive at the most elemental level.
So I didn't know I liked punk until college, when the sounds of grunge waning into nü-metal and alt-rock convinced me that I too needed to take a break from pop radio. And then it turned out that I didn't just like punk: I needed it. It spoke to something visceral and messy, some part of me whose existence the world tried to deny or prettify.
Not every Baguettes song is, or ever will be, punk. But I hope we always cleave to the honesty of it. At least a bit more than the Pink Panther did.