'Punk rock' is a word used by dilettantes and heartless

Iggy Pop, the wild spirit of rock and the prophet of rebellion, once declared: “‘Punk rock’ is a word used by dilettantes and heartless manipulators about music that takes up the energies, the bodies, the hearts, the souls, the time and the minds of young men who give everything they have to it.” These words strike like thunder, not only against the chains of commercialism, but also as a defense of the sacred fire that burns within art. For here he reminds us that true music is not a product, not a label, not a thing to be bought and sold—it is the very lifeblood of those who pour themselves into it.

The origin of his fury lies in the fate of punk rock itself. Born as rebellion, raw and unpolished, it was the cry of youth against conformity, hypocrisy, and the suffocating order of polite society. But as it grew, the merchants circled it, giving it names, boxing it in, selling it as a style, a brand, a shallow costume. Iggy’s words are a defense against this betrayal. To him, punk rock was not fashion, but sacrifice: sweat dripping on basement floors, bodies colliding in mosh pits, souls screaming into microphones, the total gift of one’s being to sound.

History shows us this cycle clearly. When jazz was born in New Orleans, it was condemned as chaos, the devil’s rhythm. When it grew, the record men polished it, marketed it, and in time stripped away its wild edge. The same with blues, with hip-hop, with every voice of the people: the heart of it is born in sacrifice, but the outside world often sees only a chance to manipulate and consume. Iggy’s lament is the ancient cry of every artist whose fire is turned into currency by others.

Yet his words also carry a deeper truth: that the essence of art cannot be captured by labels. It is lived, not described. It is felt in the trembling hands of a guitarist who bleeds on his strings, in the shout of a singer who empties his lungs until his chest aches. Those who stand outside may call it “punk rock” or any other name, but those who live it know it is not a word—it is a way of being. It is the total giving of the body, the mind, the soul.

Consider the story of The Sex Pistols, a band born not of careful planning but of chaos and defiance. Their performances were riots of sound and fury. They burned bright and brief, but their fire ignited countless others. Critics and businessmen tried to cage them in words, to brand their rebellion as “punk,” but what they were doing was more than a genre—it was the gift of themselves. They gave everything, and in return, they became immortal in memory. This is what Iggy Pop speaks of: the life-blood poured out, too sacred to be reduced to a marketing slogan.

The lesson for us, O listener, is that one must never confuse the label with the essence. Do not mistake the word for the fire it attempts to describe. When you see true passion—whether in music, in art, in service, in love—do not trivialize it with shallow definitions. Recognize the cost, the sacrifice, the giving of energy and time. Honor those who pour themselves wholly into their work, for they are living on the edge where words can no longer reach.

Practical action flows from this: if you are a creator, guard your fire. Do not let others define you, sell you, or shrink your sacrifice into a slogan. If you are an admirer, honor the cost behind what you enjoy. Do not take lightly the blood and spirit poured into it. And in your own life, whatever your calling, commit as those musicians did: with energy, with soul, with all your strength, until your work becomes more than labor—it becomes life itself.

So let Iggy Pop’s words resound: “‘Punk rock’ is a word used by dilettantes and heartless manipulators…” Let us remember that the true fire of creation cannot be captured in a word or a brand. It is sacrifice. It is devotion. It is the body, heart, and soul poured out until nothing is left but the truth. And this truth, untamed and unbought, is the only legacy worthy of remembrance.