I Will Dare

For those of us who knew him, let's face facts: Andrew Lundwall was a punk. He was snotty, bratty, and a take-the-piss kind of dude. He was also extremely obsessive about rock, especially the avant or indie side of rock. The 'Mats, here, aren't exactly a punk band. Semi-punks. But when we picked him up in Beloit on a hot June day in 2007, Andrew Lundwall strutted into Steve's car in as completely an I Will Dare attitudinal fashion as was possible. He was ready to rock and roll in Chicago. The display of spontaneous virtuosity Andrew lucked into in Palatine, writing Chicago, as is here on P.F.S. Post, in Steve's living room, as Steve and I attempted to walk upright on a groggy morning, out-punked both of us about what it meant to be in the moment: alive, electric. Even if it's not like I didn't notice, then and now, that he seems to be aiming several pot-shots in my direction. Punk! But American poetry in the Aughts needed him, because poetry needed punks and punk energy: still does. Chicago may prove to be the central dare of Andrew's life fulfilled. It is the Keats-meets-Gordon Gano climax of what Amer-Indie could do around, or with, or among books. God bless you, Andrew.