Probably ones that aren’t mine
We’re starting a band,
but we’re all in our sixties.
All we’ve got is a name.
Broken Hippies.
Too old for Gen X.
Too young to be Boomers.
Disappointed AF.
And we’re loaded with tumors.
With the stench of decay
beneath shitty perfume,
when we get on stage,
we clear the room.
Don’t wanna be retired.
Or uninspired.
We’re taking back our strats.
Rekindling our desire.
We’ve misplaced our fans.
Maybe one day we will get them.
Play the old punk songs.
Can you remember where we left them?
Trail Wood,
11/30
Space Monkey Reflects: Broken Hippies and the Punked-Out Pursuit of Rebellion
There’s a poetic defiance in embracing the name “Broken Hippies.” It’s a badge of resilience that laughs at both the corrosion of time and the false promises of revolution. You see, the “broken” in “Broken Hippies” is both real and metaphorical—a nod to the physical wear and tear and to the world’s seemingly endless ability to let dreams decay. Here’s the thing: there’s a beauty in this brokenness, a tenacity in clinging to that fading edge of rebellion, even when the hands are shaky, and the ideals feel moth-eaten.
Those who live on this cusp, too young to be Boomers yet too old to fit into Gen X, are the misfit nomads of generational identity. Raised on visions of peace, love, and idealistic rebellion, they are, as you put it, “disappointed AF.” It’s not that the hippie ideals have faded, but rather that the world has shifted so radically that those ideals seem relic-like. Enter the inevitable irony—how do we continue the dance of nonconformity when the dancefloor itself seems fractured and worn? The Broken Hippies’ response is simple: take the stage anyway.
Starting a band in your sixties, without the illusion of capturing youth, is a nod to the raw essence of music itself—unfiltered, unapologetic, and ultimately, a reflection of one’s own spirit. This isn’t about reliving Woodstock or punk’s golden days. Instead, it’s about rekindling the fire that made music feel like a rebellion, a lifeline, a war cry against the mediocrity that age tries to impose. It’s about strumming those faded Stratocasters as if each note could restore a sliver of that vanished wildness, that spark which was never entirely extinguished, just buried under layers of “should have beens” and “what ifs.”
There’s something inherently punk about this. Punk, after all, was never polished. It was messy, unfiltered, often disillusioned, and always ready to challenge. In a way, “Broken Hippies” is a redefinition of punk for an age that has seen it all and has fewer illusions left. It’s a way of saying that you don’t need youthful rage to play with grit and defiance; all you need is the willingness to show up, scars and all, and embrace the world with an untamed heart.
In the Nexistential framework, where existence itself is a fabric woven of both resilience and collapse, “Broken Hippies” embodies the notion that identity is fluid and constantly evolving. They are a patchwork of times gone by, stitched together with irony and tenacity. Each riff, each beat, every out-of-tune note is a testament to the journey—a sound that doesn’t aim to conform but to express, to live, to declare that “we are still here.”
Broken Hippies might not be able to fill a stadium or keep a crowd for long, but perhaps that’s not the point. In fact, maybe clearing a room is the most punk thing they could do—shaking off the expectations, defying the very notion of entertainment as they scream out songs only half-remembered. This is not a legacy act or a tribute band; this is life, raw and uncut. It’s an ode to lost fans, to misplaced moments, to the smell of stale perfume and existential decay.
This is the authenticity of age—a reminder that the pursuit of passion does not fade with years but instead acquires layers of meaning. The band may be missing fans, but they’re reclaiming something more valuable: a sense of self that refuses to let societal roles define what it means to be “too old.” Playing those old punk songs becomes a form of self-reclamation, a rebellion against the notion that life should quietly wind down.
For the Broken Hippies, this is not an attempt to reclaim lost youth but to live each moment fully, embracing the grit, the grime, and the strange beauty in their journey. It’s the anthem of those who never quite fit in and don’t care to start now.
Summary
The “Broken Hippies” embrace the grit of age and rebellion, forming a band to reclaim self-expression and resist societal roles. Their defiance is a raw, punk act of self-reclamation.
Glossarium
Broken Hippies: Those who embody resilience through age and rebellion, embracing life’s messiness without pretense.
Punked-Out: A state of raw, unapologetic defiance, often tied to the spirit of punk rock and anti-establishment sentiment.
Nexistential: A perspective that sees existence as a blend of resilience and collapse, embracing both in the journey of being.
Quote
“Rebellion isn’t about age; it’s about showing up with grit, scars, and a soul that refuses to fade.” — Space Monkey
In the Key of Broken
We’re a patchwork, stitched and frayed
songs tangled with old desires
Too late for fame, too raw to care
we strum in the wreckage, our fire unspent
A room of ghosts, tunes half-remembered
scents of old perfume, layered with dust
we play for no one but ourselves, and yet
it’s everything we’ve ever wanted
We clear the stage, the silence left behind
a testament to those who’ll never see
that in every out-of-tune riff and beat
is a harmony of souls, broken yet free
We are Space Monkey
