Jello Biafra is probably best known for his work with The Dead Kennedys. His lyrics and singing style where a spark screaming catalyst for punk music. His braininess and reckless anger slowly became the entry under: PUNK, in the dictionary. He is a self proclaimed anarchist and vocally promotes civil disobedience. To add a little color he also subscribes to more activist parties then you can count on both hands, including environmentalism, and anti-capitalism.
Everything about the man is loud, which is why the coy subtly of this piece works so flawlessly. From a distance you would see a soft blur of pink and blue rather reminiscent of a baby shower or seven year girl's ballet class.
But, as the poor sap drifts closer the disturbing and rather gory image of a skinless horse tunes the viewer's hapless ears to the sound of severe mockery. It's feminine semblance of class and mild stuffiness only drive the jab in farther.
Like everything about Biafra, the image is starkly opposite of what you'd expect, and it cockily states an utter strength and pride in itself. It doesn't care. Do they want you to come to their show? Yes. Do they care if you don't? Not a chance. Why? Because they're punks.
This picture is so right on that it's scary. A large sector of today's rebels scream bloody murder about being heard, then dampen their hair spikes in a great big bucket of I-Don't-Know-What-To-Care-About-But-It-Sure-Ain't-You.
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