In the Dark Ages that preceded The Ramones, fans were shut out, reduced to the role of passive spectator. In the early 1970s, boredom inherited the earth: The airwaves were ruled by crotchety old dinosaurs; rock & roll had become an alienated labor – rock, detached from its roots.

Gone were the sounds of youthful angst, exuberance, sexuality and misrule. The spirit of rock & roll was beaten back, the glorious legacy handed down to us in doo-wop, Chuck Berry, the British Invasion and surf music lost.

If you were an average American kid hanging out in your room playing guitar, hoping to start a band, how could you possibly compete with elaborate guitar solos, expensive equipment and million-dollar stage shows? It all seemed out of reach. And then, in 1974, a uniformed militia burst forth from Forest Hills, Queens, firing a shot heard round the world.