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By the time the Sex Pistols hit Memphis, Tennessee on January 6, 1978, crassness, boredom, and despondency had already been transformed into Big Star's D.I.Y. masterpiece Sister Lovers, a chaotically glorious mess which featured a homeless wino on backing vocals.

Comparatively, the Pistols, who shambled into my hometown for a gig at the Taliesyn Ballroom, an antebellum mansion that's since been replaced by a Taco Bell, were buffoons. Locals were already infatuated with the Klitz, an all-girl group led by Chilton's galpal, Lesa Aldridge, and with Tav Falco, frontman for the Panther Burns. All the loutish Sid Vicious could do is carve the words "Gimme a fix" into his chest; Falco would soon deliver a notorious rendition of Leadbelly's "Bourgeois Blues" centered around an earsplitting guitar solo rendered via electric chainsaw.

"It was a racy time, but I think the Klitz fit right in," Aldridge tells me, explaining that in her eyes, '70s-era Memphis was a major punk rock hub. "All these bands like The Cramps were coming here to be with us."

Black Flag, the Circle Jerks, G.G. Allin, Suicidal Tendencies: I have years of memories and hundreds of flyers from the Antenna Club, a low-ceilinged all-ages sweatbox that, from '81 to '95, was located just a few blocks west of Ardent Studios. Elvis Presley be damned, local punk bands Metrowaste, Slit Wrist (their singer, my then-boyfriend, came onstage in a coffin, then leapt out with a hangman's noose around his neck), and the Oblivians lived and died here, mere blips on the national scene but absolute legends within the city limits. The building still stands--most recently, as the Madison Flame, a lesbian bar--and, rumor has it, for a mere two grand a month, it could live again.

When Gonerfest IV hits town this week, the majority of events comprising the marathon punk/garage rock festival will occur around the corner, at Elvis's old karate dojo, the Hi-Tone Café.

My money's on Memphis' own enfant terrible, Jay Reatard, for best-in-show.

Notorious for passing judgment on people's record collections by urinating on them, Reatard (real name: Jay Lindsey) got his start via the Goner Records label when he was just 15. In the decade since, he's released dozens of albums under such monikers as the Reatards, the Bad Times, Destruction Unit, Angry Angles, and Nervous Patterns. He's the frenetic drummer propelling Final Solutions, synth player in Lost Sounds, and a solo artist capable of nightmarish work including last year's Blood Visions or pop oeuvre like his latest MySpace download, "Don't Let Him Come Back." "I've always written pop songs," Reatard claims. "Even when I was yelling, there was a melody there."

At last April's SXSW Music Festival, the rubbery, no-longer-so-snotnosed Reatard dazzled the honchos at Vice Records. Now, fresh off a European tour with the Boston Chinks, he's being hounded by über-producer Rick Rubin and A&R men from media conglomerate Universal and alternative stalwart Matador Records. "It's all weird ‘til I get paid," he admits with a shrug, demurring to name which label's the lucky bidder. I have one more night to bask in his glow--post-Gonerfest, Reatard embarks on a two-month coast-to-coast U.S. tour, which includes a high-profile stop at the CMJ Festival in New York City. I already know I'm gonna be severely hungover afterwards--and, most likely, a little sorry to see him split town.

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