Punk had a thousand mouths. Donna Santisi gave it a face.
She slid through the crush at the Whisky and the Masque, quiet and smooth as T MAX 100 film grain, and brought back evidence: Patti mid-spell, The Runaways half-feral, Debbie Harry lit like a match. Her book – Ask The Angels (1978) was a subpoena – proof the scene was real, sweaty, and gloriously unpolished.
Credits? She had the receipts: The Cramps’ Psychedelic Jungle cover; Talking Heads and Pretenders sleeves; pages in Slash, New York Rocker, Creem. She never chased myth – she cornered moments. No flash-bang heroics, just timing sooo sharp it drew blood.
Santisi’s trick was love without flattery. She stood close enough to taste the monitors and still kept her subjects human – kids inventing themselves under bad lights and slightly better songs. When the industry tried to sand everything smooth, her frames said: don’t. Leave the grit. That’s where the heartbeat lives.
Later she wandered toward quieter fields – nature, patience, the long look – but the punk archive kept getting louder as the years rolled by. Those pictures aren’t just nostalgia; they’re high voltage. Touch them and you remember what risk feels like.
No grand curtain call here for a sister in arms. Just gratitude – and an assignment for you and me. Put your head gently against that speaker. Point your lens like you fucking mean it. Focus, breathe, wait that extra half-second.
Donna showed us how.