London's Burning: True Adventures on the Front Lines of Punk, 1976-1977

345 Pages·2009·7.94 MB·English

by  Dave Thompson

Londons_Burning-mechanical:LondonBurning 2/24/09 3:54 PM Page 1
MUSIC
“Of everything I’ve read on punk rock, London’s Burningpaints the truest L
portrait of the time . . . maybe because Dave Thompson was a fan, not a o
nasty journalist or rock star wannabe when he witnessed these events.”
n
—Cherry Vanilla
D
“How does Dave Thompson know more about bands than they can remem- o
ber themselves? His sheer love of music. It shines through as we read n
about how he grew up in the glam years, when punk rock was still over
’
the horizon, an unstoppable train approaching but still out of sight. And s
when it arrived he was there—mixing with the bands, absorbing what
was said and what was happening, and with a true fan’s dedication
B
remembering everything so that all these years later he can chronicle the
U
events with a perspective that brings them startlingly back to life. Fiercely
accurate and detailed, but with a sense of love and nostalgia to put it all r
in context, here is a book that puts the humanity back into punk rock.”
n
—TV Smith (The Adverts) in TTrruuee AAddvveennttuurreess oonn tthhee
“Punk was our conflict. We went over the barricades to encounter the fig-
g
aunradt itvhee sfeo ep ahgeeasd -boena,r wthe ec rteeastteimd othney. sIofu ynodut rwacekre tno’ tt hpere dseemnti saet othf ee xtcimeses,, FFrroonntt LLiinneess ooff PPuunnkk,,
Dave Thompson will take you there.”
—Martin Gordon (Radio Stars)
11997766––11997777
London’s Burning is the story of punk rock as it happened, stripped of
hindsight and future legend, and laid bare. Here are the Damned and the
Adverts on tour, the Sex Pistols swearing through their prime-time televi-
sion debut, the Tom Robinson Band conducting a club full of skinheads TT
through the anthem “Glad to Be Gay,” rioting Rastas running through the hh
carnage that closed the Notting Hill Carnival, Sid Vicious arguing about oo
mm
which was David Bowie’s best song. At the same time, it is a personal story
pp
of a confused but dedicated sixteen-year-old looking not just for kicks and
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great music, but for a cultural revolution—and finding one in his back yard. oo
nn
DAVE THOMPSON
British writer is the author of books on Iggy Pop, the Sex
Pistols, the Fall, the Velvet Underground, and many more.
$18.95 (CAN $20.95)
ISBN 978-1-55652-769-2
51895
DDaavvee TThhoommppssoonn
9 781556 527692
00 (i-xvi) front matter LB:Londons_Burning 3/10/09 5:14 PM Page i
True Adventures on the
Frontlines of Punk,
1976–1977
Dave Thompson
00 (i-xvi) front matter LB:Londons_Burning 2/24/09 3:42 PM Page ii
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Thompson, Dave, 1960 Jan. 3-
London’s burning : true adventures on the frontlines of punk, 1976-1977 /
Dave Thompson.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-55652-769-2
ISBN-10: 1-55652-769-1
1. Punk rock music—England—History and criticism. 2. Punk culture—
England—London. 3. Thompson, Dave, 1960 Jan. 3- I. Title.
ML3534.6.G7T46 2009
781.66—dc22
2008040527
Lyric Credits:
“I Ain’t Gonna Be History”—lyrics by Alan Lee Shaw, reprinted by permis-
sion of Alan Lee Shaw and EMI Music Publishing Ltd.
“Great British Mistake”—lyrics by TV Smith, reprinted by permission of TV
Smith and Twist And Shout Music.
“The Great Beast” by Alan Lee Shaw. Lyrics reproduced by kind permission
of Alan Lee Shaw.
“New Day Dawning”—lyrics by TV Smith, reprinted by permission of TV
Smith and Twist And Shout Music.
Cover and interior design: Scott Rattray
Cover photographs: ©Jorgen Angel, iStock
© 2009 by Dave Thompson
All rights reserved
Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-55652-769-2
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
00 (i-xvi) front matter LB:Londons_Burning 3/10/09 5:14 PM Page iii
Contents
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16 Pogo Dancing: January 1977 203
17 Beat on the Brat: Early February 1977 217
18 Dandy in the Underworld: Late February 1977 233
19 Storm the Gates of Heaven: March 1977 245
20 Long Hot Summer: Early April 1977 263
21 Where Monsters Dwell, Where Creatures Roam: Early May 1977 275
22 Oh Shit, There Goes the Charabanc: June 1977 293
Epilogue—The Two Sevens Clash: July 1977 313
Index 319
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Preface
If I were asked to describe this book in one word, it would be
memoir, albeit one without too much “me” in it. A moir, then. And
I will state here and now that I have no claims to greatness during
the period of which I write. I did make a couple of appearances on
Independent Television’s Pop Quest game show, sixteen years old
with too much hair and a razor-blade pendant, but I crashed and
burned in the semifinal because I couldn’t bring myself to say
“Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep” on a national prime-time broadcast.
Don’t bother with the blackmail
notes, though; I have both
the photos and the tapes.
I neither published a
fanzine (that would come
later) nor played in a band; I
neither draped myself promi-
nently in the corridors of
power, nor grinned inanely
from the background of
some iconic image. In fact,
the only other photograph
of myself from this period
that I have ever seen shows
The author on the set of Yorkshire TV’s Pop the back of my head
Quest, December 1976. Author’s collection retreating down the King’s
v
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v i Preface
Road, Chelsea, while Johnny Rotten holds court outside Malcolm
McLaren’s Seditionaries store.* So much for making my mark on
history.
What I did do was attend a lot of concerts—including probably
95 percent of the shows mentioned here—buy a lot of records, and
save up a lot of memories. I was an observer who was lucky enough
to witness some great things; I was a bystander who happened to
bump into some remarkable people. It is those great things and
remarkable people that take center stage here, and, if my own pres-
ence often fades into the background, then that’s exactly as it should
be. I was in the room, but others were on the stage, and it’s their
impressions and ideas that I sought as I was writing this book.
In among these recollections are woven a handful of my own
personal adventures and experiences. They are not exhaustive; I was
sixteen when the book begins and seventeen when it ends, ages at
which life-changing events occur on such a regular basis that every
experience, in some way, forged its own unique perspective. To even
try and chronicle every thought and emotion that crossed my mind
as I stood, one more time, at the back of the Roxy would be as
pointless as it would ultimately be boring.
I note the things I’m glad I noticed. But some impressions are so
universal that it would be redundant to reel them out, and others are
so personal that it would be meaningless. At the end of the day, if
you were there, I hope you’ll remember how it felt to witness history
unfolding; and if you weren’t, you’ll come away with a taste for
what you missed.
Namely: Warm malt liquor, stale cigarettes, cheapo perfume, gob
in your hair, someone’s heel on your toe, and that awful sticky sensa-
tion you feel when you’ve spent too long crushed up in a crowd,
sandwiched against somebody who ought to be wearing a shirt. The
support band is rubbish and the main band stinks; you’ve got a long
walk home; and you have to work tomorrow. Ah, good times.
*You can find it on page 322 of Jon Savage’s England’s Dreaming.
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v i i
Preface
The thrill of buying a brand-new single, and rushing home to
play it to death, while admiring the picture sleeve and absorbing all
the credits. Sporadically throughout this book, playlists appear of
each month’s best new records. Gather them up and play them loud,
and you’ll have a sense of what it was like to be out soaking up the
new sounds. There’s a lot of reggae in there. I liked reggae. But
you’re welcome to replace it with something else. Chicago’s “If You
Leave Me Now” was very popular back then.
And, finally, attempting to blend in with a crowd of city slickers,
to avoid the attentions of the bully boys on the other side of the
road. Tribal warfare has always been a major part of British youth
culture, ever since the first mods and rockers slugged it out on
Brighton beach. But there was something especially feral about the
fighting that erupted around punk, less a conflict of minority cul-
tures than it was an outright declaration of war, straights versus
weirdoes, old guard versus upstarts, the establishment versus a hand-
ful of rebels who dared to dream that life could be better.
The period covered by this book is relatively short: just thirteen
months, from May 1976 to June 1977. But what tumultuous months
they were, opening with Britain’s first ever glimpse of the Patti Smith
Group, and closing with the London coronation of Bob Marley and
the Wailers, but in between scooping up such maniacal activity that
it is difficult to believe that so much happened in so little time.
My own world was even smaller, bracketed by the twin barriers of
my last days at school and first months of work, and an income level
to match. Perhaps more than anything, that is what drew me to what
became (but most certainly wasn’t) punk rock; how I would have
loved to spend my evenings flitting from one major rock event to
another (if it’s Wednesday, it must be Genesis). But I couldn’t afford
two or three quid a ticket, so I found my fun where I could, in the
pubs that often waived admission in the hope that you’d spend your
cash on drinks, and even if they didn’t, asked for pennies, not pounds.
It was within those less than salubrious surroundings that I first
saw, and met, the musicians whose stories are told in these pages,
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v i i i Preface
and whose music and friendship has remained alongside me ever
since. Not all of them are household names, even after so many
other books have come along to scour the archaeological debris of
this thoroughly overworked seam; but even those who are now
“famous” tell tales here that really haven’t been heard, tales of kids
no different from the rest of us, who had a dream to fulfill or an itch
to scratch, or maybe just a yearning to clamber out of the crowd
that was clustered by the stage, and get up in front of it instead.
It’s the story of ambition and inspiration in the days before the
Reality Fairy arrived to render her decision: you can be a star, you
can be a cult, and you shall remain in perpetual obscurity. It was
indiscriminate, it was unpredictable, and it was certainly, in some
cases, unfair. But in fairness to the Fairy, and to any shattered
dreams that she might be responsible for, I don’t believe there is any-
body in this book who does not still draw at least a portion of their
living wage from making music (at least among those who are still in
the position to do so). For them, “punk” may have offered an escape
route from their basement rehearsal room, but they would have
found a way out regardless of the prevailing climate. Which is
another reason why this book closes where and when it does. In
1976, it was optimism that guided most aspiring young musicians.
In 1977, it was opportunism. In 1976, we were creating a scene. In
1977, we were looking around and wondering who were all these
strangers, and why did they all dress and sound the same?
Perhaps my main motivation to tell these stories, however, was
the fact that I wasn’t reading them anyplace else. The years
2007–2008 saw the bookshelves groan beneath the combined weight
of more “thirtieth anniversary” punk rock histories than any one per-
son could ever read—but I did read them because I wanted to dis-
cover whether what I thought I had experienced ever really happened.
Apparently not. Stories I recalled wandered off in new directions.
People I remembered turned into somebody else. And records that I
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i x
Preface
loved were redefined as rubbish. So I cast them all to one side and
started again.
I have done my best in these pages to avoid time traveling. Les-
sons taught in 1976 were not necessarily learned until years, even
decades, later. I can look back at a certain sequence of events and see
how they might be connected. But hindsight is not a gift that I had at
my disposal at the time, and so I have avoided it—not entirely,
because sometimes, a point needs to be made to prevent you, the
reader, from wondering what on earth is happening here. But other
times, I made a deliberate decision to leave you in the same state of
suspense that I found myself in at the time, in the knowledge that, by
drawing your own conclusions, you will arrive at an answer that
makes as much sense to you as the answers that I formed mean to
me. Yes, it’s fun to read of someone else’s personal experiences. But
how much more intriguing it is to experience them yourself.
So, a memoir without too much “me,” a history of hopefulness,
and a slice of life that will never be repeated, because the circum-
stances that created it can no longer exist, even if we overlook the
unique social and economic conditions that were bubbling all
around the mid-1970s. The music industry is too savvy these days—
and too selfish. Rock ’n’ roll is a career today, taught in colleges and
fluffed up on the news. There is no sense of danger, or flying too
close to the sun; just an army of publicists and personal assistants
doing and saying whatever is necessary to keep their client in the
public eye, while the music itself has so little pride that even the
musicians now refer to it as “product,” and to themselves as
“brands,” while the record companies sue the pants off their “cus-
tomers” for not caring enough about the shareholders’ bottom line.
Even the underground, the grassroots scenes that are the logical
descendant of that which underlies this book, is more concerned
with maximum exposure than with getting their rocks off or kicking
out jams. And nobody even bats an eyelid if you swear on television,