Monthly Archives: April 2021

Baldies

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Po Chu-I poem from 832AD. This is the Arthur Waley 1919 translation.

On His Baldness

At dawn I sighed to see my hairs fall;
At dusk I sighed to see my hairs fall.
For I dreaded the time when the last lock should go…
They are all gone and I do not mind at all!
I have done with that cumbrous washing and getting dry;
My tiresome comb for ever is laid aside.
Best of all, when the weather is hot and wet,
To have no top-knot weighing down on one’s head!
I put aside my dusty conical cap;
    And loose my collar-fringe.
In a silver jar I have stored a cold stream;
On my bald pate I trickle a ladle-full.
Like one baptized with the Water of Buddha’s Law,
I sit and receive this cool, cleansing joy.
Now I know why the priest who seeks Repose
Frees his heart by first shaving his head.

Po Chu-I

Packing A Punch

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If you’re a short haired type of person who likes dressing well, reggae, and zines you could do a lot worse than get yourself Packing A Punch, a Brief History of UK Skinhead Zines.
Kicking off with Skins, put out by the Last Resort shop in 1979, and running through to Spirit of 69, which started in 2014, the zines that are covered are the sussed ones, but there’s a real look at what was going on with skinhead from the late 70s up to today.
Zines are given a write up and as much as an issue by issue breakdown as can be found. Many of these zines disappeared beneath beds or were thrown out by mums years ago.
The author has been a skinhead a looong time and has been deeply involved with zines. As was I, and the lad knows what he’s talking about.
Of particular interest is the look at Hard As Nails, the 1983 zine that ‘sussed‘ skinheads coalesced around. This zine was the focal point for stylish dressing, reggae and soul, and a rejection of the travesty the gumbys had made of skinhead.
Also important were zines like Bovver Boot, Suedehead Times, and Spy Kids. It was great to catch up with 1993’s , Skinheads Don’t Fear, a top drawer zine that brought a sense of humour that so many other zines lacked.
Most of the zines ran for half a dozen issues or so, some a lot more, some less. It’s an insular world, but if it’s one you’re interested in this informative tome one you’ll find essential. It’s 120 pages and comes in at a tenner pls p&p.
Grab a copy from toasttu@aol.com


Oxford Street

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From Jamming!, number 16, 1983.

Oxford Street

Morning sweeps into view, light punches
into my eyes, an underground train,
traversing crowds and escalators, gliding
upwards to face the rainswept streets,
pacing onwards in desperation, frost in the
air, traffic roaring past, clinging, congested
pavements, monolith corporation offices
pierce the sky … standing here alone in
perfect isolation, the hot tears scalding my
face … gazing all around, subways,
underground stations, the Post Office
Tower, mud, slush, thawing snow,
tumbling rain, and Oxford Street …
see those pretty girls in Oxford Street, all
dressed up with somewhere to go, speaking
volumes for my loneliness … those half-
opened doors and tentative glances, the
hands I grasped that slipped
away … buses and taxis in Oxford Street,
sophisticated window displays, ear-
catching music, video and hi-fi, fast food
chains, newspaper vendors, sex shops, and
January sales … drifting with the ebb and
flow of the crowd, I lose myself, my mind
disappears … but no, standing here on an
underground escalator amidst the
billboards selling newspapers and lingerie
I feel alive, the blood coursing in my veins,
aware of every new sensation, every last
drop of pain and desolation.

Pete May

Punk Pin Ups

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ZigZag, No. 82, March/April ’78 had a luridly headlined cover that led to a kick arse editorial from Caroline Coon.

Now The Girls Have Hot Their Hard-Ons The Men Had Better…
(Read This – Or Start Hoarding Pin-Ups)

She’s really something else. Whether her her black leather jacket is unzipped or her nipples stick up through a grubby t-shirt, she’s got the dynamic looks other women want to copy and men drool over. Who am I on about? Gaye Advert pf course. But for arguments sake it could just as well be Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Tina Weymouth, Joan Jett, Pat Paladin, Judy Nylon, Pamela Popo or Viv Albertine – the list is long.
These women have more than their sex and rock’n’roll in common. They’re working in a profession thick with chauvinists. Well, if it’s not old school M.C.P’s then it’s a new breed of men trying to be enlightened – and they’re just as difficult to deal with.
Gaye, you might have noticed, is on the cover this month, Big deal, you might think. So she should be. She’s sexier than Glen Matlock and a better bass player than Sid Vicious. But the liberally-minded ZigZag males are caught in an ambivalent tizzy. They couldn’t just publish and be damned for fear of being branded reactionary chauvinists. And yet, because Gaye is so eye-catching and therefore much more likely than T.V. Smith to increase the sales of this moth’s magazine, they can’t pass up the opportunity to exploit her beautiful face. Billy Idol never causes such problems.
ZigZag’s dilemma and guilt touches everyone in rock’n’roll. Managers, musicians, editors, critics and fans are all struggling with the idea, if not the practice, of equality. Efforts are being made to judge woman rockers on the basis of their talent rather than the size of their tits. Increasingly credit is given where it is due. Last year Poly Styrene, Siouxsie Sioux and Ari Up were praised not only for trail-blazing sexual equality but as lead singers who knocked spots off most other young performers on the scene.
And yet, for all the recent advances in attitude, when it comes to the crunch, the old hypocritical standards win through. Which is what you’d expect when 90% of those in power in the rock industry – company directors, A&R’s, advertisers and journalists – are men.
When nude pin-up’s of Gaye turned up, the rock press treated their publication like some lip-smacking Fleet Street expose. Some weeks ago ancient nude pin-up’s of Debbie Harry were given a gloating half page spread in Sounds. Time Out wasn’t the only magazine to rush into print with nude film stills of Patti Smith. In fact, show me a woman rock’n’roller and I’ll show you the editor who won’t rest until he’s searched the archives and published a nude picture of her. No amount of feminist persuasion from one or two of his staff will prevent him doing so.
And personally, I’m all for his decision to publish. Debbie’s nude pics are pinned above my typewriter. Most of my girlfriends like looking at nude pictures of women. Never make the mistake of believing the myth that women object to nude pin-ups because they are jealous of bodies which might be considered more attractive than theirs. It just isn’t true. And if you think this is a strange if not lesbian admission, then consider any Heavy Metal audience.
Crutch strutters like Status Quo or Ted Nugent perform almost exclusively to male fans. When those rockers strip to the waist, bearing their sweaty chests, they do so for reasons which don’t necessarily have anything to do with homosexuality. Bare flesh, male or female, is very sexy. Men and women enjoy looking at it. Who could be more obvious.
No, it’s not the gratuitous thrill men get from nude shots of women rockers which is objectionable. Nor can it be argued that pin-ups reduce an artist’s chance to be taken seriously – although the fear that they do is real enough.
What really galls women are the hypocritical double standards which still insidiously undermine their efforts to be treated as equals. Nothing is more symbolic of these double standards than the nude pin-up. Time and again they drive home the depressing truth that women can look sexy in pictures but woe betide those who dare act like sexual equals to men in real life.
Mention any male rocker you like, from Rod Stewart to Barrie Masters, and you’ll know they brag endlessly about the females they pull backstage. Very few men condemn the Rat Scabies/Jean Jack Burnell interviews where women are called ‘slags’, ‘boilers’, ‘mindless whores’ etc. etc.
Women who fuck more than one man in their lives are nymphomaniacs or worse. Men who get around are praised. They’re studs.
So what’s new. And further, what the hell! Objectors can step aside. Those who put down sexually-liberated women are in for a lonely future.
Editors who feel the urge to publish female nudes have my sympathy. They should think twice and consider their motives. And then they should publish. If they really feel concerned, all they need do is trim the balance, shift the bias, make the situation more equal, spare a thought for their female readers. Let’s have more male nudes, not fewer female ones.
There must be hundreds of women bored of seeing Joe Strummer in battle dress. We all know that Nick Lowe has a fine line in clean shirts but his bare body looks better. Some fine nudes of Mick Jagger in Performance would be a lot better than seeing him in that dreary velvet jacket again. John Lennon, always ahead, posed nude with Yoko Ono on ‘Two Virgins’. Iggy has done his bit.
And now I pause, trying to recall other male rock stars who have stripped. Very few. (J.J. Burnell doesn’t count, John Peel does.)
Nude pin-ups of male rock stars are rare because when they were poor, they had more lucrative ways of making money than stripping in Soho. Grave digging for instance. It pays far better than nude modelling I assure you! So does bass playing.
Which brings me to the most important point to make about the nude pin-up’s of Gaye, Debbie and Patti et al. They were all taken before these women made it – most likely when they were short of cash with nowhere else to turn.
Publishing the pictures therefore, is not exploiting female sexuality so much as it is taking mean advantage of women under economic duress.
Naturally, Gaye flinches when people rake over her model past, but she’s not moaning about it – nor will she bother to explain why she thinks the men responsible are sexist pigs. The time for exploitation has past. Action is what counts now. Like all the women mentioned here and many more, Gaye’s got her hard-on. Men who can’t take it had better start hoarding pin-ups. Unless they wake up very soon nude pictures are they closest they’ll get to the opposite sex.

Caroline Coon

Pogo Not Goosestep

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Rock Against Racism and the other lot in Melody Maker, 25 August, 1979.

Seeing Red At RAC
What’s white and thinks it’s all right? Yes, the NF’s new rock offshoot. VIVIEN GOLDMAN infiltrates the racist ranks.

There were two, three, sometimes four policemen chatting to each other with walkie-talkies at every corner of the peaceful Holborn square and at the back door of the Conway Hall, where Rock Against Communism were about to start their first gig.
The idea of an organisation called Rock Against Communism has a familiar ring – why, yes, it must have something to do with opposing Rock Against Racism! Yeah, that’s it – anti-racist equals Commie equals red-under-bed equals … in this case, the Young National Front, in the person of their fuehrer, Joe Pierce.
Now, according to my sources, of whom more later, the youth are coming to the forefront of the NF because the older stalwarts have been forced to retire by public pressure from “commies” or “reds” from the Anti-Nazi League. Hence it’s up to young sparks like Joe Pierce to realise that music is the rallying cry for youth, regardless of colour or creed.
And hence this RAC gig – the first, the pass-out says, presumably of many.
Those conversant with London venues may remember the Conway Hall as a home of humanist gatherings, lectures and the like. The posters dotting the Ethical Society Hall draw attention, ironically enough, to the plight of Sri Lankan refugees. Some very odd doublethink going on somewhere in the Conway hall.

That same Saturday night, London offered several events of several natures. There was the Black Prisoners’ Dance at the Acklam Hall, and the pre-Carnival Jump Up at the Commonwealth Institute. This Heat were supposed to have been playing at an Anarchists’ Ball in Wapping – but, being anarchists, they forgot to book a PA, so that was out.
Which partly explains why I was trailing a strange sound in a green square in Holborn. Oddly, it sounded like the Balinese Monkey Dance with heavy reverb, just percussive slashes of sound.
As we turn corner after corner, the sound grows more and more distinct – it’s rock’n’roll! The big Rock Against Racism truck blares through the neighbourhood, a very audible opposition to RAC’s nearby presence, drawing snap-happy American and Japanese tourists to grab a quick Polaroid of what a large phalanx of cute British Bobbies.
In fact, the dark green shadow-windowed Special Patrol Group vans are parked not very discreetly here and there suggest a less cuddly scenario to the locals in the RAR march. A true Seventies blend of styles: genuine-article turquoise-haired punks, hippies who looked straight out of a News Of The World special on Social Security scroungers, Asians in crimplene strides and turbans. Charge were on the van, performing great acts of heroism as leads fell out, amps played up, and so on. Their lead singer, looking like a miniature blond-haired Elvis Costello in a pork-pie hat, serenaded the SPG while the policemen marched alongside trying to maintain the patented police Great Stone Face as much as possible.
“Leave me alone,” the singer warbled, “they won’t just let me be what I want.”
RAR mainman Red Saunders, typically bubbly, yelled: “It’s the first time there’s ever been an electronic picket!” – a cheerful observation that lost some of its impact when the police called a halt two corners on, before the truck reached Conway Hall, and strolled alongside until they’d packed all their charges off safely down the Tube and out of harm’s way.
I’d vaguely assumed that the left-wing element would somehow infiltrate the Rock Against Communism show and express their sentiments, the way the British Movement are fond of doing these days, but it seemed like I was the only one with pinko tendencies walking towards the Conway Hall. The fresh-faced young cop who stopped me seemed to think so.
“Excuse me, which side are you on?” he asked with a charming smile. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you’re on the other side. I wouldn’t like to go in there, Miss, if I were you. There’s a pretty rough lot in there tonight – skinheads and all that.”
Without wanting to damn every skinhead, I agreed with him. But what I’d noticed with alarm about the Conway Hall clientele was a super-abundance of beefy, red-faced, beer-bellied, thuggish types in black leather jackets with NF and swastika armbands giving myself and (black) photographer Vernon St. Hilaire some flame-thrower glances as we got out of the cab.

Inside the Conway Hall, there were about 150 youths – I say youths specifically because there were only about five women, including a couple of skins and a punkette in a Ramones T-shirt.
The lads were mostly skins with steel toe-caps and braces fresh from seeing Chelsea draw 0-0 or burly-looking characters in NF T-shirts looking like mercenaries gone AWOL ‘cos the army life was too soft. The deejay was playing Devo, the Sex Pistols, and – heaven help us – Tom Robinson.
I got talking to a gent in a black leather jacket and jack-boots pulled over his forage trousers. He was wearing a badge of NF supremo John Tyndall, taken from a youthful shot of the NF oberfuehrer in full Nazi regalia.
“Tyndall in his romantic days,” quipped my companion, one Tony Williams, the organiser of the Ipswich branch of the NF.
Williams, 22, looks suspiciously Latin, but assures me he’s of pure Welsh stock. He works in a wine and spirits firm, and informed me that the beer had already run out, and that it was only shandy anyway.
Williams reckoned it was a magnificent event: “The first time British men have ever been able to get together and enjoy themselves like this! It’s different from anything I’ve ever seen!”.
I remark that it looks like all too many (rather unpleasant) skin gigs I’ve been to – chaps bouncing up and down at 45-degree angles and butting one another. The only difference was – no women. Women, Williams explained, are frightened of coming out politically because of social pressures to be feminine.
“We do have some nice girls in the NF, but not enough. I mean, look at that one!” He pointed to a skinhead girl in braces. “Isn’t that the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen?”
What did Williams think of the popular conception of the NF as British Nazi Party?
“Well, of course, you do get all kinds of elements within any political party,” said Williams smoothly, obviously well versed in The Party Line. “I mean, frankly, we’re probably surrounded by Nazis tonight,” he added conspiratorially.
Just then, his friend Simon, an ultra-Aryan tub-like hulk in a forage jacket, came bouncing up to us excitedly. “I say, did you hear those lyrics? ‘We are the Master Race!’ Isn’t that terrific!”
White Boss were on stage, a combo best described as sub-punk. I was only astonished Simon had been able to hear the words. The group were suddenly swamped in wave after wave of shouts of “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” from the audience. Simon bounded away, overcome. Williams gave me a weak smile.
Williams expressed great admiration for the lads who’d agreed to play. He prophesied: “They’ll probably never be able to get a record contract now. Those Reds can get up to some pretty nasty tricks, you know. What did you vote, by the way? I know it’s a personal matter. I,” he whispered, “voted Tory.”
Yes, well, so did my mother.
During the course of the evening, Williams gave me The Party Line on all number of things.
He expressed some sympathy with Chinese, Rastafarians and Jews – he appreciated the way those ethnic groups liked to stick together, close to their culture. He evoked the world of urban decay and squalor, forgetting that the rest of the planet’s in exactly the same position, and laid it fair and square on the heads of those black youths who terrorise and beat up that favourite NF archetype, “harmless old ladies”.
I say that I wouldn’t necessarily feel all that comfortable alone in a train carriage with some of the NF members in attendance. Williams takes my point, but says, “Don’t you see? They’re all looking for something! If there was a National Front government, all these types would have to be disciplined anyway. You’d be sure to be safe then.”

We adjourn to a pub, after Dentist deliver their “The Nazis are innocent” message from the stage. (“I say!” says Simon happily, “Did you hear that? Great, eh?”)
The pub is full of National Front men, wearing their Anti-Commie League badges with the arrow logo directly ripped off from the Anti-Nazi League design – in fact, this sudden cultural explosion of the NF is remarkable for its total unoriginality.
Williams expounds his theories of the irrelevance of the the concept of equality, based on the highly dubious statistic that all blacks have a 16 per cent lower intelligence rate than Caucasians. “Eight per cent, actually, old chap,” grins Simon.
Williams says that he doesn’t object to foreign travel as such; it’s just that he likes to go to Kuwait or Hong Kong or wherever and see the native culture, and he reckons all expatriates should be back in there contributing; this despite the fact that he numbers the proprietor of one Indian restaurant anong his acquaintances.
It’s not so bad if the “alien culture” works hard, makes money, and keeps themselves to themselves, but nonetheless, he invoked an Eighties world of endless battered crippled old ladies in fetid slums, and a population of “coffee-coloured mongols” – the hideous end result, he claims, of inter-breeding. I later discovered he’d lifted that colourful phrase from Enoch Powell’s recent rant.
About now, my tolerance level was pretty well worn down, amiable and chatty though my companions have certainly been. I say it’s time to head home.
“By the way, what do you do?”
“I’m a journalist from the Melody Maker.”
“Oh. Well, do write nice things about us, won’t you … ”
“By the way, what’s your surname?”
“Goldman.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Isn’t that a Jewish name?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, the NF line is that if you’re not a Zionist, you won’t have to be sent to Israel.”
On the way out, Williams asks if he can come back to my place. I am, as I tell him, genuinely shocked – it would have been more understandable, more worthy of respect, if he’d have walked away in disgust, let alone after telling me about Jewish financiers and the anti-“goy” bias of such reputable Jewish firms as Marks & Spencers.
“Well”, says Williams with a cheerful shrug, “you can’t think about politics all the time.”

The Dentists at the Conway Hall gig.