A year after the death of Sid Vicious, Kings Road postcard punks marched and Upper Norwood’s The Fanzine of Noise, issue 1, 1980, were there.
Sid Vicious March Kings Rd – Sat Jan 31
We decided to make a rare trip (honest) to the Kings Rd on Jan 31st, only to find about 30 punks trying to organise a Sid Vicious March. Our first thoughts were how fucking embarrassing. I mean who wants to march in the memory of some junkie. Well what would you think of some hippie who kept saying Jimi Hendrix lives or some trendy who recons Ian Curtis lives – you’d probably think what a wanker (well we would). The 30 of ’em walked in the middle of the road shouting ‘seig heil’ (intelligent eh) for about 300 yards before it was broken up by the cops, who arrested 1 bloke and hassled most of the punks, including those not on the march, like us, before departing.
Walls decorated with torn posters
Trying to brighten up the damp room
That single room that is called home
On the thrid floor of a decaying Victorian emblem.
The landlord comes once a week
An anonymous shark in an expensive suit
Exploiting the needs of an increasing market
“Problem with the meter, I’ll get it seen to.”
Next week, next month, next year, who knows?
Does he care? But then again, do you?
Cold and depressing, lonely and bleak
Come home from work and stare at the walls
Thinking of your home town, it wasn’t so bad
But here in the metropolis, no one to call friend,
Just acquaintances, an occasional drink
Then back to that room which you started to dread
Start thinking about tomorrow, you hope it won’t come
You decide that it won’t, not for you anyway
Three days before you are found
Autopsy report, drugs overdose.
LKJ and Clarkey’s singles reviewed in Sounds, 3 November, 1979, by Alan Lewis.
John Cooper Clarke: Splat/Twat (Epic).‘You make life a fairy tale – Grimm… here, do us all a favour, wear this polythene bag… speaking as an outsider, what do you think of te human race?’ These and other gems from Liverpool’s answer to Pam Ayres, recorded live at the Marquee. Trouble is, this is supposed to be a ‘Twin Grooved Single’, but my needle (sharpened only yesterday) refuses to pick up the ‘Splat’ track, if indeed there is one. Is this a conceptual joke?
Linton Kwesi Johnson: Sonny’s Lettah (Anti-sus Poem) (Island). Police victimization and its inevitable backlash described with chilling effectiveness in the form of a prisoner’s letter home to his mother. As ever, LKJ’s cool, almost deadpan delivery is a more deadly weapon than any amount of ranting and sloganeering.
From Spongers Paul Weller’s Riot Stories 1984 poetry anthology, edited by Dave Potter.
Don’t Just Sit There
When you’ve been stabbed so many times,
When you’ve slapped your heart on the butcher’s table,
And watched the bastards slice and steal it as souvenirs,
When you’ve forgotten yourself
And wonder whether the sun is shining behind the curtains:
Open them for God’s sake.
Political ructions at the Hatfield 2 Tone gig, Sounds, 3 November, 1979.
It doesn’t mean we have to fight (etc): The Specials/Madness gig at Hatfield Polytechnic last Saturday was the scene of vicious fighting between left-wingers and skinheads, and for once it would seem that right-wing skinheads weren’t the instigators of the trouble. According to a 2-Tone eye-witness a punch-up started in the bar for unknown reasons and then suddenly a group of about 30 people burst through a fire door. Some of them had already been refused admission. They were carrying banners saying ‘Hatfield Anti-Fascist League’ and ‘Hatfield mafia’ and proceeded to make random assaults on bystanders with razors and Stanley knives. As they left one of them was caught by skinheads and knocked unconscious. Several people were hospitalised, but all were discharged by Sunday morning after treatment. Meanwhile, a skinhead witness told Jaws that the left wingers were known as the Cockney Reds (London Man Utd supporters) and were “pretty heavy geezers, not the usual student types. They had skinheads with them too. They charged in and said ‘Right who’s the Front?’ and battered anyone they though was NF”. Although Chrysalis consider this to be a one-off incident, the anti-fascists involved are said to be the same people who attacked skinheads at the Upstarts’ Nashville gig recently. According to our street correspondent the Cockney Reds are young working class socialists who dismayed by the growth of the BM/NF amongst London skinheads and their attacks on gigs, have decided to take matters into their own hands and smash them at source (though a good many innocent by-standers are getting mashed in the process). Whatever your views on their methods, there is no doubt that these attacks are incensing the extreme right and reprisals are being planned. Ordinary rock fans are finding themselves caught in a civil war. between extremist heavies and this can only be a bad thing. PS. Following the Nashville fracas the local doddering JP was heard bemoaning the place as a den of underage drinking anyway and so, to preserve their licence, the Nashville management are now refusing entrance to any one who looks under 20.
An aesthete writes in to the Sounds letters page, 8 January, 1983.
Singling Out Bushell
Make your very own Garry Bushell ‘Single Of The Week’! 1. Gather together the four most unintelligent thugs you can find. 2. Pick lots to see who’s going to be the ‘singer’ and give him a funny name, e.g. Boozy, Stinky or Angry. 3. Hand out instruments to the rest. Don’t worry, musical ability at this stage counts as a negative factor. 4. Tell the guys to make as much noise as possible while the singer shouts as many four letter words as he can think of in two minutes. 5. Tape the results on a portable cassette and send to G.B. himself. Seriously though, when is Sounds going to realise that what we want to read about is real musicians with real talent? You’re supposed to be a bloody music paper, after all. – C. MacF. Bieldside Inn.
Here ’tis. the latest, hippest, foulest youth cult shock… Susan Sez: Forget Oi! Forget Anti-Pop. Forget Banging-Bits-Of-Of-Metal-Together-And-Wearing-Bob-Dylan-Hats. Meet SOCIAL SURREALISM. In the space created by the so-called ‘generation gap’ has appeared a poisonous dwarf-child with no love of anything other than casual sex with the disabled and the preservation of its own spotty hide at the expense of all that is decent. The Social Surrealist is a plague. If society is an organism then the SS is a cancer which gnaws at the root of the cerebral cortex and pollutes the blood, sending great streams of foul yellow puss bubbling forth from the nostrils. (eh?-Ed.) With their heads in the clouds of the Da-Daist angstorm and their feet firmly embedded in the bedrock of Bolshevik politics comes this new bred of angry young men and women. They are annoyed and just a little bit mental. They are on the dole and they read the Daily Mirror. Imagine that Joe Stalin smokes pot and lives in Bradford. Imagine that we face a musical form potent enough to at last free popular culture from the strait jacket of ‘niceness’. I wonder if you can? So who are these people? I’ll tell you who they are. CO-CO THE DALEK from bleak industrial Hull – a conceptualist outfit consisting entirely of paraplegics who spit into sardine tins and suck unthawed frozen TV dinners. NUKE BUENOS AIRES
From the 1987 anthology Hard Lines 3, poems chosen by Ian Dury, Fanny Dubes, and Tom Paulin.
She was too big for the job
too spiritual for the office
She didn’t clock in
She stole away
stole the day
and walked with the stolen sun
along the stolen street
among the stolen cars
breathing unmeasured breaths
living in untimed time
Poem from the 1968 anthology It’s World That Makes The Love Go Round. This was made up of poems from Breakthru poetry magazine.
Middle-aged and paunched Bespectacled and merry He perches upon his regular pint Sized stool withing the Red Forever flowing Lion and commences to Pronounce with slurred absurdly confident Unknown fact upon some subject About which he knows absolutely nothing; And attended to by the entire Entirely sozzled company with Their ears and hear hears he raises Once again his glass up to his Slurping lips, and with it up goes the level of the world’s prejudice And slops down upon the under spirit Floor where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise, While outside, the earnest nervous Trembling truth teller Is sitting at the door begging For the unforthcoming money For a drink And wasting his young so Sober wind upon Their randy brandy breaths.