I was asked by the Editor to write a piece on London culture, that’s quite a tall order, I thought. So here’s a small piece about a tiny bit of it.
I was born in London in 1962, from then through until the 1980s we had: mods; rockers; hippies; greasers; suedeheads; skinheads; 70s Teds; soul boys; dreads; punks; 2 Tone; new romantics and goths. During that period you could open the latest edition of Time Out, City Limits or any one of the five weekly music papers and choose a gig or club that catered for your tribe at any one of dozens of venues across the Capital on any night of the week. I’m sure the irony of all dressing similarly as a way of expressing their individualism never dawned on any of them, but bless ‘em all anyway.
“What happened to them?” I hear you ask. The answer (as you would expect from a left-wing, working class Londoner of my vintage) is, of course, Thatcher and the rise of the global capitalism which spewed from her god-awful loins. As if gifting the world an arms-dealing son wasn’t enough for one greengrocer’s daughter.
It wasn’t just Thatcher though, coincidence had a lot to do with the vanishing of the tribes. The next musical genres that swept the nation as well as the capital were hip-hop, acid house and jungle, their togs are sportswear, t-shirts and jeans. Global brands replaced independent traders on the high street and thus, the homogenisation of London’s youth began.
I was chatting to a friend’s son about this. He’s in his early twenties and a DJ who makes music that is almost entirely drawn from black music. His close-fitting, hooded, black attire, we agreed, was a cross between ninja, SBS frogman, mime artist and rush hour peleton twat. Looking at him, one wouldn’t be able to guess which type of music he might be into. Minimal techno, Christian death metal, grime, Tibetan throat music or Siberian prog rock could easily be the answer on enquiry. On hearing any of these answers, no one would be likely to exclaim. “I knew it!
We also agreed that the drab look offers a solid form of personal protection. Speaking as someone who spent some of his teenage punk years skidding around corners in latticed plastic shoes pursued by knife-wielding, grown men, rockabillies because of how we looked (and if I’m honest, because we’d also provoked them), I can now see more clearly the disadvantages of dressing flamboyantly enough to compel a complete stranger to blindside you with a pint glass.
It wasn’t all like that, mind. Me and my punk mate, Les, were pals with the full-on, pink-draped Teddy boy who did the door at Lewisham Odeon; he sneaked us in to see Ian Dury, Black Sabbath, The Specials and Gladys Knight and the Pips in his time, regardless of our clothes. And there was the time me and Les were kitted out in our punk gear, half way across old Hungerford Bridge before we noticed a bunch of rockabillies headed towards us from the south side. If we turned on our heels and legged it back towards Charing Cross they would’ve been on us in no time, so we took a deep breathe and went to walk through them, looking straight ahead, hoping we’d get away with a kicking and not get dumped in the Thames. I flinched the instant one of them bellowed, then almost flopped with relief, “Oh, it’s you silly cunts! Leave ‘em lads, they’re alright.” It was a guy we knew off the market on Lewisham High Street.
I kind of miss those days but I can see how some people nowadays wouldn’t find it too appealing, but bear with me. Visually, tribally, we were those guys shoot-on-sight enemies but because their leader knew us as local lads, we were protected. Natural born Londoners are aggressive, and it’s not just for show. Me and my mate could’ve ended up in the water if those guys hadn’t known us, but they did, and they thought we were alright by them. That’s the culture of London, right there: it doesn’t matter who you are, if you’re alright, you’re alright, unless you’re a northerner, that goes without saying. We only had one northern lad at our school; he lived nearby and would invite other lads back to his at lunchtime then charge them for sandwiches and a bit more if they were toasted.
Biog: Born in East Dulwich, Dave McGowan is a writer, photographer and performer. Author of Earwigging and Other Stories, co-host and founder of spoken word nights: In Yer Ear and The Great Wen, and front man and lyricist in a band called The Messengers of God. He is happy to be living in this, the Golden Age of Beer. His latest meagre offering can be found in this here groovy book: The Cry of the Poor
Earwigging by Dave McGowan | Waterstones
Photo by Peter Clark http://peterclarkimages.co.uk/
good stuff...great tunes
I was at that Dury gig