Sunday, 25 April 2010
Roots Manoeuvre: What happened when reggae and punk went head to head in the UK
It's late autumn 1977, and the Stranglers are headlining a show in the Midlands. The support comes from the roots reggae band Steel Pulse. They know what to expect from a punk crowd: gobbing, cans being thrown. Steel Pulse are barely into their first number when a huge wad of phlegm shoots from the audience and lands on the hand of bassist Ron "Stepper" McQueen. The band's nickname for McQueen was "Psycho" and they fully expected him to live up to his name. "We all stared at Ronnie and we stopped playing," remembers Steel Pulse's singer, Mykaell Riley. "So there's this silence onstage, then eventually 4,000 punks went silent." McQueen didn't react, however. Instead, Stranglers bassist, Jean-Jacques Burnel, stepped out of the wings, waded into the crowd, identified the culprit, and knocked him out cold. Then he turned to face the crowd.
"He just went, 'You fucking wankers. You love reggae,'" laughs Riley.
If 1977 was the year of the punk rock explosion, it also saw the rise of another musical movement, intimately entwined with punk - a massive eruption in British reggae, which became the black counterpart to the white heat of punk. The Clash played reggae covers and Joe Strummer recounted his experience of reggae all-nighters in White Man in Hammersmith Palais. Rastafarian DJ Don Letts played reggae discs between punk bands at the Roxy. Even Bob Marley - who was living in London at the time - recognised the developments with his 1977 song Punky Reggae Party. But while the Clash and Marley have come to symbolise the link between reggae and punk, the huge growth in homegrown reggae in the wake of punk has become one of the era's lost treasures.
White kids had listened to reggae since the original 1960s skinhead movement embraced the music, but 1977 saw a common bond spring up between the punks and the rastas. Dub producer Adrian Sherwood - a white kid from Slough who fell in love with the "crazy intros" of the records played by his black mate's sister - remembers going round to Johnny Rotten's house and hearing reggae, not Generation X. Sherwood also remembers that the path to reggae enlightenment wasn't necessarily weed: "My Mum, bless her, wasn't the best cook on earth. I'd go round my mates and have fried fish, beans and rice. It was unbelievable." More important, though, was the sense of shared purpose the fans had.
Although punk was fast and guitar-based and reggae slow and bass-heavy, the punk look (spiky hair, leather jackets and combat trousers) wasn't much different to Rastafarian chic (dreadlocks, leather jackets and combat gear). Visually and otherwise, punk and reggae audiences were seen as outcasts.
"The bond was very simple," explains Peter Harris, a British reggae guitarist who played on Punky Reggae Party. "Blacks were getting marginalised." British Irish kids - like Rotten - and black youths were forced together because of signs on pub doorways that read "No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs", which became the title of Rotten's autobiography. "The punks were the same," Harris argues. "They were seen as dregs of society. We were all anti-establishment, so there was a natural synergy between us."
Harris's father Dennis ran reggae labels with Matumbi's Dennis Bovell, a massively influential Ladbroke Grove-based Barbadian who - after inventing Lover's Rock - gave punk musicians a new sound when he produced the Slits and the Pop Group, helping them experiment with dub. Harris Jr remembers growing up in the Grove, where the Clash's Mick Jones ate breakfast at Bites cafe alongside rastas. Further bonding took place at gigs and in blues clubs like Notting Hill's House of Dread. But the punk-reggae bond went national - and attracted the interest of the big labels - when John Peel started championing both musics on the radio, playing entire sides of albums by Misty in Roots and Adrian Sherwood's Creation Rebel.
"He was great, John Peel," says Sherwood, whose reggae fandom led to him first importing Jamaican reggae records and then operating the mixing desk for innumerable reggae greats. He remembers sitting in a car in Ladbroke Grove with the Jamaican legend Prince Far-I when Peel played the first three tracks of Creation Rebel's record: "The next day I had all those wankers like [Rough Trade's] Geoff Travis ringing me going 'I love it, man.' I said 'I played it to you three weeks ago and you turned it down.'"
But suddenly Rough Trade was far from the biggest label with an interest in reggae. The majors were signing reggae bands almost as fast as punk groups. Ladbroke Grove's Aswad and Birmingham's Steel Pulse signed to Island; Virgin put out the Short Circuit compilation, which saw Steel Pulse share vinyl grooves with Penetration and Buzzcocks. But for young black people, the music went deeper than fashion.
British reggae established its own identity, independent of Jamaican reggae, when the bands started singing about their own experiences. Tunes like Tabby Cat Kelly's sublimely mournful Don't Call Us Immigrants offered the feelings of the first British-born generation of black kids: "What's a joke to you is death to me ... I'll respect your colour if you respect mine." Misty in Roots' singer Poko - who dropped his given name, Walford Tyson - remembers a shared "struggle in the music" with punk but particularly remembers the impact of reggae music on young black audiences: "It was pure emotion." Like Steel Pulse, Misty were young and angry. Poko, who was born in St Kitts, says British acts "no longer wanted to sing about love and women. We wanted to do progressive protest music." There was a lot to protest about, and top of the list was police oppression. Punks were picked on but black youths had it much, much harder. Gaylene Martin, a New Zealander who worked with reggae acts on Virgin Records, remembers attending a Peter Tosh gig at the Rainbow theatre in London with Jamaican friends: their car was followed and only the black occupants were questioned.
"I was threatened with arrest so many times it became a joke," says Peter Harris, who opened a shop in Portobello Road and was arrested entering his own premises because the police assumed he was a burglar. He ended up crashing through the showroom fighting with three policemen. "My wife said 'What are you doing with my husband? He owns the shop!'"
The excuse the police needed to target black youths was marijuana, and they used the Sus law to stop and search. The crackdown saw reggae clubs closed, and the key figures in the scene facing prosecution. Dennis Bovell was jailed for drugs offences after police raided a soundclash - where reggae sound systems would compete with exclusive mixes in front of fans, who followed sound systems like football teams. The sentence was quashed on appeal six months later.
Harris - a non-toker - admits there were times when bands were lucky not to attract the law's attention: "I was in a car once and it was so full of smoke, the driver couldn't see through the windscreen." But increasingly, long-simmering and deep-rooted tensions erupted in violence.
Harris was in Notting Hill when the area erupted in the riots of 1976, which inspired the Clash to sing that they wanted "a riot of their own" in White Riot. He remembers "an amazing sunny day. I saw policemen holding dustbins. The police got a right kicking. There were thousands of angry people who were fed up being treated like dirt." Over the next few years rioting spread across the country (Steel Pulse sang of civil unrest in Handsworth Revolution in 1978, the riots following in 1981). "There was all this going on across the country and reggae was the soundtrack," Harris says.
Punk was, too. Southall punk band the Ruts wrote their reggae-based song Jah War, which told how Misty manager Clarence Baker was knocked to the ground by the police's Special Patrol Group during anti-National Front protests in 1979 that saw a schoolteacher, Blair Peach, die as a result of police brutality. Baker was luckier, but it was close. "They coshed him," remembers Poko. "Nearly killed him, man." Jah War documented a growing sense of outrage over such events - and also repaid mates Misty for issuing the Ruts' first single In a Rut on their People Unite label, another way in which punk and reggae united. It was a confused time and Mykaell Riley remembers black skinheads, white skinheads who weren't racist and others who would say: "We like your music, it's black people we don't like." But increasingly, people realised that music itself could fuel change.
Steel Pulse wrote a song called Ku Klux Klan about the racist movement. The radio shunned it because it was provocative but the black band had an enormous impact when they donned the KKK hoods onstage. Even though the KKK was an American phenomenon, British audiences recognised the power of the imagery and would often fall silent. "It was us saying 'We're in control now and we're not afraid of you'," remembers Riley. "In terms of our punk audience that was a powerful statement."
When a group of musicians and activists started putting punk and reggae bands on together and called the gigs Rock Against Racism, "RAR" became a national movement. Bands as diverse as XTC, Aswad, Generation X, Tribesman, the Slits, Joy Division and Misty came together to oppose the rising National Front. The biggest gig, headlined by the Clash and Steel Pulse in east London's Victoria Park in 1978, was attended by 80,000 people. "The British public - certainly the youth - totally came out against the NF," says Riley. "They were turning up in massive numbers and telling them they could not make headway with this stance."
Almost three decades on, sitting in Southall's community centre - where Misty used to play before the council introduced noise restrictions - Poko laments the Southall of his youth, which resisted the NF. "We had such strength," he says. "We felt we could do anything." But he shouldn't be downhearted, because as a result of the anti-racist campaigners' efforts, the Front were finished as a mass political force and police racism was exposed.
But did reggae change perceptions of black music? In the 80s, black acts were still told to water down their sound to get hit singles, but reggae crossed over into pop with the Police and Culture Club. A more direct legacy of punk and reggae's fusion came in multiracial acts such as UB40, and the chart dominance of bands such as Madness and the Specials in the early 80s - acts now regarded not as reggae or ska bands, but great British pop groups. Of the original pioneers, only Aswad - who scored a No 1 in 1988 with Don't Turn Around - became British household names, but Misty and Steel Pulse still tour and are renowned worldwide. However, their music resonates everywhere: the sound systems laid down the roots of remix culture and the rhythms gave birth to drum'n'bass. And 1970s British reggae still sounds great today.
"The question was always: 'Is your reggae authentic?' says Mykaell Riley, who is now a lecturer at the University of Westminster. "But it was a cumulative experience of growing up in the UK in a different skin. That's what made what we did different."
Misty in Roots: Live at the Counter Eurovision (People Unite)
One of John Peel's favourite records of all time: sublime 1979 conscious reggae with a keyboard-heavy twist.
Various: Don't Call Us Immigrants (Pressure Sounds)
Superior Brit reggae compilation featuring the likes of Tabby Cat Kelly and Reggae Regular.
Linton Kwesi Johnson: Dread Beat an' Blood (Virgin)
Brutally brilliant 1978 opus in which Dennis Bovell's dub beats back the reggae poet's uncompromising raps, such as Inglan Is a Bitch.
Steel Pulse: Handsworth Revolution (Island)
The Brummies' seminal 1978 debut: heavy bass and hard-hitting lyrics.
Aswad: Aswad (Island)
Headed by one-time Double Deckers star (and now 6Music DJ) Brinsley Forde, Aswad's 1976 debut memorably documents the British black experience.
Dave Simpson @'The Guardian'
Stephen Colbert On Arizona's New Police State: "No Problemo"
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| The Word - No Problemo | ||||
Foreign Office apologises for Pope 'condom' memo
The Foreign Office stressed the paper, which resulted from a "brainstorm" on the visit, did not reflect its views.
The junior civil servant responsible had been put on other duties, it said.
Details of the document emerged after it was obtained by the Sunday Telegraph.
'Song with Queen'
The UK's ambassador to the Vatican, Francis Campbell, has met senior officials of the Holy See to express regret on behalf of the government.
Foreign Secretary David Miliband is said to have been "appalled" by its contents.
 | ANALYSIS  Robert Pigott, BBC religious affairs correspondent It's clear that what the Foreign Office has called "this foolish document" did not reflect government policy. Its tone is clearly frivolous, and it came from junior officials. But it has, nevertheless, the potential to cause considerable damage. Whether fairly or not, it will leave some Catholics with the impression of a culture within official circles in which their Church's teaching is not taken seriously. Some will suspect prejudice against faith groups. Perhaps most damaging of all, it could leave an impression that the Pope might be regarded as a figure of fun less than five months before his visit to Britain. Apart from the pressure on the papal visit from public feeling about sex abuse, and the threat of demonstrations against the Pope, the government needs the Vatican's help in a global diplomatic effort to curb climate change and fight poverty. How serious and far-reaching the effect of the document is depends partly on how the Church itself responds. |
It suggested Benedict XVI could show his hard line on the sensitive issue of child abuse allegations against Roman Catholic priests by "sacking dodgy bishops" and launching a helpline for abused children.
It went on to propose the Pope could apologise for the Spanish Armada or sing a song with the Queen for charity.
It listed "positive" public figures who could be made part of the Pope's visit, including former Prime Minister Tony Blair and 2009 Britain's Got Talent runner-up Susan Boyle, and those considered "negative", such as Manchester United striker Wayne Rooney and prominent atheist Richard Dawkins.
The civil servant responsible said in a cover note: "Please protect; these should not be shared externally. The 'ideal visit' paper in particular was the product of a brainstorm which took into account even the most far-fetched of ideas."
An investigation was launched after some recipients of the memo, said to have been circulated to a restricted list, objected to its tone.
A Foreign Office spokesman said the department was "deeply sorry" for any offence the document had caused.
"This is clearly a foolish document that does not in any way reflect UK government or Foreign Office policy or views. Many of the ideas in the document are clearly ill-judged, naive and disrespectful," he said.
"The text was not cleared or shown to ministers or senior officials before circulation. As soon as senior officials became aware of the document, it was withdrawn from circulation.
"The individual responsible has been transferred to other duties. He has been told orally and in writing that this was a serious error of judgement and has accepted this view."
'Blue-skies thinking'
The Foreign Office said the memo had resulted from discussions by a group of three or four junior staff in a team working on early planning for the papal visit.
A source told the BBC News website the individual who has since been moved to other duties had called the group together for "some blue-skies creative thinking about how to make the visit a success", but their discussions had become "a joke that has gone too far".
Earlier this year the Pope announced 2010 would see the first papal visit to the UK since John Paul II's visit in 1982.
Pope Benedict XVI's visit will take place from 16 to 19 September, during which time he is expected to visit Birmingham, as part of the planned beatification of Cardinal John Newman, and Scotland.
The visit will come in the autumn of what is proving to be a difficult year for the Pope with a wave of allegations that Church authorities in Europe and North and South America failed to deal properly with priests accused of paedophilia.
The Pope himself has been accused of being part of a culture of secrecy and of not taking strong enough steps against paedophiles when he had that responsibility as a cardinal in Rome.
However, his supporters say he has been the most pro-active pope yet in confronting abuse.
This is a creative brief
(Click to enlarge)
Well it didn't quite come together for the hits album but I still have my real zip copy of 'Exile On Moan Main Street!
Armando Iannucci: Here in Spin Alley, objectivity has elected to go on holiday
For the past couple of weeks I've been lucky enough to attend the leaders' debates courtesy of Sky News, who've plonked me in front of Adam Boulton as a quirky alternative to politicians saying that their leader proved himself better than Cicero in putting points across.
This life as an election pundit sounds glamorous, but is in fact possibly only one step up from being a sex slave. No slur on the Sky News people, who are professional and have never struck me as part of the propaganda arm of the Murdoch/ Cameron machine, but more a reflection of the experience that awaits when you step into Spin Alley, the heaving ballroom of fluster and reportage that houses a hundred journalists, a lot of body odour, and a legion of political spokespeople all calmly yet desperately trying to persuade you that "our guy may not have won, technically, but, given the level of expectation stacked against him, along with the frankly disgraceful series of inaccurate remarks made by the other two, to have then seemed not to have won such a low level of debate is so different from being last in a high-level debate, that it is, indeed, the very opposite, which is why it's a worthy achievement tantamount to victory itself".
In Spin Alley, objectivity is on holiday, and out to play come a kindergarten of political operatives spinning away. All journalists gravitate towards them, so suddenly a well-ordered room arranged in neat rows turns into a miasma of mess and three distinct clumps of suits and cameras surrounding the three spinners. This is how galaxies form in space, and the spinners are black holes of information at the centre, drawing all minds towards them and crushing them into infinitesimally thin particles devoid of form and intelligence
The forces of spin in the room are so convulsive that they generate their own satellite spinners; last week, the shadow Home Secretary Chris Grayling was heard spinning that, in the practice debates where he was pretending to be Gordon Brown, he outclassed the real David Cameron. This week, a Labour sub-spinner spun that David Miliband would be replacing Peter Mandelson as the spinner for Gordon Brown, therefore reflecting the fact they were placing less emphasis on spin. If Dr Seuss ever wrote a stage play, it would look and sound like this.
Meantime, all the broadcast networks set up little pens inside which their reporters try to unspin what's been spun in front of them and for the benefit of live TV cameras. Walking down the row, listening to the collective chirruping, it's hard not to think that is what it would be like being locked inside a battery farm for the night.
As a "commentator", though, I have professional obligations to enter the pen, and that's when the slave auction starts. Once you make your face and voice available for anyone who's interested, you realise that a whole army of programme-makers are assessing just how interesting they think you actually are at any given moment. And so last week, seconds away from being about to speak in front of someone's live TV camera, I was pulled back and replaced by Alastair Campbell, who happened to be in the area and was clearly a more interesting catch. Having only a few seconds to compose myself I caught Campbell muttering: "If it isn't the bloke who's been making a living out of me for the past 10 years."
This is now the most dangerous moment for me. I'm standing alone in a room where everyone else has someone to talk to. It's the worst party you've ever been to, yet even worse, because there are live TV cameras happening to film you in the back of their shot as you stand through several gradations of loneliness. And then, salvation. Someone runs up and says, "Quickly, there's George Osborne. He's doing BBC. If he then walks right he's going to someone else, so that means you go left and you're on." We watch Osborne, he turns right. I dash up the stairs to the left. Meantime, Osborne does a U-turn, goes left too, we wedge each other on the stairs, his minder gives him a push, and he's on and I'm now in the back of shot desperately trying to look popular.
So what does it all mean? Have I managed to get a sense of the convulsive shifts taking place in British politics and a more intimate reading of the mind-sets of the three parties? Well, after a fashion, yes. Being a professional watcher of the debates does force you into analysing every verbal tic. Sometimes, this gets too detailed. Did David Cameron really say "I was with some of our forces in Afghanistan and I was really blown away", did Gordon Brown really refer to "guys and girls" and say "I was speaking to young people only yesterday", and did Nick Clegg actually argue that, if only we came together, we could do something different this time about the Pope?
But underneath it all, I can detect a sense in the room of where this is all heading. For me, these debates so far have been about the increasingly large question mark over David Cameron's head. Cameron is having an existential crisis. This is partly because Cameron himself has no single identity but is a composite of other people's; a bit of Blair here, a bit of Thatcher there. His "big society" idea resembles Lyndon Johnson's "great society" pitch of the early 1960s, while his "the great ignored" phrase is a reworking of Richard Nixon's "silent majority". Going into the debates as "the other bloke" seemed a good idea, but falls apart when there is indeed another bloke there too.
Nick Clegg has become the David Cameron it's actually OK to like, and David Cameron, who always thought he was the most likeable David Cameron because he was the only one, doesn't quite know how to respond. This week, his way out of the identity theft was to thieve one back and his best moments came when he tried to be the most Nick Clegg of the three. He stared down the camera, but also distanced himself from Brown and Clegg and, at one point, reworked Clegg's pitch from last week by pointing to the other two politicians squabbling and telling everyone he was the only man to do something different.
And so in Spin Alley, I could see relieved Labour spinners, happy Clegg ones, and pretty thorough but not ecstatic Cameronians. They are sitting on top of the polls, but not by much, they are possibly on course to be the biggest party, but not with a majority, and they've hit a brick wall of indifference from a lot of people. They're not despondent, but I can honestly say I haven't spoken to a Tory politico or a pro-Conservative journalist in the past week who has anything other than a settled, mildly annoyed look of forbearance behind their eyes.
They're in a place at the moment which they know is just not good enough, but which may well have to do. I came away from these debates with nothing more striking than the reflection that all the young hopefuls in the Conservative Party ranks look like first-time home-owners who've just bought a house they kind of like, but only because the previous day they excitedly rang the estate agents to be told the house they fell in love with has already gone.
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