niedziela, 22 grudnia 2019

Deutsch Punk Uber Alles! (1980s German Punk)

NEGATIVE INSIGHT: Deutsch Punk Uber Alles! (1980s German Punk): I am extremely grateful and pleased to feature a fantastic article written on 1980s German punk from a long time friend writing under the...

Deutsch Punk Uber Alles! (1980s German Punk)

I am extremely grateful and pleased to feature a fantastic article written on 1980s German punk from a long time friend writing under the pseudonym of Oswald Bitterman. His knowledge is extensive on this stuff, and i'm just flattered to have one of his writings featured here.

Deutsch Punk Uber Alles!
by Oswald Bitterman





When punk rock exploded in the late 70's, the aftershocks were felt immediately around the world. By the time the first wave of bands from New York and London were releasing their debuts, bands were popping up in every rock n roll loving country you can point to on a map. Hardcore, of course, arrived a few years later. Western Europe and Japan soon followed suit again: the international hardcore scene peaking in the mid 80's. At this time, the first wave of this sub genre seemed to be floundering in regards to the US and Britain. As a result, many of the absolute best punk records of 1984-1986 are from non English speaking countries. One could argue that the spread of hardcore around the world was a credit to the deep meaning hidden within these abrasive tunes.

Culture crossed national borders much slower and with more difficulty in those pre-internet years. People would write to each other from across the world, trading records, dubbed cassettes and merchandise. Being into this music in some places was a heroic act in itself. In the Soviet Bloc, any cultural deviants faced crushing opposition from the powers that be. People faced time in jail or a mental institution for stepping out Communist Party norms. No privately owned labels meant no way to get controversial music released. (For instance: Dezerter, Poland's biggest punk export, could only get their 1983 debut 7" released on a state-run label or not at all.). Parts of Latin America boasted large punk communities in spite of all the gang violence, murderous drug cartels, poverty and almost complete lack of a music industry infrastructure. Through commitment and dedication, many of these scenes have been able to survive into the present day.

International hardcore did have some popularity within the UK and US music scenes at this time. Probably a half dozen such acts played the US, usually financing their tour with massive Goldenvoice promoted gigs in Southern California. The British punk scene eventually embraced the groups too. Along with US hardcore and Celtic Frost, bands from Sweden and Japan were among the most important influences on the late 80's crust scene.

Fast forward to contemporary punks: this past decade has seen a real explosion in interest in foreign hardcore from the 1980's (and today). It has now gotten to the point where Rattus shirts seem to outnumber the GBH shirts at shows.



Obviously file sharing has had a hand in all this. Music from all over the world is readily available at the push of a button and kids now seem to know who Eskorbuto is before they have even heard The Damned. So its now much easier to find out about bands from far flung corners of this tainted globe. But whats the appeal of these acts? The fact is, its not just punk in another language, different countries had their own sounds: taking bits from the US and British scenes and making them their own. Any language barrier is basically irrelevant. Plenty of these groups sang in English and with real punk, you cant understand the words no matter what anyway. Music in another language also makes for a unique and special listening experience. The human voice becomes a fourth instrument, so you can concentrate on the rush of glorious noise. Album artwork should tip the listener off to lyrical content and you can certainly bet if the group is a gaggle of mohicans, they aren't singing about the glory of Jeebus!

Within the scene, three clear favorites seem to have emerged: Finland, Sweden and Japan. My own favorite is quite clear too to anyone who knows me. It is punk from Germany: Deutschpunk!

In my definition, Deutschpunk in the 80's was a sound, not just bands that played punk in the Western Republic of Germany (info on East German punk, like the excellent Schleimkeim, is difficult to come by and that's another story completely). To split hairs, I would not include some of the very good but more generic bands like Vorkriegsphase and Crap Scrapers within this definition because they sounded like they could be from another country. The "classic" Deutschpunk musical style was somewhat similar to second wave UK punk with its boozy singalong choruses. However, its often played at a faster clip. This speed doesn't seem to translate into a significant USHC influence. It almost sounds artificially sped up at times: like UK82 played at the wrong RPM. Many of the best acts of the genre played a variety of musical styles within the punk spectrum side by side. Production was usually professional without being too squeaky clean, so the shoelace raw punk maniacs can still dig a lot of it.

Of the no doubt rich history of this chapter of punk I have very little knowledge. The vague time line in this article is based on impressions I've gotten from collecting the genre for about a decade, some sparse info I've obtained from various sources and from my own personal opinions.

Like many international scenes, punk in Germany trailed the original British movement by a few years to the point that many of the bands were still playing mid tempo '77 style punk by 1980-1982. However, the collective musical palette of the subculture in the country was also expanding with Oi! style acts popping up (Daily Terror), as well as some so-so generic hardcore acts. The best early bands of this period and slightly earlier were The Buttocks and Screamer. The Buttocks were absolutely a proto-HARDCORE band. They formed in the late 70's playing blisteringly fast punk tunes. Lyrical content protested police violence and New Wave sellout foolishness. Screamer, from Hamburg, was another awesome group from around the same time. They eventually evolved into the ever popular Slime and, in fact, several songs off the second Slime LP are reworked/re-recorded Screamer songs. The excellent post Slime combo, The Targets, used some of these tunes as well.

I would consider the peak period for the scene to be between 1983 and 1986 but a preview of the brilliance to come could be seen a few years earlier in the form of the above mentioned Slime but also the equally outstanding Upright Citizens. These two acts seemed to get the ball rolling above all others with a much more evolved sound. Slime first appeared in 7" form with a controversial offering titled 'Wir Wollen Keine Bullenschweine' (which translates roughly to "We don't want pigs") and also tracks on the important "Soundtracks Zum Untergang" compilation LP. "Polizei/SA/SS" off this record, is one of their very best songs. Again, the lyrical mode is one of anti-police sentiment (which is always punk as fuck, of course) and the song is very very fucking fast. Its as full of piss and vinegar as the ground breaking Middle Class 'Out of Vogue' EP and much faster than anything coming out of the UK at this time. Frankly, the sheer brilliance of this cut makes the rest of the bands on the record look stupid and old fashioned, in my opinion. Upright Citizens exploded into the scene with their excellent 'Bombs of Peace' 12" in 1982. The primary influence was clearly British but more fast and scrappy. The total package was topped off by snotty but socially aware lyrics (in English). They would go on to be one of the most vital acts of the era, very much tied into the broader international hardcore scene. To the best of my knowledge, they were the first and only band during the period to tour the US.

As stated before, I think 1983 was the year Deutschpunk really came into its own. In record numbers, bands all over West Germany picked up the gauntlet thrown down by Slime. 1983 and the couple of years following, saw a flurry of mind blowing releases with nary a dud in evidence. The country had one of the largest punk communities in the world as evidenced by the Chaos-Tage punk festival held in Hanover. (The fest was attended yearly by thousands of rowdy punk rockers, toting around pet rats, burning down the city and clashing with Nazi Skinheads).

There is just so much to like about this amazing era of punk rock. I present to you a short list of some of my favorite Deutschpunk bands and their best records in no particular order.

Slime from Hamburg is a group I highly regard among all punk bands. They are arguably the biggest act of this time period and are considered one of the most important underground groups to come from Germany EVER. They certainly set the tone for the bands that followed in their wake. Unlike most other acts, they were fresh right out of the box and played in that classic Deutschpunk vein a good 3 years before everyone else. Their musical style is characterized by big, sweeping terrace chant choruses complimenting non-wimpy anthems, lightning fast ragers and unfortunately the occasional reggae tune (ignore this dreck: the only major blemish on their early discography). The groups anti-police/anti government stance got them into hot water and made them infamous. Their records were banned, stores selling their merchandise were raided and their gigs were busted up by the pigs. In this way, they were almost like the Deutsche Sex Pistols/Black Flag! Narrowing down a favorite among the three incredible albums they released before their original split in the mid 80's is a difficult task. In my opinion, their career highlight is "Stortebeker" off their third LP 'Alle Gegen Alle' but best over all release..?After much soul searching and painful introspection, I would have to select their 1981 debut self titled LP. The album has both English and Deutsche language tracks , divided into two sides. It begins with the rousing call to arms: "We don't need the Army" and doesn't stop being nearly perfect until the needle lifts. Again, its hard to pick a favorite as nearly every song is amazing. (Ignore the reggae song!!!!) Even the slightly goofy "Robot Age" has a killer chorus; something of a Slime trademark it appears. "A.C.A.B." is a stand out cut. It ranks among the best tunes on the topic of that very special relationship between punk and pig and is quite superior to the 4-Skins songs of the same name. "Hey Punk!" will also have you uncontrollably pumping your fist and thrashing around your dingy studio apartment. This record was so very awesome that the authorities tried to literally drown out the sentiments contained within. There is a censored version of it, with amusingly enough, parts of songs actually bleeped out to protect the delicate sensibilities of the public. Those songs are basically unlistenable in this form but it still makes one chuckle.

Crawling out of the punk rock gutters of Cologne, came Bluttat ("Bloody Deed"). I have heard them compared to DIRT and Potential Threat and that sounds vaguely correct. Its punk rock with male and female vocals and anarcho ethics. Lyrical topics include: war, police, apartheid, no future etc but with a sense of humor. They released three LPs in the first half of the decade. Their second album, 'Nkululeko', is their most hardcore offering, which of course makes it their best. Released in 1984, it really does sound like a faster, more raw Potential Threat on many songs. "Oarl" features some excellent use of male and female vocals. “Fight your Wars” is another classic with a forceful but catchy chorus coupled over some alarmingly intense guitar thrashing. "Sty" compares the West German republic to the place where swine dwell in their own filth and has a cool bridge chant of "Destroy the motors of society!" Sound advice and an indication of the band's noble mission. The record has a lot of songs and a lot of ideas. Its not all thrashy punk but they manage to pull it all off including some forays into an acapella and a weird creepy slow number with keyboards. A hardcore punk classic!

Vorkriegsjugend (not to be confused with Vorkiegsphase) hailed from Berlin. This was a band of squatter punks. They shared members with Zerstorte Jugend, who were also excellent.

The Vorkiegsjugend moniker means "pre-war youth" and they still retain a sizable fan base to this day despite a very small discography. The 'Heute Spass, Morgen Tod' EP was their first release. Other than the fact that its a double 7" (not unheard of but not too common), the first thing one notices is the cool cover. Its a photo of their dingy, run down squat with barely visable Articles of Faith and Void logos on it. However, the music is pure Deutschpunk, not much yank influence in evidence. It features seven songs: four fast and three mid tempo, but its never boring for a second. The vocal style is high and raspy. A bit evil sounding even for a Teutonic language. "Vaterland" begins the assault on your feeble eardrums. Its a pounding and catchy slower track with an irresistible bass-line. It kicks into the faster "Ratten" before the next track "Rache" which is even better with its cool, echo-y chorus. The two sounds, slow and fast ,featured at the beginning, set the town for the remaining tracks: the songs alternate between the two tempos. This record is frankly one of the best of the genre but unfortunately one of the hardest and most expensive to find in its original format (typically German punk records are fairly cheap). I recommend seeking out the 12" reissue on a Brazilian label from a couple years later.

…And then there's Blut + Eisen from Hanover. This band is my absolute favorite and the first Deutschpunk band that really clicked with me. During their reign, they released two LPs, a 7" and a split 7". Much like Slime, I found it hard to decide on which record stands above the others. 'Schon Geseh'n', their second album is great. It features some of the very best songs they did but half of it is some odd (but kinda cool) slower numbers that flow into each other. Their first LP, "Schrei Doch!" is thus their magnum opus. The record is just amazing. Its fearless originality makes it hard to accurately describe, however: mere words cannot do it justice. The sound is catchy and intense but skewed and random without being arty. It features atypical song arrangements, songs that end and begin without a break, weird middle sections with church bells in the background and a part where the tune just stops and everyone counts to three, three times before it kicks back in again with stunning speed and precision.

These are dense songs, with many more different parts to them than is average in short hardcore punk blasts. But they also feature Abrasive Wheels style hooks that will stay in your brain until the cops beat you into a stupor. There isn't a single bad song on the record. Just when you think its going to be a boring bit, it kicks into a different riff and the whole thing changes. My absolute favorite Deutschpunk song of all time rages hard as the second to last track. "Darf ich es wagen das zu sagen" is one of the most pissed off punk songs ever written, especially as it builds to its crescendo at the end. It also features some cool reverb on the vocals like so many great UK82 bands.

Along with Malinheads, Scapegoats and Vorkiegsphase, Inferno unleashed the most brutal thrash attack among Deutschpunk bands. However, in the classic German punk tradition, this Augsburg act had a very tight and polished sound and well written tunes . This is why I don't lump them in with the above mentioned noise merchants. Words like "harsh" and "dark" come to mind when you are indulging in their brilliant music, but its all still very hummable for those of us who aren't nursing or elderly. They appeared on many compilations and offered up a slew of uniformly incredible records right up through 1986 but 1983's 'Tot & Wahnsinn' is their gem among gems. 'Death and Madness' the title translates to and boy, does it fit. Although admittedly it does features a few tracks with silly lyrics like "Ram it Up", its 20 tracks of unprecedented intensity. This is their debut, and its great right down to the awesome Pushead artwork of an unfortunate fellow with a melting face.”Life at War” uses slower and fast bits to great effect, and the excellent "Escape from.." raises the middle finger to society with a chainsaw-like guitar whizzing away. Basically hardcore punk perfection.

These are just some of many many incredible releases from this time period to come out of Germany. For better or for worse, things changed after 1986, just like everywhere else. It was now the age of Teutonic thrash metal (Kreator, Sodom etc). In the punk world, this period saw the rise of US style "skate-core" bands like Spermbirds, Hostages of Ayatollah, Sons of Sadism and others. It wasn't terrible music but honestly seemed very light weight and childish compared to what came before. (why anyone would rather wear shorts and a baseball cap over a leather jacket and boots is beyond me but hey, I wasn't there!) This scene was more woven into the larger hardcore movement happening at this time and so punk in Germany lost a good deal of its uniqueness. In spite of this, the country apparently remains a staunch punk zone to this day, catering to a variety of sub genres under this big banner labeled 'punk'. Still, the classic period of hardcore punk from Germany remains very under appreciated compared to Japan and others, even though the record are relatively cheap and easy to find. I look forward to the day when more people know about and appreciate these great sounding bands.

Misty In Roots - Live At The Counter Eurovisio...

It starts with a birthstone...: #16 Misty In Roots - Live At The Counter Eurovisio...: 'When we trod this land. We walked for one reason. The reason is to try to help another man to think for himself. The music of our ar...

Misty In Roots - Live At The Counter Eurovision '79


'When we trod this land. We walked for one reason. The reason is to try to help another man to think for himself. The music of our art is roots music. Music which recalls history. Because without the knowledge of your history you cannot determine your destiny. The music about the present because if you're not conscious about the present. You're like a cabbage in this society. Music which tells about the future. And the judgement which is to come. The music of our art is roots. Presenting Misty In Roots. Roots music for everybody. I'd like to say good evening. Or good morning. This one called man kind. You a sinner...'

Misty In Roots has a solid, consistent backbone going through it from the moment they formed to now. The backbone is consciousness. And righteousness. There's a touch of seriousness there too but also pride. Lion's pride (no pun intended). Their's is such a cleansing noise. Pared down and clipped in its simplicity and purpose. Like all the best roots music it feels to me like immersing yourself in a hot bath.



Most of the records I review here have one thing in common. I choose to write about them for some unearthly reason that's quite a mystery to me, put them on and they, with a will of their own, unravel, unspool and hurtle back with uncanny momentum to the decade I heard them first. The eighties.

This Misty album is an exception in this respect. I bought the record second-hand on the internet and heard it all the way through for the first time a couple of months ago. But putting needle on this vinyl still works immediately and transports me straight back to '82 to '86. Moments of growing pains but also to some kind of birth of consciousness. The moment I became a separate, thinking human being.

So much of British Punk was given root on the bedrock of Reggae. It's a story that hasn't yet been wholly told. But it's also a story that goes both ways. So much great British Reggae of the late seventies and early eighties was given a massive shove forward into momentum by British Punk.


There's very little on the internet about Misty. Their Wikipedia entry is barely half a page long. They still seem like an underground concern all these years later. I found an official website and one fan website plus an article about their work with The Ruts in Rock Against Racism which I've printed above during my research which seems a pretty paltry harvest, for along with Steel Pulse and Aswad (the two bands they're eternally destined to remain bracketed with), surely the greatest Reggae group Britain ever produced. Kindly don't mention UB40.

Live at the Counter Eurovision is a great example of a band emerging whole as recording artists, fully formed and a vividly thrilling entity. It replicates absolutely the Misty live experience, something I've been privileged to have experienced myself on several occasions most recently earlier this year almost forty years after their inception. All the ingredients are still in place. Age doesn't wither them. There's something about their message and what they convey from a stage that makes them appear like they've just loped down a mountainside in their gowns bearing carved tablets of stone. The past, present and future mantra quoted at the start of this lays down precisely what they were and what they still are all about.


They're spiritual militants. Plenty of Biblical ire here. Blood, fire and brimstone. The Old Testament and the New but surely more of the Old. The hardy Reggae touchstones, Days of Judgement, prophets, Babylon, impending catastrophe and destruction pepper their songs throughout but Misty have an air of such stately, imperial calm that it all seems strangely appealing.

The album was recorded live at a Socialist festival held in the Cirque Royal in Brussels in March 1979. Misty had formed in Southall four years earlier and honed their skills in between on the London circuit particularly involving themselves with the Rock Against Racism movement which took the fight to the emerging National Front and skinhead and street violence that blighted the end of the seventies.


'Spititual reggae is made by spiritual people. How difficult is it to make such reggae in a society of materialism and full rationalism?
Ngoni: Well, you have to have certain strength to overcome still, you know? Because, all right, spiritual man makes spiritual reggae, but the roots of reggae is about suffering, reggae is a cry really. It's a sufferer's cry; so therefore all depends on the strength you have to overcome, cause some man can overcome, some man will run buttons and do things like that, some man will go out there and do craziest things beca' they cannot overcome. But if you have a certain knowledge that all this things around is a temptation which leads you to destruction really because you get so involved, to overcome these, you know, deep problems, really, you have a chance of living above these things.'


It was a violent and turbulent time with Britain seeming more on a knife edge than it had been since the 1930s. Just as then there seemed a need to choose sides. Misty stood tall as did Steel Pulse, Aswad, Lynton Kwesi Johnson alongside all the other great Jamaican artists  and the white British bands who shared stages and causes with them. But it's a struggle. They know very well what they're up against.



I could go through individual songs and take them apart and itemise what makes them great but really this is all one piece and it doesn't make sense to break it down into constituent parts. So I'll leave it at this. Live at the Counter Eurovision is one of the great debut albums. One of the great Reggae albums. One of the great live albums. Misty in Roots made their grand statement here.

They've made some great records, some great Peel sessions (he was always their biggest champion) but most of all they've been a blazing potent live band ever since. They've had some sadness. One of them being the victim of racial attack during their Rock Against Racism era and then they also had to deal with and regroup from the untimely death of one of their founder members .

But they've picked themselves up and soldiered on. Who would have expected anything else. Their fire hasn't gone out. Anyone who's witnessed them on a good night will testify to that. When I saw them earlier this year they were raging about the murder of Stephen Lawrence twenty years on. 'Black man angry' was the cry I remember. They've got a point. The man below (Walford Tyson's)beard is now stately grey. He's still an imposing frontman.

With Misty It's all about the bass. But then it's all about the drums. And the organ. And the brass. And the vocals. And the message. I await the opportunity to see them again. Here's one of their finest moments though it came along a bit later.


One of the first times I saw them was in 1984 in what I remember as a pretty cramped shed in Twickenham. It was coming to the end of my college days. I was with my good friend Philip with whom I've shared a love of Misty before and since. I can still feel the bass and smell the herb thirty years on. So I'll dedicate this to Clarkey. His son is a big fan too! Misty, still righteous and mighty after all these years! They're a band for those in the know and I feel for those who aren't.

Myself and Clarkey. He has the hair!



sobota, 21 grudnia 2019

RIP Jake Phelps of Thrasher / Old Skateboards

NEGATIVE INSIGHT: RIP Jake Phelps of Thrasher / Old Skateboards: Jake Phelps was the face of Thrasher skateboard magazine. He passed on March 14, 2019.  Jake Phelps was hugely influential to me. I wasn&...

RIP Jake Phelps of Thrasher / Old Skateboards

Jake Phelps was the face of Thrasher skateboard magazine. He passed on March 14, 2019. 

Jake Phelps was hugely influential to me. I wasn't a big skater or anything, but Jake Phelps went beyond just skateboarding. His vision and ability to always stay ahead of trends (in a way that was anti-trendy) was always inspiring. His attitude was so authentic and hardcore, both in ethics sense and his general approach to life. He had an understanding for the direction of the magazine and how to maintain that. He coulda sold it out for mainstream popularity at many points. I remember recently when there was a photo of Justin Beiber and they knocked the shit out of him for wearing their shirt. Most places would try to capitalize on it in this day and age. 

Jake seemed to intrinsically get how image played into everything. Thrasher didn't just print photos of guys doing tricks. It was about guys doing ILL shit, while looking ILL, and pulling it off smoothly. The mag promoted rougher and harder skaters than their shitty competitors who sanitized their pages. Thrasher was all about guys like Corey Duffel, Greco, Tony Trujillo, Geoff Rowley and their own King of the Road, while other places fawned over the X-Games and skaters like Ryan Sheckler. 

I remember when I was like 20 and put together that the editor of Thrasher was a part of the SS Decontrol and Boston Crew, and it just cemented how I felt about him even more. Learning that two of my favorite things had this singular thread that tied them together blew my mind. He was asked in an interview what his favorite bands were a couple years ago and one that he listed was Void. I felt 16 again being pumped by someone else's answers. 

I've had a Thrasher sub since January 1998. I let it lapse a couple times, but for the most part I've got 20 years of that magazine sitting upstairs. When user name Aaron and I started our own magazine and discussed what it should look like, "'80s Thrasher!" was the only logical answer. And so we modeled an entire contemporary magazine around trying to make it look like "old Thrasher meets old British hardcore records." We spent hours and hours (and hours) going through every issue from 1981-1989 on their online archive, writing notes on the style, aesthetic, trying to figure out what methods they used to create it, and more. But sometimes you'd come to a feature or a Puszone or a Lipcream interview and you'd just stop and get sucked in to reading it all. It had that level of pull. And, even though Jake wasn't the editor back then, he did a great job of continuing that tradition of including great underground music with each issue when he took over. 

Jake Phelps was a legend. RIP.

Phelps in the SS Decontrol tour van circa ‘82 (photo from the SSD site).
——————————

Along with the above post, I recently sold some old completes on eBay. Like old records, there’s a huge collectors market for old skateboards and plenty of sites dedicated to cataloging them and people showing off their collections.


The first is a Santa Cruz (SC) Pro Series model for Mitsugu Toyoda released in 1988 with art by the master Jim Phillips. I believe this was Mitsugu’s one and only pro model. This is the black deck version, although red, white, purple were also produced.

As seen in the photos, the top of the deck has a Steve Caballero sticker and Santa Cruz Rip Grip sticker on the underside of the tail. The grip tape is pink with that ILL cut up design.

The wheels are Santa Cruz Speedwheels (95 mm) and trucks are by Active with riser pads and truck guard. Deck comes with unknown brand hot pink deck rails and tail guard as seen in photos. All in all this complete is in good shape.

This is a rarer board that doesn’t come up for sale all that often. You can see Mitsugu’s Instagram account here with some great vintage pics.

https://www.instagram.com/mitsugutoyoda/

Santa Cruz had some great skaters in the 1980s with Christian Hosoi, Rob Roskopp, Jeff Grosso, and Claus Grabke among others. I remember getting their Strange Notes catalog in the mail as a teenager and it was half zine, half catalog. It was a great idea.


The second board is a Freddie Smith Punk Size board also released in 1988 by Alva Skates. Alva Skate was of course the company owned by Tony Alva after he’d broken away from the Dogtown team. The Alva team were known for being more aggressive, raw, and well, punk, than other pro teams. Alva also had some of the best style and vibe in the ‘80s. Their ads always looked ILL.

Here's a team photo from 1988 taken from the Vert Is Dead blog as well as a photo of Freddie Smith himself taken from the November 1985 issue of Thrasher.


Anyway, this board also comes with Santa Cruz Speedwheels (95 mm) and trucks from Active with riser pads. The deck comes with G&S brand yellow deck rails.


Finally, the third board is an H-Street Skateboards Colby Carter Cactus skateboard. This was my buddy’s board. We both got skateboards for Christmas in 1990 when we were in the third grade. His got left outside for a few years and is in rough shape, but I got it in high school off him so that it didn’t get pitched out. This version is the red deck, which seems to be less common than the white deck version.

The deck itself is not in great shape. The board plies have started to separate, one of the bottom plies has partially split off (see photos), and the graphic has worn off largely. The deck rails help keep the board together at this point. This deck is for collection purposes only and would probably not be suitable for riding. I wrote H100s and other bands on it that I was listening to in 1999 when I got it.

The trucks are Gullwing Street Shadow and the wheels are Spitfire 58 mm. Both the trucks and wheels are in good shape despite the weather exposure.

H-Street is probably best remembered for their videos (especially their first two, Shackle Me Not and Hokus Pokus) as well as introducing Danny Way, Eric Koston, Matt Hensley and others to the world.

niedziela, 15 grudnia 2019

lord junk himself

lord junk himself

By Denis Browne.
“To a fellow conspirator” – meeting Alex Trocchi
I doubt that the winter of ’78 was a particularly good time for anyone, apart from the ayatollahs and their heroin-smuggling secular counterparts. It was certainly a shit time for me. In the course of a few months my life had gone into freefall, splitting up with my partner and best drug-buddy, losing my flat and facing the consequences of a raging heroin habit which had been abruptly curtailed by my suppliers’ return to Singapore.
I felt like a beached shipwreck survivor, picking seaweed from my hair as I surveyed the debris of my life. I knew that I needed to clean up, but the heroin ache just wouldn’t let me be. Family and friends oscillated between desires to help me get on my feet again, and an equally strong feeling of needing to keep the addict and his attendant chaos at arm’s length. Thus it was quite a surprise when my Aunt Rita rang me, saying there was someone I might possibly be interested in meeting. She and my Uncle Bill ran a downstairs bar-cum-club in Kensington Church Street, the New Lindsay Club. They’d both been on the stage in the ’30’s and after the war had opened the Lindsay Theatre Club in Notting Hill, which eventually fell prey to developers in the Fifties. By the sound of it, the theatre club had carried considerable repute. The New Lindsay, however was no more than a large cellar, reached by narrow stairs. Then you’d have to make your way through a crowd of serious drinkers arranged around the pool table. Beyond that was the bar, where my Uncle held court in the traditional “Mine Host” position at the end of the bar. His theatrical forte had been dissolute 18th century noblemen, and he still liked to affect a raffish appearance. His white hair oiled back, a white cravat with gold pin at his throat, and a waistcoat — of a similar red hue to his face — festooned with fob chains and a gold watch.
Every night they’d travel in from Streatham by cab, usually bringing some of their dogs and parrots with them, re-create their little bit of pre-war London for the evening, before being swept home long after decent Fifties’ folk were abed. Indeed it had seemed a strange and magical place whenever I went there with my parents, who regarded it as very occasional fun but definitely risque. Bill and Rita maintained their little cocoon of old-school values, drink and cuisine. Their gods were Ellen Terry, Winston Churchill, Marlene Dietrich and, above all, the Royal Family. To them, the New Lindsay was still the height of sophistication, recalling a world where one went out to dinner, caught a show in the West End, and then impressed one’s friends with a couple of drinks in a little club one just happened to know about. But by ’78 the place was basically an after-hours drinking dive, populated by Earls Court transients and Kensington marginals.
Where Uncle Bill was an easygoing raconteur, Rita was renowned for her sharp tongue and uncompromising views. The club had been a convenient last resort when I was strung out and needed to cash a cheque, so she wasn’t short of an opinion on her dissolute nephew — “I just can’t think of anything more completely and utterly selfish than people taking drugs. And when did you last have a proper meal? Your poor mother…” and so on.
“You aren’t doing anything, are you?” she announced, rather than asked when she rang. “You’re always talking about doing some writing. Well, there’s a new member at the club — very quiet chap, just comes in for a couple of drinks and reads his book quietly, Lord! We could do with a few more like him — anyway, Bill got talking to him and it turns out he’s a writer, so we mentioned our nephew with the English degree…” This all sounded very vague, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere as Rita rambled on. It didn’t sound promising. Maybe the guy had once had an article in Readers Digest. Eventually Rita had to pause for breath, and I tried to sound interested as I enquired, “So, do you know his name?” “Well, it’s a foreign sort of name, dear — Italian, I suppose — he’s called Alex Trocchi,”
It’s hard to describe the impact this had, mainly due to its total incongruity. My most upright uptight relative was going to introduce me to Sigma supremo, the coolest of the Beats, Lord Junk himself, Alex Trocchi of “interzone A”, as I’d first encountered him in the 60’s underground press, hanging out with cool dangerous people like Burroughs, Ginsberg and Michael X. Then, a couple of years later, when my personal habits had started to coincide with Alex’s tastes, I discovered Cain’s Book, mainly because I’d read just about all the William Burroughs books I could get my hands on. As I read the book, alternating lines of coke and smack at the end of each chapter, I had a feeling of homecoming almost. This was much closer to my thinking and junkscene than Burroughs’ Martian insects and cut-ups. The descriptions of shooting up on the scows in NY caught the rhythm and vibe of smack perfectly for me. Thus, it was very tempting to interpret Rita’s call as some kind of divine reassurance that it was OK to do junk and perpetuate my addict/artist fantasies. Not only was this potentially a great literary connection, but hopefully I’d now be rescued from my fallen state of scuffling around for 10 Pound deals of the brown Persian gear which was rising like a narcotic tide that winter. Some of these things did happen, and I was to be thwarted in others.
“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. Deceit is never far away in the addict’s life: in addition to my first rush of enthusiasm, I instantly perceived the grim irony of the relative trying to help me back on to the straight and narrow doing exactly the opposite, and also foresaw a lot of potential danger in a scene where such totally opposite worlds intersected.
“Well, he said he’d drop in tomorrow lunchtime to give Bill one of his books. Why don’t you come along then?”
I made the right noises, while thinking, “Jeez, I hope it’s not Cain’s Book…”
I set off for Kensington the next afternoon, genuinely excited at meeting someone I’d been fascinated by for a while, but also unable to stop myself imagining all kinds of narcotic excitement ahead. When I arrived the Club was quieter than usual. I found my Uncle in his usual place, holding a slim, white-jacketed book, with furrowed brows.
“Modern poetry, eh? Can’t say I understand it. Don’t think I could show it to Rita, though,” he said, passing me the book. I looked at it, Man at Leisure: Poems by Alexander Trocchi — although for me it’ll always be “Man at lee-zhure”, the way Alex said it.
“So is he here then?”, I asked, peering round the dimly-lit and near-deserted club.
My uncle put the book aside with relief, and motioned to the gloomy area at the opposite end of the club to the pool table. I walked past the bar, and then noticed someone sitting alone at the furthest table, reading intently, occasionally reaching for one of the drinks — a pint and a whisky chaser, as always — at his side. Alex looked up. I was immediately struck by the formidable Roman nose and hairstyle (“Like Julius Caesar, man”, he’d tell the barber), the hooded eyes that could spark into life so quickly, and the thin lips where a smile would flicker subversively, somewhere between Marlon Brando and Thomas de Quincey.
I realised my uncle was at my side, making a laboured intro about his nephew who’s interested in writing. Just as he was about to leave us, he turned to Alex, “Thanks, very — er, interesting — but I’m not really one for poetry” as he placed Man at Leisure on the table between us. As we discussed Cain’s Book, Alex realised that my appreciation of his work was more than literary. Soon I was swept away in a series of anecdotes of Sigma, smoking opium with Jean Cocteau in Paris, being on the run from the cops and the Mafia in the States, Michael X, the 60s scene, the proposed Invisible Insurrection. Everything had looked so hopeful, but then, as he put it “Everybody started dying.” This had a very personal significance to Alex and his immediate family, way beyond the lost Jimi and Janis icons, and was my first indication that experience had changed Alex from let’s-all-get-together 60s activism to a much more withdrawn, reflective and personal scene.
“So what are you working on now?” I asked innocently, after returning from the bar with more drinks. Alex shifted, slightly uncomfortably. “Och, various things”, before digressing into tales of rip-off US Mafia publishing pirates, wannabe Dutch film-makers and their inept Young Adam project. It was a tale I would become familiar with as the years went by with no new material.
Just as Alex was no longer the firebrand activist I’d expected, nor was he the voracious smack-fiend I’d been hoping for. He had his own secure personal scene, but kept it very discreet and cautious, for good reason, as I was to find out. He was sympathetic to my riches-to-rags junk story and the hassles of the lower end of the scene, but wary of involvement. Anyway, it turned out that Sunday was always Methadone Day.
“Sorry, I can’t turn you on today, old man. Why don’t you meet me here next week, and you can come back for a hit and I’ll show you some of my stuff.”
Great! I tried to sound cool as we prepared to leave the bar. As we left, Alex casually thrust the slim volume my uncle had rejected into my hand, “Eh, you might as well have this,” he said, casually, “Give me a call next week.”
We emerged on to a bleak and wet Kensington Church St and went in separate directions. As I waited for the bus on the High Street, I opened the book and read the dedication — “To Denis, a fellow-conspirator, from Alexander Trocchi.”

a moveable void: tom mccarthy on alex trocchi’s cain’s book

a moveable void: tom mccarthy on alex trocchi’s cain’s book


“The label of nihilistic writer so often attached to him is profoundly, not just superficially, accurate: he’s nihilistic not so much in the lay sense of having a gloomy outlook on life, but rather inasmuch as his entire sensibility rests on an intimate relation with a space of annihilation, of becoming nothing”
The following is a transcript of the talk McCarthy gave at 3:AM’s Trocchi event held in Clerkenwell last week. For Denis Browne‘s see here.
I remember reading Cain’s Book in my early twenties and being struck by an almost visceral awareness — the same kind of sensation you get when reading Joyce or Burroughs for the first time — that this was momentous, important stuff. The prose seemed to affirm at every turn the presence of someone who, besides knowing how to write, fundamentally understood and articulated what literature is: what it offers, what it withholds, what’s at stake in it. When I was invited to come and talk tonight, I dug out my old Calder copy, and found I hadn’t been wrong.
One of the most striking characteristics of Cain’s Book is its refusal of story. Narrative in the conventional sense is almost non-existent, and wilfully so. In one of the novel’s many self-reflective moments, Trocchi compares his text’s progression to a landscape which is not only un-signposted but also, in its very innate formation, devoid of the ‘natural’ narrative contours which we might expect a book to follow: peaks and troughs, steady plot inclines rising to dramatic summits or climactic cliffs from which whole vistas open up, that kind of thing. Rather, it forms an ‘endless tundra which is all there is to be explored.’ Tundras are bleak, monotonous, quasi-repetitive, the same and not the same at the same time. He adds: ‘This is the impasse which a serious man must enter and from which only the simple-minded can retreat.’ Must enter: I’ll come back to this sense of obligation later.
But for now I want to stick with the landscape analogy, because it seems to me that Trocchi’s sensibility is totally spatial. Like Christopher Marlowe in Doctor Faustus or Herman Melville in Moby Dick, he’s mapping a whole cosmogony, intuiting his way towards an understanding of a social, poetic and metaphysical layout. That’s the real action of Cain’s Book, its ‘plot’. To gain the vantage point necessary for this undertaking, he has to go out to the edge of things. Emily Dickinson often talks about finding her place on the ‘circumference’ — of the globe, of space itself, of life — a limit-point from which she can look two ways, in and out. Trocchi is drawn to this circumference, attracted by the view it offers. He finds it, in its most literal form, in a scow (or barge) moored off the edge of Manhattan, a spot from which he can peer back and see the city’s celebrated skyline dim and hazy in the distance, ‘like a mirage in which one isn’t involved.’ On the scow’s other side, the black water of the Hudson across which he’s towed at irregular intervals by tugs, and the even blacker water of the Atlantic in which he’s occasionally deposited for long stretches, ‘tottering at the night edge of a flat world’ (space, for him, is always flat). The question then becomes: Where’s that edge’s edge, the point beyond which you fall off? ‘I often wondered,’ he writes, ‘how far out a man could go without being obliterated.’
Trocchi is acutely aware that his sought-after observation post lies somewhere pretty close to the trip-line of death — just past it even, by a couple of paces. This agonisingly nerve-wracking set-up is, quite paradoxically, what keeps him steady, gives him purpose: ‘to be able to attain, by whatever means, the serenity of a vantage point ‘beyond’ death, to have such a critical technique at one’s disposal — let me say that on my ability to attain that vantage point my own sanity has from time to time depended.’ The label of nihilistic writer so often attached to him is profoundly, not just superficially, accurate: he’s nihilistic not so much in the lay sense of having a gloomy outlook on life, but rather inasmuch as his entire sensibility rests on an intimate relation with a space of annihilation, of becoming nothing.
What’s more (and here it gets really interesting), this space is also where writing itself — the act, the practise and the stuff, the matter — comes from. When he describes the billowing Atlantic as ‘like a sheet of black ink’, it’s not just to be gratuitously poetic: the dark, void-filled liquid, for him, really is like what’s inside his typewriter. Tied to Bronx Stakeboat Number 2 in what seems an interminable night, he spends his time re-reading notes whose logic is entirely circular: ‘If I write: it is important to keep writing, it is to keep me writing.’ The other author who immediately springs to mind here is Maurice Blanchot, that writer of infinite night, darkness and disappearance, and in fact some of Trocchi’s lines could have been written by Blanchot, not least the one in which he tells us that ‘the great urgency for literature is that it should once and for all accomplish its own dying.’ But where Blanchot’s ponderings on literature and the right to death are abstract, Trocchi has willed them into material form off New York harbour, given them concrete embodiment, a mise en scene: ensconced in what he describes as the ‘floating coffin’ of his scow, with ‘the emptiness of the night beyond the walls… the trackless water,’ he lays out before us, in one of the most brilliantly pared-down passages of the whole book, ‘a chair, a typewriter, a table, a single bed, a coal stove, a dresser, a cupboard, a man in a little wooden shack, two miles from the nearest land.’ Like a tracker dog, he’s hunted down literature’s ground zero, its primal scene, and set his store up there: Here it is, Here I am.
When he’s not immersed in the black liquid, he’s injecting it into himself in the form of heroin. Heroin is an essential weapon in Trocchi’s nihilistic armoury: ‘There is no more systematic nihilism,’ he writes, ‘than that of the junky in America’. If Paris was a moveable feast for Hemingway, junk, for Trocchi, is a moveable void: taking that void around the city with him, in him, he ensures that he inhabits negative space constantly. This is his poetic project and it’s also the way his whole perception system works at its most basic level (the two are the same). I can’t stress enough how utterly negative Trocchi’s negative space is. It’s negative in the strict chemical or photographic sense of the word. An early sequence in Cain’s Book takes us through a kind of Proust-moment of perception and recall in which Trocchi, watching a man urinating in an alley, becomes
‘like a piece of sensitive photographic paper, waiting passively to feel the shock of impression. And then I was quivering like a leaf, more precisely like a mute hunk of appetitional plasm, a kind of sponge in which the business of being excited was going on, run through by a series of external stimuli: the lane, the man, the pale light, the lash of silver — at the ecstatic edge of something to be seen.’
Edge again. The sequence kicks off a long analepsis to an Edinburgh pub, then the image of a blade cutting the outline of a woman’s body into wood — a loop whose eventual folding back into the present dictates that Trocchi take the man back to his scow and sleep with him. But their sex doesn’t respond to a need which is, properly speaking, sexual: rather, it fulfils the requirements of the perception-memory tip he’s launched himself on. Just prior to the seduction, Trocchi tells us:
‘I experienced a sly female lust to be impregnated by, beyond words and in a mystical way to confound myself with, not the man necessarily, though that was part of the possibility, but the secrecy of his gesture.’
This is Phenomenology in action: what drives him is a longing for the world to unpack itself before us, to take form and resolution, like an image looming into view from murky liquid in a dark room.
Finally, that notion of obligation I was talking about earlier. Cain’s Book is shot through with a sense of mission. Trocchi has a task, an almost military duty to attend to. Several times he talks about being confronted by the ‘enemy’, against whose charges fixing gives him an instant ‘Castle Keep’, an enclave from which he can hold out: against his age, morality, stupidity, capitalism’s work ethic, the lot (as Burroughs would say, ‘the whole tamale’). Writing finds another role in this battle. As he divvies up his scores with them, Trocchi, intriguingly, lectures his fellow junkies on the contemporary importance of the diarist and exhorts them ‘to accept, to endure, to record’ (although whether they’re roused into Pepys-like diligence by his exhortations is doubtful). In the select moments when he references other writers directly, he invokes Beckett’s aesthetic of endurance and bearing witness and Joyce’s strategy of cunning, exile and silence. As with Joyce’s writing, there’s a real sense that Trocchi’s lays out a project which is at once political, personal and aesthetic. You can’t separate these strata in his work. His goal has always been ‘to strike permanently against uncreative work… to explore and modify my great contempt.’ Although lots of commentators try to ‘reclaim’ Trocchi from literature, set him aside from its canon, for me statements like this place him firmly within a tradition running from Celine to Houellebecq: like them, Trocchi is writing against his time, against all time, against history. ‘I felt my thoughts were the ravings of a man mad out of his mind to have been placed in history at all’ he rages, full to bursting with his mission, ‘having to act, having to consider, a victim of the fixed insquint.’
What he’s aiming for, his ultimate goal, in one sense, is the archetypal tragic moment and the transcendence that this moment offers. ‘The problem,’ he decides near Cain’s Book‘s end, ‘has always been to fuse the fragments of eternity, more precisely, to attain from time to time the absolute serenity of timelessness.’ Yet at the same time he rejects the very aesthetic mode (tragedy) that would allow this absolute serenity and timelessness to happen — as he has already told his fellow junkies, it’s ‘the death of tragedy which made the diarist more than ever necessary.’ Basically, he’s a Modernist: classically, essentially. And what we’re ultimately encountering in Cain’s Book is the Modernist quandary that turns around failure of tragedy — the same quandary articulated by the work of Eliot, Conrad or Faulkner. I want the transcendental tragic moment, but I can’t believe in tragedy anymore, therefore my writing will both self-frustrate and form the record of that experience of self-frustration. This paradox is what gives Cain’s Book its final, brilliant ending, in which Trocchi first recognises the inadequacy of art and literature in actually ‘accomplishing’ anything, muttering dismissively ‘such concepts I sometimes read about, but they have nothing in intimacy with what I am doing, exposing, obscuring’ — then immediately, compelled as always, carries on producing work, showing us, again, the scene of writing: the typewriter, the half-written page. ‘Only at the end,’ he writes, ‘I am still sitting here, writing, with the feeling I have not even begun to say what I mean, apparently sane still…’ And he lets us know that as soon as he’s finished the paragraph he’s going to go into the next room and take drugs. Eventually, as we know, the writing itself would slip away, until only the void was left. This was probably distressing to those who knew and loved him; but, given the trajectory he’s cast himself along, it seems ‘correct’, the ending that his work, in its extraordinary honesty, demands.
Finally finally: I think Trocchi is important, more so now than ever. We’re living in a time when the very ‘uncreative work’ against which he permanently struck is dominating culture, especially in the field of publishing. All too often, pliant authors are content to serve as little more than copywriters advertising neoliberal concerns, churning out middle-market copy for conglomerates, and all too often broadsheets who rely on these conglomerates for revenue try to persuade us that this copy is literature. Well it’s not; and Cain’s Book is. It’s a book in which the very possibility of literature booms and resonates, or (to use another metaphor) rushes and gurgles like so much black water under a hull two miles from land: literature’s possibility and, of course, its impossibility.