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press? The air waves? The corporations? etc. etc. etc.? To have promoted punk as a movement of violence is a complete travesty, the only real violence is that of self-confrontation, but that deos'nt make front-page news. Punk is not concerned with violence, it is bored with violence, sick of a society infatuated with violence and, inevitably, it has become a victim of that violence.
The real barbarians are in the streets of Belfast, they wear Her Majesty's colours and they kill.
The much reported "battles" between Teddy boys and Punks in Central London, in which the press were at pains to create a "Mods and Rockers" repeat story, (the Mods and Rockers staged impressive and often bloody gang-wars at English seaside resorts during the early sixties) represented a graphic example of press manipulation and the insidious methods used by a society to silence it's voices of protest. When members of the extreme right decided to beat up 1 Johnny Rotten, the press, angry over his words of dissent, reported the incident in such a manner that there followed a wave of "punk bashings" that had been almost socially legitimised. The press used this to promote the "Mods and Rockers" parallel and the public, notably the Teddy Boy element, were all too willing to conform to the fantasy. Effectively the Teds were simply attacking Punks in the streets and, generally, receiving no hit back. Generally, Punks are not "into" brawling, but, because of these incidents Punk became known as a hooligan movement. Fear breeds fear and the Punks left the streets, a movement went underground and the press went.slsewhere for its meat.

"No it is'nt right, they've got their life, respect them for that even if you don't aree with them. You demand your freedom, give it to others too. They're frightened. I'm frightened. The society that we live in does'nt want to hear about change, does'nt want to be told that it ist't working. Don't conform to media concepts, don't let them define your moves, thats why hippy died, too many clowns performing to the charade."
"You cunt, you fucking cunt. Do you really call yourself a Punk? Do you? Give him some dope someone, give him some fucking dope. Look cunt, don't fucking tell me what to do. Right? Right?"
That's the ultimate freedom. Yes? The right to say no.
Yes?
I feel the moderation creep in. The doubt. The sad dusk. The windows are becoming misted.
I sink back into another bottle of wine. Andy and Ignorant fight over a pack of cigarettes on the sofa and smash up a pile of records with their flailing boots. Sex Pistols. Patti Smith. Clash. Live at the Roxy. Television. Blondie. Snatch. Buzzcocks. Joni Mitchell. It's never very funny in the morning. It's never very funny. Sometimes that gentle voice is a balm, soft against the abrasive textures of the sidewalk.
Peter, the bassist, arrives to get the band together for a sound check at the Roxy. I say I'm not coming until I fee right. I feel angry for the wrong reasons, I feel confused at the diversity, afraid that maybe Punks are muggers in the streets.
I don't want to be no fall-man.
It can all fade so quickly. One moment I know, I just know, I feel clean, I feel that this is the way through all those years of shit, those layers of appalling nicety that have left me barren; then, because of the fear in one persons eye, because someone backs off, or someone rushes forward too fast, I collapse in doubt, painful, eating,doubt. Always falling back to somewhere I came from, yet knowing that I've never been anywhere.
I feel fucked again. The wine is sinking withot a trace, nothing is coming through. The rest of the band has staggered of for the sound check. It's raining and I don't want to go out into the street. I hate the neon reflections in the rain-drops, hate the damp wind blowing down the alleyways of tower-blocks, hate the huddled groups of people who always seem to know where they're heading, hate the swish of tyres on wet roads, hate the insecurity, hate the lonliness.
Maybe I'd like a limousine and a fur coat, a chic apartment and a swimming-pool. Maybe I'd like some Uncle Tom to lick my arse too.
I stay in apartment and talk to two of it's residents. Social unrest, race riots, National Front, fascism, totalitarianian, psychic death.
Over and over and over again.
Martin, one of the residents nas at Lewisham, a London suburb, when the National Front the British Fascist Party, staged a march. The police were there in force to protect the marchers from attack. Lewisham is heavily populated by blacks and it was inevitable that they would show their disgust towards a racist rally being allowed in their neighbourhood. Martin had gone to Lewisham to give support to the blacks and their sympathisers, chiefly members on left wing organisations, and had been beaten by the police for shouting abuse at the marchers. Apparantly it was perfectly permissible for the National Front to chant their foul-mouthed racism, it was an official march, right? Another example of that glorious concept of free speech. That's right, a fascist march in britain in 1977, protected by the state. That's it, yes, that's democracy. That's the wonderiul British democracy you hear about. Right? Martin was still bruised by the right to free speech. Who's protecting who? What?

The press has, for reasons already referred to, attempted to label punk fascist, but the message ain't Nazi, it can be nasty, but it's nasty because a society that offers little more than unemployment and homelessness to it's underprivileged is pretty nasty too, it's all reflection.
Ugly faces in cracked mirrors.
Contrary to what hysterical reporting would have the public believe, the punk movement is, as a generalisation, strongly anti-racial and much of the spark came from the black counter-culture.
The National Front is a racist organisation drawing on illiterate thought and infantile procedure, it is the fourth biggest political party in the U.K. but, like it's mindless brother the dinosaur, it will not survive. It will not surive because radicals of both black and white communities are joining hands, and there the radical steps today the public follows tomorrow.
Something to do with fools and angels was'nt it?
They got it wrong that time, too.
Much of the impetus behind punk was inspired by the race riots during the Notting Hill Carnival London, in the summer of 1976. It was there that the blacks, intimidated by a massive police turn-out at a chiefly black festival made known a sense of unrest that had been smouldering beneath the surface for years. The complaints thrown by angry blacks of oppression, lack of housing, lack of jobs, lack of education, lack of, of, lack of, lack of, found a mirror in the conciousness of working class whites. Reflections. Right? There ain't no future.
Reggae is an expression of black ideal and black solidarfty. White music lacked a counterpart. From the blackness of white urban ghettoes a voice cried out...............................................
"I'm shit S.H.I.T. I'm punk P.U.N.K."
But there still is'nt any future, just after the baby learned to ~alk, the super-stars stole the ground from beneath it's feet and they ain't casting back no more. It was'nt a musical form, and it still is'nt, it is a cry of dissatisfaction, a scream of deepair, a tormented voice in a demented society. "S.H.I.T.punk."

Twenty five minutes of tortuous noise. Twenty five minutes of anger, a slurr, fucked-up confusion and the management of the Roxy decide to switch us off. Punk conviction. The management kill the

continued on the next page (page 8)

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