Showing posts with label Situationism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Situationism. Show all posts

burned-out acidheads sell Bibles on the street for a living.



The light shows and sounds indicated the influence of dope on audience and musicians alike. They could no longer be called dances for they resembled Be-Ins more than the foxtrot shuffles that still predominate in middle-aged memories. Clubs, like U.F.O. and Middle Earth in London's West End, used to have all-night sessions, where one could listen, dance, blow bubbles, eat, sleep, trip, make love or just wander around digging the people. As might be expected, rip-off club managers began their own enterprises, charging high prices for music, food and hard liquor. For a time nobody cared, because the head clubs were community run and one could hear the best in progressive rock and grin stoned grins at performers who would later be ranked as superstars. A mixture of police harassment and capitalist economics eventually closed them down. The political nature of rock music is manifested at a number of levels. Many groups take explicitly political stands, whilst others make obvious references in their songs and interviews. The nature of the music industry, however, sometimes induces an ambivalent stance for, despite the free concerts and the heavy rhetoric, the record companies are 'only in it for the money'. The M.C.5, as long as they stayed in Detroit with John Sinclair, were a screaming, revolutionary band. As soon as they left, they became a teeny bop group with a mean reputation but without any balls.

mod meets pub meets glam meets Johnny Burnette power-chord din


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“Have you had it with Bobby Sherman, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, The Carpenters, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Chicago??? Are you sick and tired of all these sex-less, whitewashed, psychedelic pop-shit groups???? …if so, why doncha subscribe to Rollin’ Rock Magazine and dig some of that wild, crazy, juicy, greasy, all-American rock and roll music!!!!!”
“Dear WTTS, Just received the first 43 issues of Who Took The Shelves, and I had to let you know how excited I am. Your mag sure does fill a void, not only in being a magazine by and for methed-up lunatics like me, but in being chock full of some of the most interesting pornography on the scene today… by any chance would you be interested in a 72-page article on Question Mark & The Mysterians? – Lester Bangs El Cajon CA”

If you lived in Milton Keynes, you'd be on drugs too.


Rubin's one-dimensional attitudes are even more glaringly evident as regards the murder of Holly Maddux, who appears to have been killed by her boyfriend Ira Einhorn. Einhorn was a hippie activist who involved himself in ecological and new age politics during the seventies - he was a very prominent figure in the Earth Day and Sun Day events. Rubin was a friend of Einhorn and used to let his Philadelphia based comrade crash at his New York pad when 'The Unicorn' was visiting the Big Apple. In The Unicorn's Secret: Murder in the age of Aquarius by Steven Levy (Prentice Hall Press, New York 1988, p. 335), Rubin is quoted as saying: 'Ira betrayed everything I stood for and possibly everything that he stood for ... The ultimate crime ... is that Ira betrayed the sixties.' Rubin's fatuous self-regard is evident from the fact that he considers it worse to tarnish an abstraction with which he identifies himself - "the sixties" ­ than to batter another human being to death. The back cover of The Unicorn's Secret features a prototypically callous puff from the media conscious Rubin: 'The Unicorn's Secret blew me away. Besides being an unforgettable murder mystery, it's a fabulous study of our time. I really loved it.'

THE MAGAZINE THAT DOESN’T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT!


pdfs of all issues - 1GB! - here

Slash: Tell us about the clubs in N.Y.
Lux: CBGB's is really the only club.
Slash: What about the "downtown bands"?
Lux: My personal opinion is, I think it's a good thing to keep those damned art-rock bands separated some place where they can drop out of art school and work out their neuroses! They don't know anything about rock 'n' roll. You can't dance to their music and I couldn't care less about it. I'm not interested in music you can't dance to. Get them out of the bars and put them in a loft!
Ivy: There are a lot of bands trying to get in at CBGBs but the art bands are keeping them out, they're cluttering up the place. They should call their music what it is. They should play for the artists in Soho. 
Lux: This "new wave," I don't know what it is. When rock 'n' roll changed to rock, it became acceptable. When punk rock changed to new wave it became acceptable and all these muck people started moving in.  Robert Christgau from the Village Voice despises us, so he won't write anything about us except snotty remarks and put-downs. He does not understand a goddam thing on what this band is about in the least. A hundred people told me the show we did at CBGB's was the best they'd ever seen and the review in the Village Voice called it "calculated ... sterile ... boring ... "

strenuous parties with wild non-stop dancing to twist and stomp music


epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

Mick Farren stormed into the marquee and demanded that all food stocks be distributed to the masses. He demanded that Pepsi and Birds Eye donate their entire on-site warehouse to the crowds, in return for a favourable mention in his next speech. As a ‘symbolic act of protest against élitism’, the alliance agreed to carry out a joint assault on the main fence. From the stage, meanwhile, the harried MC kept preaching peace and love and the spirit of Woodstock. The insurrection erupted at 10 a.m., led by two French anarchists with a battering ram. ‘Zeeze kids are being toe-tally controlled by zooperpigs,’ one of them yelled, thumping at the sheets of iron. ‘Ex-source-sted, wretchyard, sleeping in zee pissoirs . . . Zeeeze kids are worse than zeee Jews, at least zeee fuck’n Jews didn’t pay to go to Auschwitz . . .’ Crash! The corrugated iron caved in. Two Angels, a Panther and a Young Liberal squeezed into the arena, where, to their astonishment, the oppressed masses joined the security guys and their Alsatians in chucking them out and repairing the breach.

"If you get Sohoitis, you will stay there always day and night."

 
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The Colony Room Club at 41 Dean Street was originally the first-floor reception room of a domestic dwelling built in 1731 though now much altered. The space retained its domestic proportions which is perhaps why people felt so at home there. Muriel sat perched on a high chair at the far left of the bar, next to the door, head tilted back to display her fine aquiline nose, imperiously waving a cigarette in a long holder as she barked ‘Members only!’ at anyone she didn’t recognize. This was quickly followed by ‘Fuck off!’ if they did not turn immediately to leave, followed by ‘Get a face-lift on the way.’ Members, however, were welcomed with an endearing: ‘Hello, cunty!’ She was a formidable presence; one afternoon a local gangster entered the club looking to set her up for protection money but he had barely announced his purpose before Muriel screamed: ‘Fuck off, cunt!’ so loudly that he backed out of the door and down the stairs.

Screaming Lord Sutch Jack-the-Rippering to the thunder of steel guitars


epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

Alexis Korner and Cyril Davies, who had, for years, run a very dedicated scene called the Blues and Barrelhouse Club, now opened in the Moist Hoist, a notoriously evil cellar opposite Ealing Tube Station. They opened with amplifiers full on and Dick Heckstall-Smith on tenor. Something was happening to the sincerity and authenticity cult. The group moved to the Marquee fairly quickly where they attracted not only mods but also an even more sophisticated crowd from the art schools. Purple hearts appeared in strange profusion. Bell bottoms blossomed into wild colours. Shoes were painted with Woolworths lacquer. Both sexes wore make-up and dyed their hair. The art students brought their acid colour combinations, their lilacs, tangerines and lime greens from abstract painting. The air in the streets and clubs was tingling with a new delirium. The handful of art-student pop groups appeared, with their louder, more violent music, their cultivated hysteria, their painful amplifiers, the Rolling Stones, the Pretty Things, the Kinks. 'Kinky' was a word very much in the air. Everywhere there were zippers, leathers, boots, PVC, see through plastics, male make-up, a thousand overtones of sexual deviation, particularly sadism, and everywhere, mixed in with amphetamines, was the birth pill. The established business world, the square commercial world, the promoters, the deathwishers, were completely out-distanced. All they could do was run to keep up, for unless they could keep up an appetite for living might emerge.