It was also possible to see ‘name’ groups in small, niche clubs. The local scene in your ‘hood’ was almost as good, and you could see live bands in just about every other pub. Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs appeared here, as well as Amen Corner, when they were a quasi-blues band. John Peel did a gig there in ‘67, and Jeff Dexter was the resident DJ. Most of the bands that played here were not famous, or just a part of the R ‘n’ B circuit, like the Rick ‘N’ Beckers. That honour belonged to Tiles, which was situated in a basement, at 79 – 89 Oxford Street. Strange as it may seem, none of these were my favourite London club. In the latter half of the seventies, you could see the cream of the New Wave performing at the club. There was the 100 club in Oxford Street where you could see the best in Jazz and blues, as well as the latest R ‘n’ B bands.
After an evening’s entertainment at the Whisky, we would disappear downstairs to ‘The Mingo’, pilled up for an all nighter.
In Wardour Street alone, there was the Marquee, The Whisky-A-Go-Go, and in the basement, The Flamingo. You wouldn’t be seen dead in a tracksuit, or an off the peg suit, not even a Paul Smith.Īt the weekends, the West End of London was the place to head for, and the in-crowd made a beeline for Soho, where there was a great club scene. Even when we went for a Sunday lunchtime pint, we would exchange our Levis and Fred Perry, for a suit, and a freshly pressed button down shirt and tie. The sportswear fad, which is so predominant these days, pales into comparison, and as for style, it as much class as a box of Brillo pads. It wasn’t cheap being a dedicated follower of fashion, but as far as I am concerned, it’s the most stylish look of the last 50 years. We had our suits made at one of the many chains of clothes shops that were about in the sixties. Bruv’ and I earned about £6 a week and had to make do with a Mohair and wool mixture that was less expensive. If you could afford it, you went to your local Jewish tailor, and got him to knock you one up in tonic.
THE STYLE COUNCIL SHOUT TO THE TOP MOD
My brother and I were confirmed Mods, and followed the dress code, where no self-respecting Mod would be seen out, in anything less than a tailor-made Mohair suit. Oh yeah, if you had money, it swung like a bitch in heat, but for ‘Joe Normal’ you worked Monday to Friday, and looked forward to having it large at the weekend. When reminiscing about this decade, it’s fashionable to talk about what a great time it was to be a teenager, but it wasn’t quite as swinging as it’s made out to be. It was a heady time to be a teenager, not only had we won the World Cup, British music ruled the airwaves. In 1966, when Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet trophy, it felt like a victory for the Hammers, as well as England. Like most teenagers, we were football mad I supported West Ham, and an ‘Iron’, through and through. We were a new generation, with a new attitude, and the first teenagers that could do their own thing. In came a ‘New Model Army’, the MODS, with their smart, short haircuts, dressed in sharp, Ivy League Mohair suits, with a dash of European flair, Desert boots, and scooters.
The music of the sixties influenced a new generation and, like a turbo charged Dyson cleaner, out went Rock ‘n’ Roll, motorcycles, and greasy haircuts. Like most switched on kids of my generation, I listened to the new wave of Britpop, which snowballed rapidly, and sounded the death knoll for the artists from the fifties. As I look back at where I came from, it’s hard to believe what has happened. In many ways, my lifestyle mirrored that of the fans that followed The Jam, The Style Council, and Paul Weller’s long, and never ending solo career. When I was growing up on a notorious Council estate in South-East London, during the sixties, I had no inkling of my future.
0 kommentar(er)
