Melody Maker, January 2nd 1982

CHARLIE HARPER - man of the people - and (right) the UK SUBS with the people


Dreaming of a punk Christmas

Carol Clerk (words) and Jon Blackmore (pix) bomb up to Leeds.

"Come here," cried an excited Captain Sensible from the corner of the backstage
lounge.
"I’ve just discovered what this is like! It’s like the ’Generation Game’!"

The Leeds Christmas on Earth punk festival, all 11 hours and 14 bands of
it, was like the ’Generation Game?’"
"Yes!" he confirmed, "Y’know that part at the end when the microwave ovens and the hairdryers go by on the conveyor belt and the contestants have to remember what they’ve seen well, here, they’re wheeling the bands on and wheeling them off, and if you ask the punters at the end what groups they saw, they’ll probably not be able to remember them all."
We tried it afterwards. He was right.

Who ever said punk was dead? It hasn’t even been sleeping, on the evidence of the Queens hall marathon last weekend.
An ambitious project, it turned out more successfully than anyone could have expected with only minor upsets to ruffle a long and complicated schedule of events.
Despite inclement weather conditions, a crowd of 7,000 turned upfor the occasion most of them arriving for the opening moments and staying til the bitter (or not-so-bitter) end.

There were no technical delays; and only two of the bands originally announced pulled out. Anti Pasti, still in the middle of an American tour, were replaced by the Outcasts. And the organisers decided not to bother filling the gap left by Bow Wow Wow who withdrew after rumours of a planned NF infiltration of the gig.

Promoters Straight Music, on hearing the rumours opted for prevention rather than cure by refusing to admit any skinheads. Inside, there wasn’t so much as a minor skimish (sic) throughout the whole day.
This was an entirely good-natured crowd. Colourful spikey hair touched split ends with high mohican cuts in a hall-full of studded leather. I saw smiles but few scowles, kisses but no kicking boots. I saw misletoe and CND slogans sharing jacket-space with the UK Subs, the Damned and the Exploited.

It was more than an elongated concert. This was an event; a celebration of punk the music, the style and the solidarity that remains from the original revolution which would reach its climax with the appearance onstage of the headlining truimvirate; the trio that brought together the enduring, endearing appeal of the Damned and the Subs with the new (relatively) new blood of the Exploited.
Backstage, a general air of congenialty matched the atmosphere in the hall a real warehouse of a venue. Crowds milled around rows of stalls selling everything from raincoats and badges to posters and tee-shirts, clustered round the games machines and took up position stage front for warm-up sets from The Insane, Lama and GBH. "This is a song called ’Shit’ ", yelled the Lama vocalist.

Welcome to Leeds. There were 7,000 people there to prove it: punk’s not dead. It never was. And it was in a good mood at the Queens Hall.

The Captain was in some sort of distress. Anxious to avoid an early-morning rush to the gig, he’d travelled to Leeds the day before. But freezing conditions had deprived him of any sleep at all overnight. Still, he didn’t look any the worse for it.
Searching the crowds for a fan in a wheelchair (for whom he’d procured a backstage pass), he noticed a sign on a jacket: "The Year Of The Rat".
"I hope not," he muttered, and laughed. Then added, "I like it here. It’s sweet."
Half an hour later, as Charge took the stage, the Captain slumpled over a table in the lounge. The long legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed, and was unceremoniously carted off to the nearest hotel for the rest of the afternoon.
Meanwhile in the women’s toilets, a stream of punky blokes were crawling from outside in through the top window, and an assortment of chaps were taking up position around the sinks to perpetuate that curiously individual punk habit of holding court in the ladies’.
Charge charged on through the hurtling, throbbing "Kings Cross" while in the lounge, the sensible drama had subsided and a clutter of unidentified individuals were sitting on the floor playing their guitars.
The peaceful sequence of activities was momentarily interrupted while Dutch band Trockener Kecks were onstage making a lot of noise. New arrived that Chron Gen and Vice Squad’s Becky Bondage were stranded in snow miles away, and an alert went out to all bands: the running order was being changed.
One group who had conquered the awesome travelling conditions (snow and ice) were the Outcasts, from Belfast. They were next, demonstrating an attractive variation on the basic punk format with a tight, melodic and varied selection of songs (including the Glitter Band’s "Angel Face") that nevertheless, shook with a mighty power. They impressed many, but disappeared shortly after playing, bound for Stranraer, the ferry back to Northern Ireland and work the next morning.

Suddenly, a roar: "The Tory Government have got a problem on their hands! A lot of you are apparantly out of work and so what they’ve come up with is to give you the short, sharp shock stick you in borstal and detention centres and reduce the numbers"
Chelsea! Rabble- rousing, long suffering, hard-rocking Chelsea, denouncing "all that futurist shit" from the stage to thunderous approval, and winning the first storming reception of the day.
The UK Subs arrived while American Black Flag were presenting the thousands with the most wailing, crashing, over-the-top brand of punk they were going to hear that day. The Subs had a problem. A group of about 30 skinheads had come up from London to see them. And they were being turned away.
Charlie Harper negotiated on their behalf with the security, and the organisers, to no avail.
He submerged a long face in a can of beer. "People are just so paranoid," he complained. "Those kids they look really hard, but they’re alright. Nobody’ll let them in. There’s nothing I can do about it." And then philosophically. "Still I suppose you can’t blame ’em".

The incident was forgotten alrady, but it did give rise to persistent rumours that a gang of 150 skinheads were waiting outside for the crowds coming out. It wasn’t true.
Subs’ bassist Alvin Gibbs paraded past with a beret on his head. "Look," he said. "Chuck Beret". The party feeling was certainly emerging; word had arrived that the Captain had recovered from his earlier ordeal; the rest of the Damned had turned up; and the Anti-Nowhere League were about to go on.

For my money the most exciting of the current crop of aspiring punk bands, the League take theatrics to the extreme. Vocalist Animal comes on like his namesake, growling and cursing with a fearsome voice and a leather stud, chain and codpiece image that would be positively frightening if you happened to meet him in a subway.
Stretching vulgarity and bad taste to absurd limits, they’re hard and tuneful and tight as the arseholes they probably sing about, particularly hilarious on a rampant version of Ralph McTell’s "Streets Of London", the current single (which I’m told Ralph loves!) Punk parody; pantomime for Christmas. They were great.

Hell on earth
From previous page
The missing member of Vice Squad had finally made it to the gig, turning more than a few heads in the backstage area with a leather mini skirt an a generous show of leg.
The visual attraction of the band (obviously), she sang in a voice somewhere between a squeak and a shriek in a set that took in a nifty version of the Pistols’ "EMI". The band played strong and stirring, the crowd were greeting most of the songs with cheers of recognition and they left to massive response, the yells rising hard above the tapes that started up immediately.
Meanwhile, a flood was starting at the back of the hall. You had to paddle through it if you felt inclined to go to the bog. It seemed to be coming from the gents’, but I didn’t investigate too closely. The party in the women’s was continuing.

Chron Gen had defeated the motorway menace by then, turning up in good time for their performance. One of the highspots of the day, they played like men inspired. Spot-on timing, imaginative song structures, good melodies, punchy rhythms and unabashed energy hit home without the overwhelming pain of a Black Flag or a Trockener Kecks. Like the Outcasts, Chron Gen effectively broaden the horizons of an often narrow punk sound. And they left a taste for more.

The Subs had adopted the backstage lounge as their dressing room. Nicky Garratt was pacing like an expectant dad, dying to get up and play. Steve Roberts was becoming jittery with nerves; Charlie Harper, ever the pro, was wandering around calmly striking up conversation with whoever he saw; Alvin Gibbs was thinking about the end of the set.
"Will you wear my coat for me and keep it warm while I’m on?" he inquired. "I’ll be cold when I come off."
A sudden panic when I ran out of fags. Charlie came to the rescue with a packet of 20. And then they were onstage.
The first band to provoke a notcable rush to the front, the Subs delivered with a passion. They used the advantage of the large stage to the maximum - whirling, diving, dancing as if possessed, and Steve demonic over the kit. Nick Garratt collided with his own guitar during the third number and smashed a tooth, but the show went on.
The Subs’ greatest hits rattled out with even more speed and intensity than usual, due to the necessarily shorter set."I Couldn’t Be You", "I Live In A Car", "Tomorrows Girls", "Warhead" and "CID" created the traditional mayhem before the Subs came off and I gave Alvin his coat back; apparently it was warm enough.
For the Exploited’s Wattie, who’d been watching most of the bands for most of the day, it was at last time to shine.
Having previously written disparagingly on the subject of the Exploited’s album, I can only say that live, they’re an entirely different commodity. Songs that may have sounded shallow and uninventive on record suddenly take on a complete personality, a life of their own, in the live show - the result of enthusiastic playing and dynamic presentation.
The Exploited gave a spectacular physical performance that had Wattie’s mohican falling down within minutes, terrified every photographer in the pit and deservedly won the approval of the masses.

For the Damned, headlining, this was an important gig. They had to prove their status as the top band on the bill; reinforce their reputation once and for all. The competition had been stiff. Rat, not normally the most timid person in the world, was nearly shaking.
Happily they redeemed themselves. From the moment that the second number "Wait For The Blackout" past its usual crowd-response test, the band were on to a winner with an irresisatable mixture of madness and music that totally eradicated the memories of their recent disastrous Lyceum gig.
The crowd got their favourites, the "Love Song"s and the "New Rose"s, in an ideally-balanced set; Rat got his drum solo, bouncing sticks wickedly off the cymbals at the end; and we all had pleasure (again) of watching the captain play half the set clad only in his knickers.
A blend of fun and fantasy, imagination and power, the Damned carried their flag proudly, returning for an encore with the Captain this time attired in a sleeveless dress.
"Smash It Up"- what else? The reaction was as strong as could be hoped, given that the crowd had by then been on their feet for 11 hours.

It had been a rewarding day for everyone; a day that showed certain things really can be done.
"I wish I hadn’t collapsed and missed most of it," said the Captain as the Damned coach wound its long way home through the night.
"But it was great. I was so pleased it all worked out. All those bands together...it’s something that will probably never happen again. A real one-off."
That about sums it up.