Posts Tagged ‘1970s’

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Teddy Boys, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

“Cinemas, dance halls and other places of entertainment in South east London are closing their doors to youths in ‘Edwardian’ suits because of gang hooliganism…The ban, which week by week is becoming more generally applied, is believed by the police to be one of the main reasons for the extension of the area in which fights with knuckle dusters, coshes, and similar weapons between bands of teenagers can now be anticipated…In cinemas, seats have been slashed with razors and had dozens of meat skewers stuck into them” (The Daily Mail announces the birth of Teds, 27.4.54)

“A night out with the Teds was generally a good crack – sometimes some violence, some vomit on the carpet, but generally a rock’n'roll party” photographer Chris Steele-Perkins told the Observer. In 1976 he went on Teddy Boy safari, jostling his way through the drape jackets of Old Kent Road and into a rockabilly backwater.

This was the same ground where the original bad boys crawled from the grim ruins of blitz. They had been London’s original 50s ‘folk-devils’; vicar-scaring lads in Edwardian suits – a post-war aberration that hijacked Savile Row fashion and cultivated it with a quiff, flick knife, violent riots and rock n’ roll. By 1976 it was hemmed in by Mods, Rockers, the loom of punk.

“I wasn’t a Ted” said Steele-Perkins “but it was easy enough to fit in. I was the bloke who took photographs”. Despite threats of Teddy extinction, between a watershed 60s and volatile 70s, the resurgent scene was as virile as ever. The Adam and Eve and The Black Raven rattled with Bill Haley, Nancy Whiskey, Billy Fury. And the legendary Flying Saucers and Crazy Cavan played The Castle, blew the ceiling. It was enough to make any skewer-fearing cinema seat roll a mile.

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Dave and Mick Ransome. 1976. “In the 70s as a Ted you stuck out like a sore thumb” said Ray Ferris of The Invaders. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Vivien Brown & Pete Kershaw 1976. Hairstyles also influenced by American Westerns, and the Mississippi gambler maverick tie – hugely popular in the early fifties – had became part of the appareil. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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“Even if I were to stop buying Charlie Feathers and Warren Smith records I would still not be able to become part of the ‘new wave’ scene” wrote Jailhouse Johnny in a letter to Sounds. At home with his father 1976 © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

While the 70s are occasionally maligned now by Teds as “the bad days when Showaddywaddy took the mickey, took their drape jackets and turned them into kitsch day-glo fun” (from the definitive Edwardian Teddy Boy) – their spirit is incarnate in Steele-Perkins’ photos of jive-pianist ‘Fingers’ Lee, Tongue-Tied Danny, Fifties Flash, The Adam and Eve, The Castle, other pubs where Teds emerged from the woodwork – along with their new blood.

“At the Black Raven pub in Bishopsgate, on Friday nights, it’s as if the 1960′s had never been” reads an article from The Sunday Times, 1970. “The bar is filled with men wearing the classic costume of the historic Teddy Boys: drapes, crepes and bootlace ties. Deafening music from the juke-box insists on the simple beat of early rock ‘n’ roll”. Black Raven proprieter Bob Acland told the Sunday Times: “The Teds aren’t a broken army, all gone down a hole like rats.”

“Half-a-dozen just happened to walk in” said Acland, on the beginnings of the Ted revival in The Black Raven. “Some of them was original Teds, some was the younger brothers of Teds who remembered the good old days. The word got round – I don’t waste money advertising”.

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Ron, self-appointed King of the Teds, 1976. Described in US rockabilly circles as ‘President of the Confederate States of America in exile. An archivist, administrator, rebel and veteran of the first post-war teenage cult’. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Barry Ransome in The Castle, Old Kent Road 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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The Edwardian look. Revived by Savile Row after WW2 for upper-class ex-army officers. Instead, taken up by teenagers around the grim haunts of London. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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London. The Castle, Old Kent Road. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

“From 1976, if you were living in England, it was hard to keep track of the sheer number of rockabilly reissues that started to appear” recalled Max Décharné, in Rocket in My Pocket. “Chiswick Records had put out Vince Taylor’s ‘Brand New Cadillac‘, and when the same company started the Ace label they gave the world another chance to hear all kinds of fine items, like ‘Tennessee Rock‘ by Hoyt Scoggins & The Saturday Night Jamboree Boys”.

“Of course, in 1977 punks and Teds were supposed to be knocking hell out of each other, and many of them were, but I was seventeen that year and spent much of it buying the likes of Gene Vincent alongside records by The Clash, and Sonny Burgess at the same time as Richard Hell and the Void-Oids. It all sounded as though it came from the same three-chord rock n’ roll spirit as far as I was concerned. Not everyone agreed.”

Freddie 'Fingers' Lee. 1976.

Freddie ‘Fingers’ Lee. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

Adam and Eve pub in Hackney. 1976.

Adam and Eve pub in Hackney. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Adam and Eve pub in Hackney. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Bradford, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Hull, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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The Castle, Old Kent Road 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

A gauge of the times was Malcolm McLaren’s 1971 Kings Road ‘Let it Rock’ shop, stocking original fifties clothing. In 1974 the name of the shop had changed to ‘Sex’ – famously magnetising a clutch of ‘street urchins’ and alchemising (according to McLaren) into punk. In 1977 the store became known as ‘Seditionaries’ and the transformation was complete. A few items of Teddy Boy gear hanging between fetish wear, outrageous T-shirts and leather.

“I remember going to see X-Ray Specs in 1977. When we left the building a sizeable  number of local Teds – full grown men at least a decade older than us – were waiting across the street looking to batter some punks” writes Décharné. “There’s no room in circumstances like that trying to explain how many Eddie Cochran albums you’ve got at home”.

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The Winchester, Elephant & Castle. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Fight Outside The George, Hammersmith. 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

“The Teds were different from the Punks in that there was so many ages” says John Lydon in No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish. There was the older lot, all the dads, along with younger kids. The Punk thing was very young. It was like going out and fighting old men, kind of ridiculous really’.  While still Johnny Rotten, Lydon had occasionally dressed in the full Ted regalia – convincingly enough to cross lines unmolested for a drink at The Roxy. “One week I looked like a complete Teddy Boy. I used to enjoy quaffing my hair up. Teddy Boys were the enemy. Therefore they interested me”.

“I do remember someone going on and on about how he was going to ‘get that Ted at the bar’” said Fiona Dutton of Roxygoer, “who was in fact Johnny Rotten. He hadn’t recognised him’ .

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Southend, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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The 50′s Teddy nickname “Creepers” derived from the dance “The Creep” by Yorkshire Big Band leader, Ken Mackintosh. A dance performed by Teddy Boys and Girls before the advent of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Britain. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Newcastle © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos


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Derby, Blue Boar, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

A more productive battle came to a head on Saturday 15th May 1976. A five-thousand-strong mass of Teddy Boys and Teddy Girls from around the UK assaulted Central London, marching onto the BBC in a national campaign for more Rock n Roll to be played on the radio; numbers rallied by the lack of authentic Rock n Roll on the airwaves.

The march swarmed onto the BBC Broadcasting House and, in a move that would have made Mahatma Gandhi proud, peacefully submitted a petition and taped pilot Rock ‘n’ Roll show. Their caravan was a success. The BBC created a weekly Rock n Roll Show on Radio 1 late on Saturday afternoons.

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Adam and Eve pub in Hackney, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

The Flying Saucers. 1976.

The Flying Saucers, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

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Southend, The Queen’s Hotel, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

Pickett's Lock, Edmonton. 1976.

Pickett’s Lock, Edmonton, 1976. © Chris Steele-Perkins/Magnum Photos

In 2003 Steele-Perkins made an interesting revisit to the Teds from ’76, to find that their biggest enemies hadn’t been the Mods or the punks – but time; cancer, baldness, old age. But for many the fire never went out, only flick knives and turf-war traded for more sartorial conservation, circa 1953 standard. The Edwardian Teddy Boy site says this “involves the wearing of Drape jackets with 3″- 4″ lapels, minimum use of velvet apart from the collars and cuffs (or none at all) and 16″ bottom trousers with turn-ups”.

“They form a strange kind of community, but it had been that strange community which first fascinated me all those years ago” said Steele-Perkins. “They have held on to something that was important to them. Kept faith. Those markers that once quickened our youth can still drive our dotage”.

All hail rock n’ roll. What it all comes down to.

Originally published in paperback in 1979, “The Teds” was re-issued in 2003 by Dewi Lewis and can still be found – check out Magnum’s page on the book.

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Willie and his comrades. Andrew Sweeney, Girl, Lonely, Willie and friends shooting the movie “Without a uniform.” Volgograd, 1988. From the archive of Villi.

With anti-establishment act Pussy Riot now performing from a cage, it’s interesting to see how their own antics have carried on one particular Soviet tradition. And despite Putin’s best attempts to muscle in on the music scene – witness his moving rendition of Blueberry Hill – the KGB crooner might have his work cut out for him.

Since its underground rumblings in the 1980s, Russia’s punk subculture has had a fair bit of practice in bringing it to the people. The Soviet Union’s first punk band, Civil Defence – or Гражданская Оборона – or GrOb (ГрОб, Coffin) for short – had to duck and weave both censors and KGB. And they still found time to release illegal recordings; apparently known as “Bones” – homemade bootlegs often made from discarded medical x-rays.

In the 1970s and 1980s a growing surge of blackmarket fashion and underground music – openly challenging the Soviet-grey old-guard – delivered a dawning sense of freedom. By the mid-80s a tide of avant-garde artists, punks, rockers and psycho billies were roaming the streets, often meeting with spontaneous public performances – and the occasional police crackdown. Fashion shows could easily devolve into raucous rock gigs; catwalks and gigs colliding in places as diverse as Sergey Kuryokhin’s Popular Mechanics Group, the Sovincenter Hall, squats, concert halls and busy city streets.

As the Russian subculture site Kompost declares: “The subcultural people, who established their own market of attributes, had already formed their ideas about the standards of appearance”.

Soviet punk, 1980 – the beginning of the aesthetic war between “Soviet couture” and black market fashion.

‘Mrachnyĭ’ makeup. A common trend of the 80s. Leningrad, 1985 From the archive of Tania Gangrene.

‘Robot’ with ‘Nightingale’. ‘Nightingale’ was the Russian name given to the breed of Leningrad drinker who would stay up all night drinking and singing. 1983. Photo by Alexander Boyko, from the archive of Ruslan Ziggelya.

‘Buster and Dill’ just before the storming of the Nigerian Embassy, Moscow, 1987. Photo from the archives of Yaroslav Maeva Misha Bastera.

Sasha Surgeon, Moscow, 1989. Photo by Petra Gall.

Igor Gans at the entrance to the hall, “Tyazheloĭ athletics” in Izmaĭlovo, performances 1987. From the archive of Dima Sabbath.

Doing the twist – or tvistuny. Subculture, Leningrad, 1984. Photos from the archives of Tanya Aleksandrovoy.

 

Russian Mod with tapedeck, Chelyabinsk, 1985. From the archive of Gosha Shaposhnikov.

“Teddy Boys”. Beer on the Fontanka, Leningrad. In 1984. Photo by Alexander Boyko, from the archive of Ruslan Ziggelya.

Two rockabillys from St. Petersburg, members of the band Swindlers, 1989.

Psycho Billys, 1986, Leningrad – now St. Petersburg.

Moscow, 1980s. The new wave of fashion not drafted by State; includes flares, leopardskins, 50s quiffs and denim.

The new generation of street punk, Moscow, 1992.

Quasi-Western Rambo style. A punk and a ‘Ljuber’ in a photo studio in Moscow, 1988. The so-called Ljuberi were a youth group from the Moscow district satellite Lyubertsy

Punk performer Buster Misha, 1988 – around the time the Govt sent him to work in a dairy for violating some Soviet rules. Misha Buster was just 13 when he dipped into the scene. He took his name from Buster Keaton.

Every subculture needs a motorcycle gang. Russia’s ‘Night Wolves’, 1990 Moscow.

Rebels at the Kremlin. Russian rocker Andrei Melkijy, Dima Sabbath and Sasha Lebed Sabbath demonstrate the dress code in 1987, Red Square.

Moscow’s ‘street punks’, 1988. Soviet uniformity being subverted – courtesy of black market retailers.

Three Russian metalheads scare an old lady. Misha Buster commented: “fear and laughter – that was our trademark.”

A photo of aimless rage, vandalism, and the urge to destroy everything they get their hands on. 1990′s somewhere, Russia.

“The music and lyrics of punk rock provoke among the young fits of aimless rage, vandalism, and the urge to destroy everything they get their hands on. No matter how carefully they try to clean it up, it will remain the most reactionary offspring of the bourgeoisie mass culture.” (Pravda, official newspaper and mouthpiece of the USSR)

On May 9th 1991, 24-year-old poet and singer Yana Stanislavovna Dyagileva (Яна Станиславовна Дягилева,) known as Yanka (Янка) left her Novosibirsk country home, never to be seen again. Yanka was Russia’s own Patti Smith, her delivery thoughtful and message sharp. On May 17th her body was found in the Inya River. Her death officially remains a mystery – although there was apparently no water in her lungs and a fractured skull. The fact that she was married to the singer from Yegor Letov may not have helped. Her record sales have grown since her death.

J.M.K.E. was one band whose name made it beyond the Iron Curtain. Civil Defence also survived into the post-communist years, releasing a number of albums and gathering a large following. Unfortunately lead singer Yegor Letov (Его́р Ле́тов) reportedly died in his sleep two years ago.

Yanka (Янка), Russia’s Patti Smith.

My sources are a bit unclear on this one, but I believe it is a photo of Yanka being escorted to an old fashioned correctional gig. Anyone know for sure?

Andrew Kisanov, Gustav Guryanov and Viktor Tsoi in the music video “We saw the night.” Leningrad, 1986. Photo by Harry Assy

Old and new, Moscow 1980s.

State prosecutors yesterday demanded three years each for the Pussy Riot members in a corrective labour facility, after their public anti-Putin performance protest in Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. They each received two years – on charges of hooliganism motivated by religious hatred. In response to that, it’s worth reading Tolokonnikova’s closing statement before her sentencing (and there’s nothing wrong with Socrates):

“Socrates was accused of corrupting youth through his philosophical discourses and of not recognizing the gods of Athens. Socrates had a connection to a divine inner voice. What did that matter, however, when he had angered the city with his critical, dialectical and unprejudiced thinking? Socrates was sentenced to death and, refusing to run away, although he was given that option, he drank down a cup of poison in cold blood, hemlock”.

“And I hope everyone remembers what the Jews said to Jesus: “We’re stoning you not for any good work, but for blasphemy.” And finally it would be well worth remembering this description of Christ: “He is possessed of a demon and out of his mind.”

Pussy Riot Images via English Russia.

“We were looking for authentic genuineness and simplicity and we found them in our punk performances” (closing court statements, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, Pussy Riot, 8 August 2012)

The motley collection of videos below include:

1.  Civil Defence’s ‘I Don’t Believe in Anarchy’,

2. “Yanka” Dyagileva

3. Viktor Tsoi “Change” that concluded the 2011 protest anti-Putin Twitter/Youtube protest.

4.  J.M.K.E

5. Propeller – Punker.

Nick Cave cocoons himself in purpose – and various accessories – while writing ‘And The Ass Saw the Angel’, Berlin 1986.

Geoff Stanton

Every desk tells a story. Take a look at your own. It may be the only place you can keep ordered; a solitary cove where you can wind life back, expand the surface and skim like a stone. I prefer to sink into mine. For this I recommend two empty bottles of red, a deck of beer coasters, maps, plots, coins, scrolling notebooks and a cup of loose pens. Pitch them headlong into the task. And turn off the computer. Ditch the facebook, the email, the blog, all the crap.

I was recently inspired by Jonathan Raban’s ode to writing aboard his sea-faring crib in Journey to Juneau: “With the floor sashaying underfoot, the chain rumbling on the sea bottom, and the view from the boat’s window’s revolving slowly on the tide, I found the equilibrium I was prone to lose on the unstable land. On winter mornings I’d fire up the heater, light the lamps and work with an intense single mindedness that evaded me at home. The creaks and groans, the smells of parrafin and diesel, were conducive to thinking and remembering”.

But whether it’s via a hatch, a cup of tea, a bottle of whiskey, a pool of blood, four walls of chaos and a nap -  the desk is a great helm.  Here’s a classical tour of some of the big guys; their desks, methods, modes for writing the masterpiece that will keep the ghost lingering.

Dalton Trumbo gets down to work, Mitzi Trumbo/AP Images

Hollywood heavyweight and screenwriting legend Dalton Trumbo. He did most of his writing sitting in the tub, working on a tray suspended over suds. According to his wife, he’d spend days in the bathroom, writing, soaking and smoking – Kirk Douglas remarked that Trumbo sometimes smoked up to six packs of cigarettes a day.

The picture comfort is instructive; next time you’re wasting time in a bath, remember it was here Trumbo wrote films such as The Sandpiper (1965) for Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, The Horsemen (1971) for director John Frankenheimer and his last film, Papillon (1973). And all that after he was blacklisted by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1950 – during which time he focused his skills on letter writing. Although he did posthumously win an Academy Award for secretly writing Roman Holiday (1953).

Truman Capote and his big ideas, 1977, Arnold Newman.

Inspiration. A glass of sherry in one hand and a pencil in another. “I am a completely horizontal author” Truman Capote told the Paris Review in 1957. “I can’t think unless I’m lying down, either in bed or stretched on a couch and with a cigarette and coffee handy. I’ve got to be puffing and sipping. As the afternoon wears on, I shift from coffee to mint tea to sherry to martinis. No, I don’t use a typewriter. Not in the beginning. I write my first version in longhand (pencil). Then I do a complete revision, also in longhand.”

Ernest Hemingway at the Standing Desk on the Balcony of Bill Davis’s home near Malaga, Life/Time Images.

Hemingway wrote 500 words a day – mostly in the mornings to avoid the heat. A prolific writer, he also knew when to stop. In a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934, he wrote, “I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”

Hemingway discovered the standing desk method from his editor at Charles Scribner’s Sons, Maxwell Perkins, after an injury prevented him from spending prolonged amounts of time sitting down. In the 18th and 19th centuries, nearly everyone used a standing desk. AE Hotchner recalls Hemingway’s home set-up in Havana, in Papa Hemingway: A Personal Memoir:

“In Ernest’s room there was a large desk covered with stacks of letters, magazines, and newspaper clippings, a small sack of carnivores’ teeth, two unwound clocks, shoehorns, an unfilled pen in an onyx holder, a wood carved zebra, wart hog, rhino and lion in single file, and a wide-assortment of souvenirs, mementos and good luck charms. He never worked at the desk. Instead, he used a stand up work place he had fashioned out of a bookcase near his bed. His portable typewriter was snugged in there and papers were spread along the top of the bookcase on either side of it. He used a reading board for longhand writing.”

“I hate writing. I love having written.” Dorothy Parker, Life/Time images.

“Ducking for apples” said Dorothy Parker. “Change one letter and it’s the story of my life.” Dorothy Parker; American poet, short story writer, critic, satirist – and yet another blacklisted name during the 1950s.  In her day she was known as a ‘wisecracker‘ – a label that may have been applied to Oscar Wilde had he been born in New Jersey – but one Parker despised. Yet her literary output and reputation for sharp wit has endured.

Dorothy Parker in the midst of writer’s block. She sent this telegram to her editor, Pascal Covici, as she couldn’t bring herself to look him “in the voice.”

Asked by a journalist during an interview, “Where’s the best place to write?” Parker replied, “In your head.” And her head was clocked in constantly, from speakeasies through three marriages (two to the same man – “I put all my eggs in one bastard”), the heavy drinking and smoking and some unhappiness. But her style and wit continue to entertain readers. “I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable, I’d rather have money.”

Nearly finished? Lost in spools. The draft of Jack Kerouac’s Beat-defining phenomenon ‘On the Road’ appeared to the world in April 1951 as a single 36 metre (120-foot) role of paper.

Fueled by the same fever as his characters, Jack Kerouac racked a word-count to help him set course for a complete novel. “That’s not writing” Capote famously remarked,”that’s typing”. But when the whiskey and malt loosened its grip, habits at the Kerouac table-top were disciplined. From the time of first novel The Town and the City Kerouac kept a log; between 1,000 to 5,000 words a night.He also created a formula to mimic the ‘batting average’. The goal was a .400 batting average – on par with Ted Williams.

Kerouac’s fierce verbal also invoked a set of commandments, tacked on the wall of Allen Ginsberg’s hotel room in North Beach a year before Ginsberg published Howl.

“Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy. Submissive to everything, open, listening. Try never get drunk outside yr own house. Be in love with yr life. Accept loss forever. Believe in the holy contour of life. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind. Don’t think of words when you stop but to see picture better”

After hours. Jack Kerouac, Lucien Carr, Allen Ginsber, 1959. Image John Cohen/Hulton Archive

Alfred Hitchcock with his 1930′s Black Underwood typewriter – and cocktail bar. “More work was done on the script in the evening over cocktails, than any other time” said collaborator Charles Bennett. Life/Time images.

“In the morning, I used to get up and pick up Hitch in Cromwell Road, where he lived, at ten o’clock exactly” says screenwriter Charles Bennett, who collaborated with Hitchcock from his earliest ‘talkies’ – including The Man Who Knew Too Much in 1934 – establishing the innovative wit, freshness and originality Hitchcock subsequently demanded of his writers. “He would be sitting on the curb waiting for me. And then we would go to the studio where we would discuss the script and what I was doing with it”.

“Then at about one o’clock, everything would stop, and we’d go to lunch, always at the Mayfair Hotel, and have a wonderful lunch. Then come back and at that point, Hitch would usually go to sleep in the office, and I would do a little work, and possibly doze off too slightly. At about five o’clock, we would go back to Hitchcock’s flat where we would start having nice cocktails for the evening, and talk more and more and more about the script. And I think more work was done on the script in the evening over cocktails, than any other time.”

Tennessee Williams faces a terrible question, Life/Time images

“I write as soon as I get up in the morning – facing that terrible question as soon as possible. Some mornings I get up and what I’ve been working on is repugnant to me. So then I shift to some other thing I’ve been working on. I find it absolutely necessary to have two things going on at once, then I can shift back and forth” (Tennessee Williams interview with John Gruen, 1965)

William Faulkner, 1943. “My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey. Life/ Time images.

“I can’t write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman” said Patricia Highsmith, Tom Ripley creator, and bringer of many other thrillers – including Hitchcock’s ‘Stranger’s on a Train’.”I have Graham Greene’s telephone number, but I wouldn’t dream of using it. I don’t seek out writers because we all want to be alone.”

Roald Dahl in his writing hut.

Roald Dahl created space the same way his mind burrowed out a giant peach; fantastically. He believed a writing space should be highly personal. His writing hut was closed to everyone, including family. A wing-back chair hollowed out to comfort a bad back, a writing board made from wood and green baize fitted across the arms. An electric heater hung directly overhead.

The hut was also decked with curios and artifacts; a piece of his own hip bone, his own preserved spinal shavings, fossils, magazines, fan letters, old photos, family totems, bookmarks drawn specially for him by friend and illustrator Quentin Blake (he only ever seen the interior once) and an enormous ball of wrapper foil slow-built from years of lunching on Cadbury’s chocolate.

Now that the great writing chair is empty you can take an interactive tour of the hut.

“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ‘you are nothing’, I will be a writer.”, Hunter S Thompson.

Hunter S. Thompson is best known for writing in a spin of campaign trails, Hell’s Angels, Holiday Inns, Wild Turkey, mescalin and an occasional lawyer. But while attending Columbia University School of General Studies and taking creative writing, he also worked at Time for $51 a week as a copy boy.  During this stint he would sneak off into a room with a typewriter and rewrite his favorite author’s books, including F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gastby and Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, before moving on.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a damned shame that a field as potentially dynamic and vital as journalism should be overrun with dullards, bums, and hacks, hag-ridden with myopia, apathy, and complacence, and generally stuck in a bog of stagnant mediocrity. If this is what you’re trying to get The Sun away from, then I think I’d like to work for you. (Thompson’s Cover letter to Vancouver Sun, looking for a job, 1957)

Henry Miller in his office

Euchrid’s Crib, Nick Cave in Yorkestrasse, West Berlin, 1985, Image by Bleddyn Butcher.

Human song-sheaf Nick Cave has replaced harmful addictions with work since the eighties, and implies as much himself: “Writing is a necessary thing for me, just to keep myself level. It has beneficial effects on my life”. When he bunked down in Berlin to write the And the Ass Saw The Angel, it seemed his method was not so different from songwriting – or taking drugs. “I write a lot, and very often I write a couple of lines that are particularly revealing in some kind of way. And then as a few more lines get added and a piece gets added, eventually the song pretty much takes over and you can’t really find a way to change those things.”

And isn’t that what it’s all about?

“More Things to Remember…”, Nick Cave, Melbourne Arts Centre


									

Dr Alfred Kinsey and Kenneth Anger unearth Aleister Crowley’s Satanic frescoes in Thelema Abbey, Sicily.

Geoff Stanton

“As Keith and Anita learned more about the powers of darkness, they grew secretive. They knew the subject frightened me, and they got rid of me when Kenneth Anger or other demonic friends came to call. Keith was impressed when Kenneth ticked off all the great artistic rebels who’d flirted with black magic – Blake, Byron, Oscar Wilde, Yeats and De Quincey…” (Tony Sanchez, Up and Down with the Rolling Stones)

There is something largely missing from popular cinema and music these days, and that’s Satan. I might be sounding old-fashioned – but Satanism had some style. While 1969 turned many things bad – Hells Angels, heroin, peyote, Charles Manson, Dick Van Dyke – Kenneth Anger’s pact with the devil was reaping psychedelic fruit. Anger was a powerful force. His grasp of the symbolic – reckoned with the Satanic creed of ‘Do What Thou Wilt’ – alchemised into works such as Scorpio Rising and Invocation of My Demon Brother, and dealt the decade a final score.

And along the way he also scared some people. In fact, his “awesomely evil 11-minute masterpiece” Invocation – starring himself, Anton LaVey (the High Priest of the Church of Satan), Charles Manson sidekick Bobby Beausoleil (later to serve life imprisonment with Manson for first degree murder), and featuring documentary footage from a satanic cat funeral, a ceremonial skull smoking session, a mummified psychic and a synthesized Moog soundtrack by Mick Jagger – was not as out of this world as the man himself.

Kenneth Anger, camera in crowd, shooting footage that will end up in ‘Invocation of My Demon Brother’.

“We all were just a little afraid of Kenneth” said Tony Sanchez, the Rolling Stones’ drug manager, in his Stones biography. “Again and again inexplicable things involving him would happen. Once, for example, Robert Fraser arranged an opening party for some white sculptures that John Lennon and Yoko Ono had created. I saw Kenneth clearly at the party, but when I went across to talk to him he seemed to have vanished.

“I thought little of it at the time until that afternoon when Anita, Marianne, Keith and Mick all said that they too had seen Kenneth but had been unable to find him. ‘Anyway’ said Anita ‘it’s very strange because Kenneth told me he wouldn’t be able to come to the exhibition because he was going away on business in Germany’. Kenneth didn’t return to London for two weeks, and by then numerous people all remarked on having seen Kenneth across the crowded room, but had been unable to speak to him. Eventually we asked almost everyone who had been there if they has spoken to him – and none of them had”.

Kenneth Anger sporting his trademark Lucifer tattoo.

The myth of Kenneth Anger quickly spread through the shakers’ inner circles.  The Rolling Stones, Marianne Faithful, Jimmy Page – all were eager to move in its current. “Kenneth Anger told me I was his right hand man” Keith Richards told Rolling Stone Magazine. “It’s just what you feel. Whether you’ve got that good and evil thing together. Left-hand path, right hand path, how far do you want to go down? Once you start there’s no going back.”

By ’69 Anger was considered a fierce original in Europe and the United States – both influential and genuinely independent.  From his early 1947 film Fireworks, through to Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome (1954) and Lucifer Rising (1972), Anger became, as Jonas Mekas put it “one of the most complex personalities working in cinema.  Whatever he does, be it cinema or life, he does it fully, to the bottom… Kenneth Anger, the True Cosmic Explorer.”

The Kenneth Anger enigma begins in 1935, back-dated by his own hand, where he claimed to have performed the role of the Changeling Prince in the Warner Brothers film A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Whether or not the child was him is debatable – studio key books state the character was played by a girl named Sheila Brown. Anger’s biographer denies this. Bullshit or not, the claim somehow adds to Anger’s ability to transcend the chair.

“Kenneth Anger claimed to be a Magus, though he refused to reveal whether toad sacrifices had been necessary for his promotion” wrote Sanchez. “What is indisputable is that Anger does appear to have certain powers, and he has been linked with extraordinary incidents.”

Kenneth Anger/ Sheila Brown as The Changleing Prince from 1935′s Midsummer Night’s Dream. IMDB goes with Brown. His later work Rabbit’s Moon was also influenced by this film.

At the Cinémathèque Française, 1955.

With an interest in the occult piqued at an early age by Frank L Baum’s Oz books, by the 1950s Anger was travelling the Satanic grottoes of Europe – voyaging firstly through Italy to make a film about the sixteenth century occultist Cardinal d’Este, before emerging in Paris around 1955 (where he met Jean Cocteau). He continued to produce short films, filming 20 minutes of footage for his film Rabbit’s Moon (set under a blue filter, it involves a clown longing for the moon) at the Films du Pantheon Studio. When the studio closed the production down, footage was stored in the labyrinthine archive of the Cinémathèque Française.

In 1955 Anger spent three months in Cefalu, Sicily to shoot a documentary about Aleister Crowley’s frescoes in Thelema Abbey. The Abbey of Thelema was a small villa establised as a temple and spiritual centre by Crowley  in 1920. The name was taken from Rabelais’ satire Gargantua and Pantagruel, where the Abbey of Thélème was an ‘anti-monastery’ in which inhabitants spent time “not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their own free will and pleasure.”

Thelema Abbey, Cefalù, Sicily, circa Kenneth Anger.

Early Hollywood star Jane Wolfe at Abbey of Thelema at Cefalù, Sicily. She lived there from 1920 until it closed in 1923. Wolfe kept records of magic practice, later published by the College of Thelema in Northern California, as The Cefalu Diaries. She gave up a Hollywood career to join Crowley.

Anger’s film would have made an fascinating excursion – complete with shuddering organ, grotesque undercoats and a resident evil, no doubt. But unfortunately it has been lost. “The film was made for Houlton Television which was  a branch of Picture Post – an extinct British Magazine.” said Anger “They lost it. I tried to find it and it’s untraceable. I lived in Crowley’s house, alone, but that kind of thing doesn’t bother me. I had to. It was the only way to get it done.

“I spent three months there scraping the whitewash, which had turned to stone, off the walls. They were still there – all those hyper-psychedelic murals: goblins and demons in fabulous color, scarlet and pumpkin-red. Actually they were good paintings, similar in feel to Ensor”.

But it was the 1960s that truly brought the demons to the surface.

Satan was getting a lot of press. And Anton LaVey – founder and head of the Church of Satan – was spearheading business. The symbolism and ritual of the occult appealed to the anti-establishment; hippies were looking further than flowers, thinkers were pressing the boundaries. On the screen, occult-obsessed films had sprung from the drying patch of Hammer horror – movies such as Eye of the Devil (starring Roman Polanksi’s beautiful but doomed wife Sharon Tate), The Devil Rides Out, The Devils Own and – perhaps – later on The Exorcist. Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby was the cream of the crop – LaVey adding it was “the best paid commercial for Satanism since the Inquisition.”

Anton LaVey in Kenneth Anger’s Invocation of My Brother Demon. He plays … Satan! He would later be technical adviser for The Devil’s Rain, a story of a cult of devil worshippers starring Ernest Borgnine, William Shatner, Tom Skerritt, and John Travolta.

In 1966 blonde starlet Jayne Mansfield - reputedly a Church of Satan Priestess (following some publicity shots she did with LaVey) -  stole the headlines after being virtually decapitated in a car accident, alongside boyfriend Sam Brody. Anton LaVey, reportedly obsessed with Mansfield, took it badly. He had put the curse on Brody.

Gossip now dragged Satan through the undertow of magazines and media. And LaVey seized the wheel. In 1969 he publicly married journalist John Raymond and socialite Judith Case, performed a satanic funeral of Navy machinist-repairman Edward Olsen at Treasure Island (reciting the eulogy while a Navy musician played Taps), performed a satanic baptism on his own 3-year-old daughter Zeena (who chewed gum throughout), appeared on Johnny Carson’s seventh anniversary show and released the Satanic Bible.

A Satanic wedding in the 1960s.

Satanists Michael Aquino and Anton LaVey with Sammy Davis Jr, Circle Star Theater. Davis reportedly noticed Anton LaVey in the front row, and gave him the Sign of the Horns. He was later presented with a second-degree certificate, medallion, and membership card for the Church of Satan.

LaVey and Jayne Mansfield in a series of publicity shots, shortly before her death.

It was also around this time Anger began to gather a reputation. And around the time he started working on his opus, Lucifer Rising.

Again to Sanchez: “His life’s work was to have been a film of homage to the devil, Lucifer Rising. For the role of Lucifer Anger employed a good looking young man named Bobby Beausoleil, who played guitar with the Californian rock band Love. Mysteriously, after many months of filming, Beausoleil appeared to go beserk and carried out a singularly bestial murder which ended with his writing on a wall with his victim’s blood”.

Rumour has it that Beausoleil was kicked out by Anger after he hid an enormous parcel of marijuana in house. Anger later claimed that the guitarist took the footage for Lucifer Rising with him, and buried it somewhere in Death Valley. Kenneth Anger therefore placed ‘the curse of the frog’ on him – by trapping a frog in a well.

It was not long afterwards that  Beausoleil became associated with the Manson family and murdered music teacher Gary Hinman – after a bulk sale of LSD to some bikers went bad. He is currently serving a life sentence for first degree murder.

Bobby Beausoleil on the doorstep of Anger’s Russian House, ‘Do What Thou Wilt’. Bobby Beausoleil did, and is now spending his life in prison. 

The role of Lucifer was subsequently offered to Mick Jagger, with Jimmy Page brought in to compose the soundtrack. Page’s interest in the occult is well known – from the early seventies he owned an occult bookshop and publishing house, “The Equinox Booksellers and Publishers” in Kensington High Street, London. The company published a facsimile of English occultist’s Aleister Crowley’s 1904 edition of The Goetia. Page had also purchased and lived in Crowley’s estate of Boleskine – an old home by the side of Loch Ness in Scotland, originally purchased by Crowley because its isolation and layout reflected the order required to speak to spirits, as per instructions found in the The Book of the Sacred Magick of Abra-Melin the Mage.

“I feel Aleister Crowley is a misunderstood genius of the 20th century” Page told Sounds Magazine in 1978. “Because his whole thing was liberation of the person, of the entity, and that restrictions would foul you up, lead to frustration which leads to violence, crime, mental breakdown, depending on what sort of makeup you have underneath. The further this age we’re in now gets into technology and alienation, a lot of the points he’s made seem to manifest themselves all down the line.”

For personal reasons – heroin – Page never completed the job. What he did deliver was twenty-three minutes of music three years later – five minutes short of Anger’s demands and the final cut. Page recently released the recording as ‘Lucifer Rising and Other Soundtracks’ in 2012.

Anger’s view of Page has meanwhile soured over the years.  “He’s a multi-millionaire miser,” he told Mark Berry, in a great interview for Bizarre Magazine. “He and Charlotte, that horrible vampire girl – the druggie that got him on heroin – they’re both junkies. They had so many servants, yet they would never offer me a cup of tea or a sandwich. Which is such a mistake on their part because I put the curse of king Midas on them. If you’re greedy and just amass gold you’ll get an illness. So I did turn her and Jimmy Page into statues of gold because they’ve both lost their minds. He can’t write songs anymore.”

The final soundtrack was delivered – remarkably – by the incarcerated Beausoleil. And it is quite stunning; an hypnotic reel of looping psychedelic guitar, with ancient harmonics fuzzing at the core. It was Anger’s most expensive film because it involved a trip to Egypt. In the film Marianne Faithfull played Lilith – a demon. “I said to Marianne Faithfull, don’t bring any drugs because they’ll execute you” recalled Anger. “So she hid her heroin in her makeup box underneath her face powder. I think she was powdering her face with heroin.”

Marianne Faithfull before The Sphinx as Lilith the demon, in Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising.

And the hallucinogenic stories from The Rolling Stones camp meanwhile continued to flourish. Tony Sanchez relates Anger’s participation in the wedding of Kieth Richards and Anita Pallenberg – which he suggested be a pagan ceremony. He then explained that the door of the house where the ceremony is held must be painted gold with a magical paint containing special herbs, which represent the sun.

“The next morning I was awakened by Anita yelling hysterically to Keith from the hallway” says Sanchez. “I pulled on my dressing gown and ran downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. ‘Look Tony, look’ she screamed pointing to the door. I was astonished to discover that it had been fastidiously painted inside and out in gold. ‘It must have been Kenneth, but I can’t work out how he did it’ said Keith. ‘The security people put the strongest lock you can buy in that door, and there’s no way anyone could have got a spare key.’ ‘It must be another of Kenneth’s powers’ said Anita. ‘It means he can fly into the house anytime he wants to’.

On the subject of magic, Anger cryptically told Mark Berry: “I never talk about it with people that aren’t magicians. Because they would think you were a fucking liar.”

Anger himself offers a more sober assessment of his transmuting abilities. In Out! Demons Out!: An Oral History of the 1967 Exorcism of the Pentagon, Anger recalled his method of infiltrating the Pentagon to attack Mars, the God of War. “I just walked right in. I had studied how the Pentagon staff were dressed, and I was just like them. I wore a dark blue conservative suit. I even had a small American flag on my lapel. There were these hothead lefties, who, their idea was they would take over and kill the capitalists – not very practical.

“I had a map of the Pentagon. I went into every single men’s room and left—in a place where it was bound to be discovered, usually on the seat —a talisman which was written on parchment paper, drawn in india ink. Each one was drawn individually using one of Crowley’s talismans as my guide. They probably could figure out it was something occult. They know about those things, and they have a reference library.”

“He’s still our ruling god. Mars loves bloodshed, and he is a force that’s still operating in the world—it’s a force that according to modern thinking is irrational, but nevertheless there. Freud would have called it the unconscious or something but I believe that these are actual living entities. Not ‘living’ in the way like humans living and breathing, [but] living in a way that are much beyond our capacity, because they’ll never die.

“I didn’t stop until I had scattered all 93 of my talismans—because 93 is a sacred number for Crowley. Then I walked out, it was all very inconspicuous. The security guard looked at me and gave me a nice look, like we’re all looking after each other. If I’d been stopped and put in handcuffs that would’ve been unpleasant. That isn’t the way I want to spend my time in Washington—I had a ticket to the opera for later that week.

Film makers Donald Cammell, Dennis Hopper, Alejandro Jodorowsky & Kenneth Anger. Message to Hollywood 2012: Pull your socks up and make some decent pacts.

By the 1980s Anger was living largely in retirement, screening his films at universities and film festivals. He was also living off the pulp-gossip of his Hollywood Babylon books 1 and 2, which trawled through the scandalous underbelly of Hollywood stardom. They contained highly litigious litanies of debauch and revelation (including the Fatty Arbuckle sexual assault scandal, the murder of William Desmond Taylor, the Hollywood Blacklist and the murder of Sharon Tate) most of which continue to be debunked. Film historian Kevin Brownlow criticized the work, quoting Anger as saying his research method was “mental telepathy, mostly”.  A documentary of Anger called Kenneth Anger’s Magick was also released around this time. Its director Kit Fitzgerald claimed Anger told her he was now so broke he had been forced to sell his air conditioner.

Anger has said Hollywood Babylon 3 has been written, but is on hold in his top drawer – he can’t afford the inevitable litigation from The Church of Scientology. He has called today’s Hollywood a “dried-out prune of a place”, with stars that are not worth gossiping about. “I covered most of the people who were interesting to me in the first two books.”

Mental telepathy – mostly.

But among the murders, madness, drug addictions and demons, the best of Kenneth Anger stands out for the hypnotic power of his films. “Like many people, I was astonished when I saw Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising for the first time,” Martin Scorsese said in an introduction to the released DVD. “Every cut, every camera movement, every color, and every texture seemed, somehow, inevitable, in the same way that images of the Virgin in Renaissance painting seem inevitable—in other words, pre-existing but dormant, and brought back to life through some kind of evocation.” Anger’s splicing of pop soundtracks with imagery – as far back as 1964 – is also regarded as pioneering, influencing Scorsese’s generation first-hand.

And whether his other-world powers remain intact or not, Anger today remains a rarity and a raconteur, stranded somewhere between Old Hollywood and modern oblivion. He remains both reviled and respected. Depending on where you stand.

As mentioned, there are a number of interesting interviews with the man. Check out Mark Berry’s intriguing chat with the bloke. Below are videos Lucifer Rising, Anger’s commentary on Invocation of My Demon Brother and lastly his 2004 revisit to the Crowley’s Thelema Abbey.

Cab Driver Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.

“It was raining hard in Sydney. I needed one more fare to make my night. A lady up ahead flagged to wave me down. She got in at the light” (almost the lyrics to Harry Chapin’s Taxi)

I was recently digging around some photos of Sydney’s Kings Cross and uncovered a series of photos by Rennie Ellis. They were shot over a six month period during 1970 and early 1971, when American servicemen from Vietnam jostled money through the bars and strip joints alongside bikies, hippies, oddballs and junkies. Everyone was, as Barry McKenzie might have said, “as busy as a one-armed taxi driver with crabs”.

Rennie Ellis’s 1971 work captures the Cross at its eccentric and seedy best. A mesmerising gateway into what he called “the surface glitter and underground guts of the Cross”

"The underground guts of the Cross". Bouncer, Kings Cross Strip Club, 1970, Image by Rennie Ellis.

“Sydney was, in effect, a tabula rasa. Unlike the cities of the Old World, no slow sedimentation of history lay beneath its streets. Old World centres founded in Roman or medieval times grew organically… Cities of the New World sprang into being, often at a single, identifiable moment in time” (John Birmingham, ‘Leviathan – The Unauthorised Biography of Sydney‘)

The Sydney of 1970 had not shifted far from its origins – except perhaps for a quick roll in the glitter. Back in 1788 the first freight-loads of male and female convicts were dumped together two miles west at Sydney Cove just as a terrible storm hit. It took several barrels of stupefying rum – thrown in courtesy of some relieved and exhausted Officers – to turn the scene into a full-blown squall of lightening, liquor, filth and fornication.

But the seed scattered in virile soil.

US Servicemen at the Golden Orchid, Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Midnight Show, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Between strips, Kings Cross 1970, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Officers on the beat 1970, Image by Rennie Ellis.


US Serviceman with Kings Cross girls 1970, Image by Rennie Ellis.

“The scene which presented itself beggars every description: some swearing, others quarreling, others singing, not in the least regarding the tempest” (Arthur Bowes Smyth on Sydney’s first landing, 1788)

By the early 20th century the Kings Cross district had become Sydney’s bohemian heartland. It also provided ground for a notorious turf-war in the illegal alcohol trading – known as sly grog – between Sydney’s celebrated crime matriarchs Tilly Devine and Kate Leigh.

In 1970 the neon protegee – set behind the spooling enclave of exclusive 19th century terraces -  had refined history into a red lather of lights, action, sordid glam, the eccentric and the criminal.

Snake Woman, Kings Cross 1970, Image by Rennie Ellis.


MC, Paradise Club, Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.

Carlotta & Electra, Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Carlotta, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.

“Some call it Australia’s Barbary Coast – and there are a few pirates there for sure. Others call it Sin City – and here’s some of that around too. One Sydney Alderman wants it cleaned up. Another says it is worth a million a year the way it is. If you can believe what you read about it the inhabitants make their living out of baccarat, dope, witchcraft, prostitution, stripping – and selling each other salami.(ABC TV, 1969)

By 1970 Abe Saffron – known as Mr Sin – ruled the roost. It was during his reign Jim Anderson shot dead Donny ‘the Glove’ Smith dead outside the Venus Room – now a less salubrious Backpackers Hostel. Australia’s celebrated witch Rosaleen Norton held court. Free love was for sale at the artists open residence The Yellow House. The area was a certified home to artists, writers, poets journalists and actors – including Australia’s Peter Finch and Chips Rafferty.

Property of Hells Angels, Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.

Auntie Mame, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.


The Witch of Kings Cross, Rosaleen Norton 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Tattoo Girl, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Working Girls, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.

Peace sign, The Yellow House, Kings Cross 1970-1971, Image by Rennie Ellis.

Yellow House Kings Cross 1970-71, Image by Rennie Ellis.


Top of the hill and left at the Coke sign, Gov. Rainy evening Kings Cross 1966 Fairfax Images.


Kings Cross 1970, Image by J Fitzpatrick.

Rennie Ellis went on to photograph bar rooms, strip joints, celebrities – with a seemingly boundless backstage pass – around the world. He also caught some great AC/DC dressing room moments with Bon Scott in 1977.

His photo gallery captures the great Australian cosmopolitan throughout the decades, from the beehives and rockers of the sixites to the hyper-colour of the eighties and ninties – with sex throughout. Ellis passed away in 2003. Kings Cross has since been tidied up some – instead it is now littered with plaques commemorating the characters who once coloured the area.

Camera-buff Frank Sinatra, working as a photographer-by-the-ropes for LIFE Magazine, circa Fight of the Century 1971.

By Geoff Stanton

It was March 1971 and Madison Square Garden teemed with celebrities, punters, police and paparazzi. The venue was thick with carnival. At its core, a fission of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier preparing to clash. Celebrated artists waiting to paint the event. Burt Lancaster sat in the commentators chair for the closed-circuit broadcast. Frank Sinatra jostling ringside, taking photos for LIFE Magazine. Norman Mailer took the words, with an article aptly titled EGO.

“It is the great word of the twentieth century. If there is a single word our century has added to the potentiality of language, it is ego. Everything we have done in this century, from monumental feats to nightmares of human destruction, have been a function of that extraordinary state of the psyche that gives us authority to declare we are sure of ourselves when we are not” (Norman Mailer)

Muhammad Ali, in a fight that was pitched as the clashing of cultures - "draft dodger" Ali vs "establishment hero" Joe Frazier.

It was more than a meeting of two heavyweights – it was a culture clash. The signature showdown between “draft-dodging” Ali and the Establishment’s hippy-humbling hero, Smokin’ Joe Frazier. The freaks had a hero in Ali, but Frazier was a rolling mass of brute punishment waiting to unfurl.


Ali: “You don’t understand, Frazier will be easier than Quarry or Bonavena. I’ll just hold his head and I’ll tell him, ‘Come on, Champ.’ I’ll just play with him. He’ll be trying all those short hooks and not reaching me and I’ll be moving and saying, ‘Come on, champ. You can do better than that.’”

"Joe Frazier is an Uncle Tom. He works for the enemy." Muhammad Ali-Training in Miami. The fighter that Norman Mailer said "invented the psychology of the body". Image John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

     

 



Ali taunts Frazier at his own training headquarters in Pennsylvania. The photographer John Shearer wondered if Ali realised what was happening here – it would be war.  John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

“The two places Frazier communicates best,” wrote LIFE’s Thomas Thompson in a March 1971 cover story, “are in the ring, when a cloak of menace and fury drops over him, and on a nightclub stage, where he sings with strength and sincerity.”

Joe Frazier with his Knockouts. John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

"Frazier felt that he was every bit as articulate as Ali," photographer John Shearer said, "and every bit the showman that Ali was." John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

Ali sparing playfully outside a Miami grocery store, February 1971. As Shearer said: "The man's appeal -- his charisma, his confidence, his strength, his beauty -- drew to him people of all classes, races, and creeds". John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

“Heavyweights are always the most lunatic of prizefighters. The closer a heavyweight comes to the championship, the more natural it is for him to be a little bit insane, secretly insane, for the heavyweight champion of the world is either the toughest man in the world or he is not, but there is a real possibility he is. It is like being the big toe of God. You have nothing to measure yourself by.” (Mailer)

The War Machine, Joe Frazier. "A Knockout combs and blacks Frazier's beard before a performance," read the caption in LIFE. One of the Knockouts said "Music has brought Joe out, made him a little nicer to people, a little more comfortable to be around." John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

“Sooner or later fight metaphors, like fight managers, go sentimental. But there is no choice here. Frazier was the human equivalent of a war machine. He had tremendous firepower. He had a great left hook, a left hook frightening even to watch when it missed, for it seemed to whistle.” (Mailer)

Ali with his personal trainer, American boxing cornerman Angelo Dundee, resting before the fight.

“It was electric in the Garden that night,” Shearer told LIFE.com. “You know, it was the night of the great showdown between the era’s two gladiators, and there was a sense that the unprecedented hype for the fight might actually fall short of the reality.”

It didn’t.

About to be humbled? "People were there in all their finery," Shearer said, "from the outlandish to the most elegant imaginable. And without a doubt it was a very, very pro-Ali crowd. They all came to see him win, to see him destroy Joe Frazier." John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

Miles Davis mixes in the crowd for the Ali-Frazier fight, Madison Square Gardens 1971. John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

Ali with close friend and assistant, Bundini Brown, shortly before the fight. Brown was the street poet who helped phrase Ali's greatest catechism: "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee" John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

Many of the greats have shown us that it takes the power of the event, and the fulcrum it generates, to bind the spirit, guide us through turmoil; create sense, certainty, politics, art. Life is uncertain, sure. But nature abhors a vacuum. Or, as Mailer put it: “Within 45 seconds the pattern had begun”.

“I have this visceral belief that he just can’t be beaten,” LIFE’s sports editor, Steve Gelman, said of Ali before the fight. “He’s one of those guys, like [Bob] Cousy in basketball, or Willie Mays in baseball. In their prime they were able to come up with exactly the right physical improvisation necessary to do the job. Ali has more of this quality than any athlete I’ve ever seen. No matter how good Frazier is, Ali will manage to win.”

The fight more than matched the juggernaut of hype. It ran the full 15 round championship distance. Ali weaved his way through the first three rounds, catching Frazier with a series of  jabs and hooks as he ducked and dodged.

But Frazier slowly began to dominate.

Catching Ali with a barrage left hooks Frazier squared the champ up against the ropes,  delivering a sermon of body blows.

Joe Frazier serves Muhammad Ali a sermon of blows. Photograph: Bettmann/Corbis

Ali was visibly wilting after the sixth, putting together a flurry of punches, but unable to keep step with the pace he had set himself at the start. But agility and eloquence kept him on an even footing with Frazier. The fight was close until late in round 11.

Frasier and Ali retire into their camps during the middle rounds. Photo: John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

During the 11th round Frazier caught Ali, backing him into a corner with a bruising left hook, tacking him onto the ropes. Ali survived, but the War Machine claimed the next three.

“Frazier moved in with the snarl of a wolf,” Norman Mailer wrote of the middle rounds. “His teeth seemed to show through his mouthpiece … Ali looked tired and a little depressed … At the beginning of the fifth round, he got up slowly from his stool, very slowly. Frazier was beginning to feel that the fight was his. He moved in on Ali, his hands at his side in mimicry of Ali, a street fighter mocking his opponent, and Ali tapped him with long light jabs to which Frazier stuck out his mouthpiece, a jeer of derision as if to suggest that the mouthpiece was all Ali would reach all night.”

At the end of 14 Frazier held a lead on the three scorecards. Early in round 15 Frazier landed a tremendous left hook that put Ali on his back.

Ali, right jaw swollen, recovered quickly from the blow quickly. He stayed the course for the rest of the round, weathering the powerful blows from Frazier.

Boxer Joe Frazier is directed to the ropes by referee Arthur Marcante after knocking down Muhammad Ali. A few minutes later the judges made it official: Frazier retained the title with a unanimous decision.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Herb Scharfman / Sports Illustrated / Getty Images

It was Ali’s first professional loss. He would not win another world title fight until three and a half years later, on October 30, 1974.

Donald McRae wrote for The Guardian: “There was, of course, a price to pay – for both of them – and the Araneta Coliseum in Quezon City, Manila, on the morning of Wednesday 1 October 1975, was the settling place. The Thrilla in Manila – conceived by Don King, embraced by the dubious regime of President Marcos – reached and maintained such a level of raw intensity that it is regarded by an overwhelming majority of respected observers as the most brutal of all heavyweight title fights. It is no exaggeration to say that either or both combatants could have died.”

Frazier straightens himself up after the fight. Photo: John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

After the Great Fight both Frazier and Ali spent time in hospital. Rumors circulated that Frazier had died. Ali vowed to retire from boxing if they turned out to be true.

They weren’t.

Smokin' Joe and his camp after the main event. But despite his victory, Ali remained the prominent name in Ali-Frazier phenomenon. Ali's shadow stalked Frazier for years. Photo: John Shearer/TIME & LIFE Pictures

Mailer went on to write ‘The Fight’, about Ali’s confrontation with George Foreman during the 1975 World Heavyweight Boxing Championship in Kinshasa, Zaire. In contrast to the wrecking ball of Frazier, Foreman’s  deadly character has been described as a potent of “silence, serenity and cunning”. Foreman had also never been defeated. His hands were his instrument, and “he kept them in his pockets the way a hunter lays his rifle back into its velvet case”. In Mailer’s own hands, it was another monumental clash of Egos.

Sinatra pursued his singing career.

Towards the end of his life, Frazier claimed he was badly out of pocket – lost many millions lost on land deals and a swindle of business partners. He walked with a cane, but continued to tour with The Knockouts. Of Ali, Frazier commented in 2011 “If I had a loaf of bread, I’d give it to him”.

On hearing of Frazier’s death shortly afterward, the Ego of the battle was perhaps finally laid to rest. Ali said: “The world has lost a great Champion. I will always remember Joe with respect and admiration. My sympathy goes out to his family and loved ones.”

by Geoff Stanton

It used to be you could tell a good riot from the soundtrack. Just look at the peasant revolt of 1381 – five hundred and ninety years before Johnny Rotten, its rabble-rousers still being covered by Chumbawamba. The banditry of Robin Hood was later formalised; British communists had a Little Red Songbook “to fan the flames of discontent” while smashing Fascists in the street. The fifties and sixites gave us Folk Music, Frontmen, Highways, Hells Angels – and magazines have long since fossilized the punk and reggae rush through the spot-fires.

Yep, every decent riot needs a good soundtrack.

So what was the soundtrack for looting a Footlocker or nicking a plasma? While the 2011 London riots look familiar against a century of images – hi-res fireballs and swarms of hoodie aside – overt political causes are muted by sheer adrenalin and rage.

But the genuine voices are out there. “We just have to hunt them down,” veteran musician Bruce Cockburn told The Star in 2010, on talking about how music has been forced underground again. “We just don’t hear them. We don’t hear anything worthwhile these days unless we go looking for it.”

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Reg Weston recalled the rioteers ‘Little Red Songbook’ (published between 1905 and 1973, it was originally called Songs of the Workers, on the Road, in the Jungles, and in the Shops—Songs to Fan the Flames of Discontent), used during Weston’s involvement in the London riot of 1936. “The fascists were assembling by the Royal Mint” he said. “And police started to make baton charges, both foot and mounted, to try to clear a way for them to escort a march. They did not succeed.”

Oswald Mosley does the two step past adoring fascists at a rally in east London, 1936. Photograph by Imagno/Getty Image

“We sang the traditional working class marching songs and anthems.  The Internationale (“Arise ye starvelings from your slumbers”); the Italian revolutionary Bandiera Rossa (“Avanti popoli, alla riscossa”, “Forward ye workers, into the struggle”, “Fling to the breezes the scarlet banner”); the Berlin workers’ song Rote Wedding (“Left, left .. the workers are marching again”); the Polish Varshavianka, and the old Wobbly song “Solidarity Forever”, with the appropriate words: “We’ll hang Oswald Mosley on a sour apple tree … when the red revolution comes”.

“A barricade started to go up. A lorry was overturned, furniture was piled up, paving stones and a builders yard helped to complete the barrier. The police managed to clear the first, but found a second behind it and then a third. Marbles were thrown under the hooves of the police horses; volleys of bricks met every baton charge.”

London bobbies dismantle a communist built barricade near Mark Lane to clear the street for Mosley's fascist march, 1936. Photo by Topical Press Agency/Getty Images.

“Back in Stepney and the East End there was almost unbelievable delight. We had won. The fascists had been defeated and humiliated. The police too and the authorities had been proved unable to protect them.”

“Hastily a victory march had been organised to follow the route from Cable Street to Victoria Park where Mosley had planned to address his army. Hundreds joined in. Thousands stood on the pavements and in the roads, clapping and cheering as we marched on. In those days we marched, often in ranks of fours, under the leadership of the ex-servicemen of the not so far away World War I. We marched and we sang.”

A bobbie standing by a burning car, set alight during a communist march in the East End of London, 1936. Photo by Topical Press Agency/Getty Images.

Baton charge on demonstrating strikers at Walworth, South London. Image taken during the General Strike, 6th May 1926. Photo by Fox Photos/Getty Images.


Woody Guthrie lights up, providing inspiration to the folk singers of Britain. The 'Dust Bowl Troubadour's' music remains a vivid voice and rich oral history.

Bob Dylan in London, 1962. Ewan MacColl, father of the late Kirsty MacColl and legendary British folk singer, sits to the far right. A leading writer of English protest songs in the 1950s, he also wrote the very awesome ‘Dirty Old Town’ – immortalised by The Pogues.

By the 1950s the sounds of US folk singers such as Woody Guthrie had seeped into the working quarters of Britain, much the same way that Dylan would shift its youth culture a decade later. Guthrie had traveled with migrant workers from Oklahoma to California, learning traditional folk and blues songs. His songs recorded experiences in the ‘Dust Bowl’ era of the Great Depression. Known as the “Dust Bowl Troubadour” Guthrie was associated with Communist Party groups throughout his life – but never a member.

“Working people have always known that songs are a good way to say what you got to say about work, wages, school, cats, love, marriage, keeping house or doctors bills. If the fight gets hot, the songs get hotter. If the going gets tough, the songs get tougher.” (Woody Guthrie)

Folk was seized by a politically charged element and used as a standard. Ewan MacColl, father of the late Kirsty MacColl, was a leading writer of English protest songs in the 1950s, with pro-communist songs such as “The Ballad of Ho Chi Minh”, “The Ballad of Stalin”, and songs about the nuclear threat such as “Against the Atom Bomb”. He also wrote ‘Dirty Old Town’,  later immortalised by The Pogues.

A young Ewan MacColl.

Notting Hill, 1958 – the riot blueprint for generations. Simmering racial tension and poverty (check out the 1955 Pathe newsreel Our Jamaican Problem) led to the riots of Notting Hill – also eventually resulting in the Notting Hill Carnival, a celebration of diversity and music. Organised by Claudia Jones (black nationalist, journalist, activist and local) as a response to the race tensions of ’58, the festival  was a huge success, despite being held indoors. The hippie London Free School reinvented the festival as an outside event in August 1966.

Notting Hill, 1958.

Keep Britain White, Notting Hill 1958.

Meanwhile ... just a little bit of history repeating. A fight between anti-Fascists and supporters of Oswald Mosley's Union Movement at Charing Cross Station in London, 12th May 1963. The UM members planned to proceed to their headquarters in Vauxhall Bridge Road on their May Day march. The march was cancelled due to the escalating tension. Photo by Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

“The words ‘protest songs’ give me the willies,” Cockburn told The Star. “They conjure up the worst music of the 1960s – songs like ‘Eve of Destruction,’ which I hated when I first heard it. It’s pretentious posturing, manufactured nonsense, bad songwriting and just plain ignorant, compared to Dylan’s work in the same period. ‘A Hard Rain’ and ‘Masters of War’ are beautifully constructed and artfully created. They hit the right emotional buttons and they nail their targets.”

Iconic protester of the 1960s, Bob Dylan, and natural-born-protester (in the making), John Lennon.

The Rolling Stones scatter the seeds of unrest down the charts, 1964.

The kids are alright...just. Moments before they trash a music hall. The Rolling Stones riot, Zurich 1964, when the rioters soundtrack hit middle class mainstream. Keith Richards said that at this particular riot, girls' underwear was hanging from the chandeliers.

The Rolling Stones riot - images from the Flash Project's Street Fighting Man Exhibition: 50 years of youth protest.

The anti-Vietnam protest in London’s Grosvenor Square, now known as The Battle of Grosvenor Square, was a watershed moment in the rise of Britain’s so-called counter-culture. The target of the march was the United States Embassy, and the resulting riot was the inspiration for The Rolling Stones’ Street Fighting Man after Mick Jagger attended the rally and got swept up in some of the heat. An enormous crowd began to squeeze into the confined square, with reports that as many as 6,000 to 10,000 people made there way to the protest. The police reportedly handled the protest with kid gloves. Until the protesters tried to storm the US embassy.

Vanessa Redgrave and political activist Tariq Ali speak out against the Vietnam War at a rally in Trafalgar Square. It would shortly move on to Grosvenor Square, London, 1968.

Police confront thousands. Grosvenor Square, March 18, 1968.

“I remember being terrified at being chased down by what seemed like scores of mounted police with truncheons flailing about while the square was blocked off so that none who found themselves on the inside could get out” recalled Robert Newsom, from the University of California. “But the police seemed as frightened as the protesters. I remember also seeing Mick Jagger standing coolly on the steps of a house in the square surveying the chaos”

UK Police History London 1968

If you are the guy getting his hair pulled, please contact The Barrelhouse. Grosvenor Square 1968.

For the conservative observer of the 21st century, 1968 still delivers apoplexy. “The remarkable thing is that the half-baked and narcissistic ideologies of that dismal 12 months are still with us” moans columnist Rod Liddle in The Daily Mail. “In our schools, in our law courts, in our social services. They have permeated every facet of our lives. A disrespect for authority, contempt for the family unit, multiculturalism, “yoof culcha” and an emphasis upon rights rather than responsibilities. A permissiveness and indulgence shown towards every anti-social phenomenon from the use of illegal narcotics to single mothers and suicide bombers (‘We really need to understand them better’)”.

Strangely enough, Liddle didn’t seem to mind punk when it came around. Perhaps he liked Sid’s shock-value swastika.

London councillor Bernard Brook Partridge didn’t. “Most of these groups would be vastly improved by sudden death” he stoically observed on London’s emerging punk phenomenon. “The worst of the punk rock groups I suppose currently are the Sex Pistols. They are unbelievably nauseating. They are the antithesis of humankind. I would like to see somebody dig a very, very large, exceedingly deep hole and drop the whole bloody lot down it.”

Dig your own hole. Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten.

Punk’s place in the riot littered seventies is well documented. And Anarchy in the UK still ticks every box.  Rotten’s ‘just another council tenancy’ bark sounds almost mournful enough to be timeless. And it might be more in step with the personal politics of our day, more so than the socially driven Clash or protest folk and rock of the 1960s.

“It’s a loser’s emblem (swastika), because the Nazis lost the war. It’s ridiculous to suggest we are involved with fascists. All my best friends are black, gay, Irish or criminals.” (Johnny Rotten)

The Clash’s ‘White Riot‘ was written during the fermentation of London’s civil unrest. Joe Strummer, sartorial social barometer that he was, recalled getting caught up in the Notting Hill riots of 1978 under the Westway, along Malton Mews by Ladbroke Grove; starting with a group of “blue helmets sticking up like a conga line”, going through the crowd. It started with one can being lobbed through the air, one man hit – followed by a pelting hail of cans in every direction.

“The crowd drew back suddenly and the Notting Hill riot of 1976 was sparked. We were thrown back, women and children too, against a fence which sagged back dangerously over a drop. I can clearly see Bernie Rhodes, even now, frozen at the centre of a massive painting by Rabelais or Michelangelo… as around him a full riot breaks out and 200 screaming people running in every direction. The screaming started it all. Those fat black ladies started screaming the minute it broke out, soon there was fighting 10 blocks in every direction.”

Joe Strummer developed his love of rock music listening to The Beach Boys - as well as American folk-singer Woody Guthrie. He even went by the nickname "Woody"in his earlier band years. In 1970 his brother David had joined the National Front. His suicide in July profoundly affected Strummer.

Another notorious incident in the build-up of tension was the Southall riot. In the great tradition of Mosley, the National Front met the local candidate for upcoming parliamentary elections, who was pledging to “bulldoze Southall to the ground and replace it with an English hamlet“.

Among the inevitable clashes a young teacher named Blair Peach was knocked unconscious (reportedly by a rubberised police radio) and died the next day. Another victim was Clarence Baker, the manager of the British reggae band Misty In Roots. Baker was left with a fractured skull and a blood clot in his brain. He took a year to recover. Peach later became a national protest icon, memorialized by dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson in his song ‘Reggae Fi Peach‘. Baker’s assault meanwhile inspired The Ruts classic ‘Jah War‘.

The Southall riot that lead to the death of Blair Peach, 1978.

Sloganeering - The Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Specials have all peddled their way once again through the standard of riot tunes, with The Kaiser Chiefs ‘I predict a riot’ being the most recent addition to the list.

Between July 3rd and July 11 of 1981 more riots fueled by racial and social discord in Birmingham, London, Liverpool, and Manchester. There were also smaller episodes of unrest in Leeds, Leicester, Southampton, Halifax, Bedford, Gloucester, Wolverhampton, Coventry, Bristol, and Edinburgh.

The Brixton riots were the first real explosion of fury to hit the London Metropolitan Police since it had formed in 1829. The metropolitan police website still calls it ‘the first serious British riot of the 20th century’ to wreak substantial destruction on property.

Amongst the recent media white noise, a spotlight has this time swiveled onto Grime – a sub-sound of UK Garage, breakbeat and hip hop.

“As the glaziers and magistrates go to work after four nights of riots across London and the UK,” wrote the Guardian after the August 2011 riots “the search for understanding and the finger of blame are simultaneously pointing towards the MCs and rappers who Bizzle told me in January were ‘the real prime ministers of this country’”.

“For Professor Green, a top 10 artist, like Chipmunk and Wretch, and one of the MCs who has been most eager to illuminate the causes of the riots, it’s a story of a country that has elected to forget about many of its young people. ‘What needs to be understood here is there is a lot of anger in the underclass’ responded Green. “And a lot of the youth aren’t quite sure where to aim their anger. There are also a lot of underprivileged children who’ve grown up without boundaries”

The Guardian goes on to describe Grime’s place in the recent unrest:”Grime describes the world politicians of all parties have ignored – its misery (eg Dizzee Rascal’s Sitting Here), its volatile energy (Lethal Bizzle’s Pow), its gleeful rowdiness (Mr Wong’s Orchestra Boroughs), its self-knowledge (Wiley’s Oxford Street), its local pride (Southside Allstars’ Southside Run Tings), down even to minor specifics. When some Londoners expressed their surprise and admiration at the quasi-vigilantism of “Turksec” in Dalston and Hackney, the north London Turkish community who fought off looters with a mixture of togetherness and baseball bats, most grime fans’ first thought was Wiley’s offhand lyric: “I had this Turkish bredrin from school, all his family were gangsters.”

“People concerned about the issues that have always troubled us are more likely to turn to Facebook to find a like-minded community than to sing songs in the streets, the way we did in the 1960s,” Cockburn told The Star. “There are plenty of protest songs out there, but they just aren’t part of the cultural mainstream any more. Radio doesn’t play them, and people don’t seem to do things together, as a community. We’re all connected individually to some kind of device, working alone, amusing ourselves alone, enlightening ourselves alone.”

Yet the roots of rhythm remain. Even if thirty million CDs did go up in flames at the Sony warehouse.


By Geoff Stanton

“They called John Cassavetes a cinema-verite director in one of the obituaries. That’s French for ‘the cinema of truth’, the kind of documentary film-making where the director stands back and doesn’t interfere, while things happen naturally. John Cassavetes never made a cinema verite film in his life. He was always in there up to his neck, swimming against life and shouting instructions to those in his wake. But don’t take that as a criticism. Cassavetes made films that gloriously celebrated the untidiness of life, at a time when everybody else was making  neat, slick formula pictures.” (Roger Ebert, ‘Awake in the Dark’ 1989)

“He deliberately tried to keep you off-balance, so you wouldn’t bring out old-fashioned technique and old ideas” said Peter Falk. “But it was impossible. I didn’t understand him. I wanted to strangle him.”  In 1970 the volatile friendship of Peter Falk and John Cassavetes yielded Husbands; criticised – by Ebert amongst others – for rambling scenes, chaotic turns, infantile meandering. Fair enough. But the story of male friendship remains genuine and true to form – a testament to the friendship that actually broke through the sweat-session improvisations and, for Falk and Cassavetes, endured through to the director’s death.

Pitched against Cassavetes’ creative momentum, Falk’s quiet instinct was not far from Columbo’s own shrewd intellect – the eternal TV detective to whom the great actor remains spliced. But his work with Cassavetes thoroughly wrenched the man from the mac. “There was no character” he later later admitted. “There was me.”

“You never knew when the camera might be going. And it was never ‘Stop. Cut. Start again.’ John would walk in the middle of a scene and talk, and though you didn’t realize it, the camera kept going. So I never knew what the hell he was doing. But he ultimately made me, and I think every actor, less self-conscious, less aware of the camera than anybody I’ve ever worked with.”

Cassavetes’ work was usually about the personal politics of strain; women go mad (or start off mad), men stay lost, dark, rebellious. His story pitch is bare, ripe with alienation and anger. Husbands was the story of three friends – Falk, Cassavetes and Gazzara – fast approaching forty, angrily aging in a fuel of alcohol and frustration, yearning for the freedom and the strength of youth. After a funeral of a friend they go on a bender that takes them as far as London and almost beyond return.

But Falk’s introduction to the idea actually began en-route for a hot dog. Recognising Cassavetes at an LA Lakers game, they began talking respective projects. Cassavetes’ contempt for the Hollywood system was clear – he impulsively agreed to work on Falk’s project because he respected his previous work, refusing to listen to an obligatory pitch. Cassavetes also had an idea about three old friends who went on an epic drinking binge after the death of a friend – he thought Falk would be perfect for a role.

Brother, can you spare a dime? Peter Falk, John Cassavetes and Ben Gazzara at the bar, working those extras. 1969.

Starting out as a live television star of the 1950s before leading an actors workshop when he made the acclaimed Shadows, Cassavetes had long turned his back on Hollywood and become an outsider. He pitted himself against the system, struggling to finance and distributing his own films at a time when getting a non-studio film into theaters was virtually impossible.

Peter Falk, by contrast, had started with a master’s degree in public administration and worked as an efficiency expert before deciding to take a chance on an acting career. Despite being remembered for Columbo, he had two Oscar nominations for Best Supporting Actor in 1960 and 1961—for his roles in Murder, Inc. and A Pocketful of Miracles.

'There are phases in everyone's life that are extreme' said Cassavetes, 'when emotions are heightened'. John Cassavetes, Ben Gazzara and Peter Falk mid-sweat session mode, 1969 © Time & Life images

“Because we keep forgetting that we’re in a bad situation – that’s what make it seem terrific” explains Cassavetes to Falk and Gazzara at one of their intensive work-shops, where they comb through the bar scene in countless ways. The story interested Cassavetes less than the “unguarded moments” he could catch on film, and in many ways the sweat sessions would trace the heat necessary to prep them.

“The only good part about the story was that it served as a basis for us to use for our individual expressions” said Cassavetes. “Actors will put their money where their mouth is, and directors won’t – that’s what it boils down to in my book.”

The alchemy of amateur and professional actors – with some performances from extras that Cassavetes claimed ‘are better than professional actors’ – produced a long, but innovative and genuine film that left Falk (who reportedly even got mugged for real while filming in New York) recharged, invigorated and slightly beweildered. “I had no idea what Husbands was about” he admitted after the shoot was through. “After it, I told him, ‘I’ll work with you as an actor, but not as a director’”.

John Cassavetes, 1969

Peter Falk and Ben Gazzara. Improvising or not? You decide. 1969

A scene that may have come straight from a Husbands improv featured on The Dick Cavett Show, where Falk, Cassavetes and Gazarra were invited to talk about the film. The three emerge comfortably scotched and in a cloud of cigarette smoke. True to form, Falk tries to give a serious pitch several times before being interrupted by a dancing Ben Gazarra, a commercial break and an unexpected swizzle upon Cassavetes’ shoulders.

Sony, not sure what to do with it all, labelled the film “a comedy about life, death, and freedom.”  Cassavetes meanwhile had to cut it by an hour and a half to get it down to contractual length. Columbia, the studio that produced the film, cut another eleven minutes off it anyway following some negative reviews and audience walkouts.

But the film was also praised for its innovation and genuine sense of camaraderie. Life Magazine featured the three friends – John Cassavetes, Ben Gazzara, and Peter Falk – as its cover story in May.  And the friendships endured. Cassavetes subsequently directed Falk on A Woman Under The Influence, regarded as his masterpiece, and the lesser lauded gangster flick Mikey and Nicky. He also appeared with Falk on Columbo.

“Can you recognise a difference between real sentiment, and sentimentality?” Falk ultimately challenged Dick Cavett’s audience. “We made a picture that doesn’t have any sentimentality in it. But has a great deal of feeling in it. It has the kind of emotions that we all experience, but you really don’t see on the screen. The kind of emotions that get lost – but they’re no longer contrived in our film. They’re genuine. Delight, hope, irritation, frustration, anger, friendship, love. Beweilderment, confusion. They’re all there. Go see it.’

Falk may well have agreed with Roger Ebert when he said “I met Cassavetes a few times and then I understood his films in a better way. They were like he was. Now that he is gone his films will have to speak for him, and few directors have left behind work that duplicates more exactly the pleasure of being in their company”.



John Cassavetes, Peter Falk, Elke Krivat, Ben Gazzara at the 1982 marriage of Krivat and Gazzara, © Time & Life images.

John Cassavetes, Elke Krivat, Ben Gazzara, and Peter Falk, at the 1982 marriage of Krivat and Gazzara, © Time & Life images.

John Cassavetes, Elke Krivat and Peter Falk © Time & Life images.


By Geoff Stanton

A common sight in the ghettos of Kingston back in the 1970s was Charlie Ace’s colourful Swing-a-Ling mobile recording studio, a moveable feast of sound from which Ace handed vinyl pressings like leavened bread for the crowds. Footage of the man at work is pure vintage. “C’mon mon, I’ve got a lot of people to serve today!”  he hectors one dawdling customer who pisses him off. Working from a converted Morris van, most of the material Charlie sold was his own.

Charlie Ace's Swing-A-Ling van, Kingston 1970s.

Born Vernel Dixon, Charlie Ace in fact remains one of music’s largely forgotten deejay originals. Initially making a name for himself after working with Lee Scratch Perry, cutting “Django Shoots First”, “The Creeper” and “Cow Thief Skank”, and delivering the goods for Vincent “Randys” Chin on “Country Boy”. He also worked on the 1973 Rasta classic “Father and Dreadlocks” for Coxsone Dodd. He put out a number of records on his Swing-A-Ling label included “Firing Line” – a reworking of a popular disco hit – credited to Charlie Ace & the Inswings and released in the summer of 1974.

Charlie Ace, the man and his work, certainly deserve a place in history - along with his iconic truck.

Tragically, he was shot and killed in 1980 – although details of the exact circumstances of his death remain unknown. It is a fate sadly not uncommon among a number of Jamaican reggae artists. In 1987 reggae star Peter Tosh was murdered in Kingston by gunmen, while fellow Wailer Bob Marley himself only just had a narrow escape after gunmen broke into his home in 1976.


By Geoff Stanton

“The Rastas loved John” said reggae icon Don Letts, who accompanied Johnny Rotten to Jamaica in 1978 to scout for Virgin’s Front Line reggae label.  “To them he was the punk rock Don from London – they were aware of all the trouble he had stirred up in London. They were into what he stood for and his stance, and they dug it. John just had a vibe you know, people were drawn to him. It was the same in London; it was the same in Kingston”.

When Richard Branson decided to send John Lydon - a passionate reggae fanatic – to Jamaica as an envoy for Virgin, a fusion of punk, dub and reggae was already fast simmering in London. The job was also welcome timing for the Sex Pistols frontman. Since becoming punk’s tabloid gristle Lydon had been stabbed in the street, glassed in the face, raided weekly by police, abandoned in the US after a shipwreck of a tour – even had Parliament clamouring after his neck for “acts of treason”. Scouting a heartland of dub and reggae artists was babylon by comparison.

“The bond was very simple,” Peter Harris, the British reggae guitarist who played on Punky Reggae Party with Bob Marley, told The Guardian. “Blacks were getting marginalised. British Irish kids – like Rotten – and black youths were forced together because of signs on pub doorways that read “No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs”, which became the title of Rotten’s autobiography. The punks were the same. They were seen as dregs of society. We were all anti-establishment, so there was a natural synergy between us.”

Natural synergy. Johnny Rotten Lydon with Big Youth, one of the artists signed by Richard Branson's Virgin Records. Image by Dennis Morris.

Jamaica was also Lydon’s last stop before forming Public Image Ltd; the powerhouse of dub-fused poptone that bassist Jah Wobble recalled “would literally make your trousers flap”.

“John already had that spaciousness, that blueprint in his mind long before we went to Jamaica.” said Letts.  “He really knew his reggae. I have to emphasise that, him and Joe Strummer, Paul Simonon, Jah Wobble, they understood dub, deeply, they had a lot of music I didn’t have you know. We went to a lot of sound system sessions here in London too, people like Jah Shaka, Coxsonne, Moa Ambessa, so really, his experiences in Jamaica were an extension of what had already been in his mind for years, back in North London.”

Joe Strummer and Don Letts, image by Dennis Morris.

Don Letts facing a line of authority in London's Notting Hill race riots of 1976. He was also walking onto the cover of Black Market Clash, after The Clash used the image for their album.


Rotten arrived in Jamiaca with Letts, journalist Vivien Goldman and photographer Dennis Morris, who had impressed Lydon with his photos of Bob Marley, and had subsequently taken some of the first photos of the Pistols. Branson had them stay at The Sheraton  – a salubrious joint with a hotel bar that was a hotbed of rotating talent.

“Knocking back the rum or fruit punches, depending on their religious inclinations” wrote Goldman “are a changeable line-up of reggae musicians. Very occasionally Peter Tosh, frequently a sprinkling of Gladiators, The Abyssinians, I-Roy and U-Roy, and Tapper Zukie and The Tamlins, Jah Lion, Prince Hammer, Johnny Clarke, John Holt, the mighty Culture with the other two Cultures, Robbie Shakespeare, Sly, Chinna, Bim Sherman, Lee Perry, Inner Circle, Prince Mahmoud, Big Youth, The Congos – it got so that you felt like you were wading through your singles collection every time you went to get a glass of water.”

Don Letts with Bob Marley

“We smoked a chalice together with U Roy for breakfast” recalled Letts. “And then went out to one of his dances, miles out in the countryside -  quite a long journey by car. I remember the dreads stringing up this sound, and kicking off with some earthquake dubs. Now let me tell you this sound system was LOUD. Me and John literally passed out. I remember hours later some dreads shaking us awake, it was like, “Wake up man, dance done, dance finish now man!” Yeah, it was pretty wild for me and John out in Jamaica. We loved it.”

Meanwhile, Lydon’s ‘Rotten’ moniker got dumped in translation for Johnny ‘Cool’.

Goldman wrote about John’s reputation: “One night John and The Congos, being in an elevated mood on account of nature’s bounty – the cave, and other things – were in prime meditative position. Cedric was regaling us with stories of his past, when a loud buzzing noise intruded on the conversation. Coupled with a strange red glow from overhead. Look up, and what do you see? – a helicopter whirring through the Kingston skies, looking both out of place and rather too militantly low-flying for comfort.

“What’s that for?” snapped John. “There could be a war going on down here, and no one would be able to see it. It’s just to annoy, like a mosquito. Make people paranoid, scared. Keep the population down.”
Roy and Cedric (The Congos) looked at one another.

“Johnny knows,” sighed Cedric.

“Johnny’s seen great heights,” Roy affirmed solemnly.

“Johnny Cool, y’know?”

John Lydon's verdict - a good list of reggae artists for anyone to dip into.

Branson’s label ended up signing a number of artists to the label including Prince Far I, Big Youth, Prince Hammer, Tappa Zukie, Sly Dunbar, and The Twinkle Brothers, and many artists already with Virgin also moved to the new label. Back in London the punk-reggae movement was picking up the pace. In 1978 activists started putting punk and reggae bands on together for a series of Rock Against Racism gigs, featuring bands as varied as XTC, Aswad, Generation X, Tribesman, the Slits, Joy Division and Misty – playing to oppose the rising National Front. The gig headlined by The Clash and Steel Pulse in east London’s Victoria Park drew a crowd of 80,000 people.

Johnny Rotten shows his true colours.

But just as punk was eventually submerged beneath a Top of the Pops sheen, by the 1980s reggae acts were also diluting their sound to get hit singles, crossing into mainstream pop with bands such as the Police and Culture Club – something of an eighties signature sound, but several times removed from the bass-heavy grooves of the London and Kingston originals. Groups like UB40, Madness and the Specials are well regarded – not really as reggae or ska bands, but as British pop groups.

Branson’s Front Line eventually folded after two years although some of the artists remained signed to Virgin. In a 2010 interview Letts sounded wistful about the lost chord that music struck in the 70s.

“Right now it feels like punk never happened. All the things that helped create punk rock; racism, recession, strikes – other than power cuts – all the things we had in the late seventies are happening again today. What’s happening about it? I don’t know. All I know is that all the interesting ideas are coming from the amateur and the naive, and it’s increasingly difficult to find anyone who meets those criteria in the west.”

It’s an echo of Lydon’s natural cynicism in ’78 when discussing his efforts to find and recruit players for his new group (which would become PIL).  “And I don’t mean mugs and prats and tits and liggers and wankers and madmen with pea-brained ideas about changing the musical course of history” he told Vivien Goldman. “Because we all know that that’s impossible.”

Meanwhile, if anyone chances upon a copy of The Upsetters version of the Pistols’ Submission or Problems, please let Barrelhouse know.