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Exactly thirty seven years ago tonight, a Monday night, Michelle was waiting in a queue to witness the two day punk festival held at the 100 Club in Oxford Street in the centre of London. Below are written memories of that night and of the era. The text immediately below is written by Michelle herself and the text below Michelle\u2019s was written by Caroline Coon for a review of the festival which was published in Melody Maker a week or two after the punk festival had taken place.<\/p>\n
The two photographs of Michelle in the \u2018leopard skin\u2019 jacket at the front of the queue for the event are courtesy of the Caroline Coon collection. All the photographs of the bands at the actual festival were taken by, and are part of Michelle\u2019s collection. Also the photograph of Michelle in 1976 that heads this post and the photo booth shots from 1977 to 1979 are from Michelle\u2019s collection. Thank you to her for letting KYPP use them.<\/p>\n
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Fast forward a handful of years from those nights in September 1976 and Michelle would front the band Brigandage and live amongst the Puppy Collective in and around the squats of Hampstead. Michelle\u2019s band, Brigandage, was a firm favourite of the Puppy Collective and to a much younger Penguin.<\/p>\n
Previous to forming Brigandage in 1979, Michelle was in the band V.D.U that put out one 7\u2033 single \u2018Don\u2019t Cry For Me\u2019 on Thin Sliced records. Sadly I do not own this artefact but if and when I do I will place it up on KYPP.<\/p>\n
You may hear Brigandage in all there glorious pomp on two previous KYPP posts HERE<\/a><\/strong> and HERE.<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n Michelle is still involved in the scene in no small way after all these years. She has never really been away. Brigandage have not reformed (although that might be nice at some point in the future). What Michelle has been doing for several years now is to create lovingly screen printed replicas of some of the original Seditionaries stock, original stock long gone now. Michelle also creates her own clothing inspired by the Seditionaries brand from 1977 which are equally beautiful and well made for both men and for women.<\/p>\n For more information on her business Sexy Hooligans you may follow this link HERE.<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n Six examples from the huge range of Sexy Hooligan clothing may be viewed below the 100 club punk festival post.<\/p>\n Please support Sexy Hooligans if you can, and no there is not a free shirt in it for me!<\/p>\n SOME MEMORIES FROM MICHELLE<\/span> My boyfriend Bruno and I were a little different at school in that we loved Roxy Music. I think we loved them more than Bowie although we saw him on the 1976 \u2018Thin White Duke\u2019 tour. We loved Lou Reed and the Velvets and the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Bruno had a massive record collection for the time. We just liked things that weren\u2019t long hair and flares and dull like Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Genesis. This made us odd at school.<\/p>\n He read the Melody Maker and when we were about 15 we started going to gigs, even rock and roll gigs. It was fun but there was a feeling in the air that something was about to happen, about to explode. Then one day we read about a band called Eddie And the Hot Rods and they sounded exciting. We did not make it to the gig, we had tickets for Doctors Of Madness instead. Then it happened: Sex Pistols front page of the Melody Maker. The fight from the stage of the Nashville club in Kensington. That was it, straight up to London to see them perform. They seemed so exciting, out of the ordinary. They looked like us, were young. They did not have long hair it was short like ours.<\/p>\n People do not realise how absolutely boring and tedious Britain was in the early 1970\u2019s, how the sixties dreams of revolution had died and left a vacuum. Also it was a lot easier for me to get to gigs because I lived in a suburb of London.<\/p>\n The atmosphere at the 100 Club punk festival was electric. We had seen Sex Pistols several times before, and The Clash. They had five members then, Keith Levine was the third guitarist for a while.<\/p>\n Dreadful bands like The Suburban Studs used to support them. They were dreadful. We nearly walked out before Sex Pistols came on! They brought a pigs head out on stage, so you see people were already trying to latch on to this new feeling of punk shock but getting it dreadfully wrong.<\/p>\n It was an incredible two nights but it was marred by the glass throwing incident which Sid, then the drummer of Souxsie And The Banshees (or Suzy And The Banshees at that festival) got blamed for. My cousin and I got small bits of glass showering over our face but it was a friend I\u2019d met at Blitz, Cherry (I think that was her name) who got glass in her eye. It blinded her in one eye and I think she was and wanted to continue to be, an artist. The incident put paid to that. Obviously the atmosphere changed suddenly. There was blood, screaming, crying and ambulances and police. It calmed down after she was taken away but everybody started to leave. Souixsie stood on the stairs and asked people to stay and support The Buzzcocks. \u00a0Bruno and myself could not as we needed to get the last train back to the suburbs. Should have stayed to see them, as it was Howard Devoto\u2019s band at that time.<\/p>\n All I can say about seeing Sex Pistols was that the first time Johnny stepped onto the stage I practically fell to my knees, it was like a life changing religious experience. Here was someone who understood what I was feeling inside. I now longer felt alone. We were individuals shoulder to shoulder with other individuals. Not some mindless gang but a group of people who had finally found their way to a home.<\/p>\n MICHELLE BRIGANDAGE \/ SEXY HOOLIGANS<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n First punters in the line Michelle & Bruno in leopard jackets & Nick Haines behind them both, looking downwards.<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n SOME MEMORIES FROM NICK:<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n Monday morning\u2026.<\/p>\n It had been a strange few days, too much to process when you\u2019re seventeen.<\/p>\n Three days earlier I had been a Metropolitan Police Cadet. In my defence, I lasted only 36 hours before getting the hell out of Hendon.<\/p>\n In January I had allowed my folks to bully me into applying for a \u2018proper job\u2019.<\/p>\n To my surprise, my application lead to an invitation to interview then, to my utter horror, a few weeks later an envelope arrived. It welcomed me to the Met Police.<\/p>\n Damn.<\/p>\n I spent Friday night wandering the streets, Saturday night in a hotel room with an American guy who claimed to work for The Commodores. I suspected his intentions towards me weren\u2019t strictly honourable after his third amorous approach, so fled and slept rough the next night. My life seemed to have gone down the toilet spectacularly.<\/p>\n I walked, then walked some more getting nowhere slowly.<\/p>\n Dawn\u2019s grey light became sunny morning, and I was hungry. I find a cafe advertising sausage sandwiches at reasonable prices. Nearby is a newspaper stand, I buy a copy of Melody Maker order a sandwich and a cup of tea and read the latest news on the only subject that had ever truly interested me, music.<\/p>\n The Melody Maker was the Daily Mail of the music press. Firmly rooted in tradition, it had no truck with fads and phases. Blues, rock and jazz were its staples, and its editorial had a patriarchal tone. It was surprising therefore to find on the paper\u2019s cover a lunatic. Don\u2019t get me wrong, rock has been full of madmen, yet none as leering, deranged and disturbing as the demonic figure on the paper\u2019s front page that day. The story inside on page three was short on detail, long on condemnation. There was something happening in London, and the Melody Maker wanted to make it clear that it did not approve. I still wasn\u2019t much clearer having read the article about a group of n\u2019er do wells called the Sex Pistols. Apparently, they were scruffy, encouraged violence at their gigs and worst of all, the most heinous crime in the eyes of the rock establishment, they couldn\u2019t play.<\/p>\n Sounded interesting I remember thinking as I turned the pages, ploughing through endless reviews of band like Ducks Deluxe, the Gerry Mulligan Quintet and Yes\u2019 new uninteresting direction.<\/p>\n At the back of the paper were the events pages, live gigs around the country. In the London area there was an advert for a \u2018Punk Festival\u2019 at a venue called the 100 Club on Oxford Street. What caught my eye was the fact that the aforementioned Sex Pistols would be playing.<\/p>\n I left the caf\u00e9 at a little before 11am and started to walk. Walking helps me think, sitting down I lapse into inertia and indecision. As I walked some clarity informed my thinking. Going home wasn\u2019t an option, not yet, if ever in fact. What was there to go back to Portsmouth for? No job or a shit job if I played the game, a council flat that would only be home for as long as my folks allowed me to stay until they could decant me into a bed and breakfast. For my own good of course.<\/p>\n With no no future, I resolved to kill myself. I knew little of death or its banal realities. I also knew that traditional methods such as hanging, leaping from a tall building etc seemed unpleasant, messy and above all, painful. An overdose was the obvious solution, and so it was I visited the nearest pharmacy and purchased a 100 tablet bottle of paracetamol. Looking back, I now know this wouldn\u2019t have provided me with the gentle, painless almost romantic death I wanted. In my defence I was seventeen and didn\u2019t know any better.<\/p>\n Finances were an issue, even if I only had a few more hours to live. I had around eight pounds in my pocket and knew that London\u2019s pleasures don\u2019t come cheap. So, it was I continued walking, eschewing the convenience of the underground in favour of saving money. I wanted to die, just not quite yet.<\/p>\n My knowledge of London\u2019s geography is poor now and was worse in \u201976. To compensate, nature imbued me with a carrier pigeon\u2019s innate sense of direction. I knew that whilst London may be big, it can\u2019t be that big, and Oxford Street was pretty central, wasn\u2019t it? So it was that I meandered, sauntered, and slowly graduated towards the venue arriving on Oxford Street at a little after three.<\/p>\n I\u2019m not sure what I expected, but somehow, I recall being underwhelmed by the exterior of the 100 Club. Maybe it\u2019s because I had never been to a \u2018club\u2019 before. I had been to gigs of course, Leo Sayer, Sparks at the Bournemouth Winter Gardens, Elton John and the Beach Boys at Wembley Stadium, Its unremarkable awning, a board announcing upcoming events and a locked outer door was somehow disappointing. Setting my sports bag on the pavement I leaned against the club\u2019s doorway and waited for time to pass.<\/p>\n I re-read the Melody Maker and listened to one of the cassette tapes I had made prior to joining the police, I can\u2019t be certain, but I\u2019m pretty sure it was either Genesis or something by Stackridge. I sat for a while, stood for another while and watched people as they passed me by.<\/p>\n Sometimes you feel like an extra in your own film, part of yet removed from the action. Cognitive inertia set in once more and I only slowly realised that some of the strangers passing me by were now stopping, forming a queue behind me. The newcomers were predominantly groups of two or three nondescript, unremarkable London youths chatting about inconsequential things. I feigned a complete lack of interest, staring at the pavement and hoping none of the gathering spotted just how out of place<\/p>\n The remarkable thing about those in the queue was just how unremarkable, how \u2018straight\u2019 many of them were. Popular opinion has it that the gig was filled with wildly exotic creatures and tough New York street fighters. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and in fact, with my shortish but bushy hair, I was no different to many there that night, apart from a small group of teens who appeared suddenly, and immediately garnered attention.<\/p>\n I only became aware of said group after the street doors opened and we moved forward into a covered area, with the actual doors to the club still locked. Having studiously avoided eye contact, I can\u2019t be certain, but I\u2019m sure that the gaggle of extravagant youths hadn\u2019t been behind me in the queue earlier on. Cameras started to flash, and I figured that there must be some magazine holding a fashion shoot. There was a girl with severe make up and equally severe clothing, she reminded me of Sally Bowles from the film Cabaret. Accompanying her and taking second billing was a male with peroxide in his hair. He wore a drape jacket and tried to look cool, I thought he looked a little lost. There were others dressed in faux leopard, but it was these two who caught my attention furtive glances as I feigned invisibility and indifference.<\/p>\n I loved Roxy and David Bowie and wondered if there had been some kind of fans\u2019 convention they had just come from. The club doors opened, and we started to file in. Nervous, I sensed I needed to look as if I did this sort of thing all the time. I recall being asked for a sum of money, paying \u00a31.50 I think and descended into the 100 Club.<\/p>\n The interior was gloomy rather than dark. There was a stage to my right, a clear space in front which might be described as a dance floor, then around its perimeter tables with three or four chairs around. The chairs were occupied by small groups of people who eyed the newcomers with a mixture of boredom and suspicion. There was a small bar which I didn\u2019t bother with, I didn\u2019t drink alcohol and didn\u2019t have the money even if I did.<\/p>\n At the far end of the club there seemed to be something of far greater interest, and a smell drew me over. Incongruously there was a Chinese takeaway counter. Chicken balls, pancake rolls. These were of great interest since I suddenly realised, I was ravenously hungry. I bought two pancake rolls and moved to the back of the club.<\/p>\n Leaning against the rear wall was a sad looking girl in a trench coat. She had dark hair and deep set eyes and an innate sense of loss about her. I thought I knew what was going on in her world and to empathise I offered her one of my rolls. She fixed me with a bored look that shouted, \u2018passive aggressive\u2019. She muttered words along the lines of; \u201cNo thanks\u201d, Being able to take a hint, I ate both my pancake rolls and waited to see what would transpire.<\/p>\n I find myself tired and bored, which was odd because at no point in the last three days had I felt that particular emotion. Fear, panic, anger yes, but not boredom. Maybe it was because I knew that when the evening\u2019s entertainment was over, I would be heading off to some quiet corner to kill myself. I guess I rather hoped for something more exciting than standing against a wall in a club full of strangers with nothing to do.<\/p>\n My ennui ended with the arrival of Siouxsie, for a while.<\/p>\n A drum beat. Nothing flashy, a repetitive rhythm that was joined by the sound of a bass and guitar inexpertly played. What really caught the attention was a girl\u2019s voice singing, or rather intoning over the backing:<\/p>\n \u201cOur Faaaver, who art in He-vun!\u201d she sang hitting notes both sharp and flat; \u201cTwist and SHOUT\u201d she exhorted. It was fascinating and challenging for a while, interesting for a little longer, then became rather tedious. Interest amongst my fellow patrons seemed to wane too and the conversations around myriad tables took over as Siouxsie\u2019s debut descended into indifference.<\/p>\n I remember watching the performance from afar, seeing Siouxsie\u2019s white face and black clothes, not making the connection between the girl on stage and the girl in the queue a couple of hours earlier.<\/p>\n Shortly afterwards there was a bit of a ruck. At a nearby table a glass smashed, and some people stood up. The table was overturned, and a few people gathered round. The whole event was over in barely more than a minute.\u00a0 Still, it broke the boredom.<\/p>\n Onstage next, according to my memory were Subway Sect.<\/p>\n I have to make it clear that I recall Siouxsie playing first, followed by Subway Sect. Many claim that in fact Subway Sect played first. I\u2019m happy to accept I might be wrong, but this is how I remember things.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n I had never seen or heard anything like the Banshees since I had been into music, and they weren\u2019t as I classified it anyway. Subway Sect emerged like pale faced refugees from a Kafka novel. They wore their guitars high like the Beatles and made a churning noise similar to nothing I\u2019d heard before unless it was a Kenwood Chef food processor. What made them catch my ear and capture my heart was the songs. They were rough but had recognisable verses and choruses, and the choruses were memorable. They sang about chain smoking and how \u201ceveryone\u2019s a prostitute, we sell our souls for money.\u201d I thought back to Saturday night at the hotel where I had demanded \u00a350 from the American in exchange for my silence on the matter.<\/p>\n I smiled at the memory and remembered how he\u2019d laughed at me.<\/p>\n It\u2019s easy to judge bands using hindsight. I had never heard of the Velvet Underground, and yes there are similarities in retrospect. What struck me most was that there were no \u201crock pyrotechnics\u201d, the singer didn\u2019t present himself as some stallion. The songs, as far as I could tell weren\u2019t complicated compared to the fare I had previously consumed. Bands I had listened to previously were impossibly good and the role of audience, to applaud and venerate was clearly established. Even though I had never touched a guitar before it crossed my mind that playing in a band might just be possible. Unfortunately, I would never find out since in eight hours I\u2019d be dead.<\/p>\n Next up were the Clash, and the mood in the club changed perceptibly. There was a noticeable air of anticipation. The small dance floor became more densely populated and something told me to move forward. I left the safe enclave of my place at the back of the club and moved ten paces nearer the stage.<\/p>\n The band took the stage. They looked good, looked like they knew what they were doing and launched into their first song. Within maybe forty six seconds the singer broke a string and remained unphased and unabashed They sang about riots, someone called Janie Jones and how London was burning. Whilst the Banshees had been obscurest, Subway Sect neurotic outsiders, the Clash were enthusiasts. Rebel rousers certain that what they sang and said was right. The bass thumped through your chest, the guitars played off each other, the drummer hit every beat perfectly and the singers, Strummer with his snarl, Mick Jones with his higher pitched whine, told about life as we all instinctively knew it. They were a rock band, they played by rules we all knew. The description is not intended to be disparaging, simply that they were recognisably rock\u2019n\u2019roll.<\/p>\n As they stood at the front of the stage like three dogs straining at the leash, I felt a connection. Maybe life was worth living after all?<\/p>\n Sometimes you just know know that something is about to happen.<\/p>\n For a couple of hours, the club had been populated by maybe 300 people.<\/p>\n The mood had shifted between boredom, appreciative interest to enthusiasm. Things changed in the period between the Clash ending their set and what came next. The atmosphere became noticeably tenser. Suddenly it seemed that the club was more crowded. Whereas before there had been a drone of conversation, now there was an undercurrent of something ill-defined. I guess it was anticipation, excitement, people waiting to see if what they had read and heard about would happen. And so it was that the Pistols took the stage.<\/p>\n Tables and chairs seemed to have disappeared and it was standing room only. Standing against the back wall I struggled to see the stage, catching only random glimpses. Lydon came onstage to a cheer and cackling; \u201cAw-right my chuckies.\u201d as a greeting. Jones had a handwritten piece of paper on his amplifier. It bore the words; \u201cGuitar hero.\u201d. There was a thud of drums, the sound of guitars being plugged in and\u2026<\/p>\n The band started to play, and unlike the Clash they weren\u2019t great to listen to. Steve Jones\u2019 guitar was sloppy, and it seemed like the singer wasn\u2019t quite sure of the words. The drummer and bassist were good enough, but I remember feeling. Underwhelmed. They played some songs and I started to feel restless again. The bottle of paracetamol was calling me ever more loudly. The Pistols launched into a Who song, \u2018Substitute\u2019. I had loved the Who since discovering their first album in my brother\u2019s record collection a few years earlier. The Pistol\u2019s version was sacrilege, diabolical and I considered leaving immediately. I hung around until what turned out to be their penultimate song. Then made my way through the crowd and headed for the bar, apologising more than was strictly necessary. The Pistols carried on playing, which seemed slightly insensitive since I was on such an important journey towards self-destruction. I ordered a bottle of lemonade, something to wash the paracetamol down with. As the bottle was passed to me by the girl behind the bar, a ribald comment came my way, from someone who\u2019s mind wasn\u2019t entirely on the Pistols either; \u201cF**k me mate, you\u2019re on the hard stuff!\u201d he jeered.<\/p>\n Content in the knowledge that I was about to swallow something far harder than he had,<\/p>\n I smiled and muttered something innocuous. I walked to the exit, a member of staff asked me if I was leaving already. I told them that I had something important to do and exited into the cool evening air. My ears were ringing, mind racing. Instead of making things simpler, the evening had merely made matters more complicated.<\/p>\n I realised that for the first time in too long I was happy, I sensed some sense of purpose. Throwing the bottle of painkillers in a bin, I started my walk back to Portsmouth.<\/p>\n There was someone I needed to talk to.<\/p>\n I got back to Pompey on Thursday, met with my best friend, and told him about what I\u2019d seen.<\/p>\n Over the next months we made up some songs on a borrowed guitar and formed a band. The Fence.<\/p>\n Life had changed utterly.<\/p>\n NICK HAINES<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n Monday, September 20th: The Sex Pistols, the Clash, Subway Sect, Siouxsie and the Banshees.<\/p>\n Tuesday, September 21st: The Damned, Chris Spedding and the Vibrators, the Buzzcocks, and Stinky Toys (from France).<\/p>\n The first mass exposure of Punk Rock to the music press and record industry. On the second day, after an accident in which Dave Vanium\u2019s friend lost her eye, Sid Vicious was arrested. When I tried to find out why, I too was arrested. During most of Chris Spedding\u2019s set I was in the police station with Sid but I was released (and later given an absolute discharge) in time to see the festival end.<\/p>\n
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<\/a><\/p>\n100 CLUB PUNK FESTIVAL 1976<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n
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