This collection of interviews and selected essays about postpunk is incredibly informative and insightful. Simon Reynolds knows and loves his subject, which makes him a successful interviewer. It’s a great companion piece to his similarly excellent Rip it Up and Start Again.
Postpunk was truly fertile ground, drawing from 70’s white proto-punk and interacting with contemporary black music sonically (disco beats, emphasis on drum and bass instead of guitar, incorporation of saxophone, etc.), while drawing do-it-yourself ethos from punk itself.
A major insight is that artists and bands associated with postpunk, particularly from the UK, were consuming Iggy, the Velvets, and Beefheart from the States and Neu!, Can, Amon Düul from Germany. Domestically, they were raised on a diet of glam: Bowie, Bolan, and especially Eno and Roxy.
I wouldn’t have necessarily thought this, given that UK postpunk bands didn’t sound much like these groups. But it makes sense when you consider the chronology: this is simply what was going on in the post-60s, early-70s before punk.
While US and UK punk bands were principally drawing inspiration from Eddie Cochran and Chuck Berry musically and 60s American garage in terms of attitude and style, the postpunk bands looked to early 70s groups instead and shared their avant-garde intellectualism and sonic experimentalism.
Even though the pre-punk 70s was the primary source, punk itself was a necessary event for postpunk to happen; primarily for spreading the DIY work ethic. Many of those interviewed here cite the Pistols album for giving them the realization and confidence that they could start bands. Many cited the Buzzcocks’ self-released Spiral Scratch EP for the inspiration that they could then also release their own bands’ records.
Thinking again about the UK bands, Reynolds shows how a lot of the mainstream glam of the 70s fueled the later postpunk artists in the UK but not in the States:
“…in America, people who are into alternative culture want to situate themselves outside the commercial mainstream. They see that as the domain of the phoney, the kitsch—the showbiz. But in Britain ‘pop’ has never been a dirty word. There’s always more of a feeling that you can get into the charts and weird them up. Glam was huge in Britain, but Bowie and Roxy didn’t make much impression in America. Look at Sparks, who are American, but vastly more successful in Britain than in the US. We have this tradition of odd people becoming pop stars, strange and quirky records being hits. So the pop mainstream doesn’t feel oppressive to British youth like it does to their American counterparts. Pop is seen as an arena for mischief and infiltration” (424-425).
Typical is Martin Bramah, guitarist for The Fall’s response to Reynold’s question of how he got into music:
“The first singles I bought were Slade and T Rex. Bowie was a big influence on everybody in 1972-3, and then he introduced us through his interviews to Iggy Pop and Lou Reed. From there we got into Krautrock, Can and Neu!, and Beefheart and Velvet Underground. At the time it seemed very underground; no one seemed to know about it but us. That’s what drew those elements of what became The Fall together” (203).
Conversely, in the U.S., David Thomas of Pere Ubu places his band in the American 60s rock tradition while also showing how it joined with the European avant-garde :
“I was more Midwestern-oriented—I liked MC5, Stooges, and all that sixties garage stuff, like Question Mark, The Music Machine…Beefheart is very close to that sort of approach. At that time, if you were looking for electronic sounds, there was Terry Riley, Beaver & Krause, Silver Apples and all the German stuff. All of that was a component of bands like MC5. There’s always been a relationship between hard Midwest groove rock and pure sound. So it was natural for us to do that” (58).
Developing the same point about American postpunk operating out of the mainstream, Thomas explains why they didn’t become popular: “We were on the edge of being popular, but we were fundamentally incapable of being popular because we were fundamentally perverse and uninterested. This is the strength of our upbringing. This is why all adventurous art is done by middle-class people. Because middle-class people don’t care. ‘I’m going to do what I want, because I can do something else better and make more money than this.’ If you sit down and make a list of the people you consider to be adventurous in pop music, I’d bet you lots that the vast majority of them are middle-class” (64).
Thomas introduces an provocative point about countercultural music’s class origins. This jives with Reynold’s point of how much of UK postpunk (and punk as well) was made by art students. In fact, it is astonishing how intellectualized so much of post punk was. Here is a member of the (in my opinion, musically uninteresting) Scritti Politti: “There was also a lot of that Gramscian talk around at that time, talking about culture and ideology in a more straightforward Marxist-y way. And finally there was the whole punk thing about control of production and distribution, getting up and doing it yourself. So these were all separate but seamlessly contiguous areas” (182).
Indeed, most of the interviewees discussed with Reynolds socialist politics and/or theory in the vein of situationism or dada. While not political, Eno is perhaps the arch-example of this highly conceptual music approach and theorized musical practice. Reynolds’ essays (including the fantastically-titled “Ono, Eno, Arto,” are some of the most spot-on and succinct explanations of that artist: “Eno’s approach was markedly different to Ono’s, however, in that he didn’t have her political and feminist commitments, nor her belief in expressionism (which in the spirit of the sixties tends to equate ‘truth’ with the pre-socialised, the child-like or animalistic). Ideas, Eno argued, counted for far more than craft. But they also counted for more than passion, emotional content, expressive intent. If Ono was a proto-punk, angry and anguished, Eno was proto-post-punk: his critique of rock’s fixation with authenticity and passion anticipated the post-punk interrogation of ‘rockism.’ But in another sense, Eno’s impulse wasn’t anti-rock so much as an attempt to liberate certain potentials in the music. Eno aimed to bypass rock’s ego drama, its ‘adolescent’ (as he saw it) theatre of rebellion and to focus instead on its noise and its mechanistic insistence (‘idiot energy,’ he called it), along with its infringements of taste, logic and proportion (the ‘insanity…clumsiness and grotesqueness’ he valued in Roxy Music….“ (370). And, “The essence of record production, for Eno, was its departure from real time: instead of recording an musical event, you built up a phantasmagorical pseudo-event that could never have happened as a discrete performance-in-time (371).
“Eno’s sensibility came from the plastic arts rather than literature; indeed, he rejected ‘rockist’ ideas of expression torn from the heart and soul, often forming his lyrics out of nonsense babble (371). Reynolds uses this explanation for how he differed so greatly from the literary New York punks: Tom Verlaine, Richard Hell, and Patti Smith.
Reynolds is also in top form when analyzing Black Flag, evidenced by the following passages:
“Formed in 1977, Black Flag started from the most pared-down of existential stances—self as cell, body as cage—and then tried to blast their way to freedom. Greg Ginn, the group’s guitarist and leader, described what they did as modern blues” (382).
“Postpunk isn’t really the right word for this music [Black Flag], not when that word refers to bands like PiL or Cabaret Voltaire. The SST bands were too rooted in the hard riffs and heavy rhythms of pre-punk rock. The term ‘progressive punk’ fits better. As they developed, the SST bands shook loose of hardcore’s stylistic straitjacket through exploring hybrid genres, writing longer songs, introducing elements of freeform jamming and extended solos, and recording instrumentals and even concept albums. Unlike the UK postpunk groups, though, the SST groups had almost no interest in the studio-as-instrument approach. Their innovations all took place within the context of the band as performing nit. Essentially live-in-the-studio documents, their records were made with staggering speed and cheapness.. Songs were typically captured in a single take, without overdubs or embellishments. Another SST hallmark was its groups’ unpunk belief in virtuosity. Black Flag set the tone here. Ginn was a sort of guitar anti-hero, specializing in strange stunted and mutilated solos. Propelled by a monstrous work ethic, Ginn drove Black Flag ‘like Patton on steroids,’ according to singer Henry Rollins, enforcing a punishing regime of daily practice sessions. ‘New redneck’ is the term Joe Carducci, the label’s head of marketing and promotion, invented to describe the SST sweat-hog ethos” (383).
“1969, the year of the Sharon Tate murders and Altamont, was the foundation of Black Flag’s worldview. Musically, too, it was the ignition point for the group’s two biggest influences, Black Sabbath and the Stooges (whose ‘1969’ seemed to take perverse glee in the ‘war across the USA’). The germ of punk can be traced to that year. 1969 saw the death of the hippie dream. Unlike the other punk bands, though, Black Flag and its SST cohorts didn’t give up on hippie music (Ginn was a Grateful Dead diehard) or its musical concerns (progression, artistic growth, fusion, chops). They kept those pre-punk values and combined them with Black Sabbath songs like ‘War Pigs’ as much as the Stooges’ ‘No Fun’ (385).
Meanwhile, Black Flag’s labelmates, Minutemen were more tuned into the postpunk UK: “Unlike Black Flag, who disdained the postpunk coming out of England, The Minutemen loved Wire’s compression (‘really small songs, no solos,’ says Watt), the Pop Group’s mashup of ‘Beefheart and Funkadelic,’ and The Fall’s half-sung/half-spoken rants. In classic postpunk fashion, the group conceieved of their sound as a democracy. Bass and drums were on equal footing with the guitar, which definitely wasn’t the lead instrument….The paradox of the Minutemen is that they’re a groove band but the songs are so short and delivered so fast that the effect isn’t exactly groovy, it’s more haywire—an uncontainable explosion of ideas, musical and lyrical” (387).