At the chalkface: Punk

“Punk 1976-78. The British Library” goes the poster. Blimey! Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron? All that feral racket in dank cellars. All this hushed silence in reading rooms – where I’m typing this. Can’t be right can it? How easily is a vibrant culture assimilated, how easily do its teeth get drawn, how easily is revolt, in Thom Gunn’s words, “turned into style”?

“Anarchy in the UK”? Look at us now. “Coma in the UK.”

I remember 1976-78 so well. I was a young teacher in Ladbroke Grove. Suddenly our school was charged with punk energy. It was barmy, stupid, frightening, nihilist, funny, clever and confrontational, an inchoate response to terrible racism, rampant misogyny, class wars – and stupid hippies. And the Grove was home of “The Clash”, and “The Slits”, an all-girl band, purveyors of “jungly dub punk”. They played a gig in our school hall. Mayhem. I had to fake a patrician distance on proceedings. It was just fabulous. The lead vocalist was “Ari Up”. She was a rare pupil of mine. “Up” it said in the register.