They say you should never look back.
Bad advice; except for those for whom history, even their own, gets in the way
of their air-headed post-modern, corporate-branded, nothing-can-be-too-new
world. London, where I lived on and off from 1974 to 1991, hasn't looked back
much either, unless to trawl the data banks for Heritage Styling Cues. For a
country bumpkin like me, currently living by accident in a red-necked corner of
Devon, trips to London have often included a day walking. No plan is made; and
in that regard, and others, I too sometimes like to live for the moment.
From 1974 to '77, I was an art
student. Street life then, whether in the West End or elsewhere, was exciting.
Particularly on Saturdays. Places such as Carnaby Street, The Kings Road,
Kensington Market, Camden Lock, Electric Avenue and The Portobello Road were
magnets for all that was weird and wonderful. Conventional city life still
upheld a set of values more suited to the world as it was 100 years earlier. It
was, in part, the clash of opposing cultures and the strange twilight of their
overlap enjoyed by the rich and famous, that drove the need for creative,
cultural and social innovation. Newness was not an end in itself but a process
of discovery. A walk around London then was invigorating intellectually in a
way that a walk across Dartmoor could never be.
The threat of corporate culture, already international and
intra-national but not yet global, inspired a generation of activists for whom
the '68 riots in Paris - and we were not all agreement about them either - were
still a significant feature in our
collective consciousness. Atomistic individuals turned to the right,
social liberals turned to the left and some, like me, went green. Amongst those
who cared to exercise their brains, had a sense of history (thus having at
least a modicum of understanding about the inevitable links between cause and
effect), and felt the world could, and ought, to be better, there were some who
fought their corner, stood their ground and were willing to be counted.
Style has always been an end in itself for people with nothing
better to do and in the 70s and 80s we witnessed the growth of anti-style:
Punk, Grunge and Donga. It was acknowledged (and much discussed) that these
statements would be fleeting, that their vigour would be sapped, appropriated
and flung back at us by the fashion industry. Even Donga, still adopted by
greens of all ages (though mostly by the young), is now also worn by people
with absolutely no understanding of the issues of the Sustainable Economics
Agenda. Those who developed the ideas such as E.F. Schumacher, James Robertson,
Herman Daly and Paul Ekins were either too old, too busy or too dead to worry
about fashion. Besides, they had chosen to work from within and were happy to
wear their suits if it meant retaining access to the superstructure. The ship
is steered from the bridge, not from below, and stowaways are lucky not to be
noticed. When Jack Karouac's fans arrived at his door to pay homage, they were
expecting James Dean. What they got was a prematurely middle-aged man wearing a
cardigan. Like-wise, the activists of the 70s and 80s who really made a
difference went largely unnoticed in the street. By that token, London should
be choc-a-bloc with activists now. But that's not the impression I get, and how
would one tell?
I recently retraced my old haunts on foot. Like the rest of
Britain, and much of Europe, the overall impression is one of increasing
homogeneity. Not that I expected anything else, for I have kept my eyes open
these last twenty-five years. But it is rare for me to be in London these days
and rare, though not so rare as you'd notice, for me to dredge up past images
with such clarity. Homogeneity is not confined to our cities. Small towns have vastly expanded their
suburban fringes, High Streets everywhere are replicates of each other - even
attempts by Local Authorities to re-create lost communities are clones from
trained planners' minds; block-paved pedestrianised streets, more reproduction
Victorian street furniture than the Victorians would ever have considered - and
why Victorian? The love of Empire dies hard. But, in many ways, the almost
total embrace of corporatism by our population and institutions is justly
seductive if one's vision is sufficiently narrow.
'Management', encapsulates an ethos I have a natural affinity to
despise. Yet management has brought tangible benefits to that small, elite
section of the world's population lucky enough to enjoy it. In Central London,
the tube is cleaner and more efficient than twenty years ago and buses run from
high-tech shelters with electronic signboards. Our art galleries are more
popular than ever - and free again too. Consumers know how to consume and
demand more and more for less and less. Being rich was never so cheap. The
price is, naturally, paid elsewhere by two thirds of the world's population who
a): have never made a telephone call and, b): don't have access to clean
drinking water or basic sanitation. In the drive for ever higher living
standards in the wealthy North West of the planet, it's as if the unfolding new
political consciousness of the post war years had never existed. The social
revolution has become one of style over substance and many of those who wore
the uniform of change in the 70's and 80s have retreated behind the Roman
blinded windows of boxed suburbia; appearing perhaps at night or at the
Glastonbury festival for old times sake. The fact that my waitress at The Stock
Pot (Thanks to those who have kept it and the Chelsea Kitchen going for all
these years) had several piercings means nothing now such things are
mainstream.
The London streets have lost something, to be sure. But perhaps it's good that there is no longer a uniform that purports to mean something. It means we have to delve further in establishing our personal relations. And do we really need confirmation of the existence of alternatives through personal expression when we get more than enough confirmation of the failure of the status quo through the media? This brings to mind arguments for and against the democratising influences of mass communications regardless of ownership. As with all global phenomena, the jury will always be out as we only have one planet to play with. But there is no doubt that the range and depth of information available to us is astonishing. Stories that do nothing to support the case of international capital are nevertheless reported and the thinking ear can always hear what's happening between the lines.
The trouble, if one can call it that, surrounding the recent G8
Summit in Genoa was extraordinary. Extra-ordinary in that it is a constant
wonder that such demonstrations, by people with access to education, are not an
everyday occurrence. I have always been a reformist, not a revolutionary. I
wouldn't wish violence against anyone and would always favour a peaceful
solution to any conflict. But, unusually for me, I felt a rush of excitement
upon hearing that the G8 leaders were effectively under siege. My reaction is
understandable; the loose coalition of demonstrators in Genoa are the children
and grandchildren, ideologically speaking, of the rag-taggle groups with whom I
associated myself over a quarter of a century ago. For once in a long, long
time I felt that all the envelope stuffing, community workshops,
demonstrations, committee meetings and political lobbying had been worthwhile.
Perhaps, just perhaps, things were on the move again.
I'm writing this, by hand in a small notebook, sitting at a
candle lit table in the 606 Jazz Club in the early hours of the morning. The
Bobby Welling Quartet are playing an enjoyable third set. It's been twenty
years since I first set foot in the 606 and, though the club is now in a
different location, it feels much like coming home. London may have fallen prey
to corporatism but, here, at least, is an old oasis to which I hope I'll return
again soon. Politics, like jazz, requires consistent application, often with
little or no reward. But no two gigs are the same. So look back and remember,
it's the only way to make the present , and hopefully the future, count for
anything.
4th
August 2001, Lots Road, Chelsea