Punk is alive in the mouths of the scowling aged Article by Michael Mary Murphy The London Olympic Opening Ceremonies featured the sounds of the Clash, the Jam and heaven forfend, the Sex Pistols. The hockey games were preceded by the sounds of ‘London Calling’. With its lyrics of nuclear destruction, famine and a visit by the apocalypse to the city, it was an odd choice to inspire feats of athleticism. There was a time when the authorities in Britain wanted nothing more than for punk to go away. Now it does go away. But only to Blackpool for a long weekend. This most English of cities hosts the annual Rebellion Festival with a peaceful invasion by thousands of punk fans. The assorted attendees are full-time, part-time, and one-time punks. The host city even manufactures a celebratory confectionary assault on good teeth – a stick of rock with the words Punk Rock imprinted in it. Elements of the gathering resemble the out-patient department of any urban hospital. The punks are not the healthiest subculture. There was even one apparent ‘Lourdes moment’ when a less-than-young punk body-surfed over the crowd. As he was held aloft prostrate by dozens of hands he twirled his walking stick with the dexterity of a drum majorette. Yes, the punks are back. And this year they were fatter, older and balder. For all that, there is an extraordinary sense of community: a community that embraces diverse factions, styles, ages and nationalities. And this year, the Irish were out in force. Judging from the line-up, Ireland has an impressive ratio of punk bands per capita. Autumn 2012 is a fine time to reflect on thirty five (or six) years of punk in Ireland. The Blackpool Festival gives a tidy, non-scientific, data-set to gauge the health, or should that be the disease, of the movement. Granted not everyone wants to play here. Before I started attending it seemed like a punk elephant’s graveyard. A collection of has-beens playing the songs of their youth. Songs by youth about youth. It seemed like a waste of time. Now I find it inspiring seeing performers play music they love to people who love hearing it. Who cares if these people have seen better days? At least they have days. And they are making the most of them. Neil McCormack recently controversially wrote that “there were really no out-and-out angry punk rock groups on the emerging Irish scene”. Surely the Threat and the Pretty would be outraged at this affront to their rage? And what of the Outcasts? Being described as not angry would surely make them, well, angrier. They were Dennis the Menace without Dennis. They would be expected to triumph in any international contest of ‘out-and-out angry punk rock’. One of the enduring moments from Blackpool was Dublin’s Paranoid Visions performance of ‘Strange Girl’. The song is a haunting reminder of Ann Lovett, the schoolgirl who died giving birth in a grotto in Longford. As the words about this tragedy were sung, a punk stood in front of the stage to adjust the most punk of accoutrements, his bum-flap. He squirmed as he adjusted his wardrobe malfunction so that the image of Sid and Nancy was restored to its rightful place over his derriere. So is punk about style or substance? Clearly that has not yet been decided. Does the anger have a point? Or is his all a revolt of style? The aforementioned Outcasts still pack a wallop. They exemplify one of the great punk paradoxes – being deadly serious and savagely funny, simultaneously. A song dedicated to the singer’s wife seems out of step with the Outcasts of old. Has romance finally caught up with them? Have they mellowed with the years? No. The song they perform as a matrimonial tribute is ‘You’re A Disease’. No sell-out here. Their songs were bloody Tarantino scripts sliced into lean cuts of rock music. No fat. Just pulp, sinew and muscle. Unlike other contemporaries they weren’t just angry; they were also tuneful. So their songs stand up surprisingly well. ‘Love You For Never’ and ‘The Cops Are Coming’ still retain a punch and a kick or two. ‘Programme Love’ and ‘Winter’ prove they had more arrows for their bow than the average punk quiver. Their Killing Joke-type pop smarts placed them ahead of the early eighties punk pack. Like Stiff Little Fingers they put the ‘Troubles’ into popular culture. In Blackpool, scowling Greg Cowan, the band’s frontman, introduces the song ‘Gangland Warfare’ about “another Belfast Saturday night” as being about gangs. It’s about ‘the Bloods and the Crips’ he quips before admitting he is only joking. It is about the ‘Taigs and the Prods’ he announces. It is funny to think how songs from 1983 have had their meanings changed by the forces of history. It’s even funnier to think how Northern Ireland had been broadcast by the Outcasts and Stiff Little Fingers before U2 started the promotional campaign for their War album in February ’83. The ‘out-and-out angry punk rock’ bands paved the way. More importantly than mere musical achievements Stiff Little Fingers proved that a career in punk could be a long and productive one. They enjoyed chart success with decent songs straddling the treacherous divide between rock and pop. ‘At The Edge’ with its tale of teenage suppression and generational conflict inspired a rousing sing-a-long from the assembled gathering. Most of them appeared to be of the age where their thoughts most be impinged upon by their own teenagers! It was unconceivable at the time that a band from Ireland singing about human drama and the situation in Northern Ireland would be performing those songs thirty odd years later. Liz is Evil, Setting Off Sirens and Chewing On Tinfoil who all performed at the festival prove that Irish bands can still contribute tenaciously to the global legacy of punk. North and South, and even with the brilliant buoyancy of ska in the case of Chewing On Tinfoil,