North London Polytechnic - 15.3.85
Chris Roberts / Sounds (?)
1985
1985
"CAMP ... INCARNATES a victory of style over content, aesthetics over morality, of irony over tragedy." - Susan Sontag on Camp, 1964.
"A society which deprives people of the hope that things might get better is in deep trouble." Daily Mirror on football hooliganism, March 1985.
Jesuses come and go, and The Mary Chain Boys - brave cowards like most characters in Shakespeare or Genet - are great pop-art, petulant, pretty, shallow, devoid of blonds, into shades, and futile, But they are not mere coffeehouse revolutionaries. In an age (The Good Old Days), when Alison Moyet and Paul Young are afforded critical respect, a lot of f***ing around is surely called for.
They are not yet exploiting the media because the real, grown-up media - the one with influence - remains unaware of them. Soon, when they swear on Wogan, this will change.
Tonight's brusque 25-minute dutifully original mangling of 'The Gift' and 'Bodies' provoked a violent (choreographed? manipulated? who gives a shit?) aftermath which though vaguely frightening was predominantly wild and exciting. History. To (immorally?) perpetuate this snowball, they create their own rare and glorious justification - ie, they get a reaction.
With a grace-sozzled Viciousness, amps fly through the air like preconceptions. Rock and roll breathes and twitches again like the third rising of the supposedly slain psyche in a tacky horror movie. They know you're a mess! Clutch at this reborn fantasy of youthful rebellion before the amniotic fluid turns to cellophane; before you're too jaded to fall for it. One last fling? Awful. Gods.
"A society which deprives people of the hope that things might get better is in deep trouble." Daily Mirror on football hooliganism, March 1985.
Jesuses come and go, and The Mary Chain Boys - brave cowards like most characters in Shakespeare or Genet - are great pop-art, petulant, pretty, shallow, devoid of blonds, into shades, and futile, But they are not mere coffeehouse revolutionaries. In an age (The Good Old Days), when Alison Moyet and Paul Young are afforded critical respect, a lot of f***ing around is surely called for.
They are not yet exploiting the media because the real, grown-up media - the one with influence - remains unaware of them. Soon, when they swear on Wogan, this will change.
Tonight's brusque 25-minute dutifully original mangling of 'The Gift' and 'Bodies' provoked a violent (choreographed? manipulated? who gives a shit?) aftermath which though vaguely frightening was predominantly wild and exciting. History. To (immorally?) perpetuate this snowball, they create their own rare and glorious justification - ie, they get a reaction.
With a grace-sozzled Viciousness, amps fly through the air like preconceptions. Rock and roll breathes and twitches again like the third rising of the supposedly slain psyche in a tacky horror movie. They know you're a mess! Clutch at this reborn fantasy of youthful rebellion before the amniotic fluid turns to cellophane; before you're too jaded to fall for it. One last fling? Awful. Gods.
