Friday Five: Songs about Stealing

This is a week late, so I apologise for that, but I wasn't aware that last Friday (8th August) was the 34th anniversary of the release of Bankrobber by The Clash. Having discovered that, I felt I had to dedicate a post to that marvelous song, and others of its ilk.

5 Best Songs about Theft:

1. Bankrobber - The Clash
   
   
2. Thick as Thieves - The Jam
   
   
3. Stand and Deliver - Adam and the Ants
   
   
   
   
4. Shoplifters of the World, Unite - The Smiths
   
   
   
   
5. Been Caught Stealing - Jane's Addiction

Elvis Calling

Ok, so London Calling is one of the best albums EVER (I don't know why writing about music makes me write like a teenager with random capital letters and excessive exclamation marks!!!!!) and this album cover, released in 1979, is one of the best pieces of artwork too, summing up the anger and disaffection of the generation. Like all good students, I had this poster on my wall as I attempted to osmote some cool. (Yep, I know that's not a word but I like it, and you know what I mean, and we're going with the whole teenage underdevloped vocabularly thing here.)

 



Now I know I should have known this already and I am aware that I am exposing myself to ridicule from certain friends (yes, I'm referring to you Bad Fairy and Our Man in London), but I never realised that it was done as a homage to Elvis Presley's first album released in 1956. The black and white image; the design, layout and font; the special relationship of one man with his guitar...

In A Brief History of Album Covers, Jason Draper writes, "A mixture of punk, reggae and rockabilly, London Calling may well be to punk/ post punk music what Elvis Presley was to rock 'n' roll - a collection of influences wider than the genres the artists were recognized as spearheading."

Incidentally, another band to riff on the themes of the album cover is the phenomenally perennial Chumbawamba. Check out Tony Blair, sent to everyone on their UK mailing list in 1999.

Quick Quintet: You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

There is a lot of music that I love and a lot of bands that have shaped my life. We all have an inner soundtrack and The Jam, The Pogues, The Smiths, The Damned, The Cure, Pulp, Blur and Oasis all feature highly on mine. 

You know how it is - there are certain songs that no matter where you are or what you're doing, or how tired you are, you just have to get up and dance. They may not even be your favourites, but they have a certain rhythm or connotations that cannot be ignored. I blame other people for most of them...

5 Songs I Have to Dance to:

1. Debaser - The Pixies; Manchester Academy and anywhere in Manchester when I was a student with the Essex Girl - those were the days, my friend...
2. Baggy Trousers - Madness; doesn't everyone our age? It's guaranteed to turn any do into a flashback to the primary school disco
3. Groove is in the Heart - Deee-Lite; Thermal Girl is entirely to blame for this one
4. White Riot - The Clash; not played very often, but for years this was my Friday-night-going-out-song. It's fast, furious, frenetic and gets me every time
5. Sweet Child O' Mine - Guns N' Roses; partly the fault of Our Man in London, I remember a particular gig in 1987, and it fires up my inner rock-chick

Cultural Collision

Living in New Zealand, as I do, there are many things that I will never get used to. For a start the seasons are the wrong way round – how can you have Christmas in the middle of summer, Bonfire Night in spring when you have to wait until 10pm to set off the fireworks, and Easter when all of nature is curling up and going to sleep rather than bursting into life?

Secondly, they call the wrong thing football. Here’s a tip – if it’s ‘a solid or hollow sphere’ that you kick with ‘the lower extremity of the leg below the ankle’ then it’s football. If you pick up an ovoid inflatable and run with it, then it’s either cheating, or it’s rugby – union or league depending on the level of violence involved – American football if there’s padding, and Aussie rules if there are no discernible rules whatsoever.

And other thing: although we share a similar history, the popular iconography is far more American than English and, according to a friend I mentioned this to, becoming more so each day. I noticed this when I was writing the Midsummer Night’s Dream review. My 80s was clearly a very different time to most Kiwis’ 80s. And this is not the only decade to suffer this phenomenon.

When we first arrived to these fair shores we were invited to a fancy dress party (the love of those is also a Kiwi thing I don’t understand – Him Outdoors has his theories which I have mentioned before but shan’t again). The theme was 70s. Naturally, we went as punks – ripped jeans, tatty leather and safety pins galore – expecting to hear The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Everyone else was dressed in kaftans, headbands, love beads and painted flowers. They tripped around drippily to Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, and The Beach Boys. Wrong decade, surely, I thought – and may well have said. I was an aggressive punk after all – I felt like a Hell’s Angel that had just turned up to Woodstock.

This feeling of displacement continues daily. We are lulled into a false sense of security and familiarity – they play cricket; their judicial and political system are based on ours (although how someone who is not even wanted by their electorate can still occupy a seat in Parliament bewilders me); they screen Coronation Street twice a week (it’s a year behind) and they speak a version of our language. But the popular iconography – from the plastic news presenters to the ‘fashion’ of vests and baseball caps – is largely American.

Not all, I hasten to add. There are pockets of Scottish ‘it’s cold and it’s wet and we like it’ heritage (Southland); there is a large Yorkshire ‘we are better than everyone else and why talk when you can grunt?’ element (Otago); there are prime examples of Home Counties ‘what school did you go to and who are your parents?’ affectation (Canterbury); and a delightful patch of faux French ‘let’s fly the tricolour and call our streets by Gallic names’ chic (Akaroa).

Of course there is a rich and distinctive Māori culture which adds a unique and valuable component to the heritage. And there are colourful swathes of Pacific Island traditions, Asian customs, and all sorts of bits and pieces of European inheritance from the Italian-style blessing of the boats at Island Bay to a strange Viking connection at Dannevirke (settled by a handful of Danes and Norwegians).

The result of all this is a little curious and unsettling like one of those dreams where you know something is different but you’re not sure what. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it is odd. Some things are simply ingrained in your formative years and when they change, you may never get used to them. Ah well, ‘Vive La Difference!’ as they say in Akaroa.