Bliss it Was in that Dawn to be Alive: Reflections on the Event of May '68

For all its romantic idealism and revolutionary fanaticism, there's still something about May '68 that I can neither fully renounce nor denounce.

Indeed, fifty years on, and it seems to me that there's still something glowing red and magnificent, like a burning ember, at the heart of this irreducible and indeterminable event - albeit an event which, as Deleuze and Guattari say, failed to unfold on a collective level; something which deserves not merely nostalgic recollection, but active rekindling.

For as a punk-provocateur, reared in the politics of the Situationist International, I still think that offering creative (sometimes criminal) resistance to the status quo and challenging all forms of orthodoxy is the only ethical thing to do with one's life. In other words: It is right to rebel (a slogan originating in Marx, Mao or Marcuse, but which I learned from Malcolm McLaren).

But Johnny, what are you rebelling against?

Well, against all forms of reactionary stupidity for a start. And against that long list of words which begin with the letter C and induce boredom, including: capitalism, consumerism, cliché, conformity, convention, comfort and convenience. 

I was told recently that I would never make a very good philosopher, as I'm too impatient to read slowly and too shallow to care about fundamental ideas: "You're part blogger, part comedian - always looking for a catchy turn of phrase or an amusing punchline."

That's probably true: I certainly love those fabulous slogans that were sprayed on the walls of Paris: Il est interdit d'interdire! Soyez réalistes - demandez l'impossible! And, most famously, Sous les pavés, la plage! If this makes me a Marxist of the Groucho tendency, then so be it; as someone born in May '68 it's hardly surprising after all ...


Notes 

Deleuze and Guattari, 'May '68 Did Not take Place, Two Regimes of Madness, ed. David Lapoujade, trans. Ames Hodges and Mike Taormina (Semiotext(e), 2007, pp. 233-36. 

As I say above, for Deleuze and Guattari May '68 was (is) a pure event; i.e., an unstable condition without cause that opens up a new field of possibility or becoming. It might be quickly co-opted, but there's something in it that can never be outmoded; thus May '68 is, in a sense, still unfolding now/here. One is tempted to say something similar of punk - which is why the slogan punk's not dead is, technically correct (if not for the reasons that many adherents of the movement believe). And it's why even Joe Corré, despite his uniquely privileged (or accursed) position, cannot declare its passing; no matter how much shit he burns nor how many piles of ash he assembles in a Mayfair art gallery.  

I Will Show You How to Sneer With a Handful of Dust: Ash from Chaos by Joe Corré

Joe Corré: Ash from Chaos (2018)
Photograph: Vianney Le Caer/Rex/Shutterstock

Having already written on Joe Corré's controversial and, at the time, much derided decision to destroy his collection of Sex Pistols memorabilia back in 2016 [click here], I suppose I'm obliged to now comment on his latest attempt to exorcise demons and finally come to terms with his own heritage.

Ash from Chaos features the remnants from the above Burn Punk London event placed inside a glass casket surrounded by votive candles and with a replica of his father's death mask sat morbidly - but also kind of brilliantly - on top. It's an obscene gesture demonstrating all the bad taste and insensitivity that Malcolm himself was more than happy to trade in: I will show you how to sneer with a handful of dust.    

For all his claims that punk is something that no longer interests him and that he understands how it has become (and perhaps always was) something to consume and to assist with the marketing of a wide variety of other things - from alternative lifestyles to credit cards and fast food - he seems to still care very much; the work radiates intense personal emotion and he talks about the sincerity of his ideas.

Indeed, one of the things he criticises his father for was precisely his lack of sincerity; pointing out that, for Malcolm, it was mostly about the fun of the prank. Eventually, argues Corré, people get bored with provocation for its own sake and want to explore and experience things that have real meaning and value. 

And so, for Corré, Ash from Chaos, isn't just another caper or a continuation of the Swindle. It's intended - in all sincerity - as an environmental polemic; a critique of consumerism and a world that piles up rubbish and pollutes even the remotest places on earth with its plastic waste. The work ultimately betrays his mother's influence, more than McLaren's; it's done to make Vivienne proud of him - not to simply avenge himself upon his father's ghost, as some have suggested. 

By his own admission, Corré isn't a fucking artist. He is, rather, a loving son, a concerned citizen, and a committed activist with a social conscience (all proceeds from the show will be donated to charity, though I doubt very much that anyone will pay the £6 million reserve price). In sum: he means it man.

But two questions remain: What kind of phoenix will rise from the ashes of punk? And does anyone under the age of fifty really give a fuck?


Note: Ash from Chaos is at Lazinc Gallery, London, until 7 May: click here for details. 

For a promo video directed by Nigel Askew and produced by Joe Corré and Gas Media (2018) uploaded to YouTube, click here.

Animal Farm: A Business Tale Featuring Mike Ashley as Napoleon and Joseph Corré as Squealer

The public looked from Mike to Joe, and from Joe to Mike, and from Mike to Joe again; 
but already it was impossible to say which was which ...

Billionaire sportswear tycoon Mike Ashley's £30 million pre-pack purchase of upmarket lingerie brand Agent Provocateur has - all too predictably - brought an outraged response from Joseph Corré, one of the founders of the global retail outlet.

Describing it as a bad day for British business, Mr Corré slammed the deal as a scandal, a catastrophe and a phenomenal stitch-up, before asking: "What's next, Agent Provocateur tracksuits?"

Well, better that, surely, than Sports Direct knickers or peep-hole trainers! But, fun as it is to imagine these new lines, it's not what I want to discuss here. Rather, the thing that intrigues is why Corré thinks he's entitled to pontificate on Ashley's attempt to save the business from going into administration.

If it's such a matter of concern, then why didn't he find the capital to buy it back himself? More to the point, why did he sell his shares in the company to private equity group 3i - whom he now describes as "negligent and incompetent" - in the first place?

Obviously, none of this is any of my business. But it's none of Corré's either, having sold out and walked away. It's solely Mr Ashley's business where he chooses to invest his money. And what irritates about Joe Corré is the fact he assumes an air of moral superiority when he speaks; as if his hands were clean and he, unlike Ashley, has what might laughably be thought of as punk integrity.

Ultimately, if one were to see these two rich, middle-aged, rather portly gentleman sitting round a dinner table together discussing business, one would not be surprised; what's more, it would be very difficult to tell them apart. For whilst they might dress differently - Ashley in his NUFC shirt, Corré in his Jack Sheppard trousers - they both walk on two legs ...                 


See: George Orwell, Animal Farm, (London, 1945).

Carri on Sex Pistols (Comments on the Case of Joe Corré and His Bonfire of Punk)

Artwork by Jamie Reid 

(Virgin 1979)

I've been asked to comment on Joe Corré's decision to burn his valuable collection of Sex Pistols memorabilia on the River Thames last month in order to mark the 40th anniversary of the release of Anarchy in the UK, whilst, at the same time protest punk's commercial co-option. Obviously, there was a good deal of vanity and a certain selfishness in the stunt which, from what I've seen of it, all looked a bit naff. And - who knows? - perhaps Henry Rollins is right to suggest that it should ultimately be interpreted as an act of revenge by an angry son left out of his father's will.

But, having said all this, the amount of scorn and vitriol directed towards Corré by aged, self-righteous punks - including, of course, that man-mountain of hypocrisy, Johnny Rotten (rightly identified as The Collaborator all those years ago) - is surely undeserved. For if a man wants to burn his own bondage trousers (and his own inheritance) that's really his own business and ultimately hurts no one. I'm not sure Malcolm would have found the whole thing hilarious, as Corré suggests, but I doubt it'll have him spinning in his grave either.

I suspect rather, that, were he still alive, what Mclaren would have done is remind us of his own ingenious and far more provocative attempt to expose and destroy the legend and the legacy of the Sex Pistols in the aftermath of the band's spectacular implosion, after Rotten flounced off in search of artistic integrity and a more mainstream career in the music business.

Ultimately, Never Mind the Bollocks was just another rock 'n' roll album; conventional in every regard. Obviously, there are some unbelievably powerful tracks. But I'm tempted to say now that the greatest thing about it is the title and Jamie Reid's artwork.

Similarly, the really interesting aspect of the Sex Pistols' story is the point at which they become more than just another corny 4/4 beat combo. And it starts when Malcolm conceives of The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle and begins the process of not only destroying everything - including the loyalty and expectation of their own followers - but anticipating precisely what would happen next; the assimilation and marketing of punk.

Julian Temple's film opens with Malcolm and Helen burning all traces of the band's existence in the hope that they might somehow prevent their posthumous exploitation in the form of either collectable artefacts to be showcased in museums and expensive art galleries, or cheap merchandise churned out for easy consumption by gullible fans. The same film later reveals the forlorn nature of this hope; if you like their pop music, you'll love their pop corn - it's pure punk!  

What I'm arguing, in short, is that Joseph Corré's rather feeble gesture was unnecessary; his father had alerted us in 1979 to fact that the Sex Pistols were by then no more than a brand name and that Bambi was already being butchered.         


Note: those interested in watching film of Corré's stunt should click here.