Showing posts with label the pogues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the pogues. Show all posts

29 Mar 2026

More Musings on My Time in the Music Business

 
The World's Most Flexible Record Label 
Original logo design by Chris Morton 
 
I. 
 
The independent record label founded by Dave Robinson and Jake Riviera - Stiff Records - is revered by many people fascinated by the British music industry in the mid-late 1970s and early-mid '80s.  
 
Indeed, one will often see it described as legendary - mostly because of its impressive roster of artists that included The Damned, Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Ian Dury and the Blockheads, Ten Pole Tudor, Motörhead, Madness, and The Pogues, but also because of the sleeve designs produced by the graphic artist Barney Bubbles [1].
 
My memories of it, however, are mostly shaped by the few miserable days I spent working there in the spring of 1987 ... 
      
 
II. 
 
By this date, Riviera was long gone following a series of disagreements with Robinson [2].  
 
A collaboration between Stiff and Island Records in 1984-85 had not worked out as planned [3] and, after the deal collapsed, Robinson regained full control of the newly independent label. 
 
However, underlying problems - mostly of a severe financial nature - meant that Stiff was forced into liquidation shortly after I turned up at their west London offices as a kind of exterminating angel ...  
 
 
III.  
 
Out of the blue, on St. George's Day, I got a phone call from Roddy Forrest, who had (briefly) been the  general manager at Charisma Records back when I was Jazzing it up at 90 Wardour Street [4]. He asked me to come and see him at his office the next day, at Stiff, as he wanted to offer me some work. 
 
So, the next morning, wearing my hand-painted Pagan T-shirt, I set off to Portobello (not my favourite neck of the woods; seedy and threatening, as I noted in my diary). 
 
Roddy was friendly and I was happy to see him again. But I did not enjoy my first day at Stiff:
 
 
The Von Hell Diaries: Friday 24 April, 1987 
 
Awful day. So glad I quit the music business when I did. It's a horrible industry, basically overseeing the production of shit. 
      Met a few new faces, including Dave Robinson - the boss - very Steve Weltmanesque in several respects, as Roddy pointed out, but, if anything, more intense. Did not like him. I think the only person I found attractive was the Irish girl, Sharon, working on reception.
      Roddy asked me to listen to some songs and give him some feedback. But my main task is to promote new releases with a number of record stores across the UK - i.e., make a lot of phone calls to people I don't know and try to sound enthusiastic. Boring. But it's only for a few days.    
 
 
I was in a far more positive frame of mind by the following week, however:
 
 
The Von Hell Diaries: Monday 27 April, 1987
 
Another day working at Stiff. Surprisingly, it didn't go too badly - went well, in fact, and I even enjoyed it at times. The people are friendly. But Robinson is bad tempered. 
      Rang 14 stores on a list of 19. Had to go to Sarm West Studios as well to pick something up. Owned by Trevor Horn, it's the studio where Duck Rock was recorded - and the Band Aid Christmas single. Bumped into Anne Clark, who I used to vaguely know, and we had a nice five-minute chat. When I got back to Stiff, it turned out someone had just been fired - I don't know who and I don't know why. 
      Roddy invited me to his place in Maida Vale for dinner (living with an Anglo-American woman called Maxine and her five-year-old son). Very tense atmosphere, but the food was okay. Roddy kindly gave me a selection of records (which I sold the next day to Reckless Records, apart from The Ramones album, Animal Boy, which I kept).
 
 
IV. 
 
By the middle of May, I'd had enough: the work was dull and the atmosphere increasingly unpleasant. 
 
And so, on the 14th, I went into the office one last time to collect the money owed and to say goodbye to Roddy. Woke up relieved the next morning knowing I didn't have to go to Stiff and stuff any more envelopes, make any more phone calls or photocopies, nor feign interest in the music business, etc. 
 
Shortly after I left, Stiff also reached the end of the road ... 
 
For despite success with artists like The Pogues, the label was drowning in debts of almost £1.5 million. After going into liquidation, ZTT moved in and purchased the remaining assets for a reported £300,000. They didn't attempt to resuscitate the label, however, rather, they placed it into a state of suspended animation for the next twenty years.
 
As the UK record business transitioned towards corporate ownership, small independent labels like Stiff and Charisma Records - run on an unconventional business model, staffed by eccentrics, and prepared to take a risk with signings and releases - were simply no longer able to survive [5].
 
 
Notes
 
[1] I should point out that none of these acts meant anything to me and I didn't buy any records produced by any artist signed to Stiff. I can't in all honesty say I'm a fan either of work by the tragic figure of Barney Bubbles (sorry, Paul).    
 
[2] Rivera left to form Radar Records in late 1977 with Andrew Lauder (formerly of RCA) and took several Stiff artists with him, including Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello. The label folded in 1980. 
 
[3] In 1983, Stiff mistakenly sold a 50% stake to Island Records in order to alleviate debt. Ironically, however, this partnership backfired when Island itself ran into serious financial trouble and Robinson ended up having to fund the deal himself, further straining Stiff's finances. 
 
[4] Forrest's (shortlived) appointment as GM at Charisma was announced in Music Week (26 Jan 1985) - along with Steve Weltman's promotion to managing director at the label. Roddy had previously worked for Arista Records as artist development manager and at Phonogram Records as product manager. 
      I was associated with Charisma for a few weeks in 1983 and between July 1984 and October 1985. For posts written about my time there, click here
 
[5] In December 2017, the Universal Music Group acquired ZTT and Stiff Records.   
 
 

24 Dec 2019

Punk Xmas

'Tis the season to be Johnny 
(Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la)

I.

For all its professed anarcho-nihilism and counter-cultural posturing, punk quickly revealed itself to be all too human when the festive season rolled round, with many bands embracing the cynical-sentimental showbiz tradition of releasing Christmas songs. 

Now, whilst punk intellectuals such as Craig O'Hara and Gerfried Ambrosch* might think it terribly subversive for Stiff Little Fingers to release a raucous live rendition of White Christmas, or that by performing Silent Night at a million miles an hour the Dickies caused Franz Gruber to start spinning in his grave, I do not.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter how hard you pogo around the Christmas tree, you're not reclaiming the happy holiday as a pagan tradition or deconstructing moral idealism, you are - in the words of Paul McCartney - simply having a wonderful Christmastime (ding-dong, ding-dong, ding)

That doesn't make you a collaborator, or a sell out.

But it does mean you perhaps have rather more in common with everyone else than you might otherwise wish to acknowledge and that your romantic rebellion - against cliché, dreary convention, and commercialism - is born of the fact that you care a great deal (punk indifference being merely another pose).**


II.

So what, then, are the best punk Xmas songs?

That's hard to say, as, to be honest, they're all pretty awful, with one or two exceptions, such as Fairytale of New York (1987), by the Pogues, ft. Kirsty MacColl, and Merry Christmas (I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight) (1987), by the Ramones - though I'm not overly keen on either.

I do quite like Siouxsie and the Banshees' version of the traditional French Christmas carol Il est né, le divin Enfant (1982), but, ultimately, my tastes take me back towards the two tunes previously mentioned, by SLF and the Dickies: White Christmas (1980) and Silent Night (1978).

And finally, let's not forget the Thin Lizzy/Sex Pistols collaboration (as the Greedies); A Merry Jingle (1979): click here to watch their performance on Top of the Pops (20-12-79), or here, as they close the New Year's edition of The Kenny Everett Television Show, in another time and in a different world ... 


Notes

* Craig O'Hara, The Philosophy of Punk, (AK Press, revised 2nd edition, 2000); Gerfried Ambrosch, The Poetry of Punk, (Routledge, 2018).
 
** Obviously, when I say punks care, I don't mean about the baby Jesus, but about the authenticity of experience; they so want things to be meaningful and honest and real - including the joy of Christmas. 

To relive Christmas '77 with the Sex Pistols, see the BBC Four documentary directed by Julien Temple, (2013): click here.


9 Apr 2019

Punk Friends Reunited



I remember with vague fondness my time at Trinity and All Saints College, which was then a small Catholic institution affiliated with the University of Leeds, but which has since gained full university status and autonomy.

Although I was there under the pretext of studying for a degree in Sociology and Media, essentially, like many undergraduates at this time, I was more interested in extracurricular activities that might broadly be categorised as messing around and fucking about. 

This included the cultivation of my own punk persona, Jimmy Jazz - after the song by the Clash - and becoming part of a small gang of misfits that numbered amongst its members:

(i) Clive Hooker, a drummer and DJ from Northampton, with a speech impediment that unfortunately made him sound like Klunk from Stop the Pigeon.

(ii) August Finer, a bass player with a knicker-invading smile and a mohican haircut; ultimately, a nice, middle-class Jewish boy, from Knutsford, posing as a punk (but who did have a brother in The Pogues).     

(iii) Kirk Field, a drama student (who couldn't really act) and a vocalist (who couldn't really sing), but a clever, funny, charming personality with a quiff and a penchant for magic mushrooms who went on to become a successful tour operator and events organiser for people who like to party.

During the years 1981-84, we four were as thick as thieves. But, amazingly, the moment we graduated the magic spell that bound us together was completely broken; even my friendship with Mr. Field, which had been extremely intimate and intense, didn't long survive the move to London.

I suppose there were reasons for this - but no real reason - and I'm told that it's a common phenomenon; that adolescent friendships often blossom with spectacular colour, but then quickly fade and die and that it's pointless trying to hold the petals on.

Regrets? I have a few. But then again, too few to mention. Besides, any lingering sense of loss only adds a delicious poignancy to nostalgic reflections like this; which is how dead friendships can continue to give pleasure.           

If the opportunity ever arose, I'd be happy to meet any or all of the above for a drink. But I suspect there'd be moments of awkward silence. And underneath the delight of seeing them again there'd be a slight sense of boredom and embarrassment and a longing to get away as soon as possible ...