The Clattering of the Compact

The Glam Rock Leviathan

In the summer of 1972, I finally quit Pangbourne in consequence of a decision made between my father and those in authority over me at college to the effect that it was pointless my staying on for the final two years, presumably because "A" or Advanced level GCE - or General Certificate of Education - exams would be far beyond me. After all, I'd only succeeded in passing two GCE "O" Levels (in French and English Literature)...five being the minimum acceptable amount for entrance into university, together with two or more well-graded "A" Levels, depending on the university. GCE "O" levels were phased out in 1988, in favour of GCSEs.
I was subsequently involved in the intensive program of academic, artistic, sporting and semi- professional activities outlined in my previous autobiographical work, "Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child", which lasted for about five years.
A change came over me in the summer of '72 which I can trace back to a single incident taking place in a bar in the little former fishing town of Santiago de la Ribera in the province of Murcia, Spain, close by the Mar Menor, where I'd been vacationing with my parents and brother since the late 1960s, and which I'd like now to recount.
There was a young man of the pueblo I'd idolised for several years. He incarnated a kind of old-school Iberian macho cool, and was fair as I recall, rather than swarthy as might be expected, and quite stocky, with muscular arms...and if he'd worn a medallion and identity bracelet, he'd have been typical of his kind. That is how I remember him...but it was a long time ago.
What I am certain of is that by the summer of '72, he'd let his hair grow collar length as was the fashion of the day, even though it was still quite rare among young Spaniards, and taken to sporting colourful large-collared shirts which he elected not to tuck into his trousers. The style of these shirts meant that his long hair would occasionally get caught between neck and collar which necessitated his flicking it out with an elegant sweep of his hand and coquettishly tossing his head.
While these gestures seemed perfectly in keeping with his swaggering machismo in my besotted eyes, another patron was less convinced, and wryly muttered his misgivings in my ear. Rather than putting me off, these whispered words of censure had the effect of making him even more fascinating than ever; and it may be that as a result of this episode, I came to covet the notoriety that had suddenly been afforded him.
Furthermore, this incident at the Bar Castilla may have marked the beginning of the end of my identification with undiluted masculinity...whether of a movie star such as Steve McQueen, or any number of strutting Hard Rock shouters, and the onset of a fascination with a more androgynous brand of male sexuality.
This was compounded by my witnessing a performance towards the end of the year on a long forgotten Pop show called Lift off with Ayesha of former Bubblegum band the Sweet performing their new single, "Blockbuster". I can remember being mesmerised where once I'd have been disgusted by the spectacle of grown heterosexual men prancing around in make up and high heels, but the effect it had on my nascent sexual identity I can only imagine. But the influence of the Sweet, devastating that it was, was minimal in my case in comparison to that of David Bowie, whose epicene charisma was so potent that even the most of provincial British macho men were drawn - irresistibly - to an art which combined the most infectious Pop melodies with complex, deeply literate lyrics...Glam at its most consciously artistic.
For all that though, my interest in girls was as healthy as any other teenager. A propos of which, on the way back from Spain via Bilbao on the ship HMS Patricia in the summer of '72, I fell in love by sight with a fellow passenger, a young Spanish girl I saw several times about the ship but never actually spoke to, and subsequently became obsessed by her, even to the point of roaming the streets of London for several days in succession in the vain hope of somehow bumping into her. This wasn't the first time I'd become so paralysed with shyness around a woman towards whom I felt a deep romantic attraction that I became incapable of decisive action, nor would it be the last.
Several songs served as the soundtrack to this irrational spell of romantic madness, including Betcha by Golly Wow by the Stylistics, and Last Night I Didn't Get To Sleep At All by the 5th Dimension, written - respectively - by Philly Soul stalwarts Thom Bell and Linda Creed and master British songwriter Tony Macauley.
The former kick-started a love affair on my part with the aforesaid Philly Sound, a deeply romantic Philadelphia-based genre of Soul music which was popular from around 1969 to 1975, and it remains my favourite ever example apart from La La la Means I love You by the Delphonics, also written by Thom Bell (with William Hart), which is one of the most extravagantly romantic expressions of unrequited love in the history of recorded music.
My feelings for women in the early '70s were so intense and yet so fraught with fear and timidity that if an attractive female happened to speak to me in a public place, I could barely utter a sound in return, and was in serious danger of falling in love on the spot.
I was in a desperate state throughout '73... and an isolated one to boot...for when I wasn't pursuing the academic and sporting program that had been specially prepared for me by my father, I sequestered myself in my parents' house, where I fantasised about the kind of fame enjoyed on one hand by Glam Rock icons such as Bolan and Bowie, and on the other, by a new breed of teen idol, that included Michael Jackson, Donny Osmond and David Cassidy.
Like these three angel-faced constants of teen magazines such as Jackie in the UK and Tiger Beat in the US, I wanted to be adored and endlessly mobbed by hordes of lovelorn teenyboppers. I was supposed to be studying, and study I certainly did, but I also spent untold hours in idle contemplation of the glamour of the superstar lifestyle...a life I wanted for myself as soon as possible, and despite a serious dearth of discernible talent.

From Scran Bag to Pretty Boy

In the summer of '72, I signed up for five years service with the London Division of the Royal Naval Reserve, based at HMS President on the Embankment of the Thames. Within a short time of doing so, I discovered that I was seen by several of the older seamen as the division's token pretty boy, and my reputation as such was destined to grow to sometimes quite uncomfortable proportions throughout my time with the RNR, but at first I was flattered rather than insulted to be seen in this way, because it was all new to me, given that my reputation at Pangbourne was that of an unkempt scran bag.
To a degree then, it was a case of an ugly duckling suddenly finding themselves to be a swan, and enjoying the attention, but more than that...the notoriety, such as that conferred on the young Spaniard of the Bar Castilla in the summer of '72...as if I'd turned from a scruff into a peacock in the space of a mere few months.
I'd been seduced as if overnight by the androgyny that was everywhere in Europe in the early '70s...not just among Rock and Pop stars, but actors...models...cabaret performers...even authors. It was as if we young were being conditioned to view androgynous beauty not just as acceptable, but desirable. This propagandising certainly worked for me...and the fact that the face that started back at me from the mirror was no longer that of an oily-haired adolescent but a fully fledged beautiful boy made it even more effective. I can't help but reiterate that the effect this must have had on my psyche can only have been disastrous. Since becoming a Christian in 1993, I've had to effectively recover my long lost manliness, but it's been a long process of undoing decades of willing emasculation on my part, during which I actively courted the effete irresponsibility of the dandy, among other archetypes of effeminate sexuality.
Talking of which...'73 was the year in which Glam became a national craze throughout Britain and other Western countries, although it had been carried into the Pop mainstream several years earlier by Marc Bolan, who'd been featured - as cockney kid Mark Feld - in 1962 in a magazine called Town, as one of the faces, or leading Mods of his area of East London, Stamford Hill, although by then he'd moved with his family to a council house in Summerstown near Wimbledon.
He went on to become a darling of the Hippie Underground as one half of the acoustic duo, Tyrannosaurus Rex, the other being multi-instrumentalist Steve Peregrin Took, whose tastes inclined more towards the avant garde than Bolan, and who was eventually replaced by Mickey Finn. In 1970, Bolan shortened the name of the band to T.Rex and soon after enjoying his first major hit single in the autumn of that year, became the biggest British teen sensation since the heydey of Beatlemania, a teenage idol indeed.
In truth though, Glam was not as new as many might have believed it to be, extreme androgyny having been pioneered in Pop music all throughout the '60s by such figures as Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones and Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd, although it could be said that its true founding father had been Rhythm and Blues shouter Richard Penniman, better known as Little Richard. After all when it comes to Rock and Roll, everything can be traced back to the early days and beyond that to the Blues themselves.
As a boy, Richard attended the New Hope Baptist Church in his native Macon, Georgia, and sang Gospel songs with his family as The Penniman Singers, his favourite singers being Gospel legends Mahalia Jackson and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. He joined Sister Rosetta onstage in Macon at the age of 13, in 1945 after she heard him singing before the concert. What's more, he had serious ambitions of becoming a preacher.
By 1951, however, the world had begun to beckon, and he won a talent contest in Atlanta that led to a recording contract with RCA Victor, but the four records he subsequently released all flopped. Around about the same time, he came under the sway of an outrageous Rhythm and Blues musician by the name of Esquerita, who shaped his unique piano style. Esquerita is also believed to have influenced his increasingly flamboyant image, although self-styled King of the Blues Billy Wright, who piled his pomaded hair high on his head - as did Esquerita - and wore eye liner and face powder, was also an influence in this respect. Real success came for Richard in 1955 with Tutti Frutti, which has been cited as the true starting point for the Rock and Roll revolution; but within two years, he'd quit the business and returned to his faith.
Whether Richard is saved or not no one knows except God, but one thing that is certain is that few Rock stars have been as vocal in their condemnation of Rock and Roll as he has been. He has been quoted as saying that Rock and Roll is driving people from Christ, and that he himself was directed and commanded by another power. The power of darkness. This presumably at the height of his influence as a Rock and Roll star. And if anybody knows whereof they speak when it comes to this massively influential musical and social movement, it's the good Reverend Penniman. I think he's a man worth listening to myself.

The Punk Rock Insurrection

By the end of '73, the first wave of Glam Rock had all but dispersed, although it was to experience repeated periodic revivals, notably in the '80s through the New Romantic movement in the UK, and the Glam Metal scene in the US. It still exists to some degree...yet with its power to shock effectively reduced to nothing, such is the extent to which the West has become inured to outrage.
Within three years, it had been supplanted by a movement which - if that were at all possible - was even more outrageous. I'm referring of course to Punk.
By the time I left the RNR in '77 as an Able Seaman - and armed with a character report that was only a little shy of glowing - Punk was in full swing, and within a few months, I was a fellow traveller myself, my hair dyed and spiked, and favouring black drainpipes, usually worn with black leather winklepicker boots and other provocative items of clothing.
Punk's origins lay in the US among the so-called Garage bands of the 1960s, who attempted to emulate the rougher acts of the British Invasion, such as the Stones, the Kinks, the Who, the Troggs, the Pretty Things, who were themselves heavily indebted to American Rhythm and Blues. But it was the distinct New York variant that exerted the greatest influence on the British Punk uprising...easily the most momentous of them all...and largely through the influence of a brilliant young London entrepreneur by the name of Malcolm Mclaren.
Mclaren, whose Jewish mother had owned a shmatte (clothing) factory in London's East End was a former art student turned boutique owner, who by early 1972 was selling '50s style clothing - among other items - designed by his then partner Vivienne Westwood through an outlet at 430 Kings Road, Chelsea, which he'd named Let it Rock. It exists to this day as part of Dame Vivienne's global fashion empire as World's End, which it was renamed in late 1980.
In the late 1960s, he'd been drawn to the subversive ideas of the Paris Situationists, believed to have played a part in fometing the '68 riots, themselves offshoots of the previously mentioned post-war Lettrists, who were very much precursors of the British Punk variant. He brought them to bear as he set about developing the Punk look in mid '70s London.
In 1975 he became the manager of the disintegrating Glam Rock band the New York Dolls, designing red leather outfits for them in tandem with a new pseudo-Communist image, which proved a disastrous move and they split up soon afterwards. Yet, while in NYC, he came across a fledgling Punk outfit by the name of the Neon Boys, and featuring two young former Sandford Preparatory students by the name of Tom Verlaine - named after the French Symbolist poet Paul - and Richard Hell... born Thomas Miller and Richard Meyers in Morristown, NJ. and Lexington, Ky. respectively.
He was especially impressed by Hell's unique image of spiky hair - allegedly inspired by the famous tousle-haired photograph of Rimbaud by Etienne Carjat - and torn tee-shirt held together with safety pins. He attempted to persuade Hell to return with him to London, but the poet and musician demurred, so McLaren returned alone in mid 1975.
Some time afterwards, he renamed his Kings Road boutique Sex and set himself up as the manager of a group known as the Strand (after a song by Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music). The Strand had originally been formed by three working class denizens of the Hammersmith - Shepherds Bush - Acton area of West London, allegedly at the urging of guitarist Warwick "Wally" Nightingale.
Mclaren agreed to be their manager only on the condition that founder member Wally - deemed "too nice" by the entrepreneur - be ejected from the band, and so he was. Then, when a charismatic young London Irishman by the name of Johnny Rotten - born John Lydon in Finsbury Park, N4 - came onboard as lead singer, and the band was renamed the Sex Pistols, they were set to spearhead the most infamous and influential Punk insurrection of them all.
I was more than happy to be caught up in it all...although when I auditioned for the Guildhall School of Music and Drama in late '77, none of my auditioners would have suspected anything of the sort. These included the handsome patrician head of a British acting dynasty that thrives to this day who informed a third party - I can't recall who - something to the effect that while I was chaotic onstage, I was also mesmeric, and so he believed something could be done with me at the Guildhall...and told me so. As it turned out he was wrong, but he wanted to give me a chance, and so, where I had failed three RADA auditions, Guildhall offered me a place on the three-year Drama course beginning in the autumn of 1978.

Gilded Youth at the Guildhall School

Once I started at Guildhall, I made it pretty clear than the nice clean-cut Carl who'd auditioned the previous year had been a curve ball, as I was making no further attempts to conceal my Punk image. This was compounded by a bizarre hyperactivity that occasionally degenerated into outrageous and even disruptive behaviour. It was as if I was determined to convince the world that I was an Artist with a capital A and therefore entitled to incessantly attract attention to myself with aberrant behaviour and clothing.
With regard to the latter, among the items I favoured in '78-'79 were slim jim ties, drainpipe jeans, flourescent Fifties-style socks, and white leather brothel creepers, but my favourite of all was a pair of tight plastic snakeskin trousers, which I can only actually remember wearing once.
As if my manic behaviour and bizarre clothing weren't enough to cause eyebrows to raise among the Guildhall authorities, I insisted on wearing make-up even in classes, although to be fair it was subtly applied, except for on certain occasions such as parties when I really piled on the slap, foundation, eye shadow, blusher, lip rouge, the works. Talk about lipstick, powder and paint.
One one memorable occasion, in the course of a mime class supervised by a lovely bearded man who many of us had seen on telly and who worked as an occasional teacher at the Guildhall, the rouge compact I usually carried in those days for sporadic touch-ups fell out of the inner pocket of my jacket when I bent over during an exercise before hitting the floor with an embarrassing clatter.
As I recall, there was a silence as all eyes in the classroom went to the offending compact, which our mime mentor vehemently broke by retrieving it from the floor, before urging us to make use of everything that comes to hand during a mime, and making furious of the blusher on peoples' startled faces, thereby sparing my blushes.
As I say, that's how I recall it. He was always one of my champions...and they'd become thin on the ground as early as the end of the first term. It was during this term in fact that I was summoned to the principal's office where I was informed something along the lines that I'd be better off leaving the college. Of course, I disagreed, but I had no choice but to go along with their decision.
As things turned out, though, I didn't leave until the end of the year, and at the end of the second term I was told by my superiors that my work had much improved, so it looked like I might be asked to stay on. I was over the moon. However, it wasn't to be, and I was definitively informed that I'd have to go a little before the end of my third term.
One of the teachers, another champion of mine from among the staff and a working actress at the time, rushed up to me soon after becoming aware that the decision to eject me had become final, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was extremely talented, and that I ought to aim for the Fringe, which is the London equivalent of Off-Broadway, while almost shaking with anger and outrage...
But it wasn't the Fringe that ultimately claimed me, it was the great British tradition of pantomime...and within months of leaving college, I was Christian the Chorus Boy in a panto production of Sleeping Beauty which played at the Buxton Opera House over Christmas '79, and if that sounds louche then it was, at least how I played him, in pale ballet-style tights and full make-up.
Still, my days of wearing make-up were numbered, because within less than two years of the Sleeping Beauty tour...around the time in fact that the New Romantic movement, which was to some extent a revival of Glam androgyny, fused with the more sophisticated decadence of figures such as Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music and Ron Mael of Sparks, was at its apex, all forms of face paint were causing my eyes to become puffy and red-rimmed. I was thenceforth forced to exist without cosmetic enhancement, and such was the deep ontological insecurity that underpinned my narcissism, this was a tough order for me at first...but at least my foppery remained undimmed. Cue the Eighties...