Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.

by Viv Albertine

  I’ve only been playing guitar for five months – and now here I am standing in the wings of the Edinburgh Playhouse, looking out at hundreds of people, waiting to go on stage. Mick comes up behind me: ‘Sorry you didn’t get to soundcheck.’ We arrived too late to soundcheck but I’m not bothered, never done one before, wouldn’t know what to do anyway. I am bothered about my clothes though. I’m wearing silver rubber stockings and black stiletto patent boots from Sex, a short blue ballet tunic that I’ve had since I was eleven, and loads of ribbons tied in my matted bleached blonde hair. Just as we’re about to go on stage, I look down and see that one of my brand-new rubber stockings has a rip in it, all the way from my knee up to my thigh. It flaps like a gutted fish. How did that happen? I took such care putting them on, used loads of talcum powder so they slid on easily. All my other clothes are back at the hotel. A roadie, seeing my distress, leaps to the rescue and tapes up the slash with a long strip of black gaffer tape. Looks quite cool.

  I count in the first song, ‘One two three four!’ and off we go, careening through ‘Let’s Do the Split’ and ‘I’ll Shit on It’ as fast as we can. (Mick explains to me later in the tour that when you shout ‘One two three four’ you’re setting the speed of the song. I don’t know this, I’ve copied it off the Ramones LP, I just think it’s a warning to the band that you’re starting and it’s to be shouted as fast as possible, the quicker, the more exciting.) We all play at different speeds. Ari screams as loud as she can, I thrash at my guitar, Palmolive smashes the drums – the stage is so big and Tessa’s so far away, I can’t hear what she’s doing. I can’t differentiate between the instruments. There’s roaring and squealing and air rushing and heat, like we’ve all been hurled into the mouth of a volcano. We all play the song separately, we know we should play together, but we can’t. I hope that if I remember my part and the others remember theirs, with a bit of luck we’ll all end at the same time. That doesn’t happen. During rehearsals, at least one of us usually makes a mistake and plays the chorus twice, or forgets a change into the next section and ends up in a completely different place to the others, but we all keep playing until the end of the song, often a whole verse behind. That’s what happens with ‘Let’s Do the Split’: we all finish at different times. Palmolive is the last, still clattering away obliviously, the rest of us glare at her and eventually she looks up, realises we’ve all finished, gives the side tom a couple more thumps and stops.

  ‘One two three four!’ On to ‘Shoplifting’. If my guitar’s out of tune, I can’t tell – sometimes Ari tells me it is, but what can I do about it? No way I can tune it myself. I keep playing. We’re only on for fifteen minutes anyway.

  A hail of spit rains down on us throughout the set. Great gobs of phlegm land in my hair, my eyes and on my guitar neck, my fingers slide around as I try to hold down the chords. I look over at Ari and see spit land in her mouth as she sings. I don’t know if she gobs it back out or swallows it. I have to look down at my hands or I’ll lose my place. Someone in the front row tries to pull Ari off stage – we all stop playing and attack them – I hit them with my guitar, Palmolive beats them up, the bouncers haul them off with blood dripping down their faces and we start playing again.

  It’s all over in a flash. We slam down our instruments and stalk off. A couple of beer cans come flying through the air and clunk onto the empty stage. Mick is waiting in the wings. ‘Well done,’ he says and kisses me. I’m high on adrenalin. That was great! Can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

  Straight after our set, Palmolive, Tessa, Ari and me pile out into the audience to watch Subway Sect. We dance around in front of the stage, people stare at us, they’ve never seen a band mingle with the audience before.

  I remember seeing Subway Sect play at the Coliseum in Harlesden, the same night I saw the Slits for the first time. I was standing right at the front because if I’m interested in a band, I don’t act cool and stand at the back or in the VIP area, none of us do, we get down the front and watch like hawks, see what we can learn, read the signs, the attitude of the group. What are they saying? What’s their stance? What kind of energy do they have? Rob Symmons, Subway Sect’s guitarist, was so intense, he stood with his feet together, rooted to the spot, slightly knock-kneed. He wore his guitar really high, almost tucked under his armpit, and he strummed it so hard that his fingers bled and he dropped his plectrum, he just kept on playing with his fingers and there was blood all over his guitar. I wanted to pick up the plectrum and give it back to him, but I was too shy.

  After all the bands have played, we go to the hotel. First time I’ve stayed in a hotel. I unpack my suitcase and throw my clothes around the room.

  The next morning on my way to breakfast, I see Chrissie Hynde come out of Paul Simonon’s room. Paul tells us later that last night Chrissie decided she didn’t want her tattoo any more (a dolphin I think) so they tried to scratch it off with a pumice stone. Then she read to him from the Bible. Sounds like such a sexy and sophisticated evening to me.

  After breakfast, me, Ari, Tessa and Palmolive climb onto the official tour bus for the first time; Norman, the driver, gives us a dirty look. Yeah well, we’ve all seen that look before, we get it everywhere we go from men. There are just a few boys in the world who get us and they’re almost all on this bus. Norman scowls through the rear-view mirror at Ari: her skirt is so short her bum is showing, her hair’s backcombed so it looks like she’s had an electric shock, and she hugs a huge ghetto blaster under her arm which pumps out dub as she races up and down the aisle deciding who to sit next to.

  Norman shouts at Ari to sit down, she takes no notice. Ari takes no notice of anyone, Norman doesn’t have a hope. He stomps off and refuses to get back on the bus whilst the Slits are on it. He tells Don – Don Letts has agreed to manage us for the White Riot tour – he’s not driving the Slits and we’ll have to find another way to get to Manchester. Here we go. Eventually it’s sorted out. He’s bribed to take us but still he has a condition – The Slits don’t leave their seats until Manchester. This is going to be impossible. Ari’s fifteen, she’s excited, there’s no way she’s going to be able to sit still until Manchester! And sure enough, after rocking back and forth to her mix tape for half an hour, she jumps up to dance in the aisle. Norman screeches to a halt.

  ‘The Slits must leave the bus.’

  He’s bribed again and Ari is locked in the bog to keep her out of harm’s way. She doesn’t care, as long as she’s got her music with her. We’re all worried that if Norman discovers her age, he’ll tell the police and we’ll be kicked off the tour. She should be at school.

  We arrive in Manchester. The Slits charge off the bus and explode into the hotel foyer like chickens released from the coop. Whilst Don checks us in, we drape ourselves over the chairs, Ari coughs up some phlegm and spits it onto the carpet. The manager looks up from his desk, clocks us – in a mixture of leather jeans, rubber dresses and knickers on top of our trousers, matted hair and smudged black eye makeup – pulls Don aside, and says, ‘They are not staying in this hotel.’

  We have to go and find somewhere else to stay. But this hotel manager has called every hotel in Manchester ahead of us and no one wants us. (He got hold of the call sheet and contacted every hotel on the rest of the tour, telling them not to let us stay. So most nights we’re in a different hotel to the rest of the bands.) Eventually we find a B & B. Occasionally the Slits are allowed to stay at a nice hotel, if we go straight from the front door into the lift and stay in our rooms until morning. The hotel management don’t allow us to stand in the lobby, use the bar or come down to breakfast. No one must see us. We do not exist. Everywhere we go, we’re treated like we’re a threat to national security.

  Don tries to control us but it’s impossible. It’s all so new, to all of us, no one knows what to do or how to do it. Ari shouldn’t even be on the tour, not just because of school, she’s too young to even be in the venues; if the promoters get a whiff of it and want to get rid of us, we
’ll be sent home. Don tries to be sensible, tells Ari to be in bed at a certain time and not to come out of her room, but with all the boys enjoying themselves in the bar and us excluded like little children, it’s hopeless. We feel like outsiders so that’s how we behave. We race up and down the corridors, banging on doors, pissing in shoes left in the corridor, playing music too loud, shouting, swearing and spitting. We’re definitely the most controversial band on the tour and although the Clash support us musically, they also want to have a successful tour; they’re not going to jeopardise that, so I’m quite stressed a lot of the time. Ari isn’t bothered, she doesn’t know that opportunities like this don’t come along very often.

  I become so nervous that before every show I get a kind of narcolepsy; I can’t move my legs or arms, my eyes won’t stay open and my brain goes foggy. We leave the dressing room and I drift like a sleepwalker towards the stage. I say to the others in a panicky voice, ‘I can’t go on, I can’t walk, I can’t keep awake.’ They ignore me, thank goodness, and the second I step out onto the stage, it’s gone, I’m full of energy.

  Something that doesn’t help my nervousness is that Tessa gets pissed before the shows. If the bass player falls apart, it doesn’t matter how good the rest of us are, the show is going to be a mess. Palmolive used to drink before shows too, but after a band meeting where me and Ari put the case for them both to wait until afterwards, she’s stopped.

  Our shows are still great, even though they’re not as together as they could be. Most of the audience have never seen girls play music before, let alone with the fuck-off attitude we’ve got. Lots of people come just to have a look at us and cause trouble. They think ‘punk’ is an excuse to let their frustrations out in a violent, non-creative way. The hysterical media coverage of the Pistols’ swearing on Bill Grundy’s Today show has added to that.

  The Slits are a very tight gang and we believe a hundred per cent in what we’re doing. For all our arguments – sometimes there are even scuffles between the other three on stage – we’re extremely protective of each other. As soon as we leave the stage the roadies start to dismantle Palmolive’s sparkly purple drum kit – bought for her by Nora – and we rush into our dressing room to eat the rider. There are carrot sticks and chocolate bars, Coke, celery, crisps and sandwiches. It’s like a children’s tea party every night. I’m in heaven. Now all my nerves have gone I can enjoy the rest of the evening.

  There’s an argument backstage when I say to Palmolive she should wear a bra when she plays, her boobs bounce about because she drums so manically. She says that she’s a free person and this is who she is, why should she change? That it’s more feminist to not wear a bra than wear one. I argue back that although she’s right, the impression she gives off whilst playing doesn’t match her ideals. ‘We won’t be taken seriously if people are looking at your tits. Even I’m looking at your tits when you play. It’s not the reason we want people to look at us.’ I know she’s wild and untamed, it’s not a sexual thing, but most people have never seen a girl drum before and instead of watching her play and thinking she’s great, they’re fascinated by her boobs bouncing up and down. Eventually we reach a compromise and Palmolive agrees to wear a tight body-stocking which sort of straps them down.

  Subway Sect are so different to the Slits, very understated, they look like they’ve been kitted out by one of those old-fashioned boys’ and men’s outfitters. Hand-knitted, V-neck grey jumpers, black school trousers and brown suede Hush Puppies – they make everyone else look gaudy and overdressed. They’re anti-rock in every way. No wide-legged stance and low-slung guitars. No dancing, leaping about, posturing or snarling aggression. The lead singer, Vic Godard, leans nonchalantly on the mike stand; he makes no attempt to be entertaining. His nasal voice, cynical lyrics and dry delivery make him seem slightly superior.

  I feel drawn to the guitarist, Rob, who I think is beautiful and mysterious. I watch him during soundchecks, sitting with his knees pressed together, feet turned in; he’s so delicate and shy. He has a gentle, unassuming air about him. I smile and say a few words whenever I can and he slowly starts to open up and talk to me. I learn little things about him: how he is not at all streetwise, he went to an all-boys school, he doesn’t know many girls, has never slept with a girl, has strong views and opinions on music and film, reads a lot. I think he plays guitar really well but he tells me he only knows two chord shapes. He’s not ashamed of being himself. Not trying to be anything he’s not.

  Rob and I get closer as the tour progresses. It’s not too difficult to hide this from Mick; often the support bands stay in cheaper hotels than the Clash – they’re not being mean, they’re subsidising all of us. Mick says I can stay with him but I say no, I have to be with my band. I don’t tell him I also want to hang out with Subway Sect and the Buzzcocks.

  Rob and I often spend the night snuggled up together in a single bed in one of Subway Sect’s rooms. We don’t have sex, we lie facing each other holding hands and I make him promise he will not be the first one to close his eyes and go to sleep. He has the most beautiful green eyes and he looks through his long lashes at me until I fall asleep. He understands. He’s intense and serious and romantic, like me. We start spending more and more time together. After we’ve finished our sets, we meet in the wings of whichever bingo hall, ballroom or Top Rank night club we’re playing that night. When the Clash have taken to the stage, we run down the corridor – ‘London’s Burning’ fading into the distance until it’s just a dull thump of bass and drums – push open the fire doors and escape out into the night.

  Cold air hits me in the face and jolts me out of my romantic little fantasy. Why do I feel like I’m escaping from authority, from my parents or my teachers? It’s Mick and the Clash for god’s sake. My boyfriend, my friends. I feel guilty; even though there’s nothing physical between me and Rob, I know I’m not being fair to Mick, he thinks I’m in the audience watching him. What I’m doing is a betrayal. Not just to him personally, but to the Clash, who invited us on the tour and are paying for us to be here. No wonder Bernie Rhodes hates me.

  I shiver. I’m wearing a pale pink short-sleeved T-shirt from Sex, printed with text from a cheesy porn novel and zips over the breasts, black leather jeans and Converse baseball boots. Rob takes off his black Harrington jacket and wraps it round my shoulders. We head off to explore Newcastle. It’s like a ghost town, boarded up, closed down – even poorer than London. Litter blows around and catches on lamp posts, weeds grow out of the pavement. We pass the corner shop, the bingo hall and the Co-op. The street lights flick on and off, most of them aren’t working. Factory chimneys poke out of the mist on the edge of town. It’s a dirty old town, just like Ewan MacColl’s song about Salford.

  Rob Symmons from Subway Sect, 1977

  ‘I feel like we’re in one of those sixties films, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning or A Kind of Loving,’ says Rob.

  Yeah, the city is as black and white as those old films, and grey, grey, grey. It’s like nothing has changed here for years, and they don’t think it’s ever going to change either. They think this is how England is always going to be. Well, not if us lot have anything to do with it.

  We walk to the docks and climb over the boats until we find one with the cabin unlocked. We sit huddled together as it rocks on the water, talking until morning, carried away by our mission. We’re pioneers. We’re fearless. Above the law. When it’s light we try and find our way back to the hotel. We’re hungry and broke, but even though we could easily nick a bottle of milk off a doorstep, there’s no way we’re going to drink milk. We find a greasy spoon and order a cup of tea and a KitKat between us. Then we head back to the hotel, arriving before anyone is awake. I go to my room and stuff my clothes into my bright pink plastic suitcase. Ari looks up from her pillow sleepily. I’m exhausted, but I can sleep on the coach.

  The following night we’re all staying in a fancy hotel as a treat, paid for by the Clash. It’s so fancy that the Manchester hotel manage
r hasn’t thought to call ahead and warn them we’re coming. As soon as we arrive, I dump my suitcase and go to Subway Sect’s room. We’re all sitting on the beds talking when we hear muffled shouting outside. Mick is stomping down the corridor, he sounds furious. We all know what it’s about.

  ‘Where are you?’ he bellows. He hammers on the doors, booting them open one by one – getting louder as he gets nearer.

  Paul Myers, Subway’s bass player, is quaking in his Hush Puppies. ‘Sit apart, you two, sit apart!’ he says to me and Rob.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that Jones,’ says Vic. ‘He’s just a little squirt, we can duff him up.’

  Mick reaches our door and kicks it open. He’s worked himself up into a right state. Glowering next to him is his mate from school, Robin Banks (Mick wrote ‘Stay Free’ about him). Unlike Mick, Robin is actually quite scary, he’s done time in the nick. Although what they see is a pretty innocent scene – me, Rob and Paul on one bed, Vic and Mark Laff on the other – Mick is angry and upset. I know I’m wrong and he’s right, what he suspects is happening is happening, but I pretend he’s imagining it all. I tell him to calm down, we’re just sitting around chatting. He threatens to get Rob thrown off the tour.