sweet effay

Picture the scene: It’s 1979 at a typical teenage party in West Wickham. There are only two things to do at such events, either try and get off with members of the opposite sex, or get horribly wasted. As usual, I’ve taken the latter option; obviously not because I have a deepseated fear of, and inability to talk to, girls, but because I prefer to be absolutely certain that I will have an enjoyable evening. All the blokes I came with (not that I only came with blokes because I didn’t actually know any girls, you understand) have disappeared in the (I hope and pray) futile pursuit of the opposite sex and I’m left in a near-empty living room so pissed that the only thing that’s holding me up is the speed I took earlier in the evening, trying to find something decent to put on the stereo.

This wouldn’t be too difficult if it were not for the presence of a likeminded stranger who is equally as wasted as I am, but whereas I’m a sort of ‘prog rock meets punk rock, just don’t call me a hippie; yes I did see Hillage last week, wasn’t he amazing?’ kind of a guy, he’s a mod. Consequently, we are having trouble finding anything we can both agree on: I really want to listen to The Doors or The Clash, but he’s holding out for The Jam or the EP by the local band whose name escapes me, but whose icon he has painted on the back of his parka (tricky one this, from my point of view: They were really shit, but I couldn’t say anything too rude because half of them were in the house somewhere and I used to get my speed off the lead singer). We are getting more and more belligerent until we come across a copy of Dirk Wears White Sox by Adam and the Ants and both instantly agree that this is really what we need to hear. All arguments forgotten, we shove the rest of my speed up our noses, share the booze he’d thoughtfully stashed earlier, and discuss how outstanding this album is. “I’d love to go and see them,” he says “but the audience would tear me apart.” I nod sadly in agreement.

It’s incredible to think, given his later career trajectory, that Adam Ant once fronted a band with a reputation for being so extreme that one would think twice about going to their gigs. I’d seen loads of dodgy punk bands and been to several gigs full of skinheads throwing Nazi salutes at the stage, but Adam and the Ants were a step too far. Antfans were really scary: Go in there without the requisite leather and bumflap and you were taking your life in your hands. Of course this may not have been strictly true but, despite near universal agreement that ‘Never Trust a Man (with Egg on His Face)’ was one of the best tracks to have come out all year, I never met anybody who ever got up the bottle to test it out.

This all changed after McClaren nicked most of the Ants for Bow Wow Wow and Marco Pirroni arrived on the scene (someone once told me that the original Antfans started following Bauhaus, but I don’t know if it’s true). Kings of the Wild Frontier was okay, but the edge had gone, and the stuff after that is just plain awful. The best contrast is to watch Adam spastically twitching his way through the brilliant ‘Plastic Surgery’ in Derek Jarman’s Jubilee, and then watch the video for ‘Prince Charming’. Oh dear, oh dear.

The thing that’s brought all this nostalgia on is that I’ve just picked up the remastered Dirk... and it still sounds as good as ever. It makes me regret not finding out what would have happened had I suggested to my new mod mate that we go along to the next gig. At least if it had turned nasty they’d probably have jumped him first and I could have legged it in the confusion.