45 “Energy Crisis ’ 74,” which took for granted that the government was manned by incompetent boobs.
“With me now is the head of the Federal Energy Office,” intoned a blowhard fake reporter. “Sir, you hold an important position. What are your qualifications?”
Cue “sample” of the Steve Miller Band.
“I’m a joker / I’m a smoker / I’m a midnight toker.”
Then there was the tacky Spirit of ’ 76 marketing flimflam—the “ Buy-cen-tennial” (step right up, get your authentic Independence Hall sawdust!) that begged us all to puff up our denial and get rah-rah about Old Glory. Jimmy Carter, a slippery nonentity with goofy teeth and a reassuring
Christian drawl, was elected president, mostly because he seemed like the least harmful option.
I was aware that all this century-altering stuff had happened in the previous decade—civil rights, antiwar protests, music, movies, astronauts, rakish young rebels forcing decrepit farts to pay them respect. It was an ongoing revelation. But all the important new initials who were supposed to make things better—JFK, RFK, MLK, Malcolm X—had been summarily gunned down. And afterward, well, historians would call it a conservative backlash, but as a kid, it just seemed like the grown-ups had regrouped and regressed;
I mean, people were actually psyched about CB radios! And why was the only kind of hippie I ever met some shiftless Lynyrd Skynyrd gene defect who would inevitably fall asleep smoking a joint and burn down his trailer? Or the swingin’ neighbor who had a water bed, a maroon Chevy Monte Carlo with bucket seats, and HBO?
What, exactly, was the post-’60s future? Put on a smiley-face T-shirt, dream about your friend’s copy of Penthouse buried under a mulch pile in the woods across the street, and crank up some yuks from Parliament’s Mothership Connection (“Doin’ it to ya in the earhole!”) or Kiss’ Alive! (“When you’re down in the dumps and you need something to bring you up, there’s only one thing that’s gonna do it the way you want it—cold gin!”).
It was implied in what we were taught at school and on TV that history had left the station: Don’t worry your head about it. All that craziness is over. The battle’s
done. Especially in the South, the message was that “the minorities”—blacks, women’s libbers, etc.—had gotten theirs, and now it was time to get back to business and shut your cotton-pickin’ mouth. You boys need a ride to Stars Wars? Maybe we’ll pick you up a lightsaber later.
The first time I ever heard a firsthand report of a rock show was from my science teacher, a bitter, overtanned thirtysomething who had just seen Fleetwood Mac and thought it was so amazing how Stevie Nicks, mystical shawl billowing, had walked over to the edge of the stage and offered a fan a sip from her wineglass. Wine. Typical. It made complete sense. The biggest-selling rock
PREVIOUS SPREAD: CAROLINE GREVILLE-MORRIS/REDFERNS/RE TNA
album of 1977, Rumours, was produced by rich, luxuriating hippie sophisticates who cavorted like sprites and nymphs and sipped chardonnay.
“Blank Generation”? Never heard it, though it sounds like it’d be the first entry in my diary, if I had the attention span to keep one. “Teenage Lobotomy”? You mean a song can be a two-minute chant about being brain-dead over guitars played by people who actually sound like they’re brain-dead? “I’m So Bored With the U. S. A.”? No shit, but who has the balls to say that on a record? “Anarchy in the U.K.”? What the hell’s anarchy?
At that point, though, those questions weren’t being asked. With the disco-fever and dead-Elvis (R.I.P. 8/16/77) profits rolling in, the music industry served up an even more baroque menu option.
Meat Loaf, anyone?
197712 MONTHS IN PUNK
JANUARY 8
As the Clash wrote in a song,
“No Elvis, Beatles, or the
Rolling Stones / In 1977.”
With poetic timing for a
generation that has no use
for him, Elvis Presley will die
at home in Memphis in
August. Johnny Rotten is
quoted as saying, “Good
riddance to bad rubbish.”
JANUARY 27
In an 11th-hour switch, the Clash—who
had been in discussions with Polydor—sign
with CBS Records for a £ 100,000 ($172,000)
advance, using a Polydor contract with the
company names changed….Elvis Costello
completes work on his first album with a
five-hour mixing session in London. Total
recording bill for My Aim Is True: £800 ($1,400).
FEBRUAR Y 4
On a night they also play at
CBGB with Suicide,
the Ramones open for the
Blue Öyster Cult at Long
Island’s Nassau Coliseum.
JANUARY 1
After December warm-ups
by Generation X and the
Heartbreakers, London’s first
pure punk club, the Roxy,
opens with two sets by
the Clash. Though crucial
to the developing scene, the
club lasts only 100 days. A live
album—with tracks by X-Ray
Spex, the Adverts, Buzzcocks,
Eater, and others—is
released in June.
JANUARY 6
Citing negative publicity
generated by the band, EMI
Records announces the
termination of the Sex
Pistols’ contract after the
release of only one single,
1976’s “Anarchy in the U.K.”
The Pistols document their
contempt for the label in a
song called “EMI.”
JANUARY 23
Opening for Bob Seger
in Tampa, Florida, Patti
Smith takes a tumble off
the stage during “Ain’t
It Strange” and breaks
her neck. After spending
three immobile months
recovering, she returns
to the stage in May at a
benefit show for Punk
magazine at CBGB.
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