The punk counter-economy, such as it is, was destined to arise anyway. "It was easy, it was cheap, go out and do it," sang the Desperate Bicycle, who produced their own single for in March, 1977, basically to show people it could be done, just as the Desperate Bicycles themselves might have learned from Australia's Saints (who scored a 1976 counterhit by mailing their 45 to U.K. journalists; and Manchester's Buzzcocks. Many of these instant labels record one group exclusively, but others go on from a profitable sale㬆,000 is pretty good, 20,000 not unheard of—to work with others. It's likely that one or two of them--London's Deptford Fun City? Manchester's Rabid? Cambridge's Raw? Edinburgh's Zoom?—will join the worldwide trend toward specialty labels for minority popular musics. In this they will be following two somewhat older indies, Stiff and Chiswick, which although they're known here as punk labels actually cater to the audience of rock 'n' roll discophiles who supported pub-rock.

One implication of independent production is that punk too could turn into a collectors' music, a hobby, as is brought home by such frivolous marketing devices as the 12-inch single (saving vinyl is for hippies). But independent production doesn't reflect punk's eccentricity, or its idealism, so much as its refusal to withdraw from the economic world. It's a trick of survival, a way to prepare your own demo at a profit. Mark P.'s backer and boss at Deptford-Fun City Records, Miles Copeland, is typical; he has placed his managerial clients the Cortinas with CBS and is codistributing a 12-incher with Sham 69's new label, Polydor. Copeland, the son of a CIA bigshot, calls class consciousness "England's big sickness" and used to advise Wishbone Ash how best to carry their hods; he struck me as one of the more dismaying professionals now attached to punk, but his business ideas are the norm. He describes how the Cortinas "wanted to go pro" and "wanted the strength of a major worldwide," while the Buzzcocks' manager—a 24-year-old art drop-out named Richard Boon who oversaw their debut EP on New Hormones and then signed the band to UA--talks coolly about doing an album only when the time seems right. But neither can imagine a new way to get this music out there.

Not that I have any bright ideas. My first minutes with Joe Strummer were spent in praise of medium-sized halls, an article of faith with the punks now as it was with the Who and the Grateful Dead a decade ago, although it's not hard to figure out that if you sell 3000 tickets a night for a brutal 300 nights a year you still don't play to a million people, a rather small-scale cultural crusade. Strummer went along with me—modest venues were best. But then he was apparently afflicted with a racial memory of the Grateful Dead: "Nah, you do it too much that way and you get just like the hippies. Keep it small, keep it efnic . . ." Basically, Strummer didn't see any way to avoid turning into what he'd rebelled against. No matter how staunch his own idealism--not that he made any inflated claims for it--someone would always be checking his rear for him. "People say, if you don't do that the So-and-Sos are gonna catch up. You don't wanna get behind the So-and-Sos, do ya?"

Like Jonh Ingham, I really wish it could be different, and I'm somehow disappointed with the punks for not cutting through the old masscult paradoxes. If powerlessness is your secret, shouldn't you have something more to say about power than vague plans to recycle your capital and specific promises never to own a Bentley? But in the absence of such miracle, I agree—better the Clash than the So-and-Sos, whether the So-and-Sos are good guys like the Jam (Who-style punks-as-mods not averse to Bentleys) or the Vibrators (Velvets-style metaphysical sex on the surface and a perfect blank ambition underneath) or guys as bad as the semi-fictitious Pork Dukes, who offer a record sleeve and T-shirt depicting a woman sucking off a pig, and who are rumored on excellent authority to include two moonlighting folk-rockers from that apogee of rock gentility, Steeleye Span. But the very profusion of so-and-sos is positive, especially since even the so-called posers--both the Jam and the Bivrators are dismissed that way by much of the punk hard core--can make wonderful rock and roll. Punk really is a new wave—a new wave of musicians. Some of those so-and-sos are going to be playing the English rock and roll of the '80s.

Which raises two questions: One, will this rock and roll remain strictly English, and two, will it remain punk rock? As extraordinary as the Clash are, they'll have to do for an example. The Clash may be the greatest rock and roll band in the world, but they haven't conquered Britain yet, and if they gain a following over here—which they seem in no special hurry to do—it will be proportionally smaller. Their fierce national identification strengthens their music but narrows their American potential, because our class system is afraid to speak its name. Even if their second album, unlike their first, is picked up by American Epic or some other U.S. label, I'll be pleased if they gain enough audience to support an annual tour, perhaps inspiring some young American rocker to translate the English punk way of seeing things into terms as fiercely national as the Clash's own. But the sustenance that keeps whatever dozen English punk bands eating and recording over the next few years should come from England.

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