I’d often wondered what had happened to him in the couple of years since we’d lost touch - now I knew. He was a House of Commons waiter, and he was serving drinks at a Labour Party ‘showbiz’ function to performers many of whom, as far as I was concerned, were not fit to lick his boots as songwriters or social commentators. The whole event seemed pretty silly to me after that, and very soon I adjourned to the pub - but not long afterwards I was contacted by Red Wedge and asked to take part in a ‘comedy/cabaret’ tour they were putting together for March 1986.
The declared aim of Red Wedge was to raise political consciousness among young people and inspire them to vote Labour against the Thatcher government in the 1987 general election – obviously a good idea. The problem for many of us was that Labour’s record during the great strikes had been so pathetic that they didn’t exactly inspire impassioned and vocal support. But it was Hobson’s choice: we were desperate to get rid of the Tories, so we went along with it.
In January and February 1986, while I was doing loads of gigs up and down the country in my own little world, the big, mainstream Red Wedge tour got going featuring many of the left-leaning pop stars of the day. Billy Bragg, Weller’s band The Style Council, Jimmy Somerville and The Communards, Junior Giscombe, Lorna Gee and Jerry Dammers, Madness, Heaven 17, Bananarama, Prefab Sprout, Elvis Costello, Gary Kemp, Tom Robinson, Sade, The Beat, Lloyd Cole, The Blow Monkeys and The Smiths all played some part.
Then in March it was the turn of the spoken word performers and comedians. This was a much more low key event: the Red Wedge Cabaret Tour, with varying contributors – comics, poets, acoustic artists - at different venues all over the country. My diary tells me I did Barnsley, Leeds Poly, Huddersfield Poly and Newcastle Poly, with a couple of other more music-orientated ones to come later in Wales. Brilliant satirical comedy/music duo Skint Video were on with me along with a poet turned actor who definitely sticks in my mind. Cue a rather, erm, cheesy story.
From a very early age I have always liked a good knob joke, and despite being 57 I have to confess to the fact that I still do, much to my poor wife’s despair. An excerpt from my notorious poem ‘Joseph Porter’s Sleeping Bag’ is a prime example of the genre: ‘A mad bacteriologist’s dream/ Where bell end boursin reigns supreme/ And even bedbugs puke and gag/ It’s Joseph Porter’s sleeping bag.’ The word ‘smegma’ - often truncated to ‘smeg’ – has always held a definite comedic appeal for me. (NB: the WORD. Not the SUBSTANCE, which is REVOLTING. Obviously.) Even before I started performing as Attila one of the terms of abuse I had coined to hurl at anyone or anything which I thought deserved it was ‘a complete and total smeghead’. It was certainly fairly prominently in evidence in my set at that time back in 1986.
On the bill on that short tour was an affable up and coming young Scouse performance poet/comedian called Craig Charles. It does seem to me that a certain epithet, now familiar to the fans of TV sci-fi comedy ‘Red Dwarf’, may well have been implanted in his mind at those gigs. Of course, I may be wrong. If I am right, I’m certainly not the slightest bit, erm, cheesed off about it: there can be no copyright on references to helmet brie, and Craig had an unfeta’d right to use it how he wanted.
Sorry, folks. I’ll stop right there.
Red Wedge gigs carried on through the whole of 1986 and into the 1987 election year, with many of the top left-leaning showbiz faces of the time involved. Labour, of course, lost yet another election, and that was that for Red Wedge. I performed at a few more events and attended a couple of the bigger ones: everyone had a good time, and I’m sure some people were galvanised, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t down to the performers - all we can ever be is catalysts. No poet, songwriter, band or comedian has ever won an election or changed the course of history. Allied to a powerful grass roots political movement which catches the common mood, we can play a powerful part, we can unite and inspire, but that movement has to exist in the first place.
Unfortunately, after its abject showing in the miners’ and printers’ disputes, all that the Labour Party had going for it was that it wasn’t the Tory Party - and that simply wasn’t enough to put a fire in anyone’s belly. The leadership were desperate to appear ‘moderate’ and not scare off the middle classes, and in doing so, they left many of their core supporters feeling a deep sense of betrayal. When Blair arrived on the scene and Labour became ‘New Labour’, things of course got a whole lot worse – to the point that when Labour finally won an election they had a leader who could profess his admiration for Thatcher and describe her as ‘a towering global figure’. What a fucking traitor. And not just a traitor: a traitor who should in many people’s opinion be on trial for war crimes after orchestrating the brutal slaughter of the Iraq war against the wishes of the vast majority of the British people.
I have often wondered how things would have turned out if Labour had done things differently: backed the strikers fair and square, stood up to Murdoch, stopped worrying about Surbition and reached out to the non-voting poor and dispossessed as Obama did in his first election campaign. I know there would have been a lot more enthusiasm in the cultural and activist community, and all of us Red Wedgers, ‘celebrities’ or no, would have felt that we really had something to fight for. Would we have won the election? We’ll never know. But if we’d lost, at least we’d have lost believing in something!
Red Wedge did give me one thoroughly memorable experience, however: a gig in Brecon Market with a DJ set from John Peel - and performances by seminal and inspirational Welsh language bands Anhrefn and Datblygu, both of whom had become friends by then and both of whom, in different ways, had a big impact on me. Let’s go to Wales for a bit.
I’d been gigging there a fair amount since the early days: Bangor, Aberystwyth and Cardiff universities, punk gigs, a couple of miners’ strike events. At the beginning of 1985 a mutual friend, Huw Jones aka Huw Prestatyn, had introduced me to Rhys Mwyn, Anhrefn’s singer and the absolute galvanising force behind the budding alternative Welsh language music scene. Pioneer of punk in a previously conservative and inward-looking culture and founder of Anhrefn Records, the first Welsh language independent label, Rhys was determined to take Welsh language rock ‘n’ roll out of Wales - and once I’d met him and heard Anhrefn (Welsh for Disorder) I was determined to help him. Melodic driving punk with attitude, sung in an ancient language which had been repressed and sneered at by Anglocentric authorities but was now firmly on the way back, on the school curriculum, on the street and now on the punk rock stage. I was most impressed. Despite the fact that I didn’t know what he was on about - although as someone who’d always had an instinctive interest in foreign languages I gave it my best shot.
And then I heard Datblygu… wild, surreal, ranting, impassioned, mad, unique Datblygu. There are countless musical genres in the world, but Datblygu occupy one all on their own. David R Edwards and Patricia Morgan. Some people say ‘The Welsh Fall’ but that is nowhere near enough of a description: haunting melodies and strange, discordant soundscapes side by side, fronted by David’s beautiful manic voice throwing out words which somehow seemed to fit in and make sense even if you didn’t understand them.
If Rhys kicked down the barriers with the punk power of Anhrefn and made it possible for others to follow by releasing their records and furthering their ambitions - as he did for the likes of Catatonia - David and Datblygu are revered and regarded by bands like Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci and Super Furry Animals as the prime catalyst in the scene’s development. Fittingly, Datblygu is Welsh for Develop. And it wasn’t just me: John Peel gave Datblygu five sessions on his show and described them as ‘the best incentive anyone could have for learning Welsh’. I’d go along with that.
After doing a few gigs with them in Wales I was determined to bring both Anhrefn and Datblygu to England for the first time, and I did – at the Ranters’ Cup Final Replay in 1986 and at various venues in Harlow and London in 1987 and after. Rhys and David are good friends to this day and I have huge respect f
or them both. Rhys is still working hard bringing interesting alternative Welsh language music to the world, his band Anhrefn have reformed (I hosted them at my Glastonwick festival a few years ago) and he now has his own management company. He has published his autobiography, ‘Cam o’r Tywyllwch’ (‘A Step out of the Darkness’) but although he has given me a copy, I’ve never read it, because I can’t. Thanks to Rhys, I can say ‘my nipples explode with delight’ in Welsh though. Mae fy tethau yn ffrydro gyda mwynhad. There you go.
For David things have been much, much harder. Part of Datblygu’s appeal lay in his manic, unpredictable performances – at one gig we did together, in a village hall somewhere very Welsh indeed, he leapt off stage half way through the set, ran out and disappeared! Datblygu split in 1995 and David has had to battle mental illness for many years, but has remained creative, is gradually getting stronger and his legacy is definitely secure: he is a hugely influential figure in his native land. I visit him every time I’m in his part of Wales and we are regularly in touch.
In early 2015 Datblygu released a new album and did their first gig for twenty years, which made me very happy, although I couldn’t be there. I cherish the hope that we may share a stage again one day, and I am so glad that Ankst Records have finally released a triple CD of David’s finest work with the lyrics translated into English. My favourite Welsh genius: he would share that billing equally with John Cale if the latter hadn’t got the bouncer to throw me out of my own gig, but thanks to that, David has the number one spot for ever.
I’ve just mentioned the Ranters’ Cup Final Replay: the second (and last in that format) big celebration of ranting verse and independent, original music was held at Bay 63 in London on 18 May 1986. Organiser and compere Attila the Stockbroker: performers Kevin Seisay, Benjamin Zephaniah, Surfin’ Dave, Little Brother, Seething Wells, Belinda Blanchard, Big J, Ann Ziety, Pat Condell, The Thin Man, Porky the Poet, John Moloney, The Neurotics, Trespassers W, Anhrefn and Datblygu. Lovely evening. Incredible diversity and range of performing talent. Big audience.
NME review: ‘Dodgy Old Lines Men’.
Seems to me that the heading may well have been thought up before the reviewer even turned up to the gig. Ranting verse, and especially anything specifically associated with or organised by Attila the Stockbroker, was now definitely ‘last year’s thing’ as far as the music press were concerned. And not just the press: Cherry Red didn’t want to release my records any more and I no longer had a booking agent. But I had loads of gigs, good audiences, was getting great feedback from them and was constantly writing better and better material. I didn’t understand the contradiction between the reception I was getting at live gigs and the attitude of the ‘business’: it was almost as if a very powerful figure in the industry was going round telling people not to like me… but that couldn’t possibly have been true, could it?
Anyway, I didn’t worry about it much: there was a whole world out there for me now and I was beginning to get getting huge satisfaction from running it myself. And in the next few years that world, up until this point confined to the UK and Holland, was destined to get a whole lot bigger, as you are about to see.
But first, a foray into world music. Sort of.
On April 15th 1986 the US Air Force had launched a bombing raid on Gaddafi’s Libya in response to an alleged Libyan terrorist bombing of a West Berlin disco. It’s an interesting foreign policy position which claims that the best way to respond to terrorism is to bomb targets entirely unconnected to the alleged terrorists, purely because these targets are in the alleged terrorists’ country of origin. Surely that itself is the very definition of terrorism? Libya was rapidly becoming a convenient scapegoat for all kinds of conspiracy theories and accusations: I decided to take things to their logical conclusion and blame the Libyan people for everything that had gone wrong throughout the whole of history. Soon I had written the first – and last – traditional Libyan thrash metal song, or at any rate the only one designed to be played on an acoustic mandola…
LIBYAN STUDENTS FROM HELL!
Just look at us – we’re the scourge of the land
We’re Colonel Gaddafi’s favourite band
We all eat babies and we’re Commies too
And we’ve all got AIDS and we’ll give it to you
With scaly tails and horns and hooves
We’re going to shoot everything that moves
And we don’t care just what you say
‘Cos you sold us the weapons anyway
So don’t mess with us ‘cos we’re foreign and we smell –
We’re the Libyan Students from Hell!
If your telly goes wrong or your car won’t start
You can bet your life that we played our part
If your team doesn’t win or you miss the bus
Then ten to one it’s all down to us
If a dog runs off with your copy of The Sun
And brings it back with the crossword done
If someone smacks you in the head
Or you find John Major in your bed
We did it – and everything else as well
‘Cos we’re Libyan Students from Hell!
There’s nothing very prudent
About a Libyan student
Can’t you tell?
There’s nothing very prudent
About a Libyan student
From Hell…
We imported Neighbours to these shores
We personally started three World Wars
We broke your Gran’s Coronation mugs
We sold Rio Ferdinand all his drugs
We caused the Plague and the Great Fire too
And we brought The Price Is Right to you
We pushed Robert Maxwell over the side
And we took Marc Bolan for his last ride
So don’t mess with us ‘cos we’re foreign and we smell –
We’re the Libyan Students from Hell!
In terms of audience response this was another ‘Contributory Negligence’ – a piece that immediately struck a huge chord everywhere. It’s one of the longest-serving numbers in my set, was the title of my third album released in 1987, inspired a T-shirt sold in about ten different countries, has had real live Libyan students coming up to me at gigs saying things like ‘hi Attila, I’m not from Hell, I’m from Tripoli’ – and on 8 June 1986 gave its name to an evening ‘revue’ at the legendary Mean Fiddler in Harlesden, north-west London, headlined by the Redskins. Keith Allen and Skint Video were on the bill too, and my song, more or less brand new then, raised the roof.
Billy Bragg was there, roaring with laughter. It always made me happy when I saw him enjoying my stuff, because I loved his: those first three albums are classics. His attitude to me has always seemed ambivalent, especially in the very early days when I got the impression that he saw me as some kind of ‘rival’, which was very silly as far as I’m concerned - I’ve always thought that radical performers should stick together, after all, there’s not that many of us! To this day I’ve never really worked it out, not that it matters after all these years. In any case he was about to do me a big, big favour.
Thanks to Billy, very soon, I’d be touring all over East Germany – the German Democratic Republic – with him and my mates The Neurotics. And with the initial contact made, I’d come back five more times before the end of 1990. An amazing time and one that will remain with me till I die: it comprises the next chapter of this book.
Winners write history, as the saying goes: with the GDR gone for ever and so much contemporary commentary about it entirely negative and written by Western media figures who had never set foot in the place, I want to add my eyewitness contribution. I toured there in each of the four years leading up to the fall of the Wall, was back East again three months after it had gone, again eight months after that, and at least once in most of the 25 years from then until now. I have a story to tell.
SIX
SIX TOURS OF EAST GERMANY 1986-1990: MEMORIES
OF THE GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
The seeds to the story of my time in the GDR were sown in the mid Eighties debates within the ruling SED (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands, Socialist Unity Party of Germany) and their youth section the FDJ (Freie Deutsche Jugend, Free German Youth) about what constituted ‘progressive youth culture’. At the start of the rock ‘n’ roll explosion in the Fifties, the old Party men right across Eastern Europe had decreed that all that kind of stuff was ‘bourgeois and decadent’. As the Fifties turned to the Sixties and the folk protest movement began, this changed to ‘long haired hippy folky protest stuff may be OK as long as we can’t actually see any drugs and all the criticism is aimed at Western governments rather than us, but bands with electric guitars in are definitely by definition nefarious tools of Western imperialism and probably contain actual members of the CIA.’
Attitudes were evolving slowly, however. By the turn of the next decade the GDR had embraced its own carefully choreographed version of electro-folky protest and in 1970 started an annual Political Song Festival, which took place every February: things started slowly, as evinced by the fact that the 1971 event did actually contain a performance by The Schonebeck Tractor Factory Singing Group. However, by the 1980s, invitations were being extended to the likes of fiery West German theatrical rockers Floh de Cologne and the acerbic Franz-Josef Degenhardt, fine Scottish/Australian songwriter Eric Bogle and Canada’s Bruce Cockburn - which proved that a certain amount of modernising was taking place.
Then came the big debate in the party, albeit ten years too late: what about punk? Definitely a tool of imperialism, said the hardliners. Rubbish, said the new breed: listen to this bloke with the big nose, singing about unemployment, the lies of the capitalist press, opposition to the arms race, the chain falling off his bicycle - all the stuff our youth should be hearing, comrades! The new breed won, and Billy Bragg was invited to the February 1986 Political Song Festival in East Berlin. He went down a storm and was invited back that summer for the party youth section’s Summer Song Festival Tour. Bronski Beat were supposed to be going with him apparently, but they couldn’t – so Billy invited the Neurotics.
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