by Alex; Ogg
A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Aside from the fact that this was useful data for other prospective entrants to the record industry, its demystifying impact; building on top of ‘Spiral Scratch’ and ‘Smokescreen’, was huge. That it’s vulgar to talk about money is an oft-cited facet of English life. While a business’s assets are, by definition, laid bare for the committed observer at Companies House, what record companies actually ‘did’ was rarely discussed. Hence the cross-collateral scams, and the industry’s lack of disclosure about what real promotion and production costs entailed – and who was picking up the tab. For all but the top earners/sellers, record company-artist relationships came with an implicit subtext that the former should be grateful for a recording contract – that it was the ‘prize’ that denoted success and status, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Hence so many would sign contracts that they would spend the rest of their lives regretting. For a tiny squat band with few resources to box up everything that the record industry was about and treat it as an off the peg transaction was an immensely powerful statement.
But then Scritti was a band formed around Green Gartside, a man well versed in Derrida, Gramsci and Marxist theory about the means of production. It’s worth pondering here a while, though not so long that the academic quicksand engulfs us, how close these three vital records came to constituting a reaction to the economic determinism of the punk era. Marx and Engels posited that ideology allows the mode of production to reproduce itself – therefore when revolutionary force(s) change that mode, the dominant class (not a stretch to see this as the majors in context) will attempt to create a new society to protect their economic order. In the late 70s, the majors’ shocked, belated attempts to co-opt the punk generation can be seen as a perfect example of this effect. Resistance to that, and the lionising of independence as a concept, proved viral. Mark Perry’s post-Alternative TV group, The Door And The Window would provide a similar ‘menu’ breakdown of costings to the tune of ‘How We Did It’ on their 1979 ‘Subculture’ EP. Members of that group, it’s further worth acknowledging, were part of the Common Knowledge fanzine community from which the earlier Bicycles’ quote was taken,
What wasn’t reported on ‘Skank Bloc Bologna’s sleeve was that the necessary finance, £500, had been borrowed from drummer Tom Morley’s brother – not that they made any secret of it if you asked. Roger Sabin lectures in cultural studies at Central St Martin’s College, and points out that the source of Scritti’s initial loan is worth more than a footnote. “No disrespect to Green at all – that record was very important, but I would say that a lot of punks were from quite well-to-do families and their mums would give them a bit of money for guitars and amps, etc. I mention this because my own band had to find other ways to get started – it contained among its number a juvenile thief who managed to purloin a guitar and ‘practice amp’ from Woolworth’s. Later, another member of the band borrowed an additional amp from a kid at school and never gave it back. Thus we began our ‘career’. The most expensive thing was a drum kit, so it was essential to be nice to another rich kid at school who happened to have one. I seem to remember he wasn’t into punk at all. As for practising, this too cost money. A rehearsal studio was out of the question, so it had to be front rooms. And getting all the gear over to someone’s house was a nightmare – you really needed somebody who owned a car, which of course was another big expense. We did our level best to ‘live the punk rock dream’ and ended up sounding total shit. That was why when we heard The Clash album and how nicely they were playing, and how everything was in tune, etc. we knew that they’d spent a lot of money getting that far. Thus, from our perspective, we felt a bit cheated. Punk was not about just getting up and doing it. You had to have a certain amount of cash even to get a little distance. Now I look back on it, I think the economics behind a lot of bands had to do with benefactors, pure and simple – be they creepy managers (Rhodes, McLaren, etc) or mums. I guess it was ever thus in rock and roll, but punk mythology still has it that you could be in a band even if you were a street oik. Rarely true, in my opinion.”
Baseline economics are one reason why punk took hold on campus quicker than on (the much mythologised) ‘street’. Students (at that time, the overwhelming majority of whom were drawn from Britain’s middle classes) were insulated by the old grants system, and the famous lack of academic discipline on arts degrees in the seventies. “Also,” continues Sabin, “some bands originated in squats, which were around a lot at a certain point in history, and then cracked down upon by the local authorities. Squat culture meant (a) access to space – a place to practice, even a place to put on gigs; (b) access to like-minded individuals with instruments; (c) access to extra money, because you weren’t paying any rent. Again, oftentimes the squat circuit was a bit middle class – and it was quite organised, with newsletters, etc.” Certainly those comments characterise Scritti’s development and association with squats like 3 Regent’s Park Road to a tee. They were originally art students in Leeds who, inspired by seeing the Sex Pistols play the local polytechnic, formed a band then moved to London to enjoy just the lifestyle – and opportunities – that Sabin alludes to.
Music critic Ben Watson also has concerns about too literal a reading of the Scritti mantra. “Scritti Politti notoriously relate to ‘Marxist theory’, but to a Euro-Communist version, which drops the working class and makes Marxism market-friendly (the sad history of Marxism Today). They were the only band I really disliked we put on at Leeds’ Rock Against Racism – condescending Notting Hill trendies talking through their noses at us. What are ‘theories of economic determinism’? Not Marxism, I hope. Labels – major AND minor – put punk under the limbo bar of profit and therefore behaved capitalistically.”
Regardless, Buzzcocks and Desperate Bicycles led the charge (Scritti’s ‘Skank Block Bologna would come later, in the summer of 1978). Advances in cheaper studio technology and production costs enabled these records to be made, but the homespun bedroom indie label could not have prospered without some kind of distribution regime, an umbrella organisation to serve as an outlet for the product. The key players in this development were Rough Trade, Pinnacle and Small Wonder. Rough Trade would become a record label later, but Small Wonder, after Chiswick and Beggars, was the first shop to turn label. Puncture’s roustabout punk offering, ‘Mucky Pup’, came just a month after the release of the Lurkers’ ‘Free Admission’ single on Beggars in September 1977. Rough Trade would not release its first vinyl until the start of the following year (and would eventually distribute Scritti Politti).
It’s easy to underestimate the historical contribution made by Small Wonder, operating out of a tiny shop in Walthamstow in East London. Many attest to the fact that, in comparison, Rough Trade was considered ‘snooty’. For Simon Morgan, who gravitated to a part-time job at Discovery Records in Sratford Upon Avon, Small Wonder was “the king” of the ‘77/’78 years. “At school around those times – the first thing we all did on a Wednesday morning was consult the Small Wonder list at the back of Sounds to see what we needed to chase down and capture. One person in the class would have a copy of a harder to get title – the rest of us would borrow, tape, barter – and in some cases, even steal – until we owned a copy too. Small Wonder had the biggest lists. They got stuff back to you quickest. They had the stock. Rough Trade only used to list a few items per week. The Small Wonder list just kept growing. And in times of limited picture sleeves, limited vinyl runs and limited patience, haste was important, We also used Recommended Records for the artier stuff, or the hepper cats did. Rough Trade didn’t really kick in until ‘79 (the first time I was inspired to go there was to collect my copy of ‘Alternative Ulster’ by Stiff Little Fingers). Big Small Wonder records like Crass’s The Feeding Of The 5,000 moved us all on from the basic Patrik Fitzgerald template – we’d never heard anything so real at the time – to suggest a new, truly independent future. Crass were the first group to make me realise that punk had actuall
y happened and that it could make a difference beyond sartorial influence. The shock and awe of the Pistols had been such a brief flame… bright, but, in many ways, hard to take seriously, even then. Obviously, in the midst of all this, we didn’t refuse to buy a record if it was on a major. Yeah, DIY records were cooler – but for all the talk of Year Zero etc, it was never as Stalinist as that.”
There are two strands to the story of Small Wonder, run by Pete Stennet, permanently resplendent in green bobble hat, and his wife Marion (aka Mari), in 162 Hoe Street, set up with the pay-off Stennet received after being made redundant from a record pressing plant. As Morgan details above, Small Wonder offered mail order to satisfy the rising demand for independent singles, becoming a stopping point for musicians to drop off their wares, and eventually a distribution system. The label span off from those activities quite naturally. Its catalogue of some 28 7-inch singles and half a dozen mini-LPs, LPs and 12-inches was dedicated almost entirely to punk artists – though there was considerable variety among the acts they worked with. Many came to Small Wonder of their own volition. Others were spotted by Stennet’s friend, Colin Favor, now a renowned house music DJ. “I used to go around to all the punk clubs acting as a talent scout,” he would recall. “That basically is how I got involved in clubs in the first place, because the only way you can get on in London – and I hate to say it – is by who you know.” Favor would design much of the artwork for the roster’s releases, having trained in design with the company that would eventually become Saatchi & Saatchi.
“I remember Mari was more the brains behind it,” recalls Puncture guitarist Paul McCallum of Small Wonder’s first single, ‘Mucky Pup’. “Pete was more the frontman. I remember him sitting down rolling these huge spliffs and going, ‘OK, man, let’s talk about business.’ Tony [Keen], our keyboard player was going, ‘No, I want to be straight!’ Our nickname for him used to be Woolly, cos Pete always wore this woolly hat with long hair. It was Colin Favor who introduced me to Pete. I was still at college at the time and doing some silk-screen printing, and Colin was a commercial artist. We used to work in the same studio down in Euston. He was good friends with Pete, who wanted to start up a label. He loved ‘Mucky Pup’ so much, he decided that was going to be the first release. We had a four-track demo we’d done at the time, and he’d been playing that in the shop, getting good feedback from it.” The recording took place at Berry Street Studios, under the tutelage of Pretty Things engineer Bill Farley. “We were into the Kinks,” recalls bass player Steve Counsel, “and we read a bunch of interviews with Ray Davies where he said he didn’t have reverb on his fretboard. We got it fixed in our heads – NO REVERB. The engineer said, ‘You’ve got to overdub the vocal.’ We couldn’t get our heads round that. We’d never been in a studio, and stroppy little arses that we were, we had to do it our way. And he was right cos it sounded great. He said to us at the end, ‘Don’t worry about it, lads. I’ll put a reverb on it overnight and you won’t recognise it tomorrow.’ We were like, ‘REVERB!’ That was it, big argument in the studio.” McCallum: “With all that going on, Pete Stennet was going, ‘Oh, man, weird scenes in the goldmine …’ We freaked him out!” Sadly, neither party were able to capitalise on the single. “’Mucky Pup’ got a great review in Sounds,” recalls Counsel, “and it sold out in a couple of weeks and they were caught with their pants down. They didn’t know what to do. And it took them months to get another pressing, by which time the whole thing had fizzled. It was really a shame. You couldn’t blame them because they didn’t know – it was their first venture, but they didn’t have it together. Plus there was the fact that he was chain-smoking dope!” Stennet, for his part, was overjoyed that he’d managed to sneak his logo, which cryptically read ‘Fuck off the world’, on to the labels.
Punk-poet Patrik Fitzgerald was one of the many customers of Small Wonder turned artist. He pushed a demo tape through the shop’s door one Friday evening. “I remember both Colin and Pete Stennet being really excited with that cassette,” notes McCallum. “It was a real find.” Fitzgerald was so nervous in the studio that ‘Safety Pin Stuck In My Heart’, the first of three records he’d record for the label, had to be re-recorded. Fitzgerald’s open-hearted examination of the punk movement impressed many, including Paul Weller (he toured with The Jam) and Mick Jones of The Clash. But he would leave Small Wonder to join Polydor in 1978 and thereafter quickly lost momentum. “My main problem with the music world was that I didn’t have a master plan,” he told me in 2005, “and rather like in life, I had no real guidance either (I am certainly not going to say at this point that I have since found God).”
Several other acts also made the leap from Small Wonder to either independents or majors. The Leyton Buzzards switched to Chrysalis after recording ‘19 And Mad’ (and winning the Sun-sponsored Band Of Hope And Glory contest). “Pete Stennet was not an easy man,” Buzzard David Jaymes recalls, “but I liked him a lot. He could be very encouraging but also very damning. I used to love going into the shop though. A fine and inspired old hippy!” Stennet always objected to the latter description, pointing out that he was an original 60s ‘freak’ and that the distinction was important to someone who had run with the original 60s counter-culture where ‘hippy’ was considered a lazy, broad-brush journalistic pigeonhole. Crass took their own path (examined in chapter eleven). However, it is worth noting, as the band indicated in an interview with Mike Stand of The Face in 1981, that their relationship with Small Wonder was a learning curve for both parties. “We were really bombastic. ‘Fuck the business people!’ We insisted that ‘Feeding’ went out at £2, which took no account of Pete having a shop, flat and staff to support. It was hard-line and naïve.”
Tyne & Wear’s Carpettes would become Mike Stone’s great white hopes at Beggars Banquet after initially securing a deal with Small Wonder. “Our first contact with Small Wonder was when I answered a small ad in Sounds asking for bands for a new record label starting up,” recalls George Maddison. “The Carpettes had recently recorded a demo of four of our songs at Impulse Studios in Wallsend so we sent them off, more in hope than expectation. Amazingly quickly we got a reply – they wanted to do a record with us! We had only played two gigs up to this point. I had to then get in contact with Pete Stennet by phone, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds as this was decades before mobiles and our house didn’t even have a phone. So all negotiations were done via a local call box. Pete wanted us to go down to London and re-record some of the songs on the demo. We travelled down to London in an incredibly slow hire van – ten hours it took – and eventually reached the Small Wonder record shop in Hoe Street. We met Pete, who to us appeared to be more from the ‘hippy’ generation, a little older than us and totally different to us naive northern lads. We stayed overnight in his flat above the shop where he lived with his wife Mari. I can’t remember too much about him apart from two things – he seemed to end each night with a bottle of red wine and start each day with a soak in the bath.”
The Carpettes’ debut EP did reasonably well, and was played regularly by Peel. “So we decided to chance our arm and ask Pete if he wanted to release a follow up. I think at that time he really only wanted to bring out one-off singles by new bands and it wasn’t really in his plans to release any more Carpettes records. However, when he heard our second set of demos, including a song called ‘Small Wonder’, he couldn’t resist.” They ventured back down to Hoe Street, but this time had an entirely different experience. “During the first session Pete took a back seat and mainly let us, together with the engineer, record the songs as we wanted, with a similar sound to the demos. This time Pete had a certain sound in mind and took charge. He wanted ‘Small Wonder’ to be played really fast and with an aggressive sound that demanded a very simple drum beat. Kevin [Heard], our drummer at the time, had a really ‘busy’ style and found this very difficult, After a lot of takes we were at a standstill. Eventually the problem was solved by Kevin keeping a simple beat and Neil [Thompson], the guita
rist, bashing out a bass drum pattern on an old, heavy wooden table that was in the studio. Some tom-tom overdubs completed the sound. At the time we weren’t too sure about the way it turned out, but Pete’s judgement proved to be correct. After the second single it was clear that Pete and Small Wonder were moving on and that they had released their last Carpettes record. However, we continued to visit the shop after we moved to London. I remember Pete being very complimentary about our first session for the John Peel radio show and he was one of the first to congratulate us when we landed the contract with Beggars Banquet.”
The Cockney Rejects were another band to move on to bigger things, via a contract with EMI. The Geggus brothers had taken the bus to Walthamstow from their local Canning Town to deliver their tape. Stennet had already rung up their mum by the time they’d got home. And while it’s true that Small Wonder’s roster was predominantly punk-based, it’s worth noting that the later divisions within the second and third generation waves of punk – anarcho (Crass) versus street punk (Rejects) or plain pop-punk (Carpettes) – were all happily accommodated at Small Wonder.
The release to immediately follow the Rejects’ ‘Flares ‘n’ Slippers’ came from the anarcho camp, but served as a staging post in the development of a post-punk identity. Scotty Parker was bass player of The Fatal Microbes, part of the Crass/Poison Girls family, whose ‘Violence Grows’ remains a touchstone recording from the period (having been originally issued as a joint effort, with the Poison Girls, on the latter’s Small Wonder-sponsored Xntrix imprint). “A drinking buddy of mine, Dave Parsons, who worked for the probation service, told me of a girl in care at St Charles who was giving the staff there a hard time,” Parker recalls, “cos she had a shit load of creativity and no outlet for it. So she was getting destructive to herself as well as others and he asked if we (The Poison Girls) would look at some lyrics she had written and put it to music. Myself with Dan and various Poisons got together one evening and bashed out a quick, uninspiring tune to her words and gave Dave a tape to try to placate his young charge. Within days I had a letter from this young ‘un with stinging criticism of our efforts. All that she said was true, the tune was crap, the singing (mine) was even worse and overall she said it was the worst piece of shit she had ever heard.” The author was Donna Boylon, aka Honey Bane. “Soon after Dave bowed to intense pressure and after a lot of dealings with the Home Office and the law was able to get a limited release of this bothersome girl to visit the band and speak to us face to face. Enter Honey Bane. She was young, pretty and very tough, but was so full of creative energy it seemed like a tornado had been let loose.”