Piercing the Surface

Punk was a cultural movement without a clear agenda, but it had a manic, volcanic energy and a sense of urgent necessity when it exploded in the mid-1970s. Initially it was a visually bold and provocative reaction to pop culture, but eventually punk became corrupted because its more ephemeral elements--the hair, the clothes--were easy for mainstream culture to co-opt as a “fashion trend.”

Chris Sullivan, coauthor with Stephen Colegrave of “Punk: The Definitive Record of a Revolution,” writes that he was “convinced that the successful spread of punk per se was more to do with the style than the music.... It was the look that attracted a lot of people. That is certainly true for me.”

That emphasis on surface over substance explains why the book holds up so well as a photographic document but less so as a cultural analysis. After the obligatory nod to such musical precedents as Iggy Pop, the Ramones and the Velvet Underground and acknowledging the debt to such early bedfellows as the surrealists and dadaists, “Punk” moves through the glory days from 1975 to 1979 with occasionally astonishing and rare photos, accompanied by commentary from the players new and old.

England receives the greatest emphasis, and New York City is a close second, particularly as punk’s incubator. But America’s West Coast scene (bands like X, the Dead Kennedys, the Germs, Black Flag) is never mentioned--odd in a book that considers itself “definitive”--nor any other punk scene, for that matter. There is spiky-haired scamp Johnny Rotten (ne John Lydon) encouraging mayhem onstage with the Sex Pistols. Malcolm McLaren, the Pistols’ controversial and brilliant manager, has the air of a young Irish bookie, wheeling and dealing and exploiting disaster. Vivienne Westwood, the grande dame of punk fashion and proprietress of the clothing boutique Sex, comes off as den mother to this pack of wolf cubs and thrift-store dandies.

Some portraits are surprisingly revealing: a happy and healthy Lydon relaxing in Jamaica with reggae singer Big Youth; New York Dolls’ and Heartbreakers’ guitarist Johnny Thunders, reclining, eyelids at half-mast, exhausted or stoned; candid shots on tour with the Clash, Pistols and Heartbreakers--pillow fights in the hotel rooms, waiting for sound check, beers in the pub after the show.

Despite the constant threat of self-annihilation that permeated the scene, nearly everyone survived and is still around today, although you might not be able to tell from “Punk.” Noticeably absent from the compendium of quotations are any current observations from nearly all of the major players--Lydon, McLaren, Westwood, Joe Strummer (the Clash), Siouxsie Sioux, Pete Shelley (the Buzzcocks), Dave Vanian (the Damned). Instead, we read commentary from everyone else in the bands, journalists, managers, roadies, club owners and a seemingly endless array of fans, parasites, loiterers. Lydon is quite outspoken in other places nowadays. Why not in this book?

There are some surprises, however. Paul Cook, the Pistols’ drummer, comes off as a practical fellow, as does Glen Matlock, the original Pistols’ bassist. “We’d been rehearsing hard,” Matlock said. “I’d been accepted to do my degree in fine art at St. Martin’s, but we’d all decided to take the band seriously.... I became social secretary of the St. Martin’s College Union. I booked the Pistols for a gig, and that was that.” Others convey the humor and lunacy that existed, including “Punk’s” authors as well as Nils Stevenson, the Pistols’ tour manager and Siouxsie and the Banshees’ manager.

On the other hand, much of the partisan backbiting that plagued (and continues to plague) the music is present. To this day, musicians must face absurd standards of “street credibility.” Who is punk enough? What carries authenticity? The Buzzcocks were fundamentally a pop band with melodic hooks, ingenious song constructions and a lyricist of great wit in Shelley. They just happened to play loud and dress in black. Unfortunately, the lines are drawn sharply in many of the quotes and still, decades after the fact, carry some nastiness.

Minor factual errors are to be found, the most comical of which is a photograph of several Ramones, Seymour Stein (president of Sire Records) and his wife, and an “unidentified man” (according to the caption) who is clearly Elton John, a friend of Stein’s.

The deaths of Sid Vicious and his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen, are a macabre chapter in the history, and there are some interesting side trips to reggae, ska and dub--each of which played enormous roles in English popular musical culture and relatively minor ones in America. These are not what make this book compelling. In the end, it is the photographs and the visual image of punk.