Finding your subculture tribe in new RTÉ series
RTÉ’s new series focuses on youth subcultures such as skinheads and mods. Marjorie Brennan spoke to some of those involved in groups that have endured long after their 1980s heyday.
These are the immortal lines uttered by the mod Jimmy Cooper (Phil Daniels) in the 1979 classic film Quadrophenia; a call to arms lapped up by every alienated teenager with a poster of The Who on their bedroom wall.
That yearning for a sense of belonging while at the same time standing apart can be seen in all youth cultures, as the new RTÉ series My Tribe (Mo Thréibh) shows. The four-part bilingual series uses archive footage and the soundtracks of the day to explore some of the definitive youth culture movements of the last 60 or so years — rockabilly, mods, skinheads and punks — and the people who continue to keep the flame alive.
The series was a labour of love for producer Jennifer Healy of Mind the Gap films, for whom the motivation was very much personal.
“I would have grown up going to see a lot of mod bands and would have got into the Northern Soul scene from there. I remember being a teenager and walking into a gig in Eamonn Doran’s in Temple Bar and seeing mods and skinheads, they seemed like the coolest people ever. I was fascinated by them.”
While such gatherings were often portrayed as a flashpoint for skirmishes, especially in the context of the mods v rockers narrative, such claims were greatly exaggerated.
“There was this idea that mods and rockers were constantly fighting each other but that wasn’t the case. A lot of the places they went were melting pots for all kinds of misfits and outsiders. As one of our contributors, Paul Mulholland, says in the programme, the only trouble he remembers having was from the ‘non-descripts’ — the ones who had an issue with anyone wanting to be different.”
PUBLIC IMAGINATION
According to Caroline O’Sullivan, head of creative media at TU Dublin, and a contributor to the programme, such sub-cultures probably occupy a larger place in the public imagination than they did in reality.
“These subcultures were so spectacular, and people remembered them so vividly, they’re seen as big cultural phenomena. Obviously, in Ireland there were American and British influences, but in the UK and US there weren’t huge numbers involved either.”
O’Sullivan says the influence of cinema was a big factor in the propagation of sub-cultures. “There was a cinema in every small town in Ireland at the time and they had a huge influence on the styles the young people followed and the music they listened to.”
As in Britain, most of the sub-cultures were the preserve of the working class.
“It could be quite expensive to be involved in these sub-cultures, and working-class kids at that time probably had more disposable income than the middle-class kids, because they were already working.”
O’Sullivan also points out that there was often a real edge and risk in asserting one’s individuality in terms of being a rockabilly, mod, skinhead or punk.
“Now we’re so used to seeing people look any way they want, it’s worth acknowledging these young people often wanted to look subversive, or dangerous. It was often only a decision young working-class people could make, because they couldn’t be in certain jobs. And there was often a moral panic around it.”
TWO FINGERS
Such knee-jerk reactions, were, naturally enough, a boost to membership.
“All that media coverage did was to make it all sound amazing to the young people — that if they didn’t fit into the norms of society, here was something they could fit into.
Also, parents and society hated [what these sub-cultures represented], and disenfranchised working-class kids, whose place in society was questionable, were willing to stick two fingers up and be part of something outside of what society saw as normal.
Such sub-cultures are less prevalent now and also tend to have less visual impact, says O’Sullivan.
“I think what you find is young people who will hark back to the original sub-cultures, such as punk. That and skinhead are probably the only ones which are still shocking.
"With the internet and globalisation, we’re not really shocked by how people look now — if people have pink hair or blue hair or tattoos they can have a reasonable job.”
O’Sullivan says there’s more sub-culture activity online, related to hacking and activism.
“But it’s not the same. There are some subcultures which exist around grime and hip hop, but that’s not as visual, they don’t change their entire appearance for it.”
However, there are still young people who are finding their place in the sub-cultures of previous generations, says O’Sullivan.
“There’s probably a point where it’s cool to be different and a point where it’s cool to fit in. It’s a critical time for teenagers. But I break into a smile when I see a young mod or skinhead walking down the road, I want to go up and shake their hand.”
Mod: ‘Irish Jack’ Lyons
Corkman Jack Lyons, known as ‘Irish Jack’, was a part of the emerging mod scene in London in the 1960s, where he became friends with Pete Townshend of The Who. The guitarist said he based the character of Jimmy in Quadrophenia on Jack.
My outfit was a pair of pinksta-prest trousers two inches above the ankle, red nylon socks, a pair of brown desert boots and on top, a Fred Perry shirt. Over that would be a blue mac, which went to the knees.
The secret to that was that under no circumstances would you tie the buckle, because that was uncool. You tied the belt in a knot and you pushed it two inches to the left so you looked like Antonioni, the Italian avant garde film director.
You only wore a parka if you had a scooter.
Mods bought their clothes from two places, the suburb high street and Soho. Let’s say you were living in Shepherd’s Bush or Hammersmith, you bought from a shop in King Street called Philip Grant’s. You could buy a Fred Perry four-button shirt at Grant’s for £5 but if you wanted the genuine Fred Perry, you went to John Stephen in Carnaby Street and paid about £8 or £9 for it. It was the same with shoes.
You could buy a pair of lightweight Raoul shoes that fit like ballerina slippers in Lilley & Skinner in Hammersmith or you could go to a little Italian cobbler off Beak Street in Soho and spend a month’s wages on a pair of classy handmade bespoke cycling shoes. There was a lot of snobbery attached to being a mod.
Hair was extremely important to the mod ethic. I was cursed with curly hair and I absolutely hated it. I could never get it to sit right across my forehead.
On a Monday night before I’d go to the Hammersmith Palais I used to dip my head in a basin of cold water and towel it off. It would stay straight for about an hour and a half and then revert back to a coiled spring. When I was a mod my hair was the biggest thing in my life. It drove me to despair.
When the mod fashion first began to develop, you would go to any one of your local barber shops and ask for a ‘Perry Como’ haircut or a College Boy trim.
Then as the mod ethos began to take shape hairdressing shops became well practised in mod hairstyles. Probably the most well-known barber shop for mods (and gangsters) was a little shop on the Edgware Road in London called Jack the Barber’s.
You could find yourself sitting waiting your turn next to Ronnie Lane of the Small Faces. If you were seen coming out of there, you were one up, it was cool. That’s what being a mod was all about — reputation.
Rockabilly: Sorcha Loughrey Hoey
Sorcha Loughrey Hoey, 38, is from Castleknock, Co Dublin, and works as a make-up artist inCharlotte Tilbury, Brown Thomas. She is a fan of rockabilly, one of the earliest styles of rock and roll, emanating from the US, especially the south, in the 1950s.
For me, it is all open to interpretation. Some people might not consider me a true rockabilly because I have tattoos and that would be part of what is seen as more of a neo-rockabilly style. I still buy stuff in Penney’s and on the high street. Some people would be very purist and would only buy authentic clothes from the 1950s.
For me, it is just about what brings me joy, what makes me happy. I have circle skirts and dresses for parties. Wiggle dresses and pencil skirts would be my signature look for daytime. On the school run, they all call me the ‘glammy mammy’.
My friend has a store called the Dublin Vintage Factory and he sources stuff from all over the world. He sells clothes by the kilo, so that’s really dangerous. Some people buy the original stuff, which would be called dead stock, that’s the original clothes from the 1950s, which has never been worn.
But you are talking huge money. There are a couple of websites I use, one called Lindybop and another called Collectif.
They do really good value reproduction pieces with modern sizing, as if you were a size 10 in the 1950s, that’s like a size 4 now.
I don’t like to be snobbish, I listen to what I enjoy. Our son’s middle name is Elvis so he is obviously big for us. We had a Vegas wedding with Elvis at midnight.
We listen to the American singer-songwriter JD McPherson, and I love a bit of Patsy Cline — Dolly Parton is my hero.
There is a big streak of feminism in the history of rockabilly music, people like Wanda Jackson, these really strong women who broke boundaries. That also appeals to me. Obviously, Imelda May is the first thing people say when they meet me.
But she has transformed her own look as well and wouldn’t really be considered rockabilly any more, but she is another strong amazing woman.
Rudeboy: Brian Desmond
Brian Desmond, 50, (pictured with his wife Catherin) is a rudeboy. Originally from Cork city, he now lives in Killeagh, Co Cork, and works in a brewery in Cork. He helps organise the ska and reggae festival Skarox in Cork, which will be held at the Deanrock bar in Togher in July.
A rudeboy or a rudie was originally a slang term that originated in the 1960s in Jamaican street culture. The term resurfaced with the two-tone ska revival in England in the late ’70s/early ‘80s. It described fans of the genre. Rudeboy or rude girl at the time in Jamaica would have been used in a similar way to ‘gangsta’.The dress code was inspired by American jazz and rhythm and blues musicians.
The styles of music of the original rudeboy would cross over in relation to ska, blue beat, reggae and soul.
Usually a tonic suit, the shiny two-tone. You would have coloured socks and the pants would be just below ankle height to show off the sock or the shoe, which would generally be a brogue or a tassel loafer.
You’d have the button-down shirt then which would be Fred Perry, Ben Sherman, or Relco. Optional would be a narrow tie with a tie pin, your pocket hankie, and a pork pie hat or a trilby.
There were some crossovers between that and skinhead — you would have the quarter-inch braces as well.
Yeah, and we recently founded the Rebel Ska and Reggae club, a Facebook page, for anyone who is into ska or reggae.
If you wanted to flaunt your gear, you’d generally just hang out in Daunt Square on Saturday afternoon.
For my era, the main places were St Francis’ Hall, Spiders, all those. In later years, when a lot of us started working, we would go over to Camden in London a lot. That is where we got most of our gear.
Also McCarthy’s in the Coal Quay are great.
