the story of crass - george berger
a thoroughly compelling biography of the prototype anarcho-punk band who for some unknown reason have been airbrushed out of the history of 1980s music, despite being a massive influence on the genre and outselling many more familiar names from the period. possibly this is because crass were aggressively anti-media when it came to publicity and refused to do interviews with the mainstream press, preferring to let their music do the talking in a chillingly intelligent way that suggested the world had gone to hell but no one had noticed – a sentiment ive believed for years. naturally, this means the songs arent in the main designed for easy listening, and even the most melodic numbers attack eardrums in a frenzy of political ire and swearing. From nuclear war, government corruption to feminism, there was nothing beyond the damning torrent of this collectives focus.
and collective is a fairly apt description of this group of artists [musicians, film-makers and visual artists] living in a shared dwelling called dial house which the uninitiated might think as a commune, though its a bit more complicated than that and is still ‘open’ to those of a like mind to this day in epping, essex. marrying angry punk with some seriously experimental sounds, poetry and staggering picture collages, the band lived on the cutting edge for a number of years before becoming marred by a singled-minded political view that alienated and confused even their own fans. this is where the book really triumphs though as an balanced analysis of crass successes and failures that offers praise without being sycophantic, and also critices some singularly stupid decisions the group made. fascinating insights by members of the band [including inspired frontman steve ignorant – the thinking mans johnny rotten], their co-conspirers and even detractors, this is real inspiring stuff.
im gonna review crass diverse musical output soon, but to give you an idea of their apocalyptical world view, this is the opening line from one of their albums:
‘jesus died for his own sins – not mine.’
crass
That line immediately reminded me of something vaguely similar, albeit from a different band: "Jesus, no prince of my starved hell to be / No way, my world it dies with me".
Back to the point at hand, I've never heard any of Crass's output, so it'll be interesting to get a run-down of it. If my curiosity hasn't got the better of me by then and I try to find some stuff online.
Aha! Found some on sputnikmusic. Incidentally, it's a pretty decent site, and if you feel inclined, Fez, there are two Crass albums that haven't been reviewed yet...
Back to the point at hand, I've never heard any of Crass's output, so it'll be interesting to get a run-down of it. If my curiosity hasn't got the better of me by then and I try to find some stuff online.
Aha! Found some on sputnikmusic. Incidentally, it's a pretty decent site, and if you feel inclined, Fez, there are two Crass albums that haven't been reviewed yet...
Ceci n'est pas une signature.
My annual NYE song
My annual NYE song
feeding the five thousand - crass
decorated with a classic picture of a dismembered hand trapped in barbed wire and the army legend your country needs you underneath, this record confronts the eyes with the grimness of the world before giving the ears a good battering once the play button has been pressed. beginning with a poem called asylum which in its simplest terms refuses to feel guilty because two thousand years ago some jew was nailed to a piece of two by four, the music launches into crass theme tune do they owe us a living, and doesn’t stop to catch its breath until the song returns for a second time at the end as a reprisal to drum home the message the government serves the public not the other way round.
in between these bookends, the bands frustration tackles pretty much everything there was to be frustrated about in 1978; the state of punk itself, british imperialism, the irish problem, and of course more about insidious influence of religion. the stand out songs in a lo-fi album of buzzing guitars and military drumming interspersed with radio news commentary of the political mire, are punk is dead, general bacardi and so what, though its probably best to enjoy [endure?] the record as a whole.
definetly not recommended listening for those of you with a faint heart, but this is the perfect place to start to understand this defining british band yet still leaves the question of why crass arent mentioned in the same breath as the clash or pistols – these ex-art college firebrands sold just as many records and attracted a diehard following that since the groups demise in 1984 have been mystifyingly silent.
decorated with a classic picture of a dismembered hand trapped in barbed wire and the army legend your country needs you underneath, this record confronts the eyes with the grimness of the world before giving the ears a good battering once the play button has been pressed. beginning with a poem called asylum which in its simplest terms refuses to feel guilty because two thousand years ago some jew was nailed to a piece of two by four, the music launches into crass theme tune do they owe us a living, and doesn’t stop to catch its breath until the song returns for a second time at the end as a reprisal to drum home the message the government serves the public not the other way round.
in between these bookends, the bands frustration tackles pretty much everything there was to be frustrated about in 1978; the state of punk itself, british imperialism, the irish problem, and of course more about insidious influence of religion. the stand out songs in a lo-fi album of buzzing guitars and military drumming interspersed with radio news commentary of the political mire, are punk is dead, general bacardi and so what, though its probably best to enjoy [endure?] the record as a whole.
definetly not recommended listening for those of you with a faint heart, but this is the perfect place to start to understand this defining british band yet still leaves the question of why crass arent mentioned in the same breath as the clash or pistols – these ex-art college firebrands sold just as many records and attracted a diehard following that since the groups demise in 1984 have been mystifyingly silent.
I came, I saw, I bought the T-shirt