Like rings in a tree, you can age me by the rock and roll songs that have embedded themselves in my brain and body. My musical dendrochronology begins somewhere in the late 50s with Chuck Berry and radiates outward to include layers of Brit pop, American garage, psychedelia, R&B, punk and substratums of blues, folk and jazz. I measure my life not so much in time but through epiphanies triggered by music, art, sex and drugs – a string of cosmic firecrackers shooting sparks into the ultimate reality of whatever the fuck I’ve become. I’m shaped by the things I love. And I love rock and roll.
In 1977, I was living in Boulder, Colorado. It was the year of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors and every radio station across the known universe was transmitting that unstoppable, unavoidable ear worm, creating a phonological loop in even the most resistant of hosts. I owned the record. I played it. I liked it. But was it a life-changer? No fucking way. But something epochal, something brain-sizzling and exhilarating was churning in the near distance and heading straight for my very receptive rock n’ roll heart: a burst of punk ferocity called The Damned.
“New Rose” arrived in my life when I was searching to stretch my own art into new shapes. I was a poet who had grown tired of the solitary act of writing. And while I was good enough to be published in some small press magazines, I really wasn’t all that interested in seeing my poems in print. I was far more excited by doing poetry readings. I dug the interplay between me and an audience. Poets say you should write for yourself. I always thought that was bullshit. I wrote to be heard. I wrote to stir things up and topple empires. Poetry, for me, was a revolutionary act and the revolution wasn’t happening in universities or the dusty corners of bookstores. It was happening in bars and on the streets. And suddenly, in the year of ’77, it was starting to happen on the airwaves and in rock clubs.
Bands like The Damned, Patti Smith Group, The Ramones, The Stranglers, Talking Heads, The Clash, Blondie and Television were making music that was subversive, surreal, weird, untamed and unpredictable. It was like the Dadaists or the Beats had picked up guitars and formed rock bands. The gates were flung open and everyone was invited. It was explosive and it changed rock forever. And it changed me. I packed up my Smith Corona and bought a Telecaster.
Wes Orshoski’s The Damned: Don’t You Wish That We Were Dead is the first documentary to explore the tangled history of Britain’s seminal punk band in depth. It’s raw, funny, intimate and at times heartbreakingly sad. Orshoski had total access to the group, both current and past members, and the complex and highly dysfunctional relationships that have driven the founding bandmates into two antagonistic camps is one of the truly sad tales of a rock and roll marriage turned toxic.
The film certainly has its dark side but it is also an exhilarating account of what total commitment to the life of a rocker is all about. The Damned have done it their way since their inception and they’re doing it still. Chock full of live footage from all of the eras of The Damned and wonderfully witty and prickly interviews with Captain Sensible, Rat Scabies and Brian James, among many others, the movie is emotionally intense but it is also sublimely entertaining. Still punker than shit 40 years after they first got together as teenagers, The Damned are the embodiment of an uncompromising spirit that is as admirable as it is exhausting to sustain. While other bands from the class of 77 went on to some fame and fortune, The Damned never really got their due. Time for that to change.
Orshoski did an exceptionally fine job of documenting the life of the Motörhead frontman in Lemmy (2010) and his skill in getting artists to open up and be candid about their lives is particularly evident in the Damned movie. At times the intimacy of the film can almost be too much. When Rat Scabies or Captain Sensible drop their guard, the results can be a potent mix of bitterness, anger and a begrudging kind of love.
The jealousy, resentment and bad business dealings that split the Damned apart is a rupture that if healed could see the band playing together again with all of its original members. Not too many bands you can say that about. There will be no Clash re-union and The Ramones are gone for good. But the Damned still walk among us. Dave Vanian and Captain Sensible currently tour as The Damned. Rat Scabies and Brian James often do live gigs performing Damned songs. But it’s been almost 25 years since the four of them have played together and as long as they’re still all alive, that’s a damn shame.
In this wonderful time capsule, my good friend guitarist and writer Binky Philips writes about The Damned’s American debut in early April 1977 at CBGB.
The Damned sauntered onto CBGB’s stage for their American debut, a true Before and After moment. Yet, while there was a real crowd, the place was not packed. I was right down front and was instantly impressed by the band’s almost cartoon-like larger-than-life-ness as they casually strolled onstage as if this was the soundcheck.
Actually, impressed isn’t the word. Agog is accurate. I was, in fact, without a struggle, reduced to fan boy within 30 seconds.
It was as if the entire evening proceeding them had been in black and white and suddenly we were thrust into Technicolor Oz. The tingling sensation of Newness and Event and Glamorous Danger instantly rippled through the club. The opening band, The Dead Boys had done a great snarling set, full of vulgar piss and vinegar, with guitars set on stun. But, before a note was even played, by merely walking onstage, The Damned made The Dead Boys seem small, provincial, tame, and harmless.
Dave Vanian, The Damned’s singer, was dressed in 19th century black-black-black, looking like a cross between a Victorian Dracula and an undertaker in the Wild Wild West. His hair was slicked back in an odd and sinister Peter Lorre way and he seemed somewhat cadaver-like from some subtle make up that made him look edge-of-gangrene ghoulish.
Brian James, the guitarist, while dressed way down in standard jeans, dark t-shirt, worn black Chuck Taylors, appeared to be stumbling around in his own little world. While actually kinda handsome, he was also somewhat wall-eyed and was using that mild affliction to great effect, appearing totally out of it.
Rat Scabies, the drummer, was in what is now classic Punk style, but that night, seemed wildly fashion-forward. His bright rust red jacket had one sleeve attached only by safety pins, and was covered with badges and small tears, his shirt in tatters, his hair, a lunatic’s rat’s nest version of the classic Jeff Beck Mod cut.
Bassist Captain Sensible’s presence, however, was the crowning visual achievement. He was wearing a beatnik beret, ludicrously hideous cheap women’s sun glasses, his hair a totally artificial day-glo red, a Love Boat captain’s jacket and.. a tutu. As he walked onstage he seemed completely and manically crazed, way past fifth gear, sort of along the lines of Heath Ledger’s Joker. Captain’s little Beatle-style violin bass had been sloppily spray-painted solid silver—and I mean the entire thing—even the neck, the fretboard, the tuners, even the strings.
After strutting around the stage and openly mocking the New York crowd, suddenly, without warning or even a count in, they launched, catapulted, tore, into “I Feel Alright” by The Stooges. It wasn’t the beginning of a song, it was Detonation! Their power, energy, and volume was all simply breathtaking. They slammed into the main riff (sort of a sped up version of “Spoonful”) with a frantic and almost desperate ferocity. I can vividly remember sensing the whole of CBGB sort of just collectively gasping, “Holy Shit!”
Less than a minute into this opening song, Vanian started trying to loosen his fancy Dickens-era cravat and couldn’t get it undone. He spent the entire rest of the show clawing and ripping at his collar looking like Dwight Frye trying to strangle himself. His oddly sullen-yet-urgent vocals matched his losing-control demeanor. He seemed possessed.
Brian James wandered around in a circle paying no attention to anything or anyone. Looking down at the floor and then gazing up at the ceiling, turning and staring at his amp as if he’d never seen it before, but playing deadly hard guitar.
Sensible spent as much time in mid-air as on the stage. It was only sheer pure luck that he didn’t fall/fly off the stage. His lunatic carousing was totally heedless. He careened full force into his singer and the drum kit more than once.
Then, about three minutes into the song, Rat Scabies decided he didn’t like someone down front. He jumped up and while keeping time on one cymbal with his right hand, came out from behind his kit, and started challenging and taunting the guy in the audience to get onstage so he, Rat, could kick his ass.
“Wanna get into it wiv me, ya right twit? I’ll fackin’ pound ya! Yeah, you, ya fackin’ cooont!!”
He stood there, thwarted and seething because he had to keep playing, while the Captain and Brian obliviously bashed away. For at least 30 seconds, Rat just kept giving this guy in the crowd merciless shit. Eventually, Mr. Scabies went back and sat down and started pounding his drums even more aggressively. The other three in the band had paid no attention to any of this while it was going on, none whatsoever.
As a coda, they viciously bashed the main two-note riff of the Stooges classic for at least 3 full minutes without let up or adornment. It became trance-inducing, hypnotic. Hari Rama Krishna Krishna!
When they finally ended the song, Sensible leaped as high as he could and came down belly first and landed, center stage, full force flat on his hollow-body bass. That he didn’t instantly destroy it was miraculous. I marveled at how he clearly didn’t give a shit whether he’d even have an instrument to play after just one song.
Truly, this opening number was actually as almost as exhilarating as The Who doing “My Generation” back when they were pill-ed up and demolished everything like they did in “Monterey Pop”.
If The Damned had walked offstage at that point, after just that one song, I would’ve considered them one of the top three or four bands I’d ever seen in my life. As it was, it was impossible for them to top themselves and as the set went on, the firepower and insanity slowly dissipated a bit. But, by the end of the show, it didn’t matter. The Punk Revolution had officially started.
The Damned: Don’t You Wish That We Were Dead is currently touring the world. Click here to see where it might be playing near you. If you’re in California, check it out this weekend.
Dangerous Minds conducted an interview with Wes Orshoski shortly after the Austin premier of The Damned: Don’t You Wish We Were Dead. Orshoski talks about his passion for The Damned, touring with Motorhead, and the struggles involved in making movies with a single video camera and a credit card. It’s clear that despite the complexities and hardships of getting an indie movie made in this day and age, Wes would have it no other way. Punk rock demands punk rock film makers. His no bullshit approach is exactly what The Damned deserves. Fuck the ho-daddies, fuck the poseurs.
Dave Vanian is a notoriously private guy, not someone you’d invite to a rock n’ roll meet and greet. So when The Damned performed at Austin’s Fun Fun Fun Fest in 2011, Vanian was not in attendance when the band hit the autograph tent to visit with their fans. But when Captain Sensible spied a Vanian look-a-like waiting in line he grabbed the guy and had him impersonate the reclusive Damned front man. Despite a 20-year age difference between the fan and his hero, none of the autograph seekers caught on to the prank. He spent an hour signing posters, record jackets and t-shirts as Vanian. In this video I interview the man who would be Dave. It’s preceded by a couple of minutes of chat with Captain Sensible and followed by 40 minutes of live Damned footage shot at Fun Fun Fun Fest.
Thanks to Binky Philips for The Damned memories (parts of which appeared in the Huffington Post) and to Jake from El Paso for being what rock and roll is all about.