Punks (some of them) come and punks (most of them) go but the British Christmas is always the same: family cosiness, turkey and stuffing, the Queen's speech, cups of tea, the solemn exchange of Rod Stewart's latest LP. His release date is, on the official calendar, (end of October this year) the start of the Christmas season—shopping and all that—and no one's supposed to listen to it 'til Xmas Day. I haven't and so I've got nothing more to say except that if 1977 was a Rotten year, it'll be the last one for a while. We're now entering PP Time—post-punk—recognisable by 1. Punk Snobs.

Lot of 'em about, especially in the music business, especially musicians: "The Pistols and the Clash, they're alright. I mean, what they did was original; didn't I always say so? (No) But the others, all those punk punters leaping on the bandwagofi—man, they haven't got an original idea in their heads and they've all got recording contracts and! can't tell one from the other and, I tell you, the punk scene's blown. Two good bands and a load of rubbisji—who needs it?"

I do and I remember the same remarkss about the Beatles and the Stones and British beat and they were bullshit then too. All I won't dispute is that somehow or other the Pistols and the Clash have become the Elders, the Sages of the New Wave and what's interesting is how differently they've shouldered their responsibilities.

The Pistols don't give a damn. They treat their fans to nothing and have never pretended to do otherwise. The album, which is a fine and angry and important as everyone always said it would be, has all the singles we've already bought on it nonetheless and a title to ensure that half the shops in Britain won't stock it and the other half won't display it. Straight to number one and all but the boys themselves stay firmly locked in their media cocoon— the film coughs and sputters along, live shows remain unlikely (it's getting like Elvis) and the only thing that every punk knows is that J. Rotten gives no shit for nothing. Ari inspiring message and he's maybe the least exploitative superstar there ever was.

The Clash, in contrast to these laissez-faire masters of the market, are good old boys who loye their fans and believe in rock socialism. They've just finished an extensive provincial tour on which their beneficence was cast on their fellow bands too—the Lubes (?), deadpan female French punks, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, bleak American messages, subtle American expositions. The Clash themselves wer£, of course, magnificent—channelling all the excitement and pride and silliness of their pogoing crowds into an aggressive and authoritative performance and riding the various incidents of withdrawn insurance and flung fire bombs. Their bossiness was apparent, though. To preempt the continuous shower of spit with which provincial punks like to cement their devotion, the Clash began their Coventry show with a lecture (quite effective) and directed their venom straight at the front row—dunno which kids it is they're expecting to save the world, if they still are, but it certainly wasn't them gobbers.

Hmmmm...I've -never been on the gob receiving end but I still like punk because it makes me laugh and the gobbers make me laugh most of all. Indeed, like the punk snobs, what I most appreciate is that in every town in the country now there are earnest bands called Wretched and Linda Thalidomide and El Plates who sound exactly the same and are all overweeningly ambitious. Who cares if none of them are original—none of them are going to make it, either, and rock 'n' roll's fun has always lain in vain hopes. In Coventry the best band is the Automatics who, in their punk reggae, their revival of "Skinhead Moon Stomp", are original enough anyway. They are led by a properly eccentric mastermind, and enjoy themselves just like, say, X-Ray Spex, whose leader/ writer/singer, Poly Styrene, is a girl with ribbons in her hair, an Aunt Jemima pinafore, and very fine lyrics which, in live performance, remain incomprehensible. It doesn't seem to matter much and if all this sounds the same, then so does every record ever made in California, which brings me to the second feature of the PP Age:

2. American VIPs.

Britain's suddenly full of visiting inspectors of punk. One week who do we bump into, notebook out, but Robert Christgau; next week, who's on the doorstep, tape recorder at the ready, but Lester Bangs. What I like about these visitors, besides themselves of course, are the mistakes they're going to make. Rolling Stone, for example, in all its definitiveness, presented Wolverhampton as Wolver Hampton which may not mean much to you but is a big laugh for us because it's nice to know better just like it's nice to know that English music is so much more interesting than American mU|Sic that you're reduced to sending over a group of dud sexists like the Tubes, as if they're going to shock us or something. My goodness! The only shock was the shoddiness of the whole thing and if you really want to see charismatic vulgarity in action, then it's you who ought to be begging us to send over Ian Drury, who stole the Stiff Tour from Roundhead Elvis Costello with an overwhelming display of sham egotism which even awed into silence the male chauvinist dolt who's been shouting c "Rock and Roll!" at concerts for as long as I've lived here.

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Drury got a record out called New Boots and Panties and it's record buying season and you should buy it. Bowie's new album is good too—I don't know how he keeps it up as all the other goodies droop. And, for cultists, the punk producer of the year was Joe Gibbs—his album with Culture, Two Sevens Clash, and single with Althea and Donna, "Up Tdwn Top Ranking", are the essential reggae artifacts. No doubt you'll never hear either of them as long as you live. We can buy them in our local stores. So huh to you. And a happy Christmas (Kissmas?).