GENERATION X: LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

My eyes opened slowly that morning, slowerthan usual. I shut them, fear pulsing through every nerve ending in my alcohol-saturated torso.

I had died.

There was no denying it—after all, I'd read enough "untold stories" detailing the final scene to know what to expect. What my eyes beheld in that split-second of reality was light—intense light cutting through the filmy windows of my London hotel room, blinding me. The angel of death was somewhere nearby, packing my toothbrush and preparing to wisk me to the great beyond.

The only truth I knew was in a bottle of codeine on the nightstand. If I could fumble one into my oral cavity, I might just.,.

The alarm clock rang.

I shut it off with a sigh. God would've prevented that bell from ringing if I was truly on my way out. Who needs alarm clocks when you've got eternity to play with? Casting migraines to the wind, I forced my lids to an erect position.

My sp*rm will b* your downfall.

Warmth. Sunlight. A week in London's rainy fog had convinced me that maybe the sun never set on the British empire, but it certainly never rose there, either.

The phone rang. It was a Chrysalis publicist reminding us of the Genera-

have to prevent yourself from being conned so you don9t con other people.

Toll that guy to tako his lips off tho miko—ho just blow my loft spookor. _

tion X interview that afternoon. Lead singer Billy Idol was due at the office around 2:30.1 glanced at the clock. It was 1:30. I peeled my companion away from BBC-l's Story Hour.

Maybe death wasn't such a bad idea after all...

Billy Idol entered with a flourish. If the coffee had not already rendered me speechless, the sight of Billy's hair would've succeeded in doing the same. Someone had found an empty office for our conversation, introduced us to each other, then led us, single-file, to our appointed destination. (One thing the English are good at is queueing. It doesn't matter what it's for—people join queues to curb their pets, out of habit.)

The room was indeed empty, save for a sturdy card table and four chairs. Conversation came slowly; I lit a cigarette and tried to relax. The smoke drifted towards my lungs, then lodged in the vicinity of my esophagus, causing my eyes to swell and redden with unshed tears. After convincing everyone my coughing spell was nothing to be alarmed about and cancelling the ambulance they'd summoned, we talked about Billy's impending whirlwind promo tour which would bring him to America.

"I want to see if what I've read about the States is true," Billy said. "Right now, I think it's a bunch of rednecks... [my companion spewed her coffee onto an ivory wall], but I'm curious. As for American music, I like some of Patti Smith's new record but I can't stand the rambling poetry—it doesn't seem to have any relevance. Rock isn't art, but you appreciate the ideas it brings forth. It's the way ordinary people talk."

I wondered if anyone who heard.my Tom Waits imitation that day would've considered it rock 'n' roll. I considered it painful, and figured the only way to rest my nodes was to get him talking at length. M]£ companion was no help— she was rendered senseless by the* patterns of coffee dribble on the walls. How 'bout a little history, Billy?

"When I was younger, John Lennon, the Who and the Beach Boys spoke to me in their music. Later on, it was Lou Reed, especially that one song about the little girl escaping through the radio—'Rock 'n' Roll.' I needed something to sort my ideas out."

Bag ladies spoke to me. Not the ones walking along the Serpentine with bottles strapped to the inside of their coats. I'm talking about the top-of-theline bag ladies pushing prams with gin TURN TO PAGE 70 bottles stuffed in, garbage, whatever. Always a word for passing strangers. One difference, though, between London bdg ladies and those from New York—English eccentrics don't care who sees or hears them. They exist, therefore they are.

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"Now, we hope our process of figuring things out through music reaches others," he said. "When fans come back and say, 'That's what I feel too,' that's when we feel great, like we've accomplished something. We re not singing about escapes. We're singing of surviving in this sdciety. I think it's best to clear yourself up in this world."

Emotions in London's punk community had just reached a head, culminating in a Rock Against Racism rally which drew 80,000 people for a fourmile march and concert in Victoria Park. Have to march, or we don't get to meet everybody at the. pub afterward and make fools of ourselves attempting the impossible—keeping up with our English friends. Ever wonder why there's so many auto accidents in Britain? The whole island's smashed. On the bill that afternoon was The Clash, Tom Robinson Band, X-Ray Spex and Steel Pulse. Generation X was noticeably absent.

"We are not political," Billy admitted, "but we have done two gigs for Rock Against Racism. We want to help solidify the stance in England against racism, but the only trouble with such things is that, in the past, movements became mobs...they need leaders. People who have concrete ideas can standby our records as individuals, not

part of a movement."

Was he insinuating that RAR was a mob?

"Oh, no, but people should look at things across the board. I mean, I'm just as prejudiced as anybody else about mass movements. You have to prevent yourself from being conned so you don't con other people."

Hmmm...he should do well in America. But if he felt so strongly about mobs, how did he (it into the new wave scene?

"We wanted to express the high energy everyone was feeling. The idea of chaos was appealing. But now, well', we've gotten over that stance. It was needed at the time to waken everyone up, like a knock in the face. But overall, that kind of stance doesn't help anyone else. The new wave bands were denying other genuine feelings they had, like love. We're starting to sing songs more in that vein. I think 'Kiss Me Deadly' and 'Invisible Man' are more truthful.

"You just have to find a new way of expressing the early stuff. Like 'Your Generation'—we still need to make people realize they have to knock down the doors. But to do that, first you have to realize yourself, what you want.

. " 'Your Generation', had nothing to do with the Who. It's about the generation of young people who, for six ypars or so, had nothing to say to me, nothing of any relevance. I didn't want to be part of that. Even though Patti Smith, John Lennon and Bruce Springsteen came out at the end of that blank period, they were successful because they wrote on a personal level.

"I mean, what does 'Stairway To Heaven' haye to say to me? Nothing! Iggy is great 'cause he wrote about physical things, things I dould touch and feel. People hated him and he said 'I don't care!' At least he was real. Everyone was trying to fit us into their *little molds. I was close to giving in and getting a job. Then I figured, 'Hey, am I gonna take a stand?' I found my way of doing it.. .there must be others. People have to figure that out for themselves."

Strains of "Go Your Own Way" filtered through my mind. Was Generation X evolving into the Fleetwood Mac of the three-chord crowd? They've begun work on their next album, and Billy promises to involve more "emotions" this time around. "It's been slow and gradual gaining an audience, but the people who like us feel they've found it themselves, not as part of a trend. And that's the difference—like, I found out about the Stooges through just one friend. It wasn't a whole group of people who were following them... no one else had heard of the Stooges! So I felt it was a reflection of my tastes rather than being trendy." Fine. Wonderful. We're proud of you. So what are you going to do with your first million?

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I've never had lots of money. I spend it on things like records and clothes. Right now, being in the group means more to me than money. Actually, we're too frightening for Chrysalis, but we use them to get records out. It's a business —all record companies are the same. I don't want to be very much involved with them...the less control they have on us, the better. We can put out records when we want."

One burning question remained, a question we'd travelled thousands of miles to find out: What was all this power pop stuff?

He smiled. The grin widened, threatening to wipe out the entire lower portion of his face. A giggle erupted into a laugh. "Record company presidents tried to create power pop because they couldn't look like punks," he snorted. "They couldn't change their haircuts 'cause they don't have any hair! But the people out there, on the streets, aren't such mugs after all— they haven't fallen for it. Record companies love recycled rock stars like the Bee Gees. What they're doing now is a result of the times.. .it's popular, but not a natural progression for them. You can't exist on advertising campaigns and.what other people create. You've gotta be real. Only you know what's affecting your life."

It had been a long afternoon. I was grateful for the sunshine, the fresh air. Someone had tried to lift my companion's wallet on the tube our first day in London, but that was okay. He apologized and I accepted.

Yeah, well—I'd told her, having lived on this island, to be careful in Picadilly Circus. She was just following instructions, watching my purse. And did I hold it against him, that he was a Rastaman? 1 marched the next day for Rock Against Racism, clutching my wallet under my armpit.

That night, we found we were being kicked out of London. Nothing personal, you understand—just a case of no room at the Holiday Inn, or anywhere else for th£t matter. We were adrift.

Set adrift in the midlands of Albion... until Simon Frith, our English brother, stopped our aimless wandering by taking us in, in Coventry. How appropriate to end our travels in the Motor City of England (What, they stopped makingTR7's?). Besides administering tea and sympathy, Simon gave us the goods on Billy Idol. No golden tongued lad of the streets, our Bill. Seems he read English at the University of Sussex. Gentler emotions, indeed. Try Wordsworth. Try Keats, try Shelley for God's sake. [Sure, my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. It was the chutney-and-cheese sandwich I wolfed in Stratford). Try Billy Idol with a permanent, pining away for a proud English lady, strumming on his mandolin (watch out for boats, Billy-rremember Shelley).

Oh well, if all else fails, he'd make a great PR man. With very pretty shirts.