Posted on 04/30/2010 8:47:12 AM PDT by a fool in paradise
GORDON SWIRE IS SUPPOSED to be sitting next to Ben in this Cadillac. Gordon's the man who inadvertently changed rock'n'roll history - and a good few other things - by introducing his art school pal Malcolm McLaren to his married sister Vivienne Westwood back in 1966. And Ben? He's the art photographer who's Vivienne's son and thus McLaren's step-son.
Ben is driving his American motor in the McLaren funeral cortège - a horse-drawn hearse, a dozen limos and a double decker battle bus - that's heading towards Highgate Cemetery. But Gordon Swire's not in the front passenger seat because I am. I'd almost be embarrassed - I'm not family and I've only met Ben once before - but there's no time for any of that. Because in Malcolm McLaren's death - as in his life - he has momentarily created Anarchy in the UK. Or anarchy in North London at least.
The minute his coffin - daubed 'Too Fast To Live, Too Young To Die' - was taken out of the church at One Marylebone, all hell broke loose. I'd been expecting to hear some Sex Pistols' tracks - MM kick-started punk and so much more - but the sheer volume of Anarchy In The UK as the church doors opened knocked me for six.
Inside we'd already witnessed a Norwegian tribal singer screaming the house down, a boys' choir and tap-dancer doing a surreal You Need Hands, McLaren's girlfriend Young Kim in tears and Westwood being heckled and, at one point, almost shouted down by former Clash manager Bernard Rhodes (who did, however, end by praising McLaren). It was the perfect anarchist rock'n'roll funeral service. But the best was yet to come...
As we stood hemmed in at the top of the church's front steps, blinking in the brilliant sunlight, the BBC's Alan Yentob was momentarily between me and Tracey Emin. "Malcolm's presence was here today," he said. "That man made us all think so much harder about everything." Bob Geldof turned and mumbled, "What a great send off! Very true to form." Except that it was a very loud Geldof mumble - anything else would've been lost in the racket.
There was a posse of paparazzi and TV crews already besieging the hearse, limos and battle bus. There were also hundreds of fans crowding around. But it was the volume of the music blasting out of the bus's 1,000 watt speakers that added most to the chaos. Mobile phones went unheard, car horns struggled to penetrate the rhythm blast and shouted instructions were missed. Occasional producer Sam Bully was DJ and, as he'd told me in church, "I just think, Sod It! I'm gonna crank it right up on the bus. If the cops are gonna nick us then let's go down big time."
I thought many things might go down big-time. As an old friend of Malcolm's, I'd been asked by his son Joe Corre to do a press release right after the burial. I was to be the only writer present graveside for what was to be a stressful 'gig', and I was supposed to get a quiet ride up there, calmly making notes en route before the burial and the wake. But as confusion reigned and the bus departed without me it soon became any-port-in-a-storm. Ben Westwood graciously offered me a lift in his 1974 Caddy, Gordon couldn't be found and so we were off, hoping against hope that the latter would somehow find his own way up to Highgate Cemetery, final resting place of Karl Marx, Max Wall and David Devant.
And while we were still in sight of the church it became obvious that this was to be no ordinary cortège. The streets were busy with people, either waving and applauding or running after the bus - with its 'Nowhere' destination, huge pink 'MM' logo and 'Daily Terror' and 'Cash From Chaos' banners - and by the time we'd reached Camden the crowds and the traffic had slowed things to a snail's pace.
It would've been almost tranquil if it hadn't been for the rock'n'roll that was shaking the windows of the shops, flats and first floor offices. And the fact that leaflets, record sleeves and books were being thrown off the bus and scattered along Camden High Street. And still the cops didn't intervene - they didn't even stop the caravan when four young punks leapt on up the back of the bus. They clung on all the way, waving at the crowds and passing beers around - one of them had hitch-hiked all the way from Italy.
Up by Camden Lock bridge it became mayhem, the whole convoy slowed by London's tortuous traffic logjam - and by crowds hundreds strong, cheering and whistling. Those who'd been waiting - some in shirt-sleeves or T-shirts, a few in bondage gear - swarmed round the battle bus taking their own pictures, banging happily on the sides and really enjoying the sunny noisy madness of it all. It was like a carnival, a street festival. Some policemen soon appeared but they were mostly content to observe, partly out of unconscious respect for a 'fallen foe', partly because even if you could halt this insane cortège completely, could you ever get it started again?
Professional photographers on foot and mountain bikes good-naturedly jostled with the half dozen bikers who were now the bus's unofficial out-riders, revving their Triumphs and Harleys in time with the music. Other motorcyclists joined in - some for a quick burn, others for miles on end - as car horns were beeped and the whole crazy procession started to gain speed again. Sid Vicious's My Way thundered out, flaking the paint off the Camden Lock rail bridge.
"This is great," said Ben. "It's perfect, perfect."
"It's history."
"Yeah," said Ben. "It is... and now it's down to us..."
Seconds later we were forced to slow down again and someone banged on the window. A Swedish blonde with a camera, who knew Ben's girlfriend Tizer, leapt into the over-crowded back seat as we started to lurch forward. She trailed in the sweet'n'sour street scents: tobacco, exhaust fumes, cheap wine, hot-dogs, weed.
And then we were approaching Highgate and people of all ages were spilling out of offices and pubs and applauding. Just then Malcolm's Double Dutch started bouncing out, Harlem's girls singing sweetly, and I felt oddly moved. McLaren's inspiration had spanned continents, races and genres - and generations.
Minutes later we were at the graveside. The scene there was like a movie: beautiful women in shades, men in zoot suits and dark ties, colourful rock stars. And I suddenly felt a little like a war reporter. Because there was also genuine grief, a huge sense of loss... McLaren's last girlfriend, Young Kim, was beautiful and dignified but quietly devastated, Westwood herself was close to tears. Ben stood silently as Adam Ant and Tenpole Tudor hovered nearby. Gordon was there, with Mal's brother Stewart, as designer Jean-Charles De Castel Baljac spoke quietly to Joe. Someone said artist Dinos Chapman was around.
Then the first handfuls of dirt began to fall on a coffin draped with a blue Cash From Chaos t-shirt...
Behind us was a growing crowd at the gate - and still a little dust hanging over the sunlit road the motorcade had swept through. That last detail seemed appropriate somehow. Malcolm Robert Andrew McLaren sometimes went too far - and he usually went too fast - but he kicked up a lot of dust and some of it still sparkles. And it and he, always will.
Rock and Roll PING
I’ve always liked Sid’s rendition of “My Way”...
geldoff and marx in the same story. somehow, fitting.
He could go just to spit on his grave.
Yeah, what would the 80’s have been without “Buffalo Gals”... ;)
http://www.nme.com/news/john-lydon/50579
"For me Malc was always entertaining and I hope you remember that," Lydon said in a statement he signed under his Sex Pistols' name Johnny Rotten. "Above all else he was an entertainer and I will miss him, and so should you."
Paul Cook and Glen Matlock were there.
He could go just to spit on his grave.
I may go to that cemetary just wizz on Karl Marx's grave.
I love that song.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.