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There was a buzz in the air. Exotic and unnameable insects bit, stung, or sank their probosces into the mottled decaying flesh of the expectant audience; static hummed over the countless speakers of what amounted to the largest PA system in history; the skies growled at the rumbling land below; everywhere chatter was incessant and intense. Much sexual activity was at play, of almost every persuasion; the police doled out once confiscated hordes of drugs; a priest was frantically taking an axe to a life-size wooden effigy of Christ on his cross. This was Hyde Park as it had never been before. The official estimated time of annihilation of humankind was in just twenty hours’ time, but generally folk sensed it would come a lot sooner. Whoever was organising this free-for-all concert had better get a move on. Technical hitches were eventually smoothed out by a very heavily doped sound crew. Even then, however, the performers had to wait for someone who had completely cracked and was armed up to the teeth to run out of ammunition and be overpowered. A further twenty minutes and sixty-seven random shootings later, the show commenced. And, boy, did the soon to be deceased audience let rip. First on were New Model Army. Not one person jeered. Sure, they had been signed to EMI - a corporation with very bloody hands that had been instrumental in bringing about Armageddon, but what would have become of them had they been signed to Rough Trade, for example? Perhaps the choice is either appear ultra-principled and preach to a handful of the converted, or ride on the back of a multinational and get piped into the homes of your socially-programmed enemies. Anyway, the end had arrived, neither side had managed to prevent it, and what was the point of squandering the final hours pointing the finger of blame, anyway? The Army gave what they themselves believed to be their finest performance, despite the fact Sullivan had to pause every few minutes for a phlegmy cough and Heaton died during the third song, to be replaced by an unnamed but entirely suitable stand-in. Naturally, The Love of Hopeless Causes was exploited to the full; White Light attracting much audience participation. Their fatalistic deconstructivist lyrics, now so brutally apt, finally punched keenly through their illusory image of pretentiousness, and the audience were doubtless more able to make sense of them than NMA had ever been. Poisongirls followed, and referred to what was happening in the park as the biggest ever outing for persons unknown. Ex-misogynists and former militant feminists danced together to the band’s upbeat offerings, until all were brought to a teary standstill by the lamentable Cry No More. Even The Exploited’s Wattie, sitting amidst a large collection of empty Special Brew cans, had to consult a tatty handkerchief for that one. Flux of Pink Indians proved a little too much for some. Although great for the sake of nostalgia, the right on content of their songs was too serious to really add to a party atmosphere. The reaction on most listeners’ faces said, ‘Christ! If only we’d taken notice of them earlier!’ Plenty more artists worthy of acknowledgement gave their best during the countdown to death - The Damned, Angelic Upstarts, The Mob, Amebix, Omega Tribe, Conflict, Culture Shock and Zounds amongst them. But the grand finale of the grand finale was perhaps the most awe-inspiring performance humanity had ever borne witness to. For today, the band now heralded as the bee’s knees of not just punk but all socially responsible rock - Crass - proved they were so very much more than undiluted nihilism, than sloganeering rebellion, than obscenity-spouting anger. With the integrity and passion of pure emotion, they transported all who witnessed their never been so charming and tuneful music that hot judgement day. Opening with the absolute barnstormer Big A Little A, they maintained pace with the satirically sardonic Bloody Revolutions. Other ditties that went down particularly well included a riotous hash of Systematic Death, a vibrant Bumhooler, and the hypnotic pseudo disco rift and incomprehensible vocals that make up Walls (fun in the oven). The shops would have sold out of their entire stocks of Crass records on their next opening day, had there been one. Missing from this apocalyptic event were performances by the Sex Pistols, The Stranglers, X-Ray Spex, The Clash and those others who had generally been regarded as the prime examples of the punk culture. That attitude was now outdated, though not as a result of argument but a sort of gradual enlightenment. As humanity nose-dived towards its own destruction, it became at last aware of the reasons why, albeit too late. Those who had made the most detailed and heroic stances against this inevitability were eventually recognised and celebrated. Swept aside was rabble-rousing fast rock ‘n’ roll, along with the brainchildren of Malcolm McClaren, not to mention Gary Bushell. Impassioned salutations were directed at the pacifists, the anarchists, the ecologists, the existentialists. To the honourable punk at heart, a fleeting justice had been served - the only way it was ever going to be. BACK |