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Discussion in 'Streetwear and Denim' started by Spirit of 69, Nov 19, 2008.

  1. Man-of-Mystery

    Man-of-Mystery Senior member

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    :stirpot:

    Okay, me too.
     
  2. Little Queenie

    Little Queenie Senior member

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    ;)
     
  3. skinny legs

    skinny legs Senior member

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    I made a comment earlier Barry Miles book, London Calling- a countercultural history of London since 1945, and it's abscence of anything to do with skinhead- look in the index under S and there's 14 pages on skiffle and zippo for skin etc...Im Re reading and there is indeed mention- in April 69 at Ally Pally a hairy festival was staged called the 24 hour technicolor dream. The Crazy World of Arthur Brown were playing alongside Floyd and the usual suspects, plus poetry readings, freaky light shows and all that malarky. 15 thousand people bowled up, including a rake of skins who jibbed there was in- spoiling for a row according to accounts. Anyway they were love bombed on entry whatever that means- given some acid, and eventually sat down cross legged with everyone else.
    Sometime the next day they were outside on the lawns, just coming back to normal as they noticed a group of hippies rolling a collosal fake joint made from paper sheets with leaves inside. They proceeded to spend the next hour or so kicking shit out the joint. - Normal service resumed
     
  4. browniecj

    browniecj Senior member

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    I would like the bottom Photo repeated more times.







    Sorry,I will go back and sit in my Corner.........:hide:
     
  5. Clouseau

    Clouseau Senior member

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    Except if the previous picture is really from 1968 ? But all right Mademoiselle, i'll keep my handcuffs in my pocket for the moment, i don't need another police blunder...
    Btw did you notice my recent avatar ? I think it reflects well my 'pedant' side ! [​IMG]
     
    Last edited: Jun 3, 2015
    1 person likes this.
  6. The Saint

    The Saint Senior member

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    I don't know why there are so many photos of glamorous ladies on scooters. .[​IMG]

    This is the model my father had (the scooter that is). .

    [​IMG]
     
  7. Jukebox Dury

    Jukebox Dury Senior member

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    :D
     
  8. Man-of-Mystery

    Man-of-Mystery Senior member

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    Your coat is wet!
     
  9. Gramps

    Gramps Senior member

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    It's a TV not an LI, judging by the disc brake and front dampers.


    Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
     
  10. Inks

    Inks Senior member

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  11. Clouseau

    Clouseau Senior member

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    Don't try to be funny with me, Monsieur !

    Btw MoM, you mentioned your revival of interest in suits. I think we had this one, but it may refresh your memory, and you could show it to your tailor. The lad on the right looks a bit like Steve Mc Queen.

    [​IMG]
     
    Last edited: Jun 3, 2015
  12. Man-of-Mystery

    Man-of-Mystery Senior member

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    One of these guys is Bunty's brother.
     
  13. Clouseau

    Clouseau Senior member

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    I don't recognize him, yet we had several pictures ?
    The suits seem to be much alike one of Browniecj. (A 60s picture he posted a long time ago.)
     
    Last edited: Jun 3, 2015
  14. The Saint

    The Saint Senior member

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    You are right , I missed the disc brake , I was thrown by the shape of the side panels . Must be 1962 at the earliest , the TV being the first production scooter to have that type of brake system . .
     
  15. Gsvs5

    Gsvs5 Senior member

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    For the Record LQ.....



    8 Arguments for Vinyl - from 1969


    I found this CBS inner sleeve in an old record the other day - actually it was Leonard Cohen's Songs from a Room from 1969. It sets out the arguments for records, presumably in the face of impending competition from cassettes and 8-track cartridges. Obviously CDs were still on the distant horizon, and MP3s beyond most people's science fantasies at that point.


    'HERE'S HOW RECORDS GIVE YOU MORE OF WHAT YOU WANT:

    1. THEY'RE‘YOUR BEST ENTERTAINMENT BUY. Records give you top quality for less money than any other recorded form. Every album is a show in itself. And once you've paid the price of admission, you can hear it over and over again.

    2. THEY ALLOW SELECTIVITY OF SONGS AND TRACKS. With records it's easy to pick out the songs you want to play, or to play again a particular song or side. All you have to do is lift the pick-up arm and place it where you want it. You can't do this as easily withanything but a long-playing record.

    3. THEY'RE CONVENIENT AND EASY TO HANDLE. With the long-playing record you get what you want to hear, when you want to hear it. Everybody's familiar with records, too. And you can go anywhere with them because they're light and don't take up space.

    4. THEY'RE ATTRACTIVE, INFORMATIVE AND EASY TO STORE. Record albums are never out of place. Because of the aesthetic appeal of the jacket design, they're beautifully at home in any living room or library. They've also got important information on the backs — about the artists, about the performances or about the programme. And because they're flat and not bulky, you can store hundreds in a minimum of space and still see every title.

    5. THEY'LL GIVE YOU HOURS OF CONTINUOUS AND UNINTERRUPTED LISTENING PLEASURE. Just stack them up on your automatic changer and relax.

    6. THEY'RE THE PROVEN MEDIUM. Long-playing records look the same now as when they were introduced in 1948, but I there's a world of difference. Countless refinements and developments have been made to perfect the long-playing record's technical excellence and ensure the best in sound reproduction and quality.

    7. IF IT'S IN RECORDED FORM, YOU KNOW IT'LL BE AVAILABLE ON RECORDS. Everything's on long-playing records these days... your favourite artists, shows, comedy, movie sound tracks, concerts, drama, documented history, educational material... you name it. This is not so with any other kind of recording.

    8. THEY MAKE A GREAT GIFT because everybody you knowloves music. And everyone owns a record player because it's the musical instrument everyone knows how to play. Records are gifts that say a lot to the person you're giving them to. And they keep on remembering.

    AND REMEMBER... IT ALWAYS HAPPENS FIRST ON RECORDS'
     
  16. Gsvs5

    Gsvs5 Senior member

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    The preceding post along with this one were taken from the Blog "History is made at night."

    Though this excellent piece was written about a period much earlier than any of us probably witnessed,the imagery projected lived on through the following decade around the country.The Royal was spoken about by mates in the Midlands as some mythical meeting place of London's smartest Circa 1970 ,though none of us had set foot in it.




    Playwright and actor Steven Berkoff (b.1937) wrote an autobiography 'Free Association' in 1997. Born in a Jewish family in Stepney (his father was a tailor), he spent his teengage years on the Woodberry Down Estate and hanging out around Stamford Hill (he went to Hackney Downs School, as did Harold Pinter). The book includes some great descriptions of going out dancing in London in the early 1950s, in particular at the Tottenham Royal, the 51 Club in Soho and the Lyceum Ballroom.



    Tottenham Royal: The Mecca

    'I recall in my youth the extreme beauty of some of the men and women, the sharply fierce eyes and beautiful peach-like skins and the men with their handsome Celtic faces. They would gather together like warring clans at the weekly stomp at the Tottenham Royal,which was run by Mecca. I was to write a short story about that dance hall called Mecca - it was published in my collection Gross Intrusion. What an ironic title, Mecca Dance Halls, for it was indeed our Mecca and the weekly call to nature was as primitive as the herds of rutting deer that would gather on the Scottish moors for their mating, selecting and challenging.

    It was the golden time, the weekend when the coarse and unsatisfying work had been shed and the day-to-day dose of humiliation was over, at least for me, and one could wash the week away, in the ‘neutral’ environment of the Mecca. All men and women were equal there, since the humbling work you did during the week mattered not at the Mecca. Your schooling might be shabby and abrupt, your teachers callous and indifferent, your hopes no higher than to be cannon fodder for industry and factories if you were a native, and if you were a second-generation immigrant you might be absorbed into the skills the migrants brought with them and be a worker in the garment industry, a cutter, tailor, presser, or as in my particular case, a a ghastly menswear shop.

    In the Royal, Tottenham, you were you wished to be - warrior, lover, Jimmy Cagney, Tony Curtis, villain, spiv, leader, loner, heavy, Beau Brummell...



    Tottenham Royal

    ....on Saturday we could forget all these other struggles, the dead and stultifying world outside in which you had to assert yourself with the blunt instruments of a poor education and little guidance and the hope of becoming a taxi driver or the manager of Cecil Gee’s Menswear. Now all that was behind you and in your drapes and rollaway Johnny Ray collar you spraunced into the Mecca with the expectation of a dream. Anything could and would and did happen, since the Mecca played into your hands: it was the greatest money-spinner of all time because it restated and restored the tribe and tore away the constraints of the civilized world of work and buses and factories. Here you could be who you thought you were. You created yourself. You were the master of your destiny. You entered quiffed and perfumed in the most expensive aftershave Boots had to offer. You entered and already the smell of the hall had a particular aroma of velvet and hairspray, Brylcreem and Silvikrin, lacquer, cigs, floor polish...

    First you go and deposit your coat and then jostle for a square inch of mirror so as to adjust your phallic quiff, which has to protrude enough for it to be stable, until your very arm aches and you have to lower it to restore the blood supply. Many arms were crooked and like birds we were preening and pecking. In the ladies' I imagine even more complex rituals were going on, since this was the sea of flesh, a virtual harvest of all the young, bright, beautiful, sweet, delicious and not-so-beautiful and not-so-delectable, but at least the energy of all that youth swarming together in the Mecca was formidable...

    ...every night at the Royal was a dream time. You walked as if in slow motion and got there early so that you stood a good chance of pulling some sweet, delectable creature, had a good dance and swanned around. The dance was all-important since this was a way of demonstrating your skill as a mover, your grace, wit, balance and tricks. The jive was one of the greatest dance forms ever invented. And so all your arts were in some way fulfilled. You were the dandy, the mover and performer in your own drama, the roving hunter and lover, the actor adopting for the girl the mask of your choice. You wore your costume and walked the hall beneath the glittering ball and when you saw someone that you felt was about your stamp you asked her for a dance; if it was slow, when you took her on to the floor your heart started to increase its beat...

    When you entered the Royal, the band, usually Ray Ellington, would be up the far end. The Stamford Hill crowd would stand on the left-hand side and the crowd from Tottenham would stand on the right; there would be no mixing unless you felt cocky and wanted to fraternize; in that case you elected yourself to the position of leading luminary and went to pay your respects. Dancing was the thing and as the clock ticked away until the terrible hour of 11 p.m. when the band would stop, you became more and more desperate to find someone you could take home and crush for half an hour of fierce kissing and squeezing and creating sparks as your gaberdine rubbed against her taffeta'.

    Jive

    I learned to jive at a formal session which a young teacher called Leslie taught at a small jazz club in Finsbury Park. I don’t remember who took me there or how I heard about it. In one corner of the room (and I now remember the room was walled with mirrors - it must have been a small ballet school in more genteel times) was a record player and Leslie would show us the basic one-two-three-four.

    Once we had mastered this very simple rhythm, the next step was to guide the woman while in a kind of side-to-side locomotion our arms would spin her like a top. With the determination that was to be a hallmark of my youthful endeavours, I threw myself into the jive and practised night and day to work it out in mirrors, on door handles and on a current girlfriend, a flaring redhead who I met on the Hill. She was from the other side of the manor, which was bad news for both of us, but at that time we were mainly concerned with getting the jive together.

    After a while I got into the swing of it and Greys Dance Hall became my weekly Tuesday night session. A kind of Finsbury Park clan would gather there. When you came in there was a little bar where you could buy sandies, tea, coffee and soft drinks. The place had a weird and pregnant atmosphere, not least because Curly King would turn up from time to time and it was also the time I first glimpsed the Kray twins. They were always immaculately turned out in dark suits and ties...

    ...Sunday was Lyceum night, but you could always do some hopping at the 51 Club in Little Newport Street. That was good for jazz and they played the best records and you danced your feet off. I did less and less exercise at school I made up for it by jiving, at which I was becoming a veritable Gene Kelly. 1 had perfected my jiving via Leslie at Grays, Finsbury Park, fine-tuned it at the Royal [Tottenham] and let it go at the‘51’.

    It was my sanctuary. A small dark room with some of the best dancing to be seen in the West End. I would come home some nights soaked to the skin and it was even better than sex. I evolved a style that was ultra cool. By this time the Johnnie Ray era had been replaced by Teddy Boys and you wore four-button suits, shirts with stiff collars and double cuffs. My collars were sent each week to ‘Collars Ltd’ for starching and laundering, and woe betide if the collars came back soft or not stiff enough. I would go bananas. The style of dance was affected by the suit you wore and so you had to lift your arm, keeping your elbow fairly well in to your side or your jacket would be pulled up and you would appear ungainly. No, you had to dance cool so as to keep the form intact.

    It was a brief but unique period in English social and fashion history, since it twisted the jive away from its American cousins and adapted it to fit into an idiosyncratic London style. The chaps at the Lyceum became fops and Beau Brummels and the suit was more than ever your calling card or your place of esteem. You had to be immaculate'.
     
  17. yankmod

    yankmod Senior member

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    A pic of the Guy with the Glasses was posted a ways back.Here it is again.[​IMG]
     
    1 person likes this.
  18. Little Queenie

    Little Queenie Senior member

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    Yes that's the Great Yarmouth '69 photo I referred to earlier, but I don't think that's the same lad in the damaged (71) photo. There's definitely a photo of that lad too that I've seen, but I can't seem to find it now. Thanks for your efforts.
     
  19. Little Queenie

    Little Queenie Senior member

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    Am I being reprimanded? Roytonboy knew what I meant!
     
  20. Little Queenie

    Little Queenie Senior member

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    Interesting, though odd to imagine Steven Berkoff, who I always picture in his early TV roles as the baddie's henchman! He's older than I thought. It's a comment often made that each youth cult thinks it has invented the concept, but the similarities are striking.
     

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