Siobhan O’Donnell on the original 1970s line-up reuniting on Oxford Street, the basement where punk keeps its receipts and why nobody under 50 knows where to stand
Thursday 1 October, 4.40pm, on the Central line between Bethnal Green and Oxford Circus, standing, because a man in a gilet has put his rucksack on the only seat and is defending it like a border.
Dear Diary. Tomorrow night, Friday 2 October, Menace play the 100 Club at 100 Oxford Street, and I am going to be there at the front, which at my age means near the front, by a pillar, with a view of the stage and a clear exit for the toilets. According to the listing on Punx.co.uk, this is the original 1970s London punk line-up of Menace reuniting for a 50th anniversary set. The page describes the night as a reunion of the original line-up at The 100 Club, with The Witchdoktors and 16 Guns in support, and Dr Vinyl and JK Herbert on the decks spinning punk 45s before and between bands. Doors, as far as I can tell, are around seven.
I have not been told the ticket price by that page, so I am saying nothing about it, but I will say that I booked it in September, which for a person who loses her keys daily counts as a triumph of administration.
The Wardrobe Situation
I have spent the evening standing in front of the wardrobe like a general before a campaign. The leather jacket is fine. The leather jacket is always fine. The trouble is everything else. In 1976 you could assemble a look from a bin liner and a grudge. In 2026 I own four different black T-shirts and each of them has a care label with instructions, which is the opposite of the philosophy.
I have decided on the old Doc Martens, the black jeans with the knee that has finally gone and the badge collection. The badges are the thing. I have a badge for every band I have loved and a few for bands I only pretended to love at parties. There is a badge on the lapel that says nothing at all, which I bought because I liked the colour, and I have started to think it is the most honest one.
A Short History of a Basement
People who have never been to the 100 Club think of it as a museum. It is not a museum. A museum has a gift shop and a rope. The 100 Club has a basement, a bar and floor that holds on to every spilled drink since the Second World War, and our own review of the basement that has been there for eighty years makes the point better than I can: the walls have heard more rubbish played brilliantly than any room in London.
It is the kind of venue where history is not on a plaque, it is in the ceiling tiles. Nearby, the story goes, punk found other homes too. Our pub-by-pub series visited the Famous Three Kings, where the Sex Pistols played, and another room in the same series covered the Hope and Anchor basement that launched punk rock, both written with the straight face we reserve for anything involving a pint. I would love to tell you I was at either in the seventies, but I was not, and the only person who claims otherwise in my family is my uncle, who also claims to have popularised the mullet.
The Anniversary Circuit
There is a pattern this year. Fifty years since 1976 means every band that was there, or near there, is back on the road with a banner saying so. Punx.co.uk also lists Chelsea at The Lexington on Friday 3 July for their own 50th anniversary run, described as original London punk since 1976, with Desperate Measures, a New Zealand streetpunk band, in support. The page calls the venue a small pub venue and tells you to expect a compact, sweaty show. That is the most accurate advertisement I have ever read, and I have read many that lied.
That July date has passed, so I am only quoting what the listing said. But the point holds. Punk is turning fifty and doing it with the energy of a man at a retirement party who has been told there is cake.
Etiquette for the Over-Forties
A few notes to myself, in case I forget by the second pint.
One. Do not explain the history of the band to the person next to you. They know. They were probably there, and if they were not they have heard you explain it before.
Two. The pit is a privilege, not a right. If you are going to enter it, enter on the edge, like a swimmer testing the water with a toe.
Three. Take earplugs. I know this is not punk. My ears do not care what is punk, and neither does my dentist.
Four. Buy a record from the stall. The Record Shack is listed as a promoter and ticket outlet for the night, and independent shops are the only reason any of this survived.
Five. Be nice to the bar staff. They are the only people in the building who are working harder than the band.
Why It Still Matters
I am aware that a woman in her thirties writing a diary about a band that formed before she was born could be mistaken for a tribute act. But the thing about punk, and the reason I keep going to rooms like this, is that it was never about being good. It was about the permission to be loud, local and slightly out of tune, and there is still very little else in London that offers all three for the price of a gig ticket.
The city has changed, of course. The pubs are flats, the squats are studios and the rent has done what the rent does. If you want a laugh at the whole business, The Daily Mash runs the sort of headlines the old fanzines would have printed if they had had a spellchecker. And if you want satire with a little more tartan on it, our friends at Bohiney Magazine cover the American end of the same joke, and the London satire magazines guide lists the rest.
10.15pm. Jacket on the chair, boots by the door, alarm set for tomorrow, and a plan for the pillar. If I am quiet tomorrow night it is because I am concentrating. If I am loud, it is because it is working.
Goodnight, Diary. Keep the safety pins sharp.
SOURCE: bohiney.com
