The visit of English punk-rock band UK Subs to Dunedin prompted ageing punk rocker Shane Gilchrist to revisit life in Dunedin in the early 1980s.
Nature of offence: graffiti/ tagging. Time and date of offence: after school, towards the end of 1984.
It's a little vague. The memory tends to play tricks. Blame it on the solvents that exploded into the air and on to the walls of a bedroom in St Kilda, Dunedin.
Deep red words that meant so much and so little: ‘‘A'' for anarchy, the letters ‘‘DK'' (for Dead Kennedys) likewise surrounded in a ring; symbols signifying affiliation with certain bands/brands/music.
Like the assortment of lookalike friends collected at the age of 15 or 16, they were magic circles.
If you weren't privy to such punkish stigmata and an accompanying soundtrack that included the Sex Pistols, the Damned, the Clash, Dead Kennedys et al, you were thus on the outside, wandering about in vast, hellish plains where artistic consideration was given to the Dance Exponents.
(Yes, in 1984, the Exponents won album of the year at the New Zealand Music Awards for Prayers Be Answered, singer Jordan Luck also claiming the top male vocalist prize.)
Back then there were no emails, no texting. Networking required journeys, usually by foot or bus, to places made of solid stone and wood, their qualities virtuous rather than virtual.
From the gardens at Knox Church the night could be surveyed, plans made, parties infiltrated. And if all else failed, a filter coffee from Governors could last a long time.
‘‘This is the new ice age . . . Warhead, warhead, warhead . . . Emotional blackmail . . .''
The lines of songs long unheard still waft by, their keys opening doors to basements, bedrooms and attics, those places into which teenagers squeeze themselves to make noise, love or laughter without attracting too much outside attention. The mantra? Out of sight, out of our minds.
Among those who provided an aural backdrop to such adventure were the UK Subs. Their words now run into one another, blended and malformed by two decades of neglectful memory.
They were reconstituted by the news that the London-based punk band, which formed in the late 1970s, was heading this way complete with founding member and singer Charlie Harper and guitarist Nicky Garrett (who are joined by a new rhythm section). They played at Backstage, Dunedin, last Saturday night. ‘‘. . . 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 . . . you want more? We'll do it again. You got a stranglehold on me . . . ''
Well, in 1984-85, despite a certain pale, thin boy having reached the age of consent, the ‘‘do it'' didn't apply. Therefore, the concept of ‘‘again'' was a lyric destined to mock.
It wasn't for want of trying. But, at 16, the many angles of social interaction had yet to be invoked. Certainly, heart on studded sleeve was a sure-fire dud.
Now, there are two boys to whom the mantle can be passed. The oldest has already grown out of a shirt emblazoned with cheap-looking guitars and the line ‘‘The Future of Rock 'n Roll''. When the youngest can no longer fit his head through the top, it'll likely be folded away and stored in a box, a memory as soon as the closet closes.
Then again, the Internet looms large - its what-goes-around-comes-around ethos a reminder that there is a market for most things, even ageing punk rockers. - Shane Gilchrist is a staff writer.
