UNLIKE Spinal Tap, Colin Latter, Kevin Hunter and Martin Wilson didn’t have any unexpected chart success in Japan to tempt them into reforming Flux of Pink Indians. But they did have Steve Ignorant.
Although there had been many lucrative offers to get Flux back together since the band split in 1986, it was the chance to appear at last year’s Feeding of the 5000 spectacular – where Ignorant and an all-star backing band performed the whole of the incendiary debut release by Crass at Shepherds Bush Empire – that finally did the trick.
“First of all we said we’d think about it, thinking that the guy would go away and we wouldn’t have to worry about it,” says Latter, who barely seems to have aged a day in 25 years. Only after “some very serious consideration” did they agree to do the gig and even then you get the impression that they didn’t really understand why.
As Latter commented on the Southern messageboard at the time, “Moment of madness? Dunno. Punk defined my life, so a chance to make a racket once more was too tempting.”
“I think it was the fact that it was Steve,” says Kev Hunter. “That was the single most important thing, that he was someone that we admired and respected so much. I don’t know if we would have done it for anyone else.”
“Obviously, if the gig had nothing to do with Crass, we wouldn’t have done it, but the fact that it was Steve kinda swung it for us,” agrees Latter.
“It shows you how in touch I am,” laughs Martin Wilson. “I just thought, Shepherd’s Bush Empire? Us? No way. There’s no way we’d fill a place like that, us and Crass. Who’s going to want to see us these days?”
As it goes, to the continuing surprise of the band, a lot of people wanted to see Steve Ignorant’s version of Crass and Flux – with The Day The Country Died author Ian Glasper on bass – and the 2000-capacity gig quickly sold out.
I wasn’t too sure about it myself. It seemed at odds with what that scene was all about in the first place. Anarcho-punk wasn’t about rock and roll nostalgia, about playing the classics and playing the game. It was very much about the here and now – but there and then.
Everything else in punk rock can be recycled and remixed, rehashed and repackaged to buggery, all of it, I don’t care. It turns out really fake and safe and shit most of the time but so what? People like it and if it makes them happy, it makes me happy. Good for them. But not this stuff. It’s too important.
By the time I’d finally managed to get over myself and realised that everyone – bands and audience – should be able to act like the teenagers they were once in a while (and how cool would it be to be a teenager today seeing it for the first time?), it was too late. By all accounts, the gig went fantastically well.
But did it feel strange standing onstage there in front of a packed house, 25 years after the scene’s heyday?
Latter, Wilson and Hunter all talk at once, clearly still excited, amazed, baffled and grateful at their reception, all at the same time: “You just wouldn’t think it would be that popular at all … We had no idea … We couldn’t believe it.”
“My wife, who was never into punk, called me from outside the venue,” remembers Latter. “She was saying, it’s wild out here. And I was like, I know, it’s pissing down with rain innit? She says, No! The people! They’re lovely!
“There was this guy in the queue, this punk from Birmingham, who asked her if she knew whether Flux of Pink Indians were playing tonight. And she said, I hope so, my husband’s the singer, and this guy couldn’t believe it and he was kissing her hand and all that. That’s fucking great.
“When we were onstage, I remember going through the first song and thinking, okay,” he continues. “There’s this sea of faces and suddenly I see Sid, who used to drum for us, right at the front. It was like I’d just fallen out of a plane, bang, and I thought, shit, I’m here, doing this. Up until that point, I’d just been going along with it and seeing someone I knew really woke me up.”
All of them are glad they played at the Feeding of the 5000. Wilson thinks the gig “was probably the best gig I’ve played, soundwise and all that. I loved it”. They enjoyed it so much, in fact, that they agreed to play another couple, one in London and another in Dijon, as well as tonight’s gig at the 1in12 Club in Bradford – where we’re sitting in the book-lined Cluedo-like study next door to the café on the top floor.
A shining, inspiring example of pioneering grass-roots inner-city regeneration, the four-storey former mill building on Albion Street in Bradford was leased by a motley collection of punks, anarchists, activists and outsiders 20 years ago – and it’s been an invaluable haven for all manner of deviants, malcontents and ne’er-do-wells ever since.
I never dreamed I’d end up here again watching Flux though.
“It’s probably one of the most punk DIY places to play in Britain, I would’ve thought,” says Latter when I ask him about tonight’s venue.
Why is that important?
“It’s about as uncorporate as you can get,” he replies earnestly. “Playing here supports people who have been working very hard to keep it together for a very long time. I’m sure it must have been difficult over the years.”
“There’s a lot of hard work gone into it,” adds Wilson. “Fair play to them if they’ve kept it going for 20 years. It’s unbelievable really, isn’t it? It’s good to see.”
“It’s either this or the back room of some pub,” says the singer with a shrug. “What’s the point?”
Latter and a group of schoolfriends formed the Epileptic Fits – his mum came up with the name – in Bishops Stortford in Hertfordshire in 1978. They quickly decided they didn’t like the name and shortened it to the Epileptics.
After Latter realised he couldn’t sing and play bass at the same time, they picked up a rather reluctant bass player in the form of Derek Birkett, who was just about the only other person at their school who was into punk – although when they played their first gig, Birkett was on holiday so Steve Drewett from the Newtown Neurotics stood in for him. Kevin Hunter, an experienced local guitarist, joined the band soon after.
Thanks to a double-booking cock-up by a promoter, the Epileptics’ second gig was with a bunch of hippy punks who dressed in black and lived in a commune near Epping Forest.
“When we first started out we were a punk rock band. There were no politics in the lyrics,” Latter tells me. “And it was only when we bumped into Crass and were more influenced by them that we moved into the more anarcho-type stuff. There was just Crass at that point. I suppose the Poison Girls and the Ex would’ve been going at the time, but there was no scene or anything.”
Tube Disaster, the lead track on the band’s Neu Smell EP which was inspired by a big crash on the Underground at Moorgate in 1975, comes from this early punk period – although by the time they recorded it for Crass Records three years later they were called Flux Of Pink Indians and the daft shock-horror lyric had been subtly finessed by Birkett (or Penny Rimbaud, Latter isn’t sure) into a comment on the idea of news as entertainment.
“It was the first one Col and I wrote together, so that’s 30 years old this year,” says Hunter of Flux’s biggest and best loved tune. “Scary, innit?”
“And it’s been pretty good since then,” muses the poker-faced singer. “There hasn’t been one tube disaster since. I keep thinking, if it did happen again, maybe they’d put on our music in the background. It’d be the perfect song for that event.”
“Only if they pay us royalties,” mutters Hunter.
The guitarist, uncomfortable with the band’s increasingly political bent and what he saw as Latter and Birkett’s tendency to take their lead from Crass, decided to leave the band before the recording of the Neu Smell EP. There was, he felt, “a big thing about what you could and couldn’t say”.
“The funny thing is, Penny always loved this guitarist we had, Anarchy – Neil Puncher – who’s on Neu Smell,” says Latter (pictured left). “He would just turn up at a gig, drink as much bloody beer as he liked, couldn’t find his guitar when we went round to pick him up, that’s why his name was Anarchy, he was all over the place. And Penny was always like, what a shame he left, he was great, we loved him.”
“You think, hang on a minute, he’s not saying that about the most political person in the band, he’s talking about the person who’s probably the least political. And I’d think, well, it’s alright for Penny to think that but he doesn’t have to be in a band with the bloke.”
After a number of line-up changes (they weren’t called Flux for nothing) long-time fan Martin Wilson got behind the drum kit and Hunter rejoined in time to play on their debut album Strive To Survive Causing The Least Suffering Possible. Although they were often seen as some kind of second-division, Crass-lite, the album proved that the Neu Smell EP was no one-off, showcasing a more easily accessible, more tuneful kind of punk than anything that came from the elders of Epping Forest.
Unfortunately, the release of the album – on their own Spiderleg label – seems to have been the point where it all started to go wrong for Flux. They started to sell a lot of records, but the bigger the band got, the more Latter felt pressure not to speak out of turn, to tow the party line.
“I always found it a bit strange that when we did interviews, and Derek was there, I didn’t say anything and Derek pretty much said everything,” he explains. “But when Derek wasn’t there I had no problem saying stuff. I always felt there was a bit of a presence, and I’d end up saying the wrong thing.”
A noteable absentee from the Flux reunion, Derek Birkett now runs One Little Indian, the label which has brought us talents as diverse as the Sugarcubes, Bjork, the Shamen, Chumbawamba and the Alabama Three – many of whom he first met during his time with Flux.
Birkett didn’t contribute to Glasper’s book and as a result The Day The Country Died paints a not particularly flattering picture of control freakery and hypocrisy on Birkett’s part. Both Latter and Hunter, for example, have stories of him unilaterally rebuffing advances from labels such as Virgin and Island without bothering to consult anyone else in the band about it.
The band’s last two albums, The Fucking Cunts Treat Us Like Pricks and The Uncarved Block (variously, and unfairly I think, described in The Day The Country Died as “utterly pretentious .. a total waste of time .. self-indulgent rubbish .. complete bollocks”) were, it seems, all Derek Birkett’s fault.
Either way, it all seems to have got a bit joyless towards the end. Latter likens moving out of the house Flux shared in south London in 1986 – which effectively killed off the band – to walking out of a compression chamber. The next time he saw Birkett, a couple of years later, “he barely even said hello to me. I’d done nothing, we’d not fallen out. He tried to stand as far away from me as possible.
“Maybe I’m a bit hurt about that.”
Do you know what Derek thinks to this reunion? Or do you not give a shit what he thinks about it?
“I don’t give a shit,” says Latter sharply. “I’d rather not think about him. I’m not bothered about him. No point really, because I don’t think he’s bothered about us. Recently, he’s been in contact with us, asking about who was on what record, because they were trying to work out whether we were owed any royalties. He doesn’t even remember who played on what records. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“A couple of years after I’d left,” adds Hunter, “I read something where Derek was asked about something and he said Flux is just me and whoever else I decide to work with.”
“That annoyed me,” agrees Latter. “Fucking cheek.”
Even Wilson (pictured left), who seems more well-disposed towards Birkett than the others, has a similar story to tell. A few years back, he says, he phoned the One Little Indian offices “to say hello to the old sod, cos I never see him”, but Birkett never seemed to be in the office and never calls back. When they do finally manage to arrange a day to meet, Wilson shows up at the office but Birkett isn’t around.
Latter is still angry about what he sees as Birkett’s gradual “take-over” of the band. You can understand him being upset about being edged out of a band he started in the first place but you have to wonder why nobody said anything at the time.
“Spiderleg was set up between us, it was no one person’s label and then we broke off from Southern, we kinda fell out with them and One Little Indian for some reason slowly became Derek’s label,” he says. “But Spiderleg was never like that. So what happened with One Little Indian?”
Record labels don’t slowly become someone’s property. Music business lawyers don’t do osmosis. It sounds like, if Birkett did pull a fast one, he was only able to do it because no one else was taking care of business. While he concedes there may be some truth in this, Latter declares that part of the reason why he likes the idea of doing these gigs “is because it’s nothing to do with him. He’s a dark cloud over what we did.”
I have a major Marty diBergi moment: It’s such a shame to hear you say that, I tell him.
“He was an amazing figure in Flux-” begins Wilson before he’s interrupted by Latter. “Alright, alright,” says the singer, sounding genuinely angry. “But it wouldn’t be the fucking same. Would we be enjoying ourselves?”
I met the man twice a quarter of a century ago and whatever opinion I formed at the time, I can’t remember it. Latter and Hunter have known Birkett since they were all kids. But, y’know, Chumbawamba named their dog after him – how bad can the guy be?
And naïve though it may sound, I’m a little sad that even a band as committed and uncompromising as Flux – the band that persuaded me to become a vegetarian – can be as plagued by personality clashes and financial disputes as any group of dyed-in-the-wool rock‘n’rollers.
As if to make me feel better, the trio are soon swapping tales of Birkett’s heroism and derring-do during the Flux years, usually involving skinheads with knives. Latter remembers they all used to go to the Playhouse in Harlow, “and every now and then a big rumpus would start, a big fight, and Derek would be right in the middle of it but he just made out, oh I just came out of the toilet and fell over someone. He never wanted to be a hero.”
Latter finally tells me that, having lost his dad young, Birkett was something of a father figure – despite there being just a couple of years age difference between them – and maybe this is why he felt Birkett’s perceived ‘betrayal’ of the band that much more keenly. Suddenly, it all seems to make a bit more sense. There are a couple of seconds of silence. I don’t really know what to say.
“Me and my mate Johnny Russell went round to beat him up because Johnny fancied his girlfriend, we knocked on his door and he weren’t in,” announces Latter breathlessly, while Hunter and Wilson look at him like he’s gone insane. “We were 12! And he doesn’t even know that. I’ve never told him that.”
The tension broken, there’s a lot of relieved laughter and we move on.
Towards the end of his time in Flux, Latter became frustrated by the direction the band had taken with their final two albums, and began working on a side project with a mate using samplers and drum machines, under the name of Hotalacio. And after that, he stopped being involved in music. Until now.
“I realised all of it is an absolute load of fucking bollocks, the music business,” he explains. “I can’t think of a worse business to be in. While you run your own record label and you arrange your own gigs, that’s fine. Once you haven’t got that back-up, and you try to get gigs, as unknowns, the whole thing is completely different.
“It’s a funny thing. I’ve been in bands since I was 16, for maybe another 15 years,” he muses. “It’s one of those things that once you start doing it, you think you have to do it forever. And when you suddenly stop, you realise, fucking hell, excellent. I don’t have to do it no more. It’s good.”
Post-Flux, Latter and Wilson set up a shop repairing and selling on old secondhand furniture. There wasn’t much decent quality stuff around and so, when Wilson split from the partnership, Latter began making small bits of furniture from scratch “and that ended up as kitchens”.
He’s been running his own business, making bespoke, hand-built kitchens for the well-off denizens of north London for the last six years. It’s forced him to adopt an entirely different mindset to the one he had in Flux. You get the impression that it took him a long time to realise that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“The thing I’ve got to watch is, for years, I was working for people for next to nothing, pretty much,” reveals Latter, “because I’ve come from that whole anarcho thing where it’s not right to charge anything. So I end up making all this furniture, chest of drawers, kitchens, everything, for all these people in north London in these big houses worth hundreds of thousands, and I’m charging them not much, because I’m thinking you’re not supposed to.”
So essentially that whole ‘pay-no-more-than’ anarcho thing translated into you not valuing yourself and your labour?
“That is the thing. That’s absolutely it. So in the end it was a real learning curve for me, to work out that you do have to value yourself, people do have to pay a proper price for stuff, otherwise I was doing stuff for nothing. In the end, the people that benefited from that were people who had enough money already.
“I ended up with a bit of a reputation of being very reasonable and honest. But now my prices are a lot more realistic. I thought, well, why the fuck should they not pay, even if I needed the money or not?”
Martin Wilson now splits his time between occasionally drumming for Flux and Pete Wright’s Judas II project, and working as a teaching assistant in the kindergarten at the St Paul’s Steiner School in north-east London.
“It’s about allowing them to be children for as long as possible,” he says of the school’s teaching methods. “There’s no reading and writing forced onto them. It’s just free-play, basically, broadening their imaginations.”
Alarmingly, Wilson seems to delight in the idea of giving four-year-olds saws and hammers. “The parents are like, she’s holding a saw. And you say to them, yeah, I know, she’d been doing it for weeks.” He shrugs. “They’re holding a saw with both hands, they’re not gonna hurt themselves.”
The curriculum, says Wilson, focuses on the seasons: “I suppose it’s quite paganistic really, all the little rituals we do.”
Apart from the sacrificing?
“Yeah,” says Hunter, “that’s in the fifth year.”
Hunter (pictured right) spent a couple of years after he left Flux for the second time doing “very little”, before joining a band in Harlow who were “the complete antithesis of Flux. They were about as far away as you could get from Flux and it was fun to do it.”
“They were into like psychedelic rock’n’roll and it was like Elvis meets the Stooges meets the Sex Pistols. I even stopped playing guitar because they needed a bass player and I liked them so much that I changed instruments in order to join these guys.”
These days, Hunter makes a living buying and selling rare records, although he’s slightly cagey about exactly what.
“I do a bit of mail-order selling, music and stuff. I buy and sell,” he says quietly.
“Import export?” asks Latter.
“Yeah, a bit of that. I tend to seek out stuff for collectors,” continues Hunter, not giving anything away. “I’ve sold classical, all sorts of stuff. Anything I can make a couple of quid on really. I get along with very little money indeed.”
That’s probably just as well. While Crass – through books like The Day The Country Died, George Berger’s The Story Of Crass, albums like Jeffrey Lewis’s 12 Crass Songs, even the daft diamante T-shirts – are finally getting the recognition they deserve, until very recently Flux seemed almost completely forgotten.
One notable exception is Hard Night Out by the British rapper Professor Green, which samples the bassline from Tube Disaster to spectacular effect. Although it’s not been properly released as yet, the band are generally pleased with this foray into sample-culture.
“Thing is, the lyrics are a bit dodgy,” says Latter cautiously. “It’s about a night out, he’s eyeing up some bird, it gets a bit heavy, he’s taken too many drugs, y’know it’s normal Friday night stuff.”
Exactly. What’s the problem?
“It’s probably something that people wouldn’t normally associate us with,” explains Hunter. “I don’t give a shit, personally.”
“I still believe in the positives of Flux’s input, the political point of view,” decides the tanned and very healthy looking Wilson. “I’m still exactly the same, I’m still an anarchist myself, if you like, in a way. When I go into Sainsbury’s, the fucking prices in there ..”
“Yeah,” agrees Latter brightly. “I’m a bit naughty like that. It don’t take much ..”
I’m glad Flux are around again – for the opportunity the reunion gives them to lay a few ghosts, if nothing else. The anarcho scene might have been based on high-minded and entirely laudable ideas about equality and tolerance and respect and all that, but it was also about getting together with your mates and getting drunk and having a laugh and feeling part of something. The individual members of Flux seem to have missed out on a lot of that. I’m glad they got a second chance.
So where do you go now?
“Eh?” grins Colin. “The M62 .. if it’s directions you’re after, we’re fucked!”
They tell me it’s highly unlikely that they’ll take up the big-money tours of the US they’ve been offered, although there is a distinct possibility they’ll record a single, an old Epileptics tune named Anarcheest 69 which is part of their live set. Based on an even older song called I Wanna Give You A 69 which was written by their original guitarist, the song’s fantastically out-of-order lyric was quickly rewritten by Latter once they started gigging with Crass.
“It’s so great to play it,” enthuses Latter.
“It’s very basic and Ramonesy,” says a clearly delighted Hunter. “It’s just three chords ..”
Downstairs, later on, some wag in the crowd renames them Flux Of Grey Indians. They play Anarcheest 69 as part of a raw, thrashy, tight and hugely enjoyable set that owes as much to the Epileptics as it does Flux, even though there are a lot more Flux songs. They somehow sound bigger and chunkier than I remember they did the first time around.
Flux are more accomplished, more experienced musicians than they were, they probably have more expensive equipment and they’re doing it because they want to rather than because they somehow feel they have to. In truth, this is about as far away from the old Flux you can get, considering it’s much the same people playing much the same songs.
Everyone around me seems to be jumping up and down, singing, shouting, bellowing along, punching the air. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, and I’m wishing I could remember the fucking words to this one.
“Punk belongs to the punks, not the businessmen,” yells Latter. “They need us, we don’t need them, Punk will never be dead, as long as some of us refuse to be led ..”
The words are still echoing around my head on the journey home.
I really shouldn’t drink when I’m doing stuff like this. I completely forgot to ask them the proper important stuff: Why did Colin do the opening Neu Smell monologue in a Yorkshire accent? Are they still vegetarian? What happened to the teepee?
Inevitably, I manage to fuck up the recording the interview, or some of it at least, so I email the missing questions over to Kev Hunter and Ian Glasper (pictured right) – who ducked out originally because he correctly surmised we’d be talking about the good old days a lot and he wanted to see his mate’s band play anyway.
What stops all this from being a nostalgia trip? Is that a problem? Is nostalgia a good enough reason in itself?
“I suppose there is an element of nostalgia in it, especially as our set is made up of the songs we were playing back in the day rather than any new material,” says Kev Hunter. “It wasn’t as if we reformed with the idea of going out and doing the so-called ‘nostalgia circuit’ though – the gig with Steve Ignorant was intended as a one-off.
“I don’t think it matters whether people want to come and see us purely as a nostalgia trip or for any other reason. The fact that anyone wants to see us playing live is a good enough reason for me. I don’t care what anyone’s motivation is for coming, as long as they enjoy it.
“If they want to come and just have a few beers and leap about, meet some old friends, that’s great, but if they see it as something more profound then that’s fine too. It’s whatever you want it to be.”
According to Ian Glasper: “Whenever a band like Flux get back together to play, it’s bound to be partially motivated by nostalgia, but there’s cheap ‘n’ nasty nostalgia – ‘let’s visit some exotic climes on the back of a single we released 25 years ago, and see how many T-shirts we can sell in the process!’ – or there’s the more profound nostalgia where people reconnect with songs, feelings and friends that energised them in their youth.”
“Hopefully most people can spot the difference between the two, and they can make their own minds up about Flux Of Pink Indians. I know what I’m feeling from this band isn’t cheap and nasty anyway.
“I loved Flux as a teenager, and they were one of the bands that truly changed my life, in that Neu Smell inspired me to go vegetarian back when I was 14 years old. And I basically learnt to play bass plonking along to Tube Disaster.
“For me, it’s extremely fulfilling to play some of my favourite songs with the guys that wrote them in the first place, and it’s gratifying to meet and talk to people who love this material as much as I do who never thought they’d get the chance to see the band again.
“Yes, it’s a nostalgia trip, to whatever extent people want it to be, and no, that isn’t a problem .. well, not for us anyway, because we’re doing it on our own terms as honestly and openly as we can. And I think these songs still resonate with a provocative passion and intelligence all these years later.”
You don’t seem as angry as you once did but you’re singing songs about punk, vivisection, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, fox hunting, nuclear power etc. Don’t some of those songs address concerns which aren’t such big issues anymore? How do you pick and chose what gets consigned to the anarcho-museum and what stuff you continue to play? And what makes you angry today?
“Oh I’m still angry…” replies Kev Hunter. “Actually I’m probably more grouchy than angry. With regard to the songs, they may not specifically address current issues although there are aspects of them which can be thought of as relevant – for a start, it looks as if the Cold War might also be about to make a return to the nostalgia circuit ..”
“Our choice of songs to play was fairly easy – most of the stuff on Strive and Neu Smell still sound good, musically, as well as being loosely relevant now, whereas there’s no way we were going to resurrect anything from The Fucking Cunts.. as it would be a complete bastard to play and I never got into that album anyway. Not enough tunes or hooks in it for my liking, never mind the lyrical content.
“We did dig a little deeper into the Epileptics’ material for – Anarcheest 69, 1970s, System Rejects and Hitler’s Still A Nazi because they’re enjoyable to play and they flesh out the set – although there again, the words are still relevant to a point.
“I’ve never contributed any lyrics to Flux or Epileptics songs – I just tried to come up with decent hooks and riffs. What makes me angry today, you ask? Don’t get me started…
“Politicians of every / any party – I just don’t believe in any of them, they’re only in if for themselves. Then there’s shitty British weather. Wasn’t August wet and DULL? If I had the wherewithal I’d go somewhere warmer and dryer.. the thought of the oncoming winter really depresses me.
“Smart cars. I hate those awful little things .. it really pisses me off to spot a parking space that looks empty, and to start turning into it only to find a Smart car already there. They’re like pedal cars.
“There’s so much that pisses me off, it’s probably best to leave it there ..”
“I suppose The Fucking Cunts Treat Us Like Pricks is a pretty damn angry title for an album, but even at their angriest Flux never did seem quite as militant as Conflict or Crass, did they?” adds Ian Glasper. “And when you talk to the guys these days, no, they’re not angry in that deliciously raw, unchannelled way of youth, but they’re not exactly happy with how the world sits at the moment either.”
“I’m not lobbing bricks through butcher’s windows and getting arrested on demonstrations like I used to, but I’ve got two young kids and you can bet I’m pissed off with some of the things I see developing in society that they will have to cope with in later life. There’s still no justice in the world, and I boil inside at how little I can do to impact upon that sad fact.
“To be honest, we’ve chosen our songs on musical merit and not lyrical relevance – that is, the Flux stuff we like playing, written before the band vanished up its own arse – but I think 90 per cent of the set is still relevant.
“The Falklands may not be a hot potato right now, but the same, ultimately pointless situations are arising around the world all the time. Fox-hunting might be ‘banned’ but it still goes on, with the rich flaunting their flagrant disregard for the majority consensus. Increased reliance on nuclear power looms larger with each passing day.
“Punk is still frustratingly manipulated by a mainstream media which seeks to compromise its value as a genuine alternative. I’m always struck – especially as we stand there playing songs like Tapioca Sunrise – how little progress (no pun intended) man has made towards compassion and respect for his fellow man. The songs may belong in the anarcho museum, but the words still ring true for me.”
“Hi,” says Kev Hunter in another email a couple of days later. “One thing I forgot to mention that gets me REALLY angry – and that’s political correctness. It’s completely mad and has been taken too far. Just thought I’d mention it…!”
[Photography by Trunt]