I probably wasn’t the only suburban American youth who wished, at age 16 in 1984, that he was a handful of years older — and living in England. Los Angeles came in second on the desired locales list, but even at that tender age, my gut told me that the enormity, social disconnect and relative superficiality of Southern California would have me yearning for London after a few weeks in the Valley, or on the beach.
Of course, 1984 was a strange time for an idealistic, music-loving, highly dissatisfied kid like myself. Far from Los Angeles or New York or London, living in Everett, Washington felt like being on the moon, in terms of culture. Certainly, the time delay was akin to a lunar transmission – even with MTV, high school kids were at least a year behind what was happening in England and Europe.
Which posed some dilemmas — to explore the angry young man, mod/post-punk/ska scene of the late 1970s and early 80s (which certainly struck a chord in me), or embrace the more current, politically defeated, tuned-out yet terribly appealing New Romantic/electronic “wave“?
The answer was to absorb everything at once, with a feat of music and fashion schizophrenia. It wasn’t “posing” really; mine was earnest work. The Clash, Ultravox, The Buzzcocks, Blancmange, The Specials were all sought out (this was decades before the Internet’s delivery service, kids), and they were all devoured.
I think the glue, the common denominator of the whole attraction was an Anglophilic curiosity. The misconceptions and quasi-correct assertions of a suburban American kid about a suburban British kid’s life were certainly romantic: living in some sort of relative squalor in row houses or some such thing, with a dad on the dole — but somehow one could scrape enough cash together for a Vespa, a great suit, a night at the pub or the nightclub. I knew that, as much as I despised my truly boring life, it was a lot less edgier than my bored British counterpart’s.
The British kept it real, you see. Or so I thought. While we sat on our asses and daydreamed of some sort of brush with reality in 1979, every English male under 21 was either throwing stones or gathering them. While we watched The Love Boat, these kids were drinking themselves blind, beating the shit out of cops and beating the shit out of each other. At least until Thatcher outlasted the fiery passions and wore everyone down. Until Duran Duran brought calm to the land with their Roxy Music ripoff.
Hence, that desire to be not only a Briton, but a bit older, as well. 16 was such a trying age, especially when you sensed that you were in the wrong place and wrong era. If I only had been older, I could have prefaced the sell-out with a few years of genuine ass-kicking. I could have been in this crowd, watching the best band in the world, The Jam, inspire everyone with their hi-watt heroics. I could’ve shouted along, stomping my feet; I could’ve kissed a pretty girl as I stumbled home.
I could have been alive.
