If You Don't Know This Song…What The Fuck Are You Doing Here? In Praise Of Bootlegs

(Before you ask, the title comes from a Misfits bootleg and the bootlegger responsible says: "One of the worst release[s] in regards of artistic merit...was my absolute biggest seller: The Misfits' If You Don't Know The Song... - I didn't know the names of the songs, that's why I called the album that. - Heylin, 2003)

In an age where practically anything and everything can be downloaded onto your computer with little to no effort being exerted, we are already losing the thrill and exoticism of encountering bootleg records in the wild.
 

A bootleg LP, CD or tape is defined as being a collection of rare and unreleased material issued without the artist’s consent.  Your average illegal platter would normally consist of studio outtakes (normally let out into the wild via someone working inside a recording studio, an individual that was handed this stuff via the musician directly or an associate, and in rare circumstances a benevolent artist themselves) or a live recording (either taped by an audience member from their seat or via connections from the mixing desk).  Depending on the source material or the production quality, the results could end up being a mixed bag and you may often get stung when you eventually purchase it – well, you can hardly go and complain to Trading Standards can you?

Before we go any further: bootlegging is not the same as piracy.  Bootlegging is based around unreleased material.  Piracy is just a simple case of copying what is already legally out there, as anyone in my age group can attest to if you’ve seen those shoddy tapes at local market stalls during the 80s and 90s, courtesy the Saudi Arabian 747 cassette label.  You're not missing out on these ones, these tapes were truly cat shit and often featured missing songs, censorship (eg. DAF's 'Der Mussolini' being shortened to 'Der' on a compilation) and other songs pulled from other albums, with crackles, record skips an' all.  A friend's dad had a cupboard full of these things, but I wouldn't be proud to show off a stash like this.  There would be a much more positive response if you pulled out a load of used syringes and blackened spoons instead.

For a more in-depth look at this whole phenomena (as well a handy way of compiling a shopping list), I would strongly suggest purchasing Clinton Heylin’s thorough and entertaining book Bootleg! The Rise & Fall Of The Secret Recording Industry (Omnibus Press, 2003) for a more insightful overview, replete with juicy anecdotes from the people behind these artistic labours and the major events that unfolded.  For the purpose of this article, I am merely going to tell my own story with a personal combination of favouritism and some dice.

You never forget your first encounter with a bootleg LP (or CD).  For me, it was trawling through the Ipswich Record & Tape Exchange, a small poky and smelly shop located in a then-crumbling and partially vacant area of the town centre.  Ever since I was given my first shonky little record player at age 7, I needed vinyl to play on it.  As a result I gravitated to this shop, buying up stuff I would later regret for pennies before common sense, growing up and developing your own taste became prevalent (eg. 50p for a bag of 50 singles straight from Radio Orwell’s bins).  One day, I walked in to see them riskily selling some down and dirty bootleg vinyl on the wall and it was pretty pricey.  Madam Stan by Adam & The Ants was the one that caught my eye: homemade with track listings written in fake Italian on the label, I scooped up what money I had and it was mine.  I knew that it was a risky purchase as it could turn out to be a load of unlistenable codswallop, but I loved the illicitness and the forbidden fruit nature as well being an Adam Ant fan.

When I got home, I placed it on the turntable.  I was pleasantly surprised.  There were familiar tracks such as 'Physical (You’re So)' and 'Friends' but these were all considerably different versions, all recorded by the spiky post-punkers responsible for  Dirk Wears White Sox, not the chart-topping swashbucklers soon to come.  There were even songs I never knew existed such as 'Boil In The Bag Man', 'Rubber People' and 'Bathroom Function', and the LP seemed to come from demos recorded in between their tenure at Decca and the aforementioned album that didn’t surface until a year later.  Best of all, the sound quality was excellent throughout.  This was definitely a surprise to me.  Needless to say, I bolted straight back to the shop next Saturday to snatch that Stranglers bootleg, but either someone else had bought it or they decided not to risk it and took it off the shelves.

Cut to a few years later, I was doing voluntary work for a local company, which had its own in-house radio station (yes, yours truly had a show there for a number of years).  Bruce, the boss of the organisation (and former member of noise-rockers Tender Lugers and Earth Mother Fucker) tolerated my new found love for obscure post-punk and he introduced me to a number of bands and artists that I only had a passing knowledge of.  He let me borrow his exhaustive collection of original Stooges vinyl (including the death throes encapsulated on the 1974 live offering Metallic K.O.) as well as his well-worn copy of MC5’s Back In The USA.  Having also discovered the majesty of The Velvet Underground at around the same time, he lent me his horde of Velvets bootlegs too.  I didn’t have to beg because once I gave back the current trove of goodies, these mysterious bootlegs were now mine to hear too.

First on the turntable were two late 70s bootlegs originating from Australia, Etc. plus And So On.  What a revelation!  The first side of Etc. was devoted entirely to a pre-VU Lou Reed’s tenure at the cheap and cheerful Pickwick International, cutting cash-in ditties such as 'Cycle Annie' and 'The Ostrich'.  Not only were they fascinating, they were also really good, especially 'The Ostrich'.  There were also rare outtakes such as 'Foggy Notion' which, although it sounded cruddier, sounded more authentic than the horrid 80s remix on my Peel Slowly And See CD boxset.  There were also the some 1969-era live cuts and a couple of John Cale solo experiments that were quite tough on my teenage ears.

 
Next up was the jewel in the crown: Sweet Sister Ray.  Described in Heylin’s book as “perhaps the most avant-garde vinyl statement ever made on behalf of the Velvets”, the double album is a hymn of praise to 'Sister Ray', the final cut on their White Light/White Heat platter which still sounds incredibly powerful, demolishing and ear-splitting after 50 years.  Sweet Sister Ray consists of the 40-minute title track followed by two separate performances of “Sister Ray” by the Doug Yule line-up.

Recorded live in April 1968 shortly before Cale was asked to leave, 'Sweet Sister Ray' is a 40-minute meditative preamble which has an almost ethereal folky atmosphere to it before Lou “I’m sorry I was a cunt to you but I am on a diet of wheat husks” Reed stomps on the distortion box to let some holy feedback consume itself before punctuating the organ-dominated swirl with sharp intermittent barks.  The nearest comparison point to this track is Fred Frith’s 'No Birds' from the free-form yet magical Guitar Solos album from 1974.  Both tracks are in the same key of C and maintain the same manifesto: improvisation isn’t the name of the game but conjuring an atmosphere and a presence is the primary reason for being.

Onto LP 2 and the previously described run throughs of 'Sister Ray'.  Side 3 is not as aggressive or attention grabbing as you would expect but still has an insistent and borderline swing to it.  If you want assorted electronic shrieks and howls, Side 4 is the place to go.  Taken from a source known as the 'guitar amp tape’ because it’s dominated by Lou’s guitar to the detriment of everything else, it is still a wonderful righteous howl.  No legitimate record company would ever dare to put this stuff out, but you’ve got to hand it to the bootleggers to throw some interesting and compelling stuff out there.  From hereon in, I picked up a copy of Heylin’s book and made a note of what seemed like the most interesting platters to track down.

 

I was a late comer to Bob Dylan’s material, in fact so late to the party was I that my first encounter with the infamous electric set recorded in Manchester '66 came via its legitimate release (and what a violent corker it was).  From that point on I preferred my Dylan output from the speed-addled pissed off little sod of the 1966 tour up to the Basement Tapes period of 1968.  The latter was documented perfectly on A Tree With Roots, a 5CD collection of basement tape material and featured the much superior original versions of 'Open The Door Homer', 'Odds & Ends' and 'Billion Dollar Bash' in all their rough and ragged glory, as opposed to the Robbie Robertson botch job compilation from 1975.  There were also a lot more folk and country covers such as 'That Auld Triangle' (aka 'The Banks Of The Royal Canal'), but this set has finally been given a proper release with much more pleasing sonic improvements to tapes that were never intended to be put out in the first place.

The rejected version of Blood On The Tracks (Blood On The Tapes) was much more a slow burner for me.  Although roughly half of this material made it onto the album, Bob’s brother decided that the other half was far too repetitive and monotonous, twisting his brother’s arm into re-recording most of it.  Luckily for us an acetate of the aborted New York sessions got out there and was duly bootlegged.  Having heard the official release and being left cold, the acetate was a work of beauty.  Yes, most of the tracks are in the same key, but that it is not a minus.  If anything, the original sessions have more of a spark and confidentiality that really tugs on your heart strings.  As with A Tree With Roots, the complete Tracks sessions have since been released, with the acetate track listing eventually seeing an official release in time for this year’s Record Store Day event.
 

A chapter in Bootleg! Covered the nefarious and godlike activities of Richard, whose finest work toed dangerously close to piracy, but these were not the Dictaphone-pointed-at-an-Edison-photograph scams of the 747 variety, this was Wild Geese-style rescue shit.  First on the block is Michigan Nuggets (aka Michigan Brand Nuggets).  Featuring a mocked-up cereal box featuring Iggy Pop on the cover (but not amongst the track listing), this double LP set scoops some of the finest 7” jewels unleashed between 1966-1970 by the likes of Bob Seger & The Last Heard, The Rationals, Terry Knight & The Pack and MC5.  It’s pretty hectic non-stop fuzzed up bangers, although they could have included 'Mona' by The Iguanas (featuring Iggy) in place of 'The Ballad Of The Yellow Beret'.

 

It's because of Michigan Nuggets, my wife became a devout fan of Bob Seger’s flawless streak of late 60s stripy-shirt garage stompers, thankfully unaware of his overall career of mellow brunch jams.  In fact, my wife could easily write her own piece on all these grey-area psych and garage comps, as she owns an enviable amount of them (The Pebbles Box, Girls In The Garage) as well as three instalments of Las Vegas Grind.

Back to Richard, he was also responsible for the infamous 10LP Dylan box Ten Of Swords (released before CBS' Biograph box and causing massive shitfits upon its circulation) and Tis The Season To Be Jelly, a live recording of Zappa & The Mothers from 1967 before he started writing unfunny shit accompanied by marimbas.  Just as infamously, he was also the mastermind behind the hysterical Elvis’ Greatest Shit.  Gathering together the deposed King’s worst songs ('Yoga Is As Yoga Does', 'Ito Eats' and 'There’s No Room To Rhumba In A Sports Car') and wrapped up in an incredibly vicious cover (click on the image nearby for more detail) and a prescription allegedly scribbled by Elvis’ personal doctor.  As someone who only ventured as far as Mr P’s Sun sessions, I can totally applaud this compilation and it withstands repeated listens.  To paraphrase Richard himself in the book, Elvis collectors found the album so distasteful yet had to own a copy to complete their collection.

Television’s Double Exposure is another release that we should all be thankful for.  It combines the rare Eno demos cut with the Richard Hell line-up, replete with that oh-so-familiar bouncy bass work that belongs to the Blank Generation, plus a few cuts from Terry Ork's apartment (exit Richard, enter pock-marked Fred Smith on bass duties) perfecting that Television precision on the same tape that the awe-inspiring 'Little Johnny Jewel' single may have sprung forth from.

Finally, as I cannot think of a good way to round up this piece, I have to highly recommend the thoroughly dubious and illegal-right-from-the-start Spanish LP Los Exitos De Sex Pistols por Los Punk Rockers.  The story goes that a Spanish record label were too cheap to license Never Mind The Bollocks by The Sex Pistols for general release in Post-Franco Spain, so they simply corralled a local band (who may or may not have the horrific prog band Asfalto) to re-record it in what sounds like a lathe cut on one of those Russian x-ray flexidiscs.  As far as I can remember, the official record itself did not come with a lyric sheet so the leader of Los Punk Rockers gives it a shot, with as much of an approximation of snotty nosed Lydon-isms as much as possible.  As writer Taylor Parkes remarked on an episode of the Chart Music podcast, the vocalist obviously knows a little bit of English as words appear that didn’t appear on the Sex Pistols record, as well as sounding like the Great Cornholio from Beavis & Butthead.  Needless to say the results are pretty much indescribable and the album is quite easy to find on things like Soulseek and it may have to stay this way as there’s pretty much no chance of this ever getting an official release.  Then again, you have to wonder whether Los Exitos De Sex Pistols Por Los Punk Rockers was ever legitimate to begin with.

In summary, bootlegs were grand and it is always a pleasure to uncover unheard gems that the artist in question would undoubtedly nix if the subject of an official release comes up.  There have been a number of examples (eg. any Macca reissue) where the artist responsible has their own bizarre and dubious ideas about what should and shouldn’t be unleashed.  This does not mean that anything consigned to the vault is automatically great (Van Morrison’s The Contract Breaking Sessions being another example), but there is always something out there that will be of interest to die-hard fans.  Some fans may be content to simply own a greatest hits package or the albums meant for general release, but others want to explore further.  If it’s a musician or band that you love you’ll hopefully have no problem uncovering tape after tape of raucous live shows or studio throwaways.

I love the fact that I have the complete 35-minute version of Can’s 'Doko E' (of which only roughly a minute is out there in remastered form) or that I can throw a rock anywhere and hit an excellent live soundboard recording by the Miles Davis Ensemble circa 1965-1975.  As a Stooges fan, there are countless grey-area releases and outright bootlegs in varying quality – I am a sucker for rare live recordings where you can practically feel the tension in the room and the sound of Iggy literally spitting teeth, or perhaps crooning 'The Shadow Of Your Smile' before launching into 'New York Pussy Smells Like Dog Shit' (Easy Action released this 1971 audience tape, so go listen for proof).  They may not have been perfect but if you’re not fussed about the packaging and only care about the contents, most of this is easy to find in the right places and at least you don’t have to pay extortionate prices for something which may or may not be cat shit.

Finally, here’s a short film from 1971 highlighting the bootleg phenomenon in its early days.  The morals of this story are: Yoko is the only one who’s got it right and don’t fuck with Peter Grant.  Also keep an eye out for Rick Wright’s expression when they are treated to their very own illegal platter (belly laughs ahoy!)

Also, I finally found a copy of The Stranglers’ bootleg mentioned above (London Ladies) and it is a good 'un.  Recorded at the Roundhouse in late 1977, it is far superior to the official hodgepodge Live (X Cert) and I’m still kicking myself for not having the money to buy the bugger on that fateful day.

It's Like A Rabbit Warren Down There: The English Landscape And Continental Filmmakers (1969-1974)

Having seen the restored edition of A Clockwork Orange (Stanley Kubrick, 1971) at the nearby multiplex, armed with a smuggled-in bottle of rum and coke, it was a wonderfully overwhelming experience to finally see it on the big screen, as opposed to the previous viewing experiences via a bootleg VHS and a nifty little DVD.  One thing that always stuck with me was Kubrick's use of locations throughout the film, specifically his use of 1960s Brutalist architecture, which although French in origin became immensely prominent in the UK's city centres and so-called 'new towns' such as Stevenage and Milton Keynes.  What once was viewed as utopian in films such as Here We Go 'Round The Mulberry Bush (Clive Donner, 1968) was now a dystopian grey shot with wide angle lenses which only emphasised the dullness and the starkness of the buildings themselves.  What once seemed futuristic (and, for me, are eyesores) now resembled set designs from The Cabinet Of Dr Caligari (Robert Wiene, 1920) or a 1960's Fumetti strip from Italy.  Something that seemed far more exaggerated than the original building planners ever conceived.  By highlighting its uniqueness and exaggerating their foreboding quality, these locations seem far more exotic and mysterious than you or I take for granted.

This viewing experience has made me consider the use of the English landscape by directors relatively unfamiliar with them, and how they could be utilised and wrapped around their stories in a disconcerting and unusual manner.

This alien view of England in the late 1960s/early 1970s was best utilised by foreign directors.  While homegrown talent such as Richard Loncraine (Slade In Flame, 1974), David Gladwell (Requiem For A Village, 1975) and Pete Walker (Frightmare, 1974) offered a fascinating glimpse into the day to day mundanity of British lives during this period from unique angles, it took an international director to take a look at the oh-so-familiar landscape with a fresh, alien perspective and a viewpoint untainted by the initial burst of possibility of the 60s followed by the austerity of the early 70s.  The grit, the grime and the desolate beauty of abandoned buildings ravaged by the Blitz and waiting for the bulldozer, the reality untouched by the hip and swinging touch of London, the unfulfilled promises only hinted at by Pathe newsreels and locations that 'respectable' areas of the British film industry wanted to avoid.

Although some of the films mentioned in this piece appeared both before and afterwards, the key film which seemingly lit the fuse for this series of films was Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs (1971).  As relayed numerous times by other (superior) writers, Straw Dogs is effectively a grueling Western typical of Peckinpah at his prime, relocated to the placid English countryside.  By shifting an American staple into a radically different foreign clime, it still packs a punch – the last 30 minutes remains such a frighteningly intense experience that yours truly almost had a massive panic attack when first watching it almost two decades ago.

The nearest film that retains as much of a cult following is undoubtedly A Lizard In A Woman’s Skin (Lucio Fulci, 1969).  Outside of his gruelling dream-like zombie opuses from 1979 to 1981, Lizard is one of the most well known of his films in other genres, standing out a psychedelic assault of the senses, right in the middle of his lesser-known classics such as his personal favourite Beatrice Cenci (1969) and the tragic Don’t Torture A Duckling (1971).  Fulci knew exactly which locations to shoot, such as Alexandra Palace and the Old Bailey, and how to seamlessly blend them into the interior footage shot in Rome.  As authors such as Stephen Thrower (Beyond Terror, FAB Press, 1998/2018) have described, Fulci’s sniping, pessimistic world view, void of nostalgia and celebration of iconography resulted in a fresh view of the big city.  Lizard is the complete antithesis of Antonioni's Blow Up (1966), a hymn of praise to the bustling, hip and swinging, stripy shirted and mini skirted London.  Lizard shows a London where paranoia, darkness and doubt lingered in every alleyway and even sporadically flopped around, baking away in the intermittent summer heat.  It's may be glamorous, but in more of a decadent style.

Spanish directors Jorge Grau and Jose Ramon Larraz saw an opportunity to bypass the capital and aim instead for other parts of the country, untouched by indigenous filmmakers.  When viewing The Living Dead At Manchester Morgue (Grau, 1974), Symptoms and Vampyres (both Larraz, 1974) side by side, they key to these films' success is the use of locations.  Apart from the main protagonists, the locations play far more a role in the story than usual.  The hotel, corner shop and hospital of Manchester Morgue, alongside the mansion and camper van of Vampyres provide a nice slice of countryside domesticity and predictability amongst the vast mysterious void of the churchyard or the never-ending woods that engulf them.  As a result, the locations help to strip away the need for superfluous extras and buildings, leaving a practically blank canvas for which atmosphere is the key.

Larraz's films are also brimming with an intense sexual heat that was normally absent in the repressed giggly atmosphere of a domestic production.  Whereas Symptoms is more of a subtle character study with sexual tensions and misplacement of trust brimming under the surface, Vampyres was another story.  What once was only hinted at was now unleashed in a pure torrent of smouldering lust and intense violence.  As Vampyres producer Brian Smedley-Aston once remarked in an interview for the 1998 Eurotika! documentary profiling the work of Larraz, the British Board Of Film Censors (BBFC) were cautiously willing to allow sex and violence if they were separate, but never together.  Vampyres' casual and nonchalant mixture of the two must have caused howls of despair in the censor's screening room.

Regarding Manchester Morgue, as David Kerekes and David Slater pointed out in their wonderful tome "See No Evil: Banned Films & Video Controversy" (Headpress, 2000, p.210), once George leaves Manchester with its claustrophobic surroundings, crowded with people, cars and clashing colours, life gradually peels away.  By the time the film arrives at its location (the Peak District) the place has become a ghost town.  A colour scheme of brown and green, no people on the streets, no cars parked up outside the hotel.  Even the hospital feels abandoned and empty.  Only characters with necessity to the story remain.  This only amplifies the beauty of the location footage.  George and Edna's arrival at the church gate bursts full of luscious colour and stunning shadows.  Nature has overtaken man as the dominant force and whatever is left will be devoured by its own.

In 1969/1970, two films were made about the groupie scene surrounding rock bands and both have separate agendas.  Groupie Girl (Derek Ford, 1969) is a thoroughly British and tabloid-inspired glimpse into the unappealing and drab world of third-tier unwashed rockers but still feels like a British film, albeit an enjoyable one. Permissive (1970), helmed by Canadian filmmaker Lindsay Shonteff, is a far more cold, unsettling and perversely beautiful little gem that is still crying out for appreciation, even after being given wonderful treatment courtesy of the BFI's Flipside range.  By tackling the ultimately dead-end hopeless profession of groupiedom from a unique angle, Shonteff succeeded at filming with a fresh unclouded eye, detaching himself from the process and approaching the endless world of gigging, fucking and never-ending motorway journeys without the usual British leering voyeurism.  Coupled with a wonderful soundtrack by acid folk combo Comus and the Scottish folk-rock group Forever More, it is mandatory viewing for the curious.

 

Like Permissive, Duffer (1971) and The Moon Over The Alley (1975) were directed by Canadian expats.  The latter two films were directed by the duo of Joseph Despins and William Dumaresq and are wildly different from each other. Duffer is an intense character study focusing on the title character and the warped tug of war for his affections between psychopathic Louis Jack and prostitute Your Gracie.  Shot silent with narration, Duffer is a disorientating and nightmarish tour de force shot in grainy and rickety black and white that focuses more on London as a decrepit and cramped ball of hate from which there is no comfort, only violence and destruction.

Moving as far away as possible, Despins and Dumaesq’s next collaboration, The Moon Over The Alley, is a wonderful ensemble piece, centred around a boarding house due to be faced with the threat of demolition whilst taking a glimpse at the lives of the multicultural occupants within, it is a mixture of joy, despair, laughter and sadness and is essentially a musical.  Although low budget, the film shines with musical numbers that fit comfortably alongside the storyline without ever feeling out of place. Compared to the cold and disturbing Duffer, there is a lot of warmth and affection displayed by the characters which makes the fate of certain characters all the more heartbreaking.  Alley is a true example of collaboration and stands out as one of the most wonderful, charming and eminently rewatchable musicals I have ever seen.  Fresh from his work composing the score for Hair, Walt MacDermott's musical numbers incorporate a wide variety of styles without ever seeming forced. 

 

Yet another valiant rescue effort from the BFI resulted in the first home video release of Nightbirds (1971), directed by the much-maligned and overlooked Andy Milligan.  A prolific New York filmmaker who viewed his $10 psychosexual melodramas as a form of primal scream therapy, Milligan decamped to the UK for a short time but filmed almost non-stop during his brief time in London.  Nightbirds has a lot in common with Duffer:  They were both shot in the same year and are both based around the subject of abuse and isolation – never intruding, simply documenting.  They are also based in London, but a London that has been stripped of people, with the ones who remain bristling with manipulative intent.  Nightbirds centres around the story of homeless waif Dink, who is taken in by the mysterious Dee who initially appears to be supportive and caring, but eventually the characters begin to blur together in a sea of manipulation and loathing.  Compared to the piss-and-vinegar screeds spewed out by characters from his 1968 offering Seeds, Nightbirds has more in common with Milligan's debut feature Vapors (1965) with a more sober and low energy attitude, the lead male is just a forgotten figure looking for companionship, albeit with more catastrophic results.

Death Line (Gary Sherman, 1972) places the focus on a city underground, with London only visible at night.  Focusing on a series of missing persons and a forgotten group of miners abandoned during the construction of the Underground, morphing into a doomed and pitiful cannibal clan generation by generation, Death Line was one of the most eye-opening cinematic experiences to me, especially since I saw it at way too young an age.  Without wanting to spoil such a highly recommended film, the film's approach as to who exactly are the antagonists and protagonists changed my whole preconception of what horror films can achieve and remains as devastating as The Wicker Man’s coda, which reminded us that good does not necessarily triumph over evil in the end.  Combining genuine sympathy and grisliness alongside the wonderful performances of Donald Pleasance and Hugh Armstrong, the film can indeed be seen as an overview of London itself: a city full of desperation, lost innocence, crushed optimism and lack of identity.

Milligan and Sherman share a lot of common ground in their aforementioned films: their films are angry and use the locations to emphasise that anger: the sense of loneliness, helplessness and uncertainty of one's existence.  While Death Line embodies more of a political outrage at class divisions and the ignorance of progress, Nightbirds has more of an internal anger as can be seen in practically every other film that Milligan shot. Yet they both retain a true fire and conviction which would prove harder to bring to the screen as the decade wore on, whether it be in the US (as chronicled in Peter Biskind’s “Easy Riders And Raging Bulls”) or the 'sex sells' attitude in the UK (as chronicled in Simon Sheridan’s "Keeping The British End Up").

Whereas Grau and Fulci shot what they needed and headed back to Rome for interior shots, Larraz and Shonteff settled in the UK and continued to bring their domestic eccentricities to future productions with varying results. Milligan stuck around long enough to shoot four further films back-to-back, often bringing out trusted actors from his acidic Staten Island melodramas to attempt a "DEES DEM AND DOSE" accent for whatever grisly period horror film he felt like shooting, while Sherman moved back to the US and batted away offers to make further horror films for another decade.  

 

As the industries these directors worked in developed from the late 70s onwards, a less risky and more crowd-pleasing approach had to be adopted, but to do that meant discarding the rawness, the bleakness of every day life.  Out went the quirks and the peculiarity of foreign climes. If a director had to document the filth and grime, it could only be on their turf (Milligan's Fleshpot On 42nd Street is a fine example of this and further proof that the director was not an amateurish hack with a filmography of tacky schlock). For homegrown talent, that meant a return to suburbia and the tension underneath but filmed through an English perspective.  Only the work of Mike Leigh (Meantime, Naked), Derek Jarman (Jubilee, The Last Of England) and Alan Clarke (Contact, Made In Britain, Christine) dared to tread the same path with unique and memorable results.  When US productions set foot in the UK, they focused on the glamorous and monied side of London (with the odd bit of patronising "Cor lummy guv'nor" nods to the working class to make the script appear daring), or were convenient but unconvincing alternatives to filming in New York (Death Wish 3, 1985) or Vietnam (Full Metal Jacket, 1987).

The stranger abroad mentality continued to shine through the works of the separate paths trod by Performance’s tag team Nicholas Roeg (Walkabout, Don’t Look Now, The Man Who Fell To Earth) and Donald Cammell’s surreal genre-defying schizophrenic gem White Of The Eye (1987). But with the exception of these directors, you have to look to more appreciative climes.  The most notable examples from the early 80s – as wildly disparate and aimed at different audiences as they could possibly be – are Roeg's disturbing Bad Timing (1980), Romano Scavolini's sleazy yet compelling Nightmares In A Damaged Brain (1981) and Andrzej Zulawski's perverse work of beauty Possession (1981). Vaguely familiar surroundings yet filmed through an unfamiliar filter (an Englishman in Austria, an Italian speeding through the East and West Coast gutters, a Pole in West Germany), these films still had a distant, almost dreamlike quality that make for fascinating viewing.  No matter how high or low brow these efforts are in the eyes of the viewers, their casual view of the locations make them distinctive and give them their unique feel.  This is an attitude and an outlook far removed from the Italian exploitation films of the day (such as Eaten Alive, 1980) which almost always used New York, and even then only as superfluous window dressing in order to sell the films abroad, but this is an entirely different phenomenon covered in far more detail elsewhere.

As for the films produced within the United Kingdom over a few short years, they all need to be treasured as wonderful glimpses into the English psyche but without any preconceived ideas or hang ups.  They remain perverse travelogues, cataloguing an era that most local filmmakers dared not document.  It was a fascinating time, full of blank slates ready to be interpreted anyway that the talent saw fit.