Malcolm McLaren 1946-2010
Too fast to live, too young to die
The ol' rascal's gone. Good, bad, ugly? Worth remembering at the very least
For generations of punks, Teddy Boys, New Romantics, drop outs, dreamers, starlets and the fashion-fixated, 430 Kings Road was the centre of the world in the 1970s. Wrapped in the quixotic armoury of owners Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren’s groundbreaking designs, the young regulars were a sea of then-unknown faces that went on to have an unbelievable impact on music and fashion culture. It’s with great sadness that the world must say goodbye to the impresario icon and legend of self-promotion, the inimitable Malcolm McLaren.
McLaren’s legacy as one of the most unashamed and thick-skinned entrepreneurs in popular culture is bolstered by his endless list of achievements. As a teenager who floated between occupations with the greatest of ease, McLaren established his unstoppable spirit and discovered a craving for infamy. In its most famous incarnation his Kings Road establishment was SEX, billed as London’s gregarious hotspot for S&M enthusiasts. But McLaren’s intention did not seem to be aimed solely at those looking for a few extra kicks in the bedroom. SEX was a way of life for teenagers looking for something new. The tills ringed endlessly as his collaborations with then-girlfriend Westwood were snapped up and immortalised in fashion history. The desirability of the punk look, all safety pins and bondage trousers, with that eternal spirit of anarchy, was established and never waned. If you need any proof of the legendry status of the clothing of this period, just ask Damien Hirst, posterboy of the post-millennium state of self-promotion, who shelled out £80,000 on 70 McLaren/Westwood garments later proved to be fake. However, if Mr Hirst is less than forthcoming about his blunder then you can simply wander down Camden High Street on the weekend to witness that lasting effect of those magic, transitional years of English punk. What started as a sparking desire to create a name for himself grew into McLaren’s controversial but unforgettable empire. Not bad for someone who insisted he wanted to “fail in business, but to fail as brilliantly as possible.”
Never one to stem his vicious determination, McLaren began managing bands, less successfully with the New York Dolls and later, rather bizarrely, an attempt with the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. But it was his wild impetus behind the Sex Pistols revolution that really marked him out. The music and the fashion went hand in hand with the whirlwind subculture that captured the national imagination. In what is probably the best managerial manoeuvre of all time for what was an essentially manufactured band, McLaren positioned Johnny Rotten and the boys upon a floating performance boat on the Thames to promote the 1977 release of ‘God Save the Queen’, all manic sneers and a very big two fingers up to the establishment. McLaren’s vision of anarchic utopia spread across Her Majesty’s gracious nation as a battle cry of the new youth and the prophetic rising of Britain’s young, disgruntled generation. Difference was a statement, rebellion was empowerment and saying the C-word on telly was a little bit rude but it made for good publicity. The Sex Pistols rode the wave of controversy to self destruction and acrimonious ending that ultimately stretched into bitter court battles over royalties.
The Sex Pistols were the stars of the McLaren show, but he had a lot of important supporting acts in his repertoire too. His second musical brainchild, the band Bow Wow Wow, did not achieve the kind of worldwide success of the Sex Pistols, but their infectious blend of sweet and sour African beats and funky 1980s influences have made them a permanent fixture on my playlists. Despite being conceived as a promotion of Westwood’s New Romantic style, Bow Wow Wow gave us Annabella Lwin, one of the most unforgettable style icons of the 80s. McLaren might’ve given her the name but it was Lwin who brought the attitude required for her dishevelled shirt dresses and mohawk. McLaren’s solo career spawned a phenomenal 16 releases with his own brand of b-boy-hip-hop that flashed New York and London street culture together in a way only a man of his unashamed enthusiasm could do. If you’re in any doubt a few listens to Double Dutch will have you grabbing your fold out chairs and icebox and if you’re feet can stop bouncing, scribbling the invites to your summer block party in no time.
He might’ve matured into man with a penchant for good wool coats and neatly folded scarves but he never lost his spirit. Despite his peers shedding some less than favourable light on him (John Lydon once branded him the most evil man on earth, no less), he never shied away from the controversy, a cheeky firebrand in celebrity culture. The lasting effect of punk on contemporary British fashion is an attitude that can never die. McLaren seemed to inspire dynamic change wherever he went and I sometimes wonder what a colourful capital it would’ve been if he had run for Mayor as rumoured in 2000.His proposed alcohol in libraries would’ve been a highlight. A little shandy with your Shakespeare would’ve certainly put the comedy back into the life of the characters, which is exactly what McLaren seemed to do for Britain in the 70s and 80s. Rightly or not McLaren was sometimes painted as somewhat of an incompetent chancer, but the point was, he kind of knew all along and it never stopped him. He had achieved his dream of immortality.
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