![]() bands to express what others - especially American artists raised on the value of entertainment first - could not. There was a time when you counted on U.K. There’s no bottom line as to why so many hoodied British kids reacted the way they did, but here’s one: English music has lost its sense of purpose and adventure. They were both my rock ’n’ roll and political heroes. Marching that afternoon at Litton, I pretended to be more Joe Strummer or Billy Bragg than Desmond Tutu or Pete Seeger. The stress and intensity and anger of those English kids was released through great and defiant bands who dominated culture, radio and music television. ![]() There was an echo in Northern Ireland - Stiff Little Fingers played United Ireland shows in Belfast - and, throughout all of this, the rioting stopped. Thousands - hundreds of thousands - gathered on consecutive weekends in the field, called to arms by the artists. ![]() In London in the late ’70s, Rock Against Racism shows in Hyde Park happened as a result of the Brixton riots, where black youths had been terrorized by local police. Anyone who grew up in the ’80s can’t help but remember the clarion call of those punk bands, and how music was central to our activity, our organization, our awareness. I was reminded of these events last week after watching London burn. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. I could hear the blast and smell the fire. Months later, the factory was bombed by The Squamish Five. Hours later, I was back in my parents’ basement with my friends, listening to The Jam’s A Bomb in Wardour Street, eating popcorn and watching SCTV. Then the cops showed up and we all went home. Our voices got louder and the skins grew angrier. Someone started singing a song - Cruise Missile by either Truth and Rights or Messenjah or Dub Rifles - and we sang as a group, our voices rising across the suburban abyss. There were skinheads, artists and gay activists there, and it was probably the first time I’d ever been in the midst of so many counterculturalists. My dad bought it for me: a birthday gift after a trip to a cool motorcycle store in Montreal.We lined up in a procession and walked the Litton parking lot, waving signs, hollering slogans, wagging fists. It was black and greasy, the elbows worn through. Andrew was there that day, marching and getting ready for the riot. It might have come from Andrew Cash, now the federal MP for Davenport, but, in 1982, the singer for L’Étranger, a trenchant and political band. On the streets, in the clubs and in the record stores where the second wave of Toronto New Wave and punk musicians used to hang out - the Record Peddler, Beverly Tavern, Nerve magazine, This Ain’t the Rosedale Library, Kensington Market - someone started the call. Litton Systems were building the guidance programs for cruise missiles in a factory within spitting distance of my home. It was happening in my backyard: Etobicoke, Ont. Activate your Online Access Now Article content ![]() If you are a Home delivery print subscriber, unlimited online access is included in your subscription.
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