Cock Sparrer, an East End London street-punk institution, with a core quartet of members who’ve been together since 1972, have never been more in demand than they are right now. According to their imposing, stentorian lead vocalist Colin McFaull, they have enjoyed a career in reverse. “Maybe bands in future will follow our model,” he says, “shun big record deals to follow their own path; leave big gaps every few years… Not make any money out of it.”
In 1977, Cock Sparrer’s faces (in the eyes of a music industry and press already blind-sided by a spike-topped, McLarenmarketed, hippie-averse new order) simply didn’t fit. They looked like they’d just walked off the terraces. They were actually working class. Their music a shade too brutal, their hair a couple of grades too cropped, Cock Sparrer were just too punk.
Maybe, because they’d already been hard at it for five years and had honed their brand of sonic aggravation closer to the bone than anyone else (until Sparrer-indebted Oi! arrived on the fringes of the mainstream in ’81), they were simply too far ahead of the game.
So while they couldn’t get arrested (actually, poor analogy, they very much could get arrested) in 1977, by 1982 they’d been embraced as underground elder statesmen by a never-more-receptive domestic punk scene. By the early 90s they were being held up as living-legend role models by such leading lights of the US crossover hardcore scene as The Dropkick Murphys and Rancid.
This story is from the July 2024 edition of Classic Rock.
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This story is from the July 2024 edition of Classic Rock.
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