Keith Harrison: Who's Next for the chop after one last Blast Off?
There was a time when you knew where you stood. Mods wore parkas or Harringtons. Teds cruised about in brothel-creepers and Nebs had greasy hair, denim and Whitesnake patches.
Things couldn't be clearer.
They even gave off scents; skinheads smelt of pubs, Wormwood Scrubs and too many right-wing meetings.
Trendies smelt of Drakkar Noir.
Nebs just smelled. Everyone knew that.
And it worked. You could see/sniff someone across the smoky, UV light of your local bop and know instantly a bit about that person, whether they liked the same music as you – or whether they would kick your head in for mentioning a love of Michael Jackson.
Obviously, the Jacko fans were never the most violent, being lovers not fighters and all.
That didn't stop everyone else from kicking off. In the late 1970s the Mods (well, ska revivalists) fought the Punks while the Skins fought the Teds (yes, they still existed – I blame Grease).
Ahh, the good old days.
Then, one day everything changed. February 12, 1982, to be exact.
Someone at naff old gents outfitters Hepworth had a bright idea for a fresh new image and – without any warning – the first Next stores opened. Suddenly, crew cuts, spikes, long hair, leather jackets and Doctor Martens boots were outlawed by virtually every after-hours venue in the land.
One giant Wham! and everywhere was Club Tropicana.
Places wanted 'smart, casual' 'clean' people through their doors, more interested in copping off with the nearest big-haired bimbo in the corner than worrying about Thatcher's Britain outside.
In short, everything got bland. Next made a fortune.
'Smart casual' was now the mantra on the basis that people in pastel jumpers and slacks listening to ABC?would be less likely to kick off than someone looking like Mad Max thrashing around to Motörhead.
Any dangerous, tanked-up knucklehead could get in anywhere . . . as long as he had the right footwear on:
"Step right in Adolf, lovely to see you.
"Not you Jesus – NO?SANDALS!"
Disastrously, this dastardly plan worked and it's stayed that way ever since, largely.
Which is why we should mourn the news this week that Blast Off!, the world's second-most popular club night, is to end in March at Wolverhampton Civic Hall.
For 18 years, it's been a throwback to the glory of dance hall days, reminiscent of all-nighters at Wigan Casino, with its giant sound rig and lighting system.
When it opened in 1996 it cost a fiver to get in – and it still does now. And while there are some dress code restrictions (no football shirts, for obvious reasons round here) people are generally free to wear what they want.
Because it's not about what you wear, it's one of those rare nights that celebrates good music. And, while I accept that's a question of taste, it's more than just the latest auto-tuned pap cranked out by Radio 1.
On a wider scale, it's yet another blow for the city's nightlife. But there is a chance it can be saved if enough people turn up. Even though New Year's Eve was a 2,000-plus sell-out, last week the number was just half that. Now, I'd say that's still a good turnout for January, but promoter Dave Travis wants his long-time labour of love to go out on a high.
Tens of thousands of people visited the Blast Off! web page in the hours after the axe was announced and hundreds of others urged the promoter to have a rethink.
Online petitions have been launched and one reveller summed it up when he said:?"I met my wife there. I've told my kids about it and I wanted them to go too – preferably taking me with them. We've got to do all we can to keep this going – it's part of our heritage."
Smells like team spirit to me.
The Express & Star has launched a Save Blast Off campaign:
Send us your pictures of Blast Off! nights out
