Out of time

IN ONE of those cruelly ironic curveballs that the gods of pop like to pitch now and again, the star who sang on Stayin' Alive has died before his time, while the star who played guitar on a song about wanting to die before growing old is currently in a living hell, enduring trial by media for looking at pictures of children who aren't old enough.

Add the dramas of Pete Townshend and Maurice Gibb to the untimely demise of Joe Strummer, T-Rex bongo savant Mickey Finn, and the recent termination of Gary Glitter's holiday in Cambodia (they'll take Pol Pot over Paul Gadd anytime), and it quickly becomes clear that these are dark days for veteran musicians.

More, I'd say it represents an absolute apocalypse for fans of flamboyance in pop. The Clash frontman with his clothes covered in crudely stencilled slogans; Mickey Finn's feather boas and throat- slash cheekbones; Maurice Gibb's gleaming white suit and teeth; Gary Glitter, who spent decades looking like a genetic splice between Elvis and a Cyberman - we may never see their like again. And that, as Gibb once sang, is a tragedy.

When did music get so grey? And more to the point, why? Little wonder that Top Of The Pops is in terminal decline if there's nothing on it which will annoy parents. I realise that there is little more dull than someone droning on about how great pop used to be, but in the case of TOTP, quite apart from what the music was like, it's no exaggeration to say that as recently as 15 years ago it was inhabited by sexually-ambiguous space apes from Planet Bizarre, while those who appear on it these days are usually so earthbound you could grow tatties in their ears. Whither Cameo with their bulging codpieces? Whither Morrissey with his flailing gladioli? Where have you gone Haysi Fantayzee? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Case in point: my brother David recently went to a fancy dress party as Liam Gallagher, which is rather like attending a KKK meeting while disguised as Martin Luther King Jr. There's nothing 'fancy' about the way Liam Gallagher dresses. But which other contemporary star could David have gone as? Richard Ashcroft? Chris Martin? David Gray? Compared to those three, His Mad Ferretness looks like a regency dandy.

Speaking of which, a confession: when I was in primary five, an aunt bought me some deep purple Adam Ant nail polish, which I promptly wore to school in the misguided belief that ridicule was nothing to be scared of. This was, of course, prompted by the same impulse that led to team legwarmers with my Clarks Commandoes for a look that can only be described as Leroy From Fame meets Tucker Jenkins behind the bikesheds for a quick fag and some star-jumps.

Over the years, I have suffered many such sartorial humiliations in emulation of my musical heroes. There was the goth phase, a million light years less cool than today's hip-hoppified goth look, which involved black jeans so tight they could barely be unzipped to go to the toilet, potentially lethal when combined with underage drinking ((pounds) 3 for three litres of Blacksmith Cider, a brew that apparently got its name because the next day you felt as if an anvil had landed on your head in the night).

In complete contrast, there was my baggy phase. Joe Bloggs jeans, or whatever variations on these could be found in the depths of Alloa market, were the order of the day. Of course, the damp urban landscape of Scotland is not the ideal environment for the baggy look, and if you weren't careful your 21-inch bottoms could quickly become fringed with puddle-muck and dog dirt. Towards the end of 1990, the Stone Roses began wearing waders, which might have been more appropriate, but sadly my job cleaning trays in the bakery didn't stretch to buying rubber goods. Not that kind anyway, hur- hur.

My point is that I don't regret any of those fashion faux pas. What is the point of being a teenager if not so that, years later, your mum can embarrass you in front of girls by getting the photographs out? And it's a crying shame that today's pop stars seem so reluctant to give the lead to our gullible youth. Even Adam Ant looks like Bob Hoskins these days. Did I put up with the taunting and wedgies for such betrayal?

So let's raise of glass of pink champagne to Joe Strummer, Maurice Gibb, Mickey Finn, and goddammit, even horrible old Gary Glitter, for daring to make pop shine. They may have been eclipsed by the legions of the drab, but they'll live on in the hearts of anyone who remembers when real men wore sequins. Watch out, Dave from Slade; this might not be your yearu Email Peter at [email protected]

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