HMS Belfast, the retired battleship moored on the Thames, played host to rather unmilitary evening on 26th July 1980. An almost unknown band called Spandau Ballet was on-board, rattling through their first gig and drawing attention to the first youth movement to foment on London's streets since punk rock.
Variously known as the 'Blitz Kids', 'The New Romantics' and 'The Cult With No Name', this clutch of sprayed and painted youngsters spent their days in the bedrooms of central London squats and their nights in achingly hip clubs like 'Blitz' and the 'Scala Cinema'. Amongst their number you'd have found Steve Strange, Boy George, Leigh Bowery, Kirk Brandon and five handsome style addicts: Gary Kemp, his brother Martin, John Keeble, Steve Norman and Tony Hadley - the members of Spandau Ballet.
Variously known as the 'Blitz Kids', 'The New Romantics' and 'The Cult With No Name', this clutch of sprayed and painted youngsters spent their days in the bedrooms of central London squats and their nights in achingly hip clubs like 'Blitz' and the 'Scala Cinema'. Amongst their number you'd have found Steve Strange, Boy George, Leigh Bowery, Kirk Brandon and five handsome style addicts: Gary Kemp, his brother Martin, John Keeble, Steve Norman and Tony Hadley - the members of Spandau Ballet.
In their kilts, frilly blouses and headbands, the band were soon attracting equal mockery from the 'straights' (for looking too weird) and the punk stragglers (for not being punks). Undeterred, they proudly announced they were unlike other groups, weren't particularly interested in traditional gigging and keen to produce incredibly pretentious poetry and manifestos, mostly written by the journalist Robert Elms.
When punk bands went mainstream (The Clash signing to CBS, for instance), it caused enormous philosophical consternation - street credibility being an essential new wave attribute. However, when Spandau Ballet broke big, they were simply realising their dream of life as a glamorous adventure. Indeed, some time before their enormous success, they had already played to the moneyed, yachting set down in St. Tropez.
Self-confessed Bowie disciples, Spandau Ballet understood that musicians don't have to be social warriors. Instead, they can be a conduit to an enhanced existence for the fans who will never have the experience. Manual workers, office clerks, production-line operators don't necessarily want political tub-thumping from their musical entertainment; often bands are loved because they symbolise escapism, distant revelry and impossible romance. This is pop music as a James Bond film and for Spandau Ballet it proved every bit as popular.
Perhaps mercifully, the kilts didn't last. As Boy George made New Romantic costume his trademark, Spandau Ballet migrated to the sharpest zoot suits and immaculate shirts in their mission to conquer the world. Actually (and this is often forgotten), the band almost didn't make it. After 'To Cut A Long Story Short' took its buzzing synths and winding guitars into the top ten, Spandau Ballet suffered a fallow period only rectified by the 'Instinction' single from their second LP. But once they'd gained that foothold, there was no stopping them. By the time the ubiquitous 'True' topped charts in two dozen countries, they really did represent the internationally spectacular lifestyle to which they'd aspired in those tatty booths of Blitz.
21st century superstars (Olly Murs, One Direction, The Wanted) are often praised for being regular kids with heaps of 'next-door' appeal. In their eighties heyday, this would have been an anathema to Spandau Ballet. Like the Rat-Pack before them, their lives were a swirl of jet planes, five star hotels, casinos, beaches and tailors - because, in the era in which they thrived, that's what pop stars were for. For a while, it was re-assuring to know that a fistful of young men, with great hair and fierce ambition, could orbit the workaday world on a comet of hedonism and limelight. Maybe this should have made us bitter and envious, but instead it made us excited.
What we couldn't and didn't realise, was that Spandau Ballet (and to an extent, Duran Duran) were the last in a line initiated by T-Rex, which travelled through Roxy Music and terminated somewhere around 1990. For fifteen years, we insisted our pop bands lived beyond our means, showering us with magic from their satellites of success via their records. They were the protagonists in our fantasies of fame, fortune and fabulousness and they played the part admirably well.
Fickle to the last, we eventually changed our minds and ran back to the unshaven, scuffed-up oiks originally offered by the punks. Exit Spandau Ballet, enter Blur, Nirvana and Oasis. But once, our pop stars gleamed so brightly they dazzled us - and Spandau Ballet gleamed with the best of them.
When punk bands went mainstream (The Clash signing to CBS, for instance), it caused enormous philosophical consternation - street credibility being an essential new wave attribute. However, when Spandau Ballet broke big, they were simply realising their dream of life as a glamorous adventure. Indeed, some time before their enormous success, they had already played to the moneyed, yachting set down in St. Tropez.
Self-confessed Bowie disciples, Spandau Ballet understood that musicians don't have to be social warriors. Instead, they can be a conduit to an enhanced existence for the fans who will never have the experience. Manual workers, office clerks, production-line operators don't necessarily want political tub-thumping from their musical entertainment; often bands are loved because they symbolise escapism, distant revelry and impossible romance. This is pop music as a James Bond film and for Spandau Ballet it proved every bit as popular.
Perhaps mercifully, the kilts didn't last. As Boy George made New Romantic costume his trademark, Spandau Ballet migrated to the sharpest zoot suits and immaculate shirts in their mission to conquer the world. Actually (and this is often forgotten), the band almost didn't make it. After 'To Cut A Long Story Short' took its buzzing synths and winding guitars into the top ten, Spandau Ballet suffered a fallow period only rectified by the 'Instinction' single from their second LP. But once they'd gained that foothold, there was no stopping them. By the time the ubiquitous 'True' topped charts in two dozen countries, they really did represent the internationally spectacular lifestyle to which they'd aspired in those tatty booths of Blitz.
21st century superstars (Olly Murs, One Direction, The Wanted) are often praised for being regular kids with heaps of 'next-door' appeal. In their eighties heyday, this would have been an anathema to Spandau Ballet. Like the Rat-Pack before them, their lives were a swirl of jet planes, five star hotels, casinos, beaches and tailors - because, in the era in which they thrived, that's what pop stars were for. For a while, it was re-assuring to know that a fistful of young men, with great hair and fierce ambition, could orbit the workaday world on a comet of hedonism and limelight. Maybe this should have made us bitter and envious, but instead it made us excited.
What we couldn't and didn't realise, was that Spandau Ballet (and to an extent, Duran Duran) were the last in a line initiated by T-Rex, which travelled through Roxy Music and terminated somewhere around 1990. For fifteen years, we insisted our pop bands lived beyond our means, showering us with magic from their satellites of success via their records. They were the protagonists in our fantasies of fame, fortune and fabulousness and they played the part admirably well.
Fickle to the last, we eventually changed our minds and ran back to the unshaven, scuffed-up oiks originally offered by the punks. Exit Spandau Ballet, enter Blur, Nirvana and Oasis. But once, our pop stars gleamed so brightly they dazzled us - and Spandau Ballet gleamed with the best of them.
