Billy Childish

Discovered this, trawling through old blog posts for Tangents.

Decided not to run with the Tangents stuff as it would upset too many folk (no, don't ask), thought I'd run with this instead, to celebrate the fact Billy's record label Damaged Goods sent me a fair old parcel this morning - three Holly Golightly's and a Singing Loins, all of whom I love.

Only thing is, I'm not quite what it's for. It could be a) an early draft of the Plan B Christmas 2007 cover story I wrote on the man, b) a review of that excellent DVD documentary which came out a few years back, or c) none of the above. I have no idea.

Billy Childish
Words: Everett True
There’s more to Billy than simple three-chord thrash.
   “I don’t want to hide behind volume and monitors,” the Chatham (South London) poet has said. “I want to close the 15 feet between us and the audience and have true communication.”
   He’s an eccentric, suffered terrible abuse and bullying as a child, has painted over 2,000 paintings, penned 30 volumes of poetry, written two novels and continues to fascinate mainstream artists with aspirations towards credibility such as Jack White, Kurt Cobain and – well, most of the Seattle/Olympia lot, actually. He is bloody-minded: follows his own path of anti-establishmentarianism (art, music) through both Stuckism and his refusal to self-promote. His writing, especially for someone self-proclaimed dyslexic, is brilliant – incisive, cuts away the bullshit, hits the blooded nail. The music he plays is at the core of much I enjoy – raw garage rock (in the old sense), stripped right down and given plenty of attitude and melody (over 100 independent records).
   He’s parochial, lived in the same part of Medway forever, shaves with a cut-throat razor, has a fascination with the two world wars, doesn’t tolerate fools, doesn’t quite see why his former lover, prominent bratty Brit artist Tracey Emin should take credit for ideas that he gestated and is brutally frank, sometimes disturbingly so. He was expelled from St Martins School of Art, been turned down by Goldsmith’s Art College (home to Blur, Damien Hirst and Malcolm McLaren) on two separate occasions, and continues to carve his own path out of nothing.
   His music – based round the direct approach of Sixties bands such as The Creation and The Kinks – favours analogue over synthetic every time, antique instruments, onstage uniform and attitude. Bands such as Pop Rivets, The Milkshakes, Thee Mighty Caesers, Thee Headcoatees and The Buff Medways have garnered any amount of plaudits. Critics who say anyone could do what he does are missing the point: not only are his woodcuts evocative of Van Gogh (he once staged an exhibition of his own work in tribute to the Dutch artist) but no, no one could do what he does, even with those three chords. For the appeal of Billy Childish lies in his personality, his self-created aura – and no one else possesses that.
   “I do not like whitewall galleries, large rock venues or offstage mixing,” Childish says. “I do not read newspapers or go to music concerts.” How can you not admire that?