The Style Council: The State of the Nation's dress by Paul Weller
Lesley White, The Face, April 1983
"I SUPPOSE PEOPLE find it difficult to penetrate me," offers the pale young man in the white mac, "they're not sure whether I'm really deep or there's nothing there. I dunno... I don't sit around trying to analyse myself!" Most people his age wouldn't share this reluctance to describe Paul Weller, whether or not they'd met him or even listened to his songs. His reputation goes before, or rather instead of him, making him someone you just know about, have an opinion on.
Reluctant hero to a generation of sensitive suburban youth, Weller never demonstrated the obvious charisma of other teen idols. Articulate but never eloquent, he could almost have been any working class Woking boy, a quality that made him seem totally authentic, easy to both idealise and identify with. There is something very convincing about the man, an intensity that demands respect. To his small circle of friends he is, simply, "the main man"; to the fanatically loyal Jam fans Weller walks on water. Quite a few people, however, wish he'd drown.
Always depicted as unsmiling, often accused of rigid dogmatism, the prospect of meeting this "spokesman for a generation" and "angry young man" (clichés breed clichés) was daunting. Moreover the challenge of not simply augmenting the dusty pile of "exclusive" interviews that all end up saying the same thing (being Paul Weller is a worthy but serious business) made wild invention an attractive proposition. Happily, it didn't come to that.
With one mythically successful chapter of his story completed and a fresh one begun with The Style Council, there was plenty of brand new ground and Weller covered it optimistically and light hearted. Even when I interrupted his work at Polydor studios two days later to nervously report a faulty tape recorder and ask him to repeat the ordeal, he acquiesced, laughing. Perhaps I caught him on a good day (but twice?), perhaps the easy self-irony is newly learnt... either way, to set the record straight, his humor was never in doubt.
The video for 'Speak Like A Child', the Style Council's debut single, proves the point. It has Weller and a group of friends attired in ludicrous Sixties gear romping through the Malvern Hills in an open-top bus: very Cliff circa '65 and very silly. At one point Weller recomposes that well known earnest expression... and the real Paul, watching beside me, laughs out loud at his own pathos.
That well documented concern with words like honesty and dignity still informs much of what he says but the austere puritanism I'd anticipated turned up as a relaxed confidence, the pragmatism of one who knows what he's about. Time, success and money have bought Paul Weller the chance to project those abstract demands for integrity onto some tangible concerns. He took that chance though it might have been easier not to and now it remains to be seen if he can deliver the promised goods: a viable record label, a successful new group, a thriving publishing company.
AT PRESENT THE Style Council comprises only a nucleus of Weller and former Dexy's/Bureau organist Mick Talbot — "I like it that way, there are less people to please" but a female vocalist will join them if the right one appears. The group's precipitous formation is easily explained ("I love being in the studio so much I just couldn't wait") but the name seems a trifle presumptuous if you don't know its origin: "it's a bit of a joke... I think it's funny and great for editorials they'll be able to get some good puns out of it!" Of course, that's not the whole story. "People think of me as being anti-fashion, which is true to some extent," Weller continues, "but style is different and very important. It's not transient but classic and ageless and more than just clothes, it's about lifestyle."
It has to be said that Paul Weller is very stylish... in a subdued, Sixties kind of way. He looks sharp, pays attention to detail, gets his suits made at a conventional tailors, buys Italian jumpers from C&A, gets his hair cut by someone who knows the look. He gets it right. And his own record company, Respond, he's determined will be an extension of this carefully groomed identity, in the best modernist tradition.
"If you're going to do something seriously," he reasons, "that's all the more reason for doing it with style. Respond will have a classic style not just in the music but in its sleeves, photos, ads... all the little things that I think matter, even if people don't like it or notice the care that's gone into it. I love Art Deco architecture, French and Italian style, symmetry and sparseness, things that are made to last, not trends or tacky, American-influenced, disposable pop which I find neither funny nor constructive. I'll personally check everything put out by Respond, even if it becomes really massive which I hope it does because we won't be just promoting a product, more an idea. I'd still have to be in control because I couldn't trust anyone to know exactly what I want."
What Weller wants, in fact, is something not dissimilar to the Motown set-up: a tight-knit stable of mutually servicing writers and performers, a distinctive sound and the kind of reputation that means "eventually people will buy a Respond record whoever the artist, because they'll know they're getting quality". Berry Gordy's charm classes might be omitted but the emphasis on songs (and 45s rather than albums) is constantly reiterated. "They don't have to be political to say something, though. All my favourite songs are love songs, written by people like Smokey Robinson. But our songs will definitely come first, before the artist's ego."
Some have criticised Weller for re-signing The Style Council to a major label. He replies that he needed the money (a reported £250,000) for Respond on which he's already gambled something like fifty thousand pounds. It's a risk but he knew that when he withdrew the label from Polydor last year, realising "they weren't doing anything with it... it was just my present for being a good boy and selling them records". Now the lucre comes from his pocket and not their coffers; and Respond pay their acts wages not advances.
So far, though, the payroll must still be manageable as there are only two signings: Tracie is the girl who answered Weller's request for demos from young girl singers and — as a result of looking right (17 and dead normal) and having the desired influences (musical not social) — her first single appears a week after The Style Council's. The first real house product, it was produced by Weller and penned by his second signing The Questions who release their record, 'The Price You Pay', on April 1. Sometime FACE contributor Vaughan Toulouse's new group The Main-T-Possee, look set to sign up any day now.
Riot Stories, Weller's publishing company, was launched with identical aspirations to quality and distinction. Its small catalogue directly reflects a personal taste ("the kind of books I'd like to read") and so far boasts a slim volume on The Small Faces and an anthology of young Newcastle poet Aidan Cant's work. A slow mover this last, so far they're only sold ten copies. "The price of art, I guess." Soon to appear are Move On Up by Brian Hogg, investigating the influence of black music in this country since the Fifties, and a collection of poetry by unemployed kids in the north. All the books are available by mail order only to bypass distribution problems. Much as he enthuses about popularising poetry and "snatching art back from the middle classes", the Riot Stories operation owes a lot to Weller's rather romantic, if unabashed "love of the English language".
The delicate business of juggling viability, principles and quality into some workable formula, if this is not mere dilettantism, presents yet another problem. "Expect nothing and I'll give as much as possible in return," Paul Weller said recently; unfortunately people are expecting rather a lot.
AT TWENTY-FOUR Paul Weller has seen his youthful heroes dissipate in an excess of drugs and capitulation. He reflects on those heady, iconoclastic days with a mixture of scepticism and regret: "I really believed in the punk thing as an alternative culture for young people — it was a fantastic thing that turned into crap. But then, a lot of people I talk to now who used to go to all those early gigs say they only did it for a laugh so perhaps I got the wrong end of the stick. I don't mind though, at least it gave me some principles to base myself on." Surprisingly, Weller says he's less cynical these days but more realistic about the political limitations of his chosen medium.
"No one cares about pop music, the days when it was on everybody's mind passed away with the Sixties. Maggie Thatcher doesn't care about fucking pop music, it's no threat at all. It's just a commodity like baked beans... bottled fun. If it is to have any effect, to direct its audience and make a dent on people's consciousness, it's somehow got to be elevated onto a higher cultural level and be taken as seriously as the other arts."
Lofty thoughts from one normally associated with that mysterious remnant of '77 and joke of '83 'the street'. But Weller rejects the contradiction.
"If being 'street' means living in a squat or being on the dole then I don't know anything about it. I've never done either of those things. To me it just means being honest and not trying to create myths out of what's not there. Obviously the rock myth's giving people something they need, perhaps the same thing they get from reading The Sun. The Jam were often considered a bit drab but that's a choice people have to make. You can have all that ABC gold lame and videos made in Barbados if you like but you've got to realise it's a con. Honesty doesn't come with frills. It always amazes me just how precious all those pop bands are... Duran Duran and Bucks Fizz. They're doing just the same as Max Bygraves and that's not my bag either. At the other end of the spectrum, you've got all those 'we're really living out on the edge, man' groups. All that 'wasted' crap! But I think they're real squares; it's just the same old boring rebel postures, new bands that've had the Seventies to learn from and have learnt fuck all. Like that band U2, I can't stand them and their 'this guitar's an extension of my body' pose, I think it's funny but the depressing thing is they're serious about it. Echo and The Bunnymen too... so predictable."
Weller laughs openly about all the two-hit acts who crumble under the pressures of stardom ("another lot I want to do a spoof on") before going on to commend Shalamar, Fun Boy Three and Culture Club, the latter despite their obvious fashionability. "George is underrated as a soul singer and 'Do You Really Want To Hurt Me' was a classic single." That word again...
Otherwise he listens to American dance music, Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones, the inevitable Motown and Stax: all strong influences on his new work. As Weller stirs his cappucino and names a few northern soul favourites, he looks every inch the latter day mod. A jukebox should be playing Dobie Gray's 'Out On The Floor'.
"Yeah, I am supposed to be the leader of all that," he smiles apologetically, "which is a bit of a joke but... I feel awkward talking about it. It's very personal, a bit like a religion. I'm not worried about getting other people involved in it. All that 'let's have a fight on Brighton beach and pretend it's 1963' revivalism is rubbish. I still think of myself as a modernist I have to try and elevate it! but people have missed the point. The true mod legacy is all those soul boys and girls walking down the high streets, going to see the American soul bands that come over. Like that Gap Band gig the other week; the band was OK but I enjoyed the audience much more the enthusiasm they generate takes over from the music. Anything that can bring out emotion like that when we spend most of our time trying to suppress it transcends politics!"
IF THE NOTION of 'the kids' seems rather dated today, Weller's chauvinism about youth remains undiminished. He enquires about your age as a matter of course and meets the modern theory that 'teenage' is merely a consumer category with a scornful laugh.
To him it's a positive inspiration, the idea behind the Style Council's single: "A lot of people I meet of my own age have already developed a real dislike for teenagers; it's easy to fall into the trap of looking down on them. The song's about someone my age who still appreciates teenagers, how they look and act. It's not just about that though," he grins, "it's also taking the piss out of myself a bit. There's one line that ends 'at least there's no lecture...' because people say I'm self-righteous and always lecturing them."
The nearest I get to a lecture from Paul Weller is: "the trouble with you journalists is all those corrupting music biz lunches!". To quiz him on the State of the Nation is to elicit a general cynicism that only lifts at the mention of CND for whose May 7 rally he's agreed to perform.
Why?
"I'd always agreed with their aims but never really considered getting involved. I thought all the people would be hippy types with cropped hair and dungarees but then we played at the 1981 rally and I was so impressed with the support and enthusiasm... especially in Youth CND. Of all the political causes it's the only one people can actually win and change something. The whole issue has shown our so-called democracy up for what it is; they bring Cruise and Trident into the country without even a public referendum."
The end of the working day will probably find Paul Weller tucked up in bed with a good book: Orwell, Shelley and, at present, a tome on Trotsky's concept of Permanent Revolution. His zeal for knowledge is very much that of one who's making up for hating school. Time off means writing songs, "planning strategies", watching Coronation Street in his "very ordinary" Pimlico flat. He likes to dance but hates the Scene; doesn't mind being in the media eye but can't bear people to think they've got him sewn up. Dead normal, really.
He's a teetotaler, a workaholic, a traditionalist, a fan of Italy, ET and his manager dad; a perfectionist, a chain-smoker, a Labour voter and suspicious of anything he thinks might be out to con the public... like modern art. As we part in Soho he recounts with relish how he was in the Tate one day, leaning on what he thought was a waste-paper bin when a curator ticked him off for touching the exhibits.
It left an impression. "The best thing about that place," comes his parting shot, "is the slippery floor... if it belonged to me I'd turn it into a disco."
© Lesley White, 1983