Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.
by Viv Albertine
In 1976, Viv Albertine was a twenty-two-year-old Brit punk looking to shock and awe the general populace: “I walk around in little girls’ party dresses, hems slashed and ragged, armholes torn open to make them bigger, the waistline up under my chest. . . . Pippi Longstocking meets Barbarella meets juvenile delinquent. Men look at me and they are confused, they don’t know whether they want to fuck me or kill me. This sartorial ensemble really messes with their heads. Good.”
A year earlier she had been just another halfway-disaffected girl in art school dreaming of a way out of an aimless, circumscribed existence, when a friend invited her to see a brand-new group called the Sex Pistols. The singer was a slouching revelation in street clothes, a “twisting and yowling” refusal of all the predictable looks,
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