Something new has got to happen. There’s got to be more to it than this, someplace else to go, something happening, and I really hope that ours can be the band to do it.
Spencer Dryden, (Jefferson Airplane)
It is becoming harder for some of us to remember our own past. Somewhat tired and cynical, many of us have ceased trying. If we still believe that ‘there’s got to be more to it than this’ we no longer believe that there is anywhere else to go, or that ‘something new has got to happen’. Still less do we believe that it matters very much what a particular band does in terms of our own struggles. People who were about ten in 1969, are now writing doctoral theses on the ‘counter-cultural’ movements of the 1960s, and convincing us that we had it all wrong. We were, they say, only a post-war population bulge, in an age of affluence. Yet it was all real we scream — just as the Vietnam war was real. When I was first thinking about this short piece, I went back to a letter written to Rolling Stone on Janis Joplin. At the time I thought it deeply sad and deeply moving:
When Janis attended her high school reunion, I and millions of others cheered her on and shared the sweetness of her triumphal visit to the site of adolescent agony. She represented me, who didn’t go to the Senior Prom, and was never elected to anything … All the outcasts who didn’t fit into the closed society that is the American high school knew she was one of us.
Her beauty and creativity said ‘no’ to all those teachers who had ignored us, all those football heroes who wouldn’t date us, all those cheerleaders who seemed to own the world. Well, the teachers are retired, wrinkled, old people now, and the footballers are beginning to get thin hair and paunches, and their cheerleader wives, shapeless and irritable, are screaming at their kids …
And Janis was a comet, a life-force, a light in our darkening world, a beautiful person, and She Was Ours.
Pamela Kane, Chicago.
Of course, Janis was none of these things, and ‘Jack’ of Toronto said it in the same issue: ‘Man, in the end who is really smarter — Elvis Presley and Tom Jones, or hard dopers like Jimi and Brian and Janis?’ The ‘Pamela’ letter reads very strangely now to some. I showed it to a friend who remarked only: ‘a little high-flown, don’t you think?’ I still find it deeply sad and deeply moving. But that sadness is now trebled. At the time I was not sorry for ‘Pamela’ but only for Janis. At the time I knew nothing about the structure of the popular music industries upon which so much of our passion depended. This is an unashamedly academic article on the music of resistance and of revolt. Did we all, in fact, have it wrong?
More important perhaps, are the questions, why such an enormous silence has fallen upon the popular memory of a music which was an integral part of the culture of an entire generation, and why has there been so little academic research into it? Even more important is the significantly smaller degree of thought which has gone into ‘culture’ as a whole here in Australia. Most university courses which present ‘Australian History’ consider cricket, larrikinism or ‘bush’ writing; the ‘Australian Identity’ is still a central issue. Although the idea is not now quite as Anglo-Saxon, white and male, as it used to be, it still concentrates too much on essentially male pursuits like sport, drinking or the significance of the First World War for soldiers. Australian work on culture as in Spearritt and Walker’s Australian Popular Culture tends to be descriptive, and few try to place questions of culture in a broadly political and ideological perspective.
Those who have written on popular music as part of Australian culture have done good work on jazz, as in Bissett’s Black Roots, White Flowers, but there is still no serious analysis of rock and roll. Barnes, Dyer and Facer’s Top Forty Research, 1956-77 (with supplements) enables one to track the success of the 4,157 records in the Australian charts over the period. It is a laudable beginning but concentrated on the air-play lists of radio 2UE and ignoring the whole incredibly complicated question of how chart standings are arrived at in the first place. If one wants historical gossip, Noel Macgrath’s Australian Encyclopaedia of Rock gives short biographies of Australian groups from the beginning, and at least keeps the memory of Pee Wee Wilson and the Delltones, or Johnny Devlin and the Devils, or the Masters’ Apprentices, alive. If one wants to know which half of the Rondells became Daddy Cool this kind of source can be invaluable. In the same way Rogers’ and O’Brien’s Rock and Roll Australia: The Australian Pop Scene 1954-64, can tell us that Devlin married the woman who started his fan club. Glenn A. Baker’s The Beatles Down Under: The 1964 Australian and New Zealand Tour is full of pretty pictures presented in scrap-book style, but without much analysis of the importance of the ‘Beatlemania’ that it is about. A recent publication from Melbourne, Beilby and Roberts’ Australian Music, has a few short articles, like Susan Moore’s ‘Marketing Black Vinyl’, or Keeley’s ‘Music and the New Technology’ which provide more analysis, but the book as a whole is a disappointment. There is also the gossip of something like Ken Taylor’s Rock Generation, an ‘exposure of the tawdry, tough, world of the pop idols. Only now can the truth be told’.
Apart from this kind of work our collective amnesia on the history of our own culture is complete. I remember watching one of the Billy Jack movies on television recently and finding it terrifying, as anyone should who has ever been confronted by the mechanics of massed police action or realised how far politics, grand or small, can be corrupt. Responses the next day from people either older or younger than me were that it was embarrassingly silly, foolishly idealistic and overly melodramatic. O tempora, O mores! Part of the reason for this is, of course, our parallel amnesia over the Vietnam years in general, and it is significant that Redgum’s ‘Nineteen’ should emerge at a time when academic writing on ‘popular music’ and ‘popular culture’ has become ‘respectable’. At the same time, much writing on popular culture has been characterised, quite rightly, as a ‘field distinctive for its bottomless mediocrity’,4] and is dry, trivial, and elitist in the extreme. Frank Sinatra’s notorious comment that ‘Rock and roll is phony and false and it’s sung, written and played for the most part by cretinous goons’ still operates in the minds of people who find ‘popularity’ synonymous with ‘bad’. The experience of music for an entire generation as a real part of their lives is hardly considered by anybody.
Many writers argue, following Adorno and Frankfurt School Marxism, that ‘popular culture’ is a passive consumerism, a betrayal of ‘real’ Art and its revolutionary possibilities. Others, in a different political tradition but a similarly elitist vein, argue that popular culture reinforces the existing values of society. Others argue that since popular music is based on the production, distribution and sale of commodities (records) it should be analysed as a production of cultural commodities, equivalent to soap, margarine, or cars. These writers rightly realise that popular culture is a system of cultural production which involves producers, consumers, performers, audiences and mediating institutions like the rock press or radio stations, but most concentrate on only a very small part of this enormous and complex system. Significant work has been done, like Solid Gold, or Star-Making Machinery, in the analysis of the industrial structure of popular music. Now the point has been made, it seems pointless to labour it.
There are, however, a couple of exceptions to this general neglect of the experience of popular music, and these are the English sociologist of music, Simon Frith, and the work of the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies. Simon Frith is acutely aware of popular music as a system of cultural production, and is also interested in the effects of the ‘system’ on the product and the consumer. He notes, as do some others, that periods of creative expansion in the forms and content of popular music occur when the major producers of musical products are less dominant. In 1973 when creativity was low, only four companies controlled 75% of the market. Frith places the relationships between market structure, domination by ‘majors’ and the nature of the product in a more radical perspective. He sees market control by majors leading to the creation of ‘pop’ as entertainment, to increasing rigidity in the formulae within which music is written and produced, and to the increasing passivity of audiences as consumers. The radical possibilities of rock music as something to form new ‘symbolic communities’ or to create new ideologies, has now, apart from a brief burst of creative energy coming from the punk movement, been thoroughly lost.
The overall struggle to control the use of rock has for the moment been lost to the entertainment industry. Whatever its radical cultural possibilities in the 1960s, rock has become in the 1970s a culture of predictable market taste … music business as usual.
The personal bias in this judgement is obvious. Frith limits the radical periods of rock music to a brief period from 1967-1971 and 1977. In the intervening period ‘rock’ turns into ‘pop’ and can be removed from serious consideration. The approach is slightly self-contradictory. If music production is an industry it seems rather irrelevant to read its history as the production of better or worse products, and to bestow degrees of blame upon record companies. Frith still cherishes a rather romantic and quite understandable belief in the political value of some products:
Some records, in some circumstances, express something more than the culture of profit, the ideology of passive consumption. The question is how to recognise these special products.
Frith realises it is not enough to talk of rock music just in terms of popular culture, but that it must be understood in the context of youth in a class dominated society. Here he confronts the sociology of youth, another massively mediocre playground for academics. Almost by definition the producers of knowledge about youth are not young, and it shows. Hardly any of this work is really about youth at all, but is instead talking about deviance or the nature of social change after the Second World War, or something else.
The one exception to this is the work done by some members of the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies. They take the industrial nature of cultural commodity production as axiomatic, and then go on to look at the way groups in a class society appropriate and transform these commodities into subcultural styles. Commodities like popular music or clothes or hair styles are taken from the available store of cultural stuff and remade by their users in ways that resist domination by the producers of these commodities. So Reggae for Restafarians, is not just music, but an essential part of a Jamaican ‘cultural revolution’ for Jamaican youths whose parents flocked to Britain after the Second World War, and who were brought up with unemployment, bad housing and police harassment. With dreadlocks and other visible signals in terms of clothing, reggae enables black youths to escape magically back to Africa. Similarly, Bowie, in his Ziggy Stardust incarnation, was not just providing music. He was providing a fantasy of escape into a glittery science-fiction future and, with other ‘glam-rock’ stars, subverting sexuality very deeply. Punks do not just listen to music. They live out alienation from society with a face of pure menace. Even disco as a style is not just music but a means of self-display in an anonymous society. Discotheques are deliberately designed to maintain the illusion of some kind of solidarity without people actually having to touch each other. Music, even as a consumer product, is thus used actively by subordinated groups to give voice and expression to themselves as a group, to protest (even if only by escaping into fantasies) against the actual situations in which they find themselves. The forms of this protest will be different. Skinheads for instance, tend not to come from middle-class families. ‘Sloanes’ in England, who are busily imitating Lady Di, will not be working-class. But popular music is an indispensable part of this protest and group identification.
This approach has a large number of advantages over most writing on popular culture, youth or culture industries: it does not assume that there is an (almost conspiratorial) plot by the culture industries; it does not assume that there are periods in which the use of popular music by particular groups to resist the dominant cultural values around them somehow goes away; and it takes very seriously the connection between the use of popular music and ideology. For Frith rock ideology is merely an ideology of freedom and self-expression, or a shift towards seeing rock as Art in the late 1960s. He does not ask why this should be necessary or what it means. The Birmingham school looks at popular culture as a battleground of ideology, a field of struggle in which dominated groups ‘win space’ for themselves. It places ‘style’ both in society and in an historical framework. It also realises that to beat one’s breast over the ‘failure’ of ‘revolutionary’ rock music is foolish. Dominant ideologies must attempt to make subordinate groups consent to live their subordination, but one should always remember the class situations of subordinate groups. The fact that the counter-cultures of the 1960s were essentially middle-class meant that they contained many elements which could be readily incorporated into the system. ‘In many aspects the revolutions in “life-style” were a pure, simple, raging, commercial success.’ At the same time there were elements which were ‘not wholly absorbable’ and ‘were not wholly absorbed’. There is no idea of the automatic power of dominant ideology, but a realisation both that dominant ideology must be ‘won, worked for, reproduced, sustained’, and that subcultures can produce change.
The Birmingham analysis of the use of popular music as part of the generation of alternative style, and as part of continuing political and ideological struggle, is a powerful and convincing one. It ties together the structures of cultural commodity production and the active struggle of consumers to ‘make’ themselves as sub-cultures. One of the problems of the theory, though, is that it does not specify why sub-cultures take the form that they do. What are the conditions in which it is possible for cultural commodities to generate style in this way? And is style as revolutionary as Birmingham thinks it is? How far are the radical possibilities seen by these writers merely the result of very specific, and now nearly completed, shifts in the structure of cultural commodity production?
The Birmingham approach concentrates very much on the period after the Second World War. It does not consider the history of cultural commodity marketing in other media, like the publishing industry, nor the history of subcultural styles in earlier periods. For subcultures are not new. For example, in Paris in the 1830s the Bouzingos, young men with shaved heads, ran naked through the streets and drank out of skulls. With the mannerisms of a rather distorted Romanticism, they fit quite well into the Birmingham theory as a counter-culture reacting against stolid bourgeois parents. Yet they disappear without a trace, and man the counterrevolution in Paris in 1848. Earlier still, the jeunesse d’oree in Paris represented a return to a visible re-emergence of ‘style’ and ‘play’ among the sons of aristocratic parents after a period of austerity. They too disappear without much of a ripple. The most important omission, however, in the work of both Frith and the Birmingham Centre is their failure to consider the way technology affects not only the production and distribution of cultural products, but changes the nature of cultural products themselves, and the ways in which they are perceived. Marshall McCluhan perhaps overstressed the technological factor but recent writers have not stressed it enough.
The importance of ‘modes of perception’ here sounds difficult, but one just has to remember that reading books, for instance, is accompanied by an obvious realisation that the story is not a reality. A reader approaches a book in an entirely different way from someone listening to a song. However long ago a song was recorded, an audible performer is saying ‘I’. In live performance, of course, this is even stronger. In listening to music, listeners appropriate performers. Even if their songs are written by someone else, the sentiments are considered to be those of the performers. The importance of the Who’s ‘My Generation’ is the perfect case of audiences identifying totally with performers and also with other possible audiences. It is the fact, too, which is behind ‘Pamela’ of Chicago’s letter with which I began this essay. In effect it means that audiences listening to a single person singing through even a bad microphone respond more personally than to a synthesizer band organised by an army of electronic technicians. Different technologies lead both to different systems of marketing and distribution, and to different forms of experience of their products.
Although Frith does note the importance of some technological developments in the 1950s which were associated with the rise of rock music, such as television, which made radio stations begin to target specific audiences, or the introduction of portable gramophones and transistor radios, he is content merely to list these developments. Since the beginning of recording there has been a continuing relationship between the nature of cultural products and the technology of production and distribution. The popularity of Sousa before the First World War, for instance, is a direct result of the impossibility of recording more than three or four copies of a given record, and the impossibility of recording small groups or crooners. After electrical recording in 1925 there was an enormous expansion of product diversity before a reorganisation of the market in 1930. The same process can be seen operating from 1956 to 1963 when an initial explosion of independents changed the location and character of industrial production before reintegration by the majors. As a result of technological developments, both the nature of the sounds possible in musical production and the marketing structures needed to sell the new product had to change.
There are interesting parallels between the history of technological innovation in another culture industry, publishing, and music, particularly in the importance of the star and the formula in the marketing of cultural commodities. All culture commodity industries are high-risk businesses. Frith notes a total singles production of 3,152 units in 1976 of which only 229 made the Top Twenty. In attempting to raise this figure, the recording industry followed the principles first developed by publishers in the early 1920s when an automatic case-binding machine and cheaper paper enormously sped up the production of books and dramatically lowered their price. It is at this period that the classic English detective novel (Agatha Christie), the classic thriller (Edgar Wallace), the classic chase thriller (John Buchan), and the classic Barbara Cartland emerge as formulae and that authors emerge as stars, as product identification with their own distinctive labels — Gerald Fairlie, ‘The Big Thrill’, Sidney Horler, ‘For Excitement’, and so on. The formulae are simply marketing contracts between producers and consumers, providing a particular horizon of expectations for readers, who now know pretty well beforehand what they have bought, and allowing producers to raise their percentage of ‘hits’ by providing products already tested in the market-place. This is not a deliberate attempt to restrict the variety of available cultural products but a sensible marketing strategy, as each product in a formula range helps to sell other products in the same range. Until the death of the ‘star’, who must be replaced, a sudden rise in the cost of the product, or technological innovation, the system works well. After the ‘paperback revolution’ of the mid 1930s the system reorganised itself by widening its formulae. What had been ‘thriller’, ‘detective story’ or ‘chase thriller’ became, under the dispensation of Penguin Books, the simple category ‘Crime’. Classifying the product by such area formulae rather than the specific formulae of the 1920s can also be seen in the marketing of popular music over the last few years.
The difference between the simple responses of publishing to technological change and those of the recording industries is that in publishing the nature of the product, the book, did not change over the period. All that happened was that more cheap product could be produced more quickly. Technological change in the recording industry has not yet physically changed records as a product, though tapes are now also available, but it has changed the nature of the music that is recorded. In effect, the new music of the vinyl 45 was not amenable to tried and true marketing strategies. The majors attempted until 1963 to rework old formulae or to find new ones, but in terms with which they were already familiar. It is no accident that it took a British invasion to stimulate the industry once more.
If one follows the Birmingham School line that meanings are ‘appropriated’ or ‘read into’ a reservoir of existing cultural materials, the technological developments of the late 1950s and early 1960s meant that an enormously expanded range of possibilities for such reading occurred. One need only note Charles Manson’s reading of ‘Helter Skelter’ to prove this point. Further technological development, like the ability to control feedback on amplifiers, was to mean that a Hendrix could become possible; cheap and efficient headphones made it more possible to consider rock as Art; the silicone chip was to mean that mixing technology became enormously more sophisticated, and so on. So far, the technology of rock has had perhaps too large a place in this exposition, but looking at popular music as a technologically determined commodity raises the important question of whether, despite Frith and the Birmingham Centre, popular music was (or can ever be) ‘radical’ or ‘revolutionary’. How much was the presence of ‘revolution’ in popular music a result of the fact that rock journalists like Greil Marcus simply thought that it was there? And how much was it a result of the fact that the performer identification mentioned earlier was particularly strong in a period in which it became possible for the first time to give live concerts before huge audiences at Monterey, Woodstock, even Altamont, and all the other Rock Festivals of the late 1960s and early 1970s? The effect of these ‘festivals of the masses’ even in Australia has still not quite gone away, at Nimbin in particular. There are much more serious worries about the question of radical style, however; whether ‘style’, if dependent on capitalism, can ever be anything but defensive; and whether with recent technological developments the freedom that was available in constructing styles is being taken away.
If subcultures define themselves in terms of cultural commodities produced by a system, however much they transform commodities for their own purposes, they are still dependent upon the system that produces the commodities. The collapse of middle-class countercultures in the 1970s proved, I think, that the establishment of radical ‘style’ is a sign of the unmaking of class. Gareth Stedman-Jones has argued that by 1900 the British working class had become inward-looking, articulated within a social hierarchy which it would not attack; a culture not of resistance, but of defence. The same process that happened to middle-class youth is now going on among other sub-cultural styles, as cultural commodity producers become more and more adept at producing style themselves, but not as resistance or even defence. Style is being produced as a deliberate marketing strategy.
The key technological development behind the current change in marketing has been video. Disco as a phenomenon revealed that popular music could be incorporated by cultural commodity producers into a life-style: that Disco People could be created; that commodities could be packaged into groups by the producers themselves. This development, remarkably similar to the idea of area formulae mentioned earlier, has been assisted by video clips. The packaging of style is perfectly exemplified by the influence of Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Physical’ on the fashion industry. The song, under video technology, is not a commodity into which consumers can read a range of meanings, but part of a package which directs consumers exactly and specifically as to how it is to be read, and worse, places the song as life-style. By packaging ‘alternatives’ any ‘style’ can be incorporated as a market share, which provides useful tension within a social system but cannot threaten it. Other developments also result, like the increasing atomisation and privatisation of the consumption of music. There is much dancing about, but for the most part performers on video do the dancing and consumers sit glued to a box. The ever-accelerating alienation of performers from their own product is also becoming worse, as video-men are added to the other back-room specialists and engineers in the industry. The sense of progress which many of us remember fondly, has disappeared and popular music is turning more and more to its own past as a source of material. Styles are beginning to circulate endlessly round each other — a different product is more and more only the addition of elements of one style to elements of another. It would be easy to maintain that a recent increase in the number of successful girl-groups is a significant achievement for women in the industry. No so. If the key term for the marketing of popular music in the late 1960s was ‘Star-Making Machinery’, women in popular music along with all other performers, but more efficiently, are becoming ‘Style-Making Machinery’.
For Australia, the implications of recent developments are even worse. One should realize that the specific problems of Australia go back a very long way. Australia, in direct contradiction to much of the rather nationalistic writing on Australian history, has always been the most efficiently colonised country in the world. We suffer, not from the tyranny of distance but from the tyranny of proximity. Australia has always been an avid consumer of other people’s cultural product, whether British or American. The international success of the Easybeats, the Bee-Gees, Air Supply, The Little River Band or Olivia Newton-John is not difficult to understand when one realises that Australian artists are, historically, the best-trained cultural clones in the world.
This is not just a repetition of a ‘cultural cringe’ thesis applied to performers. The implications are more serious than that, and are directly related to the problem of style. An enormous range of overseas cultural products is filtered down for Australian consumption, so Australia simply does not have access to all available kinds of style. At the same time, in the process of transmission, a style which may have originated by representing a viable sub-culture, loses contact with its own origins. ‘Rap’ songs, for instance, were once viable expressions of black sub-cultural style in New York. In the process of becoming ‘disco-rap’ (Blondie), or ‘Euro-rap’ (when the West Germans take it up) or even a slightly punk-influenced ‘Bolton rap’ (Wham), the rap-song has become a pure market style. In Australia we inherit our styles from others and reproduce them at second-hand. Style is entering a phase of infinite and incestuous circularity for the culture industries that produce them, and Australians should remember that when we consume these products at second hand, and also buy life-styles, which are even phonier at second than at first hand, we are willingly submitting to a very efficient and insidious cultural colonisation.
So is the picture utterly hopeless? One must remember that dead periods in the history of popular music have occurred before as the industry reorganises itself. One can only hope that with further sophistication of the technology of. video-recording, and, hopefully, a severe drop in its cost, bands will regain a larger degree of control over their own product. More importantly, one hopes that if video becomes a sufficiently low-cost technology, bands, who cannot afford to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to produce something like the Ultravox ‘Vienna’ clip, will again be able to stamp their own authority on their own product. Performers are surely as frustrated by recent developments as I am. This short article is merely a progress report on the current state of affairs, and not a prediction of ultimate doom and futility. In the last few years there has been an explosion in the number of creative and innovative Australian bands deriving partly from low-cost synthesizer technology in performance. Some bands, like Midnight Oil, even managed to resist the lure of video-clips, until recently, by insisting that clips should only be made of live performances. Others, like Split Enz or Mental as Anything, have managed to stamp their own mark on their work even with video. Frith has recently noted the ever-increasing importance of technology in the same terms that I have been using here:
I began this chapter by arguing that for all its commercial and technological trappings, pop music is still the result of peoples’ need to make music for themselves, to turn experience and feeling into song and song into experience and feeling. In this story of pop I stressed the continuing importance of the voice, pop’s personal touch. I have ended with the emergence of the impersonal touch of the synthesizer, the breakdown of the distinction between performer and engineer … pop-music making has become by its nature a collective process.
At the same time there is a saving grace in the current situation. One must again remember that the consumers of popular music are not manipulated fools. As has been seen again and again in the industry, music briefly successful as a result of massive media hype and stunning video clips will ultimately fail if the product is bad. A perfect example is the Village People’s Can’t Stop the Music. The music for Xanadu did well in the market-place because people wanted to listen to it, but no amount of hype and electronic sophistication could save a terrible film at the box office.
The first few paragraphs of this essay may have been reminiscent of many other despairing articles lamenting the failure of youth, or the 1960s, or the people who were ‘ours’, as a force for social change. I am not that naive. A generation having grown up will always regret possibilities that were lost. As Birmingham maintains, though, much that went on in that period could never be wholly absorbed by the dominant forces of society. If I have said that the possibilities of the late 1960s were never real ones, this is a voice of current concern, and not one that ignores real achievements. And, as Boy George’s androgynous challenge to stereotypical sexual attitudes indicates, popular music (in a less overtly political way perhaps) is still able to explore possibilities for change.
 Rolling Stone, 7 February 1969, p. 8.
 ibid., 12 November 1970, p. 3.
 For this literature see P. Spearritt and D. Walker, Australian Popular Culture (Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1978); A. Bissett, Black Roots, White Flowers (Golden Press, Sydney, 1979); J. Barnes, F. Dyer and H.B. Facer, Top Forty Research (Top Forty Research, Sydney, 1979); Noel Macgrath, The Australian Encyclopaedia of Rock (Outback Press, Melbourne, 1978); Bob Rogers and Denis O’Brien, Rock and Roll Australia: The Australian Pop Scene 1954-1964 (Casseils, Sydney, 1975); Glenn A. Baker (with Roger Hibernia), The Beatles Down Under (Wild and Woolley, Sydney, 1982); Peter Beilby and Michael Roberts, Australian Music Directory (Australian Music Directory Pty. Ltd., Melbourne, 1983) and Ken Taylor, Rock Generation (Sun Books, Melbourne, 1970).
 S. Hall and T. Jefferson (eds.). Resistance Through Rituals (Hutchinson, London, 1975), p. 17.
 Geoffrey Stokes, Star-Making Machinery (Random, Indianapolis, 1976), and R. Serge Denisoff, Solid Gold: The Popular Record Industry (Transaction Books, New Jersey, 1975).
 Simon Frith, The Sociology of Rock (Constable, London, 1976). See also the ‘Introductions’ to S. Frith and C. Gillett (eds.). Rock File 4 and Rock File 5 (Constable, London, 1976-77).
 R.A. Peterson and D.G. Berger, ‘Cycles in Symbol Production: The Case of Popular Music’, American Sociological Review, April 1975, pp. 158-174.
 Frith, op. cit., p. 209.
 ibid., p. 196.
 S. Hall and T. Jefferson, op. cit., and Dick Hebdidge, Subculture: The Meaning of Style (Methuen, London, 1979).
 Hall and Jefferson, op. cit., pp. 60-61.
 Frith, op. cit., p. 76.
 G. Stedman-Jones, ‘“Working” class culture and working class polities’. Journal of Social History, 1974, vol. 7, pp. 460-509.
 S. Frith, ‘Introduction’ to George Martin (ed.). Making Music (London, 1983).