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Words: Indie Dad This year (21st October) saw the death of Paul Fox, guitarist and main songwriter with The Ruts. 27 years had passed since the death of Ruts singer Malcolm Owen from the heroin overdose that ended the first phase of the band (they reformed as Ruts D.C. with Fox on vocals). If the Sex Pistols (with “5th member” and provocative imp McClaren) were the head of UK Punk and The Clash (with their “5th member”, the champion stirrer Bernie Rhodes) were the heart, then The Ruts (on their own) were the soul. They fused Punks anger with Reggae’s groove, they were the idealistic little brothers that burnt astonishingly brightly for a while and ended with the pointless waste of Owen’s death. But in two important ways that wasn’t the end. The work of Ruts D.C. produced excellent, more intrinsically Reggaefied works. However the legacy that will last after every member has gone is the best passionate, human and meaningful music to come from the original Punk explosion. The influence is there in every snarling in your-face singer who battered an audience with “THE TRUTH” while his ban released the physical force of his righteous rage. From Black Flag (particularly with Rollins) and Fugazi (and straight edge Hardcore) to Gallows outright acknowledgement of the debt with their cover of Staring At The Rudeboys. Owen, Fox and the rest would surely have approved of the statement being made by the inclusion of Lethal Bizzle on that track, being closely linked with Rock Against Racism and having their first single release by Reggae masters Misty In Roots’ label. In
common with most old bands whose name still draw a crowd (and many whose
won’t) they went out last year as Foxy’s Ruts. A proper reformation
would have been on the cards, the internet was there, but fate intruded
as it has a habit of doing. Fox was struck with cancer and in time many
old Punk stagers got together to support and benefit him with a one off
concert at the Islington Academy. The main draw of the night however was
the two surviving original Ruts joining Fox to play Ruts music, with Henry
Rollins taking vocal duties. It was hard to think of a better replacement
for Owen and on the night (despite the nostalgic pleasure of UK Subs,
The Damned, Splodgenessabounds – everything I was buying in ‘78/’79
basically) they provided a potent and vital show. Fow was able to bask
in the adoration he richly deserved (but only shyly acknowledged) and
give final vent to his Art in a worthy surrounding. He was frail and there
could be little doubt this would be his last show but every riff counted
and there was no sense he was being carried. He was able to sum up his
own legacy with dignity and leave the stage to be taken in the future
by his musical Grandchildren. |
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Help She Can’t Swim / Blood Brothers Photo Tour Diary |
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(Still)
Staring at the Rude Boys