Primitive London

# So what do you want to make those eyes at me for?

# When they don't mean what they say

# They make me sad, they make me glad

# They make me want a lot of things that I never had

# You're fooling around with me now

# You lead me on and then you run away

# Well, that's all right I'll get you alone some night

# And then you'll surely find you're flirting with dynamite

# So what do you want to make those eyes at me for?

# When they don't mean what they say

When this song was new, automobiles were a novelty,

aeroplanes had yet to fly,

and 67 million men were still to die in two world wars.

Yet the sentimental message still reaches us loud and clear.

Man is a sentimental creature.

And sentimentality, like Charles II, is "an unconscionable time a-dying."

# So what do you want to make those eyes at me for?

# When they don't mean what they say

# When they don't mean what they say #

In a city like London with its nine million people,

you have to look hard for evidence of sentimentality,

but it is there.

"We are a civilized people, " they will say,

then they'll be insulted to be reminded that they are also animals.

Sentimentality shies away from the realities of life and death.

In our world, 6,000 people die every hour,

yet few civilized people have seen a dead body.

Every hour, 14,000 people are born.

Yet, unconsciously, sentimentally,

we prefer to smudge over the first and last facts of life.

Medical science has made childbirth safe.

But no matter how sophisticated the apparatus and skills gathered around the birth,

the event itself is, in every sense,

a fundamental and unchanging miracle constantly renewed.

A gynecologist attending this birth said it was the most difficult he'd ever known,

and he had delivered over 5,000 babies.

All men are born equal,

but this baby will have to fight harder than most for life.

The first convulsive gasp for breath.

The cord is cut. The last link of the child to his mother is severed.

Now he is a separate being,

and must, as life is pounded into him, begin to discover his separate identity.

These feet must carry him far in this world.

That is, if he lives at all.

He must tread warily in a society which seeks to categories.

The lines are drawn, the route through life mapped early.

The child defines the limits the adult will observe.

The friendships now established, the values set, the pattern for the future.

The prep school will lead him through higher education

to affluence and possible influence.

A nicely-ordered existence

where expensive gadgetry smooths a calmly correct life.

The primary school will make him a wage-earner,

a man with a number.

He has little affluence,

and significance only in mass at times of election.

These lines are drawn early.

But on his way to these ordered categories,

he will find a no man's land called teenage.

Perhaps he will become a mod.

"Mod" is a generic term for the modern young man.

He rides a motor scooter, likes brightly-colored clothes,

and tolerates mod girls as an accessory.

He doesn't know that the emergence of the peacock trend in male dress

was forecast by sociologists after the end of World War II.

Sociologists saw that, in the 60s,

there would be more eligible boys than girls for the first time in many centuries.

Clothes would be brighter.

And to meet this demand, the male boutique made its appearance in London.

At first laughed at,

they are now firmly established trendsetters among the mod teenage boys.

The colored trousers, the scarlet jacket,

none of this would have been conceivable 15 years ago on a man.

The clothes are distinctive, they are his identifying uniform.

They proclaim his assertion and his acceptance of the group mold.

The rockers are another teenage category.

They deride the mods' dress display,

but they peacock in their own way, just as frantically.

Metal studs in leather jackets, the leather wear itself, the jackboots,

these are just as much a proclamation of group identity.

To discover their philosophy, we shall return to them later.

Another group is the beatniks. Their name has something of defeat in it.

They pride themselves on their non-conformity.

But their very revolt serves to emphasize the norms

against which they proclaim their rejection.

# Now, John Henry, he was a little baby

# He was sitting on his pappy's knee

# Lord, he gave out a long and lonesome cry

# Said, "This hammer is gonna be the death of me

# "Lord, Lord

# "This hammer is going to be the death of me"

# Young Henry was working on the rail road

# His hammer was striking fire

# And the mountain was so tall John Henry was so small

# Lord, he laid down his hammer Lord, he died, yeah, yeah

# He laid down his hammer and he died

# Some say he's from Texas

# And some say he's from France

# But I know he's just a Louisiana boy

# He died with a hammer in his hand, Lord knows

# He died with a hammer in his hand #

What's your name? - Michael.

- How old are you, Michael? - Twenty.

- Do you work, Michael? - No.

- What do you do? - I write poetry.

- You write poetry? - Yeah.

- Is this your aim in life, to write poetry? - Yes, it is.

- Had anything published? - No, not as yet. No.

- Can you quote me a stanza from... - The only one I can remember offhand is

one of my early ones, and it's,

"I turned right into heaven and saw that pothead Peter polishing the keys to the pad."

That's all I can remember of it.

Tell me, I'm intrigued, that key in your ear, what's that for?

Well, it's purely for decoration. It's me nickname, you know.

- What's your nickname again? - Jailer.

- Jailer. Tell me one thing, Michael. - Yeah.

- Do you believe in free love? - Yeah.

- Where were you educated? - Berkhamsted Public School,

Northwestern Polytechnic, and in my bedroom.

In your bedroom? I see.

- Many of them. - Many of them.

- Do you believe in marriage? - If people love each other, they are married.

- I see. How about you, David? - I believe in it, um...

Choice of the two people as individuals, as well as together.

You mean, if you like one another, you live together?

Yes. I think one should live together for a certain time beforehand, though.

What do you think about it? I don't believe in marriage.

You don't believe in it. Would you live with a girl if you liked her?

- Certainly. - How about children, would you have them?

I believe there ought to be some form of contract written for children,

in the case of children.

# I got my brand on you

# I got my brand on you, yeah

# I got my brand on you

# I got my brand on you Oh, yeah

How old are you, Sammy? - 16.

Sixteen. Where do you work, or what do you do?

Well, I work at Waterloo. I work in an office.

- I see. Would you say you're a beatnik? - No.

- You're not? - No.

- Suzy, how old are you? - 17.

- Seventeen. What do you do? - I'm an insurance typist.

- Are you a beatnik? - No.

- No? Why do you come here? - 'Cause I've got a lot of friends here.

- Boyfriends or girlfriends? - Both.

- Both girlfriends and boyfriends? - Yeah.

- Would you like to marry a beatnik? - I don't know.

How about you? Would you like to marry a beatnik?

- No, I wouldn't. - You wouldn't?

# Well, you can go to the east

# Go to the west

# I don't care where you go, baby As long as you come back

# I got my brand on you

# I got my brand on you

# Oh, yeah

# There ain't nothing you can do, love

# I got my brand on you #

What's your name? - Larry.

- Would you like to say a few words? - "A few words."

A few words. Very good, very good, Larry.

- Tell me, what do you do for a living? - Nothing.

- Nothing at all? How do you live? - I don't, I exist.

- Who supports you? - My dad.

My dad? Good old dad.

- What's your name, dear? - Anne.

- Do you know Larry? - Yes.

- Are you his girlfriend? - No, but we're very intimate, though.

- You're very intimate? - Yes.

- Together, that is? - Yes, together.

Very good. Tell me, what do you think about beatniks?

- I think they're great. - You think they're great?

Do you believe in... Well, tell me, what is a beatnik?

A great nit! - (LAUGHING) A great nit!

Do you think you're a great nit? - No, I'm not a beatnik.

Well, you just told me beatniks are great nits.

It wouldn't... I'm not a beatnik.

- You're not a beatnik? - No!

- Anne, are you a beatnik? - No.

- Larry, surely you are? - I'm a tramp.

- You're just a plain old... He's a bum.

- He's a bum? Are you sure? Yes.

- How much is that camera worth? - That camera? Two or three hundred quid.

- Ever thought of flogging it? - Well, we pawn it now and again.

- William's uncle's down the road. - Uncle's down the road, well done.

What's your definition of a beatnik?

Well, I don't like the word myself,

because if you ask the average person in the street what a beatnik is,

they'll immediately turn around and say, "A person who doesn't wash, doesn't work,

"just got long, filthy hair and is a parasite on society."

And you think this is entirely wrong?

- Yes, it is entirely wrong. - Entirely wrong. Thank you very much.

- Have you been playing together long? - Yeah, about two years right now.

- Two years? - Yeah.

What's your ambition, Ryan?

To be the top harmonica player in this country, what I've always wanted to be, you know.

Wonderful. Tell me, what do you do in the summer?

Well, we go down the south of France, usually Cannes,

and busk around the cafés, and make a few bob. It's pretty good.

- How do you get down there? - Oh, we go by train.

It costs £12.10 from London to Cannes, you know.