Beyond the Beatles: Peter Blake’s pop art on paper
Documentary telling the story of Britain’s postwar infatuation with old New Orleans jazz. With rare 78rpm imports as their only guide, a generation of amateur jazz enthusiasts including Humphrey Lyttelton and Chris Barber created a traditional jazz scene that strove to recreate the essence and freedom of 1920s New Orleans in 1950s Britain. While British youth jived in smoky dives, the music itself was beset by arguments of authenticity. Begging to differ with the source material, Ken Colyer embarked on a pilgrimage to New Orleans in search of the real deal while a larger ideological war raged between mouldy figs and dirty boppers- traditional and modern jazz fans. As its popularity grew, commercial forces descended and a ‘trad’ boom sent the purists running for cover at the turn of the decade – the first and last time New Orleans jazz became British pop. Featuring Acker Bilk, Chris Barber and previously unseen interviews with the late Humphrey Lyttelton and George Melly.
Holy Barbarians was a book published in 1959 detailing the lives of the Beats living on Venice Beach in Los Angeles by poet Lawrence Lipton. It was very influential and was like a How to Do book for us in the mid 1960s in Leicester. Following is a quote from the book about the difference and similarities of Beats and Juvenile Delinquents! Much was written and talked about Juvenile Delinquents in this period. It was seen as a big problem. I remember my Grandmother was very bothered that I might have become one! I assured her I hadn’t but, then again, I did have my moments!
Of course, the Beat writers were in awe of criminal hipsters like Herbert Huncke and Neal Cassidy but they weren’t seen as just delinquents, they had a kind of holy destiny. They were viewed almost as divine figures on a spiritual quest and, certainly, Cassidy probably saw himself that way as well.
Later on in the 60s Venice Beach was the place that keyboardist Ray Manzarek first met singer and poet Jim Morrison and they formed the Doors.
“Everyone has to go to jail some time in his life,” remarked a fifteen year-old girl I met at Angel’s pad one afternoon. She was playing hooky from high school for the day and had just come back from visiting her boy friend in the County Jail. He had been busted for pot and they were also trying to hang a car-stealing rap on him. “They” were the heat and this was the bond that this chick felt with beatland. The beards puzzled her, and the poetry was so much baby talk to her. She had enough of that at school. One book was the same as any other to her. Pot was baby stuff, too. She had been on horse since she was thirteen.
What drew her to the beatniks was the way they understood her attitude toward her family and elders in general and the fact that they didn’t think she was a bad girl. The fuss that parents and older people made about sex seemed silly to her. Virginity? She and her girl friends at high school had a word for it. “Big issue about a little tissue.”
As a juvenile delinquent Myra Flores belonged to the cool cats who could be seen coming out of Venice High after school hours and piling into a car – integration was no problem here – white, Negro, Mexican. They didn’t hang around street corners; they drove fast cars in car pools that were also clubs of a sort. The Mexican girls were popular with these boys. Sometimes the blond girls dyed their hair to look like Mexican chicks. Their cars were not souped-up hot rods, that was for squares. Their clothes were sharp. Every penny they could beg, borrow or steal went into clothes. They drank wine and smoked marijuana. They didn’t talk much. They were physical in their relations, fondled each other a lot and watched television by the hour. Looking older than their years was very important to them. It meant that they could pass for twenty-one without an I.D. card in the taverns.
Rarely can a girl like Myra Flores make the beat scene except as a place of refuge or a drop-in lay, but a J.D. like Willie Frank can make it for quite a while on nothing but an ability to say little, listen much and play it close to his vest, which passes for cool as long as he doesn’t make any false moves. Willie fell into Venice West from a town in New Jersey where things had gotten too hot for him. He had smoked pot since he was fourteen, graduated to horse not long afterward, and served a term in jail back east.
The beat and the juvenile delinquent are only kissin’ cousins. They have the same enemies, which is the slender thread that sometimes unites them in temporary alliance. Both are outlaws, speak a private language and put down the squares, but in beat circles the J.D. is regarded as a square, a hip square in some things, but still a square.
He is a square because his values are the conventional American values: success, the worship of things, the obsession with speed and devil-take-the-hindmost attitudes in everything They are “sharpies” always looking for angles. They believe everything they read in the ads. The “kick” they are looking for when they “borrow” a car for a night is the kick of making “a majestic entrance” in front of a chick’s house. The juvenile delinquent wants a Ford in his future, but he wants his future right now. He can’t buy it so he steals it. “My old man waited,” one of them remarked to me, “and what did it get him? He’s fifty and he’s still driving a ’49 Chevy.”
The names they give their gangs are indicative of their hunger for social status. In Venice West it’s The Doges. Some of them pronounce it “dogs” but they know it means something like The Man of Distinction. (Wasn’t “putting on the dog” once a slang synonym for distinctive?) If one gang names itself The Counts, the gang in the next block goes it one better with The Dukes. Such pretensions are abhorrent to the beatnik.
Their “social protest,” which is a common theme in liberal magazines trying to “understand” the J.D., is so much double talk in the beatnik’s opinion. They are not victims of the society, they are its fruit and flower. The J.D. in a stolen car, dressed up in his sharp clothes, seated beside his chick and smoking the cigarette that is the choice of men who demand the best, is the ironic triumph of the adman’s dream. They are not likely to yield to the lures of communism. In fact, many of the J.D.’s of past generations are now among the society’s most successful businessmen.
The vandalism of the juvenile delinquent is directed against symbols of authority, like the school. If he finds school too confining or oppressive, or too boring, the beatnik finds ways of “beating the system.” He cuts classes as often as he can but he keeps his scholastic average high enough to stay out of trouble. He doesn’t go back after school hours and wreck the classroom or waylay a teacher and slug him for giving him low marks. Any show of violence among the beat generation, when it does occur, is rare enough – and significant enough – to become legendary. Such a legend is the one you hear frequently about Carl Solomon. “It was at Brooklyn College,” says Allen Ginsberg. “Some square lecturer was giving a lecture on Dadaism, and Carl pelted him with potato salad.” Which is exactly what any Dadaist would have done. That Carl was expelled for it is only further proof that the lecturer was a square.
The violence of the delinquent is usually directed against older people. The beatnik would not commit such acts of violence. He would write a poem about it.
Only a newspaperman with his feet stuck in a slot at the rewrite desk could possibly mistake a J.D. for a beatnik. The newspaper stereo-typed vandal is a composite of “teenager,” “juvenile delinquent” and “beatnik,” a convenient composite since it simplifies headline writing and makes every youth crime story a rewrite of the familiar dope fiend, sex fiend, youth-on-the-rampage yarn. All the reporter has to do is change a few names and places. The J.D. doesn’t mind the publicity. It gives him status. The only thing Willie Frank objected to in the news stories about him and his gang when they were busted for drugs was that the papers misspelled his name and even mixed up names under the pictures. “DOPE RING SMASHED” was a little too grandiose a headline, Willie thought, for a twenty-dollar haul of pot, but it gave him a glow just the same.”
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE
This is a passage from Lawrence Lipton’s 1959 book The Holy Barbarians, published when Lipton was 61 years old. When he wrote the book Lipton lived in Venice West, a bohemian enclave of Los Angeles, tucked away in an area which by then was a ruin of its semi-glorious past: in the early 1900’s Venice had been a beach resort town with a faux-European veneer of sophistication, but had fallen into disrepair, so much that now it was not much more than a “slum by the sea.” This decay, in turn, had opened up living room for penniless poets, artists and other outcasts. Among these were the beats Lipton wrote about in The Holy Barbarians.
Lipton’s book hit the market in June of 1959 and was an instant success. A few months later Life magazine (September 21, 1959) featured a reportage – “Squaresville USA vs Beatsville” – about the same Venice West beat scene Lipton had portrayed. The Life article put “the far-out freedom” of the beats on intriguing display to an even wider range of readers. As a result, busloads of tourists soon flooded Venice in search of bohemian kicks and jazz and “like, poetry, man.” Those who had the wits, the angelheaded hipsters, picked up their bongos and moved on.
To be honest we usually find the more exploitative beat culture narratives far more entertaining than “the real thing” (whatever “the real thing” is), but in between rather conceited attempts at sociology-sounding theory, The Holy Barbarians does indeed offer some engaging ethnographic vignettes – raw records of the beats at the moment right before that high and beautiful wave they were riding finally broke and rolled back (as Hunter S. Thompson might very well have written … wait, he didn’t, did he?).
Here is one of those vignettes, picked from a chapter where Lipton writes about selected fringe elements of the beat scene: in order to clarify who he thinks the beats are, he describes who they’re not. We found this sequence extra interesting as it ever so briefly, but with eloquent insight, relates to the Car Customizing and Outlaw Aesthetics we’ve focused on earlier here at American Ethnography (for example here, here, here, and here).
A reprint of The Holy Barbarians was published in 2010 by Martino Fine Books.
LAWRENCE LIPTON (1898 – 1975) was an American journalist, writer, and beat poet.
Two more theatrical artists you’ll never find. Both achieved international super stardom in their lifetimes. They became that very rare species: artist celebrity. Today your average person would be hard pressed to name a living artist. Not even our so called art celebrities like Jeff Koons, Damien Hirst or Matthew Barney pull that much weight in a world of Justin Biebers and Lady Gagas. Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol were and are to this day household names. Pretty good for guys who painted melting clocks and Campbell‘s soup cans, but who is the greater artist?
Before the ants, crutches and barren landscapes of the subconscious shifted everyone’s perceptions of reality; there was a young Spanish art student born in 1904 in the North Western corner of Spain named Salvador. Dali exhibited a master’s talent from an early age and as a youth he…
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Before he became just about the most important person in the world in the 1960s, Andy Warhol made a living as a graphic designer. He did a whole slew of album covers and, as is well known, a good many book jackets as well. Often he enlisted his mom to write the scrawled text, as we saw in this delightful mock cookbook from 1959, her handwriting was his secret weapon until he made the silk screen his signature medium of choice.
For most of these albums, he was responsible for the drawing if not necessarily the layout. In the case of the Monk album above, we know it’s his mother’s handwriting and he may not have done the layout, so it’s unclear exactly how much credit he should get, but then again, that was more or less his method at The Factory!
Count Basie, s/t, 1955
Kenny Burrell, Volume 2, 1956
Kenny Burrell, Blue Lights, 1958
Artie Shaw and His Orchestra, Both Feet in the Groove, 1956
Frank Lovejoy, Night Beat, 1949
Jay Jay Johnson, Kai Winding, and Bennie Green, Trombone by Three, 1956
Moondog, The Story of Moondog, 1957
The Joe Newman Octet, I’m Still Swinging, 1956
Cool Gabriels, s/t, 1956
Johnny Griffin, The Congregation, 1957
Various artists, Progressive Piano, 1952
“Ringo Starr, George Harrison, John Lennon and Yoko Ono were sitting behind us. The talk of the festival was that they might join Dylan on stage.”
The organisers of the 1969 Isle of Wight festival, brothers Ronnie and Ray Foulk, had managed to pull off the amazing coup of getting Bob Dylan to headline. Woodstock, which had taken place two weeks earlier on his doorstep in upstate New York, had tried to persuade him but he’d turned them down. He’d been in semi-retirement for three years after a motorbike accident, and this was his comeback.
In this picture, we’re waiting in the VIP area just below the stage for him to come on; it took about two hours because there were some problems with microphones. The chap sitting next to me is Vernon Warder, my boyfriend of the time. He had long holidays from art college and was working at the festival, doing artwork for the signs on the front of the stage, and helping with security and management. As a result, he had a VIP pass and, being his partner, I got one, too. Otherwise it was £2 for a ticket.
I was aware that Ringo Starr, George Harrison, John Lennon and Yoko Ono were sitting behind us. The talk of the festival was that they might join Dylan on stage. It never happened. I was a huge Beatles fan, but had not seen them live; I kept turning round to look at them. We were about three rows from the front and could smell the hash that someone was smoking behind us.
When Dylan finally came on, he was barely 10 feet away from me. It was so exciting. He played for only an hour, for which he got some stick in the press, but it was incredibly exhilarating. He did two encores.
After he finished, I went back to my parents’ house on the island, where I grew up. Even though I had been away at college for two years, there was no way they would allow me to stay out all night. I remember it was a real struggle trying to find a lift, because we didn’t have cars and couldn’t afford taxis.
Throughout the festival, I went back and forth between the VIP arena and backstage. I once bumped into Lennon and remember thinking, “Oh, he’s not very tall, is he?” I remember being really excited about going into a portable toilet after Ono had been in there. I wasn’t even aware of the celebrities: Jane Fonda, Elizabeth Taylor and Eric Clapton were all there. That’s how young and naive I was.
I first saw this photo last summer. Some friends of mine who live on the Isle of Wight went to the launch of Ray Foulk’s book, Stealing Dylan From Woodstock, his account of the festival. One of them texted me: “Were you sitting in front of the Beatles at the 1969 festival?” I said yes, and she wrote back: “Your photo’s in the book!”
This was my first festival. I went to the Isle of Wight the following year, when Jimi Hendrix played shortly before his death. I’ve been to others since, but nothing will match those two experiences.
Interview: Erica Buist (Guardian 5/8/16)
This is the full unexpurgated Central London Cafe Tour put together for Architecture Week 17-26 June 2005. The tour takes in a range of 1950s and 1960s London cafe styles. As you can see many more have since closed down, overwhelmed by the big corporate chains like Starbucks, Costa and Caffe Nero! Support your independent Coffee Bar!!
As of 2005 all these places are under clear and present danger. Most will be gone in a few months or years. (The walk starts off in Marylebone, curves along the edges of Bond St, plunges into Soho, then arcs up to Goodge St.)
French cafés and US diners have received substantial cultural focus over the decades. But the old style Italian Formica cafes of the 1950s, and earlier, have never been given their due despite their manifest contribution to the (sub)cultural life of post war Britain.
Often dismissed as ‘greasy spoons’, Classic Cafes (those unchanged British working men’s Formica caffs which retain most of their mid-century fixtures and fittings) are actually mini-masterpieces of vernacular 1950s and 1960s design.
Most are now vanishing in a welter of redevelopment. But once, their of-the-moment design and mass youth appeal galvanised British cultural life and incubated a whole postwar generation of writers, artists, musicians, crime lords and sexual interlopers.
For a country that had emerged from World War Two economically crippled and facing the complete collapse of long-held social and political certainties, the caffs became forcing houses for the cultural advance guard coursing through London at the time.
The classic cafes of the 1950s added an impassioned colour to Britain’s post war social, artistic and commercial scene. The mix of cafes, a nascent TV industry and the skiffle cult effectively created a new world order as, from 1963-1967, London dictated youth culture to the world.
Within a decade of the first Soho espresso bar, The Moka at 29 Frith Street, being opened in 1953, London became the world’s hippest city: a ferment of music, fashion, film, advertising, photography, sex, crime, and the avant-garde.
The cafes were, “the first sign that London was emerging from an ice age that had seen little change in its social habits since the end of the first world war. Once the ice began to crack, everything was suddenly up for grabs.” Without them, the unleashing influence of the 1960s might never have been so seismic.
Today, the big coffee combines are destroying classic cafes en masse. By deliberately negotiating exorbitant leases, and raising ‘comparables’ (rent levels used to calculate local rent increases) they are putting competitors out of business at an astonishing rate. This brutal Starbuck-ing of the high street is leading to the wholesale erasure of British vernacular retail architecture.
“The architecture and ambience of [classic cafes] is fast being levelled in a kind of massive cultural, corporate napalming by the big coffee chains… they will not rest until every street in the West is a branded mall selling their wares. Orwell’s nightmare vision in 1984 was of a jackboot stamping on the human face forever. If the coffee corporates have their way, the future is best represented as a boiling skinny latte being spilt in the lap of humanity in perpetuity.” (Adrian Maddox, The Observer, Aug 1 2004)
The loss of London’s classic cafes should be particularly sadly felt. For their far-reaching impact on modern Britain, we owe them, and their founders, an immense debt of gratitude. And a serious duty of care.
Guardian: June 22 2005: ‘Greasy spoon wars’ by Chris Hall
There is no greater call to arms during this year’s Architecture Week (June 17-26) than that of saving the old-style Italian cafes from the 1950s, often disparaged as greasy spoons or working men’s caffs.
Adrian Maddox, author of the definitive book on the subject, Classic Cafes, has compiled a “last chance to see” tour of around 30 of them in London (see http://www.classiccafes.co.uk for details).
Maddox’s concern is with the design and ambience of these cafes, which he finds “bracingly Pinteresque, seedy and despairing”.
The pictures in his book are part Edward Hopper, part Martin Parr.
I met Maddox at the New Piccadilly cafe, the “cathedral of cafes”, in a side street by Piccadilly Circus.
“Everything here is original, apart from the mirrors,” he says. He’s soon enthusing about the Thonet chairs, the three shades of Formica and the extremely rare horseshoe menu.
This Saturday, the cafe can be seen on BBC1 in the new Richard Curtis film, The Girl in the Cafe, with Kelly MacDonald and Bill Nighy.
For Maddox, it’s a war against the big coffee chains whose “policy of extermination” is forcing these cafes out of business.
He reckons that there are only 500 classic cafes left in the UK. Two London cafes, Pellici’s in Bethnal Green and Alfredo’s (now S&M) in Islington, have been grade II listed by English Heritage, but most, if not all, will be gone in a few months or years, he claims.
Is listing the answer? Catherine Croft, director of the Twentieth Century Society, says: “A lot of the charm is in the furniture and the menus and what’s on the tables. It’s popular art, not high architecture. Listing them can only protect the building elements.”
In fact, the owner of the New Piccadilly, Lorenzo Marioni, is glad that English Heritage didn’t recommend it for listing last September, as this would have diminished his potential for selling it, which he still might have to do.
With his landlord demanding ever higher rent, he’s never going to be able to compete with the big chains. “I’d just love to be here at a reasonable rent, serving the local community at a reasonable price,” he says.
Start: south Marylebone High Street (Bond St tube/Baker St tube)
Golden Hind [73 Marylebone Road W1]
Open for nearly forty five years, and owned by the Schiavetta family, this Art Deco Vitrolite chip shop has a full range of classic cafe chairs and tables.
Paul Rothe & Son [35 Marylebone Lane W1]
Untouched, early twentieth century deli and old-fashioned provisions shopwith cafe area featuring unique, folding white leatherette-seating (late 60s vintage). Many archive pictures, and a full history of the premises, are displayed in the windows. (Rothe’s liptauer sandwiches are legendary.)
Marylebone Cafe [58 Marylebone Lane W1]
Plain-style caff on the verges of Oxford St. Good exterior mosaic tile patterning and a big bold nameplate and awnings. Decent booth interior. John and Alma Negri were the proprietors for many years from the late 50s to the late 60s. “My paternal grandparents ran it before that. I remember seeing my auntie Brenda on the evening TV news in 1963, crossing Wigmore Street, with a tray of tea and biscuits: they were for Christine Keeler and John Profumo when they had just been arrested… We only opened at lunchtimes and it was run by my dad’s twin sisters, Anna and Maria. I think they were as big a draw as the steak and kidney puddings.” (Peter Negri)
The Lucky Spot [14 North Audley St W1]
Oddly grand carved stone exterior. Heavy on crypto-Swiss ambience. High-backed carved pews, lots of dark panelling which the owner insists is meant to be Elizabethan pastiche.
Sandwich Bar [Brooks Mews W1] RIP
Hidden gem, utterly overlooked in a superb lost mews by Claridges. Amazing sign and door handle. Brilliant green leatherette seats. Worn Formica tables. Interesting mix of clientele: cabbies & Claridges doormen. Functional and friendly. A model of British utility. (One of only two remaining establishments to be listed in ‘The Good Cuppa Guide’ of the 1960s.)
Chalet Coffee Lounge [81 Grosvenor St W1]
One of the original first generation Coffee bars. This swish little place is kitted out in 60s Swiss-style (very much like the Lucky Spot in North Audley St, St Moritz in Wardour St, and the Tiroler Hut in Westbourne Grove.) This styling was once all the rage as Alpine-exotica briefly irrupted throughout Europe after the war. Wistful seemingly hand-drawn exterior sign, lots of polished brown wood, fancy ironwork lighting, inlaid coloured lights, and pew-bench seating. (Don’t miss the two basement sections hidden at the back.)
RIP/Site of… Rendez-Vous [56 Maddox St W1]
Gaze longingly at the outside Espresso Bongo-like sign and then scoot into one of the very best London caffs left standing around Bond Street. It’s arranged like a domestic living room: covered tables, wooden chairs, lovely lights, lashings of warm Formica…
RIP/Site of… Euro Snack Bar [Swallow St W1]
The little Euro Snack Bar was installed in an obscure street lined with lap-dancing clubs. Superb orange and green frontage (with top 60s typography), small, comfortable booths, low ceilings, and odd little mini-counters on every table for holding the drab-green salt n’ pepper sets. (These are featured on the cover of the book Classic Cafes.)
Source Cafe [78 Brewer St W1] RIP
Ruined cafe (near New Piccadilly) that has some interesting original 1950s exterior features: marble and Vitrolite stall riser with chrome stall-boards; chrome transom/ventilators. (A well-preserved ‘harvest’ mural is still visible through the windows.)
Cafe Rio [58 Brewer St W1]
Unremarkable modernised cafe, however a historic family archive is displayed on the walls.
The New Piccadilly [8 Denman St W1] RIP
A cathedral amongst caffs – a place of reverence. One of the few populuxe Festival of Britain interiors left in the country. Pink Vitrolite coffee machine. Big plastic horseshoe menu. 50s clock. Wall-to-wall yellow Formica. Rows of shiny dark wood booths. The New Piccadilly menu alone is a collectors-item. “I’ve seen 50 years of change in this place,” says proprietor, Lorenzo Marioni, whose late father, Pietro, founded the joint in 1951. Lorenzo was born in a village in the Apennines, not far from Pisa. His parents moved to London shortly after the Second World War. He followed them in 1949. Within a year he was washing up and peeling the potatoes. The Marionis once owned six cafés but sold the premises, one by one, to the next wave of immigrants. Soho gangster Albert Dines once sat in the New Piccadilly and told the young Lorenzo about his association with Prince Felix Yusupov, one of the conspirators who killed Rasputin and sought refuge in London in 1919. In 1956, the cafe became a meeting point for Hungarian dissidents fleeing the Soviet invasion. (Lorenzo remembers the day when one of their number proudly showed his father a rival’s severed finger, wrapped in a handkerchief.)
Lina Stores [18 Brewer St W1]
Beautifully preserved 1950s exterior in green vitrolite and ceramic: “This tightly packed shop is charmingly old-fashioned, and the range of imported Italian produce extensive. Olive oil, porcini, lentils, beans, Seggiano chestnut honey, Sapori panforte and Paccheri pasta jostle for shelf space, and the deli counter contains great olives, cheeses, hams, salamis and truffles, marinated artichokes and anchovies plus ownmade pasta and sausages.” (Time Out) … “Lina… has been going 50 years; it still stocks everything an Italian chef, or anyone cooking Italian food would ever want and even if Italian food does not appeal it is still worth calling in here for a glimpse of what Soho used to be in an era before supermarkets, when it was the only place in the country to buy any faintly exotic foodstuff. (When we interviewed the late Jane Grigson she recalled that if in the 1950s and early 1960s you were walking along and spotted someone else with a packet of spaghetti in the old blue wax paper you would wave acknowledging a kindred spirit!)” (Jancis Robinson)
RIP/Site of… 2I’s Coffee Bar [59 Old Compton St]
The 2is, owned by professional wrestler Paul Lincoln, was a musical melting pot: country, blues, jazz, skiffle, calypso and rock. It attracted visitors from all over the country. 2is regular Joe Moretti moved to London in 1958 to play guitar for Vince Eager and Gene Vincent: “In 1958 the 2is was the fuse for the explosion that was to come in the world of UK Rock and Rollit was just a little cafe with an old battered piano in the basement in Old Compton street. But it had a soul and a buzz” Adam Faith recalled: “a ground floor cafe, with linoleum floors and Formica tables it was downstairs, at night, under the street, that the real action took place the record industry, fuelled by the skiffle craze, began to explode. But everyone expected it to be a nine-day wonder. The old-timer agents would sit around in their old-timer agent restaurants, shaking their heads, muttering ‘It’ll all be over in a week or two'”
RIP/Site of… Heaven and Hell coffee bar
Next door but one to the 2is. Another legendary 50s coffee bar.
Bar Italia [22 Frith Street W1]
On the site since 1945 (before the 50s Espresso boom) the neon entrance sign and ornate hanging clock front an interior with stools running down a long counter space laminated in two-tone Formica. Authentic Soho Italiana, but the atmosphere is somewhat vitiated by the large projection TV.
RIP/Site of… The Moka coffee bar [29 Frith St W1]
Reputedly the first Soho Espresso bar. The Moka had the first Gaggia machine in London. The venue was created by Pino Riservato (related by marriage to the director of the Gaggia company). Originally a dental equipment salesman, he decided to open his own cafe on the site of the old Charlotte Laundry after failing to sell any coffee machines to other establishments. The Moka was designed by Geoffrey Crockett and Maurice Ross. Opened to a massive publicity fanfare by Gina Lollabrigida, it would be the model for many cafes to come. (Soon after, the Coffee Inn at 37 Park Lane opened, and the Mocambo in Knightsbridge, and The Chalet in Grosvenor Street.) This 1950s cafe scene led to the reforging of London in the 60s as the world’s hippest city: “a ferment of music, fashion, film, photography, scandal and avant-gardism.”
Jimmy’s [23a Frith Street W1]
The Greeks and Italians set up the first Soho cafes early in the 1900s. This time warp 1950s basement restaurant has remained pretty well unchanged for half a century. Brilliant 50s door sign, foyer floor, and stairway down to the eatery itself. The décor is well preserved: rough white plaster, a primitive painted mural, ancient furniture and a wall space in a corner covered with cards congratulating Jimmy’s on its fiftieth birthday, “a comfortable place to sit and read, the Greek music at a low level … a welcome respite from the aggressive din of central London.”
A. Angelucci [23b Frith St W1] RIP
‘The finest Coffees for over 50 years’. The Angelucci family have been blending coffee on Frith St since they came here before World War One. Go to see the straining shelves, the fluted wall coverings, the 50s cash machine, the old grinder, the unchanged dangling lights… “Alma Angelucci and her family have been coffee specialists for over 50 years. Her father’s secret blend Mokital is enjoyed in many restaurants and cafes in London, including Bar Italia.”
The Stockpot [18 Old Compton St W1]
Retains a late 1960s pine wood design feel.
Amalfi [29-31 Old Compton St W1] RIP Sep 05
Sensitively renovated restaurant with massive basement and a small add-on side cafe which used to sport more 1950s fittings than it does now. Amazing Sorrentine murals. (Be sure to check out the amazing moderne ceiling mouldings similar to Morrelli’s in Broadstairs.)
RIP/Site of… The Pollo [20 Old Compton Street W1]
The Pollo with its ox-blood booths, Lapidus beanpole railings, Contemporary ceiling, murals, top notch signage, and perfectly preserved light fittings always had hungry queues waiting outside…
RIP/Site of… Cafe Torino [corner of Old Compton St & Dean St W1]
Soho had a greater concentration of coffee bars in the fifties than anywhere. The new caffs attracted many of London’s leading intellectuals: Francis Bacon, Lucien Freud, Frank Auerbach… At Cafe Torino, the prices were low and the owners allowed credit. Poets and pale young artists flocked there. Writer and Soho character Daniel Farson recalled: “It was pleasantly old-fashioned with tall, arched windows. It had wrought-iron tables with marble tops, cups of proper coffee you could talk for hours over a small cup of coffee… the tables were usually crowded. There were dark Italians huddled in earnest discussions, suddenly bursting into furious argument and several pale young artists and poets searching half-heartedly for jobs”…
Algerian Coffee Stores [52 Old Compton St W1]
“Opened in 1887 by Mr Hassan. With over a century of experience in the world of coffee and using the finest Arabica beans, and with over 60 different blends available, Algerian Coffee Stores are one of the leading coffee experts in the UK, specialising in the creation of new exclusive blends to suit the individual entrepreneur” … “The current owner, Mr Crocetta, inherited it from his father-in-law, who refused to accept credit cards or sell tea bags. Coffee was delivered to the basement, roasted, then sold wholesale or through the shop upstairs. The shop now sells 120 different types of coffee and over one tonne of coffee each week. It is also a stockist for Alessi products, imports and repairs espresso machines from Italy, and does now sell tea bags, along with some delicious chocolates – coated plums and ginger and large bars of sleek black Valrhona. The roasting is done in a separate warehouse – there simply isn’t room in the shop. Mr Crocetta buys his coffee through brokers, who send him samples. He then roasts these in his tiny roaster on the top floor of the shop. If he is happy with the beans, he places an order… he has seen a 30 per cent increase in the purchase of espresso coffee in the last five years.”
RIP/Site of… Bunjies Coffee House & Folk Cellar [27 Litchfield Street WC2]
One of the original Folk cafes of the 50s. Bunjie’s (named after a hamster)has played host to Paul Simon, Bob Dylan and Al Stewart. A regular haunt too of writers, singers, comedians and cartoonists. One of Leigh Bowery’s favourite cafes in the 80s, and Jarvis Cocker’s… “[Bunjies is] a bunker just off Charing Cross Road that probably hasn’t changed since it opened over 40 years ago. Jarvis Cocker first discovered the place when he was studying at Central Saint Martins College of Art round the corner… Pulp’s songs are like Mike Leigh plays set to music – little kitsch ‘n’ sink dramas about urban deprivation and strange sex. Cocker’s lyrics, which are group’s mainstay, are perfect examples of lo-fi realism, full of dirty fingernails and soiled undergarments, damp council flats and indiscriminate muggings.”
Trattoria da Aldo [51 Greek St W1] RIP
Old time 1960s style trattoria with rows of neat little booths and cod-Italiana hanging from the ceilings.
Maison Bertaux [28 Greek Street W1]
130 year old patisserie cum cafe sited between a strip club and an old pub with an upstairs room that looks like an old dairy annex. The rickety seats and tables, and worn Lincrusta lend it a, “traditional French charm and paysan appeal.”
Lorelei [21 Bateman St W1]
The Italian flag exterior and the lovely old sign are all absolutely untouched and the inside resembles a miniature village hall circa 1958 – linoleum floor, square Formica tables, shabby posters, tiny serving area, creaky wooden chairs, dingy murals. Look carefully at the sign on the side of the restaurant. The legend on the house coffee machine reads ‘Con la Cimbali… un Cimbalino!’; like everything else in this little enclave, it’s been here for over 40 years. “The espresso it produces is consistently the best in London. On top of which it is probably also the cheapest you’ll find… ” (One of the few remaining Soho basement drinking clubs is hidden round the corner, check out the Lorelei sign.)
Bar Bruno [101 Wardour St W1]
A little slice of authentic Soho of olde which, along with the Lorelei, has outlasted the developers. Chalet style booths in cheery green leatherette, and massive wall menus.
site of… 101 Snack Bar RIP [101 Charing Cross Road WC2]
This little pull-in (almost opposite the Phoenix theatre) has been a Soho staple for decades. Recently unsympathetically refitted, the all yellow and black laminate interior was blazingly bright, standing like a beacon all day and night. The outside sign, long gone, was a 50s classic.
site of … Tea Rooms [Museum Street W1]
British dinginess at its most downbeat and determined. Paint-stripper tea, biscuit displays, bacon sandwich posters… timeless, brilliant and perfect. With its trademark Deco-yellow exterior sign, the Tea Rooms seemed to refract two previous centuries of caff half-life: a hint of nineteenth century worker’s snack bar; a dash of twentieth century Lyons dining hall… The mosaic-Formica interior had an affecting spartan beauty. (The owners Rene and Eugenio Corsini attended to their flock from an old war-horse cooker called The London.)
site of … Zita (aka Ida’s) [New Oxford St/Shaftesbury Avenue WC2]
Just round the corner from the Tea Rooms, the Zita preserved a few highlights from the Festival of Britain Contemporary look: a nice 1950s exterior sign, glorious orange Formica seats and a suspended ceiling. (The old ladies who ran Zita’s had orange aprons with the cafe logo on it. They’ve gone back to Italy but their cousin has bought it.)
Sidoli’s/Lino’s Buttery [Store Street/Alfred Place WC1] RIP Jun 06
Great booth seating and a pleasing mid-century ambience all set well back from the crushing boredom of the Tottenham Court Road furniture shops. The Sidoli family used to run chains of cafes throughout Britain.
Fish Bar & Kebab House [Whitfield Street W1] RIP
The main front-section is a standard fish bar, but tucked round the side is a bolt-on mini-restaurant that looks pretty well untouched since 1953. Features include: square, solid, metal and drab-green leatherette chairs; ranks of tables; polished vinyl-wood walls; scallop shell ceilings; period clocks; random wall plates.
site of … Tony’s [91 Charlotte Street W1]
The most infamous of all the 1940s (pre Espresso) Fitzrovia cafes. Frequented by Lucien Freud, George Orwell, Dylan Thomas, Louis MacNeice & Quentin Crisp. The largely boho/villain/prostitute clientele was overseen by a razor-scared Maltese called George.
Perugino [Tottenham St W1]
Pleasant leatherette booth selection, and marble-top tables.
Finish: north Tottenham Court Road (Goodge Street tube)
As the summer of 1967 commenced, Seattle’s counterculture was only beginning to emerge from the shadow of San Francisco’s. Our leading alternative newspaper, Helix, had been established to great acclaim a few months before. All Seattle then needed was a suitable public gathering place for its quickly growing population of “fringies.” On the date in focus here, that special place arrived in earnest with the opening of the Last Exit on Brooklyn, the now-legendary University District coffeehouse.
Located at 3930 Brooklyn Avenue Northeast near the University of Washington campus, the Last Exit was established by Irv Cisski, an entrepreneur, chess enthusiast, and former co-owner of the Eigerwand, another fringie-friendly Seattle coffeehouse that had closed several months before. Cisski wanted to recreate the Eigerwand’s bohemian atmosphere in a new, larger venue. The building Cisski chose was a…
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Anyone familiar with Seattle’s University Way Northeast — better known affectionately among longtime locals as “The Ave” — surely knows that it’s long been one of our city’s most lively stretches of urban thoroughfare. Indeed, The Ave has been host to a cavalcade of colorful characters and anecdotes going back several decades. In the autumn of 1965, as the University of Washington welcomed a record baby-boom enrollment of some 26,000 students, The Ave, and the University District in general, became host to a rather amusing manufactured controversy over a certain segment of Ave regulars known alternately as “beatniks,” “fringies,” and — depending on whose opinion one was asking — other terms which were much more derisive.
That manufactured controversy became journalistically official on the date in focus here, when the University District Herald, a weekly neighborhood newspaper catering mostly to the U District business community, published the first in…
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