Postmodern Meaning of Style David Muggleton

Inside Subculture
The Postmodern
Meaning of Style
David Muggleton
OXFORD
Inside Subculture
Dress, Body, Culture
Series Editor Joanne B. Eicher, Regents’ Professor, University of Minnesota
Advisory Board:
Ruth Barnes, Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford
Helen Callaway, CCCRW, University of Oxford
James Hall, University of Illinois at Chicago
Beatrice Medicine, California State University, Northridge
Ted Polhemus, Curator, “Street Style” Exhibition, Victoria & Albert Museum
Griselda Pollock, University of Leeds
Valerie Steele, The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology
Lou Taylor, University of Brighton
John Wright, University of Minnesota
Books in this provocative series seek to articulate the connections between culture
and dress which is defined here in its broadest possible sense as any modification
or supplement to the body. Interdisciplinary in approach, the series highlights the
dialogue between identity and dress, cosmetics, coiffure, and body alterations as
manifested in practices as varied as plastic surgery, tattooing, and ritual
scarification. The series aims, in particular, to analyze the meaning of dress in
relation to popular culture and gender issues and will include works grounded in
anthropology, sociology, history, art history, literature, and folklore.
ISSN: 1360-466X
Previously published titles in the Series

Helen Bradley Foster, “New Raiments of Self”: African American Clothing in the
Antebellum South
Claudine Griggs, S/he: Changing Sex and Changing Clothes
Michaele Thurgood Haynes, Dressing Up Debutantes: Pageantry and Glitz in
Texas
Anne Brydon and Sandra Niesson, Consuming Fashion: Adorning the
Transnational Body
Dani Cavallaro and Alexandra Warwick, Fashioning the Frame: Boundaries, Dress
and the Body
Judith Perani and Norma H. Wolff, Cloth, Dress and Art Patronage in Africa
Linda B. Arthur, Religion, Dress and the Body
Paul Jobling, Fashion Spreads: Word and Image in Fashion Photography
Fadwa El-Guindi, Veil: Modesty, Privacy and Resistance
Thomas S. Abler, Hinterland Warriors and Military Dress: European Empires and
Exotic Uniforms
Linda Welters, Folk Dress in Europe and Anatolia: Beliefs about Protection and
Fertility
Kim K.P. Johnson and Sharron J. Lennon, Appearance and Power
Barbara Burman, The Culture of Sewing
Annette Lynch, Dress, Gender and Cultural Change
Antonia Young, Women Who Become Men
DRESS, BODY, CULTURE
Inside Subculture
The Postmodern Meaning of Style
David Muggleton
Oxford • New York

First published in 2000 by
Berg
Editorial offices:
150 Cowley Road, Oxford, OX4 1JJ, UK
838 Broadway, Third Floor, New York, NY 10003-4812, USA
© David Muggleton 2000, 2002
Paperback edition reprinted in 2002.
All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form
or by any means without the written permission of Berg.
Berg is an imprint of Oxford International Publishers Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 1 85973 347 6 (Cloth)

1 85973 352 2 (Paper)
Typeset by JS Typesetting, Wellingborough, Northants.

Printed in the United Kingdom by Biddles Ltd, Guildford and King’s Lynn.
Contents
Acknowledgements vii
1 Back to Reality? My Experience with Cultural

Studies 1
2 A Neo-Weberian Approach to the Study of

Subcultural Style 9
3 Postmodern Subcultures and Aesthetic Modernity 33
4 Distinctive Individuality and Subcultural Affiliation 55
5 Commitment, Appearance and the Self 81
6 Change, Continuity and Comparison 107
7 Resistance, Incorporation and Authenticity 131
8 Cultural Expression or Class Contradiction? 157
Appendix: Fieldwork Details and Interview Schedule 171
Bibliography 175
Index 191
This Page Intentionally Left Blank
Acknowledgements
During the past several years, I have become indebted to many people for
their part in helping to make Inside Subculture possible. I would therefore like
to acknowledge them here, and begin with the Economic and Social Research
Council for the three-year Research Studentship award (R00429234234) that
enabled me to undertake the original Ph.D. research on which the book is
based. The transition from thesis to book would not have happened without
the interest shown by Kathryn Earle of Berg publishers. The writing of the
book was made possible by the generous sabbatical provided to me by
University College Chichester. Thanks also to Professor Nick Abercrombie
for his invaluable advice and skilful guidance on the original thesis. I could
not have been more fortunate in my allocation of a supervisor. Grateful thanks
also to my best friend Edwina for putting me up during my fieldwork sessions
in Brighton, and for putting up with me more generally. I must also extend
my appreciation to Pennie Drinkall, Julia Harrison and Maggy Taylor, who
between them skilfully transcribed the vast majority of the taped interviews;
and to Bob Jessop and Chris Quinn in the Sociology Department at Lancaster
University, and Graham Stodd and Chris Laws at University College Chichester
for making available important resources.
I would also like to mention Berg’s anonymous reviewer for their very
detailed and constructive comments on the original thesis, David Phelps for
his skilful copy-editing of the typescript, and everyone else who sent letters,
e-mails, articles, papers and theses, etc., made helpful remarks and suggestions,
or in any way contributed to the finished product; they are in alphabetical
order: Jeffrey Arnett, Gord Barensten, Shane Blackmon, Colin Campbell,
Cathie Dingwall, Kathy Fox, Simon Gottschalk, Scott Lash, Ben Malbon,
Cressida Miles, Justin O’Connor, Ted Polhemus, Steve Redhead, Balihar
Sanghera, Dan Shapiro, David Sleightholme, Geoff Stahl, Sarah Thornton
and Jeff Webb.
The biggest debt, however, is that I owe to all my interviewees. Without
the willingness of subjects to put their trust in virtual strangers and talk about
themselves at great length, such a book as this would remain an impossible
undertaking. For their permission to allow my photographs of them to appear
in this book, a particular thank you to Duncan, Robin, Jim, Jane, Sean and
vii
Acknowledgements
Peter. I would also like to acknowledge the following for permission to

reproduce flyers: Dave Nimmo (Backstreet Boogaloo!); Jimmy Tonik (Smashed
Blocked); Ian Mackenzie (Immediate Clothing). An earlier version of Chapter
3 of this book appeared as ‘The Post-subculturalist’ in The Clubcultures
Reader (edited by Steve Redhead et al.) 1997; and I would like to thank
Blackwell publishers for their permission to re-use some of this material.
Grateful acknowledgements also to Littlebrown for their permission to
reproduce the cover of Wigan Pier Revisited.
David Muggleton
Chichester
viii
Back to Reality? My Experience with Cultural Studies
1
Back to Reality? My
1
Experience with Cultural Studies
Despite Hebdige’s own gloomy prognostication about the inevitable gulf that
separates the intellectual from the practical semiotician, Subculture was reviewed
in publications outside the academic circuit, and has become part of the ‘currency’
which circulates in and amongst those proclaiming some form of subcultural
identity.
Ann Beezer: ‘Dick Hebdige, Subculture: The Meaning of Style’

(1992: 115)
So what do you do about style? Sociology, yeah? Yeah, I did that stuff at college.
Hebdige and them lot. It’s all bollocks, isn’t it?
(Fieldwork ‘currency exchange’: A ‘practical semiotician’

on the 1994 crisis in the pound.)
According to Max Weber (1864–1920), all sociology is necessarily ‘value-

relevant’ (Weber 1949) in that the selection of a research topic, the decision
to investigate particular aspects over others, and the logic and method of
enquiry employed are all inevitably grounded in the subjective values of the
researcher. A useful way of introducing this book might therefore be to ‘come
clean’ about my own personal reasons for writing it. From late 1976 onwards,
I became increasingly involved in the emerging provincial punk rock scene. I
took on certain aspects of the subculture’s dress codes, jettisoning my flares
for ‘straights’, platforms for trainers, and my bright orange, wing-collared
shirt and fat knot tie for a white button-down bri-nylon museum piece worn
with a stripy school tie left hanging at half-mast. I even amateurishly chopped
my Ron Wood style feather-cut into a spiky crop à la Richard Hell. I listened
less and less to Pink Floyd, Jefferson Airplane and The Byrds and more to
The Ramones, Blondie and The Sex Pistols. I experienced the culture shock
of progressing (regressing?) in a matter of months from the relative mellow-
ness of an Eric Clapton concert (where we all sat on the floor) to the manic
ferocity of a Stranglers gig (where, as in a crowded kop end at football, my
1
Inside Subculture: The Postmodern Meaning of Style
feet didn’t always touch the floor). I even ‘played’ the bass guitar in a punk
rock band.
Yet this was never a sudden or complete transformation. It occurred
gradually and sequentially. I cropped my hair in stages. I never sported safety
pins through my lip, nor stopped wearing my beloved denim jacket. Complete
Control was one of the most electrifying records I’d ever heard; yet so, too,
was Heartbreak Hotel. But even then Rock ‘n’ Roll and the Beatles meant
more to me than the Clash or the Damned – they still do. I hadn’t heard of
punk until ‘after the subculture had surfaced and been publicized’.2 I wasn’t
aware of Britain’s economic decline or the fracturing of the political consensus,
nor was I angry about unemployment (even when I was unemployed). On
the other hand, personal freedom and the search for experience were (still
are) very important to me. Had I been born several years earlier I might
have been a hippy; a decade before, I would undoubtedly have become a
mod. If I had been a 1950s teenager, I might even have taken on some form
of teddy boy identity (after my punk haircut grew out, I wore it greased
back in a rocker style). To those who will say that I can’t have been a real or
true punk, let me reply in the words of Geoff, one of my own informants,
that ‘there is no such thing as punk’ (just as there is no such thing as hippy,
mod and teddy boy), and therefore no basis for the distinction between real
and pretend. Punk is what you make it. Paradoxically, this is the essence of
punk, and only ‘true’ punks realize this.
This was, to use Frank Cartledge’s phrase, ‘how I lived punk’ (Cartledge
1999: 143). And like Cartledge, I can argue that ‘this experience stands apart
from the historical and cultural theories I have read’ (ibid.). Some years after
the demise of punk (my version of punk, that is), I was browsing in a Leicester
bookshop when my eye caught the lurid cover of Dick Hebdige’s book
Subculture: The Meaning of Style (1979). Both the cover image and the title
prompted me to buy, hoping perhaps that it might help me to recapture the
feeling and spirit of those heady times. I took it home, began to read, and
could hardly understand a word of it. I fought my way through until the
bitter end, and was left feeling that it had absolutely nothing to say about
my life as I had once experienced it (thus confirming Hebdige’s own
concluding remarks on ‘the distance between the reader and the text’). Years
later still, having taken a Sociology A-level at night school, I entered University
as a mature student, where I gained a degree in Sociology and Cultural Studies.
I re-read Hebdige’s book, now understood exactly what he meant, and still
found that it had very little to say about my life! My earlier feeling was
vindicated. The ‘problem’ lay not in myself and my failure to recognize what
had ostensibly been the reality of my situation, but in the way the book
appropriated its subject-matter.3
2
It is not that Subculture: The Meaning of Style is without its virtues. It’s
exceptionally well crafted and highly inventive (but clearly too inventive),
and nowadays I thoroughly enjoy reading it, despite (or perhaps because of)
not being able to take seriously such phrases as ‘chain of conspicuous
absences’ and ‘expressed itself through rupture’.4 Nor is there any reason
why Hebdige should be singled out for criticism. Although Subculture was
the first academic text on this subject that I encountered, it was the last of
four seminal works on subcultural theory to be published during the 1970s,
the others being Stuart Hall and Tony Jefferson’s Resistance Through Rituals
(1976 – but initially published a year before as Working Papers in Cultural
Studies nos 7/8); Geoff Mungham and Geoff Pearson’s Working-Class Youth
Culture (1976); and Paul Willis’s Profane Culture (1978). All four were
associated in some way with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies
at the University of Birmingham. Hebdige, Willis and Jefferson, along with
John Clarke, another contributor, had been postgraduate students at the
Centre; Hall was its director. As Waters then commented, ‘the four books
. . . taken together, manage to convey many of the concepts that have been
important in this new approach to working class youth culture’ (1981: 24).
But in my view, this means they also display many of the same methodological
and theoretical inadequacies. The most serious, with the qualified exception
of Willis’s ethnographic study, is their failure to take seriously enough the
subjective viewpoints of the youth subculturalists themselves.5 Throughout
this book I will refer to this corpus of work as ‘the CCCS approach’.
What lies behind this neglect of indigenous meanings? Caroline Evans has
made the pertinent comment that ‘subcultures, in all their complexity, are
generally not studied in any serious, empirical way within cultural studies
because of the state of British academic life. It is cheaper to do theory than
ethnography, at least in the field of popular culture’ (1997: 185). This is no
doubt true; but as I argue in this book, not everything can be explained by
reference to economic factors alone. We should instead look within the
enterprise of cultural studies itself, and to its theoretical agenda for the study
of (sub)culture. Sabin has stated that ‘until recently . . . a form of determinism
has held sway. Too often “big theories” have been relied upon (Marxism,
the sociology of deviance, semiotics, etc.), which picture those involved in
subcultures as passive pawns of history, their lives shaped by grand narratives
beyond their control’ (1999a: 5). And while this has now given way to what
Sabin terms ‘a more subjective approach’ (ibid.), theory still retains its
privileged position over ethnography; for in cultural studies ethnographic
evidence on the lives of young people is treated less as a representation of
their subjective experiences than as an expression of their ‘subjectivities’ –
the texts, discourses, frameworks and social positions through which their
3
lived reality is ‘spoken’ (see McRobbie 1994: Ch. 10). Not a great deal seems
to have changed. As Sherwood et al. have remarked on the cultural studies
agenda for the 1990s:
The narratives that the latter-day CCCSers employ are as abstract as their theory.
The brand of cultural studies they purvey remains confined within these abstracted
political narratives, rather than engaging the stories by which social actors navigate
their reality . . . exegesis replaces interpretation, for the object of analysis is not
meaning but objective reality itself. Agents and hegemons inhabit this world; selves
and others, as real subjects, are shoved out of the empirical frame (Sherwood et
al. 1993: 373).
Hilary Pilkington not so long ago remarked how ‘it is currently fashionable
to criticise’ the CCCS work on subcultures (1997: 25). Although this is a
situation I welcome, it is surely less to do with fashion than with changes in
the balance of power in the academic community (Featherstone 1992). Lovatt
and Purkis have observed how much research in the sociology of popular
culture is being undertaken by relatively young academics, ‘many of whom
are already immersed in their chosen culture prior to intellectual engagement
with it’ (1996: 250). This situation is producing a new cohort of academic
taste-makers for whom the deficiencies of established theories are likely to
be thrown into sharp relief by their own personal experiences as, say, punks
or clubbers. If it is not stretching the point too far, perhaps their subsequent
critiques can be understood as a need to satisfy what Andy Medhurst has
referred to as ‘the urge to shout – no, I know more about it than you, because
I was there’ (1999: 219). Pilkington also warned of the ‘danger’ in representing
the CCCS as the ‘mainstream’ against which contemporary research on youth
culture can be defined. This ‘danger’ is somewhat unavoidable if one wishes
to write about youth subculture, for the CCCS approach has attained the
status of an orthodoxy. At the beginning of this decade, Anne Beezer (1992:
115) could confidently assert that critiques had so far failed to challenge its
intellectual hegemony. Several years and a succession of innovative qualitative
and ethnographic studies of subcultures later, this is no longer quite so
convincing a claim.6 Even so, the CCCS approach continues to provide the
benchmark against which contemporary developments are measured,
particularly assessments of the extent to which subcultures have become
‘postmodern’.
Unfortunately, sociological analyses of postmodernism continue to be
plagued by some of the most serious faults of the CCCS work, especially
their use of grand theory, ‘a model which can be articulated in, and be
descriptive of, a whole series of cultural phenomena’ (Stephanson 1987: 29).
At their worst, such accounts appear to aspire to the status of a postmodern
4
sociology, ‘abandoning popular culture analysis altogether in favour of

grandiose totalizing metaphors (Black holes, implosion, excremental culture
etc.)’ (Kellner 1992: 148).7 Even those analyses that can be located within
the more sober, rationalist tradition of modern sociology are still flawed by
a tendency to provide theoretically overdetermined interpretations of events.
To quote another understandably frustrated researcher, ‘all too often this
boils down to providing yet another paraphrase of Barthes, Baudrillard or
Bourdieu, or giving yet another whiff of the latest hallucinogen drifting out
of the second arrondissement, rather than as the cue for detailed research’
(Moorhouse 1991: 223). Nor, of course, are we told how social actors
themselves perceive postmodern phenomena. Strinati sums up the situation
when he writes: ‘there has, in fact, been a tendency to assume that post-
modernism has become widespread in modern societies. However, less
attention has been devoted to demonstrating that this is the case’ (1995: 223).
My own position, however, is not one of assuming, but of demonstrating.
The purpose of the interviews extracts presented in this book is to show
how members of youth subcultures interpret and make sense of the post-
modern characteristics imputed to them by social theorists.8 In contrast to
the neo-Marxist theory of the CCCS and the analyses of postmodern
commentators, my own approach is one that I have termed neo-Weberian,
for it is located within the tradition of conventional qualitative sociology
that derives from Weber’s insistence upon the need for sociological explan-
ations to recognize the subjective goals, values and motivations of social
actors. It also displays a number of more specific features taken from Weber’s
methodological writings, and draws upon the work of those who interpreted
Weber or who work within this paradigm. The aims of this book are,
therefore, twofold. First, to uncover the subjective meanings, values and
motives of those involved in style subcultures such as punk, goth, skinhead,
hippy, etc. Second, to examine empirically certain contemporary claims about
the implications of the ‘postmodern’ for such subcultures. These two aims
are related, in that I wish to discover if subcultural stylists have what, in
another context, Seago (1995) has termed a ‘postmodern sensibility’; in other
words, are their subjective meanings and cultural practices consonant with,
even celebratory of, contemporary developments that have been termed
postmodern?
I associate the ‘modern’ with rational-Puritanism, and the ‘Enlightenment’
characteristics of stasis, homogeneity and demarcation. The ‘postmodern’, I
argue, is an intensification of aesthetic-Romantic cultural traits always
implicated in the development of modernity, which find their expression in
flux, plurality and heterogeneity. Although both sets of traits can be found
in the CCCS approach, it is the modern that predominates. I conclude that
5
the members of my contemporary sample can be characterized as postmodern

in that they display an individualistic, fragmented and diffuse sensibility. A
postmodern celebration of style and image was not evident, however. Instead,
informants expressed attitudes consistent with a modern ‘depth’ model. Their
mixed class base and ‘anti-structure’ sentiments suggest that the distinction
between collectivist working-class subcultures and individualistic middle-class
countercultures is overemphasized. I argue that contemporary subcultural
styles can be understood as a symptom of postmodern hyperindividualism,
and that this process can be traced back at least to the 1960s. However, any
assessment of the extent to which subcultures have become detached from
collectivist working-class group formations must remain conjectural given
the paucity of comparative historical data.
The content of particular chapters is as follows. After this introduction I
set out in Chapter 2 my Weberian approach to the study of youth subcultures
and attempt to convince you, the reader, that my methodological and
theoretical recommendations and procedures avoid some of the main
problems associated with the CCCS approach. In Chapter 3 I examine
contemporary claims concerning the implications of the postmodern for
fashion and subcultural style, and trace certain characteristics of postmodern
style to their origins in aesthetic modernity. The remaining four chapters
until the conclusion present an analysis of the empirical data. Chapter 4
examines the individualistic basis of subcultural affiliation, while Chapter 5
looks at stylistic mobility and how this might be reconciled with a commit-
ment to subcultural membership. The topic of Chapter 6 is long-term
subcultural change and whether this precludes the marking of subcultural
boundaries through oppositions with other groups. Chapter 7 looks at media
and commercial incorporation along with political values, and considers how
subcultures can be regarded as a form of resistance. Chapter 8, my conclusion,
proposes some theoretical explanations for my empirical findings. In
particular, I argue that Romantic, liminal tendencies have permeated working-
class culture.
The academic reader might claim that I have, amongst other things,
neglected the importance of gender, ignored a major component of post-
modernism, paid insufficient attention to material factors; but they are urged
to consider that I am not attempting to provide anything more than a
necessarily one-sided and partial understanding of subcultural phenomena.
As I began by saying, my logic of inclusion and inquiry inevitably reflect my
own values and interests (a point that is equally applicable to all authors
and critics). ‘Whatever event or situation we may investigate, its infinity
ensures that we must always ignore certain of its features as not pertinent to
the values in question’ (Hindess 1977: 32). As to whether ‘the members of
6
any of the subcultures described in this book would recognize themselves

reflected here’,9 I would hope this isn’t unlikely. My aim, after all, is to
privilege their subjective meanings. But this is a work of sociology; it
appropriates such meanings, necessarily subjects them to a (more or less)
complex process of analysis and overlays them with what Marsh et al. (1978)
call ‘an interpretative gloss’.10 To take seriously the words of respondents is
therefore no guarantee that your analysis or explanations of their accounts
will not ultimately prove impenetrable to them.11 Hence, there is always a
danger in pointing an accusing finger, as I did earlier towards Hebdige, for
by so doing it is possible to leave yourself open to much the same criticism.
Perhaps, in the circumstances, the best I can hope for is to demonstrate that
we are not always condemned to speak quite so excessively about reality.
Notes
1. See McRobbie (1997).

2. Hebdige (1979: 122).
3. Gottdiener also comments that Hebdige ‘fails in explaining the meaning of
punk’ (1995: 249).
4. Hebdige (1979: 120, 122). As Tanner had already caustically commented on
the CCCS, ‘it is a very thin line that divides “insight” from pretension, and some of
the accounts given in these works fall into the latter category’ (1978: 367).
5. There is a section in Resistance through Rituals entitled ‘ethnography’, but
we have to interpret this term somewhat loosely. As Blackman puts it, ‘“literary
ethnography” on the three subcultures analysed, is substituted for direct empirical
observation as a means of obtaining evidence for their theory’ (1995: 4).
6. I am thinking here in particular of Moore (1994), Widdicombe and Wooffitt
(1995), Thornton (1995), Blackman (1995), Arnett (1996), and Malbon (1999).
7. For a particularly good example, see the entry on fashion in Kroker et al.
(1989). This is also cited, in part, in Muggleton (1997). On the distinction between
a sociology of postmodernism and a postmodern sociology, see Featherstone (1992).
8. Details of the fieldwork and a copy of the interview schedule appear in the
appendix.
9. Hebdige (1979: 39). Would informants, anyway, wish to recognize themselves
in academic accounts? Evans (1997) has argued that, by seeking to explain the nature
of subcultures, texts such as this are engaged in exactly that process of definition
from which the members of subcultures are attempting to escape.
10. I would not dispute that ‘individuals’ accounts of their experience pose the
same interpretative problems that any text or object does’ (Nehring 1996: 338).
This does not, however, entail the relativism of all such accounts. Nehring’s own
attempt to theorize subcultures though an analysis of literary and cultural texts raises
the whole problem of how far such an enterprise imposes a spurious interpretation
7
upon the phenomenon in question, particularly when, as in Nehring’s case, the project
has an explicitly political agenda, ‘to help shape cultural dissidence’ (ibid.: 1).
11. For what I consider to be a prime example of this point, see Widdicombe and
Wooffitt’s discourse analysis of their interviews with subculturalists (Widdicombe
1993; Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1990, 1995).
8
A Neo-Weberian Approach to the Study of Subcultural Style
2
A Neo-Weberian Approach to
the Study of Subcultural Style
The analysis which I offer here is intended as an exercise in interpretative
sociology . . . Like Max Weber, I am inclined to consider ideas, norms and values
as powerful patterns which may facilitate, deflect, transmute and perhaps even
preclude the development of possibilities which lie in the structural arrangements
of societies.
Bernice Martin: A Sociology of Contemporary

Cultural Change (1985: 1)
Sociology (in the sense in which this highly ambiguous word is used here) is a
science concerning itself with the interpretative understanding of social action
and thereby with a causal explanation of its course and consequences.
Max Weber: Economy and Society – An Outline of
Interpretative Sociology (1968: 4)
Privileging Subjective Meanings
At one point in Defending Ski-Jumpers: A Critique of Theories of Youth

Sub-Cultures, Gary Clarke makes the suggestion that the CCCS fail to provide
us with a certain type of evidence because to have done so would have been
considered a ‘Weberian deviation’ (G. Clarke 1982: 8). The whole of this
book can on this basis safely be regarded as a Weberian deviation, but one
that at least attempts to put subjective meaning back into the ‘empirical frame’
(Sherwood et al. 1993: 373). In this chapter, I want to sketch out what I
regard as the main features of a neo-Weberian approach to subcultures. I
argue that if we are to provide a sociological account that has the virtue of
being grounded in the subjective reality of those under study, we must: (1)
privilege the subjective meanings of subculturalists rather than deriving these
from a pre-given totalizing theory; (2) take a ‘nominalist’ rather than ‘realist’
position on social reality – for example, proceed on the phenomenal level
9
rather than viewing this as an expression of an underlying structure; and (3)

recognize the independent explanatory role of cultural values rather than
theorizing these as necessarily related to economic and social factors.
As the opening quotations of this chapter suggest, a Weberian study of
subcultures must be based upon an interpretation of the subjectively held
meanings, values and beliefs of the subculturalists themselves. This is the
premise upon which Weber’s verstehen methodology is founded, the literal
translation of the term verstehen being ‘human understanding’. Put simply,
humans (social actors) possess ‘inner states’ by which they understand,
interpret and evaluate the courses of action open to them. We must therefore
take seriously the subjective meanings of subculturalists, for these provide
the motivation for their conduct. This makes the subjective dimension a
central component in any explanation of social phenomena.
This point can be seen in Weber’s insistence that all explanations must
establish ‘adequacy on the level of meaning’ (Weber 1968: 12). If, for example,
we observe a regular sequence of actions but fail to gain an understanding
of how the relevant actors subjectively interpret this situation, we are left
with no more than ‘an incomprehensible statistical probability’ (ibid.). On
the other hand, having ascertained a subjective motivation for an action, we
must also demonstrate ‘causal significance’ by showing that it is likely to
recur in the same way. In placing emphasis on both meaning and probability,
Weber was acknowledging that individual actions are tempered by social
and cultural constraints. A Weberian explanation of subcultures must
therefore be adequate on the levels of both meaning and causality: it should
begin with an empirical investigation of the subjective values of individual
subculturalists, but go beyond the level of actors’ meanings ‘to the collective
forces that impel the actor’ (Ritzer 1981: 80), to identify the belief systems
that have played a part in the emergence of subcultural phenomena.
In carrying out such an analysis, we need to guard against imposing our
own conceptual reality upon that of our informants. Here, my procedure
closely follows that of Alfred Schutz (1963, 1980) who, in reworking Weber’s
ideas on social action, posed the question: how is an objective social science
of subjective meanings possible? (Ritzer 1981). Schutz’s solution was to
advocate the construction of scientific typifications of actors’ subjective
typifications, thus:
The thought objects constructed by the social scientist, in order to grasp this social
reality, have to be founded upon the thought objects constructed by the common-
sense thinking of men, living their daily life within their social world. Thus, the
constructs of the social sciences are, so to speak, constructs of the second degree,
that is, constructs of the constructs made by the social actors on the social scene,
10
whose behaviour the social scientist has to observe and explain in accordance
with the procedural rules of his science (Schutz 1963: 242).
One example of empirical research that appears to follow this method of

concept formation is the study on football hooliganism, The Rules of Disorder
(Marsh et al. 1978). Here, Marsh and his co-authors talk of the ‘interpretive
gloss’ of the social scientist, which is derived from and ‘overlaid’ upon the
common-sense ‘insider’ accounts given by the fans themselves (1978: 118–
20). We are warned that, ‘if one was to listen carefully to the fans and on the
basis of this build up an account of the insider reality but then found that
this reality was unrecognisable when offered back to fans, one would have
to admit one had got it wrong’ (ibid.: 95).
Yet this relationship between first- and second-degree constructs is fraught
with problems for the social scientist. Marsh’s own criterion of validity seems
to be premised upon what is arguably a common misunderstanding of Schutz’s
‘postulate of adequacy’1 (Schutz 1963: 247). Here, Schutz does not state
that social scientific models are required to be recognizable as common sense
by social actors; rather, they ‘must refer to’ the subjective constructs of such
actors (ibid.: 245). This is hardly the same thing. As I suggested in my opening
chapter, sociology has its own conceptual vocabulary, which can be far
removed from the everyday language and modes of thought that provide its
subject-matter. What Schutz does stipulate is that the relationship between
‘the thought objects constructed by the social scientist’ and ‘the constructs
of everyday life’ is one of ‘compatibility’ (ibid.: 247–8). On this basis, I want
to propose a criterion of validity that is based, not on recognition, but on
compatibility – the degree of ‘fit’ between the social scientific constructs and
the common-sense reality of social actors. This, in my opinion, is still a
stringent criterion, and one that I do not think the CCCS satisfy.
It is not always fully recognized that the CCCS also aimed to provide an
understanding of subcultures at the level of the individual consciousness of
the participants. Phil Cohen (1984: 83), for instance, suggested that a
comprehensive analysis of subculture should take place at three levels, the
historical (the specific conditions facing the working class as a whole), the
structural or semiotic (the articulation of subcultures as a response to these
conditions), and the phenomenological (how the subculture is ‘lived out’ by
its members). J. Clarke et al. (1986: 57) similarly proposed that an analysis
at the levels of structure, culture and biography would demonstrate how
individual pathways are carved out within common cultural responses to
shared structural conditions. Yet, despite such recommendations, ‘these
writers were noticeably silent about the subjective experience of everyday
life as a member of one of these subcultures’ (Moore 1994: 1). As Clarke
11
and his co-contributors readily admitted in Resistance Through Rituals, ‘we

have not been able, here, to deal at all adequately with the level of biography’
(J. Clarke et al. 1986: 57). I would, however, argue that this is not an oversight
but the consequence of the employment of an a priori theoretical framework
(i.e. based on principles determined in advance) that has resulted in a
structural overdetermination of subjective meanings.
We can observe in the CCCS approach to youth subcultures what Saunders
has elsewhere identified as ‘two central principles’ of Marx’s own method –
materialism and totality (1989: 16). Materialism is the principle that material
reality exists independently of our consciousness of it, that economic resources
are the ultimate basis of power and conflict, and that material interests are
the driving force of history. The emphasis on social totality emerges from
Marx’s dialectical analysis – the principle of the unity of opposites. This
stresses that any specific element of society must be analysed in terms of the
whole social relations of which it forms a part, ‘as a rich totality of many
determinations and relations’ (Marx 1973: 100). Clarke and Jefferson, for
example, stipulate that ‘the analysis must relate the specific phenomenon in
question [youth subculture] to the social totality (1978: 157). The problem
with this approach is that it imposes a holistic framework upon the phen-
omenon with the ‘answer’ known in advance – some subcultures have a
largely working-class membership, therefore they are solutions to economic
contradictions. As Woods points out, ‘theory is not “generated” here, but is
rather related to whatever aspects of the empirical scene seem relevant’ (1977:
75. Original emphasis). Moreover, although the CCCS authors foreground
particular subcultural groups, this logic of procedure does not investigate
the subjective meanings of the members; rather, it retrospectively identifies
the ‘historical problematic’ faced by the class as a whole (and to which the
subculture is an attempted ‘solution’), and semiotically decodes the political
and ideological meanings of the subcultural response (see, for a discussion
of this methodological orientation, Jefferson 1973; Murdock and McCron
1978, 1986; G. Clarke 1982).
While this procedure implicitly informs the CCCS project as a whole, it is
most apparent in Phil Cohen’s (1984) seminal paper ‘Subcultural conflict
and working-class community’, which examines how the economic and social
changes acting upon London’s East End during the late 1950s and early 1960s
effectively forced a remaking of the working class in a ‘bourgeois’ image. At
the ‘historical level’ of subcultural analysis, Cohen charts how economic
restructuring and post-war redevelopment schemes combined to dismantle
the traditional supports of a working-class culture.2 The communal neigh-
bourhood and extended kinship system were eroded as families moved away
to the new ‘privatized’ housing estates located on the outskirts of London,
12
while the local family businesses and craft-based economy were undermined
by large-scale concerns operating outside the immediate district. This process
of restructuring was to ‘polarize’ the indigenous working class: some of its
members were presented with a vision of upwards social mobility into the
working-class elite, while others faced the threat of downwards mobility into
the ‘rough’.
At the structural and semiotic level of analysis, Cohen’s thesis is that the
original mod and skinhead subcultures can be understood as attempted
solutions by working-class youth to these problems facing the parent culture,
but expressed symbolically through bricolage, the appropriation and recon-
textualization of cultural items to communicate new meanings. In this way,
the mod style can be interpreted (or decoded) as an exploration of the
‘upwardly mobile option’: they ‘attempt to realize, but in an imaginary
relation, the conditions of existence of the socially mobile white collar worker
. . . their dress and image reflected the hedonistic image of the affluent
consumer’ (ibid.: 83; original emphasis). Conversely, the skinhead lifestyle
and appearance can be regarded as an exploration of the ‘downwards option’:
‘a reaction against the contamination of the parent culture by middle-class
values and a reassertion of the integral values of working-class culture through
its most recessive traits – its puritanism and chauvinism’ (ibid.: 84).
There is, however, no phenomenological level of analysis in Cohen’s paper.
It does not attempt a reconstruction of the subjective motives and meanings
of the mods and skinheads, but presents a semiotic interpretation of sub-
cultural solutions. Subcultures ‘carry “secret” meanings : meanings which
express, in code, a form of resistance to the order which guarantees their
subordination’ (Hebdige 1979: 17–18). Style is read as text, and only the
semiotician is entrusted to crack the code. There is, in other words, an
academic ‘elitism’ implicit in this method (Turner 1992: 131). Moreover, as
Stanley Cohen has famously remarked in his classic critique of the CCCS,
‘this is, to be sure, an imaginative way of reading the style; but how can we
be sure that it is not also imaginary?’ (S. Cohen 1980: xv). He goes on to say:
In one way or another, most of the problems in the ‘resistance through rituals’
framework are to be found at the theory’s third level: how the subculture is actually
lived out by its bearers. The nagging sense here is that these lives, selves and
identities do not always coincide with what they are supposed to stand for (1980:
xviii).
While according to Dorn and South:
The acknowledgement of important changes in the structure of the local economy

and the family was obtained at the expense of an empathy with the experiences of
13
those facing structural changes. There was seldom, in the Birmingham Centre’s
work, much sense of the authenticity of the individual account, or of social
psychology. Male youth cultures were interpreted as systems of resistance to
dominant ideologies without much regard to the question of the relation between
the meaning of youth cultures for participants and that for sociologists (Dorn and
South 1982: 15–16).
Here, I would invoke my criterion of validity, that social scientific

explanations should at least ‘fit’ the subjective reality of the subjects of the
study. Trowler and Riley point out that ‘if this is not the case the sociologist
is merely imposing a set of meanings on the participants’ (1985: 162). Clearly,
the combination of a Marxist theory and semiotic analysis has led to such
an imposition, and I would not hesitate to follow Trowler and Riley (ibid.:
163) in suggesting ‘that the CCCS “got it wrong” for this very reason’. The
source of the problem is the claim of an a priori theoretical knowledge of
the social totality that has already provided the CCCS with the economic
and social factors (the historical problematic) that are most relevant to
subcultural analysis and in terms of which the structural/semiotic and
phenomenological levels are interpreted. Phil Cohen claims that ‘no real
analysis of subculture is complete without all those levels being in place’
(1984: 83). Yet, as we shall see, it is not possible to have this exhaustive
knowledge of social reality, nor of pre-given theoretical principles; our
comprehension of the world can only ever be empirical, partial and one-
sided.
A Nominalist Approach to Concept Formation
According to Weber, reality is given to us in appearances. A Weberian

approach to youth subcultures therefore takes place only at the level of
observable phenomena. Yet Weber also took the neo-Kantian view that reality
is composed of a limitless number of individual entities and events, each one
capable of being described in an infinite number of ways. As the world cannot
therefore be known in its entirety we must necessarily impose a conceptual
‘ordering framework’ upon it (Sayer 1984: 49) by which we can define, select
and abstract those aspects that are relevant to our own interests and concerns.
Here is the rationale behind Weber’s methodological concept of the ‘ideal-
type’ – a ‘one-sided accentuation’ of what we regard as the particularly
‘significant’ characteristics of a phenomenon (Weber 1949: 90). The identif-
ication of ‘significant’ features is undeniably an expression of value; but the
infinite complexity of the social world means that value-free, objective
14
accounts of phenomena are impossible. Different researchers may therefore

choose to select different aspects of the same phenomenon for study or regard
certain features as inherently more important than others; but all such choices
are necessarily grounded in the values and interests of the academics
concerned – all concepts are ideal-typical in character.
Jenks has stated of the ideal-type that it ‘has remained elusive and
confounding to generations of students of socio-cultural life’ (1993: 51). The
concept, however, loses some of its mystery when we recognize that we all
use ideal-types even though we may be unaware of it. ‘Student’ is itself an
ideal-type. In using the term we are simply classifying certain individuals
together on the basis of one general shared attribute (that they are taking a
course of, usually post-compulsory, education) while ignoring all the other
innumerable differences or similarities between them. ‘The ideal type is the
pure case, never actualised, uncluttered by extraneous attributes and ambig-
uities’ (MacRae 1982: 66). Exactly this same logic applies to ‘subculture’. It
is therefore inevitable that:
The subculture concept involves abstract construction. A subculture is typological

in the sense that it involves selection and abstraction of cultural aspects of socio-
cultural systems. Only some of a great range of cultural features are selected, such
selection normally being made according to what the researcher sees as the main
distinguishing features of the subculture. Insofar as the selected and frequently
accentuated (abstract) features are woven into a patterned construct, ‘subculture’
may be regarded as an ‘ideal type’ . . . The criteria enabling such a boundary to be
drawn around what is and what is not subculture, are of a more abstract conceptual
order than those usually used in the selection of sample populations (Pearson 1979:
15).
Ideal types do not and cannot faithfully represent reality in all its confusion
and complexity, but abstract from reality in a consistent manner those features
most relevant to our interests. They are heuristic devices to aid empirical
research, and we construct them wholly with this purpose in mind. As we
will see in the next chapter, this study utilizes two subcultural ideal types;
one emphasizes those traits typical of a modern subculture, the other selects
typical postmodern features. By comparing these ideal types with the actual
sensibilities of a sample of contemporary subculturalists, explanations can
be proposed for the observed similarities and discrepancies. It is important
to stress that these modern and postmodern characteristics cannot be found
in their pure form in any one individual subculturalist. In Chapters 4 to 8 I
therefore select and present through interview extracts those features and
sensibilities that characterize the ‘typical’ contemporary subculturalist.
15
How does this method of concept formation differ from that used by the
CCCS? From our discussion of the ideal type it should be clear that, for
Weber, it is not possible to identify the essential features of reality. ‘Social
reality does not possess a real essence because it is always capable of being
constructed in various different ways’ (Parkin 1982: 28). On this point Weber
clearly differs from Marx, for whom there is a true essence of reality that
exists objectively and independently of how it appears to us in phenomenal
forms. As Morrison puts it, ‘reality presents itself in a distorted way and
appears to be other than it actually is’ (1998: 47). In Marxist terminology,
the relationship of our ‘lived reality’ to this ‘true reality’ is an ‘ideological’
one.3 While ideology constitutes reality for individuals, it nonetheless involves
them in a ‘common misrecognition of the real mechanisms which have
distributed them to their respective positions’ (Robins and Cohen 1978: 113)
– we may, in other words, hold erroneous (ideological) conceptions of our
(real) identities and interests. We can identify this approach quite clearly in
Resistance Through Rituals. Its project is to penetrate the ideological
discourses of the time (affluence and classlessness) and the cultural and
phenomenal forms through which they are lived and understood (the teenage
youth culture), in order to give causal priority to ‘real’, essential (i.e. Marxist
class) relations.
The language of classical Marxism used in Resistance Through Rituals is
indicative of such a project. ‘This exercise of penetrating beneath a popular
construction’ (J. Clarke et al. 1986: 9); ‘the “phenomenal form” – Youth
Culture provides a point of departure, only, for such an analysis’ (ibid.: 10);
‘to move from the most phenomenal aspect of youth subcultures to the deeper
meanings’ (ibid.: 17). The influence of Althusserian Marxism is also apparent
here: ‘the ideology of affluence constructed the “real relations” of post-war
British society into an “imaginary relation”’ (ibid.: 37). In identifying these
‘real relations’ as class relations of production, the authors also make the
traditional Marxist claim that ‘conflicts of interest arise, fundamentally, from
the difference in the structural position of classes in the productive realm,
but they “have their effect” in social and political life’ (ibid.: 38). These
essential class relations are not ideal-typical constructs, such as we find in
Weberian sociology, but structural relationships of exploitation that have a
real existence not given to us in direct experience. As Clarke and his colleagues
argue ‘class conflict never disappears . . . it cannot “disappear” – contrary
to the ideology of affluence – until the productive relations which produce
and sustain it disappear’ (ibid.: 41).
The CCCS approach therefore situates youth subcultures within a theor-
etical framework of class oppression, conflict and exploitation. Thus, while
youth subcultures are seen to ‘win space’ in the battle against the hegemonic
16
incorporation of the subordinate class into bourgeois culture, they are merely
symbolic responses, ‘imaginary’, ‘magical’ or ‘ideological’ solutions, for they
fail to perceive and, hence, mount a challenge to, the real relations of society
underlying phenomenal forms.4 ‘No amount of stylistic incantation can alter
the oppressive mode in which the commodities used in subculture have been
produced’ (Hebdige 1979: 130). Marshall’s less charitable interpretation of
this approach is that ‘youth subcultures must be read . . . as a form of
resistance to bourgeois ideological domination – despite the fact that the
subjects of the research cannot and do not recognise themselves in such an
account’ (1990: 173). But this transcendence of the limits of subjective
experience could be regarded as the very strength of the method. Indeed, it
is precisely because of its claimed ability to penetrate our common-sense
categories of thought that many of its adherents champion Marxism as a
scientific analysis of society, while continuing to regard as ideological all
other perspectives (including Weberian sociology) that remain at the level of
phenomenal appearances.
This claim to scientific superiority raises what Saunders calls ‘the obvious
question’: namely, how ‘Marx’s method of dialectical materialism can analyse
the totality and come to discover its essential features when all other methods
are doomed to remain partial in their scope and superficial in their insight’
(1989: 18). According to Derek Sayer (1979), Marx uses a logic of hypothesis
formation called ‘retroduction’, which is a method of reasoning from
appearances to the mechanisms that could have caused those phenomena.
‘Marx has no mysteriously privileged starting point’. Like everyone else he
has access only to ‘the phenomenal forms of our everyday experience’ (Sayer
1979: 102). Of course, for Marx, such phenomenal forms are ideological
and misleading. He therefore moves retroductively from observable phen-
omena to postulate the existence of essential relations that could account
for those appearances. There are, of course, limits on what constitutes a
reasonable hypothesis, since it must be able to explain the original observ-
ations; yet Sayer regards this as ‘evidently a weak form of inference’ (ibid.:
135), since for any observed effect there may be a number of possible causes.
How then can we ever know, asks Saunders, ‘that the essential relations
posited by the theory are the correct ones since there is always the possibility
that other essences could be put forward which could explain phenomenal
forms equally as well?’ (1989: 20–1). It is here that we begin to encounter
problems in the verification of ‘realist’ explanations in social science.5
I have already outlined Weber’s method of concept formation, the ideal-
type, the selection and abstraction of elements from empirical reality. In this
sense, Weber can be identified as taking a ‘nominalist’ approach. A nominalist
approach regards the empirical as all that can be known about reality. Its
17
concepts are empirical constructs that do not add to our knowledge of reality,
but classify, divide and organize observable events and appearances (Burrows
1989: 48). By contrast, a realist approach considers empirical reality to be
only the surface level of reality, generated by the structures and mechanisms
of the underlying level. Realist concepts are theoretical constructs that identify
these real, underlying (but unobservable) mechanisms and thus add to our
knowledge of reality. Given Marx’s own distinction between the appearance
of reality (phenomenal forms) and the essence of reality (class relations of
production), his approach can be clearly identified as realist (Benton 1977;
Keat and Urry 1982). Although Marx’s definition of class includes an
empirical component (the identification of a class that own the means of
production, and a class that own only their labour power), there is a deeper
level (the real but ‘hidden’ extraction of surplus value that is the basis of
conflict and exploitation) at which these essential relations can be known
only theoretically.
Realism also operates with a different conception of causation to nomin-
alism. Whereas nominalism is concerned to establish an empirical sequence
of cause and effect, such that event A helps to create B (as we will see in our
discussion of Weber’s Protestant ethic thesis), realism seeks to identify the
underlying structural mechanisms that generate particular social phenomena.
Andrew Sayer (1984) conceptualizes these mechanisms as ‘causal powers’
and ‘liabilities’, inherent properties of an object that necessarily produce a
tendency to behave in a particular way. These tendencies continue to operate
even though their empirical manifestation depends upon their coming into
contact with a variety of contingent conditions. To draw upon Saunders’s
discussion of Sayer’s own example from the natural sciences (Saunders 1989:
207), we may observe that copper wire has a tendency to conduct electricity.
The mechanism that has generated this tendency is inherent to copper (viz.
its ionic structure). Some pieces of copper wire will, however, fail to act as
conductors because certain contingent factors, such as dampness, have
intervened to prevent the tendency from being realized. The presence of
counteracting contingent factors does not, of course, mean that the necessary
tendencies do not exist. Copper still has an inherent capacity to act as a
conductor of electricity despite, in this case, the absence of any empirical
evidence for this assertion.
Now, clearly, in the natural sciences such contingent factors can be
controlled and manipulated in experimental conditions (what Andrew Sayer
(1984) calls ‘closed’ systems), enabling us to assess the validity of our
hypothesized causal mechanisms. But in the ‘open’ systems of the social
sciences, where it is impossible to control or even identify all the variables,
and there are obvious ethical and practical obstacles to the setting up of
18
experiments, the problems of confirming and falsifying realist causes become

insurmountable (Saunders 1989: 358). A relevant example is Marx’s own
assertion that in capitalist societies there is a necessary tendency for the rate
of profit to fall. As Derek Sayer (1979) points out, Marx also identified six
‘counteracting tendencies’ that make it impossible to verify this claim. Indeed,
the tendency of the rate of profit to fall is an example of a so-called ‘law’ of
social science that, on these grounds, can never be falsified despite its failure
to operate empirically as a law, for empirical ‘events reflect contingent
conditions while theory is concerned with necessary conditions which exist
irrespective of whether they become manifest’ (Saunders 1989: 356–7).
Proponents of realism, such as Andrew Sayer, argue that the construction
of a nominalist concept proceeds without reference to the real structure of
the world, ‘and hence is unable to recognize that some selections are better
than others according to their relationship to this structure’ (A. Sayer 1984:
216). Yet how can we know that realist concepts have mapped ‘real’
structures? From what we have seen of Marx’s method, it can be regarded
as scientific only in so far as it produces plausible or conjectural claims about
unobservable essential relations. But the existence of these relations and the
truth or falsity of the propositions derived from Marxist theory can never be
conclusively demonstrated. We can never therefore be certain that the world
does have the ‘real’ structure that Sayer attributes to it. This is not, however,
to credit Weberian sociology with the scientific superiority that we deny to
Marxism. Weber fully realized that all social explanations can never be more
than partial and one-sided; that ‘every “ism” which claims complete validity,
is in part a reflection of the point of view of the social scientist’ (Lee and
Newby 1985: 171). This does, however, ensure that there can be no basis
for the claim that Marxism (or, indeed, any theory) produces scientific
knowledge whereas all other approaches merely reproduce ideological
categories of thought. As Hirst argues, there is no ‘general criterion of validity’
(1979: 21) by which different social theories can be rated and a science–
ideology distinction asserted. All perspectives have a purchase on plausibility,
and must be judged according to their own procedures and principles.
Authenticity, Mobility and Change
From the arguments so far presented it should be clear that there are no
reasons why we must necessarily accept a Marxist theory of youth subcultures
over a Weberian approach. Equally, however, this does not in itself justify a
rejection of the CCCS work. It is insufficient to dismiss a position merely
because it can provide no ‘final guarantee’ of validity. It must instead be
19
evaluated ‘by a concrete analysis of the substance of its arguments’ (Larrain

1984: 211). What I therefore want to demonstrate is that the employment
of a Marxist theory has led to three major problems in youth subcultural
analysis that a Weberian approach is able to avoid. These are the problems
of: (a) authenticity and origins; (b) mobility and change; and (c) realist
ethnography.
Authenticity and Origins
The problem of authenticity is really the issue as to what constitutes ‘proper’

or ‘genuine’ membership. Yet before we can address such a question we must
first establish the ‘real’ purpose or reason for subcultural affiliation, for
without this knowledge we cannot decide who is, or is not, authentic. It
seems logical to argue that if we want to discover the ‘real point’ of being a
mod or punk or whatever, then we must ask the individuals concerned to
provide their subjective motives and reasonings. In other words, the question
of authenticity can only properly be addressed by having recourse to the
views of individual members themselves (see Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995).
In this way, the relationship of authenticity to such issues as class membership,
how the style was constructed, or the point in time at which one joined the
subculture, would be established empirically. The alternative method would
involve imposing external criteria of authenticity derived from a priori theory,
thereby presenting the problem of how to accommodate theoretically those
members who do not conform to such definitions. But this is exactly what
the CCCS do. ‘Genuine’ membership is located in an original moment of
collective working-class stylistic innovation. It is by reference to this
theoretical standard that ‘subcultural practices could then be construed as
active, innately (and authentically) oppositional and resistant’ (Stahl 1998:
16).
Class, in the CCCS approach, is a structure with the causal power to
generate subcultures as counter-hegemonic responses to specific historical
contradictions. The task is therefore one of explaining the emergence or
genesis of subcultures in their first ‘authentic’ moment of resistance. As such,
the prime focus is on stylistic innovation through bricolage, the creative
construction of an ensemble to carry new meanings. Now, it is true that the
CCCS approach also examines how the world of commerce eventually takes
these innovative styles and transmits them to a wider public, producing a
fashion statement that effectively negates the radical action of the original
bricoleurs. Yet this process of ‘diffusion and defusion’, as it is called, is given
only a very brief and schematic treatment in the CCCS literature.6 As the
CCCS authors themselves readily admit, it is of secondary importance
20
compared to the main project of theorizing the ‘authentic’ point of subcultural

inception: ‘This is not to deny the role of commercial interests in the
perpetuation, modification and eventual incorporation of youth styles, but
it is to assert a “moment” of originality in the formation of such a style.
And it is this formative “moment” we are most interested in’ (J. Clarke and
Jefferson 1978: 148).
In contrast, then, to the ‘moment’ of originality, ‘the moment of incorp-
oration itself remains untheorized’ (Cagle 1995: 40). This effectively produces
an abrupt theoretical dichotomy between the authentic subcultural members,
and the incorporated followers of commodified subcultural fashions. Here
is the theoretical justification for Hebdige’s infamous ‘distinction between
originals and hangers-on’ (1979: 122). As it is phrased with regard to punk,
‘the style no doubt made sense for the first wave of self-conscious innovators
at a level which remained inaccessible to those who became punks after the
subculture had surfaced and been publicized’ (ibid.). Here, I concur with
Gary Clarke in finding this theoretical demarcation ‘particularly problematic’
(G. Clarke 1982: 14). I, too, ‘would like to ask for whom this distinction is
significant?’ (ibid.).
A focus on authentic origins also produces a particular conception of
subcultures as internally homogeneous and externally demarcated. Clarke
describes them as ‘the abstract essences of subcultures . . . non-contradictory
and “pure”’ (1982: 8). Waters talks of ‘a closed anthropological entity . . . a
static category . . . frozen in time’ (1981: 29, 30). This problem is compounded
by the too tight fit drawn between subculture and class, leading to caricatures
based on pre-given assumptions about the form an authentic working-class
response should take; for example (the emphasis in all cases is my own), ‘the
shared social experiences of adolescents in particular class locations are
collectively expressed and negotiated through the construction of distinct
leisure styles’ (Murdock and McCron 1986: 203); ‘so highly structured, visible
and tightly-bounded a response’ (J. Clarke et al.1986: 33); ‘the collectivity
of their being-as-a-group . . . a collective response to the material and situated
experience of their class’ (ibid.: 47); ‘an organised group-identity in the form
and shape of a coherent and distinctive way of “being-in-the-world”’ (ibid.:
54); ‘clearly articulated, collective structures – often, “near-“ or “quasi-
gangs”’ (ibid.: 60); and finally, ‘a tightly bound entity . . . sets the group off,
distinctively, from other similar and dissimilar groups . . . the symbolic use
of things to express an internal coherence’ (ibid.: 56).7
This strong emphasis on class-based forms carries with it the ‘dangerous
assumption’, as Gary Clarke calls it, ‘that all members of a subculture are in
the same class location’ (1982: 9). Empirically, this assumption is easily
21
contradicted. Murdock and McCron (1986: 205) mention the problem of

the ‘class defectors’ found in studies by Willmott (1969) and Buff (1970),
the working-class youths who favoured the bohemian style and ideas of the
middle-class ‘hippy’. While it therefore becomes important for Murdock and
McCron ‘to explain why adolescents sharing the same class location should
be attracted to styles developed by other class fractions’ (1986: 205), we
should note how this remark still assumes that there is a pure class origin to
styles, and that members of other class fractions are only subsequently
attracted. This line of reasoning could easily lead to empirical evidence of
mixed-class subcultural membership being explained away by reference to
Hebdige’s distinction between the ‘originals and hangers-on’ (1979: 122).
As Roberts puts it, ‘successful fads need only time to spread beyond their
origins and straddle class boundaries (1985: 119). Here, the class defectors
become in realist terms the ‘contingent events’ that can be distinguished from,
and hence said not to negate, the ‘necessary’ point of origin, the initial
emergence of authentic members from a specific class fraction.
We might think that styles that travel beyond their origins would, in the
process, undergo transformation and modification. Cagle, for example,
assumes that subcultural style is open to ‘multiple interpretations’ in the
market-place (1995: 40). But, as we have already seen, the moment of
transformation is also the point of incorporation, after which the wearers of
the style are no longer resolving contradictions but merely following fashion,
and therefore of no real concern to the CCCS. Hence, Gary Clarke can refer
to ‘an uncomfortable absence in the literature of any discussion as to how
and with what consequences the pure subcultures are sustained, transformed,
appropriated, disfigured or destroyed’ (1982: 8). What is therefore missing
from this analysis is a whole dimension of change.
Mobility and Change
The issue here, as raised by Kenneth Roberts, is: ‘do most young people move
through a succession of rebellious youth styles?’ (1985: 129). Such a question
is all the more important because of its obvious links to the problem of how
subcultures are modified and transformed. Fine and Kleinman have proposed
that subcultures are kept in a constant ‘state of flux’ because of the actions
and interactions of individuals transmitting ‘cultural elements’ between groups
(1979: 6). Yet such a level of analysis is often overlooked, and subculture
portrayed ‘as a homogeneous and static system’ (ibid.: 5), because of the
tendency of academics to reify the concept of subculture – to treat the concept
as a real, material thing with its own properties that stand apart from the
complex lived reality of individual members.
22
Now Weber fully realized that sociologists cannot avoid the use of collective
concepts such as ‘the state’ or ‘the working class’ (or, in our case, ‘subculture’).
Yet he insisted that they should be regarded as nothing more than shorthand
terms for aggregates of individuals. This methodological individualism, as it
is called, can be seen in Weber’s use of the ideal-type. As we have already
seen, ‘subculture’ is merely a nominalist abstraction, a purely arbitrary way
of grouping together a number of individuals on the basis of certain selected
features that we choose to highlight for the purpose at hand. From this
perspective there are no real boundaries within which members of subcultures
are ‘contained’, nor can there be, for as Hughes et al. put it, ‘there is no
dividing line built into reality’ (1996: 109) according to which such boundaries
can be identified. Or, to put the same point in a different way, there are no
collective realities in the world to which such concepts can directly refer (we
cannot see ‘a subculture’, only individual members). The notion of a collective
concept that ‘acts’ is therefore a sociological fiction; only individuals have
this ability. ‘Collectivities must be treated as solely the resultants and modes
of organization of the particular acts of individual persons, since these alone
can be treated as agents in the course of subjectively understandable action’
(Weber 1968: 13).
Weber’s method is therefore expressly designed to clarify the actions and
meanings of individuals. By contrast, the CCCS framework is not equipped
to provide an analysis at the individual level. Evans has recently remarked
how ‘the way in which individuals negotiate and move through subcultures
is something very different from, even contradictory to, the way in which
writing on subculture tends to “fix” such identities’ (1997: 179). It is not
that the CCCS failed to recognize the potential for subcultural mobility. As
Clarke et al. state in the opening pages of Resistance Through Rituals,
‘individuals may, in their personal life-careers, move in and out of one, or
indeed several, such sub-cultures’ (J. Clarke et al. 1986: 16). The problem is
that, despite the lip service paid to ‘biographies’, such pathways are seen
only ‘in terms of’ structures and cultures (ibid.: 57). Thus, we hear much
about collective concepts, ‘youth’, ‘subcultures’, ‘the young’; but there is no
theoretical space for individuals in this analysis. The CCCS concept of
subculture is a realist structure that exists independently of individual
members and draws real boundaries around them.8 As Phil Cohen puts it,
using the language of Marxist class analysis, ‘subcultures are symbolic
structures and must not be confused with the actual kids who are its bearers
and supports’ (1984: 83). It is the subculture that is the unit of analysis here,
not the individual subculturalists.
The CCCS approach, in other words, falls into the trap of reifying the
concept of subculture. It is treated, in effect, as a real, material entity that
23
‘acts’. As such, the concept stands in for the individual members. Individuals
appear in the analysis only as epiphenomena of essences, structures and
totalizing theories. The lack of concern shown by the CCCS in the individual
actor and the absence of any consideration of change are not merely
regrettable oversights, but direct consequences of their theoretical and
methodological approach.
We are left with many questions that cannot be satisfactorily answered
within the CCCS framework. How do we identify the point at which
innovative style becomes incorporated fashion? On what criteria can
particular subculturalists be regarded as authentic or inauthentic? Where can
we draw the line that separates the originals from the followers? To go back
to the question raised by Gary Clarke: for whom (and how) are these
distinctions significant? The CCCS regard them as significant, for they are
predicated upon their own political project of attributing authenticity
according to pre-given criteria of resistance. But Clarke’s question demands
an empirical investigation that considers the actions and meanings of
individual subculturalists. It cannot be answered by the imposition of a
totalizing framework into which the distinction is already built. Real
individuals pay no heed to theoretical injunctions.
Realist Ethnography
I have so far talked of ‘the CCCS approach’ as if it were a unified body of

theory. But Blundell et al. have insisted that the internal ‘diversity’ of the
‘subculture group’ must be respected (1993: 43). I indicated in the opening
chapter that the work of Paul Willis provides a qualified exception to the
criticism that the CCCS failed to consider the lived reality of those under
study. McGuigan identifies these methodological differences more precisely:
The broadly ‘culturalist’ and ‘structuralist’ strands in Birmingham subcultural

analysis are best exemplified by the work of Paul Willis and Dick Hebdige
respectively. There was considerable interaction and overlap between these two
strands. However, the alternative methodological strategies of ethnographic field
work, on one hand, and the reading of subculture as ‘text’, on the other, call into
question accounts which oversimplify the unity of the Birmingham School’s
perspective (McGuigan 1992: 97–8).
While not wishing to deny the basic premise of this argument, I want to
demonstrate that Willis’s ethnographic observations were, to employ an
Althusserian term, ‘overdetermined’ by his a priori commitment to the same
structuralist principles of Marxism and homological analysis that we find
elsewhere in the CCCS. In this sense, Willis’s position can be seen as realist,
24
‘concerned with the clarification of structures and their associated generative

mechanisms, which have been contingently capable of producing the observed
phenomena’ (Tsoukas 1989: 556).
Willis opens Profane Culture with a testimony of his commitment to field
work that immediately serves to distance him from textual analysis. As he
famously argues: ‘the sheer surprise of a living culture is a slap to reverie.
Real, bustling, startling cultures move. They exist. They are something in
the world. They suddenly leave behind – empty, exposed, ugly – ideas of
poverty, deprivation, existence and culture. Real events can save us much
philosophy’ (Willis 1978: 1). For Willis, therefore, the potential of participant
observation is that it enables us to ‘be surprised’, allowing us the ‘profoundly
important methodological possibility . . . of reaching knowledge not pre-
figured in one’s starting paradigm’ (Willis 1984: 90). But exactly how much
philosophy does this ‘save us’? Willis also states that ‘the researcher should
be as flexible as possible, and suspend so far as possible specific theories –
while admitting his general theoretical orientation – for the explanation of
what he expects to encounter’ (1978: 195), and it is clear that Profane Culture
operates within a general Marxist framework.
First there is the emphasis on the dialectic. ‘The essential theme of the
book is that oppressed, subordinate or minority groups can have a hand in
the construction of their own vibrant cultures’ (1978: 1), cultures that are
‘not free-floating’, but situated within ‘social locations and determinations’
that are not of the respondents’ own making (ibid.: 170). Secondly, this is a
class-based, materialist analysis. By ‘taking what is radical’ from their parent
culture, working-class bikers and middle-class hippies have responded to
‘massive contradictions’ generated at the socioeconomic level (ibid.: 171).
Thirdly, there is the theoretical reading of subcultures as ‘magical’ solutions
(although Willis does not use this term), in that their cultural response ‘never
worked back single-mindedly to the causes of the suffering, oppression and
exclusion of their members’ (ibid.: 176). This pre-given framework inevitably
impinges upon the project as a whole. Dworkin has stated that Willis ‘was
certainly aware that youth subcultures had failed to challenge the dominant
order, but he had no theoretical means of grasping the nature of the process’
(1997: 157). Yet the language of Marxism is stamped on virtually every page
of the introduction to Profane Culture. As Marcus has commented on Willis’s
ethnographic method: ‘The Marxist system is there, so to speak, to be invoked.
A commitment to it by the ethnographer makes it available as an image of a
system to be worked into the ethnography’ (1986: 173; original emphasis).
If this is Willis’s ‘general theoretical orientation’, then his lower-level theory
also shares much with that found elsewhere in the CCCS. Willis does not
provide a detailed semiotic reading of the ‘meaning’ of subcultural style as
25
we find in J. Clarke (1986), P. Cohen (1984) and Hebdige (1979), but he

was the first of the CCCS authors to analyse the homologies existing between
a group’s self- consciousness and their use of such symbolic objects as style.
As Willis tells us, a homological analysis ‘is concerned with how far, in their
structure and content, particular items parallel and reflect the structure, style,
typical concerns, attitudes and feelings of the social group’ (1978: 191).
But, of course, this logic of inquiry inevitably produces what Downes and
Rock have called ‘a considerable symmetry’ in the internal relations of a
subculture (1988: 161). It constructs an altogether too coherent portrayal.
And in so far as we compare subcultures to each other, as Willis does here
with the bikers and hippies, then we invariably create homological oppositions
between groups. There are, I think, three issues here.
First, Willis’s observations appear as a manifestation of the structuralist
framework within which homological analysis is conducted. Elements cannot
exist in isolation, but only in relationships of association. This reproduces at
the empirical level ‘a framework of meanings that is both coherent and
meaningful . . . style as a signifier of a unified subcultural practice, rather
than as a series of distinct subcultural expressions’ (Muncie 1984: 102). As I
argue in Chapter 4, it is not that homologies may not be present, but that
Willis’s employment of a particular theoretical framework enabled him to
discover exactly that for which he was already looking. Subcultures are far
more ‘fluid and amorphous formations’ (Osgerby 1998: 24) than Willis
conveys here.
Second, this analysis takes place at the group level, and thus begins with
the assumption that individuals are tied to group homologies: ‘my study was
of the larger social and cultural whole and not of a specific group or of
specific individuals except in so far as they embodied central meanings and
values’ (Willis 1978: 12). Yet to have begun with individual members might
have problematized the whole concept of a coherent subculture, for indiv-
iduals can be ‘significantly related’ (ibid.: 192) to a range of cultural forms
(music, styles, ideas and values) that complicate or even contradict the
homologies identified at the group level.
Thirdly, this ensures that the question of change is again undertheorized.
Reading Profane Culture, it seems beyond the bounds of possibility that some
bikers may have become suedeheads, or that certain hippies could have
transformed themselves into glam rockers or punks, so imprisoned are
individuals by group homologies. Willis’s analysis does allow for the different
interpretations that the same ‘cultural item’ can offer to different groups, or
to the same group over time, ‘so that what was once accepted is rejected’
(ibid.: 192–3). But if, as I have argued, individuals can embrace a range of
complex cultural forms, these can open up for them a variety of subcultural
trajectories.
26
Despite his testimony to ethnographic field work, Willis’s study of

subcultures is therefore beset by the same two methodological problems that
can be found elsewhere in the CCCS work. One: it utilizes a totalizing
framework that obscures the inevitable partiality of its analysis. Fornäs has,
for example, argued that ‘no identities can be reduced only to homologies –
they always include heterologies . . . an internal differentiation and diversity
. . . that make the homologies only relational and partial’ (Fornäs 1995: 114).
Two: it demonstrates an a priori commitment to inviolable Marxist principles
in terms of which the empirical data are interpreted. The effect is to relegate
ethnography to the role of providing the descriptive richness to the ‘pure’
conceptual categories (internally cohesive, externally demarcated) found
elsewhere in the CCCS literature. This is not, of course, to suggest that an
alternative approach can dispense with theoretical starting-points. My
discussion of the ideal-type has remarked on the inevitability of a conceptual
and theoretical ordering framework. Yet, as we have also seen, a Weberian
approach does recognize the partiality of any analysis, and will derive its
concepts empirically rather than from a priori theory, and amend its
constructions and propositions on the basis of empirical evidence.
The Independent Role of Beliefs and Values
A Weberian approach must take seriously the independent role of cultural

factors in any explanation of subcultural phenomena. Cultural values, in
other words, ‘cannot be reduced to economic, material, political, or other
factors . . . [They] are a determining factor in their own right’ (Himmelfarb
1995: 257). Weber’s clearest demonstration of this position can be found in
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (Weber 1976). As the title
might partly suggest, Weber’s intention was to examine how a particular set
of religious beliefs could have helped to foster the attitudes necessary to the
growth of modern rational capitalism. Simplistic readings of this work are
largely responsible for the impression (quite mistaken, as we shall see) that
Weber takes an ‘idealist’ stance (defined here as being concerned only with
the causal role of ideas in effecting social change), in direct contrast to Marx’s
status as a ‘materialist’ (emphasizing the causal role of material or economic
factors).
This is undeniably a crude caricature of Weber’s position, for nowhere did
he posit a simplistic one-way causal interpretation of history or claim that
religious ideas directly ‘caused’ the emergence of capitalism. In his ‘Protestant
ethic’ study, Weber placed as much importance on material pre-conditions
as he did on the role of ideas, demonstrating that even in cases where ‘the
27
capitalist spirit is alive and flourishing, but lacks the proper institutional
supports’, capitalism as an economic system could not develop (Parkin 1982:
42). As Weber was at pains to point out, ‘it is not our aim to substitute for a
one-sided materialistic interpretation an equally one-sided spiritualistic causal
interpretation of culture and of history’ (1968: 91). Any suggestion that
historical change can be explained by one primary set of causal relations,
either material or cultural, would also have run directly contrary to Weber’s
pronouncements on the infinite complexity of social reality, where a mult-
iplicity of factors operate independently in any given context. Ironically, it is
this very position that may have helped form Weber’s reputation as an idealist,
for the complexity of the social world ensures that analysts must select and
abstract those factors relevant to their own investigation. Weber also makes
this point quite clear when he writes: ‘There is no absolutely “objective”
scientific analysis of culture or . . . of “social phenomena” independent of
special and “one-sided” viewpoints according to which – expressly or tacitly,
consciously or unconsciously – they are selected, analysed and organized for
expository purposes’ (Weber 1949: 72).
From this perspective, a focus on a particular set of factors is a self-
conscious attempt to present a necessarily one-sided view of social change.
Weber’s emphasis on the role of religious beliefs is therefore ‘merely intended
to provide a corrective to any unbalanced emphasis on economic ones . . . to
make up for the fact that they had been unduly played down in other places,
and not because he considered these the single most significant factors in
history’ (Hughes et al. 1996: 99).
My argument here takes a similar form. I am not disputing that material
factors (for example, a growth in the purchasing power of youth) and changes
in the class structure (see Chapter 3) are implicated in the development of
subcultures. I want, however, to demonstrate that subcultures can also be
explained by reference to changes in cultural belief systems that have an
autonomous, although interactive, relationship to socioeconomic factors. Let
us conclude this chapter by illustrating this point. To do so we must return
again to Weber’s ‘Protestant ethic’ thesis. Put simply, Weber’s argument is
that modern capitalism required a set of attitudes conducive to rational
entrepreneurial activity – a capitalist ‘spirit’, which emphasized the moral
imperative of hard work, discipline, and the rational accumulation of profit.
This spirit was itself stimulated by an earlier set of religious beliefs that
interpreted business activity as a duty towards God – an ethic of ascetic
Protestantism (or as it is commonly known, a puritan ethic) that stressed the
importance of worldly success through the values of thrift, frugality and self-
denial. In a complementary thesis, Colin Campbell (1987) has logically
argued: if there is a cultural imperative behind the development of modern
28
production, then why not also behind modern consumption? Campbell goes
on to demonstrate his case convincingly – that a pleasure-seeking ethic of
Romanticism (or as it is sometimes referred to, a permissive or expressive
ethic), itself derived from a religious ethic of pietistic Protestantism, lies behind
the restless and hedonistic search for novelty that characterizes modern
consumer behaviour.
We have here what, on the face of it, appear to be two opposing ethical
guides for conduct – restraint/licence; renunciation/pleasure; control/
expression. The original carriers of both ethics were the upper-middle classes,
and the central values of those (now fully secularized) belief systems remain
fundamental to the world-view of that class. The CCCS were certainly correct
to regard the 1960s counterculture as a ‘crisis within the dominant culture’
(J. Clarke et al. 1986: 65). It was a conflict between the puritan work ethic
of the respectable, bourgeois middle classes, and the expressive Romanticism
of the youth of that same class.9 But, of course, variants of those values can
be found in different social groups. Bernice Martin (1985) has illustrated
how the respectable fractions of both the manual and non-manual classes
were traditionally puritanical ‘cultures of control’, concerned with order, self-
discipline and, above all, the maintenance of boundaries and categories (a
time and place for everything and everything to be kept in its place). Why,
then, should we not also find Romantic-expressive values in the working
class that promote cultures of freedom from order, control and the rigidity
of convention? There is a hint of this in Phil Cohen’s (1984) discussion of
the origin of the mods and skinheads. Here, we find that the problems
produced by the so-called embourgeoisement of the working-class are overlaid
by contradictions at the ideological level, ‘between traditional working-class
puritanism and the new hedonism of consumption’ (ibid.). The subcultural
solution is designed to address these ideological tensions, so that, according
to Roberts’s commentary, ‘rockers and skinheads revive puritan masculinity,
while mods accentuate consumption-oriented values’ (Roberts 1978: 75).
That the skinheads were reviving the more ‘recessive’ working-class
elements of the puritan work ethic is readily understandable. So were the
mods expressing some variant of a consumption-related permissive ‘play’
ethic? And how, then, could we place them in relation to the middle-class
hippies of the 1960s counterculture? According to Martin (1985), the mods
and the hippies both display certain characteristics of Romanticism (but the
hippies to a far greater extent), in that both are concerned with the exploration
of ‘liminoid’ moments of spontaneity, anti-structure and individual expression.
There is here, in other words, an explanation framed in terms of cultural
conflict, a conflict between ‘the values of change, diversity, individuality and
imagination [and] those of uniformitarianism, universalism and rationalism’
29
(C. Campbell 1987: 181), and between the groups who embody these values.
Again, this does not mean that socioeconomic changes are unrelated to the
development of subcultures; rather, that cultural change has its own indep-
endence from economic factors. This is not, of course, the view of the CCCS,
who explain the mod subculture an attempt to cover the gap between the
‘largely mythical’ promise of affluence and the ‘mundane reality’ of their
economic circumstances (J. Clarke and Jefferson 1978: 150, 153). But if we
view subcultures as an expression of cultural values rather than as a ‘solution’
to class-based contradictions we are liberated from all the theoretical problems
we have seen to arise from defining subcultural authenticity according to
economic criteria.
The relationship between subculture and class is therefore one that is
contingent, and in so far as subcultures establish a form of cultural ‘sensibility’
through attitudes and values, consumption practices and various leisure
activities, they can more accurately be conceptualized as ‘lifestyle’ groupings.
The concept of lifestyle (Bocock 1992; Veal 1993; Reimer 1995; Chaney
1996) arguably has its basis in Weber’s distinction between class, defined in
terms of the ‘production and acquisition of goods’, and status, concerned
with the ‘consumption of goods as represented by special “styles of life”’
(Weber 1970: 193; original emphasis). For Weber, class and status represented
autonomous spheres of power and influence. While these two dimensions
may empirically coincide, status cannot simply be reduced to class. Culture
or consumption (values, ideas, lifestyles) cannot be considered a mere
reflection, or epiphenomenon of, class position (Scheys 1987). In the CCCS
approach, however, despite Hebdige’s description of subcultures as ‘cultures
of conspicuous consumption’ (1979: 103), the connection between class and
culture is always a theoretically necessary one. Hetherington has commented
that Hebdige’s position ‘is one that is not particularly interested in the
connotations within a style but what that style denotes in terms of broader
issues of class and class politics’ (1998: 55).
Hence the CCCS view is of working-class subcultures resisting the
hegemonic culture. But who exactly is doing the resisting? In noting the
tendency for the CCCS to ‘present punk, skinhead and teddy boy styles as
examples of working-class youth subcultures’, Roberts has asked: ‘Is the label
justified?’ (1985: 128). There are two points to raise briefly here. First, as
Roberts (ibid.) has noted, too little attention is given to the different class
fractions from which subcultures originate. Martin, for example, describes
the mods as the progeny of ‘the “privatized”, consumer-oriented new working
class, the “middle class from the flats not the ’ouses” so resented by the
skinheads a few years earlier’ (Martin 1985: 146).10 Martin’s argument (as I
read it) is that in both outlook and structural location, the mods were the
30
embodiment of embourgeoisement, and were culturally as close, if not closer,

to the middle-class hippies as they were to the lumpen, lower-working class
teds, rockers and skins. Second, we have already remarked on the ‘class
defectors’ of the 1960s. We have no reliable evidence as to the extent of
these ‘defections’, but we know that nearly a third of Brake’s sample of fifty
hippies from the 1970s were from manual backgrounds (see Brake 1977).
Moreover, remarks on the undeniably mixed class membership of the punk
subculture of that decade (Frith 1978, 1983; Muncie 1982) suggest the
difficulty of establishing whether it is by now the middle or the working
classes who should be regarded as the defectors. What this indicates is the
possibility of a value convergence across social classes; that youths from
different class backgrounds can hold similar values that find their expression
in shared membership of a particular subculture. The extent and implications
of this are something that we will consider in our concluding chapter.
In this chapter I have sketched out the general features of the neo-Weberian
approach that, throughout the book, will continue to inform our analysis of
the more specific issues raised in this chapter – authenticity, change, mobility,
fashion, collectivism and individualism, control and freedom. In introducing
such issues we have anticipated some of the debates about the characteristics
of a postmodern society. I indicated in the last chapter that postmodern
analyses, like those of the CCCS, typically fail to consider the relationship
between the theoretical assumptions they make and the lived reality of social
actors. In order to re-establish this connection we must first discover the
implications of the postmodern for subcultural styles. It is to an examination
of this issue that we now turn.
Notes
1. I am grateful to Dan Shapiro for this observation.

2. The classic study of how these social changes impacted upon the 1950s East
End community is by Young and Willmott (1980).
3. For a discussion of the use of the concept of ideology in the CCCS, see D.
Clarke (1980), Hall (1981, 1984), Turner (1992) and Blundell et al. (1993).
4. This description of the subcultural response as both counter-hegemonic strategy
and imaginary solution bears testimony to the influence of Gramsci (1971) and
Althusser (1971) upon the CCCS.
5. For a discussion of realism, see Bhaskar (1978), Keat and Urry (1982), A. Sayer
(1984), Outhwaite (1987) and Burrows (1989). Saunders (1989) provides a first-
rate critique.
6. A mere four and a quarter pages are devoted to it by J. Clarke (1986: 185–9),
and just seven and a half by Hebdige (1979: 92–9).
31
7. It is worth contrasting this with the description of middle-class countercultures

as ‘diffuse, less group-centred, more individualised’ (J. Clarke et al. 1986: 60).
8. There is a further assumption here, reinforced by the emphasis on a collective
response, that the members of a subculture must see themselves in group terms (e.g.
I’m a mod; I’m a skinhead). On this point, see Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1995).
9. On the close relationship between dominant middle-class values and those of
the counterculture, see Levin and Spates (1970), Mills (1973), C. Campbell (1980,
1987) and Heelas (1996).
10. Tanner (1978: 364) also provides a comparison between the class origins of
mods and skinheads. The classic study of the affluent (privatized) worker is by
Goldthorpe et al. (1969). See also Lockwood (1966).
32
Postmodern Subcultures and Aesthetic Modernity
3
Postmodern Subcultures and
1
Aesthetic Modernity
The cultural logic of modernity is not merely that of rationality as expressed in
the activities of calculation and experiment; it is also that of passion, and the
creative dreaming born of longing.
Colin Campbell: The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of
Modern Consumerism (1987: 227)
There are in fact only ‘traits’ of modernity which, at one level, tend to a particular
homogeneity in great contrast to the immense diversity of traditional cultures.
Yet modernity implies change, and constant changefulness, in contrast to the
stability of other cultures.
Mike Gane: Baudrillard’s Bestiary (1991: 92)
The Postmodern: A Periodizing Concept?
As Featherstone tells us, ‘there is, as yet, no agreed meaning to the term
“postmodern” – its derivatives, the family of terms which include post-
modernity, postmodernité, postmodernization and postmodernism are often
used in confusing and interchangeable ways’ (1992: 11). Hebdige has likewise
remarked on ‘the degree of semantic complexity surrounding the term’ (1992:
331–2), while Lyon has asked: ‘is postmodernity an idea, a cultural experience,
a social condition, or perhaps a combination of all three?’ (1999: 6). Some
of this confusion has undoubtedly been accentuated by our different concept-
ualizations of ‘the modern’ – the benchmark against which postmodern
developments are usually measured. Following Featherstone’s own example
(1992: Ch. 1), I would therefore like to clarify the meaning of two sets of
terms that will commonly appear in this chapter – modernity/postmodernity
and modernism/postmodernism. The first pair are used in an epochal sense,
with postmodernity conveying the idea of a shift from, or transformation
of, modernity, such that we have made, or are in the process of making, a
33
move to a new historical period or form of society. The latter set more
specifically refer to the cultural aspects of a particular society or epoch, with,
for example, postmodernism emerging as the culture of postmodernity.2
This historical focus should be kept in mind throughout this chapter, for
my aim is to examine what implications there might be for subcultures if we
are, indeed, moving towards a postmodern society. I intend to explore this
theme, as it relates to both fashion in general and subcultural style more
specifically, through examining the assertions of other writers and comment-
ators on this topic. Lest I be misunderstood, let me make it clear that I am
not in this chapter providing an opinion as to whether the changes to which
I refer are actually taking place, nor am I claiming that subcultures necessarily
have the characteristics that can be inferred from these changes. My point is
to use this debate to construct two ideal-types, respectively representing what
we might expect to be the logically purified characteristics and sensibilities
of a modern and a postmodern subculture. These provide the necessary
conceptual clarification to enable us to assess empirically the extent to which
a sample of contemporary subculturalists display a postmodern sensibility.
A useful point of departure for our analysis is the work of those writers
who have theorized postmodernity or postmodernism in broad transitional
terms. One such opinion is that we are moving towards a postindustrial age,
a theme found in the work of both Lyotard (1984) and Baudrillard (1983b).
Lyotard talks of the production of new forms of computerized knowledge in
an information society. Modern knowledge, Lyotard claims, was founded
upon totalizing claims to legitimacy and rational progress – what he calls
the ‘grand narratives’ of Marxism, Humanism, Science, Feminism, etc. In
the face of contemporary scepticism towards these grand narratives, post-
modern knowledge can no longer appeal to universal validity, but has
atomized into a plurality of localized ‘language games’ (1984: 17). Certainty
and absolutism must be replaced by indeterminacy and difference. Baudrillard
(1983b) theorizes how ‘information networks’ and media proliferation have
brought about a transition from an ‘industrial order’ of mass production to
a society premised on the reproduction of signs and images (ibid.: 100).
Whereas images once reflected and represented reality, or even produced an
ideological mystification of reality (as in the Marxist sense), the image now
serves to distract us from the fact that there is no reality to which it seems to
refer. Indeed, Baudrillard goes so far as to claim that free-floating signs reach
a stage in which they refer only to each other: the image ‘bears no relation
to any reality whatsoever: it is its own pure simulacrum’ (ibid.: 11). This is
the order of simulation, ‘the generation by models of a real without origin
or reality: a hyperreal’ (ibid.: 2).
Other writers have seen the postmodern less in terms of a break with the
34
existing mode of production than as a development within it. Jameson (1984,

1985, 1991), for example, theorizes postmodernism as the ‘cultural dominant’
of post-war, multinational/late/consumer capitalism. In citing as one defining
feature of postmodernism the transformation of reality into images, and
claiming that almost everything in the social becomes mediated by the
cultural, Jameson breaks down the very distinction between the cultural and
socioeconomic realms on which his model is based. Two distinguishing
characteristics of this culture, as outlined by Jameson, are its ‘schizophrenic’
fragmentation of time, and its ‘depthlessness’, the foregrounding of ‘spectacle’
over narrative. Lash and Urry (1988) similarly propose an ‘elective affinity’
between postmodern culture and the post-war stage of disorganized capital-
ism. According to the authors, postmodern cultural forms foreground impact,
pleasure and spectacle, signifying through the visual image and the electronic
impulse (ibid.: 287). Through the media of television, advertising, video, and
home computers postmodernism pervades both high and popular culture,
instilling itself into the fabric of everyday life. By so doing it transgresses the
‘modern’ boundaries that once demarcated culture and society, image and
reality, original and reproduction, art and everyday life.
These analyses provide a useful beginning for an understanding of the
postmodern. In their different ways they tend to concur in their identification
of a major postmodern impulse: that it collapses modern boundaries and
hierarchies, both vertically and horizontally, producing as a consequence a
culture that is both superficial and fragmented. Yet the above discussions
are restricted in that they all effectively utilize periodizing conceptions of
society: postindustrial follows industrial, or modernism is succeeded by
postmodernism. This tends to obscure the differences within and the
continuities across different historical periods. What I want to argue is that,
far from there having been just one modern period, there have been two
very different modernities, a modernity of ‘order’ and a modernity of
‘disorder’ (Rojek 1995), or what Lash and Friedman (1992) call ‘high’ (or
Enlightenment) modernity and ‘low’ (or Aesthetic) modernity (see also
Berman 1987; Lovatt and Purkis 1996; Hetherington 1998).
As Lash and Friedman outline the distinction, enlightenment modernity is
premised on scientific reason and is characterized by ‘stasis’, ‘fixity’ and
‘universality’ (1992: 1; original emphasis). We think here of Weber’s figure
of the rationally motivated individual; also of Weber’s warnings on the ‘iron
cage’ of bureaucratic capitalism. Aesthetic modernity, on the other hand, is
very much about expressivity and the experience of rapid social change – ‘a
matter of movement, of flux, of change, of unpredictability’ (ibid.). Its origins
lie in Baudelaire’s Paris and Simmel’s Berlin (see Frisby 1985a), with its
1980s embodiment in Berman’s New York. My argument for invoking this
35
distinction is that while the postmodern represents a break with many of the
tendencies in enlightenment modernity, it expresses substantial continuities
with aesthetic modernity, and could be regarded as an intensification of such
features (Kellner 1992: 174).
The Paradoxes of Modernity: ‘From Modern Styles to

Postmodern Codes’
Although Daniel Bell (1976) has stressed the contradictory relationship that
exists between a rational economy organized on the basis of efficiency and a
hedonistic culture ruled by the principle of self-gratification, it is possible to
posit rationalism and Romanticism as contrasting cultural traditions of
modernity locked together into a symbiotic relationship (C. Campbell 1987).
As we saw in the last chapter, the origins of modern production lie in ascetic
puritanism, founded upon rationalization, utilitarianism and regulation, while
the sphere of modern consumption obtains its dynamic from pietistic
puritanism, Romanticism and an ethic of sensibility. The series of contrasts
suggested here, between stasis and dynamism, rational and aesthetic, puritan
and hedonist, are particularly pronounced within the paradoxical phen-
omenon of fashion. There is, as Flügel (1930) has noted, a central ambiguity
in fashion between the desire for adornment and the puritan requirement
for modesty. Wilson, likewise, sees enshrined within fashion the contradiction
between the hedonism of a secular capitalism or modernity and the ‘asceticism
of Judaeo-Christian culture’ with its emphasis on repression and conformity
(1985: 9). For König, the central paradox of dress is that it clearly entails
both ‘a compulsion to change [and] a compulsion to adaptation . . . to the
new kind of style’ (1973: 54). Simmel clearly agrees, seeing fashion combining
‘the attraction of differentiation and change with that of similarity and
conformity’ (quoted in Frisby 1985a: 98). Baudrillard, continuing in a similar
vein, talks of the apparent contradiction in modernity between ‘a linear time
of technical progress . . . and . . . a cyclical time of fashion’ (1993: 89).
From one perspective, the social upheavals and dislocations of the past
two centuries, the sweeping away of traditional economic and cultural
structures where ‘all that is solid melts into air’ (Marx and Engels 1979: 83;
Berman 1987), have defined an insecure epoch of modernity in direct
opposition to the stability, certitude and predictability of traditional society.
As Wilson puts it: ‘the colliding dynamism, the thirst for change and the
heightened sensation that characterize city societies particularly of modern
industrial capitalism go up to make this “modernity”, and the hysteria and
exaggeration of fashion well express it’ (1985: 10). But if Wilson sees a
36
congruence between this ‘aesthetic modernity’ and the phenomenon of

fashion, there is the other modernity. This ‘Enlightenment modernity’ was
the attempt to refound and stabilize the principles of truth, justice and beauty
upon rational foundations opposing the pre-modern ‘irrationalities of myth,
religion, superstition’ (Harvey 1991: 12). It is therefore a modernity of
certainty, universalism and immutability, a legitimization of authority upon
the bedrock principles of rationality, science and technological progress. It
was this ‘Enlightenment modernity’ that was to provide our dominant
conceptions of modern fashion from the late nineteenth century until the
1960s.
Of course, the history of fashion does have a significant and well-attested modernist
phase. The insistence on purity and function, along with the hatred of superfluous
ornament, that are expressed in the work of architects like Miles van der Rohe,
artists like Piet Mondrian and theorists like Alfred Loos, resulted in attempts to
rationalize dress, and figures like Victor Tatlin, Kasmir Malevich, Sonia Delaunay,
Walter Gropius and Jacobus Ord were all interested in extending the modernist
revolution in the arts to matters of clothing. It is even possible to conceive of the
invention of something like a ‘modernist body’, the slim and functional female
figure of the 1920s, liberated from the corset and the paraphernalia of female
ornament (Connor 1991: 190).
It is instructive to preface a discussion on modern fashion with Connor’s

quotation, because it places an emphasis on both the avant-garde culture of
1920s artistic modernism and its congruence with the broader ‘rationalist’
culture of modernity. Yet artistic modernism contained elements that were
symptomatic of both the Enlightenment and the aesthetic dimensions to
modernity. In making what is virtually this argument, Wollen draws on some
telling and familiar contrasts:
[the] antimony between the ‘pictorial’ and the ‘decorative’, like that between
‘functional’ and ‘ornamental’, is basic to the dominant modernist aesthetic. It is
one of a whole series of similar antinomies which can be mapped on to each other:
engineer/leisure class, production/consumption, active/passive, masculine/feminine,
reality principle/pleasure principle, machine/body, west/east . . . Of course, these
are not exactly homologous, but they form a cascade of oppositions, each of which
suggests another, step by step (Wollen 1987: 7–8).
Connor also cites this article, drawing attention to Wollen’s argument for
‘an alternative history of dress design to be discerned in modernism, a history
of a continuing infatuation with decorative excess and stylistic extravagance’
(Connor 1991: 191). Modernity, in the epochal sense of the term, was also a
37
witness to decorative trends in fashion not usually associated with ‘high

modernism’, including that of women’s dress in the Edwardian era: exactly
that excess of ornament that the inter-war female figure was ‘liberated from’.
Indeed, we might go further and hypothesize that since both a rationalist-
utilitarian and a romantic-aesthetic ethic are implicated in the development
of modernity, fashions throughout this epoch would display both sets of
characteristics, but in a cyclical pattern. Empirical evidence, although open
to interpretation, does seem to bear witness to this hypothesis – see Holds-
worth (1989), Tyrrell (1986), Wilson (1985, 1990), Lurie (1992).
The sociological variables of class and gender must, however, be considered
in any such analysis. Fashion, in the sense of aesthetic display and rapid
change, is a gendered term in the history of modern dress: women have
‘fashion’; men, sober, sombre and static, have ‘style’. This gender division,
which is predicated upon the relationship of masculinity to a puritan business
ethic (Flügel 1930; König 1973; Wilson 1990) and the linking of femininity
through Romanticism to consumption (C. Campbell 1987), is also cross-cut
by the cleavage of social class. Historical accounts (Steedman 1986; Holds-
worth 1989) have shown how the dimensions of middle-class/working-class
have tended to work themselves out along the axis of decoration-fashion/
utility-necessity. Yet, despite this presence of a decorative-aesthetic element,
it is the functional and utilitarian axis of modern dress codes that possesses
a particular affinity with the rational precepts of Fordist mass production
techniques. Utilizing Taylor’s principles of ‘scientific management’, Fordism
generated a standardized set of products tied to mass markets (J. Clarke
1991: Ch. 4; Harvey 1991: Ch. 8; Crook et al. 1992: Ch. 6). Hence the
uniformity of ‘looks’ in an era of mass consumption; what, in an American
context, Thomas Frank has described as ‘a time of intolerance for difference,
of look-alike commuters clad in grey flannel’ (1998: 10).3 So even through
‘the clothing industry could never be as Fordist, as concentrated and as
Taylorist as most other sectors because it entails a much higher turnover of
styles’ (Lash and Urry 1994: 176), the prevailing image of twentieth century
fashion is one of uniformity, predictability and conformity, its form governed
by the dictates of functional rationality (Negrin 1999).
It is exactly this dominant conception of Enlightenment modernity against
which the postmodern is defined. In contrast to a modernism of purity,
functionality and utilitarianism, to be fashionable in postmodernism is to
involve oneself in aesthetic play, with the focus on hedonism, pleasure and
spectacle, ‘a return to ornament, decoration and stylistic eclecticism’ (Connor
1991: 191). Wilson, in agreement, acknowledges how: ‘fashion does appear
to express such a fragmented sensibility particularly well – its obsession with
surface, novelty and style for style’s sake highly congruent with this sort of
38
post-modernist aesthetic’ (1985: 11). From this viewpoint, postmodernity is

highly complicit with the aesthetic impulses of modern consumer capitalism.
Fashion is what has become the propelling momentum, the dominant MODE of
consumption itself . . . As both the organizational thematic and fluctuating dynamic
of consumption, fashion is rapidly instituting itself as the universal code under
which all other previous cultural codes are subsumed . . . Far from signalling the
end of capitalism, postmodernity then can be seen as its purest stage, one in which
fashion represents the dominant expression and widening extension of the logic
of the commodity form (Faurschou 1990: 235).
In the era of postmodernity the development of flexible forms of technology

and the shift from Fordist to post-Fordist production techniques (Murray
1989) have generated ‘the capacity to produce an expandable range of highly
specialized products to meet rapidly changing market demand’ (Crook et al.
1992: 179). The acceleration in the emergence of new fashions has been
matched by an accelerated turnover time in consumption. Connor talks of
the ‘furious rush of images which is the fashion industry itself’ (1991: 193).
Fashion and style have become correspondingly more heterogeneous (Kratz
and Reimer 1998). This is, indeed, a time which comes ‘after the masses’
(Hebdige 1989). With the advent of ‘specialized consumption’ and ‘market
segmentation’, ‘lifestyle enclaves’ are said to be losing their correspondence
to, and indeed superseding as a basis for social stratification, modernist grids
of class, gender, age and ethnicity (Evans and Thornton 1989; Mort 1989;
Crook et al. 1992; Nixon 1992). ‘Modernist styles’, once firmly structured
along these traditional lines of demarcation, become ‘postmodernist codes’
(Jameson 1991) available for the pleasure of the (apparently ironic, reflexive
and knowing) postmodern consumers, who wish to construct their own
identities through the wearing of ‘stylistic masks’ (Jameson 1985: 114). The
prevailing mood of the times is best captured through the slogans of Ewen
and Ewen: ‘Today there is no fashion, only fashions.’ ‘No rules, only choices.’
‘Everyone can be anyone’ (1982: 249–51).4
In an attempt to chart these changes, Evans and Thornton note that ‘since
the decline in the 1960s of a seasonal “look” of which women could be
sure, mainstream fashion has deliberately constructed itself as a variety of
“looks”. But in the 1980s the turnover of looks speeded up hysterically’ (1989:
59). Connor also views the sixties as being something of a watershed, citing
‘the abundant multiplicity of styles and accelerated rhythm of fashion from
the prosperous years of the 1960s onwards’ (1991: 191). Similarly, for Wilson,
‘the “confusion” that so puzzled fashion writers in the 1970s, the apparent
ending of the orderly evolution of one style out of another, is explicable once
39
it is seen as part of postmodernism’ (1990: 223). Postmodernism also begins

in the 1970s for Wilson and Taylor (1989: 191), while Quentin Bell sees the
middle of this decade as ‘so heterogeneous that it does seem to me to be
difficult to speak of a fashion for the year 1974’ (1992: 175). Kaiser et al.
(1991) claim that now even the last bastions of puritanism are susceptible to
a decorative impulse:
The tendency towards a breakdown of conventional rules may be found in a much

more limited extent in the American business world . . . Even in some professional
contexts, in a subtle manner within conventional bounds, men as well as women
seem to have more freedom (if they are so inclined) to experiment with color and
accessories (for example, braces or suspenders for men, brightly colored suits for
women) (Kaiser et al. 1991: 183).
Elsewhere, in a comparison with the modern, Lash manages to capture

together both sensibilities of postmodern dress – the fragmented and the
aesthetic:
Consider for example a photo of British (soccer) football supporters in the interwar
period. The similarity and ‘mass-ness’ of their dress is striking to the contemporary
observer. Compare this, then, with the very diversity of clothing styles and associated
subcultures among British working-class youth in more recent times . . . the shift
has not just been of one from mass-ness to specialization but also from a focus on
function to a concern with style (Lash 1990: 39).
While Lash looks at soccer supporters,5 my own example focuses on the

outfits worn by the players. Whereas twenty years ago, British soccer club
strips were relatively plain, unadorned and functional, today we find a strange
combination of lurid colours (fluorescent salmon pinks and lime greens)
arranged in intricate designs using a plethora of decoration (motifs, numbers
in imitation 3-D, superimposed letters). We even have instances of 1920s
pastiche with lace-up V-necks. Furthermore, whereas team designs used to
remain comparatively stable over a number of seasons with only minimal
changes, clubs today issue radically new versions of their kit at a much faster
rate, with manufacturers and retailers only too eager to announce the arrival
in the sportshops of this season’s new Manchester United, Arsenal or
Liverpool third-choice away strip.
Our views of modern mainstream fashion consumption are defined
negatively against what is perceived to be the active postmodern consumer.
Certainly, given the dominant conception of modern fashion as uniform,
massified and predictable, it is easy to understand how it might be consumed
‘passively’, for outfits to be taken over ‘wholesale’ without the need for
40
symbolic creativity by consumers.6 We might think here of the mass-produced

‘ready-to-wear’ suit, or the costume with matching accessories. Modernist
‘appearance management’ would, in other words, tend towards the uncom-
plicated, the utilitarian and the functional. In semiotic terms the codes
associated with particular forms of dress would be relatively unambiguous
and tied unproblematically to particular contexts; in other words, the mode
of signification would be realist. Postmodernism complicates this process.
‘In postmodernity fashion is more ambiguous than in modernity’ (Kratz and
Reimer 1998: 208). Kaiser et al. observe how ‘modernist American culture,
based on puritanism, industrialism and utilitarianism, has traditionally
demanded univocal, rather than ambiguous forms of discourse. The business
suit is a prime example . . . this rational, technological ethos of univocality
[is] a “flight from ambiguity”. Postmodern capitalism, however, problematizes
this flight’ (1991: 171).
This problematization has at its root what might be termed the postmodern
expansion of eclecticism: a greater variety of styles now travel at a faster
rate than ever before, allowing consumers greater scope for their creative
and aesthetic outlets. The result is an ‘emphasis on individual diversity’
(Tseëlon 1995: 127), ‘a promotion of do-it-yourself style’, where ‘postmodern
appearance management may be compared with the formal technique of
collage’ (Kaiser et al. 1991: 173–4). This trend towards the construction of
complex appearances through the self-conscious act of stylistic bricolage is
particularly notable in Willis’s (1990) study of the ‘grounded aesthetics’ and
‘symbolic creativity’ of youth culture. As Willis discovered, ‘young people
don’t just buy passively or uncritically. They always transform the meaning
of bought goods, appropriating and recontextualizing mass-market styles
. . . Most young people combine elements of clothing to create new meanings
. . . and sometimes reject the normative definitions and categories of ‘fashion’
promoted by the clothing industry’ (1990: 85).
While the decoding of modernist style was facilitated by its ‘univocality’ –
a limited availability of signifiers and a stable anchorage in a particular space–
time context – it was also assisted by the clear demarcation of specific social
groups, each with its own style boundaries. Postmodernity, however, entails
the fragmentation of mass identities (Lash and Urry 1988; Lyon 1999), even
to the extent that the boundaries between established groups are breaking
down. This is what Lash (1990) terms ‘de-differentiation’, a reversal of the
modernist tendency towards the differentiation of cultural spheres. A surfeit
of signs and a breaking down of boundaries might problematize the way in
which social groups use style as a means of classification and demarcation
(Featherstone 1992). As differentiated unities are replaced by a similarity of
difference, ‘appearance perception’ becomes a hazardous undertaking, an
41
ever-increasing number of interpretations being possible. If modern main-

stream fashion was ‘readerly’, then Kaiser et al. would appear to see
postmodernist style as analogous to Barthes’s ‘writerly’ text (Barthes 1975),
where ‘signifiers, it seems, hold a certain privilege over what is signified’
(Kaiser et al. 1991: 174).
Subcultural Style: From the Grand Narratives of Modernity

to Hyperfragmentation in the Postmodern Global Village.
In the last chapter we examined the pioneering work on youth subcultural

theory that emerged from the CCCS during the 1970s. We are now able to
locate this neo-Marxist theory firmly within an Enlightenment conception
of the world (Lovatt and Purkis 1996: 258). Its emancipatory meta-narrative,
which claims to provide a ‘scientific’ analysis of society, its totalizing
conception of the social formation within which the specific element under
study must be reinstated, the sense of linear time along which these successive
subcultures are seen to unfold, the portrayal of subcultures as externally
differentiated, yet internally homogeneous groups, existing in clear opposition
to each other and to conventional style: all these characteristics betray a
high modernist ideal. Yet while this modernist paradigm is predicated upon
a ‘depth model’ of the social formation from which a whole host of subcultural
oppositions were derived – subcultural/conventional, essence/appearance,
class/consumption, authentic/manufactured, style-as-resistance/style-as-
fashion, and so on – postmodernity collapses these oppositions. In particular,
it undercuts them by problematizing the distinction between representations
and reality. For while Marxism was concerned to stress the misleading
character of appearances, postmodernity ‘takes pleasure in the play of surfaces
and derides the search for depth as mere nostalgia’ (Gitlin 1989: 52). One
might begin here with Jameson’s reference to ‘a society of the image or
the simulacrum’ (1991: 48), and consider Lash’s (1990) contention that
postmodern communication represents a triumph of the figural over the
discursive, before arriving our final destination, the wholly artificial, yet all-
encompassing, hermetically sealed, computer-generated world of virtual
reality, prophesied by Kroker and Cook (1991) as the logical conclusion to
the encroachment of the visual into the province of the real.
The increasingly central role of the visual media as an image bank from
which knowledge of fashion is derived has not gone unnoticed by sociologists
and cultural commentators alike. McRobbie talks of ‘the expansion of media
goods and services which has come into being in the last ten years, producing
more fashion magazines, more television from independent companies, more
42
reviews about other media events, more media personalities, more media
items about other media phenomena, and so on’ (1989: 38–9). Savage heralds
the rise of ‘Culture as a Commodity, the biggest growth business of the lot:
the proliferation of television, video (especially amongst lower income
groups), computers and information’ (1989: 171). Willis documents how
the young people in his study ‘use the media to understand and keep up with
the latest fashions. They get ideas about clothes from sources such as television
programmes, like The Clothes Show, fashion and music magazines, or from
the personal dress styles of particular pop groups’ (1990: 86). Television,
particularly MTV, along with video, and the style magazines of the 1980s, i-
D, Blitz and The Face – which are primarily visual rather than textual in
their impact – are most usually quoted as the postmodern paradigm case.7
As Evans and Thornton tellingly comment, ‘at the heart of the new magazines
was the idea that identity (i-D) is forged by appearance’ (1989: 60).
Here, we might discern the homogenizing impulse of this scenario: the
progressive obliteration of cultural difference following the weakening of
local powers of resistance to the inexorable stylistic globalizing processes of
the mediascape. Yet an aesthetic, fragmentary tendency is clearly detectable
in Jameson, particularly his understanding of schizophrenia as a postmodern
sensibility, ‘a series of pure and unrelated presents in time’ (1985: 27). Such
an emphasis fits well, claims Harvey, with the ‘ephemerality’, ‘instantaneity’,
‘disposability’ and volatility that is said to typify postmodern ‘fashions,
products [and] production techniques’ (1991: 285, 291). What faces us is
not therefore necessarily the stifling of change by an all-encompassing ‘astral
empire of signs’, but rather the paradox of a McLuhanian global village of
ever-fragmenting fashions, ‘an eclectic blend of cross-cultural commodities’
(Kaiser 1990: 406), which forces into prominence the proclivities of consumers
to become sartorial bricoleurs (Kratz and Reimer 1998: 208–9). As com-
modity production, exchange, and creative appropriation intensify, signs
become free-floating, travelling towards the point at which they become
irrevocably divorced from their original cultural contexts.
Individuals obtaining ideas about what to wear may neither be aware of, nor
necessarily care about the ideology to which styles have originally referred. Hence
PLO headscarves become trendy on the streets of New York City, skulls and
crossbones become insignia on children’s clothing, and Rastafarian dreadlocks are
preempted by runaway fashion models and rock (not necessarily reggae) musicians
(Kaiser et al. 1991: 176).
Lipovetsky has remarked how ‘our borrowings no longer have a fixed origin:
they are taken from myriad sources’ (1994: 233). So have social relations
43
become saturated with an excess of information in the form of shifting cultural

signs and simulations to the extent that the meaning of style is unable to
stabilize (Craik 1994: 8) and we are faced with what Baudrillard (1983a)
has called ‘The End of the Social’? Perhaps, like their attitude towards God,
Baudrillard’s masses retain only the image of fashion, ‘never the idea’ (ibid.:
7). Similarly, Jameson’s (1991) ‘breakdown in the signifying chain’, which
leads to the destruction of narrative utterance and its replacement by the
intensification of aesthetic ‘affect’, can be interpreted as having identical
consequences for fashion. In both cases, meaning gives way to spectacle.
Style is now worn for its look, not for any underlying message; or rather, the
look is now the message.
Narrative meaning is intimately bound up with questions of temporality.
Lyotard’s grands recits are a testimony to the optimism of the Enlightenment
project, with its progressive notion of history. At an individual and personal
level, the deferment of gratification and the construction of lifelong narratives
are equally symptomatic of this same modernist confidence, investment and
faith in the future. With the postmodern fragmentation of these ongoing,
linear narratives and the move from the rationality of ‘clock time’ to
‘instantaneous time’, a projection into the future appears neither possible
nor desirable. Rather than wait for an empty promise, we are said to ‘want
the future now’ (Lash and Urry 1994: Ch. 9). Hence that remarkable surge
of contemporary fascination with nostalgia, its stylistic manifestation being
an ‘accelerating tendency in the 1980s to ransack history for key items of
dress, in a seemingly eclectic and haphazard manner . . . This instant recall
on history, fuelled by the superfluity of images thrown up by the media, has
produced a non-stop fashion parade in which “different decades are placed
together with no historical continuity”’ (McRobbie 1989: 23, 40).
Here, we enter Jameson’s world of pastiche, ‘in which stylistic innovation
is no longer possible, all that is left is to imitate dead styles, to speak through
the masks and with the voices of the styles in the imaginary museum’ (1985:
115). Faced with this postmodern predicament, subcultural styles have two
options: they can feed off each other in a cannibalistic orgy of cross-
fertilization, destroying their own internal boundaries in the process; or
indulge in the stylistic revivalism that Johnston (1993) has derisively termed
‘post-punk nostalgia’. The teddy boy, mod, skinhead and hippy subcultures
have all made their reappearance since the end of ‘linear’ subcultural time in
the late 1970s (Redhead 1990, 1993). We must also mention in this context
the contemporary interest in second-hand dress or ‘retro style’ (Carter 1983;
McRobbie 1989). And, as a virtual bricolage, a Burroughs cut-up, of previous
subcultural styles, punk really does seem to have been the historical turning-
point here. Punk style defies interpretation, ‘refuses meaning’ (Hebdige 1979),
44
has heralded the subcultural break from modernity to postmodernity.

If post-punk stylistic revivals are examples of pastiche, then, as Jameson
(1984) would have it, they can say nothing new, represent nothing more
than our ‘pop images’ and ‘cultural stereotypes’ of the past, for the peculiarity
of postmodern time has now and for evermore precluded any possibility of
subcultural ‘originality’. The concept of ‘authenticity’ must likewise be
expunged from the postmodern vocabulary. The all-encompassing power of
the contemporary mass media has ensured that there can no longer be a
sanctuary for the original, ‘pure’, creative moment of subcultural innovation
that preceded the onset of the contaminating processes of commercialization,
commodification and diffusion. Redhead is a proponent of a ‘weak’ version
of this thesis, where ‘post-punk subcultures have been characterized by a
speeding up of the time between points of “authenticity” and manufacture’
(1991b: 94). McRobbie, however, proposes a stronger version whereby ‘the
“implosionary” effect of the mass media means that in the 1980s youth styles
and fashions are born into the media. There is an “instantaneity” which
replaces the old period of subcultural incubation’ (1989: 39; my emphasis).
We can make two criticisms of this thesis that proclaims the postmodern
death of subcultural originality and authenticity. The first reinstates authent-
icity by pointing to the increased potential for bricolage in postmodern
appearance management (Kaiser 1990). Hence, the postmodern proliferation
and fragmentation of style involves the reassembling, juxtapositioning and
blending of elements, thus implying at least a minimum degree of creativity,
originality and uniqueness in the resulting ensembles. As Barnard has argued,
bricolage, unlike pastiche, does suggest ‘the creation of new meanings’ (1996:
167). The second criticism admits to subcultural inauthenticity, but refuses
to see this as specifically postmodern. It argues that there never was a
privileged moment of ‘authentic’ subcultural inception untainted by media,
commercial and entrepreneurial influences in the manner that modernist
theory suggested, for ‘media representations provide the ideological frame-
work within which subcultures can represent themselves, shaping as well as
limiting what they can say . . . Hebdige claims that the punks did not so
much express the alienation they felt from mainstream society as dramatise
contemporary media and political discourse about Britain’s “decline”’ (Beezer
1992: 109).
McRobbie’s example is also punk, but again her point has a general
applicability.
The very idea that style could be purchased over the counter went against the
grain of those analyses which saw the adoption of punk style as an act of creative
defiance far removed from the mundane act of buying. The role of McLaren and
45
Westwood was also downgraded for the similar reason that punk was seen as a
kind of collective creative impulse. To focus on a designer and an art-school
entrepreneur would have been to undermine the ‘purity’ or ‘authenticity’ of the
subculture (McRobbie 1989: 25).
But to concur with these two criticisms does not necessarily weaken the
postmodern claim. For whereas modernist subcultural ‘originality’ and
‘authenticity’ are defined in terms of an attempted solution to real social
contradictions, postmodern theory denies that there exists any province of
the social to which subcultural styles can be a cultural response. Hebdige is
still intent on holding on to a modernist explanation of ‘postmodern’ post-
punk subcultures – ‘the revival of the mod subculture . . . cannot be interpreted
as an arbitrary reworking of purely aesthetic codes. In its revived form, the
style was being used to express, reflect and “magically” resolve a specific set
of problems and contradictions’ (1981: 93; original emphasis). Yet, in
postmodern terms, subcultures are ‘purely aesthetic codes’, for styles have
become subject to time–space compression (Harvey 1991), a dislocation from
their original temporal–spatial origins. ‘The firm and exclusive referents that
once guided the teddy boys or the mods in their distinctive options in clothing
or music are apparently no longer available’ (Chambers 1990: 69). In the
wake of the irrevocable loss of these referents we cannot experience the real
but ‘live everywhere already in an “aesthetic” hallucination of reality’
(Baudrillard 1983b: 148). Following Baudrillard’s logic (1983a) subcultural
styles have become simulacra, copies with no originals. By inscribing visual
signs upon their bodies, subculturalists revel in this simulation culture, refusing
meaning in the name of the spectacle, becoming, in turn, mere models
themselves and ‘imploding’ into the media. In this move from production to
reproduction, subcultural simulacra become hyperreal as reality is eclipsed.
This might all sound somewhat abstruse, but one particularly good
empirical example can help to illustrate a point far more clearly and
immediately than long theoretical exposition. For that reason I will close
this section by quoting at some length Kotarba’s (1991) experience while
conducting research on the US heavy metal rock scene. As he takes up the
story, he was about to see a heavy metal Christian rock band. He continues:
When I entered the club just before opening and approached the stage, I was struck
by a most unusual figure: a young man sporting a four-color mohawk haircut,
facial make-up appropriate for warriors from some prehistoric tribe, all sorts of
dagger and paperclip earrings, rusty chains around his neck, and just about every
other indication that I was in the presence of an angry or anarchistic punk rocker.
What could he possibly be doing here, looking to beat up some unsuspecting and
well-scrubbed little Christian rocker? I approached him and found out that he
46
was the little Christian rocker and, perhaps most surprisingly, that he was a
Southern Baptist metal head! (Kotarba 1991: 46).
This leads Kotarba to remark on just how puzzling all this would be to the
modernist theorists of the CCCS. What would be the underlying significance
or structural meaning to this person’s identity? What are the problems or
contradictions being addressed? What, exactly, is being resisted? From a
postmodernist viewpoint, however: ‘the significance of styles need go no
further than the immediate affective effects they elicit. Culture is merely
cognitive and symbolic veneer. Postmodernism suggested to me that contrad-
ictions in cultural forms are to be expected and appreciated, not automatically
and compulsively explained away’ (ibid.).
The Post-Subculturalist?
If we do grant complete acceptance to the full implications of the postmodern,

then it is probably apt to talk of postmodernity as the era of the post-
subculturalist. Post-subculturalists no longer have any sense of subcultural
‘authenticity’ where inception is rooted in particular socio-temporal contexts
and tied to underlying structural relations. In fact the post-subculturalist will
experience all the signs of the subculture of their choosing time and time
again through the media before inscribing these signifiers on their own bodies.
Choosing is the operative word here, for post-subculturalists revel in the
availability of subcultural choice. While, for example, modernist theory
stressed a series of discrete subcultural styles unfolding in linear time up until
the late 1970s, the postmodern 1980s and 1990s have been decades of
subcultural fragmentation and proliferation, with a glut of revivals, hybrids
and transformations, and the co-existence of myriad styles at any one point
in time. This enables post-subculturalists to engage in ‘Style Surfing’
(Polhemus 1996), to move quickly and freely from one style to another as
they wish; indeed, this high degree of sartorial mobility is the source of playful-
ness and pleasure. They do not have to worry about contradictions between
their selected subcultural identities, for there are no rules, there is no
authenticity, no ideological commitment, merely a stylistic game to be played.
If modern subcultures existed in a state of mutual opposition with members
maintaining strong stylistic and ideological boundaries through expressed
comparisons with other such groups, then in postmodernity the need for
boundary maintenance becomes negligible as the lines of subcultural demarc-
ation dissolve. We should as a result expect to discover that post-subculturalists,
who exemplify ephemeral attachments to a variety of styles, find it problematic
47
to make strong comparisons with out-groups. Following the logic of Kellner

(1992) we can therefore understand postmodern subcultural identities to be
multiple and fluid. Constituted through consumption, subcultural style is no
longer articulated around the modernist structuring relations of class, gender
or ethnicity. Instead, these modernist looks become recycled as free-floating
signifiers, enabling subcultural identity to be constructed through the
succession of styles that ‘Style Surfers’ try on and cast off. Chambers surveys
the postmodern catwalk upon which the post-subculturalists play their game:
Subcultures, and youth cultures in general, have gradually separated out their
particular imagery from the world of daily labour and immediate social contexts.
Allowed to float free of immediate referents the result has been a kaleidoscope of
styles, and an increasingly sophisticated semiology of goods, that, drawn into an
endless shopping list and an ever more rapid stylistic turnover, has spun right out
of the orbit of a precise subcultural history. What it has left behind is a rich coffer
for eventual retro fashions, ironic revisiting, suggestive appropriations and
irreverent revivals (Chambers 1990: 68–9).
But perhaps the very concept of subculture is becoming less applicable in

postmodernity, for the breakdown of mass society has ensured that there is
no longer a coherent dominant culture against which a subculture can express
its resistance (Evans 1997). If, moreover, it is ‘the communication of significant
difference’ that is the point of spectacular subcultural style (Hebdige 1979:
102; original emphasis), then, as Connor realizes, ‘such an analysis encounters
difficulties when faced with the fact that this visibility of diverse and
stylistically distinct groups is part of the official or dominant mode of
advertising and the media in the West . . . Under these circumstances, visibility
and self-proclamation may have become a market requirement rather than a
mode of liberation’ (1991: 195). And as Beezer concludes, ‘without this
surface difference, subcultures slip from view, to the point where their
existence can be thrown into question’ (1992: 113). And while this may eclipse
subcultural visibility, is there still an analytical distinction to be drawn? It
would appear not. For as we have seen, if modernist subcultures were defined
in terms of a series of theoretical oppositions to non-subcultural style, then
postmodernity dissolves such distinctions.
It remains to be seen what implications this has for subcultures as a struggle
within ideology, a battle for possession of the sign. Crook et al. feel that ‘the
critical point is not that style cannot resist, clearly it can in many registers,
but contests between resistance and conformity do not conform to a single
line between the subordinate and the hegemonic’ (1992: 72). But what, if
anything, is being resisted? Gitlin (1989: 58) has argued that a postmodern
48
politics embraces pluralist and libertarian concerns. Post-subcultural ideology

will, in other words, value the individual over the collective, elevate difference
and heterogeneity over collectivism and conformity. Or perhaps subcultures
are just another form of de-politicized play in the postmodern pleasuredome,
where emphasis is placed on the surface qualities of the spectacle at the
expense of any underlying ideologies. For the post-subculturalists, the
trappings of spectacular style are their right of admission to a costume party,
a masquerade, a hedonistic escape into a Blitz Culture fantasy characterized
by political indifference.
I would like to conclude by reiterating that the traits I have identified as
postmodern are, by and large, not novel, but can be found in strains of
aesthetic modernity. I suggested earlier in this chapter that the CCCS approach
could be designated as ‘modern’ in an Enlightenment sense, for it postulates
a succession of ‘authentic’, cohesive and discrete subcultures unfolding in
linear time. There is, however, an undoubted conceptual ambiguity in the
CCCS work. In Chapter 2, I remarked on the process of subcultural
incorporation, of ‘defusion and diffusion’. Upon closer examination, we find
this process leading in contradictory directions: on the one hand, towards
increasing uniformity; on the other, to dispersal and diversity. Hebdige (1979:
96), for example, talks of subcultural styles being commodified on a ‘mass
scale’, only then to remark on the ‘variations’ (in this instance, of punk) thus
produced. These two meanings emerge from an explicitly recognized contrad-
iction ‘between the demands of marketing – novelty, rapid turnover of fashion,
trendiness and discontinuity – and the demands of production, for standardis-
ation, the ease and economy of continuity and scale’ (J. Clarke 1986: 185).
The first set of terms have a distinct postmodern or post-Fordist feel, with
the latter evoking Fordist precepts of modernity.
In line with the generally modernist project of the CCCS work, Clarke
does suggest the latter movement to be dominant (ibid.: 187–8), a process
particularly notable in the creation of a mass consumption style based on
mod. We can, however, dispute this assumption. The submerged aesthetic
dimension to this approach indicates that subcultural styles never were the
pure, abstract and homogeneous entities that the CCCS made them out to
be, and that the commercializing process did not lead only towards homo-
genization. Evans, for instance, argues that Hebdige’s discussion of mod ‘does
not distinguish between mods who became skins, mods who became hippies,
and mods who became jazz casuals’ (Evans 1997: 179). There is, in other
words, a hidden history to post-war subcultures, identified here by Osgerby:
Many accounts of post-war youth subcultures have also overlooked the dynamic
quality to their styles. All too frequently subcultural forms are discussed as though
49
they were immutably fixed phenomena, frozen statically at a particular point in

history. In reality nothing could be further from the truth. Constant change and
flux have been endemic to the universe of youth subcultures. Styles have continually
developed over time making sense in different ways for different groups of
youngsters at different historical moments (Osgerby 1998: 76).
My suggestion is that postmodernity entails an intensification of these

aesthetic characteristics, which have always been present in the development
of subcultures.
How might we account for this intensification? We have in this chapter
established that Romanticism and the dynamic of consumer culture connect
the experience of aesthetic modernity to features foregrounded in the
postmodern. It is this which, according to Harvey, ‘appears to be the most
startling fact about postmodernism: its total acceptance of the ephemerality,
fragmentation, discontinuity and the chaotic that formed the one [aesthetic]
half of Baudelaire’s conception of modernity’ (1991: 44). That postmodernism
is intimately related to changes in consumer culture is one of its most
commonly recognized features (Featherstone 1992; Strinati 1995; Lury 1996).
Waugh closes the circle by claiming that ‘postmodernism as an aesthetic and
body of thought can be seen as a late-flowering Romanticism’ (1992: 3).
What, though, is the precise nature of the relationship between Romanticism
and the postmodern?
It is Colin Campbell (1987) who takes us a large part of the way in
establishing this connection. In the last chapter we remarked upon his thesis
that the attitudes necessary for the development of modern consumer culture
have their origin in the sensibilities of the Romantic movement of the early
nineteenth century. There is, as Campbell points out, a close correspondence
(an ‘elective affinity’) between the Romantic’s perennial quest to find
emotional pleasure in all experiences, and modern consumers’ ceaseless desire
to satisfy imaginative longings (that dream car or holiday) that underpins
their restless pursuit of novelty. The relationship outlined here is an ironic
one, for the Romantics were concerned above all with the moral principle of
self-renewal through art, and certainly did not condone either the selfish
satisfaction of wants or the commercialization of pleasure (ibid.: 207). Yet,
as Campbell argues, Romantic idealism can unintentionally generate periods
of ‘self-seeking hedonism’ and vice versa (ibid.: 210). This intimate connection
between ‘the Romantic ethic and the spirit of modern consumerism’ can be
seen in the way that subsequent flowerings of countercultural activity, in the
1890s, 1920s and 1960s, are accompanied by a period of consumer boom.
It is easier to understand this relationship if we examine more closely the
Romantic values of the 1960s ‘hippy’ counterculture.8 The mistake we must
50
avoid making is to regard Romanticism and its embodiment in the counter-

culture as wholly antagonistic to capitalism and consumer culture, for it acted
as both critique and catalyst. It is true that the hippy movement manifested
itself as a withdrawal from the dominant achievement-oriented values of the
puritan work ethic. This was, above all, an attack not only on the moral
imperative of work as a desirable end in itself, but on the associated bourgeois
values of regulation, self-discipline and restraint. Yet by continually breaking
free from traditional and restrictive cultural codes, each generation of
Romantic cultural innovators continues to provide modern consumerism with
its dynamic. It is precisely through the desire to give free reign to creative
self-expression and promote the values of play and pleasure that the
counterculture is highly complicit with the central capitalist values of
entrepreneurial individualism and consumer creativity (see Heelas 1996). As
Clarke et al. have said of this relationship, the counterculture’s ‘hedonism,
its narcissism, its permissiveness, its search for immediate gratification, its
anti-authoritarianism, its moral pluralism, its materialism’ were all ‘pro-
foundly adaptive to the system’s productive base’ (1986: 65; original
emphasis).
Yet Keniston (1971), Lipset (1971) and Mills (1973) have each stressed
that the countercultural members of the 1960s were recruited from only a
small section of upper-middle-class youth, mainly students and intellectuals
in idealistic arts and social science disciplines. How, then, can the values and
tastes of this small minority be involved in the emergence of a postmodern
culture? The argument here is that the period since the Second World War
has seen a rapid growth in certain middle-class occupations – what are
variously termed the ‘cultural industries’ (media, advertising, fashion, design,
marketing) and the ‘expressive professions’ (teaching and lecturing, therap-
eutic and social work).9 Those employed in these occupations emerged via a
1950s and 1960s cohort passing through an expanding higher education
sector. These new middle classes are characterized by a ‘postmodern’ lifestyle
orientation based on a pursuit of pleasure, creative self-expression and stylistic
innovation. But as a rising class fraction they also act as middle-class
missionaries, promoting and disseminating their ideologies and cultural tastes
to a wider audience. In so doing they present a challenge the legitimacy of
the values of the traditional bourgeoisie, who have always advocated
adherence to the puritan work ethic and commitment to a culture of control,
restraint and regulation.
The characteristics of postmodern culture and lifestyles can in this way be
traced back, via new middle-class cultural intermediaries, to countercultural
sensibilities and practices. Frank (1998), for example, has examined how a
new breed of post-war advertising and marketing executive formed the
51
vanguard of a 1960s revolution in American business culture. Frank describes

this as a ‘revolution against conformity’ (ibid.: 118), for the new ‘hip
consumerism’ it promoted was designed to appeal to the youthful counter-
cultural values of stylistic subversion and individual innovation, defining itself
against the stifling restrictions of a 1950s mass society. Gottdiener also writes
that ‘cultural differentiation has been common since at least the 1960s when
the counter culture brought ideological and appearance diversity to school
populations’ (1995: 205).10 Here, there is agreement with the claims made
earlier in this chapter, that a postmodern ‘individualistic’ fashion pattern
emerged around this time. It would seem, then, that countercultural sensibil-
ities are implicated in this emergence. In Lipovetsky’s reading of history, the
uniformity that characterized the ‘bureaucratic system’ of modern fashion
was disrupted by a hedonistic and narcissistic ethic that was particularly
pronounced within the 1950s and 1960s youth culture, and that promoted
‘the individualist assertion of personal autonomy’ (1994: 149).
If these arguments are correct then contemporary subculturalists may be
expected to display a number of ‘postmodern’ characteristics, some of which
have an affinity with certain countercultural sensibilties.11 To examine this
proposition we can turn to our two sets of ideal-typical traits that have been
constructed from the arguments presented in both this and the last chapter.
MODERN POSTMODERN
Group identity Fragmented identity
Stylistic homogeneity Stylistic heterogeneity
Strong boundary maintenance Boundary maintenance weak
Subcultural provides main identity Multiple stylistic identities
High degree of commitment Low degree of commitment
Membership perceived as permanent Transient attachment expressed
Low rates of subcultural mobility High rates of subcultural mobility
Stress on beliefs and values Fascination with style and image
Political gesture of resistance Apolitical sentiments
Anti-media sentiments Positive attitude towards media
Self-perception as authentic Celebration of the inauthentic
From these, we can derive a series of primary hypotheses about postmodern

subcultures that can be subjected to empirical investigation in particular
chapters:
l Group identifications will be problematized, and subculturalists will not

regard themselves in collective terms (Chapter 4).
l A de-differentiation of the subcultural–conventional divide means that
52
subculturalists will be unable to maintain this boundary through comp-

arisons with conventional style (Chapter 4).
l Subculturalists will display a superficial and transient attachment to any
one style as they regularly transgress the conventional and subcultural
boundaries (Chapter 5).
l Stylistic mobility relies upon weakened boundaries between different
subcultures and precludes oppositional reactions to other groups (Chapter
6).
l Subculturalists will exhibit a celebratory attitude towards style, fashion
and the media rather than view their affiliation as a normative or political
gesture of resistance (Chapter 7).
Each of these hypotheses will therefore develop a theme to be explored in

the next four chapters. Featherstone (1992) has made the point that theorizing
postmodernism as the outcome of a systems ‘logic’ obscures lower-level theory
in the form of the influence of particular social groups and also ignores how
supposed postmodern changes are perceived by social actors themselves. We
began this chapter by examining postmodernism as a broad and abstract set
of processes situated within periodizing conceptions of history. We then moved
to consider how more specific aspects of the postmodern could impact upon
subcultures via the intensification of features always present in aesthetic
modernity. Having traced the origins of the aesthetic to Romantic and
bohemian countercultures, we argued that new middle-class fractions were
instrumental in transmitting related postmodern sensibilities to a wider
audience. Out task is now to examine whether the sensibilities and practices
of a specific set of social actors do, in fact, display the kind of features which
have come to be defined as ‘postmodern’.
Notes
1. This is a fully revised version of Muggleton (1997).

2. Modernism and postmodernism can also refer to more specific artistic,
intellectual and cultural movements, in which case modernism can be identified as
an artistic avant-garde that emerged in the middle to late nineteenth century as a
reaction to realism, while postmodernism emerged in the middle to late decades of
this century as a reaction to the institutionalization of modernism in the museum
and academy. For a sociological analysis of artistic and intellectual modernism and
postmodernism, see Back (1985), Huyssen (1986), Gitlin (1989), Lash (1990),
Abercrombie et al. (1992), Featherstone (1992: Ch. 1), Hebdige (1992), Walker
(1994), Seago (1995) and Rose (1996).
53
3. As Urry has said in the context of a sociology of tourism, ‘central to modernism

is the view of the public as a homogeneous mass’ (1990: 87).
4. This is a typical example of postmodern overstatement. A more careful
evaluation is provided by Tseëlon (1992a, 1995: 133–4), Lipovetsky (1994: 120),
and Kratz and Reimer (1998: 208).
5. It is interesting to compare Lash’s assessment with Mort’s (1988) remarks on
the stylistic individuality of contemporary soccer supporters.
6. Even so, the aesthetic impulse to modernity suggests that there has always
existed some degree of latitude for consumers to engage in acts of bricolage, to
rearrange and customize items of clothing, attaching their own meanings to the new
constructs. For example, Partington (1992) suggests that British working-class women
in the 1950s actively created their own ‘hybrid’ versions of Dior’s ‘New Look’. By
selecting, mixing and matching items from both utility and glamour wear, they
undermined the dominant expectations of designer dress codes.
7. See, for example, Hebdige’s (1988) assessment of The Face. Also Frith et al.
(1992) on music video.
8. Writings on the 1960s counterculture used in this section and not cited
elsewhere in this book are Roszak (1970), Brown (1973), Leech (1973), Neville
(1973), Hogan (1983) and Brake (1985).
9. See Bourdieu (1984), Martin (1985), Lash and Urry (1988), Featherstone
(1992), Savage et al. (1992) and Lury (1996) on attempts to define and theorize
these new middle classes.
10. Gottdiener continues by saying how ‘the apparent eclecticism precedes the
postmodern’ (1995: 205). But, as we have seen, other writers make a strong case for
the connection between postmodernist pluralism and the counterculture.
11. Keniston had, back in 1968, identified certain ‘personality traits’ of Romantic
student radicals, including ‘flux, fluidity, change, movement, self-transformation,
expressiveness’ – as exemplifying a ‘post-modern’ style (1968: 275–85).
54
TO VIEW THIS FIGURE PLEASE REFER TO THE

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 1. Duncan
(A) DUNCAN
DM: If I said ‘What are you?’ how would you describe yourself?
D: Punk.
DM: You’re a punk, right. Definitely, yeah?
D: Through and fucking through.
DM: Yeah, right, good, OK.
D: Fourteen year . . . um, no, about twelve years.
DM: What’s – OK, this is a big question, right – what’s punk mean to
you?
56
Distinctive Individuality and Subcultural Affiliation
D: Punk is basically being yourself, freedom, doing what you wanna

do, looking like you wanna, like, look like; and then if you look
like a punk, well you don’t even have to look like a punk, ’cos
there’s a lot that don’t have mohicans or nothing.
(B) JIM, JANE AND SEAN

DM: Do you see yourselves as some, belonging to some sort of group of
people? That you could name?
Jim: Well, mods. I’ve always been a mod since I was twelve.
S: Psychedelic mods, really, I suppose. We’ve always been part of that
scene, but we were always on the edge of it because we were a bit
too psychedelic for it.
DM: Do you think you’ll always be like this?
Jim: I used to say: mod till you die. That was when I was younger, but
labels are terrible. Self-defeating, labels. Like it’s a way of boxing

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 2. Jim, Sean, Jane
57
people, isn’t it? Unity is what you want. That’s what we are trying
to create with the club. Bit of unity. Anyone who’s into anything
and feels passionate about it.
Ja: People section themselves off too much.
Jim: It’s like the true mod’s a loner, isn’t he? But I don’t know, you
can’t be like that, not nowadays, because there’s not enough going
on.
Ja: You can’t.
S: It’s more of a spirit of helping each other.
Ja: Of sticking together.
Jim: Er . . . group consciousness. Group consciousness. You do get that,
yeah, you do notice it of people.
DM: Do you have it? Do you feel it?
Jim: No, we’re not, we’re not going to get caught in that trap, sort of
thing. That’s the thing, that’s probably why we’re not really . . .
you can’t really label us really as such because, you know, not really
...
Ja: . . . one definite thing and nothing else.
Jim: Because that’s really self-destructive. That’s really bad, like that
group consciousness, you see.
Ja: We’re not narrow-minded like that, you know.
(C) SAUL
S: I mean I’ve been typecast before as a gothic punk, and . . . urh . . .
the band Bone Orchard were the first band to be described as
jazzpunk. It’s just people clawing for labels to try and sling you
under. I think, you know, people should have credit for being a bit
more widespread for their . . . what they’re into, than just sort of
pigeon-holed, you know.
So how do we start to analyse an interview? What is it we look for? To

begin with there are three things we might notice about extract (A). First,
that Duncan undoubtedly sees himself in terms of a group identity (he
describes himself as a ‘punk’ – a collective label), and does so very emphat-
ically, leaving us in no doubt of his affiliation. This response seems typical of
what the CCCS approach leads us to expect. The second point to observe is
that, given his emphasis on a group identification, we might have expected
the meaning of punk to be understood in group terms (e.g. collective values,
shared style, group activities). But what we are offered is an individualistic
definition: ‘being yourself, freedom, doing what you wanna do’, even to the
point at which one does not even have to wear those central aspects of the
58
style that mark one out as a contemporary punk. Thirdly, and following on
from the previous claim, this is a definition of punk that places emphasis,
not on the style or image, but on attitudes and values that underlie the purely
visual. Drawing attention to meanings in this way tells us that there is far
more to a subculture than what Hebdige calls ‘the profoundly superficial
level of appearances’ (1979: 17).
We might be left with the thought that there is a contradiction in (A)
between Duncan’s unequivocal identification with a subcultural (i.e. group)
identity and his ability to present the meaning of punk in individualistic (anti-
group) terms. After all, allegiance to a group suggests conformity to its image,
values and practices, while individual freedom implies a refusal to comply
to group dictates. Yet for those with an insider knowledge of the punk
subculture, this combination of communal activity and individualistic
ideology comes as no surprise:
To start with, I’ll tell you what I think punk isn’t – it isn’t a fashion, a certain style
of dress . . . it is an idea that guides and motivates your life. The punk community
that exists, exists to support and realize that idea through music, art, fanzines and
other expressions of personal creativity. And what is this idea? Think for yourself,
be yourself, don’t just take what society gives you, create your own rules, live
your own life (Andersen 1985, cited in O’Hara 1995: 22).
My stance throughout this book, moreover, is that that the categories and
definitions of sociologists must be derived from, rather than imposed upon,
the sensibilities of the people under study. To claim, from the outside as it
were, that people’s indigenous meanings are contradictory is to ignore how
such apparent contradictions can make perfect, logical sense to those involved
given their own definitions of the situation.
To begin to see how such contradictions and tensions are resolvable in
practice, let us therefore examine (B), which displays an explicit blend of
pro and anti-group sensibilities. The three ‘psychedelic mods’ begin by stating
their identification with this named subculture, but we can see how this is
tentatively expressed (note the use of ‘well’ . . . ‘really, I suppose’) particularly
when compared to Duncan’s unequivocal declaration of allegiance to punk
in (A). Undercutting or lessening the severity of the implications of a statement
in this way is a form of mitigation (Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995), further
examples of which will be seen in following extracts. Why is it that a group
identity is accepted, yet mitigated? Jim talks of a need for ‘unity’, yet makes
clear how this unity stretches so far as to encompass ‘anyone who is into
anything’. This suggests that the aim of the club is to create, what we might
usefully term, a diverse unity. Evidence for this appears further on in the
59
extract. The meaning of mod is defined by Jim in individualistic, almost

isolationist terms1 (‘the true mod’s a loner’) only for this to be rejected in
favour of a ‘spirit’ of ‘sticking together’. The assumption that this communal
feeling is congruent with the earlier stress on a diverse unity is suggested by
the almost immediate recognition of the negative, sectionalist implications
involved in too specific a conception of the group.
For example, Jim then makes reference to ‘group consciousness’, but talks
of this as something that can be observed only in others, and goes on to
deny explicitly that it can be applied to himself or his two friends. We can
infer that ‘group consciousness’ is equated with a specific identity that would
reintroduce sharp lines of demarcation and cause internal compartmental-
ization of the diverse unity. An occurrence of this kind would clearly be viewed
negatively, for, as Jane complains, ‘people section themselves off too much’.
That named group identities, such as mod, do have this effect causes them
to be derided as labels that are seen to be ‘self-defeating’, ‘self-destructive’
and suggestive of ‘narrow-mindedness’. This dislike of the compartmentalizing
implications of labelling (‘boxing people’ as Jim puts it) is reflected in the
chosen subcultural identification, for, although this is a named group, it is a
hybrid of two previous and distinct cultural forms and musical genres
(psychedelia and mod), and breaks out of the more specific categorization
imposed by a single subcultural identity such as we find expressed by Duncan
in (A). As Jane is keen to stress, they are not ‘one definite thing and nothing
else’.2
Even so, their attempts at mitigation indicate that they are still not totally
comfortable with the acceptance of even a hybrid label. Saul, in (C), is even
more explicitly critical of the ‘typecasting’ and ‘pigeon-holing’ implied by
the application of hybrid labels, and points, by contrast, to the virtue (i.e.
deserving of ‘credit’) of having ‘more widespread’ tastes. As he makes clear,
it is the element of restriction that is a prime reason for the dislike of labelling
consistently expressed by subcultural interviewees. It is relevant that, earlier
in the interview, Saul described himself as a ‘nonconformist’, a somewhat
vague identification that could equally well be applied to any subcultural
style. It does not make reference to specific forms of dress, values, or cultural
tastes that are aligned to a particular group, and therefore satisfies Saul’s
own need for a ‘more widespread’, less restricted, form of identity.
We can now say that the apparent contradiction between individual
freedom and group affiliation in extract (A) is resolvable in so far as
subculturalists are attempting to re-characterize their social group as one of
‘anti-structure’ (Martin 1985) – a group, in other words, that is not tightly-
bounded, sharply defined or composed of uniform practices. We might
therefore suspect that Duncan holds a subjective conception of ‘punk’ that is
60
diverse enough to accommodate individual variation. In most cases, however,

giving a specific name (or label) to the group is likely to emphasize its
collective aspects, and imply that it does possess these negative qualities. A
consequence of this, a phenomenon we can term label-rejection, can be seen
in both the next extracts. Neal, in (E), states his hatred of being labelled and
refuses to accept either a hippy or a traveller identity. In (D), Beth also refuses
the application of two different subcultural labels (gothic and heavy metal).
She admits to ‘being into’ and liking heavy metal, so unlike my initial attempt
at locating her within with the goth subculture, ‘metaller’ or some equivalent
term would not necessarily be a wholly mismatched identity. Yet this does
not prevent her from rejecting it for what amounts to virtually the opposite,
a declaration of her individuality – she is her ‘own person’.
(D) TONY AND BETH

DM: What I want to ask you is: do you think of yourself as belonging
to a certain type of group of people?
T: Yeah.
DM: What is it?
T: Gothics.
DM: What, both of you?
B: For me that’s a matter of the kind of person.
DM: So you don’t think of yourself as being a . . .
B: No, no.
T: Beth’s into the heavy sort of heavy metal.
B: Yeah.
DM: Do you think of yourself as a heavy metal person, do you think of
yourself as a heavy metal-type person?
B: No. I am own person, not heavy metal. I like heavy metal, but I
am own person.
(E) NEAL
DM: Do you see yourself, because of the way you dress, belonging to a
certain type of group that you could name or identify?
N: To name or identify it would be like labelling it, and I hate being
labelled. But like I said before, I just wear what I feel comfortable
in and other people form their own opinions. They can call you a
hippy, they can call you a traveller, they can call you what they
like. I don’t really care.
DM: Do you compare yourself with people who dress what I call
conventionally?
61
N: I think I’m very different from conventional-dressing people,

actually.
DM: In what way? How do you view them as well?
N: Er, how do I view them? I see them I suppose a little as sheep,
people who’ve never really thought much about the randomness
of life, and I think they take as said by other people as what is
right, sort of thing, don’t really make up their own minds them-
selves. Erm . . . I like them. I like anyone who’s friendly, basically.
It’s just a case of, I feel a little bit sorry for them because in a way
I think they don’t know anything else. To fit into their social circle
or whatever it is – workplace or whatever – they have to dress in a
certain way and they get used to it and like it, sort of thing, and
that’s fine, but I suppose they haven’t really looked at many
alternatives. But clothes does reflect lifestyle. I think that is what
you’re vaguely getting at.
It would be difficult to quantify my interview responses into either group

acceptance or rejection, nor would this produce a valid figure, for affiliation
is a subtle and complex procedure and there are many ways in which
subculturalists can modify, mitigate and resist rather than simply endorse or
oppose group labels. Suffice to say that an unequivocal acceptance of a single
label, such as punk (extract A) or gothic (extract D) occurred only rarely in
the interviews as a whole. Although this goes against what the CCCS
approach has led us to think, a variety of contemporary sources (Andes 1998;
Evans 1997; Polhemus 1996, 1997; Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995) have
confirmed that subculturalists do tend to resist rather than accept single group
identifications – a point that also supports our first hypothesis.
Widdicombe and Wooffitt have argued that we define our identity as much
by reference to what we ‘are not’ as to what ‘we are’ (1995: 180). We can
see this in (E), where Neal attributes characteristics to a ‘reference group’
against which to define himself. Now, it can be argued that I invited this
comparison and even named the reference group in question, but Neal does
not contest the existence of such a comparison group, nor the legitimacy of
the label ‘conventional’. On the contrary, he explicitly makes clear his
difference from conventionally dressing people.3 Moreover, while my initial
question refers only to conventional dress, Neal takes it upon himself to
broaden this focus. This emphasis upon factors other than appearance was
also found in (A). Duncan in that first extract was concerned to emphasize
that his commitment to punk existed at more than just the stylistic level;
Neal is making the same point here about his difference from conventional
people. Initially, he discusses attitudes. He then suggests that the implications
62
of dress for conventional people are felt both socially and in the ‘workplace’,
thus encompassing both major spheres of their existence and making his
difference from them all the more comprehensive. Finally, he states explicitly
that that dress is a reflection of ‘lifestyle’.
So what is it about conventional attitudes and lifestyle that make this such
a useful reference group? Attributing certain qualities to the conventional
reference group allows Neal to cast himself in terms that are very much the
opposite, and are in keeping with the positive emphasis that subculturalists
place upon individuality and anti-restriction. Comparing conventional people
to ‘sheep’ carries all the negative connotations of group conformity resulting
from an unquestioning following of a flock. This theme continues in the
next lines, where conventional people are characterized not by independence
of mind, but by an acceptance without much thought of what others say is
socially acceptable. Claiming that ‘they haven’t really looked at many
alternatives’ or have not given much thought to ‘the randomness of life’
suggests, of course, that Neal has. The existential connotations of this term
‘randomness’ are not, I suggest, coincidental, for the suggestions of individual
autonomy, unpredictability and refusal to be constrained by the determinist
influences of social conventions are very much used to distance Neal from
the conformity, predictability and regulation that is said to characterize the
comparison group. If the social role of conventionals is to ‘fit in’, then clearly
the subcultural motive (as the McLaren quote at the beginning of this chapter
suggests) is not to ‘fit in’.
Distinctive Individuality
Through the use of these five extracts we have seen a connection, in terms of
dress, attitudes and lifestyle, between individuality and nonconformity. We
can refer to this as ‘distinctive individuality’, the way that subculturalists
highlight their individuality through a distinction from a collective reference
group, in this case, conventionally dressing people. A clear independent
example is given by Beattie. A woman on her way to the Manchester
Hacienda is quoted as saying, ‘We’re the opposite of Townies, you know.
We’re into style, fashion, X-cess, with a capital “X”. We’re individualists –
the opposite of Townies, who all buy the same old boring Blazer from Next’
(1990: 45). Tomlinson has further observed, also in the context of dance
culture, that where such individualistic comparisons are concerned ‘the key
word is insiders’ (1998: 203; original emphasis). Invoking a reference group
enables certain individuals to emphasize their ‘insider’ status as members of
an esoteric, subterranean scene through self-exclusion from a larger category
63
of uninitiated ‘outsiders’.4 All these sets of oppositions – the individual against

the collective; the insider vs the outsider; the minority against the majority –
can be found in Sarah Thornton’s (1995) study Club Cultures.
Thornton’s ethnography is indebted to the work of Pierre Bourdieu,
particularly his concept of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984). To possess such
capital is to have acquired the kinds of knowledge, tastes and social
competencies that provide a marker of social status. Different social groups
are consequently engaged in struggles over cultural capital with a view to
legitimating their own personal identities as the lifestyle, a process that
involves making distinctions from other groups who are thought to possess
poor taste, suspect tastes, or even no taste at all. A useful illustration of this
type of distinction as it pertains to subculture is given by Moore, who observes
how British-born Australian skinheads elevate their own status by regarding
‘moidies’ (their slang term for the stereotypical Australian male) as ‘lacking
style’ (it is, Moore comments, ‘just a different style’) (1994: 121). These
attempts to maintain subcultural status can be understood through Thornton’s
own concept of ‘subcultural capital’, where possession of the required taste
denotes ‘hipness’ or ‘being in the know’ (1995: 11). Of course, subcultural
tastes remain exclusive only for so long as they are unknown or inaccessible
to the majority, and this suggests why Thornton’s clubbers, and my own
informants, emphasize their own diversity and difference by invoking the
conventional (or ‘mainstream’) as the symbol of the mass ‘Other’.
There is, however, a potential objection to be raised concerning the way
in which subculturalists emphasize this distinctive individuality: that neither
of the descriptions on which it relies – subcultural individuality on the one
hand, conventional homogeneity on the other – are sociologically convincing.
Thornton would appear to concur with this, for she spends much time
deconstructing each part of this distinction. In line with the postmodern logic
that ‘the dominant culture, of which subculture is a sub-set, has lost its
coherence’ (Evans 1997: 171), Thornton argues that the ‘homogeneous’
mainstream is in fact composed of highly differentiated taste publics (1995:
97–8). She also investigates how ‘heterogeneous’ subcultures are themselves
‘unified’ by shared tastes. Factors such as ‘self-selection’, media communic-
ations, and ‘door policies’ ensure that clubcultures remain organized along
specific lines of social identification (ibid.: 111–14). The views of her
respondents are, in effect, regarded as false – merely ‘ideologies’ though which
clubbers ‘imagine’ the composition of social groups (ibid.: 10) – and not to
be confused with the way in which such groups are ‘objectively organized’
(ibid.: 96). Subculturalists, in other words, fail to perceive the bounded reality
of their own situation and the equally real internal differentiation of the
mainstream.
64
Yet, as we argued in Chapter 2, groups do not have objective characteristics

and boundaries. We can, in fact, regard both Thornton and her informants
as engaged in the process of describing the world through ideal-types,
producing different abstractions of the same phenomenon. Ideal-types cannot
be regarded as true or false, objective or subjective (for they are all necessarily
value-relevant and partial in their selection of attributes), they can only be
more or less useful for the purpose for which they are constructed. Clearly,
the clubbers’ typification of the mainstream is useful for their own purposes
for, as we saw in extract (E), one way to emphasize one’s own heterogeneity
and internal differentiation is through a comparison with the most typical
features of an outsider group. I also want to argue, however, that subcultur-
alists are quite able take a different perspective and recognize differentiation
within the mainstream as well as the socially shared dimension to their own
individuality. Let us look first at the subcultural view of the mainstream.
Here, we need to draw upon the work of Schutz (1980), who theorized in
detail how all social actors use ideal-types to apprehend the world. The
distinction made between insiders and outsiders can best be understood in
Schutzian terms as that which distinguishes (in an ideal-typical sense)
‘consociates’ from ‘contemporaries’: the former are those with whom we
share a ‘community’ of both time and space; the latter are those to whom
we are bounded only temporally; we inhabit the same world but may never
meet. Consociates are directly encountered and known to us in terms of their
particular, concrete characteristics. By contrast, ‘the contemporary is only
indirectly accessible and . . . can only be known in the form of general types’
(Schutz 1980: 181; original emphasis). Such is the reason why insiders can
regard outsiders (and subculturalists understand conventionals) as abstract,
anonymous and homogeneous. As Mitchell observes, ‘the process is one by
which superficial relationships between people are determined by certain
major categories within which no distinctions are recognized’ (1971: 28).
Mitchell’s observations are, however, only partially informed, since we do
not always perceive as an undifferentiated mass those with whom we have
such ‘categorical relationships’ (ibid.). As Ritzer correctly notes, Schutz’s
world of contemporaries is a ‘stratified world’ (1981: 169), existing at
different levels of abstraction. Subculturalists are, in other words, quite able
to perceive varying degrees of differentiation within the mainstream. In (E)
we saw Neal speak of conventional people as a general category. Extract (B)
in the next chapter will provide an example of what we might usefully term
a middle-range analysis, where specific types of groups are invoked to
symbolize conventional dress and lifestyle. Elsewhere in Neal’s interview he
was quite aware of the individual differences amongst conventional people,
even to the extent that he began to challenge my own suggestion that they
65
formed a specific group, wanting instead to accord them the same freedom
from ‘pigeon-holing’ that he would wish for himself. At each of these levels
– general category, middle-range and individual – conventional people are
still regarded as a ‘type’, but to a different degree of specificity, for ‘while
style is often a group phenomenon, it is also an individual matter . . . The
issue of group versus individual analysis depends on the detail with which
lifestyles are classified . . . Ultimately, it could be argued, every individual’s
lifestyle is unique . . . Any definition of lifestyle should therefore not exclude
the possibility of individual as well as group analysis’ (Veal 1993: 242–3).
Let us now turn to examine subculturalists’ descriptions of their own
groups, where Veal’s principle of differing levels of analysis can again be
observed. To illustrate this point, let us first look at a recent empirical British
study (Miles 1995; Miles et al. 1998) that examines the meanings that young
people give to consumer goods, and how such purchases are central to the
formation of their identities. Miles and his colleagues discovered that teenagers
discussed their consumption experiences in a way that suggested their
awareness of the similarity and predictability of fashion, while at the same
time seeing their purchases as the expression of a personal and individual
choice. One female respondent replied that their choice of consumer goods
allowed you ‘to fit in with everybody. To fit in more and show what you are
really like’ (1995: 16), while another said of their chosen item, ‘it says that I
like to be different and not have the same clothes as everyone else’ (1998:
89). The authors conclude that the differences that exist within generally
similar goods allow consumers to maintain their individuality (to ‘stick out’)
yet still be socially accepted and ‘fit in’ within the wider peer group.5 They
additionally argue that their findings are compatible with the perspective on
fashion taken by Simmel. According to Frisby (1985b: 62), Simmel tended
to see modern fashion ‘as a dialectic and ultimately a compromise between
two tendencies: adherence to and absorption in a social group on the one
hand, and individual differentiation and distinction from group members on
the other’.
Yet I would claim that this relation between individual distinction and
group conformity must be understood, not only within groups, but also in
terms of comparisons across groups. Although empirically interrelated, these
dimensions can be separated analytically. A within-group distinction is a
comparison of the individual to their peer-group. An across-group distinction
is a judgement by a group’s members of their unconventionality in relation
to other groups. Both dimensions can be observed in my own interviews.
When, for instance, I asked a mod-scooterist, Curly, about the meaning behind
his style he gave an answer similar to that of Duncan in extract (A) of this
chapter – ‘being an individual’. When pressed to expand upon this, Curly
66
replied, ‘seeing yourself as someone different than other people. You’re a

minority, you see.’ Here, we have an across-group distinction where affiliation
to an unconventional minority still allows a subculturalist to be ‘an individual’
in relation to the mass conformity of the conventional majority. As Jeff, an
ex-skinhead, put it, ‘you dress the same as all the other smoothies and casuals,
so you are a member of an even bigger group. So how can you criticize me
and say I’m not an individual, when I’m more of an individual than you are?
’Cos like there’s 50 thousand skinheads in Britain, there’s 20 million
smoothies. So who’s the individual?’ (see also Widdicombe 1993: 111).
But Curly also recognized that ‘seeing yourself as . . . different’ necessarily
involves being ‘influenced by a certain type of music and clothes’ through
which this difference is expressed. His friends, Dave and Loz, phrase it as
‘everyone having their own look’ within the ‘basically similar’, or ‘being an
individual within a group of like-minded individuals’. This is a within-group
distinction where subculturalists are quite aware of the socially shared
dimension to their individuality – the individual look within the group. It is
the diversity of this group that enables it to accommodate a range of looks
and tastes, allowing each member to maintain a sense of simultaneous
similarity and difference. ‘Stylization creates decipherable lifestyles on all
levels, from large collective cultures down to microcultures and even the
personal habitus of each individual’ (Fornäs 1995: 110). This allows one
both to fit in and yet stand out within a group, the purpose of which is to be
different from the accepted norm, or to not fit in on an across-group
distinction.
Using the arguments of Thornton (1995) we suggested that the manner in
which subculturalists express their distinctive individuality could be held to
be deficient on two counts: that it fails to recognize differentiation within
the conventional or consider the socially shared dimension to subcultures.
We have now demonstrated that neither of these arguments is supported by
the interview data. Subculturalists, by employing ideal-typical conceptions
of both their own and outsider groups, can make comparisons within and
between such groups to varying degrees of specificity. This does, however,
ensure that the mainstream can continue to be typified and homogenized in
order to emphasize subcultural diversity and difference. Not only does this
finding refute our second hypothesis, that a de-differentation (Lash 1990) of
the conventional/subcultural divide has eroded the ability of subculturalists
to make comparisons with outsider groups and maintain such boundaries,
but it carries the same implications for all social groups, owing to the
reciprocal nature of this process of subjective perception and homogenization.
My own group, of which I am an insider, and that I regard as heterogeneous,
is someone else’s outsider group.6 As Schutz phrases it, ‘each partner has to
67
be content with the probability that the other, to whom he is oriented by

means of an anonymous type, will respond with the same kind of orientation’
(Schutz 1980: 202).
There is clearly a lesson here on how subcultural style is likely to be
regarded by outsiders to that group. Barnard (1996: 30) contends that it is
the material act of wearing particular items of clothing that ‘constitutes the
individual’ as a member of a certain subculture. Subculturalists could therefore
stand accused of dressing in ways that seemingly contradict their verbal claims
for individuality and rejection of group identification. We saw, for example,
how Duncan (extract A) placed great importance on individuality, even
suggesting that a punk is freed from the necessity of looking like one. Yet in
my view Duncan visually conformed to the ‘mohican and tartan bondage
trousers’ uniform worn by all the other punks in his group. Equally, Beth
(extract D) and Neal, in (E), reject the very labels that, in my opinion, their
dress codes appeared to signify. But what, in fact, is happening in such cases
is the phenomenon that Schouten and McAlexander observed when con-
ducting research on the HDSC (Harley-Davidson subculture), that mere
contemporaries are initially apprehended as homogeneous types. ‘To outsiders
(including non-bikers and aspirants to the subculture) or to newcomers in
the HDSC, the various biker groups may appear as virtually indistinguishable,
even stereotypical’ (Schouten and McAlexander 1995: 49).
In other words, my own status as a social researcher, with all the qualities
of reflexivity and rigour that that implies, did not prevent my initial, visual
assessments of certain subculturalists taking the form of abstractions produced
from my outsider location.7 Of course, those with an insider perspective
would clearly reject this stereotypical characterization and maintain their
individuality on two dimensions: one, on a within-group distinction, stressing
internal group heterogeneity, and making reference to the very real material
differences in dress codes and cultural tastes within the subculture; and two,
on an across-group distinction, which allows for a recognition of the
subculture as a collectivity, but would still establish their minority status
(and hence individualism) when compared to conventionals. To again take
Duncan (extract A) as an example. His understanding of the meaning of
punk, ‘being yourself, freedom, doing what you wanna do’, is likely to be
defined against the conformity and restriction of both conventional and
subcultural norms, and is not contradicted by his allegiance to a punk look
(or, by extension, lifestyle), since, from his own insider perspective, this is
also heterogeneous and diverse. Duncan might well have replied to my
homogenization of his group using the words of the punk quoted by Lull
(1987: 227), ‘We might look the same to outsiders, but there are big
differences between us.’
68
There are clearly different perceptions of homogeneity and heterogeneity

involved here, but we cannot simply claim that one is right and the others
wrong. While dress is an aspect of material reality, and different styles and
group practices may be more or less homogeneous or heterogeneous, we are
unable to perceive this reality independently of our constructs and inter-
pretations of it. As Barnard also points out, ‘each reader . . . brings their
own cultural experience and expectations to bear on the garment in the
production and exchange of meanings’ (1996: 31). Style is ideal-typical, and
our values inevitably come into play through the process by which we all
abstract different features of social groups in relation to our own position.
There are, then, no objective appearances and group structures against which
a subjective subcultural sensibility can be dismissed as a priori superficial,
erroneous or ideological. On the contrary, as Schutz argues, ‘the starting
point of social science is to be found in ordinary social life’ (1980: 141; original
emphasis). One very important starting-point is the value that subculturalists
place upon individuality and freedom, for this theme underpins the typologies
they construct of the social world, and it is upon their typologies that social
scientific accounts should be constructed.
Liminal Subculture
We have seen how the conception of subculture as both widespread and

individualistic is achieved through the material and cultural practice of
wearing a style that allows one both to fit in and stand out within the group.
But subculturalists consistently define a subculture in more than just stylistic
terms. We therefore need to explore the meaning of diversity in other areas,
and deal here with the issue of musical tastes. That ‘youth subcultures tend
to be music subcultures’ (Thornton 1995: 19) has provided a focus for a
number of empirical studies (for example, Frith 1983; Kotarba and Wells
1987; Hansen and Hansen 1991; Locher 1998; Sardiello 1998). Research
by Lull (1987: 236) and Widdicombe and Woofitt (1995: 140) further reports
that the interest in a particular music is primary, preceding and leading to a
related subcultural affiliation. The interviewees in extracts (F) and (G) also
suggest that affiliation is conditional upon a liking for a specific musical
genre, but use this assumption to resist a categorical identity on the basis of
their widespread tastes.
(F) SUZIE AND MAGS

DM: Do you think of yourself as belonging to some type of people
because of the way you dress? Or identify with some type of people
because of the way you dress.
69
M: Not really.
S: Not generally. I suppose if you put us into any group we’re more
. . . we fit in more with the metal crowd and stuff than anything
else, but that’s it. We’re definitely not goths.
DM: Right, so I mean would . . . do you think of yourself as being a
heavy or anything? Or a metaller?
M: Not really, I mean . . .
S: We’re into industrial stuff.
M: Yeah, it’s more of a . . .
S: At the moment, but the image we put across, people categorize us
in that image. Usually it’s quite deceiving, ’cos I mean I like stuff
from you know Bjork to Carcass and stuff like anything between
that. So I mean it’s just, I’ve got a very wide music range. I don’t
like just one kind of music, I like loads, so I don’t really dress to fit
in with a certain type of music. I just dress how I want to dress,
really.
(G) OLIVER
O: I dress a bit Mod-y, I like that style, but I wouldn’t call myself a
proper Mod or anything like that, because I don’t want to define,
limit myself to one, you know, one sort of music, because you know
I like sort of house music as well. I used to be a raver (laughs) . . .
er . . . well not a proper one ’cos I’ve never really been a proper
anything. It’s just sort of halfway, not a halfway house between
everything, but sort of an amalgamation of the things I like,
basically. I don’t seem to be . . . doesn’t seem to, you know . . . I
don’t know, sort of going ‘I’m this and I’ve got to like this and I
can’t like that.’ I don’t know. I prefer listening to things and well,
‘I like that.’
DM: If you don’t think of yourself as a . . . OK: you’re making a
distinction between yourself and a proper mod or whatever they
are. What do you have to do to be a proper mod? In other words,
what haven’t you done that they do or vice versa? Or what do you
think is the case?
O: Spend a lot more money on clothes, wear, I don’t know, wear more
of the right clothing and sort of listen exclusively to soul music,
garage and things like that. Probably more soul music, but Small
Faces, etc. etc. But I must say I have a great fondness for soul,
but I also like sort of other things, classical music – Satie, you
know.
70

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 3. Oliver
(H) GARRY
DM: Do you think of yourself identifying with a certain type of group
of people or whatever because of the way you dress?
G: Er, yeah, I suppose so.
DM: What is it?
G: Punk-ish (laughs).
DM: Ish? Right. Would you claim you are a punk? I mean would you
go so far as to claim ‘look I am a punk’?
G: Yeah; only, ’cos it’s a convenient form of reference, if you know
what I mean.
DM: Right. Do you think of yourself as being a punk?
G: Er . . . that’s the nearest sort of name that I can put to it, if you
know what I mean. I am what I am, really.
71
In extract (F) we find the assumption that named identity is warranted

given a correspondence between wearing a certain style and liking a specific
and related musical form. This is precisely the reason why Suzie’s ‘very wide
music range’ enables her to reject such an identity. Again, in (G), a reason
for Oliver claiming he has ‘never been a proper anything’ is his refusal to be
restricted to one particular type of music.8 After this I reversed the logic of
the question and asked what he would have to do to be a ‘proper mod’ (and
thus presumably for a clear mod identification to be acknowledged). Oliver
had initially distanced himself from a specific identification by reference to
his ‘amalgamation’ of tastes, and his reply logically confirms that those who
do claim such an identification have a correspondingly more specific set of
tastes: a need to ‘listen exclusively’ to particular types of music, to wear ‘the
right clothing’, and to engage in the prescribed ritual activity of acquiring
the right dress code, the description of which (‘spending a lot more money
on clothes’) recalls the element of ‘conspicuous consumption’ that, according
to Hebdige (1974), lies at the heart of the ‘meaning of mod’.
Garry (extract H) is slightly more willing than the preceding three
interviewees to acknowledge a subcultural identification. Even so, Garry’s
identification is qualified by the suffix ‘-ish’, conditional on the ‘convenience’
rather than the exact relevance of its application, and is thus made to sound
somewhat incongruent with what Garry actually perceives himself to be.
From the substance of previous extracts, we might safely assume that this
discrepancy could be explained by reference to Garry’s wider tastes compared
to the specificity of what the label connotes. It is also predicated upon a
claim, present in (C), (E) and (F), that labels are imposed by outsiders rather
than being a form of identification emerging from within. Moreover, given
that subculturalists are consistently reluctant to endorse identifications that
imply their tastes are restrictive, the word ‘categorize’ as used here by Suzie
in (F) can only be pejorative, given its connotations of conformity and
compliance to a clearly demarcated set of practices.
I would in fact suggest that (F) and (G) on one hand, and (H) on the other
are in fact highly complementary, being two sides of the same coin. In the
first two extracts, Suzie, Mags and Oliver appear to be comparing themselves
with a very specific version of a relevant subculture, and rejecting a group
identification on the basis that their own personal situation is not restricted
to such a ‘pure’ model. But, as we have seen in the earlier sections of this
chapter, this does not mean that they necessarily reject affiliation to a
collectivity, only that labelling invokes a conception of a restricted model at
odds with their own self-identity. What they may well do in such a situation
is to accept the ‘convenience’ of the group label that happens to be closest to
their own self-perception, while at the same time making clear the lack of fit
72
It may at first seem a rather obvious finding that individuals profess to

liking more than one kind of music. Yet certain subcultures are, after all,
supposedly composed of people who dress in a highly visible style that signifies
a special attachment to a specific musical genre. To discover that such
individuals may embrace a plurality of musical affiliations has important
implications for the manner in which sociological analysis has focused on
the homological coherence of subcultural forms. Homology, as explained by
Hebdige, is ‘the symbolic fit between the values and lifestyles of a group, its
subjective experience and the musical forms it uses to express or reinforce its
focal concerns’ (1979: 113). Furthermore, as we saw in Chapter 2, the internal
homologies of a group are distinguished from other sets of homological
relationships inhering in other groups through the manner in which sub-
cultures are set in sharp opposition to each other. We can see this principle
at work with reference to musical tastes, again, through the work of Paul
Willis:
The motor bike boys’ fundamental ontological security, style, gesture, speech, rough
horseplay – their whole social ambience – seemed to owe something to the
confidence and muscular style of early rock ’n’ roll. [By contrast] the originality
and complexity of ‘progressive’ music not only matched the intricacy and
inventiveness of the hippy life-style, but the unusual, bizarre and exotic sounds it
made possibly matched and developed the ‘head’-centred nature of the hippy culture
and the general emphasis on expanded awareness (Willis 1978: 35, 159).
Yet what my own informants typically do is make reference to their

‘widespread tastes’, ensuring that their own situation diverges from or is not
restricted to such a pure model. As we argued in Chapter 2, this does not
mean that homologies cannot be discovered in liminal subcultures, nor that
oppositional elements cannot form between them. Rather, it is to argue that
this is but a partial account and that subculturalists can embrace a number
of apparently exclusive stylistic and musical forms. Lull, for example,
discovered that punks and skinheads ‘listen to many of the same records
and tapes and they attend punk shows where they freely interact’ (1987:
245). Sid, one of my own skinhead informants, had previously been a punk,
and used to listen to both punk rock and ska. His partner, Bea, also a skinhead,
had once worn her hair long and had been into motorbikes, but even then
had listened to all types of skinhead music. In Chapter 6 we shall present
two detailed case studies involving such apparent contradictions, thereby
satisfying Fornäs’s call for subcultural analysis to direct itself more to the
identification of ‘heterogeneous and conflictual traits’ (1995: 114).
74
Crossover Counterculture
Liminal subcultures can be conceptualized as groups that have begun to break

out of the very boundaries through which they are defined; they are
characterized as much by ambiguity and diversity as by coherence and
definition. But while stylistic demarcation is not rigid, classification is not
an impossible enterprise. As Widdicombe and Wooffitt discovered in their
own interviews, respondents resisted a specific subcultural categorization,
‘while not definitely denying the potential relevance of a subcultural identity
. . . After all, the kinds of dress and appearance of the respondents invite a
certain kind of categorical ascription’ (1995: 104; original emphasis). But
certain individuals in my study seemed almost to defy such attempts at
definition. In the terminology of Kaiser (1990) ‘appearance perception’ was
problematized, classification into subcultural ‘types’ rendered invalid.9 Fornäs
(1995) would attempt to account for this by his notion of ‘antilogy’: this is
where the internal contradictions of any heterology have become overtly
oppositional, a dynamic movement culminating in a new stylistic synthesis.
My interviewees frequently explained it as the result of a ‘crossover’ between
once-separate subcultures. Following the self-definition of Dave, another of
my subcultural sample, I will refer to such people by the concept of ‘crossover
counterculture’, designating (in his own words) an ‘amorphous group’ with
‘no set rules’ and ‘blurring of boundaries’. This is not to suggest the existence
of two clearly separate groups, liminal subculture and crossover counter-
culture; rather, it is to conceptualize these as opposing ends of an ideal-typical
continuum, with the latter displaying a greater degree of heterogeneity of its
constituent parts.
(I) PETER
P: Yeah, I suppose I’m really quite individual. I’m half Chinese
anyway. So as a starter that was a sort of . . . made things a bit . . .
I always thought of myself as an individual anyway. Being half of
something, you’re never one or the other. So, then . . . um . . . really
that sort of, by taking bits of being Chinese, in as far as hairstyle
and things are concerned, and then . . . urh . . . mixed it with
everything else really (laughs).
DM: So do you ever think of yourself as belonging to a certain group of
people ’cos of the way you dress, or . . . ?
P: Er no, not really. ’Cos people do get confused by the way I look
anyway. ’Cos I do ride motorcycles, so I look like I’m a biker, and
then the clothes I wear are always baggy, so everybody thinks I’m
75

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 4. Peter
a skateboarder, and then it just sort of goes on and on like that,

and people just sort of . . . I suppose it’s quite cosmopolitan really.
I fit in with just about everybody, really. There is always a certain
amount of bond between people who tend to dress individually.
(J) DANIEL
D: I find I relate to what’s loosely called subculture. It always used to
be the weirdos. It started with the goths and then the hippies joined
in, and then you had like punk crossover as well, so the way I
look, I don’t know. I think it’s more on a social level. You sort of
76
. . . the people who look the way I do think a certain way about
the way the world works, so I associate with them.
Peter, in (I), refers to his individuality and liminal (in-between) identity,

but what is different about the basis on which these attributes are proposed
compared to what happened in earlier extracts is the explicit emphasis on
eclecticism. Peter’s attitude towards style is suggestive of the sampling, mixing
and matching sensibility by which Polhemus (1994) characterizes ‘the
Supermarket of Style’. The logical consequence of this postmodern pre-
dilection to mix, match and plunder is to create greater scope for the
construction of ‘individually unique looks’ (Kaiser 1990; Kaiser et al. 1991).
On a ‘continuum of uniformity’, as conceptualized by McVeigh, Peter and
similar interviewees would fall towards the end characterized as ‘disordered,
anti-standardized, anti-categorized and overtly individualistic’ (1997: 198).
We hear how ‘people do get confused’ by Peter’s appearance, which perhaps
indicates why the two styles through which people attempt to classify him
(biker and skateboarder) are relatively dissimilar compared to, say, the options
of metaller and goth in (F). Even then it seems that these are not the only
possible candidates (‘it just sort of goes on and on like that’). It is through
this heightened sense of stylistic ambiguity that ‘crossover counterculture’
can be likened to the ‘freak style’ identified by Gottschalk: ‘Unwilling to
embrace any recognizable (sub)cultural style, Freaks subverted them all by
combining them without centre, logic, or order . . . [This group] resists
identification and classification’ (1993: 368).
Even in such cases of stylistic ambiguity, affinity continues to be expressed
with a wider collectivity of like-minded others: Peter talks of a ‘bond’, Daniel
(extract J) claims to ‘associate’. Yet Daniel’s use of the word ‘loosely’ helps
to distinguish ‘subculture’ in this context from its more specific, cohesive
and coherent connotations, thus making clear the nebulous quality of the
collectivity to which he ‘relate(s)’. This is further emphasized both by its
equivalence with another non-specific term, ‘the weirdos’, and by describing
it as the end-result of a process whereby specific subcultural elements ‘cross
over’ into once mutually exclusive stylistic domains. As this implies a tendency
towards the formation of a wider group of more ambiguously dressed
individuals who have the stylistic credentials to pass muster in a larger number
of social milieux, it is interesting that the ‘cosmopolitan’ Peter claims to ‘fit
in with just about everybody really’. But this communitarian dimension to
affiliation is not predicated upon a uniformity that obliterates and is
antithetical to individuality, but a diverse unity (see extract B) that can
encompass and accommodate individual difference. This is necessarily so,
for it is individuality that is the basis of subcultural authenticity.
77
We can understand authenticity as that which defines the real or genuine

members of a subculture. As we saw in Chapter 2, authenticity in the CCCS
approach is located in a highly collectivist conception of subcultural resistance
and theoretically imputed to those original members who constitute the
subculture at the point of its inception. This presents a fundamental irony in
the CCCS work, for it is exactly this homogeneous conception of subculture
that my own informants reject as stereotypical and (by extension) inauthentic.
The diffuse (or liminal) sensibility expressed by my subcultural sample is
not, however, in any way suggestive of a post-inceptive inauthenticity, for it
is through such sentiments that the whole basis of a subcultural response
can be validated. A point made by Steve, a Preston interviewee: ‘I would
have said I was a punk or a mod, but the label always sort of like . . . if you
were a punk it was always a contradiction to say I belong to this group of
people, ’cos what it’s about isn’t’ (my emphasis).
Much the same objection to the CCCS approach can be found in Wid-
dicombe and Wooffitt’s The Language of Youth Subcultures (1995). Here,
the authors present interviews with members of various style subcultures to
demonstrate how speakers typically resist group categorizations. Having
examined how both academic and common-sense accounts of subcultures
are based upon the assumption that affiliation satisfies an individual’s ‘need’
or ‘desire’ for a collective identity, Widdicombe and Wooffitt argue that such
perspectives patently fail to consider deeply felt notions in Western societies
about individuality and authenticity. The origin of these concerns can be
traced to humanist and existential discourses that emphasize the uniqueness
of the individual inner self, and the importance of achieving authenticity
through the realization and expression of this uniqueness. Group ident-
ifications are therefore resisted because they carry connotations of collective
conformity, suggesting a concomitant loss of individuality that renders their
members inauthentic.
Although this confirms my own findings, Widdicombe and Wooffitt do
not consider the differences that may exist in this respect between subcultures
and other groups in society. On the contrary, they are keen to emphasize
that ‘our analytic claims may be relevant to a wider community of persons
that those whose accounts are examined here’ (1995: 208). Andes (1998),
however, makes the point that those subculturalists who transcend group
identifications (such as the punks in her own study) have a particularly
pronounced ideology of individualism, and that membership categories are
likely to be a less sensitive issue for other types of groups. Individuality can,
in other words, be considered a cultural value upon which different social
actors can place varying degrees of emphasis.
Confirmation of this variation in individuality can be found in Jeffrey
78
Arnett’s Metalheads: Heavy Metal Music and Adolescent Alienation (1996).10

Arnett convincingly demonstrates that American youth involved in the heavy
metal subculture have been socialized into a radical form of their country’s
dominant cultural belief system of liberal individualism. Compared to
conventional youth, the metalheads are characterized by ‘hyperindividualism’;
they place a higher value on independence and lead more individualized lives,
less integrated than many Americans into the collective ties and bonds of
family, school, community and religion that act to balance the tendency
towards cultural disintegration. ‘American adults encourage their children
towards independence, self-sufficiency and individualism from an early age
believing that these are healthy goals for development. What is unintended,
unanticipated, and often unrecognized is that, for some adolescents, indep-
endence easily becomes loneliness, self-sufficiency may shade into isolation,
individualism may take an alienated form’ (Arnett 1996: 17).
Subcultures can therefore be understood, somewhat paradoxically, as
collective expressions and celebrations of individualism. We will take up these
issues again in our concluding chapter. For now, we can raise the issue of
whether this liberation from collective norms and values also entails (again
somewhat paradoxically) a weakened sense of commitment to any one
subcultural grouping. This form of reasoning finds its postmodern counterpart
in the claim that contemporary subculturalists engage in a radical stylistic
pluralism, embracing and celebrating the fluidity and ephemerality of different
subcultural identities on offer. This is the theme of our next chapter.
Notes
1. References to the individualistic ethos of mod can be found in Barnes (1991).

2. Lull (1987: 228) also reports on such hybrids as ‘psychedelic punk’, ‘Rasta
punk’, ‘funk punk and ‘punk funk’.
3. Moreover, this type of comparison was frequently raised in interviews by the
subculturalists themselves long before the prompt occurred on my interview schedule.
Conventional people can be also be referred to by the informants as ‘straights’ or
the ‘mainstream’ (see Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995: 168–74; Thornton 1995: 87–
115; Pini 1997; Andes 1998; Tomlinson 1998).
4. This insider status should not be confused with the sense in which subcultures
are regarded as ‘outsiders’ to the ‘normalized’ dominant culture. See, for example,
Becker (1963).
5. Like many commentators on consumer culture, Miles and his co-researchers
regard individual choices as somewhat illusory, placing more importance on the power
of producers to shape consumer actions (see also the discussion of this research in
Miles 1998). Again, this is not an ‘objective’ assessment, but one made from a
79
particular value position. For a different interpretation, see Lipovetsky (1994).

6. On the relevance of the insider–outsider distinction to groups other than
subcultures see also A. P. Cohen (1986), Jenkins (1996) and Billington et al. (1998).
7. Similarly, despite Thornton’s attempt ‘to maintain an analytical frame of mind’
(1995: 2) she does not avoid stereotyping clubbers, describing one such crowd, albeit
in a partly knowing way, as ‘pretty homogeneous’ and wearing ‘the acid house
uniform’ (ibid.: 88).
8. I am grateful to Nick Abercrombie for the observation that there may be a
note of regret in Oliver’s admission never to have ‘really been a proper anything’. It
may also appear that, through such a claim, Oliver is owning up to his own
inauthenticity compared to the authenticity of ‘proper mods’. But if this were the
case he would be the only informant to imply that the most authentic subcultural
tastes are those that are the most restricted and specific.
9. See, for example, the exercise in decoding in McCracken (1990: 62–7).
10. See also Arnett (1991a, 1991b, 1992, 1993). It is interesting to read Arnett’s
book in conjunction with the account given by Gaines (1991). Both authors see
sections of American youth heading towards anomie and cultural disintegration.
80
Commitment, Appearance and the Self
5
Commitment, Appearance and
the Self
I have had joy in helping Stephanie share in the exuberance and abandon of the
New World, but in the process I have witnessed a flaw emerge, like a silent
genetic disease knitted into her DNA, which has now inevitably unravelled at
this later date. The flaw is simple: because Stephanie was not born here, she can
never understand here.
‘People in California meet people who they have not seen for two years’, she
says while driving home from Venice, ‘and they say to each other, “So who are
you now? What is your new ray-ligion? What new style of clothes are you
wearing these days? What kind of diet are you eating? Who is your wife? What
sort of house are you in now? What different city? What new ideas do you
believe?” If you are not a completely new person, your friends will be
disappointed.’
‘So?’ I ask.
‘Do you not see anything wrong with this constant change?’
‘Should there be? I think it’s great I’m allowed to reinvent myself each week.’
Douglas Coupland: Shampoo Planet (1993: 237–8)
When I rummage through my wardrobe in the morning I am not merely faced

with a choice of what to wear. I am faced with a choice of images: the difference
between a smart suit and a pair of overalls, a leather skirt and a cotton dress, is
not just one of fabric and style, but one of identity. You know perfectly well
that you will be seen differently for the whole day, depending on what you put
on; you will appear as a particular kind of woman with one particular identity
which excludes others. The black leather skirt rules out girlish innocence, oily
overalls tend to exclude sophistication, ditto smart suit and radical feminism.
Often I have wished I could put them all on together, or appear simultaneously
in every possible outfit, just to say, How dare you think any one of these is me.
But also, See, I can be all of them.
Judith Williamson: Consuming Passions (1986: 91)
81
Part-timers
As one of the contributors to an internationally focused study of contemp-

orary – read ‘postmodern’ – consumption practices and their implications
for self-identity, Langman writes, ‘if the subject is not dead, s/he is more
likely decentred, fragmented, and differentially expressed and experienced
depending on context’ (1992: 67). Likewise, Shields, as editor of the collection,
talks in his introduction of ‘the multiple masks of a postmodern “persona”
who “wears many hats” in different groups and surroundings . . . their
multiple identifications form a private dramatis personae – a self which can
no longer be simplistically theorized as unified’ (1992: 16). This mode of
theorizing has undoubtedly underwritten contemporary ‘postmodern’ per-
spectives on the increasing plurality, superficiality and ephemerality of
subcultural identities. The reference to ‘multiple masks’ and ‘many hats’
suggests that looks are casually put on and cast off, enabling us to play with
our identities in a highly promiscuous fashion. This increases the potential
for any individual to enjoy a greater degree of stylistic freedom; to cruise
through the available images on offer, to engage in what Polhemus (1996)
has, in the context of clubland, termed ‘Style Surfing’.
Our hypothesis to examine in this chapter is that subculturalists display a
superficial and transient attachment to any one style as they regularly
transgress the boundaries that serve to separate the conventional from the
subcultural and specific subcultures from each other. If we look back to extract
(A) in the previous chapter we can see that Duncan’s emphatic manner of
claiming a punk identity is also a way of demonstrating his commitment to
the subculture. Claiming that he is punk ‘through and through’ conveys the
depth rather than the superficiality of his attachment. Saying how he has
been a punk for so many years also suggests the seriousness of his commitment
by drawing attention to the longevity of his affiliation. It is difficult to see
how such commitment could continue to be expressed if Duncan were to
change regularly between punk and other subcultural styles, or from
subcultural to conventional dress and back again, within the course of, say,
a few days or weeks. This chapter will examine such themes in the context
of simultaneous (synchronic) subcultural identifications and relatively short-
term mobility. A long-term (diachronic) analysis of subcultural change will
be a focus of the next chapter. The first two extracts of this chapter explore
the relationship of the subcultural to the conventional.
(A) JIM, JANE AND SEAN

DM: Do you . . . is there a degree of creativity about the way you look?
I mean do you put a lot of thought and effort into it?
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PRINTED EDITION
Figure 5. Jim, Jane, Sean
Ja: Definitely.
Jim:Individuality. You don’t want anyone to dress the same as you.
S: Yeah, well even in the mod scene, if you start seeing lots of people
dressing fairly similarly, you’d think, well I wanna be a bit differ-
ently to that. So that’s the individual bit within the group sort of
thing.
DM: Are there any occasions where you might look totally different?
Do you tend to stick – OK, I know everyone has their own
individual way of looking – but are there any occasions where you
look totally different? I mean, do you always dress in the kind of
general sixties style?
83
S: Yes.
Ja: Yeah.
DM: You never look any different?
S: Yeah. I can’t understand people that would kind of like put some
clothes on for the evening and then wear something completely
opposite.
Jim: Part-timers.
Ja: Yeah, we look the same during the day as we do when we go out.
DM: What about different occasions? When . . . I can’t think of one
offhand.
Jim: Red Chrysanthemums. Red, er, what’s the one?
Ja: Carnation.
Jim: Carnation. We were going out for this meal, and I was wearing a
red carnation.
S: Not really relevant, though, is it?
Extract (A) begins with an issue first discussed in the previous chapter:
distinctive individuality within the group. We can see that this is regarded
positively, one reason being that it allows individuals to recognize their
location within stylistic parameters that would designate them as, say, mod,
while distancing themselves from what they perceive to be a stereotypical
version of the subculture. My second question has a temporal basis, to
ascertain whether any one person might undergo a total change from one
type of look to another and back again. This, by contrast, provokes a very
negative response. One reason for this, I would argue, is because such a
stylistic ‘switch’ takes an individual out of the range of dress codes that serve
to mark allegiance to a particular grouping. Deriding such people as ‘part-
timers’, as Jim does here, is a way of calling into question their commitment
to the subculture.
Different youths can bring different degrees of commitment to a subculture. It can

represent a major dimension in people’s lives – an axis erected in the face of the
family around which a secret and immaculate identity can be made to cohere – or
it can be a slight distraction, a bit of light relief from the monotonous but none
the less paramount realities of school, home and work. It can be used as a means
of escape, of total detachment from the surrounding terrain, or as a way of fitting
back into it and settling down after a week-end or evening letting off steam (Hebdige
1979: 122).
Part-timers are those who, according to Hebdige, display allegiance only for
the weekend; or, as Sean would have it, for just the duration of the evening.
That such an individual might then re-enter the group by switching back to
84
the required subcultural look would probably be taken only as further

evidence of their dilettantism. We can, however, see that a change of style is
admitted to in response to my prompt concerning ‘different occasions’. I
suggest, though, that this information is volunteered precisely because it is
concerning a special occasion. Looking different is characterized as the
exception that proves the general rule. One does not go out for meals as a
matter of course, and ‘dressing-up’ for such occasions is not only acceptable
but perhaps expected. And while Sean might feel the example of a red
carnation is hardly relevant, it is relevant precisely because of the function
that such a superficial detail plays in drawing attention to what is otherwise
a general lack of change.
As the three informants dress in a mod style, it might be argued that the
above claim is an easy one for them to make. The mod image is singularly
closer to notions of conventionality than is the case for other subcultures,
and is therefore unlikely to look completely out of place in such special
circumstances. Let us look, then, at (B), the first part of which throws into
sharp relief the comprehensive distinction between the interviewees’ usual
subcultural style and their conventional dress, but again mitigates possible
accusations of partial affiliation by making reference to the latter as a rare
and therefore acceptable departure from the former.
(B) ANNE AND JULIE

DM: Have you ever dressed in . . . have you ever thought of yourself
being, or have you ever dressed in a way that was different?
J: Well, in about two or three weeks we’re going to the Paradox for
a hen night.
A: We’re going on a Shaz night.
J: We’re going to call it . . . it’s called the Shaz night, and we’re going,
like, completely overboard.
A: We are going to . . . I’m taking all my piercing out, so I’m even
going to bleach my hair and curl it into a nice bob for the occasion.
J: Fitted jacket, sheer tights, stilettos, the whole bit.
A: Stilettos, the whole works. Cover up the tattoos.
J: Gold lamé handbag. We’re going to go for the whole Shaz bit.
DM: Doesn’t that compromise what you are?
A: Not at all, ’cos we still know.
DM: (Later in interview) Do you ever buy from mainstreet stores?
A Oh, I have done, yeah.
J: Yeah, yeah. Definitely, ’cos there are things that like . . . I mean
like . . . I’m into vest tops a lot of the time, and it’s best to get
them from mainstream stores, and, I mean, if you just wear them
85
differently; it’s not really what you’re wearing, it’s the way you
wear it, what you wear it with, and . . .
A: It’s like I bought a vest top last Sunday and matched it up with her
lacy skirt, which is really nice.
Anne and Julie talk of going to a nightclub for a hen night, thus signalling
the occasion as a one-off event. Its ‘conventional’ status is made clear by
referring to it as ‘the Shaz night’, Shaz and Trace being typical names used
by subculturalists to denote ‘trendies’.1 The talk of dressing-up in a Shaz
style, ‘we’re going completely overboard . . . the whole works’, suggests an
excessiveness bordering on the edge of parody, that this is at one level
something of a joke at the expense of the clientele who are usually found to
patronize such a place. There is more than a hint here of dressing-up in
costume, the way in which one might for a fancy dress party. The reference
to tattoos is important, for they can be displayed as ‘marks of mischief’
(Sanders 1988), a badge of commitment to subcultural values (Fox 1987;
Moore 1994; Polhemus 1994; Schouten and McAlexander 1995), and
covering them up is a way of effecting a temporary disguise of Anne’s status.
There was also a telling response to my question as to whether such a change
of appearance would ‘compromise what you are’. Anne’s reply is ‘not at all,
’cos we still know’, which can only mean still having knowledge of ‘who or
what we are’. Lurie has said that ‘to put on somebody else’s clothes is to
symbolically take on their personality’ (1992: 24). It is this assumption that
is being mitigated here by characterizing a conventional appearance as a
misleading guide to, and a temporary masking of, what or who someone
really is.
I later ask Anne and Julie whether they buy clothes from mainstreet shops.
Instead of referring to the wearing of conventional clothes as an exception,
as they did earlier, Julie states that vest-tops from mainstream stores are a
commonly worn item (‘a lot of the time’). Yet by claiming ‘if you just wear
them differently’, she is able to differentiate herself from any conventional
dressing people who might be wearing the same item. What is, in fact, being
described here is their attempt at constructing a different look through a
bricolage of conventional and subcultural elements: in this case a mainstream
vest top with a goth-style lace skirt. So rather than the separation between
conventional and usual wear seen in the first part of the extract, we find
here the juxtaposition and combination of the two. As J. Clarke (1986) and
Hebdige (1979) have argued, subcultural styles are constructed by the taking
and recontextualizing of items from the dominant culture. If unconvention-
ality of appearance is constructed in such a way, the wearing of specific
elements that are of conventional origin is therefore unavoidable, and cannot
86
be taken as evidence of being only partly committed. (As we will see in

Chapter 7, there are good reasons why interviewees are unable to argue that
full commitment is demonstrated by the wearing of a distinct set of items
that are wholly subcultural.)
There is, though, a second reason given in (B) as to why Anne and Julie
are different from conventional people who wear the same item. This is
somewhat intangible, and concerns ‘the way you wear it’. That this is different
from ‘what you wear it with’ is attested to by the same distinction occurring
in a number of different interviews (see also Widdicombe 1993: 104). But
what is meant by such a phrase? The answer to this question lies in the next
three extracts.
Hearts and Masks
In the first extract of the last chapter we saw that Duncan made a distinction
between a punk appearance and the values underlying this, privileging the
latter over the former. A similar feature appears in our next extract, (C),
where Dougie claims that punk is not about what you look like, but what
you feel in your heart.2 In sociological terms, this suggests that the meaning
of punk is internalized. People, in other words, express as part of their
personality the particular values into which they have been socialized (Parsons
1951). The argument made in the last chapter, that those who affiliate to
subcultures are likely to have been brought up to express the values of
hyperindividualism (Arnett 1996), would explain why some of my inter-
viewees claimed to have always had a feeling of inner difference to other
people, predating their affiliation to a subculture (see also Fox 1987: 353;
Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995: 158; Andes 1998).
While it may be objected that everyone is individually different, such a
claim was clearly phrased in terms of individual estrangement from the
majority (Widdicombe 1993: 106), and can be understood through our
concept of distinctive individuality outlined in the last chapter. The argument
put forward here is along the lines of: all people are individuals with different
attitudes, tastes and personalities, but some have more individuality than
others (Kitwood 1980: 117–18). An example of this can be seen in (D) below.
Robin is clear that this feeling of difference ‘deep inside’ must have preceded
his entry into punk, since this was the ‘whole reason why’ the punk subculture,
as a visible manifestation of distinction, ‘appealed’ to him, and why its
emergence is characterized as ‘something I’d been waiting [for]’. Note the
way that, like Dougie, he defines punk in terms of his inner self, ‘it was just
like me’.
87
(C) DOUGIE
D: I mean that’s what it’s all about, punk, it’s in your heart. It’s not
what your haircut’s like or whether you’ve got big boots on. In my
opinion it’s just about the way you feel. I mean people might look
at me and go ‘oh, he’s not really a punk rocker ’cos he doesn’t
wear punk rock clothes all the time’, but it’s in me heart. I mean I
don’t have to go out and impress anybody.

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 6. Robin
88
(D) ROBIN
R: I mean the whole reason why the punk thing appealed to me, it
was just like me, something deep inside of me, and I just immed-
iately went, ‘yes, this is for me!’ Like I said, it was almost something
I’d been waiting . . . something inside of me. Perhaps I felt different
inside; I must have done. But it is what you feel inside, because
you could wear identical . . . you could go out and buy more or
less – I mean obviously you’d have to do a bit of chasing around –
but more or less buy something that looks very similar to what
I’m wearing now, but you’re the only person who would know
genuinely how you feel inside about it. The truth is – I’m not being
funny – is certain people can carry a certain image and some people
can’t. Certain people look just totally out of place in what they’re
dressed as and what they’re trying to be.
(E) PETE AND ALISON

A: I know people who just, who just . . . er . . . dress similar to us
because they want to, er . . . they’re doing it for the image and
they’d probably answer the question in a completely opposite way
than we are because they’re meant to be just doing it for the image,
’cos they think that it looks good. Therefore they adopt the style
of dress. It’s not something that comes from inside to those. It’s
more that they adopt, and they adopt . . . er, they adopt . . . er
liking a certain kind of music and they adopt certain attitudes.
P: Nothing’s really them, their own. There’s nothing to their appear-
ance, to be something as they aren’t really.
A: They’re plastic. And it’s very plastic. It’s not real.
P: Done for effect rather than for any real reason.
DM: So you’re trying to say you’re not like that?
A: It’s not really wearing a style; it’s part of expressing yourself.
P: Yeah, it’s an extension of yourself.
A: The look’s part of me.
P: It’s self-expression.
Dress, according to Stone, is a vehicle through which a person ‘announces

his identity, shows his value, expresses his mood, or proposes his attitude’
(1981: 193). As one of Tseëlon’s informants phrased it, ‘I like the outer me
to reflect the inner me’ (1995: 50). It is this self-expression through style
that, in the second half of (E), leads Pete and Alison to each characterize
their appearance as an ‘extension of’, even ‘part of’ their persona. Of course,
89
as Robin (extract D) acknowledges, ‘you’ could wear a similar style to what

he is currently wearing. But this would not necessarily be a genuine act, for
the style may not be an expression of inner feelings. It is, in other words,
whether or not ‘it comes from inside’ (extract E) that is the marker of
authenticity and makes the difference between doing it ‘genuinely’ or ‘falsely’.3
Those who merely ‘adopt’ an unconventional appearance without possessing
the necessary ‘inner’ qualities are regarded by Pete and Alison as ‘plastic’,
‘not real’. What, in fact, we are seeing in these extracts is the use of a reference
group – a subcultural ‘Other’ – against which the interviewees authenticate
themselves. We might have reasoned from our discussion of Schutz (1980)
in the previous chapter that this is a stereotypical characterization based on
subculturalists who are contemporaries rather than consociates of the
informants. Because their specific identities and personal characteristics
remain unknown, they can be typified as anonymous outsiders on the evidence
of only their appearance.4
That such contemporaries are judged by Robin as only ‘trying to be . . .
what they’re dressed as’ additionally implies that they have not successfully
managed it. If you are something, then you don’t by definition need to try.
This form of reasoning allows certain subculturalists to be relatively uncon-
cerned with their own stylistic expression.5 Dougie (extract C), for example,
is happy to admit that ‘he doesn’t wear punk rock clothes all the time’. Given
that he is a punk – ‘inside’, there is no reason why he should ‘have to go out
and impress anybody’. Yet this effectively denies a correspondence between
his internal and external states. So is he suggesting that on such occasions he
is ‘false’? I would argue not. As Geoff, a Preston interviewee, put it, ‘there
could be a bloke wearing a T-shirt and tennis shoes and he could be more
punk than me’. That people dressed in ordinary clothes could be more punk
than Geoff is hardly suggestive of their falsity – in fact quite the opposite.
This is because, as we have seen, the possession of underlying attributes such
as feelings of inner difference are valued more highly than the wearing of
subcultural style. It was even conveyed that inner difference will ‘show
through’ no matter what one is wearing. Ricky, a bonehead and ex-punk, to
whom I suggested that the wearing of expensive clothes was hardly an
expression of dissent, replied, ‘but I wear them with attitude’.
The suggestion being made here is that subcultural allegiance is inscribed
on and conveyed through the body (Bourdieu 1984) in ways other than dress.
Brake is useful here, distinguishing between ‘image’ and ‘demeanour’, the
latter consisting of ‘expression, gait and posture’ (1980: 12). Those who make
a fetish of image to indicate their membership clearly risk the accusation of
trying too hard, for subcultural affiliation is more authentically gauged
through one’s physical actions and bodily dispositions (so long as these remain
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genuine expressions of inner feelings). We can now go back to (B) and say
that this is perhaps what Julie had in mind when she appears to claim that
she wears conventional clothes in a different way to other people who might
be wearing the same items. It is also why, in the eyes of Robin in (D), she
should not appear false (i.e. not ‘look out of place’).
We have, so far, situated subcultural authenticity in an expressive concept
of identity, where genuine membership is defined by the sincere expression
of the self through subcultural practices. I want, however, at this point to
raise, in order to circumvent, a potential criticism: that this particular notion
of the self appears to rely upon what Lloyd (1999) has termed the ‘sub-
stantialist’ and ‘spatial’ dimensions of identity. The substantialist dimension
assumes that identity comprises, or is founded upon, an inner ‘core’ self, a
fixed essence (see Billington et al. 1998: Ch. 2) that pre-exists one’s acquiring
of social characteristics. As Widdicombe and Wooffitt put this with regard
to subcultures, ‘authenticity is established by reference to the emergence and
maintenance of a true or inner self which just happens to reflect, or mesh
with, the underlying values of the group’ (1995: 157). If this, essentially
speaking, is what one is (i.e. punk at heart), then it also presupposes what
one is not; indeed, what one cannot be (i.e. mod, skinhead or goth at heart).
Hence, the substantialist dimension implies the spatial dimension, the
construction of boundaries that demarcate clearly defined identities. It
assumes the existence of an ‘Other’, in possession of their own substantialist
identities against which we define ourselves.
From this point of view, the sense of self that subculturalists articulate
appears to involve a tightly fixed and bounded identity. If style is an expression
of this self, then subcultural identity will also be rigid and unchanging. Yet,
as Evans has remarked, ‘people actually do move through subcultures’ (1997:
180). This suggests a need to retheorize the self, to dispense with the
substantialist conception and establish a more fluid and de-centred identity
that can account for subcultural mobility and movement. One way in which
this process of retheorization has proceeded is to envisage subcultural identity
as ‘performative’. It is in Judith Butler’s work on gender (1990, 1993) that
we find an understanding of identity as a ‘performative enactment’ (Lloyd
1999: 197). Put simply, gender is not a categorical fixed property of a person;
rather, it is constituted through our ‘repetition’ of a series of, never wholly
identical, practices. There are three implications that arise from this: (i) ‘gender
is not simply an aspect of what one is, but it is something that one does, and
does recurrently, in interaction with others’ (David Bell et al. 1994: 32); (ii)
the gendered self does not precede the performance; rather, as Lloyd puts it
‘performativity produces that which it names’ (1999: 201); and (iii) the
constant differential construction of gender leads to an open and fluid, rather
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than a fixed and determinate, identity.

It is not difficult to see why Evans (1997) has discovered in Butler’s work
a useful model by which to reconceptualize subcultural identities as ‘constantly
mutating’. In referring to Barnard’s contention that ‘it is not the case that an
individual is first a skinhead and then wears all the gear, but that the gear
constitutes the individual as a skinhead’ (Barnard 1996: 30), Evans draws a
direct analogy with Butler’s notion of performativity, suggesting that skinhead
is not something that one is, but what one does. There is, in this account, no
underlying self, no subcultural essence, that pre-exists the performance; rather,
subcultural identities are constantly created and recreated in an ongoing
process of enactment.6 At this point the model is highly suggestive of
subculture as mimesis and masquerade, in which nothing lies concealed behind
the various masks and veils. Subcultures become no more than the sum of
their representations, an interpretation not so far removed from postmodern
theories of subjectivity where subcultural identities can have no substance
beyond the endless succession of styles through which the self is constituted.
It is but a short step here to recasting performance in the language of pose
and facade, thereby suggesting a ‘theatrical attitude’ indicative of inauthent-
icity (see Wilson 1998).
Yet to conceive of subcultural identity in this way is to propose a model at
odds with subculturalists’ own conception of their authenticity. Widdicombe
and Wooffitt have, for example, convincingly demonstrated that members
of subcultures consistently portray themselves as ‘being’ punk (or hippy, skin,
goth, etc.), thereby constructing themselves as genuine in opposition to
superficial members who are merely ‘doing’ (or performing) punk (1990:
274). Moreover, it is not acceptable simply to dismiss, as Ryan and Fitzpatrick
do, ‘the idea that there is . . . a “self” that is “authenticated” by this process
of reflexivity’ (1996: 172). There are two reasons for this, which address the
criticism raised earlier. First, the above claim for genuine membership is
designed to address the issue that subcultural identity is constructed by
possession of the required attitudes and values, not merely adopted by
performing the requisite actions and dressing in the appropriate fashion, as
Barnard (1996) appears to believe. In this sense, a claim to feel punk ‘inside’
does not denote an essentialist self, but an internalization of values acquired
through socialization – a process that, in a very real sense, precedes subcultural
performativity and leads certain individuals rather than others to affiliate to
particular subcultures.
Secondly, a sense of self has equally real implications for how performance
is stabilized and anchored. Appearance is not, as postmodern theory suggests,
composed of free-floating signifiers, but appears to be constructed according
to socially acquired tastes and preferences. As we will see in extract (I) of
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this chapter, while style is, indeed, something you put on, it is also regarded
as ‘part of you’. Having established the relationship between self and style
in this way, it is understandable that rapid and comprehensive changes would
pose problems for self-identity. This does not, however, mean that informants
utilize a conception of the self that is static, unified and tightly bounded. As
we shall see with the example of Matt in Chapters 6 and 7, informants resist
interpellation into named subcultural identities precisely because this invokes
a homogeneous, stable and uniform notion of a subculture that conflicts
with the lived reality of their own practices. Indeed, I intend to demonstrate
in the remainder of this chapter that subcultural forms are characterized by
fragmentation, partiality and change. If authenticity is achieved by the genuine
expression of the self in appearance and actions, then the self must also be
mobile, complex and multi-faceted.
Fragmentation, Synchronicity and Schizophrenia
We have so far been concerned in this chapter with the relationship between
the subcultural and the conventional. It was hypothesized that a plurality of
available styles had reduced commitment to a subcultural identity as
individuals regularly and pleasurably transgressed the subcultural–convent-
ional boundary. What we found, by contrast, was that individuals perceived
in this way were derided as both superficial and part-timers, and invoked as
a subcultural ‘Other’ against which the interviewees could assert the
authenticity of their own affiliation. This self-authentication was achieved
by emphasizing how inner feelings were more important than appearances,
or that the wearing of conventional items was an infrequent departure from
a subcultural norm, or a necessary element in the creation of subcultural
style through bricolage. These second and third forms of mitigation can again
be seen in the next extract, but within the context of the relationship that
individuals have to different subcultural styles.
(F) PETER
DM: OK, do you always tend to dress in this way nowadays? Are there
occasions when you will look different?
P: I’ve got clothes from every period really, so I can look completely
different at any given occasion, really. I have complete outfits that
will make me a completely different person. You’d think I was just
someone completely different. I’ve got some like original 50s
clothing which is 50s jeans, could be a college jacket, or I wear
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50s box jackets occasionally. Or to be completely different I could

look virtually, like, Charlie Channish really. I’ve got all the chino
gear and the Panama hats and everything if I had to. So I could be
just any number of people really. See, I’ve never really followed
any trend but I’ve got clothes from every trend that’s been (laughs),
it’s really funny. So I just dress how I want to dress really. I just
throw it all together. I really just tend to mix and match. I just
take whatever I like. I just take it and wear it, you know, just mix
and match it anyway, so I don’t really care what I’m wearing. Yeah,
I just put it all together; yeah, I just mix it all up from different
things. As I say, I could be anyone of a number of different people
(laughs). I don’t really consider whether it’s one thing or the other.
But (laughs) most of the time, most people will probably think I’m
a punk (laughs). And then other ones will think ‘he could be a
biker’. Like I say, I could be any number of things all in one go,
couldn’t I?
What catches the eye in this extract is the range of diverse styles to which
Peter refers, and that the phrase ‘completely different’ occurs four times in
the first few lines along with one use of ‘complete outfits’. That this is
indicative of a comprehensive short-term change between distinct unconvent-
ional styles is interesting, for we have seen how similar suggestions of
movement between subcultural and conventional styles are mitigated as a
result of negative inferences about part-time affiliation. There then follows,
however, a concerted effort to suggest that such complete change is, or would
be, an infrequent departure from a more usual mode of dress. Note how
Peter says that he wears ‘50s box jackets occasionally’ as opposed to, say,
usually or quite often. The words ‘I can look . . . if I had to . . . I could be’
could also be interpreted as demonstrating the potentiality rather than the
actuality of certain courses of action. It would seem strange to talk of a
typical or common form of behaviour in this way. It is also relevant that
Peter’s clothing is first described in a general way (‘original 50s) and then
separated into three more specific items (‘jeans . . . college jackets . . . box
jackets’). This may appear a small point, but it is a precursor for the strong
emphasis that Peter then places on his ability to ‘mix and match’. The effect
of this is further to undermine his initial references to being ‘complete’, for
at the end of the extract he is claiming that he is likely to ‘be any number of
things all in one go’.
This emphasis on fragmentation is further reinforced by Peter’s haphazard
dress sense. We can visualize how the act of taking off one complete outfit
and selecting another to wear would require at least some minimum degree
94
of conscious thought and careful selection in order to maintain adherence to

the stylistic totality and purity of the specific look in question. Boundary
maintenance is something to be worked at. Yet Peter’s selection of items for
wear is characterized by a carelessness and lack of thought (‘I just throw it
all together . . . I just take it and wear it . . . I don’t really care what I’m
wearing . . . I don’t really consider whether it’s one thing or the other’). What
Coupland terms ‘decade blending . . . the indiscriminate combination of two
or more items from various decades to create a personal mood’ (1995: 15),
is, I feel, entirely appropriate for Peter. His claimed lack of thought and care
is indeed indiscriminate, while the notion of a personal mood chimes perfectly
with the emphasis he places on the creation of an individual look through
the combination of items from previous styles. As he puts it ‘I’ve never really
followed any trend but I’ve got clothes from every trend that’s been. I just
dress how I want to dress, really.’
As we can ascertain from the quotations by Langman (1992) and Shields
(1992) that appear in the first paragraph of this chapter, the fragmentation
of the postmodern subject is assumed to be a consequence of its multiple
identifications across different social sites and consumption practices. This
‘decentring’ of the subject, the challenge to the notion of the unified self, can
also be found as a central concern in post-structuralist schools of thought
that conceptualize the self as differentially positioned or ‘articulated’ by
multiple and contradictory discourses, of class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity
and age (Coward and Ellis 1977; Laclau and Mouffe 1985; Hall 1989). As
Weeks (1990) puts it, ‘each of us live with a variety of potentially contrad-
ictory identities which battle within us for allegiance’. In the view of Miles
and his colleagues (1998) the problem with both postmodern and post-
structuralist approaches is that the theory is formulated at a level of
abstraction far removed from the everyday contexts in which identities are
negotiated and managed. The influence of these perspectives in contemporary
sociology and cultural studies has led to a situation where ‘discussions of
identity and more specifically the relationship between identity and consumpt-
ion, have tended to operate in a theoretical vacuum’ (Miles et al. 1998: 84).7
A study that provides a rare exception to this state of affairs is that by
Tseëlon (1995). Although Tseëlon’s female informants are not subcultural,
they nevertheless provide a range of fascinating answers to questions about
the relationship between their appearance and subjective identity. Particularly
relevant here are Tseëlon’s attempts to ascertain whether certain looks reflect
a real self, or different aspects of the self (ibid.: 49–53). Although the responses
are complex, it is possible to isolate three ideal-typical answers: (i) a
conception of a ‘real me’ when dressed in a certain way; (ii) that different
looks reflect various moods or aspects of the self; and (iii) that there is no
95
‘real me’. None of these are mutually exclusive, and elements of each can be
found combined in the same informant. This leads Tseëlon to advocate a
conception of the self ‘as both unitary and multiple’ (ibid.: 53). It can be
argued that this is not inconsistent with my own findings in extract (F). While
Peter marginalizes certain styles as exceptions to the norm, suggesting a more
consistent look (or set of looks) relevant to a central aspect of his identity,
the ‘multiplicity’ of this centralized style is itself produced through fragment-
ation, thus suggesting a differentiated identity rather than plural identities.
What this more specifically suggests, contrary to theory, is that identities
are differentiated and/or marginalized rather than multiple, holistic and
central to a persona. Why this should be so can be partly explained by a
conversation I had with a woman, Marie, not in my subcultural sample, but
who nonetheless dressed in a manner that would have made her eligible to
be. She told me that she once used to dress in a number of clearly distinct,
different styles (punk, goth, retro fashions) across the course of any week or
so. Although this allowed her to experience several separate, virtually
synchronic identities, she had to abandon this pursuit because it induced in
her a feeling of ‘schizophrenia’. What she now did was to select ‘bits’ from
each type of look, and consequently felt more ‘comfortable’ with this practice.
There is, then, a subjective recognition of a point at which the multiplicity
of stylistic identity presents a problem to one’s subjectivity. It is ironic that
Jameson (1991: 27–31) understands schizophrenia to be a postmodern
symptom resulting from a disorienting and fragmentary sense of time,
meaning and perception. MacCannell also assumes ‘a fragmented conscious-
ness’ to entail ‘schizophrenia at the level of culture’ (1992: 220). Kellner
similarly equates ‘highly unstable identities’ with ‘a totally fragmented,
disjointed life’ (1992: 174). Yet, for Marie, instability and schizophrenia is
produced by a plurality of unified, holistic identifications, and it is fragment-
ation that provides relief from this disorienting condition. Clearly, if
subculturalists do find the plurality of styles on offer a cause for celebration,
they appear to utilize these in a partial and marginalized manner.8
‘Feeling Comfortable’
‘The seasons of life follow one another, and one must change one’s face as one
changes one’s clothes’ (Berger 1968: 127).
We have, to this point, been primarily concerned with consistency of

affiliation, the degree to which subculturalists view their membership as either
full- or part-time. But commitment can also be gauged according to another
96
temporal dimension, that of duration (long-term affiliation). Although

empirically related, these two dimensions can be distinguished analytically.
One can, for example, continue to move in and out of subcultures with a
high frequency, yet still demonstrate a more durable commitment to any of
these than someone whose membership is consistent, but short-lived. Here
we will begin to focus also on durability, for according to Lash and Urry,
‘the thesis of a postmodern political economy is one of the evermore rapid
circulation of subjects and objects’ (1994: 13). In this ‘“throwaway society”,
in which there is a strong emphasis on the volatility and ephemerality in
fashion, products, labour processes, ideas and images’ (ibid.: 245), is the
potential for the disposability of style a cause for celebration? In the
accompanying ‘accelerated culture’ (Coupland 1995), is the new, novel and
up-to-date positively embraced? Some answers to these questions are to be
found in the next two extracts.

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 7. Jane, Sean, Jim
97
(G) JIM, JANE AND SEAN

S: I don’t know. You’ve got to wear something. You just wear what
you like, really. I mean to me a fashion victim is someone who
follows fashion every other week, like.
Ja: Someone who changes every month, sort of thing.
S: With whatever is current. Basically we think people that just follow
fashion, they’re silly really. ’Cos I mean they are not just making a
choice themselves. Whereas we’ve just made the choice of what
we want to do, and we just carry on with it. No big deal. Just
think for yourself, really.
Ja: That is, you’ve just got to learn to think for yourself, and not follow
what everyone else is doing.
(H) JOHN
J: With punks I think it is just a complete waste of time. I mean like
we were walking into a pub the other night, and there were these
three people walking the other way with, like, bleached hair, and
it was all spiked out and whatever, and like chains, the works, and
like looking really sort of like, ‘I’m from 1977 and if you don’t
watch out, ’cos I’m going to spit on your Granny, whatever.’ You
know, it was like that, and I mean it looks so ridiculous. I think
that is really outdated, though, looking like punks.
Extract (G) provides some reasons why stylistic ephemerality is regarded

negatively. Sean and Jane perceive their own mod-related style in terms of
individual expression (‘wear what you like . . . think for yourself’) and long-
term commitment to that expression (‘we just carry on with it’). By contrast,
those who ‘follow fashion’ are characterized by transient tastes (‘every other
week . . . changes every month’) and a collective orientation (‘follow what
everyone else is doing . . . they are not just making a choice themselves’).
Clearly, fashion is itself defined as a short-term trend. The assertion that
such people change ‘with whatever is current’ suggests the following of fashion
irrespective of the type of style involved, and is meant to contrast with the
specificity of choice made through individual selection. Such comments are
obviously intended to be derogatory, for the term ‘fashion victim’ clearly
conveys the actions of those so described as a result of manipulation by
external forces rather than individual volition.
Yet a look at extract (H) immediately tells us that long-term commitment
to an unchanging look can be regarded with equal derision. John’s references
to 1977 and spitting are a comment on the futility of attempting to strike a
98
rebellious pose through a punk style so durable it is now clearly ‘outdated’

and missing the point. The real point here, at least according to John, is that
the style has now become a stereotype, suggesting uniformity, conformity
and predictability. ‘I’ve always hated the idea of a uniform. If you have any
kind of movement at all, you should reject things like that. You’re not moving,
plus it’s sterile’ (Lydon 1994: 71–2). Extracts (G) and (H) taken together
suggest that both transience and permanence are potential markers of the
superficial and inauthentic. Such judgements are again based on unknown
contemporaries, and any person is likely to avoid the imputation that they
can be characterized either way. As Tseëlon discovered in her own study of
attitudes to dress, ‘while women admitted that they would not want to look
“dated” they strongly rejected the idea of looking like “fashion victims”’
(1995: 30).
Clearly, if both short-term change and stylistic permanence present potential
problems for the authentic expression of self through style, a third option
must exist whereby authenticity can be re-established. We find this in extract
(I).
(I) PETE AND ALISON

A: It appeals to me because I feel comfortable with it. If I wore
anything else I wouldn’t feel – I wouldn’t be able to relax.
P: Yes, I feel comfortable. I wouldn’t feel comfortable any other way.
I just could not dress any other way.
A: It’s like you put it on ’cos it’s part of you.
P I just tend to have evolved from thing to thing. I don’t, haven’t
made any conscious effort. It just happens.
A: There’s two words I really hate and that’s ‘always’ and ‘never’.
I’m really into change and progression and development. I’ll always
be myself. I hope I’ll always have the respect for myself to be myself
and to express myself, but that may change. It may not; I don’t
know.
P: Yes, I can’t imagine myself dressing or being any other way than
what I am, no matter how old I am. I mean it’s not to say that I
won’t change, but I can’t imagine any other way. I haven’t even
thought that far forward. But that’s not to say . . . but that’s not to
say I won’t be. I mean if something comes along that I feel
comfortable with that would make me change the way I dress or
the way I think, then fine. But I can’t foresee anything at this present
time.
DM: Right, but you’re not the kind of person who says ‘I’m always going
to be like this whatever happens’?
99
P: No, no, that would be stupid, because you don’t know what’s going
to happen.
Here, as was also the case in (E), appearance is virtually subsumed into
the self. Consequently, Pete reports feeling ‘comfortable’ with his appearance,
and finds it difficult to envisage feeling the same way if dressed in other
styles. Yet while this would logically lead to expressions of permanent
commitment, there is unmistakably a positive emphasis placed on change in
this extract. How can continuity and change be reconciled? In an article on
contemporary developments in subcultural studies, Evans (1997: 183) finds
it apposite to cite Venturi’s (1977) aesthetic judgement, ‘I prefer “both-and”
to “either-or.”’ We find the same sentiment expressed in this extract. By
resisting the two categories of ‘always and never’, Pete and Alison escape
from the inevitability of either the new (never continue, always change) or
the outmoded (never change, always continue). Yet this, on the other hand,
legislates for the possibility of both continuity (‘I can’t imaging myself dressing
or being any other way than what I am, no matter how old I am’), and
change (‘It’s not to say that I won’t change’ . . . ‘you don’t know what’s going
to happen’). The reconciliation of these two eventualities is achieved through
the formulation of change in evolutionary terms (‘progression and develop-
ment’) while continuing to hold to the principle of ‘genuinely’ expressing
one’s self through appearance (‘I’ll always express myself, however that is’),
suggesting that authenticity of commitment is guaranteed when appearance
has gradually evolved in tandem with the changing persona (see also
Widdicombe and Wooffitt 1995: 145). In this respect it is important that
Pete talks of change in both his outer and inner self (‘the way I dress and the
way I think’). It is precisely this gradual symbiosis that would allow him to
remain ‘comfortable’ throughout such a situation.
Our analysis of extracts (G) to (I) has important implications for the way
in which researchers such as Fox (1987) and Sardiello (1998) claim to
distinguish between authentic and inauthentic subcultural members according
to such criteria of commitment as consistency and durability. According to
Fox, the crucial difference between ‘real punks’ and ‘pretenders’ is whether
membership is full and permanent or part-time and temporary. The former
group, the most highly committed, are a small number of ‘hardcores’; the
latter, those on the ‘periphery’ of the subculture, are the more numerous yet
only superficially attached ‘preppie-punks’.9 Fox observes how the ‘hardcores’
had demonstrated their complete conversion into a punk identity by making
severe and long-lasting, sometimes permanent, alterations to their physical
bodies; through, for example, the display of swastika tattoos in highly visible
places or the cutting of their hair in a drastic ‘mohawk’ style. Preppies, by
100
contrast, wore their hair and clothes in such a way as ‘to look punk sometimes
and conventional at other times . . . this obvious ability to change roles kept
the preppies from being considered real or committed’ (1987: 361).
Although Fox constructs a picture of the subculture from the subjective
perceptions of the subculturalists themselves, she appears to be suggesting
that the punk subculture is objectively stratified in this way. Yet this presents
a quite misleading account, in that the ‘preppie punks’ appear only as viewed
through the eyes of the ‘hardcore’ members (and Fox herself). So what Fox
is actually describing here is the way in which members authenticate their
own commitment as ‘hardcore’ by invoking a subcultural ‘Other’, interpreting
the positive sentiments towards change expressed by certain contemporaries
as evidence of their ephemerality and superficiality. It is telling that Fox
provides no quotes from the ‘preppies’ themselves; but those so denigrated
would no doubt have characterized themselves in the same manner as Pete
and Alison in (I), as being open to gradual development (thereby incorporating
both change and continuity) rather than merely rapid change. They would
not have seen their stylistic partiality and supposed transgressions of the
subcultural–conventional boundary as evidence of a part-time status, but on
the contrary as clear indication of their subcultural commitment through
any of the three ways seen in extracts (B) and (C) of this chapter (the wearing
of conventional style is a temporary departure that does not affect what one
really is; it is an unavoidable effect of bricolage; it is less important than
attitude).
Moreover, we can go further and suggest that the ‘preppies’ would most
likely have thought the hardcore style to be an inauthentic uniform indicative
of trying too hard, and the expressed commitment of ‘hardcores’ as suggestive
of stasis and stereotypicality, rather as we saw in (H). For if tattoos and
mohawks or similarly severe body modifications were clear signals of
permanent authentic membership for the ‘hardcores’, they can be equally
indicative of inauthenticity from the viewpoint of others subculturalists. See,
for example, Andes, who quotes Lester, a punk respondent, complaining, ‘I
visualize punk and I see dozens of mohawked morons running about with
spray paint, writing “Anarchy” and “The Exploited” all over the place’ (1998:
227). Robin (extract D) also related the tale of a punk who was ‘mutilated
from scarification’ through ‘really sad Sid Vicious tattoos’ and going bald
through constantly dying his hair and soaping it into spikes. All of this,
together with his ‘fluorescent lime green leopard skin trousers’, made him in
Robin’s eyes, ‘just look sad, because he is still definitely trying to be a tourist
punk rocker in London’. Robin’s advice: ‘Mick. Wake up! It’s 1994, you’ve
got nothing to prove any more.’
From this, it should be evident that there are no ‘hardcores’ and ‘preppies’
101
in any ‘realist’ sense, only members who construct themselves as the former
and their contemporaries as the latter, a process which, as our earlier
discussion of Schutz (1980) should have indicated, is reciprocal in its effects.10
This is not to claim that there are no differences between individual members
of a subculture in terms of style, tastes and values. As Fox remarks ‘the punk
style codes were somewhat diverse’ (1987: 348). Indeed, heterogeneity
facilitates conflicting interpretations of members’ authenticity. This issue will
be explored further in Chapter 7. For now, we can be content to add
superficiality, rapid change and stasis to homogeneity and specificity as
indicators of the inauthentic. What, though, does this allow us to make of
Polhemus’s experiences of clubland?
Unlike those who feel and express a consistent commitment to a particular

subculture, “Clubbers” delight in promiscuously “cruising” through all manner
of clothing and musical styleworlds – one month (or, indeed, one evening) plunging
headfirst into the 70s . . . the next going Gothic or Techno or Fetish or New
Romantic or Punk or Cowboy/girl or Hawaiian. It is this “surfing” (as in “Channel
Surfing” or “Surfing the Internet”) that most tellingly identifies “clubbing” as a
post-subcultural phenomenon. And which, in so doing, defines this world and
those within it as Post-Modern’ (Polhemus 1996: 91).
As described and illustrated in his book, Style Surfing (1996), Polhemus

depicts a world inhabited by people who, with their quick-fire turnover of
discrete, holistic identities, appear very different to my own subcultural
interviewees. The exceptional shallowness and superficiality implied in such
transient attachments is perhaps best captured through what Grossberg
defines as ‘authentic inauthenticity’, an attitude that valorizes ‘poses’, but
with the self-knowledge that all such identities are no more than empty images
(1992: 209–34). Perhaps this really is a scenario where style is simply not
anchored in any underlying sense of self.
We should be wary of such an interpretation because of the way that
Polhemus engages here in the same conceptual confusion that, in his previous
book, Streetstyle (1994), characterized his description of ‘the Supermarket
of Style’. On the one hand, this is identifiable by its postmodern stylistic
eclecticism and fragmentation, precisely the features that led me to compare
it to my own concept of ‘crossover counterculture’ in the previous chapter.
Yet its members also undergo comprehensive short-term change between
clearly identifiable styles, ‘“Punks” one day, “Hippies” the next, they fleetingly
leap across decades and ideological divides’ (Polhemus 1994: 131). But these
are clearly two, conceptually distinct, options. And so it is with his description
of clubland. For despite his identification of clearly demarcated clubber
identities, Polhemus also refers to its visual ‘eclecticism, fragmentation, surreal
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juxtapositions and synchronicity’ (1996: 97). Undoubtedly it is this latter

identification that, along with claims for a more gradual rate of change, is
likely to be advocated by the clubbers themselves. Perhaps Polhemus is partly
guilty, as indeed other researchers have been in their own studies, of
homogenizing and inauthenticating informants from an ‘outsider’ perspective.
There was not, in any of my interviews, a single unambiguous case of anyone
claiming to engage in the fleeting, comprehensive stylistic changes that
Polhemus describes.
Evans has rightly observed ‘that, in subcultures, more than anywhere else,
identities are fluid, mobile and on the move’ (1997: 180). The interview data
unmistakably support this assertion. Stylistic change is regarded positively –
an important criterion of authenticity. But change is best understood in
transformative terms, as a gradual, partial and evolutionary process, not as
sudden shifts in whole identities, as some postmodern commentators would
have it. Our hypothesis that opened this chapter cannot be supported.
Appearance is not free-floating, available to be put on and cast off as a mere
whim. To engage in such acts would be evidence of one’s superficiality and
inauthenticity, for style is viewed as an expression of one’s inner self.
References to ‘flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality’ (Jameson
1991: 9), ‘a costume party’ mentality (Fox 1987: 361), and the ‘putting on’
and ‘casting off’ of ‘hats’ or ‘masks’ (Shields 1992: 16) have therefore only a
limited applicability even as metaphors.11 Drawing attention in this way to
surface and image at the expense of depth and persona functions only to
refer to the ‘falsity’ of subcultural ‘Others’.
Nor are the inauthentic connotations of pose and performance apt for
anything other than those occasions when the point is ‘pretending to be what
I am not’ (Tseëlon 1995: 47), when the wearing of conventional style is a
misleading guide to what an informant ‘really is’. This is not, however, to
suggest that subculturalists employ a conception of their self that is unified,
essentialist and unchanging. On the contrary, a wholly static self would, like
its reflection in style, be viewed as stereotypical, restrictive and inauthentic.
As Tseëlon suggests, the relationship of appearance to the self is more complex
than that suggested by ‘simplistic true/false dichotomies’ (ibid.: 51). Something
of all these points can be seen in our final extract (J).
(J) MATT
M: It’s really difficult. I mean, would you say I was a hippy or a punk,
traveller or . . . you know, I’m all those things. But I’m also, like,
it’s a different bloke; that was the laundry (laughs), do you know
what I mean?
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DM: No, I know what you mean.

M: I wish it was as simple as that. It would be great to, like you know,
Batman you know. Like I watched Batman last night. Batman puts
on his, on his gear, you know, he’s Batman, you know.
From one perspective, Matt’s past subcultural identities are portrayed as

styles he has merely ‘cast off’, so to speak (‘it’s a different bloke, that was
the laundry’). Yet, he also realizes that the relationship between style and
self is far more complex. Through the use of the present tense the past is
characterized as, at the very least, residual rather than irrelevant (‘I’m all
those things’). Crucially, this continuing intimate relationship between self
and appearance must still pertain for emergent styles and identities. The whole
allure of Batman in this extract is the ability of multi-millionaire Bruce Wayne
to suddenly ‘put on’ his Batman outfit and assume a different persona. But
while such feats are possible in fiction, in the real world we can only remain
envious – ‘I wish it was as simple as that.’
Notes
1. ‘Trendies’ or ‘townies’ and ‘casuals’ are labels used by subculturalists to denote

respectably dressed working-class young people: what, in Chapter 4, I referred to as
a ‘middle-range’ conventional group. Thornton (1995: 99–101) remarks how this
particular group is usually ‘feminized’ (i.e. referred to as female) as a way of further
denigrating the ‘mainstream’ culture to which it refers. Extract (B) certainly suggests
that this is so in the case of dance culture, but in other contexts trendies were just as
likely to be male (‘Trev and Kev’ or ‘lads in suits and ties’). Conventional reference
groups could also be middle-class male adults (‘city suits’, ‘businessmen’). These
cultural stereotypes are obviously historically specific. ‘Sharon and Tracey’, who
personified the mainstream in Thornton’s study, are perhaps connected with the ‘Essex
girl’ image of the 1980s. Back in the 1970s, two groups against which punk defined
itself were the ‘footballs’ and the ‘discos’ (Mick 1976: 2, cited in Henry 1989: 106).
See also Note 10, Chapter 7 on how subcultural ‘Others’ are typically feminized.
2. This exact phrase is also used by a punk in Andes (1998: 228).
3. See also Widdicombe (1993: 104–8) and Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1995:
144–5).
4. This is one reason why the ‘insider’ (or ex-insider, or partial insider) status of
some social researchers, such as myself (ex-punk), Kathy Fox (ex-punk), Sarah
Thornton (ex-clubber) and Belinda Wheaton (windsurfer), does not, I suggest, prevent
us from unwittingly inauthenticating some of our informants, either explicitly, through
our own descriptions, or implicitly, through the eyes of other members. See Fox
(1987), Thornton (1995), Wheaton (1997).
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5. See, for example, Arnett (1993; 1996: 59–62), Andes (1998: 216–17), and
Sardiello (1998: 135).
6. This seems to have much in common with another understanding of ‘perform-
ance’, found in the ‘dramaturgical sociology’ of Erving Goffman. In The Presentation
of Self in Everyday Life (1976), Goffman’s concern is to demonstrate that the self is
not a stable, internal entity, but is continually constructed in an ongoing process of
social interaction. ‘The self is not simply “present” but must be presented to others.
Self-presentation is a “performance”’ (J. Wilson 1983: 130). In this sense, Goffman
also appears to offer a deconstructive model of identity (Tseëlon 1992b, c). The
most recent application of Goffman’s work to the understanding of subculture and
clubculture is provided by Malbon (1998), who observes how clubbing is an
experience that is ‘physically performed’. Individuals act out the role of clubbers by
presenting a sense of self through participation in particular clubbing rituals, of dress,
dancing, and drinking, in shared interaction contexts (1998: 276). See also Malbon
(1999).
7. There are studies of subcultural identity (Roman 1988; Ryan and Fitzpatrick
1996) that combine theories of decentred subjectivity with the use of ethnographic
methods. Yet these theoretical judgements about identity operate as a privileged realist
text providing the agenda for surface observations. The purpose of qualitative data
is to give life to the inter-group tensions and social conflicts arising from multiple
identities that are pre-given by social structural variables of class, gender and sexuality,
rather than being used to demonstrate how any individuals concerned might
subjectively define their own senses of self, negotiating and resolving these contrad-
ictions. Furthermore, despite the obvious potential for addressing the question, no
consideration is given to how subjects might handle multiple stylistic or lifestyle
identifications.
8. See on this point Jackson’s (1995) comments on research by Miller (1987).
Although Miller examines how council tenants on a London estate engage in bricolage
to invest consumer goods with new meanings and create a range of diverse lifestyles,
‘he seems not to recognize the possibility of multiple identities within the same
individual’ (Jackson 1995: 215; original emphasis). This study suggests, however,
that multiple identities are expressed through bricolage in terms of hybridity and
partiality.
9. Fox also identifies an intermediate group, the ‘softcores’, less ideologically
serious than the hardcores, but more committed than the preppies to punk as a way
of life. I have omitted softcores from the discussion purely for clarity of exposition.
Sardiello (1998) recognizes similar distinctions within the deadhead subculture
between (in decreasing order of commitment) ‘hardcore’, ‘stable’ and ‘new’ deadheads.
10. For example, as Sardiello says of ‘new’ deadheads, ‘no one wanted to be
identified with this group, but many of these same people made reference to the
existence of the category’ (1998: 134) – presumably because they inauthenticated
other members in this way, and vice versa.
11. I am grateful to Justin O’ Connor for pointing out that the idea of style as a
mask, enabling an individual to take on a new role, to establish a different sense of
105
self, can be found in conventional subcultural theory. Here, subcultures provide a

space for the exploration of identities outside those ascribed by the dominant culture.
Thus, for example, taking on a punk identity allows a female to escape the restrictions
of appropriate feminine behaviour (C. Miles 1993, 1997). Riding a motor bike and
donning a leather jacket is ‘to create for oneself a persona or temporary alter-ego’
(Schouten and McAlexander 1995: 53; Stuart 1987). Yet interviewees typically
claimed that their own subcultural membership allowed them to put into practice an
escape from conventions and labels that, to some extent, they had always themselves
felt like expressing. In this way the subculture facilitates the expression of the ‘true’
self, and had this topic been pursued in the interviews the informants might well
have argued that it was in the period before their subcultural affiliation (i.e. when
dressing conventionally) that their appearance and actions had not been a faithful
counterpart of – had, in fact, masked – what they really were inside.
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Change, Continuity and Comparison
6
Change, Continuity and
Comparison
One afternoon, at the Virgin Record Store down Kensington High Street, I see
this group of little mates which is like one of those mixed assorted liqueurs,
because you’ve got a rather bad one of everything. There is, for instance, a
Nouveau Mass-Mod, 1979 style, who’s got on every obvious thing you ever
saw . . . His mate is Two-Tone, which is to say dressed exactly, but exactly, like
the boy on the cover of the Selector E.P . . . One girl is plasticine punk . . . and
her mate is a high yellow girl with the most enormous bouffant, a B52 . . . And
the point is . . . that they’re all mates and by any of the laws of nature ought to
be at each other’s throats, for any of a hundred reasons to do with the old
inextricable laws of teenage society and dressing the part. The problem is that
the old laws are clearly being mucked about with something criminal.
Peter York: Style Wars (1980: 42)
At 7.30 p.m. on a Friday night, Rhygin and I enter Darcy’s and meet several
other skinheads. Through the evening we both see, and talk to, several people
apart from the usual group. Those we encounter are mods, skinheads, ex-mods,
ex-skinheads, teddy boys, rockabillies and trendies . . . One, Wilson, has been,
at different periods in his stylistic career, a rude boy and a mod. He is presently
a ted . . . Another, Duncan, returned from a teenage visit to Scotland as a skinhead
with ‘no hair’. Later, he became a mod. He now dresses in a more mainstream
style . . . A third, Ron, is a public servant of four years’ standing who has been,
at varying stages, a skinhead, a mod, and a soul boy . . . What do these seemingly
disparate persons have in common with one another and with Rhygin?
David Moore: The Lads in Action: Social Process in an
Urban Youth Subculture (1994: 83)
‘There Was No Such Thing as a Punk’: Continuity

Through Change
As part of the CCCS approach to style and subcultural identity, Clarke draws
on the well-documented hostilities between different youth subcultures to
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demonstrate that ‘one of the main functions of a distinctive subcultural style

is to define the boundaries of group membership as against other groups.
This is usually thought of as being a reaction to other groups within the
youth, sub-cultural arena (e.g., Mods vs Rockers; Skinheads vs Hippies and
Greasers etc.)’ (1986: 180). At the heart of this analysis lies a conception of
internally cohesive subcultures with sharply drawn lines of demarcation and
a strong sense of boundary maintenance, which finds its empirical confirm-
ation in the study of hippies and bikers undertaken by Willis (1978).1 It is,
however, difficult to see how such a model allows for the possibility of
individual members experiencing stylistic mobility between different sub-
cultures, other than through the sort of short-term comprehensive change
that, in the last chapter, we found to be a marker of inauthenticity. We might
postulate that certain members are less committed to the subcultural ideology
and lifestyle, and for these individuals the style is not so strongly rooted in
an underlying sense of self. Yet we have also discovered that attempts to
stratify members according to their strengths of affiliation are fraught with
problems. All individuals portray themselves as no less committed and genuine
than any other members.
This chapter is therefore concerned with the possibility of diachronic
mobility for individuals between subcultures, and examines how such change
is accomplished. We will be examining interview extracts to find evidence
for the following hypothesis: that stylistic mobility relies upon weakened
boundaries between different subcultures and precludes the formation of what
Clarke terms ‘“negative” reactions to other groups’ (1986: 180). The first
two extracts involve a transition between what are commonly regarded as
two highly incommensurable subcultures. In (A), Matt, whose extract
concluded the last chapter, discusses his transformation from hippy to punk.
(A) MATT
M: I mean, I started off as a hippy, do you know what I mean? I was
fourteen in 1973 and I was fifteen in 1974 and I was taken in by
that whole thing. Acid and stuff. You know I took acid when I
was very, very young. Oh yeah, I wanted to be a hippy when I
was about fourteen.
DM: Yeah, would you say you were?
M: Well I went to free festivals and stuff in the early seventies, if that
makes you a hippy then . . . And then punk happened and I got
into punk. But it was like it was a revolution inside my head as
well as because I had all the hippy influences from the 1960s ’cos I
had a brother who is five years older and I looked up to and I was
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into all that music and stuff, and then punk happened. All my
friends were punks. And . . . um . . . so I took on board the punk,
you know. I moved up to Scotland, and the old hippies didn’t know
what to make of us ’cos we were eighteen or nineteen and we all
looked like punks but we were hippies. And then during the 1980s
it all went a bit dead, and then in about 1987, 1988 all the traveller
things started happening and that was, you know, I was looking
really straight round about that time, and I started seeing all these
people that were, you know . . . because punk was dead and it
seemed like I could have identified with these people. Do you know
what I mean? It was like something that I needed to do for myself
again, only to reaffirm that statement that I made when I was
sixteen or something.
DM: Were you a punk?
M: Well no. I was a hippy-punk.
DM: Right. It’s getting very confusing.
M: But I didn’t know I was a hippy-punk. Do you know what I mean?
I didn’t know I was a hippy-punk. You know, I got fucked off
when the word ‘hippy’ became acceptable again. I actually fought
against that. I didn’t want to be called a hippy.
DM: Right.
M: But I’m quite prepared to accept the fact that I probably am a
hippy (laughs).
DM: Listen, this is really interesting, because I used to be a punk, and
what was the most interesting thing about being a punk was that
it was very anti-hippy. ’Cos I remember all this, we hate all this
progressive rock fucking crap and we hate Pink Floyd, and we hate
Led Zeppelin and we have three-chord wonders and all that.
M: Well yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, all that happened. We threw it
all out. Let’s face facts.
DM: Well how did you become a hippy-punk? Because that seems to
me a contradiction in terms.
M: Well, mushrooms. Mushrooms.
DM: Didn’t you feel like a contradiction between being a hippy and a
punk? I mean, when the two things . . .
M: Well, I didn’t know I was a hippy-punk. What it was was all the
people who had grown up through the 1960s and seen all that and
they landed and found themselves growing up in the 1970s suddenly
became . . . and were really fucked off with the whole thing. It
was crap, you know, and not as bad as it is now; but at the time it
seemed like it wasn’t going the way it should be going, and they
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got labelled as being punks. There was no such thing as a punk. I

mean I was a punk; but as far as I thought I was, I was trying to
be a hippy. Do you know what I mean? You know, I was a punk,
but I didn’t know that. Can you understand that? I mean I had no
idea I was a punk. I thought I was a hippy (laughs). There was no
uniform when punk happened. There were no punks. There was
no such thing as a punk. There was just a bunch of people who
were pretty disaffected by their upbringing and stuff who had seen
the whole 1960s revolution happen. You know, as a child lived
through it all and that, you know.
Of particular importance in both this and the next extract is the emphasis
placed on commonality, continuity and the integration of different elements
across subcultures. This undercuts the sense of opposition between the
subcultures in question and also ensures change is achieved gradually. In (A)
we find this to be accomplished through four different substantive themes:
style, drugs, attitudes and music. Looking first at style, we should initially
note how the influence of Matt’s older brother provides a link back to the
hippy culture of the mid-1960s. The reference to ‘that whole thing’ suggests
that this culture consists of a whole constellation of elements. These appear
to be music, attitudes and activities (taking ‘acid’ and going to ‘free festivals’),
but, significantly, style is not mentioned at this point in the extract. Change
first appears in the dialogue when Matt talks of his initial involvement in
punk. A distinction, rather than a historical connection, is now made between
‘the old hippies’ and Matt and his friends. The reference to the latter group’s
teenage years serves to underline this separation. It is only at this point that
style is first mentioned – as the sole indication of this change (‘we all looked
like punks’). Yet Matt goes on to say ‘but we were hippies’. The word ‘but’
is clearly used to denote the misleading nature of appearances in this case,
and to indicate the source of confusion for the ‘old hippies’.
We saw in the last chapter how subcultural appearance should be a genuine
and sincere expression of an inner self. The lack of this correspondence implied
falsity – that one was not engaging for the proper reasons. A look back at
extract (E) in that chapter will show that attitudes, music and possibly even
activities could also be perceived as having being ‘adopted’, denoting
insincerity. Yet it was style, the most visible manifestation of affiliation, that
was more commonly cited in this respect. It is therefore significant that Matt
omits style when discussing indications of his affiliation to the hippy
subculture, but mentions it when needing to draw attention to a disjunction
between what it indicates (punk) and what actually lies underneath (hippy).
Change, in other words, encompasses continuity. In a number of significant
110
aspects other than style, Matt was still a hippy. Indeed, the subcultural
category of ‘punk’ is claimed to be wholly an effect of labelling. This process
also reproduces the category as a stereotypical and homogeneous ‘uniform’,
accentuating its differences from other cultural movements, such as hippy.
For me, hippy-punk is an oxymoron, hence my persistent questioning as to
how Matt ever managed to become such a thing.2 Yet by claiming ‘I had no
idea I was a punk. I thought I was a hippy’, Matt locates his involvement as
having occurred prior to this labelling process. This allows him to resist a
stereotypical attribution, removes categorical distinctions, emphasizes
similarity across subcultures rather than differences between them, and allows
the suggestion of continuity within change.
The second theme by which continuity is achieved is the use of drugs.
Matt justifies his identity as a ‘hippy-punk’ with a reference to mushrooms.
Bearing in mind the previous mention of ‘acid’, this can only mean ‘magic
mushrooms’ and implies a continued use of hallucinogens, drugs that are
typically associated with the hippy subculture. On this issue, Willis (1986)
has mapped out ‘a sub-cultural pharmacology’: the symbolic role of particular
drugs in certain subcultural groups. Consciousness-expanding drugs like acid
and hash are homologically related to the countercultural concern with the
exploration of the self, while barbiturates and amphetamines play only a
marginal role, their typical associations being with other groups.3 Other drugs
can be explicitly rejected as antithetical to a hippy attitude. The hippies
observed by Young (1971) drew correspondences between the lifestyle of
the heroin user and that of the ‘straight’ world they themselves opposed, so
incongruent was the drug to their own expressive ethic. The importance of
Matt’s justification therefore lies in the inference we can draw from it:
although having become a punk, Matt must also still be a hippy because he
continues to take hallucinogenic drugs.
This might so far sound as though Matt is describing himself in terms of
traditional subcultural homologies, which suggest a restrictive set of predict-
able practices. But we must remember that Matt’s identity is partly punk.
What is therefore missing in (A), and what we should have expected if cultural
oppositions were being drawn, is an explicit contrast with drugs more
obviously favourable to a punk aesthetic, such as speed. There undoubtedly
exists the potential for such a claim. As Mignon reports, ‘punks were, more
explicitly than the mods, adepts of amphetamines. The target was the easy-
going nature of the hippy, symbolised by hashish or drugs involving control
such as LSD’ (1993: 190). Calluori similarly comments that ‘the drugs of
consciousness restriction (e.g. heroin, glue sniffing, amphetamine sulphate)
were the preferred pastime’ of punks (1985: 53), while Burr (1984), in a
homological analysis of empirical data showing heavy barbiturate use
111
amongst punks, suggests there is a symbolic fit between the destructive effects
of this particular drug and the punk ideology of nihilism and despair. So
while (A) justifies the hippy component of the hybrid through the traditional
use of hallucinogens, any expectation that this would clash with the central
aspects of a very different cultural system, in this case punk, is left unacknow-
ledged. Such an answer is clearly designed as an alternative to admitting
that the hybrid is actually a contradiction, and allows for the understanding
that punks could break out of their ascribed homological restrictions and
also take consciousness-expanding drugs.4
Thirdly, by referring to ‘a revolution inside my head’ in the context of his
initial involvement in punk, Matt manages to draw attention to attitudinal
change while remaining wholly unspecific as to the attitudes in question. It
is important that this phrase links a discussion of punk to Matt’s hippy
influences. From this, we might surmise that two apparently conflicting
subcultures can share ideologically common ground that overrides any
differences in this respect. At a further point in the extract, this inference is
made explicit through a remark concerning generational continuity. It is the
cohort of people brought up in the 1960s, old enough to remember the
radicalism of that period, who carry such values into adolescence and the
next decade. Yet, rather than hippies being succeeded by punks, one specific
value system replacing another, this anonymous ‘bunch of people’ are referred
to only as the ‘disaffected’. Generality takes precedence over specificity,
continuity over change.
This emphasis on the commonality of attitudes is carried through to the
late 1980s. Change has again taken place, for Matt is dressing conventionally
(‘straight’) at this period. We should realize from the last chapter that these
acknowledgements of outward conventionality do not affect what a person
really is inside (i.e. unconventional at heart). That this is also the case here is
evident from Matt’s identification with the travellers who were emerging at
this time. It is particularly significant that this identification is premised upon
the death of punk, for it might be assumed that Matt would still hold to
punk ideals and values even if no longer wearing the style. Yet there is no
sense of incompatibility in the extract between what, on the face of it, might
appear to be two very different groups – punks and travellers. It is, rather,
their shared status as unconventional movements that allows Matt ‘to reaffirm
that statement that I made when I was sixteen’. Generality again provides
continuity within change.
References to music are the fourth and final way in which a sense of
opposition is undermined. After his initial remarks about hippy culture, Matt
claims ‘I was into all that music and stuff.’ My reason for bringing up the
subject later in the extract was to highlight what to me seemed a fundamental
112
contradiction. The back to basics, no-nonsense aesthetic of punk rock is often

defined in explicit opposition to the self-indulgences of ‘pomp-rock’, a
hangover from the hippy era (G. Clarke 1982; Coon 1982). According to
Laing (1985) and Home (1996), punk is a musical genre as much as a youth
subcultural (life)style, so it is hardly plausible that Matt ‘took on board’
punk without developing a taste for the music.5 Moreover, there are no
examples in the interviews of any respondent accepting a label while claiming
not to affiliate to the related musical genre. Yet how could a punk affiliation
be compatible with a liking for such dinosaurs of progressive rock as Pink
Floyd and Led Zeppelin? Perhaps Matt underwent a change in musical tastes,
as his reply to my query about punk being anti-progressive rock suggests
(‘yeah, all that happened’). But this is not so straightforward an answer as it
might at first appear, for two reasons.
The first of these concerns the depersonalization of Matt’s answer. We
have seen in the last two chapters that subculturalists resist collective and
restricted attributions by highlighting their own diverse tastes. Here, Matt
appears to invoke the notion of the collective (‘we threw it all out’) as a
stereotypical entity from which his own individual case is to be excepted. In
other words, stereotypical punks undertook this complete musical conversion
(which could also be indicative of rapid change), but this leaves open the
possibility that Matt personally did not. A continued appreciation of ‘hippy’
music could have co-existed with an immersion into and liking for punk
rock. The second reason is that ‘hippy’ music is as much a stereotypical
designation as ‘punk rock’. Middleton and Muncie rightly call progressive
rock ‘a particularly heterogeneous genre’ (1982: 77–8).6 Exactly what was
‘thrown out’ and what remained (even to be incorporated as musical
influences on punk) is a moot point. Either way, the possibility for continuity
must remain. In received subcultural wisdom, punk was the rising avant-
garde that finally put paid to the progressive rock legacy of hippy culture.
The hybridity of these two movements is a contradiction that requires an
element of continuity as its only possible means of resolution.
‘A Natural Progression’: An Integrative Sensibility
In (B) we again meet Robin, whom we first encountered in extract (D) of the
last chapter. Like Matt, above, Robin similarly carries his previous influences
across subcultures. But we find here an additional emphasis upon how the
subculture in question (again punk) itself harks back to previous stylistic
influences: teddy boy, rocker and biker. These two aspects of continuity feed
off each other and help to undermine what Hebdige understands to be a
113
fundamental ‘antagonism’ and ‘incompatibility’ between the punk and teddy

boy subcultures (1979: 123).
(B) ROBIN
R: When I was ten I thought I was a teddy boy, even though, I mean
I like Showaddywaddy and Elvis, and then obviously when this
thing called punk rock came around . . . At first I thought it was a
bit weird because like you said it did just seem a bit like chaotic
noise, but like you said, the more you got to hear it, the more you
started liking it. So from that point of view, yes, I would have said
I was a punk rocker until very recently. I mean I’ve only had my
natural hair colour for about two years, and actually even then it

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 8. Robin
114
wasn’t a deliberate decision. It was a case of the girl who used to

dye my hair, she went on holiday to America, and when she came
back I didn’t really see much of her any more, and obviously, as
you can imagine . . . by which time my roots were getting longer
and longer and I just went ‘that’s it, I’ve had enough’, sort of thing.
DM: Do you still think of yourself as being a punk?
R: I think inside I do, yeah. Maybe some people did do it from a
fashion point of view, and obviously to me, there’s an old quote,
‘punk’s not a fashion: it’s an attitude’, and it’s how you feel inside
and how you genuinely believe and how you think.
DM: Let me ask you something that’s always occurred to me, that you
have a kind of rocker look about you.
R: Oh yeah, well that . . . to me it was almost like a natural progression,
because as I got older, obviously . . . just from being narrow-minded
punk rock as it were, meaning any other music is shit. Then you
start saying, ‘Well hang on a minute. Where did the Clash get their
influences from? Where did the Pistols get their influences from?’
Paul Simonon out the Clash, he was like the bass player, he was
the coolest guy, and it was more to do with . . . like, he started
wearing a quiff, then he started wearing 1950s-style jeans and shirts
like the old bowling shirts and stuff, and I really liked them.
Obviously I was always aware of, like, say, bands like Elvis and
that, Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran, but like I said, it’s obviously
my whole sort of mind opened to other sort of musical influences
and musical styles and types. But as far as my image now goes,
yeah, I mean the whole thing with the punk movement right from
the beginning you always wore drape jackets and teddy boy shoes,
which was obviously sort of a mickey-take at first of the teddy
boys. That there was a lot of violence between the two sort of
groups, but yeah, I’ve always loved drapes and creepers and that,
and all the time I was a punk I’ve always had creepers. So like I
say, it was a natural progression to me. Especially mixing with
older people and friends had older brothers who were riding round
in Crestas and Ford classic cars and they were into rock ’n’ roll,
and then obviously I got into bikes and obviously the whole idea
of the British rocker, obviously the way I’m dressed at the moment
is obviously ’cos it’s to do with the British biker scene. Typical
proverbial, like motorbike boots, leathers, chains, but the chains
are a throw – a cast-off thing from the punk thing, anyway. I mean
punks were . . . you always wore leathers anyway. You know, the
motorbike boots, again, Sid Vicious wore a pair of jackboots and
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a biker’s leather jacket. So it was always the little, the hints of the
biker, the rocker thing in there. But from the tacky side of punk,
like the green hair and that, that lost its appeal. Getting away from,
like I said, the bondage trousers and the splashed paint T-shirt and
that. To me it was a natural progression from being a punk rocker
to just lopping off the word punk and becoming a rocker. It’s to
me it’s just a natural, it’s purely down to do with age.
DM: You know the sort of ideas of youth culture used to be very distinct,
it was separate. So if you were a punk, that’s what you were and
you didn’t want to be anything else. It seems to be that you’ve got
this kind of rocker stuff, this sort of ted stuff and the punk stuff .
How do you manage that?
R: It’s not really, it’s like I said it’s not a split wardrobe. It’s not like I
have my punk bit and I have this bit, because I don’t. To me, I
don’t. To me I’m very, very slightly different to what I was, you
know . . . probably my last bastion of being a punk was when I
was still, I was clinging on to my dyed hair, that was really, like
. . . but it’s not like, it’s not as if I suddenly think ‘God! I’m a
different person’, because I don’t. I’m exactly the same. I wear my
1950s, you know, I wear my Levi’s and I wear my Levi jacket and
I wear my Clash T-shirt, and I wouldn’t call that, I wouldn’t say
that’s me dressing in my punk outfit, you know. And I’ve still got
my quiff. I do wear my bondage trousers, but like I say I would
wear that with a drape because that’s what I wore – worn it with a
drape in 1978–9 with creepers – so that hasn’t changed.
Throughout the extract, Robin emphasizes how elements of the biker, rocker
and teddy boy subcultures fed into punk ‘right from the beginning . . . it was
. . . always in there’. Exactly how the complex cultural contestations and
interconnections between, amongst other things, art-school bohemianism,
hippy, glam rock, mod, rocker, teddy boy style and 1950s rock ’n’ roll fed
into punk is a history well documented by Savage (1992). It is not that
Hebdige is unaware of aspects of this genealogy, far from it. He does, however,
view the punk propensity for cultural plunder, particularly of all things
Edwardian, as heavily steeped in irony. Such an interpretation at first appears
to be affirmed in the extract, where the wearing of teddy boy gear by punks
is described as initially a ‘mickey-take’. Initially, this would accord well with
the violent clashes between the two groups to which Robin also refers.
Yet much mitigation then takes place, which undercuts this sense of
opposition. Robin states how he has ‘always loved drapes and creepers’, and
clearly sounds as if these are worn out of a genuine sense of passion and
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respect for what the items ‘originally’ signify rather than for any sense of
punk-induced irony. This point is reinforced by citing the influence of older
people who were also into ‘classic’ rock ’n’ roll culture, while, earlier in the
extract, Robin makes clear how his awareness of and liking for 1950s music
preceded his involvement in punk. Even the incorporation of rock ’n’ roll
elements into punk rock is interpreted as veneration or an act of homage.
Paul Simonon of the Clash is regarded as ‘the coolest guy’, not least because
of his taste in 1950s fashion, a style Robin ‘really liked’.
On the other hand, Robin does seemingly offer up his own dialogue of
change through exclusion and accentuation of difference. His style also
includes what is termed its ‘tacky side’ (‘green hair . . . bondage trousers and
the splashed paint T-shirt’). It was likely to be principally through these
prototypical punk images that Robin’s stylistic identification with the
subculture initially originated, for in claiming that he would no longer call
himself a punk, Robin attributes this directly to the fall of ‘my last bastion
. . . clinging on to my dyed hair’. Discarding the punk element therefore entails
‘becoming a rocker’: a subtle but nonetheless emphatic shift in identity.
Furthermore, while all these different cultural influences were deemed to be
in place from the very start of punk, Robin retrospectively characterizes his
younger self as ‘narrow-minded . . . meaning any other music is shit’. Only
with age has his ‘mind opened’ to a greater appreciation of punk’s cultural
and musical heritage. All this somewhat interrupts the narrative of continuity
begun in the previous paragraph.
Yet what is potentially a tale of modification and opposition is again
undercut by a refusal to interpret this in terms of any radical or sudden
transformation, as Robin maintains a sense of continuity in the areas of
attitudes, style and self-identity. While the ‘tacky side’ of the punk style may
have ‘lost its appeal’, and ‘rocker’ rather than ‘punk’ now appears to be the
choice of terminology, the importance of style is dismissed in favour of inner
feelings and beliefs. In terms of these, Robin still continues to feel punk
‘inside’. This allows for a continuing commitment to punk in the face of a
declining interest in the visual aspects of the subculture. Note also how such
an attitude is left unspecified (thereby combating any sense of restriction)
and should be ‘genuinely’ held rather than merely adopted for effect (thus
signalling authentic expression of this inner self). Many aspects of appearance
have anyway remained unchanged since the late 1970s (1950s style, quiff,
Levi’s, Clash T-shirt, bondage trousers worn with creepers and a drape), and,
what is more, the self-concept is declared to be unaltered (‘it’s not as if I
suddenly think “God! I’m a different person”, because I don’t. I’m exactly
the same’). I suggest there are two reasons for this continuity of self, which
follow on from the conclusions of the last chapter.
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The first is the emphasis on gradual incorporation and dissociation (note

the presence of ‘suddenly’ in the above disclaimer). The literal fading away
of the dyed hair (‘my roots were getting longer and longer’) is as protracted
an event as Robin’s original initiation into punk rock music (‘the more you
got to hear it, the more you started liking it’). There is, in other words, a
gradually declining interest in the stereotypical, restrictive and inauthentic
(the tacky punk style) and a concomitant widening of cultural appreciation.
This movement is referred to as a ‘natural progression’, exactly the same
phrase used by an interviewee in Miller (J. Miller 1995: 194) for describing
his transition from rude boy to skinhead. The second reason for the lack of
disruption to the self-concept is the fragmented (perhaps integrative is a more
apposite word here) sartorial sensibility. Punk is combined with rocker with
1950s rock ’n’ roll with biker, but ‘it’s not a split wardrobe’. The integrative
sensibility of gradual growth and expansion over time brings to mind the
words of other subculturalists. Jan predicted that he would experience change
(‘the bigger picture of what I want to do’) only after his present style had
become a ‘limitation’. Mike reckoned that, ‘I might mould my image slowly
towards what I prefer at the time . . . if there was any change it would be slow
and barely perceptible’. In (B) it is all the more so, because all the elements
were in place – and not with any sense of dissonance – from the very outset.
‘It’s Not Like an Identity Crisis’: Change and Partiality
Extract (C), below, demonstrates three reasons why an apparent transition

between different named subcultures is possible without encountering
problems of incompatibility. These are to do with partiality, external
attribution and widespread tastes. As we examine each of these we need to
be aware how making oppositional comparisons with subcultural reference
groups does not hinder, but facilitates the ease of Paul’s transition. The first
thing to observe is how group labels are made relevant to only a partial
aspect – the hairstyle – of that particular look (‘little bits as a psychobilly’,
‘practically a goth’). The response to my query as to how long Paul has been
dressing as a punk is made by reference to his mohican, for it was only through
his hair that such a categorization was stylistically verifiable.
(C) PAUL AND DOUGIE

DM: How long have you been dressing in a punk way?
P: Erm . . . sort of since I was fifteen, but I’ve had little bits as a
psychobilly and as a Airy-Mary Jesus and Mary Chain, and
practically a goth, but don’t tell anyone that. Erm . . . I’ve only
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had the mohican for five years. Before that it was a psychobilly,
and when I was little and still at school it was sort of shaved round
and sticking up on top, so I don’t know what that is.
DM: When you were a psychobilly or nearly a goth or whatever, in the
same way as you now think ‘I’m a punk’, did you think then ‘I’m
a psychobilly’ or did you have this kind of identity with whatever
you are?
P: No, not psychobilly, no. I’ve always liked the same sort of music. I
mean I always had my punk records, but at the same time I did
have like the Jesus and Mary Chain records and the psychobilly
stuff as well. And I’ve always gone and seen all of those types of
bands. But no, the only reason I have had a psychobilly was an in-
between haircut, getting from having a long fringe to a mohican
or something, and I never ever thought of myself or anything like
the psychobillies I knew, who were all mad bastards with bottles
in their heads and mopeds and all of that, so no, not really.
DM: What about with goth?
P: But with goth, well no, ’cos I didn’t like the . . . I hate goths, ’cos
they are so miserable and they smell and they sit there looking like
they don’t want to be there, and white faces, and they’re just anti-
social, miserable. This is generalizing horribly, but that’s what a
lot, that’s what a lot of them are, and I’ve never felt like that at all.
All that black fingernails and make-up and all that. I didn’t like
any of that. When I had all that hair, it wasn’t . . . I never . . . I
wasn’t really thinking of myself as a goth. I wasn’t. I was still
jumping about on stage and we were playing lively music. It’s just
that I had a stupid back-to-front haircut and people called me a
goth more than anything. Erm . . . it was . . . it wasn’t me trying to
be a goth at all, and I mean we used to get all this stuff about ‘urh,
what do you sound like then?’ I expect, you know, people thought
we were going to be the Cure or something like that, and we were
still playing punk music.
DM: Was it difficult from sort of changing from being a psychobilly to
a...
P: No, not at all. You just grow and shave hair. That’s all. And really
it was no difference at all. I had the same clothes, I had the same
mates, I went to the same places and the same gigs. I played in the
same band. One week I had different hair.
D: It grew that quick?
P: Yeah, if you cut it off it does (laughs). It’s not like an identity crisis
or anything like that at all.
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We discovered in the last chapter that, contrary to what both sociology

and our own assumptions might have led us to believe, some subculturalists
did not hold style in high regard. As Paul himself admitted elsewhere in the
interview, ‘I’m not really that bothered about clothes to be honest, I mean,
you know, I could be any old student. I got a boring T-shirt, boring jeans
and boots on, and that’s about it.’ This general lack of interest in wearing a
complete ensemble appropriate to the particular subculture in question allows
affiliation to be visually demonstrated by only partial aspects of the style.
Another interesting consequence of partiality is the way it allows the
psychobilly hairstyle to be defined as a transitional ‘in-between’ stage. This
not only suggests that change is gradual and continuous rather than abrupt
and comprehensive, but demonstrates the non-intentionality of this particular
feature, a point that is reinforced by the next claim.
This is, secondly, that it is people other than Paul who define him in this
way. Although the punk identity may be self-attributed, this is not the case
for psychobilly or goth (‘people called me a goth more than anything’). We
first encountered in Chapter 4 the idea that labels are identities imposed
from outside the subculture, and that the resistance expressed towards such
labelling is a consequence of their stereotypical associations. This is evident
in (C), where Paul invokes stereotypical attitudes of both psychobilly and
goth (aggression and depression respectively) and stereotypical features of
goth style (‘black fingernails . . . make-up . . . white faces’) in order to
dissociate himself from such identifications (‘I’ve never felt like that at all’)
and point to his own divergence from the collective goth look.
The third issue we also first encountered in Chapter 4, and it is the rejection
of a label on the grounds of widespread musical tastes. Although Paul likes
psychobilly music this does not lead him to affiliate with this subculture, for,
in terms of both records and live gigs, his taste for this genre co-existed with
punk and a liking for the Jesus and Mary Chain. This allows a continuity in
musical identity to confound stereotypical associations of music with
appearance. Having been classified as a goth, Paul relates how his band is
expected to play appropriate music (sounding like the Cure). Yet the label is
a misidentification, based on only a partial aspect of his appearance (‘a stupid
back-to-front haircut’) and his band continues to play punk rock. The
outcome of all this is that change is not experienced as contradictory or
difficult precisely because so little actually changes. Moreover, that which
does undergo change is transformed in a gradual piecemeal way. And while
the change of hairstyle described in the final lines of (C) occurred somewhat
rapidly – within ‘one week’ – this accentuates the sense of continuity in all
other areas. The fact that partial change does not provoke an ‘identity crisis’
recalls the example of Marie in the last chapter, where fragmentation
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alleviated her feelings of schizophrenia brought about by wholesale stylistic

pluralization.
In his ethnography of British-born Australian skinheads, Moore describes
the transition from skinhead to mod style, or from rockabilly to rude boy, as
something that takes place ‘slowly . . . as time passes’ (1994: 26). By using
the word ‘throughout’ to discuss her stylistic transformations over six years,
Anne, in (D) below, also suggests constant gradual movement rather than
discrete, comprehensive change. Intriguingly, she has ‘always’ managed to
remain ‘basically the same’, despite the ‘lots of different ways’ in which she
could have been categorized during this substantial period of time. This
achievement is possible because, as with Paul, above, categorizations are
redefined and new hybrids formed on the basis of slight shifts in stylistic
elements – cut, colour and combing of hair, length of skirt, and, interestingly,
the locale or ‘scene’ frequented.
(D) ANNE AND JULIE

A: I mean I’ve changed like gradually throughout the past like six
years and that. I mean I’ve always been, you know, basically the
same, and you know, if you look back on photos you think, ‘Well,
I was a bit of a crusty then, oh I was like. . .’, you know.
J: A bit of a hippy.
A: A bit of a hippy then, wasn’t I? You know, and at the time you
never notice the classifications, but you do change gradually, and I
am sure with me, like with us, it will be a gradual change. I mean I
suppose you could have categorized me in lots of different ways
throughout the past, like, six years. Like I started off, like, in the
goth–hippy-type thing. I had, like, long sort of . . . really long hair
that was sort of reddy, sort of normal shades of red, rather than
this. And I used to, like, back comb my hair, but sometimes I didn’t,
and wore long skirts and lots of black, and so I was more sort of
. . . I was sort of around that. And then I was sort of like hanging
around on the goth-rock scene, so I was probably more of a rock-
chick-type thing.
DM: Did you, when you were like that, did you think of yourself as a
...
A: No, it’s only looking back that you really notice it.
The self-attribution or rejection of labels by reference to only specific and

partial elements of appearance would seem to ensure that subcultural
identification remains a wholly subjective process. As Miller quotes an
121
interviewee, ‘people probably couldn’t tell I was a Mod unless they were one
or had been one, then I suppose it’s the hair and the little touches that you’d
recognize’ (J. Miller 1995: 185). The same fine details that make one
individual claim, say, a hippy-punk identity could conceivably enable someone
else to see themselves as, for example, a goth-metaller.7 A visual example of
this point is the cover of Beatrix Campbell’s Wigan Pier Revisited (1985
Virago paperback edition). What are the subcultural affiliations of these five
young women? On page ii, the author describes them all as New Romantics.
Yet, from my perspective, the second and third from the left more clearly
resemble goth and punk respectively. But on what basis would any of them
accept or reject such a classification? And more importantly, what would it
take – a change of hairstyle or colour, bleached leggings discarded for a long
black skirt or a short leather one, to change between any of these identities?

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 9. Wigan Pier Revisited
122
A final, but crucially important, feature of (D) is how subculturalists

authenticate themselves not only relative to a subcultural ‘Other’, but to a
prior situation in their own biography. We can, looking back ourselves,
observe this in a number of earlier extracts. Robin’s transition from punk to
rocker in (B) is conveyed in terms of a ‘natural progression’ from relative
restriction to widespread appreciation, and is clearly linked to a process of
personal maturity (‘it’s purely down to do with age’). Jim, in extract (B) of
Chapter 4, is also adamant that his past expressions of permanent commit-
ment to a group identity (implying stasis and a collective stereotype) could
be put down to his youthful narrow-mindedness, and that he has, with age,
come to appreciate the ‘self-destructive’ implications of labelling (‘I used to
say “mod till you die”. That was when I was younger’).8 What Anne has
further realized in (D) is that self-classifications (such as ‘I used to be a mod’)
are often unrecognizable (and thus unacknowledegable) at the time, becoming
pronounced only when viewed retrospectively (‘it’s only looking back that
you really notice it’).
We have already remarked upon Schutz’s (1980) distinction between the
world of ‘consociates’ and that of ‘contemporaries’ in explaining why con-
ventional and subcultural ‘Others’ are perceived as homogeneous abstractions.
But Schutz also referred to two other abstracted realms of reality, the worlds
of predecessors and successors (denoting past and future relations). It is the
first of these that is relevant to extract (D), for Schutz argued that we also
make sense of our past relationships through ideal-types (ibid.: 182). And
while Schutz was concerned with how we perceive others, it appears from
Anne’s comments that we have an ability to consider our own past identity
retrospectively in this way. This seems to allow any past point in one’s
biography to be characterized as inauthentic relative to a subsequent situation,
while the inauthenticity of this past can be recognized only with hindsight.
If styles that are judged at the time to be partial and complex can be perceived
retrospectively as categorical typifications, this clearly raises questions about
the status of the benchmark against which postmodern fragmentation is
measured, a point that is taken up in Chapter 8.9
We began this chapter with a puzzle. The CCCS model of subcultures –
internally cohesive and homogeneous – clearly facilitated the maintenance
of boundaries between different style groups. But how could this be reconciled
with the existence of individuals undergoing stylistic mobility between
apparently incommensurable subcultures? Our hypothesis that this would
preclude the expression of negative sentiments towards other subcultural
groups is not supported. While subculturalists who undertake such change
do not regard boundary maintenance as pertinent to their own personal
situation at the time, they continue to express their authenticity through
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opposition with a subcultural reference group (or a previous group identif-

ication of their own), the inauthentic features of which are themselves
constituted through subcultural boundaries and oppositions. One’s own
refusal to heed boundaries therefore continues to be expressed, somewhat
paradoxically, through self-exclusion from the sensibilities of a stereotypical
group for whom, it is implied, such oppositions continue to be relevant.10
This continuing negative portrayal of other groups presents subculturalists
with a potential contradiction. As we first saw in Chapter 4, their own self-
characterization as independent-minded and open to alternatives is contrasted
with a stereotypical view of conventional (and subcultural) reference groups
as, basically, unquestioning and predictable. Elsewhere in the interviews this
translates into crude dichotomies such as open-minded against narrow-
minded, permissive versus intolerant, even peaceful compared to violent. So
it is not particularly surprising when subculturalists are occasionally found
to voice their explicit dislike of such groups, as we see in (E) below. These
openly hostile sentiments, if not the stereotyping, clearly undermine the very
claims to open-mindedness that subculturalists make, and dissolve any such
distinction made on this basis between themselves and the ‘Other’ whom
they so deride. One way in which this problem is resolved is by remarking
upon individual exceptions from the rule that are based on ties of friendship
or acquaintance – what, in Schutzian terms, are called consociate relationships.
(E) LUCY
L: I would say ‘Oh, those trendies are real twats’, or whatever. But if
I was with my friend, like Gabby or whatever, she’s my friend, I
wouldn’t hate her, but I would hate them as a group. See what I
mean? So I wouldn’t hate one of them on their own, but I would
hate them so I wouldn’t voluntarily go up to them, see what I mean?
I wouldn’t go up to them. But like, if I knew them, then I wouldn’t
hate them.
Here, the different manner in which the anonymous group and the
personally known individual are held in regard is so clear as to make extensive
commentary superfluous. The example given is trendies, but similar remarks
were made about various subcultural groups. Moore (1994) likewise dis-
covered in his own research that Rhygin, his main skinhead informant, had
formed friendships over a number of years with several individuals from a
variety of subcultural groups (see the quotation from Moore at the beginning
of this chapter). These individuals, who can be considered past or present
consociates, were treated by Rhygin according to their personal character-
istics, while other, unknown members with the status only of contemporaries
124
were regarded as cultural stereotypes. ‘Such assumptions . . . explain the

apparent contradiction in a statement like “I hate mods!” when contrasted
with the speaker’s actions while talking to a known mod who is an ex-
consociate (Moore 1994: 88).
It is clear that ‘such assumptions’ also provide an explanation for the
observations made by York (1980: 42) – which again appear in one of the
quotations heading this chapter – and raise doubts as to whether York
witnessed the emergence of a novel development.11 Over sixty years ago
Wirth (1938) conceptualized the urban as a space characterized by density,
cultural hybridity, and a high frequency of social contacts amongst a variety
of different groups – precisely the features we now associate with aesthetic
modernity, and the conditions under which group boundaries are likely to
become blurred and numerous consociate relationships formed. Yet Wirth
also realized how the ‘impersonal, superficial and transitory’ (ibid.: 12) quality
of the relationships forged in these circumstances would lead them in all
probability to be viewed through the prism of anonymous types. The social
conditions of the past could, in other words, have been as favourable to the
formation of inter-subcultural friendships as they were to the creation of
conflicts. Furthermore, increasing heterogeneity and fluidity can still continue
to reproduce group antagonisms through promoting negative, stereotypical
perceptions of the ‘Other’.
Attitudes, Values and Beliefs
A claim made by Robin in extract (B), one commonly found throughout the
interviews, was that a subculture was not (or not only) a style or fashion,
but an attitude (see also Lull 1987: 226). As Moore puts it, ‘visual style is
more than a set of clothes to be discarded at will, rather an attitude to life
given expression in apparel and behaviour’ (1994: 36). Yet these same
subculturalists rarely, if at all, specified what such attitudes consisted of, nor
identified values they might hold that would differentiate them from other
types of subcultures. Paul (Extract C), for example, invokes the attitudinal
stereotypes of psychobillies (aggression) and goths (depression) only to
emphasize the irrelevance of these to his own identity. This does not
necessarily mean that subculturalists do not hold specific and coherent values,
only that they are more likely to identify (and attribute to ‘Others’) those
they do not hold. But it might suggest less ideological coherence to subcultures
than has commonly been supposed.
This finding clearly differs from what we might have expected from the
CCCS approach, in which attitudes and values not only mark out subcultural
125
difference from conventional society, but also serve to set subcultures in

opposition to each other. Yet, as we saw in Chapter 2, this ‘pure’ and ‘abstract’
(G. Clarke 1982: 8) CCCS concept of subculture was, in part, the product
of a methodology in which specific subcultural attitudes were imputed
through a semiotic reading of style and homologically related to the
subculture’s ‘historical problematic’ in a form of ‘literary ethnography’
(Blackman 1995: 4). Although Paul Willis’s commitment to first-hand
ethnographic field work methodologically sets him apart from this mode of
enquiry (McGuigan 1992: 97–8), I have, nonetheless, argued that the
portrayal of internally coherent yet opposing world-views of hippies and
bikers in Profane Culture (1978) owes much to Willis’s interpretative skills
in homological analysis. As was argued in Chapter 4, it is not that homologies
may not be present, but that attention has been directed towards their
discovery to the neglect of identifying what Fornäs (1995) terms ‘heterologies’
and ‘antilogies’.
Subsequent studies carried out in Britain, America, Canada and Australia,
using both interviews and participant observation, have, in fact, found
subcultural belief-systems to be complex and uneven.12 In some cases, values
tend towards ambiguity, or findings are produced that are themselves
somewhat imprecise. Fox discovered in her ethnography of an American punk
subculture that ‘these values were ambiguous at best, but included a distinctly
antiestablishment, anarchist sentiment’ (1987: 352). Moore concluded that
‘in the skinhead subculture one can hold almost any belief, even running
contradictory to a general skinhead view’ (1994: 52). Gottschalk (1993) more
carefully catalogues the fragmented world-view of American countercultural
‘freaks’; they:
Quoted Zen proverbs, evoked Camus, Burroughs, Bukowski, Bataille, Jerry Rubin,
Abbie Hoffman, radical environmentalism, the Sex Pistols, Frank Zappa, and Bob
Marley (among others), but they neither organized these into a coherent and
integrated ideological system nor expressed any concern about the lack of such a
system . . . the Freak ‘story’ was a collage of ideas, an assemblage of political,
ideological and aesthetic positions originating from different points in time and
space (Gottschalk 1993: 364–5).
Ambiguity clearly allows, at a certain level of generality, for ideologies to be

diffuse, heterogeneous, and expressed across different styles. Burr, in a British
study, had no problem distinguishing between anarchic punks and racist
skinheads; yet he was also able to claim that ‘neither has evolved a coherent,
interrelated and systematized system of belief or well developed philosophy
which is articulated in everyday speech’ (1984: 932). This lack of specificity
126
enabled Burr to homologically relate both groups’ usage of the same drug,
barbiturates, to their shared, negative ideologies of ‘alienation’ and ‘despair’,
thereby providing a contrast with the work of Willis (1978, 1986), discussed
above, in which homological analysis is employed to identify cultural
oppositions between subcultures.
Even the more specific subcultural attitudes and values identified by
ethnographers do not necessarily indicate group cohesion and demarcation,
for two reasons. First, these could arguably serve to bridge as much as to
separate different groups. Two sets of reactionary values that usefully illustrate
this point are the ‘patriotism’, ‘xenophobia’ and ‘machismo’ of American
bikers (Schouten and McAlexander 1995) and the skinhead traits of racism
and homophobia (Lull 1987) or ‘monoculturalism’ and ‘manliness’ (K. Young
and Craig 1997). Second, these may not be uniformly expressed within any
one particular subculture. What Schouten and McAlexander (1995) claimed
to have identified are typical working-class biker values, which are redefined
and reinterpreted across various biker sub-groups in accordance with class
and gender differences. Young and Craig’s more general assessment is that
‘the Canadian skinhead movement is both complex and multi-dimensional,
and accommodates, albeit in often intersecting and contradictory ways, a
range of behavioural and ideological opportunities for the members of its
various branches’ (1997: 179). This also sits comfortably with Knight’s
assertion, in the British context, that the skinhead alliance to politics is ‘uneven
and transitory’ (1982: 33).13
We are left with the sense that the ideological distinctions that were thought
to set particular subcultures in opposition have been over-emphasized.
Attitudes and values articulated across different style subcultures can be as
fundamental to identity formation as any logically patterned belief-clusters
that serve to demarcate them. This can produce sets of shared ideological
configurations that, to outsiders, may even appear contradictory. For example,
the same uneasy combination of libertarian ideology and racist sentiments
has been identified in subcultures as apparently diverse as bikers (Schouten
and McAlexander 1995) and punks (Sabin 1999b). Why, then, should certain
individuals not move from punk, to skin, to biker, and even to hippy? (Would
a researcher other than Willis (1978) have found an ideological compatibility
– a libertarian emphasis on personal freedom – between the same samples of
bikers and hippies?) Subcultures in fact break out of restrictive homologies
at all levels. We saw in Chapter 4 that ambiguity can also be stylistic, while
individuals from different groups may also have overlapping musical tastes.
Subcultural ‘Others’, on the other hand, are invariably perceived as
homogeneous, internally coherent and externally demarcated, for as unknown
contemporaries they are judged only by reference to general cultural
127
categories. But those so classified likewise classify the classifiers. There are,
in other words, less differences (or more similarities) between subcultural
groups than there are perceived to be. Were this not the case – if subcultures
actually were characterized by specific and mutually exclusive styles, attitudes
and tastes – it would be difficult to understand how change such as that
discussed in this chapter could occur at all; or how Moore (1994) could find
individuals who had taken various pathways through skinhead, punk, soul
boy, teddy boy, rockabilly, rude boy, mod and causal styles, or Young and
Craig report that, ‘without exception, the skinheads in this study had been
members of other youth subcultures including punks, skaters and White
Power skinheads before becoming “non-political” Oi! skins’ (1997: 184).
As Kotarba and Wells reflect on discovering a surprising amount of sub-
cultural mobility in their own fieldwork:
Ethnographic research like this points to both the usefulness and the promise of a
postmodern conceptualization of youth and rock music. For example, we found
that many patrons at Roma’s moved from one style to another without significant
consternation or consequence, certainly more movement than one would expect if
these styles were tied rigidly to structural memberships such as class and ethnicity,
as subcultural theorists argue (Kotarba and Wells 1987: 415).
That the characteristics of homogeneity, fixity and demarcation, as

emphasized in the CCCS approach, appear increasingly irrelevant is amply
demonstrated by recent attempts to reconceptualize subculture using different
criteria. Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1995: 218) draw on Willis’s (1990)
concept of ‘proto-communities’ to capture the sense of fluidity and flexibility
suggested in such a ‘bond’ or ‘association’. Moore (1994) likewise defines
the Australian skinhead subculture as ‘labile’, prone to instability of form,
changing membership and transient relationships between subgroups. My
own attempt to cover what I saw as the increasing gap between my empirical
evidence and an outmoded orthodox understanding of subculture was through
the employment of Maffesoli’s (1996) concept of ‘neo-tribe’, designating a
diffuse grouping with insubstantial boundaries and ‘affinity based on
heterogeneity’ (Muggleton 1995). All these conceptual innovations improve
on the CCCS approach through their ability to map more accurately the
lived reality of the subcultural world. The way they achieve this is by
importantly creating what we might term a ‘collective space’ where individual
difference and freedom is allowed to flourish. Indeed, if we are to move
beyond exercises in conceptualization, then individuality, mobility and
diversity are central characteristics upon which any adequate explanation of
subcultures must be founded.
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Notes
1. See also Brake (1977) for an empirical study of the social and cultural distinctions
between hippies and skinheads.
2. On the incompatibility between hippy and punk see Nehring (1996: 272) and
Steele (1997: 287). Lull, however, notes ‘the uneasy alliance’ and ‘intricate association
between these two groups’ (1987: 248), while Goldthorpe (1992) and Osgerby (1998:
106) also remark on shared themes. A brief extract from an interview with a ‘punk
hippy’ appears in Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1995: 164).
3. For example, Hebdige (1974) examines the centrality of amphetamines to the
‘meaning of mod’.
4. Lull (1987: 233) provides an account of marijuana use amongst punks.
5. Weinstein (1991) also understands heavy metal to be a music-based subculture,
and the same point might also be made about Glitter or glam (Taylor and Wall 1978;
Cagle 1995). See also Sardiello (1998) on the deadhead subculture which centres
upon the band The Grateful Dead.
6. See also Willis (1978: Ch. 7). Of the five 1960s tracks selected by Middleton
and Muncie (1982) to demonstrate how this genre exemplifies countercultural style,
I regard two, those by Procul Harum and Donovan, as more akin to commercial
pop songs, while two others, by Pink Floyd and The Beatles, are prime examples of
inventive psychedelia that count among my all-time personal favourites. But then,
when I use the term progressive rock, I refer to fifteen-minute guitar solos, the period
from about 1970 to 1976, and bands like Yes, ELP, Barclay James Harvest and Pink
Floyd without Syd Barrett. Lydon has a similar definition (1994: 236–7).
7. For such reasons, a quantitative assessment of the degree of stylistic mobility
experienced by my subcultural sample would not produce any valid or reliable figure.
Nor were informants always as willing as Anne, in extract (D), to classify such past
identities retrospectively. It is therefore not possible to assess accurately Evans’s (1997)
proposal that females are more subculturally mobile than males. The evidence in
this chapter should, however, be enough to refute the suggestion that ‘men tended to
stay locked into one subculture’ (ibid.: 181).
8. See Kitwood (1980) and Brown et al. (1986) on the positive correlation between
age and individuality.
9. This means that we should also regard with caution those attempts to identify
the different stages of affiliation to a subculture through which individuals pass (see
Schouten and McAlexander 1995; Andes 1998). Andes, for example, argues that an
individual member initially embraces a group identity only to transcend it at a later
stage. Yet what she is actually discovering is how individuals authenticate their present
situation in relation to a supposedly stereotypical past.
10. As Martin puts it, ‘the opposition to boundaries must erect a new boundary
between its adherents and the boundary-conscious structures outside in order to
protect the open pattern inside’ (1985: 41).
11. See, for example, Frith’s research into early 1970s youth culture (Frith 1983:
207).
129
12. Of course, a wide range of methods have been employed to identify subcultural
ideologies, but there is no space for a detailed discussion of all of these. Questionnaires
have been used to provide quantitative data on the values, attitudes and personality
characteristics of various subculturalists (Brown 1973; Gold 1987; Hansen and
Hansen 1991). Various forms of content analysis have also been applied to fanzines
(Lamy and Levin 1985; Henry 1989: da Costa 1995) the underground press (Levin
and Spates 1970; Nelson 1989), band names (Levine and Stumpf 1983) and lyrics
(McDonald 1987; Gross 1990; Arnett 1996). But evidence suggests we should be
cautious when extrapolating from textual content to the subjectively held meanings
of the subculturalists themselves (see Gross 1990: 125; Kotarba and Wells 1987:
415). For discussions of lyrical content in punk variously informed by genre theory
and literary and critical theory, see Home (1996), Davies (1996), and Laing (1978,
1985).
13. Baron (1997) also found a political consciousness in a sample of fourteen
male Canadian skinheads that could best be described as ‘fragmented’, consisting of
racist, radical non-racist and apolitical views. These case study findings are hardly
conclusive, but neither are they inconsistent with more general claims for an increasing
disjunction between style, ideology and identity. To stay with the skinhead subculture
as an example, Redhead argues that ‘subcultural theorists’ claim for a homology –
or fit – between a skin haircut, DocMarten boots and fascist leanings has long ago
been refuted’ (1991a: 145). Indeed, in certain British cities in the 1990s, such a style
is more likely to signify Gay hypermasculinity than working-class homophobia (Bell
et al. 1994).
130
Resistance, Incorporation and Authenticity
7
Resistance, Incorporation and
Authenticity
What we did was we opened the doors, and so all these endless punk imitators
suddenly flooded in and dissipated the whole point of it, because they became
clone-like. Now they totally missed the whole point, that this was all about
individual expression and personality. These are the things that count in life for
me, but most of the punk outfits didn’t appreciate that at all. They allowed the
likes of the Daily Mirror to dictate a uniform. The leather jacket; the safety pin;
the torn jeans; the bovver boots; the spiky hair. And it became hideous.
John Lydon on the Sex Pistols and Punk Rock: ‘Mavericks’,
(BBC Radio One, Feb. 1995)
Our politics were clear in ‘Anarchy’. We weren’t political in the sense of saying:
be a Socialist, be a Tory, be a Communist. We were political in the sense that we
didn’t even entertain the idea of politics, it was below us. It was anarchy in its
purest sense: self-determination. We couldn’t, we felt, do much about changing
the system, but we weren’t going to let the system do anything to us. We wanted
to live our lives how we wanted to live them – and we went out and did it.
Glen Matlock: I Was a Teenage Sex Pistol (1996: 163)
Defusion and Diffusion
In any examination of subcultural authenticity and resistance, a consideration

of the role played by the media and commerce is indispensable. That this
should be so is primarily because of the way these two pairs of factors have
been almost completely counterpoised in the CCCS approach. In a two-way
process, authentic stylistic resistance occurs through bricolage, an act of
transformation by which a new and original style is formed through plunder
and recontextualization as a challenge to the hegemony of the dominant
culture. It is this radical creativity that, so the theory goes, is then co-opted
and incorporated through media and commercial exploitation, after which
those who take up the style are reduced to the status of mere fad-followers.
131
We discussed the initial part of this process in Chapter 2. The latter part,
as sketched out by Clarke (1986: 185–9) and Hebdige (1979: 92–9), itself
involves two interconnected movements, defusion and diffusion. Through
defusion, the subversive potential of subcultural style is sanitized, commerc-
ially, through the commodification of subcultural forms: the turning of
gestures and signs of refusal into mainstream fashion – ‘a pure “market” or
“consumer” style’ (J. Clarke 1986: 187). Diffusion is the actual geographical
and social dispersal of the style from the original nucleus of innovators to
new and mass publics, mediated through television and tabloid reports. In
both cases, the process assumes an underground, yet internally-cohesive,
clearly defined, self-contained resistance movement, untainted by the world
of media and commerce until its discovery and dissipation by the institutions
of dominant society – ‘the element of commercial reaction which attempts
to universalize, at a purely stylistic and consumption level, the innovations
made by distinctive youth cultures, while simultaneously defusing the
oppositional potential of the exclusive lifestyles’ (J. Clarke and Jefferson 1978:
157).
As we saw in Chapter 3 the increasing power of media and commerce in a
postmodern society hastens this process of incorporation (Connor 1991;
Redhead 1991b), further negating the potential for authenticity and resistance.
McRobbie (1989) and Thornton (1994, 1995) more radically demonstrate
how the forces of media and commerce are, from the very outset, proactive
in subcultural formation. If the postmodern thesis is fully realized we might
expect subculturalists to exhibit a celebratory attitude towards style, fashion
and the media rather than to view their affiliation as a normative or political
gesture of resistance or rebellion. This is our hypothesis, to be supported or
refuted by the data. Although the two themes of media and commerce are
obviously interrelated, I will deal with them separately. First, let us consider
the media. Here there are three interrelated questions: (1) How do sub-
culturalists view the role of media and commerce in the construction of their
own identity?; (2) How do they view the role of the media in the construction
of others?; and (3) Are different media allocated distinct roles in the above
processes?
(A) MATT
M: If you actually look at the photographs of the Sex Pistols gigs there
is like not a punk in the audience, they have all got long hair. They
have all got, like . . . if you look at the real photographs, nobody
knew what a punk was, there was no uniform. There wasn’t a punk
uniform. Maybe I might be wrong. There might have been people
132
who actually thought they were punks, but um, I’m not so sure,
you know, I think punk became a label possibly after Johnny Lydon,
Johnny Rotten said . . . er . . . told . . . er . . . Grundy to fuck off.
In the first extract we again find Matt, who opened the last chapter. He
was then engaged in the process of authenticating his punk identity by virtue
of his involvement having occurred prior to the labelling process by which
punk was publicly named and identified. Not only, then, does his inception
predate the point at which punk became a uniform, but he was initially
unaware of his identity as a punk. As corroborative evidence he points to
photographs of the Sex Pistols’ gigs. It will become clear that these are the
gigs taking place before the end of 1976, before punk became a focus of
mass media attention. The people in the audience on these photographs not
only fail to look like ‘punks’, they are more likely to resemble hippies or, at
the very least, sport the general youth fashion of the time (‘they have all got
long hair’).1 As Matt points out, at this period in time ‘nobody knew what a
punk was’.
What is significant is the way the mass media are deemed to be fully
responsible for the sudden transformation of this situation. The watershed
is precisely identified as the Bill Grundy interview with the Sex Pistols.
Broadcast on Thames Television in the early evening of 1 December 1976,
this infamous encounter brought national notoriety to the group and punk
rock in general. It is only after this event that punk becomes labelled, the
style becomes identifiable as a ‘uniform’, and people think of themselves as
punks. This not only clearly defines the subculture’s identity, but the perceived
movement towards homogeneity sharply demarcates it from the remnants
of residual cultural movements such as hippy. This further implies that those
who become punks in the wake of this event are inauthenticated, not only
through their uniformity of look and rapid conversion (attributable to one
specific instance of media exposure), but by the very fact of media-influenced
affiliation itself. As Osgerby has perceptively argued, ‘any sense of a coherent
punk “movement” or punk “identity” was largely the outcome of media
simplification and commercial marketing strategy’ (1998: 111).
In one obvious sense, (A) follows the pattern of events set out by the CCCS
work: the mass communications media are evacuated from Matt’s own
(authentic) inception, but construct those who enter the subculture after the
Grundy interview as, for all intents and purposes, inauthentic ‘followers’.
Yet, as the Osgerby quotation suggests, this appears to reverse the CCCS
construction of subcultural cohesion. Rather than self-contained and clearly
defined subcultures being diffused and dissipated by media attention and
commercial exploitation, authentic inception is characterized here by a lack
133
of cohesion and demarcation, with the media playing a homogenizing and

clarifying role. It might appear that Matt’s views are more consistent with
those expressed by Stanley Cohen in his seminal text, Folk Devils and Moral
Panics (1973, 1980). As Trowler and Riley say of this work, ‘its principal
theme [is] that youth subculture must be seen as a media creation rather
than as a reaction by the working class section of youth to their economic
and social environment’ (1985: 157). Similarly, according to Thornton,
‘scholars of “moral panic” assume that little or nothing existed prior to mass
media labelling’ (1995: 119; original emphasis).
These, it must be said, are somewhat oversimplistic readings of Cohen,
who was careful to stress in the final chapter of his book that a conventional
socio-structural account is required to explain the origins of such subcultures
– ‘the mods and rockers did not appear from nowhere’ (Cohen 1973: 191).
It would be more accurate to see this as an origin in which the media are not
allocated any explicit or significant role. Only in the process of societal
reaction do the media really come to prominence, the effect of which is to
homogenize and polarize the two subcultures. In (A), then, Matt appears to
be proposing a more radical version of Cohen’s thesis whereby mass media
coverage does not simply intensify weakly drawn differences between already
existing groups, but actually creates the very notion of a subcultural identity
itself.
Mass, Niche and Micro Media
That media effects are imputed to others is unsurprising, given the oft-made
equation between mass media influence and a lack of capacity for critical
and independent thought in those so swayed. However, this does suggest the
need to examine whether subculturalists have in mind different types or forms
of media, and if these are regarded as having varying implications for the
construction of authenticity or inauthenticity. Relevant to such an analysis
is Sarah Thornton’s (1995) study Club Cultures, discussed in Chapter 4. In
her discussion of the media (see also Thornton 1994), Thornton poses two
questions. First, in what way are the media involved in the actual development
of subcultures? Second, how do ‘subcultural ideologies’ (1995: 121) – the
subjective perceptions of subcultural members – construct the role of the
media?
In answering the first of these questions, Thornton takes issue with Cohen
(1973), who defines media solely in terms of the regional and national press.
She argues instead for an internally differentiated understanding of ‘the
media’, distinguishing between micro, niche and mass media. Thornton
134
proposes that such distinctions undercut any simple opposition between media
that are indigenous and those that are exogenous to subcultural movements.
Nor, therefore, can their relationship to subcultures be viewed in terms of a
linear process of increasing incorporation. Such a proposal is justified by
three claims. First, that negative mass media coverage does not act as a
mechanism of defusion and diffusion, but on the contrary, can help to render
subcultures subversive and increase their longevity. Thornton notably diverges
here from the CCCS view of the media-subculture relationship. Second, that
niche media – the music press and style magazines – are often staffed with
people previously or currently subcultural members themselves. Such media
actively help to compose and structure stable subcultural entities from real
yet nonetheless nebulous movements and cultural fragments. Third, that
micro-media, such as fanzines, listings, posters and flyers, are also integral
to the networking process of assembling individuals as a crowd for a specific
purpose and imbuing them with a particular identity (see figures 10–12 for
examples of flyers collected during my own fieldwork). Moreover, in an ironic
reversal of subcultural ideologies, the tabloid mass media can often be well
ahead of certain micro-media in their coverage of new developments in the
subcultural arena.

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 10.
135

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 11.
Clearly, Thornton’s conclusion, ‘that subcultures are best defined as social

groups that have been labelled as such . . . Communications media create
subcultures in the process of naming them and draw boundaries around them
in the act of describing them’ (1995: 162), does not allow any space for a
non-mediated subcultural identity. A point which, at one level, a number of
my interviewees are happy to concur with; for as Oliver put it, ‘everybody’s
influenced by the media’. However, this is precisely to raise Thornton’s second
question of how subculturalists position the media (or different aspects of it)
in relation to their own affiliation. In much the same way as my own
interviewees, Thornton’s informants proclaimed their authenticity through
comparisons with two types of reference group. First, against a feminized
nightclub mainstream which bears more than a passing resemblance to the
‘trendie’ venue and its Shaz inhabitants talked about by Suzie and Mags in
extract (B), Chapter 5. Secondly, against a subcultural ‘Other’ – inauthentic
clubbers known, somewhat bizarrely, as ‘Acid Teds’ (ibid.: 100).2 There are
really, then, two aspects to Thornton’s second question: how do her clubber
informants regard their own relationship to the media? And: how do they
see the role of the media in the construction of these inauthentic ‘Others’?
136

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 10.
Predictably, in line with Matt in (A), we find that ‘Others’ are denigrated
as mass-media-influenced. Sharon and Tracey, who personify the mainstream,
set their cultural standards by ‘Top of the Pops’, while ‘Acid Teds’, and their
feminized equivalent ‘Techno Traceys’, take their cues from The Sun news-
paper (ibid.: 109). And as we might also have expected, the clubbers invert
this relationship when referring to themselves, disparaging the mass media (
a sure sign of ‘selling-out’), yet championing micro-media such as fanzines
as an authentic, grass-roots means of communication, thus confirming an
earlier finding by Lull, that flyers and fanzines were ‘trusted sources of
information’ (1987: 244) for the punks in his study. This varying regard given
137
to different aspects of the media can, in fact, be detected in (A). Note how
Matt characterizes the visual evidence of those first gigs as ‘the real photo-
graphs’, thereby suggesting their authenticity, presumably in relation to the
‘falsity’ of the mass media. Yet this is too easy a conclusion to leap to. Such
remarks may be more of a comment on the people portrayed and constructed
by the media than it is on the media themselves, for such a distinction seems
to derive from the dichotomy between ‘genuine’ and ‘false’ members, first
outlined in Chapter 5. It would also be necessary to see how subculturalists
deal with the complications that arise when, unlike Matt, they would find it
difficult to claim that their own inception preceded not only media attention
but the very naming process of the subculture itself. Let us look then at (B)
which deals not with punk, but with mod.
(B) OLIVER
DM: I mean – you know – the difference between being genuine or
whatever you want to call it and not being a fad-follower. And yet
I’m wondering that someone else might see you as a fad-follower
and what your defence would be. Because I can’t see what it is
that you have which fad-followers don’t. Or at least, I don’t know
what it is.
O: Yeah, I see what you mean. I don’t know, because I got into dressing
like this through sort of hanging around with people like it. And
although everyone’s going . . . you know, there’s been that piece in
that music paper, Select, about the mod revival, and there’s like
Blow Up, which is a mod club, and everything like that . . . but I
don’t know. I was sort of dressing quite sharp before I read about
those, and it’s more about watching Quadrophenia or something
like that.
This extract opens with a reference to the distinction between real members
and mere followers. Here, I put it to Oliver that there is nothing that obviously
seems to place him in the former group rather than the latter. What we can
observe in this extract is how three potential admissions of inauthenticity
are counteracted by their framing within claims for authenticity. First, Oliver
states that his style has emerged though peer-group interaction. While this
could be interpreted as an admission of copying (following the dictates of
others), the point of this statement is to highlight how the style came about
through face-to-face contact rather than the influence of the media. Secondly,
he does not deny knowledge of the contemporary mod revival, nor of his
interest in associated media coverage. Yet he plays down any possible
138
accusation of influence by chronologically placing his initial involvement as

having preceded such developments (‘before I read about those’). Note also
that he does not acknowledge ‘mod’ as a group label relevant to his identity,
but merely says that he was ‘dressing quite sharp’. His alternative source of
influence (‘it’s more about watching Quadrophenia or something like that’)
also provides the third potential admission of inauthenticity. Not only is this
an explicit acknowledgement of media influence, but a particularly significant
one given that Quadrophenia is not merely a cult film, but was popular in
major cinemas at the time of its release. It could conceivably be regarded as
more akin to a mass media text than Select, the music paper whose influence
is mitigated, and which Thornton would clearly regard as an example of
niche media.
But as Oliver is attempting to situate his involvement as having occurred
before the, then current, 1994 mod revival, mitigation need take place only
with regard to contemporary media influences. As Quadrophenia was
originally released in 1979, it would normally be cited as having helped
precipitate the 1980 mod revival. While we would therefore have expected
1980 mods to have denied such an influence at the time, Oliver was then
only eight years old, and too young to be involved. It is precisely this point
that allows him to cite the film as an influence rather than, say, current music
papers, for he can now safely claim he saw it well before the origins of the
1994 revival. In other words, there are significant time lags between the 1980
revival and his own viewing of the film, and from then until the emergence
of the 1994 mod subculture. This minimizes the likelihood of others who
were similarly influenced becoming mods through viewing the film at the
same time as Oliver, and emphasizes his individuality and authentic origins.
An additional inference might be that contemporary revivalists are also too
young to have seen the film, and would therefore have been influenced by
other, more current, media material. The point is the manner in which the
age of the film, Oliver’s personal biography and the dates of the two revivals
intersect, providing a historical conjuncture that allows this particular person
to cite this specific film at this moment in time while retaining his authenticity
in relation to a media-influenced collective other.
Many subculturalists fully recognized the pervasiveness of the media and
the inevitability of its influence on people’s lives. But consistently with findings
in the previous chapters, media effects were most usually attributed to others
or retrospectively to a point in one’s own past in order to authenticate a
more recent situation. Subculturalists did not, however, consistently differ-
entiate along a scale of decreasing authenticity between micro, niche and
mass media in the expected manner. This is because claims for authenticity
are primary; the media can then be illustrative of this. In other words, one’s
139
own heterogeneity and originality is first contrasted to the relative lack of

such qualities in a subcultural or conventional ‘Other’ or past situation.
Various media are then positioned and defined as mass or otherwise on the
basis of this contrast. Their relative ‘massness’ is therefore derived from the
homogenization of the ‘Other’, not in terms of any pre-defined formal
qualities. This means that admissions of media influence by subculturalists
can in no way be considered a postmodern celebration of the media, for
such references are most likely to take the form of mitigation. The claims for
authenticity that they seek to establish are necessarily conditional upon the
‘mass media’-influenced inauthenticity of others.
Fashion and Commercialism
Empirically, the worlds of media and commerce are clearly interrelated; they
are also theoretically combined in accounts of defusion and diffusion. In this
chapter they are separated for analytical purposes to highlight their similar
implications for subcultural authenticity. Echoing the manner in which
respondents perceive their relationship to the media, the homogeneity of a
look is not a quality of the style itself, nor a function of where it is purchased,
but depends on how it is situated within a description of the wearer’s
authenticity.
(C) MARC AND PAULA

M: Yeah, there are definite categories of people around. It’s just that I
don’t really like categorizing myself.
P: There are a lot of people who do, like, belong to (indecipherable
on tape). I think there are a lot in Brighton. Like recently there’s
been an upsurge of quite young girls, sort of between thirteen and
sixteen, who think it’s cool to be crusty, basically. I don’t know if
you’ve noticed that; it’s quite obvious. And if you go around these
pubs, you see them. There’s loads of underage drinking. And they’ve
got sort of like a uniform of holey tights on, I dunno.
M: They’re like us really.
P: Well, yeah; but in certain cases they’re trying to belong to a certain
group, and that’s really obvious. Like, you know they’re obviously
copying something that . . . you know. I think it’s a phase they’ve
got caught in, really.
M: You just have to look at what most of the sort of High Street shops
are doing. I was looking through some magazines the other day
and Top Shop are bringing out their traveller look because now
140
they think it’s trendy to look sort of crusty in a way. So they’re

bringing out new clothes, basically for probably your thirteen- to
sixteen-year-olds. I can see people do think this all has some sort
of bearing on fashion.
(D) SUZIE AND MAGS

S: I got very fed up with all the clothes that I was wearing and buying
cheap and wrecking being sold for huge amounts of money to
people that had probably never heard of . . . they’d heard of, like,
Teen Spirit, but hadn’t heard of Mudhoney or any of the other,
like, grunge bands that were fairly big then, and were just buying
stuff from Top Shop and stuff and thinking they were great and it
got on my nerves and I thought ‘I’m not wearing this any more.’
M: Got really pretentious.
S: ’Cos I was being lumped in a group with them which wasn’t on
really, so.
M: When the grunge look became fashionable, well, that was a piss-
off. Before that, people used to have – rip you apart for it, really –
and then all of a sudden the catwalk said it was fashionable and it
was cool, do you know what I mean?
Extract (C) begins with a familiar sentiment. Marc resists categorization,

but feels that it is applicable to others. Paula then nominates such a category
– ‘crusty’. Those designated by this term are claimed to be identifiable by
their uniformity of appearance. That the description of this style could equally
be applicable to the two interviewees makes this a potentially dangerous
accusation. The irony is not lost on Marc (‘They’re like us really’). But Paula
has already mitigated such a response in two ways. The first is by describing
the emergence of this group through the words ‘recently’ and ‘upsurge’. The
transformation into ‘crusty’ has, in other words, been both rapid (superficial)
and contemporary (after the original impulse), in contrast to which the
interviewees can claim that they have been dressing in this style for a long
time (which makes them innovators rather than followers), and that their
own transition was gradual (suggesting an evolving, developing self). Paula’s
second mitigation, that this group ‘think it’s cool to be crusty’ is premised
on the distinction made in Chapter 5 between subculturalists, like the crusties,
who merely adopt an image, and people, such as Marc and Paula, who wear
style as a genuine expression of internally held attitudes.
Following Marc’s comment, Paula commences to reinforce these initial
negative group references. ‘Trying to belong to a certain group . . . obviously
141
copying something’ implies a deliberate attempt by the crusties to follow a

collective look, while the remarks about a ‘phase’ suggest that this is to be a
short-lived, superficial attachment. The final claim is that the group look
has been purchased from a High Street store, Top Shop, which renders it
nothing more than an immediately obtained youthful trend. Just as ‘preppie
punks’ were denigrated as ‘pretenders’ with a ‘costume party’ sensibility (Fox
1987: 361), the crusties are perceived to be interested only in subculture as
fashion. As such, they resemble what Baron terms ‘“poseurs” (those youth
who had adopted the subcultural style but did not participate in the
subculture)’ (1989b: 231). For other examples of this distinction between
genuine and fashion-oriented members see also Andes (1998); Kotarba and
Wells (1987); Lull (1987); Roman (1988); Sardiello (1998); Tomlinson (1998)
and Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1990, 1995).
Although slightly older and of a related rather than identical style, Suzie
and Mags in extract (D) would come close to the type of people who are
disparaged by Marc and Paula in (C) for their fashion mentality. Of course,
as we might expect, they also impute a fashion sensibility and related negative
attributes to a comparative ‘Other’ through which to authenticate themselves.
Suzie sets herself up (singular) as a creative innovator (‘buying cheap and
wrecking’). This is contrasted with those (plural) who merely buy the style,
presumably ‘ready wrecked’, after it has become an expensive fashion. Note
again the use of Top Shop as a symbol of a youthful, female fashion mentality.
Also, observe the description of this ‘Other’ as ‘pretentious’, used in other
interviews as a synonym for both ‘plastic’ and ‘false’. Suzie’s refusal to wear
the style after this point is to differentiate her individual self from this
inauthentic collective. Her complaint about ‘being lumped in a group with
them’ could easily be a direct riposte to Marc and Paula. Mags also bemoans
how the turning of grunge style into fashion by ‘the catwalk’ (note the
impersonal, collective noun) has divested it of its shock potential and ability
to provoke a critical reaction (‘before that, people used to . . . rip you apart
for it’). Moreover, this transformation is deemed to have occurred ‘all of a
sudden’. In other words, those taking up the fashion would have undergone
a rapid change, denoting their superficiality. By contrast, Suzie and Mags
can imply that their own inception occurred gradually, took place prior to
this incorporation, and thereby signified a more individualized stylistic
radicalism formed in opposition to mainstream fashion and mass consumption.
Interestingly, Suzie also invokes music to make claims about her authent-
icity. Those who constitute the reference group are thought to have heard of
Teen Spirit, a reference to a hit single by Nirvana, but not any other grunge
bands, despite the fact that some of these, such as Mudhoney, are described
as having been ‘fairly big then’. However, this is not to endow such bands
142
copying something’ implies a deliberate attempt by the crusties to follow a

collective look, while the remarks about a ‘phase’ suggest that this is to be a
short-lived, superficial attachment. The final claim is that the group look
has been purchased from a High Street store, Top Shop, which renders it
nothing more than an immediately obtained youthful trend. Just as ‘preppie
punks’ were denigrated as ‘pretenders’ with a ‘costume party’ sensibility (Fox
1987: 361), the crusties are perceived to be interested only in subculture as
fashion. As such, they resemble what Baron terms ‘“poseurs” (those youth
who had adopted the subcultural style but did not participate in the
subculture)’ (1989b: 231). For other examples of this distinction between
genuine and fashion-oriented members see also Andes (1998); Kotarba and
Wells (1987); Lull (1987); Roman (1988); Sardiello (1998); Tomlinson (1998)
and Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1990, 1995).
Although slightly older and of a related rather than identical style, Suzie
and Mags in extract (D) would come close to the type of people who are
disparaged by Marc and Paula in (C) for their fashion mentality. Of course,
as we might expect, they also impute a fashion sensibility and related negative
attributes to a comparative ‘Other’ through which to authenticate themselves.
Suzie sets herself up (singular) as a creative innovator (‘buying cheap and
wrecking’). This is contrasted with those (plural) who merely buy the style,
presumably ‘ready wrecked’, after it has become an expensive fashion. Note
again the use of Top Shop as a symbol of a youthful, female fashion mentality.
Also, observe the description of this ‘Other’ as ‘pretentious’, used in other
interviews as a synonym for both ‘plastic’ and ‘false’. Suzie’s refusal to wear
the style after this point is to differentiate her individual self from this
inauthentic collective. Her complaint about ‘being lumped in a group with
them’ could easily be a direct riposte to Marc and Paula. Mags also bemoans
how the turning of grunge style into fashion by ‘the catwalk’ (note the
impersonal, collective noun) has divested it of its shock potential and ability
to provoke a critical reaction (‘before that, people used to . . . rip you apart
for it’). Moreover, this transformation is deemed to have occurred ‘all of a
sudden’. In other words, those taking up the fashion would have undergone
a rapid change, denoting their superficiality. By contrast, Suzie and Mags
can imply that their own inception occurred gradually, took place prior to
this incorporation, and thereby signified a more individualized stylistic
radicalism formed in opposition to mainstream fashion and mass consumption.
Interestingly, Suzie also invokes music to make claims about her authent-
icity. Those who constitute the reference group are thought to have heard of
Teen Spirit, a reference to a hit single by Nirvana, but not any other grunge
bands, despite the fact that some of these, such as Mudhoney, are described
as having been ‘fairly big then’. However, this is not to endow such bands
142
with the popularity and renown that ensues from a top-selling hit single; for
what, then, is the point of the contrast with Teen Spirit? The implication is
that such bands were big enough for anyone genuinely into grunge to have
heard of. The fact that certain people were not aware of them, yet had heard
a successful chart single by a grunge band, is a comment on their taste for
only the commercial element of such music. The falsity of grunge ‘fashion’ is
clearly being equated here with the superficiality of commercially successful
grunge music, both being contrasted with a depth metaphor: music (or style)
as an genuine expression of and belief in inner feelings. Dancis expresses this
difference with regard to punk music as, ‘a band that has adopted a punk
image and sound because it has become marketable, rather than because
they believe in what they’re doing’ (1978: 63). This is one reason why, in the
eyes of Lull’s San Francisco punks, ‘rock music that makes a lot of money is
suspect, and songs that are rotated regularly on commercial radio stations
do not gain approval’ (Lull 1987: 243–4).
What is being privileged here is the artistic integrity of the underground
compared to the mass commercialism of the mainstream. In Thornton (1995:
109, 122–9), we find, for example, the association of the denigrated
mainstream with ‘Top of the Pops’ and various forms of ‘chartpop’. For
Thornton’s clubbers, commercialism is a sure sign of ‘selling out’, a threat to
one’s sense of exclusivity, esotericism and cultural capital.3 But Thornton
also recognizes the irony that ‘nothing proves the originality and inventiveness
of subcultural music and style more than its eventual “mainstreaming”’ (1995:
128). On one hand, there is the desire to protect the scarcity of subcultural
capital and thereby retain one’s originality; on the other, the need to have
this affirmed by a larger following, losing in the process what Wai-Teng Leong
has termed ‘the power to be different’ (1992: 32). Oliver indicated as much
when he said, ‘It’s [the mod revival] not very big at the moment, and therefore,
you know, you hope it’s going to get big almost, but in a way you’re glad it’s
not, because it would be full of people who would be jumping on the
bandwagon.’
The oppositions brought into play in these extracts – between alternative
and commercial, minority and majority, originals and followers – are those
that in the CCCS approach distinguish ‘the first wave of self-conscious
innovators’ (Hebdige 1979: 122) from the merely fashion-conscious. We
examined the theoretical basis of this distinction at the beginning of this
chapter, where we also made reference to subsequent modifications of the
theory that have attempted to demystify the concept of pure stylistic
innovation. Of these, we have already outlined Thornton’s (1995) arguments
that the media are as responsible for the definition and demarcation of
subcultures as they are for their defusion and diffusion. A parallel thesis is
143
provided by Frith and Horne (1987), and Seago (1995), who examine how
the art schools provided an entrepreneurial ethos and designer dynamic, a
strand of bohemianism that fed straight into the innovative world of
streetstyle, counterculture and subculture, yet is absent from so much
theoretical analysis. The relevance of this to punk is given in Jon Savage’s
(1992) cultural history England’s Dreaming, certain passages of which suggest
that the ‘creation’ of punk as a distinctive style owes as much to the
entrepreneurial impulse of Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, and
the adoption of these designs by the Sex Pistols and others, as it does to the
creative originality of disaffected youth.4
Now let us attempt our own theoretical re-evaluation of what occurs ‘after
the subculture had surfaced and become publicized’ (Hebdige 1979: 122).
We could assume this necessarily leads to the passive and collective acceptance
of a commercially produced style. Or, alternatively, we could propose that
such commodified subcultural styles, whether purchased new or obtained
second-hand, continue to be customized and subverted. ‘Just as the innovators
can construct new meanings for clothes or other symbols from the dominant
culture, so too can other members adapt and change the subcultural items
for their own purpose and needs’ (Andes 1998: 213). Why, then, should the
option of further adaptation leading to heterogeneity be any less subversive
than the actions of the original innovators? The answer, of course, is that it
isn’t, particularly when one further considers that some of the original
adapters may also have adopted. In other words, as Wai-Teng Leong realizes,
‘it is difficult to establish empirically the difference between adapters and
adopters of style, between innovators and followers’ (1992: 46). What is
being suggested here is captured by Cagle’s concept of ‘out-there subculture’:
Unlike Hebdige’s subcultural innovators, out-there subcultures take styles from

mass-mediated sources (out-there) and appropriate them in a subcultural manner.
Thus the out-there subculture is not pure in that it takes particular images given
to it by commercial sources that have already incorporated innovative subcultural
styles. Out-there subcultures, however, may engage in the recontextualization of
an already commercialized (incorporated) style, but in so doing, they also engage
in an act that symbolically resists the supremacy of dominant/mainstream culture
(Cagle 1995: 45).
Cagle is proposing not only that those who make use of incorporated styles
can do so in a different cultural context to that of the original innovators
and thereby maintain a sense of ‘otherness’, but that they may additionally
engage in acts of stylistic bricolage, further individualizing the ensemble in
question (1995: 42, 97, 218). As Andes discovered, subculturalists do indeed
144
view themselves as authentic by virtue of their individualistic innovations

and adaptations, for ‘regardless of when [their] involvement took place in
the history of the subculture’ (1998: 219) they always construct themselves
as originals relative to an ‘Other’ who, it is claimed, merely follows in their
wake, adopting mass versions of subcultural fashions. To illustrate these
points let us now look at (E).
(E) PAUL AND DOUGIE

P: Yeah, I mean I’d never had any what you might call punk gear
really, any bondage stuff, anything like that.
D: We used to make it myself. Sew zips on.
P: I never had anything. Exactly. All I ever had was tatty, crappy
clothes, and always wrote all over my T-shirts and drew on the
jacket and that, and it’s all, it is just do-it-yourself stuff. It’s not
deliberately modelled on anything.
DM: Did you ever buy punk stuff, like, off the peg I suppose is the best
way of putting it?
P: No, never ever at all. The most punk gear I’ve ever done is paint
jackets and draw on T-shirts, it really is. I’ve never, I chucked bleach
all over my jeans, I suppose, that’s about it. If you see someone
who, it just looks like they’ve just gone out and spent two hundred
pounds in London on the right punk gear and someone’s put the
safety pins through it for them and someone’s put the studs on for
’em and that, that’s not right, is it? What’s the fun of that?
We find here a number of binary oppositions in play. First, punk style is

personally constructed through customizing ordinary clothes (‘paint jackets,
draw on T-shirts’)5 rather than having a look that is ‘ready-made’ to look
‘subcultural’ (‘I never had any what you might call punk gear’). This also
constructs a second distinction between, on the one hand, heterogeneity and
partiality through bricolage, and on the other, a look that is holistic, or wholly
subcultural. Third, this is therefore the difference between adapting (‘do-it-
yourself’) and adopting (‘someone’s put the safety pins through it for ’em’).
Also, fourth, between the original (‘all I ever had’) and the latest (‘just gone
out and . . .’) immediately obtained style. Fifth, this distinguishes the old
and cheap and personal (‘tatty, crappy clothes . . . my jeans . . . my T-shirt’)
from that which is expensive, fashionable and purchased over the counter
(‘spent two hundred pounds in London’). Sixth, all of this also amounts to
an attempt to produce something individual and unique rather than that
which is merely an copy (‘it’s not deliberately modelled on anything’) or which
is meant to fit in with the dictates of the collective (‘the right punk gear’).
145
What are outlined here are sets of correspondences that, although congruent,
can be selectively applied for the purpose of inauthenticating a comparative
‘Other’. Let us again take the study by Fox (1987) as an example, not because
it is deserving of sustained criticism, but because it is particularly illuminating
on how certain members use style as such a means of inauthentication. Here,
the dress of the ‘preppies’ is disparaged by the ‘hardcores’ on three main
counts. First, they are considered to be into punk only as a fashion. Second,
this partly derives from their purchasing of ‘punk outfits from Ms. Jordan’s
[an exclusive clothing store]’ (ibid.: 361).6 Third, as we noted in Chapter 5,
their malleable appearance is indicative of a part-time affiliation. By making
adjustments to the style, they can change roles and pass muster in both punk
and conventional society. We hear how, ‘Mary, a typical preppie punk, put
her regular clothes together in a way she thought would look punk. She
ripped up her sorority t-shirt. She bought outfits that were advertised as
having the “punk look”. Her traditional bangs transformed into “punk”
bangs, standing straight up using hair spray or setting gel’ (ibid.: 361).
Yet it is precisely through the reordering and customizing of conventional
items that authentic subcultural style is actively created. So one can readily
admit to purchasing clothes from commercial stores, because the point is
not what you wear or even where you buy it from, but what you wear it
with or what you do to it. This is the whole basis of bricolage, and this is
what Mary is actually doing when transforming the meaning of her regular
clothes. What could be more subversive than the desecration of a sorority T-
shirt, apart perhaps from mutilating the Stars and Stripes? And why is this
any different from ‘original’ British punks mocking and customizing school
shirts and ties? – an action that Marxist theorists, had they thought about it,
would have interpreted as symbolic resistance against a dominant institution.
Perhaps the bone of contention is the newness of the clothes worn. But, to
continue with the above line of argument, surely it is logical to view the
abuse of expensive new clothes from an ‘exclusive’ store as an infinitely more
potent gesture of defiance towards bourgeois conventions than the spoiling
of one’s old tatty hand-me-downs? Moreover, the obvious alternative to both
partiality and adaptation is to buy ready-made outfits, indicating homogeneity
and adoption. Yet this is also exactly what Mary is accused of!
Clearly, there is something contradictory in such allegations. In fact, it
doesn’t take much imagination to construct the ‘hardcore punks’ as equally
inauthentic through much the same accusations. We saw in Chapter 5 how
their badges of permanence – the mohawk and tattoos – can equally indicate
stasis and stereotypicality. Fox does not precisely delineate the style of the
hardcores compared to that of other punks. But we hear that, for the scene
in general, leather jackets were favoured wear (for a choice, considered
146
opinion on this item, see the John Lydon quotation that opens this chapter).
She also notes, as does Lull (1987), that Army and military wear, along with
T-shirts and unkempt jeans, are commonly worn gear for punks. Again,
depending on the combination of items, this might invite the criticism that
what is worn does not differ considerably from conventional wear (T-shirt,
jeans), that it is not particularly punk (army boots and jackets), that it is
newly purchased from outlets specifically for the purpose, and so on. To
give another example applicable to almost any subculture, a band T-shirt
might for the wearer be revered as a sign of authentic affiliation to a particular
group or to the music in general. Yet it is precisely because of this that these
and many similar items, ostensibly indicators of permanent and genuine
membership, hold the potential of being dismissed by others as expensive
new purchases, the sign of a fashion mentality, of buying into the subculture.7
It is again important to stress that the wearing of ‘conventional’ items, or
the purchasing of them from particular shops, is not, in itself, an admission
of inauthenticity. What is important is the manner in which this is included
in a claim for the wearer’s heterogeneity and originality. Similar sartorial
behaviour observed in others (and observed by others in oneself) can, however,
be interpreted quite differently, as evidence of a fashion sensibility and of
the wearer’s having purchased ‘ready made’ subcultural ‘outfits’. Hebdige is
therefore correct when he observes that ‘the distinction between originals
and hangers-on is always a significant one in subculture’ (1979: 122), but
he fails to realize that this dichotomy has no objective basis or temporal
logic.
Politics and Lifestyle
Although the extracts so far presented in this chapter appear to demonstrate

resistance to the media and commercial incorporation of the subculture, it is
not media influence and the commercial purchase of clothing, in themselves,
that have negative connotations for authenticity, but the imputation that
these have produced a tightly bounded, homogeneous group identity. We
can therefore agree with Widdicombe and Wooffitt (1995: 206, 213) that
subculturalists are resisting stereotypical characterizations of their affiliation,
a process particularly evident in extracts (C) and (D). This type of resistance
cannot, however, be a causal factor in the emergence of subcultural phenomena,
for typifications can only be produced and resisted after the subcultures to
which they apply have originated and become recognizable. As we saw in
Chapter 4, it is individuality that is the basis of subcultural affiliation. Can
expressions of individuality therefore be considered a form of resistance?
147
Our postmodern hypothesis would, in fact, state that subcultures would be

apolitical cultural forms rather than gestures of resistance.
(F) DUNCAN
D: Yeah, I don’t like society as it is. I’m just me. I don’t care what
other people think. And I look how I look ’cos I wanna. I listen to
what I want to ’cos I wanna, and not ’cos someone else does. And
that’s just me. I mean if that’s being a rebel, then, yeah, I’m a rebel.
But I don’t like the word and I don’t consider myself a rebel. I’m
just me. If people like it, great. If they don’t they know where to
go.
DM: Um, are you kind of political?
D: No. Anti-politics.

PRINTED EDITION
Figure 13. Duncan
148
DM: Is there anything about the attitudes of the majority of people that
you don’t like?
D: Well their attitude probably will be, if someone said ‘Oh, you’ve
got to do this, why don’t you do like this to get a job, why aren’t
you doing this, you should go home, have a normal hair cut’. And
my answer is, ‘Fuck off.’
(G) PAUL
P: I will happily sit and argue politics if I have to, but that’s not why
I look like this. It’s not a political statement or anything. I hope if
it says anything at all, it is that there ought to be some kind of
freedom of expression, freedom of speech and dress, and you don’t
all have to be the same, you know. The only thing that you are
really saying with a haircut is that I don’t want to conform to the
most basic kind of standards that society sets in tie-wearing offices.
It’s not really even anti-system is it, I don’t think, having a mohican?
Cashmore recycles conventional wisdom when he writes, ‘Youth sub-

cultures are ways in which young people come to terms with the social order
as they understand it, and they frequently articulate a dissatisfaction with
the world as it stands’ (1984: 17). This dissatisfaction was expressed to
varying degrees amongst my own sample, yet it was typically asserted in
conjunction with a general reluctance or inability to see the meaning of
subcultural membership in political terms.8 Some informants took an anti-
political stance, an example being Duncan (extract F), whose dislike of ‘society
as it is’ finds a highly individualized expression. Others, like Paul (extract
G), held political opinions but were easily able to separate their subcultural
affiliation from such considerations. If there is a statement being made in
these two extracts, it is not a challenge to the system, but a liberal declaration
of freedom of expression, including the right to dress in ways contrary to
dominant social conventions.
It may be argued that this is itself a political opinion; this rather depends
upon our definition of the term. Young and Craig (1997), for example,
discovered that when skinheads claim to be non-political, it is not they do
not hold any personal opinions that can be construed as ‘political’; rather,
they are declaring their indifference to or lack of sympathy for overt political
agendas and organized political groups.9 The Glen Matlock quotation that
heads this chapter tells a similar story, and suggests that punk ‘politics’ is
best understood in terms of personal ‘self-determination’ (Matlock 1996:
163). ‘An absolute sense of individuality is my politics’, is how his (once)
149
fellow band member John Lydon puts it (1994: 324). A number of metalheads
interviewed by Arnett also redefined the political in this way. ‘“I’m a personal
anarchist”, said Dan, when asked to describe himself politically. “You should
do what you feel is right and what you believe in. Anything goes until it goes
so far as to hurt others”’(Arnett 1996: 128). As we saw in Chapter 4, this
subcultural value system is a heightened expression of the dominant Western
ideology of liberalism. Baron quotes Marchak (1975) on the point ‘that
“radicals” in a liberal society tend to be become more liberal – i.e. libertarian
or anarchist’ (Baron 1989a: 306).
From this perspective subcultures do not so much challenge as ‘reinforce
the prevailing set of norms’ (Ehrich 1993: 31). They are no more a resistance
to bourgeois hegemony than an extension of its liberal premises. Yet for this
very reason they tend to exhibit resistance to all forms of collective and holistic
belief systems, irrespective of the particular political content of those beliefs,
for these are viewed as ways of imposing authority, conformity and uni-
formity. It is not therefore surprising that Duncan (extract F) and others
express their individuality in anti-political terms, nor that Gottschalk’s
American countercultural ‘Freaks’ ‘are suspicious of organized political
movements, ideologies, categories, science or . . . “mono-theory” and “mono-
culture”. Freaks can believe in no absolute truth, heroes, myths or answers.
Their main common denominator is a caustic rejection and criticism of
“mainstream society”’ (1993: 369). Lahusen similarly found a significant
section of Basque punks to be similarly opposed to all collective ideologies,
whether conservative or alternative. Such anarchic punks proposed ‘anti-
order’ rather than ‘alternative order’ (1993: 271). Baron likewise discovered
that ‘there is no coherent ideology in the [Canadian] punk subculture that
would facilitate organized political resistance . . . If anything, punk ideology
is libertarian. The types of resistance engaged in reflect this libertarianism.
The members are into “doing their own thing” which means no restrictions’
(1989a: 305–6).
This is not to say that subculturalists would necessarily view their actions
as constituting resistance, for this might imply that their affiliation is a
calculated gesture of dissent rather than an expression of their inner self. As
Duncan (extract F) puts it, ‘I don’t consider myself a rebel. I’m just me.’ To
state otherwise would suggest a concern with the opinions of others, and
Duncan couldn’t be more clear on this point – ‘I don’t care what other people
think.’ Yet his expressions of personal freedom are simultaneously defined
against the expectations and dictates of others, and his full message is ‘I do
what I want and not what others tell or expect me to do’, a logical counterpart
to the meaning of punk offered by him in the first extract of Chapter 4.
Duncan’s retort when asked about the attitudes of others, is, in effect, a way
150
of saying ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’ This is a more radical gesture
that any of those imputed to subculturalists (and other subordinate groups)
by sociologists armed with collective categories, emancipatory discourses and
theories of objective interests, for in its purest form it amounts to a complete
and utter refusal to take any side but one’s own.
An anti-structural subcultural sensibility is unlikely to facilitate political
organization with a desire to enact social change. Certain academics since
the CCCS have, in any case, opted to assess the degree of subcultural
resistance, not through positive attempts to change the system, but negatively
by reference to the extent of members’ alienation and withdrawal from
conventional institutions and lifestyles. There is in these studies an echo of
Donnelly’s (1985: 558) suggestion that the more individuals are committed
to full-time occupations in conventional society, the more ephemeral their
subcultural roles, and vice versa. A clear example of this approach can be
found in Baron’s (1989a, b) ethnography of Canadian west coast punk
subculture. According to Baron, ‘some members are totally committed to a
lifestyle of resistance. They are alienated from dominant goals, rebel at home
and school, and live on the streets engaging in illegal activities to survive. At
the other end of the spectrum are those who display resistance in only one of
these areas (e.g., school) or whose resistance is muted (e.g., live at home)’
(1989a: 311).
An assessment of commitment according to lifestyle can also be found in
Fox’s (1987) ethnography. We drew upon this in Chapter 5 to demonstrate
how appearance could be used as a criterion of full- or part-time subcultural
commitment, but we also hear how the hardcores in Fox’s study expressed
their commitment to punk as a ‘permanent way of life . . . This lifestyle
consisted of escaping the system in some way’ (Fox 1987: 353, 354). By
contrast, the preppies could be considered as having retained connections to
a more secure existence: they were likely to live with their parents, still be at
school, or have jobs ‘within’ the system. It was this persistent prevarication
between punk and conventional society that rendered them only partly and
transitorily committed. As one hardcore expressed his contempt of preppies,
‘All I know is that I live this seven days a week, and they just do it on
weekends’ (ibid.: 363).
With gradations in between, this distinction between full- and part-time
(or, what amounts to the same thing, core and marginal, real and pretend,
permanent and ephemeral) members also appears in empirical studies of
subcultures undertaken by Kinsey (1982), Webb (1996), Wheaton (1997),
Moore (1994) and Sardiello (1998). Yet, just as I argued in Chapter 5 in
relation to style, there can be no ‘core’ or ‘marginal’ members in any objective
sense, only those who are defined as such by the researcher. Indeed, because
151
subcultralists can have conflicting views as to what constitutes ‘core’

affiliation, different researchers can identify opposing criteria of ‘core’
commitment depending on which members’ views they are privileging. Moore
(1994: 19), for example, is typical in defining ‘core’ skinheads as those whose
unemployed status allows for a total commitment to the subcultural lifestyle.
Yet, in complete contrast, Young and Craig (1997) elevate Moore’s ‘weekend’
skinheads (those with mainstream jobs that curtail their subcultural activities)
to the status of central (and by implication ‘proper’) members, a designation
validated with respect to the value system of the subculture itself:
We learned early on in the fieldwork that membership really meant being a weekend
deviant . . . In other words, membership entailed a certain amount of mobility
between the subculture and the mainstream, or what one subject called ‘normal
life’. This was clearly demonstrated in the case of the much discussed work ethic.
Since it is subculturally meaningful to be employed in conventional jobs, temporary
modification of many of the traditional accoutrements of the subculture while
pursuing work (wearing shoes other than the intimidating Doc Marten boots,
concealing tattooed body parts, allowing the requisite cropped hair to grow out)
is condoned behaviour (K. Young and Craig 1997: 184).
It is not that one of these two conflicting views is ‘wrong’. We could, in

fact, construct any number of (ideal-typical) subcultural models, each based
on different criteria of resistance or ‘core’ (or authentic) commitment, and
use these to assess the empirical situation. This means, in principle, that there
could be as many types of subcultural resistance (or ways of demonstrating
core commitment) as there are members who hold these different definitions.
What typically occurs in practice, however, is that the academic imposes an
a priori, holistic and objective standard of resistance – commitment to a
lifestyle outside conventional society – against which the great majority of
subculturalists are inauthenticated and marginalized because they do not
measure up to this (actually very particular and partial) definition. This leads
to the absurd suggestion that the only genuine article is that which many
members would regard as a negative stereotype: the unemployed punk or
skin, living on the street or in a squat – a definition that also appears largely
irrelevant to certain contemporary subcultures (rave, mod) and previous
generations of punks and skinheads.
There can, in any case, be no justification for imposing an external, unitary
meaning by which to assess ‘core’ membership. Stratifying members according
to their commitment to what they ‘should’ be doing runs absolutely contrary
to typical indigenous meanings of punk, metal, biker and other subcultures
as ‘individual freedom’. To circumvent the potential criticism that this
emphasis on individuality itself involves applying such a general principle of
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‘core’ affiliation, I would argue that, first, this is a value derived from the
constructs of the typical subculturalist, not a minority view imposed upon
the majority; and second, that it allows for some variation of response. There
are many ways in which one can find, as some subculturalists phrased it, a
‘niche within the system where I can do my own thing’ – by, for example,
valuing work that allows for creative expression over that which demands
greater compliance to rationalized routines, or using the family (a room of
one’s own) as a personal space where one can find isolation from external
pressures (see Arnett 1996: 98). Indeed, living outside the system is likely to
place greater restrictions on one’s freedom, which is one reason why this
apparently ‘core’ subcultural lifestyle can be regarded as stereotypical by
other members.
To again make the point clear, there is no reason why we cannot select
any criteria of commitment and gauge the sentiments of subcultural members
accordingly. What is illegitimate is to take this, inevitably partial and one-
sided, construct as an objective portrayal of subcultural stratification. To do
so is to privilege the views of only certain members whose lifestyle coincides
with the analysis’s conception of what ‘core’ resistance should be. Some of
the problems arising from this procedure can be seen from the social
characteristics of marginalized members. My own extracts confirm the various
observations of Fox (1987), Roman (1988), Baron (1989a, b) and Sardiello
(1998) that poseurs and peripheral members are likely to be relatively young,
often female and/or from middle-class backgrounds. Hardcores tend to be
older and established on the subcultural scene, working-class in origin and
male. The gender distinction is easily understandable. According to sub-
cultural theory (McRobbie and Garber 1986; Powell and Clarke 1986) the
‘marginality’ of females in subcultures is a result of their structural centrality
to the family. By defining the focal point of hardcore subculture as the street
or the squat, Fox (1987) and Baron (1989a, b) select a masculine criterion
of commitment that necessarily ‘marginalizes’ the subcultural participation
of females.
The relation of class to full- and part-time membership is more perplexing,
for middle-class marginality and a working-class ‘core’ inverts the schema
proposed by the CCCS authors: ‘middle class culture affords the space and
opportunity for sections of it to “drop out” of circulation. Working-class
youth is persistently and consistently structured by the dominating alternative
rhythm of Saturday night and Sunday morning’ (J. Clarke et al. 1986: 60–
1). While this anomaly can be partly explained by the changing cultural,
social and economic conditions of youth since the publication of the CCCS
work, my major contention is that certain types of people (teenagers, females
and the middle-class) are more likely to be subjectively inauthenticated by
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other members, and this one-sided view is objectified by the analyst. For
example, in my own interviews I found travellers to be disparaged simply on
the assumption that they came from well-off, middle-class families. Crucially,
the bone of contention was not to do with travellers only intermittently living
a lifestyle independent of conventional institutions; it was rather that their
backgrounds were seen to provide them with a potential ‘escape route’.
Whether or not they took advantage of this connection to conventional society
was not known, nor was this the issue. For as Widdicombe and Wooffitt put
it, ‘it is not what a person does that makes her a genuine person, but what
informs or motivates her actions’ (1995: 157).
The point, then, is how this assumption about class background enabled
the activities of travellers to be characterized as insincere, and indicative of
a part-time affiliation. No doubt rather different class-based assumptions,
for example, ‘that only true punks are unemployed’ (Price 1977: 2; original
emphasis, cited in Henry 1989: 67), have fed back into academics’ con-
struction of hardcore characteristics. Younger members are likewise regarded
as part-timers or transitory because of the assumption that fashion is equated
with youthfulness.10 Moreover, any claims they make to the contrary would
be viewed as nothing more than (to cite an interview example) ‘their youth
talking’. Of course, such perspectives can be contested. I have already
indicated that the characteristics of the typical ‘core’ (i.e. working-class)
member can be regarded as a stereotype, or in punk terminology, a cliché.
Older members are also particularly vulnerable to the accusation of stasis
and stereotypicality. The bottom line in any case would be that one’s actions
were, in fact, a sincere expression of an inner self. Individuals will, like Daniel,
always attempt to convey themselves as ‘people like me who are it; they are
not so much doing it’. It is this wholly subjective and binary distinction
between being (genuine) and doing (false) – see also Widdicombe and Wooffitt
(1990) – that overrides any other considerations of authentic affiliation. To
let Robin have the final say on this issue - ‘I don’t think it’s a case of
commitment. To me, you are what you are anywhere.’
Notes
1. See, for example, the photograph in the centre pages of York (1980) of the Sex
Pistols playing the 100 club in 1976, and at the two males in the background either
side of Steve Jones. The same point was made in the Granada television programme
‘Mark Radcliffe’s NWA’, broadcast on 22 July 1996, one item of which was to
commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the Sex Pistols playing the Lesser Free
Trade Hall, Manchester. One of the original audience reminisced, ‘this wasn’t like a
punk gig. The audience was just like us really – hippies.’
154
2. Tomlinson (1998: 207) likewise remarks on ‘bubblegum ravers’. See also

Rietveld (1993) on ‘Acid Teds’.
3. For an application of this to rave, see Tomlinson (1998). Its relevance to rap
music is discussed in Blair and Hatala (1991) and Blair (1993).
4. But as we saw in our discussion of the media, subculturalists do not wish to
be so clearly defined and labelled. Unsurprisingly, then, we find John Lydon, the
singer with the Sex Pistols, claiming to have been an original bricoleur, and that
McLaren only later commericalized some of these looks as ‘punk’ style (Lydon 1993).
5. Lull (1987: 230) also notes how punks ‘inscribe sentiments directly onto the
surface of clothing with a marking pen’.
6. See Lull (1987: 227) on ‘punkers’: inauthentic punks who ‘often buy expensive
“punk-chic” clothing in fancy stores’.
7. As Gross puts it, ‘they can don their metal oriented teeshirts that were bought
at the mall, slip on some official metal oriented jewelry and toss on an AC/DC or
Harley Davidson Cap and be ready to go. Is there a dollar to be made off the cult of
heavy metal? You bet your Def Leppard T-shirt, there is’ (1990: 127).
8. It might be said that the problem that punk posed in the late seventies for
theorists of a left persuasion, such as Dancis (1978), Laing (1978) and Thompson
(1979), was how to reconcile such an apparent contradiction. Tillman (1980) notes
that by attempting this reconciliation these academics create ‘pseudo-political
movements . . . out of essentially apolitical forms’ (1980: 173). For as Tillman argues,
‘when punks invoke political symbols such as swastikas or songs about ‘anarchy’,
they are not taking a political stance, but rather, are making a statement about the
idea of politics: its irrelevance’ (ibid.: 171).
9. Exactly the same attitude can be found in the bohemian counterculture. Miller
remarks on the ‘“hippies’ indifference or hostility towards politics . . . a common
theme was simply suspicion of organized groups in general’ (T. Miller 1991: 12). See
also Polsky (1971: 159-60) and Buff (1970). We must be aware, however, of the
distinction within the 1960s counterculture between the libertarian hippies and the
overtly political ‘New Left’ radicals (see Keniston 1968; Berger 1970; Lipset 1971;
Nelson 1989; T. Miller 1991).
10. Female subculturalists are also likely to be regarded in this way because of
the equation of femininity with consumption. Hence, the references to Top Shop in
extracts (C) and (D) of this chapter. See also Note 1 to Chapter 5.
155
Cultural Expression or Class Contradiction?
8
Cultural Expression or Class
Contradiction?
Friends, schools, communities, the media, the legal system, and the cultural belief
system in the American middle class all generally promote the individualism of
broad socialization. What results is a culture in which people feel they have
license to express their inclinations to a large degree, whatever those inclinations
might be. Such a culture is likely to be colorful, as this one is, and creative, as
this one is, and constantly changing, as this one is. But if people are encouraged
to express their inclinations, not everything they express is likely to be conducive
to social order.
Jeffrey Arnett: Metalheads: Heavy Metal Music and

Adolescent Alienation (1996: 88)
When I returned to London in 1961, there I was with a little kid. I had hair an
inch long when everyone else had a great big beehive, and everyone else’s dress
was two inches below the knee, and mine was two inches above. I got every
remark you could think of, and Simon heard all this. I tried to inculcate into his
psyche: ‘You are you, you can do anything you like providing you don’t hurt
anybody else while doing it. You should be able to do what the fuck you like.’
At four, five, six, that’s gone in.
Anne Beverley on sartorial unconventionality and libertarian

childrearing practices. Her son is John Simon Ritchie,
a.k.a Sid Vicious. Quoted in Jon Savage: England’s
Dreaming: Sex Pistols and Punk Rock (1992: 117)
Modern or Postmodern Subcultures?
The last four chapters have enabled us to assess our hypotheses against the
views of our subcultural sample. We are now in a position to consider the
extent to which contemporary subcultural sensibilities can be regarded as
postmodern. In Chapter 4, we hypothesized that subcultural group identities
would be fragmented rather than holistic and that boundaries would not be
157
maintained with conventional style. We found that it was precisely through

a comparison with a homogenized conventional ‘Other’ that subculturalists
maintained their distinctive individuality and heterogeneity. The hypothesis
in Chapter 5 was that subculturalists would be characterized by a part-time
and transient affiliation as they regularly transgressed conventional and
subcultural boundaries. In fact, too little and too much commitment –
ephemerality and stasis – were regarded as equally indicative of the inauthentic
and were imputed to a subcultural ‘Other’. Informants alternatively saw their
own style as an evolving expression of a gradually changing self. Our
hypothesis in Chapter 6 was that mobility and change would prevent the
formation of negative, oppositional relationships between different sub-
cultures. We discovered that change was accomplished in a partial and
fragmented manner, but was expressed through opposition with a stereo-
typical and homogeneous subcultural ‘Other’. In Chapter 7 we proposed
that subculturalists would express positive sentiments towards fashion,
commercialism and the media, and view their affiliation in apolitical terms.
Although the first part of this hypothesis was not generally supported while
the second was, it was not fashion, the media and politics in themselves that
were viewed negatively, but their implications for homogeneity.
We can, I feel, grant a qualified acknowledgement of a postmodern
sensibility. Subculturalists are postmodern in that they demonstrate a
fragmented, heterogeneous and individualistic stylistic identification. This is
a liminal sensibility that manifests itself as an expression of freedom from
structure, control and restraint, ensuring that stasis is rejected in favour of
movement and fluidity. Yet there is no evidence here of some of the more
excessive postmodern claims. Informants did not rapidly discard a whole
series of discrete styles. Nor did they regard themselves as an ironic parody,
celebrating their own lack of authenticity and the superficiality of an image-
saturated culture. On the contrary, attitudes were held to be more important
than style, while appearance transformation was anchored in a gradually
evolving sense of self. Subcultural sensibilities were, in other words, informed
by a combination of a modernist depth model of reality and a postmodern
emphasis on hybridity and diversity.
It is possible to summarize these findings by the following series of logically
opposed traits.1 Informants characterize themselves by reference to the left-
hand column, while drawing upon the opposite set of traits to inauthenticate
others:
authentic inauthentic
alternative mainstream
minority mass
individualism collectivism
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heterogeneity homogeneity
hybridity holism
amalgamation specificity
open-minded narrow-minded
diversity restriction
diffusion cohesion
freedom regulation
liberation constraint
variation predictability
liminality structure
gradual change rapid change
movement stasis
attitude appearance
innovation copying
adaptation adoption
Although many of the traits on the left-hand side have been labelled as
postmodern, we can regard them as having their roots in aesthetic modernity
and the Romantic countercultures of the nineteenth century. Indeed, I want
to propose that the sensibilities of contemporary subculturalists have an
‘elective affinity’ with the two central 1960s countercultural values of licence
and liberation (see also Chapter 3). Licence can be understood here as the
freedom to express oneself. Liberation is the freedom from those social and
cultural constraints that inhibit and prohibit this self-expression. Since the
former rather depends upon the latter, both sentiments are usually found to
be articulated simultaneously, as we see in the following three extracts.
(A) LUCY
L: I dress like I do because I like the way it looks and, you know,
people are shocked, but I don’t do it to particularly go against the
system. I just don’t want to be the same as everyone else because I
think that’s silly. I don’t wanna be the same, you know, ’cos I feel
more comfortable dressed like this than if I had nice long hair or
just normal clothes all the time, because I wouldn’t feel like I was
being myself. It’s more an expression of myself, I suppose.
(B) PETE AND ALISON

A: It’s just basically, this is me. I’m not offensive. I’m not out to offend
people. It’s just a total expression of the way I feel inside. Anyone
else’s opinion doesn’t matter, because they’re not me.
159
P: I’m not concerned about fitting in with any particular niche or

group or anything. I’m not concerned about fitting in at all. The
only thing I do, I do for me, because I like what it looks like. It’s
self-expression.
A: It’s only if people try to mess with my head, if people try to interfere
with the way I express myself, that’s the only time I’m anti anything.
Anti people interfering with me and my life. Anti people trying to
tell me what to do.
(C) JIM, JANE AND SEAN

Ja: We don’t feel we have to go along with everything that says we
have to do this or that.
S: Don’t believe in authority figures
Jim: That’s the way I was brought up with.
S: To always question authority.
Ja: Be free. Be free to do what you want. It’s more anti being told
what to do really. We know we don’t have to do what we were
told during life.
It is important to stress again how this sense of individual freedom has a

social origin. It is derived from the cultural belief system of Romanticism, in
which emphasis is placed on giving full expression to the creative potential
of the unique individual. In the view of Bellah and his colleagues, the outlet
for this ‘expressive individualism’ in contemporary American culture is the
‘therapeutic attitude’ in which individuals are encouraged to find fulfilment
and awareness through ‘self-knowledge and self-realization’ (Bellah et al.
1985: 98).2 Martin makes a similar case for post-war Britain. Its culture,
she argues, has become increasingly permeated by an ‘expressive ethic’ that
prizes ‘subjective experience and self-expression . . . exploration, feeling, self-
discovery’ (Martin 1985: 200, 208). In each case the quest is to be oneself,
to express oneself and, above all, to liberate oneself from constraints and
conventions (see also Hetherington 1998: Ch. 2; Wilson 1999). This is a
culture in which young people are encouraged to, as Sean and Jane (extract
C) put it, ‘always question authority’, to ‘be free to do what you want’.
Historically it was the upper middle classes who were the carriers of this
expressive ethic, and it was the youth of that class who, as we saw in Chapter
3, made up the majority of the 1960s counterculturalists. I want to claim,
however, that over the last forty or so years there has been a cultural
convergence between sections of the middle and working classes, as the new
expressive professions and cultural industries have expanded. There appear
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to be two arguments here. First, that these emergent groups ‘are having
significant effects upon the wider society’ (Urry 1990: 91), as they attempt
to establish their tastes hegemonically. Second, that the absolute growth in
middle-class occupations ensures that their personnel has also been drawn
from the socially mobile youth of the skilled manual and routine white-collar
classes, who have themselves taken advantage of the post-war expansion in
higher education. As a result, an increasing number of subculturalists from
what Martin (1985) terms ‘this intermediate zone’ between the privatized
manual and higher professional classes can also be characterized as ‘expressive
individualists’.
Let us first assess the evidence for the contemporary situation. I pointed
out in Chapter 2 that there are two issues here. The first is the extent to
which there is a cross-class membership of a subculture. The second, the
extent to which members from different class backgrounds articulate the
same sentiments and values. It is actually quite difficult to come to firm
conclusions about the first issue in my own study, for a number of reasons:
(a) some individuals have been affiliated to a number of subcultures; (b)
informants typically resist categorization or offer alternative ambiguous or
hybrid identifications; (c) many individuals are, in any case, not easy to classify
into subcultural types; (d) information on the backgrounds of some inform-
ants is either not provided or not detailed enough; (e) the parents of some
informants experienced intra-generational social mobility; and (f) the
relatively small number of informants in each subcultural group makes this
a statistically dubious exercise. The furthest I am willing to go here is to say
that while my informants are drawn from both working- and middle-class
backgrounds, the evidence does not suggest that punk, mod, goth and metal
should be regarded as specifically working-class subcultures.3 Evidence from
other British, American and Canadian studies of the past fifteen years also
suggests that certain subcultures straddle class boundaries.4
It is the second issue, however, that is the most important. And this is that
subculturalists have in this study consistently expressed similar sentiments
and values, particularly those concerning individual freedom and autonomy,
irrespective of their different class backgrounds. With only one or two
exceptions there was little evidence in any of my interviews of what the CCCS
approach has led us to believe is typical of a working-class subcultural
sensibility – a definite sense of group solidarity, a ‘them and us’ perception
of society, a collectivist value system.5 Indeed, we find these traits are typically
regarded by subculturalists as indicative of the inauthentic. We need, however,
to be careful here, for it is not working-class solidarity in itself that a
subcultural sensibility opposes, but predictability, order, regulation, restriction,
demarcation and structure – traits that are also to be found in both the lower
161
and ‘bourgeois’ middle classes (Martin 1985). For the clash that appears
here between individualism and collectivism is a symptom of the wider conflict
between an expressive culture of freedom and a puritan culture of control.
In Chapter 7 we raised the question of what subcultures were resisting,
and suggested that they could be seen quite as much as an expression of
certain liberal premises as a reaction against these. We are now in a position
to clarify this matter, for while contemporary subcultures can (like the 1960s
counterculture) be interpreted as a challenge to the puritan values of order
and control, they also display an ‘elective affinity’ with the Romantic values
of individual freedom and self-expression. Given that both sets of values are
bourgeois in origin, and that a postmodern culture is arguably predicated
upon an intensification of the latter, it would appear that subculturalists are
as much reproducing as resisting aspects of the dominant ideology.
Two Versions of Subcultural History
It would further appear that the CCCS distinction between working-class

subcultures as ‘clearly articulated, collective structures – often “near-” or
“quasi-” gangs’, and middle-class countercultures as ‘diffuse, less group-
centred, more individualised’ (J. Clarke et al. 1986: 60) is not particularly
appropriate to the contemporary cultural climate, and that its relevance to
the past may also have been somewhat overstressed. When was the point at
which this distinction began to lose its clarity? Here we can propose two
views of subcultural history. Let us deal first with the orthodox version in
which highly cohesive, group-centred, working-class subcultures – teds, mods,
rockers, skins – unfolded in post-war modernist linear time. These groups
were formed in direct homological opposition both to each other (hence the
famous mods vs. rockers clashes) and to the middle-class hippies, as can be
seen in Willis’s (1978) ethnography of hippies and bikers, or in Brake’s (1977)
research on a group of hippies and a gang of skinheads. In neither of these
studies does it appear remotely likely that any one member from either group
could have ever affiliated to any other subculture, just as it would have seemed
equally improbable to have suspected a mod of having previously been a
rocker.
Then punk happened. After which, so the orthodox version goes, we
entered postmodern subcultural time. Punk messed up the linear sequence
by plundering and recycling all the previous styles; it straddled class
boundaries by being both ‘dole queue rock’ (Marsh 1977) and the ‘new
bohemia’ (Frith 1978). It was as much the sound of the suburbs as the
authentic voice of the proletariat, and was seemingly more concerned with
162
expressive individualism and libertarianism than with class solidarity.6 After

1979, subcultural theory could never be quite the same again, overwhelmed
as it was by evidence of a glut of ironic revivals, amorphous hybrids and
individual bricoleurs refusing traditional identifications. As Polhemus is
moved to comment:
In researching the ‘Streetstyle’ exhibition . . . I discovered that the nearer I got to

the present day, the harder it was to find young people prepared to label themselves.
I couldn’t find a single person prepared to say, for example, ‘I’m a Techno’, ‘I’m a
Raggamuffin’, ‘I’m a Raver’, ‘I’m a Cyberpunk, ‘I’m a Traveller’, etc. Everyone, it
seems, is ‘an individual’. One suspects that on Brighton beach in 1964 things would
have been different (Polhemus 1997: 149).
Here Polhemus is proposing a shift from group to individual identity. But

has this really occurred? As we saw in chapter six, people are always likely
to regard the past, but not their own present situation, in terms of stereotypical
labels, suggesting that 1964 mods would also have resisted the imposition of
a group label.7 Moreover, it is still relatively easy to find contemporary
situations exhibiting the collective effervescence and group formations that
characterized the past – any well-attended heavy metal concert, for instance,
or the annual gathering of the goths in Whitby, North Yorkshire. The point,
however, as was demonstrated in Chapter 4, is that such subcultures are,
paradoxically, a socially shared means of expressing an individualistic
sensibility, and may always have been.
The major problem with the orthodox view of subcultural history to which
Polhemus subscribes is its reliance on the CCCS ‘modernist’ theory as a
benchmark against which to measure postmodern change. The artificially
pure version of subcultures produced by the CCCS has obscured the
disjunctions, confusions and complexities of a pre-punk era. As Redhead
puts it, ‘“authentic” subcultures were produced by subcultural theories, not
the other way around’ (1991b: 25). ‘Beginning initially with the teddy boy
style . . . in the early/mid-50s, working-class subcultures have been retro-
spectively mapped back onto British cultural history every few years by
fashion and music journalists and entrepreneurs eager to perpetuate some
enduring myths about some spectacular subcultures’ (Redhead 1993: 2; my
emphasis). Osgerby has recently put forward much the same argument:
The tendency to celebrate a multiplicity of ‘styletribes’ during the nineties has

exaggerated the degree to which stylistic choice was circumscribed in earlier periods.
Indeed, throughout the post-war era British youngsters have always faced a
relatively open and flexible range of stylistic options rather than a simple choice
between being ‘cool’ or ‘square’ . . . Rather than being perfectly formed cultural
163
entities, subcultures have always been fluid and fragmented ‘hybrids’ in which
cultural allegiances have been mutable and transient. Instead of making a firm set
of stylistic commitments most youngsters have instead cruised across a range of
affiliations, constantly forming and reforming their identities according to social
context. In this respect the open-ended, fragmented identities many theorists see
as common to the late twentieth century were, perhaps, anticipated by tendencies
already present within the youth cultural formations of the 1950s and 1960s
(Osgerby 1998: 201, 203).
It is the failure to recognize this version of the past that has created much of
our supposed postmodern present. Gottschalk, for example, emphasizes the
stylistic ambiguity and individual creativity of his contemporary sample of
‘freaks’ in ‘comparison to other counter- or subcultural styles such as the
19th century Bohemians, the Beats, the Hippies, the Punks, or the Rastafarians,
who adopt(ed) a particular and recognizable dressing code’ (1993: 367). But
Gottschalk’s descriptions of these codes (ibid.: 373) are simply lists of crude
stereotypes, including the standard flower-power, bearded hippie and the
mohawked, leather-jacketed punk.
The past never was, of course, as simple as either Polhemus and Gottschalk
make out. I knew this much about punk from experience, but remember
being surprised by a cursory look at a recording of the Monterey pop festival
of 1967 that told me that many of the crowd did not conform to the standard
hippy dress codes. I was further surprised by what I saw as the internal
diversity of the mod and skinhead styles on show at the ‘Streetstyle’
exhibition,8 for both subcultural theory and my own simplification of the
past had led me to expect a stylistic homogeneity. It is this reading of the
past as stereotypical that always informs our perceptions of the present. So I
suspect that had Gottschalk conducted research at the time on 1960s hippies
or 1970s punks he would also have found diversity and eclecticism in relation
to some other past stereotype.
Hence, the second, alternative, version of subcultural history, in which,
travelling back from the late 1970s, it is possible to attempt something of a
postmodern re-reading of a supposedly modernist period, a re-evaluation in
which ‘pure’ subcultural forms now become fragmented and diversified. Phil
Cohen, for example, refers to the ‘parkas or scooter boys . . . a transitional
form between the mods and skinheads’, and to those groups following the
skinheads, ‘variously known as crombies, casuals, suedes and so on’ (1984:
83, 84). Going back a little further, Stan Cohen can be found claiming that
‘by now, the beginning of the sixties, changes were diffusing rapidly, the youth
culture was being opened up to new influences and it was difficult to sort
out the types’ (1973: 184). Indeed, he goes so far as to state that ‘by 1964–
5, the so-called Mod was hardly recognisable’, its place taken by ‘scooter
164
boys’, ‘hard mods’, and ‘smooth mods’ (ibid.: 187). These alternative readings
should not surprise us, for if there has always been an aesthetic dimension
to modernity then observers will have always been able to remark on the
stylistic heterogeneity and fragmentation of their own era. Even a century
ago Simmel (1896, 1978) was talking of ‘the multitude of styles’ and the
‘bewildering plurality of styles’ (cited in Frisby 1985b: 65).
What would this fragmentation and diversity have meant for the individual
wearers of a style? Would we have discovered the same references to hybridity
and mobility that we have seen in this study? We can certainly find Frith
(1983) commenting in postmodern terms on the ‘image changes’, sartorial
‘playfulness’ and lack of subcultural commitment (‘styles were usually a
matter of convenience’) of a group of high-school fifth-formers back in 1972.
‘I’m in between a skinhead and a hippie . . . I wear “mod” clothes but I
listen to both kinds of music’, claimed one of his informants (1983: 207).
Other people apparently ahead of their time were the ‘mids’ and ‘mockers’
of the early 1960s.9 Barnes recalls that both groups mixed together the styles
of the mods and rockers, only the mockers ‘did so intentionally’ (1991: 123).
The first recorded example of postmodern mix and match? This might sound
implausible, given what we know about the social and cultural differences
between these two subcultures; yet in the ‘vox pop’ of Hamblett and Deverson
we nevertheless find someone claim, ‘I’ve been everything under the sun – a
Mod and a Rocker, just to be myself’ (1964: 70). Here is a change of allegiance
and a clear expression of individuality that runs completely counter to
modernist subcultural theory.
This is not, however, to propose a flat-earth view of subcultural history,
completely evacuating class distinctions and simply replacing collectivism
with individualism. It is, for instance, difficult to contest the CCCS portrayal
of the more ‘lumpen’ teds and skinheads as traditionally working-class, group-
centred, and concerned with the marking of territorial boundaries. On the
other hand, Martin’s following assessment of the original mod subculture
provides a sense of historical development and specificity that can be
contrasted to Hebdige’s description of ‘the mod’s solidarity’ (1974: 11), and
to the ‘abstract essences’ produced by the CCCS and generalized to all
working-class subcultural styles:
The mods of the early to mid-1960s form an interesting bridge between the
unmistakably tribal communitas of the lower working class and the detailed
elaboration of anti-structure which the bohemian middle-class sub-cultures
developed . . . The mods were not organized into gangs like some of the lower-
working class subcultures: they were loose and shifting agglomerations of
individuals ‘with a bit of style’, drifting around to find the place where the action
165
might be. They were the first real instalment of individualistic, grid-patterned
competitiveness in the vocabulary of liminal anti-structure (Martin 1985: 146).
It is Martin’s contention that as the expressive ethic of a specific middle-class

fraction pervaded the cultural sphere as a whole, effecting ‘a transformation
in the assumptions and habitual practices which form the cultural bedrock
of the daily lives of ordinary people’ (1985: 1), post-war British working-
class youth were increasingly subject to liminal tendencies from the 1950s
onwards. While, for example, the teds were (in my opinion) undoubtedly
motivated by a narcissistic attitude towards consumption, this anti-puritanical
element was carefully framed, kept within limits, expressed within the
traditional boundaries of class solidarity and masculinity.10 The mods, on
the other hand, took Romantic narcissism to extremes. As the progeny of
the new ‘affluent’ and privatized working class, they were the first fully-
fledged subcultural manifestation of expressive individualism. Frith also views
the mods in this manner, ‘the point was exclusivity . . . not solidarity; theirs
was a self-conscious gesture against conformity of any sort . . . their position
prefigured the hippies, was an aspect of bohemianism’ (1983: 223).
I began this book by commenting on an approach to subcultural theory
that understands working-class subcultures as reactions to their shared
material conditions of existence, as solutions to class-based contradictions,
yet that made no sense in terms of my own experience. According to Henry,
punks ‘were basically lower class white youths who were hit hard by England’s
economic situation’ (1984: 31). Burr argues that punks ‘were clearly a product
of their times and a reaction to recession and unemployment’ (1984: 932).
Yet I completely fail to recognize my own past as a working-class teenager
in these interpretations. Now, in a time of even worse youth unemployment
during the 1980s and 1990s, these ‘materialist’ explanations continue to be
pressed into service to account for the cross-class membership of subcultures.
A particularly good example of this approach is that of Susan Willis, who
explains the widespread appeal of American ‘hardcore’ style as a response
to the shared economic problems facing middle-class and working-class
teenagers. The youth of both classes are ‘fundamentally united by the fact
that they constitute a common employment pool . . . a labor lumpenproletariat
(1993: 376–7; italics in original).
I stated in Chapter 2 that while this book provides a one-sided focus on
cultural values, I would certainly agree that socioeconomic factors are also
implicated in the development and formation of subcultures. This is not,
however, to grant legitimacy to the neo-Marxist claim that subcultures are
‘solutions’ to ‘class contradictions’. The problem with asserting, as Hebdige
does, that punks were ‘directly responding’ to ‘increased joblessness . . . the
166
rediscovery of poverty . . . “Britain’s decline”’ (1979: 87; original emphasis),

is that the link posited between structure and action is never demonstrated
by a connecting sequence of motivations and values. Willis completely
sidesteps this issue by insisting that subcultures are nonetheless responding
to ‘larger social and economic structures, many of which are not available
to the subcultural practitioners in a conscious political way’ (1993: 382).
But here we are again faced with the problem of the analysts imposing their
own conceptual reality (and political world-view) upon the subjects of the
study. Despite the fact that over half my sample were either unemployed or
in causal and part-time work at the time of interview,11 only a small minority
made any sort of references to economic conditions, and there were certainly
no suggestions that their affiliation was a response to such factors. Faced
with this evidence, I have to agree with Arnett that holding to the afore-
mentioned neo-Marxist explanation requires ‘quite a leap of interpretation’
(1996: 172).
What did, however, appear consistently throughout the interviews, regard-
less of the style and social backgrounds of the informants, were references
to freedom – freedom from rules, structures, controls and from the predict-
ability of conventional lifestyles. The subculturalists quoted in this book are
what Frith terms ‘the culturally adventurous of all classes. They provided
the continuity of bohemian concern that runs from the beats to the punks’
(1983: 224). And also, I would add, from the punks to contemporary mods,
goths, metallers and other post-punk subcultural forms. I can therefore
conclude this book by proposing one necessarily partial and limited explan-
ation that does have the merit of being adequate at the levels of both meaning
and causality – that subcultures are manifestations of self-expression,
individual autonomy and cultural diversity, and that these traits have an
elective affinity with bohemian values that have increasingly come to define
the experiences of sections of post-war working-class and lower-middle-class
youth. In this sense, the emergence of a postmodern (or liminal) working-
class subcultural sensibility (and its convergence with middle-class values)
can be traced back at least to the beginning of the 1960s.
Notes
1. It is interesting to compare this with a similar table in Thornton (1995: 115).

2. Bellah’s thesis is consistent with findings from two contemporary American
ethnographic studies of subcultures. Webb (1995, 1996), for example, claims that
the ‘freaks’ (skater punks, ravers and grunge kids) in his study were ‘expressive
individualists’. It was only by breaking the social conventions of dress and behaviour
167
that Webb’s respondents felt able to display, express and explore their individuality.
‘I was told by many of these young people that they “go the extra mile” in being
different’ (1996: 3). Arnett’s metalheads likewise placed a high value on individual
self-expression (Arnett 1996: 100). In their ‘especially large appetite for intensity
and novelty of experience’ (ibid.: 88), they display the Romantic characteristic of
deriving emotional pleasure from strong sensations and feelings.
3. For example, the majority of the mods/scooterists were from lower- or upper-
middle-class families. The ‘goth–indie–metal’ contingent came equally from manual
and non-manual backgrounds. A number of punks or ex-punks were also of middle-
class origin.
4. Of the American freaks studied by Gottschalk (1993) most were from upper-
middle-class backgrounds; Webb (1996) also suggests that most of his ‘freak’ sample
were of middle-class origins. The majority of metalheads in Arnett’s (1996) study
were from middle- to upper-middle-class families, although the author mentions other
evidence that indicates a more even class divide within heavy metal fans. Evidence
on the punk subculture from both America (Fox 1987; Roman 1988) and Canada
(Baron 1989a, b) suggests that members are recruited evenly from both manual and
non-manual backgrounds. Burr (1984) mentions that seven of his sample of nineteen
British punks were ‘upperclass’ (middle-class?), but does not provide details on
parental background. Willis states that American ‘hardcore’ style ‘draws youth equally
from middle- and working-class families’ (1993: 375). Sixteen of the fifty hippies in
Brake’s (1977) British study were of working-class origin. Contemporary research
on Canadian skinheads (Baron 1997; K. Young and Craig 1997) interestingly reports
a substantial minority of members from middle-class homes.
5. The only clear-cut example of this was from Jeff, an ex-skinhead who defined
the subculture in terms of a collective group-centred experience. ‘A gang of lads
walking down the road, and that used to give you the feeling of so much power. It
made you feel good ’cos you were part of a big group. There was a nice feeling of a
family group. You looked after each other.’ Such descriptions recalled previous
characterizations of the skinhead subculture as a ‘gang’ (Daniel and McGuire 1972).
Lull also argues that ‘the group context . . . defines the skinhead lifestyle’ (1987:
247). Further insights into the skinhead subculture can be found in J. Clarke (1973a,
b), Brake (1974, 1977), Knight (1982), Martin (1985: Ch. 7), Marshall (1991) and
Moore (1994).
6. In a comparison of the American hippy and punk press, Lamy and Levin (1985)
discovered twice as much content relating to ‘self-expression’ in the punk publications
as in the hippy sample. Barensten (1999) interprets punk’s ‘do-it-yourself ethic’ as a
manifestation of the Romantic impulse towards self-expression and creativity.
7. Barnes reports how ‘Faces stopped calling themselves Mods towards the latter
part of 1964 . . . They called themselves “Individualists” or “Stylists”. They wanted
to differentiate themselves from the over-all uniformity they saw in the suburban
and provincial Mod’ (1991: 123).
8. Open at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, from 16 November 1994
to 19 February 1995.
168
9. See Barnes (1991). According to Thorne, ‘the less radical mods were known
as “Mids”, stragglers as “Tickets”’(1993: 160).
10. For accounts and analyses of the teddy boy subculture, see Fyvel (1963), Rock
and Cohen (1970), Jefferson (1973) and Rushgrove (1994).
11. An issue that is equally relevant is the high degree of cultural creativity in the
sample as a whole. Twenty had been, or were at the time of interview, students in
further and higher education, particularly in arts, social science and humanities
subjects. At least two had been to Art College, while a number of others were artists
of various kinds. Others in the sample were either managers of (or employees in)
second-hand clothes or record shops, were working in graphic design, printing and
desk-top publishing, or were part-time and aspirant DJs and journalists, etc. As one
might expect, many had an exceptional knowledge of youth (sub)cultural history,
popular culture, music and fashion. These cultural literati were affiliated to all types
of subcultures and came from skilled working-class and lower-middle-class as well
as professional backgrounds.
169
Appendix: Fieldwork Details and Interview Schedule
Appendix: Fieldwork Details

and Interview Schedule
There is nothing wrong with high level speculative theory, except if it becomes
presented and legitimated as having surpassed, or succeeded in discrediting the
need for, empirical research.
Mike Featherstone: Consumer Culture and Postmodernism (1992: ix)
Any account of an activity that ignores or marginalises the experiences of those

directly engaged in it can hardly claim much accuracy or authenticity.
Batsleer et al.: Rewriting English: Cultural Politics of

Gender and Class (1985: 146)
To collect my subcultural sample, I interviewed a total of fifty-seven different

people (of whom fourteen were female), in thirty-eight separate interviews.
The age range was sixteen to thirty-four; the average age was twenty-four.
There were also four non-subcultural people (two females, two males)
interviewed for the purpose of providing a ‘conventional’ control sample
(these interviews are not used in this book). Subcultural informants were
selected for this study on the basis of what I regarded as their unconventional
appearance. All but three interviews (involving six subcultural informants)
were conducted in Brighton, East Sussex, in six separate visits: (1) September
1993, (2) December 1993–January 1994, (3) April 1994, (4) July to September
1994, (5) January 1995, and (6) April 1995. The fifth session was to interview
only the ‘conventional’ sample. The other three interviews were conducted
in Preston, Lancashire, in February 1994. Interviews were conducted mainly
in the pubs and clubs where the informants were approached.
The interviews can best be described as semi-structured, often conversat-
ional, and the order of the questions was not always strictly adhered to.
Informants would sometimes initiate the discussion and provide a more
promising line of inquiry to be followed, or they might pre-empt my intended
order of questioning. Nor was the wording of the questions particularly
important, for I treated them more as areas for discussion. After each
171
fieldwork session the questions were slightly revised to take account of new
themes and hypotheses generated inductively from the data (see Glaser and
Strauss 1967). All interviews were taped and transcribed. The duration of
the interviews varied considerably, from twenty minutes to one and a half
hours, with the typical time taken being around forty minutes.
The Interview Schedule

How old are you?
What job (or otherwise) do you now do?
What different jobs, if any, have you done previously?
What jobs do (did) your parents do?
How would you describe yourself? Who are you?
Do you think of yourself as identifying with a particular sort of people because
of the way you dress?
Would you say that you are a (whatever)?
How long have you been dressing like this?
What made you choose the way you look, your style?
What were the main influences for you? Where did you get your ideas about
the style from?
Was it only because your friends were into (whatever) (this style)?
What was it about the image that you liked?
Where do you get your various items of clothing from?
Do you think about how to mix or match different items together?
Is there a degree of creativity in obtaining your look?
Do you take a lot of trouble or effort over it, or is it something that doesn’t
take much thinking about?
Do you ever make, dye or customize clothes?
Do you always dress in this way nowadays?
Are there any occasions when you dress differently?
Do you tend to change between a number of different styles, or is your look
fairly consistent?
Do you ever consciously copy the styles of other people?
Is it important to you to feel that you have your own, unique, individual
way of dressing?
What’s being a (whatever) all about? / What’s dressing in this style all about?
Are you trying to say anything by wearing this style? / Can you tell me what
it means to you?
Do people who dress in this way tend to have anything in common apart
from the style? (a particular way of life, attitudes or ideas, way of behaving,
music?)
172
Is this true for you personally?

So what’s the difference between people who dress like you and people who
dress more conventionally?
Is it enough just to wear the style, or is there more to it than the way you
look?
Do you ever feel ties or bonds with other (whatever) people who you see
dressed in a similar style, even if you don’t know them personally?
Do you dress this way to be different from the norm, or do you think the
way you look is just another way of dressing, nothing special?
It’s sometimes said that people who dress similarly to you are anti-conventional
or anti-system. Is this true for you?
Is being a whatever / dressing in this style important to you?
Do you feel you have a commitment to (whatever) this (life)style? How
seriously?
How long do you see yourself dressing in this way? Is this something you
ever think about?
Do you think it possible or likely that you might be into a different style
soon?
Nowadays, do you think its possible to identify groups of people according
to their style? (Name them)
Do you ever compare yourself ( whatever) to other groups, like punks, goths,
skinheads, hippies, etc.?
In what ways do you think (whatever) you are similar to or different from
other groups?
It’s sometimes said that nowadays it’s difficult to identify different style groups
because everything is becoming too mixed together and complicated. What
do you think?
What are your views on people who dress ‘straight’ or conventionally?
Do you ever compare yourself to them?
In what ways do you think you are similar to or different from conventionally
dressed people?
Have you ever previously dressed in a different style?
Did you feel you were a (whatever)?
Why did you change?
Was it difficult to change?
173
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190
Subject Index
Subject Index
acid teds, 136–7, 155n2 126, 151, 162
age, 39, 95, 116–17, 123, 129n8, 154 expressive professions, 51, 160
appearance management, 41, 45
appearance perception, 41, 75 fanzines, 59, 130n12, 135, 137
art school/art college, 144, 169n11 fashion
authentic inauthenticity, 102 and subcultures, 20, 22, 24, 42, 59, 63,
see also subcultural authenticity 66, 92, 98–9, 115, 117, 125, 132–3,
autonomy, 52, 63, 161, 167 140–7, 154, 158, 169n11
modern traits, 36–7
boundary maintenance, 47, 52, 95, 108, postmodern traits, 6, 7n7, 31, 34, 38,
123 42–4, 49, 51–5, 97
bricolage, 13, 20, 41, 44–5, 54n6, 86, 93, flyers, 135–7
101, 105n8, 131, 144–6 Folk Devils and Moral Panics, 134
fordism, 38
CCCS, 3–31 passim, 42, 47, 49, 58, 62, 73, fordist, 38–9, 49
78, 107, 123–8 passim, 131–3, 135, 143, freaks, 77, 126, 150, 164, 167n2, 168n4
151, 153, 161–3, 165
clubbers, 64–5, 80n7, 102–3, 105n6, 136–7, gender, 6, 38–9, 48, 91, 95, 104n1, 105n7,
143 106n11, 127, 129n7, 142, 153, 155n10
clubbing, 102, 105n6 goth, 5, 58, 61–2, 70, 73, 76–7, 86, 91–2,
Club Cultures, 64, 134 96, 102, 118–22, 125, 161, 163, 167,
consociates, 65, 90, 123–5 168n3
consumer culture, 50–1, 79n5 Grundy, Bill, interview, 133
consumption, 29–30, 36–40, 42, 48–9, 66, grunge, 141–3, 167n2
72, 82, 95, 132, 142, 155n10, 166
contemporaries, 65, 68, 90, 99–102, 123–4, heavy metal, 46, 61, 79, 129n5, 155n7,
127 157, 163, 168n4
counterculture, 6, 29, 32n7, n9, 50–1, 53, hedonism, 29, 36, 38, 50–1
54n8, n10, 144, 155n9, 159, 162 hedonistic, 13, 29, 36, 49, 52
crossover, 75–7, 102 hegemony, 4, 131, 150
crusty, 121, 140–2 hippy, 2, 5, 22, 25–6, 29, 31, 44, 49–51, 61,
cultural studies, 1–4, 95 73–4, 76, 92, 102–3, 108–13, 116,
culturalist, 24 121–2, 126–7, 129n1, n2, 133, 154n1,
155n9, 162, 164–6, 168n4, n6
deadhead, 105n9, n10, 129n5 hippy-punk, 109, 111, 122
decade-blending, 95 hyperreal, 34, 46
embourgeoisement, 29, 31 ideal-type, 14–17, 23, 27, 34, 52, 65, 67,
ethnography, 3, 7n5, 20, 24–5, 27, 64, 121, 69, 75, 95, 123, 152
191
Subject Index
identity, 1–2, 21, 43, 47–8, 52, 55, 58–62, narcissistic, 52, 166
69, 72–82 passim, 89, 91–6, 100, 105n6, narrow-minded, 58, 60, 115, 117, 123–4, 159
n7, n8, 106n11, 107, 111, 117–39 neo-tribe, 128
passim, 147, 163 new middle classes, 51–2, 160–1
individualism, 31, 68, 79, 157–8 new romantics, 102, 122
entrepreneurial, 51 Next, 63
expressive, 160, 163, 166 nominalism, 18
ideology of, 78 nominalist, 9, 14, 17, 19, 23
liberal, 79
methodological, 23 performance, 91–2, 103, 105n6
individuality, 29, 54n5, 61, 73, 77–8, 83, performativity, 91–2
87, 128, 129n8, 139, 147, 152, 168n2 post-fordist, 39, 49, 55
and politics, 149–50 postmodernism, 4–7, 33–5, 38, 40–1, 47,
distinctive, 55, 63–9, 84, 158, 165 50, 53
postmodernist, 39, 42, 47, 54n10
The Language of Youth Subcultures, 78 postmodernity, 33–4, 39, 41–2, 45, 47–8,
leather jacket, 106n11, 116, 131, 146 50, 55
lifestyle, 13, 30, 39, 51, 62–8, 74, 105n7, post-structuralist, 95
n8, 108, 111, 132, 151–4, 167, 168n5 The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life,
liminal, 6, 77–8, 158, 166–7 105n6
subculture, 69–75 Profane Culture, 3, 25–6, 126
liminality, 73, 159 progressive rock, 109, 113, 129n6
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of
Marxism, 3, 16–17, 19, 24–5, 34, 42 Capitalism, 27
Marxist theory of youth subcultures, 5, 14, proto-communities, 128
16, 19–20, 23, 25, 27, 34, 42, 146, psychedelic mods, 57, 59
166–7 psychedelic punk, 79n2
McLaren, Malcolm, 45, 55, 63, 144, 155n4 psychobilly, 118–20
media, 6, 34–5, 42–8, 51–3, 64, 131–2, punk, 1–2, 4–5, 7n3, 20–1, 26, 30–1, 44–6,
143, 147, 155n4, 157–8 49, 55–60, 62, 68, 71, 73–4, 76, 78,
mass, 133–40 passim 79n2, 82, 87–92, 94, 96, 98–120, 122–3,
micro, 134–6, 139 126–33, 137–8, 142–7, 149–52, 154–5,
niche, 134–5, 139 157, 161–4, 166–8
Metalheads: Heavy Metal Music and punk-hippy, 129n2
Adolescent Alienation, 79, 157 puritan, 28–9, 36, 38, 51, 162
metaller, 61, 70, 73, 77, 122 puritanism, 5, 13, 29, 36, 40–1
mod, 2, 13, 20, 29–30, 32n8, n10, 44, 46,
49, 55, 57–60, 66, 70, 72–3, 78, 79n1, Quadrophenia, 138–9
80n8, 83–5, 91, 98, 107–8, 111, 116,
121–3, 125, 128, 129n3, 134, 138–9, rave, 70, 152, 155n2, n3, 163, 167n2
143, 152, 161–7, 168n3, n7, 169n9 realism
modernism, 33, 35, 37–8, 53n2, 54n3 artistic, 53n2
modernist, 37, 39, 41–2, 44–9, 158, 162–5 critical, 18–19, 31n5
modernity, 41–2, 45 realist, 9, 17–20, 22–4, 41, 102, 105n7
aesthetic, 5–6, 33, 35–8, 49–50, 53, 54n6, resistance, 6, 13–14, 17, 20, 24, 42, 48,
125, 159, 165 52–3, 73, 78, 120, 131–2, 146–53
enlightenment, 35–8 Resistance Through Rituals, 3, 7n5, 12–13,
moidies, 64 16, 23
192
Subject Index
rockabilly, 107, 128 defusion and diffusion, 20, 49, 131–2,

rocker, 2, 29, 31, 108, 113, 115–8, 123, 140, 143
134, 162, 165 genuine membership, 20, 78, 89–93, 100,
romantic, 5–6, 29, 33, 38, 50–1, 53, 54n11, 108, 110, 115–7, 138, 141–3, 147,
159, 162, 166, 168n2, n6 152, 154
romanticism, 29, 36, 38, 50–1, 160 incorporation, 6, 17, 21–2, 24, 49,
rude boy, 107, 118, 121, 128 131–2, 135, 142, 144, 147
mobility, 6, 22–3, 31, 47, 52–3, 82, 91,
self-expression, 51, 89, 159–60, 162, 167, 103, 108, 123, 128, 129n7, 152, 158,
168n2, n6 165
Sex Pistols, 1, 55, 126, 131–3, 144, 154–5, modern and postmodern traits, 5–6, 15,
157 34, 47, 49, 52, 157–9
simulacra, 46 stereotypes, 68, 73, 78, 84, 90, 99, 103,
skinhead, 5, 13, 29–31, 32n8, n10, 44, 49, 111, 113, 118, 120, 123–5, 129n9,
64, 67, 74, 91–2, 107–8, 118, 121, 124, 147, 152–4, 158, 163–4
126–8, 129n1, 130n13, 149, 152, 162, see also fashion, liminal, Marxist theory,
164–5, 168n4, n5 Weberian
soul boy, 107, 128 Subculture: The Meaning of Style, 1–3
soul music, 70, 73 supermarket of style, 77, 102
streetstyle, 102, 144
exhibition, 163–4 tattoos, 85–6, 100–1, 146
structuralist, 24, 26 teddy boy, 2, 30–1, 44, 46, 107, 113–6,
style surfing, 47, 82, 102 128, 162–3, 165–6, 169n10
subcultures Top Shop, 140–2, 155n10
authenticity, 14, 20–2, 24, 30–1, 42, townies, 63, 104n1
45–7, 49, 52, 77–8, 80n8, 90–3, travellers, 61, 103, 109, 112, 140, 154,
99–103, 117, 123–4, 129n9, 131–47 163
passim, 152–5, 158, 163 trendies, 86, 104n1, 107, 124
class origins, 6, 11–13, 16–17, 20–2, 25,
28–31, 42, 48, 51–2, 105n7, 127–8, Weberian
134, 153–4, 160–9 approach to subcultures, 5–6, 9–10,
core and marginal commitment/ 14–15, 19–20, 27, 31
affiliation, 100–2, 105n9, 146–7, sociology, 16–17, 19
151–4 Working-Class Youth Culture, 3
193
Author Index
Author Index
Abercrombie, N., 53n2, 80n8 Burr, A., 111, 126–7, 166, 168n4
Althusser, L., 31n4 Burrows, R., 18, 31n5
Andes, L., 62, 78, 79n3, 87, 101, 104n2, Butler, J., 91–2
105n5, 129n9, 142, 144–5
Cagle, V. M., 21–2, 129n5, 144
Arnett, J., 7n6, 79, 80n10, 87, 105n5,
Calluori, R. A., 111
130n12, 150, 153, 157, 167, 168n2, n4
Campbell, B., 122
Campbell, C., 28–38 passim, 50
Back, K. W., 53n2
Carter, A., 44
Barensten, G., 168n6
Cartledge, F., 2
Barnard, M., 45, 68–9, 92
Cashmore, E. E., 149
Barnes, R., 79n1, 165, 168n7, 169n9
Chambers, I., 46, 48
Baron, S. W., 130n13, 142, 150–1, 153,
Chaney, D., 30
168n4
Clarke, D., 31n3
Barthes, R., 5, 42
Clarke, G., 9, 12, 21–2, 24, 113, 126
Batsleer, J., 171
Clarke, J., 3, 11–12, 16, 21–30 passim,
Baudrillard, J., 5, 33–4, 36, 44, 46
31n6, 32n7, 38, 49, 51, 86, 107–8, 132,
Beattie, G., 63
153, 162, 168n5
Becker, H., 79n4
Cohen, A. P., 80n6
Beezer, A., 1, 4, 45, 48
Cohen, P., 11–14, 16, 23, 26, 29, 164
Bell, Daniel, 36
Cohen, S., 13, 134, 164–5, 169n10
Bell, David, 91, 130n13
Connor, S., 37–9, 48, 132
Bell, Q., 40
Cook, D., 42
Bellah, R. N., 160, 167n2
Coon, C., 113
Benton, T., 18
Coupland, D., 81, 95, 97
Berger, P., 96, 155n9
Coward, R., 95
Berman, M., 35–6
Craig, L., 127–8, 149, 152, 168n4
Bhaskar, R., 31n5
Craik, J., 44
Billington, R., 80n6, 91
Crook, S., 38–9, 48
Blackman, S., 7n5, n6, 126
Blair, M. E., 155n3 da Costa, M. R., 130n12
Blundell, V., 24, 31n3 Dancis, B., 143, 155n8
Bocock, R., 30 Daniel, S., 168n5
Bourdieu, P., 5, 54n9, 64, 90 Davies, J., 130n12
Brake, M., 31, 54n8, 90, 129n1, 162, Deverson, J., 165
168n4, n5 Donnelly, P., 151
Brown, B. B., 129n8 Dorn, N., 13–14
Brown, J. W., 54n8, 130n12 Downes, D., 26
Buff, S., 22, 155n9 Dworkin, D., 25
195
Author Index
Ehrich, L. C., 150 Heelas, P., 32n9, 51

Ellis, J., 95 Henry, T., 104n1, 130n12, 154, 166
Evans, C., 3, 7n9, 23, 39, 43, 48–9, 62, 64, Hetherington, K., 30, 55, 160
91–2, 100, 103, 129n7 Himmelfarb, G., 27
Ewen, E., 39 Hindess, B., 6
Ewen, S., 39 Hirst, P., 19
Hogan, J. V., 54n8
Faurschou, G., 39 Holdsworth, A., 38
Featherstone, M., 4, 7n7, 33, 41, 50, 53, Home, S., 113, 130n12
54n9, 171 Horne, H., 144
Fine, G. A., 22 Hughes, J., 23, 28
Fitzpatrick, H., 92, 105n7 Huyssen, A., 53n2
Flügel, J. C., 36, 38
Fornäs, J., 27, 67, 74–5, 126 Jackson, P., 105n8
Fox, K. J., 86–7, 100–1, 103, 104n4, Jameson, F., 35, 39, 42–5, 96, 103
105n9, 126, 142, 146–7, 151, 153, 168n4 Jefferson, T., 3, 12, 21, 30, 132, 169n10
Frank, T., 38, 51–2 Jenkins, R., 80n6
Friedman, J., 35 Jenks, C., 15
Frisby, D., 35–6, 66, 165 Johnston, L., 44
Frith, S., 31, 54n7, 69, 129n11, 144, 162,
165–7 Kaiser, S., 40–3, 45, 75, 77
Fyvel, T. R., 169n10 Keat, R., 18, 31n5
Kellner, D., 5, 36, 48, 96
Gaines, D., 80n10 Keniston, K., 51, 54n11, 155n9
Gane, M., 33 Kinsey, B., 151
Garber, J., 153 Kitwood, T., 87, 129n8
Gitlin, T., 42, 48, 53n2 Kleinman, S., 22
Glaser, B., 172 Knight, N., 127, 168n5
Goffman, E., 105n6 König, R., 36, 38
Gold, B. D., 130n12 Kotarba, J. A., 46–7, 69, 128, 130, 142
Goldthorpe, Jeff, 129n2 Kratz, C., 39, 41, 43, 54n4.,
Goldthorpe, John, 32n10 Kroker, A., 7n7, 42
Gottdiener, M., 7n3, 52, 54n10
Gottschalk, S., 77, 126, 150, 164, 168n4 Laclau, E., 95
Gramsci, A., 31n4 Lahusen, C., 150
Gross, R. L., 130n12, 155n7 Laing, D., 113, 130n12, 155n8
Grossberg, L., 102 Lamy, P., 130n12, 168n6
Langman, L., 82, 95
Hall, S., 3, 31n3, 95 Larrain, J., 20
Hamblett, C., 165 Lash, S., 35, 38–44 passim, 53n2, 54n9, 55,
Hansen, C. H., 69, 130 67, 97
Hansen, R. D., 69, 130 Lee, D., 19
Harvey, D., 37–8, 43, 46, 50 Leech, K., 54n8
Hatala, M. N., 155n3 Levin, J., 32n9, 130n12, 168n6.,
Hebdige, D., 1–3, 7, 13, 17, 21–26 passim, Levine, H. G., 130n12
30, 31n6, 33, 39, 44–49 passim, 53n2, Lipovetsky, G., 43, 52, 54n4, 80n5
54n7, 59, 72, 74, 84, 86, 113, 116, Lipset, S. M., 51, 155n9
129n3, 132, 143–4, 147, 165–6 Lloyd, M., 91
196
Author Index
Locher, D. A., 69 Mort, F., 39, 54n5

Lockwood, D., 32n10 Mouffe, C., 95
Lovatt, A., 4, 35, 42 Muggleton, D., 7n7, 53n1, 128
Lull, J., 68–9, 74, 79n2, 125, 127, 129n2, Muncie, J., 26, 31, 113, 129n6
n4, 137, 142–3, 147, 155n5, n6, 168n5 Mungham, G., 3
Lurie, A., 38, 86 Murdock, G., 12, 21–2
Lury, C., 50, 54n9 Murray, R., 39
Lydon, J., 55, 99, 129n6, 131, 133, 147,
150, 155n4 Negrin, L., 38
Lyon, D., 33, 41 Nehring, N., 7n10, 129n2
Lyotard, J. F., 34, 44 Nelson, E., 130n12, 155n9
Neville, R., 54n8
MacCannell, D., 96 Newby, H., 19
MacRae, D. G., 15 Nixon, S., 39
Maffesoli, M., 128
O’Hara, C., 59
McGuire, P., 168n5
Osgerby, B., 26, 49–50, 129n2, 133, 163–4
Malbon, B., 7n6, 105n6
Outhwaite, W., 31n5
Marchak, M. M., 150
Marcus, G. E., 25
Parkin, F., 16, 28
Marsh, P., 7, 11, 162
Parsons, T., 87
Marshall, Gordon, 17
Partington, A., 54n6
Marshall, George, 168n5
Pearson, G., 3
Martin, B., 9, 29, 30, 54n9, 60, 73, 129n10,
Pearson, K., 15
160–2, 165–6, 168n5
Pilkington, H., 4
Marx, K., 12, 16–19, 27, 36
Pini, M., 79n3
Matlock, G., 131, 149
Polhemus, T., 47, 62, 77, 82, 86, 102–3,
McAlexander, J. H., 68, 86, 106n11, 127,
163–4
129n9
Polsky, N., 155n9
McCracken, G., 89
Powell, R., 153
McCron, R., 12, 21–2
Purkis, J., 4, 35, 42
McDonald, J. R., 130n12
McGuigan, J., 24, 126 Redhead, S., 44–5, 130n13, 132, 163
McRobbie, A., 4, 7n1, 42, 44–6, 132, 153 Reimer, B., 30, 39, 41, 43, 54n4
McVeigh, B., 77 Rietveld, H., 155n2
Medhurst, A., 4 Riley, M., 14, 134
Middleton, R., 113, 129n6 Ritzer, G., 10, 65
Mignon, P., 111 Roberts, K., 22, 29–30
Miles, C., 106n11 Robins, D., 16
Miles, S., 66, 79n5, 95 Rock, P., 26, 169n10
Miller, D., 105n8 Rojek, C., 35
Miller, J., 118, 121–2 Roman, L., 105n7, 142, 153, 168n4
Miller, T., 155n9 Rose, M., 53n2
Mills, R., 32n9, 51 Roszak, T., 54n8
Mitchell, J. C., 65 Rushgrove, B., 169n10
Moore, D., 7n6, 11, 64, 86, 107, 121, Ryan, J., 92, 105n7
124–6, 128, 151–2, 168n5
Moorhouse, H. F., 5 Sabin, R., 3, 127
Morrison, K., 16 Sanders, C., 86
197
Author Index
Sardiello, R., 69, 100, 105n5, n9, n10, Turner, G., 13, 31n3
129n4, 142, 151, 153 Tyrrell, A. V., 38
Saunders, P., 12, 17–19, 31n5
Savage, J., 43, 116, 144, 157 Urry, J., 18, 31n5, 35, 38, 41, 44, 54n3, 55,
Savage, M., 54n9 97, 161
Sayer, A., 14, 18–19, 31n5
Sayer, D., 17, 19 Veal, A. J., 30, 66
Scheys, M., 30 Venturi, R., 100
Schouten, J. W., 68, 86, 106n11, 127,
129n9 Wai-Teng Leong, L., 143–4
Schutz, A., 10–11, 65, 67–9, 90, 102, Walker, J. A., 53n2
123–4 Wall, D., 129n5
Seago, A., 5, 53n2, 144 Waters, C., 3, 21
Sherwood, S. J., 4, 9 Waugh, P., 50
Shields, R., 82, 95, 103 Webb, J. M., 151, 167n2, 168n4
Simmel, G., 35–6, 66, 165 Weber, M., 1, 5, 9–10, 14, 16–19, 23, 27–8,
South, N., 13–14 30, 35
Spates, J. L., 32n9, 130n12 Weeks, J., 95
Stahl, G., 20 Weinstein, D., 129n5
Steedman, C., 38 Wells, L., 69, 128, 130, 142
Steele, V., 129n2 Wheaton, B., 104n4, 151
Stephanson, A., 4 Widdicombe, S., 7n6, 8n11, 20, 32n8, 59,
Stone, G. P., 89 62, 67, 69, 75, 78, 79n3, 87, 91–2, 100,
Strauss, A., 172 104n3, 128, 129n2, 142, 147, 154
Strinati, D., 5, 50 Wooffitt, R., 7n6, 8n11, 20, 32n8, 59, 62,
Stuart, J., 106n11 69, 75, 78, 79n3, 87, 91–2, 100, 104n3,
Stumpf, S. H., 130n12 128, 129n2, 142, 147, 154
Williamson, J., 81
Tanner, J., 7n4, 32n10 Willis, P., 3, 24–7, 41, 43, 74, 108, 111,
Taylor, I., 129n5 126–9, 162
Taylor, L., 40 Willis, S., 166–8
Thompson, P., 155n8 Willmott, P., 22, 31n2
Thorne, T., 169n9 Wilson, E., 36, 38–40, 92, 160
Thornton, S., 7n6, 64–9 passim, 79n3, Wilson, J., 105n6
80n7, 104n1, n4, 132, 134–6, 139, 143, Wirth, L., 125
167n1 Wollen, P., 37
Tillman, R. H., 155n8 Woods, P., 12
Tomlinson, L., 63, 79n3, 142, 155n2, n3
Trowler, P., 14, 134 York, P., 107, 125, 154n1
Tseëlon, E., 41, 54n4, 89, 95–6, 99, 103, Young, J., 111
105n6 Young, K., 127–8, 149, 152, 168n4
Tsoukas, H., 25 Young, M., 31n2
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Inside Subculture

Previously published titles in the Series

Oxford • New York

© David Muggleton 2000, 2002

Paperback edition reprinted in 2002.

All rights reserved.

Berg is an imprint of Oxford International Publishers Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

ISBN 1 85973 347 6 (Cloth)

Typeset by JS Typesetting, Wellingborough, Northants.

1 Back to Reality? My Experience with Cultural

2 A Neo-Weberian Approach to the Study of

3 Postmodern Subcultures and Aesthetic Modernity 33

4 Distinctive Individuality and Subcultural Affiliation 55

5 Commitment, Appearance and the Self 81

6 Change, Continuity and Comparison 107

7 Resistance, Incorporation and Authenticity 131

8 Cultural Expression or Class Contradiction? 157

Appendix: Fieldwork Details and Interview Schedule 171

Peter. I would also like to acknowledge the following for permission to

Ann Beezer: ‘Dick Hebdige, Subculture: The Meaning of Style’

(Fieldwork ‘currency exchange’: A ‘practical semiotician’

According to Max Weber (1864–1920), all sociology is necessarily ‘value-

sociology, ‘abandoning popular culture analysis altogether in favour of

the members of my contemporary sample can be characterized as postmodern

any of the subcultures described in this book would recognize themselves

1. See McRobbie (1997).

Bernice Martin: A Sociology of Contemporary

Privileging Subjective Meanings

At one point in Defending Ski-Jumpers: A Critique of Theories of Youth

rather than viewing this as an expression of an underlying structure; and (3)

One example of empirical research that appears to follow this method of

and his co-contributors readily admitted in Resistance Through Rituals, ‘we

While according to Dorn and South:

The acknowledgement of important changes in the structure of the local economy

Here, I would invoke my criterion of validity, that social scientific

A Nominalist Approach to Concept Formation

According to Weber, reality is given to us in appearances. A Weberian

accounts of phenomena are impossible. Different researchers may therefore

The subculture concept involves abstract construction. A subculture is typological

experiments, the problems of confirming and falsifying realist causes become

Authenticity, Mobility and Change

evaluated ‘by a concrete analysis of the substance of its arguments’ (Larrain

Authenticity and Origins

The problem of authenticity is really the issue as to what constitutes ‘proper’

compared to the main project of theorizing the ‘authentic’ point of subcultural

contradicted. Murdock and McCron (1986: 205) mention the problem of

Mobility and Change

I have so far talked of ‘the CCCS approach’ as if it were a unified body of

The broadly ‘culturalist’ and ‘structuralist’ strands in Birmingham subcultural

‘concerned with the clarification of structures and their associated generative

we find in J. Clarke (1986), P. Cohen (1984) and Hebdige (1979), but he

Despite his testimony to ethnographic field work, Willis’s study of

The Independent Role of Beliefs and Values

A Weberian approach must take seriously the independent role of cultural

embodiment of embourgeoisement, and were culturally as close, if not closer,

1. I am grateful to Dan Shapiro for this observation.

7. It is worth contrasting this with the description of middle-class countercultures

Mike Gane: Baudrillard’s Bestiary (1991: 92)