Scum Of Toytown
Strike

I know practically nothing about this band, neither the names of the members nor where they come from, how many records they've released, or if they're still active; but I have this album of theirs, and it's among those I'm most attached to, if it's ever possible to become attached to a round piece of black vinyl; but it's not a matter of fetishism — for me, I've never been a fetishist and never elevated altars to the vinyl object — rather, it's about memories and sensations; and since the memories are mine and no one else's and the sensations dangerously veer towards subjectivity, for me, it's a small great record, while for anyone else, it might just be the sum of the dispensable.

The album was released in 1994, at least that much I know, and I bought it at Banda Bonnot, which, at the time, was my preferred musical haunt, not even forty square meters, crammed with vinyl and CDs, where you find everything and more from the punk, hardcore, oi, ska scenes and even some northern soul; there's a little display case facing the street, where they showcase new albums and those that deserve it; the day I pass by, this one is also on display, obviously, and I decide it's mine even before entering the hideout; in the sense that it's one of those records I buy for the cover, and so far, none of them has ever disappointed me.

The cover, then: it's all white; at the top, centered in small black letters, the band's name, Scum Of Toytown, at the bottom, again centered and in small black letters, the album's title, «Strike»; in the center, in a circle, a stylized little man in the act of throwing a flaming molotov cocktail, and the yellow and red are the only notes of color; of art, especially modern art, I know little and understand nothing, but for me, that little man is a creature of Keith Haring in an anarchoid sauce, even though it's devoid of color; among the memories, there's no trace of how I was concerning Haring back in 1994, but today to mention that name, I need to search on Google Images with “modern painting stylized figures”, and it still works, because the result is an avalanche of images of Haring's works. The back also has a vague artistic taste, but cinematic this time: that black on red representation I've seen in some film to the eternal honor and glory of the Russian revolution, I attempt with «October» by the sublime master Sergei Eisenstein, but my ignorance in the matter is as boundless now as it was then. Despite everything, the cover, front and back, unmistakably speaks of an album against the infamous “system.”

I return home, extract the vinyl from the cellophane, inside there's the sheet with the song lyrics, as in every respectable revolutionary record; and on the sheet, there's that text I still remember today without needing to pull out the album again, surely it's the first and only time I read something like this, it says that unauthorized public performance of the record is strongly encouraged, in the sense that Scum Of Toytown couldn’t care less about authors' rights.

There's only the risk they might play anarcho-punk, because I really can't stand anarcho-punk, but the nightmare dissolves as soon as I drop the needle on the vinyl: rock'n'roll, ska, and dub shaking hands, it reminds me a lot of Chumbawamba in the days of the beautiful «Never Mind the Ballots», the only anarcho-punk record I've let into my collection; but a Chumbawamba more immediate and direct and also less excluding; still on the inner sheet, there's a quote saying that if I can't dance, this is not my revolution, for me it means a lot, for sure also for Scum Of Toytown; a statement of intent, in short, like saying a revolution is more revolutionary if the person urging you on is by your side and even smiles, instead of wearing a perpetually grim face. Ten tracks in total: the first and the last two flow by without any shocks, but the seven in between are one of the most beautiful sequences I've listened to in the '90s; so much so that «Jackboot Crusade» — Sandy Denny at the microphone and behind her the complete Clash band, in their most rockin' «Sandinista» style — is there among my ten tracks to remember, one for each year, and marks 1994 indelibly; always the Clash, always them, August 1980, «Different Drum» they place on the b-side of the single «Bankrobber», because 14 years never pass in vain and a certain style never goes out of fashion; and «Mr. Clinton» proclaims with a strong and amused voice that the American dream is dead and buried, well before that intern sneaks furtively into the oval office, and not even a random Obama can bring it back to life; and even if «Six Feet Higher» is built by sampling the riff from «Swan Lake», it's still a great piece, whereas any other track mixing the profane and low rock'n'roll with the sacred and high classical music inevitably falls into the ridiculous.

And anyway, I know that the melody of a classical ballet isn't called a riff, so it's not necessary to point it out, also because here I talk about intrepid rock'n'roll and a lot of other popular culture, the stuff that makes up «Strike».

It deserves more than one listen.