A Lipstick Killers' Valentine

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

the ineffably glam New York Dolls

Lipstick. It’s transformative and essential. It’s also our topic for this Valentine’s Day at the Skool.

The overwhelming selection of shade, texture, and opacity are enough to make your head spin and your lips chap. The joy of cracking open a new tube is unparalleled. As you twist up the stick, it shines and winks at you. But it’s not until you’ve swiped on a coat and surveyed the application that you are convinced you and your new shade are compatible. 

Do you remember your first, Skoolers? Not your mom’s natural looking frosty pale “Plutonium Pink” you covertly tested in the bathroom, or your dead grandma’s shade of “Tepid Flesh”, lovingly willed to you. Or cast-offs from your aunts, like “Vivid Livid Liver”, or “Colour Me Coli form”, with the ends are all rounded off-- impossible to contour one’s lips with, unless you’re going for a Ringling Brothers look. Or worse, it’s disappointingly worn down to just the inside edge of the tube -- only accessible by Q-tip. No, I’m talking about your very own handpicked lipstick, the color relevant to the year you were living in.

Prior to any sort of access to lipstick I admit that I resorted to the Smarties collection. That’s right. Wet two or three red Smarties and apply to lips. Discard Smarties by eating. Reapply as needed, usually every four to five minutes. For special occasions-- or if you’re feeling like taking a walk on the wild side-- try the purple or brown ones.

One of my earliest contacts with real lipstick involved my brother, his pal Clayton, and a bright white garage. At an age when you are first learning how to spell, say six or seven, you want to let the world know just how skilled you are. And there's no better way to spread the word than to commandeer your mom’s favorite coral lipstick, “Slammin’ Salmon” I think it was called, head across the lane to your neighbor’s freshly painted garage and attempt to spell the work ‘fuck’ in the largest lettering possible. (Take note, Skoolers: I was forming pre-punk expressive tendencies!) The fact that the garage was clearly visible from our kitchen window was hard to ignore, as was our neighbors’ disapproval. This did not dissuade me from pursuing my exploration of the Tao of lipstick. However, I now seem to have an aversion to all orangey shades.

Now, Skoolers, you may be asking “Mrs. Thirlwell-Nicol, yawn, what’s this got to do with Punk Rock?” Well, settle down and stop sniffing that nail polish remover, Avril, and I’ll tell you.

Does lipstick hold an esteemed position in the music scene? I would answer that by asking, “how could it not”? Lipstick, like rock’n’roll, pushed the boundaries of society’s love affair with conformity. In the olden days the forerunners of lip colour were primarily those living on the fringes, like actors and prostitutes. Even into the 1940s and 50s a bright red lipstick could colour one promiscuous. Demure soft pink lipstick-wearing singers such as the Lennon sisters contrast dramatically with, say, the Shangri-Las and their rebellious ruby shades. 

Now let’s skip over the 1960s (and all that white lipstick which only looks fabulous if you are willing to keep your mouth shut) to the early 1970s. This brings us to the predecessors of punk and the emergence of the lovingly crafted trash glam look. One band that stands out is the New York Dolls. But where would they have been if not for lipstick? And, okay, boas, sequins and platforms. I’m not saying that the New York Dolls were the mavens of male make-up in the rock arena. In fact, I’ll bet Little Richard could have taught them a thing or two. However, they did have their way with lipstick. Which begs the question: would David Johannsen’s pleas in the song "Looking For a Kiss" be heard if he hadn’t been all dolled up, complete with a scorching shade of lipstick? Furthermore, would bare-lipped Dolls singing about much-desired kisses have still caught the attention of one Malcolm McLaren? Who, in turn, absconded with their outrageous style and attitude, and then swiftly outfitted and thrust his Sex Pistols on to the stage. The Pistols, having bathed in global glory for their nasty uniqueness, showed their gratitude to the Dolls by recording the song “New York”. The song, anti-homage, makes fun of the Dolls’ look, need to find a kiss and, okay, their penchant for various ‘medications’.

The Sex Pistols: cream of the crop

Now Skoolers, if you’ll turn to page 104 in your “Lexicon of Legendary Lyrics” textbook you will see that the first line of the song “New York”, written by Mr. Lydon, reads: “An imitation from New York”. What?? Hold the phone! There must be some mistake. Wasn’t Johnny singing “An invitation from New York”? And I’ll be (a member of the) Damned if it didn’t warm my heart on a hot-plate to have thought that the Dolls had extended a brotherly welcome to the Pistols, inviting them to jump the pond and perhaps play some gigs together. Hmm. Not so.  It turns out Rotten was actually singing “an imitation from New York”-- which really isn’t very sporting, is it? Sure, maybe they rebuked the Dolls make-up aesthetic, but that’s no reason to get overly snotty.

It wasn’t too long before Johnny Thunders would have something to say about all this. His retaliation was neatly encapsulated in the song “London Boys”. While not exactly a chart-topper, it did include a few choice phrases like “you poor little puppet” in reference to Rotten dangling from McLaren’s orchestrated strings. Now Skoolers, don’t get me wrong-- I am not trying to create a case for who was the most punk rockiest first. Anyway, the Dolls pre-dated punk. They inspired a ‘do your own thing’ ethic and McLaren brought that sensibility back to London and found some lads with some seriously bad manners to fulfill his vision.

It would seem, however, that all had been forgiven, especially considering that Steve Jones and Paul Cook actually joined Thunders in the recording of "London Boys". Oh, except for some incriminating evidence that surfaced. That’s right class-- the real reason for all those musical missives was found stuffed in the depths of an old sock drawer after McLaren’s demise. Yes, these letters could possibly have been the inspiration that ignited this legendary melodious melodrama. Here are a few excerpts from some rather nasty back and forth telegrams between the boys. Valentines these are not.

Sweet Johnny Rotten

Letter dated January 10^th 1977

Dear Mr. Rotten,

My bass player, Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane, was taking stock of his make up kit this morning and noticed that his Max Factor #2 is missing. He feels that one of the members of your band may have ‘borrowed’ it to cover up a few blemishes. Please return it promptly as we have a show in the next few days and Arthur refuses to play without it.

Sincerely,

David J.

                                    __________________

Response from Rotten dated January 30^th 1977

Dear David,

Go fuck yourself. Just because both our bass players share the same sickly complexion doesn’t mean Sid nicked it. Besides, Sid wouldn’t wear make up. He may try to drink it or shoot it, but he don’t wear it.

Up yours,

Rotten

P.S. Sid says Johnny Thunders stole one of Nancy’s best lippys, “Sugar-smacked” I think it’s called. She wants it back or else.

                                 ____________________

Response from the Dolls camp dated February 14^th 1977

Happy Valentine’s Day Boys, 

You’re all so special to us in so many ways. Thunders is completely devastated to hear that you think he would pinch Spungeon’s lipstick--considering the number of sores she’s usually sporting. 

By the way, Steve Jones can keep the eyeliner he borrowed from Thunders, as well as the stage presence.

Lovingly,

David

                              ___________________

As you can see, Skoolers, things got more than a little salty and the accusations flew. It was a veritable compact powder dust-up! Fortunately for us, the songs exist as a reminder of the influence of make-up and its often times gritty and provocative effect. They are important historical insights, the equivalent of hieroglyphic storytelling.

No one is really sure if everyone kissed and made up. Or if anyone returned anyone’s make up. And even though you can’t put your arms around a memory, the songs and the lipstick killers live on.

Beyond the Valley of the New York Dolls

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

When I was twelve years old I wanted to be adopted by David Bowie. Not only did I want him for a dad, I wanted him as my mom too. I reasoned that along with the male protection of a father I would also score make-up tips that weren’t even on my mother’s radar. Plus there would be the added bonus of him bankrolling all the best cosmetics. I was completely infatuated with him and his Ziggy Stardust alter ego-- so I wasn’t sure how that whole parenting thing was going to work. I’m no Sigmund Freud, but I didn’t need a crash course on the psychosexual stages of development to tell me that this might be a bad idea-- eventually I kept it to a crush and abandoned the whole adoption fantasy. 

David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust

But what was it about fellows and make-up? Not you, Elton. The initiated were far more interesting than their uptight conservative-looking counterparts. Maybe having been raised as a hippie kid I was predisposed to being offended by the powder blue leisure suit-clad Six Million Dollar man machismo of the mid 1970s. Sure, plenty of guys in my high school were sporting their softer side with long locks. Some had even taken to feathering their hair. Their behavior was nothing short of peacock-like: it wasn't unusual to see a comb protruding from the back pocket of a pair of Seafarer flared jeans. 

Note, Skoolers, this is not the same cool little black comb the Fonz would use. No, this was a comb of a different color, literally. They were often bright green, pink, blue, etc. With a big flat handle and wide teeth, there were no secrets about the comb-size these boys were packing. The owner would reach his hand round to his back pocket and in one swift motion whip out his large- handled plastic instrument and with a flick of the wrist ‘re-feather’ first one side of the head then the other, returning the comb to its home. And perhaps because this hair care action seemed a tad on the prissy side, often these high school boys would compensate for it by walking in a more macho swagger or affect a deep Moose-like or Lee Majors tone in their voices right after the act. This topic doesn’t concern you Elton, put your hand down.

A 1970s teen dude in all his glory

If the comb had mistakenly been left at home the three-time forward shake of the head would suffice in reviving a feathered hairdo. But even that was a skill because you had to snap your head upright more vigorously than when bringing it forward in order to take full advantage of the aerodynamic wind-generating movement that produced the perfect effect. (Randy Rampage would use this maneuver in his punk heyday, particularly while performing on stage. Same move, different hairstyle). Probably the worst crime in male hair accessory vanity, though, was swapping out the bright colored comb for a big old hairbrush causing a rear protrusion of unnatural proportions resulting in justifiable high school hall snickering. 

Nevertheless, you still wouldn’t find the guys at my high school preening beyond their hair. So I admired those rock stars who ventured into their moms’ big cosmetic bag. But let’s be clear here: as much as I enjoyed KISS army, their use of make-up was purely theatrical, and I got the sense that they did not continue on to the bar in their slap after a show. I was convinced, however, that the New York Dolls did not own make-up remover or that they weren’t even aware that there was such a thing. Instead I reckoned it just wore off, eventually, by natural causes, and was then reapplied. This seemed somewhat more committed and authentic, if not a little hazardous to the overall complexion. People often mistook Johnny Thunders' acne challenges as a result of drug abuse when, in fact, it was really a disregard for a good face scrub, exfoliater, toner and turnaround moisturizing cream at the end of a night. Skoolers, if only he’d taken the time. Respeck. 

Both groups get bonus points for their ability to strut in towering platform heels. But before I get  ahead of myself I must give a nod to Alice Cooper. He may not win any prizes for overall even application, but he does get points for expressive use of eyeliner. Unfortunately, points are deducted due to an unenthusiastic, not to mention creepy, hair presentation. Skool was out for summer before the lesson plan on Hot Oil Treatment was devised for Alice. KISS also scores low in the hairstyle arena-- way too much frizz. But Skoolers, this lesson today is not a KISS vs. Dolls comparison; instead it is an exploration of the aesthetics of influential rock dudes. Elton, please take your seat, maybe sit on the piano bench next to Liberace. 

Which leads me back to David Bowie, idol, icon and not my dad-- unfortunately. Rice powder for the face and old school mascara-- the kind you wet and brush on, are just some of his tricks. An important tool in his cosmetic arsenal: eyeliner, kohl or otherwise... seriously, is there anyone who shouldn’t use it? But be careful with those lightning bolts down the face. Sure it looks classy on him, but it could look a tad garish on, say, Meatloaf. 

And what of the punk scene? Well, our West Coast Canadian boys didn’t exactly embrace the use of make-up. Once in awhile a cheap eye pencil might get passed among band members before taking the stage but rarely among the green plaid Mac jacket-wearing crew. There was no chance of mistaking the Subhumans for the Braineaters. Or any punk bands fancy enough to own lipliner. In the east, Toronto to be exact, drugstores couldn’t get their shelves stocked fast enough with eyeliner for bands like the Viletones. And as the music got darker, moodier, gothier in the 1980s, so, too, did the use of make-up among some of our local bands.

Evidenced in the photo below is the guitarist of Der Mittlegang, a shadowy Vancouver group who occasionally paid homage to artists such as my old hero David Bowie by wearing creative face paint. I decided to marry him (not Bowie as Iman had already sunk her claws into him) as long as he promised to finance most of our cosmetics and get his own eye pencils.

Class, meet Mr Chris Nicol!