By Noah Hubbell
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Tom Murphy
By Noah Hubbell
By Alex Distefano
By Darryl Smyers
By Jon Solomon
By Britt Chester
Amanda Rootes, the aptly named platinum blonde who fronts the English punk outfit Fluffy, has something important on her agenda. She reveals, "We're just about to get our wigs done."
Do any of you punk-rockers have a problem with that? If so, you're hereby instructed to share your feelings with vocalist/guitarist Rootes and her fellow Fluffs--bassist Helen Storer, guitarist Bridget Jones and drummer Angie Adams. But should you be so bold, prepare yourself for a scrap. Rootes, you see, believes that there's nothing wrong with her particular approach to popular music--and she's prepared to deliver a very specific response to anyone who disagrees. "I'll tell them to fuck off," she vows in an accent so thick it needs stirring. "And if I meet them, I'll punch them in the fucking face. Goodbye."
As these comments imply, reports about Rootes's colorful use of profanities are not exaggerated. Speaking from Storer's London apartment, she makes the Jack Nicholson character in The Last Detail seem like Miss Manners by comparison; she's never used an expletive she didn't like and seems to believe that such terms gain power by repetition. But if her approach to verbal intercourse seems like an affectation, it's one that provides a key to the racket on Black Eye, Fluffy's debut long-player. The musicians thrive on the contrast between their stylish exteriors and their songs, which pay tribute to the most scabrous brand of Seventies punk. But fortunately, they've got the sonic moxie to back up their poses. On first listen, "Hypersonic," Black Eye's lead single, seems like little more than a novelty: The ditty is a love song to a vibrator, with Rootes barking out lines such as "Gotta thrust further, gotta touch the cream...Need to get higher where I can't be found." But in the context of cuts like "Cosmetic Dog," a slap at supermodels, and the domestic drama "Husband," such juvenilia becomes an end in and of itself. Produced in diamond-hard fashion by Clash collaborator Bill Price, the CD is snotty, rude and genuinely moronic in all the right ways.
Of course, it's also something of a nostalgia trip for aging slam dancers: Like so many acts these days, Fluffy pretty much reproduces vintage punk rather than attempting to use it as a jumping-off point for new adventures. Rootes, however, refuses to apologize for this tack. When asked what response she would offer to reviewers who accuse Fluffy of doing nothing more than recycling riffs originated by the Ramones and the Stooges, she replies, "That's a great compliment. Thank you very much.
"I guess our influences are twenty years old," she concedes. "But we're girls of the Nineties, and that's why we've taken it over on our own. Isn't everything like that? You always take whatever you're into to the time that you're in and repackage it and put it in an album. That's just what people do. What's the big fucking surprise about that?"
Besides, Rootes claims, all the music coming out of England these days is retro to some degree. It's just a matter of what's being copied. "You're not really allowed to be a rock band in England these days," she says. "Rock doesn't really chart here, so you won't be played on the radio. They'll only play you if you're a pop band or an indie band--there's just so much indie-schmindie bullshit.
"Eighties pop killed rock. With all of these soap stars who got turned into pop stars, people just got used to listening to very boring shit, and that hasn't really changed. Now they're just listening to a rehash of the Beatles and the Stones--a really second-rate, shit version. Maybe it's from people in England being in the war and having to make do on rations--maybe that's why their tastes got used to bland things. But it just seems like they're not ready to deal with anything else."
As Rootes tells it, her fondness for the music of the Sex Pistols and the fashion sense of the Seventies-era glam movement made her the odd-woman-out during her formative years. "I never fit in when I was first going to clubs in London," she reveals. "I would go, and I would be looking very glamorous and like I was really into rock music. But I'd be surrounded by people who were like, 'What is this shit?'"
Adams had gone through many of the same experiences--and after meeting Rootes at the London design school both were attending, the two began writing songs together. Shortly thereafter, they recruited Storer and bassist Pandora Ormsby-Gore (later replaced by Jones) and began performing live. The dates created only a moderate stir in England, but the buzz was loud enough to attract the attention of Tom Zutaut, a Geffen Records expatriate who had a deal with EMI to run his own label, dubbed the Enclave. The 1995 Fluffy EP 5 Live became the Enclave's first release, and Black Eye, issued in the next year, was its first critical success.
Not that everyone has fallen for Fluffy. Some scribes have dismissed the band's style as shtick and have charged the four with using their gender as a marketing tool--an accusation that really gets Rootes's blood flowing. "That's the press's fucking angle, not ours," she snaps. "And I think it's a sexist thing. I mean, we're into glamour and sex, but so were the New York Dolls and lots of other bands we really love, and they were never told that they were just selling their records purely because of their gender." Others have taken Fluffy to task for Rootes's fascination with alcohol, a topic that pops up again and again in songs like "Technicolour Yawn" ("Woke up in a bed of vomit...Don't tell me what I did last night"), "Scream" ("I'm not as drunk as I seem"), "Dirty Old Bird" ("Drunk again") and the self-explanatory "I Wanna Be Your Lush." Rootes, whose living quarters during her youth were directly over a bar owned by her parents, chalks up such complaints to cultural peculiarities.