Yesterday morning I went to a hairdresser for the first time since 1963. I got much the same mod-ified Beatle cut this time as I got that time, and I spent the afternoon propped up against the counter of the local record shop, chatting with the Saturday crowd of DJs and promoters and salesmen while around us the punk kids bustled about their business.

Star of the afternoon was a ten-yearold with a dog’s collar and a pearl stud in one ear—he’s the lead anger of a group called Urban Blight. Tim behind the counter has started a punk reggae band called The Automatics and someone’s brother turned out to be Roddy of Roddy and the Radiators. The shop was full of dreadlocks and black eye shadow and dungarees and the records of the afternoon were Dillinger’s “Cokane In My Brain”, the most monotonous reggae record ever made, Kraftwerk’s “Showroom Dummies”, ’nuff said, and Jonathan Richman’s instant musical box, “Egyptian Reggae”. Every two minutes someone asked for the new Sex pistols—out next Wednesday.