C81, various artists (1981)

NME readers had to clip out a couple of coupons from the newspaper, and mail those in with £1.50, to order their copy of the cassette. According to Wikipedia, 25,000 copies were mailed out, following which C81 received its own commercial release later that year.

I was a regular NME reader at the time — its contents better aligned with my interests than Melody Maker or Sounds, though its occasional intellectualism and pretentiousness sometimes left me baffled. Over the years, I developed an affinity towards some of its writers (like Paul Morley and Ian Penman) and built up stacks of back issues in my flat.

NME pointed me towards a whole range of new music, only some of which I was familiar with; pre-internet, there was a massive range of artists and bands which I may have read about but had not yet heard. C81 provided a remarkable jumping off point to help with this dilemma — for example, I had been reading about Pere Ubu for a while, but it was only on the back of listening to C81’s live version of their “Misery Goats” that I was prompted (with much satisfaction) to dive into their back catalogue.

The likes of Uncut and Mojo magazines now provide complimentary CD compilations with every edition. C81 was a precursor to that provision, and heralded a range of other NME cassettes in subsequent years, from equally influential markers of independent music scenes (the C86 compilation) to collections of vintage tracks from Stax Records.

C81, however, was marked by its diverse representation of many artists, bands and styles from the late 70s and early 80s, including some of their key tracks, alternate or live versions of some songs, and a mix of well-known names rubbing up against many who were emergent or unknown.

Opening with Scritti Politti’s “The “Sweetest Girl”” set the bar high. I’d understood this band were usually scratchy and abrasive, but this was grounded with a luscious melodic bassline, swooning vocal, piano, synthetic percussion and a dub sensibility. Seemingly a sweet love song, its ironic tone and the title’s quotation marks pointed towards a more ambiguous discourse. The Beat’s intricately rhythmic and spacious ska camenext, admirably showcased with their “Twist And Crawl Dub”, and then we crashed into the roudy live recording of Pere Ubu’s “Misery Goats” — a song which also twists and crawls, but to a dark industrial beat, with David Thomas’ eerily possessed vocals leading the charge: “Looka here. Here comes the poetry! I’m a cave with the wind inside. I’m a shell with the sound of the surf inside!”

Dotted across C81’s 24 tracks, various music scenes were represented, some defined around labels or styles, and some more categorisable than others.

Electronic or synthesised music, seemingly broadcast from dank basements while rubbing up against a dark pop sensibility, was shown with Cabaret Voltaire’s “Raising The Count” and a sweaty live recording of D.A.F.’s “Kebab Traume”, the latter with particularly unsettling, screamed vocals. Virgin Prunes’ “Red Nettle” is a stereo-panning circular repetition, a corrupted and debased anthem, which starts, proceeds and concludes — in some ways it felt like an interlude, but within C81 it fit neatly with the ever-changing focus of the tracklist.

A broad range of independent guitar bands were included, from Blue Orchids’ chugging and cavernous “Low Profile” to Subway Sect closing C81’s second side with “Parallel Lines” (on the cassette inlay, its credits only say “dedicated to all those who hate Radio One”).

Raincoats’ fluid, spacious “Shouting Out Loud” explored shape-shifting terrain, and kept surprising as it moved along — alongside Pere Ubu, it’s one of C81’s singular moments. Both seem to contain multitudes.

Essential Logic’s “Fanfare In The Garden” was another standout: scratchy rhythm guitar and circular bass propelled the song forwards, with vivid saxophone embellishments. Alongside that, Red Crayola offered“Milkmaid”, which sounds totally of that time — unsurprisingly, as I later found out the musicians included Lora Logic (Essential Logic), Gina Birch (Raincoats) and Allen Ravenstine (Pere Ubu).

Some top 40 artists were included, including The Specials and Ian Dury, whose “Close to Home”, recorded in 1977 — one of the earliest tracks on C81 — had a warm and intimate pub rock feeling.

James Blood Ulmer’s “Jazz Is The Teacher, Funk Is The Preacher” drove forward on its atmospheric bass, with smatterings of echoey dub, and, while it couldn’t be confused with A Certain Ratio’s work, was also dense and claustrophobic.

Stewart Moxham’s post-Young Marble Giants band Gist opened out YMG’s sound with the pleasing acoustic instrumental “Greener Grass”, while still being grounded in bass guitar and synthesised rhythms.

Postcard Records, though short-lived relative to many other important independent labels of the time, certainly punched above its weight, and introduced some of the key artists of the 80s and beyond. C81 introduced me to Postcard at its best. Edwyn Collins led Orange Juice through their tortuously romantic highlight “Blue Boy”; Josef K’s “Endless Soul” was a prime example of their restless clanky pop, and felt like it struggled to contain its manic energy; and mature-beyond-his-teenage-years Roddy Frame provided what sounded like a tinny demo version of Aztec Camera’s early classic “We Could Send Letters”, its fragility enhanced by a slightly wobbly delivery. Books could be written about those three tracks alone.

The singular and less easily categorisable were also present. Robert Wyatt’s poignant, political and poetic “Born Again Cretin” felt like a career highlight (one of many), while Furious Pig’s “Bare Pork” was one and half minutes of thundering vocalised bedlam — and apart from a Rough Trade EP, the only track the band released. The Massed Carnaby St John Cooper Clarke’s classic “The Day My Pad Went Mad”, reflected post-punk’s relationship with the written and spoken word — “I was ankle-deep in human waste, the toilet had been clogged. Marrowbone jelly all over the place, I don’t even have a dog.”

The Rough Trade label was, of course, strongly represented, along with tracks from other seminal labels, including Mute, Postcard, 2-Tone and Go-Feet. But even with so many artists of this high quality, it’s sobering to consider what’s not included from that time. C81 is dominated by UK-based artists, but whilst Orange Juice, Aztec Camera and Josef K from Glasgow’s Postcard label are represented, there is no equivalent broad showcasing of, say, Liverpool’s Echo and the Bunnymen and The Teardrop Explodes (though “7,000 names of Wah!” from Pete Wiley’s lesser-heard Wah! Heat more than stamped its feet for attention), or Manchester’s New Order, A Certain Ratio and The Fall (though one of Buzzcocks’ final songs “I Look Alone” showed they remained at the height of their powers in delivering three minutes of fiery pop genius — written by Pete Shelley, recorded by Martin Hannett and produced by Martin Rushent, all key players from the time).

In totality, C81 demonstrated the diversity and strengths of the post-punk era and its openness to rhythm, texture, critique, with a foregrounding of artistic and political sensibilities — and crucially linked many artists and bands to new listeners. For me, there were no fillers across its 24 tracks.

Not all of these artists would welcome the ‘post-punk’ label, of course, but C81 is regarded as an important marker of the time. Simon Reynolds, in his book Rip It Up and Start Again: Post-Punk 1978-1984 said, “C81 was in many ways post punk’s swan song. The epoch it defined was already crumbling,” referring to the emerging ‘New Pop’ era.

Perhaps due to licensing issues, C81 has not been reissued — unlike NME’s C86, which remains available in an expanded edition. You can find the C81 compilation online, but a reissue, with a fuller history of its development, alongside reflections on the music, the music press, the labels, and that time, would be most welcome.

CJ Mitchell runs the False Walls label