Reclaim Lancaster

Reclaim Lancaster! - The Jericho Effect.

by Graeme Chesters and Neil Clarke.

Introduction

‘The Dalton Square Street Festival was the sanest thing to happen in Lancaster for a long time, and a happy revival for an old Georgian Square. I hope that everyone who thinks streets should be for living in and not just driving through, will bring their family and friends (and horses) to the next one, whenever that is.’ (Letter to the Lancaster Guardian, June 12th 1998:6).

Lancaster is a small place. To its west is Morecambe, a seaside resort on one of the most beautiful bays in the country, its promenade view encompassing the Lakeland Fells and rolling hills of south Cumbria. To its east is the moorland of Bowland Forest and the three peaks of the North Yorkshire National Park. In short, life in this northern town, should be everything ‘it’s cracked up to be’. Yet to the west the sky line is pierced by two Nuclear Power Stations - Heysham 1 and 2, to the east the Duke of Westminster has bought up and enclosed much of the open moor, leaving those who have worked and walked the land for generations excluded. Enclosure dominates our very existence, not least in the City itself. From the corner of the Town Hall, the supposed seat of local democracy, CCTV tracks across an island of civic space detached from the city centre by three lanes of traffic. Dalton Square, formerly a place to meet, gather, talk and interact, is little more than a car park for a chain pub with a tacky name, cut off from the neatly pedestrianised precincts of the City, where it is possible to shop at all the stores you can find in any other city, in any other county, in any other place in Britain. You already know what it looks like because your town or city looks the same, the triumph of the commodity has become the triumph of the banal.

So how does Reclaim the Streets come in to the situation, how do people tired of being spectators at their own lives, remember what it is to live, and bring this life back to the city, in all its spiralling, colourful, chaos. This is what this article seeks to find out. How can you take back the streets, re-vision the city and carry that vision beyond the temporary autonomous zone[1] you created? It’s not a blueprint for a street party, a festival or a dust up with the police, although we believe some of our conclusions to be important. Rather it’s us telling how it felt, what it involved, and hoping that it encourages ourselves and others to do something similar.

The G8 Jaunt.

Saturday 16th May 1998, I’m stood on the central reservation of a dual carriageway in the middle of Birmingham, around me there’s a party going on, people dance, juggle, perform comically melodramatic theatre and they’re happy. You can see it on their faces, even the very drunk ones. Earlier I watched transfixed as the police lines were swept from the road by a crowd of happy people, some call them hippies, but it doesn’t quite capture the scene, to me they’re happies and you could see it as they pushed the police back along the road. This happiness, is not some bourgeois, fluffy ideal, it’s a sense of active participation, increased autonomy through co-operation. There was no violence, but plenty of force, a collective will manifested in the desire to reclaim the road. I charged up it with everyone else, danced on the vast roundabout at the top and bumped into a tall guy from Lancaster. Now stood on the central reservation I can see other people from Lancaster, the woman dancing below me, the tall guy dancing the other side of the drummers, Oz, who jumps up alongside me and gives me a hug. We’re watching the police lines move slowly towards where we are, whilst the dancers and jugglers move to meet them, halting their advance and holding the space. Briefly we discuss next week, and ‘our’ party, what will happen, how many will come, how will the police act, how the hell can we live up to this?

‘Anti-car protesters brought Birmingham to a grinding halt yesterday. Thousands of anarchists occupied city centre streets in defiance of the massed ranks of hundreds of police. The demonstration marked the end of a day of protest designed to coincide with the G8 Summit of international leaders.’ Taylor, B & Walker, J. (1998) ‘Brum shut off by road demo’ Sunday Mercury, May 17th:1.

We knew, of course, that we couldn’t live up to it and that wasn’t the point, we just needed to talk about it. Everyone was meeting up again on Wednesday and there was still loads of stuff we hadn’t sorted out. We came back to Lancaster tired out and fired up.

Strange Bedfellows?

‘What right have one group of people to force their views on other groups of people and prevent them from going about their lawful business? Surely this comes under the Criminal Justice Bill! I find it ridiculous and absolutely disgusting that these ‘protesters’ can block a public road.....’ (Letter to the Lancaster Guardian, June 12th 1998:6).

The ‘Silver Commander’, a Superintendent in charge of policing what our posters called the ‘First Lancaster Free Street Festival’, signed Section 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 (CJ&POA), on the morning of the 23rd May 1998. An order to stop and search any person or vehicle they felt like within a five mile radius of Dalton Square. This Section of the Act reads as follows and is referred to in the above excerpt from the only critical letter published in the local press,

‘Section 60, (1) Where a police officer of or above the rank of superintendent reasonably believes that-

(a) incidents involving serious violence may take place in any locality in his area, and

(b) it is expedient to do so to prevent their occurrence he may give an authorisation that the powers to stop and search persons and vehicles conferred by this section shall be exercisable at any place within that locality for a period not exceeding twenty four hours.’ (Wasik & Taylor, 1995:186, my emphasis).

The police have all the powers they need, and more. An event advertised as involving ‘food, fun, frolics, music, juggling... etc’ was to the police an occasion to anticipate ‘serious violence’, yet in every post-hoc rationalisation of their actions they failed to demonstrate any concrete evidence of violent intent on our behalf, due, of course to the fact that we didn’t have any!

The CJ&POA is an act of enclosure, plain and simple, and rooted within it is the reason why Reclaim The Streets is an essential part of any project for radical social transformation. As one of the most draconian pieces of legislation passed by parliament, it sought to criminalise the space of protest and exclude from the land all those who would use it differently. Section 68 criminalised trespass for the first time, and anyone who might deliberately or inadvertently interfere with the ‘lawful activity’ of persons owning land or employed by the landowner, even if those activities include hunting with hounds or planting genetically modified crops, became liable for up to 3 months imprisonment. Travellers had their right to protected sites removed in an attempt to fragment their communities[2], any group parking up with more than six vehicles could find their homes confiscated and destroyed, whilst they received the bill for the destruction. (Sections 77-80). Dance culture was effectively criminalised, outside of the closeted and dangerous night-clubs where promoters could pack the punters in and rake in the cash. The warehouses, quarries, woods and pastures that had briefly been reclaimed were once more enclosed as the music of ‘repetitive beats’ became intrinsically criminalised unless captured behind the walls of the commodity culture. Every last space, be it physical or cognitive had to be subject to a disciplinary regime, built upon, and for, the assimilation and recuperation of our energy, time and creativity. The resistance that the CJ&POA criminalised was the resistance that runs through Reclaim The Streets, in this sense RTS will always be criminal and indeed should be, the resistance of the pushed out, marginalised and excluded, from the traveller to the asthmatic child to the free party goers, the old and young that struggle to cross the roads and the communities that are driven through, but never paid attention to. In this sense we wholeheartedly agree with our critic in the local press, what right do one group of people, the rich, powerful and polluting have, that they see fit to force their views on ordinary people.

So Lancaster RTS, a mixed bag of local green activists, free party organisers, (not so) ordinary working people, the unemployed, mums, dads and kids were not such strange bedfellows after all. These very same networks and alliances which cut across social divisions have arisen in all corners of Britain in the last few years, fighting the expansion of roads and runways, the closure of essential services and the lack of a meaningful participatory democracy. Questions about who makes the decisions effecting the environment in which we live and the quality of life we derive from that environment, and each other, are central to these networks. That Lancaster RTS chose not to ask permission from the police and council to have a street festival in Dalton Square, brought the power of the state down upon us in the shape of Section 60. Apparently not asking permission is tantamount to threatening ‘serious violence’, because in the words of the most senior police officer in the area: ‘disorder is violence’[3], and order is only those forms of behaviour which are deemed satisfactory by the police.[4]

That way there be Dragons?

So, how did it happen, what did it feel like, and how could it have been better? The two accounts below are told by people who played different parts on the day. They don’t do justice to the range of people involved, or the variety of experiences which were constructed and lived by those participating. Hopefully, however, they manage to capture something of its essential character, not in terms of the chaos of colour and sound, or the chronology of unfolding events, but rather, in what it meant to briefly remind ourselves of how things could be. To work closely with people we only knew to nod at before, to trust others to take risks for us all and to enjoy a sense of collective purpose, wholly at odds with our previous experience of the fragmented individualism of the city. The liberation of space we intended, and carried out, established certain emotive and affective bonds which have persevered, we know now that it can be done, what shape it takes we can argue about, but we’ve seen the fire exit which leads us out of a culture controlled and disciplined for the sake of profiteers. There’s no going back.

Graeme’s Account

Friday Night

I remember Friday night for a number of reasons, it was the night before the Street Party and everyone was meeting up at the community centre, there was going to be talk, banner making, mask painting, bicycle decorating and no doubt some beer drinking. In the event the fumes from the paint spray were enough to get everyone high without even worrying about having a pint. People drifted in at different points from 7.30 onwards and the talk was largely about the first signs of police intervention. They’d rang up different hire shops and put the squeeze on anyone who might consider lending equipment for a sound system. Maybe they also knew the names of those hiring it. I felt strangely happy. Good this was it, it was happening after all, it was almost as if their intervention, their acknowledgement of us, made it somehow more real. Things began to focus in a way that perhaps they hadn’t done before. We all become a lot more logistical and goal oriented. Were we to give up on having amplified sound, go talk to the police, carry on regardless, or what? Various approaches were discussed and a lot of anxiety began to surface. How did they know who we were, where did they get the names from? Paranoia begins to creep in very quickly, if you allow it. We learned afterwards that the names the police came up with were those given to them by the hire shop, there was no great surveillance operation and their attempts at gaining intelligence were largely proven to be inept. This is not to say that the police are not capable of such operations, it’s been shown time and again that they are, however it’s worth bearing in mind that the smaller the town or city the less resources the police have access to, and the less likely their budget can stretch to serious infiltration. Picking up a telephone and ringing around a few hire shops costs nothing and it is very intimidating for those picking up the phone to be told ‘This is the police special intelligence unit’.

As the conversation ranged between different groups, sometimes gathered on the stairs, or in the bar, or inadvertently inhaling paint fumes upstairs, a hardening of our position began to emerge. It was obvious the police had decided there was to be no sound system, equally it was obvious to us that we needed to make an attempt to get one to the party, we had advertised this as part of the days events and made a commitment to carry it through. Over a number of meetings we had thrashed out the plan for the day, a plan which made sense in Lancaster, but was going to be different to the form of many other RTS events, that is, we would meet where the party was to be held. The sound system was an integral part of this plan. We would meet in Dalton Square re-open it to the people as a space for music, food and play, and then reclaim the road running between the square and the Town Hall, although a minor road it would have immense symbolic potential. We reclaim the street and in doing so we reclaim the seat of local democracy, bringing it once more within the grasp of the townsfolk, in an instant the City becomes alive again. The sound system would be placed at the top of the square facing the Town Hall and people could sit, talk, eat or dance on its steps. That was the plan. We had tried to keep it local and as rooted in what was going on in the city as possible, however there was talk of reclaiming the A6, the main road between the square and the rest of the city if people came in sufficient numbers, and in the end this is what happened, albeit through an errant Dragon in a way none of us had envisaged.

Friday night ended with a feeling of collective unity and strength and a fair dose of apprehension, decisions had been made and commitments were undertaken which even a couple of hours beforehand seemed unlikely, everyone was doing something, and that was enough to make sure it happened. We had decorators, drummers, caterers, artists, booksellers and bakers, we had DJ’s, sound crews, legal support, drivers and some dodgy hangers on, and most people were at least two or three of all of them.

Saturday

For the most part I’ll leave an account of the day itself to Neil. For my part I remember vividly two or three things which were comical, terrifying and hugely satisfying often all at the same time. Standing in Dalton Square resisting a mob handed intrusion by the police to search for sound equipment, holding our ground until they withdrew, feeling their power slip away and the moral ambiguity of their role become exposed. Later, the comic sight of the Inspector in charge, unable to bring himself to talk to the dragon he was vainly attempting to push away from the road, and instead shouting over its’ shoulder ‘err err the dragon seems to be going for a wander!’ as people ran past him into the newly reclaimed street. Then running towards the vehicle with the sound system as it was engulfed by people and police, each second seemingly closer to watching our friend Oz ripped from the car. Then, amongst the chaos of police horses and vans, relief as Neil managed to back out, the sound system lost to the police, but his escape made good. Finally, leaving the A6 and returning on mass back into Dalton Square, air horns, drums and woops, ducking under a banner which said ‘More of this sort of thing’ .

Neil’s account

I can’t tell you why I got involved in all this, but its got something to do with being a father. You see the thing is, when I was playing with my kids in the garden (the one I've wanted since they started toddling), my boys thought I’d gone bonkers when I suddenly jumped over the wall and start miming at the rapidly approaching car (engine revving, base-bin thumping) to “Slowww Dowwwn”. When I was their age I played football in the street all the time. Now, with a garden at last, I worry when my kids are on the other side of the wall - and I hate the idea of a garden as nothing more than an organic play-pen.

So, during all those planning meetings for an RTS in Lancaster, I’m thinking of suggesting we do it on such a road as mine - and we can get the kids back on the street. As for the others, in the main, they prefer the centre of town. G already told you about the plan we settled on (eventually), and that the dragon didn’t stick to it (that’s Dragons for you!).

Nevertheless, I contributed here and there to the planning meetings, and I was seen not so much as a Dad, but rather as a “DJ” (combining these isn't easy: I wonder why there aren’t more women doing it?).

Now, what would incline me to play such a ‘Gig?’ Because “DJ’s” are the sort who play wherever, whenever ...? Well, I was asked, and I said I would, but that didn't stop me having second (and third, fourth and fifth ...) thoughts. But I should tell you something else first: I went to all those meetings for the same reasons I started DJing - because when you play this music, it demands to be heard in company - more than that - in a community, and regularly. Simple as that?

Well no, I don't believe it is for me. My DJ-ing-thing had been cornered into a pub function room, and into the dreaded overheads that ensue, but I didn't mind that (so long as the door take covered them). I did it in the same room every month for three years, a hundred yards or so from my home. And all this time, local faces could be seen mixing with students who come and go, or stay: and for me it was my night out; feeling younger at thirty two than I did at twenty two. It might have been nice to stay up all night - if I didn't want to get up with the kids first thing. Sure it would have been nice to do it al fresco, but I had to use what I had practical access to (and so do you): and a one-man-band like mine finds it difficult humping all that sound gear through the woods.

But I did mind when I had to give even my pub-corner up - and I got cornered into my living room. Sad. Ideally, I suppose I’d have been well suited with organising a regular local festival: I’d had flights of fancy about using my town hall, or next to that lovely structure in my park, or that square in the middle of my town, all on a balmy summer’s evening ... But, what were the chances of pulling that of? It would have to be a collective effort, and ...

Now, RTS comes along, and it is about partying, it is about carnival, it is about doing things in the street - in my community - that are usually corralled into a corner, somewhere. So its a chance to play out again? Well yes, but its quite a daunting prospect when its: “All a bit E-legal (as they used to say), a bit whaaayy, woooo, fishchhh - all-a-bit-dodgyyy!”. This makes it more than a party, a carnival (unless you just get off your chump and go for it): This makes it to be about action, about commitment and about trying to OPEN-UP-SOME-SPACE - but for whom?

And there’s the rub. For whom? For me? Well yes, but for who else? The party people? Of course, but for who else? Ah, yes, the COMMUNITY. Do they want it? Some clearly do, others don’t. Well thats OK, they might get to like it. And then I find myself thinking about the old ladies, and perhaps those old guys that have left their own little eden of an allotment for a trip to town on a Saturday afternoon: How can they be persuaded? How about some hardcore techno, or some frantic drum & bass? Who the fuck are we kidding! COMMUNITY means more than a buncha-E-munchas!

So I get my selection sorted in my head: we'll start with Zorba’s dance, and I’ll try to keep them all smiling. But what’s this, its Friday night and we’ve no sound system! The call goes up: “We need an out-of-towner. Who’s gonna get us one?” Ooo, scary. I find myself clearing my throat: “I’ll try in the morning”. What have I done!

Saturday comes and me and Barly-Mcgrew (you know who) spend over two hours on the phone, we eventually get one, pick it up and hide it out of sight - sorted!

But there’s more: we all mill about; shall we, shan’t we, who’s going to volunteer to bring it in. Ooo, scary. I find my throat tightening: “I’ll do it”. What have I done!!? So we hatch a cunning plan [classified] ... and put it into action. My new partner Oz is with me as we walk to get the gear. He asks: “Well what do you think about all this then?” I think and nothing comes to mind: “I’ll tell you in a day or two”. It's the best I can come up with.

Before I know it, the plan is turning from a peachy-textured lusciousness to pear-shape and I find myself alone in the car, surrounded first by a load of horses arses (literally), and then (also too late) by my fellow conspirators and party-goers. I’ve done it now thinks I.

In pops a coppa, “I’ll take that” and he’s off with the car-key (to add to the collection of speakers and generators they’ve just swiped). Its strangely quiet inside the car, until PC Take-That pops his head in again: “I’m givin’ you back the key. When I say, start the car, reverse it out, go away - and DON’T COME BACK!”

But I did go back (don’t tell), and got engaged in a bit of bargaining with the ‘Siver-Surfer-Commander’ guy (or something like that). And I wouldn’t have been so ready to do that last week.

We didn’t get it back, and credit should go to where it is due: to those drummers who just sat down in the road and played until some of their fingers bled; and the people who danced; and the people who painted and the people who dressed up; and the people who turned up; and to the people who followed-up. Thanks too to the kids that played football (before Colin's dogs popped it!) - they all just did it. So should you.

I didn’t get to play my music on the day, but I still feel as though I was part of something, some community of sorts. I don’t know about the Jericho analogy: they went round the outside and got in didn’t they? It seems to me to be more a case of my own wall, holding me in, and I got out for a bit. I gave it a try, and I’ll do it again - so should you!

A Revolution of Everyday Life?

‘To work for delight and authentic festivity is barely distinguishable from preparing for a general insurrection.’ (Raoul Vaneigem, The Revolution of Everyday Life, 1994:51)

Lancaster RTS didn’t change the world, it changed our world. For once we saw the possibility of freely recreating the spaces others have regulated and disciplined. We wove insurrection into the fabric of our city, resisting the forced pace of the commodity, we discovered how things look differently when we remember how we imagined them. It wasn’t about a party, or a roads protest, it was about stepping out, loosing the skin we clothe ourselves in, when we conform to the drudgery of a life mapped out physically, spacially, psychologically and psychoactively by profiteers. One of the things I remember most was talking with the others over a pint, a woman with wings and a Top Hat, someone who’d thought the day into being, told us of how she felt walking around Lancaster since. ‘It feels like your part of a big plot, we know what’s going on and they (the police) don’t, and even we never know what we’re capable of doing next.’

Footnotes