In Memory of David Strachan, a Yorkshire Scot

  • Guest blogger Val Hewson, from the Reading Sheffield project, tells the story of David Strachan, a Leeds librarian who died in the First World War. Val came across him by chance, in a 1923 article in the Library Association Record about plans for a memorial to librarians lost in the war.

One hundred years ago today, on 29 December 1916, Captain David Livingstone Strachan of the West Yorkshire Regiment died, a casualty of the First World War. He was one of around 670,000 British army personnel, and one of 10,000 people from Leeds, to die on war service.  He is unique in being the only Leeds librarian to lose his life.  He was 27 years old.

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In 1914 David Strachan was an assistant librarian in the Central Library in Calverley Street. He worked in the Reference Library, then located in the 2nd floor room now occupied by Local History.  The tables there today are apparently the original furniture, and Strachan presumably worked at them.  Much of the research for this post was done at those tables.

An image of the room where David Strachan worked, as it is now and how it would have looked when he was here

An image of the room where David Strachan worked, a merged view of how it is now and how it would have looked when he was here

Strachan was born on 24 March 1889 in Sheepscar, the second youngest of eight children. His parents, John and Annie, were Scottish and had settled in a part of Leeds where many Scots lived.  On official forms John described himself as a bookseller or bookseller’s assistant.  It’s tempting to think that books were valued in his family and led to his son’s profession.

David Strachan became one of the earliest Scouts in Leeds. In 1908 Baden-Powell published Scouting for Boys, advocating woodcraft and the like to train boys for adulthood, and patrols started up everywhere.  Strachan established the 4th North East Leeds Caledonians[1] in Harehills.  The name reflects his and the community’s part-Scottish identity, as does wearing the kilt for uniform.  ‘Scoutmaster Strachan’ was sometimes quoted in the Leeds Mercury, for example for instituting a domestic cookery test for his troop.

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When Baden-Powell visited Leeds in June 1914 for a rally of 3,000 Scouts before the Town Hall, David Strachan and his troop were surely on parade. In his speech, the Chief Scout described the movement as ‘insurance for the country’, a way to ‘prevent human and inhuman waste’ and, he hoped, a ‘stepping-stone towards universal peace’.[2]

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Programme for the visit of the Chief Scout to Leeds in 1914. From the Local and Family History collection

But war came just months later, and Strachan joined the West Yorkshire Regiment (1/6th  battalion) – an act recorded in Leeds Libraries’ 1914 report. [IMAGE OF 1914 REPORT] He was commissioned in June 1915 and promoted to captain in July 1916.  The battalion travelled to France that year, to the Battle of the Somme, which left over a million dead and wounded on all sides.  We have no record of Strachan’s role, but his battalion took its turn in the front line:

… On the left the 146th Brigade…did not do so well: most of the 1/6th West Yorkshire, being enfiladed by machine-gun fire … failed to force an entry into the German front trench… (Official History, 3 September 1916)

… casualties for the day were: officers wounded – 3, officers missing – 3, other ranks killed – 30, other ranks wounded – 172, other ranks missing – 33.   (1/6th battalion war diary, 3 September 1916)

According to the Yorkshire Evening Post,[3] Strachan was invalided home in late 1916 ‘as a result of his strenuous efforts at the front’.  He came to the 2nd Northern General Hospital at Beckett Park, Leeds, where ‘his illness unfortunately developed’ and he died just after Christmas 1916.  He was one of 226 reported deaths out of 57,000 patients.  What killed him was meningococcal meningitis, a bacterial infection of the membranes around the brain and spinal cord.  Meningitis can be fatal today, and was more likely to be so in 1916 when treatment was difficult.  The Official History of the Great War[4] records 393 cases, with a death rate of 35% for 1916.   Meningitis could mean: delirium, photophobia, muscular rigidity, incontinence, sepsis, hydrocephalus and gangrene.  The Official History clinically notes ‘agonising pain’.  It was a miserable death.

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On 2 January 1917, there was a military funeral at Lawnswood. Mourners included the Strachan family, brother officers, Leeds Chief Librarian T W Hand and, said the Leeds Mercury, ‘a large number of Boy Scouts [including] the 4th North Leeds Caledonians’.  The grave, with its Celtic cross marker, is next to the War Graves enclosure where Strachan’s name is carved on the memorial.

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David Strachan’s death was noted in the Leeds Libraries’ report for 1916. He is formally  remembered by Clan Strachan and on the Leeds and Scouts Rolls of Honour, the Scottish National War Memorial and the Library Association memorial at the British Library in London.

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But more touching are the annual memorials his family put in the Leeds Mercury and his Scouts’ decision to change their name to Strachan’s Caledonians.

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If any member of the Strachan family reads this, please get in touch.

Thanks to Antony Ramm of the Leeds Local History Library and Richard Wilcocks, who wrote Stories from the War Hospital about Beckett Park, for their help; and to the staff of the British Library for letting Val see the Library Association memorial.

Leeds Local History Library has a wealth of material about the city’s First World War experience including newspapers, photographs, official records, books and maps. A research guide listing highlights from the collection is available on this site. 

[1] Sometimes called the 4th North Leeds Caledonians.

[2] Yorkshire Post, 8 June 1914.

[3] Yorkshire Evening Post, 30 December 1916.

[4] History of the Great War Based on Official Documents, Medical History of the War: Diseases of the War, Vol I.

Chicks, cigars and wine-drinking toddlers: A Victorian Christmas

  • by Vickie Bennett, Art Library, Leeds Central Library

In the Art Library we currently have one of our favourite handmade items on display to coincide with our charity Christmas card shop – the ‘Victorian Scrapbook’ of scraps and greetings cards. A donation to the library in the 1990’s, and a visual feast for any fan of illustration and typography, not a lot is actually known about the scrapbook’s origins, but messages in the cards are addressed to an Ethel Mills, her husband Edwin and son John.

Seasonal and sentimental imagery decorate each page, alongside cards from friends and relatives, and it’s obvious that a lot of time and energy has been poured into its meticulous curation, which dates back to the late 19th century. Scrapbooking was a common pastime for Victorian women and girls, and was a way of collating sentimental bits and pieces into one place. The books from this era include titbits of personal value, including invitations to social gatherings and events, or school merit slips and similar accolades. They were shown to friends and family as a measure of achievement and reminiscence.

The commercial potential of scrapbooking was capitalised on as colour printing methods advanced in the late 19th Century, and illustrative scraps and die-cuts then began to be produced and sold solely for scrapbooking purposes. The art of scrapbooking was able to become more sophisticated, as pages that would have consisted of a few pieces could now be curated from a mixture of treasured items and bought images, creating books filled to the brim with colourful ornamentation. The books allowed their makers to show self-expression and ownership in how they themed and curated the layout and imagery inside, picking which parts of their life they wanted to remember and others to see – much in the same way we curate our output on social media today. Ethel must have been a fan of animals, as her pages are filled with them.

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The Christmas cards inside Ethel’s scrapbook are lovely, but strangely unseasonable. The book exists in a time where the commerciality of Christmas had begun, but the snow and Santa that we associate with the holidays had not yet been fully established. Victorian Santa bears as much likeness to the Green Man as he does with today’s red-suited gift giver – appearing in a green or red cloth cap with a wreath of ivy or bunch of holly at each ear.

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The card designs range from ‘traditional’ scenes of snow and robins, to motifs we’d now consider too spring-like for Christmas, such as baby chicks and cherry blossom. Cigars, hay bales, and swan-riding angels also feature – all printed on small, delicate slips of paper with hand-penned best wishes.

The tradition of sending Christmas cards began a few decades earlier, with the first commercial card commissioned by civil servant Sir Henry Cole in 1843. Cole apparently came up with the idea as a way of saving time – a quick posted greeting as opposed to writing letters to friends, family, colleagues and acquaintances. It was perhaps a shrewd invention, as he had helped to introduce the Penny Post a few years prior, which created affordable postage for the working classes. Nonetheless, by the time Ethel’s scrapbook was being collated, the sending of cards had become so popular that over 12 million were being produced in Britain each year.

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Print showing the original colouring of Cole’s card. From ‘Fifty Years Of Public Work’ vol.2 by Cole. Available from the Information & Research library.

Cole’s first Christmas card was limited to a run of just 1000, each lithograph printed and then hand coloured. Illustrated by artist John Horsley, the design features a family eating together, with panels at the side promoting charitable acts, such as feeding the poor. There was controversy surrounding the card when it was released, as it shows a child being given a cup of wine! The cards are extremely hard to come by today, with the last one at auction fetching £22,500, and supposedly only a dozen still existing. There is one currently on display at the V&A, as part of a Victorian Christmas Card exhibition until 5th January 2017.

The pages of Ethel’s book have turned acidic and brittle, and the edges are crumbling away. Thumbing carefully through the pages, it’s hard not to get bowled over by the sentimentality of the cheerful imagery and delicate Christmas greetings. The good news is that the Scrapbook will be digitised next year, so we can continue to appreciate it as a source of social and design history, and charming beauty.

“Winter Is Coming”: Game of Thrones and the Leeds Libraries’ Collections

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Join us tomorrow for a chance to see, handle, explore and discuss specially-curated items from the Central Library Collections. These books will all relate to the real-life history, culture and mythology behind George R.R. Martin’s immersive fantasy world, as enjoyed by millions of readers and TV viewers.

This will be a rare opportunity to see some of the rarest and most interesting books in our collections, including a signed copy of Maurice Druon’s The Iron King (the “original Game of Thrones“, in Martin’s own words) and a manuscript copy of E.R. Eddison’s The Worm Ouroboros. Other books on display will range from a 17th-century look at fantastical creatures, through to 20th-century academic scholarship on medieval warfare; all will illuminate some aspect of the Game of Thrones world, helping you to appreciate the people, places and events of Westeros with added depth.

This is a drop-in event and there is no need to book. Everyone is welcome, but some of the Game of Thrones content may not be suitable for younger people. Please be advised that the exhibition will contain significant SPOILERS for both the written and the visual editions of the series…

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‘O Come All Ye Faithful’: Leeds Catholics in the Central Library Collections

  • by Antony Ramm, Local and Family History, Central Library

In his book Christmas Carols: From Village Green to Church Choir, Andrew Gant tells us that it was one John Francis Wade who is normally credited with composing the very familiar Carol ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’; in truth, as Gant makes clear, it appears Wade was primarily responsible for copying out the Latin hymn ‘Adeste Fideles’ into prayer and devotional books and that it was a later man, Frederick Oakley, who translated the Latin words into the English so familiar today.

But what’s intriguing about this story from our perspective is that Wade is almost always referred to in the literature as having some relationship to Leeds: that he was said to be the son of a merchant, also called John Wade, who is variously said to have had “connections” to Leeds, or to even be the John Wade named in Archbishop Blackburn’s Visitation Report for 1735 as having been “perverted” to Catholicism two years prior (as seen in the publications of the Catholic Record Society of which our copies were published in Leeds by John Whitehead and Son):

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Record of Catholics living in Leeds, 1735

How this possible connection to the John Francis Wade whose signature is found on all the earliest manuscripts of the ‘Adeste Fideles’ manuscript is less clear: that Wade is most commonly said to have left England for Flanders in 1731, where he was educated at the Dominican College at Bornhem until 1734, at which time he is reported to have, as described in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography entry for Wade, moved to London. And after that, he is said to have left England entirely after the failure of the Jacobite rebellion in 1745; an intriguing note when we think of the claims that ‘Adeste Fideles’, in the form Wade noted it down, offers a coded support for the deposed monarchical line of the Stuart succession.

In one of those little ironies that History likes to throw up, any possible Jacobite activity in Leeds was stopped in its tracks by the combined Dutch, Swiss and English forces encamped between Sheepscar and Woodhouse; a force commanded by one Field Marshal George Wade. While that Wade and John Francis were unrelated, what remains unclear is what – if any – relationship our Catholic Wades may have had to the much more prominent Wades of Leeds: from Benjamin Wade, merchant, Council member, Alderman and Mayor; through Anthony Wade, Benjamin’s cousin, himself a Council man and then Mayor, whose son, another Benjamin, and grandson, Walter, were themselves elected to that latter office.

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Attributed to Johan van Diest – Field-Marshal George Wade, 1673 – 1748

Most likely there is no connection beyond the family name. Searches of Ancestry.com (available free in all Leeds Libraries) and the Family Search archive throw up no ‘John Wade’ in Leeds during the early 18th-century. The closest possible match is a John Wade baptised in 1711 (the usual year given for John Francis Wade’s birth), to a father by the same name, in Stalmine of Lancashire.

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Extract from Stalmine parish register, 1711, showing the baptism of a ‘John Wade’. Accessed via Ancestry.com

In short, John Francis Wade and the nature of his connection to Leeds remain a blank mystery. All we can do, then, is try and fill in the gaps around his life, and his father’s life, based on what we know about their work and the times they lived in. Two books, both by Steven Burt and Kevin Grady, are the best starting points for such an investigation: War, Plague and Trade: Leeds in the Seventeenth Century and The Merchants’ Golden Age: Leeds 1700-1790. Volume LXIV of the Thoresby Society publications is also useful: Leeds in the Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries.

'The Prospect of Leeds, from the Knostrop Road'. Taken from Ralph Thoresby's Ducatus Leodiensis

‘The Prospect of Leeds, from the Knostrop Road’. Taken from Ralph Thoresby’s Ducatus Leodiensis

But beyond those general explorations of the Wades’ milieu, we might also want to think about exploring the wider context and story of the Leeds Roman Catholic community, especially in what we might call the pre-19th century ‘recusant‘ phase. This is a story that, to quote Hugh Aveling in his The Catholic Recusants of the West Riding of Yorkshire: 1558 – 1790, is “the history of a West Yorkshire community whose very existence seems unknown to many.”

It is Burt and Grady who tell us, in their magisterial The Illustrated History of Leeds, that “We hear little of Roman Catholics in Leeds during the seventeenth-century.” But as Aveling so capably explores, there is another truth behind that broad statement. So much so that there is not the space, nor the expertise, to (re)tell that history in this blog. All that can be offered is a sense of how that history can be experienced and explored – what other stories can be told – through the collections held at the Central Library.

Any such attempt would start with the aforementioned Aveling article. Though Aveling does not mention it during his illuminating passages on the social customs of Catholics in the West Riding, an extraordinary incident occurred in Leeds during this period. This was in 1584 when a Catholic family from ‘Chappiltoune’ were refused permission to bury a family member in the Parish (St. Peter’s) Churchyard. You can see the note to this effect in the scanned version of the St. Peter’s Parish Register for 1584, as available on Ancestry.com, together with a transcribed text from a Thoresby Society publication of 1889:

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There can be no doubt that, while Aveling points out that “practically 25 per cent of the great of the Riding, the nobility and landed gentry” were part of the 2000-3000 Catholics in the region, the split between Protestant and Catholic was a deep and fierce one, in Leeds at any rate. That despite the comparably low numbers of Catholics reported as living in the town at the turn of the 17th-century; in A List of the Roman Catholics in the County of York in 1604 (ed., Edward Peacock) we find just 18 names (including a Margaret Lumby, presumably a relation – wife, even – of the Richard Lumby whose burial caused such conflict in 1584).

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In the passage quoted above, Burt and Grady go on to say that “if there were any [Catholics in Leeds], they would be few in number and have worshipped in the greatest secrecy” because

not only was Catholicism regarded as a very superstitious religion, but Catholics were thought of as traitors and enemies of the nation.

We need only think of the events of 1605 to reflect on the way Catholics would have been perceived, even with as few living in the community as were seemingly present in Leeds. Writing nearly 100-years later, the antiquary Ralph Thoresby referred to great grief in the town at the death of Charles II; ‘grief’ for “the gloomy prospect of Popery” and Thoresby’s own fear of the “hectoring of some Romanists in the neighbourhood” (quotes from D.H. Atkinson, Ralph Thoresby, the Topographer: His Town and Times – Vol. 1).

Ralph Thoresby

Ralph Thoresby

And, looking slightly beyond Leeds, we can get a glimpse of the situation for Catholics across Yorkshire through a fascinating volume entitled Short Memoirs of the English Martyrs (1885; “by a religious of St. Mary’s Convent, Micklegate Bar, York): “this little record of those English martyrs, who either laid down their lives for their faith in Yorkshire, or were natives of the county.” There we find the tragic tale of one Edmund Sykes of Leeds. Sykes, like John Francis Wade a merchant’s son, was executed in 1587 for preaching the Catholic faith:

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We should, then, keep in mind the history of anti-Catholic feeling in Leeds suggested by the second of Burt and Grady’s statements  – but what of the first? Was Leeds the site of any secret Catholic worship communities during the 17th and 18th-centuries?

The short answer is ‘yes’; the longer answer can be found in two complementary books: Catholicism in Leeds: A Community of Faith, 1794-1994 (ed., Robert E. Finnegan and George T. Bradley), which includes a superb opening chapter on ‘The Origins of the Catholic Revival in Leeds: From Ruin to Restoration, 1558-1794’; and Norman Waugh’s A Short History of St. Anne’s Cathedral and the Leeds Missions, whose first two sections tell the intriguing tale of Catholic worship at so-called ‘Mass Centres‘ in Middleton and Roundhay.

The history of both places is complicated but, in short, by the late seventeenth and early eighteenth-centuries, Catholic worship was well established among the families owning both estates: the Saville-Howards in Roundhay and the Brandlings in Middleton (those same Brandlings whose agent, John Blenkinsop, would later work alongside Matthew Murray to bring engineering wonders to Middleton Colliery). Both sites became the centre for small groups of worshippers (Thoresby records visiting Middleton in his diary) before, in 1786-1787, a formal Leeds Mission was established in the town with the permission of the Vicar and Council.

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Middleton Hall in 1946. From Leodis.net

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Extract from Thoresby’s diary, where he records a visit to Middleton Hall in 1712

The founder of that Mission was one Albert Underhill Plunkett, a priest formerly resident at Roundhay, and who was eagerly desirous of moving worship from that “then quiet and sequestered village” to the “smoky, ugly, large town of Leeds.” Underhill, with financial aid from Joseph Holdforth – a prominent cotton spinner and later Mayor – moved into a room at the top of old Briggate, the area known as the “Back of the Shambles”. There Plunkett lived

in a miserable dwelling in a yard behind the public shambles, with often nothing better to eat than potatoes mashed with butter-milk, and with no food but the scraps of meat and bones which be bought.

Undated View shows Middle Row. This row of shops was part of The Shambles which ran along Briggate from what would now be the junction with King Edward Street upto the entrance the County Arcade. The word Shamble comes from Seamol which was a bench where meat was displayed and sold. The Moot Hall and Middle Row behind were considered an obstruction to the throughfare of one of the city's busiest streets therefore after hundreds of years of existence, Middle Row was removed in 1825 moving to the newly opened Bazaar and Shambles between Briggate and Vicar Lane. From Leodis.net (ID: 2003122_58930606)

Undated View shows Middle Row. This row of shops was part of The Shambles which ran along Briggate from what would now be the junction with King Edward Street upto the entrance the County Arcade. The word Shamble comes from Seamol which was a bench where meat was displayed and sold. The Moot Hall and Middle Row behind were considered an obstruction to the throughfare of one of the city’s busiest streets therefore after hundreds of years of existence, Middle Row was removed in 1825 moving to the newly opened Bazaar and Shambles between Briggate and Vicar Lane. From Leodis.net

But then, in 1792, just one year after the second Relief Act, a grant of around £600 enabled Plunkett to undertake the building of a brand new purpose-built Chapel in the nearby Lady Lane; later – from 1840 – the site of the United Methodist Chapel and, later still, the home of offices for the British Road Services transport company. The building is now owned by the developers of the new Victoria gate shopping complex; yet another reminder of the thread of heritage – the stories – lying behind each step in the ever-changing environment of our city.

Detail from Giles' 1815 Plan of Leeds. The Chapel can be seen about half way down Lady Lane

Detail from Giles’ 1815 Plan of Leeds. The Chapel can be seen about half way down Lady Lane. From Leodis.net

The site of the Chapel in 1999, now known as 'Templar House'

The site of the Chapel in 1999, now known as ‘Templar House’. From Leodis.net

It should not be supposed that this meant the complete absence of anti-Catholic feeling in Leeds at the time. The emerging campaign for Catholic Emancipation brought with it a competing narrative, encapsulated in the arrival of a so-called ‘Brunswick Club’ in the town. Active until the late 1820s, these were bitter opponents of any suggestion that the national law be amended in favour of Catholic rights.

Indeed, a quick scan of some titles held in the Central Library reveal a deeply-felt antagonism to the old religion: Remarks on a Speech in Favour of the Catholic Claims (1813), in which the author – ‘An Observer’ – boldly states “the principles of Popery” are not “friendly to liberty, or even to toleration”; Protestant Rights Contrasted with Catholic Claims (1813); Popery Unmaksed and Her Supporters Exposed (1828); Observations on the Members of the Church of Rome (1829) – “no apology is necessary to submitting to the consideration of Protestants, evidence…[t]o prove that Popery is not only unchanged in its arrogating pretensions to supremacy, infallibility, and the right of absolution, but that it is impossible for the Members of that Church to give any securities to a Protestant State” (italics in original). Most shockingly of all, perhaps, is Walter Farquhar Hook’s The Nonentity of Romish Saints and the Inanity of Romish Ordinances (1849): “We differ from the Church of Rome fundamentally and irreconcilably.”

Even so, the spread of Catholic worship in the town – largely due to the arrival of the Irish, but also, perhaps, a sign of increasing religious tolerance in the wider Leeds community – was such that, in 1838, the first St. Anne’s church could be built; then, in 1878, after the creation of the Diocese of Leeds (itself following on from the 1850 reestablishment of the Catholic hierarchy in England), that Church was granted Cathedral status. And, by 1910, Leeds became the site of the First National Catholic Congress, a reflection of the pride the local community felt in the progress made over the preceding century: “a sense of pride, derived from the revival of their Church in the city.”

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So, then, the history of Catholicism in Leeds is, in part at least, the history of a struggle in the margins; the struggle of a minority community unwilling or unable to yield to what we may call the tyranny of the majority. It’s also the history of change rooted in place; and of that deep sense of past that connects ‘now’ to ‘then’. So, when you next hear the familiar lyrics and melody of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ this holiday season, think of John Francis Wade and Albert Underhill Plunkett and every one of those long-forgotten men and women, each striving to carve out a sense of dignity and comfort in a time and space hostile to their beliefs. Because, whatever our beliefs, we are all the inheritors and the beneficiaries of those struggles for tolerance: “sing, all ye citizens…joyful and triumphant.”

St Anne's Cathedral. Undated, Photograph taken prior to demolition in November 1904. This was done for improvements to be carried out on the Headrow which at that time was called Guildford Street. A new cathedral was constructed on Cookridge Street. From Leodis.net

St Anne’s Cathedral. Undated: photograph taken prior to demolition in November 1904. This was done for improvements to be carried out on the Headrow which at that time was called Guildford Street. A new cathedral was constructed on Cookridge Street. From Leodis.net

Bibliography

All the books named in the article are available at the Central Library. Any where a link has not been made to our online catalogue will be found in our Local and Family History department. Other books used include:

  • David Thornton. Leeds: A Historical Dictionary of People, Places and Events
  • Patricia Midgley. The Church and the Working Classes: Leeds, 1870-1920

“Abysmal Performance of Depravity Rock”: The Sex Pistols in Leeds, December 1976

  • by Antony Ramm, Local and Family History, Central Library

Forty-years ago this week, the Sex Pistols finally began their 1976 UK tour. “Finally,” because – as the BBC has remembered this week – all but three of the projected dates on that tour were cancelled following the band’s notorious TV appearance on Bill Grundy’s Today show.

Those cancellations included the intended first show, at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, meaning that the actual first performance took place at Leeds Polytechnic on the 6th of December. The Pistols’ reputation for ‘bad’ language followed them to Leeds, where – as the Yorkshire Evening Post reported – college officials and local Councillors expressed serious reservations about the group’s arrival in the city:

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It’s probably no surprise to hear that the band didn’t keep to those demands that they cut out the swearing while playing at the Polytechnic, as this review of the gig made clear (also from the YEP):

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Strong words, indeed – “a vile, disgusting show”; “crude, mindless”; “abysmal performance of depravity rock”; “musically bereft, verbally moronic and crude”; “an abomination of bawled revolution” – the language of a cultural war fought with the kind of venom and ferocity that has only now returned to public discourse.

You can judge for yourself whether the Pistols’ performance matched or exceeded the spectacularly low levels described in the YEP by listening to the full concert: the first time, indeed, that ‘God Save The Queen’ – that “abomination of bawled revolution” – was heard by a live audience; a transmission from an era distant past and yet also now, perhaps, all our tomorrows.

The newspaper articles seen here were found using the newspaper archive available in the Local and Family History department of the Central LibraryA complete guide to all our newspaper holdings is available. Contact us on 0113 37 86982 for more details.