Rock On Their Own Terms:
The Cribs are sick of the "emasculated state of British Punk Rock"

words by Ingrid Norton
photos by Victor Yiu

 See more photos (opens new window)

   At 27, Gary Jarman is “too old to be doing this.”   He’s alluding to the constant strain and pulse of international touring.  He and his brothers, who make up The Cribs, have come straight to the Austin Convention Center to register for South By Southwest after a late-night gig in Houston.  They flew in from England less than two weeks ago and look worn around the edges as they prepare to make the SXSW rounds of day shows, parties, and photo-ops.   Gary, bassist for The Cribs, and his younger brother Ross, 23, the band’s drummer, ascend the convention center elevators and sit on a couch while Gary’s identical twin brother, Ryan, cleans up and naps downstairs.   

   “We’re certainly not strangers [to Austin],” says Gary, leaning forward and speaking in a soft West Country accent.   The Cribs have brought their jangly, straight-forward punk rock to SXSW twice before this year.  Gary’s best memory of the festival from the previous years - when “[they] were probably living a bit too hard” - is falling asleep next to the bathroom and missing the Kill Rock Stars party. He says that, while he’s looking forward to the band’s calmer schedule this year, he doesn’t relish watching “bands throwing themselves” at industry representatives at SXSW’s numerous networking events.  This attitude to SXSW is a microcosm of The Cribs’ entire attitude at this point—they’re tired of industry hype and want nothing more than a chance to play their music at smaller venues for people who care.   

   As Gary puts forth his criticisms of the music business, he speaks in earnest, confiding tones. Ross, looking very much the part of the diffident younger brother, holds his head in face and rubs his eyes.  Ross has a trendy, swept-to-the-side haircut and is wearing an angular leather jacket; Gary is wearing a thin gray blazer with a black hoodie under it.  He explains the problems: In America, bookers and the press tend to group bands haphazardly, putting his band side-by-side with rock bands that have a far more stylized, catchy sound, just because they’re British. “They lump bands together in the most narrow-minded way possible,” he says.  It might not bother him so much if it wasn’t for “the emasculated state of British punk rock,” which he thinks The Cribs preceded.  Gary often worries that aspiring, young bands in Britain play punk now because it is hip and easy to do, that they don’t have to go through the stages of building up a fan base which The Cribs had to go through.  He resents the industry’s habit of labeling his band as among the new wave of bands with UK accents playing stripped-down rock. “People forget that we’re three years in, you know?” he says of his band, whose third album came out late last year.   

   The Cribs formed in 2004, in a different musical world in Britain, where the airwaves were still ruled by insipid pop-ballads and techno remixes, with nary a strong guitar chord to be heard.  They watched the current wave of “Britpop” crest, as The Strokes gained popularity throughout the UK and Franz Ferdinand, one of The Cribs’ recent touring partners, broke into the mainstream of international hits with songs like “Take Me Out,” and “This Fire.” But when they started out, The Cribs were just “a band of brothers from Wakefield,” an old mining town in West Yorkshire which never recovered from the economic bitterness of the 1980s, when Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher broke up the country’s mining unions. When Gary and his brothers were teenagers, there was nowhere to play out in Wakefield, no real place to hear rock and roll.  So, he and Ryan started renting out warehouse space near a small canal on the outskirts of town and let local musicians use the room for performances and practice.   

   It was never the Jarmans’ intention to make it big.  The brothers were simply trying to open up the options in a city where most creative people, says Gary, felt like they would never be able to make it out of gray, dismal Wakefield.    The Cribs’ break into the mainstream and their general formation as a band both came nearly by chance.  They recorded a demo in the studio one afternoon when they were messing around with some songs before they’d ever had a gig.  A friend of theirs—Gary still isn’t sure who—passed it on, and before long, clubs in larger, nearby cities were booking them for gigs.  When a recording company called for a contract, Ross, still in school and 16 years old, was too young to sign it, so they waited a year and a half until he could.  In the mean time, their fan base steadily grew.  Earlier this year, Q Magazine, the Rolling Stone of Britain, oxymoronically dubbed them “the Biggest Cult Band in the UK.”   

   If Gary Jarman is disparaging of the generation of British rock bands just now coming of age, it is partly thanks to this experience of slow growth and rough gigs.  The younger bands now trying to break through formed in a media environment where fast, driving British rock was hip and where recognition and airtime were easy to get.  By contrast, when The Cribs first brought their more aggressive rock to small clubs around England, it was considered nearly subversive and certainly not popular.  “We built things up very gradually,” Gary says.  “We ended up in the position we’re in purely out of building a large fan base.”  Gary says that now, as The Cribs embark on tours, this gives them an advantage over younger, greener bands.  “It means that by the time you get there you’ve seen the shit that goes on, you know what to avoid, you know how to deal with people.” When Gary thinks about the best shows he’s played over the past year, it’s an odd mix of gigantic arenas on the tour where they opened for Franz Ferdinand, and small, sweaty punk clubs.  

   When Gary gets fed up with the bait-and-switch superficiality of the music industry, he can come back to shows like that, where he really connected with fans.  On a good day, he’s glad for the fans and for the tight shows, and for the inspiration he can give to younger people back in Wakefield—that it isn’t hopeless, that they can get out of their town.  While Gary despises the superficial radio-Britpop bands that The Cribs paved the way for, he also realizes that the success of his band sets an example for other aspiring rock musicians, from dead-end towns like his own where there were few resources or role models five years ago.  Indeed, when he thinks about the band’s goal, to set an example is the big thing, rather than to set the world on fire.   

   As he and Ross get up and pad down the wide bright halls of the convention center towards a photo shoot, he explains that, unlike in previous years during SXSW when The Cribs would play seven shows in two days, this year they’re only playing two shows—one during the day and one at night, so that they can concrete their audience and have a more relaxed time. 

   “It’s really not about trying to be the biggest band in the world,” says Gary. “I’m way more into a small, packed show where the audience is right in our face.”