Slade in Flame keeps its platform boots on history
Slade in Flame has turned 50, giving critics another chance to call it the Citizen Kane of British rock films without being struck by a falling stack of amplifiers.
The 1975 movie showed the music business as grubby, exploitative and full of men who considered sideburns a management qualification. Audiences expecting a cheerful Slade romp instead received disillusionment with excellent collars.
It disappointed at the box office, then built a cult reputation. This is the traditional British route to greatness: fail commercially, wait five decades, and reappear at the BFI with a freshly printed adjective.
“We knew it was art because nobody came out humming the merchandising strategy,” said Clive Platform, Curator of Very Loud Realism. “Also, one waistcoat has more emotional range than several modern franchises.”
The film’s refusal to polish the industry now looks unusually brave. It did not pretend fame was a scented staircase. It showed the contracts, rivalries and compromised ideals lurking behind the choruses.
At the Institute of Seventies Magnificence, archivists store every boot in its own climate-controlled hangar. Noddy Holder’s hat is classed as regional infrastructure and may not be moved without closing two lanes of the M6.
After half a century, the film still rocks. Citizen Kane has a sled; Slade has a transit van that smells of chips and knows exactly which promoter owes it twelve quid.
Read the real story: the BFI’s 50th-anniversary account of Slade in Flame.
Fifty years on, the film remains a useful warning that showbusiness can turn even friendship into a contractual dispute with a better haircut. The anniversary screening will be followed by discussion, admiration and at least one person announcing that music was proper then. The amplifiers have declined to comment until their rider is met.
