Today in pulp I ask the question: is it time to bring back the custom street van?
Let's take a look...
For a short period - the late '60s to the early '80s - the coolest thing a hip young kid could drive was a tricked out van! That's why the Scooby-Doo gang had a custom Dodge A100, instead of a Ford Pinto.
And this is profoundly odd. America is of course the home of custom cars and hot rods...
...but the van is a very European thing, designed for twisty roads and narrow lanes. Compared to a US pick-up it looks like a bus. So how did it suddenly become street cool?
Well if you're going on surf safari you have a lot of gear to take with you: boards, beer, the guys, beer, a couple of guitars, beer, stuff for the cookout (like beer). I mean, you can try and sling it all into a Woody...
...or you could use a VW camper van! Known as the VW bus in the US (and the Kombi in Australia) this little van helped turn in America's youth to the idea of owning your own home from home - a van!
It turned out vans were kinda cool. You could road trip in them, go to festivals or hit the beach, and take everything you needed with you. And it was way cooler than a traditional RV because you could mod it!
Styling your van made your wheels into a personal statement: you weren't no square in a station wagon, you were a bell-bottomed, freedom-loving child of nature. You just wanted something you could sleep in as well.
The inside of the van had to be as cool as the outside. Velour, shagpile, teak, quilting, leopard print: whatever it took to make a statement.
Pretty soon major manufacturers started to cash in on this new van craze, offering custom paintjobs and selling the allure of good times to the van-starved masses.
A range of magazines also sprang up to provide design inspiration, as well as letting the lucky few show off their radical wheels on the cover.
Brands were quick to muscle in in the scene too: Levi's, Coca-Cola, Yamaha and many others tried to turn young folks' heads in the '70s with a custom paint job and some chrome decals.
And it wasn't just vans: by the mid-70s even the humble station wagon was getting tricked out in a sick paintjob and sporting a portal window in the back.
So whatever happened to the custom street van? The same thing that happened to CB radio alas: the '80s arrived!
'80s kids didn't want to ride round in their dad's old pimped out Chevy van: they wanted something sleeker, sharper, more hi-tech. America was aspirational, and nobody really aspired to a shagpile bus painted like a prog rock album any more.
Auto makers pivoted their attention to the Soccer Mom and the family wagon. Vans were now practical, sensible runabouts for suburbanites juggling jobs, kids and recreation. Luxury was in, velour was out.
Will the street van return? Maybe, and hopefully not because it's all we can afford as a home nowadays! Once EVs reach critical mass it's only a matter of time before someone tricks out an electric van, with plasma screen walls and Bluetooth sub-woofers. We can't help ourselves!
But for now we'll have to make do with the memories. If this van's a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'!
More stories another time...
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He was the terror of London; a demonic figure with glowing eyes and fiery breath who could leap ten feet high. The penny dreadfuls of the time wrote up his exploits in lurid terms. But who was he really?
Today I look at one of the earliest pulp legends: Spring-Heeled Jack!
London has always attracted ghosts, and in the 19th Century they increasingly left their haunted houses and graveyards and began to wader the capital's streets.
But one apparition caught the Victorian public attention more than most...
In October 1837 a 'leaping character' with a look of the Devil began to prey on Londoners. Often he would leap high into the air and land in front of a carriage, causing it to crash. It would then flee with a high-pitched laugh.
It was the biggest manhunt in Britain: police, the press, aeroplanes, psychics all tried to solve the disappearance. In the end nobody really knew what happened. It was a mystery without a solution.
This is the story of Agatha Christie's 11 lost days...
By 1926 Agatha Christie's reputation as a writer was starting to grow. Her sixth novel - The Murder of Roger Ackroyd - had been well-received and she and her husband Archie had recently concluded a world tour. But all was not well with the marriage.
In April 1926 Agatha Christie’s mother died. Christie was very close to her: she had been home-schooled and believed her mother was clairvoyant. The shock of her sudden death hit the author hard.
Many readers have asked me over the years what my definition of pulp is. I've thought about it a lot, and the definition I keep coming back to... well it may surprise you.
Let me try and set it out.
There are lots of definitions of pulp out there: in books, in academic papers and on the web. And most circle back to the same three points: the medium, the story type and the method of writing.
Pulp is of course a type of cheap, coarse paper stock. Its use in magazine production from the 1890s onwards led to it becoming a shorthand term for the kind of fiction found in low cost story magazines.
let's take a look at the extraordinary work of Victorian illustrator and cat lover Louis Wain!
Louis Wain was born in London in 1860. Although he is best known for his drawings of cats he started out as a Victorian press illustrator. His work is highly collectable.
Wain had a very difficult life; born with a cleft lip he was not allowed to attend school. His freelance drawing work supported his mother and sisters after his father died. Aged 23 he married his sisters' governess, Emily Richardson, 10 years his senior.
Over the years a number of people have asked me if I have a favourite pulp film. Well I do. It's this one.
This is the story of Alphaville...
Alphaville: une étrange aventure de Lemmy Caution (1965) was Jean-Luc Godard’s ninth feature film. A heady mix of spy noir, science fiction and the Nouvelle Vague at its heart is a poetic conflict between a hard-boiled secret agent and a supercomputer’s brave new world.
British writer Peter Cheyney had created the fictitious American investigator Lemmy Caution in 1936. As well as appearing in 10 novels Caution featured in over a dozen post-war French films, mostly played by singer Eddie Constantine whom Godard was keen to work with.
Al Hartley may have been famous for his work on Archie Comics, but in the 1970s he was drawn to a very different scene: God.
Today in pulp I look back at Hartley's work for Spire Christian Comics - a publisher that set out to spread the groovy gospel...
Spire Christian Comics was an offshoot of Spire Books, a mass-market religious paperback line launched in 1963 by the Fleming H. Revell company. The point of Spire Books was to get religious novels into secular stores, so a move into comic books in 1972 seemed a logical choice.
The idea was to create comic book versions of popular Spire Books like The Cross and the Switchblade; David Wilkinson's autobiographical tale of being a pastor in 1960s New York. It had already been turned into a film, but who could make it into a comic?