12 Iconic Top of the Pops Performances That Reshaped British Music

In January 1964, the BBC saw that for the first time ever the national singles chart was overflowing with British acts. Due to this, they created a weekly music chart rundown programme called Top Of The Pops. From then on, every Thursday evening Britain’s youth would be delighted by the latest UK chart goings-on, it being the only place to see their favourite artists and discover exciting new ones. The presenters were cheesy at best, and most of the time the band had to mime their songs, but som

e of these performances would embed themselves unshakably into the public consciousness, inspiring generations of bands and artists in their wake, hoping that they too could get their three-minutes of Top of The Pops glory. From Bowie to Soft Cell, The Smiths to Blur, these are 12 Iconic Top of The Pops Performances That Forever Altered British Music. Due to BBC’s policy to wipe and reuse tapes as a cost saving measure, the majority of the iconic performances from the first decade of Top of The

Pops are lost to time. One such pivotal moment was in March 1969, when Desmond Dekker exposed a significant portion of Britain to Reggae music with his number one single “Israelites.” Dressed in a sharp white suit, Dekker bopped to the syncopated Jamaican rhythm as he told his story of everyday hardships in his thick island patois, impenetrable to the white British population of the time but undeniably catchy all the same. Y’know I was fascinated about how, how’d you play it. For the Caribbean i

mmigrant population, it was a rare early chance to see their culture celebrated on 60s Prime Time Television. Dave and Ansel Collins, Bob Marley, and Althea and Donna would appear later, but some of those kids that saw Dekker on Top Of The Pops would make up the first wave of British Reggae and Two Tone groups. Glam rock was a genre made for Top of the Pops. Literally. In March 1971 before T. Rex’s Marc Bolan was about to debut on the show with “Hot Love,” he splashed some glitter on his face in

an attempt to stand out, and unwittingly sparked a revolution. Various shiny silver-suited performances from Sweet, Slade and Roxy Music would follow. But if glam rock can be summed up in one 3 and a half minute clip, it would be David Bowie’s “Starman.” Before his Top of the Pops reintroduction, Bowie was a one-hit wonder, the curly-haired lost astronaut of novelty folk ballad “Space Oddity” from back in 1969. And as canonical as his 1971 album Hunky Dory is now, neither the album nor any of i

ts singles had charted on release. But in July 1972 he was no longer Major Tom. Now with striking make-up, red-hair and a multicolour quilted suit, he was Ziggy Stardust, the out-of-this-world rockstar of Bowie’s dreams, a dazzling mix of Marc Bolan, Vince Taylor and A Clockwork Orange. And on Top of The Pops, backed by the Spiders From Mars, was when Britain at large laid their enraptured eyes on him for the first time. The show had been broadcast in colour from November 1969, but it wasn’t unt

il ‘Starman’ that the full spectrum was utilised. As perfect a pop song as it is, a sweetly strummed self-mythology into a skyrocketing chorus, it wasn’t the focus. Remembered Spiders From Mars drummer Mick “Woody” Woodmansey: “Appearing on Top of the Pops was like reaching the summit of Everest. I recall waiting to go on, standing in a corridor, and Status Quo were opposite us. We were dressed in our clothes and they had on their trademark denim. Francis Rossi looked at me and said: ‘Shit, you

make us feel old.’" The key slyly revolutionary moment was Bowie and guitarist Mick Ronson singing into the microphone together, Bowie lovingly draping his arm around his guitarist. For terminally repressed 1970s Britain, the image of two flamboyantly-dressed men embracing was too much for mainstream society to handle. But for those that saw themselves in that knowing gesture, it would be a much needed lifeline. "I just couldn’t believe how striking he was. That ambiguous sexuality was so bold a

nd futuristic that it made the traditional male/female role-play thing seem so outdated… He was tearing down all the old clichés, but he was also having a lot of fun doing it." When Bowie sang the words, “I had to phone someone and I picked on you,” he pointed through the television screen to the viewer at home, inviting the weirdos of Britain into his world. And so many took up that spiritual offer. Punks had a love-hate relationship with Top of The Pops. Though managing fourteen Top 40 Singles

in their lifespan, and a number one after they'd split, The Clash vowed never to appear. "You know, it's absolutely self-defeating the way The Clash refuse to go on Top Of The Pops. Sure, it's a really crummy programme, but it's the only one there is. And I know for a fact that every Thursday night Mick Jones is glued to his TV set.” However bands like The Stranglers or Buzzcocks were less picky, appearing whenever possible, realising that it was the best way to gain exposure, climb the chart a

nd recruit new members to the punk cause. The young Paul Weller remembered seeing Small Faces play the programme back in the 60s, and ever since had aspired to do the same, Punk credibility be damned. The Jam would play the show numerous times, but it was their first, in skinny ties and suits playing "In The City" in May 1977, that would be the most impactful, as they were the first punk group on the BBC stage. It helped that the song itself was a youthful anthem, thrilled by the scene developin

g just out of reach. "I was probably 18, so it was a young man's song, a suburbanite dreaming of the delights of London and the excitement of the city. It was an exciting time to be alive. London was coming out of its post-hippy days and there was a new generation taking over." The British youth might have seen the Pistols’ Steve Jones swearing on Today with Bill Grundy, but the actual music wasn't getting played on the radio. The Jam on Top Of The Pops was the nation’s first exposure to punk mu

sic, which along with performances by The Stranglers, Buzzcocks, and showing the music video for “Pretty Vacant” in July 77, inspired this new generation to get excited and take up guitars But it wasn’t just punks but also next era too, the then-children of 90s Britpop. New York New Wavers Blondie would be a regular but much needed counterpoint to the syrupy balladeers and reductive dance troupes that formed the majority of female presence on late 70s Top of The Pops. Even jet-lagged, singer Deb

bie Harry fronted her band with icy-cool poise, and impeccable fashion sense. While their note-perfect power pop was how they climbed the charts and earnt their place on the show, some girls saw Harry’s glamorous presence amongst an overwhelming glut of male-stuffed rock bands and realised that rockstardom might be possible for them as well. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw Blondie on Top of the Pops and Debbie Harry wearing that black-and-white striped dress. Something fizzed and popped

in my brain. I must have been around eleven years old, thinking, I wanna do that. Whatever that was… I had no idea! I just knew I wanted to do what Blondie was doing, but my way.” Despite not yet being in the Top 40, Gary Numan fluked his way onto the show via their Bubbling Under section in May 1979. His group Tubeway Army being chosen over Simple Minds due to supposedly having a more interesting-sounding band name. Another disciple of Bowie, Numan knew how to make his presence felt as he perfo

rmed “Are 'Friends' Electric?”, asking the lighting technicians if they could light him from below to give arresting shadows and singing to the camera on certain lines for emphasis. However much of his on-stage look was accidental: to cover up a breakout of acne, the make-up women covered his face with white foundation, while his robotic movements were a combination of awkwardness and trying to hide his supposed big-front teeth. The result was an icy-skinned, emotionless cyborg that suited his f

uturist synth-based song perfectly, forcing it further up the charts to number one. Synth-pop bands would bring a new sonic palette to the mainstream, however this new-fangled As the 1980s started, more synth-based bands with moody auras would emerge. Yet the pop group most clearly borrowing from Numan, weren’t even born in 1979. [It's Sugababes with "Freak Like Me"] Before Top of The Pops, Soft Cell were experimental provocateurs, a product of Bowie, Punk, and Throbbing Gristle. Nevertheless, t

heir cover of an old mostly-forgotten American R&B b-side, with its memetic bink-bink hook, would secure them a slot in front of the nation’s impressionable youth. Ever since first seeing Bolan on the show as a boy, obsessed to the extent of stealing the spelling of his first name, Marc Almond’s life ambition had been to be himself on Top of The Pops. With black eyeliner, studded wristbands and two full-arms worth of bangles, the singer wildly emoted his way across the screen, outraging and end

earing the country in equal measure. Unlike the coy allusions to bisexuality of Bowie, Almond was a bit more forward in his presentation. "There was something innocent about sexuality in the eighties. Back in the seventies, even lorry drivers liked the Sweet, and you had this kind of flamboyance – male peacocks, dandies, blending masculine and feminine. But it was all play-acting. Even [Boy] George said he preferred a cup of tea to anything else, and he didn’t really have a sexuality. So I think

I came across as quite a threatening figure, quite aggressive." After “Tainted Love” got to number one, 80s Top Of The Pops became host to all manner of more openly queer pop music, while setting up the next crop of pop provocateurs. Created by the producers of the television show Soul Train, US R&B collective Shalamar were climbing the charts in June 1982 with "A Night to Remember". Two thirds of the group were unavailable for the accompanying Top of The Pops performance, so guitarist Jeffrey

Daniel flew to London solo and choreographed a dance routine that would leave Britain dumbstruck. "The audience went crazy because they had never seen anything like it before. They had never seen body popping, to begin with. And they had never seen the backslide. People didn't know what was happening. They thought like I had wheels on my shoes. They thought there was oil on the floor. They did not know how in the hell I was walking forward and sliding backward at the same time." As well as makin

g Shalamar one of the best selling bands in the UK in 1982, Daniel would introduce the country to body-popping, breakdancing, and US hip hop culture in general, a genre that 80s Britain would latch upon. Michael Jackson would also get Daniel to teach him the backside, which he rebranded several months later at the Motown 25th Anniversary Show as "The Moonwalk." In 1972, a young Johnny Marr’s life was forever changed watching T. Rex perform “Metal Guru” on Top of the Pops. “T. Rex were already m

y favourite group and when I was 11 or 12 and saw them on TOTP doing that track, it bordered on the mystical. I didn’t know what to do, I was in total shock, and I just got on my pushbike and rode and rode until it was dark. I ended up miles away from home, not really knowing where I was, and all my family were really worried about me.” When his band, The Smiths, played the show themselves the first words out of the perennial focus Morrissey’s mouth were "Punctured bicycle on a hillside desolate

..." Which only adds to the cosmic alignment of the moment. "This Charming Man" was written by Marr as a response to Aztec Camera's cheery "Walk Out to Winter," but Morrissey bled out lyrics of literary insight and ambiguous sexuality. Before appearing on the show The Smiths were underground residents of the John Peel set, a no one indie band with a jangle in their step. But afterwards they were stars. Part of this was because of the Gladioli of it all: Morrissey’s broad gestures with a fistful

of the flowers sending up the mandatory miming protocol, a microphone in hand being superfluous. Also note: how Marr is standing stock still so he doesn't slip on the petals and land on his arse on National TV. "Morrissey was using those gladioli in a way that was far from fey, almost brandishing them. Morrissey provided flamboyance, the rest of us wore sweaters and provided a streetwise, gang aspect. We'd had a year of rejections, getting in the trenches; nothing had been handed to us on a plat

e and we were ready." Though “This Charming Man” would only get to number 25, Indie was now a music the charts understood. Kids too young or uncool to be aware of Peel’s show or read NME were introduced to the world of guitar music in a sea of hairspray and synths. Many picked up Rickenbackers of their own and formed bands, many of which also chimed their way onto the show. “When The Smiths came on Top Of The Pops for the first time that was it for me. From that day on I was... I wouldn't say...

Yes, I probably would say, I wanted to be Johnny Marr.” Such was the iconic nature of The Smiths on Top of The Pops, that even when Americans played the show, Morrissey was their go-to reference. Everyone knows Kurt Cobain’s dour-voiced appearance for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was him attempting to sound like the Manchester crooner, but a year later The Lemonheads’ Evan Dando did another spot-on impression at the end of “Mrs Robinson.” When "Love Can't Turn Around" hit the UK Top 20 in Septembe

r 1986, the UK at large was oblivious to House Music. Born in the black gay clubs of Chicago at the beginning of the 80s, DJs had boiled down disco to its absolute most danceable elements, a four on the floor beat, a bassline and an ultra-hype soul vocal on top. It was not made for the radio, but the club. The average Top of The Pops viewer knew nothing about that. Though they might have not understood how Farley Jackmaster Funk made this starkly kinetic music, an exuberant disco diva in the Lol

eatta Holloway mould is a familiar calling point. Former Broadway and opera performer Darryl Pandy flamboyantly barrelled across the stage as if his life depended on it, demanding the audience's attention. “Pandy’s histrionics are emblematic of the House scene in general. House is about the loss of decorum and control. From sexual extravagance to dance-floor excess, everything about House is geared towards losing it.” Several months later Steve 'Silk' Hurley's "Jack Your Body" would go number on

e, before the homegrown collaboration M/A/R/R/S would repeat the achievement in September 1987 with the sample-heavy "Pump Up The Volume." British producers then started creating their own club anthems. House, and its Roland TB-303-squelching sibling Acid House, would dominate the British airwaves by the start of the 1990s, and Pandy glittering in turquoise was Britain's first taste. Madchester had been bubbling away as a local occurrence and in the pages of the NME For a couple of years by Nove

mber 1989. But it boiled over when a bunch of addled working-class scruffs called Happy Mondays and an oddly tuneful collision of 60s English Rock and Ecstasy known as The Stone Roses showed up on the same episode of Top of The Pops. Manchester has a dour and rainy reputation, unhelped by its history with Joy Division and Morrissey, but these bands brought a psychedelic splash of colour to their kinetic guitar music. The Mondays even managed to pull Kirsty McColl onstage for their shambolic pres

entation of “Hallelujah” from their then-number thirty charting Madchester Rave On EP. Despite this, viewers’ attention was aimed at the band’s mascot, the moon-eyed, metronomic Bez, proving that all you needed to be part of the scene was an E and a desire to dance. Remembered Mondays guitarist Paul Ryder: “I think everyone was heavily ‘sedated’. I vividly remember being sat in the BBC garden and Shaun [Ryder] and Ian [Brown] were chuckling, plotting to swap drummers. I think the BBC rumbled it.

” A couple of months prior The Roses’ Ian Brown had heckled The BBC’s Late Show team after their live run-through of “Made Of Stone” was unceremoniously cut short by a power shortage. Here he soaks up the artificiality of the event, making no pretence of miming to their number thirteen entry, “Fools Gold,” the microphone wielded akin to Morrissey’s gladioli nowhere near his mouth. But despite this, both bands' collision of acid house and indie looked and sounded so cool it made an assortment of

British indie kids believe they too could dance. Britpop was seemingly designed for Top Of The Pops. All the bands were looking back to the best of British, which coincidentally was the best of Top Of The Pops: Suede had Bowie’s flair and sexual ambiguity. Pulp's Jarvis Cocker had the wit of prime Morrissey. Blur were a greatest hits package of The Kinks, The Jam and Madness. While Oasis' best riffs were taken from T. Rex and Status Quo. Though Pulp's emblematic number two placing of “Common Peo

ple” was two months prior, August 1995 was when Britpop hit fever pitch. Oasis had their next single “Roll With It” set for release, and Blur, feeling particularly tasty, moved the release of their “Country House” forward to the same week. It was a battle for number one that not just the music press but the tabloids also leapt upon, a Beatles vs Stones for the 90s. Though neither band brought their best work to the fight, the surrounding press made it the best week for UK single sales in a decad

e, shifting half a million copies between them. In the end, Blur triumphed, their end-of-the-pier Damien Hirst-directed music video and variety of single formats securing them a momentary win over their Northern opposition. As Blur victoriously ambled through “Country House,” bassist Alex James further provoked their foes by wearing their merchandise, while guitarist Graham Coxon visibly wanted to be anywhere but onstage. But given greater exposure due to this Battle of Britpop, Oasis would go

on to become the biggest band in Britain after second album (What’s The Story) Morning Glory outsold God, while Blur would abandon their British influences for their 1997 self-titled album. However, it would end up being the last real hurrah for guitar music on Top Of The Pops. The New NME Revolution bands who had seen Blur vs Oasis play out as kids would have their moment on the BBC Stage in the early 2000s, but sadly by this point no one was really watching anymore. In June 1996, due to decrea

sing viewership, in a desperate move to correct-course the BBC shifted Top of The Pops from its traditional slot on Thursday evening to Friday. As it now conflicted with going out on Friday Night as well as the nation’s favourite soap opera Coronation Street, it would be the beginning of the end for the beloved music programme. But before it went, it would contribute one last truly important addition to British culture. In July 1996, the Spice Girls made their debut on Top of the Pops. On a prom

otional tour of Japan, the group had to satellite in, energetically miming their way through their boisterous introduction to the world, “Wannabe” from a local Tokyo temple. Immediately you could see the different personas, and Top of The Pops’ official magazine would coin the nicknames that they would forevermore be known by: Scary, Sporty, Baby, Posh and Ginger. Geri, born a month after Bowie’s seminal strum through “Starman,” replicated his moves, pointing knowingly at the audience, inviting

them to Spice World. Future artists who were young women at the time saw this and thought “yes, us too.” "I was exactly the target demographic for the Spice Girls when they came out. It's strange, now I'm an adult, to see how something that, on one level, could be really empowering and exciting for young girls was kind of all about selling shit." Inspired by the selling shit aspect, British pop producers cashed in by formulating their own personality-driven chart-pop. The Spice Girls dominated t

he show for the rest of the 90s. Problem was that Top of the Pops wasn’t the first place most people would have seen the Spice Girls. The music video was already a massive hit on British music video jukebox channel The Box before “Wannabe” entered the singles chart. If you could get the latest music and see your favourite bands elsewhere on television and earlier, what was the point of Top of The Pops? As the show limped on for another decade, the BBC, blood on their hands, desperately tried to

revive it with newer, shinier presenters and different, more confusing time-slots. With first MTV and then the Internet, music consuming habits had forever changed. “It was awful by the end, like watching a goldfish out of its bowl flapping around the floor as it dies. But it was incredibly sad to see it go.” Top of The Pops aired its last weekly episode in July 2006. Still for most of the initial forty-two year run that Top Of The Pops was broadcast, it had an undeniable impact on the British

public. Even today, Thursday night reruns of classic episodes on BBC Four still attract a sizable audience. Some of it is nostalgia, soured slightly by the actions of some of the personalities involved. But for many watching Top of the Pops motivated them to learn an instrument and start a band. It made often neglected members of society feel seen, while introducing others to brand new genres. And it even made at least one little boy get so over-excited that they went out on their bike and got l

ost. Those Thursday nights were sacred, and British music wouldn’t be the same without them. Thanks for watching. Obviously this is my twelve most important, but are there any Top of the Pops performances you think I missed? Comment down below. If you liked this video, like, subscribe and why don’t you also do me a favour and share it with a couple of people. It really does help. As always, I’d like to shout out all my supporters over on Patreon. And I’ll see you hopefully in two weeks time for

a return to New British Canon.