Lifestyle
Soo Catwoman, ‘the Female Face of Punk,’ Is Dead at 70
In 1976, Susan Lucas asked a local barber in Ealing, West London, to part the back of her short hair — which she greased on the sides to emulate the Bride of Frankenstein — and shave off the entire middle section.
“He was very shocked and I think he thought I was kidding at first,” she recalled in a 2009 interview. But eventually he relented. When he finished shearing off almost all her hair, she said, “I think he felt bad about what he’d done.”
Two tufts remained, one on either side of her shaved head, flared upward to resemble cat ears.
“I was really pleased with it,” she said.
She dyed her new ears black, slicked them up with dabs of Vicks VapoRub and christened herself with a new name: Soo Catwoman.
That summer, she met and befriended Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols at Club Louise, a hotbed for musicians on the growing punk scene. She emerged as the face of that scene when she graced the cover of Anarchy in the U.K., a Sex Pistols fanzine.
With long tendrils of eyeliner swiped across her lids, a black star on her cheek and a skull dangling from one ear, her look, as well as her expression — a devil-may-care gaze that refused to waver — became a defining image of the vibrant, corrosive glamour of British punk.
“For me, rock ’n’ roll is all about haircut and attitude,” Bob Gruen, a photographer who documented the early punk era, said in an interview. “And she had both.”
Soo Catwoman died on Sept. 30 at a hospital in London. She was 70. Her daughter, Dion October Lucas, said the cause was complications of meningitis.
The fanzine photograph was published without her knowledge, and her face was soon reproduced on countless T-shirts and posters, often without permission or payment.
“It seems that my face and image, my ‘art’ as some have called it, has been hijacked,” she said in 2009, adding, “I’ve lost count of the amount of things that my face has since been used to publicize over the years, from books to clothing and everything in between.”
As her likeness became synonymous with punk, Soo Catwoman was a frequent presence in British newspapers. She was later portrayed onscreen in Julien Temple’s mockumentary “The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle” (1980) and in the 2022 mini-series “Pistol.”
Her D.I.Y. ethos influenced designers including Thierry Mugler, Chanel and Junya Watanabe, whose models strutted down the runway wearing warped Union Jacks and spiked hair. Keith Flint of the band the Prodigy fashioned his own acid-green cat ears after hers.
Soo Catwoman “was the female face of punk, the sexual opposite of Johnny Rotten,” Mark Perry wrote in his book “And God Created Punk” (1996). “Next to Vivienne Westwood she was the most influential woman in punk fashion. If she wore something, others followed.”
Susan Helene Lucas was born on Oct. 24, 1954, in London to John William Lucas, who was in the merchant navy, and Mary (Cobb) Lucas. She was the 10th of 15 children, and her parents joined two houses in the Chiswick area to make room for their large family.
As a teenager, inspired by the flamboyance of glam rockers like David Bowie, Susan dyed a pink stripe into her pointed bangs.
At 21, after debuting her signature haircut, which she paired with jewelry made from found objects like needles and broken razor blades, she became a fixture, photographed with Billy Idol and members of the Damned. For a time in the 1970s, she shared a flat with Sid Vicious and earned the nickname Auntie Sue for her kindness toward him.
In 1979, she contributed backing vocals to the Invaders’ album “Test Card” and sang lead on their single “Backstreet Romeo.” In 1989, after a long absence from the scene, she resurfaced to record a cover of the O’Jays song “Back Stabbers” with Derwood Andrews of Generation X and Rat Scabies of the Damned.
As punk permeated the mainstream, Soo Catwoman largely withdrew from the public eye. She went from being “insulted on a daily basis,” with people avoiding her on public transportation “as if I were contagious,” to watching privileged strangers infiltrate the scene. “Those of us with holes in our jumpers didn’t actually put them there on purpose,” she said in a 2007 interview with the website Punk77.
“I had an exhibit in London a while ago, and Soo came to the opening,” Mr. Gruen said, “and she was this sweet English housewife.”
Speaking to The Times of London after her mother’s death, Dion Lucas said, “Although she was the epitome of punk, as far as her image, she was a hippie underneath it all.”
She home-schooled her children for a while and led an effort to save a tree outside their school. In her free time, she read the Romantic poets and listened to music ranging from Neil Young to Motown.
In 2008, her daughter launched a campaign to reclaim her image. She silk-screened T-shirts and printed tote bags, which she and her mother sold online.
“My mother’s image has at times been associated with negativity, words like ‘destroy’ and ‘anarchy,’ and the mental pictures they conjure up don’t really fit with the person she is,” Dion Lucas said in 2009. “Her beliefs are more about a mental revolution — about people learning to think for themselves.”
In addition to her daughter, Soo Catwoman is survived by a son, Shem Lucas; 10 brothers, Paul, John, Tony, Steve, Joe, Jim, Dave, Robert, Roland and Adam; a sister, Linda Lucas Kenny; and four grandchildren.
Reflecting on her legacy on her Myspace page years ago, Soo Catwoman seemed bemused by the evolution of the look she helped create.
“It still seems strange to me that what happened back then could bring about so many changes, in hair, music, fashion, etc.,” she wrote. “It seems quite funny that what started out as anti-fashion became fashion in itself.”
At the start of “Mile End Kicks,” a film set in the Montreal indie music scene of 2011, a music critic in her early 20s, played by Barbie Ferreira, has arrived at her Craigslist apartment share fresh from Toronto. She’s promptly invited to a loft party by her Quebecois D.J. roommate. “Dress hot,” she’s told.
The camera scans the critic, Grace Pine, as she walks into the night. Brown lace-up brogues. Black socks over sheer black tights. A short burgundy corduroy skirt. A navy sweater with a white collar peeking out. A denim boyfriend jacket to finish the look. Hot? Depends on whom you ask.
“It’s a punchline to a joke in the script,” Courtney Mitchell, the film’s costume designer, said in an interview. “But there’s a genuine understanding to some audience members where that is what we felt sexy in, in a kind of nerdcore way.”
Montreal as an indie sleaze epicenter
“Mile End Kicks,” written and directed by Chandler Levack, is the semi-autobiographical story of a music writer who moves to the Mile End neighborhood of Montreal in the summer of 2011, a time when rents were cheap enough that artists could afford to live blocks from the venues where they played.
Ostensibly, she’s there to write a book about Alanis Morissette’s album “Jagged Little Pill.” But other items on her to-do list, such as “have actual sex,” take precedence, leading her to loft parties, poetry readings and a love triangle with members of the fictional band Bone Patrol.
The era, called “indie sleaze” in retrospect (but referred to as “hipster” by those who were there), with its messy, gritty-glam looks, is captured extensively in the film. “I never felt as free a dresser as I did when I lived in Montreal,” Levack said in an interview.
Head-to-toe in American Apparel
The clothing brand most closely associated with indie sleaze is American Apparel. Think deep V-neck tees, ’70s-inspired separates and ads featuring young women splayed in suggestive poses. “I was always digging something lamé out of my butt crack,” Levack said, not without a twinge of nostalgia.
To recreate the vibe, Mitchell collected more than 200 garments and accessories from the brand, including high-waisted jean shorts, shiny disco shorts, hoodies, bodysuits, rompers, bandeaus, oversized tees, jelly shoes and belts. She was adamant that the items date from 2011 or earlier to reflect that they had been in the wardrobe rotation for some years. She found them on a mix of resale sites including Facebook Marketplace, Poshmark and Craigslist, as well as at one Montreal dry cleaner that happened to have a trove of American Apparel dead stock.
And there was a personal history, too: Mitchell had worked at American Apparel stores while in high school and in college, and Ferreira modeled for the brand in 2012, when she was 16. They shared a deep familiarity with the clothes. “That really brings out an emotion, when you return to a beloved silhouette,” Mitchell said.
Homage to the ironic graphic tee
An ironic T-shirt coupled with a cardigan became a totem of indie style, thanks to icons like Kurt Cobain, who served as inspiration for Bone Patrol’s lead singer, Chevy (Stanley Simons). At his day job selling shoes at Mile End Kicks (a real store), he wears a plaid mohair cardigan over a pocket T-shirt emblazoned with “Time to Be Happy” in off-kilter print. “The slogan was Chevy’s tongue-in-cheek nod to his retail job,” Mitchell wrote in an email. “As if he is wearing a salesman costume while dying inside because he is ‘a real artist.’”
Two of the shirts worn by Grace belonged to Levack: a Spin magazine shirt she got as a summer intern at the publication, and a Sonic Youth baseball tee from a 2007 show at McCarren Pool, then an abandoned public swimming hole in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn. But the runaway star is merch from a vacuum store, La Maison de l’Aspirateur, in Mile End — a black shirt with a hoovering elephant logo worn by Archie (Devon Bostick), the lead guitarist. “It’s become an iconic shirt for the film,” Levack said. “I’m going to screenings and people in the audience are wearing the shirts.”
Hidden gems found in vintage piles
In the Mile End of 2011, vintage clothing was a fact of life for reasons of style and necessity, and it became core to the hipster aesthetic. “These aren’t characters that are buying clothes; they’re, like, finding them in the street and rummaging through the giant clothing pile at Eva B,” Levack said, referring to a Montreal vintage institution.
One of Chevy’s most lurid onstage looks is a shimmering shot silk women’s trench — worn over a pair of American Apparel briefs, of course — courtesy of Renaissance, a chain of thrift stores in Quebec. “Everyone at those shows, whether or not you were onstage or not, you felt like you were onstage,” Levack said. “People would dress up to be noticed and to outdo each other. But it was so creative because nobody had any money.”
Pete Yorn moved to Los Angeles almost exactly 30 years ago.
“I remember it was May 16, 1996 — maybe three weeks after I graduated from Syracuse,” says the singer and songwriter known for his smart, tender folk-rock stylings. “Which means I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else. But when people ask where I’m from, I still say I’m from New Jersey.” He laughs. “I guess I identify very strongly with my upbringing.”
In Sunday Funday, L.A. people give us a play-by-play of their ideal Sunday around town. Find ideas and inspiration on where to go, what to eat and how to enjoy life on the weekends.
Jersey pride notwithstanding, Yorn’s 2001 debut album, “Musicforthemorningafter,” is suffused with his experiences as a young transplant moving and shaking in a busy L.A. social scene he compares now to Doug Liman’s classic “Swingers” movie — “at least if you take away the swing dancing,” he says. “But the driving around and the going to parties — it was all the same stuff.” (Yorn’s older brothers, Kevin and Rick, are both prominent players in the entertainment business.)
The singer, who’s 51, is on the road this year performing “Musicforthemorningafter” in its entirety to mark the LP’s 25th anniversary; he’s also playing songs from throughout the rest of his career, including a 2009 duo record he made with his friend Scarlett Johansson. On July 24, he’ll release his 12th studio album, “All the Beauty.” Here, he breaks down his routine for a Sunday in his adopted hometown with his wife, jewelry designer Beth Kaltman, and their 10-year-old daughter.
7 a.m. Rise and dine
I’m like a 6:45 or 7 wake up just because I’m used to driving my daughter to school every day. I like to eat right away, and I eat the same two things every day: either yogurt with frozen berries, or there’s this overnight oats called Mush. The blueberry Mush — I can’t get enough of it. That’s what I eat before my shows too. I’ll go to a venue and the people are like, “What would you like for dinner? We have this beautiful menu,” and I’m like, “I’ll just have the Mush.”
10 a.m. Horsing around
Sunday is usually a day for something with my daughter. She’s taken a love to horseback riding — she’s much braver than I am — so I’ll drive her out to this barn near Bell Canyon, which my wife told me is actually in Ventura County. I said, “No way — Ventura County is way up there.” And sure enough, there’s this southern tip of Ventura that’s like 25 minutes from my house up the 101. Anyway, I’ll go and I’ll watch her ride the horse. I’ll be honest — I’m very nervous every time. But my wife grew up horseback riding, and my daughter, she just loves it. She can be very fickle, but this is one thing that’s stuck.
Now, I should say: If it’s NFL season, I can’t skip football. I’m a huge Raiders fan — it’s terrible. So if there’s an important game, I’ll have my Sunday Ticket on my phone and peek at what’s going on. But that’s fine — it’s understood.
12 p.m. Retail therapy
After the horse, we might go this place in Van Nuys called Iceland. It’s ironic because my wife, her dream trip is to go to Iceland the country, and the closest we’re getting to that right now is an ice-skating rink. Or I love going to the Fashion Square mall [in Sherman Oaks] — I don’t know if it’s a remnant of growing up in New Jersey or it just gives me the nostalgic feeling of being with my parents at the mall. I don’t even have to buy anything. I mean, I might end up getting roped into buying something — not a Labubu because that’s over but some sort of kawaii animal stuffy. I just like that the mall still exists in a time when it’s so easy for everyone to buy everything on their phone. My daughter was like, “Whoa, you can go in and touch things?”
3 p.m. Guilty pleasure
Here’s a naughty one: There’s a little bakery right off Ventura Boulevard called Schazti’s, and they have this chocolate banana pudding that is ridiculous. It comes in a paper cup.
6 p.m. Time to dine
If it’s Football Night in America, my wife and daughter would order Japanese or Chinese or Thai. They’d probably order that every day if they had their way — they’re obsessed. Sometimes I’ll just eat a bowl of cereal and call it a night. If there’s no game, a cool place to go that’s been there forever is the Smoke House in Burbank. I’d always seen it but had never been until a few months ago. Just a classic, old-school place — steak is great.
10 p.m. Slow for show
I’m early to bed because I know I’m gonna be up early to drive my daughter to school, which is my favorite thing when I’m home. I don’t want to miss it. I’m very conscious of how fast she’s growing up, and I know me — I’ll be sad when it’s over. We might watch a show or a movie but I’ll feel my eyes getting heavy after like 10 minutes. It takes me quite a few nights to get through an episode.
Zoe Latta, a co-founder of the fashion brand Eckhaus Latta, saw the clock on Instagram and started searching for pharma swag on eBay. “It was just a hole I got in,” she said. Latta soon rounded up some examples at “Rotting on the Vine,” her Substack newsletter, describing them as “silly byproducts of our sick sad world.”
Pharma swag feels somewhat like Marlboro Man merch — “like this very specific modality of our culture that’s changed,” Latta said, adding, “At first, I thought it was ironic and cheeky. But it’s also so dark.”
In particular, swag like the OxyContin mugs that read “The One to Start With. The One to Stay With” is regarded as highly collectible and highly contentious. Jeremy Wells, a newspaper owner and editor in Olive Hill, Ky., remembered, for example, seeing the mugs sold at a Dollar Tree in New Boston, Ohio, in the late 1990s or early 2000s. “At the same moment that the epidemic is blowing up,” he said.
“You can do a chicken-and-egg argument, and I doubt very seriously that those mugs made anybody get addicted,” he said. “But I do feel like things like those mugs did add to the mystique and the aura of seduction.” (After a protracted lawsuit, Purdue Pharma, the maker of OxyContin, has been dissolved and is on the hook to pay more than $5 billion in criminal penalties for fueling the opioid epidemic.)
“I was surprised to see how much this stuff was selling for in general — there is demand,” Latta said, pointing to a vintage Xanax photo frame listed for $230. Latta said she could imagine buying it for a friend who takes Xanax on planes (“if it was at a thrift store for under $10”) or maybe a pair of Moderna aviator sunglasses that she found, which seem to nod at Covid vaccines and the signature Biden eyewear, she said.
Pharmacore — medical-branded pieces worn as fashion — has found new expression at the confluence of identity, medicine and commerce, and at a time when skepticism toward pharmaceuticals is at a high (see: the MAHA movement).
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