Your book begins with an admission that you’ve never masturbated. Were you conscious of echoing the shock of The Slits’ Cut LP cover all over again?

I wanted to do that. I’d also read a lot of teenage fiction and it’s so fucking good; you’re either in or out on the first page. A bit of a ploy, I admit.

Was there a moment when the relationship between sex and music came alive for you?

Probably Patti Smith. Before then I’d fancied Scott Walker, all dreamy and misty, Donovan, who was like a brother, and Marc Bolan, who was so much like a girl that he was you personified. When Patti Smith came along, she was sexual, and sexual in her music – the breathing, the chanting, repetition. It was like the sex act and very orgasmic. That’s when I realised that as a girl, a woman, you could ‘be’ sex and music.

You were born in 1954, prime Beatles fodder, and you write about the powerful impact John Lennon made on you.

I did get that sexual buzz from Lennon, but he was the opposite, the boy, the Other. His screams and “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”s turned me on, but Patti Smith liberated the sexuality within me.

You seized on music – usually sung by young men – as a girl. Was that an attempt to fill the void left by your father?

It could have been. I certainly had no respect for my father. I don’t know whether if you’re a girl you automatically need men in your life – or vice versa. All I knew was, he’s an idiot, he’s old-fashioned, he’s mean, he’s violent. Just fuck off, don’t want you in the house.

Conversely, your mum was a broad-minded, nurturing figure who introduced you to The Woodcraft Folk. Wasn’t that Brownies for enlightened people?

It was. I grew up in Muswell Hill, which was full of these hip, communisty types, very open- minded. And my mum was a thinker. She wasn’t hip, but she was well-educated because school was harder then. She’s probably the most original thinker I’ve ever met.

And with your younger sister, it was a strongly female household.

It was, though we didn’t think of it like that. Mum worked two or three jobs so I could have the boots and the Donovan cap. I was mad about clothes from an early age.

You were that bit older than Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten. Did that make a difference?

They were only a couple of years younger than me, but they denied their past, as I admit I did. Growing up in Finsbury Park, as John did, was different to growing up in Muswell Hill. I was surrounded by a softer, more intellectual thing than he probably was. I hung out with friends in Hampstead and Highgate. Woodcraft was hippyish, all Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, Buffy Sainte-Marie, amazing change-the-world stuff. The Beatles and Stones changed from record to record, like they were constantly trying to expand their minds. I still expect that of music.

At 15, when you saw the Stones at Hyde Park in ‘69, did you look around and think: These are my people?

Definitely. It felt a bit like Woodstock, the longhairs congregating together, as if we all knew something. And it was right in middle of London and so loud! We took that for granted that there’d be massive concerts and that they’d be free. Perhaps the idea of everyone being equal was sown then…

Did that idealism die after Hendrix and Joplin joined Jones in the 27 club?

I didn’t see it like that. It was just part of the whole decadence, them pushing it to extremes. I was soon at art school, working at Dingwalls, hearing great DJs playing Bob Marley or Northern soul, meeting interesting people. I didn’t have that ‘It’s all gone to shit’ feeling. Only when the other thing erupted could I put that into perspective.

Your first gig was the Edgar Broughton Band, you bought Island compilations like Nice Enough To Eat. Did you have a smell under your nose about glam and plastic pop?

Plastic pop? I think that’s more authentic, because they were writing good catchy pop songs, which is one of the only things white boys do well… in all spheres of life! I probably did get into a King Crimson song and a Yes song. There was a bunch of us who could like Bowie and at the same time like the Third Ear Band.

Did women musicians interest you?

There were so few. Melanie stood out. She was odd, sang about odd things like roller skates and freeing the world, and not as po-faced as Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon. They were extraordinary women, but as an ordinary girl from a London council estate, I couldn’t think I can be that. Sandie Shaw [from the mid-’60s] was the other one. Everyone said she was just a receptionist from Dagenham with an ordinary voice, yet was groundbreaking with her bare feet, ordinary top and skirt and swinging hair.

Did you really learn more about the visual arts from Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s King’s Road shop, SEX, than you did at Hornsey Art College?

I did learn a lot from art school! It was the first time I felt I was amongst people like me. They were all so smart, better educated, better family backgrounds. It was cool to be working class there, but you had to be fucking clever; there was no point being working class and thick! I literally learned how to look there – John Berger’s book Ways Of Seeing was massive at the time. One day, a prestigious painter came in, made us tear up our stuff and throw it into a river. Hornsey was brilliant. It opened my mind.

And SEX?

It was Vivienne Westwood. That was the first time I’d met a working-class woman who spoke in this northern accent but was so liberated, so open-minded. She didn’t have to say it, she just lived it: Do what the fuck you want, when you want. She’s had a huge influence on Britain, especially galvanising women and girls into doing stuff. It was the way she sewed her stuff, things inside out, showing labels and seams. We made the connection and made music like that. And her relationship with Malcolm wasn’t sentimental or demonstrative, and that was fascinating to me – I’d only had teenage type affairs that were all about snogging in public.

When you saw the Pistols at Chelsea School Of Art [December 5, 1975], was the impact instant, or did it take time to sink in?

Instant. Even before they came on I got a vibe. There weren’t many people there. There was none of this, They’re rubbish, isn’t this fun! Not for one minute did it cross my mind that they’re shit and can’t play. They were like guerrillas, freedom fighter… utter recognition. It was John, really. He transcended every singer I’d ever seen.

In 1976, you inherited £200 and bought a Les Paul Jr. These were still the days of cock rock, of girl bands like Fanny and The Runaways still buying into that.

I don’t think of the guitar like that. Those guys who played it on porches saw it as an instrument to express yourself with. When you’re behind the wheels of a car, you’re as strong as every other fucker out there, and picking up a guitar was a bit like that. I had a big stack that I bought off Steve Jones, I could make a filthy loud noise, and it was hugely liberating.

A great mythology surrounds your first band, Flowers Of Romance with Sid Vicious. Was it a serious band?

We were very serious. That moment where Sid said, “I’ll be in a band with you”, was a huge leap because never before had boys and girls been in a band together. OK, Sly & The Family Stone, and the folkies did it a bit, but girls were usually the singers. Immediately, it made [The Clash and Sex Pistols] look old-fashioned.

Except it didn’t get far…

If only we’d got to record or play a gig. But it was too horrible to tape. I can’t even remember if there were song structures. Sid had scraps of lyrics about Belsen and S&M and I was like, How can I write anything to this? It was a great idea, but no one could be in a band with Sid, really.

You were dating Mick Jones, a romantic who was utterly committed to making it with The Clash, and mates with Sid, who didn’t seem to care about anything. Polar opposites?

I learned from [Jah] Wobble afterwards that Sid always wanted to be famous so there were parallels. It’s just that he put on a different persona to Mick. He turned up to every rehearsal, was always on time. He wanted to do it badly.

Did you sense Sid’s seeds of self-destruction?

Yeah, he had a nihilistic streak, which I don’t know if he was putting on or not. It was all a bit “Who the fuck cares about anything, anyway”. I wasn’t surprised that he died the way he did.

Did Rotten and McLaren share some of that nihilism?

No, they didn’t have the self-destructive element at all. They were questioning, intelligent, furious about the rules that were being put on them. They just wanted it to fall apart, fuck it all up.

Your book is remarkably candid, right down to that failed blowjob with Rotten. Why?

That’s in because it’s stayed with me all my life! It was a big deal to me that I was useless at it, and that I felt humiliated, but I also thought it was interesting as a counterbalance to how sex is today. I wanted to show how things like blowjobs weren’t around then. Girls still have the right to say no. I confessed to the page thinking I could take it out later, but once I got it down, I couldn’t take it away!

Despite thinking that all-girl groups were gimmicky, you called The Slits the morning after seeing them at the Coliseum, Harlesden in March 1977.

I thought they were great and Ari [Up, singer] was unbelievable, like nothing I’d ever seen. She was an equal to James Brown, Johnny Rotten, Tina Turner, anyone. And Palmolive’s drumming was so intense. It was, Fucking hell, I wanna be in that gang! And I knew boys would be thinking the same.

How conscious were you of being an all-girl band?

I forgot about it. Annie Nightingale once asked, “What’s the difference between you and The Three Degrees?” That’s like asking John Rotten what’s the difference between him and Smokey Robinson! We weren’t tolerant of that and that’s why we got a name for being difficult.

With punk, gigs became war zones. How did you cope with that?

The White Riot tour was a bit Bash Street Kids – hair sticking up, fisticuffs, fights in the corridors. And once we played, we’d pile out into the audience and dance to the next band. No one had ever seen a band do that before. Thank God, we were a gang! Palmolive was a good fighter. Ari was scared of nothing. Tessa [Pollitt, bass] was strong. I was the girliest of the lot but very feisty. People would pull Ari off the stage, and we’d stop and make them bleed. In the ’70s you could crack someone’s skull open and not get arrested.

Did you feel out of sorts with all the play-fighting?

Completely. The girls would all go mad and play like puppies, and I’m not that sort of person so I felt awkward. But most people feel awkward in bands one way or another. It wasn’t the end of the world.

How did you start writing with The Slits?

I’d made up this good riff [So Tough], and played it to Sid who suggested I play a bit of it twice, which made it an even better riff. I took it to a rehearsal, Ari loved the riff and they liked my words, which had come out of a conversation I’d had with John about Sid. We clicked; it was like a ball rolling downhill.

When did The Slits develop a female musical consciousness, particularly in terms of rhythm?

Immediately. The four of us constantly questioned everything. Each note had to be as exciting as the one before it and no clichés. We were almost telepathic about what we could hear in our heads, but in terms of technical ability, it was about 18 months before we were able to play it. That’s why we kept refusing record deals – we weren’t ready. We wanted to be on Island, because we rated that stable of artists, and we wanted to make a classic album. And we did. We were the first post-punk band.

A key element was your light’n’skippy guitar sound. How did you hit on that?

I thought, Is this big distorted sound really me or just the old, oppressive patriarchal way that guitars sound?

How did mentor Keith Levene help?

He didn’t teach me chords or anything, but we’d talk about playing, he showed me what not to play and gave me confidence. He’d say, “I wish I was so free that I could make a sound like a mosquito like you. Please don’t ever lose that.”

The Slits’ second session for John Peel, broadcast in May 1978, was as shocking in its originality as Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica. Two songs [So Tough, Instant Hit] are yours, yet not a mention of this post-punk moment in the book.

I didn’t wanna toot my own trumpet! But I did bring that consciousness to the band. Captain Beefheart lived out in the sticks with his own people around him, and felt free to create authentically and honestly. We felt free because of the environment, because we were kicking against everything, because it didn’t matter what you did.

And then Palmolive, your brilliantly unorthodox drummer whose Frequent Mutilation was another Peel highlight, was gone. That didn’t seem to make sense at all.

She was extraordinary. But Palmolive met Tymon Dogg and grew away from The Slits. I think spiritually she felt we weren’t the same or the right place for her to be. It wasn’t a matter of her being chucked out, it was a matter of her losing enthusiasm, and us – me – feeling like we needed the commitment. That was that era over.

Stripping down and rebuilding the entire set for Cut was a huge risk.

Well, we found Budgie, who was a fantastic drummer and so unegotistical, who could play what was in Ari’s head. She was amazing with rhythm, she’d break down hi-hat patterns, he’d add his bit and we soared again. I’m glad we captured those moments of fierce energy on the Peel sessions, but we’d matured. We were open to all these new influences, especially dub, and rejected that pantomime idea of going out playing the same tracks in the same way. We weren’t into people pleasing.

How important was Dennis Bovell in creating Cut?

He was brilliant. But rhythm was his thing so he was determined it was gonna be in time. That was painful for me and Tessa, but by the end of it, we were 100 times better musicians.

Dennis once told me Ari’s musicality was as extraordinary as her energy…

Music was Ari’s only outlet from stopping her going mad. She’d sat down at the piano at 12 or 13 and learned her grades, but finding a band she could express herself through, that was freedom for her. And her energy level was overwhelming. It wasn’t normal.

You’ve described her as vampiric…

Phew, yeah! She’s very young, from Germany, a natural mimic, and was desperately trying to find who she was amongst this scene of people who were eight or nine years older than her. If you’re 15 and hanging out with a 21-year-old, why wouldn’t you look at them all the time and learn from them? But she didn’t realise how insecure I was. It was like All About Eve, very painful and limiting for me to be watched like that all the time.

Did you have a moment of doubt about the Cut cover?

Not at all. We knew we had to adopt a strong stance for it to work, so we made sure we had the right look, defiant, aggressive and covered in mud. We felt like outsiders, very tribal, and didn’t think it looked sexy at all. We thought it summed us up. I was never comfortable with The Slits name, though.

The five-star reviews for Cut saw off that old ‘They can’t play’ jibe. But was it disappointing not to take the world by storm?

It was successful in chart terms [Number 30, October 1979], but what it didn’t do was build like it has now, to be recognised as a classic album. We expected that to happen quicker. [single] Typical Girls had charted and we had big audiences when we toured. We knew we weren’t Top Of The Pops material.

Why didn’t it build?

When Thatcher came in, the whole environment changed around music. I don’t know why Island dropped us, very weird. But if you’re radical, you’re always gonna be sidelined. We didn’t intend the band to last forever. Punk wasn’t about that anyway, though I wouldn’t normally use the word ‘punk’ about myself. It was about moving on, and don’t be sentimental or labour anything.

It was a pity the 1981 CBS LP [Return Of The Giant Slits] fell through the cracks because it was unlike anything else, a WOMAD-style record before WOMAD even existed.

I love that album. It’s completely underrated, much better and even more timeless than Cut. Dub again was a big influence, but by now we’d dub anything, not just reggae rhythms. We used to travel with our own mixer – sometimes manager Dick O’Dell, sometimes Adrian Sherwood – who’d know the songs back to front and dub us up live. That was exciting. It used to get very atmospheric, though I could live without the war paint now.

You can hear how good the band got on 1980’s unofficial Typical Girls live LP.

We were so broke that we bootlegged ourselves! Yeah, we were very relaxed with our playing then. It was brilliant.

The Slits split in January 1982. In the book you write: “I failed.”

I thought I’d failed. The complete loss of identity was huge, and something I’d cared so passionately about had gone overnight. That was difficult – but necessary. It had come to its natural end.

Ari told me she was grief-stricken by the split. You called the meeting?

Me and Tessa had just had enough. Ari was becoming impossible. She was also pregnant, making it even more difficult. And musically I felt it had run its course. It was the right time. I didn’t think Ari was particularly grief-stricken.

You couldn’t listen to music again for years…

Music was so painful. I couldn’t be in a cafe, couldn’t hear music on the radio, or play a record. It was like hearing the voice of the lover you couldn’t have. I couldn’t imagine being so passionate about anything ever again.

You studied film at Goldsmiths, then began a career in film and TV. Did that fill the gap?

No, it stretched my mind. It’s not like writing a song, then going out and playing it to people. Film’s a big slow old machine but it was incredibly stimulating.

Along the way, you filmed Big Black and Butthole Surfers. Impressed?

Just more guys standing with their legs apart making a big noise. I didn’t think they were life- changing, not after what we’d been through.

In 1995, you marry and become what you call “the dull Hastings housewife”. Was there a perverse pleasure in that?

There was! It had been exhausting fighting the fight, being spat on, all the put-downs. So to work hard, earn some money and be able to buy some new clothes, then to meet someone and have a home, this safe haven, I wanted it with all my heart. But there was a lot of resentment. It had never occurred to me that having a family was anything but a dreadful life sentence. And when I tried to conceive and couldn’t because I’d probably left it too late, I felt furious with society for not balancing the ‘earn your own money’ women’s lib thing with the fact that if you find something you’re compatible with and have children, then that’s great as well.

Was there a tipping-point that brought you back to music?

Not one moment of epiphany, just years of rumblings like running, getting my health back, going back to art school in Hastings and beginning to express myself again. In doing that, you shine a light on stuff that’s going wrong – like my marriage. Vincent Gallo wrote me a letter and buoyed me up artistically. I had no idea I was gonna do anything except sit in my kitchen, learn to play guitar and write these songs that I had to get out of myself. I had no goal beyond that, certainly not making an album and writing a book.

Is that what makes both so powerful?

Yeah. I can’t do it unless I’ve got something to say. If you’ve got nothing to say for 20 years, do something else.

You performed with the new Slits twice. How was that?

They were a real party band, different to the original Slits, who were edgy and pushing boundaries. And it was revolutionary to see women of a certain age on-stage making music. But when I played with them, it was half old Slits songs and half new stuff, which I didn’t feel any kinship to. I was already writing my own songs, and I thought I’d rather be on my own at an open mike playing to 10 people, singing something that means the world to me.

It must be difficult to accept that Ari, of all people, is no longer around.

I still can’t believe it. Ari loved music so much. She’d love to still be doing this, loved to have seen The Slits’ place in history being acknowledged. She was such a force of nature, and a baby, the youngest of the whole scene.

So, what has your search been about?

Being happy was never my aim. It’s all about finding things to stretch my mind, to excite me. So I’d look to places where there’s passion, creativity and humanity. So in writing the book, I had to be honest otherwise I’m not gonna touch people. That’s what The Slits did.

You’re sentimental, too. You have this fantasy affair with Vincent Gallo and The Carpenters’ Close To You! Perhaps love and music work best as revolutions in the head?

Except those love songs aren’t a revolution; they keep you down, like bundles of sweets with poison inside, I’ve been utterly brainwashed. I don’t know if I can undo that conditioning. All those love songs are a curse. When I hear them, I think, Please don’t let that keep going into girls’ heads.

Viv Albertine’s Clothes, Clothes, Clothes, Music, Music, Music, Boys, Boys, Boys is published by Faber & Faber and avilable to buy now.