Skipping through the music channels on TV at the weekend, I landed on this classic track. Recorded ‘live’ on the 24^th February 1969, in California’s notorious San Quentin jail, the song has always been one of my favourites by Johnny Cash. I must have watched this video many, many times before, but it was only on Saturday evening that I noticed something odd.

Have a look at the prison inmates. Notice anything?

No tattoos!

Without exception, everyone is devoid of body decoration.

Changed days indeed. A study has found that in USA now, 70% of prisoners have at least one tattoo, with 41% acquiring one / an additional one during their spell of incarceration.

Although the trend to self-expression through body-art became more commonplace through the late-Sixties and Seventies, as a ten-year-old kid of that time, I was always given to believe tattoos were the identifiers of either sailors or criminals.  You know, an anchor and a girl’s name inked onto forearm, or a swallow etched onto the back of a hand. That kind of thing.

Despite their growing popularity, tattoos never-the-less carried a stigma. And so, like in my household, we children of the Sixties / Seventies were subjected to parental lectures, warning of forcible amputation should we have our friends conduct some amateur inking on our bodies.

Of course, some youngsters did suffer, through infection as well as the wrath of their mums and dads, by declaring their ‘individuality’ on their skin. Even those who considered it a clever means of escaping punishment by having the words ‘MUM’ and ‘DAD’ scrawled onto their knuckles paid a heavy price.

What was acceptable though, and proved very popular amongst youngsters, were the ‘temporary tattoos’ or ‘transfers’ that could be bought in newsagents, sweetshops and in some cases came with packs of bubblegum. Bazooka Joe comes to mind.  

Initially produced using food-colouring dyes, these temporary tattoos had been around since the late 1800s. However, with the advent of ‘pop culture’ and the transfers becoming collectables (rather than being used for skin decoration) a move was made away from the biodegradable food-dyes to a more durable, yet safe ink.

Manufacturers would produce transfers for all the popular children’s cartoons and superheroes of the day. Batman, Superman, Stingray, The Lone Ranger etc. In the Seventies, I recall there being David Cassidy transfers. Donny Osmond, David Essex, Marc Bolan – they were all available. Indeed, Bolan, together with the band, Sweet, were wonderful adverts for these tattoos, sporting them through their television performances.

If I remember correctly, these temporary tatts came on sheets of especially absorbent paper. You’d cut out the transfer you wanted to wear, wet your arm, or wherever, and then press the image against your skin. You’d have remain motionless for thirty seconds or so, before slowly, very slowly, peeling the paper away, leaving the colourful image on display.

There was a knack to it, though. If you peeled the paper too early, or pressed so hard that it slipped, you were left with a partial or smudged tattoo. Wait too long before peeling, your skin would dry out, leaving part of the image on the paper when you removed it.

Nowadays, tattoos are of course widely accepted, though it was only in 2014 The British Army allowed them, provided they were not visible in a standard, passport-sized head and open-neck photograph. Similarly, from the following year, police forces around the UK began to accept them.

I can understand the reasons for our parents doing all they could to stop us inking-up as youngsters. Yet I do wonder if by encouraging us instead to cover our arms with images of television and pop-star heroes, they eventually drove us to more permanent markings as we grew older.

So here, eventually, is today’s prompt: what tattoo do I want, and where would I put it?

I have one thing in common with the jailbirds of San Quentin – I don’t have any tattoos. I doubt I ever get one now, at my age. If I did though, one would likely be a red coloured, Rolling Stones lips and tongue image above my puny bicep. Or perhaps, The Exploited’s skull logo – that’d be pretty cool. Maybe I’d have one on each shoulder.

I’m sure I’d still get a good talking-to from my 94-year old mum!

(Well … it would’ve rude not to, wouldn’t it? I know, I know – any excuse! 😉 😀 )

Reproduced from my Onceuponatimeinthe70s blog