This blog would probably not exist were it not for the Clientele. Their music has sustained me long past the time when I imagined I might still be writing about music in this broadly review-ish sort of way. And this despite the fact that the group once saddled me with an expensive bill – not that they ever knew they had (until now). Out and about in my car one fine spring day in 2007, with the freshly released God save the Clientele playing rather louder than it ought to have been on the stereo, I backed out of a parking space and didn’t spot an already battered Merc doing the same. An unholy alliance of insurance company and the Arthur Daley driving the Merc subsequently saw me stitched up like the proverbial kipper. Masterpiece though it may be, the album ended up costing me considerably more than the £10 I was comfortable spending on it.
Ever since, I have superstitiously refrained from playing the Clientele’s music in the car. So I’ve been listening to Alone and unreal: the best of the Clientele only while safely sitting at my desk at home, much as I would like to take it with me everywhere I go. When I first saw the track listing, I wondered if the group had been a little parsimonious in selecting only 11 songs – surely it could have been twice as many, and still have given any Clientele admirer acting as compiler headaches as to what to leave off? But upon listening, it becomes clear what has been done, which is effectively to programme a new album out of songs their fans will have played so frequently that they know them inside out. The music from the group’s different phases flows together, individual songs cast light on their neighbours, and the overall effect is to create both a journey through their output and a recognisable narrative. Having realised this, it wouldn’t be fair, would it, to carp on about this track or that being left off. But bloody hell, no ‘Lacewings’? No ‘Porcelain’? No ‘My own face inside the trees’? No ‘I hope I know you’? No… Stop that. Now.
The compilation picks a chronological path, which suits their development from songs recorded in a seriously lo-fi fashion to the aurally perfect productions of more recent times. It begins with ‘Reflections after Jane’, which sees the Clientele at their softest; for me, the song is redolent of London in the late nineties. The mood of minor melancholia, the resignation rather than racking sobs at the loss of Jane make for a beautiful piece of music, particularly when a middle eight of a kind arrives and takes this listener through the permeable glass panels of memory and into the precise mood engendered by a turn around Waterlow Park in Highgate, north London, 1999.
On ‘We could walk together’ we are again in a submerged, aquamarine sonic world of the Clientele’s own devising. This was the period in which Alasdair used to part-sabotage, part-enhance his vocals by putting them through a guitar amp, making it sound like he was ringing them in from a red public call box (put your nose to the air of these early songs, and you catch the faint smell of piss rising from the concrete floor to mingle with cigarette breath on the receiver). The guitar is crystalline, picking up glints of both sunset and moonlight, and then there are those gorgeous words borrowed from French poet Joë Bousquet: ‘like a silver ring thrown into the flood of my heart’, a line which fits so well with the rest of the song that you wouldn’t know it’s an appropriation unless it’s pointed out to you.
The mood again returns to absence, loss, and weirded-out isolation for ‘Missing’, the only choice from the group’s first album proper, The violet hour. The song slowly and subtly unwinds, with accents picked out on an acoustic guitar; what for many groups would be a run-of-the-mill album track is transformed through sheer loveliness into a song which can justifiably feature on a ‘best of’.
Now comes what I think of as Alasdair’s lyrical and the group’s musical tour de force – ‘Since K got over me’. Musically, it’s the closest we get on this collection to the dynamism that they could generate merely out of guitar, bass and drums in a live setting. Alasdair’s guitar clangs and twangs, James ferments another of his ever-melodious bass lines, and Mark’s drums are as bouncy as the trampoline Alasdair refers to in the lyric. Although this is on the surface a song about the aftermath of a relationship, I’ve often wondered whether the initial ‘K’ was deliberately chosen as an allusion to Kafka’s ‘Josef K’, and so to existence as the author of The trial and ‘Metamorphosis’ painted it. ‘I don’t think I’ll be happy anyway / Just scratching out my name’, Alasdair sings, entirely believably. Then ‘There’s a hole inside my skull with warm air blowing in’ gives us a Buñuel-esque vision of a character continuing to sing even though he’s been shot in the head, to the point that you feel he is actually enjoying the curious feel of the air rushing through the hole, past the remaining bone and matter. The end result is both philosophically provocative and an incredible pop song.
‘(I can’t seem) to make you mine’ marks the moment when the group expanded its palette to include strings arranged and conducted by renaissance man Louis Philippe. The result is the Clientele at their most refined, elegant and stately – you could imagine an airing of this song in Bath’s Pump Room not leading to too many tea cups rattled in horror. Once again, the strings evoke the loss, or rather, the never having gained, as well as ‘the ivy coiled around my hands’.
On ‘Losing Haringey’ Alasdair performs a spoken word lyric over more gorgeously melodic music, which somehow enhances the sense of disquiet, lassitude and plain weirdness
of his story. Once again, London is a strongly depicted character, and as I listen, my own feverish wanderings about Haringey and Islington become jumbled up with his character’s: ‘I found myself wandering aimlessly to the west, past the terrace of chip and kebab shops and laundrettes near the tube station. I crossed the street, and headed into virgin territory – I had never been this way before. Gravel-dashed houses alternated with square 60s offices, and the wide pavements undulated with cracks and litter. I walked and walked, because there was nothing else for me to do, and by degrees the light began to fade.’
Lyrically, what is gradually being revealed through this particular choice of songs are the existential battles and romantic adventures of the persona inhabited by the group’s singer. Alasdair has consistently espoused a philosophical as well as literary view of the world via the medium of pop music, and Alone and unreal’s trajectory only serves to hammer that point home, both through the choice of those words for the title of the collection, and through the themes which keep on surfacing from first note to last, themes which have also informed the sequence of Clientele cover art which began with Belgian artist Paul Delvaux’s ‘The viaduct’ for Strange geometry and is maintained with John Whitlock’s faceless, de Chirico-esque collage for Alone and unreal.
Well now, but here’s a change in the mood, a twist in the plot. ‘Bookshop Casanova’ breezes in with a lyric best summed up by the lines ‘ah come on darling / let’s be lovers’. The strings, the strident drums, and a guitar solo half-inched from the Isley Brothers’ ‘Summer breeze’ only go to enhance the fabulous seventies disco mood. In intent and effect, the end result is not dissimilar to Whit Stillman’s literary take on Studio 54 in his film The last days of disco.
By the time ‘The queen of Seville’ comes round, and in spite of its blue lyric, it’s starting to feel like this just might be a tale with a happy ending; the music has a palpable yearning quality to it, and even if ‘it’s gonna be a lonely, lonely day’, at least ‘she sends me roses’. Gentle piano figures and slowly stretched-out limbs of pedal steel underscore the waiting, as do the verses sung under Alasdair’s breath, as if to himself, or his lover, before he lifts his eyes and his voice again to curse his luck.
‘Never anyone but you’ is a thing of perfection, simultaneously sinewy and musically delicate. The character’s mind is still haunted by his surroundings, by phantoms and imaginary choirs – presumably singing these very harmonies, prompting Alasdair to take them down verbatim – but now a chorus line of ‘I can only see you’ continually rings out, giving the song an overriding feeling of almost stalker-like obsession.
‘Harvest time’ manages to be plangent, spooked and spooky – ‘Bats from the eaves go shivering by / Scarecrows watch the verges of light / I hear a choir on the heath at night / But no one’s there’ – and yet somehow also celebratory, in a hallucinogenic, heat-hazed way. An actual choir in the form of backing vocals from Mel and Mark softly and beautifully reinforces this sense of the cyclical nature of life, as well as the philosophical acceptance that ‘Everything here has a place and a time / We’re only passing through’.
The most recently recorded song, ‘On a summer trail’, brings the album to a close. To these ears, it does feel a little like an added extra – while it’s a good Clientele song, it’s perhaps not exceptional, like the rest. That said, it may well grow on me the more I hear it, as so many of their less immediate songs have, and besides, it also fits the narrative, concluding the story on the positive, forward-looking note that ‘Bookshop Casanova’ first heralded.
The CD comes with a free download of The sound of young Basingstoke, formative recordings which date from 1994, although the group were by then sufficiently inspired to have already come up with early favourites like ‘Saturday’ and ‘Rain’. Anyone who already has a copy of It’s art Dad might be a little bit underwhelmed by Basingstoke, as there are a number of tracks in common, and nothing which really bests the early gems captured on Suburban light. That said, songs like ‘The evening in your eyes’, ‘When she’s tired of dancing’, and ‘From a window’ are well worth hearing again.
I can’t help envying the listener who comes to Alone and unreal having heard little or nothing of the Clientele before, because if they like what they hear, then the pleasure of discovering their five albums – so selectively plundered for this compilation – remains open and ahead of them. I’d love to be able to take that journey again, but equally I’m happy I was along for the ride in the first place.
I don’t really need another copy of my favourite ever LP – The magical world of the Strands – but it seemed only right to purchase the reissue of the Head brothers’ unforced, unrushed masterpiece, recorded between 1993 and 1995, and originally released in 1997. The reward (aside from putting a little well-deserved sterling in the bank account of one Michael Head Esq.) is once again to listen closely to the exquisite detail in the music, to hear Mick’s voice in perhaps the best nick it ever was, and to read the lovely little sleeve note from the man himself, describing the magical nature of the conditions under which the album was made:
‘Like when you were a kid sitting on the kerb, putting your fingers on the tar bubbles. A parked car pulls away and the residue of oil makes little oceans of wonder. And for that moment you don’t have a care in the world.’
If it was magical to make, it has always been magical to listen to. This is what I wrote about the record in 1999:
‘A German label had come to the rescue of Waterpistol; now it was the turn of French label Megaphone… The magical world of the Strands was the result, and it underpins this whole story, making it worth the telling. If Zilch was Mick at his most socially concerned, then The magical world of the Strands sees him in about as other-worldly a state as it’s possible to record. The echoing, raining, hollow sonic quality is matched by songs that come from another age, and tender singing that is without a trace of vanity or self-reverence. That it’s a record apparently made in the sub-aqueous depths of heroin is a fact that you shouldn’t hold too near the front of your mind when you’re listening to it. The magical world is beyond the substances that sustained it. It’s an instrumentally beautiful record, totally idiosyncratic, rightly titled magical – alluding to a fantasy world beyond reality, or of heightened reality. Songs such as ‘Something Like You’ and ‘Fontilan’ are liquid, sleepy, and impressionistic. Others – ‘Queen Matilda’, ‘Hocken’s Hey’ – are folk songs in the truest sense, mythical and timeless; they give you a notion of the Head brothers hanging out with Robin Hood beneath the canopy of Sherwood Forest, or standing with their noses to the breeze off the Mersey long, long before there was a Liverpool to give birth to them.’
Soon to come is The olde world, unreleased songs and outtakes from around the time The magical world was recorded. The uninitiated should buy the latter; the initiated, the former. But I don’t need to tell them that.
Available to listen to now is Michael Head’s most recent solo outing, at the appropriately named Old Church in Stoke Newington. It’s a captivating performance, even for those of us who weren’t lucky enough to be there that evening.
Perhaps you won’t actually know his name, but if you’ve any interest in the jazz, soul, pop, folk, blues or Brazilian music of the 1960s and 70s, then you will almost certainly have heard either the songs or the piano playing of Bobby Scott. Take ‘A taste of honey’, recorded by the Beatles for their first LP – that’s one of Bobby’s. ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’, another.
Following on from his previous book, A moment worth waiting for, which focussed on the early 1980s and took the equally adventurous Vic Godard as its touchstone, here Kevin Pearce traces an insightful and alternative path through the music of the two previous decades – alternative in the sense that Bobby Scott and many of the singers and musicians with whom he worked have not been anything like as celebrated as they deserve to be.
Bobby Scott’s approach was genre-blind if not genre-busting, illustrative of the plurality, interconnectedness, and cross-pollinating tendencies of a certain type of musical adventurer. He was, in the best sense of the word, a mastermind, but one who never lost sight of the gifts which individual singers possessed.
This was a man who packed a lot of living into too short a life. From precocious and energetic youth to grey-bearded patrician, Bobby composed, arranged, conducted, produced, sang, and played on countless sets of music, working with an amazing cast of fellow musicians and singers, including Bobby Darin, Jackie Paris, Chet Baker, Roland Kirk, Quincy Jones, Aretha Franklin, Timi Yuro, Nana Mouskouri, Esther Ofarim, Catherine Howe, Luiz Bonfá, Eumir Deodato, Marvin Gaye, and Dionne Warwick – and just as many less well-known performers, each treated by the writer on the merits of the work they left behind rather than plaudits gathered along the way.
It’s a journey which You know my name maps in meticulous detail and with great affection, building a portrait of a gifted, fascinating, and generous man, as well as a rich and enlightening history of the music of the times. Among others, Astrud Gilberto, Stan Getz, Gary McFarland and Lalo Schifrin all also feature prominently in the story as it diverges from its central character to record the influential effect that Brazilian bossa nova had on music in the United States from the early 1960s onwards.
The book becomes an evocation of the depth, breadth and staying power of the great American and Brazilian songbooks, and in so doing, an extended treatise on the art of singing. Bobby Scott – himself a vocalist of raw emotional power – is rightfully rescued from the cracks in history down which he has fallen, and along with him, dozens of fine singers and musicians worthy of far greater attention than they received at the time.
I may not have been writing here much of late, but while I’ve been away, there’s always been at least or song or two in my heart. Songs I would like to talk and write about, songs I want to share. I think it’s time I started doing so again.
My 45 45s series which ended last year reminded me how much I enjoy focussing in on a particular song, without the need necessarily to tell a fuller story, or set it in the context of the artist in question’s musical progression (or regression). This new (and inevitably irregular) ongoing series will follow the same lines, but instead of limiting myself to the recto surface of 500-odd 45s, I’m going to allow myself to choose discrete songs or pieces of music from any format, genre, and time. Which already feels like blissful freedom in comparison.
Some songs you keep coming back to, wanting aurally and mentally to gnaw at them much as a dog does a bone – because they in turn gnaw at you, get inside your head and your heart, and give you glimpses of life as lived by others, glimpses which may or may not chime with the life you’ve lived yourself. In a way, they are glimpses of perfection – untidy life tidied up into the coherent structures of chords, melody, verse and chorus, the messiness of emotion rendered clear as spring water by thinking, feeling minds – or left deliberately or subconsciously full of that glorious messiness, that disorder or flight of the spirit which reminds us listeners how fully alive it is possible to be.
The Lucksmiths’ ‘Fiction’ is one such song. I remember seeing the group play live a couple of times around the turn of the millennium, and found them engaging and enjoyable because of the sunlit Australian warmth they exuded, together with their perhaps nationally atypical tendency towards being understated. I don’t recall them playing ‘Fiction’ on those occasions; I’m sure I would remember if they had, because it’s the kind of song which sticks in your head after just one listen. Coming across it not so long ago, alongside the equally compelling ‘The chapter in your life entitled San Fransisco’, I was immediately struck by its beguiling mix of clever story-telling and wistful sense of what might have been. The song inhabits its title to such an extent that when you are done listening, you feel like you’ve just read the most perfectly crafted short story, a previously unread gem by your favourite short story writer (William Saroyan, say, or Janice Galloway).
Sung by Tali White, with lyrics written by Marty Donald, and played by a group whose lyrical sensitivity had been fine-tuned over many years, I feel sure the four and a half minutes of ‘Fiction’ will worm its way inside your mind and heart too, if it hasn’t already.
The image at the head of the post is of a Flannery O’Connor quote and was included among ‘25 stunning literary tattoos from books by your favorite female authors’.
Whatever the cause, the tragically early death of Nick Talbot at the age of 37 robs us of a gifted songwriter whose best work could easily have been ahead of him. The unblemished purity of his voice was a perfect foil to the penetrating, sombre intelligence he brought to bear on the songs he recorded as Gravenhurst. Yes, they were dark, but they were also highly melodic, and shot through with deft lyricism. He could both move you, and challenge what you took for granted. He will be missed and I for one will continue to listen to the songs he left behind.
Here are two of his finest. ‘Animals’, from 2005’s Fires in distant buildings, in which Nick imagines being both murdered and murderer, and ‘Bluebeard’, from 2003’s Flashlight seasons, which isn’t much less bleak, but is extremely beautiful.
(The title of this post is part of a quote attributed to the writer and critic Cyril Connolly on the sleeve of Gravenhurst’s 2012 album, The ghost in daylight: ‘It is closing time in the gardens of the West, and from now on an artist will be judged only by the resonance of his solitude or the quality of his despair.’)
My friend Kevin Pearce has just published A moment worth waiting for as an e-book. It has no subtitle, very possibly because there is no way you could even begin to sum up the book’s contents in half a dozen or so words. But perhaps if you did try, it might read: a young man’s peregrinations through the music of the early 1980s. Except that the young man in question doesn’t confine himself to the 1980s, instead time-travelling here, there and everywhere as he traces lineages back as far as Music Hall and anticipates futures yet to happen. Beginning with Vic Godard, ending with easy listening pianist Peter Skellern (whom Vic used to put ‘on his battered bone-armed record player’), and taking in along the way the ZE, Postcard, Rough Trade, Y and On-U Sound record labels, as well as any number of characters on, around and beyond those labels, it’s as much the mapping of the fruits of an individual voyage of discovery as a detailed account of how that individual made those discoveries – at times through a process of gradual absorption, more often by instinctively and gleefully seizing upon leads from music journalists, as well as the kind of chance encounters or intuitive leaps of faith which result from having a curious mind and a relentlessly hungry pair of ears. In this respect it reminds me of Rachel Cohen’s wonderful book A chance meeting: intertwined lives of American writers and artists, which espoused a similar interest in unearthing what you might call cultural interconnectedness in the pre-internet age.
It’s also very much the journey and work of a lifetime. The depth of the research – and / or recall – is amazing; key to the book is the contemporary music criticism upon which Kevin draws, so obviously influential in terms of his developing taste. But those well-remembered moments of discovery are merely the beginning, and it’s the lifetime of subsequent listening and exploration which adds lightly disguised layers of retrospective understanding to each instance of musical epiphany.
With a cast of thousands and a no limits approach to the genres of music covered, even knowledgeable readers are likely to feel somewhat bewildered from time to time – perhaps there are too many leads, too many clues for any one reader to follow up on – but the tone of the writing remains engaging, generous and sure-footed. The transitions backwards and forwards in time are likewise handled with ease, and the effect of the whole is to do what any great writing about music should – indeed, what those music journalists of the early 1980s did for Kevin himself – which is to make the reader wish to listen again with freshly syringed ears to the records they know, and make haste to track down those that have so far eluded them. I came away with a long, long list of those.
Anyone with an interest in not just independent music of the 1980s, but the entire history of popular music, will learn something from – and find fascination in – every chapter of Kevin’s book. Moments and words worth waiting for, indeed.
A Man Called Adam – Barefoot in the head
Broadcast – Come on let’s go
The Wolfhounds – The anti-Midas touch
Franz Ferdinand – Take me out
Berntholer – My suitor
Rockingbirds – Gradually learning
Hellfire Sermons – Freak storm
New Order – Temptation
Scars – Adult/ery / Horrorshow
Vic Godard – Stop that girl
Wedding Present – My favourite dress
Ultramarine feat. Robert Wyatt – Kingdom
Dexy’s Midnight Runners – There there my dear
Radiators From Space – Enemies
Felt – Something sends me to sleep
Close Lobsters – Just too bloody stupid
Yeah Yeah Noh – Prick up your ears
That Petrol Emotion – Keen
Pooka – City sick
Robert Forster – Baby stones
Teardrop Explodes – Passionate friend
The Fun Boy Three – Our lips are sealed
Kristin Hersh – Velvet days
Gruff Rhys – Candylion
Stockholm Monsters – Fairy tales
Shop Assistants – All day long
Isley Brothers – That lady
The Style Council – Speak like a child
David Bowie – John, I’m ony dancing
The Adult Net – Incense and peppermints
Shack – Al’s vacation
The White Stripes – Hello operator
Blueboy – Clearer
Nico – My funny Valentine
Fugu – F31
Kraftwerk – The model
Donna Summer – I feel love
Electribe 101 – You’re walking
Prefab Spout – When love breaks down
Movement 98 feat. Carroll Thompson – Sunrise
Scott Walker – Jackie
Farmer’s Boys – Apparently
Aztec Camera – Oblivious
Paul Quinn with Edwyn Collins – Pale blue eyes
A Man Called Adam – Bread, love and dreams
(1980) ‘Start!’ was the first single I purchased new, as opposed to second-hand, which accounts for me being able to say that both it and ‘Here comes the summer’ by the Undertones were the first singles I ever bought. First records are supposed to be embarrassing, necessarily purchased before taste of any kind has been acquired. But somehow I managed to land on two gems. Perhaps it was that there just wasn’t the money for me to fritter it away on pop or indeed novelty records before I reached the age of 12. The shop was an old-school type in West Byfleet which also sold cameras and sports goods and had its vinyl shelved behind the counter. ‘Start’ had been a number one; I was buying it a while after it had dropped away from that height. Famously it borrows bass and guitar riffs from the Beatles’ ‘Taxman’, though the vocal melodies and ultimately the song are Weller’s own. At this distance, the perfection of the music is slightly undermined in places by the youthful intensity of the lyric. But back then ‘if we communicate for two minutes only / it will be enough’ and ‘knowing that someone in this world / feels as desperate as me’ was exactly what a boy about to become a teenager wanted to hear. SWITCH (1984) The Ipswich Gaumont, for the Our favourite shop tour. The Style Council supported by Billy Bragg and the Questions, with Weller and Mick Talbot playing Funkadelic’s ‘One nation under a groove’ as well as the Impressions’ ‘Meeting over yonder’. He opened up worlds, with those choices, among others. SWITCH (1985) My General Studies AO level required an essay-length review of a cultural artefact. Mine was of The gift LP; it borrowed heavily from review excerpts quoted by Paolo Hewitt in his book about the Jam, A beat concerto – lines I had read with sufficient frequency and obsession to be able to recall verbatim. SWITCH (1987) A sharp-suited and consequently somewhat overdressed Weller and D.C. Lee are at the head of a youth CND march as I come towards it to join it. It ended with a concert in Kennington Park headlined by not the Style Council, but the Mighty Lemon Drops. I remember nothing of that, though, just the sight of those two exotic creatures leading a procession of rather more drably dressed students. SWITCH (1992) What a revelation the first solo Weller LP was. Gone were the conceptual excesses of the Style Council, and in their place, a renewed emphasis on his craft, which made for a crop of songs both as great and as humble as any he has written before or since – ‘Above the clouds’, ‘Amongst butterflies’, ‘Remember how we started’, ‘Clues’, ‘Into tomorrow’. But I must have dreamt that I went to see the comeback Paul Weller Movement gig at Dingwalls in Camden in 1990, as I thought I had; I can’t find any record of it – no notebook entry, no preserved ticket, no sense of the occasion. I guess I very much wanted to be there, but wasn’t. SWITCH (1995) At the Blue Note in Hoxton, when my friend Jack’s band was supporting Ocean Colour Scene, Weller was there, in the upstairs bar. Did he watch Jack in action? I don’t suppose he did, but in a way it was enough that he was simply in the building. SWITCH (2004) On my lunch break, who should I see skipping over a zebra crossing on Marylebone High Street? He is smaller than I remember, elfin almost, but again, immaculately dressed. Possibly he is on his way to visit with his mate Noel G., who lives down the road and round the corner from my office. But my day is made, a sighting of the lesser-spotted Weller being nearly as auspicious as, say, seeing a heron rise into the air from a riverbank. SWITCH (2009) Writing for the first time about Weller since that AO level effort, this time focussing on ‘Tales from the riverbank’ for my B sides blog. As ever when I read a piece back, there are sentences which would be better for being more simply phrased, but in it I think I got at something about the relationship between avid listeners and their musical heroes, and also about the friction between musical realism and escapism: ‘At the time, and throughout the eighties, the decade which saw new heights of political conflict within modern Britain, no fan of the Jam or the Style Council would be likely to admit that Weller’s songs as much as [Duran] Duran’s were an escape from precisely the reality that he often wrote about, or at least the intimation of the reality that was waiting for you upon leaving school. Even as he reeled off his list of doubtful delights in ‘That’s entertainment’ – ‘sticky black tarmac’ and ‘slashed-seat affairs’ – we dwelt not so much on the portrayal of reality as on Weller’s wordplay, his melodic gifts, the liberty espoused by his vocal delivery, the heights that his guitar could reach when set against the solid foundations of Bruce’s bass and Rick’s drums. These were things which on one level had nothing to do with external reality, nothing to with the world. They were cerebral, and of the heart. Consciousness and emotion – the essence of what it means to be alive. They set many of us dreaming of a time when we would have the confidence to express ourselves in the same way; about what, it almost didn’t matter.’ SWITCH (1982) So I’ll finish this journey back through my life at 45 revolutions per minute using the words with which Weller signed off his sleeve notes on the back of the cover of the live Dig the new breed LP, the one that brought the curtain down on the Jam after his shock announcement that he was disbanding the group. SWITCH What have I learnt? BELIEF IS ALL!
- The Jam – Start! (Polydor, 1980)
2011 was the first year since 1979 in which I did not buy a single piece of seven inch vinyl. Subsequently I’ve made a point of putting that right, but it’s indicative of how the format has inevitably been marginalised by mp3s, and also of how my shopping habits have changed; until 2009, I had ready access to stores selling seven inch vinyl, whereas since then, I have not. Just as when I started buying records on independent labels in the mid-eighties, seven inch singles are once again arriving via mail order, only now with download codes included.
‘Moon’ is one such example, pressed on lunar white vinyl. And the most recent single in this selection of 45s also happens to be one of my favourite songs from recent times. It’s flawless, as perfect a miniature as you’d find in a glass-case collection of netsuke. The songs of Kate Stables are that exquisitely crafted, and she sings wonderfully windblown, ululating melodies in as fine and unblemished a voice as you’ll find this side of Sandy Denny. The words are haiku-like in their capturing of an essence: ‘We had the moon, we had the moon, me and you.’ The album from which ‘Moon’ comes, Wriggle out the restless, is similarly fluid and beautiful; each of its songs has either a lilt and a calming air, or a swell and a rush of wind about it.
As magical as the satellite itself, refusing to outstay its welcome, ‘Moon’ has demanded endless repeat plays of me, and I imagine it will carry on doing so for a good long while yet.
Christmas 1979, or very shortly after; my memory’s not clear on that point. Nor on exactly how we come to be staying with the housekeeper for a Tory MP at a time when thick drifts of snow are making the country roads all but impassable. And where are my brother and sister in this picture? I’m not entirely sure about that, either. What I do remember is the long linoleum corridor that led from the kitchen to the warmth of the living room, and there playing Operation by candle and firelight with the housekeeper’s daughter, a girl a couple of years’ older than me. In memory I see her still softly adumbrated by the flickering flames behind her; of course I fell straightaway a little bit in love with her. It didn’t hurt that she liked music too, and so we sat in front of the fire and listened to the cassette I had received as a present from my mother that Christmas: Ronco’s Rock’n roller disco, a pre-Now that’s what I call music compilation of hits. Just look at the track listing:
A1 – The Gibson Brothers – Ooh what a life
A2 – Kandidate – Girls, girls, girls
A3 – Dollar – Love’s gotta hold on me
A4 – Bill Lovelady – Reggae for it now
A5 – Flying Lizards – Money
A6 – The Jags – Back of my hand
A7 – Voyager – Halfway Hotel
A8 – The Real Thing – Boogie down
A9 – Jimmy Lindsay – Ain’t no sunshine
A10 – Jasmin – Amadeus theme
B1 – The Buggles – Video killed the radio star
B2 – B.A. Robertson – Bang bang
B3 – The Boomtown Rats – I don’t like Mondays
B4 – Sparks – Beat the clock
B5 – The Jolly Brothers – Conscious man
B6 – Heatwave – Always & forever
B7 – Dollar – Who were you with in the moonlight
B8 – The Ruts – Babylon’s burning
B9 – Public Image Ltd – Death disco
B10 – Racey – Lay your love on me
There are some good things on there, for sure – unbeknown to me, my first dose of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry in the form of ‘Conscious man’, for example – and others that are maybe not so good, but I think I’d treat them all with affection if I heard them again (the tape is long since lost). What most strikes me about it now – aside from the two portions of Dollar (late seventies pop’s perfect couple) – is the random nature of the sequencing, as random as which hits you would hear alongside each other while listening to the Top 40 countdown early on Sunday evenings. With the last quartet of songs, however, you can’t help surmising that the compiler was having some fun – Dollar into the Ruts, then PiL followed by Showaddywaddy copycats Racey? Maybe the thinking was that ‘Death disco’ was too much of a downer to end on, so why not pep up the boys and girls with a little bit of Racey? The other striking point is the fact that ‘Death disco’ is included at all; it’s hardly music for a roller-disco. Perhaps the compiler felt obliged to acknowledge the existence of punk, or maybe they could get it cheap from Virgin.
Musically I didn’t understand ‘Death disco’, as I understood ‘Bang bang’ or ‘I don’t like Mondays’ (the song that will have encouraged my mother to buy it for me, knowing how enthralled I was by the Boomtown Rats), but I was fascinated in it, drawn in by it. I worked on it like a puzzle as it worked like a puzzle on me; it was the same with ‘Flowers of romance’ two years later, though by the time of ‘This is not a love song’, I had caught up, or perhaps it was that John Lydon had dropped back.
With ‘Death disco’ – a song which I now know came out of watching his mother die of cancer, and her asking him to write a disco song for her funeral – the transformation of Johnny Rotten back into John Lydon was complete, leaving listeners ever since to reflect on just how amazing it is that he should have been the driving force behind not one but two of the most influential groups of his times; two groups whose only commonality was that bug-eyed leer and warbling, sandpaper voice.
And this is the point where memory plays tricks, when it turns and runs away, laughing. Because later on, nostalgic, I tracked down a vinyl copy of ‘Death disco’, and realised that I’d already become reacquainted with the song through the retrospective purchase of PiL’s Metal box a.k.a. Second edition, on which it appears in an alternate version titled ‘Swan lake’, Keith Levene’s guitar hook being an accidentally arrived at, misquoted version of the ballet’s theme. A song I had listened to so much many years before had somehow slipped from my mind to become at best a distant echo or an instance of déjà vu. But now, whenever I listen to either take, I think of playing Operation by firelight and a housekeeper’s daughter.
Where once I might have chosen Paul Handyside’s ‘Hip hip’ as my favourite Hurrah! 45, now it’s his ‘Gloria’ which has greater emotional sway. ‘Hip hip’ is necessarily celebratory, excitable and exciting, the adrenaline rush of poetic youth, but it’s also tinged with nostalgia and melancholy, for the many memories it conjures, for the distance which has opened up within me between the man I am now and the boy I was then. Perhaps inevitably at this distance, the lyrics read as and sound somewhat adolescent. And that’s fine, because if ever songs caught the rush of feeling that being young involves, the confusion and exaltation and cloud nine highs and dismal pressure drop lows, the happiness shot through with sadness and the sadness shot through with a refusal to be beaten, then it was the early songs of Handyside and Taffy Hughes, the Geordie Lennon and McCartney.
‘Gloria’, with its Cyrano de Bergerac gallantry and transposition of a serenading or star-crossed lovers balcony scene to twentieth century Newcastle, is perhaps no exception, but it seems tempered by both a feeling of duende and a dreamlike quality; the dream that starts when you want it to. While the yearning edge of Handyside’s voice filled so many of his songs with a sense of melancholy and things not quite working out as he might have hoped and planned, here he manages to convey a sense of certainty and destiny that pervades waking and sleeping, night and day.
It doesn’t hurt that musically, it’s a classic-sounding song which in my mind twines about Procol Harum’s ‘A whiter shade of pale’ like ivy or wisteria, the Hammond organ line of which was itself famously lifted from Bach. ‘A whiter shade of pale’ in turn makes me think of the Clientele’s ‘Isn’t life strange?’, and how’s that for a trio of timeless songs?
‘Trust in me, things I tell you…’ Hurrah! were a group of infinite importance to a small, select number of people; folk took the trouble to testify to this when I wrote about the group over at Backed with. Implored to do so by the collective persuasion of both Hungry beat and Are you scared to get happy? fanzines (the latter named after the rousing challenge in the chorus of ‘Hip hip’), I bought a copy of Boxed: long-shot pomes from broke players, which collected together Hurrah!’s early singles for Kitchenware, including ‘Gloria’. The title was borrowed from Charles Bukowski, whose novel Factotum I would have read around the same time, following up every suggested lead. Back then I never saw the delightfully silly and presumably somewhat satirical video for ‘Gloria’ featuring a dippy New Romantic-looking girl dancing (surely not the Gloria in question?) and bass player David Porthouse cross-dressing (now, if he were the Gloria in question, that would certainly give the lyrics some swing); all of which doesn’t quite undermine Handyside’s earnestness nor the enduringly affecting nature of the song.
Image of Longshot pomes for broke players via bukowski.net.
‘These small black discs are the first things that are truly mine; my choice, paid for with my own scraps of cash, reflecting my own stubbornness. In a dream, I watch them spin and spin, calling out, pointing the way. These are the days when very few people collect records, so therefore whatever they might buy defines their secret heart.’ – Morrissey, Autobiography
I blame Morrissey.
An ordinary school morning on a Friday in the year before I took my A levels. I am confronted on the turn of the stairwell by the deputy headmaster. Lately my hairstyle has become increasingly extravagant and upright, held aloft by blue Naturelle gel, chemically incendiary hairspray, and sometimes even soap; it seems this morning we have reached the tipping point. The deputy head, whose face, grey curls, glasses, suit and tie I remember, but whose name I now forget, says, ‘Comb it down, or I’ll have to suspend you.’ Emboldened as I had been by the effects of styling my hair in a way that in those days and in that part of the world was taken as a challenge and an affront to authority – girls had for the first time taken notice of me – I refused, and so was stood down from active schooling, if only for the day. (Rather more meekly I returned the following week with a less gravity-defying hairstyle, and so authoritarian wrath was assuaged.)
Although it might have been over the most superficial thing, I had learnt how to say no, and though there were many contributing factors influencing that act of defiance, Morrissey was certainly among them.
More than once in the early pages of Autobiography, Morrissey puts forward the proposition that a collection of seven inch singles is essentially a psychological (or perhaps even a psychiatric) profile. Of course he’s not wrong, but the singles he mentions in the telling of his upbringing, and the ones he chooses not to, will inevitably have been as selective as my choice of 45 45s has been here. I’ve weighed a number of old favourites and found them wanting, both in terms of doing less for me now than they did when I bought them, and in that some have not allowed me to present the self I want to present, or tell the stories I want to tell. Indeed, some just don’t seem to have a story associated with them at all, are just songs that I love, or like, or liked.
And then there’s ‘This charming man’, and its immediate effects on both my exterior and my interior. I was fifteen years old when it was released, when I saw Morrissey flailing around the Top Of The Pops stage for the first time. It was for me and many others a defining moment in British pop music, just as T. Rex and David Bowie’s first appearances on TOTP had been for Morrissey and his contemporaries. Paul Morley talked about ‘This charming man’ as one of half a dozen key songs illustrating the greatness and (im)perfection of pop in his 2008 TV programme, Pop! What is it good for? That vision of a gladioli-wielding handsome devil fronting a band playing perfectly melodic pop was instantly transformative. In just under three minutes, I became a Smiths fan, simple as that. As an admirer of the Jam and the Style Council, I had, I think, already chosen sides, but Morrissey’s appearance – call it an intervention if you like – seemed to make the battle lines harder, and faster. He polarised. (That at least he had in common with one of our mortal enemies, Margaret Thatcher.) And Johnny Marr’s guitar playing was as dazzling as Morrissey’s persona and wordplay. In Autobiography, Morrissey writes of his excitement and sense of destiny once his and Marr’s paths have crossed – ‘It is a matter of finding yourself in possession of the one vital facet that the other lacks, but needs.’ While that sounds like an arranged marriage, in Morrissey’s hands their relationship subsequently reads much more as an undying friendship than the (severed) alliance Johnny Rogan suggested it was in his, the first book about the Smiths.
I may have come to be dazzled by Morrissey’s wordplay, but of course, when I first heard ‘This charming man’, I don’t think I had much if any immediate sense of what he was on about – the sly, faux-innocent homoeroticism – but I definitely responded instinctively to him on both conscious and subconscious levels. I became a follower in a way I have otherwise rarely allowed myself to be, assiduously exploring the literary, political and pop cultural leads that his lyrics and interviews suggested.
Growing up in rural Suffolk, it was Morrissey’s difference that was key more than his sexuality. He egged on me and my best friend on to dare to be different too – to wear more flamboyant clothes, to gel and spike up our hair, and so on. In a small town whose only notable and noticeable outsiders were a handful of punks and skinheads gathering outside Woolworths on market days, it really did feel like it was us (weirdo freaks who liked the Smiths and/or goth music) and them (everyone else). The differences may or may not have been superficial; we were young, and our sensibilities (not to mention our grasp of sexual politics) were decidedly at the formative stage. Morrissey led me by the nose, but at least he lead me somewhere, allowing me in time to swim clear of the prevailing currents.
Coming on top of all Morrissey’s yearning for a significant other (whether male or female), the celibacy and asexuality angles confused and counteracted whatever remained of the sexual revolution in the early eighties (with the equally asexual Thatcher in power), leaving me and no doubt others in an ambiguous sexual middle ground; desperate for sex and love but cripplingly introverted, our oddity and shyness validated by the powerfully charismatic and necessarily extrovert presence of Morrissey. These are issues brilliantly covered, contrasted, and indeed contested from a female Mancunian perspective in a piece on the Mancky website called ‘The Smiths in 1983’.
A quiet, petite girl in the year above me at school taped me the Smiths’ first LP, and it was only later – too late – that I realised I might have made something more of that, had I been less secretly obsessed with girls blatantly out of my league. As soon as Hatful of hollow it was released, I bought it from a record shop in Newmarket (after an afternoon playing snooker with a friend, uncharacteristically enough for a Smiths fan, showing that I was still in the process of changing from being a boy whose main preoccupation was sport into a youth who lived for and through music). Today, listening to Hatful in particular, I feel the same adolescent ache for the life yet to come as of old. It’s somewhat unnerving to find myself back there, to feel that Morrissey’s words and Marr’s music still have the power to return me to that state. I spent my twenties shrugging off the last vestiges of the Morrissey worldview – which at decade’s end I believed to be nostalgic to the point of backwardness, extremely introverted, randomly intolerant, and a mental straitjacket not only for his fans but the man himself. In as much as it has softened that critique, a reading of Autobiography has also confirmed my opinion of the Morrissey worldview. But for all his negative impact on my attitudes as a young man, and despite the fact that he is now as much laughing stock as icon, I continue to admire his wit, wordplay and all-round oddity, and remain thankful for the whirlpool of excitement and possibility which he and Marr generated, which is of course the reason why I ended up calling this web-based resurrection of my hard-copy fanzines A jumped-up pantry boy.
- The Smiths – This charming man
- Paul Morley and Simon Armitage dissect ‘This Charming Man’ on Pop! What is it good for?
When the Oldsmobile has got the top down on it /
When the catamaran has got the drop down on it /
When the flat of the land has got the crop down on it /
What I now proclaim is sorta hard to name /
But that summer feeling’s gonna haunt you the rest of your life
For a time Jonathan Richman was the musical laureate of childhood and lost youth. He strove so hard to celebrate it that often he seemed a Peter Pan figure, perpetually young and refusing to grow up. But if you listened closely as he went along, you began to hear a world of melancholy behind all the goofing, japery, and naivety. ‘That summer feeling’ is perhaps the moment when Jonathan’s bittersweet side rose to prominence, the song being (I think I’m right in saying) the first on which he voiced that decidedly adult ache for the lost child or teenager within, not to mention the cast of spirits peopling the hot, shimmering summers of the past; how it can both cut and raise a smile to remember those virgin experiences in fledgling lives – first kisses, first cars, perhaps even the dawning realisation that the land at your feet, the seas you look out over, the air that you breathe, all are yours, if only you determine to reach out and take them. (And now look where you are.) It doesn’t matter if you’ve never seen let alone driven an Oldsmobile, or sailed a catamaran off the coast of Maine, that instead your summers featured battered old Citroëns and (once) a yacht race around the Isle of Wight, that the details are different – you know the feeling Jonathan’s talking about, that summer feeling, and you know he’s nailed it when he sings that it’s going to haunt you the rest of your life.
Originally released on Jonathan sings! in 1983, Richman chose to re-record ‘That summer feeling’ for 1992’s I, Jonathan. The later acoustic version adds an additional verse, stretching out the song across six minutes rather than the original four. It’s a wiser, somewhat wearier Jonathan who sings this version; the passing years have only made him mourn the loss of those endless summers of youth all the more. Both takes have that mysterious essence which leaves you in no doubt that you’re in the presence of a great song – one imbued with a bottled and stoppered magic that you are happy to sniff and let pervade the air of your own life on a regular basis – but for me the earlier version still has it by a head. Somehow it feels more summery, less affected by the wintriness of Jonathan’s later outlook. Mimicking that haunted feeling seems to work better than observing it from two seasons distant.
It’s tempting to follow up this 45 45s entry with the Rockingbirds’ breezy 1992 tribute to Richman, ‘Jonathan Jonathan’, and I would do so, were it not for the fact that I have it on 12 inch and therefore it’s disqualified according to my rules of engagement (I will also think the Rockingbirds’ ‘Gradually learning’ unlucky if it similarly fails to make the cut). Coincidentally or otherwise, ‘Jonathan Jonathan’ appeared in the very same year as Richman’s affectionate tribute to his own chief inspiration, the ‘Velvet Underground’. The great thing about pop is that you can choose your lineage (though perhaps it chooses you), and as long as you are not a slave to it – as neither Jonathan nor the Rockingbirds were – in time you can be seen to merit your place in such an esteemed musical family tree.
45 45s #38 Orange Juice – L.O.V.E… love (Polydor, 1981) / Al Green – L-O-V-E (Love) (Hi / London, 1975)
Sadly I don’t have any of the legendary Postcard singles; they came out before my record buying habit properly took root, before in fact I was aware of their existence, and so sought after were they subsequently, and pricey when you did come across them, that I never felt able to go back for them. So in a way Orange Juice’s more readily salvageable first single for Polydor is standing in for their own ‘Falling and laughing’, Josef K’s ‘Chance meeting’, the Go-Betweens’ ‘I need two heads’, and Aztec Camera’s ‘Mattress of wire’, but as the closing tune on side one of OJ’s debut LP You can’t hide your love forever, ‘L.O.V.E… love’ has long been a favourite in its own right.
It’s a choice which puts me in mind of Edwyn Collins teaming up with Paul Quinn for their take on the Velvet Underground’s ‘Pale blue eyes’. It shoots into the future to Edwyn’s later triumphs, ‘A girl like you’ and ‘Make me feel again’, and to his work with Vic Godard on his The end of the Surrey people LP, released on the reactivated Postcard. Vic, whose wonderful ‘Holiday hymn’ Orange Juice had spiritedly covered, and who made so many great singles himself that there really ought to be one of his in my selection of 45s. When I saw him play at the Town and Country Club in London in 1992, his band included Edwyn on guitar, Martin Duffy from Felt on keyboards and former Sex Pistol Paul Cook on drums. I saw Edwyn perform in his own right with just an acoustic guitar for company to a select gathering on a boat in Bristol in 1993 (it was the following year that ‘A girl like you’ became a surprise hit). He was as charming that night as you would hope, and both shows remain treasured memories.
The most direct connection is of course to Al Green’s original, which I also have in my box of seven inches, though I came to it via a rather more circuitous route. Released just six years before Orange Juice’s version, it has everything you want from Al Green at his best – that ability to modulate his voice from the softest whisper to the fieriest passion, the ease of the Hi rhythm section, the bass bubbling and popping with melody, as well as sweetening strings and judiciously deployed horns. Vocally Edwyn gives Al’s song his own twist, although it’s striking that the (subtly altered) lines have that same conversational quality as his Orange Juice lyrics. While the gospel backing vocals are intact from Al’s version, the horns have it over the strings in Orange Juice’s, and in James Kirk’s hands, inevitably the guitar only twangs all the more.
Pop music can be seen as a concatenation of connections, of influence and inspiration and kindred spirits and career resurrections, and for me ‘L.O.V.E…’ embodies a few of those links in the chain. As the title of a new film about Edwyn has it – drawing on one of the few phrases he was able to say after suffering major cerebral haemorrhages back in 2005 – the possibilities are endless.