45 45s #31 The Claim – Sunday (Esurient, 1991)

The ClaimA bedsit in Holloway, circa 1991. Dave Arnold, guitarist from Kentish four piece the Claim, has made the journey into London from his village bordering the Thames estuary to talk to me.  He wants to ask me about something; I can’t imagine what.  Once he has cuppa in hand, he springs it on me. ‘We’d like you to be our manager, Dan.’

‘Blimey,’ I probably said in reply, and then almost certainly began to um and ah. I’m not sure what’s prompted it, other than my loyal support, writing about the group and turning up to most if not all of their London shows; that and the thankless task of representing themselves, perhaps.  They could not have asked a less Svengali-like figure.  I was unemployed, depressed, prone to tension headaches, and introverted to the point that even making a phone call to a friend held a degree of challenge for me.

So like a eejit, I turned Dave and the group down.  With responsibility for their success in my hands, perhaps I would have pushed myself, and more through dedication than guile, managed to forward their cause a little.  Grown with the role.  But at that stage of my life, I feared it would be too much for me, and that I would have to resign as soon as it got like that, or find myself sacked when they saw I wasn’t coping.  And then there was my own dream – of writing, literary greatness even – which I believed at all costs I ought to be pursuing.

But I always felt honoured to have been asked, and if I had my time again, I like to think I would say yes, and worry about the worries and time for writing later.  Say yes to everything, kids, that’s my advice.  If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.  Don’t be afraid of failure.  And if you are thinking of being a writer, live some life before you sit down to write.  That’s as important as finding the time to practice the art of it.

I still love the Claim’s music.  It’s simple, yet surprisingly sophisticated. It’s heartfelt, yet lyrically speaks so often of doubt.  It mixes the bloodlines of the Jam and English folk song long before Paul Weller thought to himself, and much less consciously than that might suggest.  You should all buy a copy of the retrospective compilation, Black path.  I can say that without declaring an interest, because not having become their manager, I’m not on a cut or anything.

Initially when it came to picking a 45 of theirs, I was going to go with ‘Birth of a teenager’ – which I could with a degree of right claim as my own because scratched between the run-off grooves of its delightfully funny spoken word B side ‘Mike the bike’ (featuring Vic Templar) is ‘FOR DAN PANTRY’ – but to be honest I much prefer this song, a kitchen sink fantasia and homage to the dubious joys of the day of rest.  It shares the same bleak Goffin & King vision as the Monkees’ ‘Pleasant Valley Sunday’, only with an enhanced sense of melancholy which no doubt results from the dismal nature of enduring Sundays in Britain in the 1980s. Lyrically Dave Read ventures beyond the view from the kitchen sink to daydream Walter Mittyishly as to what he’d answer if he were interviewed by the Sunday supplement he is thumbing through, a conceit that’s doubly rich for being handled straight within the context of the song, but also telling in terms of the Claim’s own inability to grow an audience to and beyond the point where he might have expected to be interviewed on a regular basis.  Instead, he is the captive big cat featured on Alistair’s cover, caged and prowling, dreaming of the Serengeti.

Melodically it’s perfect, so that if Dave Read had merely hummed his way through the song, you would still experience the same emotion of feeling ensnared within a suburban dream while real life happens elsewhere.  It’s also beautifully played by the group, something fans came to expect of the Claim, having seen so often with our own eyes what a high-functioning, single-minded quartet they were.

Having chosen consciously or otherwise to operate somewhat outside of the times, the Claim never did garner the audience they deserved.  Perhaps they might have, had they had been as hip to the sounds of now as Damon Albarn’s Blur were, but since the Claim possessed more insouciance than swagger, it wasn’t to be.

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