45 45s #33 Big Flame – Man of few syllables (Ron Johnson Records, 1985)

Big FlameThis is who I was.  This is the boy I was, instinctively, but also under the tutelage of John Peel.  Who – listening on headphones in the dark of a small bedroom which used to be a pantry – thrilled to hear Beefheart himself put through a blender, and fiery personal-is-political, political-is-personal words which resisted espousing the tenets of any discernable ideology (though of course they leaned heavily to the left).

The music to which we respond shows us the multiplicities within ourselves.  Where once I might have argued (and did, and lost, to someone who understood this at an earlier age than me) that I loved music because it was authentic, and spoke to the authenticity in me, now I would say, I am all the people who listen to the music I do.  The apparent authenticity of, for example, Mark Eitzel, connected with the me I was at that point in my life.  I’m no longer that person, but I still carry that Mark Eitzelness within me.  That desperation, that mix of wry and black humour.  Likewise, Big Flame.  That anger, that hair-raising excitement and joy.  I am multiple, plural, shifting, indefinite, and (unless you map directly on to me) essentially unknowable, as a whole.  Even back then, I was becoming multiple.  Being single-minded and dead-set on authenticity will get you so far; but being open to the world and all that makes it up will take you a long way further.  Just ask Bob Dylan.

So the boy who liked Big Flame is one of my multiplicities.  The boy who at the same time swooned to Prefab Sprout and the Pale Fountains, another.  And from between those nominal ends of a spectrum came so many other kinds of music, so many other ways of being, all enlarging a boy’s sense of what it meant to be alive (though at times that expansion may have plateaued as I fixated on one thing or another: jangling guitars, or later, drum and bass).  But if your ears were open to Big Flame, then they might equally well be open to Archie Shepp or Public Enemy.  From the elegant song-craft of Prefab Sprout to the inveterate wordplay of Dylan isn’t such a leap; still less so, from the Paleys to Love and the whole world of psychedelia.  But one thing leads to another and before too much water has passed under Waterloo Bridge, you are a long way from home.

I loved the exhilarating rawness and obtuseness of ‘Man of few syllables’, and of ‘Debra’ and ‘Sargasso’ on the flipside.  Though I am no longer that boy, I still do.  The single-minded vision of a trio who called their EPs Rigour, Tough! and Cubist pop manifesto and were only ever going to do and play things their way, or not at all.  If you liked it, so what?  If you didn’t, so what?

When I came to London to study, one of the acts put on during freshers’ week at my college was, amazingly, Big Flame.  Came to London to study?  I came to London to immerse myself in music.  Even at my notoriously left-wing institution, students not raised on a Peel-heavy diet must have been bewildered by the raucous attack of Big Flame.  My recollection of that night is that I was one of the few to show them appreciation.  It’s hardly surprising.  Big Flame were explosive.  They were never going to last.  After five sevens, four Peel sessions, and a ten inch EP – bang! – they were gone.

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