Lene Lovich: "Lucky Number"

22 February 1979

"Overloaded with quirky ideas on everyday situations, assorted extraordinary voices for each different mood and no mean talent as a sax player, she is more original than any half-dozen New Wavers put together."

— Cliff White

There's something condescending these days about labelling someone a 'performance artist'. It could be down to critics having to resort to such a descriptive because they can't fathom anything else. It may be due to right wing YouTube trolls like Alex Jones and Milo Yiannopoulos being described as 'performance artists' by their allies defenders apologists (the very same people, incidentally, who complain incessantly about campus radicals who allegedly don't respect freedom of speech while refusing to acknowledge that these students might also be performance artists in their own right; I dare say a blue-haired nineteen-year-old collegian knows a thing or two more about performance art than a so-called "classical liberal" with a Patreon account). Or it could be just sexism: men express themselves, women are 'performance artists'.

The post-punk/new wave period of the late-seventies saw a spike in performance artists in pop — and, naturally, the bulk of them were of the fair sex. Much of it came from them having roots in glam rock but one that was dependent on the charity shop: one couldn't afford giant platform shoes and colourful face paint and, thus, had to rely upon dungarees and scarves and god knows whatever else happened to be available. Queue Lene Lovich, whose image of braided pig tails, black lace handkerchiefs and silk dresses was as DIY as any of her music.

This also happened to be a time in which women in pop either looked beatific, tough or were dripping in sex. Folk singers had their long hair and their jumpers and their cats and rockier types wore jeans and t-shirts and all looked like Suzy Quatro and the sex kittens all wished to be Debbie Harry or one of Charlie's Angels. But the generation coming out of punk wanted none of that (Chrissie Hynde and Patti Smith would be the exceptions) and went about trying to look alluring but not quite sexy, scary but not tough, independent but not cozy. Kate Bush wore leotards and frilly dresses but she did grotesque ballet routines in the promos of her great batch of early singles. Siousxie Sioux was never beautiful but you couldn't look away from her. The Slits got their kit out for the cover of their remarkable album Cut yet they look way too much like they don't care what you think to provide titlillation — and, indeed, the same goes for Bowwowwow's Annabella Lwin a couple years' later (which was for the best considering how worryingly young she was). All this got female artists the attention and respect they deserved until Toyah came along and ruined it for everyone. Male rock critics didn't know what to do with them and so they became 'performance artists'.

Lene Lovich wasn't selling sex, women's lib or happiness, just the concept of being Lene Lovich. She's in a state but plays to the camera in the video for "Lucky Number" without a shred of bashfulness. It appears at once greatly rehearsed and wholly natural: every little quirk — her eyes popping out, the way she pranced in the direction of the audience or camera — would have been honed over the previous decade as she developed her craft yet seems very much an extension of her unique personality.

Lost among all of Lovich's mannerisms and her appearance was "Lucky Number", a great pop song with hooks and everything. The early take which provided the flip side to her 1978 Charlie Gillett-produced cover of "I Think We're Alone Now" is an example of sturdy post-punk put together on a shoestring. Getting an advance from Stiff Records allowed Lovich and longtime personal and professional partner Les Chappell to add some bells and whistles and it comes across more like vintage new wave. Either way, it's a dynamic recording with Lovich in control with an expressive performance and a great madcap band to back her up. Handclaps,  a tambourine, surf guitar, tribal percussion, gentle backing vocals: had they not been careful there's no way it all would have worked. 

The one (minor) knock against it is that the song's narrative might be too swift. She moves from independence in its opening verses ("for me, myself and I is all I've ever known") to an uneasy feeling that she can't quite pin down ("an imminent attack upon my heart I fear") to finishing up with acknowledging that there's someone else out there for her ("I never want to be apart from you my dear") and it all progresses just a bit too easily. I'm all for brevity in pop but a more gradual progression in her feelings would make it more believable. But, then, why be believable when she's already so convincing?

Dressing up in S&M gear during the punk era may have been considered legit but when it came to Adam Ant dawning his famed 'dandy highwayman' look suddenly he was a sell out. But few would have thought to call him a 'performance artist'. Few were as shameless in their attempts to grasp pop stardom as Steve Strange and he, too, was never considered a performance artist. It's just the women from that time who had that label stuck to them. Maybe they were the only ones putting in the time to give a real performance and do something original with it.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Elvis Costello & The Attractions: "Oliver's Army"

This is the old scamp's finest three minutes but Cliff White doesn't see it that way. My "giving it a clever slant on the state of war" is his "serious 'message' song"; my "tune you can never get enough of" is his "clapped-out old pop melody". He even considers Costello to be as "humourless as a stuffed trout" which is...well, okay, I'll give him that. While I'm not again hearing people rip into my most disliked of favourite singers, I can't listen to "Oliver's Army" and not hear it as anything but perfect — except for his use of the n-word but, then, I'm not a YouTube "classical liberal".