Bobby Rush: "I Wanna Do the Do"

9 August 1979

"Right then, as it's my last singles page I'm now going to have a self-indulgent rave."

— Cliff White

Much like having a permanent host for the Olympics (an idea, granted, I could warm to), there's something uncomfortably logical about having a regular singles reviewer in Smash Hits. In future, no contributor could stand to face the burden any more than once every three or four months (if not longer) and, anyway, readers were increasingly "keen" on finding out just what the hottest acts in pop thought of the new releases by their competitors (and, indeed, of their own singles). Yet, inevitable complaints sent in had more of a purpose if the position was being held down by a single critic. The latest single by your favourite band or artist just got coated down by some know-it-all git with a smug profile photo or a pathetic boy band with records far more useless than any of the stuff they had to review? Well, at least there'd be someone else to look at them next time round. But a regular critic who just ripped into yet another Sham 69 record? Yeah, we're going to war.

Cliff White brings his half-year stint as a permanent singles reviewer to a close this fortnight. Wanting to go out in a blaze of glory by trashing as many records as possible, he's disappointed to discover that there's a lot of good stuff awaiting his approval. Did a small part of him get pangs of regret his decision to leave Smash Hits? Still, while he enjoys making light of all the letters of complaint his criticism inspired, perhaps it was time to move on. (While I have been enjoying White's analysis, I think prefacing each of his review round-up's with a mea culpa and/or admonishment of his readers is beginning to get stale; after-all, nothing says 'I don't care what you think' like reminding people just how much you don't care what they think)

His pick this issue isn't actually a new release and it's been saved for his closing remarks. Referencing Bev Hillier's column from the preceding issue, White anticipates a UK release of "I Wanna Do the Do" by veteran blues singer Bobby Rush "soon". This is a more promising outlook than two weeks earlier when "Boogying Bev" pessimistically wonders if it will ever come out in Britain but it will never end up getting a proper evaluation from any of White's predecessors in the singles review "chair". While he is pleasantly surprised by the overall high quality of the singles he has been given, none are given quite the same gushings of praise as "listen out for it. THIS RECORD IS FANTASTIC!!! Remember who told you about it first. And since this is his singles swansong I figure we might as well indulge the old scamp.

Bobby Rush is someone you don't hear about much anymore — and he probably wasn't exactly a household name back in his "day" either. A jobbing blues singer, he'd already been around for thirty years when he gave disco dabblage a "shot". Disco? Sure, the bass is nice and fat with a rhythm that will make many beyond White and Bev get on down and do whatever that "do" is but disco? Rush was forty-five and had become a genre unto himself by the end of the seventies. Raised by a minister father, he was schooled in gospel before joining blues groups as a teenager. But he was no purist and he was more than happy to indulge in whatever style was favoured in the black community. Just as James Brown's grunts and yelps found facility with funk, Rush was similarly right at home with seventies' dance floor trends. (Miles Davis was another African American who never let advancing age get in the way of exploring some of the new stuff) As I've attempted to suggest before, the shift from funk to disco was much subtler than it appears today and this is a prime example. With some seriously heavy harmonica and a lack of strings and production pyrotechnics, it isn't nearly as disco as it could have been. White predicts a massive hit but without said bells and whistles it's hard to see it being remotely possible. It appears that it did give Rush's career a shot in the arm and he has gone on to release more twenty albums just as he should have been slowing down.

"I Wanna Do the Do" is an apt final Single of the Fortnight for White, as well as an indication that he'd be right at home working for reissue label Charly Records. His knowledge and appreciation for black music would have been unparalleled in the UK at the time and he never let a record's commercial appeal (or lack thereof) get in the way enjoyment. Like Rush himself, he had no time for being a musical puritan: he didn't turn up his nose at Blondie's astonishing disco-fication "Heart of Glass" nor did he take old stalwarts like Herbie Hancock and James Brown to task for trying to be trendy. Ver kids may have complained when he trashed their faves but Cliff White knew what he liked and only cared a bit what they thought.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

George Harrison: "Faster"

Niki Lauda. Emerson Fittipaldi. James Hunt. Mario Andretti. They all raced with an effortless grace which is something not replicated by George Harrison's strained vocal. A jaunty melody with that distinctive guitar part that could only be His Nibs, there are elements to enjoy here even if it's a little by-numbers. It doesn't quite equal the likes of "Within You Without You" and "Long, Long, Long" in terms of lyrical profundity but apparently the story could apply to anyone. I guess if you're able to eat really quickly or type at super speed or channel surf rapidly then you too could be a "master of going faster". Perhaps he was better off sticking to weightier subjects for song: he could have directly addressed the recent spate of fatal or near-fatal accidents that had been blighting Formula One instead of just glorifying how much faster they all were. A curio.

James Brown: "It's Too Funky in Here"

12 July 1979

"Believe it or not, like it or not, Brown has always been a punk as far as most of his black American contemporaries are concerned. And at 46 years of age he's still upsetting the "establishment"."

— Cliff White

It has long irritated me that sixties rock stars tried to label themselves as punks. Mick Jagger reckoned that longtime collaborator Keith Richards was someone you couldn't possibly "out-punk". Others have made the case for John Lennon and Pete Townshend (strangely, no one ever tries to prop up Ray Davies' punk bona fides and his songs were actually covered by late-seventies punks and new wavers). If anything, such claims always reveal how out of touch this generation had become by the end of the seventies. Rather than admitting that they may not have been relevant to what was going on in 1977, they had to make it all about themselves. (That's not to say there weren't proto-punks out there in the sixties and early seventies but it's significant that the likes of Lou Reed, Iggy Pop and the MC5 didn't seem to have any use for apologists talking up their punk cred)

It's fascinating to imagine a similar situation surrounding disco, especially when applied to people previously tied to funk and soul. These artists weren't leeching off of the latest fad, they were the original stars of disco, you see. Diana Ross was a disco starlet long before she did "Upside Down", Smokey Robinson's "Get Ready" was so proto-disco that they didn't have to spruce it up much in order for it to be suitable. In that spirit came the latest album from James Brown, titled (imagine that) The Original Disco Man. See? Black music had simply caught up to where the Godfather of Soul had been all along. (Marvin Gaye's own dabblage, "Got to Give It Up", took a different tack as he permitted disco to come to him)

James Brown may seem like the sort of artist who spent his vast career recording the same song again and again (but in a good way like Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles and Van Morrison rather than one of those groups — Oasis, Status Quo, UB40 — who grow increasingly tiresome as their creative rut lingers) but he changed with the times. Getting his start in gospel, he first hit it big as a member of R&B group The Famous Flames before going solo with one of the few non-in house bands in sixties soul. His high-powered records such as "I Got You (I Feel Good)" and "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" would eventually aid his evolution towards funk in the seventies. Toning it down by the end of the decade meant moving closer to disco.

"It's Too Funky in Here" was the maiden single from The Original Disco Man and is his one truly successful shot at the current dance craze. With many of his old stalwarts from the original J.B.'s — the likes of Bootsy Collins and Maceo Parker having departed to play with George Clinton — Brown was at something of a loss and had to make do with studio musicians for the first time in close to a quarter century and did so in very non-disco hot spots Muscle Shoals and Nashville. He was also short of material and had to rely on composition from collaborators and some iffy covers (his version of "Love Me Tender" is well-meaning but vile).

Already at a disadvantage, it's little wonder Brown and disco conservatism didn't quite fit. The material is way too safe for both his voice and his image, without a trace of anger, sex and/or politics for him to grasp. He still puts everything he has into it — he's easily the best thing about this record — but his passion is for almost naught. Cliff White is obviously an admirer and even has good things to say about the "forceful funk with a modern disco beat" played with a "demonic energy and aggressive determination" but these wouldn't even be worthy of mention if the recording was being fronted by a smooth disco lothario. Having Brown's customary grunts pushes things on and makes it seem weightier than it is.

Picturing James Brown as a punk may be on the surface ludicrous but he still had the respect of his peers while remaining persona non grata with the "establishment". He hadn't become an institution — and, indeed, never would be — and no one would have needed to build up how punk he used to be way back when. He was also, it would seem, disco well before anyone else. He gave showstopping performances, crowds got down to his vast repertoire and listeners found themselves growing confident and reassured by his work. How about that? I always knew the two genres shared a lot more in common than you'd otherwise assume, I just didn't know that Mr. Dynamite would be the one pointing the way. Everyone else would still have some catching up to do.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

B.A. Robertson: "Bang Bang"

Just the "silly-season" summer hit that White predicts, "Bang Bang" made B.A. Robertson a name few, fan and detractor alike, could forget. I've heard people slag him off a lot lately so I wasn't expecting much from "Bang Bang". It's not terribly impressive but I can imagine not being so put off with it that I'd hurl a slipper at the telly every time he'd be on. Not a glowing recommendation but sometimes the little things can make all the difference, such as those cheery-looking girls in the promo who are sporting some very non-revealing white shirts which sits much better than had they tried to knowingly sex things up. He doesn't pull off being the musical hall wit half as well as he fancies but his biggest hit is catchy and, yes, plenty silly.

Donna Summer: "Bad Girls"

28 June 1979

"There was a time a few years back when I disliked Disco with a capital D; a time when Ms Summer was just starting to get hits and when, to me, she represented the very worst aspect of Disco. Times have changed, so have I, so has Disco music and so have Ms Summer's records."

— Cliff White

Being stuck under the weight of the Covid-19 crisis to cover concerts, The Guardian's music critics recently decided to put together a list of The 100 Greatest UK No 1s. They didn't do a bad job and I'm not just saying that because my favourite group came in first but there were some questionable choices. They were way too high on "You Spin Me Round" and "Billie Jean", too low on "Mouldy Old Dough" and "Telstar" and "Let's Dance" making it on at all is unforgivable given that the 'one single per artist rule' meant that the vastly superior "Ashes to Ashes" failed to make the list entirely. But, hey, these sorts of lists wouldn't be any good if they didn't piss people off.

In a very strong fourth place is Donna Summer with "I Feel Love". I didn't think it would come in quite so high but I figured it would stand a decent chance of cracking the top ten. It's one of those singles that's annoyingly cited for its importance at the expense of its astounding quality: if it somehow hadn't managed to influence generations of studio boffins and club DJs it would still be an amazing listening experience. I wasn't familiar with it growing up (the only Donna I ever heard was "She Works Hard for the Money" and "This Time I Know It's for Real", which happened to be my favourite song of all time during the spring of 1989) so I was surprised to hear something so ecstatic from just after my birth. The past never sounded so much like the future.

With that in mind, I would like to express how nice it would have been to quiz Cliff White further on his quotation above. Why did he have such a distaste for disco back in the day? What exactly made Donna Summer the representative of all that made it so foul? What happened that made him change his mind? What did her current batch of hits have that earlier efforts lacked? And, finally, did he consider "I Feel Love" to be the "very worst aspect of Disco"? Really?

Hindsight sees the disco boom as a brief period in the mid to late seventies. Weary funk, jazz and soul stars, some obscure gospel singers, a few pop groups of varying degrees of notoriety and performers from the underground gay circuit all cut records heavy on bass and gliding orchestras that had trim 7" mixes for radio and fuller 12" versions for the clubs and a phenomenon was born. Then it died away four years later when an idiot shock jock blew them all up at a baseball game in Chicago. The records were often great but there was nothing remotely progressive about them. "I Feel Love" and its sultry 1975 predecessor "Love to Love You Baby" were forward thinking records but she and collaborators Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte would soon settle into a very successful formula.

Summer became an albums artist for a time before she hit her commercial peak with "Hot Stuff" and "Bad Girls" in the summer of 1979. This is also the apogee of her American sound. "I Feel Love" and some of her early records came while she was based in Germany but waning interest in her adopted homeland and increasing prominence across the Atlantic resulted in Summer, Moroder and Bellotte basing themselves in the States. Without the presence of Kraftwerk, Bowie and Eno's Berlin period, ABBA at their best and perhaps even the vigour of punk energy as influences, her work became much more R&B and gospel based. It's hard to imagine her brave but still lousy take on "MacArthur Park" resulting from a session in Munich.

This American period was not without its benefits. Rather than having programmed synths to rely on, Summer is joined by some crack musicianship (though some of them were Europeans as well), fantastic backing singers and even nifty studio effects to flesh out the sound of "Bad Girls". The forward-thinking musical minds may have originated on the Continent but the state-of-the-art recording facilities were still in America. This sassy record is the product of a team at team at the top of their game, one that was more than happy to take advantage of being a worldwide "mover" but one not as inclined to experiment.

I don't wish to besmirch a single as good as "Bad Girls" and it's probably just White's view that makes me want to be such a contrary bugger. It's a big improvement on the gauche "Hot Stuff" and doesn't let up for a moment, especially on the 12" version (which he recommends; I like the fact that a record that clocks in at just under five minutes would be the "extended" mix). And, to be fair, White may not have even been referring to "I Feel Love" as the "very worst aspect of Disco". More than the genre, Ms. Summer, even ver times, he has changed. He should've gone back and given her early stuff a fresh listen, he might have given it the revaluation it deserved.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Chic: "Good Times"

"Ah yes, a hit," writes White. "I can hear it in the hand claps, bass line and correct quantity of beats per minute". Yeah, even a Chic fan like myself has to admit they could be a bit clinical. (Odd that a group formed by jazz sessioners that couldn't make things a bit more spontaneous) "Gormless song," he continues. Okay, it doesn't exactly fill the listener's mind with ideas and the little point there is gets hammered "home". I get the feeling our Cliff isn't so keen on this one. He even reckons that the vocalists must have an "unnerving affliction, as if they're being prodded in the chest while they sing." Well, the singers were never what drew people to Chic and it was only when they began improving that part of their game that their popularity began falling off, well, a cliff. But with "Good Times" they enjoyed that monster hit he could easily see coming. But thanks for ruining Chic for me, Cliff.

Squeeze: "Up the Junction"

14 June 1979

"Funnily enough, the story line of this cleverly detailed song is just the sort of domestic drama that romantics usually write about. But Squeeze take it on the chin and find irony and humour in the situation."

— Cliff White

Comparisons with The Beatles are a potential landmine. If just bringing them up isn't already a cliche then it's beset with simply living up to the comparison. I really liked Oasis in 1995 but even as a high school student I knew that labelling them "the next Beatles" was lazy, pointless, stupid and nothing but a turn off for anyone who was new to them. Claiming that the Gallaghers were as potent a force as Lennon and McCartney only made Oasis seem like less of a big deal and it was easy to see they didn't have talent nor the smarts to pull it off and they clearly didn't have their fingers on the pulse of current pop in anywhere close to the same way.

But the situation may have been a tad different back in 1979. The Fab Four had been passe for much of the seventies so comparing them with an emerging new wave band may have had more modest aims: look, a songwriting partnership just like John and Paul! As if almost cryptically, Cliff White says Squeeze are already on par with The Beatles while adding in parenthesis "I hope that isn't taken as an insult". Oh for the days when being likened to pop's standard bearers could be interpreted as insulting.

I've had my problems with Squeeze over the years. While I've admired some of their work, I keep finding myself focusing on what annoys me about them. In truth, it mostly comes down to "In Quintessence", the opening track from their fourth album East Side Story. Spinning a tale of a lad who reckons he knows it all yet knows absolutely nothing, who thinks he's God's gift to women yet is repulsive to the opposite sex, there's something unlikable about the way they brush this character off so heartlessly. There's cod psychology when they should have tried for a bit of empathy. I listen to now and side with the layabout they're ripping into. If you ask me the members of Squeeze are much bigger prats.

But their character sketch songs weren't always so nasty. Chris Difford wrote and Glenn Tilbrook sang "Up the Junction" in the first person but it feels too much like the novel, TV play and film that it may have been based on to be a personal account. The jolly tune doesn't mask a pitiful story since there's little self-pity involved ("I'd beg for some forgiveness but begging's not my business", also one of many great lines and a reminder that Difford could pen some spot on verse taking the mickey out of young people for kicks) but there's some real heartbreak nonetheless. Happily, matters don't get bogged down in cleverness: the awkward, pseudo-rhymes ("I got a job with Stanley, he said I'd come in handy", "she said she'd seen a doctor, and nothing now could stop her") give it a pleasant naturalness, with the urgency to get these feelings down outstripping form. How very clever of them to dumb things down a bit.

It's easy to get caught up in the clever verses and words that don't quite rhyme but "Up the Junction" is also a perfect example of just what a tight unit Squeeze were. The music, being very much in the mould of rocks pub and punk (I've always been convinced they fall into the pub rock scene but perhaps they were simply pub-adjacent), is low on flash but they get everything out of Tilbrook's bouncy composition. Fantastic band interplay with only Jools Holland, less the dapper and jovial host of everything musical telly and more the kind of can't be arsed keyboardist that bands used to employ, out to prove he's a star.

The public were delighted enough that they gifted Squeeze their second number two hit on the bounce following "Cool for Cats" back in March of the same year. This impressive run failed to translate into a sustained imperial period with bookend singles "Goodbye Girl" and "Slap and Tickle" only performing modestly and the Cool for Cats album stalling outside the Top 40. A number of new wave acts — Blondie, The Jam, Madness, Gary Numan, The Police — at around this time enjoyed hit singles that carried them into further success in the eighties but Squeeze weren't able to pull off a similar feat. Punters who were charmed and/or touched by their two big hits didn't necessarily go any further and I can't say I blame them. Sure, the Cool for Cats-Argybargy-East Side Story run of albums is first rate and their entire back catalog is well worth exploring but there are doses of smarminess to deal with as well as the aching feeling that they just know they're the cleverest guys in the room. 

But not here, not on "Up the Junction". Their smarts don't get in the way of tenderness, the loving portrait of domestic ups and downs not being so precious that it's free of being made fun of. A perfect balance of closeness and distance, of comedy and sorrow, it makes for a perfect three-minute pop song. Those Beatles comparisons were spot on, if only just this once.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Sandy McLelland & The Backline: "Can We Still Be Friends"

Something during the summer of '79 was sure making Cliff White feeling sentimental. A fortnight after being reduced to tears by "Easy Come, Easy Go" by The Sutherland Brothers, he's similarly moved by Sandy McLelland's cover of the Todd Rundgren hit from Hermit of Mink Hollow. While it's possible things have changed an awful lot in the forty years since, I always assumed that girls always wanted to remain friends at the end of a relationship and I suspect this song's writer thinks so too. The Runt gives it a quivering reading with just a hint that he's sending up the screwed up priorities of his newly ex. (It's inappropriate to be fixated on shifting into friendship mode as soon as things go south, right?) Or maybe the original just gives the listener whatever it wants to hear — though not so much with this remake. McLelland pleads and only manages to come across as one of those pathetic guys who is convinced that friendship is the perfect gateway back in. The song itself is quite faithful to the original just lacking any trace of irony. And there I was thinking that Americans were the earnest ones.

The Sutherland Brothers: "Easy Come, Easy Go"

31 May 1979 (with more here)

"While not usually approving of introspective balladeers with a sob story on their trembling lips, this is such a good song, so well performed that I...I...oh, I can't go on, it's all too heartbreaking to even talk about."

— Cliff White

It may be a symptom of our cynical age but I had some difficulty as to how to take Cliff White's words. Does he genuinely love this song and is so moved by it that he is unable to give it a rational analysis? Or does he wish to send up its melodrama by offering up a review that is every bit as choked up on emotion? Well, what if it's a bit of both? And, more to the point, what if that's pretty much what Gavin and Iain Sutherland had in mind as well?

Let's start with the title. Easy come, easy go is a phrase used for something one acquires with as little effort possible but which subsequently disappears just as easily. You weren't invested in it and you never grew attached so it shouldn't matter if it vanishes. Gamblers use it a lot. I find it hard to imagine it being used to sum up a relationship gone sour but I suppose if you've used your influence, looks, money and/or power to woo the fairer sex then you may not mind when they're off to the exit (and, indeed, you've been out the door pretty swiftly yourself). There's always another to scoop up and ditch just as quickly.

One of the Sutherlands is addressing a friend along these lines. You've been so cavalier in the past so why be hung up on some broad now? Though Gavin or Iain has this "sob story" on his "trembling lips", there's not a lot of empathy here. Is he the lothario described above? Perhaps not but it seems the vocalist feels he's getting his just desserts — lines like "better act your age" and "it seems so long since you last had to shed a tear" aren't exactly wise words from one chum to another.

"Easy Come, Easy Go" is a decent record but one that is more interesting than enjoyable. The over-lush arrangements, country-tinged sentimental feel and, yes, extravagant vocals can be a bit much but the harsh message makes it all a lot easier to swallow. Just as interpreting White's review as purposely over flowery and prosaic makes his critique much easier to read charitably.

Back in the early seventies, the up and coming rock group Steely Dan signed up David Palmer as a second lead vocalist, which had been at least partially due to feelings that co-leader Donald Fagen didn't possess a commercial enough voice. Despite this, Palmer only appears on his own on two tracks, "Dirty Work" and "Brooklyn (Owes the Charmer Under Me)", on debut Dan LP Can't Buy a Thrill. His earnest, pleading vocals mark a major contrast to Fagen's aloof wiseass and it makes you wonder how their records and career would have turned out with the much more vanilla Palmer singing the bulk of their material. Is a line like "the weekend at the college didn't turn out like you planned" even still funny under these conditions? "Easy Come, Easy Go" gives a tiny glimpse of what this alternate ('Floppy Dan', perhaps?) path would have resulted in. You might take it as serious but you have to dig around for the irony, even if it's right in front of you.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Tubeway Army: "Are 'Friends' Electric"

In addition to the number fifty stormer above, Cliff White assesses a pair of UK chart toppers this fortnight. Anita Ward's "Ring My Bell" and "Are 'Friends' Electric" were back-to-back number ones in the summer of 1979 and were but two of what is a pretty outstanding run of hit parade leaders that year (apart from Art Garfunkel). Gary Numan's first of two hits that anyone can remember is absolutely superb and he deftly funneled all kinds of influences without quite being able to spot any of them: I mean, sure, he told everyone how much he adored David Bowie but is it really that obvious here? White's fairly impressed but he concludes on a slight down note that "cheerful it isn't". True enough but when you're caught up in something so original and so addictive, does it really matter?

McFadden & Whitehead: "Ain't No Stopping Us Now"

17 May 1979

"If it doesn't get you smiling and dancing, call a doctor immediately. You must be very poorly."

— Cliff White

One of the great things about disco is that it was open to everyone. While Studio 54 may have had a very selective bouncer, there were plenty of other clubs for patrons to flock to where they could be dancefloor superstars for a night. Proprietors, too, got to bask in a renown they wouldn't have previously enjoyed, as did DJ's. And then there are the artists who came from all kinds of backgrounds. Some were from established pop and rock acts, most famously the Bee Gees but also groups such as ABBA, ELO, Kiss and Queen. Others were funk and soul performers enjoying a commercial and creative second wind like Marvin Gaye and Smokey Robinson. Herbie Hancock was one of the jazz's foremost keyboardists before supposedly selling out with some admittedly rum four-on-the-floor beats. Donna Summer emerged as a disco superstar having spent the previous decade as a struggling singer in various genres. And then there were those who'd been on the sidelines as jobbing session musicians and staff songwriters who managed to break through.

Cliff White has noticed this trend and points to some earlier examples: Chic, Chanson, Raydio. All were made up of talented studio musicians who made the transition to forming their own groups which coincided with the disco boom. Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers had been young jazz players who may have been doing well creatively but who didn't have a lot to show for it in terms of earnings. Seriously considering going the punk rock route ("we always admired rock 'n' roll money," says Rodgers), they opted for disco, had some massive hits and then began producing (either in tandem or apart) Sister Sledge, Diana Ross, David Bowie and Robert Palmer. Top notch musicianship and studio savvy translated well in terms of cutting dance favourites but well-honed songwriting skills could also prove a benefit.

Gene McFadden and John Whitehead came into the Philadelphia soul scene as vocalists but emerged out of it a successful songwriting and production duo crafting hits for The O'Jays and Harold Melvin & The Bluenotes. With strong harmonies and writing, production and arranging skills learned in the Philadelphia International studios, they were in prime position to pounce on some disco success. It's easy to imagine "Ain't No Stopping Us Now" done in a Philly soul manner: dial back on the syncopated bass and replace the string section with some horns and you're in the realm of the very acts they had just been gifting hits to.

As a pair that had struggled for years, the song's sentiments could be taken as autobiographical, which renders the fact that they never had another hit something of a bitter pill. Nonetheless, it's crafted along the lines period songwriting with a hopefullness that current troubles will soon be left behind. This was the bread and butter of disco tunes. Well written and produced, it's only slightly let down by the nice vocals of McFadden & Whitehead, which lack flair. Experienced as they no doubt were in the studio, they may have been novices as stage performers. To be fair, the understated modesty kind of works with the lyrics and it would have been a distinctive quality alongside a generation of showboats but nevertheless their harmonies still seem like too much of a throwback to old school soul.

In a musical landscape so precious that a bunch of nitwits in Chicago were gearing up for the notorious Disco Demolition Night that summer at Comiskey Park, the purveyors of disco were remarkably open to all. Donna Summer, the Bee Gees and many more found a home in it and it was one that was refreshingly free of purists. The Rolling Stones took some flak on their excellent yet unlovable Some Girls album for dipping their toes in mainstream country ("Far Away Eyes") and punk ("Shattered") but didn't face too much blowback from disco types on "Miss You" (even if rock fans weren't necessarily dead chuffed). Fans weren't about to be snobs about who was cutting the latest disco hits, their only concern was how much they dug what they were dancing to. There's probably never been a period in the rock era in which a record's quality dictated how it would be received. In this type of environment even a pair of anonymous poor cousins to Gamble & Huff could thrive.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Blondie: "Sunday Girl"

Probably the least remembered of their UK number ones (1999's "Maria" doesn't count since I'd have to be aware of it in the first place in order to remember it), "Sunday Girl" suffers from being a Blondie single in a world of many more distinctive Blondie singles. (For the love of God, even "Rapture" has Deb's ludicriously awful raps to help it stand out) Taken on its own terms, however, it's actually rather good. As White says, they've already dispensed with the disco (for the time being at any rate) and gone back to a more solidly new wave sound, though perhaps without quite the same vigour of earlier hits "Denis" and "(I'm Always Touched by Your) Presence, Dear". It then was back to disco with the awesome "Atomic" and they wouldn't try rocking out until the more thrilling "Call Me". Still, a fine single from Imperial Period Blondie — just don't bother with the terrible French version, proof if nothing else that singing in a second language was rapidly becoming a lost art.

Lene Lovich: "Say When"

3 May 1979

"Oh crikey, another confession to make: I haven't actually got this single yet."

— Cliff White

I'll also begin with a confession: I'm hoping to eventually do one of these posts without ever having heard the record in question. This is not something I will do on purpose by intentionally refraining from playing it but only if I happen upon a single that is unavailable online. But so far damn-near every single I've written about has been on YouTube (I had to get a subscription to Deezer in order to give Bob Dylan's "Lenny Bruce" a "spin") and it could be a situation I never have to deal with. I'll let you know if and when.

But it's not like everything is available online. While Cliff White wasn't able to hear the single release of "Say When", I've had problems tracking down the version from Lene Lovich's Stateless — or, I guess I should say, the original version from said album. It looks as though the bulk of its eleven tracks ended up being remixed for US release in 1979 and now the waters have been muddied in terms of knowing quite what's what. I may have heard the original for all I know but I haven't detected much of difference. I don't imagine I have much of an ear but it wouldn't be the first time remixing was a subtle art.

The follow-up to the Top 5 success of "Lucky Number", "Say When" was bound to have a lot to live up to. While not as big a hit, the record's Top 20 placing indicates that audiences hadn't fully tired of her shtick by this point. Different enough from its predecessor, it is nevertheless fronted by Lene Lovich and thus utterly recognizable.

White notes that it's not unlike a Bo Diddley number but I hear it more as a rockabilly freak out with a nod to the re-emerging ska movement and even a touch of circus fairground organ pumping away. "Lucky Number" was a vehicle for Lovich's individual talents to shine forth but this is much more of an all-around performance: her patented vocals squawks are present and correct but so, too, is the first rate playing of the band backing her — just as accomplished as the last time but with much more of a chance to shine with the singer holding herself back a bit.

Or perhaps it's the conciseness of the composition that forced Lovich to apply the breaks. "Lucky Number" packed in an awful lot of a story — too much, if anything — but there isn't a great deal to expound upon here. Her man is primed for some rumpo but the singer is commanding him to wait for her to give the go ahead. She probably desires a little bedtime action herself ("well you look plenty good to me", which gets some extra sexual push via Lovich's feisty vocal) but she's not about to let him force his will upon her. She's the one in charge and he'd better bloody not forget. A welcome feminist anthem or an account of a one woman power trip: either way, it's a point made without much fuss.

Lovich and partner Les Chappell were clearly on to something. She was charismatic with a unique image and vocal stylings unlike anyone else; he led a crack band that was stylistically all over the shop. They had two superb hit singles on the bounce and it must have seemed like this was going to continue. But that's the thing with those who are different: they can't just churn out product for the masses. They wouldn't know how to do it even if they wanted to.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

The Human League: The Dignity of Labour

Sticking with the theme of records our good critic didn't listen to, this E.P. wasn't reviewed by White, it "accidentally on purpose" (they used that expression back in 1979?) ended up in the L.P. pile that Red Starr was tasked with. Impressing him far more than anything else this fortnight, he introduces the albums with this aside. While other early League singles "Being Boiled" (which came before this) and "Empire State Human" (later in the year) aren't all that far away from the commercial direction they'd famously take eighteen months later, the tracks that make up The Dignity of Labour are perhaps the most radical that Marsh, Ware and Oakey ever came up with — and you'd never see "Don't You Want Me" through all the Soviet-era cosmonauts and Politburo cheap cigarette smoke. How great were The Human League? 

Herbie Hancock: "Tell Everybody"

19 April 1979 (and here)

"This is a fast, super-funky item with a bass line that'll blow your speakers apart at top volume."

— Cliff White

While it would eventually become a revolving door of music hacks, pop stars, DJ's, soap stars and a schoolboy with very strong opinions, Cliff White was Smash Hits' resident singles reviewer in their early period (just as "Red Starr" handled the albums). The term 'Single of the Fortnight' didn't exist but His Nibs would usually make it clear as to his favourite, typically kicking off his round up with a short prologue seguing into the best of the bunch. But it didn't really happen in this issue. He opens with a review of "I'm an Upstart" by Angelic Upstarts, admitting that its the only "really exciting" rocker to be found. Fair enough but he has little else positive to say about it (and he's right seeing as how it was already two or three years out of date). He contrasts this vulgar punk anthem with the lighter and more charming Jonathan Richman and his neat little ditty "Lydia" (see below), for which he displays much more enthusiasm. Unfortunately, a little bit of Richman can go a long way, as White acknowledges, and I'm not quite convinced it would have been his choice cut either. Best look elsewhere.

It's not until the second page of the singles that we get to a record that genuinely thrills him — and one that is in no danger of getting on his nerves at some point. "Tell Everybody" was the follow-up to the Top 20 success of "You Bet Your Love" but to him it's an even more impressive work, albeit one in danger of failing to match its predecessor's chart placing due to being "far too funky" (which proved correct when it missed the charts entirely). White was long a devotee of soul, Motown and funk and his sympathies even carried over into disco. It didn't matter who was at the helm so long as he was into what he heard. The identity of the artist in question here probably meant a great deal more to others than it did to him.

It's difficult to imagine listening to early works of Herbie Hancock — say, his outstanding Blue Note album Maiden Voyage or his efforts on E.S.P. and Miles Smiles as part of Miles Davis' Second Great Quintet — and being able to connect them to his disco period at the end of the seventies. His former boss was well known for radically altering the type of music he was playing, from bop to cool to hard bop to avant-bop to fusion and onward, but he always had his distinctive trumpet style to make anyone with a passing knowledge of him be able to recognize who that soloist was. But there's nothing one might recognize in what Hancock was doing in 1979 with his recordings from fifteen years earlier. And to think, Davis had to prod him into playing the electric piano when it came time to record the magnificent Filles de Kilimanjaro in 1968.

But not only is "Tell Everybody" a marked departure from the likes of "The Sorcerer" and "Madness", it barely even resembles the jazz-funk grooves of his remarkable Head Hunters album. Reinvention is fine but to what end in this instance? What's Hancock even doing on this record? "Singing" through a vocoder? Playing some repetitive and comically easy synth parts? At least the rhythm section is keeping itself busy and, yes, the bass line is the highlight. Jazz purists may have been up in arms that he was selling out but I'd argue that the real crime involved is wasting his considerable talents on the sort of piece that real disco masters Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers — who both, notably, came from jazz backgrounds — could have conjured up in their sleep.

It's worth noting that Hancock had formed his V.S.O.P. ensemble with fellow Davis alums Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter and Tony Williams, along with Freddie Hubbard, at around this time and he may have felt that by pursuing something closer to "real" jazz he was free to go full on disco in his solo career. Fair enough and more power to him but listening to the driving intensity of "Skagly" or the lush swing of "Finger Painting" (both from Five Star, the sole V.S.O.P. studio album) next to "Tell Everybody" (as well as most of his Feets, Don't Fail Me Now LP), there's no question that he was utilizing his talents well on one and phoning it in on the other. He wore one hat rather better than the other but, to his credit, he stuck with it, much to the delight of Cliff White and jazz fans alike.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers: "Lydia"

Combining old doo-wop and skiffle with some Lou Reed street smarts may have been something no one asked for but it was what Jonathan Richman served up and the world was a better place for it. "Lydia" is a fine example of his skills but, as White says (and I mention above), he's best served in "small doses". Richman can't sing for toffee but something would be lost here with a better vocalist. A grower that irritates at first but has you singing along within three listens. Gosh, he's so clever.

Rachel Sweet: "I Go to Pieces"

5 April 1979

"To be played over and over when you're sitting forlornly on your own, and feeling like a good wallow in a lake of tears."

— Cliff White

Well, it had to happen, didn't it? After an impressive four top notch Singles of the Fortnight on the bounce, we were probably due a come down. A pair from that batch are simply outstanding — Blondie's "Heart of Glass", which topped the charts all over the world and is still immensely popular, and Rick James' "High on Your Love Suite/One Mo Hit (of Your Love)", which didn't do overly well at the time and isn't remembered today — while the other two — Lene Lovich's "Lucky Number" and Fischer-Z's "Remember Russia" — are just a notch below in quality but still excellent. In comparison, then, Rachel Sweet's "I Go to Pieces" isn't anything special: a countrified cover version of an inconsequential sixties pop song. Ho-hum.

That's not to say that there aren't elements to admire here. It's actually a marked improvement on the better known version by Peter & Gordon with the duo's typically bland vocals dragging things down quite a bit (composer Del Shannon's subsequent recording is preferred for his customary emotive restraint but it too lacks something). Sweet perhaps doesn't give it an ideal reading but her carefree, flirtatious singing gives the song a spark of life that never existed before. In contrast with Cliff White's observation above, it seems more effective as a record to be played when you're sitting forlornly on your own and feeling like you need nothing more than to get the hell out of that lake of tears you've been wallowing in.

Great break up songs should have their feet in two camps: one to wallow in self-pity, the other to guide you out of it. Grant McLennan and Robert Forster's compositions on The Go-Betweens' superb 16 Lovers Lane (the greatest relationship-gone-to-pot album of all time no matter what fans of Rumours and Blood on the Tracks would have you believe) are drenched in sorrow and contain bitterness and pain but it's also clear that they're going to get through these bust ups — and, by extension, so can we. The heartbreak Sweet's going through has shot her nerves but it's not about to let her curl up in a corner and die. She's tough — she wouldn't be sat on a motorbike in the promotional video just to show off, would she? — and has sass and doesn't care if anyone else happens to see her breakdown at the sight of her ex.

Despite being just sixteen-years-old at the time and hailing from Akron, Ohio, Sweet was part of Stiff, the renowned British record label home to grumpy singer-songwriters, music hall mavericks and so-called "performance artists" — not exactly where you'd expect a promising country singer to land. Still, the pub rockers who were the backbone of Stiff's early period were all country and western fans at heart and it's possible they were after another Tanya Tucker teen star. (And why fabricate a drawling, faux-hillbilly songstress in the UK when you can land a full-formed, authentic one in the US?) Unfortunately, the label wasn't iconoclastic enough to make Sweet truly interesting. Fed a bunch of old pop tunes and tasked with doing her thing, there are good intentions here but with a faint pointlessness to much of her material (she just about pulls off an awkward "And Then He Kissed Me/Be My Baby" medley in 1981). She may have been too young and not at all interested but it's a shame she couldn't have been given free reign on her creativity — not unlike Blondie, Lene Lovich, Fischer-Z and Rick James.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

M: "Pop Muzik"

Some songs sound better in your head than when you sit down and listen to them while others are so much better heard than imagined but few tunes are exactly the same in either state. "Pop Muzik" is one, even if I can never quite get the order of the cities quite right (though I do know it ends with 'Munich' which Robin Scott is somehow is able to rhyme with 'muzik'). Actually not a great song, it is nonetheless a terrific record which sums up the entire history of the rock 'n' roll era while being sonically futuristic. It would be as relevant today as it was then but for the fact that hardly anyone talks about pop music anymore...unless you host a podcast or have a blog or something.

Rick James: "High on Your Love Suite/One Mo Hit (of Your Love)"

22 March 1979

"All the 'Fs': fabulous, fast, freaky, funky...bamalamalooning along for over seven exhilarating minutes."

— Cliff White

I have a soft spot for the era but even I have to admit that the late eighties have a lot to answer for. Big hair, big drums, big shoulderpads: it's all been critiqued before but one aspect that seldom gets picked over is how it ruined the 12" single. Records that either had no business being lengthened to seven minutes  or had been mixed in such a ghastly fashion or had been "spruced" up by the current dance sound were all guilty of taking a once specialty medium and rendering it lousy and mundane. As a result, I did all I could to avoid the 12": I never bought them and if I happened to purchase a cassette or CD featuring one as a "bonus" I'd torture myself by playing it once before henceforth pressing fast forward or skipping over it.

It hadn't always been this way. Dance music paved the way for extended mixes, first in Jamaica and then once the disco boom took hold in the United States. (It could be argued that the tradition goes back even further to Duke Ellington taking his pristine three minute marvels from the late-thirties and early forties and having his band "extend" them for both the new format of long playing discs and live concert hall settings) Producers, mixers and DJ's began to become stars in their own right and the 12" mix of a single was a good opportunity for them to put their stamp on a record. Paced by cocaine, it also allowed for self-indulgence. But some of the finest disco and funk recordings of the era by the likes of Chic ("I Want Your Love", "Good Times"), Donna Summer ("Love to Love You Baby" and "I Feel Love") and Stevie Wonder (the fifteen minute double act of "As" and "Another Star" that magnificently concludes the second disc of Songs in the Key of Life) perform better in stretched out form and manage to make a mockery out of connoisseurs of pop brevity.

Cliff White reviews the 12" version of "High on Your Love Suite" and doesn't even bother to mention that that there's a condensed 7" mix also available (and this was at a time when the Smash Hits singles review would give helpful info on available formats). Quite right too. Rick James may have been making a name for himself in the US but he wasn't much of a factor in Britain so curious penny-pinching purchasers of singles probably weren't on the lookout for his latest release anyway. At best, the shorter mix would have been an adequate radio-friendly replacement for the real deal. But even that doesn't hide the fact that it sounds neutered next to the more fleshed-out extended version. I don't even like referring to it as "extended" because there's the implication that we have a three-minute tune that's been remixed into something much longer, much the way many subsequent 12" singles would be put together in the eighties.

Opening with a ten second intro that swiftly shifts course, the "High on Your Love Suite" part is a typically thrilling high-octane funk attack driven by a James and his crack band of jazz and R&B veterans. Any song that's about an orgasm being not unlike a coke binge shouldn't let up and it doesn't. Being a medley, the fragments of "High on Your Love" and "High on the Funk" segue so beautifully that you scarcely notice. Funk stars are required to mythologize their style of music and James is no exception but where someone like Bootsy Collins may lapse into gimmickry or self-parody, he stays within its limits while being as flagrant a show-off as any of his George Clinton-Sly Stone-James Brown forefathers.

We then reach the mid-point "break", a still-relentless boogie with a spiraling sax solo, some percussion pyrotechnics and some jazz fusion fretless bass (I was half expecting to see Jaco Pastorius' name in the credits) and Return to Forever spacey synth bits. The original single release includes so-called Eye-Cue programme times (I assume for the convenience of DJs and mixers) but for the average listener it's hardly needed: as I've been trying to follow along, I only find myself caught up in the sounds. Those seven minutes just fly by when you can't stop listening — it's just a shame it couldn't have gone on for longer.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Billy Preston: "Get Back"

The one member of the notorious Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band movie cast to appear on a Fab Four recording, the umpteenth "fifth Beatle" probably should have known better but at least he lends an expertise that the Gibb brothers and Peter Frampton and George "just pretend to laugh till he goes away" Burns didn't have. Covers by Aerosmith and Earth, Wind & Fire are generally regarded as the two saving graces of such a horrible enterprise but Preston's "Get Back" is faithful and his organ playing rivals that of the original even if it doesn't offer much else. Paul McCartney's charming vocal and John Lennon's sweet lead guitar playing are nowhere to be found which only confirms that while the original "Get Back" wouldn't have been up to much without Preston's superlative keyboard playing, this one is in dire need of the first, second, third and fourth Beatles to join him.

Fischer-Z: "Remember Russia"

8 March 1979

"Dr. Who meets future shock victims in the scarred wastes where radioactive debris rains on mankind."

— Cliff White

It was still a couple months prior to John F. Kennedy's famous "We choose to go to the Moon" speech but the launch of the first Telstar satellite in 1962 was a key moment in the Space Race. Having been embarrassed by the Soviets with Sputnik and Yuri Gagarin (and even Laika), the first NATO-friendly communications satellite was a coup and was probably even looked upon favourably even by those who considered lunar travel a waste of time and resources. We were now upon an era of instant communication, even if the mail remained slow and it could take months or even years for a pop hit to cross the Atlantic.

Just twelve days later, nutcase genius producer Joe Meek gathered with his wards The Tornados to record "Telstar". As extraordinary as its namesake, it is three minutes of instrumental surf rock with effects that still dazzle, particularly with its distinctive use of the clavioline. Though obviously futuristic, it retains a charming primitive quality and one can practically see the string holding up the spaceship as it hurtles its way through space. The music wasn't made by computers, it was cut and mixed by dour men in lab coats and, indeed, so too were the shuttles being sent out to orbit the Earth. Rather than being built by robots or 3D printers, they were very hands on projects with music critic Neil Kulkarni observing that last year's fiftieth anniversary footage of the Apollo 11 Moon landing showed a ship that was very "Blue Peter".

If we then jump ahead to the late seventies the landscape has altered. Space exploration has been culled, the glory days of space rock — from The Byrds' "Mr. Spaceman" to Pink Floyd's "Set Controls for the Heart of the Sun" and on to all kinds of prog rock nonsense — have been and gone and, yet, machines are beginning to take over as man becomes redundant. Young children had Star Wars figurines to maintain the illusion but to many technology was showing its ugly side and it wouldn't be for another three or four years as families began buying up home computers and VCRs that the average citizen could at least be placated by a sense that they were getting something out of it.

This void of progress leaving everyone behind is the backbone of "Remember Russia" by Berkshire group Fischer-Z. This being 1979, it's tempting to take the skeletal reggae, hyper-dramatic vocals and tight, choppy group performance as being not unlike The Police, albeit with the added attraction of an unsettling organ as an add on. Repeated listenings, however, begin to expose the differences. Where Sting could never quite remove tongue from cheek, lead "Fish's Head" John Watts means every word he sings. I've belittled earnestness in the likes of Jim Kerr but here it works well. Watts refuses to spell out the incidence and one YouTube comment helpfully points out that "this song is amazing and has real meaning to those that understand" but even that misses the point. You don't have to have lived through some sort of technological wasteland to feel moved by this song. When Watts screams "damn those satellites to hell!" you're right there with him.

It's easy to take "Remember Russia" on face value, that it's a diatribe against Communism and the planned economy, but there's nothing to suggest that's what Watts had in mind. Instead, I propose that he's arguing that the Soviets place little value on human life and, while we in the West are meant to be against everything our Iron Curtain counterparts stand for, it's beginning to spread throughout the world. Tech is leaving us all behind and we're even letting it happen. We're now more than forty years on from then but this is still relevant, if not more so. And it still sounds great. Maybe it's every bit as futuristic as "Telstar".

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Joe Jackson: "Sunday Papers"

Wags didn't know what to do with disco and punk but at least they had pub rock that they could wrap their heads around. Elvis Costello and Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe and Graham Parker & The Rumour: they all wrote classic pop-rock with just enough chords and they all had humour. Joe Jackson never quite fit in with this lot but he got lumped in with them all the same. More strident and with a knack for taking empathetic situations and making you side with whoever did him wrong, he churned out some great but unlikable tunes over the years. "Sunday Papers" is a prime example: nicely played and sung (assuming you can stomach Jackson's voice) but with an undeserved smarminess, like that guy on Twitter who makes hackneyed observations but is convinced they're original thoughts. And for all his bluster about press, I'm sure he's right there with them when they go on about the nanny state and how political correctness is the greatest blight currently facing humanity.

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.

~~~~~

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".