Divine: "You Think You're a Man"

5 July 1984

"Against an outrageously catchy melody that could've come straight from the soundtrack of a spaghetti western like Calamity Jane, Divine spits fire into the cheekiest lyric in this batch of singles."

— Linda Duff

We're three or four years earlier than I thought we'd be but this week's Single of the Fortnight marks the maiden appearance of Mike Stock, Matt Aitken and Pete Waterman on production. They will soon become the dominant force in late-eighties British pop but by this time they're still finding their feet: they're not yet focusing on the songwriting side of their work, they're nowhere close to developing the formula that would take them to the top (and, in time, help prove their undoing) and they don't appear yet to be grooming talent for their stable. No office tea boys, no Australian soap stars, no flop-ridden boy bands, no faded disco starlets, no sassy pairs of sisters, just an obese middle-aged drag queen with a voice that made Leonard Cohen's sound silky smooth.

Some kinks to be ironed out for SAW then? Commercially perhaps — even if "You Think You're a Man" found its way into the top twenty, no mean feat for an untested production team paired with a cult figure from the gay scene — but creatively it's a triumph. The backing is indeed "outrageously catchy" as Linda Duff reckons with a sound straight out of the New York clubs but with pop hooks and gentle New Order-esque synth flourishes to follow the chorus. It's really the record that managed to escape the confines of the discotheques which is how Divine would have wanted it — he had, after-all, been keen to break away from the counterculture straight jacket himself.

Glenn Milstead was no one's idea of a star but that wasn't about to stop him. His alter ego Divine proved a smash in cult circles but was one that could never establish itself in the mainstream. Working on "trashy" films with John Waters, he eventually moved towards Hi-NRG disco-pop that was similarly enjoyed by a loyal following but ignored by the masses. Having already had a pair of near miss singles in the UK, perhaps he was primed for the big one. No wonder he gives such a monstrous performance.

Which brings us to that voice. Listening to it I am always blown away by the sheer roughness of it. (I'll sometimes sing it to myself in a manner as gravelly as possible only to come up short in comparison when I put it on) Even Duff's Eartha Kitt meets Gary Glitter description doesn't really do it justice but I'm lost on trying to better it. Quite simply, Divine roars out some spiteful invective in the direction of an ex-lover which luxuriates in the lousiness of the vocal. Someone with a real singing voice could make something of it — say, Cher or Pat Benatar or, indeed, Eartha Kitt — but no one could make it so camp and so hilarious and so intimidating and so joyous all at once. Could anyone have been man enough to have satisfied Divine?

A note on this issue's singles reviewer. Linda Duff was a mainstay of Smash Hits — as well as its American cousin Star Hits — for a number of years focusing on the Get Smart column. As Brian McCloskey has said, she was the internet before there was the internet. Whenever readers had a question concerning their favourite pop stars — if, say, they had gone down the dumper or if there was some bizzare rumour going round — she'd be the one to set everyone straight. This was to be her only shot at reviewing the singles. Divine is no longer with us and neither is Linda Duff: a pair of one off's you just don't see anymore.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Neil: "Hole in My Shoe"

More of an outright comedy record than Divine's but nowhere close to as funny, this is a faithful rendition of Traffic's psychedelic sixties hit courtesy of Neil from eighties sitcom favourite The Young Ones. When you have lyrics about bubblegum trees and dew on the grass that's stuck to your coat the satire sort of writes itself so our Neil (aka Nigel Planer) has an easy job. I suppose it must have been funny at the time — like The Young Ones itself — but those days are long gone. Then again, the original wasn't much cop so what hope did this remake have? Sorry, Neil, but I suspect a glowing critique wouldn't have done much to lift your spirits anyway, would it?

The Kane Gang: "Closest Thing to Heaven"

21 June 1984

"This isn't bad. Actually, it's a good song."

— John Taylor

Not exactly a ringing endorsement from John "Most Fanciable Male" Taylor, is it? Sometimes it's not about the record one happens to think "isn't bad", it's those singles that aren't even that good. And what a bunch of duds his nibs had to endure. Prince & The Revolution's "When Doves Cry" ("...doesn't do anything previous efforts haven't done before"), Bob Marley & The Wailers' "Waiting in Vain" ("I prefer him more abrasive"), The Pointer Sisters' "Jump (For My Love)" ("...this doesn't cut the mustard") and Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do with It" ("I'm disappointed. Where's the raunchola this week?") are among the lackluster hopefuls up for Taylor's consideration. The fact that they're all now arguably classics is just hard cheese.

I feel well-disposed towards Taylor's cavalier attitude towards these records mainly since they dovetail nicely with my own. Sure, Prince's name was made by Purple Rain and its singles but this was material very much in keeping with what he'd been doing a year earlier on the better 1999 album (although I can't let Taylor's remark that "everybody's getting heavy these days" slip by unchecked given that other pop stars cum guest reviewers could very well have said the same thing a few months later over The Power Station). Marley was never the same without original Wailer cohorts Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer, his cutting lyrics and musical vision having been tamed by his late-seventies status as a spokesman and concert attraction. "Jump" is one of those eighties throwbacks that doesn't deserve all its film soundtrack space and TV commercials — and even being interrupted by a jubilant Simon Le Bon with news that they've risen in the US charts is not able to lift his disinterest. Turner's effort is better than most here but it's still far from what she was capable of. How the mighty have fallen.

Some, then, may want to jump in with a quip like "who's John Taylor to be knocking Prince? What's he ever done?" which is understandable enough but leaves out two significant factors: (a) this is John Taylor, bassist of Duran Duran who were still riding the success of "The Reflex" — which, though far from perfect, is more thrilling than anything Prince Rogers Nelson would ever record — and (b) he's giving his thoughts on a stack of new releases, what do his musical bona fides have to do with anything? (I mean, apart from helping land him this gig as guest reviewer?) Why bash a film you didn't care for if you haven't made one? Why knock a politician if you've never made a run for political office?

As for the SOTF itself, it's not too bad though it's hardly my choice cut here. (That would be The Human League's "Life on Your Own" even if I can fully understand not opting for something so rum) "Closest Thing to Heaven" is a fairly early example of eighties sophisti-pop, a sub genre which would come to rule the charts at the close of the decade, with it's clipped guitar parts and delicate synth backing. Martin Brammer was even a bit ahead of his time with a smooth yet mildly sandpapery vocal which would also become all too common in later years. The lyrics strive for a profundity which simply isn't there but I suppose that sums Thatcherite-era aspiration up as well as anything. Still, it's a song that creeps up on the listener, the sort of thing you end up tapping your feet along with in spite of yourself. (Taylor himself seems like he could go either way with this one but gradually gets into it)

John Taylor gave his thoughts on twenty-two singles for this issue of ver Hits, thirteen of which he didn't care for. He's hardly the grumpiest character to evaluate new releases — but, rest assured, it won't be long before we get to him — he just wasn't that into a lot of what he heard. Simple really. It would be interesting to see if he now regrets his disdain (he admits that he doesn't begin to appreciate Prince songs until a "drunken night in a sweaty club gets me into them" so he may well have come round on at least one) but I rather hope he doesn't. Long may you hate sub-par pop, John Taylor!

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

The Bluebells: "Young at Heart"

Another pop "classic", though not quite as disliked by Taylor as the others (even if "music to tie knots to around the campfire" sounds a bit wry), "Young at Heart" originally appeared as a deep cut on Bananarama's Deep Sea Skiving but was reworked by co-writer Robert "Bobby Bluebell" Hodgens into the only song The Bluebells will ever be remembered for. It's dangerous for a people in their twenties to do a song called "Young at Heart", as if they have the faintest idea what that could possibly mean at such a tender age. At least the 'Narns version doesn't pretend to be offering up some sagely advice or any of that claptrap but this one has a misplaced world-weary quality which grates. Stick a fiddle on, put some older people in the video and cheerily admit that being young at heart is a key to happiness and — voila! — a big hit, big enough that it was even able to get to number one nearly a decade later. Proof that there is indeed a fine line between catchy and annoying.

Billy Idol: "Eyes Without a Face"

7 June 1984

"Although he doesn't have a great voice and the words are utter drivel, somehow he sounds affectingly sincere."

— Neil Tennant

So, we've come to a key SOTF, one I had not relished writing about. Not because I dislike the "artist" in question — even though I am by no means a fan — but because he doesn't inspire much in me and, crucially, I am going to have to deal with him again. And again. And again. Where other groups and singers I have covered or will cover on multiple occasions have given me confidence that there's enough material there for several entries, I feel at a loss for words when it comes to Billy Idol. Prior to getting this blog going — as a matter of fact, before I'd even cooked up the idea for this blog — I compiled a list of SOTF and, apart from the odd omission of a prominent act here and there, the biggest surprise I had was discovering just how much the Hits critics liked them some Billy.

Four entries on Billy Idol will be coming your way in the months and years ahead, approximately four more than I would have anticipated. Had there been just the one, I would have shovelled out some nonsense about being a punk who could never move on and, thus, made the biggest move possible by relocating from London to New York, where his naff commitment to such a passe genre and lifestyle would mark him out as "authentic", admired by Americans for never selling out. A second single and I would have been reduced to one of those annoyingly contrary pieces about how he "actually was the biggest sell out of all by remaining tied to his punk roots" or some other supposedly clever bit of analysis. A third would have had me begging the Smash Hits staff to stop torturing me. But it's four and — assuming I don't pack it in by the time we get to July, 2022 — I have to spread the very little I have to say about the former William Broad out as lightly as possible.

All this Idol did give me one idea that I toyed with over the last few days which I promptly abandoned this morning. Instead of critique, how about I compose a series of short stories based very loosely around his life and songs. It would allow me the freedom to take such a ridiculous pop star and put him into some ridiculous situations. Here is a brief synopsis for each of the Just Billiam stories:

Part 1: Billiam Proves Them Wrong
A charming English good-for-nothing has been described by audiences and critics as "naff" once too often and he decides to show 'em by writing and recording a song that expresses his feelings, though he quickly comes to realise that he has no idea how to go about doing so. Then he meets Maxine who he quickly falls for but she's turned off by his shallowness. Can he prove her wrong too?

Part 2: Billiam Gets Another Chance
Billiam's songs never quite hit the mark right away but they all find a way of eventually catching on. Meanwhile, Billiam's love life is similarly beset by disastrous first encounters that he winds up turning around into wild, passionate affairs. Then he meets Layla who seems immune to all of his tricks and is reluctant to give him that second chance he thrives on. Can he turn yet another flop into a huge hit?

Part 3: Billiam Woos America
Americans love Billiam. They're buying his records en masse, clamouring to see him in concert and wallpapering their bedrooms with posters of him. Then he meets Deborah who has recently emigrated to the US from Britain and is very much like the pop music fans of their shared homeland: very reluctant to take to him, unable to take him seriously and only able to handle him in very small doses. Can he woo her like he did an entire nation?

Part 4: Billiam Begins to Falter
Billiam is aware that the world around him is changing and so, too, is the music scene. He is starting to drift creatively and so he decides to record a cover version of a beloved song from his youth to get his juices flowing. Then he meets Nancy, a real LA woman if there ever was one and a veteran rock groupie who is now trying to settle down. Can he make his mark on a pair of classics before it's too late?

So, that's what you would have had in store but perhaps they're best left here, an idea set aside so that I may try to be a proper critic. But not today: probably next week and the week after and so on and maybe even next April when we're due to come encounter him again. I promise to get my critical chops going. Either that or I'll churn out the short story Billiam Gets Another Chance.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Frankie Goes to Hollywood: "Two Tribes"

Part 5: Billiam Say Relax
A new sensation has hit the charts but they're far removed from the punk ethos that drives Billiam and he is unimpressed with these lads flaunting themselves. Then he meets Joanne who has had her life changed by this groundbreaking quintet. She is convinced they are the next wave of political and sexual liberation and their ecstatic disco pop isn't so far off from Billiam's beloved punk rock. Can he develop an appreciation for this radical outfit so that he might score?

The Incredible T*H* Scratchers starring Freddy Love: "Hip-Hop-Bommi-Bop"

24 May 1984

"Alas, possibly distracted by the cheap and nasty Bommerlunder alcohol, Dusseldorf's punkiest don't take this even remotely seriously and said Fred returns to New York in despair."

— Ian Cranna

I teach at a university here in South Korea that was once notable for having members of a successful K-pop group on scholarship. (I wouldn't quite go so far as to call them 'students' given that they were seldom seen on campus apart from the school festival every autumn they were required to perform at) They were popular with the student body but the foreign teaching staff didn't think too much of them, especially after member Lee Gi-kwang appeared on a Korean TV comedy program in blackface and a curly wig, chomping on a big piece of watermelon. Little was said at the time — although it would later be cited as an example of racism tarnishing K-pop — and I am not aware of him ever apologising for it but I was always hoping he'd eventually get what was coming to him. (Of course he never did but they would all eventually have their degrees revoked for never having done any actual school work so maybe there's something to that karma thing after all)

I bring up this anecdote so as to introduce the one foul element to "Hip-Hop-Bommi-Bop": its video. With the members of Die Toten Hosen blackening up as cannibalistic natives about to devour Freddy Love, I'll grudgingly admit that it probably does visually communicate the song's fish-out-of-water status even if they could have done so in far less offensive fashion. (They doubled down for live appearances with similar Jolson-like visages though free of the primitives-cooking-round-a-giant-steaming-pot narrative) Now, of course, it may not have caused an outcry in mid-eighties West Germany and the Totes may not have known they what they were doing (ignorance being a common excuse for racism though it must be said that it's hard to imagine how crude stereotypes and vulgar imagery couldn't be taken the "wrong" way). For what it's worth, the African-American Fab 5 Freddy doesn't appear bothered by the actions of his collaborators even if it's safe to assume that he would have preferred they remain as Ayran as ever.

So, don't bother with the video and just take in the music which is absolutely brilliant. Die Toten Hosen were a bunch of snotty punks from Düsseldorf who'd recently had a hit with the German drinking song "Eisgekühlter Bommerlunder", which starts off like all good (and, to be sure, plenty of bad) folksy, sea shanties before quickly morphing into an absurd racket of a helium-voiced "singer" repeating the chorus at a faster and faster pace. It proved popular with their cult following in Germany but perhaps they correctly deduced that its appeal would go over the heads of audiences not of the Teutonic persuasion. They then went about drafting in a heavy hitter on the New York hip hop scene and made a virtue out of foreigners not getting the whole Toten Hosen shtick — and perhaps this is why it succeeds at transcending novelty pop since I am forced to enjoy this in spite of the gags that mean nothing to me.

Bearing no resemblance to the original recording its based on, Fab 5 Freddy (aka Freddy Love here, since the Totes decided to rechristen themselves 'The Incredible T*H* Scratchers' their guest star might as well take on a pseudonym of his own) is all over this, adding a professionalism that these misfit German punks didn't have. There's a structure and a tune present that previously failed to appear, all the while retaining the "Eisgekühlter..." charm. Freddy, though, is from the old school and there's plenty of D.I.Y. hip hop amateurism that meshes well with his blackface chums. His was the kind of rap that one can easily picture youths in Harlem doing to impress their buddies: the rhymes are often simplistic and telegraphed, the meter oh so predictable but it feels improvised and charged with the zest of someone who could lay down verse after verse like a modern day jazz cutter. It's difficult to say just what Campino and Andi and the rest are contributing here, though, as Ian Cranna points out, that guitar is perfect, crunchy and simplistic like all good punk rock but with touches of Chic-like funk jangle. The percussion may well be their doing too but it could just as easily be programmed. Maybe the Toten Hosen quartet were there simply for some rock 'n' roll spirit, useless bandmembers being essential to punk and rap alike.

It's hard to say if this had much of an influence on the future of rap rock and, in particular, Run DMC's celebrated cover of Aerosmith's "Walk This Way" since (a) "Hip-Hop-Bommi-Bop" remained a curio that doesn't appear to have made much of an impact over in the US and (b) Run, DMC and the other one already had this cross-genre merging in mind. It's actually rather fascinating to picture how it might have turned out had they waited a few years to record and release "Hip-Hop-Bommi-Bop". In keeping with the original's mandate to repeat the "Eisgekühlter Bommerlunder" refrain as quickly as possible, it would have worked well with one of those rapid-fire choppers like Busta Rhymes or Twista that were a pretty big deal in the early nineties. More importantly, they may have also ditched the blackface nonsense in favour of having the members of Die Toten Hosen act like the toughest bunch of white homeboys imaginable. Blackface might be offensive and unfunny but the whitest people on Earth acting as if they're black? It's never not funny.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Bronski Beat: "Smalltown Boy"

One of the most charming aspects of eighties pop is the tendency of acts to disguise issues for the purposes of mass consumption. Kids could hear the superb "Smalltown Boy" and not clue in to just what Jimmy Sommerville was on about and then, if they were anything like me, not have a problem with homosexuality when eventually confronted with it. Thus, a song about alienated and unwanted gay youth could be about alienated and unwanted youth. None of this should diminish the song's standing as a vital gay-rights anthem, I just wish to point out that I'm fond of being able to relate to something that doesn't have my life in mind. Either way, "Smalltown Boy" is ace and a great introduction to Sommerville's powerfully alienated falsetto — and something he never really topped.

David Sylvian: "Red Guitar"

10 May 1984

"The first result of all that beavering away in the studio with musicians from all over the shop that David Sylvian's been up to for the last several months, and one that suggests he's been spending his time well."

— Dave Rimmer

A big part of what I'm trying to do with this blog is to grow to appreciate each Single of the Fortnight or, failing that, to understand why the reviewer picked a record I don't really rate. This wasn't something I had in mind when I first got this up and running sixteen months ago but it wouldn't be long before I had to confront it: Charlie Gillett's co-SOTF of Jon & Vangelis' "State of Independence" and The Birthday Party's "Release the Bats" was the first time I found myself with no interest at all in the critic's pick, yet I managed to sufficiently apologise for it as the only numbers — with the obvious exception of that week's cop pick — I could see opting for. At least him from Yes and the "Chariots of Fire" guy were looking towards a yuppified eighties progressive rock; and that other fellow (the one who would one day be Nick Cave from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds), he was busy morphing punk, glam and murder ballads into what would soon be dubbed 'goth rock'. I may not have liked them but I understood what they were trying to get at.

Not so much here, however. Drafting in an impressive roster of sessioners — former members of Japan, current collaborator Ryuichi Sakamoto, Can's Holger Czukay, folk bassist Danny Thompson, a string of accomplished jazz cats — David Sylvian seemed to have something big in store for his first solo album, perhaps even an eighties equivalent of Astral Weeks. Now, I never got round to listening to the rest of the Brilliant Trees LP that resulted so well done, David, for crafting a possibly stupendous masterpiece of art rock; judging by the lead-off single, however, it may well be boring, difficult to connect with and rather pointless (though it could be one of those ones that holds together well in spite of the duffness of every single track). Quite what Sylvian was aspiring to with "Red Guitar" is uncertain: is this a serious statement of the world's crumbling societies, like "Invisible Sun" by The Police? A song of loneliness and despair? Just an idle boast about red guitars? Who knows and the material doesn't intrigue me enough to bother trying to figure it out. (Dave Rimmer admits to not understanding it and he likes the bloody thing!)

Though contemporaneous with the new romantics and new pop, David Sylvian and his former bandmates Japan took pains to point out that they had nothing to do with chancers like the Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran and the like. Others, they claimed, dressed up to play the part but they were the real deal. (Such is a level of earnestness I've never been comfortable with in pop music, especially coming out of Britain where they really ought to know better) Simon Le Bon and the Kemp brothers and Boy George cared what we thought but Sylvian didn't. He doesn't care that "Red Guitar" means nothing to me and probably didn't care that Rimmer thought it so brilliant. And, with that, maybe I do understand, even if I don't care to admit it.
 
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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Sade: "When Am I Going to Make a Living"

Rimmer's SOTF runner-up is probably the best of the bunch on offer (sorry Wham!, while I don't agree with his nibs that "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" is third-rate Shakin' Stevens, it's not a particularly good record, even if if made George Michael a force all over the world). An anti-Thatcherite record that really matters — it deals with real people's struggles rather than just looking to poke fun at the Iron Lady — this is a helpful reminder that virtually everyone longed to be upwardly mobile in the eighties, just very few knew how to go about it. ("We're hungry for a life we can't afford": does any single lyric capture eighties angst better?) Sade's work always had far more depth than the yuppie dinner parties she would soon soundtrack but that was a world she longed to be part of. A tremendous talent was blossoming but one mostly for those damn upwardly mobile.

Cocteau Twins: "Pearly-Dewdrops' Drops"

26 April 1984

"The Cocteau Twins are a band I've never really listened to and I feel that maybe I've missed out on something."

— Dave Gahan

The majority of Singles of the Fortnight are chosen because of the songs. (I know, a stunning bit of insight to kick off this week's entry) This one isn't one of them. As Dave Gahan says, Cocteau Twins are fairly new to him and the little that he offers up in analysis amounts to praise for Elizabeth Fraser's voice, something he could have just as easily used to prop up any Twins record, be it "Sugar Hiccup" from a few months earlier or "Aikea-Guinea" a year later (though, amazingly, not the astonishing "Lorelei" — the dead cert number twenty-one hit that they never had — since it was never released on a single or an E.P., their preferred format at the time).

Gahan's ignorance of ver Twins brings to mind the thrill of being there to experience a fresh new act. Long before I gave myself to Louis Armstrong, The Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, The Beach Boys, Fairport Convention, Steely Dan, Roxy Music and Blondie, I was once a moody adolescent having his world changed to the sounds of Pet Shop Boys, The Beautiful South, Happy Mondays, The Wonder Stuff, Billy Bragg and, yes, Morrissey. Much fun as it is to discover that Satchmo did something as mind blowing as "Beau Koo Jack" over ninety years ago, there's nothing quite like stumbling upon something completely new that very few people have heard before that sounds like nothing ever made before.

Fraser's voice is, of course, the main attraction and the the primary reason why Cocteau Twins sounded so fresh. Elastic like Kate Bush, soothing like Joni Mitchell, deadened like many of her forerunners coming out of post-punk, she still manages to sound like none of them only like herself. No one has ever managed to make a virtue out of sounding so completely incomprehensible, which is just as well given that her lyrics seem to defy all meaning. (I was surprised to discover that the chorus isn't made up of the line "tease a lucky, lucky penny, penny, penny bicycle..." though less so that the actual words make every bit as much sense)

Fresh is something we feel in pop rather than something we are able to rationally account for. Their ingenious fusing of  industrial music and dream pop had to come from somewhere for Fraser, Robin Guthrie and Simon Raymonde to cotton on to it. A fairly recent addition to the band, Raymonde's superlative bass playing is something straight out of Peter Hook's bag of tricks and they owe more than a little to the Joy Division sound in general. Still, I'll take a dozen or so Cocteau Twins records of the time over anything those miserable Mancuians ever did and that's because the indie Scots were able to inject some sparkly magic into all of their best work. You may be completely original or utterly derivative but if you can't make your records shine than what's the bloody point of putting them on? How else will you get the Dave Gahan's of the world to sit up and take notice?

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

The Human League: "The Lebanon"

Some unabashedly rawk guitar, the situation in the Middle East, Philip Oakey's stubble, Joanne Catherall's shoulder-pads: yes, The Human League were becoming very serious indeed. Having taken their beautifully crafted and wildly successful synth-pop sound one step too far with the irritating "(Keep Feeling) Fascination", it was probably about time they gave it a rethink. The results probably ought to be laughably bad but they pull it off by reigning in all the grown up elements into the pure pop that they still had a grasp of. It's no "Love Action" or "Don't You Want Me" but a track that still sits proudly alongside the League's admirable collection of singles — and an indication that they were well aware of just how political the charts were becoming.

The Cure: "The Caterpillar"

12 April 1984

"Lightweight but far from empty."

— Tom Hibbert (ie the one on the left)

It was 1996 and we were all searching for the next thing. (Scratch that: we were waiting; we didn't seek anyone out, we were just hoping they were going to fall into our laps) The watered-down supposed alternative music of American frat boys Hootie & The Blowfish, Spin Doctors and (shudder) Deep Blue Something had failed to inspire any of us and it was now growing increasingly irritating. Britpop had its big timers but also a pretty shallow talent pool that meant precisely nothing to North Americans (a year later Dodgy played at my university pub to a crowd of myself, three of my chums and a half-dozen swooning bespectacled girls and this was a group that enjoyed a Top 10 album and a handful of hit singles back in the UK). The drum and bass stuff was starting to happen but we were all so stuck in our reverence for the guitar to take it seriously so we were turning our noses up at the bad and the good.

Some musician friends of mine took stock of the bleak landscape and declared "the best groups in the world are R.E.M., U2 and The Cure". Now, there may have been a decent case to be made for this way back in '86 but this was ten years hence. R.E.M. had just released the kind-of live album New Adventures in Hi-Fi but this is also happened to be just when no one seemed to care about them anymore, U2 were increasingly seen as a brand rather than a band and what business did the bloody Cure have being so highly ranked to begin with? Those other two groups may have sort of mattered but who did The Cure matter to beyond Cure fanatics? 

With all that in mind, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise for underestimating them — at least a little. They're still not completely my cup of tea but I should now admit what a major talent Robert Smith has always been. Funny it should take something so lightweight but perhaps that's the point; I'd stand by my dismissiveness if all they ever managed to record was that bunch of heavy going gothic stuff others seem to care for.

With a feel not unlike The Associates' 1982 SOTF "Party Fears Two", "The Caterpillar" breezes along effortlessly. This is no doubt aided by the presence of percussionist Andy Anderson and Lol Tolhurst on piano, probably the two Cureists who contributed the most individually to the sound of an famously dictatorial group. Obviously Smith is the man who has made them and is The Cure but it's rather nice to hear a more collaborative dynamic going on. As Tom Hibbert says, things are kept simple with nice hooks and minimal lyrics. What we have, I suppose, is a woman in Smith's life who is of modest means and background but who will no doubt one day morph into a sophisticated, worldly butterfly destined for better things and a someone more befitting her new station. It is either a pessimistic account of the inevitability of being left behind or a game attempt at generously letting go (or a clever attempt to appear to be the latter when you're really just the former).

In my searching waiting for that next thing (a year later and we were all convinced it was Radiohead and I suppose it was for a bit though it seems hard to believe now) I could have done worse than stumble upon "The Caterpillar". For while I awaited for the next big thing to emerge, I was also hoping to have another chance at love — once again, not in search of it but just biding my time until it presented itself to me. Smith's tender, mature reading may have helped me finally get over any lingering heartbreak while his more twisted side may have encouraged a more cavalier approach to attracting a special someone. And, anyway, if girls were throwing themselves at Smith — not to mention those half-dozen bespectacled girls at the members of Dodgy — there'd have to be at least one out there who'd opt for me. But I could wait.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Billy Joel: "The Longest Time"

Your first album and first concert ought to be embarrassing and on both fronts I am proud to be ashamed. A ticket was available and I joined my mum, sister and aunt to attend A Night with Billy Joel. I wasn't a fan but I didn't have anything against him but almost as soon as the show was done I realised I wasn't going to be boasting to friends about seeing our Billiam. Not a great concert but it was astonishing to discover that I knew every last song he performed when all I thought I was familiar with was "We Didn't Start the Fire" and other contemporary minor hits. He did this one which of course I didn't know I knew. A near-a capella masterpiece of vocal stylings from the doo-wop era, Joel managed to make it seem fresh back in '84 and it still holds up to this day. One of those songs that's impossible to dislike. But I should refrain from saying any more since I don't want anyone to know how much I like it.

Thomas Dolby: "I Scare Myself"

29 March 1984

"Written by the extremely eccentric songwriter Dan Hicks (ideal for Tom really), it's a stunning song performed with delicate restraint and sung in a way that brings tears to the eyes of grown men (and women)."

— Ian Brich

The Beatles and George Martin, Miles Davis and Teo Macero, Madonna and (insert name of currently fashionable boffin): the last century or so of recorded music has resulted in many great artist-producer team-ups. One half sets down a glorious piece of music in the studio, the other sets about making sure it all comes together in order to be cut onto a disc. Not every such pairing is long standing — see Madonna, who was ahead of the curve on the modern trend of frequently switching up production collaborators — and plenty of groups and singers eventually found themselves toiling behind the mixing desk as well as in front of a mic. But few are those who prove equally adept wearing both hats — and most of those that do tend to 

Brian Eno, Lee "Scratch" Perry and Todd Rundgren are three of the most beguiling studio wizards. All may well have prided themselves on their abilities as vocalists and musicians but all were better suited to the production side. Eno's recorded output includes the first two extraordinary Roxy Music albums (as much as I enjoy the next two, it's clear the band was never the same after his departure) in addition to several acclaimed solo albums that I'm happy to have heard just the once. Though not credited as such, his primary role on David Bowie's Berlin Trilogy was very much as a producer, there to guide the more impressionistic tracks. He was also there as the final piece in making U2 into the powerhouse that would dominate the eighties and nineties. Perry is by all accounts a terrific vocalist but his musical contributions are practically irrelevant next to his production work at his famed Black Ark studio. Rundgren did manage to deliver one masterpiece, 1972's Something/Anything?, but by the time of its overrated follow-up, A Wizard, A True Star, he was already becoming far too concerned with studio trickery than laying down some solid tunes. Producing himself he begins to seem too busy, too caught up in showing off his immense talents; producing others (the first New York Dolls album, Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell and XTC's Skylarking, a wonderfully catholic resume even if you're not crazy about some or all of them), he got the best out of his charges resulting in far better works than the ones he was putting out.

Thomas Dolby is an eighties equivalent, though in the context of a music scene that had him pegged for pop stardom. Like contemporaries Howard Jones and Nik Kershaw, there's a sense that he was dragged down by having to wear too many hats and that he may have been better off finding an area of expertise - though, unlike those two, he would soon find his musical calling.

There are a lot of ways of doing a cover version. The simplest way is to do a carbon copy. Another approach is to to do something similar but with more modern sound. Some will try to improve on the original, others try to bring a whole new sound or genre into it. One thing that should be avoided, however, is to cover a song that makes one only want to listen to its source. I think Dolby is trying to grasp at something that may not be readily apparent in Dan Hicks' prototype but it doesn't quite work. Where the original sounds dashed off and toyed with, Dolby's rendition is considered. Perhaps too considered. Hicks brought his usual maverick sensibilities, shoving heaps of rootsy Americana, jazz and gypsy folk all together; Dolby keeps the jazz with just traces of Hicksian cram-it-all-in spirit in Kevin Armstrong's folk-funk guitar solo. Hicks' vocal has a slight twist of irony as if he'd fully aware that what he's singing of is utter hokum but knows it will be effective at getting his lover to submit to his advances; Dolby sings every word like he means it. It's possible he was simply to close to a record he so obviously and rightly loved but in paying homage to a musical kindred spirit he ended up unwittingly doing him a disservice.

So, I'm rather blase towards this record and, to be fair, a lot of that is down to expectations. Not one who has followed Dolby's lengthy career to any extent, I had always surmised that the man was all about keytars and fairlight synths and audio pyrotechnics. I was, therefore, thrown to discover that he was willing and able to turn out some smooth (mostly acoustic) jazz. I would like to say that I was pleasantly surprised to make this discovery only it's too smooth and unwilling to take risks. Happily, Thomas Dolby's production work with one of my favourite groups would right that ship.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Phil Collins: "Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now)"

Between Dolby's contribution, Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time", a reissue of Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" and this we seem to be entering the era of MOR. His best work both as a solo artist and with Genesis already behind him, Phil Collins was easing himself into the power ballad market that would make him his fortune. Like a lot of his maligned material from the age, this is much better than we've been led to believe. On the other hand, it's nowhere near as good as his staunch defenders will claim. A nice throwback to an era when pop songs could be far more popular than the films from which they came — and a reminder of a time when James Woods was still relevant.

Propaganda: "Dr. Mabuse"

15 March 1984

"It's all about "selling your soul" with lots of Germanic voices sounding mysterious over a Kraftwerk-style driving rhythm."

— Peter Martin

“...and that’s why I always say, the real authoritarians are now on the left.”

“Well, you’ve certainly shown me where the new fascists are. Alain Tremblay, thank you for joining us today, we really hope to see you again soon.”

“It’s always a pleasure, Kurt. Take care.”

The transmission ended. Kurt glanced off just to the left of the camera to Danielle, his Canadian girlfriend and producer. She smiled sweetly at him. She always had a warm smile waiting for him at the end of every show, even the odd time when he managed to screw up an interview.

“How was I?”

“Good. Really Good. I really think you’re getting the whole ‘make it look like you’re undecided and impartial’ thing we talked about.”

“Thanks.” Kurt was relieved to hear it. He kept hearing, and not just from the usual critics and trolls that dunked on him at every opportunity, that he was too quick to eat out of the palms of his guests. “Wanna get a coffee?”

“Let’s just have one here,” Danielle said, “we got a production meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Do you really need me for it?”

“Kurt, one meeting a week won’t kill you. Anyway, it won’t take long.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of coffee. He typically got a high from finishing a taped interview but meetings nullified them. He went to the office he and Danielle shared to wait. Sitting down, he pulled out his phone and contemplated looking up his social media feeds but he wasn’t sure if Alice, his assistant, had already filtered out the negative comments. Instead, he played a game of cribbage on his tablet. He was about to skunk his opponent when everyone else came in for the meeting.

“I really think we should consider having him on,” Matti said to Danielle who clearly wasn’t listening.

“Matti,” said Alice, shaking her head, “not now.”

Kurt had some idea of who Matti was alluding to but he ignored it. It didn’t bother him unless he heard someone say his name. Or saw it written down. Or had it texted or tweeted at him.

“So,” Danielle began, “Kurt and I have some ideas for the show.” He seldom contributed much to these meetings, happy to have her do the talking. It always annoyed him at his previous jobs how no one would listen to him or how everyone would interrupt him or how, at best, they’d end up twisting every half-decent idea he ever had. Even though he was now the boss, he suspected that his employees would be every bit as dismissive of him. His silence, he reckoned, commanded respect. Danielle spoke for the two of them and they held the balance of power.

Danielle began reading notes and giving orders to Alice and Matti, the show’s new production coordinator. Kurt, doing everything he could to look like he was paying attention, sat with a serious look on his face, nodding along with whatever his partner happened to be saying and looking in the eyes of his staff.

“What time will Dr. Mabuse be coming, Danielle?” Alice enquired. Kurt’s eyes lit up. He didn’t know Mabuse was planning to visit.

“Soon,” Danielle replied. She cleared her throat and resumed. Kurt tried not to appear thrown by the news. He didn’t think the expression on his face changed but he suspected that Matti, sitting across from him, could tell that something was up. He took a sip of coffee and relaxed a bit. He liked Dr. Mabuse. They'd been on each other's shows and had gone for dinner a few times but it bothered Kurt that this was the first he'd heard of him visiting. Also, he couldn't quite relax and be himself in his presence.

"Alice, fetch me the dossier of the men's rights group that requested to appear on the show," Danielle order. "Matti, go see if the film crew is finished for the day."

"Why didn't you tell me Mabuse is coming?" Kurt whispered. They were now alone but he didn't want to chance anyone overhearing his loud voice.

"He called while you were interviewing Tremblay. He was attending meetings in Dusseldorf and decided to swing by."

Kurt nodded. He was always the last to know about Mabuse's visits. This made him even more uneasy and he was already intimidated by him. Libertarianism, free markets, conservative values, anti-political correctness, anti-progressivism: he wasn't sure how much he believed in all these but he knew Mabuse kept the faith. He lived and breathed it all - and he could sniff out a faker and a chancer. Someone who was just in it for the money and the celebrity and the status. Someone like Kurt.

"I'm gonna go to a cafe for a bit. Text me when Mabuse shows up."

~~~~~

Kurt sat at a table in his favourite cafe just a couple blocks from the studio. He thought about his time with Progress Now!, a left-wing media organization for whom he'd previously worked before going independent. They were all about labour rights and trans rights and minority rights and rights for damn-near everyone. He recalled being convinced by it all in a way he didn't feel about the stuff he was peddling now. It was stuff he vaguely believed in. He'd never been especially political and only ever marched in one protest when there had been talk that the German government might join that ridiculous war in Iraq. But he was pro-rights and the guys that ran Progress Now! got him to go along with their ideas.

But now he was an ally of the right. He supported free speech and didn't have much time for people who were trying to suppress and he disliked political correctness but he didn't feel the same passion for these topics that he had when he was on the left. He knew this grift was potentially lucrative but he also knew that he had to be a true believer. He started off by claiming to still be of the left but wanting to change some of its more poisonous aspects. Then he began claiming that he hadn't left the left at all, the left had left him. The more he made up excuses, the less convinced he was by it all.

Not long after going independent, he was contacted by representatives of Dr. Ernst Mabuse, head of Germany's leading right-wing think tank. He was excited to meet with him and thrilled to be offered a partnership. His show, The Centre Field with Kurt Waldheim, would receive funding from Mabuse, who, in exchange, would choose certain guests to be interviewed. Danielle, always more sympathetic to right wing causes than Kurt, jumped at the chance to be part of such a show. For his part, Kurt was simply dazzled by the numbers that Mabuse dangled. They signed up immediately.

The show remained much the same for a while. Some of the guests Mabuse had picked out were people Danielle had already been trying to book so having his name and checkbook at their disposal made it all the easier. Kurt was always a pretty good interviewer, offering up friendly chit-chat with the occasional hard-hitting question to prove his bona fides. Fearing that he might have to change up his style, he was relieved to discover that his new partner just wanted him to keep doing what he was doing. The topics remained the same, there was far less hassle getting guests to come on, it was all easy. A shame he had this guilt nagging away at him but he could usually block it out by thinking of the money they were raking in, the new studio that he and Danielle were having built and the plaudits he was getting from people who mattered.

mabuses here.c u my love

Kurt didn't bother replying.

~~~~~

"So, here's the man I've been waiting for!" 

"Dr. Mabuse! How are you?"

"Very well. I have some excellent new guests lined up for you. I've already given them to your new assistant." Matti held up a Manila file, his face unwilling to hide a fake smile.

"That's great! Thank you so much."

"Not a problem. Listen, I was hoping we could have a word in private."

"Sure." He looked at Danielle, who he thought might look put out by such a snub but she simply nodded in encouragement. He suspected something was up since they always went to meetings together. "Let's go to my office."

Kurt sat down at his desk. Mabuse had that friendly smile on his face that always left him feeling uneasy. He felt like he was in trouble at school or that his dad was angry with him.

"I'm enjoying the show. You're treating my hand-picked guests well, only challenging them on trivial matters and letting them get their points across. And Danielle's managing to find other guests who I didn't even know about. But the time has come for you to start showing how much you've changed. You gotta cut the stuff about being open to legalizing drugs and abortion and marriage equality and atheism. Our audience has heard you say all that a number of times and it worked for a while. It showed that a well-spoken young man from a progressive background could engage with the other side. But you have to begin to be more like your guests and our audience. You have to start showing them how far you've come. You gotta become a conservative."

~~~~~

Danielle and Kurt went out for dinner that night and they talked about everything but the show and Dr. Mabuse. He figured that she must have already known what was coming down since she didn't ask him about how the meeting went. They went home and Danielle turned on the computer so she could communicate with a pair of potential guests in the United States. Kurt turned on the TV but quickly grew bored. He pulled out his phone and contemplated looking at his Twitter account.

Alice had Kurt's Twitter but she only monitored it during work hours or if she got a special request from Danielle. He had several notifications. Though many were positive, he kept noticing a common thread to several others:

Debate ______ ________, you fucking coward!

Baby Kurt Waldheim is hiding from ______ ________!

Free speech fraud Kurt Waldheim won't have ______ ________ on his show: hypocrite!

That was the name. The name he couldn't handle. The guy who dunks on him at every opportunity on his lousy show. 

He thought about Mabuse. Mabuse was good to him, he gave him an opportunity, he helped him advance. Mabuse was a friend. And these online goons want him to interview a jerk who belittles everything he says?

"Yeah, the real authoritarians are on the left," he said, shutting down his mobile. He had to get started on some new material.

~~~~~

Also of some cop

The Special AKA: "Nelson Mandela"

AKA The Specials with AKA "Free Nelson Mandela". It's a testament to this single's power to raise awareness that Martin felt the need to explain who its title character is ("...a black, South African political prisoner") with an added featurette in the same issue's Bitz section to provide more info — it's easy to forget that the man wasn't always the cause célèbre that he would soon become. Their run of unbeatable hit records must have seemed a long way off by this time but this is a brief return to form with some tight playing and a zippy tune to instantly sing along with. Martin likes it enough but doesn't see it getting much of a chance over the wireless. Happily, his prediction was wrong and the infectious chorus got them their first Top Ten hit in nearly three years which then led to the formation of Artists Against Apartheid, demonstrations and concerts, the gradual acceptance of sanctions against South Africa on the part of Western democracies and the eventual release of one Nelson Mandela. Well done, Jerry Dammers!

Scritti Politti: "Wood Beez (Pray Like Aretha Franklin)"

1 March 1984

"Well, well. Long time no see."

— Dave Rimmer

It seems Scritti Politti had been on hiatus. Nowadays it's not uncommon for groups to go the better part of a decade between releases but the early eighties were a different time. We last encountered ver Scrits on this blog nearly a year ago when ABC's Martin Fry gushed over their single "Faithless". Now they're back from a lengthy layover of two whole years. (Dave Rimmer obviously isn't able to anticipate that leader Green Gartside would make a habit of over-long sabbaticals with this one being relatively short by comparison) But Scritti Politti weren't like most groups and never would be.

I once had a roommate who was a member of a choir. I never went to see them myself but apparently they were quite good. Good enough, in fact, that they occasionally performed  at weddings. Preparing for once such nuptial, she told me they were rehearsing "God Only Knows" which left me baffled. Imagine the words "I may not always love you" being sung to a pair of newlyweds: something feels a bit off there.

Yes, pop music obsessives can get awfully touchy when it comes to members of the public misinterpreting lyrics — and "God Only Knows" is far from the worst culprit in this respect (the lyrics generally betray the sentiments of the opening, a line which Brian Wilson initially objected to). R.E.M.'s "The One I Love" has been so misunderstood by Generation X couples that the band subsequently overcompensated by exaggerating the song's anti-romantic stance (rather than "savagely anti-love" or "really violent and awful" I'd argue that the idea of having a "simple prop to occupy my mind" is just a very lax attitude towards love). Bruce Springsteen's massive hit "Born in the U.S.A." was famously quoted by a campaigning Ronald Reagan who was unaware that the song is really about a Vietnam War vet who comes home and has been left neglected by the very country he served. Of course there are good reasons why people got them wrong. In the case of R.E.M., this was the first time anyone could make any sense of Michael Stipe's lyrics and the public must have figured they might as well take the simplest interpretation. As far as The Boss goes, fans got got up in the rousing chorus (are there actually any other words?) and he didn't clarify the song's true meaning until well after the fact. Plus, most people don't put a whole lot of thought into the music they listen to. (And this doesn't even consider the more relativist types like John Lennon who permit their songs any meaning the listener wishes it to have

"Wood Beez" isn't exactly a tune that has lit up wedding dances (at least not to my knowledge) but it did charm enough good folk to get into the top ten — and it's safe to say that the vast majority of punters did so because of Green's silky smooth vocals, the layers of hip hop beats and lush synth pop and a superb tune ("The only conditions", the singer says in a Smash Hits interview from later in March, "are that you make a record people like the sound of, and it's as simple as that" which neatly echoes what I've written above, something I totally did not plan) And I'm not trying to lay claim to some degree of expertise here: I've spent the bulk of the past week trying to figure out any hidden meaning; once I had that out of the way I had difficulty squaring this with Green's own observations. Had it not been for Wikipedia I probably wouldn't even worked out that there is anything else going on beyond love and trying to say a little prayer the way Aretha Franklin did.

For those of us who enjoy a deeper dive, what we have here is an  exploitation of the nonsense of pop. Green could have easily done so by taking shots at Bucks Fizz or Bardo so some other moronically successful group of the day but bravely chose to examine the Queen of Soul instead. Putting gospel-drenched passion into inane lyrics fascinated him — though I never did anything creative with it, much less anything that sparkles like this, I, too, went through my own similar period, kicked off by Meat Loaf's ability to put so much of himself into lyrics about nothing, which led to me "drolly" observing that he should have been singing in commercials. Thus, we have lines like "there's nothing I wouldn't do / including doing nothing" and "there's nothing I wouldn't do / to make you want for nothing" and "there's nothing I wouldn't take / not even intravenous". What does it all mean? There's nothing he wouldn't do. NOTHING. Not the most complex analysis, is it?

This could have degenerated into a comedy record or a meta commentary (something Green certainly wasn't above attempting) but for the fact that it's such a beautifully crafted pop record. Imagine Michael Jackson at his very best but with such an acute musical mind, taking the punk roots where he cut his teeth into the finest New York City studios with top-notch musicians and the cream of production boffins to create the finest pop of the age. You may look at it on the surface as a simple pop-soul love song or as a commentary on woeful lyricisms and still come away in awe. Scritti Politti weren't like most groups: they were so much better.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Bananarama: "Robert De Niro's Waiting..."

Rimmer denied the Narns a SOTF a year earlier with the magnificent "Cruel Summer" and has done so again with perhaps their finest moment. With a peak of powers Scritti Politti getting the nod, I wouldn't go so far as to say they got jobbed this time 'round but for sure Rimmer's critique ("cheery but unexciting", "...could do with a bit of spit and polish") seems a tad uncharitable. Again, it isn't absolutely necessary to know the song's true meaning in order to appreciate it: to the majority of listeners (myself included until just a few years ago) it's desolate and lonely, a testament to how Sara, Siobhan and Keren were able to sing in unison yet manage to sound so singular. To discover, then, that it's really about date rape only furthers the paranoia and tension. Stupendous. And even if you aren't convinced, at least you can enjoy one of pop's all-time classic mondegreens: no, I'm afraid the Taxi Driver guy isn't "talking to Tanya".