The Catch: "25 Years"

16 August 1984

"The reviewer's dream: the mystery record which turns out to be an absolute gem."

— Lesley White

Over the last year and a half that this blog has been going, I've come across some very pleasant surprises. It was nice, for example, to discover that The Police were occasionally able to put their considerable talents together into something stirring and worthwhile rather than crass and irritating. Pink Industry's E.P. Forty Five was something I didn't expect would be up to much but the four varied tracks brought out the curious, inquisitive music obsessive side of me that hadn't been so enamoured with that type of indie noise in years. Weekend's indie jazz pop proved a charming delight and so, too, was the touching grace of Spectral Display's "It Takes a Muscle to Fall in Love". So many great songs that I would never have had the chance to hear had I not been doing this project.

Alas, "25 Years" is not one of them. Lesley White doesn't have her hopes up for a group she's utterly unfamiliar with — "the nostalgic, hand-tinted sleeve tells me that The Catch are Don Snow and Chris Whitton (which tells me nothing)" — but the record gives her oodles of pleasure. Hopes low, enjoyment-level high: I wish I could say the same for my experience. Expecting something else, I listened and re-listened over the past several days hoping it might grow on me or that I might hear an appealing groove or melody or a touching vocal or anything that makes singles of the fortnight. Yeah, nothing.

That's not to say there aren't surprises here, even if they don't do much to advance the record. With all due respect to White (I could never not respect a Smash Hits scribe, no matter how duff their taste in music) her analysis doesn't quite hold up. I don't hear the slightest trace of early Roxy Music, I'm quite certain that there's just the one saxophone wailing away — though, granted, it is the best part — and that vocal may be to trying a bit too hard to be "not a million miles from Bronski Beat" (a Catch member's voice cracks at the end of the line "now I'm trying to wash away the tears" which leads me to suspect that we've got a Jimmy Sommerville impersonator on our hands). Rather, we have a mix of white English soul, synth-pop and dramatic gospel which would sound fresh and stately if not for the crucial fact that it's not much cop at all.

I could blame it on dashed expectations but that doesn't help save a boring record, one which I very much wanted to enjoy. This mid-'84 batch of (mostly) lackluster SOTF's has been a tough slog and there may yet be a few more duds to get through before things get better (you know, assuming they ever do). Good thing, then, that there are a pair of nifty little singles coming up as a brief respite. Just don't expect too much.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Elvis Costello & The Attractions: "The Only Flame in Town"

Elvis Costello's standing began to take a beating at around this time and it's easy to see why. He was no longer content to show off either his vast musical knowledge nor some clever lyrical tricks and simply made due with the tired tunes that make up Goodbye Cruel World, which was both the nearest thing he ever did to a divorce album and an aborted attempt at quitting the music business. It's over-produced and the whole thing is a mess but there's something refreshing about him just getting on with writing a batch of songs that show you how he's feeling for once. Well sung with the aid of a guesting Darryl Hall, "The Only Flame in Town" is simple and catchy and, unusually for a Costello record, really quite likeable. There's a new-found vulnerability here, something that he would put to good use on the following year's mostly great follow-up King of America, but this is also about where on the fence Costello followers begin dropping off. Wouldn't you know it, just as he's getting interesting and people stop caring — I suppose they were expecting too much.

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry: "Monkeys on Juice"

2 August 1984

"The disquieting voice and its strident, metallic accompaniment tickle the spine, and you even want to dance in a funny kind of way."

- Tom Hibbert

Being a goth seems to be quite the commitment. There's applying all that black nail polish and eye liner and lipstick. There's having to dress in a particular way that doesn't look too coordinated but which still fits. There's attempting to look seductive but not overtly sexy. There's putting effort in but not so much that it looks like dressing up. There's having to be a goth without sliding too closely towards parallel genres like punk and metal and country. Like golf and vegetarianism, goth acts as a lifestyle that other the followers of other subcultures could never come close to.

But those are really just the fans. Goth rock stars have decidedly more leeway and not just in terms of image. They may have a pop phase (The Cure), they may name themselves after a Leonard Cohen song (Sisters of Mercy), they may play little more than folk music (All About Eve), they may worship country and western (murder) balladeers (Nick Cave) and they may just be good old rock 'n' rollers at heart (The Mission). (The occult spiritualism of Bauhaus may well mark them out as the only true goths and they didn't even look the part) Which brings us to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry: indie band name, post-punk sound, garage rock influence but they're goth because...the singer has a deep voice?

Opening with a guitar riff not unlike Blue Öyster Cult's classic "(Don't Fear) The Reaper", "Monkeys on Juice" really gets going once some very big and very goth drums - possibly from a drum machine although they don't sound artificial - kick in along with the voice of Chris Reed. As I just mentioned, he's got that full-throated, perfectly enunciated yet muffled pitch that suits goth rock. (Then again, so did Ian Curtis and no one ever called Joy Division goths) In reality, it's mostly a Teutonic record because of the way the production so clearly captures the music but get the vocals on lo-fi. Otherwise, it's competent hard rock.

Yeah, competent. I can't bring myself to get quite as enthusiastic as Tom Hibbert, since, whatever the  type of music the Lorries play, this is not my thing. A good record for what it is, one I haven't minded having on over the last week but one I won't be rushing back to anytime soon. That said, as Hibs also mentions, it's by far the best record on offer as this may well be the poorest batch of singles in a single issue of ver Hits to date. The nineties will be coming eventually so it's not likely a distinction that's going to remain but it's worth pointing out since we're starting to see a gradual decline. The vigour of new pop and new wave is now at an end and there's a scarcity acts and genres to take over. So, why not look to some supposed goth on an indie label for that elusive next thing? It didn't take but it was worth a try.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

The Residents: "It's a Man's Man's Man's World"

The eyeballed-ones always had a thing for ripping up classic pop and their proposed, though ultimately doomed, American Composers Series seemed just the sort of thing that they could have gotten a lot out of. This was a decade on from the astonishingly horrific The Third Reich 'n Roll and their uncanny ability to shock, amuse and cause physical illness wasn't quite as it once was. A companion single to the George Jones/James Brown tribute album George & James, it is remarkably low key and about as commercial as they'd ever get. ("The Residents have made a listenable record. Was this the intention?" wonders Hibs) That trademark whiny, Louisiana drawl on vocals perhaps gives away that it's meant to subvert the Godfather of Soul's macho posturing (even though I never saw The Residents collapse on stage like a certain sissy vocalist) but there's little by way of weirdness. Stick with Eskimo for some genuinely brilliant Residential loopiness.

Shriekback: "Hand on My Heart"

19 July 1984

"The atmosphere of the whole piece is in fact rather menacing, but the subtle rhythms and constant pace make it more than listenable."

— Muriel Gray

1984 would prove to be a key year in the eighties and not simply because it was the first time I started to become aware of the culture. Blockbuster albums by Prince and Bruce Springsteen sold and sold and sold, MTV was becoming a phenomenon and a new generation of stars were on the way up. It was perhaps the first year fully free of the 'eighventies', the interregnum of the end of the previous decade merging into the current one, as coined by pop journalist Taylor Parkes. Though clearly raised on punk and disco and the like, Madonna and Frankie Goes to Hollywood seemed to operate free of the era that preceded them. Duran Duran and Culture Club and Eurythmics and even the bloody Police seemed fully aware that the spirit of year zero was over and that it was 1984.

That's not to say that there weren't holdovers. Muriel Gray had a background in a Scottish punk group and became a presenter for The Tube, a program very much in the spirit of launching the kind of groups that began to take off during the new wave/post-punk boom, and a single like Shriekback's "Hand on My Heart" is just the sort of thing that would have appealed to individuals who were already growing nostalgic for the music of a half-dozen years' earlier (which must have seemed like a long way off by the mid-eighties). That they were led by Barry Andrews of XTC and Dave Allen of Gang of Four only ups the ante in the throwback states. Like new pop never happened.

I don't know whether to tip my hat to the lads in Shriekback for trying to carry on with new wave or to dismiss them as out of touch. Certainly post-punk contemporaries Talking Heads — to whom "Hand on My Heart" owes a sizable debt — had long abandoned their angular guitar rock in favour of so-called world music beats and soul music. (1984 being the year of their outstanding concert film Stop Making Sense, in which the group's CBGB roots are barely hinted at) Andrews' former bandmates in XTC were busy carving out their niche in challenging indie pop to ever-diminishing numbers — but, to their credit, they were trying to move forward. Plenty of new wave artists were around in the mid-eighties and a good selection of them had moved on. (Whether they remained successful or not is another matter) Still, much like boogie rockers remaining boogie rockers to the very end, I can't help but admire such a hard-headed refusal to adapt with the times. With some prog rock cred (XTC were always the post-punk band most welcoming to old school Genesis and Yes die hards and Andrews would subsequently join The League of Gentleman alongside King Crimson guitar hero Robert Fripp), they could always fall back on the excuse that they're the ones who are really moving forward while being but a mere retread.

All this would be just bluster if "Hand on My Heart" proved to be a good record but it spectacularly fails there too. The old new wavers had the element of punk rock thrill to fall back on which this single is bereft of. I respect Muriel Gray for picking it since that's what she dug and I suspect that Shriekback wouldn't have been able to pull of any kind of effective modern pop so perhaps it's for the best. The public weren't especially convinced —top sixty! — but they got themselves a SOTF and an obscure blogger writing about their lame record. Could've been worse for a group stuck in the eighventies.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

George Michael: "Careless Whisper"

"George grows up!", exclaims Gray. Pop stars suddenly going all mature and serious rarely works - The Beatles probably only managed it because they did it so gradually that few even noticed - but George Michael is the exception. Smartly dropping 'Wham!' from the credits (even though it appears on their second album Make It Big with Andrew Ridgeley in the rare position of being listed as a co-writer), Michael was able to get himself a new identity as a solo artist free of his happy-go-lucky, shuttlecocks-in-the-shorts image. Gray isn't entirely convinced by this new direction "...just a touch too American to be completely successful") but she must have seen — as surely all did at the time — that this was the way forward and Wham! weren't long for this world. Hardly anyone would have predicted, however, that George would never quite manage to better this.

Everything but the Girl: "Mine"

14 July 1984

"This is one of the best singles I've heard for a long time and it should be a big hit if they've finished their exams and want to do a bit of promotion."

— Andy Taylor

Cor! A special edition of VER HITS!

You've probably noticed that this entry is early. Yes! I've flouted my once-a-week rules and have provided an extra review for your reading pleasure. Except this one isn't from the pages of Smash Hits magazine. Instead, we have the first in an occasional series of pieces about singles reviewed in rival and/or related publications. First up is Record Mirror, once a sturdy tabloid inky that battled it out with Melody Maker and New Music Express but which had recently gone the glossy pop mag route to compete with ver Hits. A special thanks to Michael Kane's fantastic Flickr archive for posting this issue. I highly recommend you visit this page, it makes for a nice companion to Brian McCloskey's indispensable Smash Hits site.

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Smash Hits scooped up John Taylor to guest review the singles just a few weeks earlier and, not to be outdone, here is Record Mirror drafting in Andy Taylor to give his thoughts on the new releases. (Rest assured, I already checked to see if Roger Taylor got snapped up by Number One to do the deed around this time but, alas, he must have passed on the opportunity; perhaps he was busy looking at farms to purchase and prematurely retire to) Both had their hearts in harder rock than the poncy art school stuff that Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes were interested in but you'd hardly notice it here with their respective picks. John opted for the slick 'n' smooth sounds of the Kane Gang while Andy made a case for the sensitive jazz-pop of Everything but the Girl - and over a reissue of a Stones classic (his 'almost single of the week') to boot. Hardly the choice cuts of macho axe men.

Andy Taylor was beginning to give the pop stardom of Duran Duran a rethink so perhaps the understated crispness of Tracey Thorn and Ben Watt proved to be a welcome pallet cleanser: it wasn't necessarily the sort of music he'd play on but did stand in stark contrast to the artifice being dished up by of the biggest group in the world. As his nibs points out, "it's good for people to get into that level of musicianship and also make it commercial at the same time. It's getting away from quick, cheap and nasty." It's hard not to think he has the band he would soon leave in mind as being quick, cheap and nasty (he'd hardly be alone). (Though I feel at pains to point out that The Power Station may not have been quite the direction to have gone in had they been looking for some credibility. Blimey, this is now the second time I've used TPS as a way of taking a shot at a Taylor; I hope I don't blow my load before we get to them early next year)

So, just what made Everything but the Girl, er, slow, expensive and agreeable? Most obviously there's Tracey Thorn, who must be the most resigned vocalist in pop. Post-punk female vocalists in Britain tended towards a nihilistic, lifeless style of singing and some pulled it off but Thorn managed a sullen realism that could also be beautifully expressive. A line like "I'm okay and I don't need his name, thank you / mine fits me nicely, mine will do" probably ought to be delivered by someone with a flippant confidence like Kim Deal but it's all the more poignant conveyed by sheer sorrow. There's no melodrama, however, as Thorn keeps it tight and too the point.

EBTG's other strength here is just what a staggeringly talented pair Thorn and Ben Watt were. I've written before in praise of their respective solo works but the two functioned even more effectively in tandem. Playing with precision and restraint, they conjure up a mood that glides over the listener. Watt's guitar solo is brief but compliments Thorn's performance perfectly and so, too, does a gentle bit of vibes from British jazz musician Bill Le Sage. The playing in general is impeccable with the unlikely team up of jazz veterans and post punkers working magic together. I'm not sure whether they happened to be sitting their exams at the time, as Taylor maybe a bit snarkingly alludes to above, but it's hard to say if something so superb really had much chart potential. Quick, cheap and nasty may have made his skin crawl but it's always been a proven winner for reaching the top forty.

Record Mirror was very much on the serious end of the pop magazine spectrum and this was a reputation that would be difficult to shake in spite of some cutesy gimmicks they would soon start to rely on. While it's difficult to imagine holdover readers from an earlier era remaining loyal, it's also hard to picture many young people, used to the nonsensical joy of Smash Hits, getting sucked into this world of serious and less sparkly pop journalism. A less sparkly member of Duran Duran, Andy Taylor turned out to be the perfect guest reviewer for them — and, indeed, Everything but the Girl's "Mine" proved an appropriate staff pick. Too bad ver kids weren't having it.

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Also Reviewed This Week

John Lennon: "I'm Stepping Out"

"I'm Only Sleeping", "A Day in the Life", "Good Morning Good Morning", "#9 Dream", "Watching the Wheels": yes, John Lennon enjoyed loafing and daydreaming and leafing through a newspaper with the telly on and pop records playing and (probably) a ham radio on all at the same time but at least he wrote plenty of songs about his slothful ways. (The typically contrary bugger that he was, the first chance he had to rest and relax, during The Beatles' meditation sojourn in India, he began feeling restless, which he was good enough to document in song with "I'm So Tired") A nice change, then, to see him getting ready for a night on the town in NYC — except it isn't anything of the sort. Lennon may indeed be stepping out but it's hard to believe he has much enthusiasm for doing so. The second verse gives away the game by admitting that "if it don't feel right, you don't have to do it", while in the third he basically lists off all stuff he normally does — "baby's sleeping, the cats have all been fed / Ain't nothing doing on TV (summer repeats)" — as to delay having to leave the apartment. Lennon was far more sociable in his later years than some would have you believe but he was at heart a homebody. The record isn't bad but, as with much of his work from the end of his life, it's of more value for what it tells us about Lennon's state of mind at the time.

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.

~~~~~

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.