The Beautiful South: "Everybody's Talkin'"

11 May 1994

"In a rare display of genius, The Beautiful South have traded their over-clever Radio 2 pop vibes for a cover of this atmospheric country tune, once the theme song for the brilliant 60's film Midnight Cowboy."

— Tom Doyle

"In a rare display of genius, the Pet Shop Boys have traded their arch-irony dance-pop vibes for a cover of this glorious country tune, previously a hit for both Elvis Presley and Willie Nelson."

"In a rare display of genius, R.E.M. have traded their jumbled word-salad indie rock vibes for a cover of this pounding singalong of heartbreak, originally done by an ancient American group called The Clique."

"In a rare display of genius, Erasure have traded their overtly philosophical melodrama pop vibes for a jolly E.P. of dancefloor-friendly covers, all first made famous by Swedish quartet ABBA."

Imagine the above being said about "Always on My Mind", "Superman" or ABBA-esque. You may like these singles but I daresay a number of you would take issue with the assertion that they are all examples of "a rare display of genius" on the part of the bands covering them. Sure, Neil Tennant's lyrics can be a little too knowing at times and you have no idea what on earth Michael Stipe is going on about and it wouldn't have killed Andy Bell to have smiled once in a bloody while but these are all relatively minor knocks against otherwise brilliant bands, particularly the Pet Shop Boys and R.E.M.

So, perhaps you'll understand why claiming that a cover version done by a band featuring one of the most formidable songwriting duos in British pop is maybe not quite as complimentary as it initially seems. Like The Housemartins before them, The Beautiful South had not been above doing covers from time to time. Aside from a version of "Girlfriend" (a 1987 hit for Pebbles) on their debut album Welcome to the Beautiful South, the bulk of their reinterpretations ended up on B-sides. And they did a pretty good job of them. Womack & Womack's "Love Wars" is stripped of its eighties' production and gospel backing in favour of a Motown-ish treatment that is impossible to dislike, while Paul Heaton does gives one of his most impassioned vocals on Bill Withers' "You Just Can't Smile It Away".

But up until this point Beautiful South singles had been the exclusive domain of Heaton and co-songwriter David Rotheray. Yet the mega-hits were beginning to dry up. After hitting the ground running with three of their first four singles all cracking the Top 10, their subsequent chart placements of forty-three, fifty-one, twenty-two, thirty, sixteen, forty-six and twenty-three reflected their much more selective appeal. In need of a hit? Nothing beats a cynical and utterly unnecessary cover version!

There are probably two reasons why "Everybody's Talkin'" makes sense, at least in terms of them bothering to record it. First, it's an effective way of putting the spotlight on newcomer Jacqueline Abbott, who had only recently replaced Briana Corrigan as the group's female singer. While some found the Ulster singer's squeaky voice to be riveting (this humble blogger included) she wasn't quite to everyone's taste. Corrigan helped make some of their wonderful early kitchen sink dramas but in Abbott The Beautiful South had a girl who wasn't going to take shit from no one.

The other thing "Everybody's Talkin'" has going for it was that it could pad out an album that really needed it. While Miaow isn't without its merits, clearly substandard work managed to make it past the editing process. The bitterly anti-war closing track "Poppy" may be the group's worst effort in their first ten years as a going concern while "Hooligans Don't Hall in Love" isn't a whole lot better. Elsewhere, a lack of meaning drags things down: the deep cut "Tattoo" sounds quite nice until you realise that whatever it is that Heaton is trying to communicate goes way over your head. While the superior B-sides "Love Adjourned" and "Size" could have found a home on their fourth album, there were plenty of stinkers to remove rather than their cover of a Harry Nilsson standard.

Oh, and while we're on the subject, there's something kind of funny about covering a song associated with a guy who didn't even write it himself. ("In a rare display of genius, Nilsson has traded his sub-Beatle-esque doodles, for a some dashing outlaw country and western fun, the product of some bloke called Fred Neil, who happens to be fond of dolphins.") "Everybody's Talkin'" managed to give him a major hit but it also proved to be a millstone, as was future smash "Without You" which was written by Pete Ham and Tom Evans of Badfinger. Nilsson's own considerable talents as a songwriter would be overshadowed by the pair of signature hits which happened to be written by others.

It wasn't as though critics were unaware of Heaton's own abilities as a songsmith. Many of the same hacks who praised the likes of "Happy Hour", "Think for a Minute", "Five Get Over Excited" and "Me and the Farmer" were quick to disown the author of "Song for Whoever", "A Little Time", "Old Red Eyes Is Back" and "Good as Gold (Stupid as Mud)". The Beautiful South were "soft", you see. It mattered little that they had songs about breakups, cheating, alcoholism, domestic violence, the elderly (Miaow's third single "Prettiest Eyes" rivals John Prine's "Hello in There" and Neil Young's "Old Man") but none of this seemed to matter to the music press who viewed Heaton's new project as no more creatively relevant than Simply Red. They were the Pet Shop Boys you couldn't dance to long before people pretended this had actually been The Smiths all along but this, too, mattered little. Fans who sang Housemartins songs on football terraces also abandoned ver South.

"36d" represents the moment that everyone was allowed to turn on them. As just about everyone concerned will now acknowledge, it was a clumsy attempt at taking on the so-called lad mags and Page 3 girls. While I would argue that the message that there is far more to these young women than images of them without any clothes on is clear, Heaton could have taken on the publishers and those who truly objectify women rather than accusing them of using their "poses" to "turn the passive into maniacs". Lesser groups might not have recovered from this debacle.

And this is what we were on the cusp of just as we were approaching the midway point of 1994: by year's end, The Beautiful South would be the biggest band in Britain. All those songs people kind of liked but never got round to buying, all those killer videos on the TV, all those minor hits teenagers and their parents all suddenly wanted to have in their CD collections, it all erupted into the surprise Christmas season album smash. Everyone pined for a new Stone Roses LP until one finally arrived when most decided to sod it. The Beatles at the BBC was swiftly snapped up but more out of a sense of duty than anything else. The must have item fell to Carry On Up the Charts. In Canada, we got it a month later so it acted as a reward for killing it on my social studies diploma exam. (We were further rewarded in my homeland with two extra cuts on the compilation as well as a pair of extras on the limited edition bonus disc which accompanied it: our COUTC is better than yours)

In truth, The Beautiful South were already beginning to move past their great period by the time of Miaow and Carry On Up the Charts. The humour, irony, poignancy, darkness and grotesque portraits were being left behind in favour of a more formulaic approach. Every Beautiful South album had a song about being a heavy drinker and each one had one about loving a woman who was gaining weight. Sometimes these tunes were great but just them always being there began to get tiresome. I'd buy an album like Quench out of loyalty, listen to it twice, tell people that it's "criminally underrated" — Jesus, I could be a giant git sometimes — and then go back to playing Choke and 0890 because those are the ones than mean something to me. For others 1994 was a gateway to the best band that no one seemed to like but for me it was the beginning of the end. But they did "From Under the Covers", "I Think the Answer's Yes" and "I'm Your no.1 Fan" so The Beautiful South will always have a special place in my heart. Their genius was anything but rare.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Salt 'N' Pepa: "Shoop"

So, I haven't brought up the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame lately. Yeah, I used to discuss it quite a bit in this space, didn't I? The recent addition of Mary J. Blige to the "hallowed" Cleveland hall made me think about those who I think are far more worthy than her. Usually when someone of colour gets inducted there's always cries of "But is this person really rock and roll?" but I prefer building up the cases of other multicultural acts instead. TLC belong over Mary J. and her one song that was a big hit but which I no longer have any memory of, as does En Vogue. Plus, these hall turkeys are always so concerned about how "influential" the people they induct are so why not some of these female R&B groups. But let's look no further than Salt 'N' Pepa. And forget that Blige woman, whose name I may or may not be misspelling, how are they any less deserving than bloody Run-DMC? If anything a gem like "Shoop" should really seal it. "Push It" was a big deal back when I was ten or eleven and then there was "Let's Talk About Sex" which made a considerable "dent" on the public consciousness. "Whatta Man" alongside fellow hall snubs En Vogue remains memorable but "Shoop" could well be their peak. Tough but tender raps, vaguely threatening but lots of fun and a welcome reminder there really wasn't anyone out there like them. They deserve my due, yours and an honour from that silly old hall with all their "influential" bands. Rant over.

Suede: "Stay Together"

16 February 1994

"It's a rock ballad of epic proportions concerning itself with the wonders of love in the grim modern world of skyscrapers and motorway paths."

— Tom Doyle

It had only been a year since being made aware of them and it seemed like they were already coming undone. 'Suede Have Split' claimed one headline in either The Guardian or The Times (I can't recall which and can't locate any evidence online). Pop coverage in the Fleet St press was then minimal and not to be taken seriously but the NME reported much the same. The Smiths broke up far too early but at least they had a good four year run of recording and touring behind them; Suede were only just getting started and it was already over.

Yet reports of their break-up were about a decade premature. When the smoke cleared, guitarist and co-songsmith Bernard Butler had departed and the remaining core of Brett Anderson, Matt Osman and Simon Gilbert went about looking for a replacement. Filling Butler's shoes proved so daunting that they ended up adding two new members, guitarist Richard Oakes and keyboardist Neil Codling. This new five-piece Suede ended up being a far more consistent line-up and it has remained since their reformation in 2012. The shadow of the gifted Butler was difficult to escape but they managed to do so.

(It's interesting how when a vocalist-lead guitarist bust up occurs, the remaining band members tend to side with the supposedly egomaniacal singer over the "humble" and dedicated musician. For a brief time at least Morrissey managed to take fellow Smiths Andy Rourke, Mike Joyce and Craig Gannon with him for his solo career while Liam Gallagher managed much the same when he and brother Noel parted ways during the implosion of Oasis. The Stone Roses and The Verve are said to have contemplated a guitarist swap. There is a definite downside to having a perfectionist musician barking orders at supposedly lesser players while the financial benefits of remaining loyal to a charismatic singer must also be considered)

Coming a few months' prior to his shock departure, it's tempting to think of "Stay Together" as an attempt on the part of Brett Anderson to make an appeal to his disgruntled bandmate. The signs that Butler wasn't long for Suede had been there for some time. There's also the title which contrasts sharply with the likes of "The Drowners", "New Generation" and "Beautiful Ones": "Stay Together" is a command rather than a paean to the sort of doomed romanticism Anderson clearly cherished. Cheap drugs, crummy towns that manage to be just out of the reach of London, bad sex in uncomfortable locales: these are the topics Anderson mined to death over the nineties, not a plea for a couple to remain.

Nevertheless, the song's narrative of couple remaining holed up in the midst of a Ballard-esque nuclear winter could only have come from Suede (unless, of course, J.G. Ballard had ever got round to recording an album). Plus, there's evidence that Butler was not especially enamoured by Anderson's lyrics. Incidentally, not thinking much of "Stay Together" is something to the pair shared — and I join them.

We've all had growers in our lives. Records that we immediately wrote off as flimsy and feeble that we eventually came round to. Similarly, there are those tracks we barely notice until they reveal themselves. (I'll never forget the time I was listening to the Chic compilation The Definitive Groove Collection when it dawn on me what a magnificent tour de force the instrumental "Savoir Faire" is) But what about 'shrinkers', songs that might impress us right out of the gate only to let us down big time on subsequent listens? As opposed to Blur, Suede were not at their best when doing slower numbers. "The Wild Ones", a lesser placing chart hit from the end of 1994 from their overrated second album Dog Man Star, has a stateliness about it that "Stay Forever" lacks and even it isn't quite in their top tier of material. Suede always did good singles even when their albums weren't up to much but this one is disappointingly hook-free and surprisingly unmemorable.

While Suede have could easily broken up in the summer of '94, it was fortunate that they didn't. The quintet iteration of what North Americans annoyingly called 'The London Suede' has produced a respectable discography with passable albums and some stellar singles. Bernard Butler moved into a Johnny Marr-esque role as a sessioner to the stars and his brief but fruitful pairing with singer David McAlmont resulted in "Yes" and "You Do", 45's which rival anything his former band ever managed at their best. Everyone was better off following his departure. Not to mention "Stay Together" would've been a lame way to go out.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Cypress Hill: "Insane in the Brain"

I don't know, Brett Anderson's overwrought profundity is all well and good but why choose to listen to one of his lesser works when you could dance around the room or just chill out to the fun and festive raps of Cypress Hill? And I say this as someone who isn't much of a hip hop fan. I'm sure that it sounds great high on the same northern lights cannabis indica that they no doubt enjoyed but part of being a kid who was shielded away from such stuff was imaging what it must have been like, even if I had no idea what it was like. A good drug song ought to convey the feeling to those who aren't so lucky/are so fortunate to be on the shit themselves and "Insane in the Brain" is one of the finest examples. There's no message to take away and no gimmicks, just hip hop to enjoy whether you're baked to the Moon or not.

Radiohead: "Creep"

15 September 1993

"Now it's a massive hit in the States and Radiohead can claim the big hit they deserve."

— Tom Doyle

The entire concert up to this point had been brilliant but the ninth number, "My Iron Lung", was on a whole other level. The five piece played got to the song's instrumental fade out and it just exploded — a fade out that simply refused to fade away. These blokes from Oxford didn't smile much but they looked (justifiably) pleased with themselves at this moment. Lanky guitarist Ed O'Brien had composure enough to hand his guitar off to a roadie who, in turn, gave him a new one for the next number on their setlist. Meanwhile, Thom York and the Greenwood brothers conferred. Then they whispered something to O'Brien who proceeded to request his old guitar back. Evidently, they had been so happy with the way they played "My Iron Lung" that they decided to play it some more.

Radiohead's concert on April 8, 1998 in Calgary would've been memorable anyway but this moment was unlike anything we'd seen before. In an era of having setlists taped to the stage and phony between-song banter — "let's play this song...c'mon man, it's easy!" — this was clearly not stage managed. The remainder of the show went from strength to strength but I couldn't get their improvised reprise of "My Iron Lung" out of my head. "One to tell the grandkids about", purred The Calgary Sun the next day. Unbeknownst to us, Q magazine was even there with the show being featured in an upcoming issue.

I went to see Radiohead with a half-a-dozen friends and mutual friends but I knew a few other people in attendance that night. Presumably up near the front was my university chum Tasya who shared my love for Britpop and witty but sensitive singer-songwriters. I bumped into her on campus a day or two later and we chatted about the show. Not only had she seen them in Calgary but she also caught them in Vancouver two days earlier. I asked how the two concerts compared. She said the Vancouver show was marred a bit by the crowd with Thom York even having to appeal to the idiots shoving and crowd surfing like mad. Clearly, their performance in Calgary was something else. For what it's worth, it was quite likely the best of the four shows they did in Canada that spring. While I'm sure the Toronto gig was a blast, York was heard yelling at a fan in Montreal who kept demanded they play one of their biggest hits. "Fuck off, we're tired of it!"

Though not quite exclusively so, bands hating their biggest hits seems like a particularly nineties phenomenon. Kurt Cobain famously couldn't stomach performing "Smells Like Teen Spirit", much to the dismay of many of Nirvana's fans. Michael Stipe has never been fond of "Shiny Happy People" even though the trio R.E.M. would eventually go on to re-record it for Sesame Street. Guitarist Graham Coxon bristled at having to play on Blur's first number one single "Country House". Beck never quite disowned breakthrough "Loser" but he did grow uncomfortable with the song, refusing to allow its inclusion on the soundtrack to the 1995 Jim Carrey film Dumb & Dumber.

It's tempting to tie "Smells Like Teen Spirit", "Shiny Happy People", "Country House", "Loser" and, indeed, "Creep" together due to fears of selling out but I'm not sure that's all there is to it. Cobain and Coxon both quickly grew bored of the hits they'd had with Nirvana and Blur respectively while Stipe and Beck felt concerned that their songs had come to unfairly define them. As far as Radiohead goes, it was a bit of both.

The weird thing about listening to "Creep" now is that it suggests nothing of the future the group would have. Perhaps this is why subsequent projects always seemed to surprise critics and fans alike. No one saw The Bends coming which, in turn, led to OK Computer which was similarly stunning to listeners. From there, no one knew what to expect from Kid A: whatever possible sound people imagined was not what they got when they heard it for the first time. (Following the Kid A-related Amnesiac a year later, Radiohead's fans would splinter into two groups: those who just went along for the ride of further surprises and puzzlement and those who just hoped they'd find their way back to recording another Bends; on the other hand, I wasn't interested in either: I had given up caring about what they'd do next while also having grown weary of their overrated second album) The promising group of 1993 had of course been Suede whose next creative step never seemed too difficult to predict. By contrast, it never seemed as if Radiohead were promising which is rather fitting for a band who never made any promises.

"Creep" is a great example of why I try to avoid commenting on particular pieces of music which supposedly "haven't aged well". I mean, I suppose it has since it sounds the same as it did thirty years ago but I think that's pretty much the case with all pop records. What has changed is me. I'm in my forties and I'm quite happy to say that I've aged out of it. As a sixteen year old I was awkward, lazy, had low self-esteem and sometimes felt like a bit of creep; today, some of these "qualities" remain but they've been dialed back. Plus, I'm not a creep. I never really was but I sure as shit felt like one. How does a song about youthful angst really speak to those of us who have moved on? For that matter, what if this is also why the members of Radiohead have done their best to keep their distance from it.

Because of my lack of teen moodiness, there's less to extract from a song like "Creep". I can happily go back and listen to eighties pop and bask in the memories or take in the aspirational elements of the time but nineties indie is often held back by its misery. Use it as therapy if that's what you need, by all means, but what do you do with it after the pain has been tucked away? Even though it wasn't a big favourite of mine at the time, I certainly understood why friends of mine found something in "Creep". But what is there to extract from it now at my age? Good memories?

Just as a rejuvenated Graham Coxon would do with a reformed Blur on his once bete noire "Country House", the members of Radiohead would eventually make their peace with "Creep" — at least to an extent. While Coxon has admitted that "Country House" is a lot of fun to play, York, the Greenwoods, O'Brien and Selaway have trotted out "Creep" on occasion though they still haven't really warmed to it. York did find the time to play around with customarily unsettling remix during the COVID lockdown but it's the sort of thing I was content to hear only the once. I won't be demanding they play "Creep" since I'm in no hurry to see them live a second time. Again, once was enough.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

M People: "Moving on Up"

Those who demand "Creep" at Radiohead concerts will no doubt disagree but the competition is so stiff this fortnight that I'm not so sure it deserved to be Single of the Fortnight Best New Single. I'll say it's a tight three way race between "Creep", Eternal's smooth and effortlessly catchy "Stay" and the Bjork/David Arnold Bond theme from an alternate universe "Play Dead". But the high quality doesn't end there. The Wonder Stuff's On the Ropes EP presents a punchier band still putting out prime material in spite of the fact that their glory days were now behind them. Similarly, Kate Bush's "Rubberband Girl" isn't quite up to the standard of her seventies and eighties material but it's a solid work nonetheless. Then there's M People with "Moving on Up". Their previous hit "One Night in Heaven" is the one I prefer but not by a whole lot. Singer Heather Small could really overdo it and she does let her side down a bit in this regard but the infectious electro-pop rhythms and that baritone sax more than cover up for the vocal histrionics. Some stellar pop this fortnight even if I remain unconvinced as to the merits of "Condemnation", Depeche Mode's brave but uninspired take on gospel. They can't all be winners, can they?

The Lemonheads: "It's a Shame About Ray"

17 March 1993

"When they were handing out looks and talent, Evan Dando of The Lemonheads was at the front of both queues."

— Tom Doyle

I may have been a bit too young at the time and living over 3,000 kilometers away but the late-eighties/early-nineties' Boston scene felt like the sort of thing that you only heard about after the fact. There were all these deeply influential bands with silly names whose actual music never seemed to get played. It was as if we were being forced to seek it out which was no easy task in the era which predated YouTube and Spotify. College radio supposedly adored these bands but why were they never being played, at least when I was (irregularly) tuning in?

'What about the Pixies?' you may be asking. What about them? Yes, they were the closest thing Boston had to a breakthrough act (scratch that: Bell Biv Devoe had been far bigger but I guess they don't count) but it's telling that their popularity only grew following the release of 1991's Trompe le Monde and the start of Frank Black's solo career. By the end of the nineties, the band had arguably as many fans who were Millennials as Generation Xers. Yes, they influenced thousands and people who had good taste in music liked them and all that nonsense but what kind of impact did have on the music scene in 1993?

It was only following the grunge explosion that the public seemed ready for the 'Seattle of the East' (as absolutely no one called it) but this happened to coincide with scene being ripped apart. Pixies were no longer together and the likes of Dinosaur Jr and Buffalo Tom ('you mean they aren't from Buffalo?') never had much commercial potential so it was left to The Breeders, Juliana Hatfield Three and The Lemonheads reap the benefits, modest though they mostly were. Erstwhile Pixie Kim Deal gave The Breeders a number forty hit with "Cannonball" but otherwise it was Evan Dando who made the most of this upsurge of Beantown interest.

Initially released in the summer of 1992, "It's a Shame About Ray" failed to do much in a Britain that didn't seem especially interested in American alternative rock that either didn't come from Seattle or wasn't recorded by R.E.M. It's understandable in a way: with James and Lightning Seeds around, there wasn't much call for indie pop that came from outside of the UK. But The Lemonhead's thrashier but still unnecessary cover of the Simon & Garfunkel classic "Mrs Robinson" took them into the Top 20 which presented them with an opportunity to capitalise with some of leader Evan Dando's own work, which, at its best, was as good as anything bloody Paul Simon ever cleverly put to paper.

A re-release of the title track from their acclaimed 1992 album would have made sense but it was decided that a double A-side of deep cuts "Confetti" and "My Drug Buddy" would follow their breakthrough hit. Neither really worked. While the former was too loud and lacked the hooks of Dando's best work, the latter suggested the singer's fondness for country music but smacked of that favourite album track that the general public know little about. Neither song made much of an impression, coming up just short of the Top 40 which did have the upside of allowing "My Drug Buddy" to remain a relative obscurity for devotees while being unheard by the masses. But their momentum was already beginning to fade.

At long last, "It's a Shame About Ray" was given a second chance at some chart action. Despite being far more appropriate for single release, it could only spend a pair of weeks in the thirties before fading away. It's no sure-fire number one smash or anything but had it been re-released earlier, it could have given them a hit similar in size to "Mrs Robinson" while also helping to drive up sales of their current album (which did return to the lower reaches of the LP charts at the same time). Bad timing, then. (Indeed, the other thing they could have done was to have them sit on it for a while and wait until it was closer to summer when their brand of sunny indie pop would've really prompted the toes to tap)

American alternative had been prone to self-importance especially with people like Kurt Cobain, Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder in the limelight. (Yes, this overlooks the fact that the troubled Nirvana frontman had a playful and sometimes cutting sense of humour) On the horizon was a new generation of good-for-nothings who smoked lots of dope, wore those ghastly knit hoodies and made light of absolutely everything under the sun in their songs. Dando seemed to be one of the few songwriters of the time who could combine the feeling of the former with the lightness of the latter. Grunge acts like Alice in Chains (also reviewed this fortnight much to the displeasure of Tom Doyle) and Soundgarden were beginning to sound more and more like the metal bands they were meant to have buried a year or two earlier; it was left to the remnants of those from the Boston scene (didn't it have a name like Grunge or Madchester or Shoegaze?) to pick up the pop slack, which Dando did albeit only some of the time.

With Nirvana still on top and a selection of outstanding groups of varying genres and subgenres spread throughout the United States, The Lemonheads ought to have been a part of an American pop-rock renaissance. Yet, 1993 proved to be the end of an era for a number of groups. Jellyfish released their brilliant second album Spilt Milk which nevertheless failed to sell and cause the Bay Area band to fall apart. Uncle Tupelo really started to come into their own with fourth album Anodyne but its release and the group's subsequent tour was blighted by the growing schism between co-leaders Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy. Even Nirvana were almost finished with Cobain's life coming undone throughout the course of the year. For his part, Dando remained a Lemonhead but his bandmates came and went. His talent was always there but his muse was erratic. Fans and critics may have praised what they were doing at the time but they could have amounted to a whole lot more.

Finally, a comment about Dando's status as a supposed indie heart throb. He never struck me at the time as being anything special in the looks department and the females and guys who fancied other guys seemed to agree. (He was seldom a topic of conversation but it says a lot that he wasn't brought up much if ever) Looking back now, however, he does have those prized slacker good looks that clearly did the likes of Gram Parsons and Dennis Wilson well with the womenfolk. In the seventies this wouldn't have stood out as much since it wasn't unusual for rock stars to be dishy but by the nineties this was much more found in the boy band pin ups. Indie heroes weren't just meant to sound like Frank Black but they were apparently expected to look like him too.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Heaven 17: "Penthouse and Pavement"

I'm no fan of The Lemonheads but they're easy winners as my selection for this issue's Single of the Fortnight Best New Single due in large part to the appalling selection of new releases in the running alongside it. Virtually everything else on offer is wretched, except for this barely passable remix of a near hit for former Human League members Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware (as well as some singer they had with them...Glenn something). For a decade that everyone in the nineties liked to take shots at, the eighties sure had plenty of splendid pop. "Penthouse and Pavement" didn't need a Tommy D remix in order for it to age well, it just needed to be re-released at a time when the pop scene was so dire that it sounded great by comparison. Sad to think that synth-pop was drawing to a close just as we needed it more than ever.

Betty Boo: "Let Me Take You There"

5 August 1992

"Cool, clever and catchy; Madonna and Kylie will probably be sick with jealousy because it's exactly the sort of thing they'd love to be doing."

— Tom Doyle

The Beatmasters were a trio of DJ's who reluctantly became pop stars during the late-eighties' house music boom. Like many of their contemporaries, they seemed out of place in the limelight (only Mark Moore of S'Express made a game effort to play the part) so they shifted the attention to guest vocalists, all of whom seemed likely to achieve stardom. First up was Cookie Crew, whose collaboration with Paul Carter, Amanda Glanfield and Richard Walmsley resulted in a Top 10 hit with "Rok Da House" but the pair largely fizzled on their own. Next came veteran singer P.P. Arnold. Their Top 20 hit in October 1988 "Burn It Up" is a banger but this failed to rejuvenate the vocalist's fortunes. Then, young English rapper Merlin joined up for "Who's in the House" which got to number eight in the spring of '89. The promising hip hop star also appeared on S'Express' debut album Original Soundtrack but his prospects were hindered by a prison sentence. The Beatmasters weren't making stars, they were showing how their featured vocalists weren't able to cut it on their own.

Betty Boo seemed to play it differently. Appearing relatively normal (she looks a bit like Natalie Merchant in her first Smash Hits appearance) for their hit single "Hey DJ / I Can't Dance (to the Music You're Playing)" before shifting into cartoon pop form once her solo career began a year later. With her records "Doin' the Do" and "Where Are You Baby" hinting at the sixties' influence that had been all over dance pop and indie in 1990, it seemed like her timing couldn't have been better. And the fact that she looked like Emma Peel and Barbarella gave her that extra bit of retro chic appeal.

Betty Boo hadn't been a big deal in North America but I liked what I saw. She was different, seemed more than happy to make a fool of herself and was the sort of girl my thirteen-year-old self dreamed of. If the quartet Fuzzbox had been one person they would have looked and acted like the former Alison Clarkson. (What I failed to recognise was that she took the pop game much more seriously than the always up for a laugh Vix, Mags, Jo and Tina; how could I have spotted a steely and determined pop starlet by just a few pics that made it across the Atlantic in the pages of the old French pop mag Salut les copains?)

As for her records, I was charmed at first but it didn't take long for her shtick to wear thin. "Hey DJ" had been robust enough but free of The Beatmasters her vocal toughness became undermined by catchy but disposable tunes that really leaned towards younger listeners. The teen boys already fancied her so why not try to attract young and impressionable girls. All this is great and she played the part well but her music just blended in with the crowd even as she seemed born to stand out.

As if giving up entirely, she came back in 1992 with a fresh batch of songs that were no better than before presenting herself as just another sex kitten pop songstress. Having been away from the pop scene for more than a year and a half, she was returning to to a world that had largely moved on. (Ver Hits even acknowledges this in this same issue in the section formerly known as Bitz: "You wouldn't be blamed for forgetting Betty Boo", the short piece commences) There were enough pop kids who had enough interest to help "Let Me Take You There" almost get into the Top 10 but this would be her last shot at chart action.

Madonna and Kylie Minogue weren't exactly at their best in '92 but even on their worst day, they could effortlessly do something that could outpace the bland "Let Me Take You There". Aside from a nod to The Beach Boys in the musical break — the aquatic floatiness brings to mind the instrumental "The Nearest Faraway Place" from the group's 1969 album 20/20 — there isn't much to recommend. Betty Boo tries to sound sensual and she just about pulls it off but this probably makes the raps in the early verses seem even more out of place.

Memorable pop stars who make a mark don't come around very often and former pop kids who are now in their forties are right to have a fondness for Betty Boo, even if her records sometimes missed the mark. But the character had mostly disappeared leaving the still young Clarkson to put herself at the centre of it. But how could she have been expected to succeed? It was Betty Boo who was the pop star, Alison Clarkson just happened to be the one doing the rapping and singing. They both needed to be present for there to be any hope of it working.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Cud: "Purple Love Balloon"

With a terrible name and a lead singer who looked like a grumpier, more well-nourished Mick Hucknall, people couldn't have expected much from Cud. I remember first hearing about them and figuring they'd be just the sort of group I could get behind. And I did, only I wasn't always thrilled by their music. "Purple Love Balloon" is one of only three Top 40 hits for the Leeds foursome and is one of their better efforts. Carl Puttnam's voice isn't for everyone but it's distinctive particularly in the landscape of early-nineties' shoegaze and grebo. There's the sense that they were both a little late (they would've been a better fit during the Madchester era) and a few years' early (their 1992 album Asquarius is a forerunner to Britpop) which may explain why they never really caught on. The energy of Puttnam and his aggressive band suggests that they would've been in their element on stage; they're still playing shows so it's never too late, is it?

Manic Street Preachers: "Motorcycle Emptiness"

27 May 1992 (with the actual Single of the Fortnight here)

"This finally proves that the Manics are much more than simply a punk parody and that they are capable of occasional brilliance. Deserves to be No. 1 for weeks."

— Tom Doyle

"Our manifesto is, 'Don't do it, kids, never get past the age of 13'."

This was the message that Richey Edwards (aka Richey James, aka Richey Manic) communicated to Sylvia Patterson in the 1 April 1992 issue of Smash Hits. It would have been so easy for the songwriter/mediocre guitarist to evoke The Who with his own take on "I hope I die before I get old" but he was acknowledging that he was already cooked at the age of twenty-four. Given what would play out about two-and-a-half years later, this adds weight to Richey's tragic story though it also reinforces his status as an all-time pop one-off.

I've only ridden on motorbikes a handful of times in my life, mostly in Thailand and Indonesia. Given that I'm uncomfortable enough behind the wheel of a car and I even feel nervous on a bicycle, it will surprise no one who knows me even a little that I was a passenger. A very jittery passenger who took no pleasure in the speed and abandon that is supposed to come with being on the back of a hog; my sole wish was to be off these death traps as soon as possible.

With this in mind, I feel I have a worthy perspective on "Motorcycle Emptiness". They may be symbols of freedom to some but in my mind they only provide the freedom for me to kill myself. Of course, this doesn't have that much to do with the song itself beyond it's most basic level but the best pop is meant to be something we can identify with so that's good enough for me. Where I align with Richey, James Dean Bradfield, Sean Moore and Nicky Wire is in recognizing the illusion of this supposed freedom people evidently get from gunning it well over the speed limit, recklessly weaving between vehicles, running red lights and riding down sidewalks whenever the mood strikes (this is what I observe motorcyclists doing on a daily basis). One might expect these throwbacks to glam rock, punk and metal to be sympathetic with the biker element but this was a quartet of Welsh lads who went to university and were keen to opine on anything they felt like and hated rock 'n' roll cliches. Like motorbikes.

Tom Doyle expresses some surprise that Manic Street Preachers have something so accomplished in them but if we go back to the Patterson interview, it's clear they were deep individuals who liked to cosplay as moronic rock stars. The piece starts with an anecdote from the Irish Music Awards in which they behaved so boorishly that a rep from their own record label denounced them, the irony of which wasn't lost on them ("They signed us up for loads of money for being what we are and now they expect us to start dressing like them and looking as chronically ugly and boring as them with their crap haircuts and no brains," reckoned an ever perceptive Richey). Their manifesto of kids remaining kids for life free from "wanting things, acquiring things" and the fallacy that "your life will be better if you get a new video game or a new bike, etc, etc".

We look at famous and/or wealthy people and often take pity on them for only caring about their riches and their possessions but this mindset affects many of us living on far more modest means. Richey was probably even being naive in implying that we're done for by the time we hit our teens; kids, too, get obsessed about getting more toys or treats or getting to go to a movie theatre rather than renting a video or having dessert even when they barely touched their dinner. Sure, kids aren't as corrupted as adults but the majority of them are well on their way before they even start going to school.

I'm not the biggest Manics' backer but I will admit that they're strength was in ideas that are seldom broached. Morrissey and Jarvis Cocker are lauded for capturing youthful tedium but the greater achievement is in making a point that transcends the diary entries and school poetry journals. The very idea of "Motorcycle Emptiness" would never have occurred to me at the time and I daresay I wasn't alone in that regard. This is how to become the voice of a generation.

With soaring melodies, crunchy guitars, those subtle strings Doyle alludes to, Moore's powerful drumming and Bradfield's trademark voice you can't quite sing along with, "Motorcycle Emptiness" was quickly identified as a classic and a big step forward for a band who many had been quick to underestimate. They only ever got it right some of the time but when they were on no one could touch them. Manic Street Preachers: easily the best band that I'm not a fan of.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Crowded House: "Four Seasons in One Day"

There were a lot of those bizarre El Nino summers back in the nineties. We'd get afternoon showers at ten in the morning. It could be warm and pleasant one day and then be wet and miserable the next (though it never seemed to go the other way). Songwriters Neil and Tim Finn likely didn't have this in mind, even though it had been written in Melbourne, a city notorious for weather that can throw everything at a person in just a few hours. Crowded House sure had the market cornered when it came to songs about meteorology as this followed "Weather with You" into the UK charts and they even carried it forward somewhat a year later with "Distant Sun". Doyle isn't keen, thinking it sounds like the kind of thing "your long-haired hippy art teacher" would enjoy. (I'll have you know, Tom, that Mr. Coutts had really good taste in music) Granted, "Four Seasons in One Day" isn't one of their bangers but it's nice all the same and reliably good fare from the band you quite like but really ought to love. 

Nirvana: "Come as You Are"

4 March 1992

"Pogo-ing has never been so much fun."

— Tom Doyle and Cecy (his cat)

"Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be,

As a friend, as a friend, as a lame-ass limey band..."

This is something I just can't let go of. Nirvana had been scheduled to headline the final day of the 1992 Reading Festival with Kurt Cobain being given special permission to choose that day's line-up. His picks leaned heavily on American alternative acts though it is less grungy than one may have expected. It's surprising to note that Pavement were relatively low on the bill (eighth, one spot below Aussie ABBA tribute act Bjorn Again; the lo-fi'ers' superb debut Slanted and Enchanted had only recently hit the shops which may explain their bottom-feeding position) while Mudhoney were fairly prominent (third) but most notable is the almost total lack of British bands. Scots Teenage Fanclub aside, they're nowhere to be found. Cobain wished to keep the "lame-ass limey bands" as far away from him as possible.

But why? Cobain was a massive fan of The Beatles, his band did a memorable cover of David Bowie's "The Man Who Sold the World" for their famed appearance on MTV Unplugged and he spent his youth in Olympia, Washington listening to post-punk acts like The Raincoats, The Slits and Young Marble Giants (who, it should be noted, happened to be Welsh). 

A schism developed between American and British indie rock as the eighties came to a close. While Morrissey and Robert Smith may have still been worshiped by angsty youngsters throughout North America, a younger generation of UK bands had more trouble connecting with listeners outside their shores. At the same time, the US music press was becoming much more dismissive of supposedly over-hyped Brit rock (it's always struck me as rich that Americans of all people would object to anyone else overdoing it on the praise front but maybe that's just me). Groups like The Stone Roses claimed they were sure to "crack" America but the more this kind of thing got bandied about, the more it seemed sure to fail. British bands like Elastica, James and Dodgy started to seem like token acts on North American festival bills. The "lame-ass limeys" were being left out everywhere.

As a longtime Anglophile, I can't help bristling at this "lame-ass limey band" comment. But even more significantly, it seems to undermine the welcoming vibes of one of my favourite Nirvana songs. Or does it? Here is the VER HITS guide to just who Kurt Cobain may have been referring to when he condemned the crummy bands from a nation that had once been a musical powerhouse.

Blur

Nirvana played on the opening day of Reading '91 alongside the likes of Dinosaur Jr, Sonic Youth and headliner Iggy Pop; I daresay he was happy with that day's bill. Less so the next day, however, as buddies Teenage Fanclub were followed by Blur who had recently enjoyed a Top 10 breakthrough with "There's No Other Way". It's easy to picture Kurt seething at the sight of Damon Albarn's cockney schtick but this likely never occurred since Nirvana played at another festival in Cologne, Germany that very same day. In any case, Cobain is said to have loved "There's No Other Way" as indeed he should have.

EMF

With the Second British Invasion having long since faded, UK groups entered the nineties struggling to make much of an impression in the US. Jesus Jones' earnest, End of History hit "Right Here, Right Now" proved a rare success story, as did EMF's "Unbelievable", an American chart topper at the start of 1992. Of the two, I would take the Forest of Dean's hip hop rock any day over the insufferable Jones but it was clear which way the backlash was heading. Plenty of people hated EMF and I'm not so sure it was entirely down to being sick to death of their one major hit. Of the bands listed here, they're the most deserving of the "lame-ass" tag. Not as deserving as Jesus bloody Jones mind you.

Manic Street Preachers

What if Cobain objected to the only band in Britain that could conceivably provide an alternative to his own? He was known to have disliked both The Clash and Guns N' Roses, both of whom ver Manics were often compared to which (I suppose) is something but there's not much else to go on with this theory. Manic Street Preachers were still not a big deal in the UK at this point and their visibility across the pond would never be notable. For what it's worth, the Manics were huge fans of Nirvana, covering "Pennyroyal Tea" (often as "Penny Royalty"...they were so clever) and using the Cobain's true masterpiece In Utero as the basis for their mostly great third album The Holy Bible. Oh, and, like Young Marble Giants, the Manics hail from Wales so get your slurs straight there, Kurt!

The Wonder Stuff

It may seem hard to believe now but the Stuffies were one of Britain's leading groups at the beginning of the decade. Other bands had some hope of eventually cracking America but they weren't one of them. There was even talk that Americans had been turned off by the likes of leader Miles Hunt and Shaun Ryder of Happy Mondays being allegedly anti-American. (It's impossible to imagine either of them excluding US groups from an American music festival because they wanted to have nothing to do with "hopeless Yankee bands") But their presence in North America was minimal so it's hard to picture Cobain being bothered enough with them. They headlined the Friday night of Reading so I don't imagine they felt put out had they been spurned. Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that Cobain and Hunt would have liked each other. (During the group's eighty minute Reading spot, Hunt took jabs at both John Lydon and Morrissey; if he'd had any kind of beef with Nirvana's leader he would've shared it with everyone who either wanted to know all about it or the vast majority who didn't give a toss)

British Bands in General

It's always possible that Cobain wasn't thinking of anyone in particular and that he just imagined a bunch of groups who all looked and sounded like The Lightning Seeds. He wouldn't have been entirely wrong on that one.

No One at All

What if the whole "lame-ass limey band" thing had just been made up or uttered by a stoned Cobain who didn't know what he was saying? What if he just picked a bunch of friends to share a bill with him, along with Nick Cave, who it's easy to imagine Cobain adoring, and Bjorn Again just for shits and giggles? What if it's all as simple as that? (Additionally, what if it was just some dumbass in Nirvana's orbit who claimed he wanted to keep the limeys out when all he had wanted to do was get his pals in?) A British press which had been hounding the singer over his whirlwind relationship with Courtney Love and rumoured drug habit chose not to follow-up on his dismissal of some unnamed groups from their homeland seems a little odd.

"Smells Like Teen Spirit" had broken Nirvana outside of the Pacific Northwest and it would go on to top many 'Greatest Songs of All Time' lists but I was indifferent to it. "Entertain us? How about you entertain me? You're the goddamn singer!" People I hated in school all loved it (something that would parallel Cobain's own aversion to his band's popularity as he noted glumly over jocks who liked his music) "Teen Spirit" may have been an anthem for a generation but "Come as You Are" was much more effective at speaking to the individual.

Being in the bubble of the Canadian prairies, I wasn't up on grunge culture. Those grey cardigans with holes were probably unwanted items in a Value Village thrift store but seemingly overnight they became sought after fashion accessories. Those flannel shirts were being scooped up from Eddie Bauer locations, something I was blissfully unaware of until after Cobain's death. That silly Generation X fad of wearing cool t-shirts over a long sleeve tee was something I was similarly slow to adopt.

But all of this made "Come as You Are" all the more appreciated by awkward youths like myself. It didn't matter that I still wore high top running shoes and nut-hugging jeans and bland stuff my mum and grandmothers bought for me. (For god's sake, my favourite item of clothing back then was a sweatshirt with an outline of the Great Lakes and the moronic slogan Let's Keep Them Great!) I was fourteen and was into mostly British indie but also "I Love Your Smile" by Shanice and "Jump" by Kris Kross. I wasn't in any way cool and was decidedly behind the curve. Even if I had little in common with most of the Nirvana fans I knew of, I could rest assured that Kurt Cobain wouldn't have cared.

Musically, it is also superior to "Teen Spirit" since there's Krist Novoselic prominent bass part that I, a rookie bass player of very little promise, could aspire towards. Is it repetitive? I suppose but that meant there was that faint possibility that I might be able to replicate it (I couldn't). A bit Peter Hook, a bit Mike Mills, a little bit Tina Weymouth, I ate this shit up. Critics would later claim that well-spoken Novoselic happened to be Nirvana's weak link: this was news to me.

It's now time to exorcise my annoyance over a comment that Kurt Cobain may or may not have made over thirty years ago. Even if he meant it and even if it was intended to coat down every single British band I've ever held dear (he couldn't possibly have been referring to XTC, could he?), what do I care? He was a troubled soul but one who accepted everyone from all walks of life. And he loved "There's No Other Way" so he probably had soft spot for a fair share of "lame-ass limey bands" all along. Bless him.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

The Cure: "High"

What's odd about older English acts being still held in high esteem was that they were all getting so boring around this time. Robert Smith and Morrissey had long been adversaries but they did both have some undeserved popularity in '92 in common. On paper combining "The Lovecats" with "Pictures of You" seems intriguing but the results smack of a band trying way too hard to sound way too much like themselves. I have time for GothCure and I'm particularly fond of PopCure (and how I wish they'd done more JazzCure) but BoringCure trying to be all things to all people is the worst Cure of all. A good song if I haven't heard a Cure number for a while; much less so if I've recently been playing my copy of Not one of their classics though it would suddenly start to sound a whole lot better once its follow-up came out.

Happy Mondays: "Step On"

4 April 1990

"The Mondays aren't daft. People always liked the dance remixes of their singles more that the group's original versions, so this time they've made a dance record straight away."

— Tom Doyle

Generation X never had a 'Beatles on Ed Sullivan' moment that unified everyone. Nirvana and Public Enemy were probably the two acts that came closest to being spokespeople for us but they didn't speak for everyone — and, in fairness, neither of them were attempting to do so. It wasn't simply that some people didn't like these two groups, more that some were even indifferent to them — and that they, in turn, were indifferent or even hostile to some of their potential fans. Kurt Cobain had no time for racists, misogynists and homophobes and was uneasy with the high school jocks he despised being into his music. (This is all music to my ears though he had to ruin it by insisting at that no "lame ass limey bands" share the bill with them at the Redding Festival) Similarly, Chuck D wasn't overly pleased with middle class white boys listening to Public Enemy albums. For the first time, we defined our tastes in music while groups were defining who was allowed to be into them.

It's possible that the Madchester acts wouldn't have approved of a Canadian fan like myself. I was tall and gangly, had spots, bad dress sense, wasn't popular, did poorly in school and was extremely moody. (Come to think of it, I was exactly the sort of fan they had in mind) I liked some of the old school indie acts like Morrissey and New Order but I needed something new to come along. The baggy groups had been around for a while back in the UK but they didn't mean anything across the pond. It would take a while for them to get exposure in North America and even then they were met with mostly indifference.

But I was fortunate to get a jump on most people in Canada, even if I was still miles behind the British. I was taking the bus to school one morning in the autumn of 1990 when my good friend Ethan lent me the copy of Now That's What I Call Music 17 that he got from a family member who'd been over to Britain that summer. He was very much a rock guy at the time — The Beatles were his first love but he was generally well-disposed to the majority of guitar bands from the sixties and seventies — and he didn't have much time for all that modern pop stuff on Now 17. He knew I was missing the UK and it was as if he let me borrow this comp out of a sense of possibly filling a whole in my heart or something. At no point did he recommend I "listen to the second side of the first tape" or suggest songs that he was fond of. For all I knew, he'd never given it a listen at this point.

Ethan wasn't wrong to be disinterested in the bulk of it, particularly most of the second cassette which leaned heavily on the techno-dance side. Twenty-six of Now 17's thirty-two tracks are somewhere between wan and pretty good but none of them are ear-catching enough to merit much discussion. The six remaining tracks were simply mind blowing, songs I'd never encountered before and had never dreamed of. Just to have one of these present would have made Now 17 worthwhile listen but for there to be a half dozen of them qualifies it for one of the most important albums I've ever heard (This was a big time for me since I was also exploring Pet Shop Boys' Behaviour which is still my favourite album of all time) Five of those songs were Adamski's "Killer" (see below), Beats International's "Dub Be Good to Me", Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence", Orbital's "Chime" and Primal Scream's "Loaded" (The House of Love's "Shine On" and Jimmy Somerville's "Read My Lips (Enough Is Enough)" were two other selections that I loved but they weren't nearly as earth shaking as the others). The sixth was "Step On" by Happy Mondays.

Manchester's baggy scene had been building slowly over the late-eighties. UK indie had been lorded over by The Fall, New Order and The Smiths who all hailed from there but other groups from the area ended up being left behind. (An odd trend of this next generation of acts was that they weren't especially young: members of the Mondays, James and The Stone Roses were in fact a year or so older than Smiths Johnny Marr, Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce) Fortunately, they were trapped in a scene that was still thriving. Acid house had shown the way forward: down in the south of England this meant electronics and house beats but up north it became all about groups with guitars trying to carve out much the same sound.

In this issue of Smash Hits, both Tom Doyle and Sylvia Patterson make note of Happy Mondays and their similarities to the Sex Pistols. Beyond the obvious sleaziness shared the the two groups (something they have in common with plenty of other bands as well), this isn't a comparison I ever thought of before. (Given how rapidly the Mondays would implode over the next couple years, there may have been something to it) What I failed to notice was the modest musical abilities of the two groups. "Step On" was so brilliant that I was convinced that the Mondays were actually a brilliant band, not a bunch of chancers who made the most of their rudimentary skills.

In any case, what difference does it make if a band is of limited talent if they can record songs as great as either "Pretty Vacant" and "Step On"? Possessing an abundance of spirit, band camaraderie and a strangely charismatic vocalist-dancer combo of Shaun Ryder and Bez, Happy Mondays had some elements going for them. Where the Pistols couldn't play (itself an exaggeration), ver Mondays didn't need to. Producers and remixers did the heavy lifting and everyone knew it. "Wrote for Luck" is a hopeless work in their own hands and only gained life when Paul Oakenfold and Vince Clarke were tapped in to transform it into the magnificent "W.F.L.", in which most of the Mondays are pushed to the back as far as possible. Instead of them soundtracking a rave, they are there to witness one, something that stands out even more in the accompanying promo. "Hallelujah" got them into the Top 40 and a memorable spot on Top of the Pops but its remixes are what make it special.

As if remixing themselves, "Step On" is a series of bits of guitar, piano, bass and drums that have been looped over five minutes. It ought to be boring and predictable but the sheer simplicity, the addictive vibes and Ryder's astonishing performance turn it into an incredible single. There isn't a sample of "Funky Drummer", nor Paul Simenon's bassline from "Guns of Brixton" (used to outstanding effect on fellow Now 17 standout "Dub Be Good to Me"), nor those ubiquitous "whoo's" and "yeah's" that were all over early-nineties' house — this is all Mondays playing the same two bars over and over and what more could you want? Ryder's growling vocal is a wonder and his extended whistle near the end even smacks of showing off.

The single also managed to completely overshadow John Kongos' original from 1971. Then known as "He's Gonna Step on You Again", it is an engaging enough record that fully merited its Top 5 placing. Swampy blues rock that hints at both country and glam is remarkable enough but it absolutely pales next to this remake. The majority of cover versions fail to match the originals, while others become so well known that they lead listeners to assume that they are the originals. In this case, however, "Step On" was known to be a cover, albeit one that had rendered its antecedent redundant. No one was going back to explore Kongos, we were all too busy getting into Happy Mondays.

They would fade from the scene but their influence on me would remain. By 1992 I was into the likes of The Wonder Stuff, EMF, Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine and Blur but this music wasn't able to knock me over the way I had been two years' earlier. While English Language Arts class with Mr Harker was my favourite subject in school at that time, I was also into shop class. I wasn't particularly good at making anything but I was interested in trying my hand at photography and printing (I even attempted welding to very little success). Mr Monahan suggested that we could print a sign or even make a t-shirt via silk screening and I chose to do both. I made a very nice Pet Shop Boys Behaviour shirt while the sign read 'HAPPY MONDAYS STEP ON'. Once again, I was living in the past. So much for getting the jump on everyone.

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Adamski: "Killer"

Another highlight from Now 17 that took its sweet old time elsewhere. In spite it's month topping the British chart, "Killer" was a non-factor on the other side of the Atlantic until the spring of 1991 when vocalist Seal took off with "Crazy" and then usurped Adamski by taking full artist credit with a vastly inferior version. (As Tom Ewing has said, the singer didn't deserve top billing since he had so much around him to compete with) One of several top flight number one singles of 1990, it proved impossible for either Adamski or Seal to top. And who can blame either of them? You try bettering something as wonderful as this.

Madonna: "Express Yourself"

31 May 1989

"She doesn't hold up for one second as she bellows the advice that every girl should immediately dump their boyfriend if he's an uncaring slob or a dirty two-faced rotter."

— Tom Doyle

"Do you have a message for your young fans?"

Their 1991 single "Where the Streets Have No Name/Can't Take My Eyes Off You" returned the Pet Shop Boys to the UK Top 10 and trolled everyone in pop — if Tennant and Lowe really are the grand ironists they're purported to be, they would have considered this to be the ultimate coup. It got the airtime, appeared on their amazing greatest hits Discography and is still spoken of either lovingly or with derision to this day but it shared space with another song. "How Can You Expect to Be Taken Seriously?" was originally a new jack swing track on the Pet Shops' 1990 magnum opus Behaviour (a certain humble blogger's favourite album of all time) but it had been remixed to appear on a double A-side with the unique mash-up of a U2 hit and a Four Seasons classic.

"How Can You Expect to Be Taken Seriously?" is one of a lone line of ironic numbers from Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, stretching from "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)" on 1986's Please to "Your Early Stuff" and "Ego Music" from their overlooked 2012 album Elysium. Tennant chafed at the claim that they made "pop records about pop records" but his track record typically failed to back him up. Nevertheless, their attempts at ironic pop resulted in some brilliant songs, the best of which (the B-sides "Miserablism" and "Shameless") even manage to evoke some empathy with the subjects they were mocking.

There isn't much empathy in "How Can You Expect to Be Taken Seriously?" and fans have often wondered who it's about. Given their open disregard for U2, it could easily be assumed to be about the Irish foursome but there were others hinted at. I've always thought it was about Bros, who were the inspirations the song's line about "longevity". At any rate, it's about the do-gooder nature of pop stars at the end of the eighties — and how everyone was expected to have a message for their young fans.

It started off with Live Aid and it would only snowball from there. Because of abject poverty in Africa, because of the rainforests, because of Apartheid, because of, because of, because of. Pop stars became expected to have a cause and, as such, they were all supposed to have a message for their young fans. Hip hop artists were quick to jump on this, prompting fans to self-righteously proclaim that rap had a "message", while implying that other genres didn't.

Madonna never fully embraced the idea of having a message or a fashionable cause to get behind — unless, of course, you count her later embrace of Kabbalism as a "cause" — but the new found maturity of her late-eighties work had her more invested in issues. While it was clear to see that the likes of Suzanne Vega, Tracy Chapman, k.d. lang and Cyndi Lauper were all feminists to one extent or another, few would have thought to use the term to describe Madonna. That is until "Express Yourself".

"Like a Prayer" had been a mammoth single both in terms of its success and the way it positioned Madonna as a creative force. The album of the same name proved to be a breakthrough (even if I personally see it as no better than predecessor True Blue) but it wasn't exactly packed with potential hit singles. (A curiosity of the time is that she never managed to pull off the extravagant seven-or-eight-singles-off-the-same-album approach that Michael Jackson had perfected) In truth, there were only two to choose from and they would follow one another back into the higher reaches of the charts around the world. One was a magical song that demonstrated her innate understanding of current pop and the other was "Express Yourself".

In fairness, it did well at the time and remains a firm favourite among her fanbase. And it's nothing to be ashamed of, even if its message remains much more potent than the song itself. Sonically, it's a return to the "wave pool pop" of "Open Your Heart" and "Papa Don't Preach" albeit lacking their catchiness and charm. It doesn't help that Madonna relies way too much on her husky vocal style, never one of my preferred characteristics of her's. Still, I'm not crazy about it but I suppose it works in the context of a song about female empowerment. The David Fincher-directed video is one of the more memorable promos of the time but the image of a chained up Madge starkers on a bed doesn't really wash with the wise, big sisterly advice in the lyrics.

As I said above, Madonna wasn't one for heavy-handed message songs and "Express Yourself" is a good example of why. The message is a positive one but there's not much to the record otherwise. And that's the trouble with getting caught up in having a message for your young fans since the pop music typically suffers. Luckily, Madonna pushed through and she followed with "Cherish", a magnificent single that displayed all of her patented pop flash while leaving the message well behind. A good move.

 

~~~~~

Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Baby Ford: "Children of the Revolution"

The idea of fusing glam rock with acid house is a good one but how well did Baby Ford pull it off? Cover versions of classic pop and rock songs were notoriously dodgy during this time, though the success of S'Express' "Hey Music Lover" (originally by Sly & The Family Stone, though it was a relatively obscure number) must have been encouraging. So, what of Baby Ford's interpretation of T-Rex's "Children of the Revolution"? Well, it's better than it deserves to be and ver Babe expertly mimics Marc Bolan's sultry whispered style of singing. Yet, why would anyone bother with this facsimile when they could put on the original instead? Or listen to something else? Or doing something else? Or get on with your life?