Culture Club: "The War Song"

27 September 1984

"Whether I'll feel quite the same when everyone from the neighbour's budgie to the weird bloke downstairs is whistling it too is another matter, of course."

— Vici MacDonald

On the last Sunday of November, 1984, about forty mostly British and Irish pop stars gathered at a recording studio in Notting Hill, London to hastily record a single for the Christmas market to benefit victims of the appalling famine in Ethiopia. Band Aid was to be a coming together of UK music royalty and seemingly everyone on it was at peak popularity and worldwide fame. The resultant "Do They Know It's Christmas?" was an instant success, triumphing in one of the most hotly contested seasonal number one showdowns ever. The holiday having already come and gone, it nevertheless topped the charts in Canada for the first two weeks of January '85. Though I liked the record (and still do to this day in spite of the many legit criticisms leveled against it), the real delight was the video. I was just seven but I could already identify plenty of the central figures involved. Well, vaguely recognize at least. I probably knew Sting and Phil Collins and was aware of the lead singers of Duran Duran and Wham! Okay, that's almost all of 'em but I did begin spotting others when I would see the video every year from that point on. (Oddly, the individual I took longest to pick out was a thin and sullen Paul Weller, by far my favourite of the lot) But there was one more figure who I definitely would have known right away: Boy George, probably the most recognizable pop star in the world.

But it seems this wasn't the same Boy George. His brief solo vocal on "Do They Know It's Christmas?" — "and in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy / throw your arms around the world at Christmas time" — comes nearly two months after the release of "The War Song", a chronological fact that I've been having difficulty squaring over the last several days. Band Aid was, as I already stated above, a convergence of everyone who was anyone (and Marilyn) in the British music scene, not a bunch of also-ran's and has been's (especially Marilyn) headed for the dumper. For that's what "The War Song" did to Culture Club's momentum.

Or perhaps not. Though disinterested in the "trite" lyrics, the tune is catchy enough to warrant a SOTF from Vici MacDonald and, not being simply a critical favourite, it quickly shot to number two on the charts, just missing out on the top spot by Stevie Wonder's monster syrup-fest "I Just Called to Say I Love You" (in what was, I must say, a pretty loaded top ten). While it did fade away almost as quickly, spending just two more weeks in the charts' top quadrant, it was hardly the career-stalling disaster that plagued ABC two years earlier with their brave reinvention "That Was Then but This Is Now". "The War Song" proved yet another hit single in several other countries and likely the last Club single to be familiar enough with the public that many a neighbour's budgie or weird bloke downstairs may have hummed along with it.

Yet the bloom was off and though the single sold it has been described by Boy George as the song that "ruined" his career. Reappraisal has led to it being described as naff which is apt considering the chorus. I've always suspected, however, that they probably knew it was ludicrous as well, which doesn't suddenly make it a brilliant record but does help explain their intent. Consciously singing about how "war, war is stupid / and people are stupid" and knowing the banality behind it gives Boy and Jon Moss and the other two an excuse but thinking that they had something profound to say with these words just makes it all seem pathetic — and I like to think that we're still a ways away from Boy George sinking that low.

How do I know? Well, I don't really. But common sense tells me that if I was able to gauge the lame juvenailia of my teenage poetry with some accuracy — at least some of the time —then a quartet of towering pop stars must have at least a similar filer. More importantly, I reckon that "The War Song" is a response to the group that had stolen most of their thunder over the previous year and one who also wasn't shy about exposing blunt but basic sentiments to the masses. Frankie Goes to Hollywood first hit the charts with the sexually explicit "Relax" and followed that up with taking a shot at the arms race in "Two Tribes". Both were absolutely massive singles in the UK and may have made groups like Culture Club look passe. Probably not keen on getting into raunchiness — Boy George having said famously that he wasn't "really all that keen on sex" — it fell to Reagan and Chernenko and the threat of nuclear war as a topic for Boy George to grapple with. Though the record itself is superb, the lyrics in "Two Tribes" are hardly loaded with high level ideas. Holly Johnson's delivery of "when two tribes go to war" is powerful but it reads poorly, particularly followed by "a point is all that you can score". So, war is like sport, huh? Wow, I guess all those field marshals and generals in the First World War were correct and good on Frankie to restate some seventy-year-old sentiments. 

The point is not to bash "Two Tribes", just to put "The War Song" in context. Boy George was a vastly superior lyricist to Johnson or Mark O'Toole (or Nasher or whoever handled works for Frankie) and this trite simplicity was a low hanging fruit that he should have avoided. But when you go from tabloid stars and teen idols to being asked to sing on the Band Aid single, you might feel like you've been neutered. Of course that brings us right back to the whole thing about my screwed up chronology and that, ultimately, this record really didn't kill off their careers or any of that nonsense. It was a misstep that they could have corrected going forward but they chose not to. Just be more like Frankie Goes to Hollywood and you'll never screw things up.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Prince & The Revolution: "Purple Rain"

MacDonald admits that she's "unconvinced" by the latest from the Purple Perv and I'm right with her (although it is possible she became convinced at some point over the last thirty-five years). Having always liked everything about Prince except for the bulk of his music, "Purple Rain" is especially troublesome for us few skeptics out there. Where "1999" and "When Does Cry" and "Raspberry Beret" usually sound better in my head (and, thus, give me the false impression that they're better than they are), this, the title track from his breakthrough '84 album, is as underwhelming and over-long in my imagination as it is in reality. What does everyone else on Earth see in it? Okay, it's heartfelt but it's not quite poignant and the dull faces on the concert goers in the video says it all (not to mention an awfully awkward peck on the cheek he gives to an annoyed-looking Wendy Melvoin). I guess it must work as an album closer and it's better than virtually every other single on offer here but, as classics go, not up to much.

David Lasley: "Where Does That Boy Hang Out"

13 September 1984

"I could listen to it for hours on end. Buy it now and it'll keep you warm all winter."

— Dave Rimmer

"Session Man" is a deep cut off The Kinks' 1966 near-masterpiece Face to Face. It is, in fact, the song that prevents it from failing to measure up to the standards of the year's truly outstanding albums Revolver and Aftermath and Pet Sounds — and, indeed, follow-up Kink LP's Something Else and The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society. It's a botch. It fails partly due to some irritating enunciation on the part of singer Ray Davies as he struggled to make his lyrics rhyme ("he's a session man / a chord progre-she-an / a top musi-she-an") but mainly because it is so cynical and smug as to be unlistenable. (It is the tune which best compliments Davies' face, which is perhaps the most punchable in pop) It doesn't even matter if the song's subject matter is true or not: how would Davies know how paid studio musicians feel about what they do? It's one of those obnoxious armchair psychology works that also explains why I despise Fastball's loathsome "The Way" and why I've never quite warmed to Squeeze. But for the sake of this piece, let's just say that "Session Man" paints an accurate picture of the musical talent that never gets any credit.

(No, I'm not going to do that actually. Best just to discuss sessioners as people. Sorry, Ray)

There's this notion that session musicians and backing vocalists are failed pop stars trying to cling to their dreams (as opposed to, say, grown men still toiling away in a garage or a dingy club for little to no pay somewhere in your hometown right at this very moment). The acclaimed documentary 20 Feet from Stardom — as well as similar films about The Wrecking Crew and The Funk Brothers — seems to capture individuals who never quite made it while failing to acknowledge that not everyone is cut out for the big time. Backing vocalists have great voices but they may not have much else to carry them forward. Some may not have even craved it.

David Lasley managed to make a name for himself as a dependable falsetto (said to be, in Dave Rimmer's words, a "white bloke with a black woman's voice", though it doesn't seem all that dissimilar to the vocals of Jimmy Sommerville or him from The Catch so perhaps he sounds more like a man trying to sound like a woman but still mostly sounding like a man), having appeared on numerous disco, funk and soul records throughout the seventies (though I don't see any evidence that he ever showed up on a Roxy Music session despite what some like Rimmer claim) and even doing fairly well for himself as a songwriter. With the likes of Michael McDonald and Luther Vandross moving from jobbing backing vocalists in the seventies to success as solo artists in more recently, it may have seemed like the right time to launch Lasley in a similar role.

"Where Does the Boy Hang Out" doesn't do much for me personally but I'd hesitate to say that he fails where Vandross and McDonald succeeded (even though that's pretty much what happened). It's a competent record that seems to have accomplished what it set out to do: put a spotlight on Lasley's voice with some fine backing vocalists as support, gliding along like an updated Motown number. Fine stuff but nothing close to some of the songs he appeared on in the background back in the day: nothing to knock the listener down like classic Chic, nothing to worm its way into the mind like Chaka Khan, nothing to singalong with like Boz Scaggs. Rimmer likes it way more than it deserves and the overhype can be a turn off but once past that - assuming you're able to get used to Lasley's voice — it's solid pop to enjoy while it's on and forget about as soon as it's over. And I'd certainly take it over "Session Man".

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

U2: "Pride (In the Name of Love)"

Critics of ver 2 frequently deride the group's pomposity. They have a point but it overlooks the fact that there's not much to Bobo, The Hedge and the rest without the highfalutin hijinks. "Pride" is their first great single (you'll hear some try to make a case for "I Will Follow" or "New Year's Day" but they don't quite manage to get there) and their first successful shot at sounding as big as they would soon become. A tribute to civil rights leader Martin Luther King, it trades in generalities and cliches but that's probably for the best: a proper biographical song would have likely come out heavy-handed (something U2 know nothing about) and there's a refreshing subtlety in the lyrics that balance out with the overblown music. You have to be told it's about MLK though it clearly isn't about any old Northside Dublin dirtbag so it's not something to relate to but it could be something to aspire to. A nice reminder that while, yes, U2 can be trite, self-important and cringe worthy, they could also be the most brilliant pop group around. A definite should've SOTF — even though it won't be long till we see them take their rightful place with more highfalutin pomp.

The Smiths: "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" / Aztec Camera: "Jump"

30 August 1984

"If "Jump" and the Smiths B-Side were A-Sides, they'd be joint Singles of the Fortnight."

— Robert Hodgens

So, let's make 'em A-Sides then, Bobby.

Flipping a single due to preferring the B-Side is nothing new in pop music. Way back in 1958, a young singer formally known as Harry Webb and his backing band — soon to be formerly known as The Drifters — recorded a song called "Schoolboy Crush" which had been intended to be their debut single. An influential TV producer of the time became much more interested in its B-Side and the two songs reversed roles. "Move It" went on to become the first hit for Cliff Richard and The Shadows. Paul McCartney's "Coming Up" had been a success in Britain in its intended, new wave-influenced form but deejays in North America liked the the more conventional version that Wings recorded in Glasgow a year earlier on the other side which went on to top the charts. When Kraftwerk proved too lazy to record a fresh B-Side to accompany their recent single "Computer Love" they stuck a three-year-old cut from their Man Machine album on the other side. "The Model" quickly got the bulk of the radio play and it sent the robot-wannabe's to the top of the charts. If only Bobby Bluebell had had a little more influence, we may well have seen The Smiths and Aztec Camera have sizable hits with their own cast-offs.

Well, probably not. "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" is indeed superior to its headline track but it doesn't exactly scream mega hit. For one, it's way too short, finishing up a good thirty seconds quicker than "William, It Was Really Nothing", a song that Bluebell figures will have people complaining of its brevity (though he argues that it's "just the right length" and he's correct). Because of its conciseness, there's not a whole lot to it, just a pair of to-the-point verses and a tidy, little chorus followed by a beautifully memorable instrumental fade-out. It's a brilliant track but one that would have required fleshing out with more lyrics and a longer running time; in short, it would have needed ruining in order to give it any sign of hope for chart potential. Not ideal. As it happens, "Please, Please, Please,..." works as a B-side to be proud of: the sort of hidden flip that fans may cherish and provide a sense that they are privy to something exclusive. In addition, it's a superb way to close out an album — as it did on Smiths collections Hatful of Hollow and Best...I, as well as the soundtrack to the 1986 Molly Ringwald vehicle Pretty in Pink.

The fact that head Smiths Morrissey and Johnny Marr were sticking such remarkable songs on B-sides (the 12" release of "William..." also features the staggering "How Soon Is Now") is indicative of a subtle sea change that occurred during the course of their first year as recording artists. Their early batch of singles culled mostly from their great debut album The Smiths are remarkable. "Hand in Glove", though marred by some misguided echo effects and a pointless fade-in on its original release, is an eye-popping record, a sign that this was going to be a very special band. Now regarded as a classic, "This Charming Man" is full of sleazy jangle pop and some of Morrissey's wittiest lyrics ("I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear" being but the most priceless). Third single "What Difference Does It Make?" is now held in low esteem by at least one of its songwriters — did Moz realise that "your prejudice won't keep you warm tonight" might apply a little too closely to himself at some point? — but it's a menacing number, catchy and evidence of what a tight foursome they were. Finally, there's "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now", a stand alone single and signpost for all of Morrissey's self-absorption and self-pity. One could chuckle at a one line, fall in love with him with another and feel like he's speaking for a world of losers and outcasts and nitwits with the whole thing.

But "William..." kicks off a period in which the singer began looking outward and this would set a dangerous precedent. Whether or not it's about his short-lived friendship with Associates singer Billy McKenzie, the song patently isn't about Morrissey (at least not the bulk of it). In the end it doesn't matter too much since The Smiths were still at their creative peak and it's a cute tune with some always excellent guitar playing from Marr but it got the vocalist to start making observations about the world at large and likely played a role in the shell of a man we have today. Had Morrissey just continued to be the self-obsessed curmudgeon we all loved, he would have done us all a favour.

Though not quite in the same realm as Morrissey and Marr, Roddy Frame is plenty gifted himself. Something of a prodigy, he cut his (possibly baby) teeth in Glasgow's famed Postcard Records scene that also produced Edwyn Collins' Orange Juice. Having already made the ultra hip swoon with Aztec Camera's debut album High Land, Hard Rain (query: is it a rule that Scots groups must give such maddeningly Celtic titles to their works?), Frame's pop sensibilities meant they were never going to be simply indie darlings. Chugging along not unlike Haircut One Hundred at their finest — having recently fallen off considerably since Nick Heyward departed in a strop — "All I Need Is Everything" is a delight, buoyant and with hooks not unlike a Motown hit from yesteryear. Bluebell is impressed at a distance, loving Frame's vocal and enjoying the record enough but feeling rather disappointed that it's just more of the same. Listening to it thirty-five years later it's nice to have a little more of the same. Reliable, a jolly good singalong, impossible to dislike. What more could one want from one of UK pop's finest craftsmen?

Such is my esteem for "All I Need Is Everything" that I'm not quite so bothered about "Jump", Bluebell's other proto-SOTF. I suppose it's most impressive as a project: here we have Frame taking Van Halen's monster pop-metal hit from earlier in the year, slowing it down to make it sound like The Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane" — as the muso Bluebell points out — and imbuing in it some melancholy and grace. The idea of it is stunning but the result is just a pleasant aside. Frame's reflective side had already been ably demonstrated on fine songs such as "Walk Out to Winter" and "We Could Send Letters" but I'm not sure just what doing so here is meant to accomplish. There's little to chew on once the novelty of such a unique cover wears off and they didn't quite pull off making it their own. That said, it's fine on it's own terms even if there's that gnawing feeling that they invented the ironic cover version and, as such, must be punished.

With the revival of the single in the early eighties, it was probably inevitable that there would be an upsurge in the quality of B-sides at the same time. The Jam spent their entire five year recording career crafting brilliant flips to accompany their sturdy run of singles. In the latter part of the decade, the Pet Shop Boys would begin to churn out a remarkable run of pristine B's that resulted in Alternative, a collection of also-rans that manages to be higher quality that most of their very fine albums. It's only right, then, that two of British indie's brightest lights would make their mark on the joys of turning a single over to see what else there is on offer. Plenty, as it would turn out.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Lloyd Cole & The Commotions: "Andy's Babies"

Blimey, Bobby Bluebell has done his due diligence! In addition to flipping over and writing about the B-sides above, he has also given his thoughts on the other side of Commotions' signature "Forest Fire". He must have done so with every single he reviewed, right? Well, no. At any rate, "Andy's Babies" doesn't measure up to either "Please, Please, Please,..." or "Jump" — and, indeed, Lloyd Cole never measured up to the likes of Morrissey and Marr and Frame either — but it is a nice compliment to its A-side. The dramatics of "Forest Fire" are nicely counterbalanced by the grumpy "Andy's Babies". Bluebell seems sure it's a tirade against Cole's bohemian lifestyle — and he should know give his association to the Commotions — but it's hard to decipher for this punter: I just thought it was about some bloke called Andy who had babies who Cole doesn't think much of. As you do.

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.

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Also Reviewed This Fortnight

Frankie Goes to Hollywood: "Two Tribes"

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