Album Rescue Series (Vol 1)

     

  Album  Rescue  Series

 

Volume  1      

  Edited  by  Tim  Dalton  and  Rebecca  Koss                              

 

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   First  published  by  Dalton  Koss  HQ  in  2015   8  Brand  Street   Hampton   Victoria  3188   Australia       www.daltonkosshq.wordpress.com         All  rights  reserved.  No  part  of  this  book  may  be  reprinted  or  reproduced  or  used  or   utilised  in  any  form  or  by  any  electronic,  mechanical,  or  other  means,  now  known  or   hereafter  invented,  including  photocopying  and  recording,  or  in  any  information   storage  or  retrieval  system,  without  permission  in  writing  from  the  publisher.           Album  Rescue  Series  ©,  Movie  Rescue  Series  ©,  Game  Rescue  Series  ©,  TV  Rescue   Series  ©  and  Radio  Rescue  Series  ©   are  all  the  intellectual  property  of  Dalton  Koss  HQ                               Album  Rescue  Series  (Volume  1)   Copyright  ©2015  Dalton  Koss  HQ   All  rights  reserved   ISBN:  978-­‐1-­‐326-­‐41168-­‐8   Content  ID:  17228496    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

Contributors     Matt   Bangerter   is   an   educator   and   sound   editor   in   Melbourne,   Australia.   He   has   been   continuing   to   work   in   the   broadcast,   location   and   post-­‐production   sound   industries   while   working   as   a   lecturer   focusing   on   sound   for   film   and   TV.   He   is   currently  focusing  on  working  as  a  mixing  engineer  for  films  that  will  be  seeing  online   distribution.  He  loves  watching  and  talking  about  films,  television  shows  and  comic   books.  Follow  Matt  on  Twitter  @Mbangerter.     Andrew  ‘Broady’  Broadhead  is  the  Campus  Academic  Coordinator  for  SAE  Institute   in   Melbourne.   Broady   is   an   audio   engineer   with   many   years   of   experience   in   mastering  and  live  sound.  Broady  has  been  involved  in  audio  education  for  over  15   years.     Mat   Caithness   is   a   professional   animator   and   educator.   He   has,   however,   never   been  in  involved  in  the  music  industry  in  any  way,  shape  or  form,  unless  of  course,   you   include   enthusiastic   punter   on   his   resume,   or   take   into   consideration   his   wee   contribution  to  the  handsome  volume  you  are  currently  holding  in  your  hands. Tim  Dalton  is  a  music  academic,  educator,  writer,  broadcaster  and  partner  at  Dalton   Koss  HQ.  With  over  36  years  experience  in  the  music  industry  as  an  audio  engineer,   producer,   tour   manager,   artists’   manager,   entrepreneur,   A&R   consultant   and   record   company   executive,   Tim   thinks   he   knows   a   lot   about   the   music   industry.   Tim   has   lived   and   worked   in   a   number   of   global   music   cities   including:   Hull,   Nashville,   Liverpool   and   now   happily   resides   in   Melbourne,   Australia.   Tim   still   dreams   of   winning  the  Tour  De  France  one  day.  Follow  Tim  on  Twitter  @Touringtim. Dr  Ian  Dixon  completed  his  PhD  on  John  Cassavetes  at  The  University  of  Melbourne   in   2011   and   currently   lectures   at   SAE   Institute,   Melbourne.   He   delivers   academic   addresses  internationally  including  a  plenary  speech  for  CEA  in  USA.  He  also  acts  and   directs   for   film   and   television   (including   Neighbours,   Blue   Heelers),   writes   funded   screenplays  and  novels.  Ian  recently  appeared  in  Underbelly:  Squizzy  on  Channel  9  in   Australia.  His  acting  work  can  also  be  viewed  on  City  Homicide,  Blue  Heelers,  Martial   Law,  Guinevere  Jones,  Heartbreak  High,  Struck  by  Lightning,  Shadows  of  the  Heart,   Rush,  etc.  Follow  Ian  on  Twitter  @Ianlanddixon66.  

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Professor   Lisa   Gotto,   PhD   is   a   Professor   of   Film   History   and   Film   Analysis   at   the   International  Filmschool  Cologne,  Germany  (ifs).  Since  2001,  she  has  been  lecturing   all  over  the  world,  including  universities  and  film  academies  in  Berkeley,  Los  Angeles,   Munich,  Shanghai  and  Melbourne.  Lisa's  major  research  interests  are  in  film  history   and   film   aesthetics,   media   theory,   game   studies   and   digital   media   culture.   She   has   published   books   and   articles   on   technological   and   cultural   transitions   in   film   history,   on   the   intersections   of   cinema   and   digital   media,   on   popular   culture,   video   clips   and   video  games.  Follow  Lisa  on  Twitter  @lisagottolisa. Ian   Hunter   is   a   music   industry   A&R,   artist   manager,   occasional   novelist,   magazine   writer,  mischief-­‐maker,  and  general  trouble  causer.  After  an  exceptionally  misspent   youth  as  a  touring  musician,  he  moved  into  the  industry  side  of  things  in  the  early   00’s,   working   for   two   of   the   global   major   labels,   as   well   as   numerous   successful   independents.  Now  based  in  Sydney,  he  lectures  at  The  Australian  Institute  of  Music,   and   is   part   of   a   globally   successful   artist   management   team.   Follow   Ian   on   Twitter   @Ianhunterwriter.     Dr  Rebecca  Koss  (Editor)  is  a  full  time  marine  scientist  by  trade  and  part  time  music   lover.   Rebecca   obtained   her   PhD   in   Conservation   and   Environmental   Management   from   Deakin   University   in   2013.   Rebecca   has   over   15   years   experience   in   international   and   national   environmental   policy   development   and   implementation.   When   Rebecca   was   19   she   attended   a   Faith   No   More   show   at   Festival   Hall   in   Melbourne,   little   did   she   know   that   she   would   be   living   with   the   tour   manager   25   years   later.   Rebecca   knows   a   lot   more   about   popular   music   then   most   marine   scientists.  Follow  Rebecca  on  Twitter  @Marinekossy.       Jennifer   Lea   (Cover   artwork)   is   a   Melbourne   based   artist   who   takes   photos   of   the   world  around  her,  draws  dogs,  lectures  at  SAE  Institute  and  makes  music.  Follow  Jen   on  Instagram  @Jenni_confetti.         Ragnhild   Nordset   is   a   Norwegian   songwriter   and   performer   currently   based   in   Liverpool,  UK.  Over  the  last  decade  she  has  been  working  both  within  the  acoustic   and  the  electronic  scene  in  Great  Britain,  leading  and  partaking  in  projects  reaching   from   the   core   of   Liverpool,   to   the   shores   of   Ibiza   and   the   musical   underground   of   New   York.   Additionally,   she   has   been   involved   in   the   UK’s   biggest   festivals,   including   Leeds,  Reading  and  Latitude,  as  operations  coordinator  for  stage  production  on  their   main   stages   handling   productions   for   high   caliber   artists   from   all   over   the   world.   Follow  Ragz  on  Twitter  @Ragznordset.      

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Gareth   Parton   is   a   music   producer,   recording   engineer,   mixer   and   educator   –   an   exiled  Brit  now  living  in  Australia.  He  is  co-­‐owner  of  Melbourne’s  hippest  recording   studio,   ‘Los   Bomberos.’   Gareth’s   discography   spans   20   years   and   boasts   work   with   The   Breeders,   Foals,   The   Go!   Team   and   fellow   Welshman,   Tom   Jones!   He   also   coordinates  the  audio  department  at  SAE  Institute,  Melbourne.  In  his  spare  time  he   sleeps.  Follow  Gareth  on  Twitter  @Garethparton.     Adam   Spellicy   is   a   screenwriter,   filmmaker   and   (occasional)   musician  based   in   Melbourne,   Australia.     In   the   mid-­‐1990s,   after   a   decade   working   as   a   graphic   designer,   copywriter   and   director   at   a   number   of   advertising   agencies,   he  began   directing   music   videos   and   short   films,   which   have   screened   at   a   variety   of   local   and   international   festivals.   Adam   has   more   recently   focused   on   screenwriting   for   features  and  television.  Follow  Adam  on  Twitter  @AdamSpellicy.     David   Turner   is   a   music   producer,   composer,   guitarist   and   educator   based   in   Melbourne,  Australia.  Having  spent  the  past  two  decades  playing  in  bands  in  South   East   Asia,   the   UK   and   Australia,   David   eventually   fell   into   commercial   composition   and  record  production  and  now  works  out  of  his  Los  Bomberos  studio  in  Northcote,   Melbourne   as   well   as   being   Senior   Lecturer   at   the   SAE   Institute   in   audio   production.   David  is  an  active  record  producer  for  independent  and  small  labels  and  has  music   regularly  played  on  the  national  radio  station  JJJ.  A  recent  convert  to  cycling  to  work   he  hopes  to  never  become  a  MAMIL.       Nick   Wilson   has   been   working   in   the   field   of   electronic   music   and   sound   art   for   decades.   He   has   played   in   a   selection   of   obscure   yet   legendary   electronic   music   ensembles,   produced   several   artistically-­‐credible   sound   installations   and   is   Label   Manager  for  Australian  electronic  arts  collective  Clan  Analogue.  The  first  record  he   bought  was  the  Muppet  Movie  soundtrack,  purchased  in  1979,  and  he  acquired  his   first  synthesizer,  a  Casio  CZ1000,  in  the  mid-­‐1980s  with  money  he  earned  working  in   a  bakery  on  Saturday  mornings.  Following  stints  at  RMIT,  JMC  Academy,  Federation   University   and   the   infamous   MWT   Institute,   Nick   now   teaches   at   SAE   Institute   in   Melbourne.  Follow  Nick  on  Twitter  @nickfakeman    

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

Contents       Forward             Introduction             Talk  Is  Cheap  –  Keith  Richards       Earthquake  Weather  –  Joe  Strummer     So  Alone  –  Johnny  Thunders         Tin  Machine  II  –  Tin  Machine         Miss  America  –  Mary  Margaret  O’Hara       Wonderland  –  Erasure         Bright  Phoebus  –  Lal  and  Mike  Waterson     Out  Of  Mind  Out  Of  Sight  –  Models       Homosapien  –  Pete  Shelley         Earth  Vs.  The  Wildhearts  –  The  Wildhearts     Ironing  The  Soul  –  Vinny  Peculiar       Tonight  –  David  Bowie         Chicken  Rhythms  –  Northside         Temple  of  Low  Men  –  Crowded  House     Infamous  Angel  –  Iris  DeMent       Bleach  –  Nirvana           Smiler  –  Rod  Stewart           Sister  Feelings  Call  –  Simple  Minds       Ultravox!  –  Ultravox           Niandra  LaDes  –  John  Frusciante       Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope  –  The  Clash         The  Golden  Echo  –  Kimbra         Harlan  County  –  Jim  Ford         Aerial  –  Kate  Bush           Broken  English  –  Marianne  Faithfull       13  Blues  for  Thirteen  Moons  –  Silver  Mount  Zion   Voodoo  Lounge  –  The  Rolling  Stones       Big  Thing  –  Duran  Duran         This  Is  Big  Audio  Dynamite  –  Big  Audio  Dynamite   Licensed  To  Ill  –  The  Beastie  Boys          

   

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Sara  Hood     Tim  Dalton     Tim  Dalton       Adam  Spellicy       Tim  Dalton     Ian  Dixon     Tim  Dalton     Lisa  Gotto     Tim  Dalton     Nick  Wilson     Tim  Dalton     Ian  Hunter     Tim  Dalton     Ian  Dixon       Tim  Dalton     Broady       Tim  Dalton     David  Turner     Tim  Dalton     Gareth  Parton     Tim  Dalton     Matt  Bangerter   Tim  Dalton     Raghil  Nordset     Tim  Dalton     Ian  Dixon     Tim  Dalton     Mat  Caithness     Tim  Dalton     Nick  Wilson     Tim  Dalton     Tim  Dalton    

7   9   12   20   29   33   39   45   49   53   60   66   70   74   80   86   89   94   99   103   111   116   120   125   129   134   143     149   153     159   167   171  

 

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

Forward   By  Sara  Hood     Last  year  Australia  saw  11,217  new  albums  released,  and  those  are  just  the  ones  that   ARIA  knows  about.  With  the  best  will  in  the  world  they  aren’t  all  going  to  get  oxygen.   But  doesn’t  your  heart  break  when  you  think  of  all  that  love,  sweat  and  tears  that   went  into  each  of  those  records,  knowing  that  most  will  disappear  without  trace?     The   reality   is   that   the   numbers   aren’t   on   your   side.   Not   even   when   you’re   a   Famous   Face.  Every  time  some  punter  decides  to  buy  something,  you  are  fighting  with  odds   of  more  than  11,217  to  one!     And   then   there’s   us   punters.   We   get   side   tracked,   emotional,   irritated,   snobby,   perplexed,   and   distracted.   Back   in   the   day,   my   teenage   sister   sneaked   out   of   the   house  telling  our  parents  she  was  going  to  see  a  Shakespeare  play  and  really  went  to   see  The  Clash.  She  thought  Joe  Strummer  walked  on  water.  So  why  didn’t  she  buy   Earthquake  Weather,  his  solo  album  (Album  Rescue  Series  page  20)?  Too  cross  with   him,  she  said.  He  broke  up  the  band  and  then  released  an  album  she  referred  to  as   Clash  Lite.  She  was  not  going  to  reward  him  by  buying  it  or  even  paying  any  attention   to   it.   Now   with   some   time   to   calm   our   emotions,   Album   Rescue   Series   puts   it   in   context.   Time   (and   Album   Rescue   Series)   has   also   allowed   us   to   learn   the   back-­‐story   and   add   the   poignancy   of   knowing   he   died   too   young.   We   are   more   forgiving   now   than   we   (and   my   sister)   were   at   the   time,   emotions   have   calmed   and   we   can   appreciate  the  album  for  what  it  is.     Similarly,  artists  can  be  ahead  of  their  time  so  we  just  get  perplexed  and  move  on.     Mary   Margaret   O’Hara   anyone   (page   39)?   Or   we   were   just   too   young   to   admit   we   liked  something  that  was  just  not  very  cool,  so  we  put  our  noses  in  the  air  and  let  it   pass  us  by.  Hint:  could  do  with  a  few  of  those  in  Album  Rescue  Series,  please.     Then   there   are   the   albums   that   aren’t   necessarily   great   music,   but   which   provide   insights   into   other   bands.   For   example,   Talk   is   Cheap   from   Keith   Richards   (Album   Rescue   Series,   page   12)   compared   with   Mick   Jagger’s   Primitive   Cool   or   She’s   the   Boss.    Read  the  Album  Rescue  Series  for  Talk  is  Cheap  to  find  out  what  I  mean.  But  at   the  time  you  wanted  an  album  to  listen  to,  not  to  ponder  over,  so  you  passed  it  by.     I   could   witter   on   forever,   but   you   get   the   point.   Album   Rescue   Series   is   one   of   those   ideas   that   is   so   obvious   with   hindsight   that   you   wonder   why   it’s   not   everywhere.   It’s    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   a  book  you  can  disappear  into  for  hours  and  come  up  filled  with  joy  albeit  shocked  to   realise  you  just  lost  three  days  of  your  life.  Most  importantly,  it  gives  some  of  that   lost  and  almost  forgotten  music  a  second  chance  for  glory.     So  it’s  with  great  pleasure  that  I  launch  this  ship  Album  Rescue  Series.  Read,  enjoy,   dig  out  some  of  your  old  recordings,  re-­‐live,  re-­‐consider  and  go  to  the  website  for  all   the  other  Rescues  that  couldn’t  make  it  into  this  book.    Oh!    And  check  out  your  local   record   store   to   fill   the   gaps   in   your   music   collection.   Once   you’ve   read   this   book   you   will  have  gaps!     Happy  listening.     Sara  Hood   Mad  Bat  in  Charge,  Record  Store  Day  Australia     PS.    Must  add  that  I’m  also  finding  some  of  the  albums  that  apparently  need  rescuing   a  bit  of  a  surprise.    A  case  in  point:  I  adored  Erasure’s  Wonderland.  I  thought  it  was   brilliant.  Quite  frankly,  I  was  too  busy  playing  it  to  notice  it  was  a  flop.  So  let’s  not   forget   that   one   man’s   flop   is   another   man’s   strawberries   with   whipped   cream   on   top.     PPS.     Thanks   to   Tim   Dalton   for   inviting   me   to   write   this   foreword.   Tim   and   I   have   worked   together   for   a   couple   of   years   as   he   kindly   donates   his   time   to   be   an   ambassador  for  Record  Store  Day  Australia,  which  is  much  appreciated.    

 

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

An  Introduction   By  Tim  Dalton     This   Album   Rescue   Series   book   (Volume   1)   almost   didn’t   exist   until   the   concept   morphed  out  of  a  series  of  unconnected  events.  I  am  very  happy  that  this  book  does   exist.  The  albums  that  this  book  rescues  are  all  fantastic  pieces  of  music  and  every   single  one  of  them  is  worthy  of  being  rescued.       To  understand  how  this  book  came  about  you  need  some  context.  Upon  starting  a   new  teaching  post  in  February  2015,  I  was  asked  if  I  wouldn’t  mind  keeping  a  weekly   blog,  which  would  serve  as  a  good  example  to  the  students  that  I’d  be  teaching  over   the  coming  months.  Blogs  are  great;  I’ve  always  been  a  fan  of  this  form  of  ritualistic   reflective   practice.   Any   basic   teaching   manual   will   confirm   that   reflection   is   an   important   prerequisite   to   creating   meaning   of   new   information,   and   to   advance   from   surface   to   deep   learning.  As   an   educator   with   almost   20   years   teaching   experience   within   the   subject   area   of   popular   music   and   critical   thinking,   I   always   tried   to   lead   by   example.   Often   with   undergraduate   students,   I’ve   found   that   they   struggle  to  contextualise  music  and  often  can’t  progress  beyond,  “I  like  that”,  or,  “I   don’t   like   that”.   Much   of   my   contact   time   with   students   is   spent   coaching   them   in   how  to  speak  about  music.  When  pushed  further,  students  can  rarely  articulate  what   makes  a  piece  of  music,  or  any  piece  of  art,  good  or  bad.  Almost  exclusively  this  is  a   case   of   aesthetics   and   cultural   appropriation.   I   am   quite   often   confronted   by   students,   and   in   some   cases   academics,   who   say   things   like,   “I   really   hate   (insert   name  of  band  or  genre)”.  Why  do  critics  and  scholars  universally  revile  some  popular   musical  forms  and  performers,  despite  these  artists  and  genres  enjoying  large,  scale   popularity?  It's   a   difficult   question   and   one   we   try,   in   part,   to   answer   with   this   book.   I  am  also  intrigued  in  how  the  notion  of  what  constitutes  ‘good’  or  ‘bad’  music  has   changed  over  the  years.  This  interest  was  fuelled  further  when  I  read  Bad  Music:  The   Music   We   Love   To   Hate   (Washburne   &   Derno   2004)   which   helped   kick   start   the   Album  Rescue  Series  project.  Many  albums  made  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  that  the   critics  hated  are  now  often  cited  as  “inspirational”  by  current  artists.     Since  I  left  school  at  the  age  of  16  in  the  late  summer  of  1979,  I  have  worked  in  the   music  industry  in  a  variety  of  roles.  During  this  time  I’ve  found  myself  working  at  a   number   of   trans   global   major   record   companies.   At   these   organisations   we   only   had   one   metric   of   what   constituted   a   ‘good’   record   and   that   was   sales.   Anything   that   shifts  mega  ‘units’  are  fantastic  albums,  anything  that  doesn’t  is  a  ‘bad’  album.  One   particular  un-­‐musical  fabricated  ‘band’  that  I  worked  with  sold  millions  of  records  in    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   the  early  2000’s.  The  record  company  considered  this  a  huge  success  while  my  peers   poked   fun   at   me   for   producing   such   disposable   pap.   In   contrast,   I’ve   produced   records   that   I’m   immensely   proud   but   sold   next   to   nothing.   The   record   companies   wrote  these  off  as  appalling  albums.  I’ve  always  thought  that  this  was  a  particularly   financially  deterministic  and  crash  metric  to  judge  a  piece  of  music  and  it  doesn’t  tell   the   whole   story.   Commerciality   and   creativity   never   sit   well   together   and   this   is   especially  true  in  popular  music.       Album   Rescue   Series   is   about   saving   the   albums   that   we   subjectively   love   but   others   may  not  love.  One  exercise  I  love  undertaking  with  new  undergraduate  students  is,   “why   we   like/dislike   music”.   It   involves   finding   the   language   to   speak   about   music   without   defaulting   to   the   like/don’t   like   mode.   This   is   normally   divided   into   two   parts;   the   textual,   the   ‘stuff’   that's   actually   in   the   music   such   as   lyrics,   harmony,   rhythm,   melody,   etc.   and   the   contextual,   ‘stuff’   like   fashion,   band   biography,   subculture,   etc.   This   is   normally   a   great   starting   point   to   understanding   a   piece   of   music’s   form   and   function.   Album   Rescue   Series   grew   out   of   this   activity,   and   combined  with  my  blog,  provided  a  great  tool  in  contextualising  why  I  love  certain   albums.     This  publication  is  not  strictly  an  academic,  scholarly  piece  of  work  in  the  traditional   sense;   it’s   more   an   articulation   of   passion.   As   I   wrote   my   weekly   blogs   about   the   albums   that   I   rescued,   many   of   my   colleagues   took   an   active   interest   and   started   making  suggestions  about  albums  that  they  would  like  to  see  rescued  next.  I  often   replied   to   these   comments   with,   “write   your   own   album   rescue”,   and   much   to   my   surprise   they   did.   This   is   how   this   book   came   about.   Eventually   I   produced   some   author  notes  as  guidance  that  went  thus:  -­‐       “Central  to  the  Album  Rescue  Series  is  just  to  have  some  fun.  Enjoy  yourself  and  write   about   an   album   that   is   personal   to   you.   This   is   not   academic   writing   so   it   can   be   personal   and   opinionated.   The   following   points   are   designed   to   provide   some   helpful   guidance.     1. Find   an   album   that   fell   through   the   cracks   e.g.   when   it   was   released   the   reviewers  or  the  general  public  did  not  engage  with  it.  This  should  be  an   album  that  you  love  or  appreciate.   2. Rescue  it.  We  don't  care  what  metrics  you  use  to  do  this;  it’s  totally  up  to   you  but  be  clear  in  your  piece  how  you  are  measuring  this  album’s  worth.     3. The  only  ‘must’  is  that  this  album  can’t  be  a  multi  million  seller.  You  can   only   rescue   an   album   that   is   broken.   The   reason   being   is   that   the   only   metric  that  record  companies  use  to  measure  success  is  sales.     4. We   are   rescuing   these   albums   because   of   their   musicianship,   writing,   10    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

5.

production,  lyrics,  contents  or  are  of  their  time,  etc.     Entries  need  to  be  between  1,500  to  2,000  words  in  length.”  

  I  am  so  pleased  with  the  breadth,  depth  and  eclecticism  of  the  responses  provided   by  my  colleagues.  All  the  contributors  have  gone  above  and  beyond  the  original  brief   and  I  am  immensely  proud  of  their  efforts.  This  book  has  been  a  real  labour  of  love;  a   true   passion   project   and   I   hope   that   you   enjoy   reading   it   as   much   as   we   all   did   writing  it.  There  are  some  fabulous  albums  rescued  in  this  book  and  I  suggest  that   when   you   have   finished   reading   you   go   out,   preferably   to   an   independent   music   shop,  and  buy  some  or  all  of  these  albums.        

Tim Dalton

 

Hampton,  Victoria  2015    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Talk  Is  Cheap’  Keith  Richards By  Tim  Dalton It’s  an  interesting  process  writing  these  Album  Rescue  Series  (ARS)  entries  as  no  two   are  ever  selected,  researched  or  written  the  same  way.  Finding  a  piece  of  music  to   rescue   is   relatively   easy;   you   simply   find   an   album   that   you   like,   but   the   general   public   or   the   critics   hated,   and   then   rescue   it   by   whatever   metrics   you   deem   appropriate.  In  fact  a  good  proportion  of  the  11,000  plus  albums  that  I  own  fit  into   the  bracket  of  awkward,  unloved,  misunderstood,  didn’t  sell  or  are  simply  bizarre,  so   by  default  they  are  all  suitable  for  an  album  rescue.  To  completely  misquote  German   philosopher  Martin  Hiedegger,  “Music  speaks  us,  we  do  not  speak  music”.  This  holds   true  to  every  single  piece  of  music  that  I’ve  ever  purchased  over  the  years.  My  music   collection   tells   you   more   about   the   type   of   person   that   I   am,   and   my   conscience   state  when  I  bought  an  album,  then  I  or  my  psychiatrist  ever  could,  even  more  so  if   you  place  these  purchases  in  chronological  order.  The  whole  of  Nick  Hornby’s  (1995)   baby   boomer   book   High   Fidelity   taps   into   the   notion   of   music   defining   us   and   our   life’s  journey.   The   first   step   in   my   album   rescue   process   is   to   look   through   my   CD   collection   and   ‘audition’  various  albums.  Once  a  suitable  album  has  been  sourced  the  next  step  is   to   play   it   continuously   whilst   researching.   The   locating   and   auditioning   of   Keith   Richards’  1988  first  solo  album  Talk  Is  Cheap  was  a  really  easy  choice,  the  research   less   so.   As   an   avid   reader,   my   primary   research   is   normally   whatever   books   I   can   lay   my  hands  on.  When  Keith  Richards’  released  his  autobiography  Life  in  2011,  I  bought   it  immediately  and  read  all  630  plus  pages  in  a  matter  of  days.  For  this  Album  Rescue   Series,  I  thought  a  good  starting  point  would  be  to  re-­‐visit  this  book,  which  I  really   enjoyed  during  the  original  read.  It  was  with  some  disappointment  when  I  checked   in  the  index  to  find  that  only  three  pages  (529  to  532)  are  dedicated  to  this  album.   Considering  the  number  pages  that  are  given  over  to  Richards’  Rolling  Stones  albums   and   his   second   1992   solo   album   Main   Offender,   it   would   appear   that   Richards   himself   would   be   grateful   for   this   album   rescue   too.   Released   in   October   1988   on   Virgin  Records,  Talk  Is  Cheap  received  a  reasonably  receptive  critical  reaction;  many   reviewers   half-­‐jokingly   called   it   the   best   Rolling   Stones   album   in   years.   Sales   could   have   been   better   as   it   never   sold   anywhere   near   the   numbers   that   would   make   Richard’s  record  company  claim  it  to  be  anything  close  to  a  success.   The   Rolling   Stones   are   huge.   In   astronomical   terms   they   are   equivalent   to   the   sun   and  they  sit  at  the  absolute  centre  of  the  rock  ‘n’  roll  solar  system.  The  sun  with  its   dominant  mass  exerts  the  greatest  gravitational  force  in  the  solar  system  and  holds    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   all   other   objects   in   orbit   and   governs   their   motion.   The   Rolling   Stones   universal   gravitational   pull   exerts   an   inescapable   force   over   all   objects   within   their   gravitational   field,   e.g.   Mick   Taylor,   Marianne   Faithful,   Brian   Jones,   Andrew   Loog-­‐ Oldham,  Alan  Klein,  the  list  is  extensive.  This  makes  a  truly  objective  analysis  of  Keith   Richards’   solo   work   virtually   impossible.   When   Rolling   Stones   manager   Andrew   Loog   Oldham   fired   musical   genius   and   original   founding   member   Brian   Jones   from   the   band   in   1969,   the   creative   engine   of   the   band   defaulted   to   Mick   Jagger   and   Keith   Richards.  This  event  was  a  major  contributor  to  the  establishment  of  the  institution   that   would   become   ‘The   Glimmer   Twins’.   Jagger   and   Richards   have   worked   together   since   they   first   formed   the   band   over   50   years   ago   in   1962.   Anyone   who   has   ever   wondered   what   Richards’   contribution   to   the   considerable   output   of   The   Rolling   Stones  could  undertake  some  objective  and  scientific  research.   Atomic   theory   supports   the   belief   that   all   matter   is   composed   of   tiny,   indivisible   elements.   This   theory   has   very   deep   historical   roots,   initially   appearing   thousands   of   years   ago   in   Greek   and   Indian   texts   as   a   philosophical   idea.   However,   it   was   not   embraced   scientifically   until   the   19th   century,   when   an   evidence-­‐based   approach   began   to   reveal   what   the   atomic   model   looked   like.   It   was   at   this   time   that   John   Dalton  (no  relation),  an  English  chemist,  meteorologist  and  physicist,  began  a  series   of   experiments,   which   would   culminate   in   him   proposing   the   theory   of   atomic   compositions.   Thereafter   it   would   be   known   as   Dalton’s   Atomic   Theory   and   would   become  one  of  the  cornerstones  of  modern  physics  and  chemistry.  Dalton  came  up   with  this  theory  as  a  result  of  his  research  into  gases.  In  the  course  of  this  research,   Dalton  discovered  that  certain  gases  could  only  be  combined  in  certain  proportions,   even   if   two   different   compounds   shared   the   same   common   element   or   group   of   elements.   So   for   this   album   rescue   I   am   going   to   be   donning   a   white   lab   coat,   safety   goggles,   latex   gloves   and   undertaking   some   subjective,   scientific   subtractive   and   combinational   analysis,   something   that   I’m   sure   Professor   John   Dalton   would   be   proud  of.   Only  a  fool  would  dispute  that  Keith  Richards  is  one  of  the  most  prolific  riff  creators   in   rock   history;   ‘Start   Me   Up’,   ‘Midnight   Rambler’,   ‘Satisfaction’,   ‘Beast   of   Burden’,   ‘Brown  Sugar’,  ‘Honky  Tonk  Women’,  ‘Paint  It  Black’,  the  list  goes  on.  Every  one  of   these  classic  Rolling  Stone’s  songs,  and  virtually  everything  the  band  have  recorded,   is   built   upon   Richards’   initial   guitar   riff   foundation.   What   we   are   trying   to   deduce   here   is   what   other   attributes   does   Richards   contribute   to   The   Rolling   Stones?   Talk   Is   Cheap   is   a   vital   piece   of   evidence   that   can   help   solve   this   question.   Richards’   playing   style  is  more  conspicuous  without  the  presence  of  Mick  Jagger,  whose  larger-­‐than-­‐ life   personality   can   often   overshadow   other   aspects   of   Richards’   musical   contribution.  My  hypothesis  here  is  that  Richards  is  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  world’s    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   greatest  rock  ‘n’  roll  band  while  Jagger  merely  provides  the  show  biz  chutzpah.  My   first  scientific  step  in  addressing  this  hypothesis  is  to  identify  what  The  Rolling  Stones   might  sound  like  without  Richards.  Here,  I  suggest  listening  to  Mick  Jagger's  second   1987  solo  album  Primitive  Cool  but  only  in  the  name  of  scientific  research  because   it’s  an  absolute  disgrace;  weak  writing,  poor  musicianship,  hideously  overproduced   and   coated   in   the   worst   production   excesses   of   the   era.   If   you   think   this   second   album   is   bad   then   you   definitely   won’t   want   to   listen   to   Jagger’s   first   1985   solo   album   She’s   The   Boss.   Both   albums   are   beyond   rescuing   and   would   benefit   from   euthanasia.   By   1993,   Jagger   starts   to   get   the   hand   of   solo   albums   with   Wandering   Spirit,  which  was  a  fabulous  solo  record,  largely  because  of  the  superb  production  by   audio  alchemist  Rick  Rubin.  Rubin  understood  Richards’  contributions  so  he  went  out   and  found  a  Keith  Richards  clone  to  fill  the  void. Simply  examining  Mick  Jagger’s  solo  recording  isn’t  going  to  provide  the  full  answer   to   the   hypothesis,   so   here   we   apply   some   sub-­‐atomic   theory.   The   Rolling   Stones   recorded  their  18th  studio  album  Dirty  Work  in  1985  with  producer  Steve  Lilleywhite.   Most  people  agree  it's  a  great  album  even  if  it  is  an  album  born  out  of  the  fracturing   of   the   Glimmer   Twins   relationship.   Everyone   in   The   Rolling   Stones,   and   the   press,   assumed  that  the  band  would  tour  in  1986  to  support  Dirty  Work,  but  Jagger  had  a   completely  different  agenda.  Stones  drummer  Charlie  Watts  claimed  that  Jagger  had   folded   up   twenty-­‐five   years   of   history   and   turned   his   back   on   the   band   once   recording   was   complete.   Richards’,   the   ardent   traditionalist,   and   Jagger,   the   trend   jumping   shape   shifter,   were   no   longer   living   together   in   perfect   harmony.   In   his   autobiography  Life  (2011:  p.527),  Richards’  claims  that  Jagger’s  priority  in  touring  to   support  Primitive  Cool  was  deliberately  designed  to  close  down  The  Rolling  Stones.   By   1987   things   were   looking   rocky   for   the   Stones   and   there   was   the   distinct   possibility  that  the  end  of  the  band  was  imminent.  The  Rolling  Stones  didn’t  tour  at   all  from  1982  to  1989  or  venture  into  the  studio  together  from  1985  to  1989.     Mick   and   Keith   are   well   known   for   their   public   disagreements,   but   things   got   very   nasty  when  Jagger  decided  to  tour  in  support  of  his  second  solo  album,  rather  than   Stone’s  album.  It  signalled  to  many  a  change  in  Jagger’s  priorities  from  the  band  to   his   solo   work.   Maybe   Jagger   had   started   to   believe   his   own   hype   and   honestly   believed  he  was  The  Rolling  Stones?    Or  was  he  simply  fed  up  of  running  what  was  in   effect  an  international  global  brand  and  being  the  sole  creative,  due  to  Keith’s  self-­‐ enforced  drug  absence,  within  the  enterprise?  According  to  Richards’  (2011:  p.520),   Jagger  sent  letters  out  to  the  band  informing  them  of  his  decision.  Whatever  Jagger’s   reason  he  was  perfectly  entitled  to  do  as  he  pleased  because  he’d  already  invested  a   quarter   of   a   century’s   work   into   the   band.   Richards   was   disheartened   and   finally   succumbed  to  the  idea  of  recording  without  The  Rolling  Stones.  I’ve  never  met  Keith    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Richards  but  from  what  I’ve  read,  he’s  a  pretty  laid  back  cat  and  things  have  to  be  at   the  extreme  end  of  the  dial  before  he  takes  any  action.     According  to  Richards’  autobiography  Life  (2011),  Jagger  has  been  unbearable  for  the   last  30  years.  He  also  described  his  love-­‐hate  relationship  with  Jagger  as  being,  "like   a   marriage   with   no   divorce"   (2011:   p.461).   Richards   reacted   very   badly   to   the   departure  of  his  soul  mate  ‘Glimmer  Twin’  partner  and  it’s  likely  he  was  fearful  of  his   own   enforced   creative   solo   future.   Richard’s   vented   his   anger   in   the   press   calling   Jagger,   “Disco   boy,   Jagger’s   little   Jerk   Off   Band,   why   doesn’t   he   join   Aerosmith?”   (2011:  p.527).  Richards’  even  threatened  to  “slit  his    (Jagger’s)  fuckin’  throat”  in  one   press  interview  (ibid).     Richards  was  confronted  with  a  huge  problem,  which  was  largely  solved,  via  Occam’s   Razor   or   the   Law   of   Parsimony.   This   theory   dating   from   the   Middle   Ages,   states   that   among   competing   hypotheses   that   predict   equally   well,   the   one   with   the   fewest   assumptions   should   be   selected.   At   the   age   of   44,   Richards   could   have   taken   the   easy   route,   the   route   of   least   resistance   and   simply   retired,   he   certainly   was   financially   capable.   Just   after   Richards   kicked   his   heroin   habit   in   1978,   The   Rolling   Stones  released  their  greatest  album  Some  Girls.  Music  had  again  become  RIchards’   raison  d’être.  It  was  at  this  point  that  Richards  became  determined  to  make  music   even   without   Mick   Jagger,   although   not   entirely   on   his   own.   It’s   ironic   that   when   Richards   quits   the   smack   in   favor   of   music,   his   long-­‐term   musical   partner   simply   fucks  off.   Talk   is   Cheap   might   be   billed   as   a   solo   album   but   Richards   had   some   grade   A1   premiership  collaborators.  The  core  band  comprises  of  Waddy  Wachtel  (guitar),  Ivan   Neville   (piano/keyboards),   Charley   Drayton   (bass)   and   Steve   Jordan   (drums/producer)  and  became  known,  semi-­‐jokingly,  as  the  X-­‐Pensive  Winos.  There   are  also  numerous  guest  artists  taking  part,  including  Sarah  Dash  who  provides  the   superbly  appropriate  duet  vocals  on  ‘Make  No  Mistake’,  bass  virtuoso  Bootsy  Collins,   saxophonist   Maceo   Parker,   Bernie   Worrell   on   organ   and   Mrs.   Bruce   Springsteen,   Patti  Scialfa,  provides  some  superb  vocals.  Rolling  Stones’  contributors  include:  The   Memphis  Horns,  sax  player  Bobby  Keys  in  all  his  Texan  finery  and  ex-­‐Stones,  guitarist   Mick  Taylor.  This  band  was  originally  assembled  by  Richards  to  back  up  blues  veteran   Chuck  Berry  for  the  not  entirely  successful  Hail!  Hail!  Rock  'n'  Roll  documentary  and   concert.       Drummer   Steve   Jordan   becomes   a   surrogate   Glimmer   Twin   and   key   collaborator   when  he  takes  on  joint  production  and  song  writing  duties  with  Richards.  Between   the   two   of   them   they   put   together   a   musically   simple   and   straightforward   album.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Where  this  album  excels  is  in  the  top  notch  playing,  as  you  would  expect  from  such  a   stunning   band   of   musicians.   Sonically   this   album   is   superb   as   it   hails   from   a   time   when   big   production   budgets   resulted   in   access   to   the   world’s   greatest   recording   studios.    The   tracks   ‘Take   It   So   Hard’   (2),   ‘Struggle’   (3)   and   ‘Whip   It   Up’   (9)   are   riff   perfect   Richards’   classics.   Track   ten,   ‘Locked   Away’   is   emotionally   intelligent   without   being  maudlin  and  worldly  while  sounding  adult  and  contemporary.  The  main  point   of   Talk   Is   Cheap   is   the   music,   nothing   more;   Richards   obviously   didn't   want   to   fret   about   anything   but   the   groove.   While   Jagger's   solo   work   sounded   like   Mick   with   some   studio   musicians,   Richards   had   assembled   a   band,   found   a   productive   song   writing  partner  and  surrogate  ‘Glimmer  Twin’  in  Steve  Jordan,  and  created  a  record   that  was  free  of  frills.  This  is  an  album  of  free  expression  and  enjoyment;  Richards   sounds   like   he’s   playing   for   himself,   having   a   ball   and   loving   every   moment   of   it.   Because   the   X-­‐pensive   Winos   are   hand   picked   by   Richards,   they   have   a   different   work   ethic   from   the   Stones,   which   forces   Richards   to   focus   on   the   music.   What   resulted  was  a  solid  album  built  on  fundamentals  rather  than  style.  The  brilliance  of   Keith  Richards  is  his  ability  to  serve  the  song,  and  the  band,  with  his  playing.  Richards   is   an   expert   collaborator   with   a   simplistic   but   unique   tone,   a   fabulous   sense   of   rhythm,   an   uncanny   ability   to   turn   the   beat   around   and   the   proficiency   to   move   around  inside  the  structure  of  the  song  with  those  signature  soulful  riffs.  Richards’   guitar  playing  is  not  fancy  or  lightning  fast  with  impressive  technique,  but  it  doesn’t   need   to   be   because   he’s   got   Waddy   Wachtel   for   that.   It’s   all   about   those   simple   glorious  infectious  grooves  and  some  basic  but  timeless  song  writing.   Richards   and   Bob   Dylan   would   appear   to   agree   on   the   fact   that   you   know   when   you   have  a  great  song  because  you  can  strip  away  all  the  production  and  play  it  with  an   acoustic   guitar   and   a   voice.   Dylan   describes   this   as   “a   song   is   anything   that   can   walk   by  itself”  (Heylin,  2010),  a  song  that  is  strong  enough  to  get  up  and  walk  around  on   its  own.  All  the  songs  on  Talk  Is  Cheap  have  legs,  in  fact,  the  songs  are  so  good  they   can   do   star   jumps.   This   album   shouldn’t   come   as   a   shock   because   Richards   had   served   notice   on   the   1978   Stones   album   Some   Girls   with   his   solo   written   track   ‘Before   They   Make   Me   Run’.   Richards   was   busted   for   heroin   in   February   1977   at   Toronto  airport  and  the  criminal  charges  and  prospect  of  a  prison  sentence  loomed   over   the  Some   Girls  recording   sessions   and   endangered   the   future   of   The   Rolling   Stones.  It  would  appear  that  Richards  is  reactive  and  not  pro-­‐active  to  situations  as   the   recording   of   this   track   demonstrates.   According   to   Elliot   Martin’s   book   The   Rolling   Stones:   Complete   Recording   Sessions   (2002:   p.263),   Richards   recorded   this   song   in   five   days   without   sleeping.   Originally   entitled   ‘Rotten   Roll’,   the   song   was   recorded   in   Paris  at   the   Pathé   Marconi   studio   in   March   1978   during   one   of  Mick   Jagger's   prolonged   absences   from   the  Some   Girls  recording   sessions.   That's   not   to  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   say   that   Jagger   didn’t   have   a   right   not   to   be   present,   he’d   carried   the   band,   and   Richards,  single-­‐handed  for  the  last  decade.     Talk  Is  Cheap,  returned  Richards’  musical  focus  and  for  the  first  time  in  a  decade  put   him  back  in  the  position  of  playing  what  he  wanted  to  play  and  not  what  the  crowd   expected   to   hear.   This   is   a   luxury   that   most   musicians   don’t   have   and   Richards’   millionaire  international  rock  star  status  is  one  reason  he  could  make  such  a  unique   and  engaging  piece  of  work.  Talk  Is  Cheap  is  definitely  not  a  period  Stones  album,  it   isn’t   the   Stones   at   all,   but   is   an   expression   of   Richards’   fondness   for   traditional   rockabilly,   soul   and   at   times   hints   of   funk.   Surprisingly,   there   is   not   a   whole   lot   of   blues  in  it  explicitly,  but  it  does  lurk  in  the  background.  I  guess  the  blues  are  saved   for   Rolling   Stones   albums?   Track   seven,   ‘How   I   Miss   You’,   is   as   close   to   a   Rolling   Stones  simulacrum  as  it’s  possible  to  get.  A  rocker  of  a  song  with  a  deep  heart  felt   cry   out   to   long   lost   friend   such   as   Anita   Pallenberg,   Gram   Parson   or   even   Mick   Jagger?    Richards  and  his  co-­‐songwriter  and  producer,  Steve  Jordan,  put  together  a   collection   of   songs   that   display   all   these   loves   of   Richards   in   an   honest,   straightforward  and  simple  way.  Talk  Is  Cheap  is  an  island  of  simple  solid  rock  ‘n’  roll   granite  in  a  featureless  shallow  sea  of  late  1980’s  post  modern  glitter;  to  my  ears  this   album  sounds  even  better  today  than  it  did  back  then.   If  I  were  to  pick  one  track  from  this  album  to  serve  as  an  indicative  example  of  the   whole  album  it  would  have  be  track  two  ‘Take  It  So  Hard’.  It  starts  with  the  hallmark   Richards’  rough-­‐n-­‐ready  riff  that  clearly  signals  that  he  has  reclaimed  his  mojo,  which   had  been  begrudgingly  on  loan  to  Jagger  through  most  of  the  70s  and  80s.  The  loose   but  very  attuned  X-­‐pensive  Winos  jump  in  with  a  hard-­‐driving  groove  and  Richards   sings  the  tune  with  all  of  Jagger’s  swagger  and  sneering  attitude,  even  if  he  doesn’t   quite  have  Jagger’s  flair.  Moreover,  there  are  enough  ad-­‐libs  in  this  track  to  tell  you   he’s   definitely   having   fun.   Waddy   Watchel’s   guitar   solo   in   the   break   is   a   leitmotif   originally   authored   a   couple   of   decades   earlier   by   Richards,   but   Watchel   reappropriates   and   reinvents   it   here   in   this   album.   Naturally   this   solo   fits   a   Keith   Richards’  song  perfectly.  All  the  tracks  on  this  album  are  simple  and  I  don’t  mean  this   as  a  criticism.  Upon  its  release  many  critics  claimed  the  simple  attributes  of  Talk  Is   Cheap   were   its   main   problem,   because   simple   attributes,   no   matter   how   well   mastered,  always  remain  simple.  This  criticism  completely  misses  the  point.     This   album   needs   rescuing   because   simple   is   always   good,   simple   works,   simple   is   agile,  simple  is  clever,  simple  is  confidence,  simple  focuses  the  mind  and  simple  lets   you   see   the   wood   without   the   trees   in   the   way.   Simple   is   not   a   criticism,   simple   is   about   doing   one   small   thing   incredibly   well,   Richards’   style,   as   opposed   to   doing   lots   of   things   not   so   well,   for   example,   Jagger   style.   This   album   displays   a   simple   but    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   expert   mastery   over   the   music   that   Richards   loves   to   play,   a   mastery   which   he   displays   on   his   second   solo   album   Main   Offender   (1992)   but   which   is   not   fully   displayed   on   any   Rolling   Stones   records.   As   19th   century   French   writer   Stendhal   wrote  in  his  1830  work  Le  Rouge  et  le  Noir  (The  Red  and  Black),  “Only  great  minds   can  afford  a  simple  style”.  Evidence  of  how  simple  Richards’  likes  to  make  it  can  be   seen   in   his   guitar   choice.   Six   strings   is   one   too   many,   five   strings   work   great   especially   with   open   G   tuning.   Richards’   prominent   guitar   of   choice   over   the   years   has  been  a  Fender  Telecaster.  This  guitar  is  all  about  being  a  tradesman  and  coming   to   a   job   tooled   up.   Telecasters   aren’t   about   flash   or   showing   off;   they   are   about   getting   the   job   done.   Look   at   other   well-­‐known   Telecaster   players:   Bruce   Springsteen,  Joe  Strummer,  George  Harrison,  Syd  Barret  or  Graham  Coxon  and  you’ll   see   my   point.   Keith   Richards’   Talk   Is   Cheap   is   definitely   the   greatest   Fender   Telecaster  record  ever  made.   Talk   Is   Cheap   is   a   wonderful   album   because   it   features   for   the   first   time   Richards'   second   instrument,   his   voice.   With   this   second   instrument,   Richards   wonderfully   expresses   his   experiences,   while   his   first   instrument,   the   guitar,   so   wonderfully   expresses  his  endurance.  His  voice  is  unique,  most  people  hate  it,  a  few  love  it  and  as   he   rightly   states   (2011:   p.534),   “Pavarotti   it   ain’t,   but   then   I   don’t   like   Pavarotti’s   voice”.  For  the  first  time  Richards  is  writing  material  that  he  wants  to  write  and  not   in  collaboration  with  Jagger  and  for  a  different  audience.  Richards’  is  not  prolific  in   his  solo  output;  he  barely  averages  a  solo  album  every  17.5  years.  As  George  Bernard   Shaw  once  said,  “I’m  sorry  this  letter  is  so  long,  I  didn’t  have  time  to  make  it  shorter”.     To   return   to   my   original   hypothesis,   this   analysis   has   proven   that   as   a   primary   component  of  The  Rolling  Stones,  Richards  is  the  engine  driver  and  without  him  the   machine  does  not  move.  During  Richards’  heroin  sabbatical  (which  could  have  been   one  of  his  productive  periods),  Jagger  carried  him,  as  any  good  partner  should,  until   Richards  was  well  enough  to  work  again.  In  many  ways  Jagger’s  semi-­‐selfish  actions   of   concentrating   on   his   solo   work   pushed   a   refocused   Richards   into   making   Talk   Is   Cheap.   Mick   Jagger   broke   from   The   Rolling   Stones   to   try   and   be   a   rock   star   and   largely   failed   while   Richards   was   pushed   into   making   a   record   he   never   wanted   to   make.  Neither  Jagger  nor  Richards  sold  anywhere  near  the  amount  of  solo  records  as   they   expected   to,   but   that's   not   the   point.   Jagger   explored   the   territory   solo   and   came   back   to   The   Rolling   Stones   to   re-­‐identify   himself.   Richard’s   was   forced   out   begrudgingly  to  explore  solo  territory  as  a  junkie  joke  and  came  back  as  a  credible   musician.  Whatever  the  circumstance  I  am  very  pleased  that  Richards  made  Talk  Is   Cheap   and   I   believe   that   it   is   a   significant   piece   of   work   that   is   well   and   truly   worthy   of   an   Album   Rescue.   Without   Talk   Is   Cheap,   The   Rolling   Stones   would   have  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   disappeared   into   the   “where   are   they   now”   file.   How   could   any   Keith   Richards’   record  possibly  be  better?  How  could  any  Keith  Richards’  record  ever  be  worse?   References Fox,  J  2011,  Life,  Orion  Books.  Weidenfeld  &  Nicolson,  UK.   Heylin,  C  2010,  Revolution  in  the  air:  The  songs  of  Bob  Dylan,  1957-­‐1973.  Constable   &  Robinson  Ltd,  UK.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Earthquake  Weather’  Joe  Strummer   By  Adam  Spellicy   THE  FUTURE  IS  REWRITTEN     In   the   traditional   rock   ’n’   roll   playbook   there   is   a   post-­‐band-­‐breakup   ritual   to   be   observed:   after   an   appropriate   grieving   period   the   former   members,   having   gone   their   separate   ways,   set   about   recording   and   releasing   solo   albums.   Songs   that   were   once  torpedoed,  vetoed,  or  simply  failed  to  pass  muster  finally  see  the  light  of  day,   at  last  immune  to  internecine  wrangling.     Mick   Jones   took   this   well-­‐trodden   path   after   Joe   Strummer   fired   him   from   The   Clash   via  public  communiqué  in  1983.  The  following  year  he  formed  Big  Audio  Dynamite,   whose   mix   of   punk,   electro   pop,   sampling,   hip   hop,   dub   reggae   and   funk   was   an   organic  update  of  The  Clash’s  genre  explorations.  For  the  next  10  years,  B.A.D.  would   enjoy  reasonable  success.  The  hastily  reconstituted  Clash  Mark  II,  on  the  other  hand,   only  managed  to  launch  one  final  misguided  salvo  before  skulking  off  to  die:  1985’s   Cut   The   Crap   -­‐   which,   for   all   the   opprobrium   heaped   upon   it,   does   boast   the   epic,   defeatist  state-­‐of-­‐the-­‐nation  address  This  Is  England.       Joe   Strummer’s   subsequent   solo   career,   in   marked   contrast   to   that   of   former   bandmate  and  songwriting  partner  Jones,  presented  as  a  classic  case  of  Wilderness   Years.   He   went   off   the   reservation,   sporadically   popping   his   head   above   the   parapet   before   promptly   vanishing   again.   Unless   one   was   a   keen   eyed   aficionado   of   late   1980s   independent   film,   it   was   a   pretty   effective   disappearing   act   motivated   by   Strummer’s  state  of  mind  following  the  implosion  of  The  Clash.   Having   reached   the   summit   of   rock   stardom,   Strummer   found   himself   isolated   and   riven  with  remorse.  In  his  relentless  pursuit  of  fame  he  had  severed  many  significant   human   bonds,   becoming   the   very   thing   he   had   once   decried.   In   his   own   prophetic   words:     “What’s  the  point  in  being  one  of  the  few?  There’s  nothing  there.  You   can  get  all  the  Rolls  Royces,  all  the  country  houses,  all  the  servants,   all  the  dope  -­‐  and  there’s  nothing  at  the  end  of  that  road…  no  human   life  or  nothing.”  Joe  Strummer,  Rude  Boy  (1980)     Strummer’s   ensuing   period   of   itinerant   soul-­‐searching   was   contextualised   within   a   redemptive   narrative   arc   by   Julien   Temple,   in   his   2007   documentary,   The   Future   Is   20    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Unwritten.  At  the  end  of  Temple’s  film,  Strummer  devotes  himself  to  rekindling  the   spark   of   camaraderie   with   those   he   had   once   spurned,   around   the   flames   of   his   legendary  Glastonbury  Festival  campfires.     But   back   to   the   mid-­‐1980s,   before   such   reparations   had   been   made.   Whether   consciously   or   not,   Strummer   made   use   of   the   years   between   1986   and   1989   to   systematically   dismantle   his   iconic   persona   and   scatter   the   fragments   to   the   four   winds.  This  was  a  strategy  that,  to  a  large  extent,  involved  Strummer  subsuming  his   ego  and  identity  to  the  will  of  other  artists.   The   first   was   filmmaker   Alex   Cox,   who   invited   Strummer   to   contribute   two   songs   (‘Love   Kills’   and   ‘Dum   Dum   Club’)   to   the   soundtrack   of   his   1986   film   Sid   &   Nancy,   which   depicted   the   doomed   romance   between   punk   idols   Sid   Vicious   and   Nancy   Spungen.   In   the   first   of   several   acting   roles   he   would   take   on   during   this   period,   Strummer   appeared   in   the   music   video   for   ‘Love   Kills’   (also   directed   by   Cox),   playing   an  incompetent  Mexican  Federale  opposite  Gary  Oldman’s  Vicious  in  a  prison-­‐break   superhero  fantasy.     Strummer  already  had  some  prior  form  as  an  actor,  playing  himself  in  Jack  Hazan  and   David  Mingay’s  1980  docu-­‐drama  Rude  Boy.  And  it  could,  of  course,  be  argued  that   “Joe   Strummer”   was   a   long-­‐form   role-­‐play   by   the   downwardly   mobile,   class-­‐ conscious  John  Mellor  -­‐  one  he  was  growing  ever  more  weary  of  performing.  Aside   from  the  odd  Travis  Bickle-­‐style  Mohawk  haircut,  Strummer  was  never  given  to  the   chrysalis-­‐like  transformations  of  a  Bowie  or  a  Dylan  –  it  was  always  about  the  music   –   but   he   would   nevertheless   don   a   variety   of   guises   in   the   next   few   years,   before   emerging  in  his  final  incarnation  at  the  turn  of  the  century.   By  1986  the  wounds  sustained  during  the  breakup  of  The  Clash  were  already  starting   to   heal:   Strummer   co-­‐produced   and   co-­‐wrote   many   of   the   songs   on   Big   Audio   Dynamite’s  second  (and  strongest)  album,  No.  10  Upping  St.  His  role  in  this  case  was   essentially  that  of  Silent  Partner,  lending  artistic  support  to  former  band  mate  Mick   Jones  and  his  new  crew.   In   1987   Strummer   returned   to   acting,   in   Alex   Cox’s   next   feature   Straight   To   Hell.   Surely  one  of  the  most  bizarre  Plan  Bs  ever  conceived,  the  film  came  about  after  the   collapse   of   a   proposed   Nicaraguan   tour   by   Strummer,   The   Pogues   and   Elvis   Costello,   in   support   of   the   embattled   Sandinista   government.   Augmented   by   an   eclectic   supporting   cast   (including   Dennis   Hopper,   Grace   Jones   and   Jim   Jarmusch)   the   musicians   and   Cox   relocated   to   Almeria,   Spain,   where   they   cooked   up   a   genre-­‐ colliding   heist   film   slash   ‘Paella   Western’   remake   of   Giulio   Questi’s   Django   Kill.   21    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Roundly   dismissed   at   the   time   as   a   self-­‐indulgent   piss-­‐take,   or   a   very   expensive   home   movie,   Straight   To   Hell   endures   as   an   often   hilarious,   anarchic,   proto-­‐Po-­‐Mo   hybrid  (and  quite  possibly  an  unacknowledged  influence  on  one  Quentin  Tarantino).   It   was   during   the   production   of   Straight   To   Hell   that   Strummer   connected   with   a   musician   who   would   take   on   an   increasingly   significant   role   in   his   subsequent   creative   efforts:   Zander   Schloss,   formerly   from   punk   band   the   Circle   Jerks.   They   bonded   on-­‐set:   Strummer   was   playing   one   of   the   film’s   protagonists,   Simms,   a   member  of  a  gang  of  thieves  who  hole  up  in  a  desert  town  only  to  run  afoul  of  the   caffeine-­‐addicted  McManus  Gang  (played  by  The  Pogues);  while  Schloss  was  cast  in   the   minor   role   of   local   hot   dog   vendor   Karl   The   Weiner   Boy.   Further   details   of   the   film’s   eccentric   ‘plot’   are   probably   best   omitted,   though   it   is   worth   noting   that   Strummer   fully   immerses   himself   in   the   role   of   a   brooding,   sexually   frustrated   wannabe   bank   robber.   In   addition   to   contributing   two   songs   of   his   own   to   the   film’s   soundtrack,  Strummer  teamed  up  with  Schloss  to  co-­‐write  Karl’s  theme  song,  ‘Salsa   Y   Ketchup’,   a   rousing,   double-­‐entendre-­‐riddled   paean   to   sausages.   Thus   an   unlikely   yet  fruitful  collaboration  was  born.   That   same   year   Cox,   on   a   creative   roll,   directed   a   second   feature:   his   allegorical   masterpiece   Walker,   penned   by   legendary   screenwriter   Rudy   Wurlitzer   (Two   Lane   Blacktop,  Pat  Garrett  &  Billy  The  Kid).  Ostensibly  an  historical  biopic  about  William   Walker,   the   freebooter   who   invaded   Nicaragua   in   the   1850s   under   the   doctrine   of   manifest   destiny,   the   film   is   a   rabidly   anti-­‐American   stab   at   President   Ronald   Reagan’s   then-­‐contemporary   support   for   the   counterrevolutionary   Contras.   The   film   is   rendered   all   the   more   subversive   by   the   fact   that   it   was   made   with   $800,000   of   Universal   Studio’s   money.   Confined   to   a   furtive   cameo   on   the   periphery   of   the   frame,   all   but   unrecognizable   beneath   bushranger   beard   and   straggly   long   hair,   Strummer’s   on-­‐screen   contribution   to   Walker   is   negligible.   Off-­‐screen,   it’s   another   story.   No   longer   content   with   dashing   off   a   few   tunes   for   the   soundtrack,   Strummer   expressed   a   desire   to   compose   the   entire   score   for   the   film.   Duly   afforded   the   opportunity  by  Cox,  Strummer  recorded  a  series  of  4-­‐track  demos  using  only  acoustic   guitar   and   a   rudimentary   keyboard.   These   skeletal   ideas   were   entrusted   to   the   prodigiously   talented   Zander   Schloss   -­‐   a   “show   off”   by   his   own   admission   -­‐   who   fleshed   them   out   into   lush   arrangements   for   stringed   instruments,   horns   and   percussion.   Much   inspiration   was   apparently   taken   from   the   local   music   Schloss   and   Strummer  heard  in  the  cantinas  they  frequented  during  the  film’s  Nicaragua  shoot.   Walker’s   resulting   score   blends   folk   and   country   with   more   distinctly   Central   American   and   Caribbean   influences,   at   times   echoing   Bob   Dylan’s   minimalist   22    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   soundtrack   to   Sam   Peckinpah’s   Pat   Garrett   &   Billy   The   Kid,   elsewhere   evoking   the   strident  dramatics  of  Ennio  Morricone’s  Spaghetti  Western  themes.  The  Clash  often   experimented   with   musical   genres   beyond   punk   rock   (dub,   reggae,   funk),   assimilating   their   influences   through   a   tight-­‐knit   filter.   Out   on   his   own,   Strummer   became   an   ever   more   inclusive   musical   polyglot,   a   twitchy   World   Music   exponent,   minus   the   Great   White   Saviour   Complex.   Strummer’s   contribution   to   the   actual   recording  is  limited  to  lead  vocals  on  a  few  lilting  campfire  ballads,  demonstrating  a   remarkable  degree  of  autonomy  imparted  to  Schloss  and  his  session  musicians.  It  is   sublime   in   its   own   right,   but   as   the   first   full-­‐length   solo   album   by   the   former   front   man  for  The  Clash,  Walker  understandably  left  many  fans  bewildered.   In   1988   Strummer   was   commissioned   to   compose   another   soundtrack,   for   Marisa   Silver’s   independent   film   Permanent   Record.   An   early   test   screening   of   this   melancholy  meditation  on  teenage  suicide  reportedly  moved  Strummer  to  tears.  The   backing  band  assembled  for  the  project,  fittingly  dubbed  The  Latino  Rockabilly  War,   comprised   the   rhythm   section   of   punk/jazz   outfit   Tupelo   Chainsex   –   bassist   Joey   Altruda   and   drummer   Willie   MacNeil   –   augmented   by   the   now   ubiquitous   Zander   Schloss   on   lead   guitar.   The   songs   they   recorded   rank   among   Strummer’s   best   solo   work   and   display   a   brash,   one-­‐take   vitality,   repetitive   rave-­‐up   ‘Trash   City’   even   featuring   the   film’s   star,   Keanu   Reeves,   guesting   on   scrappy   rhythm   guitar.   A   slightly   altered  line-­‐up  of  this  band  would  soon  go  on  to  create  Earthquake  Weather.   But   before   they   did,   Joe   cropped   up   on   screen   once   more,   skulking   around   a   Memphis   bar   playing   a   suicidal   drunk   in   one   of   three   intersecting   storylines   that   comprise   Jim   Jarmusch’s   1989   film   Mystery   Train.   A   role   specifically   written   with   Strummer   in   mind   (as   is   Jarmusch’s   casting   modus   operandi),   his   character’s   repeated  line:  “Don’t  call  me  Elvis!”  is  a  succinct,  significant  statement  of  Joe’s  desire   to  shrug  off  the  ill-­‐fitting  rock  star  mantle.     Which  brings  us,  finally,  to  1989’s  Earthquake  Weather.   I   recall   buying   this   album   eagerly   upon   its   release.   (Finally,   a   fully-­‐fledged   Joe   Strummer   solo   album!)   But   after   a   few   perplexed   spins,   it   was   consigned   to   some   dark   recess   of   my   record   collection.   Scathing   reviews   from   the   time   largely   vindicated  my  initial  disdain.   Before   we   take   the   platter   out   for   reconsideration,   let’s   pause   for   a   moment   to   appreciate   the   front   cover.   As   a   tequila   sun   sets   over   Californian   palm   trees,   an   enigmatic   silhouette   stands   on   the   edge   of   a   swimming   pool   diving   board,   quiff   hanging  lank  atop  his  uplifted  head,  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lower  lip.  A  leather-­‐ jacketed,   bow-­‐legged,   cowboy-­‐booted   guitar   slinger,   Telecaster   slung   like   a   rifle   at   23    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   his  hip.  A  pomaded  pirate  poised  to  walk  the  plank.  It’s  simultaneously  elegiac  and   defiant.   Later   adopted   as   the   logo   for   The   Joe   Strummer   Foundation   and   as   Chris   Salewicz   notes   in   his   biography   Redemption   Song,   it’s   “an   iconic   Strummer   image   ironically   much   better   known   than   the   music   inside   the   record   it   was   intended   to   herald.”   Off-­‐mike,   Joe   bellows   a   war   cry:   “LET’S   ROCK   AGAIN!”   and   the   album   opener   ‘Gangsterville’  kicks  off  with  no  fanfare,  the  words  and  music  coming  thick  and  fast,   rhythms  wrestling.  Strummer  hollers  urgently  over  the  top  of  a  reconfigured  Latino   Rockabilly  War,  now  with  Lonnie  Marshall  replacing  Joey  Altruda  on  bass:   The  Revolution  came,  the  Revolution  went   Strummer  summarises,  with  an  abrupt  sense  of  futility.   Wanted:  one  man  to  lead  a  crusade Payment:  a  bullet  on  a  big  parade   Then,   all   at   once:   the   pounding   punk   thunder   flips   to   a   tipsy   Caribbean   sway   and   we’re   relocated   to   the   titular   ‘Gangsterville’.   The   effect   on   Strummer’s   vocal   also   turns   on   a   dime,   switching   from   mighty   slap-­‐back   echo   to   tinny,   crackly   filter,   as   if   emanating  from  a  cheap  transistor  radio  in  a  broken  down  ’57  Chevrolet.  The  song   continues  in  this  schizoid  fashion,  alternating  back  and  forth  between  two  distinctly   opposed   feels,   the   effect   unnerving   yet   undeniably   cinematic:   the   abrupt   transitions   from  verse  to  chorus  are  like  scene  cuts.  The  lyrics  equivocate  every  bit  as  much  as   the  music;  Strummer  is  alarmed  to  discover  common  ground  with  both  the  victims   and  perpetrators  of  political  crimes:   On  the  other  hand,  sitting  next  to  an  evil  crew   They  just  got  down  from  floor  82 Been  selling  Indian  reservations Comin’  in  looking  for  some  jazz  and  a  little  libations I  like  the  same  kind  of  beer I  gotta  get  right  out  of  here   If  the  first  track  speaks  of  political  disillusionment,  the  second,  ‘King  Of  The  Bayou’,   immediately   contradicts   this   position   with   a   hopeful   salute   to   Phillipine   President   Corazon   Aquino,   elected   in   the   wake   of   the   1986   People   Power   Revolution   that   toppled  Ferdinand  Marcos.  Here,  the  optimism  is  infectiously  anthemic:        

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Cory  is  the  one She’ll  never  ever  die  young   Next  up  is  ‘Slant  Six’,  which  comes  on  like  a  Keith  Richards  solo  number,  right  down   to  Schloss’  wiry  slide  guitar  licks.  It’s  apt,  then,  that  the  song  critiques  the  decadent   trappings   of   rock   stardom   -­‐   and   their   isolating   effect   -­‐   that   Strummer   himself   was   struggling  to  avoid:     You  got  Juan-­‐Le-­‐Pins You  got  the  needle  and  the  deep  cellar  wine You  got  the  slow  boat  to  China You  own  part  of  South  Carolina   What  a  fate:  to  be  imprisoned  at  the  height  of  your  dreams   An  abrupt  climate  change  comes  in  the  form  of  ‘Island  Hopping’,  whose  lazy  nylon-­‐ string  lope,  evocative  of  Jamaican  folk,  underpins  a  telling  ode  to  the  joys  of  shirking   one’s  duties  and  the  lure  of  capitulating  to  wanderlust:   I  don’t  like  to  do  a  drop  of  work Drive  a  cab,  or  paint  the  church It’s  been  the  same  since  I  don’t  know  when So  I’m  goin’  island  hopping  again   Throughout   the   album   Strummer   is   preoccupied   with   rebellion,   escapism   and   restlessness,   topics   that   must   have   felt   very   dear   to   him   during   these   ‘lost’   years.   Significantly,   the   majority   of   the   song   titles   suggest   movement,   modes   of   transportation   or   destinations:   ‘Slant   Six’,   ‘Leopardskin   Limousines’,   ‘Ride   Your   Donkey’,   ‘Island   Hopping’,   ‘Gangsterville’,   ‘Sleepwalk’,   ‘Highway   One   Zero   Street’,   ‘King  Of  The  Bayou’,  ‘Shouting  Street’,  ‘Passport  To  Detroit’.  The  lyrics  coalesce  into  a   surreal,   novelistic,   globe-­‐spanning   travelogue,   jumping   to   and   from   locations   both   real  and  fictional,  rapidly  juxtaposing  rich  and  poor,  cops  and  robbers,  boardrooms   and  barrios,  in  imagery  pitched  somewhere  between  Bob  Dylan’s  Invisible  Republic   and  William  Burroughs’  nightmarish  Interzone.   Earthquake   Weather   marks   the   point   where   Strummer’s   laissez-­‐faire   approach   to   band  leadership  reached  both  its  zenith  and  nadir.  Evidently  pleased  with  the  result   of  recent  collaborations,  he  allowed  his  co-­‐conspirators  great  liberty  to  flesh  out  his   foggy   notions,   bringing   their   diverse   musical   pedigrees   to   bear   as   they   discovered   the  arrangements  through  intensive  jamming.  Zander  Schloss,  for  his  part,  revels  in    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   this  freedom,  grandstanding  on  lead  guitar,  banjo  and  any  other  stringed  instrument   within  reach  as  he  navigates  the  hairpin  genre  curves.  His  hyperactive  solos  come  off   like   Marc   Ribot   channeling   J.   Mascis.   These   musical   explorations   often   took   place   with  Strummer  in  absentia:  he  would  take  to  the  streets  in  search  of  real-­‐life  lyrical   stimulus,  or  hunker  down  in  a  far  corner  of  the  studio  in  his  notorious  spliff  bunker   to  pursue  more  inward  inspirations.     It’s   only   around   the   middle   of   the   album   that   this   otherwise   fruitful   regime   of   organized   chaos   threatens   to   skip   the   rails:   on   ‘Dizzy’s   Goatee’   and   ‘Leopardskin   Limousines’   the   grooves   are   tentative,   the   vocals   delivered   in   an   unconvincing   mumble,   as   if   something   hasn’t   quite   gelled.   And   ‘Boogie   With   Your   Children’   and   ‘Sikorsky   Parts’   -­‐   which   no   amount   of   re-­‐listening   can   fully   redeem   -­‐   bear   unfortunate   comparison   to   early   Red   Hot   Chili   Peppers.   This   is   possibly   due,   in   no   small  part,  to  the  abrupt  mid-­‐session  replacement  of  Willie  MacNeil  with  drummer   Jack  Irons  from  the  aforementioned  Californian  funkers.   Four   songs   on   the   album   reveal   that   Strummer   never   fully   transcended   his   Punk   Rock   Warlord   persona.   Nor   perhaps,   ultimately,   did   he   truly   wish   to.   ‘Shouting   Street’   drives   like   a   madman,   with   Schloss   rapid-­‐firing   Chuck   Berry   licks   from   the   passenger  seat  (complete  with  a  shout-­‐out  to  Jim  Jarmusch);  ‘Jewellers  &  Bums’  is  an   insistent   thumper   that   could   stack   up   against   anything   on   The   Clash’s   flawless   ‘London   Calling’.   ‘Highway   One   Zero   Street’   (with   a   title   that’s   pure   Zimmerman)   effortlessly  shifts  gears  from  Mariarchi-­‐Waltz  time  to  stabbing  punk  to  anthem  rock   to   popping   funk,   unfolding   like   a   map   of   intersecting   ethnic   neighbourhoods;   and   ‘Passport   To   Detroit’   rockets   along   an   apocalyptic   desert   highway   at   midnight,   headlights  illuminating  doomy  portents.   The   sole   cover   version   on   the   album,   ‘Ride   Your   Donkey’,   is   a   relaxed   rendition   of   The   Tennors’   Rocksteady   standard,   which   Strummer   might   have   first   heard   at   the   Marquee  Club  in  the  early  days  of  London’s  punk  scene.  Its  inclusion  here  suggests  a   nostalgic  trawling  through  past  influences,  and  is  one  of  the  few  backward  glances   Strummer  permitted  himself  in  his  relentless  forward  march  to  a  new  identity.   Some  critics  speculated  that  Earthquake  Weather  was  a  self-­‐sabotaging  attempt  on   Strummer’s  part  to  wriggle  out  of  his  contract  with  EMI,  but  it’s  far  too  complex  a   piece  of  work  to  have  been  conceived  with  such  a  cynical  endgame  in  mind.  Much   was   made   at   the   time   of   the   “muddiness”   of   the   album’s   production   and   it’s   true   there   is   a   kitchen-­‐sinky   chaos   to   some   of   the   mixes,   but   much   like   Strummer   and   Schloss’   soundtrack   work   the   focus   favours   ambience   over   radio-­‐friendly   clarity.   Several   songs   even   feel   like   they’ve   wandered   in   off   the   set   of   Walker:   ‘Island   26    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Hopping’,   ‘Leopardskin   Limousines’   and   the   album’s   closer,   ‘Sleepwalk’   (originally   written   for   Frank   Sinatra),   provide   gentle   acoustic   oases   of   calm   amid   the   urgent   electrical  storms  that  dominate  elsewhere.     The   album   has   a   palpable   sense   of   topography   and   geography,   heavily   populated   by   a   multinational   cast   of   heroes,   villains   and   background   extras,   as   if   Strummer’s   forays   into   film   were   feeding   back   into   his   songwriting.   The   cumulative   effect   of   Earthquake  Weather  is  akin  to  reading  the  screenplay  and  listening  to  the  score  for   an   unmade   trans-­‐national   road   movie,   as   an   abstract   but   nonetheless   coherent   narrative  plays  out  on  the  screen  behind  one’s  eyes.  The  main  character,  of  course,   is   Joe   Strummer   himself.   No   matter   how   hard   he   fought   to   submerge   his   stardom   and  defer  to  his  creative  associates,  the  resulting  work  bears  his  indelible  imprint.   It   took   another   decade   for   Strummer   to   finally   emerge   as   a   solo   artist   in   the   traditional   sense.   With   new   backing   outfit   The   Mescaleros,   he   released   a   trio   of   increasingly  decent  albums  in  quick  succession  between  1999  and  2002.  The  last  of   these,  Streetcore,  was  completed  posthumously  by  band  mates  Martin  Slattery  and   Scott   Shields,   Strummer   having   only   recorded   his   rhythm   guitar   and   vocal   tracks   before  his  sudden  death  at  age  50.     And  so,  once  again,  responsibility  for  the  realisation  of  Strummer’s  vision  fell  to  his   collaborators   but   this   time   out   of   heart-­‐breaking   necessity   rather   than   trusting   intent.   As   a   result,   Streetcore   makes   for   bittersweet   listening:   it’s   the   solid   solo   album  every  fan  had  been  waiting  13  long  years  for  but  Joe  was  no  longer  around  to   hear   it.   Faced   with   the   reality   that   we’ll   never   be   graced   with   another,   and   freed   from   past   prejudices   a   listener   may   have   once   brought   to   the   material,   the   music   Strummer  made  between  1986  and  1989,  culminating  in  Earthquake  Weather,  now   reveals  itself  to  be  richly  rewarding  and  ripe  for  redemption.   References   Cox,  A  2013,  Website  of  filmmaker  Alex  Cox.  Available  from:  www.alexcox.com   [August  2015].     Excerpts  from  lyrics  to  Gangsterville,  King  Of  The  Bayou,  Slant  Six  and  Island  Hopping   ©  Joe  Strummer     Hazan,  J  &  Mingay,  D  1980,  Rude  Boy.  Buzzy  Enterprises/Michael  White  Productions.     Jarmusch,  J  1989,  Mystery  Train.  JVC  Entertainment  Networks/Mystery  Train.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Pottker,  N  2014,  In  Conversation:  Zander  Schloss.  Available  from:    [August  2015]     Salewicz,  C  2006,  Redemption  Song:  The  Definitive  Biography  Of  Joe  Strummer.   Harper  Collins,  London,  UK.      

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘So  Alone’  Johnny  Thunders By  Tim  Dalton One  of  the  beauties  of  music  is  that  it’s  impossible  to  hear  it  all;  no  matter  how  long   you  live,  it’s  just  too  expansive.  Despite  being  a  life  long  addict  to  perfect  pop  tunes,   I  still  come  across  pieces  of  music  that  stop  me  dead  in  my  tracks.  Earlier  this  week   my  niece  Amber  posted  the  Johnny  Thunders’  song  ‘You  Can’t  Put  Your  Arms  Around   A   Memory’   on   her   Facebook   page;   this   was   one   of   those   stop   dead   in   your   tracks   moments.  Hearing  this  track  again  after  so  many  years  made  me  realize  that  if  ever   an  album  needed  a  rescue  it's  Johnny  Thunders  and  his  1978  release  So  Alone.  It’s   about   the   only   thing   I   can   do   for   Johnny   and   boy   does   he   need   it.   The   title   of   the   album  says  it  all  So  Alone. Thunders   died   24   years   ago   on   April   23rd   April   1991.   Gone   but   never   forgotten,   he   is   survived   by   his   music.   The   cause   of   death   was   recorded   as,   “drug   related   causes”.   Rather   ironically   the   autopsy   found   large   amounts   of   LSD   in   his   system   despite   several  of  his  friends  confirming  that  he’d  quit  the  smack.  But  this  explanation  does   not  explain  the  many  rumours  and  urban  myths  surrounding  Thunders'  death  at  St.   Peter’s   Guest   House   in   New   Orleans,   Louisiana.   Fellow   kindred   spirit   and   troubled   troubadour  Willy  DeVille  lived  in  the  hotel  room  next  door  to  the  one  Johnny  died  in   and  described  it  thus  in  Dee  Dee  Ramone’s  book  ‘Lobotomy:  Surviving  The  Ramones’   (2000:  p.232),  “I  don't  know  how  the  word  got  out  that  I  lived  next  door,  but  all  of  a   sudden  the  phone  started  ringing  and  ringing.  Rolling  Stone  was  calling,  the  Village   Voice   called,   his   family   called,   and   then   his   guitar   player   called.   I   felt   bad   for   all   of   them.  It  was  a   tragic  end,   and   I   mean,   he   went  out   in   a   blaze   of   glory,   ha   ha   ha,   so   I   thought  I  might  as  well  make  it  look  real  good,  you  know,  out  of  respect,  so  I  just  told   everybody  that  when  Johnny  died  he  was  laying  down  on  the  floor  with  his  guitar  in   his   hands.   I   made   that   up.   When   he   came   out   of   the   St.   Peter's   Guesthouse,   rigor   mortis   had   set   in   too   such   an   extent   that   his   body   was   in   a   U   shape.   When   you're   laying   on   the   floor   in   a   foetal   position,   doubled   over   -­‐   well,   when   the   body   bag   came   out,  it  was  in  a  U.  It  was  pretty  fucking  awful”.  Apparently  his  place  was  ransacked,   what   few   belongs   he   had   all   gone   including   his   passport,   makeup   and   clothes.   There   was   also   talk,   though   no   documented   proof,   of   him   having   acute   leukaemia.   There’s   no  way  of  knowing  the  true  story  of  Thunders’  death  but  there’s  no  denying  it  must   of  been  a  very  sad,  squalid  and  lonely  end.   The  really  simple  and  lazy  way  to  tell  this  story  is  to  deliver  the  archetypal  rock  star   drugs   story.   You   know   the   troubled   misunderstood   genius,   blah   blah   blah.   Such   lives   tend  to  be  littered  with  self-­‐destruction  and  the  concept  of  rock  ‘n’  roll  may  indeed    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   be   defined   by   variable   degrees   of   self-­‐destruction.   This   is   already   well-­‐trodden   territory,  and  is  articulated  by  far  more  qualified  people  then  I.  Take  a  look  at  Nick   Kent's   1995   book   The   Dark   Stuff   where   he   does   an   excellent   job   of   de-­‐glamorizing   the   drug   cult   heroes   of   rock   ‘n’   roll.   Kent   provides   a   sobering   insight   into   the   tortured   lives,   dysfunction   and   general   unpleasantness   of   many   key   figures   of   popular  music.  Anyone  with  a  voyeuristic  interest  in  the  self-­‐destructive  lives  of  rock   'n'  rollers,  myself  included,  will  love  this  book.  There  is  no  denying  or  escaping  the   fact  that  Johnny’s  story  is  a  heroin  related  one.  But  please  don't  judge  heroin  addicts   unless   you've   actually   lived   it   yourself,   keep   an   open   mind.   If   you   haven't   lived   it   yourself   then   great   job,   you   definitely   made   the   correct   decision.  Heroin   is   a   slow   teased   out   death;   it   eats   up   your   soul,   destroys   creativity   and   spits   you   out.   Few   people   quit   the   smack   successfully   but   if   they   do   things   are   never   quite   the   same   again   after   living   a   life   with   heroin   in   it.   Heroin   is   a   solitary   friend,   who   demands   100%  of  your  attention,  and  when  it’s  gone  your  life  is  empty  and  worthless,  you’re   so  alone  without  it.  It's  pure  conjecture  but  it's  highly  unlikely  that  Thunders  never   conquered   his   heroin   addiction.   What   is   not   up   for   discussion   is   that   he   did   leave   us   with   some   incredible   music   stands   the   test   of   time   and   in   all   probability   will   last   forever.   In   1790   the   German   founding   father   of   modern   philosophy,   Immanuel   Kant,   wrote   Critique   of   Aesthetic   Judgement,   where   he   investigates   the   possibility   and   logical   status  of  "judgments  of  taste”.  In  the  chapter  Analytic  of  the  Beautiful,  Kant  states   that   beauty   is   not   a   property   of   an   artwork   or   natural   phenomenon,   but   is   instead   a   consciousness  of  the  pleasure  that  attends  the  'free  play'  of  the  imagination  and  the   understanding.   Here   is   the   big   question;   is   So   Alone   an   artefact   of   beauty,   worthy   of   critical  reappraisal  or  is  just  another  rock  ‘n’  roll  album  by  a  junkie?  Even  though  it   appears   that   we   are   using   reason   to   decide   what   is   beautiful,   that   judgment   is   not   a   cognitive   judgment,   and   is   consequently   not   logical,   but   is   actually   aesthetical?   I   would  argue  that  our  objective  judgment  is  impaired  or  swayed  here.  This  album  is   heavily   tarnished   because   of   who   made   it   and   their   biography   and   not   because   of   what   it   is,   which   is   an   artefact   of   beauty   and   passion.   I   believe   that   anything   created   out  of  passion  and/or  love  must  inherently  be  good.   The  wreckage  that  peers  out  of  the  front  cover  of  So  Alone  suggests  Thunders  is  a   man   on   the   edge,   both   mischievous   and   vulnerable.   The   music   contained   therein   seems   to   confirm   this.   An   incendiary   cover   of   The   Chantays'   instrumental,   ‘Pipeline’,   mixes  with  the  grind  of  ‘Daddy  Rollin'  Stone’,  the  Pistol-­‐punk  of  ‘London  Boys’  and   the   nonsense   of   the   Spector   girl-­‐group,   ‘Great   Big   Kiss’.   The   standout   track   is   the   fragile  ‘You  Can't  Put  Your  Arms  Round  A  Memory’.  The  title  was  taken  from  a  line  in   the   Better   Living   Through   TV   episode   of   the   sitcom   The   Honeymooners,   and   was    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   written   for   his   close   friend   Fabienne   Shine.   Considered   by   many,   including   me,   to   be   his   signature   song,   the   ballad   is   said   to   be   about   Thunders’   heroin   addiction.   However,   according   to   Nina   Antonia's   (2000)   biography,   Johnny   Thunders:   In   Cold   Blood,  the  song  was  written  before  he  was  even  a  member  of  the  New  York  Dolls,   and  years  before  he  became  addicted  to  heroin.   But  back  to  Kant  and  how  can  we  objectively  measure  if  this  song  is  any  good  or  not?   How   about   some   scientific   comparative   analysis   here,   an   item-­‐by-­‐item   comparison   of   two   or   more   comparable   alternatives?   Compare   the   original   to   versions   by   the   Manic  Street  Preachers,  Guns  ‘n’  Roses,  Giant  Sand,  Blondie  or  the  sublime  version   by   Ronnie   Spector   on   her   2006   album   The   Last   of   the   Rock   Stars,   now   that’s   definitely  a  good  tune.  I’ve  never  met  Sopranos  TV  series  producer  Todd  A.  Kessler   but   he   must   have   a   similar   music   taste   to   me.   He   uses   ‘You   Can’t   Put   Your   Arms   Around   A   Memory’   to   great   effect   on   the   closing   scene   and   titles   of   episode   11   (House  Of  Arrest).  This  is  not  the  first  song  from  one  of  my  Album  Rescues  Series  that   Kessler   has   used   to   great   effect.   As   a   point   of   reference   check   out   how   Martin   Scorsese  also  uses  this  song  on  his  1999  film  Bring  Out  The  Dead;  it’s  superb.   Thunders   wanders   from   one   style   to   another,   more   often   than   not   shambolically,   very   often   with   a   Jaggeresque   vocal,   sometimes   energetic   and   often   melodic,   Thunders'  music  is  always  a  little  wayward  but  it  could  never  be  described  as  dull.  It   isn't   perfect   nor   should   it   be;   his   duet   with   the   Only   Ones’   (definitely   a   future   album   rescue)   lead   singer   Peter   Perrett,   for   instance,   is   an   absolute   chaotic   shambles.   Throughout  this  album  rescue  series  I  continually  use  the  metric  of  who  plays  on  this   record   to   measure   if   its   any   good   or   not   e.g.   for   me   lots   of   great   players   equals   a   great   album.   So   Alone   is   not   so   different   as   there   are   some   superb   players   on   this   record.   Phil   Lynott   (Thin   Lizzy)   on   bass,   Paul   Cook   (Sex   Pistols)   on   drums,   Steve   Cook   (Sex  Pistols)  on  guitar,  Chrissie  Hynde  (The  Pretenders),  Steve  Marriott  (Small  Faces   &  Humble  Pie)  on  guitar  and  vocal,  Walter  Lure  and  Billy  Ruth  of  the  Heartbreakers   and   all   pulled   together   by   super-­‐star   producer   Steve   Lillywhite.   This   is   an   album   that   should  appeal  to  anyone  with  a  penchant  for  the  basic  of  rock  and  roll.  This  album  is   one  of  the  loosest,  coolest,  sounding  rock  ‘n’  roll  records  I've  ever  had  the  pleasure   of  listening  to.   The  only  time  I  saw  Johnny  Thunders  play  live  was  in  London  at  The  Marquee  Club  in   Soho.  I  turned  up  with  the  rest  of  the  voyeuristic  ghouls  mainly  to  see  if  Johnny  could   make   it   through   the   show   without   dying   on   stage.   Painfully   thin,   even   by   my   standards,  with  a  ridiculous  amount  of  eyeliner  Thunders  chain-­‐smoked  throughout   the   gig.   He   was   truly   fucking   awesome;   I   couldn’t   keep   my   eyes   off   him.   This   boy   looked  at  Johnny  and  was  truly  mesmerized.  If  I  remember  correctly  he  closed  the    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   set   with   a   raucous   version   of   the   classic   Heartbreakers’   song   ‘Born   To   Lose’.   Thunders   was   a   unique   songwriter   who   drew   upon   real   life   experience   and   sang   from  personal  experience.  Granted  this  was  material  of  the  darkest  type  but  it  made   for   a   great   album.   If   you   haven’t   heard   So   Alone,   you   need   to   because   it’s   one   of   post-­‐punk  great  masterpieces.       References   Antonia,  N  2000,  Johnny  Thunders:  in  cold  blood,  Cherry  Red  Books,  London,  UK.     Kant,  I  1790,  Critique  of  Aesthetic  Judgement,  Public  Domain.     Ramone,  D  2000,  Lobotomy:  surviving  the  Ramones,  De  Capo  Press,  Boston,  USA.    

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Tin  Machine’  Tin  Machine By  Dr  Ian  Dixon “Hello  Humans,  can  you  hear  me  thinking?” These  words  begin  Bowie’s  second  Tin  Machine  album,  critically  panned  as  ‘second   rate’.   This   marks   Bowie’s   second   attempt   at   equanimity   within   a   band   since   heading   up  The  King  Bees  as  Davie  Jones  in  the  mid  1960s  (Trynka,  2011).  In  the  interim,  he   added   the   moniker   ‘Bowie’   (vying   to   outdo   Mick   Jagger   (meaning   ‘hunter’)   by   naming   himself   after   a   legendary   hunting   knife   –   although   the   story   is   still   hotly   debated)  and  becoming  a  mega-­‐star  (Sandford,  1996).  Was  forming  Tin  Machine  an   act   of   sheer   pretension   or   a   genuine   plea   to   return   to   his   roots?   Indeed,   for   the   inimitable  David  Bowie,  self-­‐conscious  pretension  is  an  active  part  of  his  stagecraft   and   key   ingredient   within   his   famous   ‘personas’,   which   brings   us   to   another   quandary:   where   is   his   faithful,   protective   mask   during   the   Tin   Machine   era?   Did   the   1980s,   which   saw   him   perform   to   audiences   in   the   hundreds   of   thousands,   selling   albums  in  the  tens  of  millions,  see  him  emerge  from  behind  the  mask?  Had  he  finally   accepted   his   Reality   as   a   household   name   without   obfuscating   his   (dubious)   ‘true’   self  behind  theatrical  disguise?  Or  was  he  making  Tin  Machine,  the  band,  his  latest   attempt  at  subterfuge;  albeit  in  the  guise  of  honest,  grassroots  rock  ‘n’  roll?  As  band   member,   Hunt   Sales,   famously   remarked,   this   was   presumably   the   only   garage   band   in   existence   with   a   millionaire   for   a   lead   singer   (Leigh,   2014).   How   ironic   that   ‘Woody’  Woodmansey,  the  drummer  of  the  Spiders  from  Mars,  once  declared  Bowie   as  simply  ‘one  of  the  lads’  who  became  a  star  and  a  show-­‐off  and  relinquished  his   duties  lugging  gear  as  he  had  done  in  the  early  days  (Trynka,  2011). An   assessment   of   the   Tin   Machine   album   in   hindsight,   however,   highlights   the   successful   experiment   it   was:   his   image,   though   tainted,   lived   to   see   many   more   reinventions.   Consequently,   both   Tin   Machine   albums   can   be   seen   as   improvisations   on   themes   and   ideas   which   would   take   another   decade   to   perfect   with   the   emergence   of   his   next   manifestation   of   (flawed)   genius   in   albums   such   as   Outside   (1995)   and   Heathen   (2002).   Fast   forward   yet   another   decade   and   The   Next   Day   (2013)   appears   without   warning;   offering   up   songs   of   radical   contrast   from   the   heartbroken  Where  Are  We  Now?  to  the  rock  lament  The  Stars  (Are  Out  Tonight).  So   the  Tin  Machine  experiment  represents  a  necessary  pipeline  through  which  Bowie’s   creativity   passed,   surged,   died   and   re-­‐emerged.   We   might   therefore   consider   Tin   Machine’s  second  album  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  music;  Bowie’s  fandom;  the   Tin   Machine   band;   the   Bowie   mask;   the   album   itself   and   the   individual   tracks   as   a   way  of  rescuing  the  album  from  damnation  within  the  Bowie  lexicon.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Arguably,   all   the   libel   against   Tin   Machine   connotes   the   best   part   of   the   great   man’s   life:   the   music   itself.   The   first  Tin   Machine   album   was   lambasted   as   a  work   of   garage   band  wall-­‐of-­‐noise  and  both  garage  devotees  and  Bowie  fans  alike  seemed  baffled.   For  my  part,  I  confess  to  greeting  the  first  album  hoping  to  hell  it  would  match  his   seminal   works   of   the   1970s,   and   after   a   valiant   period   of   evangelical   apologism,   I   resolved   (along   with   the   rest   of   the   enclave)   that   it   was   awful.   This   second   album   was  released  by  Polygram  in  Australasia  in  1991  and,  despite  its  questionable  merits,   ushers  in  a  new  era  in  music  –  a  time  when  the  rock  giants  of  the  1970s  were  truly   gone   (maybe   not   as   ‘gone’   as   Syd   Barrett,   but   gone   nonetheless).   New   rock   supergroups  such  as  Pearl  Jam  and  Nirvana  took  up  the  mantle.  Indeed,  the  70s  gods   of  rock  returned  in  the  guise  of  ‘old  rockers’  two  decades  later  (De  Generis,  2007),   (those  that  had  not  carked  it,  that  is).   Certainly,  the  diehard  Bowie  fan  really  wants  the  second  album  to  work,  and  listens   intently  for  the  expected  sense  of  transcendence  to  rise.  Alas,  like  their  response  Tin   Machine   one,   the   exemplary   fan   falls   somewhere   between   disappointment   and   denial.   There   is,   however,   much   that   this   album   promises   and   foreshadows,   echoes   and   reinvents:  both  in  Bowie’s  music  and  that  of  his  protégés  –  all  commendably.  With   hallmark   screaming   guitars   supplied   strategically   by   Reeves   Gabrels,   who   also   co-­‐ wrote  most  of  the  material,  the  album  provides  a  clarity  and  balance,  which  might   betray  a  rookie  breed  of  excellence…  had  it  been  anyone  but  Bowie  in  the  co-­‐driver’s   seat.  The  reputedly  telepathic  Sales  brothers,  Hunt  and  Tony,  fill  out  the  basic  line-­‐ up   contributing   some   not-­‐quite-­‐dirty-­‐enough   tunes   to   the   song   list.   According   to   biographer  Paul  Trynka,  all  three  accompanying  performers  on  Tin  Machine  toured   with,  befriended  and  did  copious  amounts  of  cocaine  with  Bowie  in  preparation  for   this  album. Produced   by   Tim   Palmer   (&   Tin   Machine)   and   mixed   at   Studio   301   in   Sydney   Australia,  this  album  prefigures  the  simple  rock  line-­‐up  of  the  Reality  tour  (2003).  But   the   cookie-­‐cutter   mentality   to   songs   does   not   quite   have   that   ring   of   authenticity,   nor  does  Bowie  adequately  disappear  in  the  background.  Had  Bowie  read  too  much   Marxism   during   his   performance   of   the   titular   role   in   Berthold   Brecht’s   polemic   play   Baal  (1982)?    Did  he  look  back  in  anger  to  find  his  teacher  lounging  in  his  overalls?  Or   was  he  simply  in  denial  of  his  status  as  mega-­‐star?  As  forerunner  to  much  of  Bowie’s   subsequent   work   with   virtuoso   guitarist   Reeves   Gabrels,   the   album   promises   a   burgeoning   style,   which   subsequently   shape-­‐shifted   all   the   way   to   Outside.   But   where  The  Spider’s  lead  guitarist  Mick  Ronson  had  been  the  exemplary  axeman  for   the   glam   rock   era   and   ‘crafty’   guitarist   Robert   Fripp   had   all   but   created   Scary    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Monsters’   keystone,   inimitable,   psychotic   rock,   Gabrels   virtuosity   just   becomes   annoyed,  annoying  and  overweening.     The  cover  art  provides  a  first  glimpse  of  the  material  to  come,  while  simultaneously   causing   a   cringe   of   trepidation.   Bowie’s   languid   stare   at   the   camera   on   the   inner   cover  of  the  CD  seems  to  deny  the  contrasting  cover  depicting  four  circumspect  (and   circumcised)  Egyptian  male  nudes  (banned  in  some  countries).  Bowie  glowers  with  a   touch  of  suppressed  charisma  as  if  subsuming  himself  in  the  (dubious)  mentality  of   band   solidarity   were   just   a   private   joke   he   had   not   let   the   others   in   on.   His   look   seems   to   say:   ‘I   am   just   visiting   here’,   like   the   space   traveller   Thomas   Jerome   Newton   of   The   Man   Who   Fell   to   Earth   (1975)   or   the   escapee   from   worldly   oppression,  Major  Tom. Once  the  album  is  in  the  player,  the  scrutiny  begins  in  earnest:  as  does  our  attempt   to  recover  the  gems  hidden  in  the  detritus.  With  yet  another  reference  to  2001:  A   Space  Odyssey,  ‘Baby  Universal’  kicks  the  album  off  with  a  techno-­‐fetishist  repetition   of   the   word:   ‘baby,   baby,   baby…’   The   hook   is   excellent   and   reeks   of   self-­‐ referentiality:  space,  star  babies,  alien  voices  and  a  reversal  of  the  haunting  ending   of   ‘Diamond   Dog’   (‘bra,   bra,   bra,   bra,   bra…’).   ‘Baby   Universal’s’   theme   curiously   collides   two   of   Bowie’s   notable   obsessions:   space   and   mental   telepathy.   Yes,   Sir   David,  we  can  hear  you  thinking:  do  ‘think’  us  some  more.  For  a  moment  there’s  real   potential  in  this  album.   ‘One   Shot’,   written   with   Tony   Sales,   produced,   mixed   and   engineered   by   Hugh   Padgham  (returning  for  another  crack  after  Loving  the  Alien).  There  is  a  touch  of  ‘The   Labyrinth’  in  the  song’s  simplicity  and  screaming  guitar  lead  (not  mixed  so  far  back  as   to  obscure  its  pretensions  to  garage  band).  And  yes,  Gabrels  peels  off  an  awesome   arpeggio   or   two,   but   does   it   add   up   to   a   unique   song?   Here   the   listener   is   privileged   to   hear   fine   musicianship   hitching   a   ride   on   a   less   than   satisfactory   vehicle,   which   only  goes  to  prepare  us  (dejection  beginning  to  set  in)  for  the  pedestrian  song:  ‘You   Belong  in  Rock  n  Roll’.  Yet,  this  next  track,  with  the  whispered,  haunting,  low  crooner   tones  of  Bowie  at  his  best,  promises  to  impress.  However,  the  song  proves  a  mere   practice-­‐run  for  the  far  superior  ‘Where  Are  we  Now?’  on  The  Next  Day.  If  this  is  rock   ‘n’  roll,  then  it  ain’t  the  60s  anymore.  And  if  this  is  garage,  they  ain’t  waking  up  the   neighbours.   Yet,   the   song   actually   sits   nicely   in   the   set:   well   arranged;   some   inventive  SFX  mixing,  which  creates  a  rush  of  insight  for  the  listener;  and  some  fine   restraint   on   Bowie   and   Gabrels’   part   (although   seemingly   vying   for   attention).   Just   when   the   album   might   have   become   odious,   ‘If   There   Is   Something’   (written   exclusively   by   Chuck   Ferry)   arrests   Gabrels’   guitars   from   competing   with   Bowie’s   voice  and  the  two  elements  dovetail  melodiously  and  effectively.      

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   ‘Amlapura’:   trippy,   deliberately   messed   up,   like   coming   off   cocaine   –   which   according  to  Wendy  Leigh  (2014),  Bowie  was  snorting  copiously  at  the  time  of  this   album,   having   claimed   to   have   ‘kicked’   the   habit   previously.   The   dream-­‐life   represented  in  the  appropriately  titled  ‘Amlapura’,  couched  in  a  sound-­‐reverb  shell,   which   echoes   Pink   Floyd   (less   satisfactorily).   The   song   also   prefigures   psychedelic   revival  bands  such  as  The  Dandy  Warhols  and  Tame  Impala,  invents  upon  the  past,   only  to  leave  us  hankering  for  the  future.   And   so   to   ‘Betty   Wrong’.   Scrap   the   tedious   guitar   clichés   and   play   this   on   half   speed   and  the  incisive  sheering  chords  cut  through  with  the  delightful  weirdness  of  a  David   Lynch  film.  Indeed,  the  title  sounds  like  a  character  from  Twin  Peaks  (this  is  not  such   an  improbable  simile  when  you  consider  that  in  1992,  Bowie  acted  for  Lynch  in  Twin   Peaks:   Fire   Walk   With   Me   and   provided   the   title   track   for   Lynch’s   Lost   Highway   (1997),  I’m  Deranged  (1995).  Perhaps  that’s  what  ‘Betty  Wrong’  lacks   –  the  essential   ‘derangement’,   which   comes   to   fruition   on   ‘Outside’   years   later.   ‘Betty   Wrong’s’   curiously   switching   bass,   all-­‐too-­‐squeaky-­‐clean,   yet   muffled   riffs   counterpoising   Bowie’s   smacked-­‐out   lyricism   and   affectedly   exhausted   vocal   delivery   contributes   to   a  song,  which  is  tonally  satisfying,  if  not  fully  congealing.  However,  by  this  stage  we   are   aching   for   the   quintessential   Bowie:   the   genius   that   invents   (even   steals)   melodies   such   as   ‘Somewhere   Over   the   Rainbow’   for   sublime   songs   like   ‘Starman’   (1974)  (Trynka,  2011).   So  with  ‘You  Can’t  Talk’  (again  written  with  Tony  Sales),  the  messy  grunge  guitar,  the   driving,  steam-­‐train  beat  propels  us  through  lyrics,  which  should  be  worth  listening   to,   but   somehow,   ‘Somewhere   Over   the   Rainbow’   just   isn’t   manifesting   here.   Is   it   that   Bowie’s   invention   is   too   good   in   the   chorus   to   deliver   a   sense   of   the   holistic   song  –  especially  a  garage  (w)hole?  Embarrassingly,  the  lyrics  seem  lazy  and  teenage,   yet   without   the   prerequisite   youthful   anger,   which   ought   to   accompany   such   garage   fare:  the  genuine,  raw-­‐power  rage,  which  underpinned  works  like  ‘Scary  Monsters’   (1979)  and  ‘Ziggy  Stardust’  (1972)  is  simply  saddened  by  impending  middle  age;  nor   does   it   bear   the   inspired   improvisations   of   ‘Heroes’’   (1977)   lyricism.   When   the   tired,   clichéd  fade  out  announces  a  sheer  lack  of  creativity  at  the  song’s  ending,  we  are  left   wondering   where   Bowie’s   mask   is?   Is   he   emerging   from   behind   the   disguise   to   a   disappointing  response?  Should  he  simply  venture  back  behind  the  personas  we  love   so  much?   The  next  track  ‘Stateside’  is:  Iggy  Pop  meets  Screaming  Jay  Hawkins.  The  Hammond   organ   and   slick   lead   guitar   (both   played   by   Gabrels)   seems   merely   an   excuse   to   scramble  up  the  fret-­‐board  for  a  good  old-­‐fashioned  ‘rave  up’  ending  (with  a  dash  of   Steve  Vye  xxx).    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   ‘Shopping   for   Girls’   bears   a   taste   of   ‘Lodger’   (1977)   or   ‘Blackout’   from   the   Heroes   album  with  its  inspired  hatred  of  the  world.  Unfortunately,  with  none  of  the  edge,   nor   the   concessions   to   feminism,   which   shone   from   ‘Lodger’   (‘I   guess   the   bruises   won’t  show,  If  she  wears  long  sleeves,  (Don’t  hit  her)’  (Bowie,  1979).  For  all  its  noise,   the  song  somehow  seems  tame,  as  if  washed  by  an  all  too  generic  chorus.  Here,  we   observe   a   concession   toward   Bowie   auteurism:   we   fall,   yet   again,   into   the   trap   of   comparing  this  wanting  album  to  the  master’s  former  greats. ‘A   Big   Hurt’:   could   that   be   Suzy   Quatro   sneaking   into   his   influences   (an   ironic   reference  to  the  one  girl  in  glam  rock  who  dressed  as  a  boy  instead  of  vice  versa)?   Perhaps  only  Oz-­‐centricity  recognises  this  similarity?  In  any  case,  the  Sprechgesang   in  A  Big  Hurt  is  palpably  self-­‐conscious.  Yet,  even  this  is  understandable  for  an  artist   such  as  Bowie:  always  deliberately  self-­‐conscious  compared  to  the  ‘organic’  Rolling   Stones.   Bowie   always   more   interested   in   conveying   ideas,   intellectual   narcissism,   interplanetary  tin  cans  and  lost,  remote  screaming  style  than  unadulterated  rock  ‘n’   roll.  Perhaps  this  is  why  both  Tin  Machine  albums  suffer  so:  without  music  as  vehicle   for  ideas,  Tin  Machine  is  just  bad  rock. Speaking  of  which,  his  next  track,  ‘Sorry’  (bearing  no  resemblance  to  The  Easybeats   or   even   The   McCoy’s   ‘Sorrow’   (for   which   Bowie   recorded   the   definitive   version)   demonstrates  that  Bowie  and  Gabrels  have  a  deft  capacity  for  clashing  styles  against   each  another  while  retaining  the  essential    ‘sense  of  the  song’  and  still  rendering  it  as   garage.  The  welcome  acoustic  twelve-­‐string  guitar,  which  opens  and  concludes  this   track,  makes  us  wish  the  writers  really  were  sorry,  rather  than  just  crooning  about  it.   ‘Goodbye   Mr   Ed’   (written   with   Hunt   Sales)   sports   lyrics,   which   again   promise   the   Bowie  that  was  and  will  be  again,  particularly  with  pop  references  to  1960s  U.S.  TV   shows  and  classical  Greek  mythology  alike.  The  parallel  voices  (albeit  missing  Bowie’s   backing  up  his  own  lead:  ‘the  many  Bowies’  as  Shaar  Murray  put  it  (1981)).  This  track   foreshadows  the  bleak,  ironic  lament  of  ‘Better  Future’  off  the  Heathen  album,  but   without  the  messed  up  innocence  of  Bowie’s  infamous  ‘Baby  Grace’  vocal  delivery  or   the  bleak  entropy  of  its  strikingly  accurate  witness  to  our  evolving  reality  post  9/11.   With  unwarranted  feedback  to  finish  off,  Bowie  improvises  a  screaming  sax  line,  as  if   to   announce,   like   Monty   Python:   ‘I’m   not   dead   yet!’   At   the   conclusion   of   Tin   Machine’s  second  album,  the  listener  concedes  that  it  is  definitely  an  improvement   on  the  first.  But,  was  Bowie  really  ever  satisfied  to  reside  in  the  background?  Or  was   it  doomed  from  the  start,  implying  that  it  simply  could  not  be  done?  Indeed,  there  in   the   foldout   photograph   of   the   band,   beams   Bowie’s   impish,   wry   testament:   his   knowing  refusal  at  anonymity.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Look,   can’t   we   just   let   Bowie   off   the   hook   (so   to   speak?).   Just   because   he   has   provided   us   with   genius   in   so   many   forms   over   so   many   decades,   must   we   expect   him   to   conquer   every   genre   in   existence?   Indeed,   Tin   Machine   II   is   an   experiment   in   garage   rock,   which,   although   questionable   in   its   own   right,   still   gestated   many   an   experiment  to  come  –  and  with  admirable  delivery.  The  albums  which  stem  from  this   one  –  Gabrels  Bowie’s  Outside,  Heathen,  Reality,  The  Next  Day  all  bear  the  hallmarks   of  Bowie’s  relinquishing  genius,  but  then  again  there  was  a  time  when  Bowie  cut  and   ran  from  the  highpoints  of  the  past.  It  is,  of  course,  the  self-­‐righteous  indulgence  of   Bowie   fandom   to   make   comparisons   to   his   former   glories.   Fans   must   therefore   concede  that,  compared  the  travesties  of  Tonight  and  Never  Let  me  Down  (which  for   many   fans   spelled   the   death   knell),   it   is   an   album   with   a   balance   of   the   pragmatic   and  the  trippy;  the  hard-­‐edged  and  the  gilt-­‐edged,  the  beery  dance  halls  just  a  tad   too  sober  and  clean  for  genuine  garage.  Indeed,  the  album  is  a  bottleneck  of  talent   still   waiting   to   flow   and   fills   the   hard-­‐core   fan   with   sorrow   (complete   with   string   quartet   backing   track).   Yet,   surely   the   clarity   of   Tin   Machine’s   production   and   the   slick,  riffing  rock  ‘n’  roll  style  (even  as  we  cannot  help  our  judgement)  is  only  to  be   admired  (if  I  still  sound  like  an  apologist  –  I  am).

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Miss  America’  Mary  Margaret  O’Hara By  Tim  Dalton The  long  format  essay  seems  to  have  died;  something  I  partly  blame  on  social  media   and   in   particular   Twitter.   Don’t   get   me   wrong,   I’m   on   Twitter   (@touringtim)   and   I   love   the   expediency   of   only   having   140   characters   to   say   the   important   stuff.   This   reductionism   can   be   even   more   extreme.   A   friend   and   colleague   of   mine   writes   four   word   movie   reviews,   e.g.   Whiplash   “drummer   learns   two   songs”   or   Apocalypse   Now   “Chopper,   hopper   acid   dropper”.   This   got   me   thinking   about   how   best   to   describe   Miss  America  released  by  Mary  Margaret  O’Hara  in  1988?  Four  words  is  far  too  easy   an   option,   so   I   thought   lets   make   this   really   difficult   and   describe   this   album   and   artist   combined   into   one   word,   and   that   word   is   .   .   .   UNIQUE.   This   is   a   classic,   perfectly   formed,   beautiful   diamond   of   an   album   that   passed   almost   everyone   by,   hence  its  well  worthy  and  in  need  of  an  album  rescue.   O’Hara   is   one   of   the   most   unique   performers   on   the   planet   and   what   she   does   to   music  via  the  conduit  of  her  voice  is  akin  to  the  tricks  a  contortionist  performs  in  the   circus   ring.   Her   timing   is   unconventional,   her   timbre   idiosyncratic,   her   voice   is   expressive  as  it  soars,  falls  and  goes  everywhere  in  between  on  this  album.  There  are   very  few  singers  to  whom  she  can  be  compared,  so  I  won’t  try.  This  album  is  one  of   those   records   that   has   to   be   heard   to   be   believed   though   I   doubt   it   will   ever   be   fully   understood,   it's   often   bewildering,   at   other   times   bewitching   but   totally   intriguing.   Miss   America   remains   stunning   nearly   27   years   on   from   its   initial   release   in   1988.   There's   nothing   else   quite   like   it,   so   perhaps   it's   appropriate,   frustrating   and   mysterious   that   O’Hara   never   recorded   another   album.   I’m   discounting   the   soundtrack   for   the   2002   Canadian   movie   Apartment   Hunting,   which   was   released   without  her  approval.  Miss  America  is  a  rare  and  precious  because  it  makes  you  long   to   hear   more,   I’ve   being   playing   this   record   since   its   release   and   still   haven’t   tired   of   it.   Trying   to   describe   this   record   is   almost   impossible,   words   just   aren’t   complex   enough  to  fully  capture  or  describe  O’Hara  ephemeral  voice  but  I’m  going  to  give  it  a   try.   This   is   an   album   that   you   can   only   understand   through   repeatedly   listening   to   it,   that's  the  only  starting  point.   O’Hara   was   born   in   Toronto   in   the   early   1960’s,   the   precise   date   is   unknown,   and   graduated   from   Ontario   Art   College   after   studying   painting,   sculpture   and   graphic   design.   The   art   college   route   into   popular   music   was   a   very   common   one   and   is   superbly  articulated  in  Simon  Frith’s  1988  book  Art  Into  Pop.  With  a  surname  derived   from  Irish  ancestry  she  was  one  of  seven  children  and  raised  a  Roman  Catholic.  Van   Morrison,  Dinah  Washington  and  the  jazz  records  that  her  father  would  play  in  the    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   family   home,   shaped   O’Hara’s   musical   taste   during   her   formative   years.   She   also   painted,  and  acted,  like  her  sister  Catherine,  who  would  go  on  to  star  in  Home  Alone.   After   playing   in   bands   at   clubs   across   Ontario,   the   acting   and   painting   were   dropped   and   music   became   her   primary   creative   outlet.   Visionary   executive   head   of   Virgin   Records’   A&R   department   Simon   Draper   was   blown   away   by   her   demos,   and   O’Hara   was  quickly  signed  in  1983.     It   took   almost   five   years   to   make   Miss   America   partly   because   of   O’Hara’s   perfectionism  and  partly  due  to  her  unconventional  recording  habits.  Primary  multi-­‐ track   recording   was   undertaken   in   1984   at   the   rural   Rockfield   Studios   in   Monmouth,   South   Wales.   As   a   residential   studio   this   facility   has   played   host   to   almost   every   super-­‐star   band   from   the   70s,   80s   and   90’s.   Queen   recorded   Bohemian   Rhapsody   there.  Rolling  fields  full  of  sheep  obviously  have  a  positive  effect  on  the  creative  art   of   record   production.   Sonically   this   studio   sounds   superb   even   by   today’s   standards.   At   the   time   Rockfield   was   stocked   with   the   very   best   recording   equipment   available.   Andy  Partridge  of  XTC,  who  was  also  signed  to  Virgin  Records,  had  raved  about  the   demos   and   he   took   up   position   in   the   producer’s   chair   on   the   recommendation   of   legendary  producer  Joe  Boyd.  Straightaway,  there  were  problems.  There  are  stories   of  Partridge  stopping  his  production  duties  after  a  single  day  when  O’Hara’s  manager   fired  him.  The  myth  is  she  found  out  that  he  was  an  atheist  and  that  Partridge's  co-­‐ producer   on   the   project   John   Leckie   (who   later   produced   albums   by   XTC   and   The   Stone   Roses)   was   a   follower   of   Bhagwan   Shree   Rajneesh,   a   controversial   Indian   guru   who  reportedly  supported  free  love.  I  guess  this  was  too  much  for  a  Canadian  with  a   strict  Roman  Catholic  upbringing  or  it's  just  another  smoke  screen?  Tapes  from  this   1984   session   were   recorded   by   in-­‐house   engineer   Paul   Cobbold,   but   were   left   unfinished.   The  Rockfield  tapes  lingered  or  quite  possibly  they  languished  in  Virgin  Record’s  “to   difficult  pile”  until  Canadian  guitarist,  composer  and  producer  Michael  Brook  broke   the  stalemate  in  the  summer  of  1988.  After  Brook  saw  O’Hara  perform  at  Toronto's   Music  Gallery,  he  made  direct  contact  with  Virgin  and  offered  to  help  her  finish  the   album.   Virgin   jumped   at   this   opportunity.   With   Brook's   assistance,   O'Hara   and   her   band   re-­‐recorded   four   songs   in   the   summer   of   1988   and   remixed   seven   of   the   original   cuts   from   the   Rockfield   sessions   to   finish   the   album.   Brook   was   once   a   member   of   the   new-­‐wave   band   Martha   and   the   Muffins,   remember   that   fabulous   single  Echo  Beach?  He  obviously  knows  a  good  tune  when  he  hears  one.  Three  of  the   1988   recordings   were   produced   by   O'Hara   and   Brook;   the   rest   were   "constructed   and   conducted"   and   produced   by   O’Hara.   According   to   an   article   in   Canadian   Composer  (February  1989)  she  mourns  the  loss  of  the  original  tapes,  but  she  is  still   proud  of  the  songs  that  eventually  emerged  on  Miss  America.  O’Hara  talks  about  the    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   song  ‘To  Cry  About’,  later  covered  by  Hull  band  Everything  But  the  Girl,  which  tells  us   much   about   the   emotional   weight   wrapped   up   in   that   album.   "Virgin   said   I   wrote   that  about  my  boyfriend  who  died.  I  didn't.  I  wrote  that  song  in  August  1980,  in  the   bath,   when   we   were   still   together."   When   the   song   was   played   to   her   boyfriend,   full   of  lyrics  about  loss  and  timed  disasters,  he  said  it  was  about  him,  but  O’Hara  didn't   agree.   A   year   later   in   1981,   the   boyfriend   drowned.   "And   then   the   lyrics   were   obviously  about  him,  as  if  I'd  seen  it  happening”.   Legendary  1960s  wall  of  sound  record  producer,  and  now  prison  inmate,  Phil  Spector   once  said  that  a  record  only  needed  three  vital  elements  to  be  perfect:  -­‐ 1. It  must  be  ridiculously  repetitive   2. Have  a  primeval  beat   3. Be  about  sex   According  to  Spector’s  metric  this  record  is  a  fail  on  all  three  accounts.  This  probably   says   more   about   Spector’s   chutzpah   than   it   does   about   the   music   that   we   are   considering   here.   Luckily   there’s   another   set   of   much   more   appropriate   metrics   as   proposed   by   ex-­‐record   producer   and   now   academic   Richard   James   Burgess,   in   his   1997   book,   The   Art   of   Record   Production.   According   to   Burgess   there   are   eight   elements  that  are  needed  in  equal  proportions  to  create  the  perfect  pop  record.  The   recipe  is  thus:  -­‐     1. The  song   2. The  vocal   3. The  arrangement   4. The  performance   5. The  engineering   6. The  Mix   7. Timelessness   8. The  Heart   It’s   quite   possible   that   Dr   Burgess   is   onto   something   here.   It   has   to   start   with   the   song,   a   narrative,   the   story,   an   exposition   that   has   a   beginning,   middle   and   end.   You   know   when   a   song   is   strong   because   it   can   be   sung   with   minimal   or   no   instrumentation  and  still  amaze  the  listener.  Try  this  simple  experiment  with  virtually   any  song  written  by  Lennon/McCartney  or  Bob  Dylan;  it  works.  French  philosopher   Roland  Barthes,  as  always,  has  much  to  say  about  the  vocal  or  more  accurately  “the   grain  of  the  voice”  in  his  1977  book  Image,  Music  Text.  Every  singer  perfects  his  or   her  own  chant,  his  or  her  own  speed,  rhythm,  cadence,  volume  and  grain  of  voice.   "The  Grain",  says  Roland  Barthes  (2010:  p.181),  "is  that  materiality  of  the  body”  the   voice   is   the   most   misunderstood   musical   instrument   on   the   planet.   Very   few   singers  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   possess  the  grain  and  the  majority  posses  no  grain  at  all.  Mary  Margaret  O’Hara  is   the  personification  of  the  grain  of  the  voice.     Arrangements  on  this  album,  which  are  credited  to  O’Hara,  are  intentionally  sparse,   comprising  guitar,  drums,  bass  with  the  occasional  keyboards  and  violin.  This  is  done   on  purpose  to  give  as  much  space  as  possible  for  O’Hara’s  swooping,  diving,  twisting   vocals.   Everything   is   rigidly   ‘on   grid’.   The   current   mode   of   production   via   a   digital   audio   workstation   (DAW),   allows   for   the   manipulation   of   the   music   and   to   place   it   precisely  on  grid.  This  variant  of  hyperreality  was  20  years  ahead  of  its  time;  it  simply   just  did  not  exist  in  1988.   This   level   of   absolute  millimetre  precision  came   from   spot   on  playing,  hence  its  sparseness.  If  the  playing  were  any  more  complex  than  it  would   be  impossible,  without  DAW  technology,  to  get  it  so  perfectly  on  grid.  If  you  listen  to   the   album   loud   (I   do)   and   on   good   speakers   (I   have)   you   can   hear   the   click   track   bleeding  through.  The  click  track  provides  the  rigid  architectural  skeleton  on  which   this  music  is  built  upon.  I’d  go  as  far  as  to  stay  that  Miss  America  was  probably  the   last   great   structuralist   album   before   the   onset   of   post   modernism;   this   theory   is   definitely  up  for  discussion  but  not  here.   The   performances   by   O’Hara   and   band   are   sublime   and   it’s   virtually   impossible   to   fault.   One   reason   why   this   record   is   worthy   of   reconsideration   is   because   it   captures   these   virtually   faultless   performances   forever.   The   metric   I   use   to   judge   audio   engineering   excellence   is   if   it’s   transparent   then   its   good.   According   to   this   metric   the  engineering  on  this  album  is  beyond  good  because  it’s  totally  invisible.  The  mix   adheres   to   the   holy   trinity,   as   instilled   into   all   mix   engineers,   of   PLACE,   SPACE   and   BASS.  Without  an  expansive  explanation  the  mix  on  this  album  is  as  good  as  it  gets   hitting  all  three  markers.  Is  this  record  timeless?  Well  I’m  writing  about  it  almost  30   years  after  it  was  released.  Does  this  record  have  heart?  Indeed  it  has  a  giant  beating   heart  full  of  passion  and  emotion.     This  record  starts  straightforwardly  enough  with  ‘To  Cry  About’.  O’Hara’s  distinctive   voice   appears   over   super   sparse   ringing   electric   guitar   and   five-­‐string   bass.   She   sings   passionately   of   love   lost,   "There   will   be   a   timed   disaster.   There's   no   you   in   my   hereafter".   This   song   sets   the   scene   for   the   whole   album;   it’s   practically   an   advertisement  for  her  voice.  When  the  drums  kick  in  on  track  two’s  ‘Year  in  Song’  it   takes   us   to   totally   different   unexpected   territory.   The   drum   sound   on   this   track   is   pure   1980’s   with   super   loud   punchy   kick   drum,   massive   gated   reverb   snare,   tom-­‐ toms  that  sound  like  cannons  exploding  and  zingy  cymbals.  O'Hara  begins  the  song   with   recognizable,   but   somewhat   cryptic,   lyrics   and   around   halfway   through   she   starts   to   free-­‐associate,   or   to   play   with   the   lyrics   in   a   way   that   a   poststructuralist   poet  would  envy.  I  am  not  sure  what  she  is  getting  at  or  is  trying  to  work  out  in  this    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   song;   it’s   an   enigma.   Indeed   she   sings,   “What   iss   [sic]   the   aim   eh?...   joy?"   Possibly   the  aim  is  finding  and  going  with  the  groove,  letting  the  sense  of  the  song  take  care   of   itself   or   of   just   getting   lost   in   the   music.   By   the   time   she's   barking   about   "ta-­‐ta   music"  in  lines  too  way  difficult  to  decode  without  the  printed  lyrics,  O'Hara  seems   to  have  created  her  own  set  of  self-­‐expressive  language.     O'Hara's  songs  twist  logic,  language,  time  and  space  to  fit  her  own  unique  version  of   the   world.   It's   virtually   impossible   to   know   how   much   calculation   went   into   these   songs  and  performances;  we  just  don’t  know  how  much  of  the  supposed  spontaneity   is  planned  or  is  organic.  In  ‘Body's  in  Trouble’,  track  three,  the  body  is  both  an  object   and  a  person  and  it's  also  producing  the  sounds  we  are  listening  too.  I’m  sure  Roland   Barthes  would  love  this  album  and  especially  this  track.  O'Hara  is  not  explicit  about   the  dilemma;  she  just  pushes  and  pulls  and  plays  around  with  the  idea  of  forces  at   work.   Meanwhile,   the   music   rises,   dips,   bends,   and   breaks.   Far   more   grounded   is   track  four,  ‘Dear  Darling’,  a  country  styled  ballad  that  addresses  the  classic  themes  of   devotion   and   longing.   In   conveying   "A   thing   of   such   beauty"   that   "Must   be   called   love,"   O’Hara   proves   that   she’s   the   vocal   and   emotional   equal   of   country   legend   Patsy   Cline.   By   track   five,   she's   morphed   into   a   French   chanteuse   fronting   an   English   Ska  band  on  the  bouncy,  piano  driven  ‘A  New  Day’,  which  advises,  “When  your  heart   is   sick   with  wonder  at   a   long   and   lonely   way  walk   in   brightness    'cause   it's   a   new   day”.  Sounding  like  the  previous  song's  somber  cousin,  track  five,  ‘When  You  Know   Why  You're  Happy’  is  a  slow  vamp  over  which  O'Hara  meditates  on  knowingness  and   happiness.  Next  up  is  ‘My  Friends  Have’,  which  is  propulsive,  while  ‘Help  Me  Lift  You   Up’  is  its  gentle  flip  side.  ‘Keeping  You  in  Mind’  transports  us  into  slinky  lounge-­‐jazz,   with   a   highly   articulate   and   emotional   violin   solo.   Then   unexpectedly   and   from   an   entirely  different  universe  comes  the  off-­‐kilter  but  funky  workout  of  ‘Not  Be  Alright’.   This   is   the   only   track   on   the   whole   album   that   makes   use   of   a   synthesizer,   a   Yamaha   DX7,   which   was   known   for   the   precision   and   flexibility   of   its   bright,   digital   sounds.   The   lyrics   of   this   track   are   insightful   e.g.   fourth   verse,   "My   tail,   this   tail,   this   tail   is   tall.  This  tale  is  tall.  Innocent  to  a  fault."  O'Hara  makes  it  perfectly,  inarguably  clear   that  some  unnamed  situation  will  not  “Just  will  not  be  alright”.  Sometimes  things  do   go   wrong   and   everything   does   turn   to   shit   and   there’s   absolutely   nothing   we   can   do   about   it.   In   the   last   track,   a   solitary   bass   accompanies   her,   while   she   offers   us   (or   possibly   herself?)   the   assurance   that   "You   will   be   loved   again"   a   truly   beautiful   sentiment   on   which   to   close   the   album.   Miss   America   is   not   an   easy   listen   by   any   means  but  like  most  difficult  journeys  in  life  the  destination  is  worth  it.       I   once   worked   in   the   same   London   building   as   O’Hara’s   European   booking   agent,   Boswell,   who   introduced   me   to   her   music   and   I’m   forever   indebted.   My   first   encounter  with  O’Hara  was  one  evening  as  I  was  finishing  work  when  Boswell  burst   43    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   into   my   office   and   skinned   up   a   huge   ‘Camberwell   Carrot’   of   a   joint   and   tossed   a   CD   of  Miss  America  onto  my  desk.  While  we  smoked  the  joint  together  he  pitched  his   agent’s  spiel  at  me  as  though  I  was  another  gullible  promoter  and  he  persuaded  me   to   accompany   him   to   O’Hara’s   first   London   show.   I’m   not   completely   sure   what   happened   during   the   20   minutes   it   took   us   to   get   from   our   offices   in   Islington   to   the   Town   and   Country   Club   venue   in   Kentish   Town   but   something   metaphysical   definitely   happened.   We   walked   into   the   auditorium   just   as   the   second   track   off   the   album   ‘The   Year   In   Song’   kicked   in.   At   the   precise   second   that   I   first   set   my   eyes   and   ears   on   O’Hara   the   tetrahydrocannabinol   flooded   my   body   and   overpowered   my   senses.   The   sheer   power   and   pure   emotion   that   this   alabaster   skinned,   curly   red   haired  siren  with  bright  red  lipstick  was  emitting  was  un-­‐opposable.  This  dangerous   beautiful   creature   had   used   her   enchanting   voice   and   music   to   lure   Boswell   and   I   onto   the   rocks.   Like   two   shipwrecked   sailors   we   were   helpless   and   couldn’t   fight   her   immense  siren  like  powers.  It  was  a  full  frontal  100%  attack  on  all  of  our  senses;  it   was  an  out-­‐of-­‐body  catharsis  experience.  On  this  occasion  Boswell  had  not  sold  this   artist  short,  it  was  totally  incredible  and  it’s  a  memory  that  I  shall  forever  cherish.   Virgin   Records   dropped   O’Hara   after   the   release   of   Miss   America,   partly   due   to   poor   sales   and   partly   because   they   considered   her   material   not   commercial   enough.   Miss   America  is  an  incredible  piece  of  work  from  an  artist  that  shone  incredibly  brightly   but   only   for   a   few   brief   minutes.   Maybe   she   was   just   too   creative?   She   wrote,   performed,   arranged,   produced,   mixed   and   even   painted   the   album’s   artwork.   She   sounds   like   a   female   harbinger   of   Jeff   Buckley;   you   can   fully   understand   why   she   enthralled   Morrissey   and   Michael   Stipe.   This   is   a   record   that   everyone   who   truly   loves   music   should   own;   it   has   great   melodies,   twisted   vocals,   outstanding   performance,  and  virtuoso  musicianship  and  in  CD  format  it’s  a  sonically  near  perfect   audio   artefact.   Mary   Margaret   O’Hara   once   described   herself   as,   “an   ancient   baby   whose  cranium  never  quite  fused  together”.   Chapeau! References Barthes,   R   2010,   The   Grain   Of   The   Voice   Interview   1962   -­‐   1980,   Vintage   Books,   London.     Burgess,  R  1997,  The  Art  Of  Record  Production,  Omnibus,  London.   Frith,  S  &  Horne,  H  1988,  Art  Into  Pop,  Methuen,  London.  

 

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Wonderland’  Erasure By  Professor  Lisa  Gotto   It's   the   mid-­‐eighties.   I   am   ten   years   old   and   my   teenage   sister   plays   a   song   over   and   over;   a   mysterious,   miraculous   song   that   catches   me   instantly   by   its   sheer   beauty.   Since   she   is   the   mature   teenager   and   I   am   the   baby   sister,   I’m   not   allowed   in   her   room  of  course.  So  I  cower  in  front  of  her  door,  waiting  for  that  wonderful  voice  to   sing   and   talk   to   me   in   a   language   I   don’t   know   but   understand   right   away.   Melancholic  that  voice  seems  to  me,  soft  and  sad.  No  doubt  what  makes  the  singer   so   miserable:   Olamu.   This   person,   this   Olamu,   must   have   caused   his   bitter-­‐sweet   pain,  I  figure.  I  am  sorry  for  his  desolation,  still  I  can’t  wait  to  hear  him  sing  of  Olamu   again   and   again.   And   then,   when   I   am   absolutely   sure   that   nobody   can   see   me,   I   begin  to  dance:  slowly  and  hesitantly,  swaying  to  the  rhythm,  more  confident  with   every   step.   The   tale   of   Olamu,   its   sound   and   feel,   has   set   me   in   motion.   "Pop   is   physical,   sensual,   of   the   body   rather   than   the   mind,   and   in   some   ways   it   is   anti-­‐ intellectual;  let  yourself  go,  don't  think  –  feel",  writes  Hanif  Kureshi  (1995:  p.19).  In   this  enchanted  moment,  I  purely  sense  the  heart  of  the  matter.  I  have  experienced   something  special:  my  entrance  into  wonderland.     Wonderland,  Erasure's  debut  album  was  a  miserable  flop  in  1986.  ‘Oh  l'Amour’,  my   magical   song,   turned   out   to   be   the   third   consecutive   commercial   failure   for   the   band.   Just   like   the   two   preceding   single   releases,   ‘Who   Needs   Love   Like   That’   and   ‘Heavenly  Action’.  These  songs  didn't  crack  the  Top  50  in  the  UK,  nor  the  Billboard   Hot  100.  In  fact,  ‘Oh  l'Amour’  only  reached  number  85  in  the  UK  single  charts  (but   fared   better   in   Germany,   where   it   was   a   Top   20   success).   Considering   the   album's   disappointing   chart   performance,   it   seemed   clear   that   this   new   pop   duo   was   not   supposed   to   have   a   bright   future.   However,   Wonderland   hinted   at   what   would   become   central   to   Erasure's   appeal.   As   a   sparkling   collection   of   catchy   and   soulful   pop  tunes,  seemingly  simple  at  first  hearing,  but  increasingly  fascinating  because  of   their   profound   craftiness,   Wonderland   formed   the   nucleus   of   the   band's   gorgeous,   glorious,  and  glamorous  pop  career.     When  Vince  Clarke  and  Andy  Bell  met  in  1985,  their  musical  pasts  and  paths  could   not   have   been   more   different.   Clarke   had   been   the   founding   member   of   two   paramount   new   wave   bands   and   was   an   experienced   and   successful   electro   pop   song   writer.   Starting   with   Depeche   Mode,   Clarke   was   the   sole   writer   of   their   first   three   singles,   including   the   breakthrough   Top   10   hit   ‘Just   Can't   Get   Enough’.   After   leaving   the   band   in   late   1981,   Clarke   built   an   equally   prominent   career   by   forming    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   the  duo  Yazoo  with  Alison  Moyet.  Both  albums,  1982’s  Upstairs  at  Eric’s  and  1983’s   You   and   Me   Both,   are   regarded   as   new   wave   essentials,   and   their   hit   ‘Don’t   Go’   became  an  electro  pop  classic.  A  succeeding  short-­‐lived  project,  The  Assembly,  with   producer  Eric  Radcliffe  initiated  a  UK  number  four  hit  single,  ‘Never  Never’,  featuring   Feargal   Sharkey   on   vocals.   As   an   electro   master-­‐mind,   Vince   Clarke   had   created   a   whole   range   of   synth   pop   hymns,   all   of   them   vibrant   and   vital   even   in   today’s   standards.     Concurrently,  Andy  Bell  had  just  begun  to  take  his  first  musical  steps.  While  selling   women's  shoes  in  Debenhams  and  performing  in  a  band  called  The  Void,  Bell’s  first   attempt  to  pursue  a  musical  career  was  not  promising.  Fameless  and  nameless  as  he   was,  Bell  responded  to  an  advertisement  in  Melody  Maker  looking  for  a  vocalist  to   take   part   in   a   new   musical   project.   He   auditioned.   Clarke   was   searching   for   the   perfect  pop  beat  and  pop  group,  and  selected  Bell  to  be  his  musical  other  half.  His   choice  wasn’t  instantly  applauded.  When  Wonderland  was  released,  some  critics  felt   that   there   was   no   artistic   progression   from   Clarke's   past,   finding   fault   with   Bell's   too   shrill  vocals  and  rejecting  him  as  a  bad  copy  of  Alison  Moyet.  Others  were  appalled   by  the  songs'  lyrics,  finding  them  flat  or  banal  and  bemoaning  a  missing  concept.  Still   others  would  hint  at  Bell's  effeminate  dancing  style,  which,  in  their  view,  lacked  any   sense  of  coolness  or  confidence.     In  a  certain  sense,  the  critics  were  right.  Erasure  is  all  about  imitation,  surface  and   artifice,   about   exaggeration   and   exaltation   –   deliberately   so.   Wonderland   refuses   any   subtleties   and   intricacies;   its   tracks   are   either   chirpy   tunes   (‘March   Down   The   Line’,   ‘Say   What’,   ‘Heavenly   Action’)   or   overloaded   tear   jerkers   (‘Cry   So   Easy’,   ‘Reunion’,   ‘My   Heart…   So   Blue’)   –   no   deep   philosophy   intended.   The   chorus   of   ‘Senseless’,  a  wonderfully  self-­‐referential  song,  expresses  this  state  of  being  as,  "It's   alright  to  feel  the  mood/  it's  alright,  so  good,  so  far/  Babe  it's  alright".  Does  it  make   any  sense?  Probably  not.  Does  it  have  to  make  any  sense?  Definitely  not.     Seen  in  this  way,  all  that  Wonderland  comes  to  stand  for,  its  plastic  pop  sounds,  its   simplistic   dance   rhythms   and   electronic   beats,   its   ebullient   melodies,   its   corny   cover   art   work,   its   bubble   gum   synth   pop   pleasure,   are   not   deep   flaws   but   a   statement.   Wonderland   is   the   champ   of   camp.   In   her   famous   Notes   on   Camp,   Susan   Sontag   (1964)  defines  the  term  as,  "a  certain  mode  of  aestheticism.  It  is  one  way  of  seeing   the  world  as  an  aesthetic  phenomenon.  That  way,  the  way  of  camp,  is  not  in  terms  of   beauty,   but   in   terms   of   the   degree   of   artifice,   of   stylization."   Camp,   according   to   Sontag   (1964),   is   characterized   by   audacious   extravagance   and   ostentatious   theatricality.  Its  quality  as  a  form,  style  or  expression  lies  in  its  capacity  to  ironically  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   comment   on   any   notion   of   normality,   parodying   it   through   an   aesthetic   sensibility   that  inverts  the  relation  of  surface  to  depth.     While  Sontag  (1964)  developed  her  observations  in  the  mid-­‐sixties,  Erasure's  stance   to   camp   is   inextricably   linked   with   the   pop   cultural   media   universe   of   the   mid-­‐ eighties.  This  can  be  seen  most  clearly  in  the  band's  music  videos.  Not  until  the  age   of   cable   and   satellite   and,   notably,   the   emergence   of   MTV,   did   video   evolve   as   a   significant   pop   cultural   form?   Erasure's   first   music   videos   demonstrate   a   specific   pleasure   for   this   new   kind   of   visual   aesthetics,   bringing   together   a   whole   range   of   audio-­‐visual   styles   and   modes   of   performance   by   drawing   on   drag   and   dance,   televisual   imagery   and   commercial   superficiality.   The   music   video   for   the   debut   single  ‘Who  Needs  Love  Like  That?’  takes  place  in  a  mock  western  setting  featuring   Clarke   and   Bell   in   dual   roles:   both   of   them   are   dressed   as   cowboys   but   appear   in   woman's   drag   as   well.   In   what   looks   like   a   garish   mixture   of   B-­‐movie   location   and   cartoon-­‐like   situation,   everything   we   perceive   is   a   masquerade   that   is   in   excess   of   itself.   This   overplay   of   style   also   informs   Erasure's   second   music   video   ‘Heavenly   Action’,   an   outrageous   science   fiction   parody   complete   with   a   toy-­‐like   spaceship,   gaudy   space   flying   suits,   fantastic   landscapes   of   planet   cupid,   and   a   bunch   of   child   actors   appearing   as   pink   putti.   Using   the   western   and   the   science   fiction   genre   as   entry   points,   both   videos   revolve   around   a   playful   exposition   of   the   fabrication   of   spectacle,  which  then  becomes  a  self-­‐conscious  spectacle  in  its  own  right.     The  most  interesting  and  self-­‐reflexive  of  Wonderland's  videos  is  ‘Oh  l'Amour’.  Not   as   flashy   and   flamboyant   as   the   former   clips,   this   video   concentrates   on   a   studio   performance  of  Erasure,  featuring  not  only  musicians  Clarke  and  Bell  but  also  what   lies   at   the   heart   of   their   synth   pop   endeavour,   i.e.   computerized   sounds   and   aesthetics.   The   lead   part   is   played   by   the   BBC   Micro,   a   computer   system   which   Clarke  used  to  compose  ‘Oh  l'Amour’,  featuring  prominently  in  the  video  to  provide   the  song's  text  and  graphics.  The  video  begins  with  a  computer  screen  displaying  the   UMI  music  sequencer,  ready  to  play  the  music  we  are  about  to  hear.  In  what  follows,   a   pixelated   font   delivers   not   only   the   song's   lyrics   but   also   command   lines   of   the   computer   program   itself,   resulting   in   a   kind   of   hybrid   poetry   of   sound   and   system.   Further,   the   digital   elements   that   were   confined   to   the   screen   in   the   beginning   spread  through  the  studio's  scenery  as  the  video  progresses.  Bit  by  bit  and  byte  by   byte,   the   computer   code   seems   to   emancipate   itself   from   its   purely   functional   destination,   dancing   around   the   band   or   waving   like   a   digital   curtain   in   the   background.   The   video   lays   bare   the   ways   in   which   configurations   of   technology,   music   text   and   context   take   shape   in   specific   arrangements.   Programmability   and   pre-­‐fabricated   sounds   are   not   presented   as   cold   machinery   lacking   emotion   and  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   melody  but  appear  in  perfect  harmony  with  Bell's  vocals  and  movements  as  well  as   with  Erasure's  overall  sensations  and  sentiments.     At   the   end   of   the   piece,   a   blinking   cursor   erases   the   refrain's   line   ‘Oh   l'Amour’   to   replace   it   with   ‘What   Now?’   articulating   a   moment   of   hesitancy,   an   instant   of   tentativeness  when  a  formation  is  still  groping  with  its  own  limitations.  What  now,  in   1986?  A  new  pop  duo  demonstrates  a  specific  kind  of  innovative  strength;  enabling   novel   developments   both   within   synth   pop   sound   culture   and   the   music   video   form.   It   wouldn’t   take   long   until   Erasure's   energy   poured   over   the   airwaves   right   into   their   fans'  hearts;  including  that  of  a  ten-­‐year  old  girl  stepping  into  wonderland.     References Kureishi,  H  1995,  ‘That’s  how  good  it  was’  in  The  Faber  Book  of  Pop,  eds  H.  Kureishi   and  J.  Savage,  Faber  and  Faber,  London,  UK,  p.  19.   Sontag,  S  1964,  Notes  on  Camp.  Available  from:   .    [25  August  2015].  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Bright  Phoebus’  Lal  &  Mike  Waterson By  Tim  Dalton My  hometown  of  Hull,  or  more  correctly  Kingston  upon  Hull,  is  set  become  the  UK   City  of  Culture  in  2017.  Let  the  jokes,  irony  and  underhand  jibes  fly,  but  this  is  not  as   daft  as  it  first  appears.  In  the  forward  to  the  book  A  Rumored  City:  new  poets  from   Hull,  Philip  Larkin  (1982)  famously  described  Hull  as,  “a  city  that  is  in  the  world  yet   sufficiently  on  the  edge  of  it  to  have  a  different  resonance”.  Hull  is  a  liminal  city  and   I’ve  always  adored  liminal  places,  places  on  the  edge,  places  that  survive  in  the  in-­‐ between   spaces.   Creativity   has   a   knack   of   finding   a   foothold   in   these   dubious   crevices.   These   unusual   places,   often   deprived   of   the   usual   mainstream   cultural   influences,  produce  some  of  the  most  creative  pieces  of  work.  More  often  than  not   these   pieces   of   great   art   go   unnoticed,   unappreciated,   unloved   and   often   sink   without  a  trace.  Hull  is  one  of  those  places,  as  was  Berlin  during  the  Cold  War.  My   brother   Nick   coined   the   phrase,   “If   you   can   make   it   in   Hull,   you   can   make   it   anywhere”.   It's   a   fantastic   sentiment   that   points   towards   the   fact   that   Hull   people   are  resourceful,  resilient  and  tenacious  folk.   I  left  Hull  many  years  ago  to  pursue  a  backstage  career  in  rock  ‘n’  roll  music  that  took   me  around  the  world  a  number  of  times.  But  don’t  mistake  this  for  an  act  of  hatred   of   the   city   and   its   surroundings   it’s   definitely   not.   Growing   up   in   Hull   during   the   1970s   and   80s   was   a   unique   experience   and   I   would   not   have   swapped   the   geographical   location   for   anywhere   else   on   the   planet.   Growing   up   in   Hull   was   a   fantastic   experience,   which   forged   me   into   the   person   I   am   today.   I   grew   up   in   a   creative,   left   wing   bohemian   household   in   Hull’s   northern   suburbs.   My   parents   weekly   frequented   Hull’s   folk   clubs   on   their   bicycles,   mainly   the   ones   held   at   city   center   pubs   such   as   The   Rugby   and   The   Blue   Bell.   My   earliest   memories   are   of   a   home  filled  with  strange  but  beautiful  music.  While  my  school  friends  argued  their   case   for   bands   like   Mud,   Showaddywaddy,   David   Essex   and   Alvin   Stardust   in   the   playground  I  was  left  contemplating  Bob  Dylan,  The  Albion  Band,  Martin  Carthy,  Bob   Davenport  and  The  Watersons.  I  didn’t  realise  it  at  the  time  but  I  am  now  eternally   thankful   to   my   parents   for   this   offbeat,   off-­‐kilter   unique   and   unorthodox   musical   education.   A  stand  out  from  this  era  was  the  Hull  band  The  Watersons,  comprising  of  siblings   Mike   Waterson,   Lal   Waterson,   Norma   Waterson   and   their   cousin   John   Harrison.   Their  stark,  unaccompanied  closely  woven  traditional  harmonies  of  their  first  album   Frost   and   Fire   (1965)   could   be   heard   regularly   playing   in   the   Dalton’s   Strathmore   Avenue   household.   Their   greatness   was   nationally   recognized   when   the   weekly    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   music  paper  Melody  Maker  awarded  it  their  Album  of  the  Year,  a  rarity  for  a  debut   ‘folk’   album.    A   year   later   they   followed   this   debut   up   with   their   second   release   A   Yorkshire   Garland,   an   album   that   contains   the   wonderful   song   ‘Willy   Went   To   Westerdale’.  I  remember  singing  this  song  on  a  cycling  holiday  in  the  North  Yorkshire   Moors   and   staying   at   a   Youth   Hostel   in   Westerdale.   On   the   back   of   these   two   records,   The   Watersons   toured   the   UK   folk   club   circuit.   In   1968,   The   Watersons   split   up,  when  Norma  went  to  work  as  a  disc  jockey  for  a  radio  station  on  Montserrat. My   exposure   to   The   Watersons   went   further   than   records.   My   parents   were   friends,   drinking   buddies   and   sometimes   employers   of   the   band,   not   as   musicians   but   as   trade’s  people.  Despite  their  critical  success,  The  Watersons,  and  Mike  in  particular,   had  to  carry  on  working  their  ‘day  jobs’.  Mike  was  a  painter,  decorator  and  builder   by  trade,  a  true  ragged  trousered  philanthropist.  I  once  came  home  from  school  to   find   Mike   Waterson   and   my   father   inserting   a   second   hand,   reclaimed,   wooden   beam  into  the  rear  of  the  house  to  form  an  opening  where  a  kitchen  wall  had  once   been.   According  to  Mike,  on  a  BBC  Radio  4  interview,  he  was  painting  the  inside  of  a  bay   window  of  a  very  large  Victorian  house  in  the  ‘Avenues’  area  of  west  Hull  when  the   sunlight   suddenly   streamed   through   the   windows   “like   a   bright   Phoebus”.   This   record   isn’t   a   Watersons’   record,   it’s   Lal   and   Mike   with   a   stella   cast   of   musicians   including  Martin  Carthy  (guitar  and  vocals),  Richard  Thompson  (guitar),  Ashley  ‘Tiger’   Hutchens  (bass),  Dave  Mattacks  (drums),  Maddy  Prior  (vocals),  Tim  Heart  (vocals  and   tambourine),  Bob  Davenport  (vocals)  and  Norma  Waterson  (vocals).  The  inactivity  of   The   Watersons   allowed   Lal   and   Mike   the   freedom   to   think   outside   of   the   box   and   break  free  of  the  Stalinist  confines  of  traditional  folk  music.  At  the  time  this  record   was   dismissed   by   folk's   staunch   traditionalist   rearguard,   which   saw   the   record   as   going  against  the  very  ethos  of  the  traditional  folk  scene. The  album's  opening  Beatlesque  track  ‘Rubber  Band’  shows  that  it's  not  all  serious   here.  Mike's  silly  side  is  brought  out,  as  experienced  in  one  of  the  corniest  lines  ever   written:   "Just   like   margarine   our   fame   is   spreading".   But   don't   be   fooled,   this   isn't   some  throwaway  number;  it's  as  musically  strong  as  any  other  composition  on  this   record.  ‘Winifer  Odd’  (track  four)  tells  the  tale  of  an  unlucky  soul  who  is  ultimately   saved  when  she  expects  death  to  be  imminent.  It's  a  song  that  really  highlights  Lal's   songwriting  ability:  "Winifer  Odd  Was  born  on  one  cold  May  morning  in  June,  In  her   grandmother's   bedroom,   And   they   waited   all   that   day   for   last   May   to   come   back   again,  But  it  never  came".  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Track  two,  ‘The  Scarecrow’,  is  one  of  the  greatest  compositions  of  modern  times.  It’s   only   because   the   subject   matter   is   so   dark   and   scary   that   many   artists   haven’t   covered   this   song.   This   song   tells   the   tale   of   the   poor   neglected   East   Yorkshire   scarecrow,   who   is   witnessing   the   changing   seasons.   The   song   has   always   been   renowned   for   its   references   to   the   dark   rituals   of   old   days,   namely   a   child   being   sacrificed  in  return  for  a  heavy  crop  yield:  "As  I  rode  out  one  fine  spring  day,  I  saw   twelve  jolly  dons  dressed  out  in  the  blue  and  the  gold  so  gay;  And  to  a  stake  they  tied   a  child  newborn,  And  the  songs  were  sung,  the  bells  was  rung,  and  they  sowed  their   corn".   It’s   possible   that   inspiration   was   taken   from   the   beautiful   Yorkshire   Wolds   fields  and  their  long  forgotten  ghoulish  secrets.   At  the  end  of  the  Napoleonic  Wars  many  bushels  of  bones  were  landed  at  the  Hull   docks   from   the   battlefields   of   Dresden   and   Waterloo.   The   bone   mills   of   Hull   converted   these   phosphate   rich   human   remains   into   fertilizer,   which   was   then   spread   over   the   Yorkshire   Wolds’   green   and   pleasant   fields.   In   1822,   The   Observer   noted   that:   “It   is   now   ascertained   beyond   a   doubt,   by   actual   experiment   on   an   extensive  scale,  that  a  dead  soldier  is  a  most  valuable  article  of  commerce;  and,  for   aught   known   to   the   contrary,   the   good   farmers   of   Yorkshire   are,   in   a   great   measure,   indebted  to  the  bones  of  their  children  for  their  daily  bread.” Not  only  did  Lal  and  Mike  push  the  boundaries  with  the  writing,  arrangements  and   performance  of  their  material  but  also  in  its  recording.  During  the  late  1960’s  the  UK   had  the  most  technically  advanced  recording  studios  in  the  world  with  some  of  the   best   producers   and   engineers   available.   For   some   unknown   reason   Bright   Phoebus   was   recorded   at   Cecil   Sharp   House,   the   home   of   the   English   Folk   Dance   &   Song   Society,   in   a   makeshift   studio   with   producer   and   record   label   owner   Bill   Leader.   Strange   that   such   a   groundbreaking   album   would   be   recorded   at   an   institution   founded   in   strict   historical   tradition.   This   may   be   a   groundbreaking   album   but   it   certainly  did  not  make  use  of  groundbreaking  state  of  the  art  audio  technology.  The   completed  album  is  nothing  short  of  a  masterpiece,  on  a  par  with  Sargent  Peppers,   Pet  Sounds  or  Three  Feet  High  and  Rising.  It  nips  in  and  out  of  styles,  country,  rock  &   roll,   blues,   jazz,   folk,   pop   and   even   has   its   psychedelic   moments   on   the   wry   ‘Magical   Man’.   It’s   a   record   of   many   standouts,   from   the   shear   tortured   beauty   of   ‘Child   Among  the  Weeds’  to  the  rock  &  roll  blues  of  ‘Danny  Rose’  and  the  haunting  ‘Fine   Horseman’.  There's  the  fabulous  country  twang  to  ‘Shady  Lady’,  a  song  that  features   the  vocals  of  all  three  Waterson  siblings  plus  the  sublime  intertwined  guitar  work  of   Richard   Thompson   and   Martin   Carthy.   The   sorrowful   story   of   a   drunken   Lal   falling   down   in   the   rain   is   recalled   in   the   beautiful   ‘Red   Wine   Promises’,   which   features   the   warm  vocals  of  their  sister  Norma.  This  is  an  absolutely  awesome,  gob-­‐smacker  of  a   record.    

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It's  hard  to  imagine  why  this  record  received  such  a  poor  reception  upon  its  release   back  in  September  1972.  Lal  and  Mike,  and  all  involved  in  the  album,  believed  that   this  record  would  be  a  huge  success,  the  album  they'd  all  one  day  be  remembered   for.  However,  due  to  the  record's  poor  reception  in  the  media,  the  album  would  end   up  failing  to  break  even.  Only  1,000  copies  were  ever  pressed  and  a  good  number  of   these  were  pressed  off  centre  making  these  copies  ‘warble’.  Due  to  the  tightness  of   finances,  the  off  centre  records  made  it  into  the  record  shops  and  are  now  a  much   prized   collectors   item.   In   fact,   due   to   the   particulars   of   the   contract,   none   of   the   artists  on  the  album  made  any  money  from  this  venture  and  pretty  soon  the  album   slipped   into   obscurity.   But   things   were   to   get   worse.   This   album   was   very   much   a   victim   of   being   of   its   time   and   by   its   release,   that   time   had   passed.   Mainstream   interest  in  folk  music  dropped  off  in  the  mid  1970s  and  with  Trailer  Record’s  owner   Bill   Leader   struggling   to   make   ends   meet   he   was   forced   to   sell   the   rights   to   Bright   Phoebus,   as   well   as   other   records   on   his   label.   The   rights   were   eventually   sold   on   again  and  ended  up  in  the  hands  of  the  record's  original  distributor  Dave  Bulmer. In  an  age  of  postmodern  revisionism  why  hasn’t  this  record  received  the  update  it  so   rightly   deserves?   An   inferior   CD   version   was   re-­‐issued   in   2000,   but   this   was   cut   from   a   vinyl   album   recording   complete   with   crackle   and   pop.   This   record   is   similar   to   a   Dutch  master  painting  by  Pieter  Bruegel,  albeit  a  long  forgotten  badly  damaged  one   in   an   obscure   gallery   covered   in   soot   and   grime.   Maybe   Hull,   the   2017   UK   City   of   Culture,   can   direct   some   of   its   cultural   budget   towards   rescuing   this   record   and   restore   it   to   its   rightful   place?   Late   in   life   Mike   Waterson   gave   clues   that   he   knew   where   the   master   tape   to   Bright   Phoebus   was,   and   that   he   would   like   to   see   a   re-­‐ mastered  version  made  available.  Just  in  case  I’ve  not  made  myself  100%  clear  here,   this  record  is  a  masterpiece  that  is  in  dire  need  of  some  audio  restoration  to  return  it   to   its   original   sonic   condition.   This   is   probably   one   of   the   greatest   records   you’ve   never  heard,  and  it  comes  from  my  hometown  of  Hull,  and  I’m  immensely  proud  of   it.    

 

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‘Out  Of  Mind  Out  Of  Sight’  Models By  Nick  Wilson   Amongst   serious   rock   and   pop   fans,   the   phenomenon   of   a   band   ‘selling   out’   attracts   particular  scorn.  Music  fans  are  still  debating  the  point  when  commercial  success  led   their   favourite   bands   over   the   tipping   point   into   artistic   decline   decades   after   the   artists  have  entered  retirement.    If  any  artists  attracted  more  than  their  fair  share  of   derision   for   crimes   against   artistic   credibility,   it   was   the   generation   of   bands   who   emerged  from  the  post-­‐punk  scene  of  the  late  1970s.  Simple  Minds,  Public  Image  Ltd   and   The   Cure   are   among   many   which   spring   to   mind   as   bands   that   left   their   most   dedicated  fans  feeling  angry,  disappointed  and  betrayed.   Prior   to   the   late   1960s,   nobody   had   heard   of   ‘selling   out’   in   popular   music.   By   definition,   popular   music   was   intended   for   a   mass   audience.   The   artistry   of   practitioners   such   as   the   Motown   stable   or   The   Beatles   was   akin   to   that   of   skilled   craftsmen,   fashioning   a   product   of   the   highest   quality   that   was   nevertheless   intended  for  mass  consumption.   If   we   fast-­‐forward   to   the   present   day,   Gen-­‐Y   seems   to   have   a   relatively   relaxed   attitude   to   the   artistic   credibility   of   today’s   musical   artists.   Yes,   there   are   sub-­‐ cultures   that   embrace   manifestations   of   the   uncommercial.   But,   it   is   hard   to   be   angry  at  those  who  seek  to  make  a  commercial  living  in  music  given  that  everyone   knows   the   recording   industry’s   rivers   of   cash   have   dried   up   and   anyone   who   can   work  out  a  way  to  make  a  living  deserves  some  kudos.     In   the   mid-­‐to-­‐late   1960s   the   concept   of   artistry,   as   something   distinct   from   the   craft   of  commercial  songwriting,  began  entering  the  modern  pop  landscape.    Songwriters   such   as   Brian   Wilson,   John   Lennon   and   Paul   McCartney   expanded   their   harmonic   and   sonic   vocabulary,   exploring   such   areas   as   the   classical   avant-­‐garde   and   the   studio  as  an  instrument.  Their  work  remained  pop  but  it  came  wrapped  in  layers  of   complexity.   Musical   virtuosos   such   as   Jimi   Hendrix   and   Eric   Clapton   expanded   the   possibilities   of   rock   musicianship   and   drew   inspiration   from   musical   styles   of   a   more   authentic  era  where  blues  hadn’t  been  corrupted  by  rock’n’roll.    In  the  meantime,  a   new   generation   of   rock   musicians   were   studying   at   Britain’s   tertiary   art   schools,   bringing  their  conceptual  training  to  new  musical  projects  that  aimed  to  elevate  rock   music   beyond   straight   entertainment,   with   artists   such   as   The   Who,   Roxy   Music   and   Pink  Floyd  springing  to  mind  here.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   The  punk  revolution  of  the  mid  to  late  1970s  was  explicitly  anti-­‐establishment,  even   while   many   of   its   practitioners   had   notable   success   in   the   mainstream   charts,   as   major   labels   desperately   searched   for   punk   bands   to   sign.   However,   the   bands   whose  stance  was  most  avowedly  anti-­‐authoritarian,  notably  The  Clash  and  the  Sex   Pistols,   had   difficulty   treading   the   fine   line   between   finding   an   audience   and   being   accused  of  betraying  the  principles  they  were  seen  to  stand  for.   As  the  1970s  drew  to  a  close,  many  of  its  artists  had  become  tired  of  punk’s  three-­‐ chord  barrage  rock  template  and  were  searching  for  new  colours  in  their  pallet.  Thus   was  born  ‘post-­‐punk’  where  punk  musicians  variously  embraced  reggae,  disco,  world   music,  krautrock,  synthesizers  or  sonic  experimentation  generally.  In  some  ways  the   post-­‐punk  generation  started  to  resemble  the  prog-­‐rock  artists  they’d  professed  to   despise   in   attempting   to   invest   rock   with   seriousness   and   uncompromising   artistic   intent.   However,   the   difference   here   was   that   the   post-­‐punk   generation   was   generally  hostile  to  mainstream  success  and  largely  kept  their  work  free  of  wanton   displays   of   virtuosity.   This   combination   of   punk’s   anti-­‐establishment   attitude   with   post-­‐punk’s   embrace   of   avante-­‐garde   sonics   and   rejection   of   traditional   musical   values   meant   that   any   artist   seen   to   betray   these   principles   would   pay   a   heavy   price   when  subjected  to  critical  scrutiny.   Nevertheless,   this   is   exactly   what   happened   to   many   of   the   era’s   leading   artists   as   the  1980s  rolled  around  and  post-­‐punk  morphed  into  new  wave.    Some  accidentally   acquired   a   latent   pop   sensibility   or   found   that   mass   taste   had   somehow   taken   a   liking   for   these   new   sounds.   This   was   fine   while   the   artists   still   retained   their   idiosyncratic   charms   and   quirkiness,   however,   it   wasn’t   long   before   this   started   to   wane.  Changes  in  technology  lead  to  a  homogenisation  of  modern  pop  production  as   digital  synthesizers  took  over  the  studios.  Many  artists  developed  an  inclination  for   classic   rock   styles   as   they   developed   fears   for   the   longevity   of   their   songwriting   oeuvre.   The   mainstream   music   industry   was   waiting,   as   always,   to   commodify   any   new   style   and   round   off   its   rough   edges   for   mass   consumption.   So   when   James   Freud,   bass   player   for   the   Models,   who   had   recently   taken   over   lead   vocal   duties   for   two   huge   cross-­‐over   hits   for   the   band,   was   spat   on   in   a   Canberra   nightclub,   it   summarised   the   views   of   critics   and   long-­‐time   fans   who   found   their   latest   work   wanting   when   held   up   against   the   anti-­‐commercial   ideals   of   punk   and   the   avant-­‐ garde  leanings  of  post-­‐punk.   The  Models  have  been  relegated  to  something  of  a  historical  footnote  to  many  when   looking  back  at  the  generation  of  bands  who  emerged  from  Melbourne’s  post-­‐punk   scene  of  the  late  1970s.  Lacking  the  Bohemian  cred  of  Nick  Cave’s  Berlin  contingent   or  the  rock  gravitas  of  Hunters  and  Collectors,  their  shows  today  don’t  quite  attract    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   the   same   interest.   Yet   during   the   1980s   the   Models   were   regarded   as   one   of   Australia’s   most   interesting   new   wave   acts   for   whom   international   stardom   surely   beckoned.  Three  of  their  albums  are  contenders  as  Australian  classics  of  their  era,  all   for   quite   different   reasons,   and   are   surely   due   for   re-­‐evaluation.   Local   And/Or   General,   released   in   1982,   is   a   perfect   amalgam   of   post-­‐punk   experimentation   and   new   wave   pop   sensibility,   pulling   off   an   idiosyncratic   antipodean   anything-­‐goes   attitude  in  a  pop  art  context.  Follow-­‐up  The  Pleasure  of  Your  Company,  released  in   1983,   upped   both   the   sonic   experimentation   and   pop   sensibility,   leading   to   the   band’s  first  taste  of  commercial  success  while  leaving  rough  edges  intact.  An  added   funk   edge   and   percussive   dimension   courtesy   of   a   new   rhythm   section   and   the   contribution  of  producer  Nick  Launay  propelled  them  firmly  into  the  new  wave  era.   This  brings  us  to  the  Model’s  follow-­‐up  release,  Out  Of  Mind  Out  of  Sight,  released  in   1985.   Despised   by   the   band’s   long-­‐time   fan   base,   this   release   nevertheless   was   their   biggest   commercial   success,   propelling   them   to   number   #3   on   the   Australian   pop   charts.  It  gave  them  a  number  #2  hit  single  with  ‘Barbados’  and  a  number  #1  hit  with   the   title   track,   which   also   made   it   into   the   US   top-­‐40   and,   at   the   time,   seemed   a   harbinger   of   imminent   international   stardom,   particularly   as   it   coincided   with   the   band  being  taken  on  by  INXS  manager,  Chris  Murphy.   The  first  track  to  be  heard  from  what  would  become  the  Out  of  Mind  Out  of  Sight   album  was  the  single  ‘Big  On  Love’,  released  in  late  1984,  eight  months  before  the   actual  album  emerged.  This  track  was  recorded  by  the  band  in  the  same  line-­‐up  as   heard  on  the  previous  Pleasure  of  Your  Company  album,  so  in  some  ways,  this  song   belongs  more  properly  to  the  band’s  earlier  era.  The  prominent  driving  synthesizers   of  long-­‐time  band  member  Andrew  Duffield  located  the  track’s  sound  in  their  new   wave  lineage  and  avoided  a  critical  or  fan  backlash.  However,  several  factors  pointed   to   a   more   commercial   direction.   The   driving   guitar   power   chords   provided   some   pub-­‐rock  grit  and  the  lyrics  were  more  direct  than  Sean  Kelly’s  usual  surrealist  style.   The   real   pointer   towards   a   desire   to   make   a   mark   on   the   pop   scene   was   the   recruitment   of   American   producer   Reggie   Lucas.   Fresh   from   success   in   producing   Madonna’s   debut   album,   Lucas   reportedly   demanded,   “do   you   guys   wanna   be   on   MTV  or  what?”  whenever  any  arguments  over  creative  direction  arose  in  the  studio   throughout  the  sessions.  Lucas  even  insisted  on  usurping  Kelly’s  guitar-­‐playing  duties   to  give  the  song  its  rockier  edge  (Wallen  2013).  The  track  was  a  modest  commercial   success,  however  Lucas  didn’t  continue  his  involvement  with  the  album.  If  any  song   on   Out   of   Mind   Out   of   Sight   deserves   to   be   criticised   as   a   sell-­‐out   it   is   this   one,   however,  the  backlash  was  yet  to  arrive.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Shortly  after  ‘Big  on  Love’  was  released,  long-­‐time  keyboard  player  Andrew  Duffield   was   forced   out   of   the   band,   with   differences   of   opinion   over   artistic   direction,   disagreements  with  the  new  management  and  an  unwillingness  to  relocate  the  band   to  Sydney  all  contributing  to  his  departure.  What  is  clear  is  that  Duffield’s  synthesizer   playing   and   artistic   input   were   major   contributing   elements   to   the   Models’   sound   over   most   of   the   band’s   history.   Duffield’s   style   can   perhaps   be   summarised   as   sitting  somewhere  between  1970s-­‐era  Eno  and  Dave  Greenfield  from  The  Stranglers.   Not  only  was  his  departure  seen  as  a  marker  of  changes  in  attitude,  Out  of  Mind  Out   of   Sight   was   destined   to   sound   like   a   completely   different   Models   album   without   him.     The   next   critical   figure   in   the   outcome   of   Out   of   Mind   Out   of   Sight   was   James   Freud,   a   divisive   figure   in   Melbourne’s   post-­‐punk   scene   history   and   easily   mocked,   both   for   the  failure  of  his  post-­‐Models  solo  career  and  the  somewhat  naive  image  projected   in  his  two  published  memoirs.  Nevertheless,  Freud  is  significant  to  Australia’s  music   history  throughout  this  period  and  exhibits  many  of  the  best  traits  of  the  still-­‐lauded   ‘punk   attitude’.   He   was   the   first   musician   to   emerge   out   of   Australia’s   punk/post-­‐ punk  scene  as  a  fully-­‐fledged  pop  star,  his  first  hit  being  the  top-­‐20  single  ‘Modern   Girl’  in  1980,  several  years  prior  to  him  joining  the  Models.  In  this  regard  he  can  be   paralleled  to  overseas  figures  such  as  the  UK’s  Gary  Numan  (with  whom  he  formed  a   close   but   short-­‐lived   creative   partnership)   or   Ric   Ocasek   in   the   US,   both   of   whom   were   successful   in   channelling   their   post-­‐punk   backgrounds   into   commercially   accessible  formats  and  were  harbingers  of  the  new  wave  sound.  More  than  anyone   else,   Freud   is   derided   by   old-­‐time   Models   fans   as   being   responsible   for   the   abandonment   of   their   avante-­‐garde   roots   and   the   embrace   of   a   commercial   pop   direction.   Following   the   success   of   this   first   solo   album   and   the   ‘Modern   Girl’   single,   Freud   joined   a   Melbourne   post-­‐punk   exodus   to   London,   however   subsequent   work   with   Gary   Numan   failed   to   produce   a   follow-­‐up.   Returning   to   Australia,   with   his   pop   career  seemingly  over,  Freud  was  keen  to  hook  up  once  again  with  Sean  Kelly  (with   whom   he   had   played   in   an   early   proto-­‐Models   line-­‐up   in   the   late   1970s),   inspired   by   hearing   the   Models’   recently   released   second   album   Local   And/Or   General.   Given   the  instability  in  Models  line-­‐ups,  Freud  was  reportedly  determined  to  see  if  he  could   find   a   role   in   the   band   and   reconnect   with   music   without   the   pressure   of   being   a   popstar.   As   it   happened,   long-­‐time   bass   player   Mark   Ferrie   had   recently   left   the   band   giving   Freud   an   opening   to   join   the   line-­‐up   on   this   instrument.   In   this   way   Freud   follows   an   unusual   trajectory.   Initially   using   post-­‐punk   as   a   vehicle   to   advance   commercial  pop  ambitions  in  a  manner  that  suggests  opportunism  over  core  artistic  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   ideals,  Freud  now  seemingly  turns  his  back  on  a  pop  frontman  career,  embracing  the   punk  ideal  that  anyone  could  do  anything  so  long  as  they  had  the  chutzpah.     Despite  initial  suspicion,  Freud  seemingly  won  over  Models  fans  as  the  new  line-­‐up   hit  its  stride.  Freud’s  bass  playing,  while  by  no  means  virtuosic,  was  impressive  in  a   post-­‐punk   funk-­‐driven   sense,   sitting   strongly   in   the   mix   in   the   same   manner   as   UK   acts   such   as   Gang   of   Four   or   local   scene   colleagues   Hunters   and   Collectors.   His   contribution   then   received   the   requisite   critical   seal   of   approval   when   he   made   it   into   ‘Best   Bass   Player’   listings   in   the   annual   reader’s   poll   in   RAM   magazine   (then   Aussie  equivalent  of  NME).     However,  Freud  clearly  had  leanings  as  a  pop  frontman  that  were  never  going  to  lie   dormant   forever.   When   second   single   from   Out   of   Mind   Out   of   Sight   ‘Barbados’   was   released  with  Freud  on  vocals,  old-­‐time  Models  fans  had  their  worst  fears  realised.   Freud   had   seemingly   mounted   a   coup,   hijacking   lead   vocal   duties,   implementing   a   mainstream  pop  direction  and  ousting  long-­‐time  keyboard  player  Andrew  Duffield.  It   seemed   to   have   been   forgotten   that   Freud   had   already   sung   lead   vocals   on   The   Pleasure  of  Your  Company’s  ‘Facing  the  North  Pole  in  August’,  and  that  Duffield  had   in   fact   written   the   music   to   ‘Barbados’   as   his   last   contribution   to   the   band.   ‘Barbados’   went   straight   to   number   #2   on   the   charts   (only   held   off   number   #1   by   ‘We   Are   the   World’).   And   although   Freud’s   move   to   lead   vocals   on   half   of   the   album’s   tracks   is   a   significant   change,   he   is   by   no   means   the   only   contributor   critical   to  the  band’s  new  direction.   The   change   in   sound   heard   on   ‘Barbados’   was   striking   when   compared   to   the   Models’   earlier   work.   The   clattering   electronic   percussion   and   insistent   synth   parts   had  been  stripped  right  out,  leaving  a  warm,  open  and  inviting  clarity  that  allowed   melody,  lyrics  and  emotion  to  come  to  the  fore.  The  melody  was  catchy  in  a  jingle-­‐ like   way   yet   retained   a   melancholy   quality   that   subtly   undermined   its   earworm   attributes.  And  the  sax  solo  following  the  second  chorus  gave  it  a  level  of  confidence   and  sophistication  that  signposted  a  move  beyond  the  world  of  underground-­‐cred.   This   was   a   song   that   was   going   to   lodge   itself   in   mainstream   Australian   cultural   consciousness.     The  sax  solo  in  1980s  rock  and  pop  has  been  rightly  maligned  as  a  cultural  artefact,   too   often   sprucing   up   second-­‐rate   songs   with   faux-­‐sophistication   and   imparting   an   extra  layer  of  schmaltz,  as  we  can  hear,  for  example,  in  tracks  by  INXS  or  Spandau   Ballet.  The  recruitment  of  sax  player  James  Valentine  to  the  Models  line-­‐up  signposts   a  point  in  1980s  music  history  where  new  wave  acts  began  searching  for  markers  of   authenticity   and   credible   musicianship.   The   post-­‐punk   movement   was   notable   for    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   sonic  experimentation  and  avant-­‐garde  aesthetics.  Perhaps  subliminally  fearing  that   these   aspects   would   date   their   work   and   that   their   lack   of   virtuosity   as   musicians   was   starting   to   show,   many   artists   began   searching   for   ways   to   adopt   what   they   suspected  were  more  enduring  musical  values:  songwriting,  musicianship  and  roots   music   styles.    Valentine,   however,   had   an   advantage   over   many   of   his   sax-­‐playing   rock   peers   –   he   actually   had   solid   jazz   chops   and   could   impart   those   values   with   conviction.   Apart   from   his   contribution   to   ‘Barbados’,   Valentine   can   be   heard   to   great  effect  in  tracks  on  Out  of  Mind  Out  of  Sight  such  as  ‘These  Blues’  and  ‘Stormy   Tonight’  where  his  intonation,  phrasing  and  improvisational  ability  shine.       Sean  Kelly  also  shines  in  this  looser  version  of  the  Models,  as  roots  music  influences   infiltrate   both   his   singing   and   guitar   playing.   In   ‘Ringing   Like   a   Bell’   and   ‘Seeing   is   Believing’   he   breaks   out   of   structured   lyrics   into   R’n’B-­‐flavoured   improvised   vocalisations,  screaming  and  yelping  with  abandon.  His  guitar  playing  also  loosened   up,   with   ‘Sooner   in   Heaven’   being   a   case   in   point   with   its   country   flavour.   Kelly’s   guitar   style   had   always   had   a   latent   twang   however   unlike   on   previous   releases   it   was  now  no  longer  boxed  in  by  metronomic  new  wave  rhythms.   The  roots-­‐driven  element  in  the  Models  style  that  emerged  on  Out  of  Mind  Out  of   Sight  had  been  hinted  at  in  their  earlier  work  but  remained  submerged  behind  the   surrealistic   lyrical   delivery   and   avant-­‐garde   sonics.   For   example,   listen   to   the   Pleasure  of  Your  Company’s  bluesy  closer  ‘A  Rainy  Day’  or  their  cover  of  ‘Telstar’  on   Local  and/or  General.       What   is   also   striking   about   Out   of   Mind   Out   of   Sight   compared   to   the   Models   previous   work   is   how   little   synthesizers   are   contributing   to   the   music.   There   are   subtle  touches  here  and  there  from  new  recruit  Roger  Mason,  but  primarily  this  is  an   album  driven  by  guitars,  drums  and  brass.     It  is  also  strange  in  retrospect  that  the  Models  were  criticised  for  going  pop  on  Out   of  Mind  Out  of  Sight  as  they  had  always  had  strong  pop  leanings,  certainly  more  so   than   po-­‐faced   contemporaries   like   Nick   Cave.   For   example,   listen   to   ‘Atlantic   Romantic’  from  the  Cut  Lunch  mini-­‐album  for  a  blast  of  post-­‐punk  pop.   Of  course,  Out  of  Mind  Out  of  Sight  can’t  be  discussed  without  mentioning  the  title   track.  Rarely  does  a  song  come  along  brimming  with  so  much  confidence,  the  band   saying  they  knew  as  soon  as  it  was  recorded  that  it  would  go  straight  to  number  one.   More   than   any   other   song   in   this   collection,   it   was   despised   by   the   Models’   old   fanbase,   however,   its   glam   rock   energy,   with   its   exuberant   blasts   of   saxophone   underpinned   by   Barton   Price’s   powerhouse   drumming,   were   irresistible   to   a   far  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   larger  audience,  giving  it  not  just  the  number  #1  spot  in  the  Australian  charts  but  a   respectable  appearance  in  the  US  top  40.     Follow-­‐up  single  ‘Cold  Fever’  didn’t  quite  provide  the  album  with  its  fourth  hit.  The   groove   was   a   little   too   understated,   the   vibe   darker   and   sleazier   compared   to   the   previous  two  singles.  Yet  imagine  the  Rolling  Stones  recording  this  song  and  it  seems   unfair  that  it  didn’t  make  a  bigger  mark  on  the  charts.     The   fifth   and   final   single   from   the   album,   ‘King   of   Kings’,   saw   Sean   Kelly   give   the   most   restrained   yet   haunting   vocal   performance   of   his   career.   This   became   the   song   from   the   album   that   the   older   fans   didn’t   object   to,   the   exception   that   proves   the   rule,   its   melancholic   and   atmospheric   qualities   counter-­‐balancing   the   glam   pop   of   the  title  track.     So  where  does  Out  of  Mind  Out  of  Sight  sit  in  the  pantheon  of  Australian  1980s  pop?   We  can  look  at  overseas  artists  who  shifted  from  synth-­‐driven  new  wave  styles  into   more   ‘authentic’   rock   styles,   such   as   Eurythmics   with   their   Be   Yourself   Tonight   behemoth.  In  comparison  Models  here  seem  far  less  self-­‐conscious  or  contrived,  and   certainly  not  as  over-­‐produced.  What  comes  across  here  instead  is  the  enthusiasm   to  try  out  new  ways  of  working,  to  follow  musical  instincts,  to  experiment  with  new   styles  and  to  see  where  they  lead.  In  its  own  way  isn’t  this  is  in  accordance  with   the   spirit  of  punk  and  post-­‐punk,  to  explore  music  with  an  ‘anything  goes’  attitude?   Does   Out   of   Mind   Out   of   Sight   deserve   to   be   lambasted   as   a   sell-­‐out   by   a   hitherto   credible   band?   I   would   argue   that   it   is   a   vibrant   and   imaginative   album   full   of   the   excitement   of   playing   roots   music   and   bringing   these   elements   into   a   pop   framework.  It  is  historically  situated  in  the  trajectory  of  the  post-­‐punk  generation  of   musical  artists  who  by  the  mid-­‐80s  were  searching  for  new  pathways  to  carry  them   forward.   You   may   mainly   hear   these   songs   today   played   on   classic   hits   radio   or   as   background   while   shopping   in   the   supermarket.   However,   I’d   urge   you   to   listen   to   the  whole  album  at  loud  volume  and  enjoy  Australian  1980s  pop  at  its  best.   References Wallen,  D  2013,  Icons:  Models.  Mess  and  Noise.  Available  from:   .  [15  July  2015]    

     

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Homosapien’  Pete  Shelley By  Tim  Dalton I  was  born  in  1962  in  the  city  of  Hull,  or  to  give  it  its  full  name,  Kingston  upon  Hull,   which  is  located  in  East  Yorkshire  in  the  north  east  of  the  UK.  The  city  of  Hull  sits  on  a   vast   flat   barren   clay   wilderness   called   the   Plain   of   Holderness.   This   Plain   was   one   huge   marsh   up   until   1240   when   the   Dominican   monks   established   a   Friary   in   the   market   town   of   Beverley.   From   across   the   North   Sea,   these   Dominican   monks   brought   in   the   Dutch   to   drain   this   large   swathe   of   land   to   make   it   habitable   and   suitable  for  farming.  To  this  day  you  can  still  see  the  ditches  and  dykes  built  by  the   Dutch   to   drain   this   great   plain.   Easily   sourced   fresh   and   clean   water   filtered   through   the   chalk   of   the   Yorkshire   Wolds   also   made   this   area   desirable   for   habitation.   I   can’t   prove   my   theory   but   it’s   my   contention   that   something   was   added   to   this   water   during   the   late   1970s   and   1980s.   The   result   was   a   noticeable,   unprecedented   outbreak  of  artistic  and  musical  creativity  in  Hull  during  this  period  the  likes  of  which   have   not   be   seen   since.   Whatever   was   in   the   water   during   this   period   was   obviously   good  stuff  and  did  the  trick.   From   the   mid   1970s   through   to   the   late   1980s,   Hull,   and   in   particular   the   Polar   Bear   pub,   seemed   to   attract   artists   and   musicians   from   all   corners   of   the   UK.   The   Polar   Bear  pub  was  on  a  road  called  Spring  Bank  so  called  because  this  road  followed  the   course   of   the   original   conduit   that   brought   fresh   water   from   the   Yorkshire   Wolds’   springs  into  the  city.  One  person  I  casually  befriended  during  1981/2  was  art  student   Philip  Diggle  from  Manchester,  who  was  studying  fine  art  at  Hull  College  of  Art  and   Design.  At  the  time,  Philip  was  a  poor  starving  eccentric  artist  (he  still  is)  who  told   me   one   night,   after   way   too   many   beers   in   the   Polar   Bear   pub,   “I’m   drawn   to   action   painting  and  I’m  going  to  make  it  my  vocation”.   Back   then   this   Victorian   pub   had   a   long   public   bar,   a   lounge   and   a   very   strange   liminal  space  referred  to  as  “the  café  bar”.  This  was  a  small  wood  paneled  room  that   held   approximately   20   odd   people   and   was   wedged   between   the   bar   and   lounge.   This  was  the  city’s  only  arty  bohemian  safe  spot  and  every  night  of  the  week  it  was   filled   with   poor   starving   artists   and   musicians   such   as   Roland   Gift,   Eric   Golden   aka   Wreckless   Eric,   Lili-­‐Marlene   Premilovich   who   would   later   morph   into   Lene   Lovich,   her   lover   and   musical   partner   Les   Chappell   and   just   about   every   other   local   indie   band,   would   be   record   producer,   fine   artist,   architect   and   other   assorted   creative   wannabes.  It  was  here  that  I  made  the  connection  that  Philip  Diggle  was  in  fact  the   younger  brother  of  Buzzcocks  rock  God  guitarist  Steve  Diggle.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   A  few  years  earlier,  I’d  seen  the  Buzzcocks  play  a  couple  of  times  at  the  Wellington   ‘Welly’   Club   in   Hull.   Most   punk   bands   at   the   time   hailed   from   down   south,   specifically   London.   Buzzcocks   were   different   as   they   came   from   Manchester,   located   a   couple   of   hours   away   along   the   M62.   Most   southern   punks   bands   that   I   saw   live,   more   often   than   not   at   The   ‘Welly’   club,   were   like   peacocks   e.g.   lots   of   expensive   bondage   trousers,   leather   jackets   with   studs   and   other   flamboyant   touches.   Bands   from   the   north,   and   especially   Manchester,   dressed   down;   it   was   more   second   hand   thrift   shop   punk   as   opposed   to   the   highly   stylized   Vivienne   Westwood/Malcolm  McLaren  look.  The  northern  look  was  much  more  accessible.  An   Oxfam  or  second  hand  thrift  stores  allowed  the  poor  working  class  of  Hull  to  emulate   this  dressed  down  punk  look.   With  their  dressed  down  punk  look,  the  Buzzcocks  had  the  musical  chops  to  match.   Pete   Shelley,   the   band’s   lead   singer,   looked   like   the   weedy   kids   at   my   school,   the   ones  that  got  bullied  and  never  got  picked  for  the  football  team.  His  vocal  style  was   quiet,  limp,  whiney,  camp  and  often  out  of  tune.  It  wasn’t  the  classic  punk  rock  loud,   proud,  macho  and  shooty  vocals  you  associate  with  this  genre.  Shelley  was  unique   and  he  was  certainly  not  a  lead  man  in  the  classic  punk  rock  mold  like  Johnny  Rotten,   Joe  Strummer  or  Dave  Vanian.  Northerners  like  myself  loved  the  Buzzcocks  and  Pete   Shelley;  we  identified  with  them  and  claimed  them  as  our  own.   Their  1977  Spiral  Scratch  EP  was  the  first  ever  self-­‐release  punk  record.  It  sounded   fantastic   and   was   100%   Punk   Rock.   Track   one,   side   two;   ‘Boredom’   was   a   call   to   arms.  For  me  it  was  this  record,  not  The  Sex  Pistols’  Anarchy  In  The  UK,  that  signaled   Punk   Rock   had   arrived.   This   EP   announced   punk's   rebellion   against   the   status   quo   whilst   also   providing   the   strident   musical   minimalism   template   (the   Steve   Diggle   guitar  ‘solo’  consisting  of  only  two  notes  but  repeated  66  times!)  that  all  future  punk   records  would  measure  themselves  against.  Martin  ‘Zero’  Hannett  quickly  recorded   and   mixed   the   music   in   a   single   day   and   it   was   perfectly   insistently   repetitive   and   energetic.   Jon   Savage   states   in   England   Dreaming   (2001:   298)   that   this   record   was   instrumental   in   helping   establish   the   small   record   labels   and   scenes   in   both   Manchester  and  Liverpool.  Following  on  from  this  EP,  the  Buzzcocks  released  three   fantastic  albums;  Another  Music  In  A  Different  Kitchen  in  1978,  the  superb  Love  Bites   also   in   1978   and   A   Different   Kind   of   Tension   in   1979.   Martin   Rushent   expertly   produced  all  three  albums,  none  of  which  need  rescuing  here.   For   the   traditional   Buzzcock   fans,   Homosapien   was   a   super-­‐sad   and   disappointing   event  upon  its  release  in  1981.  French  philosopher  Jean-­‐Paul  Sartre  maintained  that   the  concepts  of  authenticity  and  individuality  have  to  be  earned  but  not  learned.  We   need  to  experience  "death  consciousness"  so  as  to  wake  up  ourselves  as  to  what  is    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   really  important;  the  authentic  in  our  lives  which  is  life  experience,  not  knowledge.   As   he   wrote   in   Being   And   Nothingness   (1943:   p.246),   "We   can   act   without   being   determined  by  our  past  which  is  always  separated  from  us".  Many  artists  reach  this   point  in  their  careers;  this  is  the  moment  when  Pablo  Picasso  swaps  expressionism   for  abstract  cubism.  Sartre  would  probably  concur  that  Pete  Shelley  experienced  his   ‘death   consciousness’   moment   when   he   recorded   this   album.   Homosapien   is   the   moment   Shelley   and   Rushent   swap   electric   guitars   for   synthesizers;   they   are   both   acting  without  being  determined  by  their  collective  and  individual  Buzzcock  pasts.     Much   of   the   material   contained   on   this   album   are   songs   that   were   originally   intended   for   the   Buzzcock’s   fourth   album.   Some   of   the   material   on   Homosapien   even   pre-­‐dates   the   Buzzcocks   and   had   been   cryogenically   stored   for   a   number   of   years.   This   wasn’t   Shelley’s   first   solo   album   as   he   had   recorded,   but   not   released,   an   album   called   Sky   Yen   way   back   in   1974.   Some   of   this   material   was   re-­‐worked   on   Homosapien.   The   Buzzcocks   had   fully   committed   to   recording   a   fourth   album.   It’s   pure   conjecture,   but   this   album   was   probably   set   up   to   continue   their   intriguing,   strange   and   powerful   direction   they   had   taken   on   their   third   1979   album   A   Different   Kind   of   Tension.   Rehearsals   for   the   fourth   album   were   underway   in   Manchester   when   the   record   company   (EMI/Fame)   refused   to   advance   the   money   needed   to   make  the  record.  Tensions  were  running  high,  so  producer  Martin  Rushent  called  a   halt   to   rehearsals   and   returned   to   his   newly   built   barn   studio,   Genetic,   on   his   property  near  Reading  in  Berkshire. Shelley  followed  Rushent  down  to  Berkshire  and  the  two  settled  into  Genetic  studios   with   the   intent   of   working   on   Buzzcock   demos.   This   was   no   ‘home’   studio;   technologically   it   was   cutting   edge   and   years   ahead   of   its   time.   Rushent   had   predicted  the  future  of  record  production,  investing  a  considerable  sum  of  money  on   audio  equipment  such  as  a  Linn  LM-­‐1  Drum  Computer,  Roland  MC-­‐8  Microcomposer   and  a  Roland  Jupiter  8  keyboard  with  the  intent  of  teaching  himself  the  new  art  of   music  programming.  Once  Rushent  had  confirmed  that  ‘sequencing’  was  the  future   of   record   production,   he   equipped   his   Genetic   Studio   with   the   very   best   and   most   expensive  audio  equipment.  This  included  a  MCI  console,  one  of  the  first  Mitsubishi   Digital   multi-­‐track   records,   at   an   eye   popping   £75,000   ($153,000),   a   Synclavier   and   a   Fairlight  digital  synthesizer,  where  most  people  would  buy  one  or  the  other.   Very   quickly   Shelley   and   Rushent   fell   in   love   with   the   sound   of   the   ‘Linn   Drum’   demos   at   the   exact   moment   where   mainstream   electro-­‐synth   pop   was   just   taking   hold.  Rushent  used  his  studio  as  a  research  and  development  laboratory,  perfecting   his   new   way   of   producing   records.   Homosapien   is   the   sound   of   one   musician   (Shelley),   one   record   producer   (Rushent)   and   lots   of   early,   expensive   computer    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   technology.   Visionary   Island   Records’   A&R   Executive,   Andrew   Lauder,   heard   the   early   demos   and   instantly   offered   Shelley   a   solo   deal.   Tired   of   the   Buzzcock's   near   bankrupt   financial   state,   Shelley   abruptly   disbanded   the   band   via   an   insensitive   lawyers'  letter  mailed  to  his  band-­‐mates.   Virgin   Records’   A&R   Executive,   Simon   Draper,   listened   to   the   finished   Homosapien   album;   he’d   heard   the   future.   Martin   Rushent   was   instantly   hired   to   produce   the   Human   League’s   1981   hugely   popular   masterpiece   album   Dare.   By   the   time   Rushent   set  to  work  on  Dare,  he  had  perfected  a  new  way  of  sequencing  and  programming   synthesizer-­‐based   music.   In   this   process,   he   had   pioneered   the   technique   of   ‘sampling’,   skills   he   first   practiced   on  Homosapien.   This,   said   Shelley,   marked   a   departure  from  the  baroque  flourishes  of  the  outdated  progressive  rock  era:  "Martin   wasn't  content  that  synthesizers  produced  weird  noises;  he  did  his  best  to  use  them   to  convey  musical  ideas.  These  days  when  you  listen  to  music  you  don't  even  hear  the   synthesizers.  That  is  due  to  Martin,  who  was  at  the  vanguard  of  making  electronics   work  for  the  music"  (The  Telegraph  2014). The   Buzzcock   fans'   shock   had   barely   dissipated   from   the   unexpected   news   of   the   break   up   when   Homosapien   was   released.   A   great   number   of   Buzzcock   fans   were   disappointed  and  disenchanted  by  what  they  perceived  as  Shelley  jumping  on  to  the   Gary  Numan  synth-­‐pop  bandwagon.  Shelley's  lyrics  remained  just  as  cold,  disjointed   and  disgruntled  as  they  ever  were  on  a  Buzzcocks’  album,  only  now  they're  placed   much   more   in   the   forefront   of   the   soundstage   instead   of   being   just   an   afterthought.   The   album   confirms   that   Shelley’s   wry,   witty,   lovelorn   pop   songwriting   ability   was   still   perfectly   intact.   As   you   would   deduce   from   the   album’s   title,   this   work   is   as   narcissistic   as   anything   that   David   Bowie   could   ever   write,   "Homosuperior   in   my   interior";  it  doesn’t  get  any  more  narcissistic  than  that.   Despite   the   new   method   of   computer-­‐sequenced   production,   Rushent   manages   to   retain   the   tight   compressed,   hard   vocals   of   Shelley’s   band   work.   The   ten   tracks   on   this  album  are  magnificent,  modernist  abstract  electronic  works  of  art.  The  opening   track   and   first   single,   Homosapien,   was   rejected   by   British   radio   due   to   the   song’s   apparent  homosexual  overtones,  even  though  taken  at  face  value,  its  controversial   nature  seems  less  evident.  Regardless,  it  was  a  worldwide  club  hit,  especially  in  gay   clubs,  and  was  the  blueprint  for  many  synth-­‐pop  dance  tracks  that  followed.  Tracks   like  the  fabulous  experimental  ‘I  Generate  A  Feeling’  and  the  relentless  ‘I  Don't  Know   What  It  Is’  are  confirmation  of  this  testament.  If  this  album  was  a  painting  it  could   easily   be   one   of   Philip   Diggle’s   modernist   pieces   of   abstract   expressionism.   The   similarity   between   this   album   and   Diggle’s   paintings   are   very   similar   i.e.   Diggle’s  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   paintings  are  complex  3-­‐D  abstractions,  they  go  beyond  texture,  and  some  of  them   are  inches  thick  as  is  Shelley’s  music  on  this  album.   With   the   lack   of   mainstream   radio   play,   and   poor   reviews,   this   album   was   largely   unloved   upon   its   release.   The   NME   said   that,   "Homosapien   is   the   first   chance   to   examine   the   solo   Shelley   over   the   full   range   of   interests   and   emotions   but   it   is   a   disjointed   album...   the   problem   is   the   bulk   of   the   raw   material   is   too   ineffectual,   often   embarrassing   and   half   realised,   to   give   the   songs   a   focal   point   which   binds,   injects   or   drives   them   with   the   necessary   conviction   or   resolution...   It   lacks   energy,   urgency  and  desperation,  something  to  grab  on  to:  the  power  to  wake  you  or  make   you  or  shake  you  up.  A  shame  because  Shelley  still  has  a  lot  to  give”  (NME  1981).   When   Homosapien   was   originally   released,   it   pushed   the   technological   envelop   on   all  fronts.  As  a  cassette,  there  were  ten  tracks  on  one  side,  while  the  other  side  was  a   computer  code  that  could  be  loaded  onto  your  Sinclair  ZX  Spectrum  home  computer.   I  often  wonder  how  many  people  played  the  wrong  side  of  the  cassette  on  their  HiFi   system   and   heard   the   garbled   cacophony   of   computer   code,   thinking   this   was   the   album?   I   bought   the   cassette   version   upon   its   release   in   January   1981,   but   could   never  get  the  computer  graphics  to  work  properly.  My  cassette  version  was  quickly   replaced  by  the  sonically  much  superior  CD  version,  which  came  out  a  few  months   later  in  June  1981.   I  would  also  suggest  that  this  album  suffered  from  some  unwarranted  homophobia.   Pete  Shelley  was  punk’s  version  of  heavy  metal  band  Judas  Priest’s  lead  singer  Rob   Halford.  When  both  artists  came  out,  the  press  had  a  field  day  resulting  in  many  fans   deserting   both   artists;   not   that   it   made   one   iota   of   difference   to   the   music.   Judas   Priest   was   still   a   kick-­‐ass   heavy   metal   band   no   matter   the   lead   singer’s   sexual   preference.  The  one  positive  of  Shelley’s  ‘coming  out’  was  the  attention  Homosapien   received   by   a   totally   new   demographic   that   never   heard   of   the   Buzzcocks.   As   a   stupendous   club   dance   track,   the   single   ‘Homosapien’,   was   a   huge   success   in   gay   clubs  around  the  world  even  if  it  didn’t  generate  high  retail  sales.   In   recent   times,   the   genius   of   Philip   Diggle’s   modernist   action   paintings   have   been   recognized   by   the   American   corporate   business   world   who   are   buying   his   work   as   part  of  their  investment  portfolios.  Diggle’s  works  can  now  be  found  hanging  in  the   Rockefeller  Centre  and  corporate  headquarters  of  the  Chase  Manhattan  Bank;  both   located   in   New   York   City.   In   many   ways   the   Shelley/Rushent   album   Homosapien   is   similar  to  one  of  Diggle’s  artworks.  It  can  take  thirty  years  or  more  for  cutting  edge   works   of   art   to   be   fully   assimilated   and   accepted   into   the   cultural   landscape.   This   album  was  the  work  of  two  visionary  artists  who  created  a  substantial  work  of  art  as    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   opposed   to   an   ephemeral   standardized   pop   record.   This   album   is   evidence   of   Darwin’s   evolutionary   theory   at   work.   The   name   of   the   studio,   ‘Genetic’   and   the   name   of   the   album   Homosapien   are   all   not   so   coded   semiotic   clues   as   to   how   this   album   evolved   from   the   punk   rock   of   the   Buzzcocks.   Homosapien   will   forever   be   associated   with   the   sexually   charged   gay   scene,   the   smell   of   Amyl   Nitrite   and   thumping   bass   of   gay   club   dance   floors.   Too   many   homophobes   made   this   album   taboo  and  off  limits.  My  suggestion  is  to  get  hold  of  the  Homosapien  CD,  play  it  loud   and  just  enjoy  the  fabulous  music.   References The  Telegraph  2014,  Rocks  Back  Pages.  [24  June  2015] NME  1981,  Rocks  Back  Pages.  [24  June  2015].  

 

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‘Earth  Vs.  The  Wildhearts’  The  Wildhearts By  Ian  Hunter   The   early   90’s   were   a   turbulent   time.   Just   a   few   years   after   grunge   turned   the   music   scene   on   its   head,   so   the   sudden   death   of   Kurt   Cobain   caused   another   seismic   upheaval.   With   rock’s   biggest   bands   still   readjusting   to   this   brave   new   world,   and   grunge’s  superstars  dazed  and  in  mourning,  rock  badly  needed  an  adrenaline  shot. Into  the  vacuum  poured  a  new  breed  of  bands  and  none  more  talented  volatile,  or   unhinged,   as   The   Wildhearts.   Offering   a   noisy   alternative   to   the   mainstream   ‘Brit-­‐ rock’   these   disparate-­‐sounding   newcomers   flawed   both   audiences   and   the   music   press  with  their  first  almighty  sucker-­‐punch.   The  bands  auburn  haired  front  man/guitarist,  known  to  all  as  Ginger,  for  reasons  too   obvious   to   explain,   had   been   promising   to   make   his   presence   felt   for   a   number   of   years.  Latterly  the  hard  living  guitarist  with  UK  Rod  and  the  Faces,  sound-­‐alike’s,  The   Quireboys,   Ginger’s   lifestyle   and   belligerent   personality   had   seen   him   fall   out   with   the   band’s   new   management,   Sharon   Osborne.   Cast   adrift,   just   as   the   Quireboys   were   about   to   break   into   the   mainstream,   and   tour   the   world   as   support   act   for   The   Rolling   Stones,   it’s   fair   to   say   that   the   volatile   man   with   the   flame   hair   decided   to   view   the   situation   as   a   call   to   arms,   rather   than   the   knife   between   the   shoulder   blades  that  it  undoubtedly  was.   For  months,  the  rumour  mill  turned  with  whispers  of  Gingers  new  band.  Names  were   mentioned,  line-­‐ups  confirmed,  and  still  nothing  happened.  Then,  just  as  the  music   press   was   about   to   consign   all   the   speculation   to   the   bin,   rock   radio   came   alive   with   the   sound   of   Turning   American,   by   The   Wildhearts,   and   no   one   had   expected   it   to   sound  as  it  did.   To   say   that   Turning   American   was   a   thinly   veiled   attack   on   Ginger’s   previous   band   would  be  doing  it  an  injustice.  There  was  nothing  veiled  about  it.  ‘The  smell  of  easy   money  and  you’d  follow  it  to  death  -­‐  I  can  smell  the  shit  upon  your  breath.’   As  alluded  to  earlier,  Ginger  Wildheart  had  always  found  himself  to  be  a  Vegemite   personality.  People  either  loved  him  or  hated  him;  and  it  is  something  that  continues   to  this  day.  A  belligerent,  aggressive,  and  hugely  unpredictable  character,  with  a  yo-­‐ yo  penchant  for  some  of  the  darker  indulgences  of  life,  made  being  in  a  band  with   Ginger   Wildheart   as   exciting   as   it   was   dangerous.   However,   right   from   day   one   of   The   Wildhearts,   it   was   obvious   that   Ginger   had   a   talent   that   the   majority   of   his   contemporaries  could  only  weep  into  their  Jack  Daniels  about.  

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   After   testing   the   waters   with   the   EP’s,   ‘Mondo   Akimbo   a   Go-­‐Go’,   and   ‘Don’t   Be   Happy,  Just  Worry’,  the  band’s  line  up  finally  stabilized  with  the  release  of  Earth  Vs.   The   Wildhearts.   Even   the   album’s   title   betrayed   Ginger’s   worldview   that   he   was   always  the  outsider  and  fully  prepared  to  fight  his  corner.   Earth  Vs.  The  Wildhearts  hit  the  record  stores  on  August  17  1993,  and  it  had  jaws   hitting   the   pavement   from   the   get-­‐go.   From   the   opening   of   ‘Greetings   from   Shitsville’,  to  the  fade  out  of,  ‘Love  U  til  I  don’t’,  eleven  songs  later,  it  left  the  listener   in  no  doubt  that  there  was  never  any  chance  of  a  compromise.  We  can  all  think  of   albums  we  own  that  slowly  welcome  you  into  their  world.  As  the  more  radio  friendly   and   melodic   tracks   become   that   bit   over   familiar,   you   discover   the   layers   and   intricacies   of   the   hidden   gems.   They   invite   you   to   enjoy   your   own   journey   of   discovery,   at   your   own   pace   and   in   your   own   way,   but  Earth   Vs.   The   Wildhearts   was   an   album   with   very   different   ideas   about   your   listening   pleasure.   Like   Malcolm   McDowell  in  A  Clockwork  Orange,  you  felt  as  if  you  had  been  strapped  to  a  gurney   with   your   eyes   and   ears   pinned   back,   and   then   psychologically   assaulted   by   the   kind   of   chorus   melodies   and   hooks   we   generally   consider   to   be   the   preserve   of   Lennon   and  McCartney,  or  the  best  of  the  mid  sixties  Motown  stock  writers.     th

The   UK’s   New   Musical   Express   (NME)   reviewed   it   with   the   words;   “Earth   Vs.   The   Wildhearts  is  akin  to  being  jumped  by  a  gang  of  hells  angels  on  your  way  home  from   the   pub,   and   receiving   the   worst   beating   anyone   would   wish   never   to   have;   yet   through   the   blood   and   exhaustion,   you   crawl   away   feeling   utterly   exhilarated   and   wanting  it  to  happen  again.”   So  what  made  this  album  what  it  was?  Of  course  it  has  to  start  with  the  songs.  In  the   twenty   plus   years   since   its   release,   Ginger   Wildheart   has   continued   to   fuel   the   opinion   that,   somewhere   in   the   Cayman   Islands   he   has   an   offshore   safety   deposit   box,   full   of   killer   chorus   melodies   and   crunching   guitar   riffs   that   he   can   dip   into   whenever  the  mood  takes  him.    Another  defining  factor  is  what  a  hybrid  it  is;  a  true   Frankenstein   of   an   album.   Diamond   pop   melodies,   guitar   riffs   that   bands   like   Metallica  and  Slipknot  would  cut  off  an  arm  to  have  composed,  and  all  delivered  in   musical  arrangements  and  time  changes  that  have  more  in  common  with  some  early   seventies  prog-­‐rock  album.  They  are  musical  elements  that,  on  the  surface,  are  like   oil   and   water;   they   seem   to   have   no   earthly   business   being   in   the   same   recording   studio  at  the  same  time,  yet  the  fusion  is  absolute,  and  without  there  ever  being  a   musical  moment  where  you  can  separate  any  of  them.     What  comes  across  is  that  Dr  Gingerstein  was  never  going  to  give  a  fuck  what  you,   me,  or  anyone  else  thought.  In  the  song,  ‘Miles  Away  Girl’,  he  sings,  “You  never  seem    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   to  have  any  money,  because  the  decent  people  never  get  paid.”    The  line  is  just  one   of   the   dozens   of   allegories   within   the   lyrics,   and   a   typical   Ginger   Wildheart   statement  that  he  really  doesn’t  care  who  you  are,  or  how  great  your  life  has  turned   out;  his  world  view  is  seated  in  the  person,  and  not  what  you  have.     Like  many  great  albums,  Earth  Vs.  The  Wildhearts  didn’t  fulfil  its  potential  until  the   band   had   imploded   in   a   spectacular   mess   of   booze,   bar   fights,   and   hallucinogenic   fungi.  No  sooner  was  it  claiming  its  plaudits,  and  starting  to  dent  the  music  charts,   the   party   was   over;   at   least   for   a   while.   Just   like   Dr   Frankenstein   in   Mary   Shelley’s   book,   Ginger   Wildheart   succumbed   to   the   monster   of   his   own   making;   famously   carving   his   initials   into   the   boardroom   table   of   Mushroom   Records   with   a   flick   knife,   when   signing   the   band’s   deal   with   them.   As   the   band’s   lead   guitarist   once   said   to   me,  “Ginger  is  never  happy;  if  he  found  a  bar  of  gold  in  the  street,  he’d  complain  it   was  the  wrong  shape.”   Earth   Vs.   The   Wildhearts   was   a   true   monster   rock   album.   It   broke   so   much   new   ground  whilst  raising  its  hat  in  respect  to  so  much  that  had  come  before  it.  Nirvana   had  become  the  Khmer  Rouge  of  rock  music.  They  had  drawn  a  line  in  the  sand  and   stamped  year  zero  on  guitar  music  with  a  battered  Converse.  Just  as  punk  rock  had   blazed  a  scorched  earth  policy  over  the  self-­‐indulgence  of  seventies  progressive  rock,   you  could  argue  that  music  needed  Nirvana  in  much  the  same  way.  However,  they   heralded   a   period   where   rock   music   became   insular   and   sometimes   dark.   Kurt   Cobain,   Layne   Stayley,   Andrew   Wood;   the   Jim   Morrison’s   of   Grunge,   dead   before   their   time,   and   buried   in   a   t-­‐shirt   that   says   ‘Everyone   Loves   You   When   You’re   Dead.’   The  Wildhearts  debut  album  was  the  first  clarion  call  in  returning  rock  music  to  what   it   had   once   been,   and   should   always   be.   It   said   rock   music   should   be   fun   again;   it   should  be  about  having  a  great  time  with  your  mates,  and  not  sitting  in  your  room   contemplating   your   navel   over   a   big   joint   of   weed.   It   was   an   album   that   gave   the   finger   to   those   who   refused   to   acknowledge   the   past;   Nirvana   B.C,   and   wore   its   influences  boldly  on  its  sleeve.  It  was  Metallica  covering  the  early  Beatles,  or  Nirvana   covering  Lynard  Skynard,  and  produced  by  Phil  Spector  with  a  gun.      

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Earth   Vs.   The   Wildhearts   is   a   lost   gem,   and   its   legacy   is   rooted   in   that   very   fact.   I   once  heard  it  described,  as  like  owning  a  piece  of  banned  or  subversive  art.  Only  a   select   group   are   aware   of   it   and   understand   its   weight   and   significance.   Occasionally   its  owners  might  trust  it  to  new  ears,  having  warned  them  of  the  consequences.  As   Morpheus   says   to   Neo   in   The   Matrix,   ‘Red   pill   or   blue   pill?’   There   really   is   no   turning   back  because  you  can  never  unheard  it.

 

 

 

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‘Ironing  The  Soul’  Vinny  Peculiar By  Tim  Dalton     From   mid   2003   until   early   2012   I   was   employed   as   a   lecturer   in   Popular   Music   Studies  at  a  very  large  metropolitan  university  in  Liverpool  in  the  UK.  I  was  based  in   the  building  known  as  The  John  Lennon  Art  and  Design  Academy  where  we  had  the   part-­‐time   musician,   full-­‐time   beat   poet   and   world-­‐renowned   wordsmith   Roger   McGough  as  our  Honorary  Fellow.  McGough  was  very  stately  and  walked  around  the   building   with   an   aloof   air,   as   you   would   expect   from   a   much   decorated   (OBE   &   CBE),   70-­‐year  ‘national  treasure’  poet.  He’d  studied  for  a  French  degree  from  1955  to  1958   in   my   hometown   at   the   University   of   Hull.   This   is   the   very   same   university   where   misanthropic  poet  Philip  Larkin  begrudgingly  worked  as  a  librarian.  Obviously  there  is   something  about  Hull  and  the  river  Humber  that  brings  out  the  poet  in  people.  One   day,  I  walked  into  the  staff  print  room  to  find  McGough  on  his  hands  and  knees  at   the   base   of   a   large   Hewlett   Packard   printer,   as   if   praying.   Jammed   in   the   printer   was   a   large   A3   sheet   of   paper:   I’m   guessing   this   piece   of   jammed   paper   contained   his   latest  poem?  He  was  bright  red  in  the  face,  swearing  profusely,  it  didn’t  rhyme,  while   pulling  with  all  his  might  at  the  jammed  page.  I  was  incredibly  impressed  with  how   many  percussive  expletives  he  was  able  to  shout  out;  he  was  not  fazed  at  all  by  my   entrance.   Finally   McGough   rose   majestically   to   his   feet,   regained   his   composure,   pushed  his  glasses  back  up  onto  this  bridge  of  his  nose,  straighten  his  striped  tie  and   shouted   one   last   “FUCK   YOU”,   then   kicked   the   printer,   slowly   turned   and   left   the   room  sans  le  papier.  It  was  all  terribly  surreal. Another  UK  based,  but  much   lesser   known   poet  and   musician,   is   Vinny   Peculiar   (aka   Alan   Wilkes).   Although   his   poetry   and   music   are   nowhere   near   as   well   known   as   Roger   McGough’s   work,   I   still   regard   him   as   an   unsung   national   treasure.   In   2014,   the   Irish   Times   newspaper   described   Vinny   as,   “the   missing   link   between   Roger   McGough   and   Jarvis   Cocker   but   with   the   wittiest   lyrics   this   side   of   Wreckless   Eric”.   Being  a  huge  fan  of  all  three  artists  this  is  very  high  praise  indeed.  Vinny  has  released   eleven  albums  over  the  years  but  it’s  the  2002  release,  on  Ugly  Man  Records,  titled   Ironing  The  Soul  that  I’m  rescuing.   Ironing  The  Soul  is  a  beautiful  album  of  kitchen  sink  confessional  outsider  pop,  which   is   dedicated   to   his   dead   brother   Melvin   Wilkes   (1961-­‐2001).   The   other   ten   albums   are  definitely  worth  a  listen  but  Ironing  The  Soul  is  his  magnum  opus.  This  album  is  a   rare   beast   because   the   arbiters   of   style   and   taste   (reviewers)   all   hailed   it   as   a   masterpiece,   yet   the   general   public   still   completely   ignored   it.   Vinny   didn’t   get   the   attention  he  so  rightly  deserved  with  this  album  and  I  bet  he  loved  that.  The  music   70    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   on   this   album   is   considered   problematic   because   it   doesn’t   fit   neatly   into   a   single   musical  genre  rather  it  awkwardly  straddles  a  few.  At  50  odd  years  old  the  cool  kids   don’t   dig   him,   his   music   is   too   odd   for   the   mainstream   and   his   wit   is   way   too   intellectually  challenging  for  most  people.  This  album  has  very  limited  appeal  abroad   because   it’s   too   quintessentially   English.   Over   the   last   decade   and   a   half   he’s   managed   to   release   an   original   album   every   few   years   for   a   very   small   but   highly   appreciative   audience   who   recognize   his   awkward   brilliance.   He’s   a   kind   of   warm   hearted  but  much  more  likeable  Morrissey  of  The  Smiths. If   you   want   his   full   life   story   then   listen   to   track   one   on   Ironing   the   Soul,   ‘Flatter   and   Deceive’,   it’s   all   there.   Vinny   was   born   and   raised   in   the   Worcestershire   village   of   Catshill  before  his  relocation  to  rainy  Manchester  in  the  north  west  of  England.  The   music  of  his  local  church,  he  endured  a  Methodist  upbringing,  was  his  first  love  but   70’s   Glam   Rock   soon   put   an   end   to   all   that.   After   flunking   formal   education   and   spending  an  eternity  on  the  dole  he  trained  as  a  mental  health  nurse  and  worked  in   long   stay   psychiatric   hospitals   with   some   challenging   patients.   Vinny   ended   his   long-­‐ standing   relationship   with   the   NHS   some   years  ago   in   order   that   he   might   go   and   search  for  everything  he’s  still  looking  for.  Much  of  Vinny’s  work  is  autobiographical,   the  songs  are  remarkably  candid,  honest,  witty  and  with  a  laugh  out  loud  absurdity   while   at   the   same   time   they   are   poignant   and   self   effacing.   Ironing   The   Soul   is   a   pretty  unique  album,  the  songs  make  you  laugh  then  cry  and  think  all  at  the  same   time,  you  really  do  need  to  hear  it. Ironing   The   Soul   is   of   personal   interest   to   me   as   I   was   present   during   its   recording   at   Hug   Studios   in   Liverpool.   I   was   working   with   Liverpool   management   and   record   company   Hug   who   at   the   time   managed   the   bands   Space   and   Sizer   Barker.   We   all   shared   the   same   manager,   offices   and   studio   complex.   Sizer   Barker   and   I   were   located   in   the   downstairs   studio   at   Hug   while   Vinny   was   recording   in   the   upstairs   studio.   Over   the   period   of   a   few   months   during   2001,   I   watched   and   listened   as   Vinny’s  music  was  transformed  from  rough  vocal  and  acoustic  guitar  demos  to  a  fully   finished   album.   Instrumental   in   this   transformation   was   producer/engineer   Rob   Ferrier.  Ferrier’s  official  title  does  not  reflect  his  true  role  on  this  record.  He  opened   the  creative  gates  allowing  Vinny  to  come  crashing  through.  The  true  beauty  of  this   album  is  that  it  fully  captures  his  world  of  oblique,  tortured  punk  poetry  nostalgia.   Ironing  the  Soul  gives  a  deep  insight  into  Vinny’s  strange  world  because  every  song  is   stuffed   to   the   gills   with   melody   and   eccentricity.   All   the   songs   on   this   album   are   clever,   funny   and   wonderfully   weird.   As   album   producer,   Ferrier   channels   all   of   Vinny’s   eccentricity   and   barbed   wit   into   something   strangely   compelling,   and   in   turn   transforms  him  into  some  sort  of  unlikely,  heroic  pop  star,  the  type  they  just  don’t   seem  to  make  anymore.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   It  was  a  very  interesting  to  observe  the  creative  process  during  the  2001  recording   sessions  at  Hug  Studios.  The  technical  production  on  this  album  is  the  old  fashioned   analogue   type,   which   perfectly   suites   the   material   being   captured.   Vinny’s   guitar   playing   and   songwriting   are   second   to   none   mixing   Americana   chord   changes   and   instrumentation  with  the  ear  for  a  good  tune.  Through  a  lens  of  guitars,  mandolin,   lap-­‐steel,   cheap   synths,   glockenspiel,   egg   whisk,   spoons,   handclaps,   immaculate   arrangements   and   compassionate   production,   Vinny’s   music   is   brought   to   life.   Throughout   this   album   Vinny   is   complemented   with   the   addition   of   various   musicians   including:   ex-­‐members   of   The   Smiths,   Oasis,   Aztec   Camera   and   The   Fall.   Ferrier’s  production  and  arrangements  complements  the  material  perfectly.  Effects   are   subtle;   the   album   expands   across   the   full   audio   spectrum   and   is   beautifully   dynamic   in   a   pre-­‐MP3   way.   Production   isn’t   laid   on   with   a   trowel;   it’s   understated   and  acts  in  the  same  way  as  light  seasoning  is  added  to  a  recipe  to  bring  out  the  true   taste  of  a  great  meal.     Track  four,  ‘One  Great  Artist’,  is  a  fantastic  example  of  how  Vinny  takes  the  ordinary   mundane   everyday   events   of   the   world   and   twists   them   into   something   magical   and   unique.  I  distinctly  remember  being  in  Hug  Studio’s  very  small,  shared  kitchen  area   when  some  kind  of  semi-­‐joke  argument  broke  out  about  how  the  studio  kitchen  was   only  big  enough  for  one  great  artist.  Of  course  Vinny  took  this  and  constructed  some   ridiculously   bizarre   lyrics   about   great   painters,   “There’s   only   enough   room   in   this   kitchen,   for   one   great   artist   and   that   is   me”.   With   existential   angst   he   also   states,   “I’m  not  afraid  of  dying  in  obscurity”,  which  is  both  very  scary  and  totally  accurate.   The  other  band  in  the  kitchen  that  day,  Sizer  Barker,  were  invited  into  the  studio  to   add   what   the   sleeve   notes   call   “art   school   chorus”   backing   vocals   on   this   track.   Standing  in  the  recording  studio  with  Sizer  Barker  that  day  repeatedly  shouting  “One   great  artist”  into  a  microphone  is  a  memory  I’ll  forever  cherish.     There’s  a  fabulous  anarchic  elegance  to  Vinny  Peculiar’s  music,  which  is  both  thrilling   and  faintly  unsettling.  Uncut  Magazine  hits  the  nail  on  the  head  in  2014  when  they   wrote,  “If  Tony  Hancock  had  made  pop  records  they’d  have  sounded  like  this”.  The    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   ten   songs   on   Ironing   The   Soul   are   a   beautiful   blend   of   Americana,   indie-­‐pop   and   busker-­‐punk,  they  create  an  almost  George  Formby  like  world  of  oddity  and  human   frailty,   and   the   self-­‐deprecating   veracity   of   his   lyrics   never   fails   to   hit   the   intended   spot.   Ironing   The   Soul   is   a   triumph   of   creativity   over   commerciality;   the   general   public’s   loss   is   our   gain.   This   album   takes   an   obscure   view   of   the   world   and   makes   it   a   much   better   place   and   I   think   that   that's   a   good   enough   reason   to   rescue   this   album.

 

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‘Tonight’  David  Bowie By  Dr  Ian  Dixon You  might  remember  him  from  such  extravagant  masquerades  as  Ziggy  Stardust  or   the   Thin   White   Duke;   from   outrageous   publicity   stunts   such   as   proclaiming   himself   Satanist  (Sandford,  1996),  born  again  Christian  (Leigh,  2014),  bisexual,  Nazi  apologist   (Trynka,   2011),   even   an   alien.   You   might   recall   his   feminine   make   up,   his   Kabuki   and   Kansai   suits,   his,   “screwed   up   eyes   and   screwed   down   hairdo”   (Bowie,   1973),   his   double   reinstatement   of   the   Pierrot   theme   (1967,   1979)   or   just   pacing   before   a   bulldozer  surrounded  by  clerics  of  varying  denominations  in  Ashes  to  Ashes  (1979).   That’s  right!  The  inimitable  David  Bowie.   In  the  late  1960s,  Bowie’s  band,  The  Konrads,  played  at  weddings,  was  ignored  and   booed   off   stage   then,   in   the   1980s,   Bowie   played   to   audiences   in   the   hundreds   of   thousands  for  the  Serious  Moonlight  tour.  During  the  1970s  he  was  hounded  by  the   press   for   sexual   excess   and   conspicuous   public   perversion   then   succumbed   to   monogamous   marital   reclusiveness   in   the   1990s.   He   has   played,   sung,   written,   arranged   and   produced   for   mega-­‐stars   such   as   Lou   Reed   and   Iggy   Pop,   supported   lesser-­‐knowns  such  as  Mott  the  Hoople  and  generally  championed  bands  globally  for   their   prog   rock   adventuring.   He’s   terrified   himself   with   the   constant   threat   of   ‘madness’   as   exemplified   by   his   beloved   brother   Terry’s   schizophrenia.   He’s   slept   with  more  people  than  you  could  poke  a  stick  at:  everyone  from  Marianne  Faithful   to  Nico,  Charlie  Chaplin’s  widow,  Oona  O’Neill  Chaplin,  transsexual  Romy  Haag  and   supermodels  Winona  Williams  and  his  scintillating  wife,  Iman  Bowie.   Above  all,  Bowie  represents  the  triumph  of  high  art  in  popular  music  having  firmly   wedged   himself   into   the   zeitgeist   with   iconic   songs   like   ‘Space   Oddity’,   ‘Starman’,   ‘Rebel   Rebel’,   ‘Heroes’,   ‘Fashion’   and   ‘Let’s   Dance’   while   exemplifying   the   very   spirit   of   rock   creativity   and   its   synthesis   with   art   and   literature,   referencing   works   from   Sigmund   Freud’s   Interpretations   of   Dreams   to   George   Orwell’s   1984.   David   Bowie   acts  on  stage  and  screen  (especially  noted  for  his  exemplary  physical  gyrations  in  the   stage   play   version   of   The   Elephant   Man   in   New   York,   1980).   He   writes   music   in   irreconcilably  contrasting  styles,  even  movie  soundtracks  for  Nicolas  Roeg’s  (see  Big   Audio   Dynamite)   confusing   extravaganza:   The   Man   Who   Fell   to   Earth   (1976)   and   the   downbeat  realist  drama  Christiane  F.  in  which  he  plays  himself  (as  he  did  in  far  more   capricious   vein   in   Zoolander   (2001)).   More   recently,   Bowie   performed   in   The   Prestige  (2006)  alongside  Hugh  Jackman  and  Christian  Bale  (Batman,  Wolverine  and   Ziggy  Stardust  on  the  same  screen!  Now  that’s  a  film  worth  seeing).

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   This  is  David  Bowie:  inexhaustible,  inspired,  insecure,  admirable,  charismatic,  a  man   with  impeccable  manners  and  a  reputation  for  rapidly  writing  songs  that  go  from  0   to   100   in   seconds.   ‘Fame’   (1976)   was   apparently   penned   with   John   Lennon   in   less   than   twenty   minutes   (Sandford,   1996)).   In   short,   the   man   is   a   genius   (antiquated   modernist  term  though  it  be),  which  prompts  the  question:  how  did  Tonight  (1984)   mess  it  all  up  so  irrevocably? Tonight,   produced   by   Bowie,   Hugh   Padgham   and   Derek   Bramble   followed   the   unprecedented  commercial  and  artistic  success  of  ‘Let’s  Dance’:  his  top  selling  album   in  which  the  production  smarts  of  disco-­‐funk  king  Nile  Rodgers  met  with  the  sharp   guitar   excellence   of   Stevie   Ray   Vaughan   (before   the   latter   left   the   tour   in   a   helicopter:   disdainful   that   Bowie   had   matched   his   own   outrageous   egotism   (Sandford,   1996)).   Bowie’s   16   studio   album,   Tonight,   reached   number   one   on   the   British  charts.  Yet,  despite  its  commercial  success  fans  still  whisper  that  the  success   was  merely  off  the  back  of  ‘Let’s  Dance’,  which  had  skyrocketed  Bowie’s  fame. th

Tonight   is   the   album   Bowie   biographer   Paul   Trynka   called,   “a   perfect   storm   of   mediocrity”’   and   “leaden   white   reggae”   (2011,   p.   408),   and   Melody   Maker   (1990)   refers   to   as   “rotte”’.   The   album   relinquished   Bowie’s   former   acumen   at   predicting   the   market   and   trailed   the   reggae   wave   by   some   years   (Leigh,   2014).   Tonight,   the   album   after   Bowie’s   telepathic   ability   to   predict   the   market,   saw   him   leave   behind   the  music-­‐fashion  predictions  that  had  secured  his  place  at  the  top  of  the  pops;  folk-­‐ rock,  glam  rock,  theatrical  grunge,  techno  and  ambient,  disco-­‐funk,  plastic  soul  and   new   romanticism.   Tonight   represented   a   loss   of   confidence   on   Bowie’s   part   and   a   switch   to   mainstream   as   a   source   of   inspiration   rather   than   underground   music,   which   had   serviced   the   master   for   over   a   decade.   Where   previous   fare   had   included   The  Velvet  Underground,  Brian  Eno’s  ambient  music  and  classical  composers  such  as   Gustav   Holst,   Hanns   Eisler   and   Karlheinz   Stockhausen,   Tonight   relied   on   sources   from  The  Police,  Laurie  Anderson  and  The  Thompson  Twins.   Relying   heavily   on   the   1980s   big   drum   sound,   even   the   dance   anthems   of   ‘Let’s   Dance’  succumb  to  the  tragedy  of  falling  behind,  but  Tonight  brings  it  home  and  nails   the   coffin   shut   on   a   decade   of   unprecedented   reinvention   and   primavera   excellence   in   popular   music.   1983   was   the   year   that   dedicated   Bowie   journalist   Charles   Shaar   Murray,  “David’s  number  one  cheerleader  in  the  British  pres”’  (Leigh,  2014,  p.  153),   stopped  documenting  his  albums.  Having  said  that,  this  album  represents  moments   of  impeccably  slick  production,  excellence  culminating  in  the  seamless  pop  icon  Blue   Jean.   Indeed,   Tonight   fairly   defines   the   self-­‐conscious   interplay   of   tasteless   narcissism  and  artistic  pursuit  (that’s  a  compliment).  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   However,   a   closer   scrutiny   of   the   individual   tracks   leaves   us   wanting   for   an   album   worthy  of  the  Bowie  oeuvre.  The  songs  combine  the  would-­‐be  sublime  with  the  loud   ordinariness   of   a   moribund   fad.   Tracks   such   as   ‘Loving   the   Alien’   mix   orchestral   strings   in   the   background   in   a   fashion   already   exhausted   by   E.L.O.   and   Bowie   chooses   to   ride   the   “leaden   white   reggae”   wave   headfirst   into   oblivion   (Trynka,   2011,  p.  408).     On  Tonight,  lacklustre  guitar  riffs  by  the  otherwise  stupendous  Carlos  Alomar  remain   a  sad  indictment  hung  on  Bowie.  Tonight  plummets  his  hard-­‐won  mega-­‐stardom  into   the   absolute   mediocrity   of   an   absolute   beginner   (neither   was   his   reputation   rescued   by   his   subsequent   album,   Never   Let   me   Down,   which   in   Bowie’s   own   words   was   “apocryphally   awful”:   plastic   emotion   succumbing   to   pure   schmaltz).   Perhaps,   on   track   two   of   Tonight,   Bowie   was   offering   himself   advice   by   repeating   the   affirmation   ‘Don’t   look   down’,   as   the   resurgence   of   his   monolithic   cocaine   addiction   propelled   his  personal  paranoia  to  sheer  megalomania.   Where   are   the   incisive   lyrics   so   prevalent   in   Scary   Monsters?   Where   are   the   sublime   melodies   which   saw   seasoned   musicians   such   as   Mick   Jagger,   John   Lennon,   Marc   Bolan   consulting   with   a   23   year   old   Bowie   in   1970   (Vizard,   1990)?   Some   say   his   cocaine  addiction  all  but  wiped  out  his  former  genius:  a  phenomenon  Bowie  likens   to   having   Swiss   cheese   for   a   brain:   far   from   decrying   this   fact,   Bowie   celebrated   it   when  he  appeared  on  Parkinson  (2002)  touted  as  the  “Peter  Pan  of  Rock  ‘n’  Roll”.   Bowie’s  version  of  ‘God  Only  Knows’  is  not  only  embarrassing,  it’s  one  of  the  most   disingenuous   tracks   in   rock   history.    The   delivery,   in   the   words   of   biographer   Paul   Trynka,  is  akin  to  a  “pub  singer  punting  for  wedding  and  bar  mitzvah  jobs”  (2011,  p.   408).   In   this   sad,   crooner   version   of   The   Beach   Boys’   1966   classic,   jaunty   epistle,   Bowie  experiments  with  his  ever  deepening  vocal  delivery:  a  rumbling,  bass  register   assisted  by  decades  of  chain  smoking.  This  quality  would  be  exploited  to  far  greater   effect  on  Heathen  (1999)  as  he  had  done  on  Diamond  Dogs  (1974)  and  Let’s  Dance   (1982).   On   Tonight’s   ‘God   Only   Knows’,   however,   everything   from   sentimental   strings   to   turgid   tempo,   the   ‘big   sound’   rim-­‐shot   drums   to   the   super-­‐charged   romanticism  announces  that  this  was  simply  a  bad  choice.  With  this  version  (and  to   his  credit),  Bowie’s  tongue  is  firmly  wedged  in  his  cheek,  but  the  delivery  is  so  cringe-­‐ worthy   nobody   seems   to   have   noticed   the   irony.   The   song   begins   as   saccharine-­‐ schmaltz   with   a   semi-­‐shouted   Sprechgesang   quality   weaved   in   for   good   measure   then  descends  to  pure  bathos.  With  ‘God  Only  Knows’,  Bowie  outdoes  the  stain  on   ‘Across   the   Universe’;   his   previous   highpoint   of   pure   awful   on   Young   Americans   (1975)  (when  teaming  up  with  John  Lennon  on  the  inspired  Fame;  an  iconic  track  not   even  the  pretentious  1990  remix  could  overshadow).      

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The  eponymous  track,  ‘Tonight’,  features  steel  drum  and  marimba  rhythms  (supplied   by  Canadian,  Guy  St.  Onge)  and  played  without  the  authenticity  of  Jamaican  verve,   even   though   Mr   Bowie   is   ‘familiar’   with   Jamaican   culture   (particularly   Jamaican   women)  since  his  teen  years  in  South  London  directly  after  the  Second  World  War.   There   are,   however,   some   exemplary   backup   vocals   on   this   track,   which   also   constitutes  a  beautiful  synchronicity  of  timbre  between  himself  and  Tina  Turner  (the   grandma  and  grandpa  of  rock  together!).   After   the   haunting   excellence   of   ‘China   Girl’   on   Let’s   Dance   (even   though   Bowie   ultimately   despised   his   version),   Bowie   attempts   again   to   resurrect   some   of   the   genius   performance   from   Iggy   Pop’s   album   The   Idiot   on   Tonight’s   next   track   ‘Neighbourhood   Threat’.   Regrettably,   Bowie   fails   to   achieve   the   ‘messed-­‐up’   resignation  of  Iggy  (even  though  Bowie  had  produced  Pop’s  album  during  a  period  of   unmitigated   creativity   in   Berlin:   1975-­‐1977).   Bowie   himself   declared   the   song   ‘disastrous’,   mentioning   a   plethora   of   different   musical   styles   tried   and   failed   in   attempting  to  resurrect  the  song.  To  Bowie’s  credit,  however,  this  desperate  anthem   of  street  survival,  ‘Neighbourhood  Threat’,  contains  some  perfect  scintillation  of  bass   guitar   and   drum   combinations,   notably,   this   time-­‐tested   pop   music   convention   kicks   the  song  off  immediately.  This  effectively  reinvents  the  song  in  a  new  genre,  which  is   no   small   feat.   In   the   past,   my   friends   spent   many   a   debauched   night   playing   song-­‐ for-­‐song:   Bowie-­‐Pop-­‐Bowie   and   debate   the   merits   of   the   differing   versions   (Iggy   invariably   won!).   ‘Neighbourhood   Threat’   oscillates   between   glossy   disco   backing   singers   and   three-­‐chord   guitar   riffs   including   inspired   contrapuntal   movements   between  competing  melodies  as  Bowie  peels  off,  “Will  you  still  place  your  bets,  on   the  Neighbourhood  Threat?” And  so  we  arrive  at  ‘Blue  Jean’:  the  listener  sighs,  ‘at  last!’  as  the  album  really  takes   off.   This   song   represents   all   that   could   have   been   on   this   lively,   but   flawed   album.   The   hit-­‐parade   anthem   ‘Blue   Jean’   employs   a   characteristically   remote   vocal   delivery,   yet   remains   a   capricious   interpretation,   sporting   lyrics   such   as,   “She’s   got   a   turned   up   nose”.   This   is   counterbalanced   against   an   impassioned   screaming   of,   “Sometimes  I  feel  like.  Dancing  with  Blue  Jean.  Somebody  send  me!”  Senseless  lyrics   though  they  may  be,  the  subtext  of  being  out  of  your  head  in  love  with  someone  bad   for  you  fairly  drips  from  the  vinyl  (yes,  vinyl,  which  dates-­‐stamps  this  particular  critic   irrevocably).   Indeed,   even   the   deliberately   fake,   ‘cracked   actor’   vocal   rift   finds   its   perfect   place   in   this   hit   tune.   The   driving   double-­‐time   beat   of   the   verse   leads   seamlessly   into   the   middle   eight   and   chorus.   The   hit   retains   a   genuine   improvisational   quality   floating   over   the   slick   arrangement:   the   superb   placement   of  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   shrieking,   grunting   saxophone   riffs   (played   by   the   man   himself)   sets   off   the   exemplary  guitar  solo  played  lovingly  by  long-­‐time  Bowie  axeman,  Carlos  Alomar.   Wouldn’t   it   be   sublime   to   leave   this   album   at   this   point   so   we   won’t   even   have   to   mention   ‘Tumble   and   Twirl’,   with   its   impulsive   6/8   time   signature   and   gurgling,   hyper-­‐romantic   Robert   Smith-­‐type   vocal   delivery?   The   song   (and   alas   most   of   the   album)   reminds   us   of   the   tragedy   of   conscious   postmodern   caprice   believing   its   own   hype.  Indeed,  ‘I  Keep  Forgetting’  (Leiber  and  Stoller’s  reworking  of  Chuck  Jackson’s   original),  and  ‘Dancing  with  the  Big  Boys’  makes  the  listener  want  to  rip  the  album   off  the  player  and  put  Scary  Monsters  back  on  (lest  we  keep  forget  that  Bowie  was   once   the   giant   of   progressive,   edgy   popular   music).   With   a   decisive   rim-­‐shot,   the   album   ends:   the   big   brass   nightmare   is   over   and   we   are   left   in   a   welcome   abyss,   where  the  absence  of  noise  is  somehow  meaningful  by  comparison.  Is  the  album  too   clean?  Did  he  not  smoke  enough  ganja  to  render  effective,  dirty  reggae  (it  was,  after   all,  not  his  drug  of  choice  (Leigh,  2014))?  Was  it  all  just  a  waste  of  space,  vinyl  and   unsmoked  ganja? Yet   I   resist   the   urge   to   do   just   that   and,   as   I   cogitate   the   theme   of   this   collection:   Album  Rescue  Series,  I  must  acknowledge  that  it  is  the  very  genius  of  Bowie’s  former   glory   that   raises   the   bar   for   the   artistic   and   commercial   success   of   such   a   venture.   Ironically,   this   means   he   is   judged   harshly   by   fans   and   critics.   Indeed,   the   album   represents   a   clash   between   commercialism   and   artistry.   On   reflection,   the   advancement   in   engineering   is   exemplary;   the   sound   is   clean   and   seamless   to   the   very   edge   of   technological   capacity   in   the   1980s.   We   must   pay   homage   to   Bowie   for   venturing   even   further   into   new   terrain   creating   a   synthesis   of   reggae   and   white   cynicism,   for   maintaining   a   modicum   of   intelligence   within   the   lyricism.   In   the   notoriously  shallow  zeitgeist  of  the  1980s  it  stands  out  as  experimental  (within  tight,   commercial  parameters)  and  colourful.  Perhaps  his  old  buddy  Christian  Bale  should   play  this  album  during  his  scathing  (ironic)  indictment  of  80s  pop  in  American  Psycho   (2000).   Bowie  has,  and  will  always  have,  extensiveness  and  inclusiveness  in  his  music;  ever   increasing  range  vocally,  musically  and  inter-­‐disciplinary  influences,  far  from  a  mere   follower   of   the   market.   We   must   acknowledge   that   the   contemporaneous   market   had  painted  Bowie  into  a  corner.  The  pressure  to  emulate  the  commercial  success  of   Let’s   Dance   or   the   artistic   excellence   of   Scary   Monsters   must   have   represented   extraordinary  insecurity  for  this  mega-­‐star.  The  music  on  Tonight  is  crisp,  inventive,   unique   and   (largely)   unpredictable.   Bowie   is   to   be   praised   for   continuing   his   experimentation   with   musical   styles   beyond   mega-­‐stardom.   Thus,   within   David   Bowie’s   musical   milieu,   Tonight   is   an   album   definitely   worth   playing.   Although   other   Bowie   albums   might   be   written   off,   there   is,   in   Tonight:   sweat   behind   the   market    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   positioning;  pain  behind  the  commercialism;  excellence  in  the  production;  and  sheer   balls  in  the  risk.

 

 

 

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‘Chicken  Rhythms’  Northside By  Tim  Dalton Manchester   is   regarded   as   the   UK’s   second   city   after   London,   despite   the   unsubstantiated  counter  claims  from  Birmingham,  and  is  one  of  the  world’s  greatest   industrial   cities.   The   city   is   famous   for   driving   the   industrial   revolution,   cotton   production,  a  36  mile  (58  km)  long  ship  canal,  TV  broadcasting,  art,  music  and  even   providing   the   world   with   the   standardisation   for   screws   via   the   Whitworth   Thread   standard  in  1841.  Despite  all  of  these  great  inventions  and  innovations,  Manchester   is  usually  known  throughout  the  world  for  its  two  football  teams  Manchester  United   and  Manchester  City.   I  consider  myself  to  be  pretty  lucky.  Since  the  mid  1980s  I  have  travelled  the  world   extensively  with  my  backstage  rock  ‘n’  roll  career  and  everywhere  I  go  I  see  people   who  have  never  been  to  Manchester  wearing  football  shirts  of  these  two  teams.  A   quick   search   on   the   Internet   lists   over   fifty   active   football   teams   in   the   Greater   Manchester   area.   The   problem   with   this   style   of   binary   reductionism   is   that   great   teams  that  are  neither  United  nor  City  are  not  represented.  I  am  not  a  football  fan  or   expert  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  but  I’d  hazard  a  guess  that  there  are  some   great  games  being  played  by  teams  like  Bury  Football  Club  or  Bolton  Wanderers.   This  is  the  major  problem  with  Northside’s  1991  release  Chicken  Rhythms  on  Factory   Records   (FAC310).   Northside   are   in   effect   Accrington   Stanley   to   The   Stone   Roses’   Manchester   City   or   The   Happy   Mondays’   Manchester   United   and   as   such   do   not   attract  the  attention  they  so  well  deserve.  In  the  music  scene  that  became  known  as   ‘Madchester’  there  were  so  many  bands  that  it  was  fairly  obvious  that  the  odd  one   would  fall  between  the  cracks.  I  am  absolutely  sure  the  same  thing  happens  in  any   great   musical   movement;   think   the   San   Francisco   Sound   of   the   late   1960s   early   1970s   and   the   two   major   players,   The   Grateful   Dead   and   Jefferson   Airplane,   but   what   about   hippie   rockers   Stoneground?   Don’t   worry,   Stoneground’s   1971   eponymous  album  is  going  to  feature  in  Album  Rescue  Series  volume  II.   Manchester,   and   its   new   sound   ‘Madchester’,   was   the   dominant   sound   in   British   popular  music  during  the  late  '80s  and  early  '90s  and  I  almost  missed  it.  From  1985   onwards  I  spent  very  little  time  in  my  home  country  (the  UK)  as  I  was  travelling  the   world  as  a  live  sound  engineer  with  a  host  of  well-­‐known  international  acts.  Luckily   for   me   I   had   a   day   off   in   Manchester   during   a   world   tour   with   New   York   alternate   jazz  rappers  De  La  Soul  and  so  I  was  able  to  hook  up  with  my  old  mate  Gary  ‘Mani’   Mountfield.   I’d   met   Mani   a   few   years   earlier   when   he   was   on   the   stage   crew   at    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   various   Manchester   venues   ‘humping’   band’s   equipment.   We   were   only   20   days   apart  in  age  and  we  took  an  instant  liking  to  each  other.  As  I’d  spent  so  much  time   away  from  the  UK  with  my  touring  activities,  I  had  no  idea  that  Mani  had  joined  the   band   The   Stones   Roses   as   their   bass   player,   in   fact,   I   had   no   idea   that   he   could   even   play  bass.  On  this  occasion  I  hooked  up  with  Mani  and  we  found  ourselves  in  an  old   knackered   ‘borrowed’   car   heading   to   the   town   of   Failsworth,   famous   for   the   production   of   felt   hats   in   the   1850s,   to   purchase   marijuana1.   It   was   during   this   3.7mile   (6   km)   trip,   that   Mani   gave   me   the   details   of   the   new   Manchester   music   scene  that  I  didn’t  even  know  existed,  ‘Madchester’.  Once  we  arrived  in  Failsworth,   our   hosts   sold   us   dope   at   a   greatly   inflated   price   (mainly   due   to   Mani’s   recently   found  celebrity  status)  and  then  proceeded  to  smoke  it  with  us.  It  was  at  this  point   that   I   first   heard   the   album   that   is   the   subject   of   this   album   rescue:   Northside’s   Chicken   Rhythms.   Presumably,   the   album   name   comes   from   the   use   of   funky,   chicken-­‐scratch  guitars,  which  the  band  weaves  into  its  abstract,  aloof,  slightly  quirky   brand  of  alternative  psyche  pop/rock? A  major  issue  is  that  Northside  were  very  late  arrivals  to  the  ‘Madchester’  party  with   their  debut  album  release  in  1991.  The  Happy  Mondays  had  their  first  album  out  in   1987,  The  Stone  Roses  in  1989,  Inspiral  Carpets  in  1990  and  even  fake  Madchester   band,  The  Charlatans,  had  released  an  album  in  1990.  The  genesis  of  Northside  came   in  1990.  The  band  formed  in  the  North  Manchester  districts  of  Blackley  and  Moston   by   Manchester   United   fan   Warren   ‘Dermo’   Dermody   (vocals)   and   Manchester   City   fan   Cliff   Orgier   (bass).   Soon   joined   by   Michael   ‘Upo’   Upton   (guitar)   and   Paul   ‘Wal’   Walsh   (drums);   the   band   was   complete.   The   formation   of   Northside   is   the   classic   story   of   Thatcher   battered   austere   Northern   Britain;   young   people   indulging   in   hedonism   in   hard   times.   The   band’s   formation   dovetails   perfectly   with   the   introduction   of   the   new   recreational   drug   of   Ecstasy   that   was   sweeping   the   country.   Up  until  the  late  1980s,  Saturday  afternoons  were  a  time  of  football  violence.  All  this   changed   with   the   introduction   of   ‘E’   and   Acid   House.   I   am   pretty   sure   that   the   Thatcher   government   of   the   time   did   not   release   that   it   was   the   introduction   of   cheap  Ecstasy  into  working  class  areas  that  stopped  football  hooliganism  dead  in  its   tracks  rather  than  their  out  of  touch  laws.   This   new   regional   musical   movement   of   ‘Madchester’   was   a   heady   fusion   of   Acid   House  dance  rhythms  and  melodic  pop  distinguished  by  its  loping  beats,  psychedelic   flourishes,  and  hooky  choruses.  Song  structures  were  familiar,  the  arrangements  and   attitude  were  modern,  and  even  the  retro-­‐pop  jangling  guitars,  swirling  organs,  and   sharp   pop   sense,   functioned   as   postmodern   collages.   There   were   two   different                                                                                                                   1

 Please  note  that  I  now  no  longer  condone  the  recreational  use  of  marijuana  though  I  do  understand   and  fully  support  the  use  of  medically  prescribed  marijuana.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   binary  approaches  to  constructing  these  collages,  as  evidenced  by  Mani’s  band,  The   Stone   Roses,   on   one   side   and   the   Happy   Mondays   on   the   other.   The   Stone   Roses   were  a  traditional  guitar-­‐pop  band,  and  their  songs  were  straight-­‐ahead  pop  tunes,   bolstered  by  infectious  beats;  it  was  modernized  classic  1960s  pop  music.  The  other   approach   was   the   one   adopted   by   the   Happy   Mondays   who   cut   and   pasted   samples   like   rappers,   taking   choruses   from   the   likes   of   the   Beatles   and   LaBelle   and   putting   them   into   a   context   of   dark   psychedelic   dance.   Despite   their   different   approaches,   both   bands   shared   a   love   for   Acid   House   music   and   culture,   Ecstasy   and   their   hometown   of   Manchester.   As   the   name   would   suggest,   this   music   was   very   geographically   specific.   It   was   the   British   press   that   labelled   this   style   of   music   “Madchester”   after   a   Happy   Mondays   song.   It   was   also   termed   as   "baggy",   after   the   baggy  loose  fitting  clothing  worn  by  the  bands  and  fans,  in  particular  bell-­‐bottomed   jeans,   tie-­‐dyed   or   fluorescent   coloured   oversized   sweatshirts   all   finished   off   with   a   fishing  hat.  This  style  of  clothing  mirrored  the  music  e.g.  the  mix  of  60s  psychedelic   rock  with  70s  funk  but  all  within  the  context  of  late  80s  Acid  House.  The  clothing  was   rooted  in  leisure  (hence  the  fishing  hat)  and  was  designed  to  be  loose  and  easy  to   dance   in,   by   makers   such   as   Manchester’s   legendary   Joe   Bloggs.   Northside   sat   in   the   liminal  space  between  these  two  schools  of  creativity  though  they  did  lean  heavily  to   The  Stone  Roses  style  of  production.   As   Factory   Records   had   so   much   talent   at   its   disposal,   and   because   of   the   sheer   volume   of   material   it   was   releasing,   there   were   going   to   be   casualties.   Some   albums   were   bound   to   slide   by   without   making   a   dent.   All   Factory   Records   releases   had   a   unique   identification   number   including   Tony   Wilson’s   coffin   (FAC501).   Chicken   Rhythms   was   number   FAC310   and   that's   a   lot   of   releases   by   a   small   cash   strapped   regional   record   company.   Not   for   the   first   time   in   an   Album   Rescue   do   we   see   a   superb   piece   of   music   slide   into   obscurity   because   of   poor   marketing.   Factory   Records   had   lots   of   previous   form   in   this   department.   Tony   Wilson   and   his   colleagues   at   Factory   Records   always   aimed   at   the   stars   but   continually   only   just   managed  to  hit  the  moon.  As  a  creative  entity,  Factory  Records  was  world  class  and   iconic,  but  as  a  business  it  was  a  financial  disaster;  an  abject  lesson  in  how  NOT  to   operate  a  creative  business.   It’s   also   possible   that   as   a   Factory   Records   act   you   needed   the   patronage   of   its   head   Tony   Wilson,   or   as   he   liked   to   call   himself   later   on   in   life,   “Anthony   H.   Wilson”.   Without  Tony’s  direct  supervision,  his  favorites  included  e.g.  Joy  Division/New  Order,   Happy   Mondays,   Durutti   Column   and   A   Certain   Ratio,   you   didn’t   get   the   attention   you  deserved.  As  Wilson  often  pointed  out,  “I  went  to  fucking  Cambridge  University   you   know?”   he   favored   the   bands   that   displayed   a   high   level   of   political   intellectualism  and/or  high  art.  Northside  failed  in  both  departments  and  this  was  to    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   their  detriment.  Factory  Record’s  artists  are  known  for  some  of  the  most  iconic  cover   art  in  the  history  of  popular  music  e.g.  Joy  Divisions  Unknown  Pleasure.  Peter  Saville,   Factory  Records’  in  house  style  guru,  art  director  and  designer  was  not  involved  with   Chicken  Rhythms.  Instead  the  cover  was  farmed  out  to  the  second  division  graphic   design  company  Central  Station.  The  cover  was  an  insipid,  uninspired,  weak  collage   of   old   birthday   cards   reformed   as   an   apple.   The   only   way   to   describe   this   album   cover  is  appalling;  it  worked  against  the  material  contained  on  the  audio  recording   held   within.   This   is   akin   to   packaging   a   tasty   morsel   of   delicious   food   in   a   wrapper   with   a   picture   of   dog   shit   on   it.   The   old   adage   “never   judge   a   book   by   its   cover”   should  ring  true;  this  cover  sucked  and  it  definitely  contributed  to  Chicken  Rhythms   disappearing  into  relative  obscurity.  Factory  Records  even  managed  to  botch  up  the   barcode   on   the   album   so   that   any   sales   recorded   in   a   chart   return   shop   didn’t   register.   Northside  deserve  to  be  celebrated  because  they  took  some  chances  and  dared  to   dream.   One   has   to   admire   their   desire   to   strive   for   some   form   of   originality.   The   Lightning   Seeds’   lead   man,   Ian   Broudie,   who   obviously   had   compassion   for   the   band   and   their   music,   expertly   handled   production   on   the   album.   Recorded   at   the   residential   Rockfield   Studios   in   rural   Wales   the   change   of   scenery   was   beneficial   and   provided  them  with  some  much  needed  fresh  air.  Stand  out  songs  from  the  album   are  the  infectious  ‘Take  5’  with  the  “64-­‐46  BMW”  refrain  directly  lifted  from  reggae   superstar  Yellowman’s  Nobody  Move,  the  silly  ‘Funky  Munky’  and  the  anthem  ‘Shall   We   Take   A   Trip’.   Broudie   and   Northside   form   the   perfect   creative   premier   division   team   to   produce   a   wonderfully   dynamic   album   of   space,   place   and   bass.   Though   the   material   is   delivered   through   a   lens   of   happy   up-­‐tempo   pop,   the   lyrics   are   somber   and  essentially  about  hoping  to  hope  in  what  were  desperate  times.  These  were  very   hard  times  in  Britain  with  the  end  of  Thatcherism  still  five  long  years  away.   Through   this   album,   Northside   articulated   the   anxious   postindustrial   panic   of   working   class   youth   that   was   sweeping   the   country.   Mindless   hedonism   was   portrayed  as  the  new  culture  of  a  disenfranchised  youth.  Northside  were  a  band  that   came  along   with   an   album   that  struck   a   cord,   celebrating   an   era   for   the   youth   of   the   day.   Album   tracks   such   as   ‘Shall   We   Take   A   Trip’,   ‘A   Change   Is   On   Its   Way’   and   ‘Who’s   To   Blame?’   are   all   wonderfully   optimistic.   Though   ‘Shall   We   Take   A   Trip’   proved   to   be   a   problematic   track   and   single,   it   was   immediately   banned   by   most   radio  stations  because  of  its  obvious  drug  reference.  However,  it  resonated  with  kids   because   of   these   obvious   drug   references.   Most   youngsters   experiment   with   and/or   are  intrigued  by  drugs  to  some  extent,  it  is  all  part  of  growing  up.  The  lyrics  take  their   inspiration  from  Lennon’s  ‘Lucy  in  the  Sky  with  Diamonds’  and  LSD.  The  chorus  line   of   “answers   come   in   dreams”,   clearly   spell   out   the   initials   A.C.I.D.   This   track   is   full   of    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   double  entendre  and  was  possibly  a  nod  to  Lennon’s  great  lyrical  genius,  wordplay   and  warped  way  of  thinking?   Damage   was   also   inflicted   to   this   album   by   what   was   missed   off   of   it.   Out   of   the   Rockfield   recording   session   were   the   tracks   ‘Moody   Place’,   ‘Tour   De   World’   and   ‘Rising   Star’   all   superb   tracks   but   not   collated   onto   the   album   for   various   reasons.   ‘Moody   Place’   has   got   one   of   the   best   bass   lines   ever   right   up   there   with   Public   Image   Ltd.’s   track   ‘Public   Image’.   It’s   a   great   song   and   the   subject   matter   is   about   hope  and  trying  to  stay  strong  when  it  seems  everyone  around  you  is  slowly  going   down.  The  lyrics  are  mostly  about  hoping  for  hope  in  desperate  times,  which  was  a   common  theme  in  the  late  80s  and  early  90s.  Most  of  the  blame  can  surely  be  firmly   placed   with   Factory   Records   for   not   fully   understanding   how   the   curating   of   this   album’s  material  would  affect  sales?  Imagine  what  this  album  could  have  achieved   had   it   been   released   with   a   more   sympathetic   record   company,   one   that   could   have   afforded  a  marketing  campaign  and  some  decent  cover  artwork? As   mentioned   earlier,   Northside   came   to   the   party   very   late,   in   fact,   they   arrived   when  the  party  was  virtually  over.  Factory  Records  was  overstretched  financially  and   mismanaged   operationally.   Tony   Wilson   was   now   more   interested   in   investing   in   his   own  legacy  rather  than  facilitating  decent  music.  Also  the  zeitgeist  had  shifted  over   night,  it's  a  fast  moving  target  at  the  best  of  times.  The  year  1991  saw  a  shift  in  what   was   seen   as   cool   both   sub-­‐culturally   and   geographically.   It’s   ironic   that   just   as   the   economic  hard  times  of  North  West  of  England  were  abating  the  music  upped  and   left.  The  two  star  teams  of  the  Madchester  scene,  The  Stone  Roses  and  The  Happy   Mondays,   had   become   fat   and   lazy   with   success   and   were   more   interested   in   recreational   drug   use   then   making   music.   To   be   precisely   correct   their   profession   was  now  drug  use  interspersed  with  occasional  recreational  music  making.   Into   the   North   West   British   void   came   the   sound   of   North   West   America;   grunge.   This   new   musical   genre   de-­‐emphasized   appearance,   drug   use   and   polished   technique   in   favor   of   raw,   angry,   passionate   songs   that   articulated   the   pessimism   and   anxiety   of   its   young   angry   audience.   Lyrics   were   no   longer   hedonistic   and   forward-­‐looking  but  pessimistic  and  angry.  The  look  was  no  longer  baggy  Joe  Bloggs   casuals   with   glow   sticks   and   Acid   House   smiley   faces   rather   it   was   opportunity   shop,   make-­‐do  and  mend  austere  attire.  All  optimism  and  hedonism  was  stopped  dead  in   its  tracks,  as  was  Northside’s  career.  Instantly  the  world’s  music  press’s  front  covers   had   pictures   of   Nirvana,   Alice   In   Chains,   Soundgarden   and   other   Seattle   area   grunge   bands.  No  longer  was  this  about  hedonism  in  hard  times  it  was  about  self-­‐enforced   austerity   in   good   times.   Northside’s   Chicken   Rhythms   caught   and   reflected   the   fragile  moribund  zeitgeist  of  Madchester.  Though  this  album  is  long  since  deleted  it    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   remains  a  valuable  artifact  of  political  and  social  history.  If  you  can  lay  your  hands  on   a  copy  then  it’s  well  worth  listening  to  this  forgotten  Madchester  gem.   References Cummins,   K   2012,   Manchester:   Looking   For   The   Light   Through   The   Pouring   Rain,   Faber  and  Faber,  London,  UK.   Middles,  M  2009,  Factory:  The  Story  of  the  Record  Label,  Virgin  Books,  London,  UK. Nolan,   D   2010,   Tony   Wilson:   You're   Entitled   To   An   Opinion,   John   Blake   Publishing,   Manchester,  UK. Wilson,  T  2007,  The  Complete  Graphic  Album,  Thomas  and  Hudson,  Manchester,  UK.  

 

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‘Temple  of  Low  Men’  Crowded  House   By  Andrew  ‘Broady’  Broadhead   During   it’s   recording,   Paul   Hester   joked   that   Crowded   House   should   have   titled   their   second  album  “Mediocre  Follow  Up”.  Thankfully,  the  album  that  was  to  become  the   band’s   lowest   selling   album   is   a   long   way   north   of   mediocre.   Most   Brits   know   Crowded  House  via  their  third  album  Woodface  due  to  the  hit,  ‘Weather  With  You’.   Americans  know  them  for  their  self-­‐titled  debut  album  and  songs  ‘Don’t  Dream  It’s   Over’   and   ‘Something   So   Strong’.   In   between   these   two   successful   albums   lies   Temple  of  Low  Men  released  in  1988.   Comprised   of   Neil   Finn   (guitar,   lead   vocal),   Paul   Hester   (drums)   and   Nick   Seymour   (bass),  Crowded  House  had  tasted  success  both  at  home  in  Australia  and  overseas  in   the  USA,  prior  to  recording  Temple.  On  ANZAC  Day  in  1987,  the  song  ‘Don’t  Dream   It’s   Over’   from   their   first   album   made   number   two   on   the   Billboard   singles   chart;   ironic  for  a  band  that  could  not  decide  if  it  was  Aussie  or  Kiwi.     Crowded  House  had  morphed  out  of  the  band  Split  Enz  that  was  originally  founded   by  Tim  Finn  in  New  Zealand  during  the  early  1970’s.  Split  Enz  included  Tim’s  ‘little’   brother  Neil,  who  was  eventually  allowed  to  join  after  some  pestering,  and  drummer   Paul   Hester.   Local   success   was   attained   and   eventually   Tim   left   allowing   ‘little’   brother  Neil  to  take  the  reins.  Once  Split  Enz  folded,  Neil  and  Paul  resolved  to  form  a   band   together   and   were   joined   by   bassist   Nick   Seymour;   brother   of   Mark   from   Hunters  and  Collectors  fame.  Crowded  House  was  born.   The   band   was   signed   to   Captiol   records   where   producer   Mitchell   Froom   assisted   Crowded  House  to  deliver  their  self-­‐titled  debut  album  in  1986.  The  album  sold  over   2  million  copies  with  the  band  riding  their  success  for  some  time  before  turning  to   the  task  of  recording  their  follow  up  album.   From  all  reports,  recording  sessions  for  Temple  of  Low  Men  were  the  smoothest  of   the  band’s  career.  Froom  was  back  in  the  producer  chair  with  recording  sessions  split   between   Melbourne   and   Los   Angeles.   The   album’s   production   ‘dream   team’   included  Bob  Clearmountain  mixing  and  Bob  Ludwig  mastering.  However,  Neil  Finn’s   reaction   to   success   seemed   to   push   him   toward   writing   some   darker   material   as   compared  to  the  first  album.  Temple  of  Low  Men  may  have  been  a  little  too  mature   for   the   late   1980’s.   Those   who   remember   the   release   of   this   album   will   know   that   there  was  some  stiff  competition  from  the  likes  of  Kylie  Minogue  and  Bros;  sadly  of  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   no  comparison  for  some.  When  Temple  of  Low  Men  was  released  it  only  just  slid  into   the  US  Top  40  for  a  fortnight  before  sinking  without  a  trace.  At  the  time,  the  band   were   still   undiscovered   in   the   UK,   a   reflection   of   the   album’s   lackluster   performance   in  this  geographical  region.   Robert  Christgau  of  the  Village  Voice  reviewed  the  album  and  complained  that  Neil   Finn   had   denied   his   audience   the   one   thing   he   had   to   offer;   “catchy   pop   hooks”.   Outside  of  this  criticism,  reception  of  the  album  was  favourable  but  sales  were  low.   Even   Springsteen   was   rumoured   to   have   called   up   the   then   president   of   Capitol,   Joe   Smith  demanding  to  know  how  this  record  could  get  ‘lost’  by  the  company  despite   its  quality.   Some   albums   do   not   survive   for   them   to   be   listened   to   outside   the   decade   that   they   were   made.   Temple   of   Low   Men   does   not   fit   this   category.   Released   in   the   days   when  you  had  the  choice  of  buying  albums  on  cassette  (remember  them),  compact   disc   (remember   them)   or   vinyl,   I   remember   choosing   the   latter   and   I   have   never   looked  back.  The  sum  of  the  album’s  parts  is  perhaps  a  little  dark  and  morose,  but   when  listened  to  outside  of  its  historical  context,  the  album  fares  extremely  well.   Whilst  some  of  the  production  techniques  may  sound  dated,  this  does  not  degrade   from   the   overall   listening   experience.   Great   horns   and   organ   sections   are   spread   throughout  the  album  and  there  is  a  distinct  lack  of  the  cheesy  80’s  synth  sound.  The   Clearmountain  ‘sheen’  is  definitely  there  but  it  is  not  ruinous.  The  quality  of  Finn’s   songwriting  makes  it  out  alive,  and  to  these  ears,  has  never  been  better.   Ten  songs  on  the  album  is  a  dead  giveaway  that  it  was  released  on  Capitol  Records   (anyone   remember   the   US   versions   of   Beatle   albums?)   and   without   a   dud   track   in   sight.  ‘Better  Be  Home  Soon’  was  the  last  track,  but  simultaneously  the  first  single,   and  makes  great  use  of  a  ‘Whiter  Shade  of  Pale’-­‐style  organ.  The  Beatle-­‐esque  cliché   often   directed   at   Crowded   House,   applies   in   several   places   such   as   ’Kill   Eye’   (Finn   doing  John  Lennon)  and  ‘Into  Temptation’  (Finn  doing  McCartney).  The  latter  is  the   album’s   standout   track.   Bob   Clearmountain   rated   it   amongst   the   best   he’d   ever   mixed  (Casey  2007).  Froom  also  spoke  highly  of  this  track.   Other  album  highlights  include  ‘When  You  Come’;  the  second  single  that  sank  with   barely  creating  a  ripple.  This  is  a  great  track  that  builds  to  a  crescendo  by  a  driving  hi-­‐ hat  rhythm  (whatever  happened  to  the  hi-­‐hat  anyway?).  ‘Love  This  Life’  is  one  of  the   lesser  know  gems,  while  ‘Sister  Madly’  was  the  band’s  attempt  to  “bastardize  jazz”   according   to   Finn   and   became   a   live   favorite   for   the   band.   ‘Mansion   In   The   Slums’  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   and   ‘In   The   Lowlands’   hint   at   Neil   Finn’s   negative   reaction   to   early   success   and   fame   but  are  nonetheless  interesting  and  varied  tracks  that  round  out  the  album  well.   It  could  be  argued  that  the  commercial  failure  of  this  album  ruined  the  band’s  career   in   the   USA.   Never   again   would   Crowded   House   have   a   solid   hit   in   that   country.   Thankfully  the  band  did  move  on  to  great  success  in  the  UK  and  Europe  with  their   third   and   fourth   albums.   Success   in   their   home   countries   of   Australia   and   New   Zealand   was   always   a   given.   Despite   being   the   commercial   black   sheep   of   the   Crowded   House   canon,   Temple   Of   Low   Men   is,   with   a   quarter   of   century’s   hindsight,   an  album  worthy  of  rescue.   References Casey,  J  2007,  Available  from:  .  [26  August  2015]    

 

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‘Infamous  Angel’  Iris  DeMent By  Tim  Dalton   A  few  years  ago  I  was  driving  from  Liverpool  in  the  North  West  of  the  UK  down  to   Ealing  in  West  London  to  visit  my  son  and  his  wife.  As  is  normal  when  you  drop  off   the  M40  motorway  onto  the  A40  Western  Avenue  the  traffic  comes  to  a  complete   standstill.  There’s  no  need  to  be  angry  as  these  natural  pauses  in  life  can  be  a  good   thing,   a   time   to   reflect,   possibly   a   Zen   moment.   It’s   not   often   I   turn   on   the   radio   but   on   this   very   rare   occasion   I   did.   I   immediately   fell   into   the   middle   of   Let   The   Mystery   Be  by  Iris  DeMent.  This  audio  epiphany  has  my  inner  voice  screaming,  “Who  is  that   singing?”   and   as   the   song   came   to   a   gentle   close   radio   DJ   Stuart   Maconie   back   announces,  “That’s  Iris  Dement  and  Let  The  Mystery  Be  from  the  great  lost  country   album   Infamous   Angel“;   thank   you   Stuart.   The   big   question   is   how   come   I   don’t   know   about   this   album,   given   that   I   used   to   be   a   Nashville   resident   and   I’m   considered   by   my   peers   to   be   some   type   of   country   music   expert?   When   I   finally   arrive  in  Ealing,  I  charge  into  my  son’s  house  and  like  some  kind  of  demented  audio   junkie,  I  garble  a  rushed  greeting  whilst  simultaneously  requesting  the  directions  to   the  local  record  store.  Within  one  hour  of  first  hearing  Iris  DeMent  on  the  radio  I’m   at  the  record  store  Sounds  Original,  169  South  Ealing  Road  and  I  own  a  second  hand,   or   pre-­‐loved,   CD   of   Infamous   Angel   for   the   sum   of   £5.00   ($9.00).   My   life   is   now   temporarily  complete.   This  is  a  remarkable,  greatly  underrated  and  largely  ignored  debut  album,  released   by  Warner  Brother  in  1992.  It’s  one  of  those  recordings  that  makes  you  sit  back  in   quiet  contemplative  awe.  Iris  DeMent  was  born  on  5th  January  1961  in  Paragould  on   the   Arkansas   Delta,   the   youngest   of   14   children,   but   she   grew   up   in   California.   DeMent  and  her  siblings  were  raised  as  strict  Pentecostals.  This  form  of  Protestant   Christianity  places  special  emphasis  on  a  direct  personal  experience  of  God,  largely   through   the   baptism   with   the   Holy   Spirit,   but   also   in   an   understanding   that   God   is   omnipresent.   DeMent’s   upbringing   has   a   definite   influence   upon   this   album’s   material,  but  not  in  a  negative  way,  this  album  is  not  a  happy-­‐clappy  Christian  album   though  it  is  definitely  spiritual.  Her  father  played  fiddle  while  her  mother  dreamed  of   singing  on  the  Grand  Ole  Opry  radio  show  from  the  Ryman  Auditorium  in  Nashville.   For  a  family  that  saw  its  fair  share  of  hard  times,  music  was  a  necessity  of  life  and   not  just  a  pastime.  Infamous  Angel  was  Iris  DeMent’s  first  release  at  the  age  of  31,   an  age  at  which  many  modern  day  performers  have  already  quit  the  bright  lights  of   show  business.  DeMent  didn’t  start  writing  music  until  she  was  25,  she  is  one  of  life’s   classic  late  bloomers.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   The   exemplary   studio   engineering   and   compassionate   audio   production   work   undertaken  by  Jim  Rooney  contributes  massively  to  the  aesthetics  of  this  recording.   If  anything  this  album  is  under-­‐produced,  which  makes  it  a  very  rare  beast,  but  that   is   definitely   not   a   criticism.   Instead   of   defaulting   to   the   standard   modern   production   technique   of   distancing   the   singer's   voice   with   lonesome   reverb,   producer   Jim   Rooney   eschews   the   audio   treatments   in   favour   of   a   spartan   intimacy.   This   production  approach  both  accentuates  and  isolates  DeMent’s  voice,  so  that  at  times,   you   get   a   sense   of   her   delivery   being   tentative,   as   if   she's   unsure   of   her   range.   Without  the  usual  sonic  accompaniments  and  treatments  her  voice  stands  before  us   in  its  naked  natural  beauty.  Ultimately,  though,  this  heightened  vulnerability  seems   to   work   in   DeMent’s   favour;   even   her   very   slight   technical   vocal   inadequacies   become   endearing   very   quickly.   The   verisimilitude   of   this   album   is   truly   awesome;   this  is  about  as  real  as  a  recording  of  a  performance  can  possibly  be.  Rooney  is  not   one   of   the   modern   technological   deterministic   music   producers.   His   role   on   this   album  was  to  merely  accurately  capture  the  sublime  performances  of  the  musicians   rather   than   constructing   some   post   human,   hyperreality.   The   recording   is   virtually   free  from  artificial  effects,  treatments  and  embellishment,  which  is  very  rare  in  the   post  1956  ‘modern’  recording  era.  This  style  of  production  allows  the  performances   and  material  to  shine  in  their  natural  beauty.     Album   producer   Rooney   was   one   of   the   main   pioneers   in   the   genre   that   would   later   become  known  as  ‘Americana’.  To  establish  this  genre  he  worked  with  artists  such  as   Hal  Ketchum,  Nanci  Griffiths,  Bonnie  Raitt,  Townes  Van  Zandt  and  John  Prine  (who,   not   surprisingly,   is   one   of   DeMent’s   biggest   champions).   Rooney   collaborates   perfectly   with   DeMent   on   exposing   her   gift   for   poignant,   confessional   songwriting   and   in   capturing   a   voice   that   makes   raw   beauty   seem   like   a   brand   new   thing.   Iris   DeMent  invokes  the  elemental  magic  of  the  Carter  Family  while  sounding  fresh  and   contemporary.   So   what’s   the   problem   here   and   why   do   we   need   to   rescue   this   near   perfect  recording  of  ten  songs?  Perfect  it  may  well  be  but  it  disappeared  without  a   trace  upon  its  release.     Maybe  the  problem  with  this  album  is  the  release  date?  1992  is  the  year  when  the   newly   formulated   genre   of   Americana   really   starts   to   take   effect.   To   a   large   and   unfortunate   extent   this   genre   inflicted   irreparable   and   unwarranted   damage   to   Infamous   Angel   and   contributed   massively   to   sending   it   spiralling   into   obscurity.   The   music  business  is  all  about  business  and  as  such  it  was  happy  to  create  a  niche  for   the  country  music’s  most  fiscally  dependable  demographic  e.g.  the  white,  male  Baby   Boomers   (me).   In   the   early   1990s,   USA   radio   programmers   coined   and   started   to   apply   the   new   term   of   “Americana”.   This   title   became   shorthand   for   the   weather-­‐ beaten,   rural-­‐sounding   music   that   bands   like   Whiskeytown   and   Uncle   Tupelo   were    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   making.   It   was   warm,   retro,   twangy   stuff,   full   of   finger-­‐plucked   beaten   up   Fender   Telecaster   guitars,   vintage   valve   amplifiers   and   gnarled   voices   like   car   wheels   on   a   gravel  road.     Americana   bares   a   striking   resemblance   to   a   John   Ford   Western   film   with   its   expansive   landscapes,   poetic   rose   tinted   version   of   the   American   West,   pioneering   families,  male  camaraderie  and  the  all  American  heroes  complete  with  their  macho   grandiose   swagger.   There’s   no   room   for   sweet   little,   naïve,   small   town   Iris   in   this   landscape.  The  term  ‘country  music’  itself  is  also  a  deeply  problematic  one  and  in  the   past   it   has   being   know   as   “country   and   western”,   “folk   music”,   “old-­‐time   music”,   “hillbilly”   and   “western”.   According   to   Bill   Malone   (2010:   p.1),   “it   defies   precise   definition,   and   no   term   (not   even   ‘country’)   has   ever   successfully   encapsulated   its   essence”.  As  country  music  (as  we’ll  call  it  here)  metamorphosed  into  Americana,  a   handful   of   artistic   traditions   were   unwittingly   and   unknowingly   sacrificed;   such   as   traditional   blues,   Appalachian   Mountain   folk   and   outlaw   country   music.   They   became  homogenized  into  the  relatively  conservative  format  that  is  ‘Dad’  and  radio   friendly.  In  her  book  It  Still  Moves:  lost  songs,  lost  highways  and  the  search  for  the   next  American  music  (1992:  p.223),  Amanda  Petrusich  hits  the  nail  on  the  head  when   she  states,  “It  sometimes  seems  like  the  Delta’s  legacy  is  most  present  in  modern  hip-­‐ hop”,   rather   than   Americana,   “where   its   basic   tenets   are   still   being   perpetuated,   even   if   the   form   has   altered   dramatically”.   To   misquote   ex-­‐Beatle   John   Lennon,   here   was   a   time   when   “a   working-­‐class   hero   really   was   something   to   be”.   Americana   is   essentially  a  postmodern  phenomenon  and  that  definitely  is  a  criticism.     Artists   like   Iris   DeMent   aren’t   supposed   to   exist   anymore   in   this   post   Americana   dominated   cynical   world.   She   definitely   doesn’t   play   the   sex   card,   eschews   electrification   and   sings   un-­‐ironically   about   the   unconditional   love   of   her   family,   forgiveness  and  other  real-­‐life  mysteries.  Granted  one  benefit  of  Americana  is  that  it   did   grant   access   to   females   who   traditionally   had   an   extremely   hard   time   gaining   access   to   this   genre   of   music.   DeMent   continues   the   quiet   underground   gender   rebellion  which  was  started  by  the  like  of  Kitty  Wells,  Loretta  Lynn,  Tanya  Tucker  and   Tammy   Wynette   by   providing   a   credible   creative   resistance   to   the   dominant   patriarchal   hegemony.   Popular   female   Americana   artists   such   as   Nikki   Lane,   Lindi   Ortega,   Deana   Carter   et   al.   are   all   highly   sexualised,   young,   good   looking   and   sing   about   pickup   trucks,   one   night   stands,   booze,   drugs,   truck   stops,   seedy   bars   and   their  own  success  in  the  music  business.  Measured  against  these  modern  day  stars   DeMent’s  music  appears  quaint,  maudlin,  frumpy  and  wonderfully  old  fashioned  but   not   in   a   trendy   retro   ‘American   Pickers’   postmodern   way.   DeMent   is   accompanied   musically  on  this  album  by  little  more  than  her  acoustic  guitar,  upright  bass,  piano,   mandolin   and   an   occasional   fiddle.   This   is   the   sort   of   instrumentation   and    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   arrangements   you'd   find   on   the   most   classic   of   traditional   country   albums,   the   focus   being  mainly  on  the  voice  and  lyrics,  with  unobtrusive  acoustic  guitar  and  mandolin   carrying   most   of   the   lead   instrumental   duties.   The   music   on   this   album   is   like   one   of   Kitty  Wells’  dresses,  it’s  modest  and  sweet.  This  album  is  not  a  dusty  sonic  museum   piece,  though  it  is  of  its  time,  it  just  chooses  to  employ  traditional  instrumentation,   arrangements  and  audio  production  as  the  conduit  to  deliver  the  message.     This   album’s   concerns   are   largely   personal   such   as   family   and   tradition,   and   many   of   these  songs  deal  with  memories  of  DeMent’s  life  and  loves.  As  she  said,  “I  never  set   out  to  write  songs  about  the  world  around  me...  it  just  kind  of  came  about  as  a  result   of  paying  more  attention  to  things”. This  album  explores  various  existential  themes   such  as  religious  scepticism,  small-­‐town  life,  buying  your  first  car,  human  frailty  and   our  own  fleeting  mortality.  Her  Carter  Family  influence  is  revealed  in  a  spirited  cover   of  the  classic  ‘Fifty  Miles  of  Elbow  Room’  as  well  as  ‘Mama’s  Opry,’  a  tribute  to  her   mother,   who   gets   to   sing   lead   vocals   on   ‘Higher   Ground’.   These   are   all   perfectly   formed  wonderful  songs,  but  DeMent’s  greater  talent  is  the  ballad.  She  delivers  an   astonishing   display   of   balladry   on   this   album,   including   ‘When   Love   Was   Young’,   ‘Sweet  Forgiveness’  and  ‘After  You’re  Gone’,  a  tribute  to  her  dying  father  that  is  so   profoundly  affecting  that  I  am  often  rendered  helpless  and  close  to  tears  listening  to   it.     The  critics  of  this  album  believe  that  it  does  not  address  the  big  issues  in  life,  what   Jean-­‐François   Lyotard calls   the   “emancipation   narratives”   (179:   p.32)   a   system   to   make  sense  of  history.  DeMent  does  tackle  some  incredibly  difficult  subject  matter   on  this  album  but  she  does  it  through  the  lens  of  small  town,  rural  American  rituals   framed  by  her  own  direct  experiences.  Have  a  listen  to  ‘Let  The  Mystery  Be’  a    track   that   is   almost   beyond   existential   comprehension   as   it   addresses   the   ending   of   our   own   life   with   what   might   or   might   not   happen.   Dement’s   simplistic   naïvety   is   displayed   openly   in   the   lyrics   to   this   song,   “Some   say   that   they're   comin'   back   in   a   garden,  bunch  of  carrots  and  little  sweet  peas”.  When  I  finish  listening  to  this  album  I   feel   incredibly   somber   but   refreshed   in   equal   parts   by   DeMent’s   charming,   almost   naïve,  outlook  on  life  and  death.  I  don’t  think  this  naïveté  is  an  act  either,  DeMent   claims   in   her   liner   notes   that   she’s   never   thought   of   herself   as   a   great   singer.   She   couldn’t  be  more  wrong  and  listeners  can  thank  heaven  that  she  changed  her  mind,   for  this  is  an  album  to  be  cherished  and  played  as  long  as  one  has  life  to  listen.     In   a   time   when   singer   songwriter’s   reputations   are   built   by   publicity,   marketing    and   social  media  it’s  great  to  hear  an  album  by  a  singer  songwriter  who  is  so  naïve  and   self   deprivating   of   her   own   awesome   musical   ability   it’s   untrue.   DeMent   swerves   popularity   and   celebrity   to   make   the   music   she   loves.   The   influences   of   the   Carter    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Family,  Kitty  Wells,  Jimmie  Rodgers,  Loretta  Lynn,  Merle  Haggard,  Johnny  Cash,  and   at   times   even   Bob   Dylan,   can   all   be   heard.   The   music   on   this   album   is   organic   and   original.  A  big  part  of  the  beauty  of  this  album  is  that  it  doesn’t  do  the  kitsch  frozen   in   time   museum   re-­‐creation   type   of   folk   music.   As   mentioned   above,   this   album   makes   use   of   simple   traditional   instrumentation   and   arrangements   yet   it   is   contemporary   because   the   material   is   always   existentially   pertinent.   Without   Iris   DeMent’s   we   would   not   have   Laura   Cantrell’s   exquisite   2000   album   Not   The   Tremblin  Kind.  Cantrell  builds  on  the  foundational  work  undertaken  by  DeMent  and   constructs   her   own   sonic   version   of   DeMent’s   world.   Should   you   buy   this   record   if   you  see  it  in  a  store?  Indeed  yes,  you  should  and  don’t  even  bother  looking  at  the   sticker   price.   When   you   own   this   album   become   puritanically   evangelical   about   it   and  then  share  it  with  everyone  you  can  because  life  is  nasty,  brutish  and  oh  so  very   short.     References Lyotard,   J   1979,   The   Postmodern   Condition:   a   report   on   knowledge,   Manchester   University  Press,  Manchester,  UK.     Malone,   W   2010,   Country   Music   USA   (third   edition),   University   of   Texas   Press,   Austin,  USA.     Petrusich,  A  1992,  It  Still  Moves:  lost  songs,  lost  highways  and  the  search  for  the  next   American  music,  Faber  and  Faber,  London,  UK.          

 

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‘Bleach’  Nirvana   By  David  Turner     I  grew  up  as  an  expatriate  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  I  was  an  artist  and  musician   with   a   distinctly   western   approach   growing   up   in   a   culturally   controlled,   yet   burgeoning,  Singapore.  During  these  years,  chewing  gum  was  banned  and  rebellion   was   frowned   upon.   Feeling   like   an   alien   in   a   foreign   land,   I   yearned   for   rebellion,   culture   anything   that   I   could   understand   and   that   spoke   to   my   displacement   and   apathy.   I   discovered   this   desire   while   walking   past   a   television   at   the   very   seedy   electronic   goods   fair   Far   East   Plaza.   Playing   on   the   screen   was   Nirvana,   midway   through   their   now   legendary   Unplugged   in   New   York   performance.   I   was   instantly   mesmerised.   The   understatement,   the   alienation   and   beautiful   melancholy   of   Kurt   Cobain  hit  me  like  a  bullet.     I  devoured  my  cassette  tapes  of  Unplugged  and  Nevermind  on  my  way  to  school.  I   wore  the  tapes  out,  listening  to  them  while  my  batteries  died  and  the  pitch  slowly   shifted  into  nothingness.  Diving  deeper  into  this  music,  I  asked  my  mother  to  buy  me   a  copy  of  In  Utero  or  Incesticide  (their  excellent  B-­‐Sides  collection)  but  with  the  strict   instructions   not   to   buy   Bleach.   I   was   keenly   aware   even   as   a   12   year   old   of   how   much  the  production  aesthetic  of  a  record  imbued  it  with  an  aura  of  the  times.  I  was   interested   in   the   1990s   sound   of   rock   production   and   I   knew   that   Bleach   was   of   a   different  era;  the  plate  reverb  saturated  1980s.       At  this  time,  I  was  only  vaguely  aware  of  the  Sub  Pop  label  it  was  released  on.     “We’re  not  the  best,  but  we’re  pretty  good.”     Sub   Pop’s   company   motto   perfectly   sums   up   the   attitude   of   the   bands   this   label   promoted  in  the  late  1980s.  Existing  in  a  soup  of  hairspray,  spandex  and  musicians   that   were   focused   on   playing   ‘lightning   fast’,   Sub   Pop   rejected   the   mainstream   cabaret-­‐acts  present  on  the  brand  new  MTV  music  video  platform  and  focused  on  an   authentic  punk  inspired  and  detuned  version  of  traditional  rock  ‘n’  roll.       Sub  Pop  was  founded  by  two  music  obsessives,  Jonathan  Poneman  and  Bruce  Pavitt.   They  were  keenly  aware  of  how  a  strong  geographically  located  scene  could  impact   on   younger   generations,   finding   business   inspiration   from   labels   such   as   Stax   and   Chess.   Sub   Pop   promoted   their   label   similar   to   individual   artists   and   sought   to   capitalise  on  the  ‘Seattle  Sound.  This  geographical  genre  owed  its  evolution  to  local    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   record   producer   Jack   Endino.   Jonathan   Poneman   (1989)   would   describe   this   geographical  scene  as,  “a  readily  happening  movement  in  the  American  North-­‐West   which   is   heavy,   confrontational   guitar-­‐based   rock.”   The   music   was   characterised   further   by   bleak   subject   matter,   a   good   sense   of   humor   and   a   DIY   punk   aesthetic   that  permeated  the  production,  artwork  and  press  shots.       Sub   Pop   hit   a   chord   with   a   public   that   was   disillusioned   by   a   decade   of   musical   histrionics   and   vocal   gymnastics.   At   this   time,   Metal   Forces   journalist   Carl   Williams   (1990)   pointed   out   that,   “for   the   first   time   in   years   something   highly   original   is   sweeping  the  world…”  Everett  True  (1990),  who  reported  on  the  Seattle  Sound,  and   specifically  Nirvana,  for  Melody  Maker  wrote,  “Basically  this  is  the  real  thing.  No  rock   star   contrivance,   no   intellectual   perspective,   no   master   plan   for   world   domination.   Kurdt  (sic)  Cobain  is  a  great  tunesmith,  although  still  a  relatively  young  songwriter.   He  wields  a  riff  with  passion.”     Nirvana’s   debut   album   Bleach   was   released   on   June   15th   1989.   It   was   only   a   moderate  success  for  Sub  Pop  (it  did  not  register  on  the  Billboard’s  Top  200)  who’s   other   releases   included   Rapeman,   Tad,   Skinyard   and   Mudhoney.   Recorded   for   US$606.17   over   several   sessions   at   Reciprocal   Studios   in   1988,   Bleach   was   produced   by  Endino,  who  had  recently  recorded  Soundgarden's  Screaming  Life  EP.  According   to  friend,  collaborator  and  Melvin’s  drummer  Dale  Crover  (1993),  “Cobain  was  really   into  (Soundgarden’s  EP)  that  summer.”     It   was   Cobain’s   association   with   Seattle’s   punk   rock   scene   that   first   endeared   him   to   Endino.   Cobain   was   childhood   friends   with   the   Melvins’   lead   singer   Buzz   Osbourne   and  drummer  Dale  Crovin.  As  Endino  put  it,  “Any  friend  of  the  Melvins  is  a  friend  of   mine”  and  added  that,  “If  Dale  is  playing  with  these  guys,  it  must  be  alright.”     Bleach  is  far  from  a  thrown  together  punk  rock  album;  rather  it  is  a  carefully  tailored   production  to  fit  the  Sub  Pop  culture.  One  of  Nirvana’s  best-­‐known  tunes,  Polly,  on   the   album   Nevermind,   was   initially   written   for   Bleach   but   was   omitted   at   the   last   minute  as  it  did  not  fit  the  brief.  Bleach  also  adhered  Sub  Pop’s  visual  aesthetic;  the   black-­‐and-­‐white   negative   cover   showcasing   the   band   playing   at   a   tiny   venue   hints   at   a  no  frills  affair.     This   no   frills   approach   can   also   be   found   in   the   album’s   tracking.   Cobain   (1990)   states,   “we   recorded   it   in   three   days   and   nights   and   made   sure   there   weren’t   a   lot   of   high  tech  effects  on  it.  We  wanted  it  to  be  as  loud  and  in  your  face  as  possible,  as  raw   as   we   could.”   Cobain’s   naturally   competitive   streak   was   very   much   present   in   the    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   production   of   Bleach,   insisting   that   the   band   should   be   well   prepared   for   the   recording.   Dave   Grohl,   who   joined   Nirvana   a   year   after   Bleach   was   released,   was   introduced   to   Cobain   by   the   Melvins’   Buzz   Osbourne.   Grohl   described   the   band’s   work   ethic   as,   “We   were   so   prepared   when   recording   for   Nevermind   began.   We   rehearsed  in  a  barn  and  we  rehearsed  six  days  a  week  for  four  hours  a  day  because   we   had   nothing   else   to   do.”   Endino   (1997)   recalled   that   this   work   ethic   translated   into   the   recording   of   Bleach’s   first   few   songs.   With   the   Melvins’   Dale   Crover   on   drums,   Nirvana   “ran   through   the   songs   instrumentally.   Then   Kurt   said   “Ok,   I’ll   do   vocals  now”  and  we  just  went  through  them  in  just  one  take.”     This  immediacy  in  recording  approach  resulted  in  this  album  being  the  least  polished   in   Nirvana’s   canon   of   work.   The   wall   of   noise,   fuzz   guitars   and   the   soft-­‐loud-­‐soft   dynamics,   the   band’s   signature   sounds,   are   all   there,   as   is   the   melodious   and   aggressive  bass  playing.  Like  much  of  the  late  1980s  productions,  the  drums  are  the   most   affected   by   the   times   and   have   the   uniquely   long   and   loud   reverb   renown   in   this  era.  The  mixes  sound  like  they  were  done  quickly.  The  passion  and  focus  of  the   band  is  very  clearly  present.       Despite   his   desire   to   exist   within   the   Sub   Pop   community,   Cobain   was   exploring   pop   and  art  music  in  an  attempt  to  transcend  the  Seattle  Sound.  “Even  to  put  ‘About  a   Girl’   on   Bleach   was   a   risk,”   recalled   Cobain   (1994)   to   Rolling   Stone.   “I   was   heavily   into   pop.   I   really   liked   R.E.M.   and   I   was   into   all   kind   of   old   ’60s   stuff.   But   there   was   a   lot   of   pressure   within   that   social   scene,   the   underground   —   the   kind   of   thing   you   get   in   high   school.   And   to   put   a   jangly   R.E.M.   type   of   pop   song   on   a   grunge   record,   in   that  scene,  was  risky.”     Cobain   identified   the   very   thing   that   set   them   apart   from   their   Pacific   Northwest   contemporaries.   As   True   (1989)   would   put   it,   “tune,   chorus,   harmony.”     Cobain   (1989)  would  claim  that,  “we’re  moving  towards  simplicity  and  better  songwriting  all   the  time.”  This  obsession  with  simplistic  lyrics  is  apparent  in  many  of  the  lyrics  on  the   album,  for  example,  ‘School’s’  entire  lyric  sheet  reads:     Won't  you  believe  it   It's  just  my  luck   No  recess   You're  in  high  school  again     The   writing   is   concise,   bare,   and   sinewy.   What   more   needs   to   be   said   about   the   way   Cobain  felt  at  the  time  within  a  scene  that  was  clicky,  small  and  explosive.  Cobain’s    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   disillusionment  with  these  social  pressures  is  also  noted  in  the  lyrics  of  ‘Big  Cheese’   (Big  Cheese…make  me…go  to  the  office)  is  a  thinly  veiled  dig  at  Poneman  who  at  the   time  was  insisting  that  Nirvana  forgo  an  album  in  lieu  of  another  single.       Much  of  the  lyrical  content  is  scathing  social  critique  and  abstract  escapism  bought   on   by   Cobain   and   Krist   Noveselic’s   disdain   for   their   native   Aberdeen,   Washington.   Cobain   observed   (1990),   “everyone   was   so   negative   and   macho   all   the   time.   ..it’s   very  hard  to  deal  with  these  social  cliques,  you’re  always  expected  to  be  in  a  certain   social  category  for  different  walks  of  life.”  This  escapism  is  represented  in  the  band’s   name.   As   Noveselic   (1990)   would   claim   the   band’s   name   meant,   “Being   free   from   distraction  and  not  being  uptight.”     Cobain  often  spoke  of  lyrics  being  secondary  to  the  music  and  melody.  He  claimed  to   flit   wildly   from   one   subject   to   another.   As   a   fan   of   Bob   Dylan,   I   can’t   help   but   compare   this   abstract   sense   of   narrative   to   some   of   this   work   on   Blood   on   the   Tracks.  Entire  timelines  can  shift  and  distort  but  the  central  themes  and  feelings  are   ever  present.  ‘Floyd  the  Barber’  is  a  witty,  sarcastic  portrayal  of  the  relationships  of   and  that  are  filled  with  abuse  of  power  told  from  the  point  of  a  view  of  a  man  having   a   shave.   It   mocks   the   platitudes   of   American   television   through   the   satire   of   a   character  on  the  Andy  Griffith’s  show.       Upon  Bleach’s  release,  the  New  Musical  Express  described  the  record  album  as,  “the   biggest,  baddest  sound  that  Sub  Pop  have  so  far  managed  to  unearth.”  In  retrospect,   Cobain   did   not   regard   much   of   the   album’s   writing   to   be   up   to   standard,   and   with   minimal   attention   given   to   his   artier   popper   side,   it   gets   very   little   time   on   the   album.  There  is,  however,  a  window  into  what  would  come  later  in  his  compositional   style,  in  particular  his  garage  pop  of  ‘About  a  Girl’.     Bleach   is   the   sound   of   a   songwriter’s   early   foray   into   the   construction   of   albums.   Kurt   Cobain   (1994)   described   Bleach   on   Unplugged   in   New   York   as,   “…our   first   album.   Most   people   don’t   own   it.”   It’s   a   record   born   of   a   geographical   scene   and   written  to  represent  it,  only  for  the  band  to  completely  transcend  both  within  two   years.  For  this  expatriate,  thank  god  they  did.                

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   References     Azerrad,  M  1993,  Come  As  You  Are:  The  Story  Of  Nirvana.  Doubleday.     Fricke,  D  1994,  Success  Doesn’t  Suck.  Rolling  Stone.       Gaar,  GG  1997,  Verse  Chorus  Verse:  The  Recording  History  Of  Nirvana.  Goldmine.       Nash,  R  2004,  No  Less  Dangerous.  The  Independent.  Available  from:         True,  E  1989,  Sub  Pop:  Seattle:  Rock  City.  Melody  Maker.     True,  E  1989,  Bleacher  Walls.  Melody  Maker.     Williams,  C  1990,  Good  Clean  Fun.  Metal  Forces.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Smiler’  Rod  Stewart By  Tim  Dalton Writers,   such   as   alcoholic   misanthropic   poet   Philip   Larkin,   often   portray   life   in   Hull   (which  is  in  the  north  east  of  Great  Britain)  during  the  1970s  as  grim,  depressing  and   austere.  Larkin  might  have  a  point  but  my  memories  of  growing  up  in  the  city  and  of   this   period   of   time   are   somewhat   different   mainly   due   to   my   exposure   to   music,   but   also   due   to   lots   of   cycling   and   camping.   Having   hippie   parents,   with   an   amazing   eclectic   record   collection,   meant   my   formative   years   was   filled   with   music,   cycling,   camping  and  lots  of  bonfires.  Many  a  night  I  lay  in  bed  with  Bob  Dylan,  The  Rolling   Stones,   Donavan,   The   Faces,   Mott   The   Hoople   and   Rod   Stewart   seeping   through   the   bedroom   floorboards   while   my   parents   drank   red   wine,   smoked   Sobranie   cocktail   cigarettes   and   discussed   Marxist   philosophy   with   their   bohemian   comrades   in   the   lounge  below  my  bedroom.   I  vividly  recall  the  first  five  solo  albums  by  Rod  Stewart  recorded  between  1969  and   1974   for   Mercury   Records   because   they   all   got   played   incessantly   in   the   Dalton   household.  The  last  of  this  series  of  five  records  for  Mercury  Records  was  Smiler.  The   gatefold  album  cover,  of  gaudy  red  tartan,  with  some  rather  dubious  pictures  of  Rod   and  a  cast  photo  on  the  rear  (which  was  taken  at  the  wrap  party  down  at  the  local   pub   in   Willesden,   North   London)   beautifully   captures   the   spirit   of   the   music   it   contained.  I  wonder  how  many  joints  my  folks  and  their  mates  rolled  on  this  cover?   Rod’s  first  solo  album,  An  Old  Raincoat  Won’t  Ever  Let  You  Down  (1969),  met  with   positive   reviews   while   the   next   three   albums   Gasoline   Alley   (1970),   Every   Picture   Tells   A   Story   (1971),   Never   A   Dull   Moment   (1972)   receiving   even   higher   accolades,   with   many   music   journalists   claiming   these   albums   to   be   instant   classics;   no   disagreement   from   me   here.   By   today’s   standards   any   artists   producing   a   record   every   year   for   five   years   straight   is   some   achievement.   So   what   exactly   is   the   problem  with  Smiler  and  why  did  the  music  journalists  have  such  an  issue  with  it? In  October  1974,  Rod  Stewart’s  solo  career  had  arrived  at  a  crucial  crossroads  with   the   release   of   Smiler.   This   album   came   in   for   more   vociferous   criticism   than   his   widely  acclaimed  four  previous  efforts,  but  still  wound  up  serving  as  a  springboard   for  even  greater  global  successes,  in  terms  of  sales,  in  the  years  to  come.  This  was   the   singer’s   fifth   and   final   solo   album   for   Mercury   Records;   all   of   them   recorded   while   pulling   double   duty   as   lead   singer   with   the   Faces.   Smiler   rubbed   the   more   pretentious  music  critics  up  the  wrong  way  because  it  often  felt  less  like  a  seriously   considered   album   of   rock   music   and   more   like   a   bunch   of   friends   on   a   piss-­‐up   at   the   local   pub   which   had   accidentally   carried   over   into   the   recording   studio.   So   what   if    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Smiler’s   repertoire   boasted   an   almost   reckless   variety   of   rock,   pop,   folk,   blues   and   soul  sources  across  its  superstar  songwriting  credits,  as  long  as  all  those  involved  had   a   good   time?   Rod   didn’t   write   much   of   the   material   but   he   did   act   as   record   producer  and  curator  of  the  material  and  sonic  assets.  In  1972  rock  music  was  taking   itself  much  too  seriously,  that’s  one  reason  why  punk  rock  came  along  and  upset  the   applecart   in   the   summer   of   1976;   it   had   too.   Rock   music   during   this   period   was   suppose   to   be   serious   high   art   and   not   a   load   of   ex-­‐mods   having   a   ball   jamming   down  the  pub.   The   album   opens   with   the   barks   of   Zak   the   dog   swiftly   followed   by   Chuck   Berry’s   ‘Sweet  Little  Sixteen’  which  rocks  Smiler  into  action  with  the  reliable  backing  of  the   faithful  Faces,  only  to  give  way  to  a  30-­‐second  harpsichord  interlude  courtesy  of  Pete   Sears’   ‘Lochinvar’,   before   segueing   into   and   mining   the   cultural   capital   of   ‘Maggie   May’  with  the  similar  styled  folk  rocker  ‘Farewell’.  This  is  an  absolute  classic  song  of   the  Mott  The  Hoople  syndrome  variety  e.g.  self-­‐referential  songs  about  rock  ‘n’  roll   bands,   virtually   the   metaphysics   of   rock.   This   is   a   classic   rock   ‘n’   roll   song   of   aspirational  soothsaying  of  the  David  Bowie  variety.  The  lyrics,  “Gonna  be  a  big  star   some  day  no  matter  what  they”  proved  to  be  100%  accurate  in  Rod’s  case.  This  track   being  one  of  only  three  Smiler  tunes  bearing  a  Stewart  co-­‐writing  credit,  a  sticking   point   for   those   who   misguidedly   accused   Rod   of   laziness,   along   with   two   collaborations   with   Ron   Wood   in   the   foot-­‐stomping   ‘Sailor’   and   the   horn-­‐laden   honky  tonk  of  ‘Dixie  Toot’  (featuring  the  Memphis  Horns)  and  maybe  a  not  so  cryptic   pun  to  the  new  rock  star  drug  of  the  era  cocaine?  Beyond  that,  the  cover  songs  come   fast   and   furious,   including   a   spirited   romp   through   Elton   John   and   Bernie   Taupin’s   ‘Let   Me   Be   Your   Car’   (naturally   featuring   Elton   on   piano   and   co-­‐vocals).   This   is   followed   by   a   semi-­‐comedic   heavy   rock   bashing   of   Australian   hit   makers   the   Easybeats’   ‘Hard   Road’.   Next   up   is   a   heavily   orchestrated   take   on   Bob   Dylan’s   ‘Girl   from  the  North  Country’,  and  a  languid  Caribbean  swing  through  Paul  McCartney’s   ‘Mine   for   Me’.   None   of   these   cover   songs   bear   much   of   a   resemblance   to   the   originals  and  that’s  not  a  criticism.   All  this  and  Stewart  still  found  time  to  exercise  his  inimitable  blue-­‐eyed  soul  talents   on   a   double-­‐whammy   medley   of   Sam   Cooke’s   ‘Bring   it   on   Home   to   Me’   and   ‘You   Send  Me’,  and  a  ballsy  reworking  of  Aretha  Franklin’s  signature  Goffin/King/Wexler   composition,   ‘(You   Make   Me   Feel   Like)   A   Natural   Man’.   This   is   a   stellar   lineup   of   songwriters.  Isn’t  the  genius  of  this  album  the  selection,  sequencing,  production  and   curation   of   the   material?   On   top   of   the   material,   what   about   the   ‘cast’   of   players   on   this   album?   Ronnie   Wood   (guitar),   Elton   John   (piano/vocals),   Pete   Sears   (piano/harpsichord),  Ian  McLagan  (Hammond  organ),  Ray  Cooper  (percussion),  Spike   Heatley  (bass),  Kenny  Jones  (drums)  in  addition  to  Caribbean  steel  and  Dixieland  jazz    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   bands  and  strings.  An  often-­‐cited  criticism  of  this  album  is  that  it  just  sounds  like  a   load  of  amateur  musicians  jamming  down  the  pub,  maybe  if  the  pub  happens  to  be   on  Stella  Street.   Even   if   rock   music’s   critical   establishment   couldn’t   agree   on   Smiler’s   creative   and   artistic   merits,   the   million-­‐plus   fans   that   bought   copies   of   the   album   around   the   globe   apparently   didn’t   share   this   uncertainty.   Smiler   was   Rod   the   Mod’s   parting   recording  for  Mercury  Records  before  he  transitioned  to  his  new  recording  contract   with  Atlantic  Records  and  it’s  a  belter.  Interestingly  enough  Rod’s  change  of  record   label   also   coincided   with   his   physical   relocation   to   Los   Angeles   and   the   Brit   Ekland   era   of   misogynistic   disco   influenced   records,   the   less   said   about   these   records   the   better.   Smiler  was  recorded  at  Morgan  Studios,  169-­‐171  High  Road,  Willesden,  North  West   London.   Out   of   this   establishment   came   notable   1960   and   70’s   studio   recordings   that   included   British   bands   and   artists   such   as,   Ten   Years   After,   Arrows,   Yes,   The   Kinks,   Donovan,   Led   Zeppelin,   Pink   Floyd,   Greenslade,   Joan   Armatrading,   Cat   Stevens,  Paul  McCartney,  Jethro  Tull,  Black  Sabbath,  UFO  and  The  Cure.  This  studio   was  also  notable  for  having  the  first  24-­‐track  tape  machine  in  England,  and  with  Rod   in   the   producer’s   chair,   he   made   good   use   of   this   new   technology.   Smiler   is   ‘track   happy’,   a   term   attributed   to   record   producer   Jerry   Wexler   (Burgess   2005:   p.93)   to   describe  the  use  of  every  track  available  simply  because  they  are  there.  If  there’s  a   track  free  then  stick  an  instrument  on  it  weather  the  arrangement  requires  it  or  not.   Maybe  this  is  why  there  are  so  many  musicians  and  textures  on  this  record?  Wexler   might   have   a   point   here   because   very   occasionally   the   excessive   overdubs   do   overpower  and  crowd  Rod’s  vocal  melody.     Smiler   was   of   its   time;   there   were   a   lot   of   really   good   albums   released   around   the   early   70s,   e.g.   The   Rolling   Stone’s   Exile   On   Main   Street   (1972).   In   retrospect   the   panning   by   the   critics   was   heavy-­‐handed   and   possibly   vindictive.   This   was   the   last   album   that   Rod   Stewart   produced   before   handing   over   the   production   duties   to   legend   with   the   golden   ears   Tom   Dowd   and   the   last   time   he’d   use   what   was   essentially   The   Faces   as   a   backing   band.   The   following   album,   Atlantic   Crossing   (1975),  marks  the  start  of  a  completely  different  body  of  work  with  slick  costly  L.A.   west  coast  production,  expensive  session  musicians  and  glitzy  artwork;  albums  which   I  am  certainly  not  going  to  waste  a  single  second  of  my  time  defending.  Smiler  is  an   album  that  marks  the  end  of  one  creative  style,  a  signing  off,  before  Stewart  moves   into  a  different  creative  style.  Goodbye  Great  Britain  hello  America.  By  modern  day   standards   Smiler   is   an   A+   record   and   it   transports   me   back   to   happy   pre-­‐teens   times   with   my   amazing   family   back   in   Hull,   East   Yorkshire.   If   it   had   not   been   for   records    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   such   as   these   I   would   have   never   entered   the   music   the   industry,   an   industry   that   I’ve  enjoyed  every  second  of  in  my  thirty-­‐year  plus  career. References   Burgess,  R  1997,  The  Art  Of  Record  Production,  Omnibus  Press,  London,  UK.

 

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‘Sister  Feelings  Call’  Simple  Minds By  Gareth  Parton   Fifteen-­‐year-­‐old   boys   are   quite   rightly   not   allowed   to   vote.   Their   brains   are   underdeveloped,   obsessed   with   crude   humour   and   jazz   mags;   moody   gits   whose   primary   focus   is   how   to   get   a   snog   (*pash)   with   Jenny   Tinker   at   the   next   School   Disco-­‐  at  least  I  was.  So  I  guess  we  should  be  wary  of  their  juvenile  tastes  in  music   too,  right?   So  it  is  with  some  trepidation  I  choose  to  rescue  a  band  that  was  my  obsession  as  a   pubescent  fifteen-­‐year-­‐old  boy  growing  up  in  a  southern  English  town  during  Maggie   Thatcher’s  1980s...  Simple  Minds.   Simple  Minds,  in  my  opinion,  are  two  bands: 1.   Cool,  art-­‐rock,  wonky,  atmospheric,  experimental  pioneers. 2.   Posing,  excessive,  session-­‐muso,  stadium-­‐preachers. Most   casual   music   listeners   are   probably   more   familiar   with   the   second   version.   The   ‘Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Hey!’  of  the  mega-­‐hit  synonymous  with  the  John  Hughes  brat  pack   teen-­‐movie  The  Breakfast  Club.  The  global  smash  ‘Don't  You  Forget  About  Me’  and   the  stadium  posturing  that  proceeded.   The   predominant   reason   for   this   Album   Rescue   is   to   highlight   the   far   more   interesting  version  of  the  band.  The  band  who,  influenced  by  Bowie,  Roxy  Music  and   avant-­‐garde   European   bands,   created   a   number   of   truly   great,   lesser-­‐known   recordings;  light-­‐years  away  from  Molly  Ringwold.     I   have   sympathy   with   those   of   you   who   dislike   this   band.   I   too   abandoned   them   when   I   realised   they’d   become   a   parody,   an   embarrassment   and   a   bunch   of   pretentious  poseurs.  In  the  late  eighties,  they  came  across  as  self-­‐righteous,  cause-­‐ fighting,   pseudo   political   preachers-­‐   and   worst   of   all,   they   were   labelled   as   the   “Scottish  U2”!!   So  my  love  affair  had  to  end  abruptly  when  the  stadia  started  filling.  Their  angular   take   on   synth   pop   turned   into   sing-­‐a-­‐long   choruses   and   fist   pumping.   I   sold   my   records  and  gave  away  my  cassettes.   I  didn't  decide  to  listen  to  them  again  until  very  recently.  How  would  they  sound  to   me  in  2015?  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   My  tastes  have  changed  quite  a  lot  over  the  years.  As  a  young  keyboard  player,  I  was   intrigued  by  The  Eurythmics  and  Howard  Jones.  During  my  later  teens,  I  was  seduced   by  The  Smiths  and  then  The  Pixies.  Keyboards  (and  keyboard  players)  became  deeply   unfashionable   and   I   switched   from   being   a   bad   keyboard   player   to   a   worse   guitarist.   American   noisy   stuff   filled   my   ears   during   my   20’s.   Folky-­‐twee   indie   and   Northern   Soul   soothed   me   through   my   30s   and   now,   well   I’m   quite   open   to   anything;   especially  if  it  makes  me  feel  relevant  and  down  with  the  kids.  So  maybe  it’s  ok  to   start  looking  back  again.   Simple   Minds   were   a   Glaswegian   band   that   formed   from   the   remnants   of   Scottish   punks  Johnny  and  The  Self  Abusers.  They  emerged  from  the  nascent  punk  scene  in  a   mid-­‐70s   Glasgow   shocked   into   action   by   touring   bands   such   as   Buzzcocks   and   The   Damned.   Vocalist   Jim   Kerr,   guitarist   Charlie   Burchill   and   drummer   Brian   McGee   moved  on  from  their  punk  beginnings  to  construct  a  new  type  of  band,  inspired  by   the  emerging  new-­‐wave  scene.  Joined  by  synth  player,  Michael  MacNeil  and  bassist   Derek  Forbes  (and  naming  themselves  after  a  line  in  Bowie’s  ‘The  Jean  Genie’)  they   formed   the   first   (and   best)   incarnation   of   Simple   Minds.   They   recorded   their   1979   debut   album,   ‘Life   In   A   Day’   which   drew   heavily   on   their   Roxy   Music   and   Velvet   Underground   influences.   The   release   received   little   attention   with   poor   sales   and   scant  critical  success.  Disappointed  by  the  overproduced  sound  of  their  debut  (Kerr   thought  it  sounded  like  The  Boomtown  Rats!),  the  band  immediately  returned  to  the   studio   and   followed   up   with   the   much   more   experimental   ‘Reel   To   Real   Cacophony’.   Expanding  on  the  use  of  synthesizers  and  atmospherics,  this  was  to  set  the  template   for  the  next  few  recordings.   This  Album  Rescue  could  conceivably  take  on  any  of  Simple  Mind’s  early  albums  as   each   has   its   own   merit.   But   it   is   their   1981   album   ‘Sister   Feelings   Call’   that   most   resonated   with   my   young   self.   It   was   officially   the   band’s   fifth   studio   album.   The   record   was   made   during   the   same   recording   sessions   as   the   album   ‘Sons   and   Fascination’,   both   albums   were   initially   released,   shrunk-­‐wrap   together   at   a   discounted  rate.  ‘Sister  Feelings  Call’  was  a  7  track,  35  minute  “bonus”  album  given   away   free   with   the   first   10,000   copies   of   ‘Sons   and   Fascination’.   The   band   had   recently   signed   a   new   deal   with   Virgin   Records   (after   three   albums   with   Arista).   Virgin  were  eager  to  pander  to  their  fresh  signings  extravagant  demands,  so  released   both  albums  simultaneously  (BBC,  1989).   Kerr  states  (Sunderland,  1981): "We  never  saw  it  as  any  double  album  kind  of  thing….  but  once  we'd  done  10  to  12   backing   tracks,   it   was   obvious   it   wouldn't   all   fit   on   one   album   yet   no-­‐one   could   make   up  their  minds  which  to  leave  out.”    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   A   few   months   after   its   initial   release,   both   albums   were   sold   separately   (‘Sister   Feelings   Call’   at   a   budget   price   of   £2.99).   It   was   this   cut-­‐price   vinyl   version   that   I   became  familiar  with.     ‘Sons  and  Fascination’,  the  ‘big  brother’  of  ‘Sister  Feelings  Call’  was  deemed  by  the   band  and  label  to  contain  the  ‘stronger’  material.  Though  I  propose  that  the  work  on   ‘Sons   and   Fascination’   is   safer   and   a   little   blander   than   the   wilder,   less   considered   ‘Sister   Feelings   Call’.   I   love   the   fact   that   the   tracks   are   unfinished   sketches.   Under-­‐ cooked   arrangements   go   nowhere...   songs   often   culminate   in   a   never-­‐ending   loop,   fading  forever.   The  band  also  opted  to  work  with  a  new  producer  (having  previously  only  recorded   with   John   Leckie).   Their   new   choice,   Steve   Hillage   was   considered   by   many   in   the   industry  at  the  time  to  be  the  antithesis  of  post-­‐punk.  Hillage  was  tainted  by  his  work   as  guitarist  with  70’s  prog-­‐rock  dinosaurs  Gong,  who  in  1981,  were  the  furthest  from   cool.   But   Simple   Minds   had   a   soft   spot   for   the   more   flamboyant   pre-­‐punk   progressive   rock   sounds   of   bands   such   as   Genesis,   so   maybe   hippie   Hillage   wasn’t   such  an  odd  choice.  They  also  bonded  over  a  mutual  fondness  for  70’s  German  rock   (affectionately   christened   by   the   music-­‐press   as   ‘Krautrock’).   With   its   use   of   repetitive  simple  drum-­‐patterns,  driving  bass  lines,  atmospheric  effect-­‐laden  guitars   and  synth,  sparse  vocals  and  simplistic  arrangements.  Artists  such  as  Neu,  Can  and   Harmonia  had  pioneered  a  new  approach  to  hypnotic  minimalism  and  were  hugely   influential  on  early  Simple  Minds  (BBC,  1989).   The   band   had   been   touring   Europe   extensively   and   had   developed   a   strong   localised   following,  but  they  weren't  yet  known  widely  beyond  the  pages  of  the  niche  music   press.  Thematically  and  visually,  Simple  Minds  were  evolving.  Kerr  had  developed  his   unique   style,   dressing   flamboyantly   with   mascara   and   a   ‘Blackadder’   bowl   haircut.   The   band's   previous   few   albums   had   been   described   as   “European   travelogues”;   abstract   audio   postcards   documenting   their   touring   life.   Their   sleeves   assumed   a   pseudo   Eastern   Bloc   aesthetic,   incorporating   Russian   fonts   and   imagery   in   their   artwork.   These   Euro   influences   in   music   and   look,   together   with   a   rhythm   section   who   knew   how   to   make   an   audience   move,   were   creating   an   odd   mixture   of   dark   and   danceable   music,   “transplanting   their   traveller's   impressions   into   rich   disco   epics”  (Bohn,  1981).   Sister  Feelings  Call  looks  further  afield  than  Europe  and  hints  at  Simple  Minds’  future   across  the  Atlantic  and  the  world  beyond.  The  lyrics  remain  mostly  cryptic  with  hints   at   urban   and   modernist   themes.   Song   titles   such   as   ‘Careful   in   Career’   and   ‘Wonderful  In  Young  Life’  are  meaningless  slogans  yet  in  the  context  of  the  record    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   make   perfect   sense.   New   Musical   Express   (NME)   accused   them   of   reading   “like   a   set   of  particularly  obtuse  crossword  anagrams”  (Bohn,  1981).   The  opening  track  on  ‘Sisters  Feelings  Call’  is  the  delightful  instrumental  ‘Theme  For   Great  Cities’.  For  a  band  so  recognizable  by  the  voice  of  their  front  man,  it's  a  bold   move  to  start  the  album  without  his  presence.  It  is  arguably  the  standout  track  of  the   album.   With   its   Kraftwerk-­‐influenced   melody   and   funk   bass   backbone,   future   remixers   would   sample   and   rework   this   track   numerous   times.   Drummer   Brian   McGee’s   shuffle   dance-­‐beat   pre-­‐empted   the   indie-­‐sound   of   Madchester   by   ten   years.   The   only   single   taken   from   the   album,   ‘The   American’   failed   to   reach   the   UK   Top   50.   Reviews   at   the   time   weren’t   too   agreeable.   The   NME   were   confused   by   their   direction   claiming   it   was   “inexcusably   laboured”.   The   track,   however,   was   quite   rightly   embraced   by   the   burgeoning   New   Romantic   club   scene   and   played   at   fashionable  London  venues  such  as  Soho’s  Blitz  club.  The  slap  bass  swagger,  pulsing   synth   and   wild   guitar   squeaks   were   still   meant   for   the   left-­‐field   fans   rather   than   chart  buying  teens.     Kerr’s   lyrics   were   deliberately   non-­‐narrative;   preferring   ambiguous   repetitive   short   phrases,   with   his   vocals   daubed   in   echo   and   reverse   reverb   effects,   hiding   the   meaning  and  intelligibility  in  the  atmospherics  of  the  music.     Here  comes  the  shake The  speed-­‐decade  wake I  see  you  wake Shake Fit  on  those  overalls What  do  you  know  about  this  world  anyway? (The  American)   The   sonics   of   this   album   are   dominated   by   the   pads   and   arpeggios   of   MacNeil,   whose   collection   of   analogue   synthesizers   are   showcased   throughout   the   record.   The   ambient   moments   are   reminiscent   of   the   Harmonia   and   Brian   Eno   collaborations.   This   was   the   era   prior   to   MIDI   sequencing,   so   a   synth   player   was   expected   to   record   his   parts   live.   For   me,   this   adds   to   the   freedom   of   the   performances   with   an   authenticity,   soon   to   be   hijacked   by   the   precision   of   programmers  and  samplers.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Forbes’  bass  is  also  indispensable.  ‘20th  Century  Promised  Land’  and  ‘Wonderful  in   Young   Life’   move   away   from   the   dance-­‐floor   with   clanking   bass   guitar   and   pounding   snare   hammering   relentlessly.   ‘League   Of   Nations’   returns   to   the   punk   funk.   The   instrumental  groove  and  drum-­‐machine  loop  reminiscent  of  Talking  Heads  with  slap   bass,  oriental  keyboard  melody  and  Jim  Kerr's  faux  gothic  minimal  vocals.   The  album’s  most  challenging  listen  is  ‘Careful  In  Career’.  Hillage’s  production  tricks   such  as  reverse  drum  effects  and  backwards  reverb  attempt  to  add  interest  but  the   idiosyncratic   vocal   melody   makes   for   an   awkward   tune   that   takes   a   few   listens   to   digest.     The   album   closes   with   another   vocal-­‐less   track,   the   ‘Sound   of   70   Cities’.   The   electronic  fog-­‐horn  fades  into  the  distance  signalling  the  final  time  this  original  line-­‐ up  would  appear  on  record  together.   At   the   time,   Kerr   himself   was   not   a   huge   fan   of   the   album   stating   in   an   interview   with  UK’s  Melody  Maker  magazine  (Kerr  1981): "it’s  a  bit  one-­‐paced  and  samey.  A  lot  of  the  songs  on  this  album,  and  the  last  album,   have   been   based   upon   repetition   as   opposed   to   drama.   I   feel   the   new   album's   the   end  of  a  phase  for  us...I  think  we  were  subconsciously  clearing  everything  out  so  that   next  time  we  go  in  to  record,  I'm  sure  -­‐  though  I've  no  idea  what  it  will  be  just  now  -­‐   it'll  be  on  a  totally  different  level  altogether."     To  me  this  implies  Kerr  was  already  anticipating  their  “bigger”  sound.  It  disappoints   me   to   read   this,   as   it   seems   he   is   missing   the   point.   For   me,   the   repetition   is   the   drama.   It’s   the   club   sound,   it’s   the   hypnosis   and   it’s   the   amphetamines.   Kerr’s   premonition   of   their   future   sounds   comes   with   the   lure   of   America.   The   band   saw   ‘Sons   and   Fascination/Sister   Feelings   Call’   as   a   chance   to   purge   themselves   of   the   “old”  Simple  Minds  material;  a  new  incarnation  was  on  its  way.   In  my  opinion,  it  was  the  quest  to  be  loved  by  the  USA  that  took  Simple  Minds  into   the   mediocre   phase   of   their   career.   On   successive   records,   some   core   players   (McGee,   Forbes   and   McNeil)   would   quit   the   band   to   be   replaced   with   session   musicians.  The  band  abandoned  the  synth  and  bass  backbone  replacing  it  with  more   traditional   guitar   rock   licks   and   soul   backing   vocals.   As   Kerr’s   style   developed,   he   moved  closer  towards  the  messianic  poses  of  his  rock  peers,  INXS  and  U2...  without   the  rock-­‐star  good  looks  of  Hutchence  or  the  ego  of  Bono!   Here   I   suggest   that   one   event   key   event   finally   put   the   end   to   the   “old”   Simple   Minds;  the  1985  Live  Aid  concert.  Simple  Minds  performed  a  set  at  the  American  leg    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   of  the  event,  showcasing  their  rockier  persona;  the  puffy  shirts,  postures  and  their   recent  huge  number  one  hit.  I’m  not  the  first  person  to  suggest  that  Geldof’s  Live  Aid   charity  event  was  responsible  for  many  great  travesties  in  music.  Writer  and  Punk,   John   Robb   suggested   it   was   a   day   when   “the   pastel   shades   of   corporate   pop   were   now   back   in   control   with   a   whole   host   of   pop   stars   old   and   new   celebrating   the   mullet   mundane   of   the   mid   eighties”   (2005)   and   Adam   Ant   (a   performer   on   the   day)   claimed,  “it  was  the  day  that  Rock  ’n’  Roll  died”.     It  did  however  expose  the  day’s  performers  to  an  estimated  global  audience  of  1.9   Billion   viewers!   Bands   such   as   Simple   Minds,   U2   and   INXS   would   no   longer   tour   club   venues.   Music   had   turned   “Stadium.”   Ensuing   shows   by   the   likes   of   Genesis,   The   Rolling   Stones,   Pink   Floyd,   U2   and   Simple   Minds   meant   sports   venues,   such   as   London’s   76,000   capacity   Wembley   Stadium,   were   being   used   almost   as   much   for   music  as  they  were  for  sport  (Paphides,  2015).   Musician,   David   Byrne   discussed   his   theories   on   the   way   architecture   influences   music.   I   concur   with   him   when   he   suggests   that   tunes   that   sound   great   in   sweaty   clubs  don’t  translate  well  to  large  arenas.  Therefore  the  composing  and  production   must   change   to   adapt   to   the   new   environment.   The   snare   reverbs   get   bigger,   the   tempos   slow,   and   the   lighters   come   out.   For   Simple   Minds,   the   audience   changed   too;  the  cool  club-­‐goers  of  the  early  Eighties  turned  into  yuppies  with  Sade  and  Enya   ‘coffee-­‐table’   CD   collections.   Simple   Minds   could   just   have   easily   been   interchangeable  with  fellow  simpletons,  Simply  Red.  Game  over.   Though  the  band  still  tour  and  make  new  records,  today  they  are  left  with  only  two   original  members:  Kerr  and  Burchill.  In  2012,  Simple  Minds  returned  to  performing   some  of  their  early  material,  opting  to  only  play  songs  from  their  first  five  albums.   When   discussing   this   decision   to   showcase   their   vintage   work,   guitarist   Burchill   stated,  "People  think  (Simple  Minds)  is  all  anthems  and  big  gestures,  and  I'd  love  to   redress   that   side   of   it"   (Thomson,   2012).   Unfortunately,   this   redemption   came   too   late…   During  the  process  of  revisiting  this  album  again,  I  have  realised  that  I  am  not  only   rescuing  Simple  Minds  reputation  for  you,  but  I  am  predominantly  rescuing  them  for   myself.   Rediscovering   this   band   again   after   such   a   long   gap   actually   makes   me   feel   a   bit   stupid   for   having   left   them   in   the   first   place.   I   for   one   am   pleased   that   I’ve   re-­‐ experienced  this  album.  Perhaps  my  love  has  been  reignited  because  essentially  I  am   still   that   fifteen-­‐year-­‐old   boy.   Under-­‐developed   brain,   crude   humour   etc...   And   I   never  did  get  to  snog  Jenny  Tinker  at  the  school  disco...    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   References Bohn,  C  1981,  Reviews  -­‐  Sons  And  Fascination/Sister  Feelings  Call.  New  Musical   Express.   Byrne,  D  2010,  How  architecture  helped  music  evolve.  [online]  Ted.com.  Available   from:   .  [12  August  2015].   Cornwell,  S  2015,  dream  giver  redux  |  discography  |  albums  |  sister  feelings  call.   Available  from:  .  [10   August  2015].   Kerr,  J,  Burchill,  C,  MacNeil,  M,  Forbes,  D  &  McGee,  B  1981,  Sister  Feelings  Call.  [LP]   Virgin  Records.   Paphides,  P  2015,  How  Live  Aid  reinvented  pop  music.  Available  from:   .  [15  August  2015].   Reynolds,  S  2005,  Rip  it  up  and  start  again.  Chapter  21  -­‐  New  Gold  Dream.  Faber,   London,  UK.   Robb,  J  2005,  Live  Aid  -­‐  the  day  that  the  music  died.  -­‐  Louder  Than  War.  Available   from:  .  [15   August  2015].   Robb,  J  2011,  Adam  Ant  brands  Live  Aid  a  "mistake"  and  a  "waste  of  time"  and  the   end  of  'rock  n  roll'.  Available  at:  .  [16  August  2015].   Simple  Minds  -­‐  The  Street  Fighting  Years,  1989,  [Radio  programme]  Radio  1:  British   Broadcasting  Corporation. Sutherland,  S  1981,  The  Impossible  Dream  -­‐  Steve  Sutherland  gets  a  hard  dose  of   reality  from  Simple  Minds.  Melody  Maker.   Thomson,  G  2012,  Simple  Minds:  'Maybe  we  shouldn't  have  cashed  in'.  Available  at:   .  [16  August   2015].  

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)     WhoSampled,  (n.d.).  Theme  for  Great  Cities  by  Simple  Minds  on  WhoSampled.   Available  at:  .  [19  August  2015].  

 

 

 

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‘Ultravox!’  Ultravox By  Tim  Dalton Some   people   know   about   my   two-­‐part   life,   but   most   don’t.   The   two   halves   are   cycling  and  music  which  are  similar  to  oil  and  water;  it's  very  rare  that  the  two  mix.   In   early   2015   bicycle   company   Swift   Carbon,   who   named   their   top   of-­‐the-­‐range   racing   bicycle   Ultravox,   invited   me   to   the   launch   of   their   new   carbon   fiber   racing   bikes.  It  was  an  interesting  event  held  in  a  posh,  spotless,  boutique  style  bicycle  shop   in  St  Kilda,  an  über  hip  and  trendy  suburb  of  Melbourne.  At  this  launch  I  met  South   African  company  owner  Mark  Blewett  and  I  asked  him  about  why  he  hadn’t  named   these   bicycles   something   more   cycling   orientated   e.g.   Mistral   or   Sirocco   (both   hot   winds  that  blow  across  the  Mediterranean  from  the  North  African  desert).  It  turned   out  that  Mark  was  a  big  fan  of  80s  synth-­‐pop  and  in  particular  the  UK  band  Ultravox,   what  he  didn't  know  was  there  were  two  very  different  versions  of  this  band. The   lessor   known   but   more   adventurous   Ultravox   (version   one)   ran   from   1974   to   1979  and  then  the  more  commercially  successful  Midge  Ure  fronted  version  two  ran   from  1980  onwards.  The  version  that  most  people  are  familiar  with  is  version  two;   due  to  mega  hits  like  ‘Vienna’  and  ‘Dancing  With  Tears  In  My  Eyes’.  For  me  this  is  a   problem   as   the   latter   more   commercial   and   insipid   work   throws   a   long   shadow   over   version  one.  It’s  the  February  1977  debut  album,  Ultravox!  that  I  am  rescuing  here.   The  exclamation  mark  is  a  sign  of  their  origins.  When  the  band  formed  in  1974  the   Krautrock  band  Neu!  heavily  influenced  them.  Originally  the  band  went  by  the  name   Tiger   Lilly   and   drew   their   influences   from   The   Velvet   Underground,   Roxy   Music,   Bowie,  Steve  Harley  and  The  New  York  Dolls.  Though  not  really  a  performing  unit  at   this  stage,  other  than  the  odd  pub  gig,  they  did  write  a  lot  of  material  some  of  which   makes   it   onto   this   album.   This   album   was   recorded   cheaply   at   Island   Record’s   studio   in  Hammersmith,  west  London  in  only  17  days.  Production  work  was  undertaken  by   up  and  coming  producer  Steve  Lillywhite,  who  would  later  find  fame  with  U2,  Simple   Minds,  and  Roxy  Music’s  Brian  Eno.   On  the  2003  compilation  release,  The  Best  Of  Ultravox,  there  isn’t  a  single  track  from   this  debut  album.  I  would  argue  that  Ultravox  were  at  their  most  vital,  and  did  their   best   work,   on   this   debut   album.   But   why   is   this   piece   of   excellent   music   largely   ignored?   Anyone   expecting   this   album   to   be   similar   to   the   Midge   Ure   fronted   Ultravox    (version  two)  of  the  Vienna  era  is  in  for  something  of  a  shock.  The  Ultravox   of   the   late   1970s   were   a   much   stranger,   much   more   interesting   and   engaging   outfit.   The  music  on  this  album  is  as  idiosyncratic  as  anything  that  made  it  onto  vinyl  during   that  era.  The  list  of  influences  is  long:  Neu!,  Berlin-­‐era  Bowie  and  Eno-­‐era  Roxy  Music    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   are  perhaps  the  most  obvious  on  this  record.  Forming  in  1974  and  signing  to  Chris   Blackwell’s   Island   label   in   1977   put   the   band   into   a   liminal   state;   a   bit   too   late   for   punk   rock   and   a   bit   too   early   for   the   New   Romantics.   Their   sound   on   this   record   is   a   combination   of   post   punk,   glam   rock,   electronica,   new   wave,   classical   and   reggae,   which   is   probably   Chris   Blackwell’s   influence.   Gary   Numan,   who   was   heavily   influenced   by   Ultravox,   said   that   they   were,   “conventional   but   with   another   layer   on   top”.  There’s  a  real  sense  of  this  music  not  belonging,  it’s  disconnected,  doesn’t  fit   and  not  of  its  time.  Looking  back  at  it  through  a  38  year  long  telescope  it  all  starts  to   make   sense,   it’s   all   about   perspective.   In   the   same   way   that   cheap   electric   guitars   defined   the   sound   of   the   1960s,   cheap   synthesizers   defined   the   sound   of   the   late   1970s   and   early   1980s,   Ultravox   were   suspended   in   1977   between   the   bold   influences  of  Bowie  and  Roxy  on  one  hand  and  a  vision  of  new  wave  and  early  1980s   synth-­‐pop  on  the  other.  Ultravox  was  a  band  out  of  sync  with  the  times.   I  first  discovered  this  album  when  a  schoolmate  stole  it  from  a  local  record  shop  and   offered   it   to   me   for   £5.   As   a   15   year   old   I   was   probably   the   only   person   in   my   whole   school   that   the   music   thief   could   possibly   sell   this   record   too.   In   retrospect   my   schoolmate   was   probably   thirty   years   ahead   of   the   time   by   stealing   music   when   everyone  else  was  still  paying  for  it.  Some  would  call  him  a  thief;  I  would  call  him  a   visionary.   What   initially   attracted   me   to   this   album   was   the   fabulous   high   quality   gatefold   cover.   The   five   members   of   the   band   dressed   predominantly   in   black   PVC   against   a   black   brick   wall   with   a   vivid   bright   red   neon   sign   spelling   out   ‘Ultravox!’   This   photograph   is   a   pre-­‐computer   one,   so   there   is   no   Photo   Shop   manipulation   here.  The  huge  neon  sign  was  real  and  I’m  guessing  it’s  languishing  in  a  north  London   garage  somewhere  awaiting  a  TV  makeover  show  when  some  heavily  tattooed  guy   called  Rick  will  bring  it  back  to  its  former  glory.  When  the  gatefold  opens,  staring  out   are   Stevie   Shears   (guitar),   Warren   Cann   (drums/vocals),   Billy   Currie   (violin/keyboards)  and  Chris  Cross  (bass/vocals).  The  back  cover  is  a  backlight  picture   of   John   Foxx   in   a   TV   studio   dressed   in   a   black   suite   with   his   shirt   collar   and   cuffs   burnt  off.  It's  a  powerful  image,  a  kind  of  digital  Jesus  Christ  like  figure?  The  cover   artwork  and  design  is  credited  to  Dennis  Leigh,  which  I  didn’t  realize  at  the  time  is   John   Foxx’s   real   name.   This   was   a   piece   of   luxury   design   and   packaging,   Art   Into   Pop   strikes  again.   The  music  press  of  the  day,  yes  we  actually  had  a  music  press  back  in  the  late  1970s,   did  not  treat  this  album  kindly  upon  its  release.  Ultravox!'s  sales  were  disappointing,   and   neither   the   album   nor   the   associated   single   ‘Dangerous   Rhythm’   managed   to   enter   the   UK   charts.   The   band’s   debut   as   Ultravox   was   after   they   had   signed   to   Island   Records   and   had   made   this   album.   The   press   found   this   problematic,   as   it   seemed  to  contravene  some  unwritten  punk  rock  rule  of  the  day.  The  band  walked    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   directly   into   the   lion’s   den   by   playing   their   first   show   as   Ultravox   at   the   Nashville   Room,  171  North  End  Road,  London,  W6.    At  the  time  the  Nashville  Room  was  the   home  of  the  booming  pub  rock  scene  (101ers,  Duck  Deluxe,  Dr  Feelgood,  Kilburn  and   The   Highroads,   etc.)   and   not   somewhere   a   contrived   alternative   art   school   band   complete   with   violin,   synthesizer   and   newly   signed   record   contract   should   be   playing.  The  gig  very  quickly  turned  into  a  ‘hyped’  event,  rammed  to  the  rafters  with   self  important  gonzo  music  journalists  determined  to  pull  the  band  apart.  In  the  19   century   Charles   Sanders   Pierce   defined   the   theory   of   semiotics   as   the   "quasi-­‐ necessary,  or  formal  doctrine  of  signs"  and  it's  quite  feasible  that  one  of  the  issues  at   the   Nashville   Room   that   night   was   one   of   semiotics.   The   red   neon   sign,   from   the   album   cover,   caused   the   most   offence   when   it   was   used   as   the   backdrop   on   the   stage.   I   wasn’t   there   but   I’ll   speculate   it   looked   very   impressive.   However,   the   journalists  who  were  viewing  this  through  the  lens  of  punk  rock  interpreted  it  as  a   sign  of  arrogance.  It’s  very  rare  for  a  debut  album  to  be  damaged  because  the  band   had  a  strong  visual  image,  which  they  wished  to  communicate  to  their  audience.  All   high   school   media   studies   students   would   see   this   as   a   classic   case   of   what   Umberto   Eco  terms  aberrant  decoding.     th

What  about  the  music  on  this  album?  There  aren’t  any  bad  tracks,  it  sounds  much   bigger   than   its   environment.   The   joint   production   work   between   the   technically   savvy  Lillywhite  and  the  cerebral  Eno  is  sonically  top  notch.  I  would  propose  that  one   of   the   issues   the   music   press   had   with   this   album   is   that   it   did   not   adhere   to   the   strict  three  minute,  three  chord,  shouty  aesthetics  of  punk  that  was  popular  at  the   time,  it  was  all  together  a  much  more  complex  piece  of  work.  During  the  1970’s  the   music  press  wielded  their  immense  power  quite  irresponsibly  and  to  a  large  extent  it   was  them  that  inflicted  unwarranted  damage  on  Ultravox!  the  album  and  the  band.   The  sound  of  this  album  is  unique  and  was  just  too  different  for  most  listeners  at  the   time,  which  is  possibly  why  it  alienated  the  band  from  their  potential  following.  At   times  the  lyrics  are  a  little  overblown  and  art  school  pretentious  e.g.  track  eight  ‘The   Wild,   The   Beautiful   and   The   Damned’,   "I'll   send   you   truckloads   of   flowers.   From   all   the  world  that  you  stole  from  me.  I'll  spin  a  coin  in  a  madhouse.  While  I  watch  you   drowning".  For  me  though  this  is  all  part  of  the  fun.   The   first   track   ‘Satday   [sic]   Night   In   The   City   Of   The   Dead’   possesses   the   same   no-­‐ nonsense   attitude   that   The   Clash   would   display.   It   also   captures   the   edgy   noir   mood   that  pervades  the  entire  album.  Track  two  ‘Life  At  Rainbow’s  End’  is  an  upbeat  future   gazing   tune   about   living   the   good   life.   This   fascination   with   Futurism   is   the   core   theme   of   this   album   and   it   is   most   prominent   on   track   four’s   ‘I   Want   To   Be   A   Machine’.  Relations  within  the  band  were  occasionally  on  a  tenuous  footing  during   this  time  as  Foxx  declared  that  he  intended  to  live  his  life  devoid  of  all  emotions,  a    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   sentiment   expressed   explicitly   here.   This   track   excels   because   it   culminates   in   a   startling  reverb  laden  violin-­‐fest.  Track  five’s  ‘Wide  Boys’  bares  its  influences  openly   when  it  kicks  off  with  a  Bowie-­‐ish  ‘Rebel  Rebel’  Mick  Ronson  sound-­‐a-­‐like  guitar  riff   before   settling   down   into   a   Spiders   From   Mars’   groove.   On   track   six’s   ‘Dangerous   Rhythm’   John   Foxx   starts   aping   Roxy   Music’s   Bryan   Ferry   but   set   against   a   catchy   Island   Records   house   style   reggae   beat.   The   anthemic   track   eight,   ‘The   Wild   The   Beautiful   And   The   Damned’,   with   its   experimental   and   avant-­‐garde   themes   draws   heavily   on   Bowie’s   1977   Low   album,   which   was   only   released   one   month   before   Ultravox!  The  album  closes  with  track  nine’s  haunting  ‘My  Sex’,  a  spares  piano  driven   composition   with   bare   disarming   vocals   overlaid   with   electronic   heartbeat   and   eerie   distancing  synth  strings.   After  this  debut  album  two  more  albums  followed,  Ha!-­‐Ha!-­‐Ha!  (1977)  and  Systems   Of   Romance   (1978)   neither   of   which   sold   well   nor   were   particularly   exciting.   With   three   poorly   selling   albums   under   their   belt,   Island   Records   pulled   the   plug   and   dropped   the   band   in   1979.   Despite   being   dropped,   the   band   went   on   an   unsuccessful  self-­‐financed  USA  tour  the  same  year.  By  this  point  the  writing  was  well   and  truly  on  the  wall  for  Ultravox  version  one.  Guitar  player  Stevie  Shears  was  fired   after   the   USA   tour   and   John   Foxx’s   professional   relationship   with   Billie   Currie   was   well  and  truly  broken.  With  the  extra  strain  of  financial  bankruptcy  facing  the  band,   John   Foxx   left   to   pursue   a   solo   career.   Ultravox   version   one   was   well   and   truly   terminated  by  the  end  of  1979. When   I’m   out   on   my   bicycle   and   ride   over   a   bridge   in   a   river   valley   it's   virtually   impossible   to   comprehend   the   structure’s   engineering   elegance   and   architectural   beauty.   As   you   ride   along   all   you   can   see   is   the   road   ahead   and   it’s   not   until   you   put   some   distance   between   you   and   the   structure   that   you   can   you   look   back   and   admire   its   beauty   and   elegance.   Maybe   this   visual   metaphor   holds   true   when   considering   this   album?   Ultravox!   was   an   album   bridging   the   gorge   between   punk   and   new   romantics/synth   pop.   At   the   time   we   couldn’t   see   this   because   we   were   right   on   top   of   it   but   in   retrospect   it's   becomes   fairly   obvious   of   the   form   and   function   of   this   album.   Dave   Thompson,   writing   for   AllMusic,   opinionated,   "It   was   Ultravox!   who   first   showed   the   kind   of   dangerous   rhythms   that   keyboards   could   create.   The   quintet   certainly   had   their   antecedents   -­‐   Hawkwind,   Roxy   Music   and   Kraftwerk   to   name   but   a   few,   but   still   it   was   the   group's   1977   eponymous   debut's   grandeur,   wrapped   in   the   ravaged   moods   and   lyrical   themes   of   collapse   and   decay   that   transported   '70s   rock   from   the   bloated   pastures   of   the   past   to   the   futuristic   dystopias   predicted   by   punk”.   This   CD   makes   me   grateful   and   proud   that   when   I   was   young,  my  youth  was  not  wasted  in  fact  it  was  rocked  by  this  album.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   References O’Sullivan,   T,   Hartley,   J,   Saunders,   D,   &   Fiske,   J   1983,   Key   Concepts   In   Communication,  Routledge,  London,  UK.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Niandra  LaDes  &  Usually  Just  a  T-­‐Shirt’     John  Frusciante By  Matt  Bangerter In   my   youth,   like   most   teenage   boys   trying   to   impress   girls,   I   decided   to   take   up   playing   guitar   as   being   a   flautist   doesn’t   quite   give   you   the   same   street   cred   as   a   guitar   or   drum   sticks   do   when   hanging   out   in   the   band   room   at   high   school.   My   guitar   teacher   introduced   to   me   to   a   lot   of   popular   music   during   this   period,   but   the   one   band   that   I   discovered   on   my   own   was   the   Red   Hot   Chili   Peppers.   I   started   playing   guitar   approximately   when   the   Californication   album   cycle   was   coming   to   an   end.   I   really   enjoyed   this   album   and   their   back-­‐catalog   was   well   suited   to   teenage   boys,   so   much   so,   that   I   rushed   out   and   tried   to   buy   as   many   albums   as   I   could.   This   rush  caused  me  to  stumble  upon  their  newly  returned  guitarist,  John  Frusciante,  first   solo  effort  that  was  released  in  1994.   At   this   time,   John   Frusciante   had   just   released   his   third   album,   but   wanting   to   experience   his   music   in   the   intended   order,   I   picked   up   his   first   album;   Niandra   LaDes   &   Usually   Just   a   T-­‐Shirt   (henceforth   referred   to   as   Niandra   LaDes).   After   spending   most   of   my   time   listening   to   the   Chili   Peppers,   Foo   Fighters,   Smashing   Pumpkins,  Nirvana,  Pearl  Jam  and  an  assortment  of  other  ‘90s  heavyweights  in  the   American  alternative  rock  scene,  this  album  was  a  big  awakening. Filled  with  streams  of  consciousness,  guitar-­‐laden,  lo-­‐fi  experimentation,  this  album   sounds   nothing   like   the   style   of   song   found   on   the   Red   Hot   Chili   Peppers’   BloodSugarSexMagik   (BSSM).   BSSM   was   written   and   recorded   in   1991   at   approximately   the   same   recording   time   as   Niandra   LaDes.   BSSM   is   arguably   Red   Hot   Chili   Peppers’   best   album   release.    Frusciante   had   a   large   role   in   BSSM’s   success   and   was   clearly   a   very   creative   time   for   Frusciante,   allegedly   due   to   his   copious   amounts   of   drug   use   in   combination   with   his   youthful   exuberance,   being   21   at   the   time   of   recording. There  is  a  tonal  cohesion  throughout  Niandra  LaDes  attributed  to  most  tracks  being   recorded   onto   a   small   cassette   recording   deck.   Layers   of   guitar   parts   and   vocals   make   up   the   majority   of   the   sounds.   There   is   some   piano   work   and   a   number   of   instances   of   reversed   guitars.   This   trick   involves   turning   the   cassette   over   in   the   recorder   and   recording   while   the   same   song   is   being   played   backwards   (this   trick   was   made   famous   by   Eric   Clapton   on   ‘While   My   Guitar   Gently   Weeps’   by   The   Beatles)  in  addition  to  other  tape  manipulation  techniques.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Niandra   LaDes’   production   seems   unconcerned   with   noise   and   distortions.   As   the   album   moves   through   its   more   ‘structured’   first   half,   usually   referred   to   the   “Niandra  LaDes  half”,  many  of  these  tracks  are  conventional  songs,  constructed  with   verses   and   choruses.   However,   there   are   no   stringent   rules   with   how   they   are   applied  in  the  songs’  construction. It  opens  with  Frusciante  counting  in  the  first  song.  This  definitely  gives  the  album  a   demo-­‐recording   feel   or   even   a   journal   entry.   This   is   made   more   apparent   by   the   scribbling   of   song   lyrics   on   the   album   art.   Through   many   songs,   Frusciante   sings   about  what  he  is  or  has  been. “I’m  as  happy  as  can  be”  (As  Can  Be).   “I’ve  been  insane,  well  the  time  slow”  (Been  Insane).   “I’ve  got  blood  on  my  neck  from  success”  (Blood  on  My  Neck  from  Success).   These  song  lyrics  from  the  first  half  of  the  album  start  happy  and  then  descend  to  a   darker   place.   The   untitled   songs   of   Usually   Just   a   T-­‐Shirt   (the   second   half   of   the   album)   become   frantic,   more   experimental   and   definitely   strange.   Frusciante   isn’t   concerned  with  the  album’s  production;  there  is  no  ‘cleaning  up’  of  the  ‘making  of’   as   done   in   the   first   half   of   the   album.   Frusciante’s   work   continues   to   remain   bare   and  exposed,  but  increasingly  as  the  surrealism  and  experimentation  continues.   This   switch   from   titled   and   mostly   structured   songs   to   a   series   of   untitled   and   inconsistent   pieces   almost   reflects   his   switch   from   one   of   the   biggest   bands   in   the   world,  Red  Hot  Chili  Peppers,  to  his  hermit  like  self-­‐seclusion.  It  feels  very  symbolic,   with  the  first  half  of  the  album’s  penultimate  track  ‘Blood  on  My  Neck  from  Success’.   Just   from   the   titles,   it   is   clearly   a   criticism   of   the   fame   and   celebrity   exposure   Frusciante  experienced  during  his  time  with  the  Red  Hot  Chili  Peppers.   After  one  more  song  in  the  first  half,  there  is  an  immediate  change  to  ‘Untitled  #1’,   which  is  a  30  second  preview  of  the  madness  that  will  follow  in  this  second  half  of   the  album.  This  song  is  abrupt,  strange  and  sudden;  much  like  Frusciante’s  departure   from  Red  Hot  Chili  Peppers.  There  are  some  song-­‐like  moments,  but  many  tracks  are   instrumental  and  lacking  any  specific  structure.  Sections  with  lyrics  seem  to  crop  up   through  the  noise  of  looped  and  layered  guitar  parts.  The  album  ends  in  a  cacophony   of  noise,  where  you  are  lead  to  believe  that  the  album  is  literally  dissolving  in  the  CD   player.   Frusciante   resurrects   his   profile   in   1994   for   an   interview,   presumably   for   Niandra  LaDes’  release. Watching  this  famous  VPRO  1994  interview  with  Frusciante,  he  appears  disheveled   and   just   a   shell   of   the   person   that   he   was   years   ago   when   he   wrote   the   album.   117    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Niandra  LaDes  acts  as  his  diary,  documenting  his  descent  into  the  dark.  Watching  the   Red  Hot  Chili  Peppers  documentary,  titled  Funky  Monks,  that  captures  the  making  of   BSSM,   we   see   a   young   and   exuberant   Frusciante   with   incredible   focus   and   determination   to   create   great   music.   Three   years   later,   this   youthful   exuberance   is   gone  replaced  with  a  darker  persona.   Niandra   LaDes   foreshadows   this   descent.   The   track   ‘Mascara’   features   this   dark   descent  where  the  song  ends  with  multiple  lead  vocals  sung  over  one  another,  using   lyrics   and   melodies   from   songs   yet   to   be   heard   until   later   in   the   album   including    ‘Been   Insane’   and   ‘Your   Pussy’s   Glued   to   a   Building   on   Fire’.   The   most   tangible   aspect   of   this   album   is   the   catharsis   that   Frusciante   seems   to   be   going   through.   It   sounds   as   though   he   is   exorcising   his   inner   demons.   However,   unlike   other  artists,  this  is  not  art  for  others.  It  is  his  own  exorcism. So,  why  does  this  album  need  rescuing?  For  those,  who  like  me,  have  come  to  this   album   from   listening   to   the   Red   Hot   Chili   Peppers,   Niandra   LaDes   could   easily   be   discarded   as   a   piece   of   noisy   nonsense.   Where   are   the   drums?   Where   are   the   ‘normal’   songs?   Why   does   it   sound   like   this?   These   are   questions   friends   of   mine   asked  on  their  first  listening  to  this  album.   Oddly   enough,   the   album   is   not   about   the   music   or   the   production   value.   The   album   is  about  understanding  the  context  of  Frusciante’s  time  in  the  limelight  with  the  Red   Hot  Chili  Peppers  and  his  abrupt  departure  from  the  band  while  on  tour  to  support   BSSM.   This   resulted   in   Frusciante’s   subsequent   spiral   into   drug   addiction   and   self-­‐ imposed  exile  from  public  life.    While  he  was  urged  by  those  around  him  to  release   Niandra  LaDes  to  showcase  his  musical  genius  to  the  world,  Frusciante  preferred  to   hide  away  in  obscurity  so  that  he  could  make  his  music.   Niandra  LaDes  is  a  musical  journey  of  an  artist,  bursting  at  the  seams  with  creative   energy  while  simultaneously  struggling  against  the  grain  of  fame.  On  this  album  you   can   almost   hear   Frusciante   burrowing   away,   withdrawing   within   as   he   attempts   to   exorcise  his  demons.     This   album   is   the   epitome   of   DIY.   It   is   all   Frusciante.   If   music   is   created   to   have   meaning   for   people,   then   this   album   wasn’t   made   for   an   audience;   rather   Niandra   LaDes   was   created   only   for   Frusciante   himself.   This   album   is   like   reading   a   journal   or   watching   a   documentary;   although   a   very   surreal   one.   The   album   is   not   a   literal   interpretation   of   Frusciante’s   life;   rather   we   infer   his   dark   descent   from   the   lyrics,   the  sound  and  the  music.

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   This  album  was  my  first  musical  purchase  that  sounded  genuine  to  me;  it  sounded   real.  It  has  been  15  years  since  I  first  listened  to  Niandra  LaDes  and  it  still  leaves  a   lasting   impression   on   me   to   this   day.   To   reiterate,   this   album   is   not   about   the   production   or   the   performance.    Niandra   LaDes   is   Frusciante’s   diary   and   should   be   listened   and   treated   as   a   historical   narrative.   This   album   is   a   challenging   listening   experience,   but   one   to   be   enjoyed.   This   album   articulates   Frusciante’s   creative   process,   that   is,   a   release   of   his   thoughts   and   feelings   into   a   work   of   art.   It   just   so   happens  that  this  album  is  a  much  more  confronting  work  of  art.   By   all   appearances,   Frusciante   made   this   album   for   himself   as   a   demo   or   as   a   life   journal.  If  this  is  so,  then  by  definition  this  album  is  not  for  everyone.  But  it  should be.       References     Van  Splunteren,  B.  (Director).  (1994).  John  Frusciante  VPRO  '94.  Netherlands:  VPRO  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope’  The  Clash By  Tim  Dalton Some   albums   are   born   classics   while   others   need   a   much   more   revisionist   approach.   The  Clash’s  second  album  Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope  is  definitely  in  the  latter  category.  If   any  album  was  in  need  of  a  critical  rescue  37  years  after  its  release  then  it’s  this  one.   Back   when   this   album   was   released   I   was   15,   just   about   to   turn   16,   and   I’d   played   their  eponymous  1977  debut  album,  The  Clash,  to  death.  Every  single  track  on  the   first  album,  according  to  my  young  ears,  was  amazing.  At  the  time  I’d  worked  hard  to   earn  the  money  to  buy  this  album  by  having  two  paper  rounds,  one  early  morning   and  another  one  in  the  evening.  In  complete  contrast  to  today;  music  back  then  was   an   expensive   commodity.   I   worked   hard,   saved   my   money   and   rushed   out   to   my   local  record  store  to  buy  this  album.  When  I  got  it  home  and  first  played  Give  ‘Em   Enough   Rope   I   was   pretty   disappointed.   Where   was   the   anger,   where   was   the   aggression  and  where  was  the  confrontation?  In  fact,  where  was  the  punk  rock?  This   album  sounded  like  some  mid  Atlantic  over-­‐produced  pro-­‐rock  band? Retrospectively  there  seems  to  be  some  social  and  economic  parallels  between  the   UK  today  and  the  late  seventies.  It  was  a  time  of  economic  depression,  the  working   class   were   still   down   trodden   by   the   conscienceless   political   rulers   and   moneyed   elite,   racial   tensions   simmered   and   a   generation   of   young   people   with   no   future   prospects  were  ready  to  lash  out  a  wave  of  destruction  in  the  form  of  riots  in  protest   at  the  injustices  of  the  world  they  find  themselves  in.  We’re  not  quite  there  with  the   youth   riots   yet,   Brixton   and   Toxteth   style,   but   they   are   definitely   on   the   horizon   if   things  don’t  change.   The  Clash  released  their  second  eagerly  awaited  album  Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope  on  10   November  1978.  When  all  the  other  major  British  punk  bands  died  in  1978  and  were   replaced   by   tepid   New   Wave   acts,   CBS   (the   Clash’s   label)   tried   to   push   the   band   into   the  US  market  whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  Ideally  CBS  would  have  loved  The  Clash   to  have  become  a  band  similar  to  The  Police,  who  were  a  bunch  of  aging  musicians   posing  as  punks.  Posers  they  might  be,  but  they  sold  their  album  on  both  sides  of  the   Atlantic   by   the   truck   load   and   were   compliant   to   all   of   their   record   company’s   requests.   In   preparation   for   the   recording   of   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope   the   band   undertook   a   ‘secret’   mini   tour   of   the   UK   Midlands.   Bernie   Rhodes,   the   band’s   manager,   and   the   record   company   had   settled   on   Sandy   Perlman,   a   heavy   metal   producer   with   a   commercial   track   record   with   bands   like   Blue   Öyster   Cult,   to   produce   their   second   album.   He   was   described   as   the,   “Hunter   S.   Thompson   of   rock,   th

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   a  gonzo  producer  of  searing  intellect  and  vast  vision”,  in  the  Billboard  Encyclopedia   of  Record  Producer’s  (1998:  p.233).   Between   24   and   26   January   1978   The   Clash   played   in   Birmingham   (Barbarellas),   Luton   (Queensway   Hall)   and   Coventry   (Lanchester   Polytechnic).   According   to   Paul   Simonon   (2008),   “The   record   company   had   this   idea   that   they   wanted   a   big   name   American  producer  for  the  second  album”.  The  record  company  felt  that  the  band’s   first  album  was  just  too  raw  and  not  radio  friendly  enough  for  American  audience’s   refined  taste.  Pearlman  attended  all  three  shows  to  audition  the  proposed  material   for   the   album.   At   the   last   show   at   Lanchester   Polytechnic   in   Coventry   (26/1/78)   Perlman  tried  to  get  backstage  just  before  the  show  to  meet  the  band.  Mick  Jones’s   old   school   friend,   Robin   Crocker   (AKA   Robin   Banks),   was   taking   care   of   backstage   security  and  he  didn’t  know  who  Pearlman  was.  Crocker  wasn’t  a  man  you  messed   with.   Some   heavy   duty   manners   were   employed   to   keep   Perlman   from   going   backstage  resulting  in  the  long  haired  American  record  producer  lying  prostrate  on   the  floor  blood  pouring  from  his  nose  as  the  band  stepped  over  him  to  take  to  the   stage.  As  normal  The  Clash  don’t  play  by  the  rules,  what  a  great  introduction  to  your   new  record  producer.  Pearlman  must  have  been  keen  because  this  incident  did  not   dampen  his  enthusiasm  to  make  their  second  record. th

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As   1978   wore   on   an   exasperated   record   company   desperately   wanted   a   follow   up   album  to  capitalize  on  the  quick  and  cheap  first  album.  CBS  did  not  release  the  first   album  in  the  USA;  it  was  only  available  via  import,  as  they  thought  the  quality  was   not   high   enough   for   American   audiences.   To   compound   matters,   the   once   wholly   supportive   music   press   were   also   starting   to   view   The   Clash   with   suspicion   amid   claims   that   they   were   lazy   and   not   pulling   their   weight.   Strummer   and   Jones   de-­‐ camped   to   Jamaica   for   two   weeks   to   write   new   material   prior   to   recording.   The   whole  band  reconvened  to  undertake  initial  multi-­‐track  recording  at  Wessex  Sound   Studios,  and  Basing  Street  Studios  in  London.  Wessex  Sound  Studios  would  become   The  Clash’s  studio  of  choice  for  future  recordings  while  Basing  Street  would  see  Mick   Jones   return   there   with   Big   Audio   Dynamite.   The   Clash,   Sandy   Pearlman   and   engineer  Corky  Stasiak  spent  many  weeks  recording  the  tracks  for  Rope.  This  was  is   in  complete  contrast  to  the  first  album,  which  was  recorded  and  mixed  in  CBS’s  own   basic   Whitfield   Street   Studios,   London.   The   first   album   had   urgency   to   it;   it   was   recorded   and   mixed   over   a   three-­‐week   period   working   Thursday   to   Sunday   each   week.  The  band,  and  in  particular  drummer  Nicky  ‘Topper’  Headon  and  bass  player   Paul   Simonon,   complained   about   the   nitpicking   way   that   Perlman   recorded.   Both   complained   bitterly   about   the   lack   of   spontaneity   during   these   recording   sessions.   Once  recording  was  complete  Mick  Jones  and  Joe  Strummer  claimed  to  have  been   virtually  kidnapped  and  taken  to  San  Francisco  for  overdubs  and  mixing.  Jones  and    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Strummer   probably   went   to   San   Francisco   without   Headon   and   Simonon   quite   willingly  but  their  claims  aid  the  myth  and  legend  of  The  Clash.  What  is  known  is  that   Headon   and   Simonon   where   very   pissed   off   about   not   being   involved   in   the   USA   overdub  and  mixing  sessions. CBS   Records,   The   Clash’s   record   company,   initially   owned   The   Automatt   studios   in   San  Francisco  but  by  1978  it  was  sub  leased  to  ex-­‐CBS  employee  David  Rubinson.  The   studio  complex  was  known  for  its  top-­‐notch  equipment  and  for  the  radio  friendly  hit   records   it   produced.   Between   September   and   October   1978,   singer   Joe   Strummer   and   guitarist   Mick   Jones   worked   with   Pearlman   at   The   Automatt   to   record   overdubs   for  the  album.  Flying  in  from  the  UK,  Jones  and  Strummer  stayed  at  the  Holiday  Inn   in   Chinatown,   and   almost   every   night   they   went   to   see   punk   bands   play   at   the   Mabuhay   Gardens,   known   locally   in   the   punk   scene   as   "The   Mab".   Between   takes   at   The   Automatt,   Strummer   and   Jones   listened   for   the   first   time   to   the   Bobby   Fuller   Four   version   of   ‘I   Fought   the   Law’   on   one   of   Rubinson's   studio   lobby   jukeboxes.    When   they   returned   to   England   this   song   was   re-­‐made   into   a   Clash   classic   which   would   make   its   first   appearance   in   March   1979   on   their   short,   five   date,  London  Calling  Tour.    Then  in  May  1976  it  would  become  the  standout  track  on   The  Cost  Of  Living.   The  results  of  Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope  are  not  nearly  as  good  as  they  could  have  been   and   there   are   perceived   to   be   three   major   flaws.   First   of   all,   Pearlman   hated   Strummer’s  voice  and  buried  it  disastrously  low  in  the  mix.  Secondly,  he  packed  the   sound  with  distortion,  booming  drums,  and  overdubbing,  making  all  the  songs  sound   similar   and   muddying   the   impact   of   The   Clash’s   considerable   guitar   fury.   Thirdly,   the   lyrics  Strummer  wrote  came  under  attack  because  they  were  considered  histrionic,   esoteric  and  soaked  in  melodrama:  they  look  unkindly  on  British  punk.  Strummer’s   lyrics  are  self  critical  of  the  band,  his  own  career  and  the  world  at  large.  Mixing  the   drums   so   loud   on   this   record   is   probably   a   testament   to   the   abilities   of   Topper   Headon.   This   is   one   of   the   few   albums   in   the   Album   Rescue   Series   where   I   largely   blame  the  production  of  the  album  needing  a  rescue.  In  this  instance  I  would  opinion   that  Pearlman  was  a  bad  choice  as  producer  for  this  record.  It  could  have  been  much   worse   though.   At   the   time   there   was   no   digital   audio   workstations   (DAW)   or   software,   which   allows   for   the   manipulation   of   audio.   If   this   DAW   software   and   technology  have  been  around  at  the  time  of  recording  and  had  Pearlman  used  it  as   un-­‐compassionately   as   he   did   an   analogue   recording   technology   available   at   the   time  then  this  album  would  probably  be  un-­‐savable. The  Clash  were  not  in  a  pleasant  situation  during  1978;  they  were  being  accused  by   the   music   press   of   selling   out,   of   being   phonies   and   being   pushed,   by   their   record    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   company,  for  a  more  commercial,  clean,  mainstream,  sound  which  they  apparently   loathed.   The   music   falls   apart   under   the   war   between   producer   and   band;   commerciality   and   creativity   never   sit   well   together.   In   abstract   form   the   songs   written  by  Joe  Strummer  are  fantastic,  and  would  have  been  truly  world-­‐class  had  a   more   sympathetic   production   been   employed.   ‘Safe   European   Home’   is   a   great   mixed  paean  to  Kingston  Jamaica,  a  reggae-­‐punk  rock  hybrid,  the  theme’s  of  which   pick   up   where   ‘White   Man   In   Hammersmith   Palais’   left   off.   ‘Tommy   Gun’   is   a   chilling   take  on  terrorism;  ‘Drug  Stabbing  Time’  has  an  undeniable  rock  groove.  ‘Stay  Free’  is   a   world-­‐class   romantic   history   of   the   band,   written   in   true   Mott   The   Hoople   style   by   Mick   Jones   about   his   childhood   mate   Robin   ‘Banks’   Crocker   (he   of   the   Pearlman   punching   incident   pre   recording   of   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope).   I   would   agree   that   these   songs   aren’t   punk   songs;   correct   they   aren’t.   This   is   Strummer   developing   as   a   lyricist,   in   the   same   way   that   Jones   was   developing   as   a   superb   studio   arranger.   This   is   the   sound   of   The   Clash   leaving   punk   behind   and   moving   into   much   more   interesting   territory.   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope   is   a   transitional   album.   These   facts   should  be  celebrated  because  without  Give  ‘Em  Enough  Rope  we  would  not  have  the   undeniable   classic   London   Calling   or   the   equally   impressive   Sandinista.   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope   is   The   Clash   and   in   particular   the   creative   talent   of   Strummer/Jones   developing  and  serving  notice  on  what’s  to  come.   The   album   cover   features  a   painting   in  stark   flat   colours  of   a   Chinese   horseman   looking   down   at   an   American   cowboy’s   body   being   picked   at   by   vultures.   The   album   art   was   designed   by   Gene   Greif   and   is   based   on   a   1953   postcard   titled   ‘End   of   the   Trail’.  The  original  postcard  was  photographed  by  Adrian  Atwater,  and  featured  the   dead   cowboy   Wallace   Irving   Robertson.   Joe   Strummer   and   Mick   Jones   had   come   across   a   painting   titled   ‘End   of   the   Trail   for   Capitalism’  by  Berkeley   artist   Hugh   Brown  that   was   on   display   at   San   Francisco’s   punk   rock   hangout   the   Mabuhay   Gardens.   Strummer   and   Jones   would   have   seen   this   picture   many   times   during   their   three-­‐week   stay   in   San   Francisco   while   attending   gigs   at   ‘The   Mab’.  It   obviously   made   a   lasting   impression   as   the   album   cover   and   picture   have   a   striking   resemblance.   Maybe  37  years  is  enough  time  for  us  to  re-­‐evaluate  this  largely  ignored  album  and   accept  it  into  the  cannon  of  The  Clash’s  work?  In  many  ways  this  album  is  like  a  set   of  rough  sketches  of  ideas  and  concepts,  which  would  be  employed  on  further  work.   On  the  first  album,  The  Clash  stuck  to  their  guns  and  insisted  on  Mickey  Foote  mixing   it   despite   opposition   from   the   record   company.   On   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope   they   caved  in  to  CBS  and  their  decision  led  them  to  having  Sandy  Pearlman  as  producer.   In   actual   fact   this   gave   them   a   good   position   to   bargain   from,   insisting   that   Guy   Stevens   produce   London   Calling.   The   other   noticeable   fact   is   that   the   last   gang   in    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   town  were  split  into  two  factions,  Strummer/Jones  and  Simonon/Headon,  during  the   writing,   recording   and   mixing   of   Give   ‘Em   Enough   Rope.   Strummer/Jones   are   probably   the   beating   creative   heart   of   the   band   but   they   needed   the   Simonon/Headon   lungs   to   function.   I’d   love   to   hear   a   Mick   Jones   re-­‐mixed   and   remastered   version   of   this   album   from   the   original   multitrack   tapes   (if   they   still   exist).  Maybe  we  should  think  of  this  album  not  for  what  it  is  but  for  what  it  could   have  been?  Despite  the  inappropriate  and  unsympathetic  production  this  is  a  great   album  and  is  well  worthy  of  rescuing.   References Gray,   N   1995,   Last   Gang   In   Town:   The   story   and   myth   of   The   Clash,   Fourth   Estate,   London,  UK. Olsen,   E   Verna,   P   &   Wolfe,   C   1998,   The   Encyclopaedia   of   Record   Producers,   Billboard   Books,  Los  Angeles,  USA.     Savage,  J  2011,  England’s  Dreaming:  The  Sex  Pistols  and  Punk  Rock,  Faber  and  Faber,   London,  UK.  

 

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‘The  Golden  Echo’  Kimbra   By  Raghil  Nordset     Our  lives  consist  of  moments;  many  of  them  simply  fleeting  and  forgettable  like  the   act  of  lifting  a  cup  of  coffee  towards  your  mouth  or  mindlessly  digesting  the  latest   bland  piece  of  pop,  concocted  with  no  other  aim  than  to  sound  familiar  enough  for   us   not   to   question   its   dull   dance   in   and   out   of   existence.   We   seem   to   be   very   comfortable   with   things   not   making   a   difference.   Then   there   are   other   types   of   moments;   the   ones   that   stand   out   and   deviate   from   this   monotonous   pattern   of   familiarity.  These  moments  jolt  our  senses  into  action  and  create  a  sudden  sense  of   awareness,   like   when   you   wake   up   somewhere   you   do   not   recognise.   These   are   moments  of  discovery  and  they  occur  when  our  senses  are  confronted  rather  than   conformed.   My   first   taste   of   the   candy   Pop   Rocks,   my   first   feel   of   moving   forward   riding  a  bike,  quickly  followed  by  my  first  experience  of  falling  off  the  very  same  bike,   the   first   time   I   got   punched   in   the   face   and   the   first   time   I   heard   my   father’s   vinyl   spin   Tom   Waits’   voice   beautifully   crawling   its   way   through   the   song   ‘Martha’.     All   these  were  equally  exhilarating  and  significant  as  moments  of  discovery,  moments  I   felt  like  I  was  waking  up  in  a  strange  place.     On   the   14th   of   August   2014,   the   album   The   Golden   Echo   sees   the   light   of   day   in   Australia  and  New  Zealand  after  having  been  conceived  and  concocted  at  a  hidden-­‐ away  farm  somewhere  in  Los  Angeles.  Released  by  Warner  Bros  Records,  this  is  the   second  album  by  New  Zealand’s  Kimbra,  (renowned  for  her  emotive  performance  on   Gotye’s   2012   hit   Somebody   That   I   Used   to   Know).   The   album   sees   guest   performances  and  collaborations  with  names  such  as  John  Legend,  Van  Dyke  Parks,   John   JR   Robinson,   Matt   Bellamy,   Thundercat,   Omar   Rodriquez-­‐Lopez,   Michael   Shuman,   Daniel   Johns   and   Bilal.   The   Golden   Echo   is   not   lacking   in   talented   writers   and   performers,   with   their   influences   craftily   layered   and   saturated   within   every   beat,  idea  and  harmonic  layer  of  this  production.       This   has   not   been   overlooked   by   the   critics,   with   the   album   reaching   a   normalised   score   of   70%   on   the   website   Metacritic,   consequently   suggesting   that   The   Golden   Echo   does   not   need   a   rescue.   However,   as   someone   who   truly   believes   in   the   importance  of  moving  with,  living  through  and  learning  from  music,  I  see  rather  little   value  in  critically  acclaimed  craft,  if  it  fails  to  spread  beyond  the  elite  of  the  critics.     Within   the   realm   of   Pop   music,   the   tendency   seems   to   be   to   strive   for   simplicity   and   good   writing   craft   would   mean   working   something   complex   into   a   minimal   frame,    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   like  a  pop  song,  to  maximise  on  its  3  to  4  minute  impact.  With  that  we  can  see  that   something  simple  does  not  necessarily  negate  the  complex.  Take  Stevie  Wonder  or   Michael   Jackson   as   examples   as   their   musical   landscapes   are   filled   with   shifts   and   layered   with   detail.   Yet,   this   complexity   is   delivered   with   the   aid   of   musical   repetition  which  creates  a  structure  and  the  illusion  of  familiarity  which  allows  our   minds   to   recognise   the   musical   theme   of   the   song   several   times   during   the   very   first   listen.  This  structural  simplification  has  been  considered  and  recognised  as  good  pop   writing.  However,  at  what  point  did  simple  come  to  mean  the  same?  Looking  at  what   has   been   saturating   our   charts   for   some   time,   it   seems   most   of   our   largest   media   channels   for   music   have   become   increasingly   bland,   the   musical   landscapes   less   diverse.   Arguably,   what   sounds   the   same   and   represents   less   of   a   challenge   to   the   listener  would  be  both  easier  to  make  and  to  sell,  and  is  therefore  understandably   prioritised  by  commercially  driven  platforms.  Looking  at  these  tendencies,  it  would   certainly  not  hurt  to  challenge  such  platforms  more  often.     The   Golden   Echo   is   not   short   of   catchy,   melodic   treats   and   both   Miracle   and   Nobody   But  You  are  examples  of  quality  earworms,  likely  to  stay  with  you  from  first  listen.   Yet,   Kimbra’s   creations   are   layered   and   complex,   and   cannot   be   said   to   sound   like   everybody   else,   nor   does   she   blend   easily   with   much   of   the   music   currently   inflating   our   western   pop   cloud.   I   would   argue   that   our   prevailing   pop   platform   should   be   challenged   by   artists   like   Kimbra,   who   are   pushing   the   creative   envelope   forward   into  the  unknown  inviting  audiences  to  engage  with  something  new.  This  challenge,   however,  is  not  always  as  welcome  as  one  would  hope.       As   a   society,   we   strive   to   put   things   in   boxes   and   work   hard   to   define   everything   we   encounter.  By  compartmentalising  information  we  feel  our  lives  become  simpler  and   easier   to   live.   William   James,   The   author   behind   A   Pluralistic   Universe   (1908),   explains   our   need   for   fixity   in   order   to   not   remain   in   a   state   of   confusion.   James   (1908)   reasons   that   what   is   new   and   what   is   different   confuses   us,   makes   us   uncomfortable   and   unless   we   can   compartmentalise   new   information,   match   it   with   what   we   already   know,   we   will   simply   avoid   it   or   even   aggressively   reject   it.   To   fit   Kimbra   into   one   box   is   difficult.   In   juxtaposition,   she   can   fit   into   several   boxes   simultaneously  whilst  also  fitting  into  none,  which  according  to  James  (1908)  could   cause  some  distress.       In   line   with   William   James’   (1908)   proposed   negative   reaction   to   things   we   cannot   understand,  let  us  visit  Igor  Stravinsky  in  1913,  when  his  piece  Rite  of  Spring  was  first   performed   at   the   Theatre   Des   Champs-­‐Elysees   in   Paris.   Rite   of   Spring   caused   confusion,  and  even  disgust,  for  both  critics  and  audiences  due  to  it  being  different    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   to  the  musical  norm  at  the  time.  One  of  the  most  prominent  reviews  of  Stravinsky’s   Rite   of   Spring   claimed   the   composer   would   have   needed   to   have   forgotten   all   his   musical  knowledge  or  to  be  no  more  than  two  years  of  age  as  “It  bears  no  relations   to   music   as   most   of   us   would   understand   the   word”   (E.W.   White,   1913).   We   now   know  this  musical  piece  as  Fantasia,  adapted  and  manifested  through  animation  by   Walt  Disney  in  1940.  Ironic  how  something  so  unrecognisable  on  release,  is  now  one   of   our   most   recognised   classical   works.   Perhaps   the   challenge   Stravinsky’s   piece   represented   can   in   retrospect   be   seen   as   a   form   of   growth   where   something   new   over  time  was  accommodated  for,  recognised  and  accepted.         My   intension   is   not   to   directly   compare   Igor   Stravinsky   to   Kimbra;   they   are   of   different   times,   of   different   worlds.   However,   within   the   often   dumbed   down   and   monotonous  demographic  of  pop  music,  one  could  argue  that  she  represents  a  more   challenging  listen  than  what  is  so  narrowly  considered  appropriate,  commercial  pop   music.  Not  unlike  the  unorthodox  sounds  and  musical  patterns  of  Stravinsky’s  Rite  of   Spring,   Kimbra’s   comprehensive   and   edgy   soundscape   could,   perhaps   represent   a   similar   challenge   to   current   pop   music.   I   believe   her   continuously   shifting   musical   attire  may  be  perceived  as  a  challenge  and  therefore  discarded  prematurely  by  too   many,  as  it  is  not  immediately  recognisable.  Too  often  people  dismiss  artists,  songs   and  styles  of  music  because  they  do  not  fit  what  they  already  know.  When  it  comes   to  our  musical  taste,  we  are  reluctant  to  learn.       The  Golden  Echo  has  many  recognisable  components;  yet,  it  is  not  created  to  align   with   what   we   know.   It   invites   us,   instead,   to   discover   something   a   little   different.   As   Kimbra   leaps   from   the   highly   edgy   and   dissonant   90s   Music   to   the   intimate   and   vulnerable  As  You  Are,  she  is  constantly  inconsistent  in  her  approach  to  style.  Having   said   that,   the   curiously   beautiful   and   raw   tones   of   her   voice   do   create   a   sense   of   wholeness   and   though   we   travel   through   styles,   we   are   always   traveling   with   Kimbra.   The   musical   complexity   and   honesty   of   her   work   is   elegantly   delivered   through  classic  pop  structures  and  she  allows  us  to  get  to  know  her  world  through   timely   repetitions   and   lush,   infectious   melody   lines.   The   Golden   Echo   is   indeed   a   polished  production,  but,  even  more  so,  an  unpolished  explorations  of  emotion  and   musical  expression.  Kimbra  explains  in  The  Making  Of  The  Golden  Echo  (2014)  how   she   wanted   no   fillers   and   everything   to   have   its   own   personality   and   its   own   intention.  She  wanted  to  move  away  from  comfortable  and  let  us  therefore  consider   the  potential  implications  of  that.     When   our   ears   invite   sound   our   mind   does   not   recognise   it   initiates   an   analytical   race   to   make   sense   of   what   is   new   and   we   are   finding   ourselves   within   a   moment   of    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   discovery.   As   William   James   (1908)   pointed   out,   we   do   not   like   this   state;   the   unknown   makes   us   uncomfortable.   The   British   academic   Keith   Grint   (2007)   explained   how   we   are   all   like   drunks   who   have   dropped   their   keys   at   night;   only   searching  for  it  under  the  light,  justified  by  the  fact  that  we  cannot  see  in  the  dark   and  therefor  avoid  it.    Allow  me  to  propose  that  Kimbra  is  waving  us  into  the  dark   and  we  need  to  follow  her  to  experience  and  accommodate  for  new  discoveries.  If  it   was  not  for  artists  like  her,  pushing  our  perception  of  melody  and  sound,  making  us   a  little  uncomfortable,  where  would  music  go?  We  have  enough  imitators,  enough  of   the  same.  We  need  artists  who  venture  into  the  grey  and  darker  zones,  taking  us  to   places   we   have   not   been.   I   believe   we   need   these   moments   in   the   dark   to   challenge   our  senses  and  our  minds,  so  we  can  recognise  music  as  alive;  as  a  subject,  not  an   object  and  as  something  still  to  discover.       “Expect  the  unexpected,  or  you  will  not  find  it,  as  it  is  trackless  and  unexplored”   Heraclitus  (Heraclitus  and  Kahn,  1979,  pp.  31)  

 

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‘Harlan  County’  Jim  Ford By  Tim  Dalton Discovering  new  music  is  always  great  fun  and  one  of  life’s  greatest  pleasures.  It  gets   even   better   when   you   are   pointed   towards   or   discover   an   album   totally   unexpectedly.   This   is   how   I   found   out   about   Jim   Ford’s   wonderful,   but   largely   ignored   album,   Harlan   County.   I   received   an   out   of   the   blue   email   from   my   good   friend  and  professional  cycling  team  manager  John  Herety  who  directed  me  towards   this  record  with  the  explicit  instructions  that,  “you  must  listen  to  this  album,  it  will   kick  your  ass  and  blow  your  mind”.  Thanks  John  for  pointing  me  towards  this  superb,   but   largely   forgotten,   gem   of   Southern   funky   rumpus.   Music   is   similar   to   a   giant   wilderness,   it’s   there   for   us   to   explore.   Intentionally   limiting   yourself   to   one,   two,   or   three   genres   is   akin   to   self-­‐enforced   segregation   at   its   very   worst.   This   expansive   musical   wilderness   is   a   gigantic   history   lesson.   If   you   are   a   true   music   fan   or   a   musician,  you  should  explore  as  much  of  it  as  humanly  possible.  In  these  times,  it's   never   been   so   easy   to   source   and   purchase   seriously   cool   music   cheaply.   This   is   a   phenomenon  that  should  be  extensively  exploited  and  I  do.   Almost  twenty  years  ago  I  worked  for  a  small  Nashville  record  company  and  on  our   payroll   we   had   a   couple   of   part   time   workers   listed   as   “rack   monkeys”.   It   turned   out   this  role  was  filled  by  two  young  women  who  went  out  to  the  local  record  stores  to   make   sure   our   CDs   and   vinyl   records   where   in   the   right   genre   racks   e.g.   ‘Rock’,   ‘Country’  or  ‘Soul’.  But  more  importantly  they  made  sure  that  our  releases  sat  right   at   the   front   of   these   racks.   People   will   only   buy   what   they   can   see   and   we   made   sure,   via   our   rack   monkeys,   that   our   artists   where   the   first   ones   a   potential   buyer   would  spot  in  the  store.  Occasionally  we  had  a  new  release  that  didn’t  neatly  fit  into   a   single   genre,   this   would   result   in   one   of   the   rack   monkeys   calling   the   office   and   asking  which  genre  rack  to  place  it  in.  Normally  this  would  be  resolved  fairly  quickly   but  occasionally  it  would  require  extensive  dialogue  to  define  and  classify  the  exact   genre   of   the   release.   To   quote   Danish   philosopher   Søren   Kierkegaard   from   the   book   Sygdommen   til   Døden   (The   Sickness   Unto   Death)   (1849),   “what   labels   me,   negates   me”.   Kierkegaard’s   position   was   that   once   you   label   someone   or   something,   it   cancels  out  its  individuality  and  places  it  within  the  confines  of  the  applied  label.  This   is  definitely  one  of  the  biggest  problems  with  Jim  Ford’s  1969  release  Harlan  County;   it   does   not   fit   neatly   into   one,   two   or   even   three   specific   genres;   in   fact   it   never   adopts   a   label,   and   that's   a   big   problem   for   some   people.   The   other   major   issue   facing  this  album  was  the  year  it  was  released.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   1969  was  an  exceptional  year,  if  not  the  best  ever,  for  album  releases;  The  Beatles   Revolver,   Led   Zeppelin   II,   King   Crimson   In   The   Court   of   King   Crimson,   The   Velvet   Underground  and  Nico,  The  Who  Who’s  Next,  Captain  Beefheart  Trout  Mask  Replica,   The   Band,   Nick   Drake   Pink   Moon,   Sly   and   the   Family   Stone   Stand   and   The   Rolling   Stones’  Let  It  Bleed,  the  list  goes  on.  Harlan  County  was  arguably  the  strangest  but   most   compelling   album   of   1969   and   was   Jim   Ford’s   first   and   only   album.   How   on   earth  could  Jim  Ford,  an  unheard  of  artist  from  the  back  hills  of  Kentucky,  with  this   unique   blend   of   country,   funk,   soul   and   rock   ‘n’   roll   ever   get   noticed   in   the   company   of  these  esteemed  artists?  At  his  best,  Jim  Ford  was  a  clever  songwriter,  capable  of   reworking   rock   ‘n’   roll,   R&B,   soul   and   country   clichés   into   fresh,   funny   funky   southern   swamp   rock.   At   his   worst   Ford   was   cutesy   and   unfocused,   pulling   great   songs   into   awkward,   contorted   inaccessible   genre   defying   shapes.   In   part   this   was   due   to   his   overuse   of   mind-­‐altering   drugs   and   excessive   alcohol   abuse;   well   it   was   1969.  Harlan  County  captures  Ford  at  both  of  these  extremes.   The   laid-­‐back,   rootsy,   gleeful   sound   of   Harlan   County   comprising   equal   parts   country-­‐rock,  soul,  funk  and  rock  ‘n’  roll,  is  an  unlikely  catalyst  for  igniting  the  1970’s   British   pub   rock   scene.   Early   pioneers   Brinsley   Schwarz   recorded   excellent   cover   versions   of   Ford's   ‘JuJu   Man’   and   ‘Niki   Hoeke   Speedway’.   Brinsley   Schwarz’s   chief   songwriter,   vocalist   and   bass   player,   Nick   Lowe,   later   recorded   Ford’s   ‘36   Inches   High’.  These  three  songs  don’t  appear  on  the  Harlan  County  album;  they're  from  an   aborted  1971  UK  recording  session  that  featured  Brinsley  Schwarz  as  Ford's  backing   band.   These   three   songs   would   deservedly   become   classic   pub   rock   staples,   which   can  be  still  heard  belting  out  of  UK  pubs  to  this  day.   Harlan   County   sounds   fantastically   dynamic   with   its   crazy   energetic   full-­‐on   performances  by  Ford  and  his  associated  ‘A  list’  session  musicians  (including  James   Burton  on  guitar,  Dr  John  on  keys,  Gerry  McGee  on  bass  and  drum  ace  Jim  Kiltner).   Ford   produced   the   record   himself;   his   production   techniques   are   crude   but   effective   and  wholly  appropriate.  The  ten  songs  captured  on  this  album  are  superbly  written   paeans   to   the   Deep   South   of   America.   These   are   songs   of   dirt   roads,   love,   corn   bread,   truck   driving,   extended   family,   honest   hard   manual   work   and   leaving   the   Deep  South  for  a  better  life  out  west.  If  this  album  where  a  classic  American  novel,  it   would   be   John   Steinbeck’s   The   Grapes   Of   Wrath   (1939).   This   is   an   album   of   music   that   occupies   the   land   where   R&B   meets   country,   Kentucky   meets   Tennessee   and   the  Mississippi  Delta  meets  Appalachia.  It's  a  geographical  album  of  songs  as  much   rooted  in  its  landscape,  as  it  is  in  the  author’s  journey  through  life.   Zeitgeist,   a   frequently   employed   word   in   Album   Rescue   Series,   can   also   be   applied   here  as  this  album  unequivocally  catches  the  spirit  of  the  times.  Forty  years  later  all    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   of   the   above   themes   would   be   adopted   by   the   genre   that   we   now   call   Americana.   The   lyrical   keynote   of   this   album,   hitting   the   road   and   leaving   home   behind   for   a   brighter  better  place,  is  well  traversed  territory  by  artists  such  Steve  Earle,  Rodney   Crowell,  Lucinda  Williams  and  Guy  Clark.  Ford’s  versions  of  these  narratives  are  grim   but  they  do  give  a  unique,  if  somewhat  raw,  account  of  his  experience.  Maybe  Ford   was  a  southern  soothsayer  whose  cathartic  music  was  simply  forty  years  ahead  of  its   time?   The   masterpiece   of   this   album   is   the   opening   title   track   and   album   theme   setter,   Harlan   County.   This   track   in   particular   is   a   semi-­‐autobiographical   story   of   leaving   Kentucky  and  seeking  out  a  better  life  out  west  in  California.  This  song  could  easily   be  considered  the  signature  tune  of  Ford’s  entire  career,  if  you  could  classify  it  as  a   ‘career’?   The   moment   this   track   kicks   in   with   its   stunning   but   unconventional   arrangement   of   rib   breaking   fat   beats,   snaky   guitar   riffs,   swampy   piano   lines,   honking   funky   horns   and   all   topped   off   with   Ford’s   Hillbilly   soul   vocals   you   know   what’s  in  store  from  the  rest  of  the  album.  The  wonderful  off-­‐kilter  second  track  ‘I'm   Gonna  Make  Her  Love  Me  (Till  The  Cows  Come  Home)’  is  a  song  of  sharp  humor  and   hooks   pointy   enough   to   catch   a   Southern   catfish.   Ford   bears   his   soul   for   all   to   see   against  a  greasy  rock  ‘n’  roll  beat  that’s  high  as  a  kite  and  as  tasty  as  fried  chicken.   Up   next   is   ‘Changing   Colors’,   which   is   a   soulful   ballad   where   we   can   clearly   hear   Ford’s   voice   nearly   quivering   with   naked   sincerity   and   self-­‐awareness   against   a   gentle  rhythm  and  slow  building  beautiful  orchestral  arrangement.  In  hindsight  the   lyrics   are   hauntingly   prophetic   “What   makes   you   think   that   I   won’t   ever   make   it,   when   the   chips   are   down?”   It’s   well   over   3,000   arduous   miles   from   Kentucky   to   California  but  track  six;  ‘Long  Road  Ahead’  makes  it  sound  like  the  archetypal  great   American  road  trip  and  something  to  embrace.  As  Jack  Kerouac  quite  rightly  noted  in   On  The  Road  (1957:  p.183),  “Nothing  behind  me,  everything  ahead  of  me,  as  is  ever   so  on  the  road”.  If  you  didn’t  know  better  then  this  track  could  easily  be  mistaken  for   a  Rolling  Stones  track  from  their  1971  Sticky  Fingers  album,  with  its  parping  Bobby   Keys   Texan   styled   horns,   southern   funky   guitar   riff,   gospel   driven   piano   and   loud   three  part  soul  backing  vocals.   The   central   theme   of   travelling   and   finding   oneself   is   heavily   reinforced   on   track   eight’s   ‘Working   My   Way   To   LA’.   This   is   a   song   full   of   optimism,   heading   for   California,   and   in   equal   part   regret   in   leaving   the   beloved   family   home   in   Harlan   County,  Kentucky.  One  can  only  guess  at  the  mixed  emotions  Ford  was  feeling  during   the  writing  and  recording  of  this  song.  One  of  only  two  songs  not  authored  by  Ford   on   this   album   is   track   nine’s   blues   standard   ‘Spoonful’.   This   is   stark   and   haunting   tune  penned  by  Willie  Dixon  and  first  recorded  by  Howlin  Wolf  in  1960.  Unlike  the    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   1966   insipid   and   uninspired   dirge   recorded   by   overrated   UK   ‘blues’   merchants   ‘Cream’,   Ford’s   version   is   a   proud   and   blatant   reaffirmation   of   his   Southern   roots.   Ford   takes   complete   ownership   of   this   song   and   confidently   deconstructs   it   before   he  re-­‐constructs  it  in  a  new(ish)  form.  It  breathes,  it  sweats,  its  bumps  drunkenly  into   honkytonk   walls   and   yet   like   every   other   song   on   this   album   it’s   wonderfully   chaotic   and   loose,   yet   it   never   unravels.   This   version   of   the   song   knows   where   it’s   going,   it’s   aspirational,   and   the   place   it’s   heading   is   out   west   to   the   drug   friendly,   free   loving   haze   and   sunshine   of   1969   southern   Californian   Nirvana.   The   closing   tearjerker   ballad  is  a  cover  of  Thomas  ‘Alex’  Harvey’s  1959  song,  ‘To  Make  My  Life  Beautiful’.   Ford,   and   studio   band,   treat   this   song   with   the   respect   it   deserves   and   deliver   a   subtle,   a   word   not   normally   associated   with   this   album,   and   respectful   rendition.   It's   an  appropriate  choice  and  serves  as  a  calming  influence,  like  a  cold  beer,  to  herald   the   end   of   the   journey.   The   words   of   John   Steinbeck’s   travelogue   Travels   With   Charley   (1962:   p.4)   ring   very   true   here,   “A   journey   is   a   person   in   itself;   no   two   are   alike.   And   all   plans,   safeguards,   policing,   and   coercion   are   fruitless.   We   find   that   after  years  of  struggle  that  we  do  not  take  a  trip;  a  trip  takes  us”. There   are   a   couple   of   possible   factors   that   contributed   to   this   album   almost   disappearing   into   complete   obscurity.   One   of   those   was   Ford’s   difficult   artistic   personality   and   lifestyle   choices;   the   other   was   signing   to   the   wrong   record   company.   Sundown   Records   was   a   small-­‐underfunded   southern   Californian   outfit,   which   was   formed   in   partnership   with   White   Whale   Records   specifically   to   release   this  album.  White  Whale  Records  was  home  to  The  Turtles,  a  few  coveted  psych  rock   records,   but   not   much   else,   and   it   wasn’t   really   fit   for   purpose   to   market   Harlan   County.   Legend  has  it  that  if  Jim  Ford  had  waited  a  day  or  two  before  signing  this  record  deal,   he   would   have   been   on   Ahmet   Ertegün’s   Atlantic   Records   and   produced   by   Jerry   Wexler.   That   might   not   have   guaranteed   him   success,   but   it   would   have   put   him   somewhere   a   little   more   secure   and   loaded   the   cards   heavily   in   his   favor.   Atlantic   Records  would  have  definitely  provided  the  financial  and  marketing  clout  to  ensure   this  album  had  the  best  possible  chance  of  mass  sales  instead  of  the  Viking  funeral   that   it   actually   awaited.   With   Atlantic,   there   was   also   the   possible   opportunity   of   Ford   becoming   a   pop,   soul,   or   country   singer   or   carving   out   a   career   as   an   often-­‐ recorded   songwriter.   Ford   had   a   good   track   record   as   a   writer   having   contributed   songs   to   Motown   Records   for   The   Temptations   and   solo   artists   such   as   PJ   Proby,   Bobbie   Gentry   and   most   famously   the   1973   hit   ‘Harry   The   Hippie’   for   Bobby   Womack.  In  the  2011  re-­‐issue  liner  notes  there’s  an  enlightening  quote  from  Bobby   Womack,  “Jimmy  was  a  beautiful  cat,  one  of  the  most  creative  people  that  I’ve  ever   met”.  Those  royalties  would  have  certainly  made  Ford’s  life  a  lot  more  comfortable    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   in  later  life.  By  the  early  1980s,  Ford  had  completely  disappeared  into  a  haze  of  drug   abuse  and  erratic  behaviour.   Jim  Ford  definitely  walked  it  like  he  talked  it,  a  singer-­‐songwriter  who  found  his  inner   talents   through   the   hardships   of   abject   poverty   and   economically   conscripted   labour.   If   he   hadn’t   escaped   this   kind   of   life   his   future   would   have   being   one   of   hard   toil  and  possible  pneumoconiosis  like  his  former  coal  miner  colleagues.  His  early  life   bears   a   striking   resemblance   to   Loretta   Lynn’s,   as   portrayed   in   the   2003   film   Coal   Miner’s   Daughter.   Ford’s   roots   are   in   the   coal   mining   villages   in   the   hills   of   Harlan   County,   Kentucky,   and   those   early   years   of   poverty   and   hardship   definitely   shaped   his  worldview  as  expressed  through  his  music.  When  you  expect  that  life  will  hand   you   absolutely   nothing   and   your   favour   turns   around,   even   if   it   is   only   temporary,   then  intuitively  you  grab  the  opportunity  like  it’s  never  coming  back.   Jim  Ford  didn't  lead  a  very  glamorous  life,  he  saw  out  his  days  until  his  lonely  death   on  18  November  2007  in  a  Californian  trailer  park  in  Mendocino  County.  At  least  he   did  fulfil  his  ultimate  dream  and  make  it  out  of  Harlan  County.  As  an  album,  Harlan   Country   is   evidence   that   Jim   Ford   had   no   equal   in   his   day,   he   sat   on   his   own   cloud   in   the   great   American   wilderness,   cross-­‐legged,   wild-­‐eyed   and   wiry,   a   figure   too   dangerous  to  approach  but  much  too  alluring  to  be  ignored.  Jack  Kerouac  captured   his   type   of   spirit   in   On   The   Road   (1957:   p.5)   when   he   wrote,   “the   only   people   for   me   are   the   mad   ones,   the   ones   who   are   mad   to   live,   mad   to   talk,   mad   to   be   saved,   desirous   of   everything   at   the   same   time,   the   ones   who   never   yawn   or   say   a   commonplace   thing,   but   burn,   burn,   burn   like   fabulous   yellow   roman   candles   exploding  like  spiders  across  the  stars”.     th

 

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‘Aerial’  Kate  Bush By  Dr  Ian  Dixon In   1886,   Vincent   Van   Gogh   painted   a   pair   of   workman’s   boots   placed   on   a   rustic   table;   a   work   of   intimate   beauty,   which   achieves   transcendence   where   the   subject   matter   appears   so   lacklustre   (Hall,   2001).   Similarly,   Kate   Bush’s   Aerial   (2005),   complete   with   themes   of   washing   machines,   clothes   wavering   in   the   breeze,   the   movement   of   ocean   tides   and   birdsong   in   scat   scansion   electrifies   the   domestic   mundane.  Aerial,  the  album  whose  release  was  ‘imminent’  from  the  year  2000  and   whose  opening  track  ‘King  of  the  Mountain’  was  composed  as  early  as  1996  (Moy,   2007),  manifests  Kate  Bush’s  sophisticated  musicality  in  a  manner  which  exalts  the   commonplace.   This   she   achieves:   not   through   soaring   themes   of   tragic   love   or   Houdini-­‐esque   escapism,   not   through   the   microtonal   discordance   of   the   Bulgarian   women’s  choir  nor  her  brother  Paddy  Bush’s  teeth-­‐jangling  guitar  riffs,  not  through   threatening   to   swap   places   with   god   nor   dancing   to   death   in   the   same   red   shoes   David   Bowie   decried,   nor   releasing   a   plethora   of   fiendish   critters   from   underneath   her  skirts,  but  through  the  meditative  beauty  of  domesticity  and  the  natural  world. Like  Van  Gogh’s  boots,  the  album  elicits  mysticism  through  simplicity  rendering  the   material  sublime.  If  anyone  can  grow  up  to  sing  airy  odes  to  washing  machines  and   to   her   tiny   son   Bertie   (b.   1998),   Kate   can.   If   anyone   can   feature   the   didgeridoo-­‐ appropriating   Rolf   Harris   on   themes,   which   reference   French   impressionism   and   English   pastoral   music   for   a   full   six   minutes   about   gentle   rain   smudging   an   artist’s   canvas  causing  ‘all  the  colours  [to]  run’,  Kate  can  (Bush,  2005).  The  album’s  work  is   homespun   organic   (rather   than   rock   extravaganza):   transcendental   (rather   than   chart   topping)   and   delicately   orgasmic   (rather   than   attention-­‐seeking   pageantry   as   with  Kate  Bush  prior  to  2005).  As  Kate  (2005)  states  in  ‘Joanni’: “All  the  banners  stop  waving And  the  flags  stop  flying And  the  silence  comes  over” Thus,  in  Aerial,  there  is  quietude  and  contemplation,  even  behind  its  rock  anthems.   Despite   the   demeaning   claims   of   cynical   reviewers,   Aerial   (her   first   album   ‘doubling’   since   Hounds   of   Love   (1985))   represents   the   artistic   maturation   of   Kate   Bush,   thereby  re-­‐emphasising  her  continuing  relevance  to  the  ‘adult’  market  (Moy,  2007:   p.  124).  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Pete   Townsend   once   dissented,   “Stop   judging   us   by   what   we   did   when   we   were   stupid,   stupid   kids”.   Although   referring   to   The   Who’s   wild   antics   (culminating   with   the  death  of  Keith  Moon),  Townsend’s  protest  applies  to  the  band’s  rock  juvenilia  as   well,   becoming   the   catchcry   of   ‘aging   rocker[s]’   who   survive   the   1970s   (Bowie   in   Parkinson,   2002).   In   the   wake   of   70s   excess,   performing   greats   such   as   Townsend,   Bowie,   Freddie   Mercury   (R.I.P.)   and   Suzi   Quatro   find   themselves   battling   a   public,   which,   while   forgiving   their   transgressions,   will   not   allow   their   musical   acumen   to   evolve.   Add   to   this   the   confronting   reality   of   growing   up   astoundingly   beautiful   in   the  public  eye  and  you  have  the  indefatigable  Kate  Bush:  as  T.S.  Eliot  (1920)  muses,   “some   infinitely   gentle,   Infinitely   suffering   thing”,   but   with   a   generous   dollop   of   Lindsay  Kemp-­‐inspired  sassiness.  Like  so  many  70s/80s  rock  heroes,  critics  compare   Kate’s   more   recent   work   to   the   ‘Wuthering   Heights’   (1978)   of   her   early   career   while   simultaneously   making   no   secret   of   their   dirty   obsession   with   her   eccentric   sexuality   (Vermorel,  1983).  As  Ron  Moy  illustrates,  these  ‘over-­‐deterministic’  analyses  usually   tell   us   more   of   the   critics’   psyches   than   Kate   Bush’s   contribution   to   thematically   insightful  music  (2007:  p.  1).  In  the  Freudian  (1986)  sense,  Kate  is  championed  and   punished  simultaneously:  her  very  attractiveness  entrapping  her.  As  one  (bombastic)   biographer  notes  (Vermorel,  1983:  p.  63): “Kate   Bush   is   our   goddess   Frig.   And   like   the   Saxons   we   both   revere   and   fear   her.   Shroud  her  in  the  mystery  of  her  power  and  the  power  of  her  mystery.” These   critics   yearn   for   Kate’s   peculiar   mix   of   angry   femme   noir   and   high   art   with   the   same   vehemence   that   schoolboys   draw   lascivious   parallels   from   her   surname.   There   is   no   doubt   the   Bexleyheath   pariah,   Kate   Bush,   known   for   pop,   art   rock   and   neo-­‐ baroque  composition,  creates  fame  partly  based  on  her  remarkable  sensuality,  but   more   importantly   makes   significant   contribution   to   the   progression   of   serious   pop   music.   Aerial   is   a   prime   example   of   such   artistry   as   evinced   though:   Kate’s   sublimated  sexuality;  mysticism;  repetition  as  motif;  the  pastoral  tradition;  and  her   pervasive  musicality.   The   finally   released   2005   album,   Aerial,   went   platinum   the   following   year   and   was   awarded  a  BRIT  nomination  for  Best  British  Album.  In  examining  Aerial,  which  sold   90,000  copies  in  its  first  week  of  release  and  peaked  at  number  three  in  the  British   charts,   we   must   also   acknowledge   Kate’s   significance   as   sexualised   female   and   the   ways   in   which   critics   have   positioned   her   in   the   decades   leading   up   to   this   album   (Bush,  2015).  In  modern  (fourth  wave)  feminist  vein,  trading  on  sex  appeal  is  not  a   transgression,  but  an  asset.  Indeed,  even  the  1978,  neck-­‐to-­‐ankle-­‐gowned  Kate  Bush   strategically  used  her  sexuality  for  notoriety  and  deserves  due  respect  for  doing  so.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   To  what  degree  Kate  was  able  to  control  the  rapid  trajectory  of  her  fame  (as  Sinead   O’Connor,  Lady  Gaga  or  Miley  Cyrus  decades  later)  is  debatable.   In   this   age   of   pop-­‐pornification,   Kate   Bush   seems   relatively   tame,   but   no   one   forgets   the   carnal   expressionism   of   ‘black   widow’   doll   making   love   to   a   double   bass   in   ‘Babooshka’  (1980);  no  one  forgets  the  skyrocketing  voice  effortlessly  emerging  from   the  willowy  sensuality  of  ‘Wuthering  Heights’  (an  effect  found  contemporaneously  in   popular  Bollywood  theme  songs  rather  than  in  Western  pop  music).  The  retiring,  yet   brazen   and   Elvin   voice   from   the   ghostly   Goth   who   became   ‘every   schoolboy’s   fantasy’:   Kate   Bush,   the   seventeen-­‐year-­‐old   nymphette   discovered   and   initially   financed  by  Pink  Floyd’s  virtuoso  guitarist  Dave  Gilmour,  represents  a  mystical  and   mesmeric  contradiction  (Moy,  2007). Kate   is   the   quintessential   English   rose,   whose   sprightly   face   and   lithe   body   arrest   global   attentions.   Here   lies   one   of   the   abiding   prejudices   of   pop   music:   that   the   serious,  female,  pop  composer  must  be  vigorously  objectified  rather  than  appraised   solely  for  her  artistry.  Even  seasoned  critics  elide  Kate’s  phenomenal  talent  as  they   gaze  into  those  magical  eyes.  Entire  biographies  have  been  dedicated  to  unravelling   the   shamanic   mystery   of   Kate’s   beauty,   rather   than   serious   studies   of   her   groundbreaking  musical  experimentation.   This  is  where   the   problem  with  Aerial  lies:   not  with  Kate  Bush’s  visionary  genius,  but   with   shallow   commentators   insisting   she   perform   pop   music   to   a   hard   beat,   which   shows  off  the  litheness  of  her  body  rather  than  her  vision  as  an  artist. Those   critics   ought   also   acknowledge   that   in   1978   Kate   Bush   became   the   first   woman  ever  to  top  the  British  charts  with  a  self-­‐written  song  (Thomson,  2010).  This   is  no  small  achievement  in  the  misogynist  world  of  rock  charting:  “an  industry  that   still  largely  conforms  to  stereotypes  of  patriarchy”  (Moy,  2007:  p.  3).  In  the  U.K.,  an   artist  once  championed  for  such  a  hit  generally  remains  in  the  popular  zeitgeist  for   the  rest  of  their  career  (which  is  not  the  case  in  the  USA  or  Australia,  where  tearing   down   icons   becomes   the   norm).   We   should   acknowledge,   therefore,   that   while   Kate   Bush  clearly  earned  the  right  to  her  sexualisation,  her  sexuality  followed  her  artistic   success.   We   might   also   understand   that   Kate   (like   so   many   pop   artists   denied   the   opportunity)   deserves   the   right   to   grow   up,   to   mature:   she   has   surely   earned   her   capacity  to  say  what  she  wishes  in  the  manner  she  wished  to  say  it.  Curiously,  it  is   not  so  much  Kate’s  fan-­‐base  who  rebukes  the  impressionistic  bricolage  of  Aerial,  but   the   critics   who   make   retroactive   comparison   to   The   Kick   Inside   (1978),   Never   For  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Ever   (1980),   The   Dreaming   (1982),   Hounds   of   Love   and   The   Sensual   World   (1989).   As   one   commentator   opines,   in   lambasting   the   2005   album,   the   pop   song   requires   intense  build  up  of  tension  through  verse  and  middle  eight  then  explodes  with  the   expected   ‘orgasm’   of   sound   into   the   chorus.   Bowie   knew   this   in   ‘Starman’   (1973),   Queen   knew   it   in   ‘Bohemian   Rhapsody’   (1975):   just   as   Kate   knew   in   ‘Wuthering   Heights’.   In   this   career-­‐defining   song,   inspired   by   the   1967   BBC   mini-­‐series   based   on   Emily   Brontë’s   eponymous   novel,   the   screaming   passion   of,   “Cathy,   it’s   Heathcliff,   I’ve  come  home  now,  so  co-­‐ho-­‐ho-­‐hold,  let  me  in  your  windo-­‐ho-­‐ho-­‐ow”,  leads  to  the   repeated   intoning   of,   “Wuthering,   Wuthering,   Wuthering   Heights,   Heathcliff!”   which   climaxes   the   chorus   bringing   shivers   to   the   spine   some   four   decades   later.   In   ‘Babooshka’,  the  simmering  tension  of  clandestine  infidelity,  “She  signed  the  letter…”   literally  busts  into  the  vengeful  refrain:  “Aye-­‐yi,  Babooshka,  Babooshka,  Babooshka,   yi-­‐yi!”   (Bush,   1980).   The   augmentation   of   such   pop   clichés   in   Aerial   represents   the   album’s  point  of  difference,  its  strength  as  impressionistic  musing  and  the  fruition  of   a  significant  artist.   Trading   as   her   newly   formed   company,   Noble   and   Brite,   under   EMI   Records   Ltd.,   Aerial   includes   long-­‐time   collaborators   Del   Palmer,   Paddy   Bush,   Stuart   Elliott   and   Michael   Kamen   (R.I.P.)   conducting   the   London   Metropolitan   Orchestra   at   Abbey   Road   Studios.   The   album   exploits   musical   mesmerism,   which   dovetail   into   the   soundscape   with   bridging   passages   between   songs   and   features   rhythmic,   human   laughter  and  scat  singing  paralleled  with  birdsong  harmonies.  In  a  lyrical  echo  of  this,   the  prologue  opens  with  a  voice  recording  of  Kate’s  son  Bertie  inquiring,  “Mummy?   Daddy?  The  day  is  full  of  birds.  Sounds  like  they’re  saying  words,”  followed  by  Kate   musing,   “We’re   going   to   be   laughing   about   this”   (as   subsequently   she   does   with   characteristic  bird-­‐like  capriciousness).   The  inner  cover  design  by  Kate  and  Peacock  proscribes  washing  blowing  vigorously  in   the   wind   before   rows   of   redbrick   two-­‐up/two-­‐downs:   patterns   forming   at   the   interface   of   domesticity   and   sensuality   as   they   merge   with   the   near   indiscernible   doves  flapping  in  their  midst  thanks  to  John  Calder-­‐Bush’s  decisive  photography.  On   closer   inspection,   the   inner   sleeve   reveals   Kate’s   famous   ‘Elvis’   suit   pegged   up   and   blowing   about   on   the   clothesline:   a   visual   joke,   which   also   betrays   an   ingrained   sadness:  the  performative  mask  rejected,  the  histrionics  passed,  the  pop  icon  hung   out   to   dry,   but   also   a   musing   on   the   nature   of   celebrity   (Moy,   2007:   p.   124).   The   design  work  is  littered  with  clouds,  pigeons,  blackbirds,  seagulls,  gannets  with  eyes   under  their  wings,  Randy  Olson’s  Indus  Bird  Mask  and  digital  sonic  waveforms.  These   visuals  promise  the  listener  a  collage  of  musical  secrets:  a  message  to  her  fans  and   reference  to  past  songs  as  if  pleading,  “Please,  let  me  off  the  commercial  hook.”  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   The  boat  named  ‘Aerial’,  from  James  Southall’s  painting  ‘Fisherman’  in  the  album’s   centrefold,   is   forced   into   the   ocean:   a   delightful   visual   paradox   playing   upon   the   elements  of  water  and  air;  sea  and  sky  resonant  within  the  music.  With  this  image,   Kate   Bush   invites   us   to   muse   upon   the   definition   of   the   word   ‘Aerial’   as   ‘existing,   happening,   or   operating   in   the   air’,   ‘performed   mid-­‐air’   (Oxford   Dictionary,   2015).   The  double  album  is  appropriately  divided  into  two  parts:  A  Sea  of  Honey  and  A  Sky   of  Honey.  With  Aerial,  the  surging  inevitable  of  ‘Wuthering  Heights’’  crowd-­‐pleasing   chorus  is  mostly  usurped  by  simple,  melodious  poetry.  Indeed,  Aerial  bears  more  in   common   with   Brian   Eno’s   ambient   music   and   the   themes   of   House   and   Garden   than   with  Emily  Brontë’s  gothic  word-­‐scape.   Aerial  features  finessed  lyrical  observations  drawing  comparisons  to  painterly   colours  and  the  night  sky  in  Italy.  Like  the  painter  in  An  Architect’s  Dream:  “Yes,  I   need  to  get  that  tone  a  little  bit  lighter  there,  maybe  with  some  dark  accents  coming   in  from  the  side  there”  (Rolf  Harris  in  Bush,  2005).  Kate  Bush  muses  upon  the   infinitesimally  small  separation  between  thoughts:  a  hypnagogic,  Zen-­‐like   appreciation  of  organic  life.  As  Rod  McKie  (2014)  opines,  “somewhere  in  between…   an  inner-­‐space,  like  a  vast  landscape  in  some  computer  game,  which  seems  to  be   timeless”.  In  fact,  the  album  culminates  Kate’s  abiding  thematic  collapsing  of   opposing  binaries:  you/me;  object/I;  Other/self;  empathetic  references  to,  “I  could   feel  what  he  was  feeling”  and  multiple  “in  between”  states  (2005): “Somewhere  in  between The  waxing  and  the  waning  wave Somewhere  in  between What  the  song  and  the  silence  say Somewhere  in  between The  ticking  and  the  tocking  clock Somewhere  in  a  dream  between Sleep  and  waking  up Somewhere  in  between Breathing  out  and  breathing  in, Like  twilight  is  neither  night  nor  morning.” Indeed,   somewhere   in   between   the   pastoral   and   impressionistic   lies   Kate   Bush’s   Aerial:   somewhere   in   between   art   rock   and   tonal   poetry.   Kate   Bush’s   musicality   steps   from   the   nineteenth   century   folk   song   and   English   traditions   of   pastoral   poetry,  but  no  one  has  synthesised  them  into  palatable  art  pop  quite  like  Kate.  Her   earthiness  and  spiritual  nature  steps  from  a  sadly  antiquated  world,  bringing  strains   of   occultism   and   romance   in   its   wake.   Her   sensibilities   visit   subjects   elided   by   rock    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   music’s   current   obsession   with   hard   porn:   as   delicate   as   a   poem   or   washing   on   a   clothesline  or  the  ‘flick’  of  an  artist’s  wrists  and  hips  (Bush,  2005). Famously   incorporating   English   and   Irish   folk   music   in   her   music,   Kate   evokes   mysticism  in  her  music:  in  particular  English  eccentricity  and  bird  imagery  described   in  Shakespeare’s  (1595)  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream  as:   “Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite, Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier, And  this  ditty  after  me,   Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly.” Apart   from   literary   references,   numerous   tonal   and   lyrical   references   to   Irish   Banshees   abound   throughout   her   milieu   and   Aerial   is   no   exception.   Citation   of   British,   early   twentieth   century   composer   Vaughan   Williams’   ‘The   Lark   Ascending’   might   seem   pretentious   coming   from   less   accomplished   pop   artists,   but   the   simmering   Kate,   manages   the   reference   both   musically   and   lyrically   with   utter   panache.   The   pastoral   muse   is   the   tradition,   which   truly   couches   this   album.   From   Beethoven’s   pastoral   symphony   (no.   6)   to   Vaughan   Williams’   improvisations   on   themes  from  Thomas  Tallis,  the  European  obsession  with  the  ‘innocent’  countryside   is   infused   within   this   album.   Formalism   may   be   a   lesser   known   quantity   in   pop   music,  but  as  the  album  cover  for  Aerial  betrays  with  its  digital  sound  wave  forming   the  dividing  horizon  between  the  two  elements  of  the  album  the  sky  of  honey  and   the   sea   of   honey,   the   lush   unfolding   of   long   time   collaborator   Del   Palmer’s   “trademark   slithering   fretless   bass”   (Dwyer,   2005),   the   rhythms   undulate   like   a   lapping  tide;  and  this  is  but  one  of  the  many  references  to  water,  ocean  and  rain  in   the  album.   As  ‘An  Architect’s  Dream’  spills  mellifluously  into  ‘The  Painter’s  Link’,  Kate  Bush  has   provided  a  sumptuous  pastoral  meditation:  Bosco  D’Oliveira’s  percussion  unfolding   like  the  wheels  of  a  country  squire’s  cart.  The  album  is  positively  dripping  with  British   jingoism:  Kate’s  personal  Lionheart  (1978). Sunset  announces  that  ‘all  the  colours  run’  as  the  texture  literally  melts  thematically,   lyrically  and  musically  from  one  statement  into  the  next.  Gone  is  the  R  &  B  formula   and   screaming   nightmare   of   ‘Hounds   of   Love’;   gone   the   unbridled   passion   of   ‘Wuthering  Heights’  and  as  ‘The  Kick  Inside’  morphs  into  the  birth  of  her  son,  Bertie   (a   child   Kate   clearly   cherishes).   Indeed,   the   adulation   of   innocence   in   the   form   of   children   harks   back   to   former   compositions,   ‘The   Infant   Kiss’   (1980)   and   ‘The   Man  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   With   the   Child   in   his   Eyes’   (1978)   (the   latter   reputedly   written   when   Kate   was   just   thirteen  (Moy,  2007)).   In   ‘A   Sea   of   Honey’   Kate’s   voice   wavers   like   lapping   water.   The   elemental   creeps   from   the   dulcet   tones   and   characteristic   soft   ‘R’s   of   her   eccentric   pronunciation.   She   sings  of  colours  and  makes  biblical  references:  “Where  sands  sing  in  crimson  red  and   rust,   then   climb   into   bed   and   turn   to   dust.”   Like   Bowie,   Kate   Bush   represents   shamanic  and  animistic  proportions  (Hunt,  2014).  Through  projected  religiosity  with   Celtic  proportions  and  fascination  for  nature,  Kate  invokes  the  natural  world:  a  near   psychotic   projection   of   animism   in   the   significance   of   the   inanimate,   like   washing   machines  and  the  serendipity  of  rain  on  oil  painting.  Indeed,  in  reference  to  Aerial,  it   should  be  noted  that  poet,  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  proves  more  popular  with  youth   audiences   than   his   protégé   William   Wordsworth,   mainly   due   to   the   latter’s   sublimation  of  sexual  imagery  within  nature  (as  Freudian  (1990)  analysis  illustrates):   a  practice  the  later  Victorian  poets  knew  well.  How  much  like  Kate  Bush’s  lyrics  does   Alfred,   Lord   Tennyson’s   Lady   of   Shalott   (1832)   seem?   Especially   regarding   the   mourning   maidens   of   ‘Wuthering   Heights’   and   ‘The   Man   with   The   Child   in   his   Eyes’?   Indeed,   the   absence   of   palpable   sexuality   might   explain   the   lesser   success   of   the   singles   from   Aerial   than   the   album   (Moy,   2007),   given   youth   culture’s   fascination   with  the  single  market.   Indeed,   sublimated   sexuality   also   explains   the   preponderance   of   repetition   in   the   album.   While   R   &   B   formula   (and   Kate   herself)   is   no   stranger   to   repetition,   Aerial   embraces  a  gentle  Freudian  ‘compulsion  to  repeat’  in  numerous  ways  (1983).  Where   ‘Wuthering   Heights’   repeats   the   eponymous   title   in   a   mantra,   which   batters   our   sensibilities,   ‘Mrs.   Bartolozzi’s’   gentle,   non-­‐pop   repetition,   “Washing   machine…   Washing   machine…”   allows   the   phrase   and   music   to   die   and   resonate   between   iterations.   The   effect   is   mesmeric.   The   music   itself,   rather   than   constantly   announcing   noise,   announces   a   right   to   gentility   and   silence   as   in   the   repetition   of   ‘π’s’  numeric  formula  (Bush,  2005): “Sweet  and  gentle  and  sensitive  man With  an  obsessive  nature  and  deep  fascination For  numbers… In  a  circle  of  infinity 3.1415926535  897932….” The   song,   like   so   many   others   on   the   album,   evokes   an   animistic   joy   in   things   unseen,   but   uncannily   perceived   as   Freud   (1986)   illustrates   in   Totem   and   Taboo.   Further,  Kate  allows  repetition  to  enhance  her  experience  of  the  ‘panoramic’  divine    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   (Bush,   2005):   that   contradiction   Kristeva   (1982)   describes   as   sublime,   the   awe   of   mountainous  beauty  combined  with  ingrained  fear  of  the  divine  (Bush,  2005):   “We  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  highest  hill and  stopped Still It  was  just  so  beautiful It  was  just  so  beautiful It  was  just  so  beautiful.” The   repetition   sung   in   her   upper   register   infuses   with   an   awe-­‐inspired   timbre   of   delicacy;  Kate  Bush  at  her  most  divine,  which  invites  the  listener  to  gaze  through  the   eyes   of   the   artist,   effecting   greater   agency   than   pop   and   rock’s   mind-­‐battering   insurgence   (which   Kate   still   demonstrates   unique   aptitude   for).   Poetic   repetition   echoes  in  ‘Prelude’,  where  the  keyboard  matches  the  cooing  of  pigeons  and  ends  on   the   dominant   rather   than   resolving   the   chord   structure   as   the   birds   repeat   their   meditative   phrase.   The   final   song   (as   if   to   remind   audiences   that   she   can   still   generate   a   rock   anthem   wall   of   sound),   Aerial,   rises   to   a   repetitive   climax   then   instantly  ends  with  the  gentle  cooing  of  pigeons,  bringing  the  album  to  a  close  with   both  an  unexpectedly  orgasmic  ‘bang’  and  a  repetitive  ‘whimper’  (Eliot,  1925). In  Aerial,  Kate’s  lifelong  fascination  for  themes  such  as  innocence,  nature,  the  divine,   the  Celtic  and  mystical,  breathing,  dreaming  and  romantic  passion  all  repeat  in  this   album   in   tandem   with   a   new   experience   of   the   world:   maturity   –   both   artistic   and   personal.  Decline  this  invitation  at  your  peril,  critics.   Where   detractors   see   only   imitation   and   pretension,   Kate   Bush’s   soaring   talent   as   gentle  musing  in  Aerial  sits  proudly  within  her  established  lexicon.  Aerial  represents   the   maturation   of   Kate   Bush,   which   compliments   and   outgrows   her   mesmerising,   youthful   compositions.   Aerial   celebrates   simplicity   in   domesticity   as   only   a   true   master  such  as  Van  Gogh  might  render  it.  It  would  be  fair  for  critics  and  fans  alike  to   allow   Kate   Bush’s   sexuality   to   evolve   also:   from   mystical   nymphette   to   maternal   recluse.  The  stigmas  of  the  past  do  not  pass  easily,  especially  in  British  pop  where,   once   exalted,   the   star   remains   on   the   pedestal   for   the   duration   of   their   lives   and   beyond.   It   seems   the   flipside   of   this   convention   is   to   tear   them   down   with   cold,    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   judgemental   ownership.   Kate   Bush,   the   critics   declare,   has   no   right   to   experiment,   no  right  to  grow  and  supersede  rock  cliché.  To  the  contrary,  the  investigative  artistry   of  Aerial  should  be  considered  a  significant  contribution  to  the  canon  of  Kate  Bush   and   to   the   progression   of   popular   music:   through   simplicity   rather   than   histrionic   excess.  Kate  has  created  a  textual  smorgasbord  with  this  album;  served  to  a  rarefied   palette.  Thank-­‐you  Kate.  The  album  is  breathtaking.  Mwah!

 

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‘Broken  English’  Marianne  Faithfull By  Tim  Dalton Like  a  lot  of  people,  my  earliest  recollections  of  Marianne  Faithfull  is  of  a  17-­‐year-­‐old   pale  waif  princess  singing  the  Jagger/Richards  1964  composition  of  ‘When  Tears  Go   By’   from   a   flickering   black   and   white   TV   in   the   corner   of   the   living   room.   It   was   a   mesmerizing  image  that  will  be  forever  ingrained  in  my  brain.  Marianne  Faithfull  was   one  of   the   most   photographed   women   in  the   world   during   her   youth.   With   her   angelic   English   looks,   long   blonde   hair,   large   breasts   and   long   legs,   she   was   the   physical   embodiment   of   the   sexiest   part   of   the   1960s,   particularly   when   draped   around  the  rock  stars  who  made  up  her  inner  circle  of  lovers  such  as  David  Bowie,   Gene  Pitney,  Brian  Jones  and  Mick  Jagger.  She  was  the  original  1960’s  blueprint  for   the   quintessential   rock   star   girlfriend,   the   beautiful   sophisticated   young   exotic   woman  who  was  envied  by  everyone,  men  wanted  to  fuck  her  and  women  wanted   to  be  her.   Marianne   Faithfull   was   born   the   daughter   of   an   idealistic   British   gentleman,   army   officer  and  professor  of  English  literature  Major  Robert  Glynn  Faithfull.  Her  mother   was  Eva  von  Sacher-­‐Masoch,  the  Baroness  Erisso,  whose  family  had  originally  hailed   from   Vienna.   During   the   Second   World   War   the   von   Sacher-­‐Masoch   family   had   secretly   opposed   the   Nazi   regime   in   Vienna   and   helped   to   save   the   lives   of   many   Jews.  This  is  the  same  family  line  as  Leopold  von  Sacher-­‐Mascoh  who  lends  his  name   to  the  Masochism  part  of  Sadomasochism.  Major  Faithfull's  work  as  an  Intelligence   Officer   for   the   British   Army   brought   him   into   contact   with   the   von   Sacher-­‐Masoch   family   where   he   met   Eva.   This   bizarre   family   background   reads   like   a   combination   of   narratives  from  Blackadder  meets  the  Von  Trapp  family.  Faithfull  is  probably  the  only   daughter  of  an  Austro-­‐Hungarian  Baroness  to  ever  spend  time  in  the  west  Lancashire   town   of   Ormskirk,   while   her   father   undertook   his   PhD   in   English   Literature   at   the   nearby  University  of  Liverpool.  She  was  largely  schooled  at  a  north  London  Catholic   convent  school  that  temporarily  sheltered  her  from  the  outside  world.  With  such  a   family   background,   Faithful’s   life   should   have   being   one   of   middle   class   privilege,   comfort  and  free  of  celebrity  notoriety.  Had  she  followed  the  rules  she  would  have   married   a   rich   merchant   banker,   produced   a   couple   of   beautiful   children   and   lived   her   days   out   very   comfortably   in   the   stockbroker   belt.   All   that   went   out   the   window   when   she   was   sucked   into   the   blossoming   1960’s   rock   'n'   roll   scene   via   the   irrepressible  gravitational  pull  of  the  black  hole  created  by  The  Rolling  Stones. Andrew   Loog   Oldham   is   one   of   last   century's   most   radical   and   mysterious   musical   Svengali   icons.   His   pivotal   role   and   contribution   in   creating   the   popular   culture,    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   which  we  inhabit,  cannot  be  underestimated.  He  was  only  19  years  old  in  1963  when   he  commenced  his  four  year  tenure  managing  the  world’s  greatest  rock  ‘n’  roll  band.   The   Rolling   Stones   are   shrouded   in   myth   and   legend,   which   makes   it   virtually   impossible   to   identify   what   is   fact   and   truth.   According   to   Loog   Oldham’s   2001   autobiography  Stoned,  he  understood  that  the  Stones  would  not  get  rich  as  an  R&B   covers  band.  So  he  took  the  radical  and  unconventional  step  of  locking  the  Glimmer   Twins   into   their   kitchen   and   would   not   let   them   out   until   they   had   penned   some   original  material.  His  instructions  were,  "I  want  a  song  with  brick  walls  all  around  it,   high   windows   and   no   sex"   (2001:   p.143),   and   as   instructed,   the   Glimmer   Twins   deliver  to  specification  with  ‘As  Tears  Go  By’.  Originally  it  was  called  ‘As  Time  Goes   By’  but  Loog  Oldham  changed  its  title  and  probably  claimed  a  hefty  writing  credit  in   the   process.   Its   pure   conjecture   but   its   quite   possible   that   Loog   Oldham   had   an   inferiority   complex   and   as   such   he   measured   himself   harshly   against   people   like   The   Beatles’   manager   Brian   Epstein.   The   less   flashy   but   more   business   savvy   Epstein   had   a  stable  of  talent  to  whom  The  Beatles  contributed  material,  e.g.  Cilla  Black,  Billy  J.   Kramer   and   The   Fourmost.   When   Loog   Oldham   re-­‐titles   and   re-­‐appropriates   ‘As   Tears  Go  By’  and  sends  it  in  Marianne’s  direction  he  gives  it  a  totally  new  meaning;   pure  genius.   Once   Faithfull   had   entered   the   orbit   of   The   Rolling   Stones   it   proved   almost   impossible   for   her   to   break   free.   Originally   the   girlfriend   of   Stones’   guitarist   Brian   Jones,  Faithfull  strategically  shifted  her  allegiance  to  Mick  Jagger  in  1966,  then  had  a   very  brief  fling  with  Keith  Richards,  before  a  well  publicized  split  with  Mick  in  1970.   After  this  split  her  life  went  into  a  nosedive  with  heroin  addiction,  anorexia  nervosa   and  her  son  (Nicholas),  from  her  first  husband  (John  Dunbar),  was  taken  into  care.   Rock  ‘n’  roll  always  has  had  an  appalling  non-­‐existent  duty  of  care  policy;  one  with   no   support   network.   Becoming   homeless,   she   lived   rough   on   the   streets   of   Soho,   London   for   a   few   years.   This   lifestyle   of   heroin   addiction   and   ill   health   irreparably   changed   and   damaged   her   voice.   Her   career   was   resurrected   in   the   late   1970s   when   she   met   and   then   married   Ben   Brierly,   the   guitarist   of   punk   band   The   Vibrators.   Between  1970  and  1979  Faithfull  made  a  few  attempts  to  return  to  music  including   an   album   with   producer   Mike   Leander,   Rich   Kid   Blue,   started   in   1971   but   not   completed   until   1985.   There   was   also   a   country   sounding   single  Dreamin’   My   Dream   that  made  a  zero  impression.     After  a  lengthy  absence,  Faithfull  resurfaced  in  1979  with  Broken  English,  which  took   the   edgy   and   brittle   sound   of   punk   rock   and   gave   it   a   shot   of   studio-­‐smooth   disco   fusion.   Faithfull   had   shed   all   but   the   diehard   fans   of   her   previous   audience   long   before  Broken  English  was  released;  hence  it  was  never  a  commercial  success  only   achieving   number   75   in   the   UK   and   83   in   the   USA   charts.   She   had   been   a   hit-­‐making    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   folk-­‐pop   singer   with   beautiful   good   looks   and   an   angelic   singing   voice,   who   had   quickly  become  a  wash-­‐up  junkie,  largely  due  to  The  Rolling  Stones.  Part  of  the  myth   and   legend   of   The   Rolling   Stones   is   their   apparent   Faustian   bargain   with   their   collaborators  and  entourage  which  has  a  devastating  and  sometimes  fatal  effect,  e.g.   Gram  Parson,  Mick  Taylor,  Jimmy  Miller,  Bobby  Keys,  Andrew  Loog  Oldham  and  the   death  of  the  Peace  and  Love  generation  at  Altamont.  Those  years  of  homelessness,   heavy   drinking,   smoking   and   drug   taking   had   taken   their   toll   on   her   already   frail   voice.   One   of   Faithfull’s   key   personal   traits   is   being   able   to   adapt   and   survive,   on   numerous  occasion  she’s  proved  that  she  possess  the  knack  of  turning  disadvantages   to   her   advantage.   On   Broken   English,   her   voice   underwent   a   significant   transformation  from  the  pre-­‐Stones  records;  it  was  far  stronger  but  dirtier,  harsher,   more  worldly,  adult  and  was  now  capable  of  expressing  her  inner  being.   Probably   one   of   the   greatest   perceived   issues   with   this   album   is   the   one   of   authorship.  In  essence  Broken  English  is  a  multi-­‐authored  piece  and  many  consumers   consider   that   Faithfull   is   not   the   auteur   of   Broken   English.   Of   course   I   would   dispute   this.  Just  because  Faithfull  only  co-­‐wrote  three  of  the  eight  tracks  doesn’t  mean  that   this   isn’t   a   great   album.   Her   linchpin   role   on   this   record   is   as   interlocutor,   as   the   voice   positioned   within   the   narrative.   This   is   a   narrative   record,   a   collection   of   disjointed  and  unconnected  narrative  granted,  but  still  it  is  a  collection  of  narratives   that   works   cohesively   to   express   her   innermost   thoughts   and   feeling.   She   may   not   posses   the   expressive   tool   of   being   a   solo   writer   but   she   still   manages   to   make   herself  heard  through  what  tools  she  did  have  at  her  disposal.  To  quote  Sylvia  Plath   from   The   Unabridged   Journals   (1962:   p.5),   “Some   things   are   hard   to   write   about”.   Essentially,  Faithfull  is  the  curator  of  other  people’s  material  on  this  album  ranging   from   Shel   Silversteins’   superb   ‘The   Ballard   Of   Lucy   Jordan’   (originally   recorded   by   Dr   Hook   in   1974)   Heathcote   Williams’   ‘Why   D’Ya   Do   It?’   and   John   Lennon’s   ‘Working   Class  Hero’.  These  days,  curators  of  another  author’s  material  are  highly  celebrated   e.g.  DJ’s  such  as  David  Guetta,  Skrillex,  Deadmau5  and  Moby.  Back  in  1979  Faithfull   was  at  the  vanguard  of  musical  curation,  yet  another  reason  to  rescue  this  album?   What   truly   makes   this   a   great   album   and   worthy   of   a   rescue   is   the   way   that   Faithfull   identifies   a   suitable   channel   to   expresses   her   agency   and   subjectivity.   As   a   masterful   performer   Faithfull   fully   understands   that   via   complete   and   total   immersion   in   the   narrative  of  the  material  that  she’s  performing,  she  can  make  her  presence  felt  on   this   album   in   the   role   as   interlocutor.   In   each   song,   Faithfull   takes   on   the   role   of   the   lead   character   and   narrator   in   much   the   same   way   as   a   character   actor   would.   English   musician   and   performer   Kate   Bush   employs   exactly   the   same   tools   and   she’s   often   declared   a   genius;   and   rightly   so.   Faithfull   does   this   so   well   that   the   songs   feel   like   she   owns   each   and   everyone   of   them.   Her   sneering   cover   of   John   Lennon's    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   anthem  ‘Working  Class  Hero’,  which  is  sang  as  though  she  lived  through  it  personally   is   totally   convincing.   Faithfull   cannot   be   described   as   working   class   by   any   stretch   of   the  imagination.  I  would  propose  that  the  main  purpose  of  this  song  was  to  smash   the   Andrew   Loog-­‐Olham   Kewpie   doll   version   of   Faithfull   once   and   for   all.   Her   interpretation   of   ‘working   class’   could   be   the   homeless,   broke   junkie   that   she   had   become.  The  fact  that  she  came  from  a  money  privileged  background  has  very  little   bearing   at   this   point   in   her   career.   Every   song   on   Broken   English   serves   a   purpose   and   they   stand   out   in   their   own   right,   there   are   simply   no   fillers   on   this   album.   Read   Shel  Silverstein’s  original  poem  ‘The  Ballard  of  Lucy  Jordan’,  or  ‘Jordon’  as  he  wrote   it.  Then  compare  it  to  Faithful’s  version;  where  she  delivers  a  totally  absorbing  and   believable  performance  of  what  if  she  had  become  Mrs.  Gene  Pitney.   I've  always  adored  the  outrageous  ‘Why'd  Ya  Do  It?’  which  sees  Marianne  playing  a   bitter   pissed   off   harpy   who   is   delivering   a   fierce,   graphic   rant   to   her   husband's   infidelities.  Most  people  presume  the  lyrics  are  direct  towards  Mick  Jagger,  they  are   not,  you  need  to  listen  to  Carly  Simon’s  ‘You’re  So  Vain’  for  that.  The  shock  value  is   in  Faithfull’s  perfectly  pronounced  English  enunciation,  “Every  time  I  see  your  dick  I   imagine   her   cunt   in   my   bed”.   The   lyrics   were   far   too   rude   for   radio   and   caused   a   walkout   by   female   packing   staff   at   the   EMI   pressing   plant.   In   Dave   Dalton’s   (1994:   p.337)   book   Faithfull,   there’s   a   great   account   of   how   Faithfull   went   to   visit   poet   Heathcote   Williams   (who   for   some   unknown   reason   use   to   refer   to   himself   as   ‘Jasper’)   to   claim   this   song.   Williams   came   from   the   Jack   Kerouac   school   of   disembodied   poetics,   which   makes   him   a   near   perfect   match   for   Faithfull.   Record   producer  Denny  Cordell  claims  this  song  was  originally  destined  for  Tina  Turner.  This   makes   me   laugh   as   I   really   can’t   see   Turner   delivering   these   lyrics   or   taking   ownership  of  this  song  as  convincingly  as  Faithfull  does.       Faithfull   was   married   to   guitarist   Ben   Brierly   of   English   punk   band   The   Vibrators   during   the   making   of   Broken   English.   In   Dalton’s   book   she   claims   it   was   the   affair   that  Brierly  was  having  at  the  time  that  drove  her  to  seek  out  this  song  and  record  it   (1994:  p.341).  The  Joe  Maverty  guitar  riff  that  propels  the  lyrics  is  a  Jimmi  Hendrix   copy   of   ‘All   Along   The   Watchtower’   and   it’s   the   perfect   postmodern   portmanteau   of   poetry  and  music.  The  opening  track,  Broken  English,  comments  upon  the  rise  of  the   German   70’s   terrorist   group   Baader   Meinhof,   forerunner   of   the   Red   Army   Faction,   and  their  leader  Ulrike  Meinhof.  I  also  like  the  idea  that  this  track  is  a  self  referenced   comment   upon   the   bastardization   and   purposely   distressing   of   her   own   voice   through  the  negative  lifestyle  choices  of  the  last  decade. Part  of  the  credit  for  this  album  must  go  to  Chris  Blackwell  who  signed  Faithfull  to  his   Island  Records’  label  and  could  probably  be  considered  the  executive  producer,  even    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   if  he  wasn’t  credited  on  the  album  as  such.  Blackwell  has  a  wonderful  uncanny  knack   for  sniffing  out  the  bizarre,  unusual  and  off-­‐kilter  artists.  Only  a  label  such  as  Island   Records   would   and   could   ever   release   a   record   like   Broken   English   and   be   totally   comfortable  with  it.  Just  as  George  Harrison’s  Handmade  Films  had  a  sort  of  house   style   so   did   Island   Records,   there’s   always   this   implied   reggae   feel   or   beat.   Compare   Broken  English  to  Grace  Jones’  Island  Life,  another  record  that  only  Island  would  and   could   release.   Sonically   this   album   is   superb,   a   testament   to   the   quality   of   Maxis   Studios  in  North  London  which  had  some  of  the  most  up-­‐to-­‐date  24  track  recording   equipment   available.   The   arrangements   and   production   work   by   Mark   Miller   Mundy   are  absolutely  impeccable.  I  don’t  know  how  much  time  was  spent  recording  or  how   much   time   Ed   Thacker   spent   mixing   this   album   at   Roundhouse   Studios   but   my   educated   guess   is   a   lot,   an   awful   lot,   because   this   album   sounds   amazing.   One   reason   this   album   sounds   so   good   is   that   the   core   backing   band   of   Barry   Reynold   (rhythm   guitar),   Steve   York   (bass),   Joe   Maverty   (lead   guitar)   and   Terry   Stannard   (drums)  had  played  together  and  with  Faithfull  for  two  years  prior  to  the  recording   session   (1994:   p.341).   In   addition   to   this   core   band   is   a   superb   collection   of   additional   supporting   cast   premier   league   players.   Its   interesting   that   Faithfull’s   husband,  Ben  Brierly  who  is  a  competent  guitar  player,  is  not  included  on  the  album;   possibly  due  to  his  infidelities?   A   sound   engineer   friend   of   mine   once   provided   some   very   vocal   opposition   to   me   playing   this   album   over   the   PA   while   I   was   sound   checking   the   system.   His   objection   was  “it's  music  to  slit  your  wrists  too”.  He  was  totally  wrong,  this  is  an  album  NOT  to   slit   your   wrists   too.   This   is   an   album   that   celebrates   surviving   not   dying.   When   discussing   music   production   with   my   audio   students   I   tell   them   that   you   know   when   a   record   is   well   produced   because   you   can’t   hear   the   production;   it   becomes   transparent.  According  to  my  own  metric,  the  studio  production,  arrangements  and   engineering  are  perfect  because  they  blend  seamlessly  and  are  totally  transparent.   The   Dennis   Morris   photographed   and   designed   album   cover   of   Faithfull   as   the   ravishing,  disheveled  wreck  is  absolutely  perfect  and  is  the  final  piece  of  the  complex   Broken   English   jigsaw.   It's   a   strong   image   and   according   to   Morris   it's   a   shot   that   took   a   considerable   amount   of   time,   red   wine,   cigarettes   and   self-­‐restraint   to   produce.   The   husky   croak   of   Broken   English   rescued   Faithfull's   image   from   the   inaccurate  risible  urban  myth  of  fur  coats  and  Mars  bars,  as  a  background  figure  in   the   history   of   The   Rolling   Stones   and   as   a   homeless   hopeless   junkie.   It   thrusts   her   back  into  contention  as  a  credible  solo  artist.  Bob  Dylan  loves  this  album  because  it  is   so   on   point   for   post-­‐punk   1979.   The   main   reason   I   want   to   rescue   this   album   is   because   Broken   English   rescued   Marianne   Faithfull.   Without   this   wonderful   album   Marianne  Faithfull  might  not  be  with  us  today.  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   References Dalton,  D  1994,  Faithfull,  Penguin  Books,  London,  UK.     Loog-­‐Oldham,  A  2004,  Stoned,  Vintage  Books.  London,  UK.   Plath,  S  1962,  The  Unabridged  Journals,  Anchor  Books,  London,  UK.

 

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 ‘13  Blues  for  Thirteen  Moons’  Silver  Mount  Zion   Mat  Caithness     When  Tim  Dalton  asked  me  to  contribute  to  ARS,  and  upon  hearing  the  criteria  for   album  selection,  it  took  perhaps  5  minutes  to  identify  the  band  I  would  review,  and   another   thirty   seconds   to   pick   the   album   from   their   catalogue   that   would   be   the   focus  of  my  work.  I’ve  been  a  Silver  Mt.  Zion  fan  now  for  somewhere  in  the  vicinity   of   four   years,   and   let   me   tell   you….   it’s   a   lonely   business.   Aside   from   my   beautiful   wife   who   happily   endures   whatever   raucous   noise   I   decide   to   play,   I   do   not   know   another  person  who  likes  this  band,  let  alone  has  heard  of  them.  They  are  not  a  band   that  is  going  to  cross  your  path  on  commercial  radio,  and  even  those  given  to  playing   music  from  the  sonic  fringes  don’t  seem  to  have  these  guys  in  their  catalogues.  As   for   my   discovery   of   them,   it   started   with   a   friend   handing   me   a   copy   of   Mogwai’s   Young  Team,  way  back  at  the  turn  of  this  century. My  musical  taste  has  always  been  diverse,  however,  my  love  of  instrumental  music   was  limited  to  soundtracks  and  classical.  There’s  certainly  nothing  wrong  with  that,   but  Mogwai  gave  my  music  palette  a  much-­‐needed  boost.  The  term  that  describes   Mogwai’s   genre   is   Post   Rock;   that   is,   music   that   uses   rock   instrumentation,   but   ignores   the   norms   associated   with   typical   rock   song   structure.   In   addition   to   this,   there   is   significant   absence   of   vocals,   something   to   which   I   responded   at   the   time   with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  absolute.  While  the  genre  description  is  often  maligned   and   rejected   by   the   bands   to   which   it   is   applied,   I   am   a   simple   creature,   and   the   phrase   gave   me   a   crucial   compass   bearing.   Once   I   find   a   new   thing   that   resonates   with  me,  I  will  follow  the  rabbit  hole  obsessively.  The  following  journey  of  discovery   uncovered  a  wealth  of  instrumental  gold.  Explosions  In  The  Sky,  Mono,  Dirty  Three  (I   still   cannot   believe   I   missed   these   guys),   Do   Make   Say   Think,   Pelican,   Tortoise   and   Sigur   Ros   (vocals   excused   on   the   grounds   that   I   speak   neither   Icelandic   nor   Hopelandic)   all   revealed   themselves   as   I   turned   over   musical   stone   after   musical   stone.   After   some   years   of   collecting   and   loving   this   diverse   branch   of   music,   a   work   colleague  one  day  nonchalantly  asked  if  I  had  ever  listened  to  Godspeed  You!  Black   Emperor.  I  had  not. Another  stone  was  turned  over  and  my  mind  was  blown  wide  open,  yet  again.  The   majority   of   my   musical   discoveries   are   a   result   of   just   mooching   around.   The   vast   majority   of   bands   that   fit   into   the   Post   Rock   category   have   unusual   names,   as   do   their   song   titles.   Quite   often,   it’s   the   band’s   name   that   has   attracted   me,   with   albums  purchased  and  fingers  crossed  (the  return  has  been  in  my  favour  and  is  one   of  the  key  reasons  why  I  do  not  gamble).  However,  it  has  not  been  uncommon  for   149    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   me   to   follow   the   hallowed   path   of   the   band   in   question’s   associated   acts.   Godspeed’s   associated   acts   included   the   likes   of   Set   Fire   to   Flames,   Fly   Pan   Am,   HRSTA,  Esmerine,  and  of  course,  A  Silver  Mt  Zion. Currently  trading  as  Thee  Silver  Mt.  Zion  Memorial  Orchestra,  they  were  known  prior   as  (the  aforementioned)  A  Silver  Mt.  Zion,  Thee  Silver  Mt.  Zion  Memorial  Orchestra   and  Tr-­‐La-­‐La  Band  and  Choir,  and  Thee  Silver  Mountain  Reveries.   Pretentious?  Perhaps.   I   dutifully   did   my   homework,   and   looked   into   the   available   catalogue,   and   cast   my   eyes  with  interest  across  the  track  list  for  their  fifth  studio  album  titled  13  Blues  for   Thirteen   Moons.   Tracks   1   through   to   12   were   an   enigma,   all   titled   ‘Untitled’,   and   ranging  from  4  seconds  in  length  to  11  seconds.  It  was  tracks  13,  14,  15  and  16  (the   average  length  of  which  is  a  quarter  of  an  hour  long)  that  caught  my  attention.  It  is   the   often-­‐protracted   length   of   post   rock   music   that   has   perhaps   kept   me   so   hopelessly  enamoured;  the  opportunity  to  fall  into  a  musical  arrangement  that  has   searing  loud/quiet/loud  guitar  riffs,  relentless  marching  band  drums,  and  complete   ownership  over  the  music’s  narrative  as  the  listener.  No  squawking  vocals  telling  you   how  to  feel.  Pure  bliss! Here   was   an   album   that   promised   four   tracks   over   an   hour   with   Godspeed’s   DNA   all   over   it   from   the   mystifying   album   and   song   titles,   to   (most   importantly)   the   involvement  of  Efrim  Menuck.  Album  purchased,  I  sat  down  for  my  first  listen,  and   was,  within  minutes,  absolutely  mortified.  What  the  bloody  hell  was  Menuck  doing   singing?  My  entire  criteria  for  purchasing  the  album  had  collapsed  upon  itself  after   the   initial   12   untitled   tracks  made   way   for  the   album   opener.   I  listened   to   the   album   in  its  entirety,  and  then,  unfairly,  shelved  it. It  was  some  time  later  when  I  was  compiling  a  playlist  of  albums  that  I  gave  it  the   attention   it   deserved.   My   obsessive   tendency   is   to   include   one   album   from   each   artist   in   my   playlist   (always   depending   upon   whatever   kooky   criteria   I   arrive   at   for   playlist   selection),   and   on   this   occasion   13   Blues   for   Thirteen   Moons   was   included.   With   the   music   playing   on   random,   I   found   myself   checking   who   was   playing   on   various   occasions.   This   was   due   to   the   diversity   of   sounds   from   the   thundering,   repetitive   riffs   of   the   opening   track   to   the   gradual   build   and   explosion   of   the   Zeppelin-­‐like   blues   riff   throughout   the   title   track.   The   arrival   of   the   sweeping   arrangement   five   minutes   into   ‘Black   Waters’   and   the   plaintive,   but   cautiously   hopeful   conclusion   to   ‘BlindBlindBlind’.   The   album,   having   been   unceremoniously   dumped   and   forgotten,   had   decided   it   wanted   to   be   heard.   In   and   amongst   a  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   collection  of  other  songs,  it  managed  bit  by  bit  to  grapple  my  attention,  and  before   long,  we  started  a  long,  and  very  trying  courting  period. I  won’t  lie  to  you.  This  was  a  bloody  hard  album  to  love!  The  opening  12  tracks  are   nothing   more   than   a   series   of   varied   high-­‐pitched   drones   with   no   apparent   relationship   to   the   rest   of   the   album.   Given   the   album’s   title,   starting   the   music   proper   at   track   13   was   a   decision   that   the   folks   at   Pitchfork   considered   a   conceit.   Were  it  of  a  significant  length,  I  may  have  agreed,  but  they  simply  get  us  to  where   we  need  to  be  in  a  timely  fashion,  and  I’m  OK  with  that.  Music  for  me  is  all  about   enjoyment.  Some  bands  have  underlying  complexities  through  which  you  can  dig  if   you  choose,  and  then  there  are  bands  like  the  Ramones,  who  are  exactly  what  you   see   and  hear.   Thee   Silver  Mt.   Zion   is   in   the   former   camp,   and   it   is   clear   that   Menuck   and  co.  have  something  to  say.  I  have  never  been  one  to  punch  the  air  chanting  in   political,  religious  or  anti-­‐establishment  fervour.  It  is  just  too  much  spent  energy.  If   the  music  grabs  me,  I’ll  go  along  for  the  ride  sans  associated  ideologies.  And  this  is   very  much  the  case  here.  Menuck’s  yowling  vocals  are  an  acquired  taste,  but  he  does   angry   well,   underpinned   by   the   smooth   voices   of   violinists   Sophie   Trudeau   and   Jessica  Moss.  The  vocal  arrangements  are  repetitive,  almost  chant  like,  and  hypnotic,   but   do   not   allow   you   to   become   complacent.   They   are,   in   the   early   stages   of   the   album,   urgent.   As   ‘1,000,000   died   to   make   this   sound’   winds   itself   down,   we   are   afforded   a   brief   reprieve,   as   the   band   resets   for   the   onslaught   of   13   Blues   for   Thirteen  Moons. Menuck’s  vocals  have  been  criticised  on  this  album  for  coming  so  prominently  to  the   fore.  It  is  on  13  Blues  for  Thirteen  Moons  that  the  extent  of  his  fury  and  frustration  is   realised.   Uncompromising   calls   for   action   are   accompanied   by   stop/start   drums   that   hit  home  like  blows  from  a  sledge  hammer,  finally  giving  way  to  the  slow  build  of  the   blues   riff   that   explodes   before   regrouping   for   one   final   assault.   This   is   awesome   stuff!   Menuck   noticeably   reaching   his   vocal   limits   screaming,   “no   heroes   on   my   radio”,  as  his  vocal  chords  sound  close  to  rupturing.  While  there  are  those  who  have   criticised  him  for  his  self-­‐absorbed  approach,  and  pretentious  arrangements,  it  is  the   sheer   scope   of   this   song   that,   for   me,   makes   this   essential   listening.   There   is   brief   respite   as   it   all   but   flat   lines   before   a   final   torrent,   galloping   through   the   final   minutes   towards   Menuck’s   fractured   coda,   bleating,   “We-­‐will-­‐not-­‐sing-­‐at-­‐your-­‐ damn-­‐pa-­‐rade”. I’ve  always  considered  this  album  to  be  arranged  in  acts,  or  movements,  rather  than   songs.   The   first   two   acts   are   aggressive   and   angry,   ultimately   making   way   for   a   melancholy   third   act.   ‘Black   Waters   Blowed/Engine   Broke   Blues’   starts   with   Menuck’s   cacophonous   wails   alternating   with   a   wall   of   dissonance,   all   strings   and    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   drums,   clutching   and   clawing   for   supremacy.   From   this   emerges   a   bruised   and   beautiful   harmony,   both   music   and   vocals   finally   finding   balance   with   Menuck   sounding   fragile,   almost   vulnerable.   As   the   song’s   title   suggests,   there   is   a   shift   in   theme.   Menuck’s   singing   resembles   Roger   Waters,   dismantled   and   put   back   together,  slightly  out  of  order,  broken,  but  still  painting  a  vivid  picture,  and  telling  us   a   story.   The   resemblance   nagged   at   me   a   long   time   before   I   finally   drew   the   comparison.   The  album  closes  with  ‘BlindBlindBlind’,  a  marked  shift  in  pace,  and  a  welcome  one   at  that.  While  the  vocals  more  coherently  convey  Menuck’s  anarchic  tendencies,  the   music  arrangement  is  far  gentler,  ebbing  and  flowing  in  intensity,  but  never  reaching   the   aggressive   levels   reached   earlier   in   the   album.   Where   earlier   tracks   were   lit   with   fuses,  this  one  treads  cautiously,  daring  to  offer  hope.  Scepticism  and  paranoia  are   still  present,  but  in  closing,  Menuck  dares  to  believe  that,  “some  hearts  are  true”. There   are   a   number   of   A   Silver   Mt.   Zion   songs   that   are   superior   to   those   on   offer   here.   ‘Piphany   Rambler’   and   ‘What   We   Loved   Was   Not   Enough’   are   both   amazing   tracks.   This   is   A   Silver   Mt.   Zion’s   most   complete   album,   and   one   I   never   play   on   shuffle.   We   have   all   probably   had   the   conversation   that   starts   something   like,   “you’re   stranded   on   a   desert   island   and   can   only   have   three   albums”.   Well   the   three   albums   bit   is   bullshit.   No   true   music   lover   could   only   pick   three   albums;   not   in   my   opinion  anyway.  I’d  need  ten.  The  albums  that  always  find  there  way  back  onto  my   playlist,  after  a  long  period  of  time,  are  usually  the  ones  that  took  the  most  getting   to  know.  It  took  a  long  time  for  me  to  fall  in  love  with  13  Blues  for  Thirteen  Moons,   and  if  I  ever  find  myself  on  that  desert  island,  I’ll  be  sure  this  is  one  of  the  ten  that  is   keeping  me  company. As   for   my   fellow   music   lovers   out   there,   grab   a   copy,   be   patient   with   it,   and   give   it   a   listen. Let  it  be  done.  Let  it  be  soon…        

 

 

 

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‘Voodoo  Lounge’  The  Rolling  Stones By  Tim  Dalton   So   do   one   of   the   biggest   and   longest   surviving   bands   on   the   planet,   and   self   proclaimed  “the  world’s  greatest  rock  ‘n’  roll  band”  really  need  Tim  Dalton  to  rescue   one  of  their  24  studio  albums?  Probably  not,  but  I’ll  have  a  go  anyway.       Voodoo   Lounge   was   released   in   July   1994   to   mixed   reviews   by   the   world’s   press   and   relatively   poor   sales,   by   Rolling   Stones   standards.   The   album   was   recorded   over   a   six-­‐month   period   with   multi   Grammy   award   winning   producer   Don   Was   at   the   legendary   Windmill   Lane   Studios   in   Dublin,   Ireland.   Just   before   recording   commenced   in   January   1993,   bassist   Bill   Wyman   announced   he’d   be   leaving   the   band.   Since   the   mid   1970s   Wyman   had   tired   of   the   complete   monopolisation   of   songwriting   and   production   decisions   by   Jagger   and   Richards   and   had   felt   marginalised   for   years.   This   creative   isolation   had   been   simmering   for   years   as   witnessed   by   Wyman’s   numerous   commercially   unsuccessful   solo   projects.   This   album   features   Wyman’s   replacement   Darryl   Jones   who   had   been   Miles   Davis’   protégé  and  had  also  worked  with  Herbie  Hancock.  Jones’  jazz  music  pedigree  would   have   definitely   appealed   to   aficionado   and   rhythm   section   partner   Charlie   Watts.   I   wonder  how  much  time  they  spent  discussing  obscure  ⅝  time  signature  in  between   takes?   It   pure   conjecture   but   Jones   was   probably   originally   hired   only   for   the   recording   of   this   album.   It   was   the   way   he   clicked   with   the   group   during   these   recording  sessions  that  cemented  his  role  as  bass  player  to  the  present  day.       This   core   version   of   The   Rolling   Stones;   Mick   Jagger,   Keith   Richards   and   Charlie   Watts   had   been   together   in   this   format   since   Brian   Jones   was   fired   from   the   band   in   summer   of   1969.   A   quarter   of   a   century   together   is   some   achievement   especially   when   you   consider   that   the   band   almost   collapsed   in   the   mid   1980   due   to   the   Jagger/Richards   fall   out.   The   biggest   problem   with   The   Rolling   Stones,   and   it’s   a   problem  most  other  bands  would  love  to  have,  is  the  sheer  amount  of  ‘product’  that   they   have   released   into   the   market   since   1962.   Most   of   it   good   and   some   of   it   absolutely  exceptional,  such  as  Some  Girls  (1978),  Exile  On  Main  Street  (1972),  Sticky   Fingers   (1971),   Let   It   Bleed   (1969)   and   Beggars   Banquet   (1968).   Personally   I   can’t   decide,   which   is   The   Rolling   Stones’   Magnum   Opus   album,   as   I   continually   shift   between  Some  Girls  and  Exile  On  Main  Street,  depending  on  the  time,  place  and  my   mood.   Both   albums   are   damn   near   perfect   examples   of   what   a   rock   ‘n’   roll   album   should   be.   Granted   all   Rolling   Stones   albums   are   of   their   time   but   that’s   not   a   criticism.   Which   brings   me   to   this   album   the   ones   the   critics   hailed   as   one   of   their    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   not  so  good  albums.  Most  bands  would  be  happy  to  release  an  album  of  the  quality   of   Voodoo   Lounge.   Being   The   Rolling   Stones   must   be   like   being   a   world   famous   architect  in  that  people  will  always  remember  your  signature  capital  city  building  but   not  the  functional  bus  depot  you  built  in  Doncaster.     Indeed  “functional”  is  probably  the  best  way  to  describe  Voodoo  Lounge;  it  does  its   job  exceedingly  well  and  exactly  to  specification.  The  question  is,  what  was  its  exact   job?  You  might  not  think  of  The  Rolling  Stones  as  cutting  edge  any  more  in  terms  of   music,   but   they   certainly   redefined   the   way   a   band   could   conduct   business   on   an   international  scale.  Thanks  to  Prince  Rupert  of  Lowenstein  (Rupie  the  Groupie)  they   are   the   epitome   of   a   band   turning   them   selves   into   a   global   brand.   I   guess   those   years  Mick  Jagger  spent  studying  at  the  London  School  of  Economics  weren’t  wasted   after   all?   The   Rolling   Stones   were   one   of   the   first   bands   to   notice   that   selling   ‘product’,  CDs  and  records  to  you  and  me,  maybe  wasn’t  the  main  revenue  stream   after  all.  They  predated  many  of  their  contemporaries  by  about  20  years  when  they   realised  that  album  sales  could  be  the  main  point  of  leverage  for  ticket  sales.  When   they  kicked  off  their  year  long  Voodoo  Lounge  Tour  in  July  1994  it  was  the  highest   grossing   tour   of   all   time   of   $320   million   US.   Even   by   today’s   figure   that's   an   impressively  eye-­‐watering  amount  of  money  and  it  still  rates  as  one  of  the  all  time   top   ten   grossing   tours.   I   know   it’s   vulgar   and   crass   to   talk   about   money   but   in   the   words  of  Bobbi  Fleckman,  “Money  talks  and  bullshit  walks”.       But   what   about   those   fifteen   tracks   on   the   album,   yes   fifteen,   count   them.   Selling   truckloads   of   tickets   for   shows   does   not   make   a   great   rock   ‘n’   roll   album.   The   album   kicks  off  with  the  classic  Glimmer  Twins  composition  of  ‘Your  Love  Is  Strong’,  familiar   Rolling  Stones  territory  here.  Giant  riffs  abound  from  Keith,  typical  misogynistic  lyrics   from  Mick,  Ronnie  Wood  weaves  his  perfectly  appropriate  lead  guitar  lines  in,  under   and  around  Keith’s  chops.  Charlie  and  Daryl  keep  the  rhythm  simple  and  functional,   like   a   diesel   engine   just   like   it   should   be.   The   classic   Rolling   Stones   architectural   blueprint  is  followed  through  this  album  and  it’s  great.  Track  three  ‘Sparks  Will  Fly’   follows   the   Phil   Spector   receipt   for   a   great   rock   and   roll   track   e.g.   1:   it   must   be   insanely   repetitive,   2:   have   a   primeval   beat   and   3:   be   about   sex,   check   all   three   boxes.  Mick  and  Keith  are  definitely  playing  by  the  rules  here,  even  though  their  past   squabbles   aren’t   fully   behind   them   yet.   By   track   four   the   boundaries   get   well   and   truly  pushed,  when  Keith  pens  and  sings  ‘The  Worst’,  an  acoustic  song  with  a  distinct   country  twinge  about  little  bits  of  Keith’s  life  that  come  back  to  haunt  him  from  his   subconscious.  The  lyrics  are  deeply  regretful  but  there’s  no  clue  as  to  whom  they  are   directed   towards.   With   a   history   like   Keith   Richard’s   there   are   numerous   likely   candidates.   Voodoo   Lounge   comes   only   two   years   after   Keith’s   superb   solo   record    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Main   Offender   (1992).   Maybe   Mick   is   still   feeling   threatened   because   Keith’s   solo   records   are   infinitely   better   that   his   own   1987   solo   record   Primitive   Cool.   As   I   mentioned  in  Chapter  1  of  Album  Rescue  Series,  ‘Main  Offender’  by  Keith  Richards,  I   can’t  and  won’t  defend  Mick’s  record,  as  it  really  does  suck.  Track  fourteen  and  Keith   gets  another  shot  with  the  superb  ‘Thru  and  Thru’,  which  I  was  delighted  to  hear  one   night   while   watching   The   Sopranos   on   TV.   Track   nine,   ‘Brand   New   Car’,   is   the   only   vaguely  embarrassing  track  on  the  album.  I  suppose  14  out  of  15  isn’t  bad?  Mick  lays   it  on  much  too  thick  with  the  ridiculous  double  entendres  on  this  track;  it’s  like  the   Sid   The   Sexist   from   Viz   comic   (minus   the   comedy).   I   guest   at   the   age   of   51,   Mick’s   age   when   recording   this   album,   such   behaviour   is   seen   as   subversive   and   risqué   e.g.   middle-­‐aged   millionaires   shouldn’t   behave   like   that.   All   is   redeemed   and   order   is   restored   with   ‘I   Go   Wild’,   a   track   of   awesome   simplistic   power   and   beauty,   and   a   track,  which  The  Rolling  Stones  kick  out  while  barely  breaking  into  a  sweat.       So  what’s  wrong  with  Voodoo  Lounge?  In  my  opinion  absolutely  nothing  at  all,  the   critics   made   a   wrong   call   with   this   album   hence   this   rescue.   It   contains   all   the   classic   Rolling  Stones’  elements  plus  a  few  surprises.  Its  got  rock,  funk,  soul,  blues,  country   and   even   a   tiny   bit   of   folk,   variety   is   good   because   variety   is   the   spice   of   life.   The   Glimmer  Twins  might  not  have  fully  sorted  out  their  differences,  but  they  are  at  least   collegiate   and   demonstrate   that   it   is   possible   for   them   to   work   together   again.   Production   is   credited   to   Jagger   and   Richards   (The   Glimmer   Twins)   with   Don   Was   simply  listed  as  co-­‐producer,  but  this  is  probably  highly  understating  his  true  role.       Don   Was   is   one   of   the   world's   most   prolific,   respected   and   prodigious   talented   record   producers   having   previously   worked   with   Bob   Dylan,   Elton   John,   Carly   Simon,   Michael  McDonald,  Iggy  Pop,  Paula  Abdul,  Willie  Nelson,  David  Crosby,  Lyle  Lovett,   Jackson   Browne   and   Neil   Diamond   to   name   check   only   a   few.   Jagger   and   Richards   have   past   form   when   it   comes   to   destructive   one-­‐upmanship   and   it’s   highly   likely   Don   Was   acted   as   some   kind   of   objective   creative   adjudicator?   As   a   creative   conduit   the  producer’s  role  is  to  bring  out  the  best  material  and  Don  Was  does  this  perfectly   on   this   album.   He   does   stray   into   familiar   Was   (Not   Was)   territory   on   track   11,   ‘Suck   On  The  Jugular’,  which  is  a  close  facsimile  to  his  Was  (Not  Was)  1987  hit  ‘Walk  The   Dinosaur’.  His  reputation  is  now  such  that,  to  quote  the  New   York   Times  (1994),   “he   bridges  a  gap.  He  takes  people  that  were  good  all  along  and  distils  them  into  the  best   versions   of   themselves".   Don   Was   sounds   more   like   a   sonic   divinity   then   the   co-­‐ producer   of   the   album.   To   offer   up   some   evidence   to   support   this   statement   I   suggest   listening   to   Iggy   Pop’s   1990   most   commercially   successful   album   Brick   By   Brick.  Shy,  quiet,  semi  reclusive,  cat  loving  Californian  Bob  Clearmoutain  provides  the   absolutely   perfect   holy   trinity   mix   of   place,   space   and   bass.   In   fact,   the   unsung    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   superstar   on   this   record   is   without   doubt   Bob   Clearmoutain   and   his   technically   perfect  10  out  of  10  mix.  This  album  is  worthy  or  an  album  rescue  for  this  mix  alone.       The   technical   choices   and   creative   approach   that   Don   Was   took   to   create   this   album   are  well  worth  examining  here  because  they  make  a  significant  contribution  to  the   sound   and   aesthetics   of   the   album.   The   1989   album   Steel   Wheels   is   often   cited   as   The  Rolling  Stones  great  comeback  album,  but  there  is  a  strong  argument  that  this   accolade   should   really   be   applied   to   Voodoo   Lounge.   Steel   Wheels   was   The   Rolling   Stones   first   digitally   recorded   album,   produced   by   Chris   Kimsey,   and   is   the   album   where   the   Glimmer   Twins   initially   kiss   and   make   up   (sort   of)   after   a   decade   long   feud.   Steel   Wheels   is   without   contention   a   fantastic   Rolling   Stones   album   but   it’s   very  technical,  somewhat  synthetic  and  possibly  over  produced.       The  true  beauty  of  Voodoo  Lounge  is  that  it  captures  some  of  the  organic  sounds  and   feel  of  the  incontestable  classic  Stone’  albums  such  as  the  exceptional  1972  double   album  Exile  On  Main  Street.  Further  intertextual  links  with  the  past  include  the  ‘Lady   Jane’   like   harpsichord   arrangement   of   track   five   ‘New   Faces’   and   Keith's   classic   trademark  ‘Honky  Tonk  Woman’  type  riff  on  the  intro  to  the  opening  track  ‘Love  Is   Strong’.   Could   the   sonic   properties   of   this   album   be   the   result   of   technological   determinism?   Possibly,   because   Don   Was   was/is   an   analogue   producer   and   built   Voodoo   Lounge   from   the   ground   up   with   the   classic,   but   aging,   tools   of   24-­‐track   two   inch  tape.  I  am  definitely  not  going  to  enter  into  a  futile  who  can  piss  up  the  wall  the   highest  debate  here  about  analogue  recording  versus  digital  recording.  What  might   have  made  a  difference  here  are  the  distinctly  different  operational  practices  of  each   medium.  Working  with  analogue  tape  is  a  linear  affair;  tracks  are  laid  onto  the  multi-­‐ track  tape  and  it’s  virtually  impossible  to  cut  and  paste  parts  around.  In  the  digital   audio   workstation   (DAW)   environment   only   small   snippets   of   audio   are   needed   to   construct   tracks   cut   ‘n’   paste   style.   DAW   produced   albums   tend   to   be   of   the   hyperreality   variety   as   opposed   to   the   analogue   organic   variety.   Hyperreality   is   an   aggregate   of   audio   artefacts   and   simulations,   which   either   distorts   the   reality   it   purports  to  depict  or  does  not  in  fact  depict  anything  with  a  real  existence,  at  all,  but   which   nonetheless   comes   to   constitute   a   version   of   reality.   The   Chris   Kimsey   produced  Steel  Wheels  (1989)  album  is  The  Rolling  Stones  first  hyperreal  simulacrum   artefact,   while   the   Don   Was   produced   Voodoo   Lounge   is   their   last   organic   performance  album.    Chris  Kimsey  constructed  a  hyperreal  simulacrum  of  The  Rolling   Stones,   while   Don   Was   captured   a   band   performance.   The   overlap   here   is   very   important.      

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Even  though  Don  Was  is  known  as  a  ‘groove’  merchant  he  unsuspectedly  delivers  a   solid  traditional  rock  ‘n’  roll  album  steeped  in  the  myth,  legend  and  inter-­‐textuality   of  previous  Rolling  Stones  albums.  According  to  Keith  Richards’  autobiography,  Life   (2011),   Don   Was’   approach   to   recording   harkened   back   to   the   traditional   days   of   recording   where   everyone   was   in   the   same   room   playing   together   as   a   stripped   down   band.   It   would   appear   that   Don   Was   walked   the   advocate’s   tightrope   and   masterfully  steered  Jagger  away  from  making  a  groove  Prince  type  album  full  of  cut   ‘n’  paste  drum  machines,  electronic  artefacts  and  synthesisers  and  rooted  the  album   in  The  Rolling  Stones  tradition  of  Keith’s  riffs,  songs  and  playing  as  a  band  again.  As   well   as   being   a   superb   technical   producer,   Don   Was   made   great   use   of   his   advanced   creative  talent  management  skills.  As  a  musical  curator  Don  Was  was  instrumental  in   protecting   The   Rolling   Stones   heritage   and   was   responsible   in   re-­‐building   their   heritage  brand.  Don  Was  made  a  stand  against  postmodernism  and  made  a  salient   connection  to  the  past,  something  that  he  is  not  recognised  for  on  this  album;  but  he   should  be.       Only   the   most   callow   of   rock   fans   would   be   surprised   to   learn   that   by   1994,   the   release   date   of   this   album,   that   the   band   was   fundamentally   an   international   creative  business.  The  wild  excesses  and  seat-­‐of-­‐your-­‐pants  lifestyle  as  documented   in   Robert   Frank’s   unreleased   hard   to   find,   and   unauthorised,   documentary   Cock   Sucker  Blues  (1972)  are  long  gone.  As  a  young  developing  industry  the  60s  and  70s   proved  to  be  the  research  and  development  laboratory  of  the  industry,  as  we  know   it   today.   If   one   were   to   remake   that   film   today,   it   could   well   be   called   Gimme   Tax   Shelter.   Maybe   The   Rolling   Stones   headed   to   Dublin   because   of   tax   breaks,   or   so   Ronnie  Wood  could  go  home  each  night  for  his  tea,  or  maybe  it  was  the  Guinness  or   simply   the   craic?   Simply   listening   to   the   music   on   this   album   it’s   impossible   to   tell   what   contextual   issues   contributed   to   the   making   of   this   album,   but   that   doesn’t   stop  us  hypothesizing.       Voodoo  Lounge  was  an  album  born  out  of  a  major  long  running  disagreement  by  two   supersized  creative  talents  (Jagger  and  Richards).  This  is  a  great  album  because  Don   Was   brings   together   all   the   super-­‐sized   egos   and   provides   a   form   of   conflict   resolution  through  collective  creative  endeavour  and  delivers  an  album  of  fantastic   music.   This   album   is   like   the   long   married   feuding   couple   that   undertake   marriage   guidance,   go   on   holiday   and   produce   a   baby   upon   their   return.   The   only   way   to   appreciate  this  album  is  not  to  listen  to  it  in  its  solitude  but  consider  it  as  an  essential   part  of  the  canon  of  work  that  The  Rolling  Stones  have  gifted  to  us  over  the  last  forty   years.   As   Keith   Richard’s   said   of   this   album   on   The   Rolling   Stones   web   site,   “There   are   songs  that  people  won’t   understand   for   years   .   .  .   and   then   suddenly   they   realise    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   what  we’ve  been  doing”.  The  complete  works  of  The  Rolling  Stones  are  neither  good   nor  bad,  it’s  just  their  work.  They  are  entitled  to  make  exactly  what  they  want,  when   they   want   too   and   how   they   chose   too.   If   anything   Voodoo   Lounge   is   similar   to   a   software  update  e.g.  its  Exile  On  Main  Street  version  2.0  and  that  makes  it  suitable   for  an  album  rescue.       References   Richards,  K  2010,  Life,  Weidenfeld  &  Nicolson,  London,  UK.     Available  from:  .  [31  August  2015].      

 

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)  

‘Big  Thing’  Duran  Duran By  Nick  Wilson The   intersection   of   pop   and   art   is   a   razor’s   edge   fraught   with   accusations,   compromises   and   betrayal.   Many   would   say   the   two   concepts   are   diametrically   opposed.   In  the  1960s  artists  like  Warhol  and  Liechtenstein  brought  us  the  concept  of  ‘pop  art’   but  in  hindsight  it  was  more  an  appropriation  of  pop  imagery  by  high  art  rather  than   any   true   synthesis   of   the   two.   In   the   field   of   rock   and   pop   music,   artists   have   attempted  to  adopt  high  art  concepts  to  enrich  their  work  or  to  give  it  some  extra   allure.  Notable  examples  are  the  1970s  work  of  David  Bowie  or  Roxy  Music.   But  how  are  we  to  judge  the  worth  of  a  band  who  claim  to  synthesise  art  and  pop   but   have   been   derided   throughout   their   career   as   lacking   any   kind   of   artistic   credibility  whatsoever?   Duran   Duran   emerged   out   of   the   post-­‐punk   era   not   just   as   a   successful   pop   band,   but  the  biggest  pop  band  of  the  era.  Referred  to  by  the  press  to  as  “the  Fab  Five”,   their   first   four   albums   were   Platinum   sellers   in   the   UK   and   the   US.   ‘Is   There   Something  I  Should  Know?’,  ‘The  Reflex’  and  ‘A  View  To  A  Kill’  were  among  a  string   of  hits  which  made  it  to  number  #1  on  at  least  one  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It’s  hard  now   to  comprehend  just  how  huge  Duran  Duran  were  during  this  period.  If  you  want  to   get  an  idea  of  just  how  big  a  cultural  phenomenon  they  were  track  down  the  ‘Sing   Blue   Silver’   documentary   for   a   glimpse   behind-­‐the-­‐scenes   of   a   different   era   in   the   music  industry.   Today,  Duran  Duran  have  been  accorded  some  amount  of  grudging  respect  by  many   of  those  who  once  jeered  at  them.  Their  first  three  albums  are,  if  not  always  agreed-­‐ upon   as   classics,   at   least   acknowledged   as   emblematic   pop   albums   of   the   era.   Second   album   Rio   (1982)   is   generally   accepted   as   a   quintessential   new   wave   pop   masterpiece.    But  it  is  not  hard  to  see  why  they  haven’t  been  taken  seriously  in  the   past,   with   the   marketing   of   the   band   rivalling   the   most   manufactured   bands   of   history  in  terms  of  merchandising  (Duran  Duran  boardgame  anyone?),  self-­‐indulgent   lifestyles   and   an   obsession   with   image.   Their   female   teenager   fan   demographic   didn’t   always   inspire   respect   from   serious   male   music   critics   (but   does   the   term   ‘teenybopper’  sound  a  little  condescending  now  though?)  Another  alienating  factor   was   their   sheer   pretension.   As   a   pop   band   they   didn’t   exactly   go   in   for   traditional   songs   about   unrequited   love.   Listen   to   the   1983   hit   ‘Union   of   the   Snake’   as   you    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   watch  the  video  clip  of  them  wandering  around  a  post-­‐apocalyptic  landscape  and  tell   me  what  the  hell  that’s  all  about….   But   can   we   really   say   that   Duran   Duran   are   a   post-­‐punk   band?   They   definitely   emerged  out  of  that  time  and  place.  Between  the  band’s  initial  forming  in  1978  and   the  release  of  their  first  album  in  1981,  a  string  of  line-­‐up  changes  and  solid  gigging   meant   that   they   were   a   tightly-­‐honed   outfit   by   the   time   they   reached   the   public’s   consciousness,  with  much  of  the  experimenting  in  sound  and  style  having  been  done   out   of   view.   Listen   to   their   first   self-­‐titled   album   now   and   there   is   a   clear   stylistic   association   with   other   post-­‐punk   acts   of   the   time,   particularly   those   who   were   making  the  transition  into  the  new  wave  era.  The  sound  of  synthesizers  blended  with   treated   guitar,   a   solid   rhythm   section   and   enigmatic,   slightly-­‐overwrought,   vocals   on   top  would  be  a  description  that  applies  to  Simple  Minds,  Magazine  and  Japan  just  as   much  as  Duran  Duran.    On  their  first  two  albums  the  use  of  new  technology  such  as   synthesizers,  arpeggiators,  sequencers  and  drum  machines  should  have  led  to  them   being   as   acclaimed   as   the   afore-­‐mentioned   acts.   However   they   didn’t   quite   have   Simple  Minds’  experimental  edge,  the  punk  pedigree  of  Magazine  or  the  melancholic   quality   of   Japan.   What   did   they   have   instead?   Certainly   their   music   was   super-­‐ charged   with   adrenaline.   In   John   Taylor   and   Roger   Taylor   they   had   a   formidable   disco-­‐influenced   rhythm   section.   Andy   Taylor   was   a   solid   rock   guitarist   who   was   adaptable  enough  to  modify  his  style  to  fit  a  new  wave  context  where  it  was  blended   perfectly   with   Nick   Rhodes’s   bedrock   of   atmospheric   synthesizer.   And   in   Simon   Le   Bon   they   had   a   singer   whose   stage   presence,   soaring   melodies   and   inscrutable   lyrics   tied  the  whole  thing  together  into  the  perfect  new  wave  pop  package.   Nick  Rhodes  and  John  Taylor,  who  originally  formed  the  band,  often  namedropped   their  heroes  as  being  The  Velvet  Underground,  Bowie  and  Roxy  Music.  In  this  they   are   no   different   from   the   post-­‐punk   artists   mentioned   above.   But   John   Taylor   also   stated  his  aim  for  Duran  Duran  to  be  “Chic  meets  the  Sex  Pistols”.  This  seems  slightly   laughable  when  looking  at  their  early  androgynous  image  and  teenaged  girl  fanbase,   however,   it   is   undeniable   that   the   band   had   an   effective   dance   groove   and   that   a   rock  edge  lay  beneath  the  surface  of  shimmering  synths.     If   you   were   already   a   fan   of   Cabaret   Voltaire   or   Gang   of   Four   by   the   time   the   first   Duran   Duran   records   came   along,   you   were   probably   not   going   to   get   too   excited   by   this   new   pop   manifestation   of   the   post-­‐punk   sound.   But   the   combination   of   experimental   post-­‐punk   sonics   with   solid   funk   grooves,   disco   momentum,   rock   energy  and  pop  sensibility  heard  in  songs  such  as  ‘Girls  on  Film’  or  ‘Hungry  Like  the   Wolf’  deserves  respect  for  its  uniqueness  and  attitude.  It  is  interesting  to  compare   Duran   Duran’s   classic   ballad   ‘Save   a   Prayer’   with   Spandau   Ballet’s   ‘True’.   While    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Spandau   Ballet   jettisoned   all   their   new   wave   baggage   to   achieve   their   mega-­‐hit,   Duran   Duran’s   wobbly   synthesizer   arpeggiation   helps   it   retain   an   aura   of   sonic   otherworldliness.   And   it   does   seem   unfair   that   they   weren’t   able   to   earn   critical   respect   during   this   era   with   tracks   as   innovative   as   ‘To   the   Shore’   from   their   first   album  or  ‘The  Chauffeur’  from  Rio.   In   truth,   Duran   Duran   are   an   exemplar   of   the   phenomenon   whereby   an   artist   emerges   from   an   underground,   left-­‐field   musical   movement   who   is   able   to   rework   its   stylistic   elements   in   such   a   way   that   it   becomes   accessible   to   a   mass   audience.   Often   this   mass   audience   has   no   understanding   of   the   underground   musical   movement  from  whence  their  new  idols  come  and  usually  they  don’t  care.    Elvis,  The   Beatles  and  the  Rolling  Stones  are  among  the  most  obvious  examples  of  this  same   phenomenon.   However,  those  who  live  by  the  charts  die  by  the  charts.  The  pop  business  is  a  brutal   and  unforgiving  one.  As  a  famous  record  company  publicist  once  said,  “Money  talks   and  bullshit  walks”.  Duran  Duran  entered  troubled  waters  in  the  mid-­‐80s.  Knives  had   been   well   and   truly   sharpened   by   the   critics   for   many   years,   however,   mass   adulation  insulated  them  from  any  need  to  care.  The  cracks  started  showing  though   when   the   band   splintered   into   two   high-­‐profile,   stunningly   self-­‐indulgent   side   projects,  The  Power  Station  (a  rock/funk  collaboration  with  Robert  Palmer  and  Chic’s   Tony   Thompson   and   Bernard   Edwards)   and   Arcadia   (an   über-­‐artsy   atmospheric   project).  The  1985  Bond  theme  ‘A  View  to  a  Kill’  was  a  good  attempt  at  putting  the   pieces   back   together   but   the   cracks   ultimately   couldn’t   be   plastered   over.   Roger   Taylor  and  Andy  Taylor  bailed  amidst  artistic  differences  and  recriminations.   The   remaining   three   members,   Simon   Le   Bon,   John   Taylor   and   Nick   Rhodes,   regrouped   and   released   a   new   album   Notorious   in   1986.   While   it   was   a   passable   effort,   Andy   Taylor’s   arrangement   skills   were   missed   and   session   drummer   Steve   Ferrone’s   contributions   were   somewhat   leaden   compared   to   the   propulsive   disco   beats  on  previous  albums.  Like  a  lot  of  new  wave  synth  players  of  the  mid-­‐80s,  Nick   Rhodes  seemed  to  have  traded  all  his  analogue  synths  in  for  newer  digital  models  so   the   band   just   didn’t   have   the   same   sound.   Most   of   all,   Notorious   lacks   the   organic   cohesiveness   of   a   real   band,   with   producer   Nile   Rodgers   seemingly   patching   the   whole  thing  together  and  contributing  most  of  the  guitar  parts.  Although  there  are   some   appealing   tracks,   the   vibe   is   no   longer   that   of   a   British   new   wave   record,   instead   more   akin   to   the   sound   of   an   American   corporate   funk   project,   an   impression  furthered  with  their  new  touring  lineup  augmented  with  a  brass  section.   In  interviews  surrounding  the  release  of  the  album,  the  band  railed  against  the  lack   of   critical   respect   they   had   received,   suggesting   that   with   this   release   they   were    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   moving  into  a  more  adult-­‐oriented  direction.  John  Taylor,  for  example,  claimed  that   Notorious   was   just   as   good   an   album   as   U2’s   The   Joshua   Tree.    And   although   Notorious  certainly  had  respectable  sales  figures,  the  chart  placing  and  sales  weren’t   so  impressive  when  held  up  against  the  previous  releases,  the  album  being  their  first   to  not  achieve  Platinum  in  the  UK.   This   brings   us   to   their   album   Big   Thing,   released   in   1988.   As   discussed   previously,   part  of  Duran  Duran’s  modus  operandi  from  the  start  was  to  take  stylistic  elements   from   underground   post-­‐punk   musical   aesthetics   and   rework   them   within   a   more   accessible   pop   context.   Notorious,   however,   suggested   that   the   band   were   moving   away  from  art  and  towards  AOR  funk,  in  a  search  for  respect  as  credible  musicians.   In  the  history  of  pop  music,  this  has  largely  proven  to  be  a  misguided  move,  leading   to  the  demise  of  artists  such  as  contemporaries  Spandau  Ballet  or  Ultravox,  both  of   whom  blanded  out  into  oblivion.       Big   Thing   continued   the   slide   in   sales   and   chart   position   that   had   begun   with   Notorious.   However   it   is   an   intriguing   album   for   how   it   successfully   manages   to   take   Duran   Duran’s   music   into   new   directions,   reinventing   their   sound   while   remaining   true  to  the  aesthetic  principles  that  had  originally  animated  the  band.   As   noted   previously,   Duran   Duran   were   inspired   by   the   avant-­‐garde   sonic   experimentation  of  post-­‐punk,  the  disco  and  funk  grooves  of  Chic  and  the  direct  rock   energy  of  the  Sex  Pistols,  with  the  gift  of  being  able  to  pull  these  elements  together   into  a  coherent  pop  package.  In  the  late  80s  however,  times  had  changed.  The  new   wave   era   had   blanded   out   with   the   adoption   of   digital   synthesizers   such   as   the   Yamaha   DX7.   Rock   had   become   worthy   and   po-­‐faced   post-­‐Live   Aid.   And   most   importantly  dance  music  was  rapidly  evolving  into  a  completely  new  movement  with   the  influence  of  Chicago  house  and  the  early  stirrings  of  techno  in  Detroit.  Despite   the   scepticism   of   the   serious   rock   press,   Duran   Duran   fancied   themselves   as   both   sonically   innovative   and   inspired   by   the   latest   in   musical   trends.   So   it   was   natural   that  they  would  seek  to  incorporate  these  new  elements  into  their  work  in  a  push  to   find  new  inspiration  and  relevance.   Mid-­‐1988  in  Europe  has  been  called  the  ‘Second  Summer  of  Love’  (although  this  title   has   also   been   used   to   describe   mid-­‐1989),   where   acid   house   was   the   music   of   the   time,   rave   parties   were   the   place   to   be   and   ecstasy   the   drug   of   choice.   When   the   first   taster   from   Duran   Duran’s   new   album   was   released,   the   single   ‘I   Don’t   Want   Your  Love’,  it  was  clear  that  they  had  been  listening  to  these  new  sounds.    

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Whenever  a  successful  and  established  act  adopts  a  new  cutting  edge  musical  style   there   is   the   temptation   to   snigger   and   wonder   who   has   been   advising   them.   The   question   really   is   whether   the   artist   is   able   to   effectively   integrate   the   new   influences  into  their  own  style.  In  the  case  of  ‘I  Don’t  Want  Your  Love’  the  track  gave   a   new   twist   on   familiar   aspects   of   Duran   Duran’s   style.   The   groove   was   certainly   infectious   and   funky,   with   some   inspiration   gained   from   Prince’s   recent   work.   However   it   was   machine-­‐driven,   taking   it   away   from   a   loose   funk   feel   into   the   realm   of   the   most   modern   new   dance   music,   played   by   sequencers   and   drum   machines   with   quantized   precision.   Also   notable   was   a   new   sparseness   in   their   sound.   No   longer  were  Duran  Duran  misguidedly  chasing  an  elusive  goal  of  musical  credibility   by   filling   out   their   tracks   with   the   noodlings   of   session   musos.   Rather   than   filling   the   track  with  brass  and  funk  guitar,  as  per  the  Notorious  album,  or  layers  of  synth  like   their  earlier  albums,  the  groove  was  constructed  from  the  minimal  elements  of  bass,   drums  and  vocals.  When  guitars  and  keyboards  enter  in  the  chorus  as  Le  Bon’s  vocals   jump   into   a   higher   register   the   track   adopts   classic   Duran   Duran   tropes   but   with   a   new  injection  of  club  modernity.  The  lyrics  explored  a  typical  dance  music  theme  -­‐   that  of  the  club  lifestyle  as  a  substitute  for  conventional  human  relationships,  but  Le   Bon’s  delivery,  with  multi-­‐part  harmonies,  is  convincing.  Interestingly,  despite  it  not   being   hugely   successful   as   a   single   in   the   UK,   it   was   a   massive   hit   in   Italy,   long   a   bastion  of  the  latest  disco  and  house  styles.     The   second   single   from   Big   Thing,   ‘All   She   Wants   Is’,   continued   with   the   stripped-­‐ back   modern   club   sound.   The   dark   synth-­‐bassline   and   rolling   TR909   hand-­‐claps   provided   another   minimal   groove   but   this   time   the   sound   was   clearly   aligned   with   the   emerging   acid   house   style.   The   backing   vocals   were   triggered   from   a   sampler,   cut-­‐up  and  rendered  proudly  artificial,  with  sampled  breaths  and  vocalisations  used   as  drum  and  percussion  sounds.  Here  Duran  Duran  continued  to  back  away  from  the   sterile   AOR   musicianship   of   Notorious,   their   experiments   with   new   technology   and   styles   producing   something   genuinely   arresting.   And   rather   than   ramp   it   up   in   the   chorus,   the   musical   elements   are   stripped   back   to   the   bare   minimum   before   the   layers  of  sound  are  brought  back  in.  Yes,  the  chorus  was  sung  in  a  monotone  rather   than  the  usual  soaring  Duran  melody,  but  this  was  club  music  after  all,  with  classic   club  music  arrangement  principles.   It  is  worth  noting  the  timeline  of  other  artists  whose  names  are  forever  linked  with   British  house  music  of  this  time.  ‘I  Don’t  Want  Your  Love’  was  released  in  September   1988,  with  the  Big  Thing  album  coming  out  the  following  month.  Yes,  this  was  four   months   after   S’Express   released   ‘Theme   From   S’Express’   and   two   months   after   Yazz’s   ‘The   Only   Way   Is   Up’   but   it   preceded   Humanoid’s   ‘Stakker   Humanoid’   by   a   couple  of  months  while  Soul  II  Soul’s  run  of  hits  didn’t  begin  until  the  following  year.    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   Nobody  would  claim  that  Duran  Duran  invented  acid  house,  but  this  was  a  credible   demonstration   that   the   band   were   inspired   by   and   absorbing   influences   from   the   vanguard   of   new   musical   styles.   As   we   have   seen   with   their   earlier   new   wave   records,   the   band’s   strength   was   its   ability   to   be   at   the   forefront   of   new   musical   movements   hitting   the   mainstream   consciousness.   Exploring   club   music   also   gave   the   band   the   opportunity   to   integrate   those   elements   which   the   band   had   always   been   exploring,   i.e.   sonic   experimentation,   the   latest   music   technology   and   club   grooves  derived  from  black  urban  music.     The  other  track  on  Big  Thing  with  a  clear  house  music  sound  is  ‘Drug’.  Here  Duran   Duran  took  on  the  Chicago  House  style  straight  without  much  in  the  way  of  filtering   or  reworking.  It  is  the  most  American-­‐sounding  track  on  the  album,  with  house  piano   and  backing  vocals  propelling  it  forward  with  high-­‐energy  momentum.  It  works  but  is   one   song   on   Big   Thing,   which   hasn’t   aged   so   well.   It   is   worth   checking   out   the   alternative  Daniel  Abrahams  mix  of  this  track,  which  was  reportedly  preferred  by  the   band   but   rejected   by   the   record   label,   as   an   indicator   of   Duran   Duran’s   overall   intentions  with  the  Big  Thing  album.  This  version  is  a  lot  more  stripped-­‐back  with  a   chunky  synth-­‐bass  line  brought  to  the  fore.   The  house  sound  is  however,  only  one  element  of  what  is  possibly  the  most  multi-­‐ faceted  album  of  the  band’s  career.  Big  Thing  opens  with  the  title  track  -­‐  a  call-­‐and-­‐ response  anthem  which  is  catchy  and  attention-­‐grabbing  even  if  we’re  not  sure  quite   what  it’s  all  about.  In  some  ways  it  provides  a  bridge  between  listener  expectations   derived   from   their   previous   work   and   the   new   club   styles   to   follow.   As   the   track   moves   to   a   conclusion,   the   guitar   work   becomes   steadily   more   discordant   with   sliding   feedback   tones   howling   in   the   background.   Here   is   one   of   the   first   notable   contributions  from  Warren  Cuccurullo  who  would  become  a  pivotal  element  in  the   Duran  Duran  story  for  the  next  decade.   Warren   Cuccurullo   was   an   acolyte   of   Frank   Zappa,   joining   his   band   in   the   late   70s   to   tour   extensively   and   play   on   several   of   his   albums   from   that   era.   Later   Cuccurullo   formed  the  New  Wave  band  Missing  Persons,  today  most  remembered  for  their  hit   ‘Words’.  Fancying  himself  a  more  interesting  guitarist  than  Andy  Taylor,  Cuccurullo   jumped   at   the   chance   to   join   Duran   Duran,   believing   that   the   band   hadn’t   as   yet   achieved   its   true   potential   in   experimental   approaches   to   pop   music   production.   Initially  contributing  session  work  on  Notorious,  his  playing  is  a  major  feature  of  Big   Thing  and  he  subsequently  joined  the  band  as  a  full-­‐time  member.  In  addition  to  the   title  track,  Cuccurullo’s  guitar  is  heard  to  excellent  effect  on  ‘All  She  Wants  Is’,  where   the   guitar   solo   is   a   feature   yet   somehow   doesn’t   detract   from   the   track’s   club   credentials,   and   the   album’s   closing   instrumental   ‘Lake   Shore   Driving’,   where   a    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   feedback-­‐driven   freakout   over   a   mid-­‐tempo   funk   jam-­‐out   suddenly   cuts   out   mid-­‐ beat.   So  these  are  the  two  extremes  of  Big  Thing,  the  acid  and  Chicago  house  influences  of   the   lead   singles   and   tracks   which   explore   sonically-­‐driven   experimental   rock.   The   beauty   of   the   album   is   that   these   styles   sit   comfortably   under   a   creatively   reinvigorated   Duran   Duran   banner.   There   is   however   a   third   strand   to   the   album.   ‘Too  Late  Marlene’,  ‘Palomino’,  ‘Land’  and  ‘The  Edge  of  America’  are  beautiful  and   haunting   ballads,   evocative   and   restrained,   full   of   atmosphere,   melancholia   and   space.   The   adventurous   sonic   details,   such   as   the   atonal   synth   solo   in   ‘Palomino’,   stop   them   from   ever   veering   too   far   into   easy-­‐listening   territory.   There   is   also   a   maturity   evident   in   these   tracks   which   the   band   had   been   searching   for   recently   but   only  glimpsed  fleetingly  on  Notorious.  These  tracks  are  weighted  towards  the  second   half  of  the  album,  so  there  is  a  clear  vinyl-­‐format  conceptual  structure;  a  natural  flow   from  the  high-­‐energy  club  sounds  on  Side  A  to  the  introspective  come-­‐down  of  Side   B.     As   a   lyricist   Simon   Le   Bon   has   certainly   had   his   fair   share   of   detractors.   He   comes   from   the   new   wave   era’s   surrealist-­‐inspired   school   of   lyric-­‐writing   and   the   words   often   don’t   hold   up   to   closer   scrutiny.   But   mention   should   be   made   of   Big   Thing’s   third   single   ‘Do   You   Believe   in   Shame?’   Certainly   it’s   not   great   poetry,   but   it   is   poignant   and   heart-­‐felt,   as   the   best   pop   lyrics   can   be,   and   one   of   Le   Bon’s   finest   hours.   Big   Thing   also   marks   perhaps   Duran   Duran’s   last   album   where   Le   Bon   was   able   to   effortlessly   breathe   great   melodies.   Although   there   were   still   some   great   moments   ahead   of   him,   later   Duran   Duran   releases   seem   to   be   intermittently   grasping  and  scratching  for  the  right  vocal  hooklines.     Big  Thing  is  unlikely  to  win  over  those  who  never  liked  Duran  Duran  in  the  first  place.   But  to  those  who  have  a  fondness  for  the  classic  Duran  Duran  days  and  missed  this   release,  I’d  urge  you  to  check  it  out,  similarly  if  you  are  interested  in  the  acid  house   era  of  British  dance  music  and  its  permeation  into  pop  music.  Is  Big  Thing  great  art   or  great  pop?  That  really  depends  on  whether  you  believe  pop  can  be  a  vehicle  for   experimentation,   risk   and   a   search   for   new   ways   of   expressing   ideas   sonically.   We   can  at  least  agree  that  a  mainstream  pop  act  risks  its  position  in  the  charts  when  it   rejects  its  tried-­‐and-­‐true  formula  to  explore  something  new.   It  is  easy  to  overlook  Big  Thing  as  a  blip  in  the  decline  of  just  another  pop  band.    The   arc  of  pop  music  is  generally  seen  as  one  of  rapid  rise  and  fall.  At  this  point  in  British   pop   history   artists   of   even   more   ruthlessness   and   cunning,   such   as   Bros   and   the   Stock-­‐Aitken-­‐Waterman  juggernaut,  were  circling.  With  Big  Thing  Duran  Duran,  one    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   of   the   hugest   of   all   pop   bands   now   written   off   as   on   their   downward   trajectory,   made   a   surprisingly   inspired   record   of   innovation   and   beauty,   taking   in   new   influences,  reinventing  their  style  for  a  new  era  and  challenging  themselves  and  their   audience  in  the  process.    

 

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‘This  Is  Big  Audio  Dynamite’  Big  Audio  Dynamite   By  Tim  Dalton   Its  1985:  Ronald  Regan  is  president;  Margret  Thatcher  is  Prime  Minister,  monetarism   rules,  capitalism  is  king,  the  miners  are  on  strike,  rubbish  is  piled  high  in  the  streets   and   This   Is   Big   Audio   Dynamite.   Despite   what   many   people   think,   Joe   Strummer   wasn’t   the   perfect   human   being.   Joe   made   some   huge   mistakes   in   life,   no   one’s   perfect.  Probably  his  biggest  mistake  was  firing  Mick  Jones  from  The  Clash.  Later  in   life   Joe   did   admit   that   the   one   great   regret   he   had   in   life   was   firing   Mick   Jones   as   he   fully  appreciated  that  this  single  action  effectively  finished  the  band.  Like  exiting  any   bad   relationship   the   sense   of   release   can   be   overwhelming   and   often   results   in   extreme   experimentation.   In   Mick’s   case   this   led   to   a   very   brief   period   with   The   Beat’s   Ranking   Roger   and   Dave   Wakeling’s   new   band,   General   Public.   My   ex-­‐ classmate   of   Kelvin   Hall   High   School   (Hull),   Roland   Gift,   was   responsible   for   taking   bassist   David   Steele   and   guitarist   Andy   Cox   from   The   Beat   to   form   his   new   band   The   Fine   Young   Cannibals.   A   classic   case   of   one   door   closing   and   another   one   opening.   The   analogy   here   is   that   it’s   very   similar   to   dating   a   young   inappropriate   girlfriend   after   a   long   marriage.   It’s   great   fun   for   a   couple   of   hot   dates   but   it’s   certainly   not   going  to  constitute  a  long-­‐term  meaningful  relationship.  After  this  short  affair  Jones   formed   Top   Risk   Action   Company   (TRAC)   with   some   former   collaborators   including   Clash  drummer  Nicky  ‘Topper’  Headon.  This  collaboration  soon  fizzled  out  partly  due   to  that  old  uninvited  guest,  heroin.     The   antecedents   of   This   Is   Big   Audio   Dynamite’s   experimental   funk   elements   were   beta   tested   on   The   Clash's   Sandinista   and   Combat   Rock   albums.   Working   collaboratively  with  Jones  on  B.A.D.  were  video  artist  and  long  time  Clash  associate,   friend   and   filmmaker   Don   Letts   (samples   and   vocals),   Greg   Roberts   (drums),   Dan   Donovan   (keyboards),   and   Leo   ‘E-­‐Zee   Kill’   Williams   (bass).   Another   important   ingredient   of   the   mix   was   Basin   Street   Studio’s   sound   engineer   Paul   ‘Groucho’   Smykle,   B.A.D.’s   very   own   ‘dread   at   the   controls.’   Smykle   had   a   serious   dub   mentality,  having  previously  worked  with  the  likes  of  Black  Uhuru  and  Linton  Kwesi   Johnson.   Adding   samplers,   dance   tracks,   and   movie   sounds   to   Jones'   concise   pop   songwriting,   B.A.D.   debuted   on   record   with   the   single   ‘The   Bottom   Line’   in   September   1985   and   the   album   This   Is   Big   Audio   Dynamite   later   that   year.   The   singles  ‘E=MC ’ and  ‘Medicine  Show’  became  sizable  hits  in  England,  and  reached  the   dance  charts  in  America.  The  album  did  not  sell  well,  only  reaching  number  27  in  the   UK  charts  and  a  lowly  103  in  the  USA.     2

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   This  Is  Big  Audio  Dynamite  is  a  futurist  piece  of  modernist  audio  art  terrorism.  As  is   often  the  case  with  modernism,  what  was  once  forward-­‐looking  seems  inextricably   tied  to  its  time.  It  had  one  foot  in  the  present  and  the  other  firmly  in  the  future.  The   clanking   electro   rhythms,   Sergio   Leone   samples,   chicken-­‐scratch   guitars,   bleating   synths,  and  six-­‐minute  songs  of  This  Is  Big  Audio  Dynamite  evoke  1985  in  a  way  few   other   records   do.   This   is   definitely   not   a   criticism;   on   the   contrary   1985   is   a   good   year   for   me   as   my   son   was   born   this   year,   definitely   the   single   greatest   significant   event  of  my  life.  Any  record  that  captures  the  zeitgeist  of  1985,  by  my  reckoning,  is  a   good   one.   Big   Audio   Dynamite’s   (B.A.D.)   boldness   remains   impressive,   even   visionary,  pointing  toward  the  cut  and  paste  post-­‐modern  masterpieces  of  the  late   1980’s   and   early   1990’s.   Breaking   new   ground   opens   up   the   creative   highway   for   other  artists  to  follow.     One   reason   that   this   album   took   some   flak   is   that   it   doesn’t   sound   like   The   Clash.   B.A.D.   could   never   fully   escape   from   the   long   shadow   cast   by   The   Clash.   We   shouldn’t  think  badly  of  this  album  for  that  reason.  If  anything  Jones  builds  on  the   foundations  he  laid  with  the  Clash,  he  was  prepared  to  move  on  and  develop.  At  the   time   of   its   release   This   Is   Big   Audio   Dynamite   sounded   like   the   future,   it   was   a   soothsayer  for  what  to  expect  for  the  next  two  decades.  B.A.D.’s  philosophy  was  to   utilize   all   the   elements   of   the   media   to   create   a   fuller   sound   and   write   songs   that   were   about   something.   A   combination   of   New   York   beats,   Jamaican   bass,   English   rock   ‘n’   roll   guitars   and   dialogue   from   spaghetti   westerns   and   Nick   Roeg   films   all   found   a   place   on   this   album.   Mick   Jones   did   not   abandon   his   innate   gift   for   hooks,   if   anything,  he  found  new  ways  to  create  rhythmic  hooks  as  well  as  melodic  ones,  it’s   quite   accessible   for   an   album   that   is,   at   its   core,   a   piece   of   modernist   avant-­‐garde   rock.   This   Is   Big   Audio   Dynamite   is   the   album   that   The   Clash   should   have   released   as   the   follow   up   to   their   last   album   Combat   Rock   but   didn’t.   It   certainly   stands   as   a   monument  to  the  times  and  as  a  musical  signpost  for  the  way  things  were  heading.     Mick  Jones  and  film/documentary  maker  Don  Letts  are  both  visual  artists  to  varying   degrees.  Jones  always  had  a  keen  eye  for  fashion  and  visuals,  his  influence  upon  The   Clash,   and   in   particular   the   notoriously   scruffy   Joe   Strummer,   was   instrumental   in   their  look.  Letts’  scopophilic  regime  was  to  view  the  world  as  though  it  was  through   a  movie  camera  lens.  In  an  article  for  The  Sabotage  Times  (2011),  Letts  recounts  that   during   the   writing   of   the   album   (and   with   Jones’   guidance)   he   had   thrown   himself   into   co-­‐writing   lyrics,   which   he   approached   in   the   same   way   as   writing   a   script   or   treatment   for   a   film.   With   Jones’   wide-­‐screen   vision   for   the   band,   the   songs   soon   took  on  a  cinematic  quality.  The  songs  featured  heavy  sampling  of  film  dialogue.  A   good   example   is   the   6   minute   31   second   opening   track   ‘Medicine   Show’   which   effectively  sets  the  scene  of  the  rest  of  the  album,  "Wanted  in  fourteen  counties  of   168    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   this   State,   the   condemned   is   found   guilty   of   crimes   of   murder,   armed   robbery   of   citizens,   state   banks   and   post   offices,   the   theft   of   sacred   objects,   arson   in   a   state   prison,   perjury,   bigamy,   deserting   his   wife   and   children,   inciting   prostitution,   kidnapping,   extortion,   receiving   stolen   goods,   selling   stolen   goods,   passing   counterfeit   money,   and   contrary   to   the   laws   of   this   State,   the   condemned   is   guilty   of   using  marked  cards.  .  .  Therefore,  according  to  the  powers  vested  in  us,  we  sentence   the  accused  before  us,  Tuco  Benedicto  Pacifico  Juan  Maria  Ramirez  ('Known  as  The   Rat')  and  any  other  aliases  he  might  have,  to  hang  by  the  neck  until  dead.  May  God   have   mercy   on   his   soul.   .   .   Proceed".   This   whole   scene   is   re-­‐appropriated   from   the   1966   film   The   Good,   The   Bad   And   The   Ugly.   As   writer,   arranger   and   producer   of   this   album,   Jones   is   aware   that   the   songs   must   be   able   to   support   this   heavy   use   of   sampling.   Songs   on   this   album   are   constructed   in   such   a   way   that   in   the   words   of   Bob  Dylan  (Heylin,  2010),  “a  song  is  anything  that  can  walk  by  itself”.     Jones   brings   at   least   one   Clash   track   with   him;   track   four,   ‘The   Bottom   Line’.   In   its   Clash   form   this   song   was   called   ‘Trans   Clash   Free   Pay   One’,   much   better   with   it’s   re-­‐ titling.    Rick  Rubin  loved  this  track  so  much  that  he  produced  a  12”  re-­‐mix,  which  was   released  on  his  Def  Jam  label.  I  am  sure  that  The  Clash’s  1981,  17-­‐day  residency  in   support   of   their   Sandinista   album   at   Bonds   Warehouse   in   New   York   City   provided   Jones   with   material   aplenty.   Jones   is   the   classic   autodidactic,   someone   who   has   learned  a  subject  without  the  benefit  of  a  teacher  or  formal  education.  Jones  took   much  of  the  same  raw  material  that  influenced  hip-­‐hop  artists,  such  as  The  Beastie   Boys,   and   processed   it   in   his   own   special   way.   I   don’t   think   there’s   anyone   who   would  dispute  the  claim  that  the  Clash  where  musical  pioneers.     This  Is  Big  Audio  Dynamite  could  be  offered  as  evidence  in  support  of  the  argument   that  B.A.D.  were  far  more  forward  thinking,  cutting  edge  and  perhaps  more  of  their   time,   than   Jones's   previous   band.   They   were   much   less   confined   by   the   Stalinist   constraints   of   punk   rock   and   were   determined   to   try   and   shake   off   The   Clash's   formidable   legacy.   Mick   Jones,   the   member   who   brought   hip-­‐hop   beats   into   the   Clash’s  repertoire  and  wrote  their  sole  No.  1  hit  single,  set  out  to  create  a  new  sound   that   employed   the   emerging   technologies   used   by   dance   and   rap   music.   He   could   have  simply  formed  a  crap  Clash  cover  band,  like  Joe  Strummer  did,  but  he  made  a   decisive   decision   not   to.   Spoken   in   the   best   spaghetti   western   voice   of   Clint   Eastwood,  “For  this  reason,  consider  this  album  well  and  truly  rescued”.              

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   References Gray,  M  1995,  Last  Gang  in  Town:  The  Story  and  Myth  of  The  Clash.  Fourth  Estate,   London,  UK.   Heylin,  C  2010.  Revolution  in  the  air:  The  songs  of  Bob  Dylan,  1957-­‐1973.  Constable   &  Robinson  Ltd,  London,  UK.   Letts,   D   &   Jones,   M    2011,   Big   Audio   Dynamite's   Notes   From   The   Frontline.   Sabotage   Times.   Available   from:   .   [15   September   2015].  

   

 

 

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‘License  To  Ill’  The  Beastie  Boys   By  Tim  Dalton   It’s   1986   and   I   am   a   fresh-­‐faced   skinny   23   year   old.   I’m   working   for   Roadstar   PA   Systems   of   Sheffield   who   are   located   in   the   Socialist   republic   of   South   Yorkshire   (sic)   in   the   UK.   Roadstar   are   the   new   upstart   audio   hire   company   supplying   large   concert   PA  systems  to  international  rock  ‘n  roll  bands  like  The  Eurythmics,  The  Alarm,  Runrig   and  a  host  of  other  bands  that  have  long  since  disappeared  into  obscurity.  I’d  only   worked  for  this  company  for  18  months  when  I’m  told  my  next  tour  will  be  a  Def  Jam   Recordings’   package   tour   of   Europe   featuring;   Run   DMC,   Whodini,   LL   Cool   J   and   The   Beastie   Boys.   Back   in   1986   very   few   people,   me   included,   had   heard   of   Def   Jam   Recordings   and   I   remember   being   very   disappointed   that   my   boss   at   Roadstar   had   assigned  me  to  this  tour.  I  was  bottom  of  the  heap  on  the  audio  crew,  my  job  was  to   set  up  and  pack  down  the  audio  equipment  and  I  didn’t  even  get  to  touch  a  mixing   console,  never  mind  mix  a  band.  On  paper  this  wasn’t  a  very  appealing  gig,  in  fact  it   sucked   big   time.   The   ‘bands’   weren’t   actual   bands   but   one   bloke   playing   some   records,  with  one  or  two,  or  in  the  case  of  The  Beastie  Boys,  three  blokes  shouting   over   the   top   of   these   beats.   The   first   show   was   two   nights   at   the   Hammersmith   Odeon  in  London  on  Friday  12th  and  Saturday  13th  September  1986.  Because  I’d  left   school  at  the  age  of  16  my  education  was  extremely  limited  and  I  didn't  know  that   the   name   Odeon  was   the   name   used   to   describe   ancient  Greek  and  Roman  buildings   built  specifically  for  music;  singing  exercises,  musical  shows  and  poetry  competitions.   With   39   years   of   hindsight,   and   lots   of   expensive   education   behind   me,   the   name   seems  very  apt.  In  Europe,  back  in  the  mid  80s,  Hip  Hop  music  was  a  relatively  new   phenomenon,   and   as   with   anything   new,   it   was   largely   misunderstood   and   mistreated  by  the  media.     Rap   music’s   antecedents   lie   in   various   storytelling   forms   of   popular   music   such   as   talking   blues,   spoken   passages   in   gospel   music,   and   the   call   and   response   of   field   music.   Its   more   direct   formative   influences   came   from   the   1960s,   with   reggae   DJs   toasting   over   strong   bass   beats,   and   stripped   down   styles   of   funk   music,   most   notably   James   Brown’s   use   of   ‘stream-­‐of-­‐consciousness’   raps   over   elemental   funk   beats.  Initially  this  was  part  of  New  York’s  dance  scene  where  it  had  morphed  out  of   block   parties   at   which   DJs   played   percussive  breaks   of   popular   songs   using   two   turntables   to   extend   the   breaks.   Black   and   Hispanic   kids   would   competitively   ‘rap’   over  these  breaks  to  gain  kudos  in  their  neighbourhoods.  You  can  see  the  appeal  of   this   music   in   Thatcher’s   unfair,   unjust   urban   locations.   Zeitgeist;   there’s   that   word   again;  it  appears  in  almost  every  Album  Rescue  Series  entry.  Two  sold  out  nights  at    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   London’s   3,500   capacity   rock   venue;   the   Hammersmith   Odeon,   was   pretty   impressive   by   four   new   unheard   of   New   York   ‘bands’   signed   to   an   unknown   obscure   niche  record  label.  Due  to  trouble  outside  the  venue  before  and  after  these  shows,   Hammersmith   Odeon   refused   to   host   any   more   rap   groups   for   several   years   afterwards.  This  is  a  pattern  of  events  would  follow  us  around  the  world  for  the  next   few  years.   At   the   production   rehearsal,   held   early   afternoon   before   the   first   show,   we   had   a   pretty   big   problem.   Last   band   on   the   bill,   The   Beastie   Boys,   had   taken   an   instant   dislike   to   Roger   ‘the   Hippy’   who   was   supposed   to   be   mixing   their   front   of   house   sound.  Roger  came  with  the  PA  system  and  had  a  pretty  impressive  track  record  of   mixing   bands   like   Nils   Lofgren   and   Katrina   and   The   Waves.   This   palmares   did   not   impress   the   Beastie   Boys   and   it   was   obvious   that   Roger’s   unfamiliarity   of   this   new   genre   was   problematic.   Just   before   doors,   The   Beastie   Boys   hit   the   stage   for   their   sound  check.  It  was  like  a  gigantic  chaotic  atom  bomb  going  off.  DJ  Mix  Master  Mike   was   dropping   some   huge   phat   beats   at   a   ridiculous   high   volume   while   the   already   sloppy  drunk  MCA,  Ad  Rock  and  Mike  D  start  running  around  the  stage  screaming,   “turn  this  shit  up”.  It  was  powerful,  chaotic,  and  primeval,  it  was  also  kind  of  scary  in   an   aggressive   way   and   as   a   punk   rocker   I   relished   every   single   second   of   it.   In   complete   opposition   sound   engineer   Roger   was   not   enjoying   a   single   second   of   it   and   he   tried   to   control   this   chaotic   shambles   by   asking,   “Could   the   lad   in   the   red   cap   please  give  some  level  on  the  radio  mic  and  the  rest  of  you  please  shut  up”?  I  stood   at  the  side  of  the  stage  like  a  punk  rock  Aristotle  watching  this  epic  Greek  tragedy   unfold   when   Mike   D   (the   lad   in   the   red   cap)   grabs   hold   of   me   and   screams,   “Yo   homie,  you  know  how  to  mix  mutha-­‐fucking  sound  right?”  Indeed  I  “mutha-­‐fucking”   did   and   on   the   spot   they   tumultuously   fire   Roger   and   promote   me   to   front   of   house   engineer.   Result!   I’m   only   23   and   now   the   front   of   house   engineer   for   the   most   exciting   band   on   the   planet.   A   few   months   later,   in   1987,   I’m   re-­‐united   with   The   Beastie   Boys   when   we   embark   on   their   headline   world   tour   to   support   the   newly   released  debut  album  License  To  Ill.  I  guess  these  guys  liked  my  attitude.  I  spent  the   next   few   years   of   my   life   touring   the   world   as   live   sound   engineer   for   The   Beastie   Boys   and   that   made   me   very   happy   indeed.   My   personal   mantra   has   always   been   “do  what  you  love  and  love  what  you  do”.  It  started  that  day  and  I’ve  stuck  to  it.   So   why   this   album   rescue;   everybody   loves   this   album   and   has   fond   memories   of   it?   With  over  10  million  albums  sold,  it’s  an  undeniable  retail  success.  Granted  it  took  30   years   for   the   album   to   achieve   its   Diamond   status,   but   that's   a   considerable   number   of   albums   to   shift   by   anyone’s   standards.   Not   only   did   the   punters   buy   it   by   the   truckload,  but  the  music  press  loved  it  too  as  did  lots  of  radio  stations.  Licenced  to  Ill   was  the  first  rap  album  to  reach  number  one  on  the  USA’s  billboard  charts  and  it’s    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   the   eighth   best   selling   rap   album   of   all   time   (Music   Times,   2015).   This   pattern   repeated   all   over   the   world   although   huge   sales   do   not   constitute   a   great   album   alone.     Surely  all  of  these  metrics  prove  that  this  album  is  not  in  need  of  an  album  rescue?   OK,   I’m   pushing   the   boundaries   here.   This   is   not   so   much   an   album   rescue,   as   a   critical  reappraisal,  which  is  a  rescue  of  sorts.  With  this  album  Mike  D,  Ad  Rock,  the   late   MCA   and   their   record   company,   Def   Jam   Recordings,   pulled   off   the   greatest   post-­‐modern   Rock   ’n’   Roll   Swindle   of   all   time.   Licensed   To   Ill   remains   the   most   creative   and   intelligent   post   modern   parody   ever   created   in   any   creative   medium.   There   I’ve   said   it.   When   The   Beasties   Boys   rap   about   drinking,   robbing,   rhyming,   partying,   fighting,   pillaging   and   brass   monkeys,   we   should   really   contextualise   this   subject   matter   through   the   lens   of   situation   ethics.   The   father   of   situation   ethics,   Joseph   Fletcher   (1966)   stated,   “all   laws   and   rules   and   principles   and   ideals   and   norms,  are  only  contingent,  only  valid  if  they  happen  to  serve  love”.  This  album  was   definitely  born  out  of  love  and  I  believe  that  it’s  almost  impossible  to  be  critical  of   anything  created  out  of  love.  In  situation  ethics,  right  and  wrong  depend  upon  the   situation.   There   are   no   universal   moral   rules   or   rights,   each   case   is   unique   and   deserves  a  unique  solution.  As  with  other  great  parodies  e.g.  David  Bowie’s  (1967)   The   Laughing   Gnome,   a   parody   of   Anthony   Newley,   the   artist   needs   to   fully   understand  and  love  the  material  that  they  are  engaging  with.     Maybe   the   correct   way   to   rescue   this   album   is   to   re-­‐imagine,   re-­‐evaluate   and   re-­‐ contextualise  it?  Through  this  process  we  can  construct  an  alternative  discourse  to   the   commonly   miss   held   one.   The   buffoonery   and   cartoon   controversy   normally   associated   with   this   album   can   be   dispelled   and   instead   I’d   like   to   reposition   this   album,  as  a  deeply  intelligent  work  of  art,  created  by  artists  not  fools.  Granted  the   creators   don’t   do   themselves   any   favours   with   their   postmodern   slapstick   shtick   parody.   As   with   all   postmodern   texts   it’s   all   about   surface,   hedonism   and   fun   devoid   of   any   substantial   meaning,   which   is   why   most   people   don’t   fully   appreciate   this   album.   Licensed   To   Ill   is   a   remarkable   ironic   marriage   of   heavy   metal   guitars,   funk   beats   and   edgy   poetic   rap   lyrics.   Hand   crafted   under   the   tutelage   of   producer   and   Def  Jam  Recordings  founder  Rick  Rubin,  this  album  is  a  substantial  ground-­‐breaking   piece  of  historical  work.     Rap  music  was  not  supposed  to  be  made  by  rich  privileged  upper  class  Jewish  kids.   Had   they   played   by   the   rules   then   they   would   have   become   the   stereotypical   doctors,   lawyers,   dentists,   accountants   or   even   presidential   candidates.   But   their   privilege   and   education   provided   the   cultural   capital   fuel   that   ignites   this   album.   Having   an   acute   understanding   and   passion   for   different   subcultures,   pop   culture,    

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   jokes,   music,   fashion   and   art   all   provided   the   foundational   material   on   which   this   album   was   built.   The   traditional   elements   of   rap,   such   as   guns,   ghettos,   money,   hoes,   sex   and   drugs   are   largely   eschewed   or   at   least   re-­‐appropriated   via   intoxicating   creative  wordplay.  Their  parody  was  so  impenetrable  and  utterly  convincing  that  it   wasn't   immediately   apparent   that   their   obnoxious,   misogynistic,   hedonistic   patter   was   a   consciously   constructed   part   of   their   collective   persona.   Luckily   for   us   the   passing   years   have   clarified   that   this   album   was   a   huge   postmodern   joke   made   all   the  funnier  by  those  taken  in  by  the  joke  or  completely  unaware  of  the  joke.     This   album   is   a   classic   example   of   what   French   anthropologist   Claude   Lévi   Strauss   termed  “bricolage”  (Strauss  1962,  p.13).  This  album  is  the  sound  of  The  Beastie  Boys   acting  as  classic  bricoleurs.  They  are  taking  some  very  specific  symbolic  objects  such   as  music,  language,  clothing,  appearance  and  forming  a  unified  signifying  system  in   which  these  ‘borrowed’  materials  take  on  a  new  and  more  powerful  significance.  Not   only  is  the  notion  of  bricolage  at  play  in  their  music,  but  it’s  also  at  play  (literally)  in   items   such   as   VW   car   badges,   clothing   and   even   their   language   e.g.   the   use   of   the   word   “homie”   as   a   shortened   version   of   “home   boy”.   Criticism   about   The   Beastie   Boys’  lack  of  conviction  and  authenticity  abounded  at  the  time.  They  were  unfairly   compared  to  the  punk  rockers  that  a  decade  before  them  had  taken  to  the  streets  to   hurl   bricks   at   the   riot   police.   They   consciously   understood   that   punk   rock   had   achieved  zero  and  that  the  youth  of  the  mid  1980s  was  not  prepared  to  face  the  tear   gas   and   baton   charges.   Instead   The   Beastie   Boys   instigated   a   much   more   effective   covert   semiotic   guerrilla   war   and   it   was   all   expertly   delivered   under   the   cloaking   device   of   extreme   parody.   Their   work   on   this   album   and   every   other   album   they   have  made  is  intellectual,  inter-­‐textual,  is  constantly  in  dialogue  with  other  forms  of   cultural   expression   and   it   can   only   be   fully   appreciated   when   it   is   located   in   its   original  context,  which  is  in  the  mid  1980s.     Listening  to  the  cajoling  rhymes  of  this  album  in  2015,  filled  with  clear  parodies  and   absurdities,   it's   difficult   to   imagine   the   offense   that   many   people   took   back   in   the   1980s.  This  is  one  of  the  funniest  and  most  infectious  albums  ever  made  and  it’s  all   articulated  via  the  gonzo  literation  of  some  posh  bratty  Jewish  kids  from  New  York   who  in  all  probability  are  much  cleverer  than  we  are.  The  parody  of  this  album  is  not   offensive  to  the  traditional  black  rappers;  instead  it  points  its  undercover  barb  at  frat   college   jocks   and   lager   louts;   the   people   who   bought   the   album.   Their   hedonistic   beer   soaked   version   of   life   was   intoxicatingly   aspirational,   in   an   alternative   way,   and   made   to   look   very   appealing   via   their   gleeful   delivery.   The   subject   matter   of   this   album   is   completely   contradictory   to   the   dominant   mid   1980’s   monetarist   aspirations  because  it  celebrates  the  very  conditions  of  its  enforced  leisure;  namely   boredom,   meaninglessness,   dehumanisation,   commodity   fetishism,   repetition,   174    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   fragmentation  and  superficiality.  Track  seven,  the  huge  worldwide  mega  hit  of  ‘Fight   For  Your  Right  (To  Party)’,  is  the  personification  of  their  new  worldview.     The  mid  1980s  were  a  time  of  money,  MTV,  excess  and  spring  break  in  warm  sunny   nirvanas   such   as   Panama   City   and   Daytona   Beach.   ‘Fight   For   Your   Right   (To   Party)’   was  originally  intended  to  be  a  parody  of  popular  party  rock  songs  of  the  time  like   Twisted   Sister’s   ‘I   Wanna   Rock’,   although   that   intent   was   seemingly   lost   on   the   audience.  It’s  as  if  The  Beastie  Boys  where  insider  dealers  (something  that  was  also   popular   in   the   mid   1980’s)   and   were   poking   fun   at   their   own   kind.   Just   sampling   and   scratching   Black   Sabbath   and   Led   Zeppelin   to   hip-­‐hop   beats   does   not   make   for   an   automatically  good  record,  though  there  is  definitely  a  visceral  thrill  to  hearing  those   muscular  riffs  put  into  super  serious  overdrive.  Their  artistry  wasn’t  just  confined  to   the  writing  and  recording  of  the  album  but  also  in  their  exceptional  understanding  of   the  media  as  a  conduit  or  delivery  system  for  their  powerful  message.     This  debut  album,  and  its  subsequent  tour,  provoked  moral  panic  and  media  outrage   resulting   in   tabloid   headlines   across   the   world.   The   Beastie   Boys   instantaneously   became  the  latest  folk  devils,  the  band  that  the  media  loved  to  hate.  Popular  myth   would   be   fuelled   by   stories   of   the   band’s   controversial   behaviour.   The   media   and   popular  tabloid  press  amplified  and  greatly  exaggerated  events  on  this  tour  out  of  all   proportion,   which   greatly   increased   album   sales.   In   part   this   was   due   to   the   exuberant   stage   show   that   was   purposefully   designed   to   mimic   the   album.   As   a   member  of  that  tour,  I  saw  none  of  this  behaviour,  what  I  saw  was  lots  and  lots  of   identical   looking   hotel   rooms,   airport   lounges,   venues   and   the   inside   of   tour   buses.   I   remember  helping  a  very  home  sick  MCA  backstage  in  Germany  make  a  collect  call   to   his   mum   and   dad   back   in   New   York.   Album   Rescue   Series   is   no   place   for   these   antidotes   but   you   will   be   able   to   read   them   in   my   forthcoming   book   Stop   Me   If   You’ve  Heard  This  One  Before.  The  Beastie  Boys  and  their  producer  Rick  Rubin  had   read   Stephen   Davis’   version   of   Led   Zeppelin’s   hotel   destroying   tour   exploits,   Hammer   of   the   Gods   (1985),   and   it   had   made   a   big   impression   on   them   all.   Not   only   is   the   album’s   lyrical   content   heavily   influence   by   this   book   and   lifestyle,   but   the   album  cover’s  artwork  is  also  highly  inter-­‐textual.   The  smouldering  aeroplane  crashed  into  the  side  of  a  mountain  cover  illustration  is  a   deceptively   complex   piece   of   work   both   artistically   and   semiotically.   The   image   is   darkly   humorous,   but   not   out   of   step   with   the   times   or   the   sonic   content   of   the   album.  Artist  David  Gambale  (aka  World  B.  Omes)  created  a  pre-­‐Photoshop  collage   of   various   airplane   parts   then   illustrated   over   it   using   water-­‐soluble   crayons.   I’m   not   an   artist   but   I’m   guessing   the   process   must   have   taken   significant   hours   and   the   dramatic   results   are   worth   it.   The   plane   on   the   album   cover   is   an   inter-­‐textual   175    

Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   reference  to  the  legendary  Starship,  a  Boeing  720  airliner  owned  by  Bobby  Shering   and   converted   into   a   kitsch   rock-­‐star   flying   tour   bus.   Led   Zeppelin   where   the   Starship’s   most   famous   occupants   and   even   wrote   the   song   Stairway   To   Heaven   about   their   on-­‐board   experience.   The   Starship   would   transport   any   rock   band   that   could   afford   the   exorbitant   hire   fee   e.g.   The   Rolling   Stones,   Bad   Company,   Allman   Brothers.   Stripped   of   its   reference,   an   aeroplane   is   not   glamorous,   it’s   merely   an   ecologically   unsound,   inefficient   and   very   expensive   form   of   transport.   Ever   since   “the   day   the   music   died”   (McLean,   1972)   back   in   1959,   when   a   chartered   flight   claimed   the   lives   of  Buddy   Holly,   Richie   Valens,   and   the   Big   Bopper,   plane   crashes   have  ended  the  careers  of  some  of  music’s  biggest  names.  Patsy  Cline’s  plane  went   down   in   1963,   silencing   one   of   the   greatest   voices   to   ever   crossover   from   country   music   to   popular   music.   We   lost   the   great   Otis   Redding   to   an   airplane   accident   in   1967,  and  just  a  few  years  later,  singer-­‐songwriter  Jim  Croce’s  career  was  terminated   just   as   it   was   starting   to   take   off.   Perhaps   none   of   the   above   was   as   startling   as   Lynyrd   Skynyrd‘s   horrific   1977   plane   crash,   which   killed   three   members   of   the   band,   the   assistant   road   manager,   co-­‐pilot   and   pilot.   Airplanes   are   symbols   of   both   extravagant   rock   star   excess   and   sombre   tragedy.   What   better   way   to   announce   a   new   young   band   to   the   world   than   to   crash   their   jet   into   the   side   of   a   mountain   before  their  career  had  even  taken  off?  Just  like  a  centre  page  fold  out  cartoon  from   the  Mad  comic,  the  fun  is  in  the  details.  The  plane’s  tail  number  “3MTA3”  spells  “Eat   Me”   backwards.   The   Beastie   Boys   logo   on   the   vertical   stabilizer   was   intentionally   designed  to  evoke  the  Harley-­‐Davidson  logo.  Many  people  have  commented  about   the  connotations  of  how  the  smouldering  plane  resembles  a  stubbed  out  spliff.  Via   this  album,  The  Beastie  Boys  are  displaying  an  advanced  understanding  of  semiotics   that  Roland  or  Ferdinand  would  be  immensely  proud  of  here.     I   am   quite   prepared   to   stick   my   neck   out   here   and   argue   that   The   Beastie   Boys   have   never   made   a   bad   album:   Paul’s   Boutique   (1989),   Check   Your   Head   (1992),   Ill   Communication   (1994),   Hello   Nasty   (1998),   To   The   5   Boroughs   (2004),   The   Mix-­‐up   (2007)   and   Hot   Sauce   Committee   Part   2   (2011)   are   all   masterpieces   in   their   own   right.   Even   their   other   parody   album,   The   In   Sound   From   Way   Back   (1998),   which   precisely   parodies   Perrey   and   Kingsley’s   1966   album   of   the   same   name,   is   another   masterpiece.  If  we  ignore  the  10  million  copies  sold  of  License  To  Ill  and  listen  to  it   minus  the  filter  of  parody  then  we  are  getting  very  close  to  rescuing  this  album.  It   isn't   only   the   music   or   the   rhymes   that   translate   beyond   the   parody   crime   scene.   License   To   Ill   clearly   shows   The   Beastie   Boys   didn’t   give   a   fuck   at   exactly   the   time   when   the   world   desperately   needed   to   be   shown   how   not   to   give   a   fuck.   Flying   in   the   face   of   rampant   yuppie   materialistic   capitalism   they   demonstrated   that   you  

 

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Album  Rescue  Series  (Vol.  1)   could   be   ground-­‐breaking,   cutting   edge,   important,   creative   and   relevant   all   at   the   same  time  yet  still  have  no  goals  beyond  getting  drunk  and  partying  hard.     Licensed  To  Ill  marks  the  turning  point  in  cultural  history  when  the  slacker  generation   (the   three   members   of   band   are   born   1964,   65   &   66)   start   making   music   for   the   millennial  generation.  This  album  proved  that  you  could  live  life  as  one  giant  inside   joke,   speaking   in   tongues   and   making   hilarious   obscure   references   to   Chef   Boyardee   or  Olde  English  800  and  no  one  outside  your  circle  of  jerks  would  be  any  the  wiser.   Oh  how  we  laughed.  License  To  Ill  accurately  predicted  the  future  to  the  Millennials   upon   its   release   in   1986.   The   mantra   bestowed   on   them   was   "follow   your   dreams"  and  because  they  were  constantly  being  told  they  were  special,  this  cohort   tends   to   be   over   confident.   While   largely   a   positive   trait,   the   Millennial’s   confidence   has  been  known  to  spill  over  into  the  realms  of  entitlement  and  narcissism.  They  are   the   first   generation   since   the   Second   World   War   that   is   expected   to   be   less   economically  successful  than  their  parents.  The  Millennial’s  optimism  is  founded  in   unrealistic  expectations,  which  often  leads  to  disillusionment.  Most  Millennials  went   through   post-­‐secondary   education   only   to   find   themselves   employed   in   low   paid   dead   end   jobs   in   unrelated   fields   to   the   ones   they   studied   or   underemployed   and   job-­‐hopping  more  frequently  than  any  previous  generation.  License  To  Ill  soothsaid   this  bleak  scenario  but  then  also  gave  us  a  not  too  cryptic  optimistic  answer,  which   was,  “Fight  for  your  right  to  party”.  I  rest  my  case  Homie.       References Fletcher,   JF   1966,   Situation   Ethics:   The   New   Morality.   John   Knox   Press,   Westminster,   UK.   Music  Times  2015,  Available  from:      [11  August  2015]     Strauss,  C  L  1962,  The  Savage  Mind.  Librarie  Plon,  Paris,  France.    

 

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