Birthday present, 1999
I will return to this, but as you can probably detect from my last post, I’m a bit up against it today. I watched Help! last night, and wanted to listen to it. Sadly, I don’t own the album, so this’ll have to do. Can’t complain about that- have you ever heard Flying? No-one takes any notice of it, but I think it’s one of my favourite Beatles songs.
Purchased at The Record Store, Petersfield, November 2002
There’s a lot of guff written about Lee Mavers and The La’s- so much so, in fact, that you’d think somebody was trying to create some sort of Frankenstinian latterday Syd Barrett. To clarify this statement, and thus contribute to the reels of myth-fulfilling bullshit out there, here’s a summary of the story: Lee Mavers was (and possibly still is) an extraordinarily talented songwriter with a ’60s fetish so deep-set that he refused to let his band’s album see the light of day until it not only sounded as if it was made in that decade but actually lived and breathed it. Naturally, this wasn’t easy: the record label lost patience and released it as it was and Mavers went off in a tizzy to become a heroin addict and (accidentally?) cultivated a mystique so potent that people are to this day writing feature articles about “Liverpool’s lost genius”. Bleeuuugh.
If you know the narrative, it’s almost impossible to consider The La’s album independently of it- which, I might add, is a real shame. For all the batshit recording anecdotes, it is a truly splendid indie pop album which although indebted to four-headed God of Merseybeat, still sounds like nothing else on Earth (except for maybe Cast, but let’s put that conveniently to one side). Unlike, say, Oasis’ beery singalong reverence, The La’s combination of scrappy guitars, unusual melodies and stubbornly vernacular enunciation makes their sole album a very odd proposition indeed.
Take Son of a Gun, which opens the set: with its irritable acoustic skip, it sounds half-finished, but its very slightness provides a sort of imperfect wabi charm that has made more cynical observers than I erupt into florid swirls of pseuds’ corner squishiness. The same is true of much of The La’s: Feelin’, Way Out, Liberty Ship, Looking Glass and Doledrum are all tight little packages of understated perfection, happily without any of the weediness associated with the phrase ‘understated perfection’. More polished are the Paperback Writer-ish psychedelic rock of I Can’t Sleep, the swooning crypto-shoegaze of Timeless Melody and the, er, timeless melody of the iconic There She Goes. Perhaps it’s just familiarity, but the contrast in production values seems utterly, artlessly natural, and herein lies The La’s low-key genius.
Would this album be quite so lauded were it not for Mavers’ refusal to follow the conventional wisdom that the 1960s ended in… 1969? Who knows, but given the circumstances, it’s not really a question worth pondering. Frankly, it’s a delight listening to it whatever the context.
Purchased at Zavvi, Fulham Broadway, Spring 2008
I like a vanity side-project, me, and so it seems do British indie popstars. They’re all at it – Thom ‘with an H’ Yorke with his Atoms For Peace, Farris Rotter and Cat’s Eyes, Jarvis Cocker with Relaxed Muscle and Damon Albarn with pretty much any old arse he runs into on Ladbroke Grove. Alex Turner and Miles Kane surprised a lot of people when they announced this album. The usual story behind unnecessary orchestral records is that the artiste must have a glittering and lengthy CV behind him. (For it is nearly always a he.) Turner, however, was only on album number two with The Arctic Monkeys, while Kane had only an EP and a collective shrug to his name. What were they trying to prove?
Search me. I wasn’t sure it worked four years ago, and I’m still not now. Too many songs come over as pastiche: the title track, for example, is the sound of Half Man Half Biscuit doing a bad Scott Walker parody, and I Don’t Like You Anymore is just charmless melodrama. That said, there’s a fair amount of good stuff, too. Standing Next to Me is up there with the best Arctic Monkeys singles, and The Meeting Place is one of about four songs from that time I still listen to – it has all the delicate balance of a Dusty Springfield hit and a knives-out nasty lyric to match.
Around the time this came out, my friend Fredi was in a band called The Metros who got awarded Single of the Week in NME. (They went on to get a really impressive 0/10 for their album.) They’d just played a gig at The Islington Academy, and as a dedicated parasite, I accompanied them on the night out that followed. It was chaos, and not in a good way: the first casualty was the singer from The View, who fell into the gutter halfway down City Road, and I myself ended the night in excruciating pain when some Turkish guy headbutted me for reasons I can’t and don’t want to remember.
Before it all got too disgusting, though, we went to The Old Blue Last to watch Kane’s band The Rascals play an inaudible acoustic set to the most glam set of 2008: Turner was there with Alexa Chung (I was struck by how short they both seemed), and my flatmate said she’d seen Lily Allen drinking Magners at the back of the room with Nick Grimshaw. Fuck knows. Fredi was complaining loudly about the Lightspeed Champion album when I turned around to see… Lightspeed Champion, stuck between us and the wall, drinking water and wearing that stupid hat.* Where am I going with this? The homewear shop, I think; I’ve just remembered I need to do more house work and less third-rate name dropping.
*Post-script, August 2014: In the unlikely event that Dev ‘Lightspeed Champion’ Hynes will ever read this, I offer my apologies in full. The last Blood Orange album was a cracker and he can now do no wrong, as far as I’m concerned. But that hat was bloody silly.
Purchased at Fopp, Cambridge Circus, November 2003
I normally try to avoid smartarse muso point-scoring, but it’s my prerogative to contradict myself as and when I fancy, so here goes: I’ve just figured out why Kilimanjaro is one of the best second-tier New Wave records, eclipsing anything by Echo & The Bunnymen, Squeeze, The Psychedelic Furs and indeed just about anybody else you might see on a compilation entitled “Underground hits of the ’80s”. Yes, Julian Cope’s lyrics are entertainingly obscure, and yes, it does contain some first-class songwriting, but neither of these things are what separates it from the rest of the overcoat brigade’s oeuvre. No, what makes this record special- and years ahead of its time- is the focussed amateurism of its production: the bass and drums are way up front and the singing is loud but slightly muffled, with the guitars and synths relegated to swirling decoratively around the periphery of the speakers. The rhythm gives everything else a structure in which to flourish, making for a phenomenon hitherto unheard of- an album of rococo psychedelic pop you can dance to. Basically, it’s Britpop, but over a decade before the letter.
When I first heard Kilimanjaro, aged 11, it was the horns on songs like the punchy opener Ha-Ha I’m Drowning and the lithe and slightly disturbing Sleeping Gas that stood out. They sounded exactly like the ones on Country House by Blur: put it down to naivety, but the connection completely escaped me- if you asked me now, I’d say with confidence that it wasn’t for nothing that Albarn & co recorded a song called Coping for their Modern Life is Rubbish album. Listen to Kilimanjaro and Blur’s Leisure in quick succession and the debt becomes transparent; to put a final glaze to this touching story, compare early publicity photos of Colchester’s finest to shots of the Teardrops circa 1981- the similarity between the clothes, the lighting and the haircuts would be uncanny if wasn’t so laboriously cute*.
The singles from Kilimanjaro- Treason, When I Dream and the aforementioned Sleeping Gas seem almost completely arbitrary as standalone choices: they’re all three of them wonderful, of course, but almost every song here is an alt-pop masterpiece; how many indie bands produce even one song with the insouciant lustre of The Thief of Baghdad and Brave Boys Keep Their Promises or the controlled anarchy of Bouncing Babies and Went Crazy? Kilimanjaro sounds like a greatest hits set even without the addition of the group’s most successful single, the brassily blusterous Reward (tacked onto the end of my copy as an unnecessary ‘bonus’). The sad thing is that neither The Teardrop Explodes nor the post-split Julian Cope ever came close to repeating the world-beating promise of this solid-gold-easy-action classic: Wilder was a decent album, but it sorely lacked the focus of Kilimanjaro, and Cope- although he has produced some intermittently terrific solo records- has gone out of his way to be as inconsistent and infuriating as possible. I know I made a big deal about the production on Kilimanjaro at the beginning of this post, but the fact remains that even without it, The Teardrop Explodes had charisma and talent enough to see off almost any of their contemporaries. They could have been the T-Rex of the Eighties; instead, they became the butt of a million music press jokes about bad haircuts and post-punk pretension whilst their rivals (i.e, The Bunnymen) went on to make millions out of getting their songs onto the soundtracks of teen movies. Sometimes, I suppose, the outcome of the music biz lottery makes even less sense than Cope’s lyrics on Poppies in the Field.
*Having said this, it’s just occurred to me that David Balfe, the guy who ran Blur’s record label was actually in The Teardrop Explodes, and, as non-coincidence would have it, was the very ‘successful fella’ Damon claimed to be ‘reading Balzac, knocking back Prozac’ in Country House. The ‘influence’, it seems, may have been slightly more than an expression of fanboy imitation on Blur’s part. So, once again, I must state that I reserve the right to contradict myself…
Purchased at Minus Zero Records, Blenheim Crescent, W11, Summer 2001
I think I got into Badfinger through the following thought process: I liked the Beatles a lot: The Beatles signed Badfinger to their record label: ergo, The Beatles liked Badfinger a lot, and I probably should too. Sad, isn’t it? Not that I liked the intermittently great Badfinger, but that I was already sucked into self-deluding record collector casuistry by the age of eleven. Ouch.
Anyway, I bought Wish You Were Here at the same time as Paul McCartney’s woefully packaged hits comp All The Best! (Paul’s exclamation mark, I should add), and was quite moved to find that it contained some of their best music; shortly after this album was released to what can only be described as a non-reaction from the public, lead singer and chief songwriter Pete Ham committed suicide in his garden shed. That his band was at the top of their game creatively (if not commercially) only compounded this tragedy, brought on as it was by financial ruin at the hands of exploitative management.
The story of Badfinger’s decline is heartbreaking to say the least, but on first impressions you’d have a challenge detecting the seeds of clinical depression and depleted morale from the songs on their final LP; it’s a near-perfect powerpop album, the kind of music the ugly compound adjective “life-affirming” was invented for. Is it a case of the old “waving, not drowning” or just a bunch of once-promising songwriters going hell for leather at one last chance at the charts? I don’t know; this is another CD I’ve dredged up from the wreck of my teenage record collection, and hearing it again is a true delight.
Frankly, it’s a wonder how Wish You Were Here failed; any record executive with ears should have heard that Just a Chance was a certified glam-pop smash in waiting; on second thoughts, though, perhaps this is where the desperation in camp Badfinger becomes evident: ‘We’re not asking for a great romance- all we want from you is JUST A CHANCE!’ Ham implores an audience who had long since moved on from watertight pop songs to the kind of auditory onanism of this album’s more famous namesake. Here, the drums are loud, the singing is as urgent as Ian Hunter’s on All The Young Dudes and the metre-thick wall of guitars is a spooky premonition of The Undertones’ entire career.
Maybe I’m reading into things too closely, but what is remarkable about Wish You Were Here (Badfinger’s rather than the aforementioned Pink Floyd “classic”) is that its songs are often as close in spirit to New Wave hits like The Knack’s My Sharona as they are to Help! or Get Back. This is pure pop classicism, deceptively simple and very, very difficult to dislike. While there are some fairly irritating flourishes (Ham’s sappy Dennis and Joey Molland’s half-witted country pastiche King of the Load), the overwhelming majority of the album is a charm offensive manifested as knockout guitar pop, less offensively hippyish than Fleetwood Mac, more abundantly melodic than T-Rex; YouTube the elegantly claustrophobic Got to Get Out of Here or the Big Star-gazing blitzkrieg of the closing Meanwhile Back at the Ranch and you’ll see what I’m on about. Buy this album and you will never, ever have to listen to Teenage Fanclub again in your life.
Purchased at The Record Shop, Petersfield, Autumn 2002
For all the God-botherin’ soul, gospel and country classics out there, religious rock music is almost universally to be avoided. As usual, I’m not the first individual to make this point, and the search as to why this must be the case continues to elude even the most eloquent of critics. All we know is that God and rock emphatically do not mix. Honestly, did anyone who wasn’t an arsehole ever listen to Creed?
There is, of course, one exception to the critical embargo on holy (rock’n’) rollers: if you hadn’t guessed, the blockade runner I of whom I write is none other than ex-Beatle and independent film producer George Harrison. All Things Must Pass, his first solo album, manages to be both preachy as hell and enormously fun, a melodic pop giant in the guise of a ‘70s rock tombstone.
There is some truly, woefully shit music on this double CD: the last four songs are the fruit of a particularly directionless jamming session conducted to fill space, and I Dig Love might be the worst Beatles-related “song” of them all- no small achievement from a band who even at their peak were churning out atrocities like Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. Ever heard Paul McCartney’s Back to the Egg, Ringo Starr’s ultra-creepy You’re Sixteen, John Lennon’s painfully sanctimonious Woman is the Nigger of the World or indeed Harrison’s simply unlistenable Gone Troppo? Then you’ll know what I mean. I Dig Love is somehow even worse.
This is not, though, to do down the absolute glory of All Things Must Pass at its best. Even at its most finger-waggingly spiritual (namely the top class mariachi rock of Awaiting On You All and the thrillingly Hendrixish The Art of Dying), the album still manages to be a blast right up ‘til its last quarter. Sometimes it even drops piousness altogether: What is Life is as well as being quite a sweet love song up there with Phil Spector’s all-time greatest hits, and Isn’t it a Pity (reprised in two not-strikingly different versions) is an appropriately Beatles-y lament for the decline of its composer’s old band.
I first heard this album in November 1999, on a car journey through the Scottish Borders. I became completely obsessed with it, and spent the next couple of years saving my pocket money to buy up the rest of George Harrison’s (extremely expensive) back-catalogue. Needless to say, even as an uber-fan, I was slightly less than underwhelmed by it: the follow up to All Things Must Pass, Living in the Material World is quite pretty, but the rest- bar the odd single (like 1975’s You, an outtake from 1970)- is guilty of all the worst crimes of 1970s rock music. In retrospect, perhaps All Things Must Pass was an unfortunately prophetic title for George’s solo début: platitude it may be, but as far as Harrison’s talent went, it feels uncomfortably accurate.
Purchased at Spin, High Bridge, Newcastle, 2004
Annoyingly, I have no access to a CD player this afternoon, and am also a bit pushed for time. Today’s installment, then, is Echo & The Bunnymens’ third and not-terribly-impressive album, Porcupine. There are two fairly decent songs, namely The Cutter and The Back of Love, both of which were big hits in their own right and readily available on any budget Bunnymen compilation. The rest is just a load of grandiose, tuneless pompousness, with none of the tension or inventiveness that made their previous LPs, Crocodiles and Heaven Up Here, so gripping. I’d be sad if you told me I’d have to spend the rest of my life deprived of those albums- sadly, this is not the case with Porcupine.
Great cover, mind.
Purchased at Rough Trade East, November 2008
Any album that boasts a cover on which its creator is depicted playing with a dinky toy with only a giant tortoise shell to shield him from the elements must be worth owning, right? This, pretty much down to the question mark, describes my thought process as I handed over the cash for this most frustrating album. I’ll be frank with you; I hadn’t gone into Rough Trade East to buy anything, I was waiting for somebody whose no-show inevitably resulted in me becoming five pounds poorer.
I don’t regret buying Fried– for all its faults, it contains some great songs- but sometimes it’s simply painful to listen to Julian Cope wilfully committing career suicide. Reynard the Fox, for example, starts off as a psychedelic tour de pop complete with anthropomorphic narration and a titanium-strengthened chorus, promising to be your new favourite song. Naturally, Cope cuts off his nose to spite his face by letting it descend into a feedback-heavy sub-Jim Morrison warble about the evils of fox-hunting. You want to strangle him not only for ruining your day, but also for effectively pissing away any chance of ever becoming the cult popstar he so demonstrably should have been.
The potential hits on Fried are so gleefully sabotaged that you begin to suspect this was his plan all along. Sunspots is maimed by an annoying and completely arbitrary recorder solo of all things, while Holy Love is let down by a production so thin that it sounds more like the work of an informal sixth-form Julian Cope tribute band than the man himself. It all makes me want to go back to 1984 to slap him in the face and say: ‘Come on, Julian, surely the Teardrop Explodes didn’t fall apart for nothing? GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF!’
Still, at least he had the good judgement not to tamper with the less radio-compatible songs. Bill Drummond said is an addictive absurdist singalong which finds the eponymous provocateur and future KLF member breaking into Cope’s garden, “sniffing round his coats”, and then, as one does, strangling his girlfriend. This perhaps unsurprisingly encouraged Drummond to record a song called Julian Cope is Dead (“I shot him in the head”); the Sweet Home Alabama* of 1980s indie-pop? Um, probably not.
Elsewhere, Laughing Boy is a fragile ballad which somehow anticipates the popularity of the Fleet Foxes without being unlistenable; in the same vein is Me Singing, which would have been perfect for the Teardrops’ second album had it had the more sympathetic production it deserved. Best of all is Search Party, one of the few records made in the 1980s that can honestly be described as “spooky” without either being either laden with ghoulish synth effects or utter pretentious drivel. The chorus is, for want of a better term, rather gorgeous- all fluttery classical guitar and recorder, this time in the right context.
“Say what you like about him, but he’s never boring”- that’s the cliché about Julian Cope. I don’t agree; I find his ritual massacres of potentially great songs more tiresome than a toddler who repeatedly shits his nappy five minutes after it’s been changed. The I’m crazy, me schtick may have looked “subversive” in the ’80s, but it sure as hell doesn’t wash now. Listening to Fried again makes me want to go into Law, purely so that I can convene a court for retrospective crimes against pop culture. Julian Cope would, under my sentencing at least, be condemned to work in hard-labouring partnership with Simon Cowell for five years as a punishment for wanton and obstructive acts of wackiness committed on various occasions over the 1980s. Justice would be done, and we’d have a potentially hilarious reality TV show into the bargain, too.
*A terrible song by Lynyrd Skynyrd recorded in response to Neil Young’s equally shit Southern Man. As if I needed to mention it…
SELECTED HIGHLIGHTS: Bill Drummond Said, Laughing Boy, Search Party
Purchased at Oldhitz Records, Newcastle, Summer 2000
I’ve chosen to write about A Hard Day’s Night this evening not out of any pressing urge to listen to the Beatles, nor as some sort of counterweight to the deluded wankfest I picked yesterday.
No, A Hard Day’s Night is making its appearance on this blog tonight because I’m in the middle of an exam. I’m as stressed as a fully-extended elastic band that has somehow ended up in charge of Greece, and consequently can’t face a record that demands attention.
Is there anything left to say about the Beatles? I can’t think of anything- except that they were much more fun before people started taking them seriously. My theory is that if you could strip the Beatles’ catalogue of all its baggage, throw context to the wind and listen to all their albums objectively, A Hard Day’s Night would come out on top. It’s the best showcase for John and Paul’s songwriting, and is unique in the Fabs’ canon for being the only album without a single dud on it. Sure, the songs can err on the side of schmaltzy, but so does almost everything on, say, Pet Sounds- and honestly, when did you last here anyone complain about that?
To put it simply, it’s one of the most satisfying pop records ever produced, and it took me some time to realise this. I bought this at the height of a preteen Beatles fixation, and even back then thought “pop” was a dirty word; I think I even used to skip the Paul McCartney songs. Damn. Sometimes I just feel like kicking the shit out of my eleven-year-old self. I’m sure he feels the same way about me.
SELECTED HIGHLIGHTS: And I Love Her, I Should Have Known Better, I’ll Be Back
The Daily Record 