Song of the Month #8

Before I proceed I should confess that I’m a little uncomfortable publishing this month’s article due to an undeniable similarity with my previous entry in that both pieces are centred around the same artist. The fact I was late publishing last month’s entry is largely culpable as it consequently saw me begin work on the following article while still in exploration of the aforementioned artist – frontman of Dexys Midnight Runners – Kevin Rowland. This time featuring as a solo artist, Rowland is the only musician to have appeared consecutively within my series of prolix song articles – something that makes me a little anxious as I don’t wish my blog to appear too arbitrary and subjective. However, this month’s entry is quite the different flavour as we find the outlandish Brummy singer-songwriter represented by an unexpected rendition of the power-ballad ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ – a song first recorded by George Benson for the 1977 Muhammad Ali biopic ‘The Greatest’ though often erroneously cited as a Whitney Houston original following the popularity of her 1985 recording of the song.

Incidentally, this article sees only the second appearance of a cover version as my subject of discussion following my analysis of the Ronnie Spector interpretation of Brian Wilson’s ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ a few months ago. I have to profess, I’m not usually overly-enthusiastic where cover recordings are concerned as rarely do I find reinterpretations to offer more than their root counterparts – yet in this instance, I have to concede this is possibly one of the finest takes on another artist’s material I’ve had the pleasure of hearing. To reiterate – for me to being using superlatives in description of a cover recording is surely an indubitable ratification of its quality, but if you don’t wish to simply take my word for it – give the song a listen before you continue any further.

Kevin Rowland’s unexpected cover of ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ first appeared on the 1999 studio album ‘My Beauty’ – a CD/MiniDisc-only release issued by Alan McGee’s legendary Creation label, subsequently becoming only the second Rowland solo LP since the disbandment of his Dexys Midnight Runners in 1986. McGee had signed Rowland to the label two years prior to the release of ‘My Beauty’ in what was essentially a lifeline for the former Dexys singer after a prolonged ten-year absence from the music industry had exacerbated his descent into obscurity. After the unsuccessful launch of a solo career with the release of his underwhelming, inexplicably Deodato-produced debut effort ‘The Wanderer’ in 1988, Rowland fell under a prolonged period of depression that endured well into the ‘90s. Following the failure of ‘The Wanderer’, Rowland soon found himself without a label and without a platform – discarded unto the musical-wilderness and left to face ensuing financial troubles. Rowland’s insecurities began to manifest – with the singer becoming overwhelmed – subsequently turning to alcohol and narcotics in an attempt to numb the dejection and isolation that had enveloped him. A rudderless boat drifting without aim, the wanderer’s hopes began to diminish – culminating in an entirely self-deprecatory perspective of his own existence. Rowland would later reflect on the emotional insecurities that had consumed him with the carefully considered selection of songs that became ‘My Beauty’, presenting the theme that makes ‘The Greatest Love of All’ and its parent LP so admirable. Signing Rowland to the label back in 1997, McGee consciously handed the singer his salvation with a new platform from which to build – starting with the release of a revised version of the 1985 Dexys masterpiece ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ following Rowland’s acquisition of the rights to the mastertapes from Mercury/Phonogram.

By 1998, Rowland had begun work on a new studio LP – though in actuality, it would comprise entirely of unoriginal material – cover recordings of arbitrarily selected classics featuring alongside perhaps the lesser-known personal favourites sentimental in value to the former Dexys singer. ‘My Beauty’ would provide catharsis for Rowland, a conduit for explication upon which to draw and reflect, naturally making it an essential, imperative album for any genuine fan of Kevin Rowland to own. Presented by Rowland to express the emotions experienced during his post-Dexys bout of depression and isolation, these masterful covers are a collective of anthems and ballads that explicate Rowland’s emotional-turmoil, those that provided comfort, reassurance and ultimately helped pull the fractured singer through his sustained period of self-deprecation. Often we find the lyricism to have undergone revision – amended to emphasise their correlation to Rowland, with an example being the explicit references to narcotics in his cover of Squeeze’s ‘Labelled With Love’. It’s true, the greatest formula for composition in regards to an album of material is to write about what you know – and what better to write about than the personal struggles that remained reticent for over a decade?

Originally, twelve songs had been projected for the studio album, but ultimately – only eleven made the cut – as the intended inclusion of ‘Thunder Road’ was purportedly withdrawn following the intervention of lawyers working on behalf of the song’s original creator – Bruce Springsteen – who had reportedly been disapproving of the lyrical adaptations made by Rowland. In actuality, Springsteen approved of the revisions, and the song’s exclusion was an unnecessary consequence of poor mismanagement by the legals. However, my copy of the album happens to include the recording of ‘Thunder Road’ due to a little discrepancy its promotion, which saw sampler copies prematurely distributed to record stores before Springsteen’s lawyers had requested the removal of the song from all copies of the album – if that’s the story you wish to believe! For the record, it’s a great interpretation – and despite not capturing the essence of The Boss’ original, I’m appreciative of the opportunity to hear it sung by somebody who doesn’t sound like they’re constantly in the middle of having a shit. ‘Thunder Road’ aside, I find it more perplexing that Squeeze approved of Rowland’s abhorrently explicit reinterpretation of ‘Labelled With Love’.

Unfortunately for Rowland – who had fought so hard to achieve a graceful return music scene – the album’s commercial reception had been exceptionally underwhelming – probably a result of the significantly polarised critical acclaim it had met. Reports at the time stated ‘My beauty’ had seen Creation’s poorest sales return since the label’s inception in ‘84 – purportedly shifting somewhere in the region of three-hundred copies. In reality, there’s no veracity behind these fallacious claims, as the album actually shifted somewhere in the region of 25,000 copies globally – though to be honest, that’s still a lacklustre commerce for the frontman of a group like Dexys Midnight Runners – and I have my theories as to why.

The truth is, Rowland’s name never carried that much weight outside of Dexys Midnight Runners – something empirically evident in the way his first solo LP ‘The Wanderer’ had bombed. That was back in 1988, fresh off the back of Dexys, so to attempt to relaunch a career after an eleven year hibernation with absolutely no media appearances – it was always going to be an uphill struggle. Secondly, Rowland’s transmogrification presented a controversial aesthetic that left him rather open to scrutiny and ridicule as the northern soul subculture that dominate a large percentage of the original Dexys demographic weren’t exactly the liberal-type and found it difficult to comprehend seeing their icon flaunting himself in female attire on the sleeve of his LP. His appearance on the cover has often been erroneously referred to as “drag” – though in actuality, it’s simply an example of cross-dressing – with any veritable drag-artist likely to be offended by this comparison. To be honest, I’m quite surprised the image made an appearance on a ‘90s record sleeve, even more so that it was the guy from Dexys Midnight Runners who had the initiative to challenge these kind of preconceptions – a provocation people really didn’t like. Ultimately, his artistic-direction – majestic in execution – was met with vitriol and abhorrently bigoted derogation – how ironic that in retrospect this could be perceived as an overlooked defiance of gender conformity. It’s so unfortunate to see it not realising its full potential – or receive the social praise that it perhaps deserved – and though Rowland risked his credibility among fans and peers, one would suggest his integrity soared with the release of this record.

“[Rowland] tells me if he doesn’t express himself, he will die.
He tells me his pain, his addiction, how he lost everything and how he is now beginning to get a sense of dignity.
He loves to dress the way he does because it makes him feel beautiful – something he thought he’d lost forever”
– Dazed & Confused Magazine, June 1999

The theme continued when Rowland took to the stage at Reading ‘99 later that year in what’s still to this day frequently cited as one of the worst performances in the history of the festival – subsequently topping several of the lists and polls I’ve encountered online. Essentially, it all came down to poor organisation on the host’s part, with Rowland finding his unscheduled performance allotted between the sets of American rockers Pavement and folktronica pioneer Beth Orton – meaning the audience were already apprehensive about the appearance even before he’d proceeded to dance around in a cream frock with his troupe of scantily-clad female dancers. Rowland’s set opened with his rendition of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, a song well-received by the festival crowd due to its anthemic stature – despite the fact the music came entirely from playback of the ‘My Beauty’ instrumental tracks – a practice considered a festival taboo at that time. The crowd found themselves completely dumbfounded by the spectacle – almost silent with the exception of a sole heckler who could be heard shouting the request “show us your knickers” – to which Rowland duly obliged as he shed his black trench coat to reveal a silken cream undergarment. The disbelieving audience provided jestful wolf-whistles as Rowland prepared to perform the cover of Unit 4+2’s ‘Concrete & Clay’ that had been issued as the lead single from ‘My Beauty’. Despite its release earlier that month, the crowd didn’t appear to be acquainted with song – with Rowland subsequently berating the lack of airplay it had received. It was the following performance that instigated the crowd’s discontent and became the subject of scathing criticism for the media as Rowland replicated the choreography from the bizarre promotional video that had been issued along with the song – with The Guardian humorously referring to the incident as “Frocky Horror”. It’s likely Rowland anticipated the critical reception and the denigratory aspersions that would follow – which would make line “No matter what they say about me – they can’t take my personal dignity” an exceptionally piquant, predetermined riposte.

Rowland found himself being truculently bottled off the stage a mere fifteen minutes into his set by a crowd with the consensus that they were being “trolled” – a rather unceremonious reception for the “home-coming queen”, and a particularly saddening spectacle to witness considering the message he was trying to deliver was one of diversity and acceptance. To be honest, I’m quite surprised he ever took to the stage again following this incident considering how difficult it had been for him to achieve the confidence to force himself back into the limelight – but then again, I don’t believe he made another appearance on stage for over a half a decade following the Reading incident – so perhaps it did affect Rowland. However, it has to be noted that the reception wasn’t entirely negative, as the performance – like the album – generated disconcertingly polarised critique, with several witnesses in attendance taking to the internet to defend Rowland and the spurious reports of the event, describing the set as inspirational, majestic and triumphant.

Before proceeding to write my piece on ‘The Greatest Love of All’, Kevin’s aforementioned cover of ‘Concrete & Clay’ had been a contender for the subject of my article as I particularly enjoyed the difference in essence to the original ‘60s recording – particularly its inspired Helenic vibes. Despite ‘The Greatest Love of All’ ultimately being my song of focus, I simply must note just how bizarre the aforementioned promotional video for ‘Concrete & Clay’ actually is. With Rowland later declaring he was “nuts” during the ‘My Beauty’ era, fans seem to concur the singer was mentally-ill prior to the release of ‘My Beauty’ – a rather depraved and ignorant perspective in my opinion. However, if there is indeed any truth to this at all – surely it begs the question – how did so many people allow it to get that far?The whole process of creating and releasing a record involves a significant amount of personnel – I simply don’t find it plausible – as someone, somewhere along the line would have intervened. Personally, I don’t succumb to the supposition of him being “ill”, and more so – I feel I’ve deduced exactly what he was striving for – this was a man who had a message, and knew exactly how he wanted to convey it. That said, I simply can’t claim to be able to dispel the message he was trying to deliver regarding the direction and choreography of the infamous music video!

‘Sometimes, I feel quite macho. I’ll wear a dress one day, but the next I might wear a suit. What’s the big deal? Am I gay? Maybe I’m going to be a transvestite. Maybe the next step will be wearing a stuffed bra and a wig. The first time I wore a dress was round to a friend’s house and I was so embarrassed. It took courage. I told him I would come over and that I’d be wearing a dress and he said, “Yeah, great”’
– Kevin Rowland

Honestly, it’s got to be the strangest music video I’ve ever seen – especially if you consider the content its artist had previously produced. The clip features Rowland, clothed in full female-attire including a silken cream gown, coordinated white stockings and a made-up face complete with rose lipstick, while a troupe of appropriated multi-racial angels provide a choreographed distraction from the inexplicable focal shots of Rowland’s bulge – visibly padded with socks. Prop-wise, Rowland overcompensates for the burden of male anatomy by utilising ostentatious cliche’s of hyper-femininity such as the nauseatingly obnoxious pink backdrop, the flaunting of plumose feather-boas and frolicking around in the innards of pillows – as they do. As confusing and distasteful as the video may appear due to its confected and reticent execution – there’s a discernible message in there – a message I can only assume to be of self-confidence, diversity and acceptance, and as for the angel wings – could it be as straight forward as a blunt metaphor for the good residing inside us all?

Here’s the video for your delectation… 

Among the record’s other highlights include a cover of The 4 Seasons’ 1964 hit ‘Rag Doll’, a perverse revision of Squeeze’s ‘Labelled With Love’ – particularly harrowing when you perceive Rowland to be the song’s subject – and a fine cover of Gerry & The Pacemakers’‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ worthy of gracing the PA system at Anfield. The fact is –‘My Beauty’ isn’t just another cash-cow collection of culturally appropriated covers by a blue-eyed soul singer (see Rod Stewart and his American Songbook series) – it is an album of creative reinterpretations eclectic in relativity yet adhered by their fondness to the singer’s heart. They offer an insight into Rowland’s musical inclination and express the thinking, the emotional turmoil and the hopes of the singer at his lowest – with the resulting album a form of reassuring art therapy for those afflicted with the condition – a sentiment epitomised by the lyric “you are going to be alright” taken from its lead single ‘Concrete & Clay’. Recently, I had the pleasure of discovering an article written by a journalist who’d struggled to overcome a period of depression and owed his recovery to the empathetic and inspirational performance by Rowland on his rendition of ‘The Greatest Love of All’, citing it as his saviour and subsequently presenting us with a rather endearing example of the therapeutic properties these introspective recordings exude.

https://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2012/feb/16/kevin-rowland-whitney-cover-greatest

The album’s ability to comfort and inspire doesn’t surprise me. There’s just something about this collection of songs – it has a charm, a sincerity, an endearment, a profundity – and despite being comprised entirely of unoriginal material, the relationship between Rowland and their sentiments meant the words were delivered with genuine conviction. As I’m not one for unoriginal recordings, I often consider listening to ‘My Beauty’ as something of a guilty pleasure, though in reality it’s actually a very tasteful album – and like any “guilty pleasure” – satiatingly moreish. Regardless of what you think of its visual aspects, it has to be recognised as quite a progressive artistic statement – so once again, it’s sad to hear Rowland has since denounced any artistry behind the concept by insisting he was delusional during this period of his life.

“There was nobody around who fulfilled my needs – a lonely place to be – and I tried to depend on me”
– Kevin Rowland

As noted, Rowland’s recording of ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ is often cited as a tribute to the late great Whitney Houston – something I’ve always found to be a little perplexing as the song had originally been penned by soul hit-maker Linda Creed and first recorded by George Benson as the score to the Muhammad Ali biopic ‘The Greatest’. Rowland’s version bears far more similarities in approach and execution to George Benson’s version than Whitney’s, and unless Rowland himself cited her in the album’s linear notes or something, I’m going to assume he was inspired by the former artist. I’d previously mentioned its original songwriter Linda Creed during my Delfonics article a couple of months ago – and how fortuitous that her name should pop-up again in the writing-credits for this song. Incidentally, the majority of articles I’ve published have intrinsically interlinked through tenuous little citations and namedrops – despite my repertoire being particularly varied.

This stunning cover is a showcase of Rowland’s voice at its finest – among the album and perhaps of his entire career. Though seemingly an unviable song for an artist like Rowland, the song’s versatility provides negative space on the elongated notes for the implementation of his signature vibrato, and with the song spanning three octaves – a chance for the singer to exercise his range as he convincingly delivers the beautiful lyricism of Linda Creed. You can’t listen to this cover and disregard Rowland’s wonderfully unique voice – and though you certainly wouldn’t argue against Benson and Houston being great vocalists respectively, Rowland’s cadences provide a quirkiness I simply find far more interesting and captivating than those of the preceding artists. The passion injected by Rowland is palpable, and all you can do is listen in admiration and wonderment.

A negatively captioned shot of Rowland performing at Reading ’99

Any veritable fan of Dexys Midnight Runners ought to be familiar with Rowland’s tendency to feature spoken monologue into his songs, an affectation I’ve discussed previously with my review of their 1985 LP ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’. His interpretation of ‘The Greatest Love of All’ sees yet another adherence to this stringent formula as the song’s two-minute orchestral introduction provides the soundtrack for Rowland’s recital of the song’s lyrics as an introspective monologue, interjecting his own words to reflect the emotions he’d personally experienced during the times he’d turned to the song for comfort. The first example of spoken lyricism features before the introduction of music – where we find a bizarre dialogue between Rowland and erm, Rowland – in what I can only perceive to be the manifestation of negative vs reassuring thoughts inside the singer’s mind, overlapping as if to suggest a power struggle for dominance. Their convolution means it’s difficult to determine exactly what’s being said – unless you isolate the audio channels. This excerpt is saturated by reverberation, producing a pensively eerie sequence of hushed repetition that when isolated appear tenuous, but when played simultaneously through both audio channels, produce an abhorrent realisation of the conflicting thoughts inside the mind of a struggling individual.

Left Channel:

It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, it’s over

Yes, I know!

Remember that time – you know that time?

It’s okay, it’s okay – honestly

Let it go, let it go

Uh, forget it baby – it’s okay

Forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it

Right Channel:

No more, no more, no more – it’s okay

Oh, you know – you know?
Mum! Mum!

Fucking heavy, ain’t it?
I do love ya

 

Though he’s not the most conventional singer, I’ve always recognised Rowland’s unique vocal abilities, yet the way in which he holds the E♭ for the final ten seconds of the song actually knocked me for six the first time I heard it and vastly increased my respect for him a vocalist. By the time of its release, the then 45 year old’s voice had naturally altered – though not too significantly – with his bass range possessing more timbre, accentuating his low-end baritone. Despite the loss of youthful cadence in his voice, Rowland’s power and control had refined in maturity, like the analogous fine wine. His voice – though unique – does bare similarities to other artists, artists Rowland has since revealed to be sources of inspiration – including Elvis – who’s vocal inflections Rowland regularly channels during the lower register, chest-sung sections of his songs – and also Roxy Music‘s Bryan Ferry – responsible for Rowland’s quaking vibrato. Interestingly, Kevin Rowland’s vocals have often been mistaken for those of The Cure’s singer Robert Smith – and while it has to be noted that the two share a similar “on-the-verge-of-tears” vocal delivery, the Dexys singer was on the scene long before Smith rose to fame – though in turn, Rowland had taken inspiration from the voice of Chairman of The Board‘s General Johnson. His tendency to channel Elvis doesn’t shine through on this particular track, but the nuances are in there. For an afflicted baritone, Rowland’s range is rather impressive. During my previous Dexys Midnight Runners article, I believe I mentioned the brief conversation exchanged between myself and an apparent vocal coach of Rowland’s who insisted “his vocal range is a strong and powerful in the present day as it was back in the ‘80s”. She seemed enthusiastic in her praise of Rowland, though when I inquired about the parameters of his vocal range – I received no reply – meaning my encounter with this charlatan presented me with absolutely no veritable information. I’ve since deduced Rowland to be an overlapping baritone, which essentially means he’s capable of pushing further into the tenor range than a regular baritone – the reason for his ability to ascend and descend octaves with little effort.

Throughout his career Rowland has been perceived to be something of an acquired taste, and though I’ve always been a fan of his approach to singing one has to concede his was a rather unconventional vocal style. However, hearing his cover of ‘The Greatest Love of All’ has left absolutely no doubt in my mind that man is an exceptionally gifted vocalist – his unrefined approach and tendency to colour outside the lines is largely culpable for the dissemination of a somewhat negative reputation – that, and a really bizarre live rendition of ‘Come On Eileen’ uploaded to Dexys’ official Vevo account which was inexplicably doctored to make Rowland sound exceptionally awful.

Rowland’s vocal isn’t the only element that makes this by far the greatest interpretation of Creed and Masser’s work – it’s also the instrumentation, the musicianship and the production – a production dominated by lush strings and the elegant use of thunderous timpanis. Due to a scarcity in its online presence, it was difficult for me to ascertain the names of the musicians involved in the creation of ‘My Beauty’ – other than a well-documented cameo appearance from former Dexys man Jim Paterson. Eventually I managed to acquire some information, starting with probably the most prominent element besides Rowland’s vocals – the strings that so dominate this album – arranged and conducted by Fiachra Trench and led by Gavyn Wright. There’s a great little orchestral interlude inspired by ‘The Greatest Love of All’ prior to ‘Reflections of My Life’ should you wish to hear an isolated example of the song’s string arrangement. Though Jim Paterson doesn’t grace the record with his playing, his cameo was more of a meta – behind the scenes executive role – with the production credit split thrice between Rowland, Paterson and Pete Schwier – with the latter also serving as an engineer. The production is rich and effervescent, featuring a percussive base reminiscent of the legendary Hal Blaine’s work on The Beach Boys’ ‘Pet Sounds’, with the astute rhythm section providing a template for the saccharine guitar embellishments of Neil Hubbard that float with fluidity over the bass of work John McKenzie. However, my personal favourite instrumental line is probably the gentle reverberated tones of ivory, courtesy of deft soul-pianist Pete Wingfield – who also served as producer for the debut Dexys album ‘Searching For The Young Soul Rebels’.

Though I’m usually very critical of artists recording covers – no matter their pedigree, I have absolutely no qualms about this cover, and I think it’s one of the finest cover recordings I’ve heard. Rowland has truly made this song his own – injecting his quirks and inflections at every possible stretch of unoccupied bars. The composition and arrangement is exceptional, and though it’s always easier to work with an unoriginal composition, the production is executed with exquisite verve. The two minutes of instrumentation featuring the portrayal of Rowland’s internal struggle is vital to the cover’s success and its charm, and the presence of spoken monologue is extremely effective, and unlike the indecipherable reticence of Dexys’ 1985 LP ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’, the message here is clear. I find it particularly evocative during final chorus – where we find the overdubbing of Rowland’s spoken lines “oh it can be achieved” and “learning to love yourself” just reiterate the message with poignancy – likely how Rowland perceived the words himself when listening to the record during his depression – it’s artistic genius. Why listen to George Benson or Whitney Houston when you can listen to a cross-dressing Brummy pour his heart and soul into studio microphone?

This sophomoric – and in retrospect – likely the final Kevin Rowland solo LP is a showcase of singing prowess and competence, a vocalist performing as if in his prime – despite being released almost twenty years after his musical peak with Dexys. You can’t help but think their first album with the heavily contrived soul influences that accrued the northern soul subculture is ultimately culpable for the band’s decline and inability to pursue new artistic directions – as by the time the band’s third and most progressive LP ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ was released – the fans were unsure what the targeted demographic was supposed to be – raising questions of an identity crisis.

As far as the music is concerned, there’s some great covers on this record with around 80% of the LP being stellar. Appearing dress-clad complete with pearl necklace wasn’t ever going to be accepted by a fan-base awash with northern soul connoisseurs and Lambretta enthusiasts – yet it’s kind of ironic how the lyric “no matter what they say about me they can’t take away my dignity” could easily be redirected at those dismissive fans.‘The Greatest Love Of All’ appears to be an intrinsic soundtrack for Rowland – a beacon of light deploring the singer to love and accept himself. My Beauty’, the album’s title – surely a response of affirmation to the song’s message – a reference to Rowland’s own beauty as it were, with cross dressing simply a crude metaphorical disdain of the beauty myth – both aesthetically and characteristically.

Kevin Rowland is undoubtedly a brave man, as back in the ’90s it was still considered a strong taboo for men to openly discuss feelings and reveal emotional weaknesses, so to be crooning about it – while dressed in female garments – is quite simply admirable. After years of self-abuse, indigence and a career on a downward trajectory, ‘My Beauty’ presented Rowland with a platform to return to the music scene, though unfortunately, due to this sartorial and explicit aesthetic, his comeback was less of a triumph and more of a detriment to the health of both Rowland’s career and mentality.

Sadly, Rowland has since denounced everything I perceived ‘My Beauty’ to represent when he recently referred to his behaviour during this period as “nuts” – though personally, I find it likely he’s simply being disingenuous about the matter out of self-preservation. Regardless, the question remains – was the notoriously machoistic former frontman of Dexys Midnight Runners a genuine transvestite – a method-acting thespian portraying his story on one of the biggest stages of all – or was it simply a provocative stunt intended to generate controversy?

‘My Beauty’ is by no means a classic album, and some covers fail to contribute anything to the original versions, but it’s a comprehensive insight into the world of Kevin Rowland. The value of the CD and MiniDisc has increased substantially due to the album’s scarcity – the result of many copies remaining unsold and subsequently recalled, but if you do manage to find a copy – it’s certainly worth purchasing for the rendition of ‘The Greatest Love of All’ alone. All this aside, Kevin Rowland has impeccable taste – as the majority of songs included are also personal favourites of mine! 

It’s rare you’ll find an album that polarises both critical and fan reception so vastly, but regardless of how you perceive the LP – you’d struggle to disparage Rowland’s majestic cover of ‘The Greatest Love of All’. Psychotherapists ought to consider playing ‘The Greatest Love of All’ to those like myself who are afflicted with perennial depression, as the song – this rendition in particular – appears to possess a ineffable healing property, unequivocally beneficial to those whom allow themselves to be touched by the record. Rowland has convincingly made this song his own, and there’s no doubt the late Linda Creed would approve of his interpretation. The question I have to ask is – would this power-ballad have been the better song to lead Rowland’s comeback?

The greatest love of all? Perhaps the greatest cover of all.

 

 

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Rather serendipitously, whilst working on my article it came to my attention that Kevin has successfully extricated the ‘My Beauty’ mastertapes from the vaults of Sony – who’ve owned the rights to the recordings since Creation ceased to operate in 1999. There had been recent speculation of the record’s re-release, particularly this year – which auspiciously marks the 20th anniversary of its original release. However, since Rowland has only recently acquired the tapes, the projected release-date is more liable to be 2020, as the liberated tapes only came into Rowland’s possession within the last month – meaning it would be highly improbable the remastering and re-balancing of the album for an intended first vinyl issuing would be completed in time – and that’s before considering all the press and legal work behind the scenes. While I’m admittedly excited to hear about this, I’m anxious to discover whether or not Kevin adheres to the original sleeve artwork, as a denouncement of the original theme would be irreparably damaging to the original sentiment of the album. Over the years, Rowland has proved himself to be a rather capricious individual, so who knows – it wouldn’t surprise me if he organised a contemporary photoshoot, digging out his old royal blue number at the refined age of 66 – we shall have to wait and see!

Song of the Month #7

Dexys Midnight Runners
The Occasional Flicker

Uh, you know recently – you know recently? Yeah, I was just thinking about uh, one thing and the other and um, well you know music crossed my mind. It occurred to me I’d switch on the radio – ya know? I just wanted to hear some music.

Don’t worry – I haven’t suffered a recent blow to the head – as what you’ve just read is actually a line of awkwardly premeditated dialogue lifted from the rather unusual LP I’ve been spinning this month. Since my last post, we’ve unexpectedly enjoyed some rather clement weather here in the north of England – albeit inconsistent and interspersed with thunderstorms, flash-flooding and the usual drabness of overcast skies. Nonetheless, climate has been consistently hot, culminating this week in the witnessing of a new record temperature of 38.7℃ being established – or was it? Yes, it was – we think. Since most homes in the UK aren’t fitted with air-conditioning, I’ve actually had to relocate my entire vinyl collection to a cooler spot in the house to avoid liquefaction – though I’m not one to complain about the arrival heat – for it means summer is finally upon us and I get to dust-off all those LPs that are best-saved for sunshine accompaniment.

“…one the greatest albums you likely haven’t heard”

The reason I decided to open my article with that lyric – other than the fact it’s relative – is that I myself decided to switch on the radio in search of music. After station-surfing for a few minutes, I serendipitously stumbled upon an impassioned discussion regarding an LP they were referring to as “one of the 80s lost masterpieces” – ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ by Dexys Midnight Runners. Why serendipitous? Well, a few months ago I’d actually paid around 40 euros to import a Japanese pressing of that very same album from a Discogs retailer based in some industrial suburb of Moscow, Russia. Treated like a collector’s item, I hadn’t actually spun it that much since the day of my purchase, but inspired by the two gushing radio hosts, I carefully dusted it off and sank the needle down into its first groove .

Once described by Melody Maker’s Colin Irwin as “the most challenging, absorbing, moving, uplifting and ultimately triumphant album“, ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ survives as frontman Kevin Rowland’s “pièce de résistance” – a subversive and satirical commentary – a wallflower that refused to satiate commercial expectations by ingratiating into the party and announcing itself on the scene in 1985. It’s unequivocally Rowland’s finest hour – regularly cited as a neglected masterpiece, a lost treasure – and a GOAT – that’s “Greatest of All-Time”. ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ offers a collection of eclectic and innovative material – showcasing Dexys at their most comprehensive – exploring funk, spoken-word and folk – while still honouring their soul influences – adhering to Rowland’s Irish roots and rounding it off with a polished indie rock finesse. I’ve regularly seen the album regarded as an 80s ‘Pet Sounds’- and as you’ll read further into my article, you’ll find that I too draw my own parallels – and though the flattering comparisons to arguably the greatest LP of all time are tenuous at best – the musicianship and convoluted arrangement of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ is certainly something to be marvelled. Sole-surviving violinist of the ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ era Helen O’Hara provides ameliorations with her searing string arrangements, the late pianist Vincent Crane of Atomic Rooster unexpectedly graces the album with his adroit tickling of the ivories, and recently appointed saxophonist Nick Gatfield’s brass work captures an essence of ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ as he floats effortlessly over what I’d cite as one of the best examples of bass playing I’ve heard for some time – surprisingly courtesy of Status Quo’s John ‘Rhino’ Edwards. Those name-checked are a mere handful of musicians who grace this lavishly produced LP – but of course – the main attraction is Kevin Rowland’s uniquely wonderful warbling vibrato and the interaction between himself and guitarist-turned-muse Kevin ‘Billy’ Adams.

‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ was a swift departure from their previous 1982 LP ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ both musically and aesthetically – with the band dropping the maligned rag-clad gypsy image and with it the connotations of novelty and ridicule generated by the smash-hit ‘Come On Eileen’ that had garnered the band’s nflattering “one hit wonder” tagline outside of the UK. Reforming the lineup and revivifying their aesthetic had always been an intrinsic part of Rowland’s formula, and the abandonment of the infamous denim-dungarees in favour of suit and ties saw Dexys transmogrify into what has been best-described over the years as an “Ivy League look”. Their new styling was presented on the LP’s cover sleeve which featured Rowland, Adams, O’Hara and Gatfield suited-up in a rather unsettling, expressionless shot juxtaposed against a humble raspberry-red strip (or maroon depending on the print). Despite being somewhat disconcerting, the photography is really crisp and printed in exquisite detail on my Japanese pressing of the record – probably one of the best prints I’ve seen on an album sleeve. The band’s name and the album title are barely visible, placed centre-horizontally within the strip of maroon in a suitably minimalist Univers typeface to corroborate the smart attire the band are seen donning. Though people often assume it to be a grammatical error, the plural Dexys instead of the possessive Dexy’s is actually correct as Dexys is actually a colloquial term for Dexedrine, a brand of dextroamphetamine used as a recreational drug among northern soul to acquire the required energy to survive what were often all-night affairs.

One member didn’t adhere to the formal attire of the group – with the drummer looking incriminatingly out-of-place. Perhaps he thought he was auditioning to be Jack Irons’ replacement in The Red Hot Chili Peppers?

Musically, the LP is far less horn reliant than their previous effort – with the majority of the album’s humble brass-work courtesy of newly appointed saxophonist Nick Gatfield – as well as the complementary trombone playing of former Dexys member “Big” Jim Paterson who I believe had to be coerced into making his cameo appearance on the record following his exit the previous year after the fulfilment of touring commitments to ‘Too-Rye-Ay’. 

“…a perfectionist’s imperfect masterpiece”

With ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ Rowland sought to take his Midnight Runners in a far more bohemian direction while also drawing inspiration from contemporaneous indie pop bands of the mid-80s to remain relevant within the changing musical climate. Unlike the high-octane good-vibe energy of ‘Too Rye Ay’, ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ is a laconic affair with quite the sinister essence to it. Though I recall finding myself rather immersed in ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ the first time I discovered it, the album as a whole was quite predictable – a crude and cyclical collection of soul and Irish folk. Its production was perceived to be rather abrasive too – though I’d argue it was exacerbated retrospectively by everything relative to ‘Come On Eileen’ – which despite being one of the best singles of the 80s has unfortunately garnered a synonymity with songs like Black Lace’s ‘Agadoo’  for being played at 60^th birthday parties in social clubs around the north of England as well as virtually every crass wedding reception you’ve ever attended. It’s ineffable and difficult to discern, but by these associations I admittedly find the essence of that album to be quite off-putting – despite find many of the songs enjoyable! It’s almost inconceivable that ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ was created by that same band – but after such a drastic alteration to the personnel, it essentially wasn’t. Rowland’s approach to the difficult third album was far more creative, comprehensive and macabre, consequently presenting a more diverse outing than that of its predecessor. Their previous efforts of blue-eyed soul spliced with Irish folk roots were all but left behind to fester – save for the LP’s 7^th track ‘Listen To This’ – the only veritable remnant comparable to ‘Too-Rye-Ay’.

‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ is a stellar alternative-pop record combining components of funk, soul, folk, art-pop and what we now refer to as indie rock. It’s easily the best alternative British album of 1985 – even when competing against indie classics such as The Smiths’ ‘Meat Is Murder’ and The Jesus & Mary Chain’s ‘Psychocandy’. Despite being the best alternative album of 1985, one of the best album’s of the 1980s, and one of the greatest LPs of all time in my enthusiastic opinion – it regrettably managed to pass under the radar completely undetected – and with the public preoccupied by the likes of Madonna, Phil Collins and Bryan Adams – splashing green on ‘Like a Virgin’, ‘No Jacket Required’ and ‘Reckless‘  respectively – Dexys never really had a chance of breaking the charts. However, the album has justly received retrospective critical acclaim – accruing a cult status in the process and a demand that saw several reissues.

The three best alternative albums of 1985

Its commercial failure could largely be attributed to Rowland’s refusal to issue a single from the LP, and though ‘This Is What She’s Like’ was eventually released as a stand-alone single along with a subsequent promotional video and further videos to the songs ‘Listen To This’ and ‘Knowledge of Beauty’ for TV broadcasting, sales ultimately couldn’t be recouped – and those whom the album did reach seemingly couldn’t comprehend or discern exactly what Dexys’ third LP was supposed to be – and so word of mouth dissemination wasn’t enough to project its commerce.

It likely didn’t help that the original Dexys audience were majoritively people like my father – youths of the northern soul generation obsessed by Lambretta culture and all-nighters over at Wigan Casino. The band themselves formed through a mutual love of northern soul and soon began replicating the authentic transatlantic sounds they’d been exposed to during their formative years with singles like ‘Dance Stance’ and ‘Geno’ – the latter being inspired by the American soul & blues legend Geno Washington who in-turn enjoyed a career revival in the early 80s on the back of the success of Rowland’s #1 hit. Interestingly, Ian Brown of the Stone Roses was directly influenced by Washington after he’d approached him at one of his shows and encouraged the young Mancunian to be a singer – but that’s a story for another day!

The existing Dexys fan-base had already been challenged by the predictably soul-orientated yet unexpectedly Celtic-centric ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ – an album that had left the majority of fans in limbo and many subsequently clinging to their previous effort ‘Searching For The Young Soul Rebels’ – denouncing anything that followed. ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ isn’t another bog-standard blue-eyed soul record – it’s far more than that – and as previously addressed – the albums 7^th track‘Listen To This’ is the only significant parallel drawn. Regrettably, a piece of avant-garde art like ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ was released completely unto the wrong audience, similarly to The Beach Boys’ ‘Pet Sounds’ – which originally hadn’t been well-received commercially due to the fact their existing fan-base was a composite of hot-rod hedonists and California dreamers – despite being heralded retrospectively as one of the – if not THE greatest LP ever recorded. The Beach Boys however had enough exposure to continue exploring those avenues and garner retrospective praise. Dexys didn’t have a comparative platform, and soon disbanded following the completion of the ensuing ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ tours in 1986. Another factor surely has to be their reputation following ‘Too-Rye-Ay’, which thanks to the aforementioned connotations of ‘Come On Eileen’ saw Dexys considered by the British public as a novelty, and a one-hit wonder stateside.

“…the best alternative album of 1985, one of the best albums of the 1980s, and one of the greatest LPs of all time”

Though it wasn’t well-received commercially – or critically for that matter – Rowland has always remained unabashedly besotted with his tertiary Dexys outing, and upon leaving Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady record studios for the final time following the completion of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – the outlandish Brummy frontman was quoted as saying “that’s the best I could do”. Be that as it may, the album encountered innumerable difficulties during recording – tensions, creative differences, procrastination and the usual – money. Saxophonist Nick Gatfield imminently left the group following the LP’s release – going on to publicly lambaste the album’s creation process and his former Dexys cohorts.

Heavily funded by Mercury who had given Rowland a vast and lavish well of resources, Gatfield cited this in his criticism of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – claiming previous LP ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ had been made very inexpensively and “had an energy about it” compared to ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – which had consumed a vast amount of money and, according to Gatfield – “felt uncomfortable and unnatural”. Needless to say, Gatfield’s image was cut from both the 1997 Creation reissue and 2002 EMI ‘Director’s Cut’ respectively. Despite its hefty payroll, Rowland found himself owing an extortionate amount of money to the label for excessive studio time – largely due to his perfectionist’s approach to the album – which saw three weeks at Hendrix’s Electric Lady Studio elongate to six months.

8 months had passed and only 2 songs were recorded, with the album’s twelve-minute epic ‘This Is What She’s Like’ purportedly existing in 120 different forms and accumulating 200 boxes of tape reel consequently. The label’s faith in the record had relinquished following the laborious and unproductive sessions, and soon after – the funds had depleted. Despite frivolously burning through tens of thousands on additional studio-time and finding himself in debt, Rowland was still insistent the album wasn’t complete, and dedicated a further two weeks to mixing the album – on borrowed time. Subsequently, the studio kept the master tapes as insurance following mounting outstanding bills that neither Rowland nor Mercury were paying – though after a failed attempt by Rowland to liberate the tapes (he was detained by New York City cops but ultimately no charges were brought against him), the label conceded and payed for their extrication – holding them under lock and key over at Phonogram’s New York offices until such a time when Rowland could reimburse them.

Spectacular failure loomed for Rowland as almost an entire year’s work seemed destined to be shelved indefinitely – and just as it seemed there was nothing left that could possibly go wrong that hadn’t already – an unbelievable event of misfortune would occur. During the period the master tapes were holed-up over at Phonogram, a fire broke out in an adjacent office leaving the band to endure an anxious week-long wait while fire inspectors worked to declare the building safe to enter, leaving everybody to assume the tapes had undoubtedly perished.

Thankfully, Rowland’s masterpiece had survived – and just like the phoenix rising from the ashes – ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ was finally destined to be released unto the world – and surviving an inferno had only added further mystique to the this great, great record. The material is majestic, convoluted and unabashedly quirky – brimful of Rowland’s inflections and idiosyncrasies and his new-found tendency to break the fourth wall as he waffles on in unintelligible riddles – adding a humorous charm to imbalance its darkened nature. The interjection of guitarist Billy Adams to the conversation produces dialogue the likes of which I haven’t come across on any other LP – and though I’m aware of its existence, it has to be noted its very rare you’ll find it on a commercial pop record – but then again, ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ is unconventional, anti-establishment and anti-commerce – much to the dissatisfaction of the label bosses. On previous effort ‘Too-Rye-Ay’, Rowland’s lines had been projected outwards toward you, the listener – yet here we find the dialogue between the pair of Rowland and Adams removing the listener from the equation. It’s the only album I’ve come across to feature dialogue in this way, with songs like ‘The Occasional Flicker’, ‘This Is What She’s Like’ and ‘One of Those Things’ being entirely structured around semi-ad-libbed conversation. Though the only voices we hear in conversation are those of Rowland and Adams, it is implied the other members are in discussion without Adams before he entered the room on ‘This Is What She’s Like’ – with the dialogue ostensibly revealing the group to be recording their excerpts in the Midlands as Adams denotes a visit to the Little Nibble Cafe – located in the Birmingham suburb of Bearwood. Despite this, it’s an unequivocal fact that all material had been recorded 3000 miles away at Electric Lady in New York City! Despite the spoken excerpts being mostly dialogue, the song ‘Reminisce Part II’ is almost entirely a Rowland monologue and contains references to several songs – ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ by late singer-songwriter John Denver, ‘The Wedding Bell Blues’ by American R&B group 5^th Dimension, ‘Lola’ by seminal rockers The Kinks and ‘I’ll Say Forever’ by Jimmy Ruffin – the latter adroitly incorporated into the song’s chorus – functioning as its earworm and central-theme. Of the aforementioned records, all were released in 1969 – the year Rowland recalls as he reminisces.

Perennially unsatisfied with the finished product, Rowland has since amended ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ twice – meaning there are currently three different incarnations of the record on the market. I find it difficult to discern exactly how one could be dissatisfied with creating an album of this calibre, but it seems Rowland’s issues lie with its mastering, and not the musicianship. Following his unsuccessful stint as a solo artist with the release of 1988’s ‘The Wanderer’, Rowland disappeared into the musical wilderness for almost a decade – during which time he struggled to battle depression and drug-abuse. Unexpectedly, Rowland returned a revivified character in 1997 when label-boss Alan McGee signed him to Creation Records for his projected solo album ‘My Beauty’. The album received a compact disc-only release in 1999 and saw Rowland appearing in drag on the cover sleeve – a style he adhered to for his ensuing promotional tour. His brave, unabashed and crude gender-challenge came two decades premature and was consequently misunderstood – culminating in his infamous performance at Reading 1999 which saw him take to the main stage wearing a cream-frock, surrounded by scantily-clad female dancers as he crooned over playback – resulting in him being unceremoniously bottled from the stage. However, during his time with Creation, Rowland purchased the rights to ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ from Mercury and issued an amended version on the label, this time featuring only Rowland and Adams on the sleeve in an achromatic print from a contemporaneous photoshoot. This first reissue saw the amendment of two song titles – ‘Knowledge of Beauty’ became ‘My National Pride’, and ‘Listen To This’ became ‘I Love You (Listen To This)’. The former had always been intended to feature the title of ‘My National Pride’ – though back in 1985, Rowland simply “didn’t have the courage to title it that when it came around to the artwork”. His rejuvenated release saw the inclusion of two additional tracks ‘Reminisce (Part One)’ – recorded in the spring of 1983 prior to ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ and first released as the B-side to the reissue of ‘The Celtic Soul Brothers’ that same year – as well as a contemporary cover of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. A modern stereo enhancer was used during the remastering phase, which both Rowland and original recording engineer Pete Schwier claimed “ruined the original dynamics”. Five years later in 2002, Rowland licensed the tracks to former Dexys label EMI in hope of releasing a third and surely definitive version of the album – this time subtitled ‘The Director’s Cut’. This final iteration saw the withdrawal of the additional tracks that had been included on the Creation reissue as well as the inclusion of yet another track – ‘Kevin Rowland’s 13^th Time’ – though at this point it would have been more apt to re-title it ‘Kevin Rowland’s 3^rd Time’. Remastered without the stereo enhancer that had purportedly blighted the previous release – Rowland was finally satisfied with the finished article.

Originally, the song ‘Kevin Rowland’s 13^th Time’ had been proposed as the the album’s opener on the ‘85 release – even featuring an introductory lyric “My name is Kevin Rowland – I am the leader of the band”. According to Rowland, the recording had a “dodgy beat” and ultimately decided against its inclusion due to its problematic percussion. I quite like the cover sleeve on EMI release, which contrary to the first two issues of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – doesn’t adhere to the Ivy League aesthetic – instead the sleeve features a shot of Rowland, Adams and O’Hara strolling through a park wearing more recreational yet preppy plaid attire. I always consider a record’s sleeve artwork to have an intrinsic corroboration with the music contained within – or at least that’s how one should approach artwork – and though contemporaneous, the change in setting from a dark, sterile and formal photoshoot to one of a sunny, outdoor informal and candid shot really changes how I perceive the record – so it was a bold call by Rowland. I suppose the general consumer are a little more desensitised than I am – as I’m the type of person who believes the air felt different in bygone eras, and that the energy produced when recording an album reverberates within the studio finite, becoming almost palpable if you were to visit the location of its creation. I’ve been informed by a dear Scottish friend of mine that I’m a “fried-cunt” – a polite Glaswegian colloquialism used in reference to somebody who’s a little “Bats In The Belfry” as it were.

The 1997 Creation reissue of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ featuring Rowland & Adams exclusively

After many spins of the LP and with it some thoroughly enjoyable aural experiences, the only flaw of significance that I’ve been able to discern has to be its rather erratic mixing. The introduction to ‘The Occasional Flicker’ is extremely low and subdued – almost inaudible, with this same issue again coming to prominence during the two-minute section of dialogue at the beginning of ‘This Is What She’s Like’, and the instrumental transition between its parts one and two. However, by far the most culpable is ‘Knowledge of Beauty’ – with the song explicitly faint and murky by comparison to the default audio levels across the material on the LP. The song’s volume gradually increases as it progresses, yet I often find myself having to max-out the volume for the first two or so minutes which doesn’t work out particularly well as Rowland’s vocal erratically shifts in volume on several occasions as he draws close to the microphone. This however cannot be considered a flaw – as rarely have I heard such a raw, unpolished vocal track on a finished LP – especially when considering the instrumental tracks are so polished. I can only assume these mixing idiosyncrasies to be conscious artistic decisions due to their blatancy – though since I haven’t heard the remastered Creation or EMI releases – except for the three previously unreleased songs – it’s impossible for me to deduce whether or not it was intended. Perhaps that’s what the studio engineers attempted to “fix” for the Creation reissue when they inadvertently affected the LP’s “dynamics”,  and a good researcher would have bought all three copies from cross-referencing before writing their article – but I don’t have an audience of any significance to appease, ergo – I simply couldn’t be arsed!

Among the album’s highlights are the haunting ‘Knowledge of Beauty’ – evoking imagery of Rowland’s indigenous Ireland – the twelve-minute episodic epic ‘This Is What She’s Like’ – and the record’s soaring eight-minute closing ballad ‘The Waltz’. However, the song I’ve particularly enjoyed since revisiting the LP is ‘The Occasional Flicker’ – a song considered strong enough to lead this imperious album as its opening number. I’ve arbitrarily selected this song as I identify it as an epitome of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – comprehensively ingratiating elements that feature prominently on several isolated tracks from across LP. ‘The Occasional Flicker’ is reticently cryptic, dark – yet contrarily humorous in its lyrical approach to the song’s conflagrational metaphor. There’s an explicit parallel between the song and the circumstances in which the album almost perished in the Phonogram office fire – therefore, I find it to be an ironically intrinsic slow-burner to begin proceedings.

The song begins with a faint intro, hardly audible due to it being so criminally low within the mix – a problem in several areas of the record and already highlighted above! Its inventive sequence of chords and shifting keys create an usually episodic structure for a pop record, with its first verse being sinisterly ominous – written in minor and carried by a peculiarly unconventional chord progression – while the chorus is a contrastingly uplifting major progression. Despite the chorus being the song’s significant earworm – its twenty-second duration has to be savoured due to it featuring just once in the entire song – imminently followed by the bridge – meaning the song’s peak is a premature one. Rather than adhering to the paradigms of standard pop-music – which would usually dictate a reprise of verse, the song instead enters an extended coda totalling an elapsed four minutes – longer than the main body of the song. This coda of instrumental ad-libbing essentially borrows from the chorus, directly lifting its bass and chord progression while Rowland unintelligibly digresses about fire, conflagration and a suggestive metaphor of heartburn. It’s at this point in the song we find Rowland descending into a monologue that drifts between talking and singing before Billy Adams unexpectedly interjects, forming dialogue as he ratifies Rowland’s inquisitions – offering the suggestion – “are you sure it’s not heartburn?” . It has to be said, the conversation is rather one-sided in favour of Rowland – who’s quick to dismiss Adams’ advice!

Never have I come across dialogue of this kind on a record before. It exists, it’s out there – but to utilise it in this way on a pop LP is quite simply genius. No longer do we find Rowland communicating with you the listener, but instead we feel as though we’re eavesdropping on private conversations between the two Kevins (Billy was a pseudonym given to Adams to avoid confusion, similarly to Helen O’Hara who was given her pseudonym to “sound Irish” for the ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ LP).

The entire conversation between Rowland and Adams (transcribed the best I could!) – with the latter in bold italic

Well, you might say that I’m trying to redeem myself
and in a way I think this is true
But I’m just trying to chew-off more than those
before they bite more than I do
Well you could – you could say I’m a bitter man
and I would agree – I think this is true
I will remain so until I know more than those that know more than I do
It kind of reminds me of that burning feeling I used to get
Yeah?
It kind of reminds me of that same kind of feeling
Uh, what’s the…
You know that uh
What?
 You know the little problem I used to get
What problem?
That little problem
Are you still getting trouble with it?
Yeah, not all the time or anything
Like it was?
Yeah
Are you SURE it’s not heartburn?
Heartburn? No, it’s not a bit like heartburn – no!
It’s something else – listen to this
Ok
You know that problem the one I used to get
Oh yeah?
Well I still get troubles
Some things I won’t forget
Nothing big, nothing important just a little incident of a burning nature
It’s just a little matter of a burning
It’s not arson, it’s not arson
It’s nothing to get excited about
It’s my own problem I’ll deal with it in my own time, alright?
I’ll deal with it in my own way
Oh, am I burning?
Oh, am I burning?
Am I burning? Am I burning? Am I burning?
Am I burning? Am I burning? Am I burning?
Like I said it’s MY problem I can deal with it myself
Alright!

The song was written solely by Rowland who has stated the song’s meaning to be reticently personal. Despite this, I’d posit its metaphor is in regard to his previous LP ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ – with Rowland not wanting sympathy for the ridicule the band had consequently encountered due to their aesthetic and sound, the creative concessions he’d been coerced into making in order to produce a hit record and finally inferring he had been right the whole time during the chorus. The fire metaphor likely analogises Rowland’s burning desire to succeed with ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – redeeming himself after the polarity of ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ – an album Rowland admitted had been compromised and ultimately didn’t develop they way in which he’d have liked. This throws up yet more irony – as Rowland ultimately had to release three versions of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ between a 17 year period before he was satiatingly satisfied.

Rowland’s vocal on this particular song is exceptional, with his unique baritone vibrato being both impressive and intriguing – culminating during the chorus where Rowland delivers ‘I was right the first time’ in an almost quaking inflection. Rowland’s vocal range has always eluded me – initially I had assumed it to fall within the paradigms of a tenor due to his high soaring vocals that had graced his early 80s work – though after discovering his 1988 solo LP ‘The Wanderer’ I found Rowland revealing himself to be a baritone. Incidentally, I’ve actually had a brief interaction with a woman who “claimed” to be his vocal coach – citing his range to be both as wide and strong in the present day as it was back in the 80s. Upon my inquisition as to his vocal classification and lowest to highest notes, she suddenly failed to provide any relevant answers – so it’s likely she wasn’t really a vocal coach at all – or terrible one at least. I’ve gathered what I discern to be his lowest and highest notes and deduced Rowland has a significantly overlapping baritone range – also known as a high-baritone – though the majority of vocals present on ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ are sung in chest-voice giving him a bass-baritone-like timbre.

The dialogue appears intentionally humorous and awkwardly scripted, though it does seem to be a little more ad-libbed and spontaneous compared to other songs on the record. The track’s darkened atmosphere exudes a sulphuric essence that has to be considered as a direct corroboration with its miraculous survival of the Phonogram offices fire.The incident is perfectly analogised by ‘The Occasional Flicker’ – with the acrid smoke of the fire coursing through the veins of instrumentation and becoming almost palpable to the olfactory sense. I find it rather reminiscent of how Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry used to bless his recordings by dousing them in blood and expectorating cannabis smoke into the recording equipment before burying the tape reels in soil – occasionally “soiling” in the literal sense. The guy would regularly smear shit and blood over the walls of his legendary Black Ark Studio – a studio he unsurprisingly burnt down in 1979 following years of increasingly erratic and bizarre behaviour. Thankfully, the similarities begin and end with smoke! 

As always, Kevin Rowland delivers using his trademark slurring inflections, though luckily – as with all Dexys releases – the inclusion of lyrics in the LP’s linear notes was imperative. I actually remember on their previous LP ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ they encountered difficulties transcribing the lyrics verbatim – instead paraphrasing for the listeners benefit; “The words here may vary slightly from the ones you’ll hear on the record. We have intentionally presented them this way to make them easier to read”.

Once again I’ll make a tenuous reference to contemporaneous indie-pop band The Smiths, as the percussion on ‘The Occasional Flicker’ reminds me of Mike Joyce’s work on The Smiths’ 1985 LP ‘Meat Is Murder’ – significantly ‘The Headmaster Ritual’ – also the opener of its parent album.The bass on ‘The Occasional Flicker’ is sublime – a recurring pleasure of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ – the only thing I struggle to discern is – who actually played the bass? As previously stated, the record’s linear notes cite John ‘Rhino’ Edwards of Status Quo to be the bassist – yet promotional videos and live performances of material from the album reveal the bassist to be one Jerome Preston. Jerome himself has commented on YouTube uploads of ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ material regaling viewers with the fond memories he has of his time recording with Dexys. After listening to both bassists, I’d argue it’s Jerome Preston on the album – so I’m perplexed – but whoever’s playing – it’s exceptional, and yet again drawing parallels with ‘Meat Is Murder’ – bares a similarity with the criminally underrated bass playing of The Smiths’ Andy Rourke. Also worth mentioning is Rowland’s channelling of Johnny Rotten as he mimics the legendary Sex Pistols & PiL frontman’s cadence when he slurs the word “problem” during his conversation with Billy Adams – surely in a reference to the Sex Pistols namesake. Rowland had previously referenced the Sex Pistols on the reworking of ‘Dance Stance’ that had opened Dexys debut album ‘Searching For The Young Soul Rebels’, which in my eyes is enough to assume a connection.

‘The Occasional Flicker’ – like its parent album – is a piece of bohemian craftsmanship, a subversion of pop music and one the greatest albums you likely haven’t heard – for this brummy maverick, this idiosyncratic perfectionist has presented us with an imperfect masterpiece – a labour of love – a triumph of artistic endeavour. Adjectives are often useless when describing art, which is probably why I can’t quite find the words to best describe exactly what this LP is. I’ve tried my best, and my best meant writing what’s essentially an album review primarily and a song review – as intended – only in part.

Sadly, Dexys will forever be associated by the uneducated as a novelty, as soul-imitators, as one-hit wonders – despite ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ being proof of Rowland’s creative ingeniosity. If you come across this LP, buy it on the spot – and if you’re not satisfied – I’ll refund you the money myself.

 

Song of the Month #6

The Jesus And Mary Chain
Good For My Soul

Most of the ‘Song of the Month’ articles I’ve published to my blog have referenced songs that conspicuously happen to be unanimously favourable. Perhaps it’s because I follow the crowd – though I like to think it’s because I have impeccable taste. The fact is, the records that have inspired me each month happened to be of universal acclaim. However, popularity doesn’t define a song’s quality – and although the championed record of my June playlist is a fairly inconsequential effort – it’s one that’s struck a chord with me ever since I first heard it on a warm summer’s day two or three years ago

Though I doubt there’s anybody out there actively following my often unnecessarily prolix posts, I’ve anecdotally referenced Scottish noise-pop innovators The Jesus & Mary Chain innumerable times across various entries – but had yet to publish an article strictly in their honour. I’ve been a fan of The Jesus & Mary Chain since my sophomore college days – though not without patience and persistence – for the original shoegazers are a notoriously difficult band to appreciate. Admittedly, not everybody finds them as wonderful as I do, and over the years I’ve encountered many bewildered people who simply can’t fathom my interest in them. A friend once suggested you’d have to be on Prozac or numbed-out on a large quantity anti-depressants to willingly enjoy the The Jesus & Mary Chain – though in reality I think he inadvertently payed them a huge compliment with his intended critique. The Mary Chain are notoriously quite dull, dismally industrial and extremely primitive in their approach to musicianship – not to mention a large portion of their material is saturated by ear-destroying feedback – so I can empathise to an extent. At first I too found it difficult to warm to them – especially after dedicating my latter teenage years to the learning of complex 70s blues-based riffs by the likes of Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and particularly John Squire’s inspired playing on The Stone Roses’ ‘Second Coming’ LP.

The difficulty in appreciating The Jesus & Mary Chain is so ubiquitous in popular-culture they’ve found themselves as the butt of the joke with many television references –  a notable example being the British sitcom ‘Peep Show’ when characters Mark and Jez argued over the temperament of their decadent new central-heating control-system – with Robert Webb’s character Jez making a hilarious analogy comparing The Jesus & Mary Chain to an idiosyncratic boiler!

“It’s a great boiler – it’s just got a very idiosyncratic control panel. It’s like the Jesus and Mary Chain of central heating control systems – difficult to get into initially, but then – so much to explore!”

– Jez Usborne (Peepshow)

I’d crossed the name The Jesus & Mary Chain quite often while reading up on artists of interest to me at the time – and their impact and influence on my favourite musicians was duly noted. However, it was incidentally John Squire who gave me the final incentive to go down to my local record shop and purchase the Jesus & Mary Chain’s debut LP ‘Psychocandy’ after his referencing of the band in several interviews – citing them as a primary inspiration behind the formation of his band The Stone Roses – even going on to produce a beautiful wax-based abstract artwork that John claimed was a visual representation of the feedback heard on many of The Jesus & Mary Chain’s records. Being so used to virtuoso guitar playing and proficient vocalists, William Reid’s repetitive use of barre-chords and Jim Reid’s monotonous approach to singing proved to be a difficult concoction to appreciate at face-value. Though their guitar-lines are indeed simplistic, the overwhelmingly abrasive distortion present on the majority of their output create these impenetrable walls of mesmerisingly convoluted and often discordant feedback. This approach to production was essentially a bastardisation of 60s producer Phil Spector‘s patented ‘Wall of Sound’ technique – in fact, the band’s flagship song ‘Just Like Honey’ lifts Hal Blaine’s famed drum intro from The Ronettes’ ‘Be My Baby’ – Phil Spector’s most potent hit. I’ve always found it to be quite charming how guitarist William Reid doesn’t seem to have improved despite years in the industry – unabashedly referring to himself as being no better than some kid who only picked up a guitar last week during an interview conducted in 1994. Despite being technically inept, William Reid is recognised and praised for his unorthodox approach to guitar playing – with Jim saying of his brother “He’s done things that nobody would think of had they had guitar lessons”. The other founding members weren’t much better, with bassist Douglas Hart infamously performing with only two strings and drummer Bobby Gillespie alternating between a snare drum and floor tom which he played in standing position – taking inspiration from The Velvet Underground’s Moe Tucker. The Jesus & Mary Chain record that eventually captivated me was their 1985 single ‘You Trip Me Up’ – taken from the ‘Psychocandy’ LP. Despite being almost inaudible due to its excessive wall of caustic-feedback – I found myself completely immersed in its soundscape – and thus began my love-affair with Shoegaze. Its convoluted layers of feedback are so abrasive I’m convinced it could destroy a dainty modern-day DAB radio if anybody dared to transmit it!

The Jesus & Mary Chain by John Squire – Oil & Wax on Canvas

Formed in the Glasgow-centric town of East Kilbride in the early 80s by acid-dropping brothers William and Jim Reid, The Jesus & Mary Chain’s story began with the purchase of a Portastudio funded by their father’s redundancy pay following the loss of his factory job. Initially, the brothers worked separately – penning their own songs while sharing custody of the Portastudio to cut demos. After coercing childhood friends Douglas Hart and Murray Dalglish into forming a band, the brothers coalesced – combining their material to produce a collective of around a dozen songs cumulatively – enough for a live set. The Reid brothers had spent 5 years on the dole between 1979 and 1984 – giving them time to formulate the band’s sound and image, and it was during these formative years the band were formally recognised as The Poppy Seeds – playing occasional and sporadic gigs in small bars in and around the Glasgow area. The band were known to skulk around venues where established live artists would be performing on the night before claiming to be their support act in an attempt get on stage. The band’s setlist comprised of bastardised tributes to American bands such as The Velvet Underground and The Beach Boys – and by their third or fourth show – The Poppy Seeds began to accrue a reputation for violent and chaotic performances. By 1984, the band decided to bolster their image with a suitably provocative name to correlate with their subversive and often insubordinate lyricism – adopting the now iconic title of The Jesus & Mary Chain – apparently inspired by a chain found in a drawer belonging to the Reids’ mother that featured depictions of Mary and Jesus. Initially the band had told journalists they’d sourced the name from a line in a Bing Crosby film – though they later recanted. It’s also suggested the name derived from an advertisement on the back of a cereal-box for a mail-order Jesus and Mary chain. Though the name would be suggestive of an innocuous religious folk band – the brothers decision to reference Christianity in their title when the majority of their material is extremely depraved and iniquitous provided them with the edge of provocation. The name alone helped perpetuate interest in the band even to this day – in fact, I’ve previously gone on record as stating The Jesus & Mary Chain to be the greatest band name in rock ‘n’ roll history!

1984 was the year that changed everything for the Reid brothers. After their shambolic attempts at live performances, the band relocated to Fulham, London where they began to distribute their demo tapes to various record labels in the area in a desperate attempt to find work. One of the tapes eventually reached Alan McGee of newly established Creation Records via Primal Scream founder Bobby Gillespie – who at the time was an employee of the company. The demo generated hype among employees at the offices of Creation and the band were subsequently booked in to play their first formal gig in June of 1984 at McGee’s Living Room club on Tottenham Court Road. Following the show, McGee instantaneously signed The Jesus & Mary Chain to his now infamous label on a one-off deal, and more live performances ensued. Just two days after their first formal show, the The Jesus & Mary Chain were booked to perform at Night Moves in Glasgow – but their set was so poorly received the band found themselves being forcibly and unceremoniously ejected from the venue. The band soon found themselves being mislabelled as a punk-outfit as a result of their on-stage demeanour, antics and tendency for shows to transgress. Their inability to perform shows with cohesion and their synonymy with violence led to a preliminary success of the band, and with a succession of shows under their belts, the band’s formula became more cohesive and refined – with songs of significant quality subsequently beginning to materialise. By October of 1984 the band were finally assigned studio-time for the recording of their first single ‘Upside Down’. The single was imminently issued in physical form the following month backed by a cover of Syd Barrett’s ‘Vegetable Man’ on its B-side as a precursor to their first official tour of the country. Upon its release, tickets for The Jesus & Mary Chain were suddenly in hot-demand, and the band found themselves to be the darlings of the music press – with NME writer Neil Taylor citing them as “the best band in the world”.

So basic were Creation’s operations during these formative years, initial pressings of ‘Upside Down’ were genuinely hand-packaged by the band themselves in an frugal attempt to cut costs. Shortly after its release, drummer Murray Dalglish made a swift exit from the band following a dispute over money, with Bobby Gillespie being drafted in as his replacement. The single topped the UK Indie Chart in February of 1985 and again in March – selling somewhere in the region of 35,000 copies. During this time, the band were arrested for possession of amphetamines and Jim particularly found himself on the wrong end of the law after police detained him for being high on LSD – an incident that yet again perpetuated notoriety – as well attracting the presence of drug-addled reprobates at their shows. The Jesus & Mary Chain’s amphetamine-fuelled shows continued to last no longer than 20 minutes and regularly featured the band performing with their backs turned to the audience – provocatively refusing to engage. In December of 1984, The Jesus & Mary Chain participated in the ICA’s ‘Rock Week’  where the band’s violent reputation and punk affiliation culminated with them being bottled off by an antagonised audience of restless punks who had been made to wait for the band to appear. The same concoction of events again came to fruition again in March of 1985 when the band played their infamous show at the London Polytechnic, where the crowd had already been antagonised by the supporting acts and were traditionally left waiting by The Jesus & Mary Chain who took well over an hour to enter stage. Their set lasted an elapsed 25 minutes by which time the dissatisfied crowd began to invade the stage – smashing up everything in site including amplifiers and instruments. The mob took exception to Bobby Gillespie’s snare drum which ended up in the ally behind the venue where it mercilessly had the shit kicked out of it before ultimately being thrown through a window. This incident found the media reporting on the band’s 5^th riot in a matter of months, and their reputation for sociopathy was admittedly starting to become a hindrance – with the band ultimately denouncing the stigma surrounding them. The Jesus & Mary Chain were dubbed “the New Sex Pistols” by the music press, and consequently the band found themselves blacklisted from performing at venues in several districts after local councils imposed a ban on the band performing in their respective areas.

After their deal with Creation expired, the band were signed by Warner subsidiary label Blanco y Negro – though they remained under the management of McGee for two more years. The Jesus & Mary Chain subsequently went on to release 4 LPs before the end of the decade – 1985’s ‘Psychocandy’, 1987’s ‘Darklands’, 1988’s ‘Barbed Wire Kisses’ and 1989’s ‘Automatic’ – and that brings us to the 90s. If you put a shotgun to someone’s brain and asked them to name a Jesus & Mary Chain song, it’s likely you’d be waiting for the resurrection of Kurt Cobaine before anybody name-dropped ‘Good For My Soul’ – yet I always found it to be one of the strongest efforts on their excellent 1992 studio LP ‘Honey’s Dead’. Most general fans would suggest ‘Just Like Honey’, ‘Some Candy Talking’ or ‘Happy When It Rains’ – so it’s rather fitting that this little known track is sourced from an album that denounced the sound associated with these high-profile hits.

Since it’s June – not that you’d know if you lived here in the UK – ‘Good For My Soul’ honorarily found itself on my summer-playlist – and despite the absence of clement weather, the song never fails to evoke sunshine vibes. Taken from the Scottish rockers’ 4^th studio album, ‘Good For My Soul’ is one of those song’s that regrettably falls through the cracks of an artist’s discography and passes people by. I suppose its neglect is just another reason why I personally consider it to be a unappreciated gem among the band’s lengthy canon of work. Its parent album ‘Honey’s Dead’ was a significant departure from the sound The Jesus & Mary Chain became associated with during the mid-80s – something the Reid’s addressed with the LP’s title – a reference to ‘Just Like Honey’ – the band’s acclaimed 1985 single from their debut studio album ‘Psychocandy’. Following the departure of bassist and founding-member Douglas Hart in 1991, the Reid brothers were left as the homeostatic core of the group and soon found themselves moving into their bespoke studio in Elephant & Castle, South London – the aptly-named ‘Drugstore’. Having their own studio proved to be a catalyst for creativity, with the brother’s having the freedom to relax and experiment without the pressures of label executives on their backs over the brothers’ often unproductive and consequentially costly studio time. Despite the studio’s dubious appellation – the album was thrashed-out in a two month period of fluid, naturally cohesive artistic creativity – without the influence of drugs or excessive alcohol intake. Jim Reid refers to ‘Honey’s Dead’ as their last sober album, though by the time 1994’s ‘Stoned and Dethroned‘ was released, the studio began to live-up to its name by essentially becoming a trap-house. Their freedom and unregulated recording sessions would ultimately lead to the band’s implosion, with tensions between the brothers being exacerbated by close proximity and an inability to write and record without the influence of alcohol and drugs – but that’s a story for another day.

The simplistic nature of the band’s musicianship meant the Reid/Reid partnership were able to hire auxiliary members exclusively for TV appearances or touring commitments when and where they were required – without too many repercussions. The Reids however can take full credit for the record’s sound – produced almost exclusively by the brothers save for the assistance of future collaborative producer Alan Moulder and the appearance of accomplished producer Flood in an engineering capacity. With a significantly larger bankroll than their previous efforts, the album stands as one of the Mary Chain’s most accomplished, lush sounding records. Adhering to typical Mary Chain aesthetic, the album’s sleeve futures a distressed photograph – this time borrowing a detail from ‘Ophelia (First Version)’ by Pre-Raphaelite artist Arthur Hughes.

‘Honey’s Dead’ can be considered a career defining career work, documenting the band’s shift between the 80s and 90s. Is it as original or seminal as ‘Psychocandy’? No – but it’s by far a more commercially viable album – and for an early 90s release, the essence of the record is actually slightly ahead of its time. It’s blasphemous to even suggest ‘Psychocandy’ isn’t the Mary Chain’s finest, most innovative and seminal work – but ‘Honey’s Dead’ is arguably their “other” classic album. I find the LP to be among the Jesus & Mary Chain’s most cohesive works despite being born out of trial and error. The LP sold well and received critical acclaim – becoming a firm fan-favourite in the process while captivating a new audience unfamiliar with the band’s 80s work. The record sold the majority of it physical copies on compact disc – the first Mary Chain record to shift more sales on this format than on cassette – another reminder of the changing climate of the decade the brothers were now striving in. The critical acclaim culminated in ‘Honey’s Dead’ being shortlisted for the inaugural Mercury Prize award in 1992 along side Jah Wobble’s ‘Rising Above Bedlam’ and – serendipitously – ‘Screamadelica‘ by Bobby Gillespie’s Primal Scream – which ultimately went on to claim the accolade. 

Despite its warm commercial success, the record initially saw a stunt in sales due to some censorship issues regarding its songs ‘Teenage Lust’ and the death-glorifying ‘Reverence’. Initially banned by the BBC for blasphemous connotations with its references to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ – the song is actually in no way blasphemous or iconoclastic – but the BBC never did understand subversion. In response, William Reid told Interview magazine’s Bradley Bardin; “To me, blasphemous means to show disrespect, even hatred towards God. I’ve never felt that way. Another thing these middle-class Bible-thumpers forget is that Jesus was a man. Jesus maybe had an affair with Mary Magdalene – I mean, Jesus had a hard-on – Jesus was flesh and blood and bones”. The line “I wanna die just like Jesus Christ” was largely responsible for the controversy, though no Britons seemingly batted an eyelid over the reference to JFK’s assassination. As Jim pointed out – “[Dying like Jesus Christ] – that’s probably a fantasy of 100,000 Catholic priests”. While reading the comment section of a live MTV version of ‘Reverence’ on YouTube, I found a kid asking how song about suicide could have been such a commercial success. I was quick to send him a link to the definition of the word “reverence” and informed him that the record was under no circumstance about suicide – but that’s the level of intelligence we’re dealing with. To be fair,‘Reverence’ is likely the most sick, twisted, warped, disturbed, perverse and demented song I’ve heard outside of death-metal, and all the snowflakes who found it offensive and prohibited its play ultimately contributed to its infamy and helped recouped lost sales. It’s difficult to reference ‘Honey’s Dead’ without going on a ‘Reverence’ tangent – so for my digression – I apologise. In truth, I could have based my article on ‘Reverence’ – it’s certainly one of the standout songs of The Jesus & Mary Chain canon – though as previously stated – I’d prefer to express admiration for a neglected track rather than an effort that’s already unanimously “revered” as it were. 

“Jesus had a hard-on”
-William Reid

Written in the key of F, ‘Good For My Soul’ explores just two more chords – A♯ & C – before regressing back to F – one of most upcycled musical substrates in rock ‘n’ roll history – and one that can be painfully mundane and predictable without the right embellishment. Constructing a song on I-IV-V is quintessential Jesus & Mary Chain – though their tendency is to revivify their progressions with the interjection of an additional chord around the bridge to avoid monotony. Beautifully fleeting with a captivating charm and sonorous resonance,‘Good For My Soul’ doesn’t require the fourth chord or key change – proving the aged I-IV-V formula to be just as efficient in the MTV decade. As with all the songs on ‘Honey’s Dead’, ‘Good For My Soul’ is a collaborative effort with brothers Jim and William sharing compositional credit – though featuring Jim in his usual role as vocalist. Written about the spiritual benefits of the subject’s love interest, ‘Good For My Soul’ is an archetypal Jesus & Mary Chain record featuring lyricism that draws reference to the soul and Heaven – though not in a subversive way – unlike ‘Reverence’. The song begins void of significant instrumentation save for some light percussion, distorted guitar and some sequencing that remains prevalent throughout the song. Its first bar opens with Jim Reid’s vocal delivering the saccharine line “good for more soul heaven knows she’s good for my soul” . The song kicks into life with the initial bar of the second verse where we find Steve Monti’s organic percussion establishing the song’s momentum while Jim essentially sings the same set of lyrics from the former verse save for the addition of a reaffirming “believe me”. As with the rest album, the percussive section features a potent blend of sequenced loops and organic drums – with the latter courtesy of the aforementioned Steve Monti – the only other musician to be credited on the album besides Jim & William. I’m not sure if the entire instrumentation on the album was executed exclusively by Jim and William but I’m holding the LP as I write, and nobody else seems to be credited with an appearance.

Following its first two verses the song breaks into a wordless refrain – an extended verse dominated by overdriven guitar as William barres the F chord an octave higher – rooted at the eighth fret – before sliding down to A♯ barred at the first fret. This phrase is repeated once more before the reintroduction of C as the song fluidly slips back into F A♯ C and Jim begins to sing the wondrously evocative and recursive line ‘she could take the world on another journey into her soul’. It’s this section of instrumentation that fascinated me when I first heard it as I found myself pondering how such a simple progression of barre chords could produce such a rich incandescent soundscape. William’s fuzzy rhythm guitar is further ameliorated by the introduction of clean lead guitar during the later portion of this extended verse. These notes – the only to be picked on the song – inject a beautiful melody complementary to Jim’s vocal notes. The end of this phase sees the song regress full-circle to the wordless refrain once more where the song fades to its end. Though the instrumental section is reminiscent of a drone song, it’s effervescent, melodic and serves as an efficient filler – outstretching the song to just over three elapsed minutes. The track’s percussion is another significant instrumental highlight – with its blend of organic drums and synthetic sequencing indicative of a band firmly embracing the 90s. The majority of percussion on ‘Honey’s Dead’ features a formulaic coalescence of looping and raw drums – the first Jesus & Mary Chain record to approach percussion in an orthodox manner – a much needed redemption following the maligned drum-machine work of their previous efforts – significantly 1989’s ‘Automatic’. The production of ‘Honey’s Dead’ has helped its material to age with a grace their previous LPs have lacked – sounding significantly fresher in retrospect than their early 80s output.

It’s hard to believe ‘Good For My Soul’ is sourced from the same LP as ‘Reverence’ or ‘Teenage Lust’ – but that’s the beauty of the Mary Chain. Their multifaceted approach can present you with the industrial and perverse besides the placidly soft and melodic in an eclectic collection of polarity. Though the ‘Honey’s Dead’ LP was intended to denounce their 1985 debut album ‘Psychocandy’ and assert a departure from the sound associated with them during those formative years, I’m conscious of the fact I’ve written my article on the 1992 album’s most Psychocandy-reminiscent effort – with its songwriting formula in essence the same as those feedback saturated major-chord songs that originally propelled The Jesus & Mary Chain to cult-hero status in the mid-80s. ‘Good For My Soul’ remains one of my favourite Jesus & Mary Chain records – capturing the essence of their early work while adopting a fresh 90s production. Though it’s one of their more inconsequential efforts, hopefully you’ll discern and appreciate exactly what I see in it. Thanks for reading this month’s article – here is beloved Simpsons character Reverend Lovejoy with the religious-themed train manual ‘The Jesus & Mary Train’

Album Review: Cat Stevens ~ Izitso

“An interesting, seminal precursor to Electro and Synth-pop from an unlikely source”

Artist: Cat Stevens
Album: Izitso
Year: 1977
Format used for review: Vinyl

	A
1	(Remember the Days of the) Old Schoolyard	2:46
2	Life	4:56
3	Killin’ Time	3:31
4	Kypros	3:10
5	Bonfire	4:10
	B
6	(I Never Wanted) To Be a Star	3:01
7	Crazy	3:33
8	Sweet Jamaica	3:29
9	Was Dog a Doughnut	4:11
10	Child For a Day	4:25
	Total	37:12

Producer: Cat Stevens & Dave Kershenbaum

Label: Island Records/A&M Records

It recently came to my attention that Yusuf Islam – the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens – is to be inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. Firstly, I’d like to congratulate Yusuf on his recognition regarding his contributions to music. It’s a deserved accolade – his early 70s output consistently delivered music of the highest quality that would consequently influence singer-songwriters and guitar-based pop for generations. In honour of Yusuf, I’ll be retrospectively reviewing an album crepuscularly released during the twilight of his career – prior to his 25 year sabbatical from the music industry. It’s going to be my first album review, and since my song reviews are quite excessive as it is, I’m sure a review of an entire LP’s worth of material will make for an extensive read!

Cat Stevens – Popstar, Cult Hero and… Godfather of Electro?

I’ll begin with a question that might possibly sound strange to the ears of general music fans. Was Cat Stevens the progenitor of electro? When you think of Cat Stevens, many things come to mind – delicate acoustic guitar, melodic piano and one of the most distinguishable voices in pop music – not to mention uh, religious conversion. These days it seems to have been forgotten just how meteoric Cat Stevens’ ascent to the top of the 70s pop-circuit was. There was a time in the late 60s when the music-press considered Stevens to be a fluke – a teenage wonder whose career had fallen into a darkened abyss. After contracting a life-threatening case of tuberculosis – leaving him with a collapsed lung – Stevens disappeared from the public-eye. Bed-bound for almost 3 years – watching his career diminish before his eyes – the teenager who rose to fame with the hits ‘I Love My Dog’ and ‘Matthew and Son’ was left soul-crushingly dejected. However, against the odds – Stevens overcame his illness and reinvented himself – reemerging a completely different artist with a new-found zeal – surprising many by returning to the music industry an almost unrecognizable figure. And so, encouraged by the overwhelming success of his comeback LP – 1970’s ‘Mona Bone Jakon’ – Cat began to lay the foundations for a second career as a popstar – a career that saw him become one of the best selling solo artists of the decade – I mean, this guy was huge! However, after basking in success for several years at the start of the decade, Cat’s standards began to decline – and with it – his popularity. After a couple of years of waning public interest during the mid-70s – and several attempts to branch out into other genres – Stevens was struggling to find direction and identity. 1977 was imminent, and still in pursuit of something new to revivify his career trajectory – Cat released his milestone tenth studio album – the enigmatically titled ‘Izitso’ . It’s often cited as one of the first albums to feature what would later become signature phrases and techniques associated with the electro genre, as well as a benchmark recording in synth-pop – and to lesser extent – a precursor to hip hop – the latter being in regard to the album’s 9^th track – ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’.

I recently picked-up an original Canadian pressing of ‘Izitso’ from Sonic Boom – a fantastic record store located in mid-town Toronto. On the same day of my purchase, my girlfriend and I embarked on a 14-hour over-night Greyhound to New York City. Though I obviously couldn’t take a turntable on the coach, I did manage to download a .zip of the album to my Mp3 player – and albeit compressed, it would give me a chance to become acquainted with the album before having the luxury of spinning it on wax. I remained awake for the entire duration of our journey stateside due to my inability to rest anywhere other than a mattress, and I must have racked-up three or four times listens consecutively – except for the hour or so spent at Buffalo’s border-crossing where I barely managed to gain entry to the states due to the incompetence of one of their officers who had me fill-out some bullshit forms it turns out weren’t even mandatory! Eventually, they granted permission for me to enter their country in the early hours of the morning, and I’d like to take a moment to thank the border officer for the walk-of-shame I suffered upon re-boarding the coach after holding the other passengers up for half an hour – thank you for the humiliation and shallower pockets! But I digress.

For the most of it, it was dark and I couldn’t really see anything, but I recall looking out of the window at the fleeting apparitions of the Appalachian mountains that had began to reveal themselves in the refracted morning light – only to be distracted from their beauty by the aural-invasion of ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ coming through my earphones.“Woah – what the fuck is this?”. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing was released in 1977 – or that I was listening to Cat Stevens – I actually had to check the GUI on my Mp3 player to confirm I was still listening to the right artist. Coincidentally, Cat Stevens’ 1974 hit ‘Oh Very Young’ was playing over the system in Dunkin’ Donuts while we were in NYC – the only time I’ve ever heard his music in public!

I was already familiar with its predecessor ‘Numbers’ – an album that was generally panned at the time of its release for being confusing and inaccessible to the existing fan base – and simultaneously – to any potential first-time consumer. My expectations for ‘Izitso’ were subsequently lowered – although I had heard rave things – particularly regarding the record’s aforementioned ninth track – ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’’. ‘Izitso’ was considered a modest commercial success and briefly revitalised Stevens’ career – though ultimately proving to be his last hit-record before converting to Islam and abdicating his position in the industry – reaching #7 on the pop albums chart. Stevens – who had a burgeoning interest in Islam prior to recording the album – formally converted in late 1977 – one of the first notable high-profile celebrity figures to do. His subservience to Allah began several years earlier following a near-death experience in which Stevens claimed to have received divine intervention while cast-adrift just off the Malibu coastline and facing imminent death. During his transition, Stevens adopted the name Yusuf Islam and in 1979 had legally changed his name by deed-poll – by which time Cat’s final LP ‘Back To Earth’ had been released – albeit somewhat under the radar. By then, Islam had essentially retired from the music business – vowing to never perform any of his music predating 1978 – something he adhered to for nearly 30 years until he recorded a reworking of the ‘Foreigner Suite’ excerpt ‘Heaven’ and released it on his 2006 studio album ‘An Other Cup‘. During his 30 year hiatus, Islam devoted himself to altruism, education and proselytism – notably founding Kilburn’s Islamia School in the early 80s. Following the release of the 1988 “Magic Realism” novel ‘The Satanic Verses’, Stevens’ reputation took a damning hit when he controversially incited violence during a public broadcast debate in which he called for author Salman Rushdie to be burned alive. It inadvertently became a defining moment in the life of Cat Stevens who never managed to fully recover from the incident. Such was the scale of his disappearance from the media, many people to this day actually believe Stevens to be deceased – while those that have followed him as Yusuf Islam often find themselves in heated-debate with other fans regarding Stevens’ religious beliefs and political stance.

Musically speaking, the album continues from where its predecessors left off – shying away from acoustic instrumentation in favour of electric pianos, synthesizers and the occasional electric guitar. However, the record does see a regression to traditional Cat Stevens lyricism, offering songs of sentiment and allegory – subsequently leaving the incomprehensible fantasy of ‘Numbers’ to fester as an oddity in an otherwise consistent cannon of work. That said, ‘Izitso’ is kind of an odd record too – somewhat oxymoronic. The album jumps around between what we now refer to as electro and folk, often amalgamating the two – resulting in a somewhat incongruous affair – although they do combine to create some really harmonious moments across the album. Though the majority of its music adheres to the album’s synth-centric paradigm, Stevens inexplicably includes a couple of song’s in the respective genres of soul and funk.

My attention was first captivated by the album’s crimson-heavy sleeve design. Designed by Cat in collaboration with Eckford Stimpson, the artwork features a Moshe Brakha photograph of Stevens with a colour-coordinating yo-yo. The imagery I found most interesting within the sleeve artwork was the silhouette cast by Stevens arm against the blood-red backdrop that eerily appears to realise the form of an eye. As I explored the cover, the focal point became the title – a title that has been the subject of much debate among confounded critics and bemused fans respectively. It took me a while to decipher, but it actually borrows its title from a lyric found on the LP’s 6th track ‘(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star’, where Stevens sings the line “Is it so? Is it so? I never wanted to be a star”. Despite my dispelling its origin, I can’t deduce the significant importance of that line or why it was stylised as “Izitso” – most-likely to be edgy and enigmatic. It’s an unusual cover design – particularly for a Cat Stevens record. Drawing parallels with Cat’s previous albums ‘Foreigner‘ and ‘Numbers‘, the cover features a photograph of Stevens with his face obscured –1973’s ‘Foreigner’ is overexposed, 1976’s ‘Numbers’ is underexposed and ‘Izitso’ is partially cropped. Is there any significance to this? Possibly – Stevens is a performer known for being socially inept, awkward and rather uncomfortable with limelight – an issue addressed by the aforementioned ‘(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star’ found on ‘Izitso’. On opening the gatefold, I found the album’s linear notes containing childlike illustrations – drawn by Stevens himself – illustrations that depict imagery relative to the lyrics they’re presented with. These scribbles are intentionally juvenile, playful and humorous – alluding to the direction of the LP.

The album is the fourth to be primarily produced by Cat Stevens, this time assisted by Dave Kershenbaum – perhaps known for his work with Tracey Chapman and Duran Duran, as well as producing the Bryan Adams mega-hit ‘Everything I do (I Do It For You)’ – all of which came post-Izitso. It appears to have been recorded in various locations – predominantly in the United States, as well as Quebec, Canada and Copenhagen, Denmark. The album features contributions from an impressive collective of musicians with notable cameos from artists such as Chick Corea and Elkie Brooks as well as regular collaborators Jean Roussel and Bruce Lynch.

Back in 1954, Stevens enrolled at St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic School just off Drury Lane in London – aged 5 years old. In 1977 – aged 28 – Stevens recalls that experience with the album’s opener – ‘(Remember the Days of the) Old Schoolyard’. Featuring female vocalist Elkie Brooks during the bridge – I believe it to be the first duet to feature on a Cat Stevens LP. Cat originally composed the song for British soul-singer Linda Lewis – who had previously featured as a backing vocalist on ‘Angelsea’ – the third song on Cat’s 1972 LP ‘Catch Bull At Four’. Lewis also appeared as a backing vocalist on Stevens’ Bamboozle tour of 1974 – and as far as I’m aware – the two remain good friends. Clive Davis of Arista Records actually signed Lewis on the strength of her performance of ‘Old Schoolyard’ – which she released on her 1975 album ‘Not A Little Girl Anymore’ – two years prior to being release by Stevens on ‘Izitso’. Despite this, it’s the aforementioned Elkie Brooks who was entrusted to perform with Stevens on the ‘Izitso’ recording of the song. If it wasn’t already confusing, Brooks isn’t the only female vocalist to feature on the track as backing vocals during the chorus and outro were contributed by Kiwi singer Suzanne Lynch – a regular performer with Cat’s band – notably singing on the hit single ‘Oh Very Young’. Interestingly, Suzanne’s husband Bruce Lynch happens to be Stevens’ resident bassist and appears on much of the material on ‘Izitso’ also.

The song’s release parallels that of Cat’s 1967 hit ‘The First Cut is The Deepest ‘ – a song he originally sold to female soul-singer P.P Arnold for only a double-figure number – but eventually went on to release himself a couple of months later on his ‘New Masters’ LP. Confusingly – it’s Linda Lewis who also features in the music video for the Cat Stevens version – despite it being sung by Elkie Brooks on ‘Izitso’. It’s likely Stevens anticipated a warm commercial reception for the song – as promotional videos weren’t something he would usually care to create. Interestingly, it’s possible the video was actually filmed at Cat’s childhood St Joseph’s school – although I can’t be sure of the veracity of this claim. ‘(Remember the Days of the) Old Schoolyard’ was the only song from ‘Izitso’ to be formally issued as a single here in the UK – peaking at #33 on the Pop Singles Chart – becoming Cat’s last UK Top 40 hit for almost 3 decades.

Its instrumentation and production have left us with a song that hasn’t exactly aged with grace – especially in comparison with the majority of Stevens 70s output. Even when compared to other tracks presented on ‘Izitso’, ‘Schoolyard’ manages to sound incredibly dated – mainly due to its reliance on the Polymoog synthesizer – an instrument found in abundance on synth-pop records and heavily affiliated with dated 80s pop music. Its melody isn’t entirely reliant on the Polymoog as the song also features the orchestral tones of the synthetic ARP string emulator – its harmony arranged by Stevens and Jean Roussel. Despite its much-maligned, ineffaceable 80s sound, we have to remain considerate of the fact it was issued a decade before the major influx of synth-based pop records – ergo it has to be respected as a seminal contribution to the music industry. Personally, I rather like it, and If you’re generally appreciative of music, its timely production is easily tolerable – it just wouldn’t transmit with grandeur on modern airwaves. Despite my focus on its dubious use of Polymoog, the synthesizer work is actually only relative to the chorus melody – with the song’s verses and bridge-verse being carried by electric and grand piano – instrumentation that will forever be immune to ageing. To be honest, it’s a great pop record and I’m surprised it failed to garner more attention or commercial success – although the song’s style at the time would have been unfamiliar to the public who were yet to be subjected to electronic music. By placing it as the opener, Cat has essentially decided to lead with the LP’s strongest song – at least where commercial viability is concerned. I find this to be a rather perplexing decision as it leaves the consumer anticipating similar highs further into the album – highs that ultimately aren’t reached again. In isolation, it’s a wonderful song of sentimental value complete with the overdubbing of children at play that could evoke even the most emotionally-sterile person to reminisce about their infancy.

‘When we had simplicity and we had warm toast for tea and we laughed and needed love yes I do – and I remember you’

Izitso’s second track is a slow, episodic number that appears to address life’s adversities where romance is concerned and an indomitable subject’s willingness to persevere – or at least that’s what I took from the line ‘But still you want to have it all I thought you had enough’. Either that, or it’s about somebody who isn’t satisfied with what they already have and Cat’s actually calling them out on their gluttony – which would ratify the line ‘You like to live it up’ – a phrase used to describe somebody who enjoys decadent things. ‘Life’ – as it’s aptly titled – is a rather laconic affair that drifts between phrases of acoustic guitar and ethereal electronic instrumentation that give the song a convoluted dream-like quality. It’s the first notable example of the album’s formulaic amalgamation of traditional and synthetic instrumentation. That said, the electronic elements dominate the soundscape – though unlike its predecessor, its synth-work has matured with far more grace – and from this point on much of the album’s electronic instrumentation remains tasteful and less-susceptible to aging.

‘Life’ melds various keyboards to produce its hybrid electro-acoustic soundscape, including the Yamaha CS-80 & GX-1, Minimoog and the infamous ARP2600 synthesizer. Its intro and first verse are complimented by a prominent electronic organ, imposing cathedral-esque tones over some acoustic guitar arpeggio – creating a pertinently spiritual essence to correlate with its theme. Despite being intrinsically melancholy, the song’s character undergoes an abrupt transmogrification following a bridge that descends into an unexpectedly upbeat coda inaugurated by the interlude of Steven’s own bouzouki playing before being superseded by synthetic ARP flutes. His juxtapose of acoustic guitar and synthesizer as well as his injection of Greek heritage culminate in its inexplicably elongated coda – a coda that arguably ventures too far away from the original structure of the song and subsequently disrupts its fluidity. It’s plausible the section in question was conceived through an impromptu jam with Cat and his band of musicians showcasing a significant portion of the repertoire of instruments at their disposal. Though it’s humble – the instrumentation is overwhelmingly impressive and masterfully mixed by Claude Dupras – one of his finer moments of the album. Despite the many interesting electronic sounds present on ‘Life’, I thoroughly enjoyed the inevitable cameo appearance of the bouzouki – an instrument I was first exposed to through Stevens’ ‘Rubylove’ from 1971’s ‘Teaser & The Firecat’. That said, the Baldwin Electric Harpsichord as well as the synthetic string-work are a personal highlight of the song’s musicianship.

‘Life’ also features the second appearance of singer Suzanne Lynch who once again provides backing vocals during the song’s chorus. As for Cat’s lead, his voice is particularly soft – sung using head-voice – shedding the timbre he possessed on his previous LPs – proof that after a decade in the business, he still hadn’t lost it – though it begs the question – why was his voice so hoarse and unrefined during the mid-70s?

In all, I found ‘Life’ to be a rather peculiar song – artistic, innovative, musically proficient – and after ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ – one of the weirdest found on the album. Even at this early stage of the album, you have to question its running order – with the tracklisting already exposing a comprehensive lack of fluidity. The tempo initially set by ‘Schoolyard’ is instantaneously quashed by a song acclaimable in its own right but unfortunately misplaced on the album. It’s by far one of the more intriguing songs on this unfortunately inconsistent record, and although a beautiful composition – it was inevitably going to be unappreciated by his existing fan base. If Stevens had persisted with this type of music for the entire LP, it could have survived as classic, original album.

‘Life, you make it what it is – Love, can change it with a kiss’

Following ‘Life’ we find the unfortunately titled ‘Killin’ Time’. Incidentally, it happens to be a song referencing the habitual pass-times of idle people – literally, killing time. Though it addresses several mundane recreational activities, there’s one particular example of disdain that could potentially be construed as a contentious lambaste of what I assumed to be the USA’s obsessive gun-culture. Political undertones are prevalent in the line “People polishing guns they’ve got nothing better to do”, and although it’s perhaps an innocent reference to a common pass-time, there’s certain topics that inevitably evoke controversy due to their connotations. If there’s any veracity to my surmise then the lyric could be considered scathing political attack on gun owners from a then British ex-pat clearly not accepting of his adoptive transatlantic culture – or perhaps Cat innocently finds polishing guns to be a facile example of killing time.

After the sonorously ethereal qualities of ‘Life’, ‘Killin’ Time’ reprises the tempo established by the album’s opener, shifting to a funk-based number reminiscent of 1973’s ‘Foreigner Suite’. It’s an energetic effort – likely recorded during his sessions at the legendary Muscle Shoals studio in Alabama – and features a multilayered Moog and brass section complimented by the acute electric guitar work of Pete Carr.

I like social commentary, but the lyrics presented here are arguably quite stilted. If there is indeed any negative undertone behind the polishing guns line then the song has presented Stevens with a contradiction – or an unabashed sense of irony – considering it was written by a man who exactly ten years earlier had released a song advocating work-place violence. 1967’s ‘I’m Gonna Get Me A Gun’ sympathized with its protagonist – a man who purchased a gun after becoming disillusioned with his mundane vocations and consequently threatened to make his peers pay. Though ‘Killin’ Time’ is a decent effort, it doesn’t particularly set the world album alight, and its inclusion on ‘Izitso’ feels incredibly contrived and disruptive to the album’s fluidity. Honestly, Stevens “really missed the point” with this one.

‘You missed the point you missed the point – you really missed the point’

Track four of side A is ‘Kypros’ – a wonderful instrumental piece performed solely by Stevens without the contributions of any additional musicians. With ‘Kypros’, Cat asserts his musical prowess by seizing full artistic-control in a megalomaniacal effort that sees him using a plethora of conflicting instruments – from the industrial drone of the Minimoog – to the traditional Hellenic tones of the bouzouki. A Grand Piano, a Fender Rhodes Piano, an ARP synthesizer, a Polymoog, the GX1, the E5AR as well as the aforementioned Greek bouzouki – all instruments performed by Cat Stevens on this particular song – lest we forget the programming of its sequencer. Chronologically It’s only the second appearance of an instrumental to feature on a Cat Stevens LP following ‘Whistlestar’ – the opening song on the ‘Izitso’ predecessor ‘Numbers’ – though the first of two to appear on this album – taking his quota to 3.

Best described as an electronic symphony on a substrate of traditional Greek bouzouki music – it’s one of my personal favourites on the record. The song recycles the same intermittent bridge between its refrains – executed with slightly different instrumentation on each reprise. As we progress through the song, layer upon layer of instrumentation coalesce as Stevens impressively showcases every tool at his disposal. It’s one of the few songs on the record unaffected by its overzealously polished production – a production that leaves many songs lacking three-dimensional qualities. Of all the material on the album, this is the song that evokes the most emotion for me – and it doesn’t even feature Cat’s marvelled lyricism! It’s a great example his understanding of composition and arrangement as well as a fine display of his playing competence.

Following ‘Kypros’ we arrive at ‘Bonfire’ – the final track of side A. It’s the first real love song presented on the album, and one of its overall better tracks – although not particularly innovative – something we attribute to much of the presented material on ‘Izitso’. ‘Bonfire’ is essentially a bog-standard funk-based piece of blue-eyed soul music with frankly juvenile lyricism, certainly atypical of its relative genre. Its namesake is a rather quirky simile taken from the song’s chorus and in essence defines the nature of LP – contrived, frivolous and odd. Despite this, Cat’s childish approach does offer a certain charm – and the inclusion of extremely primitive illustrations in the albums linear notes suggests Cat was very much consciously playing on it. It’s a song that initially failed to captivate me – its centric metaphor being a comparison of love to a bonfire and the aimlessness of its chorus turned me off. However, it did eventually grow on me – and far from being Stevens at his incontestable best – the lyricism is integral to the essence of ‘Izitso’ – establishing a pivot from which point on the material becomes increasingly frivolous and convivial in nature. A real issue I take with the song is its transition from pre-chorus to chorus, a transition that feels rather tenuous – almost as if Stevens wrote himself into a dead-end.That said, the second pre-chorus dives head-on into the chorus – omitting the transitional phrase from the first verse and showing it to be redundant and unnecessary. Ultimately, the pre-chorus builds up to something that inevitably doesn’t come – with the chorus sounding pancake-flat due to the particularly poor mixing. All my criticisms aside, it happens to be one of the catchier, more rememberable songs from ‘Izitso’.

‘Your love is like a bonfire burning deep within me’

Following ‘Bonfire’, the grooves guide the needle to its inevitable end and requires flipping over to side B where we find the album’s sixth track – ‘(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star’. Like side A, side B begins with parenthesis in its title – but the similarity doesn’t end there. Like ‘Schoolyard’, it’s another retrospective effort recalling Cat’s formative years – though with ‘(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star’ we find Cat recalling his adolescence and his transition from teen sensation to global pop star – expressing disdain for the music industry, disillusionment with the rigorous touring schedule and commercial aspects of the music industry as well as iconoclastically denouncing his own idolatry. As noted, the song contains the line responsible for the LP’s cryptic title – deriving from the lyric “Is it so – is it so?” which is found imminently before the first chorus. The song contains direct references to the very first songs Cat ever released while on Decca’s Deram label – ‘Matthew and Son’, ‘I’m Gonna Get Me A gun’ and ‘A Bad Night’ respectively. I found the ‘Matthew and Son’ reference to be particularly clever as Jean Roussel lifts the melody from its intro and performs the notes on a glockenspiel – fitting perfectly within the chord and its bars. The song also features the album’s only appearance of steel guitar – deftly performed by Weldon Myrick. It’s an instrument that never sounds contrived when used to embellish a record, so I find myself wondering why it doesn’t see more appearances in pop-music. I’ll praise the song’s composition and quirkyness – but you do have to question the sincerity of it. Despite Stevens being notoriously uncomfortable with fame, commercial success isn’t exactly something that’s handed to you on a plate – you have to desire it and work to attain it – besides, you’re not exactly forced to sign a contract with Island Records, are you?

‘I was 17 – you were working for Matthew & Son – The Beatles met the queen – and I wrote I’m Gonna Get Me A Gun’

When I initially began to review ‘Crazy’ – the seventh track on ‘Izitso’ – I hastily referred to it as the album’s low point. However, not realising how long it would take me to compose my review of ‘Izitso’ – time started to pass, and my project was consequently pushed aside. Fortuitously, it allowed me to give the wax a few more spins and further absorb it. A couple of weeks after my initial hearing of the song I found myself acclimating to it – leading me to concede I wrong and instead claim it to be one of the album’s highlights. ‘Crazy’ is a beautiful composition featuring gorgeous melodies and rich electronic orchestration. Familiarly, its lyricism is once again frivolous and quite predictable, and lines like ‘I‘m crazy ’bout you baby – my my my – your love just drives me cuckoo” are seemingly oh so contrived. However, its actually quite charming – not to mention extremely something of an earworm. I noticed some synthetic bass in places of the song similar to the casio basslines that “digitalized” 80s greensleeves records – I’d never heard instrumentation like this prior to the mid-80s, so I was quite surprised to discover it on this 1977 release. It’s probably not for everybody, but even if you can’t tolerate its lyricism – the instrumentation is certainly something to admire and has to be one of the album’s finer points.

‘I’m crazy ‘bout you baby – my my my, your love just drives me cuckoo – heaven knows why’

With a title like ‘Sweet Jamaica’, it’s rather fitting that the eighth song to feature on the album is a catchy blue-eyed soul track boasting one of the sweetest string sections I’ve heard for quite a while. It’s the third love song to feature on ‘Izitso’ – and easily the best. Conscious of the imperative role string sections play in soul music, Cat allows the incandescent orchestration on ‘Sweet Jamaica’ to essentially usurp his vocal by the pushing-up of strings high into the mix – with violins consuming every possible negative-space found on the song. Often more prominent than Cat’s vocal, their role is particularly effective during the song’s bridge, though the orchestration during the song’s intro remains my personal favourite example of string-work owing to its authentic Philadelphia sound. Though you’d assume Stevens was trying to create a veritable soul-track, there’s the inclusion of some prominent harmonica work which has to be said is a rather unusual instrument to make an appearance on a song of said genre – though it does inject some variety. Like authentic Thom Bell productions, the song includes the lush incandescent tones of harp and zither glissando to further the soulful accuracy of Stevens effort. Cat’s voice is particularly smooth on this track with the gruff inflections adopted during the mid-70s remaining latent where ‘Izitso’ is concerned. Like ‘Bonfire’ – the other soul-inspired effort on the album – ‘Sweet Jamaica’ adopts a traditional percussive section atypical of quintessential Cat Stevens records where drums are usually unorthodox and used to ameliorate songs by playing-on their melodies rather than serving as a stringent rhythm-section. The song’s chorus features a female backing harmony courtesy of Carla Benson, Evette Benton and Barbara Ingram who together formed the infamous Philadelphia Angels – a vocal trio originally based at the iconic Sigma Sound studios where 70s Philadelphia Soul originated. The trio – sometimes referred to as The Sigma Sweethearts – appeared on innumerable Philly releases and performed as resident vocalists for innovative producer, the aforementioned Thom Bell. Having attained such pedigree through performing indefatigably on so many authentic soul records over the years – including The Spinners’ million-selling hits ‘Could It Be I’m Falling In Love’ and ‘Games People Play’’ – their appearance on this blue-eyed soul record is certainly lucrative for Stevens. Despite my hype, we unfortunately hear little of the Sigma Sweethearts whose vocals are brief and sporadic– and when used – sunk criminally low into the mix – almost inaudible. Though I’m not crazy about blue-eyed soul music, its tasteful production presents a song that survives as an honourable tribute to soul music while simultaneously featuring Stevens’ trademark inflections and idiosyncrasies.Though the song’s romanticism owes to its dulcet tones and sombre chords, the bridge sees a shift from GMaj7 to F which momentarily lifts the mood to one of elation. As enjoyable as it is, I have to question why Stevens included it on ‘Izitso’- it’s yet another example of the album’s inconsistency and failure to define any direction – inexplicably dropping the inherent electronic dynamic intrinsic to most of its songs.

‘Yes you are my sweet, sweet Jamaica – country mama, brown country girl’

Following the soul-inspired ‘Sweet Jamaica’, the album’s desultory ordering of songs throws-up another unforeseen anomaly in the form of the infamous ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ – and this is where ‘Izitso’ gets really weird! Once again drawing a parallel with its A-side counterpart, track four of side B is strictly instrumental – except for the vocal contributions from a – err, dog! Unlike ‘Kypros’, this instrumental features the appearance of several musicians including Jean Roussel, Chick Corea, Ray Gomez and Barry Morgan. Credited to Stevens, Bruce Lynch & Jean Roussel – it’s the only song on the album where we find Cat sharing writing duties – though a song that subsequently only saw Stevens singled out for acclaim!

There’s much debate as to the original source of electro – and although ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ is simply too obscure to be the source of seminality that impacted the development of electro, it certainly has a claim of being the first example of anything along those lines. The song has since been revered as the first electro or techno-pop song ever recorded and praised for its primitive use of sequencers – with elements such as the overdubbing of barking dogs even being cited for its affiliation with hip hop music. The song predates the formation of the influential Japanese electro-outfit Yellow Magic Orchestra – who received all the accolades for further developing the genre. Though regarded as an electro track – it’s observably raw – evident by its inclusion of Ray Gomez’s funk guitar work – something certainly not associated with electro. Incidentally, I believe Stevens himself actually alluded to the genre 4 years early on his album ‘Foreigner’ during his elapsed 18 minute-long ‘Foreigner Suite’ where there’s a brief excerpt during the ‘Freedom’ segment that I would argue is a rudimentary example of electronic dance music.

‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ became Stevens only instrumental hit following its semi-official promotional release – peaking at #70 on the Pop Singles Chart. Oddly, its release spawned a unique demographic only familiar with Stevens for this particular song – with its unorthodox genre leading to it being categorised as a disco song – being played exclusively on disco stations, skating rinks and roller discos. The song was played regularly by DJs on late-night stations circa-77 and entertainingly established very specific cult followings affiliated with roller-discos and ice-rinks. Surprisingly, its status as an underground hit accrued a fan-base in Chicago due to its popularity at a local roller rink where the song was likely played by one individual in-charge of the playlist who happened to be fond of it. While doing my extended research – scrolling through threads on various music forums and video comment sections – I noticed a trend of people claiming to have been searching for decades in hope of finding this record – and even encountered several persons who were starting to doubt themselves, thinking that its existence was increasingly likely to be nothing more than a dream. Thanks to the internet, these people eventually managed to track it down – only to be both elated and perplexed by the discovery of it being a Cat Stevens record. I mean, imagine finding that out after 40 years – it’s just bizarre! It’s both confounding and fascinating that there are people out there from a particular fan base – most likely electronic – who revere this song as one of the most influential to their genre and regard it as a favourite song – yet probably aren’t even aware of the work Cat Stevens is actually revered for!

It certainly stands as the most unusual song on the album – perhaps Stevens’ entire discography – although, if you’re familiar with ‘Banapple Gas’ – you’d argue there’s only ever one song winning that accolade. The song is either disregarded, tolerated, acclaimed or adored – which is understandable given Cat’s fan base who almost certainly didn’t have an inclination for this kind of material – but then again, it’s groundbreaking – so it’s a taste every consumer had to acquire.

The origin of its bizarre title has confounded fans for years. Its spontaneous, enigmatic, and certainly humorous, but besides the overdubbing of barking samples,the title bares no correlation with the music. I did some digging, and as it happens, it’s not particularly allegorical at all. During a 2014 exclusive interview for Uncut Magazine, Stevens finally dispelled the ambiguity surrounding its origin. Explaining its title, Stevens said “In the ’70s, there was an article that made me furious, but also made me laugh, called ‘Was God An Astronaut?’ The whole premise of putting God into a space rocket was so outrageous I just decided to have a go and wrote that song.” All though it isn’t clear what the article was – it was most likely in regard to Erich von Däniken’s 1968 book ‘Chariots of the Gods’ – a book hypothesizing extraterrestrial contact excelled the development of human technologies. Why exactly he was so outraged I don’t know – as Stevens claimed to have been abducted by aliens several times – even penning the songs ‘Longer Boats’ and ‘Freezing Steel’ about his experiences. That said, it seems he didn’t actually read the book judging by his lack of contextual reference on the subject – missed the point again? To be honest, out of all the various things he’s given credence to over the years, alien abduction seems the most rational – at least to me. Around the same time as the release of ‘Izitso’ Cat was consumed by Islam, and following his religious conversion a year later – he never spoke of aliens again. Regardless, I just can’t see how he wrote the song in response to that headline – there’s no lyrics to address any subject or draw correlations with its title. There’s seemingly no relation between the music or the article that enraged Stevens to the point of action – he simply altered the title in jest and incorporated a dog barking – which is only relative to the tortured title Stevens created and not the original piece of literary journalism the song is an apparent response to. I’d love to know what was going through his mind when he conceived ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ – especially when you consider the relative genres of other songs he was writing at the time of ‘Izitso’. Seriously, where on earth did ‘Was Dog a Doughnut’ come from? It’s just strange – really strange. Would it be implausible to deduce the song itself to be the direct result of an ironic extraterrestrial encounter?

On to superficial matters, the physical release of the record featured an illustration of a dog chasing its tail – contorting into a shape resembling a doughnut. Personally, I think they missed a trick with this one, as the illustration could easily have been reproduced on the disc label – fitting perfectly within its circular shape – though in the end they went with the generic A&M design. Of course, this is superficial – but it would have produced a great novelty collectors item. Then again, these things can be important when it comes to marketing – ratified by A&M’s decision to include a yo-yo with initial distributions of ‘Izitso’. 

Weaknesses do surface, though not from any overreaching. “Sweet Jamaica” and “(I Never Wanted) To Be a Star” are rather precious, and the electronics on “Was Dog a Doughnut” are a bit too robotlike.
– Rolling Stone Magazine

Upon its release, several professional reviewers simultaneously referred to the song as “robot-like” – denouncing it to be the album’s lowest ebb. The fact they unanimously used “robot-like” as their most descriptive and explanatory adjective of the song is an indictment of how fresh and perplexing the record’s sound was even to professional critics. Perhaps it’s the fruition of plagiarism among music journalists looking to each other for reference, or simply the only term anybody at the time could use to best describe exactly what ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ is – oh, the luxury of hindsight. 

While the album has some downfalls – like “Was Dog a Doughnut”, an electronic song that came off as too robotlike-it also had some great tracks.
– Off The Record

‘Was Dog A Dougnut’ happens to be one of my girlfriend’s favourite songs in general – she and her friends even threw a party in its honour – exclusively playing it on a loop – leading to the impulse-purchase of a framed promotional poster featuring the doughnut-shaped dog illustration. In fact, she’s more or less part of the demographic who only know Cat Stevens for this specific effort – despite my best efforts to introduce her to the fantastic ‘Teaser and the Firecat’ LP. That said, last Christmas she spontaneously performed a rendition of Cat’s first single – the ironically titled ‘I Love My Dog’ – whilst borrowing from the melody of ‘Rubylove’ – which was random to say the least – but I digress. I thought it would be a nice idea to ask both she and her friend if they’d like to contribute to my review of the song – but there’s only so many times you can ask without reply before you realise they’re interested enough to buy expensive promotional posters and throw parties in its honour – but not too obsessive as to give me some damn quotations to use! Passive-aggressive digression aside, we’re both unanimous in our consideration of it being something of a clubbable novelty record – humorous in its approach and execution – with its ditty synth melodies and sampling of dog barks all but certainly intended to be convivial. Besides the loyal Stevens fans and the aforementioned cult-followings who acclaim the song, ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’ is a highly-prized collectable among electro fans and music aficionados determined to own an original copy of a record important to the history of music through its development of the electro genre. I wouldn’t mind owning a copy myself – though the scarcity of the record means its market-value is a little too excessive for me right now.

If you made it through ‘Was Dog A Doughnut’, you’ll find the album’s closer – ‘Child For a Day’ – a song recapturing the essence and charm of Cat’s revered early 70s work. Contrarily, it happens to be the only song on the record not written by Stevens, as it was originally penned sometime in the mid-seventies by Paul Travis and David Gordon – the latter being Cat’s brother – real name David Georgiou. Travis and Gordon had originally planned to include ‘Child For A Day’ on their album ‘Alpha to Omega’ – a record that ultimately never materialized. Cat was particularly fond of the song and asked his brother for permission to record it for inclusion on ‘Izitso’. Despite not being issued as a single in the UK, the song did see a release in several European countries including Germany and also served as a score to the 1977 romantic-drama ‘First Love’ starring Susan Dey and William Katt – which generated interest in the song and helped push sales of ‘Izitso’.

The song opens with a few bars of acoustic guitar arpeggio before conceding to a melodious electric piano riff – reminiscent of Stevens’ early 70s hit-making formula – and albeit brief, it’s quite evocative. The first verse is typical Cat Stevens – soft vocal with a hint of melancholy – backed only by humble piano. However, as we enter the second verse it becomes apparent Cat has resorted to sonic-inflation in a vain attempt to achieve a song of anthemic-stature to sign off with. Despite its bloated production, it’s actually one of the simplest compositions on the album and the only to not receive the electronic treatment. Devoid of keyboards and synthesizer respectively, the only ivories to be tickled are those of an electric piano, acoustic piano and an organ – giving the song a more organic sound. Though it sounds like a formula for producing a quintessential Cat Stevens hit, its production and the consequential inflation of what should be an intrinsically raw instrumental convolution strive towards achieving a song of gargantuan stature. It works to good effect – that is until the verse draws to an end and the song’s weak chorus leaves you pondering Cat’s decision to build-up to such an anti-climactic crescendo. It’s unequivocally poor songwriting when a record’s verses are superior to its chorus – and in this case – the verses are truly exceptional, with lyrics comparable to those penned by Cat himself during his most prolific years – yet the chorus is incredibly stilted – carried by a chord progression reminiscent of an Elton John b-side. The song’s progression culminates at the crest between verse and chorus where its integrity is jeopardised by the imminent loss of direction as the weak conduit of chords fails to carry its hackneyed lyrics with appropriate direction. It’s a composition that feels unfinished – lacking sufficient lyricism during its chorus to compliment the well-structured verses. It suffers from a chord progression that contrives to be unpredictable but ultimately becomes unviable. It’s not entirely the progression, but the decision to dwell on augmented minor chords rather than progressing through expected major chords is certainly culpable for its collapse – it’s simply not viable for carrying the vocal melody – which is weak as it is.

It’s really quite hit and miss – a phrase that best summarises the entire album. It’s so close to being a quintessential Cat Stevens number – delicate vocals delivering a touching sentiment to ponder – but David and Paul’s inability to explore metaphorical outlets exposes them as writers of a lesser ilk to Stevens. Of the substantively better lyricism found in the verses, the philosophical sentiment of the line “We are the men who worry of nothing we are the men who laugh at the sun – who listen to no-one yet speak about wisdom/ we are the pawns in the game” is by far the most subcutaneous. Positing determinism within its dystopian message, it’s the kind of lyricism you’d expect to associate with the writer of ‘Where Do The Children Play’ and ‘Peace Train’ – that said, it’s hardly Daniel Quinn.

Ultimately the song becomes far too reliant on embellishments though I rather enjoy Pete Carr’s guitar work on the song which presents an extremely complimentary amelioration to the instrumentation – notably during the verses and bridge. Another favourable embellishment is the gorgeous example of lapsteel playing which I believe was performed by Stevens himself! The song’s bridge focuses on an electric guitar solo – and albeit quite minimalist – it works to good effect – possibly the only section of the song where its unconventional chord progession actually manages to pay dividends.

With the song being suggestive of a return to his former hit-making formula, its placement as the closing number of ‘Izitso’ is rather fitting as it proved to be a precursor to Cat’s final LP – 1978’s ‘Back To Earth’ – an album which continued to revisit the style of his earlier albums following a much-needed reconciliation with producer and former Yardbird Paul Samwell-Smith. Unfortunately, I feel a chance at a hit single was missed with this one – and it actually annoys me to see a song with such potential so carelessly undermined by its writers. Though it received a formal release in select countries – it failed to shift amounts of any significance – and I have to mention, although Stevens has featured some charming sleeve designs on his LP releases, he clearly doesn’t care about the packaging of his singles – which incidentally feature some of the worst artwork I’ve ever seen – evident by the jpeg of the ‘Child For A Day’ sleeve posted above.

‘We are the men who fight without aim who listen to no-one yet speak about wisdom we are the pawns in the game’

The arrival of this synth-saturated, lavishly produced LP in 1977 would have been unexpected and consequently difficult to perceive as a Cat Stevens traditionalist. It’s likely it was misunderstood by the majority of Cat’s existing fandom – probably receiving much of its modest acclaim from general listeners. Despite briefly revitalising his career, the album is completely devoid of hit material with the exception of ‘(Remember the Days of the) Old Schoolyard’ – a brave move for an established pop artist. Rather than adhering to its unique electronic formula, the album is interspersed with several funk and soul tracks plus an additional acoustic number – producing a desultory record that fails to realise its full potential. Cat’s penultimate LP is a record suggestive of an artist struggling to find direction – and all though inadvertently stumbling across new genres along the way – Steven’s just wasn’t a viable artist to perpetuate them.

Despite Stevens maturing as an instrumentalist, the album has a regressive essence to it – another paradox created by this often conflicting album. Despite its contradictions, interesting parallels are drawn – the album opens on a song about playground romance and appropriately ends with a song titled ‘Child For A Day’, the fourth tracks on each side are strictly instrumental, and the first effort of each side of the record are retrospective efforts titled using parenthesis. As far as Cat Stevens standards are concerned, it’s extremely unrefined, laconic and ultimately below-par. If we compare its lyricism with Stevens previous albums, there’s an explicit decline in standards – with ‘Izitso’ offering little mysticism or allegory within its lyrics – instead presenting predictable metaphors thinly-veiling the most obvious sentiments. The childlike illustrations found in the LP’s linear notes are representative of the albums essence and unfortunately – its quality. The record foolishly peaks with its first track and there’s a observable lack of viable commercial material.

Unlike previous Cat Stevens releases, we often find the focal point of ‘Izitso’ to be the instrumentation rather than Stevens’ voice or lyricism – epitomised by its inclusion of not one but two completely instrumental tracks. I found Cat’s vocal range to be quite subdued, reaching nowhere near the C♯5s he regularly hit during earlier records, and rarely plumbing the depths of B♭. Perhaps his vocal range had diminished by this point – despite only being in his late 20s at the time. Despite the limiting of his range, I found Stevens delivery to be particularly smooth and refined – uncharacteristic of the hoarse, grit-inflected vocals that marred his earlier 70s work, with the songs ‘Sweet Jamaica’, ‘Child for a Day’ and ‘(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star’ being significant examples of exceptional vocal quality.

It really is a multifaceted affair, a bit sporadic and certainly odd – likely the conflicted results of Stevens attempting to show innovation while simultaneously trying to include early 70s cameos to appease his loyal fan base. Although garnering interest due to its experimentation – its innovative nature proves difficult to process for any long-term Stevens fans. ‘Izitso’ is difficult to hear, difficult to understand and difficult to analyse. Despite the addition of quintessential efforts such as ‘Child For A Day’ and ‘Bonfire’, their inclusion on this record feel incredibly out of place among the album’s experimental roster. It’s an incongruous collection of material that essentially splices folk rock and synth-pop for a number of songs – but its inclusion of soul and funk songs disturb the LP’s fluidity. It’s an oddball album that doesn’t identify particularly as anything, and I’m not exactly sure what Stevens was going for with the resulting product being a commercially unviable album devoid of hit material. It’s easy to see why fans are so indifferent towards the album – it just lacks any consistency in both substance and quality. I suppose the only constant is the use of electronic instrumentation – but as I previously mentioned, you have songs like ‘Sweet Jamaica’ and ‘Child For A Day’ that don’t adhere to the formula. With such an eclectic collection of styles and genres, I doubt anybody would refer to the album as bland – that’s for sure.

There’s a seemingly indefinite amount of musicians on the record responsible for a cacophony of various and often conflicting instruments – and it’s plausible the contributions of so many cooks has resulted in the spoiling of this particular broth. It’s unequivocally Stevens’ biggest production – heavily-funded by Island Records who were looking to recoup sales and re-establish Stevens as one of their major artists following the failure of ‘Numbers’. Despite my criticism, I do find myself in awe of the LP’s musicianship on several occasions – it might not present us with the structured hit material Stevens fans were accustomed to – but nonetheless it’s an exercise of brilliant innovation and virtuoso keyboard playing.

The album’s exquisitely polished production probably does the album a disservice – often sounding dulled and lacking bite. I found Claude Dupras’ mixing to be particularly flawed – and despite excelling with the more innovative electronic-based tracks, he doesn’t quite seem to get it right when it comes to the soul-inspired efforts like ‘Bonfire’ and ‘Sweet Jamaica’ – with areas sound incredibly flat and the percussion often being too high in the mix – effectively pushing down the orchestration and regrettably Chick Corea’s piano parts – notably on ‘Bonfire’. Many of the songs are heavily saturated by electronic embellishment – yet a combination of poor production choices and dubious mixing create a record that ultimately sounds clinically polished and sterile – with cats vocal often too dominant in the mix – subduing the instrumentation.

I feel it’s important to highlight the contributions of Cat’s frequent session musician and right-hand man Jean Roussel to the LP. Essentially, the album could be considered a collaborative effort between the pair – if we observe the album credits, we find Roussel had a hand in almost all material presented on ‘Izitso’ – citing him for performance, arrangement and composition – making it his largest contribution to a Cat Stevens LP. Roussel enhances much of the arrangements with his proficient keyboard playing as well as handling strings and miscellaneous instruments like the glockenspiel.

It is something of a landmark recording within the synth-pop and electro canon – however, in relation to Stevens’ discography – it doesn’t reach the high-standards previously achieved by the singer on a consistent basis. You can look at it two ways – you can praise Stevens for exploring new mediums and anticipating trends – in this case establishing a trend and being cited as a pioneer – or you could simply say that this is a man who had completely lost direction, ran out of ideas and inadvertently stumbled upon a new genre whilst simultaneously trying to keep the edge that brought him success in the early 70s. You certainly have to praise Stevens for his assiduity regardless of the overall quality of ‘Izitso’ – for its a work reflective of an man of indefatigable perseverance genuinely attempting to create a fresh quality record – unlike artists who are happy to flog any old rope to increase their net-worth.

Is it a critical to your music collection? Probably not, no – but it’s worthy of honouring by purchasing a copy if you should ever come across one – it’s certainly a piece of high-art.
Stevens managed to anticipate the impact electronic music would have on the 80s, but like all early works in an emerging field – it’s extremely rudimentary and ambiguous – yet to be refined to achieve a definitive niche. It’s an interesting, seminal precursor to electro and synth-pop from an unlikely source – a folk-pop veteran. Sadly, ‘Izitso’ is a damning indictment of a man who’s lost his knack for lyricism and hook-writing – though it’s still better than anything most of his peers could achieve – and its pioneering exploration of synthetic instrumentation is something to be both praised and admired. Despite producing an innovative record, Stevens struggles to rediscover his imperious best without the aid of the collaborative partnership with producer Paul Samwell-Smith and guitarist Alun Davies.

 

Song of the Month #5

The Delfonics
Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)

Continuing the 60s theme I appear to have set myself with my last couple of entries, this month’s article sees me cover yet another record from music’s golden decade. With a December 1969 release, it just about qualifies as a 60s record – though the majority of its sales were shifted in a three month period over the cusp of 69/70 – leading to it being regarded in essence as a 70s record. I’ve been playing this song a lot recently and it’s serendipitously happened that everything striking a chord with me right now is from a decade I’d previously neglected. If I’m being honest – I’m a little out of my depth when it comes to soul music – particularly its Philly subgenre. My father happens to be a real soul connoisseur – and it’s through him that I first discovered the wonderful Grammy Award winning ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ by The Delfonics. I’ve always held a vague recollection of this song ever since I first heard it on mashed-up cassette tapes while driving around in the car during my childhood. Until recently, I hadn’t heard it for quite sometime – in fact, I probably hadn’t heard it since I was 8 or 9 years old. In truth, I’d completely forgotten about it – which is surprising because you’d think a song of this calibre would be quite heavily disseminated. I suppose it’s because it isn’t exactly a viable record to feature in, let’s say  – a TV commercial – though it certainly wouldn’t be out of place as a film score, and it just so happens that’s how I was exposed to it once more. I recently watched the 1997 Tarantino-produced crime-thriller ‘Jackie Brown’ – a blaxploitation-inspired piece of cinema that saw ‘Didn’t I’ (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ feature as a pivotal plot-device in the relationship between characters Jackie Brown and Max Cherry. During the film we see Max Cherry visit Jackie’s house where he’s subsequently exposed to the song after Jackie plays a vinyl pressing of The Delfonics’ eponymously titled ‘The Delfonics’ Studio LP. Upon hearing the record, Jackie and Max lightly discuss The Delfonics  – helping the two to become acquainted. Later, during another scene in the film we find Max visit a record store where he purchases a Delfonics cassette tape. Like Max Cherry, I found myself visiting a record store to buy the album upon hearing it again – though finding a cassette copy proved to be impossible – but that’s what Discogs is for! I did however manage to dig out my father’s copy of the LP – which despite a few pops here and there played like a dream. Tarantino brought the song back into my life and I instantaneously fell in love with it, though it felt more like a reconciliation with a long-lost friend. It really is one of the best feelings in the world when you’ve almost entirely forgotten about a song, and when you finally hear those opening bars again – it awakes something deep within – and every note comes back to you – despite seemingly being erased from your memory. After rediscovering the song during adulthood, it’s only now that I can truly absorb and appreciate every contributing musical element that makes this classic Philadelphia record one of the genre’s greatest.

‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ was written and composed by record producer and composer Thom Bell in collaboration with Delfonics’ lead singer and primary songwriter William “Poogie” Hart. The song was recorded in the autumn of 1969 and released around Christmas time the same year as a precursory single to their forthcoming eponymously titled LP – 1970s ‘The Delfonics’. Despite ‘Funny Feeling’ being issued as the album’s lead single – it was ‘Didn’t I’ – the second single to be released from the album – that became a meteoric hit. The song’s release saw it peak at #3 on the Billboard R&B Singles chart and #10 on the Billboard Pop Singles chart in 1970. ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ shifted a million copies over the following three months – subsequently earning the group a gold disc by March of 1970. The song eventually crossed the Atlantic an entire year later in 1971 when it reached #22 on the UK Singles Chart – by which time its meteoric success notably earned the group a Grammy Award for “Best R&B performance by a group”.

Since its release in 1969, the song has been covered by innumberable artists – notably Arethra Franklin, brothers David & Jimmy Ruffin, Millie Jackson and Patti LaBelle. However, the song is perhaps best recognised by certain audiences as a song by seminal 80s boyband New Kids On The Block – with their version actually charting two places higher than the original Delfonics’ release – reaching #8 on the US Billboard Pop Singles Chart in October 1989 and more significantly – fourteen places higher on the UK Singles Chart the following year – despite their cover originally being issued in 1986 on their debut LP. Their release of ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind)’[sic] in 1989 was the product of marketing strategies intended to push sales of the group’s earlier albums amidst their recent chart success. Be that as it may – I can quite proudly say I knew The Delfonics’ version first!

To this day The Delfonics have survived as one of the most successful soul trios in popular music – with a vast proportion of their material being highly revered among soul audiophiles and several particularly significant hits influencing R&B artists of recent history – notably The Fugees with their sampling of ‘Ready Or Not Here I Come (You Can’t Hide From Love)’. Despite being recognised as a trio, the group initially went through several incarnations before establishing the line-up we’re familiar with. After performing with several groups billed under a variety of names, brothers William and Wilbert Hart, Randy Cain, and Ritchie Daniels formed The Orphonics – a quartet of vocalists all of whom met while attending Philadelphia’s Overbrook High School. Following Ritchie Daniels’ departure from the band to join the armed services – the quartet became a trio. The group continued to perform as The Orphonics – a name they adopted from a brand of stereophonic system in the basement of the Hart’s family home – most likely an RCA Orthophonic system. Sometime between 1965 and 1966 the trio amended their name, billing themselves instead as The Delfonics – a retention of the phonic suffix (although altering its spelling) – and combining it with a prefix referencing their home city of Philadelphia.

While working his day-job in a barbershop during the mid-60s, lead singer William Hart was observed and approached by Stan Watson – head of soon-to-be established Philly Groove Records. Impressed by the renditions Hart had been performing for customers, Watson informed him of a talented young songwriter and producer working over at Cameo-Parkway Records – Jamaican born Thomas Bell. Watson subsequently introduced Hart’s group to Bell who in turn reciprocated the desire to work together after being satisfied with the quality of works they had presented him. The partnership of Hart and Bell was formed – and the pair began collaborating for Watson’s Philly Groove label after being poached from Cameo-Parkway during it’s liquidation in 1967.

Producer & Songwriter Thom Bell

I found an interesting quote suggesting The Delfonics and Bell initially worked with a basic budget. Thom explained “When I took them into the studio we didn’t have any money to pay for string players and an orchestra so I played most of the instruments myself!”. While this ratifies the impressive talents of Bell, it certainly wasn’t in reference to this song – as you only have to listen to a few seconds or so to deduce it as an extremely lavish and costly production. The comment was most likely made in reference to their 1967 single ‘La-La (Means I Love You)’ and its ensuing album. However, being a classically trained musician, Bell certainly had an overwhelming involvement in the musicianship of ‘Didnt I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ too – and despite not necessarily performing on the record – he conducted his band of musicians from start to finish to deliver the product we now refer to as Philadelphia classic.

‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ is considered to be one of the most notable early Philly soul singles and a quintessential example of the genre. It was arranged entirely by Bell who employed the services of the infamous Mother Father Sister Brother band – a 30-plus strong collective of session musicians based at Sigma Sound Studios in Philadelphia that were largely responsible for generating the signature Philly sound. Bell himself was an integral member of the MFSB outfit and regularly acquired the band’s services for the production of his records. On this occasion, Bell and his group of musicians produced a slow-ballad saturated in layered string arrangement, horns, upstroke rhythm guitar and a particularly sharp percussive section. Its incandescent production played a huge role in the song’s success and set the bar for an LP of material that exuded sophistication and refinement.

Among the song’s brass components we find bugles, trumpets and even flugelhorns. In fact, the track is instantly recognised by its intro which begins with two blows on what I believe to be the bugle – possibly the flugelhorn. These introductory bars of brass prelude to the actual intro – an instrumental section that mimics the melody of the song’s chorus. I’ve always thought it was an extremely clever example of songwriting to feature a teaser of a record’s signature earworm at the beginning of the song as when you finally reach the specific section that features said hook, you already feel acquainted with it. This introduction features the song’s iconic melody performed on a glockenspiel over bass guitar and chord piano that continue to be present throughout the track. There’s also the ethereal glissando of what I believe to be a harp or zither during the verses which further embellish the record’s rich tones and suggest Bell’s ear for detail.

The most notable sound to feature on the record is that of an electronic instrument that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Its presence remains from start to finish and arguably dominates the song’s soundscape. The tone of its notes really reminded me of a synthesizer – but the way they resonated suggested it to be some kind of electric stringed instrument. I’d previously heard it on quite a few Philly records but never bothered to determine what it was – until now. It turns out it’s an electric sitar – an instrument designed to mimic the warbling twangs of the traditional Indian sitar. The electric sitar features prominently throughout the song – one of the easier instruments to define within its gargantuan production – though it’s not too complex as to overpower. It provides an interesting amelioration to the record – loosely following the song’s various melodies. Its presence on a soul record at that time is seemingly quite unusual – but it’s an instrument Bell was particularly fond of – featuring on many Delfonics productions as well as Bell’s work with other varied artists. The electric sitar is particularly remembered for its appearance on The Stylistics’ 1973 mega-hit ‘You Make Me Feel Brand New’ – a song also written and produced by Bell. Like ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’, it formulaically features the song’s chorus melody during its intro, and naturally – it’s performed exclusively on the electric sitar. The broad dissemination of electric sitar through its presence on Bell-produced records has led to it being considered an essential component of Philly soul.

Despite being written in the key of A, the song’s intro starts in Fmajor before ascending through G♭ and G♯ to enter Amajor. The song’s composition is built on an effective progression of minor and augmented major chords driven by descending notes of bass guitar. Due to its nature of shifting keys, the song produces not one, not two – but three episodic phases that I consider to be earworms. We have the tender verse, the orchestral pre-chorus and the dreamlike chorus – all of which could perhaps resemble entirely different songs if heard isolated by a fleeting listener. It’s difficult for me to argue which section of the song is the best due to its impressive inclusion of three extremely strong hooks – and although I seem to favour the pre-chorus – it’s objectively the chorus that people seem to recall.

The song’s pre-chorus shifts to F♯Minor, following a chord progression of F♯m, D, and A/E – yet both of its two phases end on a unforeseen B chord which doesn’t adhere to its scale. I remember finding it rather jarring how it unexpectedly delivered that chord – but it’s actually really intelligent songwriting as it sets up the chorus to be in the key of Fmajor. It’s the little buffer of brass between the B of the pre-chorus and the F of the chorus that provides one of the song’s highlights for me – personally, I think it’s genius. In its entirety we hear the song shift from A to F♯minor to B to C to Fmajor7 before returning back to A and repeating the cycle a further two times over.

The first voice we hear on the record is that of Wilbert Hart whose clinical lead vocal appears as we enter the first verse. We find Wilbert effortlessly crooning the assertions “I gave my heart and soul to you girl” and “gave you a love you never knew girl” – both of which are then reiterated by the entering harmony of William and Randy with the questioning lines “Didn’t I do it baby – Didn’t I do it baby?”. The percussion refrains from making an appearance during the first phase of the verse, kicking in for the first time for the latter lyric in its second phase – an elapsed 30 seconds into the song. Following this short two-phase verse we enter the pre-chorus – where we hear the trio sing in unison for the first time – although William Hart’s vocal is still subdued by the mixing at this point. Naturally, the chorus follows – probably the most iconic section of the song – recognised for its high tenor and falsetto harmony during the chorus with William displaying his imperious tenor vocal range and asserting his dominance within the trio. It’s here we see the glockenspiel pushed higher into the mix – reminding us of the song’s intro which gives the chorus its familiarity. During the second iteration of the chorus we have the pleasure of hearing William deliver a tremendously high tertiary vocal while Randy and Wilbert continue to sing the established melody.

One of my favourite moments on the record could perhaps only be appreciated by a keen ear. After the first chorus, there’s a lone chime of the cymbal which is then allowed to resonate into the second verse – and William Hart’s timing here is absolutely impeccable. Having the discipline to hold off while the symbol is still reverberating, Hart comes in on precisely the same bar as the first drum rap of the verse – rather than singing immediately as the song shifts back into Amajor.

The vocals on this track are truly exceptional, and despite brother Wilbert being the smoother, more conventional crooner – it’s William’s high-pitched, slightly unrefined vocal that stands out for me – especially when it eventually comes into focus during his lead on the second verse. At times, William sounds uncannily like Jamaican ska singer Desmond Dekker – who incidentally invaded the UK charts around the same time as The Delfonics and had a similarly effeminate singing voice – though it has to be said Hart is definitely the more proficient vocalist. Thus-far I haven’t mentioned Randy Cain’s vocal contributions – mostly due to the fact that he doesn’t appear to have a lead section in the song –  serving exclusively as back up to the Hart brothers. That said, I do believe his vocal is pushed higher into the mix during the pre-chorus.

When a song features so much instrumentation, I usually don’t direct too much focus on its lyrics. To be honest, I generally appreciate lyrics for their melodic contributions to a song – rarely delving too deep into their meaning or dwelling on them. However, I did pick up on its lyrical content – and found it to be quite unusual. The song addresses a dysfunctional relationship – with the male subject seemingly the person who has been wronged. Most of the popular male-written soul records I’m familiar are an expression of love and adoration, yet with ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ we find the male protagonist to be a victim of mistreatment at the hands of a woman. This theme is actually continued on its parent LP ‘The Delfonics’ when we observe songs such as ‘Think About Me‘ and ‘Trying to Make a Fool of Me’. Writing about hurt is a common practise in soul music – but the trend I’ve noticed is that the popular soul songs tend to be about requited love. The pre-chorus contains the bitterest vitriol, with lines like “get this thing through your head there’ll be no more” and “it seems to make you laugh each time I cry”. Despite being lyrically quite passive-aggressive – its chorus is surprisingly uplifting and effervescent, and on the face of it could easily be misinterpreted without context.

The song is far more textured than I remembered – but I guess that’s because when you’re a child you take things at face value – tending to focus on a song’s vocals rather than exploring their composition of sound. Still, in the end it came full-circle and I’m now able to appreciate the production in all its grandeur. I have to praise the song’s orchestration – particularly its string section where Bell achieved an essence of Spector’s wall of sound – though its instrumentation isn’t quite as undecipherable as a Phil Spector or Brian Wilson product. However, in similar fashion to the two great producers, the string orchestration doesn’t really take sharp focus among the layers of sound – instead remaining convoluted in the mix to serve as a kind of gelling element for everything else that’s thrown into the pot. The strings only come to real prominence during the song’s pre-chorus where its minor key is deserving of the emotionally evocative feels a quartet of violins can provide.

Despite the featured artist being The Delfonics, I have to direct my utmost appreciation in the way of Thom Bell. It’s for his work with the Delfonics – as well as The Stylistics and The Spinners – that Bell achieved his most acclaimed successes. His influence and contribution to the Philadelphia sound of the 1970s was both timely and seminal. In the summer of 2006, Bell was deservedly inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame – notably for penning ‘Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)’ and ‘You Make Me Feel Brand New’ – the latter being a product of his later songwriting partnership with Linda Creed. The Delfonics owe a lot of their success to Bell – whose songwriting, musicianship and production is quite frankly tantamount to genius – a statement ratified by the sharp decline of quality and interest in The Delfonics following his exit from the group. He may not be a household name – but his innovation and unbelievably deft arrangement certainly earns him a place in my top ten producers.There’s so many elements and requisites present in the song that lead me to cite it as a top, top example of songwriting and arrangement at its finest and one of the greatest examples of soul in popular music. For a 1969 release, it’s production and sound-quality is unbelievably crisp and clear. I don’t mind going on record as saying this is honestly one of the best 7” singles I’ve ever heard. Stand up and take a bow Thom Bell!

Song of the Month #4

Ronnie Spector
Don’t Worry Baby

This month’s post actually relates to my last as coincidentally – it was written by the same person – legendary composer, Brian Wilson. As songwriters go, they don’t come much better than Wilson. The fact he’s regarded as America’s Mozart says it all – he’s a complete one-off. ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ stands as one of his proudest works and a song he holds close to his heart. It also holds a place in the Rolling Stone magazine’s 500 greatest songs of all time – featuring at #178 – and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as part of a 500 song collective that shaped Rock & Roll. I hadn’t realised Ronnie Spector had recorded a version of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ until I recently heard it on the radio – and it knocked me for six! Brian has always openly confessed to his infatuation with both Ronnie Spector and her former husband – the incarcerated record producer Phil Spector – an infatuation that burgeoned back in 1963 when Ronnie’s group – the aptly named Ronettes released a song called ‘Be My Baby’. No interview is conducted and no article is published where Brian Wilson fails to digress onto a tangent about ‘Be My Baby’.

Ronnie & Phil Spector

To this day Wilson’s obsession with ‘Be My Baby’ shows no signs of relinquishing. He reportedly still plays the record every single day of his life – a compulsive ritual to help balance his equilibrium and keep him sane. Apparently, he’s heard it over 1,000 times – which isn’t a lie – it’s without-doubt over a thousand – but in reality, it’s probably more like 20,000. Assuming he literally plays the record every day (it wouldn’t surprise me, he’s that idiosyncratic) – going back through the years to 1963 – the total would be 20426 cumulative plays (with 14 plays lost to leap years). Wilson frequently attended Spector’s recording sessions in an attempt to decipher the infamous Wall of Sound formula that impressed and captivated Brian the very first moment he was exposed to ‘Be My Baby’. He actually auditioned to be Spector’s session pianist on several occasions only to be dismissed for lacking technical proficiency!

Brian has stated ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ was his attempt to capture the essence of ‘Be My Baby’. It’s been speculated over the years that ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ was written by Wilson with the intention of it being sung by Ronnie, and although it’s unlikely he originally composed it with her in mind, there’s evidence to suggest once the song had materialised, he realised it would be a great addition to The Ronettes canon. It’s perhaps the reason why Wilson sang ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ almost entirely in falsetto – because it was written for Spector’s vocal range. That said, Brian gained notoriety at the time for singing falsetto – so you can’t read too much into this. There’s an interesting tale that if true verifies theories Brian wished for it to be sung by The Ronettes. Wilson’s infatuation with Ronnie led to her spouse Phil Spector becoming seethingly jealous. Before booking studio time and committing to the recording of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ with The Beach Boys, Brian headed over to Spector’s house to offer the song to Ronnie. Phil Spector answered the door. Wilson claimed he was sitting on a potential hit record and expressed his desire for it to be performed by The Ronettes. Spector slammed the door in his face! Shortly following this incident, reports began to circulate of Wilson being in a state of paranoia – insisting Spector was spying on him in an effort to uncover the nature of his relationship with Ronnie. Brian might actually have been on to something, as there’s several notable sources suggesting Spector indeed had his associates keep tabs on Brian – although it could have purely been motivated by a musical rivalry.

Brian Wilson & Mike Love with Phil Spector

So, originally recorded with The Beach Boys at Western Studios in 1964 as a response to the aforementioned ‘Be My Baby’ – it took Ronnie 35 years of persistent requests from fans for her to finally record and release her own version of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ when it was included on her 1999 EP ‘She Talks To Rainbows’. Interestingly enough, the EP was produced by Jeffrey Ross Hyman – aka Joey Ramone of the Ramones – shortly before losing his battle with lymphoma. The release was critically acclaimed but poorly received commercially. It contains two covers of Ramones songs – the eponymous ‘She Talks To Rainbows’ and ‘Bye Bye Baby’ – as well as a cover of Johnny Thunders’ ‘You Can’t Put Your Arm Around A Memory’ and The Ronettes’ ‘I Wish I Never Saw The Sunshine’. As brilliant as her cover of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ is, it’s not even the best track on the EP – ergo I highly recommend checking it out! 

Released as the B-Side to California-dream hot-rod hit ‘I Get Around’, ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ is essentially a hot-rod romance, venturing considerably deeper than its hedonistic A-side counterpart and evoking emotions not commonly addressed by hot-rod songs. The song is told from the perspective of a man who expresses regret after boasting about his car which inadvertently results in him being challenged to a street race by a rival car enthusiast. I first assumed ‘Don’t Worry Baby’’ was written in jest, similar to most Beach Boys songs at the time which were mostly light-hearted inconsequential numbers about surfing and cars, but in reality you have to consider it to be a genuine love song that was written from somewhere deep within – it just happens to take place in an unfamiliar setting as far as a conventional love song is concerned. I found the lines “She told me baby when you race today just take along my love with you” and “She makes me come alive and makes me wanna drive” to be particularly evocative. Credit for such words can’t entirely be attributed to Wilson as it was actually penned as a collaboration with radio personality-turned-lyricist Roger “Hot Dog Rog” Christian who contributed lyrics to several other hot-rod themed Beach Boys songs including ‘Cherry, Cherry Coupe’, ‘Car Crazy Cutie’ and ‘Little Deuce Coupe’.

Many people have attempted to cover the song over the years – but very few come close to achieving the essence of Brian’s. It’s usually a case of talented musician lacking vocal proficiency to carry the song – or deft vocalist singing over some flat sounding backing track – lacking an ear for instrumentation. However, Ronnie and Joey really nailed both requisites here! It’s easy to appreciate the song’s soundscape – a potent blend of jangle guitar and overdriven power chords – embellished by some beautiful piano fills – producing a sumptuously rich backing track for Ronnie to croon over. I’m not entirely sure where the drum beat was adapted from – it doesn’t adhere to the original Beach Boys version, but it does bare an almost identical similarity with live versions of the song from the 70s – either that, or it’s based on Bryan Ferry’s 1973 cover version! All I know is the beat was originally lifted from Hal Blaine’s famed intro on The Ronettes’ ‘Be My Baby’ – but I can’t work out when the Beach Boys first started using it on their live performances of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’. Interestingly, the drum beat was used several times by Scottish new wave band The Jesus & Mary Chain – notably on their 1985 hit ‘Just Like Honey’. In fact – the Mary Chain’s acclaimed debut album ‘Psychocandy’ was heavily inspired by Phil Spector’s wall of sound production – though their heavily distorted guitars formed an impenetrable wall of feedback as opposed to the sophisticated orchestration of Spector records. But I digress!

You might have noticed the lyrics aren’t completely true to the original. With the obvious exception of the amended pronouns – there’s a reparation to a lyric just before the second chorus – which I can only assume is a mistake. At the end of the second verse, Ronnie sings – “[He] makes me come alive and makes me wanna die”. If we listen to the original Beach Boys recording of the song – although the word isn’t that clearly enunciated – there’s definitely an “r” in there. Given that it’s a hot-rod love song about challenging a rival in a street race, the lyric is almost unequivocally “[She] makes me come alive and makes me wanna drive”. Considering the first line’s a lyric about coming alive, it’s unlikely the word was purposely altered by Ronnie – because the result is a little oxymoronic. Perhaps she just had a blind-spot, but it does bug me a little! Maybe I’m just being pedantic. 

You could argue that Ronnie’s version came a little too late, and maybe you’d have a point – but Brian has surprised many of us by still being here with us today – and he’s very much aware of Ronnie’s cover. The fact he got to hear it is just won-won-wonderful. Brian first discovered Ronnie Spector’s cover of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ when it was played to him by DJ Rodney Bingenheimer on his KROQ radio show. Thankfully, that moment was captured on camera in one of the most heartwarming reaction videos I’ve had the pleasure of viewing on YouTube. Sure, I accept if you don’t know Wilson it won’t mean that much, but when you’re familiar with the backstory of this great record (as you should be after reading my post) it’s just an absolute joy to be able to witness the great man himself experience such emotion and elation from hearing a song he surely thought would never materialise. If you’re a fan, I urge you to watch it! Credit has to go to Rodney Bingenheimer – he’s a radio host who did his research and got his shit together to set-up and capture a moment Beach Boys’ fans would relish – so if you’re reading this, Rodney – thankyou!

 

I found Ronnie’s vocal performance to be particularly powerful, and despite serving as a reminder of her age – her raspy chest-voice has an incandescence that proves absolutely vital to the success of this cover. She’s always been an accomplished singer, and unlike Brian – her voice has stood the test of time – maturing as gracefully as she herself has. Her vibrato during the chorus was enough to complete absorb Wilson who for a moment seemed to vacate this world as he drifted away into a deep hypnosis – lost within the voice that captivated him the very moment he heard it – almost 4 decades previously. 

In summary, I found Ronnie Spector’s version to be very much worth the wait. When you’re so familiar with an original, it can be difficult to accept anything else – especially if you’re as stubborn as I am – but in this case, I can only take my hat off in appreciation of her effort. I recently heard Bryan Ferry’s cover of ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ and it didn’t register with me – but Ronnie’s just feels intrinsic and inherent. It’s definitely been my most played record this month – and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it! Her rendition could perhaps be considered the best version – superseding the originally Beach Boys recording! Now, that’s nothing against The Beach Boys – it’s just as god Brian Wilson intended. That said, I’d have to say Brian Wilson’s version is still my personal preference – it just has the authentic 60s Beach Boys sound that you just can’t beat! 

Song of the Month #3

The Beach Boys
Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)

Is there a better band than The Beatles as far as popular music is concerned? It’s hard to argue against them, isn’t it? However, perhaps there’s a band of tantamount importance? A worthy adversary? A transatlantic counterpart? A band who at times could blow The Beatles out of the water? Many believe that band to be The Beach Boys. Why? Well, as the chronology goes – The Beatles released their ‘Rubber Soul’ LP in 1965. The record was critically acclaimed and extremely well-received by fans globally. It was an album that broke new ground and became a source of inspiration for innumerable aspiring bands of the mid-60s . A certain Beach Boy – Mr Brian Wilson – heard the record and fell hopelessly in love with it. However, as much as Wilson appreciated The Beatles effort – he felt he could do better. And so, with respect – Wilson went to work, assured by his own confidence that he could produce a record that would surpass ‘Rubber Soul’. A herculean task, surely? Well, he didn’t quite match ‘Rubber Soul’ – he bested it – by quite a considerable margin. The record he created – you may have heard of it – ‘Pet Sounds’. Released in 1966, not only did ‘Pet Sounds‘ decimate ‘Rubber Soul’ , it quite rightly has a claim for being the greatest and most influential pop LP of all time. Backed by a handsome payroll courtesy of Capitol Records, Wilson had the luxury of being able to hire the services of the very best musicians, equipment and studio engineers LA had to offer – resulting in a sonic quality so affluently lush it almost sounds as if it was recorded yesterday. It’s such an unconventional, unexpected and unusual record, and despite The Beach Boys boasting a vastly impressive discography, ‘Pet Sounds’ is without-doubt their pinnacle – a complete one off – not just in The Beach Boys canon but in the entire history of popular music. The album seemingly came out of nowhere – and despite Wilson having already shown signs of creative genius, nobody could have anticipated just how gifted he was. Even now it still manages to sound like nothing you’ve ever heard before – so try fathom its impact on naive 1960s ears. The album is so textured and layered even to this day you’ll notice things you hadn’t picked up on previously. It was a record that redefined the musical landscape as we know it, changed our perception of classical composition, challenged commercial songwriting conventions and set a benchmark for all that ensued. So far ahead of its time in-fact, it was initially met with criticism – mostly out of confusion (or discombobulation as the yanks say)– and poor sales. However, the existing Beach Boys surf and hot-rod demographic eventually got their heads around the transition and the album reached a wider audience than any previous Beach Boys effort. As the consumers acclimated, the album began to receive increasingly favourable retrospective praise – praise that would perpetuate to this day.

However, Brian Wilson’s creative drive didn’t stop with the output of ‘Pet Sounds’. Not satisfied with creating arguably the greatest pop LP ever released up until that point, Wilson began work on its follow up – ‘SMiLE‘  – fuelled by the precursory recording of subversive pop single and “pocket-symphony” ‘Good Vibrations’. Its unique, interchangeable soundscape was achieved through the compiling of spliced tape excerpts, which resulted in its fragmented, episodic structure – a technique that would be utilised to produce all material for the aforementioned album. The song is perhaps best known for its prominent use of theremin – which reportedly cost $100,000 alone – $30,000 more than the entire production fee of ‘Pet Sounds’. However, the theremin work was actually performed on an entirely different instrument – the electro-theremin – an instrument designed to imitate the unique sound of the theremin. Unlike the theremin – which is a contact-less instrument – the player controls the pitch by moving a knob located on the side of the device. It’s a bit of a shame really, because I’d always found it to be an interesting parallel to feature an instrument manipulated without the contact of its player – on a song that references picking up and perceiving extra-sensory vibrations. Although the electro-theremin work was performed by its inventor Paul Tanner (who also performed on ‘I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times’‘ and ‘Wild Honey‘ respectively), Beach Boy Mike Love actually learned to play the instrument (rather ineptly) for live performances of the song – but I digress.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard all the apocryphal tales of the fabled ‘SMiLE’ LP – although perhaps not the actual music. That’s because it was never formally released. It predated the inception of The Beatles’ groundbreaking concept album – 1967’s ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, and had everything gone to plan – would have been released first too. However, during its recording, everything got a little bit too much for Wilson – who already had preexisting undiagnosed mental health issues. Living up to the “Brian Wilson is a Genius” tagline introduced in 1966 by band publicist Derek Taylor weighed heavily on Wilson, culminating in a severe mental breakdown (exacerbated by drug abuse, manipulation and even internal bullying). Wilson decided to shelve the incomplete album indefinitely to preserve his own sanity – although several of its songs were rerecorded and released on subsequent Beach Boys LPs in the late 60s and early 70 respectively.

As a project, ‘SMiLE’ was extremely ambitious, untimely and virtually impossible to complete using rudimentary 60s analogue technology. The album’s complex mosaic arrangement of songs proved simply too much for one man to handle – with Brian purportedly having to spend days at a time piecing modules together from thousands of individual cuttings strewn around the studio. In the present day with modern technology and computers, you could easily arrange the album yourself in ProTools, but back then, Wilson had no option but to perform the task manually. Over the years fans have attempted to complete the album by producing their own realisations of the record, utilising the existing demo recordings from 1966. This resulted in ‘SMiLE’ inadvertently becoming the first example of an interactive album. Wilson did eventually re-record ‘SMiLE’ as solo project and released it in its completed form in 2004 – to critical acclaim. This release formed a blueprint for the official 2011 Beach Boys’ release of ‘SMiLE’ which was compiled from the existing demo material from ‘66.
It’s regularly purported that Paul McCartney of The Beatles was present at Sunset Sound Recorders Studio during The Beach Boys’ recording of ‘SMiLE’. This observation is often cited as the moment ‘Sgt Pepper’ came to be conceived. Although ‘Sgt. Pepper’ which went on to be received the most popular albums of all time, it has to be respected that it’s actually a response to ‘SMiLE’ – their attempt to replicate it as ‘Pet Sounds’ had done with ‘Rubber Soul’.  Interestingly, ‘SMiLE’ was originally intended as a concept album too – orientated around the theme of health and well-being – something evident in the song ‘Vega-tables’. The celery audibly being chewed in the background of that song is ostensibly attributed to Paul McCartney – although there’s no empirical evidence to support such claims. Wilson actually owned (albeit briefly) a health-food store named the ‘Radiant Radish’ which was located on the corner of Melrose Avenue and San Vicente Boulevard in West Hollywood. Wilson could often be often be found at the store, often wearing nothing but a dressing robe and eating the produce!

The Beatles may have done The Beach Boys by getting their album out first and reaping the fruitful rewards bared by the seeds America’s band had sown – but as a musical collective, it’s ‘SMiLE’ all day long as far as I’m concerned. As you’ve probably deduced through reading the first paragraphs of this article, the majority of The Beach Boys’ success can be attributed to one man. Ubiquitously referred to as the brain of The Beach Boys, you’d struggle to find a better composer of 20th century pop music than Brian Wilson – the guy even has an additional Wikipedia page solely dedicated to analysis of his musicianship. You’ll also find many Beach Boys’ songs have their own separate Wikipedia articles with extensive accompanying notes dissecting their composition.

There aren’t many people who fail to admire and appreciate exactly what Brian Wilson is to music. Yes, due to dissemination of the aforementioned promotional campaign purporting Wilson to be a genius, many people will blindly refer to Wilson as a such. However, those familiar with Brian’s work can undoubtedly ratify Wilson’s genius. You’d seriously struggle to find somebody who hasn’t been musically touched and inspired by Wilson and The Beach Boys – although, as I write this, it comes to mind that Noel Gallagher of Oasis inexplicably hates Brian Wilson. I don’t really know where to go with that, as I quite frankly have little respect for the Gallaghers or Oasis as it is. It pretty much confirms what a tool Noel is (although, still better than Liam I might add). Unsurprisingly, Oasis are big-time plagiarists of Beach Boys rivals The Beatles, so that’s probably it. You might think Brian Wilson is weird – You might not understand his genius – but it takes a complete asshole to be quoted as saying they hate the guy. The fact is, I could talk Brian Wilson for days – the music, the tragedy, the bizarre and the humour of a character who defied all odds to still be here today. It’s quite perplexing when you realise Brian’s the Wilson brother who somehow lived to see his siblings – the gifted singer Carl & neglected talent Dennis – pass before him.

Anyway, I should clarify that this is indeed a ”song of the month” article, and so – 8,000 characters into the post – I’m going to get on with it. I really wish I could write weekly posts, but it’s logistically impossible for me to do so without hindering the content – so monthly will have to suffice! The track I’ve selected for my third entry is The Beach Boys’ ‘Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)’ – a significant highlight of arguably the greatest LP of all time, 1966’s ‘Pet Sounds’. I recently purchased the 50^th anniversary stereo pressing of ‘Pet Sounds’ on 180g wax and I’ve been spinning it on repeat cyclically. It still confounds me that it was recorded in 1965 – the sound and production quality could quite easily be mistaken as that of a modern day LP. Its convention-defying orchestration and arrangement could only have been conceived by a musician of the highest possible intellect, and that’s why Brian Wilson as a composer is so often considered to be of the same ilk as J.S. Bach and Mozart. The song in question has possibly the most standard example of classic orchestration on the album while simultaneously subverting conventions by featuring incongruous notes that simply should not amalgamate to form any kind of harmony. It’s actually one of 3 songs on the LP where Brian is the only Beach Boy present – backed only by LA’s infamous session musician collective – The Wrecking Crew. It’s essentially a Brian Wilson solo effort and naturally features the man on lead vocal, whose ever-so-tender delivery of words provided by lyrical collaborator Tony Asher is beautifully haunting and almost transcendental. Brian’s high tenor & falsetto vocals had previously been the highlights of hits ‘I Get Around’ and ‘Don’t Worry Baby’, yet here on ‘Don’t Talk’ we find it ascending to a whole other level. The vocal has been a recipient of unanimous critical praise, with its child-like innocence, purity and resonance being cited as vital attributes to its popularity. Regarding his vocal, Brian Wilson was quoted saying “One of the sweetest songs I ever sang. I have to say I’m proud of it. The innocence of youth in my voice, of being young and childlike. I think that’s what people liked”. It’s considered to be one of Wilson’s finest vocal performances and when you listen to it split bilaterally down the L & R channels it really does border on ethereal. The song’s sonorous soundscape is ameliorated by a rich orchestration of strings – naturally arranged and conducted by Wilson – who manages to channel the spirit of J.S Bach to create a score the great German composer would have been proud to call his own. Following the second chorus, the strings become focal during the song’s coda, where The Wrecking Crew realise Wilson’s “feels” to emotionally over-powering effect. It’s after this coda – and just before returning to the chorus – we hear the only notable percussion of the entire song. It’s creates such an unbelievable moment of euphoria and empirical proof  that even the smallest of instrumental contributions can completely make a song.

Although Brian’s rivalry with The Beatles contributed to his creative-drive, he also had a fervent interest in record producer Phil Spector that exceeded the paradigms of an obsession. Spector’s ‘Wall of Sound’ technique would be one of the greatest influences on Brian Wilson, and it all started when Wilson first heard the Phil Spector produced ‘Be My Baby’ by The Ronettes – a record Wilson still plays every morning over breakfast. There’s also an account of Wilson – having locked himself in a hotel bathroom – playing the record on repeat for over 11 hours. His infatuation with Spector would be prevalent throughout his career, and his desire to emulate Spector’s production would sustain Wilson through his most successful period with The Beach Boys. Wilson developed and adhered to his own “wall of sound” technique across ‘Pet Sounds’, and ‘Don’t Talk’ is a great example of classical orchestration meets Phil Spector production.

The song is considered to be a significant moment in pop music – as like many groundbreaking songs on ‘Pet Sounds’ – the formula was almost unheard of in the genre, and its combination of classical orchestration and pop song-structure was regarded as highly unusual. Another interesting feature of the song is the bass. Now, I don’t know enough about music terminology to describe with proficiency what exactly’s going on here (I learnt and play by ear), but I’m certain the bassline Brian wrote for prolific session musician Carol Kaye to perform is in an entirely different key to the rest of the instrumentation, with many notes not following the expected scales or fitting the chords they fall over. It’s a great example of Wilson’s ability to produce incongruous arrangements that somehow harmonise to create songs seemingly of another world. The song’s complex musicianship has led to very few artists attempting to recreate the song – even live performances by The Beach Boys themselves are extremely scarce and “pony” versioned. Known for their harmonies and chorales, it’s actually one of few Beach Boy songs to only feature one vocal.

Despite being present on the record containing the gargantuan hits ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’, ‘God Only Knows’ and perhaps to lesser extent ‘Sloop John B’ , I regard ‘Don’t Talk’ as the glimmering jewel in Pet Sounds’ crown and one of Brian’s all-time greatest compositions. I think everybody should just be in awe of Brian Wilson, and relish the fact they’re alive in the same period of time as one of the greatest composers that ever lived. I’m convinced a few centuries down the line, people will be retrospectively praising Wilson similarly to how Mozart is praised by the current living . It’s just staggering how a largely intuitively educated Wilson wrote, sang, conducted, orchestrated and produced everything from conception to completion. As of today, he’s still touring – at the ripe age of 76. He’s definitely slowing down, and perhaps it’s time he put his feet up after such a long, fruitful career – but at the end of the day – music is all he knows. Since his sporadic period of the 70s and 80s, he’s found his muse again, and he’s worked indefatigably to produce album after album, and tour year in year out. The fact Wilson has enjoyed such longevity is a testament to the strength of character of a man tortured by the mental health issues often burdened upon those who possess creative genius. Despite being “bat-shit crazy” as a friend of mine so eloquently put it – all the great creatives are. He’s really not done bad for a bloke completely deaf in one ear! Brian Wilson is a true visionary – a genius – a legend. He just wasn’t made for these times!

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Before I sign off – and while I’m on the subject of Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys, a few weeks ago I wrote my first product review for this blog. As far as my articles go, I felt it was quite a brief entry – probably no more than 7000 characters long. However, I recently found this video of Brian Wilson product-reviewing the 2011 boxset edition of The Beach Boys’ ‘SMiLE’ LP – and it’s a real eye-opener. Brian doesn’t mess around in this rather brief clip, cutting the bullshit and getting straight to the point – surprising from a man notorious for frequent and increasingly nonsensical digressions. I really like his no-nonsense approach to reviewing, and I should definitely take heed when writing my future articles! Here’s a transcript of his enthusiastic review

“Look what I have here – The Beach Boys boxset!!! How about that!? And look at it, I think it lights up – yeah it lights up see!!! It lights up real beautifully… It’s been a pleasure – Brian Wilson shakes”

Needless to say the boxset sold out immediately (it lights up after all) – so if you’d like to own a copy, you’d have to part with hundreds of your hard-earned dollars. You might also be wondering what on earth a “Brian Wilson shake” is. I assumed he had cue cards off-camera that he completely messed up. I remember reading a story on a Beach Boys forum a few years ago where some guy recalled meeting Brian Wilson at a signing of his 1991 autobiography ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’. People were approaching Brian and handing him their copies of the book, and his minder (most likely Eugene Landy) would be stood at his side, whispering into his ear “write signature” when prompted. So, the guy approached Wilson, handed him a copy of the book and Brian signed it. The guy walked off to the side to check out the signature – only to discover Brian had literally written the word “signature” in the book! You’d like to assume Wilson is just a bit of a troll, but no – it’s common knowledge the cheese slid off his cracker a long time ago! 

Drawing A Stone Rose: John Squire

I thought I’d post something I drew over the weekend to give me an excuse to write an accompanying article about the subject – John Squire. I have to say this guy is one of the most underappreciated songwriting guitarists in pop music – particularly britpop. He wrote one of the greatest British guitar albums – 1989’s ‘The Stone Roses’ and set the foundations for a ripple-wave of 90s bands who would spend the decade arduously attempting to emulate the unique guitar sound conjured by Squire. His playing style is particular and unique, being both rhythm and lead simultaneously, and every song so very meticulously precise down to the last fill. As he developed, he became notorious for his unrelenting style of play where he utilised every space on the record, leaving nothing unfilled and playing without respite from start to finish. On stage Squire performed like a robot, hitting every single note as if it was the most important on the record, with no room for error or ad-lib. I honestly can’t say I’ve come across another electric-guitarist outside of the virtuouso circle who possesses such precision and skill in both writing and playing guitar-lines.

My tribute to the man is a secondary observational drawing based on a photograph of John from a 1995 magazine publication. There’s little evidence of John existing between 1990 and 1995. The reason? The band disappeared from the public-eye for 4 long years to record their “cursed” second studio album, the amusingly titled ‘Second Coming’ – just another in a long list of biblical references made by the band. The production of the album was a laboured affair, marred by ongoing legal battles with their former record label Silvertone and former band-manager Gareth Evans. While reclusively recording their album deep within the Monmouthshire countryside, police intervention had to be called on several times. Rumours of bust-ups between band members surfaced along with purported incidents of excessive drug-taking. Concerns over the well-being of members and an apparent formulaic breakdown exacerbated the speculations of a disbandment and perpetuated the ominousness felt among the fans during their lengthy wait for new material. Several of these incidents were wittily referred to as “The War of the Roses” by the British press, particularly regarding former manager Gareth Evans’ suing of the band for £1,000,000!

With reported conflict of interests between members and disputes over the musical direction the band were taking, fans were unsure what to expect, but were generally anticipating an album similar in style to the 1990 non-album single ‘One Love’. During the process of recording, the album’s production changed hands several times before eventually being taken on by Simon Dawson. The band’s principal songwriter John Squire had withdrawn from the rest of the band, virtually living as a recluse for the entire 4 years – often disappearing into his room for days at a time and reappearing with completed songs. During this time, Squire was heavily influenced by 70s rock, particularly the guitar playing of Led Zepellin’s Jimmy Page. Singer Ian Brown was apparently displeased, allegedly saying the band were far better than 70s blues-rock. However, in a contradicting interview on a San Francisco radio station in early 1995 – shortly before the band’s brief tour of the USA – Ian stated the band had intentions of releasing a double LP of “uninterrupted blues”. I can’t locate my copy of the broadcast at this moment in time, but there are a few existing recordings of promotional Roses appearances on stateside radio stations in circulation, and Ian seemed intent on the so-called “Roses-Does-Blues” LP being realised.

Before the anti-climactic release of ‘Second Coming’ in late 1994, the band alluded to its musical content with the release of the blues-rock single ‘Love Spreads’ which I believe reached second spot in the UK Top 40 singles chart. The song divided the Roses demographic. Most fans were unanimous in praise for the song while simultaneously claiming it simply wasn’t the Roses. The single was quickly followed by the release of the LP and after initially selling hot on the day of its release, sales rapidly dwindled resulting in the album only reaching an underwhelming 4^th place in the UK albums chart.

The following year, the band embarked on a world tour which kicked off in Europe before going stateside. Shortly before the tour was due to begin, shock news broke that the band’s critically acclaimed drummer Alan “Reni” Wren had left the group under dubious circumstances – leaving the band with only a few days to find a replacement drummer. Manchester-based drummer Robbie Maddix was recruited, and following hasty rehearsals, the band went on the road. Initial performances were described as disastrous , particularly the first shows in Scandinavia – and bootleg recordings of the shows provide some veracity to these claims. By the time the band flew over to the states, relationships were at an all time low, evident in several clips that have surfaced online over the years – notably the clip recorded at the Atlanta Midtown Music Festival showing bassist Gary “Mani” Mounfield becoming increasingly frustrated before eventually lobbing his bass guitar across the stage in a fit of rage.

The band somehow managed to stay together, with new recruit Robbie Maddix being cited as a bit of a peacemaker between the band on tour. Although not scheduled to tour England until December, the band had been pencilled in to perform at 1995’s Glastonbury Festival. The gig was cancelled after Squire – an avid bicycle enthusiast – flew over the handlebars of his bike while cycling during recreational time and broke his collarbone clavicle. The x-ray of Squire’s injury was later used as a graphic for the tour posters, with the tagline “the show must go one”.

Following Squire’s recovery the band performed at the Feile Festival in Cork, Ireland – a gig unanimously regarded as their best ever by the band. Footage from the concert shows Squire waltzing up and down the stage with unabashed swagger, donning a leather cap and doing his best Jimmy Page impression – a far cry from the shy awkward boy notorious for standing in his spot and barely glancing up from his pedalboard.

The band then flew over to Tokyo to kick off their Japanese leg of The Second Coming Tour. The band were noticeably much tighter, keeping up with the exemplary standard set by Squire who admitted losing the use of his arm was a wake-up call. The Japanese shows saw the addition of new songs to the setlist, notably ‘Tears’ – the fan-favourite Zepellin-esque behemoth from ‘Second Coming’. The band had also hired a talented keyboard player, Nigel Ipinson-Fleming – apparently to flesh the songs out during Squire’s indefatigable solos. Maddix had also vastly improved – his drum solo during their performances of the ‘Second Coming’ song ‘Daybreak’ became a highlight of the shows.

After their well-received tour of Japan, the band headed south over the pacific for their largely undocumented tour of Australia. I’m not sure what went on down under, but I did however recently receive a picture of what John got up to –

The back-end of 1995 saw the Roses finally return to England for the first time in 5 years to perform a lengthy schedule of gigs up and down the country. The tour concluded with a performance at Wembley Arena, supported by the Manic Street Preachers. Following the gig, Squire returned to his hotel room with his then partner, who recalls him jumping up and down on the bed and shouting “we smashed it! we smashed it!”. She then asked why he wasn’t out celebrating with the band. This suggests Squire had completely withdrawn from a social relationship with the band, and comments made by John against his colleagues such as calling singer Ian Brown a “tuneless knob” pretty much confirm a breakdown in the former brotherly relationship between the two.

Into 1996, and new tour dates were being chalked in. The band were scheduled to perform at the Reading and Leeds Festival, only to receive an unexpected call from Squire with the gig imminently looming – announcing his exit from the band. The remaining members were left in a state of shock, but insisted the show must go on. Squire was replaced by British-Asian guitarist Aziz Ibrahim, who had just days to rehearse before diving in at the deep end. After a handful of heavily panned shows, the Roses decided to disband. Holding Squire responsible for the band’s demise and the members newfound unemployment, a rift between Ian and John was created. This bitter fued lasted 16 years before the two crossed paths and reconciled at the funeral of bassist Mani’s mother.

During their 16 years of bad-blood, Ian enjoyed a modestly successful solo career while Squire had brief success with the much-maligned band The Seahorses before embarking on a solo career “for the money”. His solo career was cut short following the poor sales of his second album ‘Marshall’s House’, and after a very impressive stint as an abstract artist, Squire gracefully faded into obscurity.

Surprisingly, Squire enjoyed the most commercial success with The Seahorses, spawning 4 top 15 singles consecutively, 3 of which being taken from their debut Tony Visconti produced LP ‘Do It Yourself’ – one of the hottest selling records of 1997. Its popularity earned the band promotional appearances on Jools Holland, Top of the Pops and TFI Friday. Although the album is significantly flawed, specifically regarding lyrical content, I’ve never heard a guitar tone like the one Squire achieved on this record. The album reined in the heavy blues style of ‘Second Coming’ but adhered to its techniques, resulting in quite an aggressive but light britpop record – epitomised by the LP’s second single “Blinded By The Sun”. John Squire’s incessant lead guitar line loudly mixed over an otherwise soft guitar-anthem drove quite a few people crazy. It proved too much for one hardcore Roses fan who infamously took a hammer to his copy of ‘Do It Yourself’ just 30 seconds into the album’s first track ‘I Want You To Know’. Nevertheless, the album’s primary single ‘Love Is The Law’ provided Squire with his second highest ever charting position. Squire ultimately decided to pull the curtain down on The Seahorses after singer Chris “Helmet Without the T” Helme got ideas above his station, insisting he be allowed to embark on a solo career (backed by their record label Geffen) whilst simultaneously touring with The Seahorses. That, along with Helme’s frequent tardiness and drunken appearances at recording sessions for their follow up to 1997’s ‘Do It Yourself’ led Squire to make the decisive call. This came as no surprise to the majority of fans who never quite warmed to the uncharismatic folk singer. It has to be said though, since The Seahorses, Helme has really got his act together and his shows are definitely worth checking out. I recently saw him perform a set in Otley and his voice has really come on nicely over the years.

To be honest, it’s surprising the band lasted for 3 years when you hear tales like Squire opting to travel on a separate coach to the rest of the members, choosing to surround himself by his own personal entourage – usually people connected to a cocaine supply (something Squire fervently insists never happened – despite almost everybody he ever worked with verifying his money-burning coke habit). However, the formula for the band had always been rather unorthodox and overzealously professional. By 1996 Squire had acquired “guitar-god” status, so when he hired 3 (with respect) unknowns from York – people were unsure how it would work. Squire would barely involve himself with the band socially – it was strictly a work commitment, and the band had to accept that they were employees of Squire – not friends. It worked for a while – the band knocked out the same amount of material it took the Roses 10 years to produce – in only 2 years!

If you’re wondering, the aforementioned second album from The Seahorses was unreleased – being shelved indefinitely – that is, until it surfaced and began circulating online quite a few years back. It’s damn good – so it’s a shame it was never finalised. It’s also a shame Squire never found the right singer. As for the Roses, they did reform – they made a lot of money – they released one of the worst records of all time in the form of Dogtanian meets Squid Lord “anthem” ‘All For One‘ – and now they’ve all fallen out again, apparently because Squire couldn’t or wouldn’t write a third album. If we’re being honest, it was a cash-cow – and as I understand it, Squire has taken the money and invested it in his family. While Ian Brown continues to release music, John Squire is happy being a full-time father and family man.

I’ve actually already posted about John Squire on my blog – an interview during his brief solo career that I found rather interesting. If you’re a fan, it’s definitely worth checking it out here.

Product Review: Custom Cassette Box/Rack

Jay’s Music Reviews Score:

Today I have the pleasure of reviewing a unique one-off storage product that I recently had custom-made after being unable to find anything similar on the existing market. After looking around for quite a while and being displeased with literally every cassette storage product that extensive searches yielded – I decided to design my own. I drew up some quick preliminary sketches of what I’d had in mind and sent the draft over to my girlfriend – who happens to be a great artist and woodworker. We discussed all the specifications at length, and after making some minor reparations to the design – she disappeared into her workshop to create my vision.

It took quite a while to produce because she was making it on the side while supervising the woodshop at the university where she works – but I knew the result would be worth waiting for. During this time, she kept me in the loop by sending me process photographs and regular updates on its progress, but I never really saw it towards the end of its completion – it was to be a surprise! So, Christmas came around and she’d just flown into to the UK to spend the season with my family and I. Of course, I was excited to see her – but I couldn’t hide the fact I was excited to receive my box – offering to carry her bags just so I could try get a sneaky peak. As it happens, she couldn’t wait to show me anyway, so as soon as we got back to the apartment she got it out. It was beautiful. She’d put her heart and soul into it – which reflected in the quality of the product. Apparently, while working on it she’d had a lot of people trying to get their hands on it – saying “it must be for someone very special”.

The box is built out of solid wood- primarily Canadian Hard Maple, with sliding dividers made of Baltic Birch ply. Both the box and lid are constructed with well crafted finger-joints which are a sweet detail. Another significant visual feature is the Beech striping across the lift-off lid. It looks beautiful and functions exactly as I’d intended. With all dividers installed, the maximum capacity becomes 24 cassette tapes. These dividers can be removed to create larger spaces to hold a cassette walkman or tape cleaning tools etc. The spacing of the dividers can be changed so the cassettes can be stacked face up. Lastly, when turned upright, the box becomes a nice little cassette rack. I’m really happy with it. The wood is so smooth – she spent hours sanding it down! She’s realised my vision brilliantly. It’s aesthetically pleasing and functions great as an interactive piece.

Since she’s Canadian, I think it’s a really nice touch that she produced it using Canadian maple. It’s very special to me, and something I’ll cherish forever. I’m hoping for a 7” inch vinyl record box to match! If you’re interested in acquiring one of these boxes for your cassettes, they ARE available to be commissioned – but could set you back a bit due to the craftsmanship involved. At the moment, I’m enjoying the privilege of being the only person in the world to own this beautiful cassette box!

A Correspondence With André Shapps of Big Audio Dynamite + Exclusive Interview

I’m extremely excited today to be posting about my recent correspondence with a long-term member of the band Big Audio Dynamite. For those of you who don’t know, Big Audio Dynamite (often abbreviated to ‘BAD’) was Mick Jones’ post-punk ensemble following his departure from legendary punk band The Clash. Despite being commercially less successful than its predecessor, BAD managed to exceed the longevity of The Clash, successfully operating as a group for two decades between 1984-1997. Big Audio Dynamite picked up from where The Clash left off, continuing to innovate through exploration of new musical styles, driven by the indefatigable zest of Mick Jones. Generally, BAD are considered to be just as – if not more – innovative than Jones’ former band. Heavily experimenting with electronic instrumentation, hip hop and beatboxing, the band were perhaps best associated with sampling – often using many musical samples and cinematic soundbites simultaneously. During their time, the band released 9 studio LPs, with 5 of these being arranged and produced by my correspondent Mr André Shapps. London-centric André was ingratiated into the second BAD collective (aptly named ‘BAD II’) following Mick Jones’ desire to replace all existing members after the release of 1989’s ‘Megatop Phoenix’. This change in personnel would provide Mick with a fresh new outfit geared and ready to take on the 90s. The new line-up would heavily rely on André who proved to be an indispensable member of the band, vital to their studio output. Having been on Mick Jones’ radar for a while through relation (something I only pieced together after discovering Mick’s cousin is high-flying Conservative Member of Parliament, the Right Honourable Grant Shapps – who happens to be André’s brother) and having previously worked with Big Audio Dynamite as a crew member, André had already experienced life with the band and joining them in a musical capacity was seemingly inevitable. At the time André had been working as a DJ, producing mixes that would eventually impress Jones enough to appoint him as an official member – citing André’s Philip Glass inspired version of ‘Last Night a DJ Saved My Life‘ as the record that realised Shapps’ potential as an asset to the BAD. André was officially drafted in sometime around 1989 to help Jones prepare for an ill-fated tour with Prince, which was ultimately aborted – a topic addressed in the song ‘Can’t Wait‘ on André’s first venture with the band, the studio LP ‘Kool-Aid‘. On becoming an integral member and creative director, both he and Jones struggled to assign a title to best describe his role within the band. Although André fervently insists he isn’t really a producer as his title would suggest, I’d argue that what he does is by definition “producing”, using the studio as his instrument of choice – which has been a thing ever since Phil Spector appeared on the scene in the 60s. Although I’m calling the studio his instrument, it’s worth noting André played a lot of the instrumentation for the band, especially bass and keyboards as well as handling string arrangements, orchestration and most of the sampling work – a real Jack of all trades it would seem!

André first appeared with the band under his professional moniker ‘DJ Shapps’ on 1990’s UK-only release ‘Kool-Aid’ – their first LP since becoming BAD II. The record saw André sharing credit with Oliver Maxwell (known professionally as Olimax) – an artist Shapps had frequently collaborated with prior to joining Big Audio Dynamite. The LP proved to be extremely experimental in nature, seeing the band dipping their toe and testing the waters before ultimately being revised and re-released a year later as ‘The Globe’. This reworking of ‘Kool-Aid’ was distributed worldwide in June 1991 (August in the states). ‘The Globe’ was well received by both fans and critics, as well as being a commercial success, spawning the hits ‘Rush’, the eponymous ‘The Globe’ and the album’s slow acoustic number ‘Innocent Child’. Despite the bulk of BAD’s commercial hits being produced during the 80s incarnation of the band, ‘Rush’ saw BAD II top the US Modern Rock Chart for 4 weeks consecutively – earning them the award for ‘Alternative Single of the Year’. The song also soared to the heights of No. 1 in the UK Top 40 (although a marketing strategy which saw it released as a double A side with The Clash’s ‘Should I Stay Or Should I Go?’ definitely helped bolster its sales). The original guitar-based ‘Rush’ was handed to Shapps who in turn transmogrified it from a simple two chord A-D  guitar progression into an incongruous dance-rock hybrid. André incorporated many samples, including The Sugarhill Gang‘s ‘Rapper’s Delight‘, The Who’s ‘Baba O’Riley’ and Peters Sellers talking about “rhythm & melody” – leading to the single being referred to as “5 songs for the price of one”.

Video: Big Audio Dynamite II @ The Modern Rock Awards 1991 

Following the success of ‘The Globe’, André went on to release 2 more studio LPs with the band – 1994’s ‘Higher Power’ (as Big Audio) and 1995’s ‘F-Punk’, before a disagreement with the band’s American record label Radioactive Records resulted in 1997’s ‘Entering A New Ride‘ having to be self-distributed – being made available as a free download through an internet hosting site – a pioneering move as it turns out, due to it inadvertently becoming one of the very first records to be released via the web. This unofficial release proved to be André’s last outing with Big Audio Dynamite, as ultimately, having found themselves without a label, the band decided to pull the curtain down on their 8 year existence (or 13 years cumulatively). Of the 5 albums Shapps created with BAD, the aforementioned ‘Kool-Aid’/’The Globe’ is considered their pinnacle. With the two being the same record in essence, it causes much debate between fans. Personally, I prefer several of the elongated, raw mixes featured on ‘Kool-Aid’ – yet ultimately I’d have to claim ’The Globe’ as the superior record, functioning better as a long-player, supercharged by the addition of the commercial hit ‘The Globe’. ‘Kool-Aid’ eponymously takes it’s name from a track on the album which in turn takes its name from the ‘Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test’ by Tom Wolfe – a “new journalism” book documenting the burgeoning hippie movement and synonymous experimentation with psychadelics. Likewise, ‘The Globe’ is also titled after its namesake single, a song about a “semi-fictitious” night club. Both records are heavily inspired by the emerging Balaeric club scene of the late 80s/ early 90s. I vaguely remember the album from growing up as a kid in the 90s, but it’s only since maturing that I’ve developed the absorption to truly embrace it. It’s also worth mentioning I was far too young to be going clubbing – although my elder sister was involved with the scene, often disappearing into the San Antonio night while we were vacationing on the Spanish island. Although I’ve tried, I can’t quite figure out why both ‘Kool-Aid’ and ‘The Globe’ were released consecutively – even André couldn’t come up with an answer. I think it boils down to a bit of devious strategic marketing – Paint A Vulgar Picture, anybody? Nobody seemed to notice though, and the band somehow pulled it off, shifting a hefty amount of both versions of the record here in the UK. I realise I’m directing a lot of my focus on two particular records, but André himself regards it as his most significant and proudest work.

“I’d never set up drum kit before the first gig at the Manchester International. I don’t think Greg was impressed”

– André Shapps on his time as roadie for the band

Anyway, I just realised I’m 9000 characters into my post, and I haven’t even begun talking about my correspondence with André, so I’ll get on with it. I first encountered André when I joined a Big Audio Dynamite social media fan page. For the first time in my life, I was engaging with people like myself who liked the band, communicating with people from all over “the globe” – if you’ll pardon the pun. After a month or so, I started to notice André would occasionally pop-up, answering queries and dispelling a few things. I’d posted a question or two in the group regarding material on ‘The Globe’ to which Andre responded each time. There was a little bit of conversation, but nothing big. After he’d commented on several of my posts, I tongue-in-cheekily asked if he would sign my rare Saudi Arabian cassette issue of ‘The Globe’. He replied “of course I will!”. I assumed he was being facetious – but as things transpired, it became apparent that he serious. After a few days had past, I got a message from André. I can’t recall exactly what was said, but he seemed genuinely enthusiastic and willing to help me out. I scrambled to get a parcel together and enclosed some things. I told him I’d recently bought the new ‘On The Road ‘92’ EP – originally released in 1992 but only just released for the first time on vinyl in 2018 for Record Store Day. “Throw it in” he said. Naturally, I wasn’t going to object, so I did – along with two copies of the ‘Higher Power’ single ‘Looking For A Song?‘ (an audaciously titled meta-song about how to compose a song and operate a successful band – quite innovative – isn’t it?). Anyway, I put the parcel together, sealed, and adorned the front with a spray-painted the BAD II logo. I assumed he’d sign ‘The Globe’ cassette as I originally requested, and then he could pick from one or two other things – to keep it a surprise – something which I did stress quite a few times as I was fully aware 2 LPs, 3 Cassettes and 2 CDs could have been construed as a bit of a piss-take! However, as things developed, it became apparent that André’s just an extremely amicable individual  – a multi-talented, humble man of no regrets, proud of his work – and a fellow Big Audio Dynamite fan. Oh, and a unicyclist! 

As it turns out, he didn’t just arbitrarily sign the odd record – he literally signed everything – and not only did he sign everything – he made it his mission to get the signatures of the entire band (something he remained disingenuous about, thus keeping it a surprise for me). Firstly, he managed to track down bassist Gary Stonadge, and not content with just signing all 7 items, he was also kind enough to throw in a CD for me – Rotten Hill Gang‘s ‘Teach Peace‘ (for which André offered his sincere apologies over!). From what I’ve heard, the Rotten Hill Gang project features an ever-changing lineup of mainly London-based musicians of all ages and walks of life. Throughout this ever changing list of guest musicians, Stonadge has been a constant. It turns out André has also collaborated with them several times as well making live appearances on occasion. I believe the record came out last year, and contrary to what Shapps claimed, it’s actually quite good. I think the whole concept is brilliant. It’s basically a group of people who sporadically perform whenever and wherever they feel like doing so – not restricted by touring commitments and expectations. It’s meant the band has been able to build up a bit of mystique, and seeing them perform live is definitely a rare treat so I’m lead to believe. Because the band has no permanent singer, the band often features an array of guest vocalists, with Mick Jones occasionally making cameo appearances. 

At this point, I was yet to realise the task André had set himself – so I assumed the parcel would be on its way back. I hung around my door for a few days expecting the parcel. When nothing came, I started to get a little anxious. However, as it turns out, he’d been holding out to try get a hold of band leader Mick Jones! Obviously, I’d be made up to get Mick’s scribbles – not only did he create some of my favourite records with Big Audio Dynamite, but as chief songwriter of The Clash, Mick wrote a lot of the songs that influenced me during my formative years. Being the humble guy he is, I guess André knew it would mean a lot to me (although once again I did stress that I didn’t expect anything other than the scribbles of Mr Shapps – and now Gary Stonadge).

Unfortunately, he couldn’t get a hold of Mick. A few months went by, but it was always on my mind. Shortly after Christmas, I received a text from André which read “I got mick! I got him!”. I’m not ashamed to say I came over a little manic. I’d got the signature of Mick Jones and André got to reunite with his cousin. Apparently it had been quite a while since André saw Mick and his family, and Jones’ mother happened to be in the country too, visiting from the states where she now resides. I was made up!

“We didn’t really know what my credit would be. My suggestion was “Decomposed by André Shapps”, because taking things apart was really what I did, but Mick wouldn’t go for it. So we settled on ‘Producer’. I’m not really a producer.”

– André Shapps on his creditted role in the band

Anyway, a few weeks passed and again I began to worry about the parcel getting lost in the post. I texted André to find out what was happening (something I didn’t make a habit of because I had no right to pressure a guy who was doing me such a huge favour anyway). In the back of my mind, I was aware that there was still one member that hadn’t signed it  – drummer Chris Kavanagh. Yes, you’ve probably cottoned-on by now – André was holding it back for a while to obtain Kavanagh’s scribbles and complete the full set for me. Unfortunately, we both realised it wouldn’t ever be truly complete, as sadly, guitarist Nick Hawkins passed away in 2005 at the age of 40. It’s a terrible shame, and despite his absence, his contributions to Big Audio Dynamite certainly won’t be forgotten. On a lighter note, about a week later I received another text from André. “I tracked Chris down. He was down Portobello Road!”. At last, the full set! He managed to snap a photo of Chris signing my sleeves, and expressed regret at not thinking to do so earlier when Mick and Gary signed them. I can’t be certain, but I think the “x” Chris signed off with is supposed to resemble drumsticks – which my girlfriend found to be a rather cute touch.

Chris Kavanagh Signing My Records

The following week, there was a knock on the door – it was my postie, holding the parcel graffiti-tagged with the BAD II logo. I actually left it lying around the house for two whole days as I just couldn’t bring myself to open it and end what had been building up for over 5 months! This was the first time I’d seen my records since sending them to André, and I couldn’t believe he’d actually carried around all 7 items! I felt both cheeky and extremely lucky! As I previously stated – I genuinely expected him to take  ‘The Globe’ LP with him on the road, and then sign a few of the other things personally – but the guy literally carried around 2 LP sleeves, 3 cassette sleeves and 2 CD sleeves. I don’t know how he convinced the guys to sign everything – but they did! A week after I’d posted the original parcel, I’d managed to track down and import a decent copy of ‘Higher Power’ on vinyl which set me back a bit. It’s a shame, If I’d have hung on I could have had that signed too – but that really would be pushing it!

I’m already quite aware it’s an unusual way to go about obtaining signatures, but ultimately it worked out really well as I’ve discovered a lot about André and the band that I wouldn’t have otherwise known  as well as having a great story to tell my friends – not to mention some priceless records to pass down to (and hopefully be treasured) by my children. Remember, this all came about as the result of a tongue-in-cheek request – a joke that Shapps actually acquiesced to – and made a mission out of on my behalf! It was an absolute pleasure to correspond with him and to have the opportunity to pick his brain. He inadvertently introduced me to some new music too while discussing his influences and favourite records. Although I don’t wish to continue to bothering him now it’s come to an end, it’s nice to know he’s there, always happy to help! 

The Jaydee Mark King Bass Guitar Played By Shapps On Kool Aid/The Globe

____________________________________________________________________________________________

An Interview With: André Shapps

While I had André at hand, I asked if he’d participate in a Q & A. Luckily for me, he obliged – meaning I got to conduct my first original interview for the  blog! He was a great sport, providing me with all the salient information, new revelations and some rather interesting anecdotal digressions. I also asked if he could answer my questions with the provision of links to any material he denoted – so there’s a few links to things for you to check out! I had originally planned to channel legendary French interviewer Bernard Pivot, however, I amended my questions to acquire information for BAD fans – for whom this post is a must-read! Ultimately, it makes for a fascinating read full of articulate anecdotes and humorous digressions. He knows how to tell a good story – and a joke!

[Interview conducted February 2019]

 

What was the first record you ever bought?

‘Top of the Pops Best of 1973’. I bought it on holiday in Malta.
My first single was ‘Rock around the Clock’ when it was released in the early/mid 70s.

What was the first musical instrument you picked up?

Probably the violin when I was 7 – and I gave it up about 6 weeks later [laughs].

Well, what instruments CAN you play?

Well ostensibly I play keyboards, although I always maintain that my position in Big Audio Dynamite was due to me being the least worst keyboard player available. My main instrument is definitely bass, followed by guitar, followed by ukulele. I’ve been working up some standards on my uke – more jazz than George Formby!

And when did you first start making music?

Well it was quite strange actually. I started writing and arranging around the age of 8 or 9, and I got to the age of 15 before I realised that I’d been calling myself a musician for a few years, but couldn’t actually play anything. Then a neighbour gave me an acoustic guitar which I sort of electrified by putting a magnet under the strings and a pieces of wire from the head and bridge ends across all the string and plugged it into my dad’s reel to reel to use as an amp. The record head was in a different place to the playback head, so I could get a delay and learned to play an approximation of Brian May’s Brighton Rock solo. Shortly after than I realised the folly of putting steel strings on a guitar meant for gut strings as I watched it, helpless, fold itself neatly in two one day. That was 1977 as it happens. My school did exchange trips to stay with families in other countries during the holidays, like a lot of schools did, but in our case I went on an exchange to New York and stayed with a guy my age who was a really talented jazz guitarist. He introduced me to a load of muso jazz rock (Weather Report, Return to Forever etc), but mainly he inspired me to learn to play better. Then I joined a jazz band at school and for reasons that escape me, started playing bass, which it turned out I’m much better at than guitar. The guitar I wired up with the magnet picked up Radio Moscow pretty clearly by the way!

What was the first thing you released?

My first proper recording would have been in 1986. Here it is in fact:

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RoeQtqTmeqE]

I did all the music and scratching – I forgot to mention my early turntablism! Paul Oakenfold was our plugger on that. He used to plug Def Jam in the UK. That was before he was doing music himself. He plugged the follow up too. We paid him £400 to do both of them.

So, when did you first get involved with Big Audio Dynamite, and what was your role?

Mick [Jones] first played BAD stuff to me in 1984 and gave me an early mix of The Bottom Line. I used to hang out with them a bit back then, but my first formal role was roadie in 1985. For some reason Flea drove the band on that first UK tour, so I got to do the backline alone. I had never done backline before and in particular I’d never set up drum kit before the first gig at the Manchester International. I don’t think Greg was impressed [laughs].

Any tales from being on tour? Were you exposed to anything in particular that influenced you?

So I roadied on the 1st UK tour and the mini East Coast (1 gig in Boston, 2 in NY) at the end of 1985. In New York I got to see Jazzy Jay messing around on his decks during the sound check and I loved the way he was creating new songs out of old stuff. The tune he used that stuck in my mind was the theme from the Andy Griffith Show because there was a record out at the time “The Greatest TV Themes Of The 50s & 60s”. I’d already been DJing and scratching since the end of the 70s, but this was a revelation. Also Greg, Dan and I went out around town with the Beastie Boys after the whole band went to the Palladium the day after the gigs. I forget where we went first, but we ended up in a Ukrainian Restaurant called Kiev in the East Village, which was a treat if you came from a Jewish background, as I and the Beasties were, mostly. Rather charmingly, Adam Yauch was driving us around in their mother’s car. I asked them how old they were and one of the others replied “We’re 16 and he’s 17”, although on reflection either they were lying or my memory has been playing tricks ever since because they must have been 2 or 3 years older than that if their wikipedia pages are correct. The last show I crewed on was the AAA one on Clapham Common in 1986 (you can see me in the video if you look hard enough), but by then I was already in the process of releasing my first record. BAD were, of course, recording their 2nd album in Soho.

When did Mick Jones ask you to work with him as a musical contributor?

In April ’86 there was a mini West Coast tour that I couldn’t resist going on and that meant leaving my nice, secure software job – the gigs at the end of ’85 I’d done during holiday that I took from work. When I got back I spent my tour money on a pair of SL1200 decks and a mixer to begin my hip hop “career”. Which I did for a couple of years – my second record reaching the giddy heights of #96 in the singles charts. Then I realised that i could probably be making a living if I wasn’t spending so much of what I was earning on studio time and decided to buy my own setup, for which I needed a lone and to get a loan I needed something called a job, so in early mid ’88, just as acid was breaking big time, I returned to the software company I’d previously worked for and bought the studio gear. Over the next couple of years I did a few tunes, mostly with input from Oli, the guy credited as co-producer on some of the Kool-Aid and TheGlobe tracks. The two that got us the most attention were a bootleg mix of Alexander O’Neill & Cherrelle’s “Saturday Love” and a version of “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life” in the style of Philip Glass.The latter of those is the tune that prompted Mick to ask me to work with him.Well – that and then Dan left the fold (having hung in there for a while after Don, Leo and Greg left to do Screaming Target) just after BAD were offered the Prince tour. Mick turned up at my studio on Talbot Road one day with an Akai MPC something-or-other sequencer (now I think about it, my dad’s reel to reel I used to play my first guitar through was also an Akai), told me about the Prince tour and said “We need help with this thing because we have the combined brain power of a pea”

That’s actually completely untrue – Mick is most certainly one of the most intelligent people I know. Probably genetic! As is well documented, not least on track 2 of The Globe (Can’t Wait), the Prince tour didn’t happen. For some reason I was round at Mick’s one day and he asked me to work with him, citing Last Night a DJ Saved My Life. We didn’t really know what my credit would be at that moment. My suggestion was “Decomposed by André Shapps”, because taking things apart was really what I did, but Mick wouldn’t go for it. So we settled on “producer”. I’m not really a producer. My “production” was basically an excuse to play every kind of music I’d ever liked however I felt like doing it.

Do you have a favourite of the records you made with BAD?

Well I’m split between Kool-Aid and The Globe. Kool-Aid has a fretless bass solo on it – that shouldn’t be a reason to like something, but I’ll make an exception in this case. Wow, a reasonably concise answer!

Very concise! Do you have a particular favourite song from these albums?

Favourite track, hmm. If I say ‘I Don’t Know’ I’m being literal rather than giving you the answer [laughs]. I’m torn between Can’t Wait, In My Dreams, and When the Time Comes. I’ve heard Rush and The Globe too many times to be objective!

There are a lot of samples, particularly on Kool-Aid/The Globe – who contributed these samples, and who is the Kraftwerk fan?

Samples on Kool-Aid and The Globe – that was mostly, though not exclusively, me – mainly because beyond the recording of the raw tracks I was either alone in my studio or with Mick. If I listened through I could probably tell you who selected what.

Is that a possible YouTube video in the making? André Shapps spending 50 minutes listening to and dissecting every sample on The Globe?

Ha ha! The most boring video ever! Actually one of my favourite tracks didn’t make the cut, “Treat me Right“

While we’re on the subject, what’s the deal with Kool-Aid & The Globe? Marketing?

I’m not sure I have a plausible explanation actually. I know it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Are you still involved in music? What’s new from DJ Shapps?

I joined a band playing some sort of as yet undefined modern-jazz as it happens. I mainly play with Loretta Heywood, who was the singer with Bomb the Bass on the tunes that had lyrics (actually she wrote a lot of them). She’s in the jazz band and also in another band where we play standards, reggae, soul and the odd Bomb the Bass tune. That band usually involves a couple of members of Transglobal Underground and occasionally Skip McDonald (“Liittle Axe”), most interesting to me because he was the guitarist in the Sugar Hill Band. Sadly the one record he didn’t play on was Rapper’s Delight. Loretta always manages to get great musicians around her for some reason!

Do you follow soccer, and if so, what team?

I’ve only ever been to one football match in this country [England] – a Division 3 match between Watford v Grimsby in 1975. The next match I went to was with Mick to see the 1994 Ireland Italy match at Giants Stadium when he and I went to New York to mix some of Higher Power (none of those mixes were used). All the other games I’ve been to have been to see Hammarby while visiting our close Swedish musician friends in the late 90s and early 00s.

Any regrets?

Regrets – um – I don’t think so actually!

Thanks for taking part!

It’s my pleasure [smiles]

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I realise this post is “slightly” long and somewhat personal, but hopefully you’ve enjoyed hearing about my experience. Oh, and just to give some veracity to the unicycle thing – here’s a photo of André with his trusty wheel  – and if you venture down Portobello Road you’ll probably find him speeding around on it. Thanks for reading!