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’

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! 

Song of the Month #2

The Clash
Straight To Hell

It was a pleasant surprise to see my inaugural ‘Song of the Month‘ post garner a generous amount of traffic – which is great! I really hope it inspired people to check out the subject I covered. In the aforementioned blog entry, I briefly namechecked The Clash (among others) – and it’s the British punk-rockers who’ve subsequently rolled over into February to take my second ‘Song of the Month‘ entry. The song I’ve chosen is ‘Straight To Hell’ – taken from their 5th studio album, 1982’s ‘Combat Rock‘. All though I try to remain objective with my reviews – providing factual information interspersed with some opinion – I have to admit I’m already a huge fan of the song. I’ve been spinning this record since I was a kid and still my taste for it hasn’t relinquished.

In my opinion ‘Straight To Hell’ is unequivocally The Clash’s finest hour – surpassing hits such as ‘Train In Vain’, ‘Bankrobber’, ‘I’m So Bored With The USA’ and even ‘London Calling’. The Clash are one of those bands whose “best of collection” has to be issued as a double or even triple disc set – so with such a large hit-strewn discography, it really emphasises just how special I deem ‘Straight To Hell’ to be. The instrumentation is recognised for its ethereal descending mixolydian mode string section. Its refrain features the orchestration over a substrate of an extremely simple D,A,G chord progression producing possibly the finest moment of the record as well as one of the most recognisable introductions to a song you’ll likely find. I’m really not sure exactly how they managed to get that sound out of a violin, but the result is amazing. As soon as you hear this intro, you know it’s ‘Straight To Hell’. It’s unmistakable, and it’s been used many many times over the decades, covered and sampled by a plethora of artists – most notably British singer M.I.A for her popular hit ‘Paper Planes’. The song inadvertently utilised an unusual “bossa nova” percussive section that featured singer Joe Strummer whacking a glass R Whites lemonade bottle against the bass drum and guitarist Mick Jones being drafted in on congas. With the instrumentation being so impressive, it probably didn’t need any overzealous lyrical and vocal content, yet somehow Strummer managed to not only match, but exceed the standard set by the rest of the band. Harrowing lyrics concerning topics such as anti-immigration, unemployment, illegitimate children of conflict and drug addiction are scathingly delivered by Joe in his trademark gritty baritone vocal . The song’s melody was written by lead guitarist Mick Jones before being transposed to violin, and all though the original lead guitar is tenuously mixed underneath the dominating string section, you can hear it more prominently if you check out live performances, where the guitar fills in for the absent violin. You can also check out my instrumental cover video at the bottom of the page where I focus on the guitar line. Mick’s guitar line is accompanied by Paul Simonon’s technically unimpressive yet extremely effective and complementary bassline. Despite being written in D major, the production transmogrifies the song into an ominously dark, eerie and suitably east Asian sounding anti-pop song – something which was observed by MOJO writer and editor Pat Gilbert, who described the record as being “saturated by a colonial melancholia and sadness“.

Originally released as a double A-side in 1982, ‘Straight To Hell’ has been somewhat inadvertently neglected due to the popularity of its bilateral counterpart ‘Should I Stay Or Should I Go’ (you know the one). I’ve literally worn-out my physical copy of the record as last week my cassette tape degraded simply too much to enjoy. I have it on several compact discs, but being an audiophile (or wanker – apparently they’re synonymous) I’d rather not listen to an inferior quality product. I’d absolutely love to own a copy of the single on vinyl, especially the 12”, so hit me up if you have one going spare. Cheers!

Actually, during my recent visit to Canada, my girlfriend picked up an original copy of the song’s parent album ‘Combat Rock’ from Toronto record store Rotate This. Unfortunately, it came out of her own money and thus remained in her possession in Toronto after I travelled back to the north of England. Long distance relationships! To be fair, she bought me a near mint original copy of The Clash’s 1981 triple LP ‘Sandinista!‘ a few months later from Huddersfield’s Vinyl Tap record store – just “because”.

“’Combat Rock’ has some of the best tunes that we EVER made on it. ‘Straight To Hell’ was one of our absolute masterpieces”

–Joe Strummer

The song originally clocked in at around 7 minutes in length but was later remixed to 5 and a half  for its inclusion on ‘Combat Rock’ – a decision acquiesced by the band following band manager Bernie Rhodes’ request. According to singer Joe Strummer, whenever they recorded anything during the ‘Combat Rock Sessions‘ the resulting material would be 6 minutes in length at a minimum, which led to Rhodes asking  “Does everything have to be a raga?”. The line “The king told the boogie men you have to let that raga drop” taken from the LP’s biggest hit  ‘Rock The Casbah‘, was a direct reference to Rhodes’ comment. The aforementioned original version is available on the unofficial “Rat Patrol From Fort Bragg“ LP – a bootlegged copy of the unrefined version of the record promoted as “Mick Jones’ version of Combat Rock” by underground distributors and disseminated by fans respectively. Despite being an unofficial release, its name was actually the proposed title of the album before the inception of the phrase “Combat Rock”.

The song was written and produced in New York City, taking virtually a day to record during what was described as a “mad, creative rush”. The process of creating the instrumentation was rather unorthodox, especially the percussive section. Mick Jones played congas with sticks, drummer Topper Headon played hand-percussion and Joe strummer beat the bass drum with a bottle. Just before the take, Topper came over to Strummer and said  “I want you to play this“. He handed him a glass lemonade bottle wrapped in a towel and requested Joe “beat the front of the bass drum with it”.  Despite sounding haphazardous, Strummer’s contribution played a vital part in producing the percussion’s unique sound. Regarding its unusually beat, Topper was quoted as saying  “Mick came up with that guitar line and you couldn’t put a rock beat to it, so I started messing around with the snare. Basically it’s a bossa nova“. The whole process of creating the instrumentation was described as “complex and innovative”

“You couldn’t put a rock beat to it, so I started messing around with the snare. Basicially, it’s a bossa nova”

– Topper Headon

The chord progression and signature riff were written by lead guitarist Mick Jones with Joe Strummer writing the accompanying lyrics during an all-nighter at the Iroquois Hotel after the band had finished recording the instrumental down at Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady Studios. The following day – New Years Eve 1981 – Strummer went down the studio to lay down the vocal. The song was completed (except for some post-production and mixing) at around 20 to midnight – giving the band just enough time to take the E train from Greenwich Village over to Times Square where large crowds had gathered to celebrate the new year.

“I’ll never forget coming out of the Times Square subway exit, just before midnight, into a hundred billion people, and I knew we’d just done something great.” –

– Joe Strummer

Lyrically,  we’re subjected to Joe’s most vitriolic left-winged work of his entire extensive career. Strummer once again concerns himself with US foreign policy, hardening his political stance and ratifying his position as a communist rebel fighting from within the west.

All though quite often perceived to be a “Vietnam song“, several different subjects are addressed, all corroborating with the theme of injustice. Each verse enters a minor key bridge before returning to the refrain featuring the song’s eponymous lyric “go Straight To Hell boys” – Strummer’s cyclical opinion on every subject covered by each verse. Its first topic refers to the shutting down of steel mills up north (England), the country’s generation spanning unemployment endemic and the ostracization of immigrants by society – addressed by the line ‘speaking “kings English” in quotation’. The notorious second subject is perhaps the songs most contentious, concerning the Amerasian children abandoned by their progenitors – American soldiers who were stationed in Vietnam during the Second Indochina War. The Amerasian Blues verse sees Strummer take on the role of an Amerasian child celebrating Christmas in Ho Chi Minh City – pleading to come “home” to the USA. This produced the most iconic line of the song – “When it’s Christmas out in Ho Chi Minh City kiddie say Papa Papa Papa Papa-San take me home/ See me got photo photo photograph of you and Mama Mama Mama-San”. The child is then rejected as Strummer takes on the role of the child’s american father, who delivers the chilling line – “Let me tell you ‘bout your blood bamboo kid, it ain’t Coca-Cola, it’s rice”. In case you’ve picked up on the Japanese honorific “san” being misappropriated on Strummer’s part – the word was actually used by the culturally insensitive American Soldiers when referring to native elders during their time in Vietnam.

The song then returns to its refrain (except on the original “Rat Patrol” version which omits it) before proceeding to the third topic – the drug dependency of a large portion of the american populace. This produces the most caustic line of the song – “Where Procaine proves the purest rock man groove, and rat poison – the volatile molotov says”. If you listen to the original version, Strummer then sings “psst, Hey chico we’ve got a message for ya – si, vamos vamos muchacho” translating as “Yes – Come on, Come on, boy” – a precursor to Strummer referencing a Molotov being thrown at Puerto Rican immigrants in Alphabet City, New York to encourage them to migrate the area for gentrification. This attack claimed several buildings within the community who were mostly of Puerto Rican origin. Strummer, taking on the role of the perpetrator sings “There ain’t no asylum here – king Solomon he never lived round here”. We really do see Joe wearing his heart on his sleeve, as the Puerto Ricans and Hondurans migrated as a result of the conflict between the Americans and Communists, the latter being Strummer’s ally – even claiming to be a communist soldier, fighting his battle through music and the media. You’ve probably noticed the song sees Strummer hopping across the globe between England, Asia, USA and South America, which makes the song’s closing line all the more poignant – “It could be anywhere most likely any frontier in any hemisphere”.

In 1982 the band made their debut appearance on Saturday Night Live, performing ‘Should I stay or Should I Go’ and ‘Straight To Hell’ to push sales of ‘Combat Rock’. If you’ve only just discovered ‘Straight To Hell’ from my post, you might be finding yourself sifting through YouTube videos to find some live versions – something I assume most music fans do since it’s a great way to study the musicianship involved. If that’s the case, I highly recommend this performance. There’s several interesting live versions – The Clash live on Saturday Night Live, The Clash’s busking tour version and several versions performed by Joe Strummer during his solo career with his band the Mescaleros. The song was also released in 2009 as a charity single by singer Lily Allen in aid of War Child.  This featured Mick Jones contributing on guitar and was performed live several times, becoming a minor hit in the process. The song’s message couldn’t have been more fitting for a charity designed to aid children of conflict, and it’s abhorrent that 30 years after the its inception the song is still just as pertinent as ever. An interesting factoid for you – Lily Allen is purportedly Joe Strummer’s god-daughter.

As I write this, I recall an amusing anecdote regarding The Clash’s appearance on SNL. Eddie Murphy was stood next to Mick Jones following their performance and asked “Why didn’t you play Casbah?”. The truth is, the band never quite worked out how to perform the song live. It was most likely a blessing in disguise, as ‘Straight To Hell’ is a far superior song to “Casbah“. Unfortunately, it’s not as commercially viable and thus wasn’t as well received by the masses. However, music wankers such as myself and fans alike are virtually unanimous in praise of this unbelievably stunning record.

As I mentioned previously in my introduction, I decided to have a go at the song myself. Unfortunately, I have no real-life friends who are music snobs, nor do I know anybody in my social circle who can play an instrument – so I had to jam with myself on lead and rhythm. I enjoy singing the song but I decided against it, choosing to emphasise the instrumentation instead.  As I previously mentioned, despite the studio version sounding dark, melancholic and minor-esque, whenever you try to recreate the song, it just ends up sounding really light. Regardless, here it is for your delectation.

I apologise for the length of this post as I didn’t realise just how long it would be for a singular record. I kinda burned out halfway through and suffered from “writer’s block”, so it’s probably not as flowing as it could have been. Nonetheless, I hope it’s provided you with some useful information and insight into this wonderful song.

Thanks for reading!

Song of the Month #1

Cat Stevens
Angelsea

 

So I’ve decided to start posting a ‘Song of the Month‘ entry – something I’ll definitely keep up despite my tendency to procrastinate. I might not have much of an audience, but it’s just nice to be able to look back and see what songs were making me tick. Of course, I’d love it if I my posts reach out to people who share an interest in what I like, or maybe inspire you to discover something new. Anyway, this month I’ve been listening to an eclectic variety of music ranging from the classical scores of J.S Bach right through to Punk rockers The Clash.

However, my first ‘Song of the Month‘ entry goes to ‘Angelsea‘ by Cat Stevens, taken from the 1972 album ‘Catch Bull at Four‘. Yes, this song was released in 1972 – and that simply blows my mind! First of all, the LP offers some great moments – ‘Can’t Keep It In‘ and ‘Sitting’ to name just two – yet I genuinely believe if you paid full retail price for the record and only received ‘Angelsea‘, the cost would be justified – with the 4:26 seconds of noise fully satiating your aural needs.

 

It’s a fantastic example of Pop songwriting and compositional ingenuity and I’m surprised it’s been overlooked by the music scholars. If stripped back to just guitar and vocals, the song would stand up on its own as a classic pop record, but the innovative arrangement of the song sends it soaring into the musical stratosphere – and a lot of credit has to be given to Cat’s long-term producer and former Yardbird, Paul Samwell-Smith. The song features prominent synthesizer that drones on indefatigably throughout, and rivals Cat’s vocal as the focal point of the song. These analogue notes create the backbone of the song, and everything else – including the poignant lyrics and gorgeous vocal melody – is mere amelioration to this wonderful instrumentation. Take nothing away from the words though –  they’re beautifully penned, rich in allegorical mystery and metaphorical wonderment.

The chorus features an unusual choir similar to styles found within world music,  and within the wall of vocals the distinctive voice of Linda Lewis can be heard.  Lewis, whom Cat penned the song ‘(Remember The Days Of The) Old Schoolyard‘ for (and later released himself as the lead single to 1977’s ‘Izitso‘) also went on to tour with Stevens as a backing vocalist . If you’re wondering what the choral words are  – nope, it’s not Greek. Nope, it’s not Latin. Turns out,  it’s nonsense – just some vowels that sound rather good vocalised . So that’s that dispelled!

As the song draws to a close, thunderous rolling drums enter the frame to create possibly the best moment of the song as the synth and percussion battle for prominence in the mix . I’ve never particularly cared for the sticks, but I do enjoy the way drums are utilised in Cat Stevens’ songs!

In short, ‘Angelsea‘ is a wonderful song composed with lyrical poignancy, beautiful vocal melody, unusual droning synthesizer and an ingenious way of utilising drums. How it wasn’t issued as a single – I don’t know!