There are several bands I have a deep love for that nobody else I know owns a record by. One of these are the Psychedelic Furs, perhaps due to their being pretty much all but forgotten in their native Britain after they spent most of the 80s over in the States.
Formed, like so many, in the wake of the Sex Pistols opening minds in 1976/77, Richard Butler was an aspiring artist fired up by Lydon's unconventional vocal style, to which he'd often by compared to in the early days of the band. Younger brother Tim picked up the bass and local friends Roger Morris and Duncan Kilburn filled in on guitar and saxophone. Various auxiliary drummers and names passed before John Ashton (guitar) and Vince Ely (drums) completed the 'classic' line up for the Psychedelic Furs.
Working on the well-worn route of heavy gigging and Peel sessions, a deal was secured and debut single We Love You introduced the 'Beautiful Chaos' sound that would characterise the band's initial phase. Butler works through a list of things he 'loves' - "I'm in love with your blue car...I'm in love with the Supremes/ah, Baby Love" - his voice dripping with withering sarcasm.
Quickly following in 1980, their self-titled debut album was produced by Steve Lillywhite (following his fine work with XTC). A fine debut set, it stood out from the pack by the racket the band produced and Butler's tendency to use the word 'stupid' in just about every song.
Following touring duties, sessions with legendary Manchester producer Martin Hannet produced several new songs, two of which - including the great Susan's Strange - would appear on a repackaged version of the debut set for the American market. However, the band were not inclined to work with Hannet further.
Instead, the band hooked up again with Lillywhite to produce their finest work: Talk Talk Talk took the rough edges of the debut, smoothed them where necessary and threw in exceptional songwriting. Opening with the sick sax squeal of Dumb Waiters and the sublime Pretty In Pink, it caught a group at the height of their powers, musically and lyrically. Though slated by the press on release, time has only made it stand out more, from the frank I Wanna Sleep With You to the more tender closing She Is Mine. It's an album I'd recommend to anyone with an interest in post-punk/new wave music.
Sadly, just as the band were hitting a creative peak, fractures appeared. Inevitably in a six piece band, tensions arose brought on by the pressures and excesses of touring. Following a European tour, Duncan Kilburn decided to quit the band (or was sacked, depending on who you believe) and Roger Morris soon followed him out of the door.
Managing to keep it together, the remaining quarter travelled to the States to record with Todd Rundgren, after initial rumours that David Bowie would be the man in the producer's chair. The album that would become Forever Now would be unlike it's elder siblings. Rundgren brought in session musicians and backing vocalists Flo and Eddie (formerly of the Turtles) to fill the vacuum left by Kilburn and Morris.
Though a very different animal from Talk Talk Talk, the album was as 'psychedelic' as they would get, especially on Sleep Comes Down and Yes I Do (Merry-Go-Round). Run and Run, President Gas and the title track benefited from Rundgren's production chops
With the album in the bag, Vince Ely decided to quit, preferring the chance to get ahead in production than face months on the road. But with the band down to a trio, they began to enjoy success in the US. Lead single Love My Way made the top 50 after strong support from the fledgling MTV. Reflecting this, the Butler brothers moved to New York at the conclusion of the Forever Now tour.
Reflecting a desire to build on recent progress, the now-trio hooked up with Keith Forsey for album #4. Forsey had recently helped make Billy Idol a massive star in the States with his production on Rebel Yell. With him came the drum machines and synths that would dominate what would become Mirror Moves.
According to the band and their manager, as interviewed for Dave Thompson's slighty-lightweight biog Beautiful Chaos, all concerned believed the album was perfect to move the band into the big leagues in America, only to be scuppered by a payola scandal that was all over the industry at the time. And indeed, The Ghost In You, Heaven (their first UK top 40 hit, aided by a great Tim Pope video) and Heartbeat appeared tailor-made for radio in 1984. On the downside, the production dates the album severely, and John Ashton's guitar talents seem sidelined in the quest for commercial ground.
That would gain a boost when John Hughes followed up the huge success of The Breakfast Club with Pretty In Pink, named after the Furs' song, which was re-recorded for the soundtrack. It's not a stretch to imagine the band were hoping it would do for them what Don't You (Forget About Me) did for Simple Minds. Alas, it was not to be, as OMD got the big US hit from the film with If You Leave, as Pretty In Pink stalled outside the top 40, though becoming their only top 20 hit in the UK.
With the band now fully stylised in the fashions of the time - the main evidence for the prosecution being Tim Butler's horrendous mullet - work began on what was expected to be the 'breakthrough' album. Sessions with Daniel Lanois broke down and instead the band turned to Chris Kimsey, who had earned his spurs working with the Rolling Stones.
Midnight to Midnight, appearing in 1987 along with lead single Heartbreak Beat, was as far removed from the days of Beautiful Chaos as could be. Slick, heavily produced and squarely aimed at the mainstream, it achieved it's immediate aim by making the US top 30. But something didn't sit right with Richard Butler: as the supporting tour went on, heart problems troubled him, not helped by a sense of mild disgust over what had become of the band. With the problem diagnosed as stress-related, the band's setlists began to contain fewer of the songs they were supposed to be promoting. The leather jackets and spikey haircuts were also dropped and it seemed the band were set to finish.
Instead, when it was suggested that a compilation should be their next album, the band reunited with Vince Ely and produced All That Money Wants as a 'new' song for the All Of This And Nothing best-of. A stormer of a song (as was it's b-side, Birdland), would appear to be Butler's musing on the fame he once chased ("Painted lies on painted lips that promise heaven tastes like this... I don't believe that I believed in you").
Though any kind of mass acceptance had long washed away with the hair gel from the Midnight to Midnight days, the Furs decided to carry on with 1989's Book of Days, produced by Dave Allen, who had worked the desk for the Cure and the Chameleons amongst others.
With Ashton finally set loose, a superb set of songs was put together, making my second favourite Furs album after Talk Talk Talk. House, Should God Forget and the title track stood out, but this was an album of many peaks. If it had been a debut set by a new band, it may have received a warmer reception. Instead, it sank without trace. A shame, and the album deserves much, much better. After a few live dates, Ely left the band once more.
World Outside followed in 1991, continuing the guitar-based sounds, but by now grunge was in the ascendancy and the Psychedelic Furs had failed to climb up the notches that contemporaries such as the Cure, U2 and Depeche Mode had. Despite the album again featuring some excellent songs - In My Head and Until She Comes in particular stand up to anything else they produced - it failed to chart and the band split soon after.
A reformation of sorts ten years ago saw the trio of Butler, Butler and Ashton tour the US and release a pretty good live album. Richard Butler also released a fine solo album, though little new material has come from the Furs, which is as disappointing as Ashton's more recent departure, leaving the Butler brothers as the only original members, though sax player Mars Williams did play on their albums and live gigs from 1983-87.
A month or so ago, the band were playing in Manchester on one of those 'classic album' gig wheezes, performing all of Talk Talk Talk. I didn't go, partly due to it seeming almost cabaret when only one third of the band from that album would be playing and also partly from some contempt of how the band (or their management) treated the woman behind the excellent Burned Down Days "official unofficial" website.
Despite this, they remain one of my all-time favourite bands. There's never less than three of their albums on my mp3 player (currently: Talk Talk Talk, Forever Now and World Outside). Perhaps if the Psychedelic Furs could get back to being a proper band i.e. with Ashton and Ely, and recorded an album of new material, I would be first in line for any subsequent shows. For now, I'll comfort myself with what I do have, and keep trying to push them on my friends.
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
I Smell Winter
Somewhat mercifully, South Manchester has avoided the snow that seems to be covering vast areas of the UK. I'm thankful for this because I hate snow.
The cold weather, for the main part, I can handle. Sure, it's a pain in the arse scrapping the ice off the car windows every morning but for the rest of the time, it's easy enough to stick a jumper on and keep warm. I've also been aided in this by a friend re-introducing me to the joys of the hot water bottle, which have the double positive effect of keeping me warm and giving a nostalgic feeling of remembering when I used to stay at my auntie's house as a kid, where I always had one in bed due to there being no central heating.
Snow, however, is just a nightmare. Though growing on the coast meant it was a rarity, when it did happen it meant days at school spend dodging snowballs loaded with stones that could easily send you sprawling. Nowadays, it just means having to leave the car and take the bus to work, a journey which takes twice the time due to everyone else being in the same boat, unless they own some kind of 4x4 off-road beast.
Then there's the constant danger of slipping on your arse, which if you handle ice like Bambi, is a constant threat. Frustratingly, when we had the heavy snow last year, I managed to keep my footing until the very last day before it all melted. OK, I'd had a few drinks at the time, but it was still annoying.
The only vaguely positive aspect of this kind of weather is the amusement I get from seeing the whole country ground to a standstill. Every single time. I've been to Estonia in wintertime, where they have constant snow, ice and freezing temperatures for months on end, and everything seems to run just fine.
"Ah," you may say. "But they're used to it, so have all the arrangements in place to deal with it." True enough, but given we've had heavy snow a fair few times in my lifetime, you'd think the people who matter will have learnt. Instead, we're surprised everytime and there's never enough gritting salt, the trains grind to a halt and the airports close. Perhaps it's some kind of unwritten rule - never prepare, so most of us can skive off work for a few days.
The cold weather, for the main part, I can handle. Sure, it's a pain in the arse scrapping the ice off the car windows every morning but for the rest of the time, it's easy enough to stick a jumper on and keep warm. I've also been aided in this by a friend re-introducing me to the joys of the hot water bottle, which have the double positive effect of keeping me warm and giving a nostalgic feeling of remembering when I used to stay at my auntie's house as a kid, where I always had one in bed due to there being no central heating.
Snow, however, is just a nightmare. Though growing on the coast meant it was a rarity, when it did happen it meant days at school spend dodging snowballs loaded with stones that could easily send you sprawling. Nowadays, it just means having to leave the car and take the bus to work, a journey which takes twice the time due to everyone else being in the same boat, unless they own some kind of 4x4 off-road beast.
Then there's the constant danger of slipping on your arse, which if you handle ice like Bambi, is a constant threat. Frustratingly, when we had the heavy snow last year, I managed to keep my footing until the very last day before it all melted. OK, I'd had a few drinks at the time, but it was still annoying.
The only vaguely positive aspect of this kind of weather is the amusement I get from seeing the whole country ground to a standstill. Every single time. I've been to Estonia in wintertime, where they have constant snow, ice and freezing temperatures for months on end, and everything seems to run just fine.
"Ah," you may say. "But they're used to it, so have all the arrangements in place to deal with it." True enough, but given we've had heavy snow a fair few times in my lifetime, you'd think the people who matter will have learnt. Instead, we're surprised everytime and there's never enough gritting salt, the trains grind to a halt and the airports close. Perhaps it's some kind of unwritten rule - never prepare, so most of us can skive off work for a few days.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
The Summer of 2004
My first job in Manchester set the tone for the next six years in that it was boring as fuck. Having moved here in a desperate shot at finding work and escaping the dole queue, I'd spied an advert in the Evening News asking for people to work event security. Stewards, basically.
I rang the number and was invited to an interview straight away. This seemed a good sign and I figured it would pay crap, but enough to ensure I could get myself somewhere more permanent to live than the student digs I was crashed in while the usual occupiers were away for summer. Perhaps I'd get to see the odd band or football game as a bonus.
After the briefest of interviews, which seemed to me to be an exercise to prove I could speak decent English and wasn't a complete lunatic, I was invited to start the next day. All I needed to do was wear a white shirt, black trousers and 'smart' shoes. I didn't have the shirt, so on my way home I stopped at BHS and bought the cheapest one possible.
I'd been told to report to the cricket ground at 10am, the first of working at many games there. I hate cricket. Eventually, I settled into it over the remainder of the summer. Four day test matches came around every other week, depending on the rain, working from 10am to 6pm for £5 an hour. Occasional night 20/20 matches brought in an extra £20 or so, enough for me to pay the £60 a week rent for the tiny bedsit I'd found by chance.
After a little while, we were invited to sit this Health and Safety exam that gave us some vague qualification to earn an extra 50p per hour. I copied the answers from the guy next to me, who said he was studying an NVQ in Sport Science, and got the raise.
Generally, I worked around the non-smoking section of the ground, doing a loop of the four exits and the club museum with six other people, doing half an hour at each before a rest period. I soon arranged it so that my break came straight before or after the spell in the museum, where all you had to do was ensure nobody broke anything. I would position myself in a corner that allowed me pre-warning of any incomers (i.e. the boss) through the reflection of the glass boxes that contained prizes and memories of LCCC past.
With the chance to spend an hour out of every two-and-a-half sat on my arse doing nothing, it seemed a good time to get in some reading. I read Love On The Dole over a couple of days (thanks, Red), and a few others.
My main memory of a lot of the games was that the first two days (Thursday and Friday) would generally be mainly attended by pensioners, as most other people would be at work. Part of the job was checking on any spectators who may have dozed off in the sun, just to check they were still breathing. Getting close enough to clarify this, as in enough to hear snoring but not so that you looked like you were trying to rob them, became an art form.
As the summer ended, I finally got a 'proper' job in an office, with a desk and a computer, and I've rotated around several others like this since. When I think back to my first summer in Manchester, I'm sometimes surprised by how much I've changed and whether the distance I've covered has been for the better or not.
I rang the number and was invited to an interview straight away. This seemed a good sign and I figured it would pay crap, but enough to ensure I could get myself somewhere more permanent to live than the student digs I was crashed in while the usual occupiers were away for summer. Perhaps I'd get to see the odd band or football game as a bonus.
After the briefest of interviews, which seemed to me to be an exercise to prove I could speak decent English and wasn't a complete lunatic, I was invited to start the next day. All I needed to do was wear a white shirt, black trousers and 'smart' shoes. I didn't have the shirt, so on my way home I stopped at BHS and bought the cheapest one possible.
I'd been told to report to the cricket ground at 10am, the first of working at many games there. I hate cricket. Eventually, I settled into it over the remainder of the summer. Four day test matches came around every other week, depending on the rain, working from 10am to 6pm for £5 an hour. Occasional night 20/20 matches brought in an extra £20 or so, enough for me to pay the £60 a week rent for the tiny bedsit I'd found by chance.
After a little while, we were invited to sit this Health and Safety exam that gave us some vague qualification to earn an extra 50p per hour. I copied the answers from the guy next to me, who said he was studying an NVQ in Sport Science, and got the raise.
Generally, I worked around the non-smoking section of the ground, doing a loop of the four exits and the club museum with six other people, doing half an hour at each before a rest period. I soon arranged it so that my break came straight before or after the spell in the museum, where all you had to do was ensure nobody broke anything. I would position myself in a corner that allowed me pre-warning of any incomers (i.e. the boss) through the reflection of the glass boxes that contained prizes and memories of LCCC past.
With the chance to spend an hour out of every two-and-a-half sat on my arse doing nothing, it seemed a good time to get in some reading. I read Love On The Dole over a couple of days (thanks, Red), and a few others.
My main memory of a lot of the games was that the first two days (Thursday and Friday) would generally be mainly attended by pensioners, as most other people would be at work. Part of the job was checking on any spectators who may have dozed off in the sun, just to check they were still breathing. Getting close enough to clarify this, as in enough to hear snoring but not so that you looked like you were trying to rob them, became an art form.
As the summer ended, I finally got a 'proper' job in an office, with a desk and a computer, and I've rotated around several others like this since. When I think back to my first summer in Manchester, I'm sometimes surprised by how much I've changed and whether the distance I've covered has been for the better or not.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
From the Cheap Seats
I was at the Manchester United vs Wigan Athletic game yesterday. Usually, it's a nothing fixture that United win with ease, as was the case. Yet an extra edge was added by the media build up around the re-appearance of Wayne Rooney in a red shirt for the first time since his contract antics.
When his name was read out as a substitute pre-game, there were audible jeers. When Rooney finally got into the game, it was to a mix of more of them and some chanting his name. My personal stance has been to always get behind the player when you're at the game, and save the criticisms for the pub.
This time, I did have the strong feeling that the supporters who booed Rooney need to get a bit of a grip. Sure, it's never nice when your best player decides he wants to leave, but examine the reasons he came out last month and stated he wants to leave:
a) Wayne Rooney wants to win medals and feels his current club aren't in a position to do so.
and/or
b) Wayne Rooney (and his agent) wants more money.
Essentially, the main reasons he came to United in the first place, back in 2003. And this was when he was leaving the club he'd supported as a kid growing up in Liverpool - loyalty would not appear to be behind personal glory in his list of character traits
Not that I'll condemn him for it. It's common enough in players these days, with the likes of Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes (both of whom could easily have engineered transfers to a big Italian or Spanish club at their peaks) being a dying breed with their wish to play for the club they grew up with.
If, and it's a big 'if', point (a) was the true core of Rooney's discontent, then it's an understandable one. United are still reliant on several players the wrong side of 30 and building a squad able to challenge for the top honours in the next five years - when Rooney should be hitting his peak - will need heavy investment. Money it would appear the club don't have. Wayne has a limited amount of time left to play at the top level (ten years absolute tops, you would think) - can we criticise him for wanting to use his rare talents in winning prizes?
That he was pacified into signing a new contract opens up other questions. What were the assurances, or was it just about the cash? If it was just a matter of earning another £80,000 a week, then supporters may well be disappointed, but they shouldn't be surprised. The 'Glory Game' of the likes of Busby, Blanchflower and Shankly is long gone, to be replaced by something far more of the times we live in. I read a comment on a message board regarding Chelsea fans booing their team off the pitch after a defeat by Sunderland, despite their team being the reigning champions, holders of the FA Cup and still top of the league. "Clubs have turned supporters into customers - they didn't get the 'product' they paid a lot of money for, so they boo." Such is modern football.
When his name was read out as a substitute pre-game, there were audible jeers. When Rooney finally got into the game, it was to a mix of more of them and some chanting his name. My personal stance has been to always get behind the player when you're at the game, and save the criticisms for the pub.
This time, I did have the strong feeling that the supporters who booed Rooney need to get a bit of a grip. Sure, it's never nice when your best player decides he wants to leave, but examine the reasons he came out last month and stated he wants to leave:
a) Wayne Rooney wants to win medals and feels his current club aren't in a position to do so.
and/or
b) Wayne Rooney (and his agent) wants more money.
Essentially, the main reasons he came to United in the first place, back in 2003. And this was when he was leaving the club he'd supported as a kid growing up in Liverpool - loyalty would not appear to be behind personal glory in his list of character traits
Not that I'll condemn him for it. It's common enough in players these days, with the likes of Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes (both of whom could easily have engineered transfers to a big Italian or Spanish club at their peaks) being a dying breed with their wish to play for the club they grew up with.
If, and it's a big 'if', point (a) was the true core of Rooney's discontent, then it's an understandable one. United are still reliant on several players the wrong side of 30 and building a squad able to challenge for the top honours in the next five years - when Rooney should be hitting his peak - will need heavy investment. Money it would appear the club don't have. Wayne has a limited amount of time left to play at the top level (ten years absolute tops, you would think) - can we criticise him for wanting to use his rare talents in winning prizes?
That he was pacified into signing a new contract opens up other questions. What were the assurances, or was it just about the cash? If it was just a matter of earning another £80,000 a week, then supporters may well be disappointed, but they shouldn't be surprised. The 'Glory Game' of the likes of Busby, Blanchflower and Shankly is long gone, to be replaced by something far more of the times we live in. I read a comment on a message board regarding Chelsea fans booing their team off the pitch after a defeat by Sunderland, despite their team being the reigning champions, holders of the FA Cup and still top of the league. "Clubs have turned supporters into customers - they didn't get the 'product' they paid a lot of money for, so they boo." Such is modern football.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Kick the Keyboard
As Smokey Robinson's mama once informed us, "You better shop around". Having heard their Search Party song a few weeks ago, I'd decided to purchase Small Black's New Chain album whilst taking a very extended lunch break in Manchester city centre last week.
Browsing brought prizes, as I found it for the bargain price of a fiver in the racks of the wonderful Vinyl Exchange up in the Northern Quarter. Since then, I've listened to New Chain many times and found a lot to be impressed about.
First, I've not bothered to do any research into the band prior to writing this. I may have caught an article that mentioned them being a four-piece from somewhere in New York, but bar that I'm working from a position of knowing little but what they've put into the ten tracks to be found here.
From what I can make out, it all seems to be made using nothing but various synths/keyboards and drum machines (expects to be corrected). This is not a bad thing, given my like of the early works of OMD, Talk Talk and being a huge fan of New Order.
(Random tangent: about seven years ago, a friend insisted I go with her to see Ladytron knowing my like of some synth music. They were blown off stage by support band Vic-20 and were so bad, even my friend insisted we left 25 minutes into the set, full of apologies.)
Small Black would seem to be coming from the more experimental angle, as few of the numbers here carry much in the way of hooks or radio friendly tunes. What it does have is plenty of atmosphere, brought on by various electronic beeps and vocals that often sound like they're coming from a tunnel covered in thick fog. In the context of the songs, it works very well.
At it's best, such as on Search Party and Photojournalist, it works to brilliant effect. Matters do flag a little towards the end and it just manages to not overstay it's welcome and I'm left with two questions: are Small Black able to produce a half-decent live show or do they resort to Kraftwerk-esque statue poses, and will they repeat the formula for any subsequent work or (like, for example, the Human League) bring in acoustic instruments to avoid repetition? I'm interested in finding out the answers.
Browsing brought prizes, as I found it for the bargain price of a fiver in the racks of the wonderful Vinyl Exchange up in the Northern Quarter. Since then, I've listened to New Chain many times and found a lot to be impressed about.
First, I've not bothered to do any research into the band prior to writing this. I may have caught an article that mentioned them being a four-piece from somewhere in New York, but bar that I'm working from a position of knowing little but what they've put into the ten tracks to be found here.
From what I can make out, it all seems to be made using nothing but various synths/keyboards and drum machines (expects to be corrected). This is not a bad thing, given my like of the early works of OMD, Talk Talk and being a huge fan of New Order.
(Random tangent: about seven years ago, a friend insisted I go with her to see Ladytron knowing my like of some synth music. They were blown off stage by support band Vic-20 and were so bad, even my friend insisted we left 25 minutes into the set, full of apologies.)
Small Black would seem to be coming from the more experimental angle, as few of the numbers here carry much in the way of hooks or radio friendly tunes. What it does have is plenty of atmosphere, brought on by various electronic beeps and vocals that often sound like they're coming from a tunnel covered in thick fog. In the context of the songs, it works very well.
At it's best, such as on Search Party and Photojournalist, it works to brilliant effect. Matters do flag a little towards the end and it just manages to not overstay it's welcome and I'm left with two questions: are Small Black able to produce a half-decent live show or do they resort to Kraftwerk-esque statue poses, and will they repeat the formula for any subsequent work or (like, for example, the Human League) bring in acoustic instruments to avoid repetition? I'm interested in finding out the answers.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Market of the Senses
It's rare that I notice adverts on television, as the times I do watch the box, I tend to switch over to something else when the lifestyle choices are offered. Yesterday, however, for some reason I happened to be doing other things when I heard a familiar guitar riff.
It's not for me, or anyone, to tell Gang of Four whether they've 'sold out' or not, assuming they've had a choice in allowing Natural's Not In It for the new XBox360 toy. Nobody can comment until we've been in that position. Perhaps they need the money (Go4 being one of those 'more influential than successful' type of bands), or it was just too much wedge to turn down. A personal stance is all very well, but until you've been offered a large cheque for your work, it's hard to make a judgement call on somebody else. It's one thing slagging off millionaires lending their voices to adverts, quite another a bunch of musicians who never got much of a sniff of a hit single over the last 30 years.
And of course, guitarist Andy Gill has commented that the band's lyrics often mused on the inability to be "pure" or have "clean hands" in modern society, dismissing the stance of more righteous types such as the Pop Group and the Slits as "hand wringing bollocks". They were unashamed about singing to EMI rather then staying on an indie, though refused to compromise when requested to alter a lyric in At Home He's a Tourist to allow them to appear on Top of the Pops. If Messieurs Allen, Burnham, Gill and King see no problem with cashing their chips to help flog some gadgets, then that's their decision. After all, surely to 'sell out' means to compromise your own values, not those imposed on you by people you don't know.
What is confusing is why Microsoft chose this song, which starts with the words 'the problem of leisure/what to do for pleasure?', from an album that frequently questions whether popular culture can offer any real kind of satisfaction. Is one of Bill Gates' mates having a personal joke, or was it simply more a case of "This song rocks. It'll do"? Bit of a shame they didn't go with Love Like Anthrax...
It's not for me, or anyone, to tell Gang of Four whether they've 'sold out' or not, assuming they've had a choice in allowing Natural's Not In It for the new XBox360 toy. Nobody can comment until we've been in that position. Perhaps they need the money (Go4 being one of those 'more influential than successful' type of bands), or it was just too much wedge to turn down. A personal stance is all very well, but until you've been offered a large cheque for your work, it's hard to make a judgement call on somebody else. It's one thing slagging off millionaires lending their voices to adverts, quite another a bunch of musicians who never got much of a sniff of a hit single over the last 30 years.
And of course, guitarist Andy Gill has commented that the band's lyrics often mused on the inability to be "pure" or have "clean hands" in modern society, dismissing the stance of more righteous types such as the Pop Group and the Slits as "hand wringing bollocks". They were unashamed about singing to EMI rather then staying on an indie, though refused to compromise when requested to alter a lyric in At Home He's a Tourist to allow them to appear on Top of the Pops. If Messieurs Allen, Burnham, Gill and King see no problem with cashing their chips to help flog some gadgets, then that's their decision. After all, surely to 'sell out' means to compromise your own values, not those imposed on you by people you don't know.
What is confusing is why Microsoft chose this song, which starts with the words 'the problem of leisure/what to do for pleasure?', from an album that frequently questions whether popular culture can offer any real kind of satisfaction. Is one of Bill Gates' mates having a personal joke, or was it simply more a case of "This song rocks. It'll do"? Bit of a shame they didn't go with Love Like Anthrax...
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Railing On
It came as no surprise to me to read that conditions for passengers on Britain's rail network are set to get worse over the next few years. As somebody who spent the best part of a decade using trains for most journeys over 10 miles, it was a relief when I finally got my own car.
As a disclaimer, I'll say first of all that in the ideal world, using the train to head back to Cumbria would be a pleasant way to travel. However, it's often a thoroughly miserable experience for which you get charged a fair old whack. The last two trips, from Penrith to Manchester, were enough to put me off for the foreseeable future.
The first of those, back in March, saw me catch a train that was running from Glasgow or Edinburgh to Manc Airport. It had two carriages, both of which were rammed to put it mildly. Given the final destination, suitcases and bags were everywhere and people who had booked seats from Penrith didn't even try to fight their way across. I was one of the lucky ones - by the next stop, nobody else was allowed aboard.
Eventually, the conductor or whoever came over the PA to apologise. It seemed "for some reason we don't know", the train hadn't been given the right number of carriages at the depo. Humph. Arriving at Manchester Oxford Road very tired and very sore, what made this even worse was a month later, when making the same trip, the same thing happened and we were given pretty much the same excuse!
And that was that, barring a trip to Rochdale a few months ago. Sadly, I gather this is quickly becoming the norm for a lot of commuters and now the word is improvements won't be forthcoming despite ever-increasing fares without major support from the taxpayer. Obviously the system has gone to bollocks in an epic way and you have to wonder if there's a way to try and rectify the numerous mistakes privatisation has brought. Answers on a postcard...
As a disclaimer, I'll say first of all that in the ideal world, using the train to head back to Cumbria would be a pleasant way to travel. However, it's often a thoroughly miserable experience for which you get charged a fair old whack. The last two trips, from Penrith to Manchester, were enough to put me off for the foreseeable future.
The first of those, back in March, saw me catch a train that was running from Glasgow or Edinburgh to Manc Airport. It had two carriages, both of which were rammed to put it mildly. Given the final destination, suitcases and bags were everywhere and people who had booked seats from Penrith didn't even try to fight their way across. I was one of the lucky ones - by the next stop, nobody else was allowed aboard.
Eventually, the conductor or whoever came over the PA to apologise. It seemed "for some reason we don't know", the train hadn't been given the right number of carriages at the depo. Humph. Arriving at Manchester Oxford Road very tired and very sore, what made this even worse was a month later, when making the same trip, the same thing happened and we were given pretty much the same excuse!
And that was that, barring a trip to Rochdale a few months ago. Sadly, I gather this is quickly becoming the norm for a lot of commuters and now the word is improvements won't be forthcoming despite ever-increasing fares without major support from the taxpayer. Obviously the system has gone to bollocks in an epic way and you have to wonder if there's a way to try and rectify the numerous mistakes privatisation has brought. Answers on a postcard...
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Some Noise, Some Melody
Unusually for me, I've been listening to a fair bit of contemporary tunes recently. As well as the M83 and British Sea Power albums I've mentioned, I fell in love the other day with the song Search Party by Small Black. In addition, the last two weeks have seen me hammering the self-titled album by The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, released in 2009.
For this, I have to thank my good friend Simon, who tipped me off after a discussion about Galaxie 500 and the Jesus and Mary Chain. Certainly, on first listen the comparison to Boston's finest seemed apt, with Kip Berman having a similar whiney vocal style to Dean Wareham and their general sounds (skinny guitars, droning bass) does call to mind a more fey Psychocandy. Repeating playthroughs, however, have revealed a somewhat wonderful set of songs that have left me eagerly awaiting the follow-up.
Somewhat strangely to this hack, I've read reviews that have used comparisons to Joy Division and the Smiths: they have neither the sparse intensity of one, or the complex structures of the other. What they do have is a knack for a great tune: the 1-2-3 of This Love Is Fucking Right!, The Tenure Itch and Stay Alive is as good a short progression of songs as I've heard this century. Stay Alive is particularly glorious, all jangling guitars and gorgeous vocal harmonies between Berman and keys player/backing vocalist Peggy Wang.
While a lot of this kind of dream-pop often takes vague lyrical themes of isolation and other kinds of existential despair, this band here seem to prefer a more simple approach: being a teenager crops up throughout, notably in Young Adult Friction and (more obviously) A Teenager In Love, the riff from which reminds me - somewhat weirdly - of Bowie's Modern Love.
Minor criticisms would be that in can get a little samey after a while, though the penultimate Hey Paul livens things up with a nicely distorted bassline and the closing Gentle Sons is probably the best tribute to the sound of the early Jesus and Mary Chain as you're likely to hear. Quibbles aside, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart is an excellent album worth checking out if you need a soundtrack to a few hours daydreaming in a field.
For this, I have to thank my good friend Simon, who tipped me off after a discussion about Galaxie 500 and the Jesus and Mary Chain. Certainly, on first listen the comparison to Boston's finest seemed apt, with Kip Berman having a similar whiney vocal style to Dean Wareham and their general sounds (skinny guitars, droning bass) does call to mind a more fey Psychocandy. Repeating playthroughs, however, have revealed a somewhat wonderful set of songs that have left me eagerly awaiting the follow-up.
Somewhat strangely to this hack, I've read reviews that have used comparisons to Joy Division and the Smiths: they have neither the sparse intensity of one, or the complex structures of the other. What they do have is a knack for a great tune: the 1-2-3 of This Love Is Fucking Right!, The Tenure Itch and Stay Alive is as good a short progression of songs as I've heard this century. Stay Alive is particularly glorious, all jangling guitars and gorgeous vocal harmonies between Berman and keys player/backing vocalist Peggy Wang.
While a lot of this kind of dream-pop often takes vague lyrical themes of isolation and other kinds of existential despair, this band here seem to prefer a more simple approach: being a teenager crops up throughout, notably in Young Adult Friction and (more obviously) A Teenager In Love, the riff from which reminds me - somewhat weirdly - of Bowie's Modern Love.
Minor criticisms would be that in can get a little samey after a while, though the penultimate Hey Paul livens things up with a nicely distorted bassline and the closing Gentle Sons is probably the best tribute to the sound of the early Jesus and Mary Chain as you're likely to hear. Quibbles aside, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart is an excellent album worth checking out if you need a soundtrack to a few hours daydreaming in a field.
Friday, 5 November 2010
Dangerous Days
I'm not a big film buff. I think the last time I went to the cinema was to see The Wrestler, which must be around two years ago. The only time I bought one of those "Collectors Edition" box sets of a film was for Blade Runner.
Seeing Blade Runner for the first time was a moment that hit me hard. I must have been around 13 or so, lying in bed one night when it came onto ITV, in the 'Director's Cut' version. This was a lucky turn, as it obviously meant my initial impressions weren't hindered by the lousy voiceover and the cop-out ending. Even on a portable TV, the world of Blade Runner looking staggering. Constant rain, walls of flashing screens and a sense of a constant night.
I fell in love and I think just about every piece of creative writing I did for English lessons over the next three years was in some way influenced by it, in that teenage way that you do. It created a love of sci-fi that wasn't too fantastical, 'Myths of the Near Future', as the brilliant J.G. Ballard put it. Games such as Dreamweb and Beneath a Steel Sky fell into this bracket, the former nicking Blade Runner's dystopian city setting bigtime.
The Blade Runner box contained a fair few versions of the film: the original cinematic one, a workprint, the Director's Cut and a 'Final Cut', the latter being Ridley's Scott truest vision of how it should look. Best of all is a fantastic feature length 'Making Of' documentary that tracks development from the optioning of Philip K. Dick's novella Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? to the stressful filming and editing. All major players are here and it would seem Harrison Ford's attitude towards the film (and Scott) has mellowed over the years: perhaps he realises this was his finest acting moment.
Which reminds me that Blade Runner might be the best cast film I can think of - every player gets their role down perfectly. Particular favourites include Edward James Olmos as the enigmatic colleague of Ford's Decker, Brion James as the strong but slightly dim replicant Leon who gets to say the fab line "wake up, time to die!", and Rutger Hauer (obviously).
When I picked it up on DVD a couple of years ago, the visuals and music still knocked me back, despite the "future" it portrays now being only a decade away. Unless the science bods are being very quiet, we're nowhere near to creating 'replicant' humans or hover cars, yet it holds up on the strength of it's script, performances and themes. Plus, of course, the fact everyone can argue over the meaning of the ending, unless it's the original cinematic ending, which removes any ambiguity with sledgehammer force.
Seeing Blade Runner for the first time was a moment that hit me hard. I must have been around 13 or so, lying in bed one night when it came onto ITV, in the 'Director's Cut' version. This was a lucky turn, as it obviously meant my initial impressions weren't hindered by the lousy voiceover and the cop-out ending. Even on a portable TV, the world of Blade Runner looking staggering. Constant rain, walls of flashing screens and a sense of a constant night.
I fell in love and I think just about every piece of creative writing I did for English lessons over the next three years was in some way influenced by it, in that teenage way that you do. It created a love of sci-fi that wasn't too fantastical, 'Myths of the Near Future', as the brilliant J.G. Ballard put it. Games such as Dreamweb and Beneath a Steel Sky fell into this bracket, the former nicking Blade Runner's dystopian city setting bigtime.
The Blade Runner box contained a fair few versions of the film: the original cinematic one, a workprint, the Director's Cut and a 'Final Cut', the latter being Ridley's Scott truest vision of how it should look. Best of all is a fantastic feature length 'Making Of' documentary that tracks development from the optioning of Philip K. Dick's novella Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? to the stressful filming and editing. All major players are here and it would seem Harrison Ford's attitude towards the film (and Scott) has mellowed over the years: perhaps he realises this was his finest acting moment.
Which reminds me that Blade Runner might be the best cast film I can think of - every player gets their role down perfectly. Particular favourites include Edward James Olmos as the enigmatic colleague of Ford's Decker, Brion James as the strong but slightly dim replicant Leon who gets to say the fab line "wake up, time to die!", and Rutger Hauer (obviously).
When I picked it up on DVD a couple of years ago, the visuals and music still knocked me back, despite the "future" it portrays now being only a decade away. Unless the science bods are being very quiet, we're nowhere near to creating 'replicant' humans or hover cars, yet it holds up on the strength of it's script, performances and themes. Plus, of course, the fact everyone can argue over the meaning of the ending, unless it's the original cinematic ending, which removes any ambiguity with sledgehammer force.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Furious Over Five
Recently, my mind has been vexed by a recurring thought. It's troubled me deeply and often kept me up at night, I'm sad to say. The source of my woe is this: since when were Take That seen in any way as credible?
Perhaps the source of this is that they recently won a Q award of some kind. Now, I know Q magazine has long gone to the dogs in terms of any kind of journalistic integrity, but I did buy it every month between around 1996 (Paul Heaton from the Beautiful South on the cover, if I remember right, and a cover CD featuring hip up-and-coming bands like Mansun) and 2001. I'm assuming the slide I noted became terminal if they consider Take That worthy of an entry into any "Hall of Fame". I'll guess David Cassidy will get the nod next year.
What disturbs me more is that a band who made it by covering crap songs with crap arrangements and crap singing are set to go on a tour of stadiums. I'm aware I have little patience with most aspects of pop culture, but this really is a step too far. I can only assume the media have decided to get behind the Take That story - with the return of Bob Williams being as inevitable as a comeback in a Rocky film.
I shouldn't care, I know, but I'll remain eternally baffled why tens of thousands of people - most of whom around my age - will pay stupid sums of money to see five middle aged men sing wretched AOR ballads alongside the inconsequential shite they peddled first time around. Even back then, as a young lad unversed in music, I recognised it was crap and, please, don't give me that "come on, Back For Good wasn't bad": it was nothing but a dried, encrusted wank stain on the blanket of popular music.
And of course, an extra reason to loathe Take That is what they started. They made a huge pile of cash and fully cemented the boy band line up including at least two useless tossers who did nothing but have a few dance moves and enough muscles and dumb smiles to moisten some teenage girls' kex. We can blame Westlife on Take sodding That and the quicker this whole fiasco is over, the quicker we can consign them to the blackest voids of our memory.
Perhaps the source of this is that they recently won a Q award of some kind. Now, I know Q magazine has long gone to the dogs in terms of any kind of journalistic integrity, but I did buy it every month between around 1996 (Paul Heaton from the Beautiful South on the cover, if I remember right, and a cover CD featuring hip up-and-coming bands like Mansun) and 2001. I'm assuming the slide I noted became terminal if they consider Take That worthy of an entry into any "Hall of Fame". I'll guess David Cassidy will get the nod next year.
What disturbs me more is that a band who made it by covering crap songs with crap arrangements and crap singing are set to go on a tour of stadiums. I'm aware I have little patience with most aspects of pop culture, but this really is a step too far. I can only assume the media have decided to get behind the Take That story - with the return of Bob Williams being as inevitable as a comeback in a Rocky film.
I shouldn't care, I know, but I'll remain eternally baffled why tens of thousands of people - most of whom around my age - will pay stupid sums of money to see five middle aged men sing wretched AOR ballads alongside the inconsequential shite they peddled first time around. Even back then, as a young lad unversed in music, I recognised it was crap and, please, don't give me that "come on, Back For Good wasn't bad": it was nothing but a dried, encrusted wank stain on the blanket of popular music.
And of course, an extra reason to loathe Take That is what they started. They made a huge pile of cash and fully cemented the boy band line up including at least two useless tossers who did nothing but have a few dance moves and enough muscles and dumb smiles to moisten some teenage girls' kex. We can blame Westlife on Take sodding That and the quicker this whole fiasco is over, the quicker we can consign them to the blackest voids of our memory.
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