Though I subscribe to the line of thought that the fetishism for Factory Records can be a bit tiring, especially when you live in Manchester, it cannot be denied that the label put out a lot of fine music.
And not just by the usual contenders (Joy Division/New Order, Happy Mondays and Durutti Column) either. Reading through James Nice's hefty tome Shadowplayers: The Rise and Fall of Factory Records (possibly the definitive account I was searching for when reading the equivalent on Rough Trade the other week) reminded me that less recognised acts such as Section 25 and A Certain Ratio put out a series of often great, sometimes not-so-great but always interesting albums.
There were also several one-shot acts such as the Distractions, whose debut single Time Goes By So Slow was perhaps the best pure 'pop' music Factory put out until Temptation by New Order. Like Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, whose also recorded their first single on Factory, the Distractions signed to a major label soon after, but vanished when the subsequent album failed to cross over.
Another solo single on Factory is Reach For Love by Marcel King, released in 1984. Manchester born King was the singer in Sweet Sensation, who after appearing on the TV show New Faces, were snapped up by panelist Tony Hatch for his label. Subsequently, they enjoyed a big trans-Atlantic hit with Sad Sweet Dreamer. A lack of follow-up success found King washed up by his mid 20s and, according to Bernard Sumner, a "tragic figure. He used to sleep in a car in Moss Side and was a bad heroin addict".
Sumner and A Certain Ratio drummer Donald Johnson (whose older brother was also in Sweet Sensation produced Reach For Love, a subline piece of electro dance music that brings to mind Off The Wall era Michael Jackson backed by New Order. Despite whatever personal problems he might have had at the time, King pulled off a superb vocal full of aching soul.
Sadly, at the time Factory couldn't buy a hit single outside whatever New Order had. Section 25's excellent Looking From a Hilltop (also featuring production work from Sumner) suffered from a negative press vibe towards the label, which was suffering from a lack of direction in the PR department. Though Section 25's single may have been innovative to ensure mainstream appeal, Marcel King's vocal alone should have been enough to push it into the top 40. Sadly, it was not to be and an extraordinary record went unappreciated by the masses.
Tragedy would continue to follow King, who would die of a brain hemorrhage aged only 38. His sole single for Factory is one I would recommend anyone to take a listen to at the least - and you can download it through legit means, so no excuses.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Friday, 28 January 2011
1920-2011
I think I've said before I am reluctant to use this here blog to go too much into my personal life. After all, it's not that interesting. But certain events in the past month have been occupying my mind too much for me to write much else.
It being this: just over two weeks ago, my grandmother died, a couple of weeks short of her 90th birthday. I'm not going to write about that so much, more the feeling that with all my grandparents no amongst the living, it feels as if though a part of my life is over, namely being young.
I was lucky enough to get through all my childhood years knowing three of my grandparents and my mother's folks especially were a big part of that. With my dad working shifts, my little brother and I would often stop at nan and granddad's on a Saturday while our mother went shopping. I have memories of munching on Penguin biscuits constantly and watching westerns and Laurel and Hardy films. Granddad liked football and I can clearly remember watching games from the 1990 FA Cup, back in the days where football on TV was limited to one game a week absolute tops.
Thinking back in the days following her death, nan always seemed to be in the kitchen back in those days. Perhaps it was habit after having seven kids in a time where women having any kind of career was a rarity. She always had a great sense of humour and would a wonderful laugh - something that as I've just written I think I'll most of all - especially after my brother or I had made a cheeky comment to our mother.
In her final months, she was very sick, so much so that seeing her over Christmas was the hardest thing I've ever had to deal with. She was riddled with various illnesses and needed constant care. Thankfully, the Macmillan nurses provided a lot of help in the final weeks to enable my mother and her siblings to be nan's children to whatever degree possible.
When the end came, I think we were all relieved she was free of all the pain. She's back with her man now, after nine years apart following 56 years of marriage and though I'm not a believer in anything after death, in my more wistful moments I imagine them nagging at each other again, as they always did, but always with a strong sense that they couldn't really do without the other.
It being this: just over two weeks ago, my grandmother died, a couple of weeks short of her 90th birthday. I'm not going to write about that so much, more the feeling that with all my grandparents no amongst the living, it feels as if though a part of my life is over, namely being young.
I was lucky enough to get through all my childhood years knowing three of my grandparents and my mother's folks especially were a big part of that. With my dad working shifts, my little brother and I would often stop at nan and granddad's on a Saturday while our mother went shopping. I have memories of munching on Penguin biscuits constantly and watching westerns and Laurel and Hardy films. Granddad liked football and I can clearly remember watching games from the 1990 FA Cup, back in the days where football on TV was limited to one game a week absolute tops.
Thinking back in the days following her death, nan always seemed to be in the kitchen back in those days. Perhaps it was habit after having seven kids in a time where women having any kind of career was a rarity. She always had a great sense of humour and would a wonderful laugh - something that as I've just written I think I'll most of all - especially after my brother or I had made a cheeky comment to our mother.
In her final months, she was very sick, so much so that seeing her over Christmas was the hardest thing I've ever had to deal with. She was riddled with various illnesses and needed constant care. Thankfully, the Macmillan nurses provided a lot of help in the final weeks to enable my mother and her siblings to be nan's children to whatever degree possible.
When the end came, I think we were all relieved she was free of all the pain. She's back with her man now, after nine years apart following 56 years of marriage and though I'm not a believer in anything after death, in my more wistful moments I imagine them nagging at each other again, as they always did, but always with a strong sense that they couldn't really do without the other.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Myths of the Near Future
Watching The Terminator on BBC3 the other week, the latest in what must be well over 50 viewings, reminded me what a fantastic film it is. One of my favourites of which the only negative was the dire quality of further installments of the franchise.
Director James Cameron's plot itself isn't too complex (unless you want to get into the whole mechanics of time travel stuff) and is essentially a 'chase' film given a sci-fi twist: cyborg from the future is out to get teenage waitress and soon-to-be mother of the hero of the human resistance Sarah Connor, whose only help comes from Kyle Reese, also from the future. The idea of a seemingly unstoppable being killing all and sundry wasn't all that new - Alien had covered the same kind of ground in 1979 to equally successful effect.
For me, the whole film spins on the character of Reese. As someone born into a world where humans are being hunted to extinction, he's tough as boots and quick on his feet. Initially, he appears as cold as the machine he's fighting. It's only after he's arrested and gets frustrated with being interrogated that he shows any kind of emotion.
Like with any great film, we allow a bit of creative license. Quite how a cyborg is going to work as a successful infiltration unit in a post-apocalypse world when it looks and sounds like an Austrian champion bodybuilder is a tad confusing. Unless the gyms in the LA area somehow managed to avoid the nuclear fire. Casting Lance Henrikssen (who appears as a police detective) would have made more sense, logically. But it works perfectly with Schwarzenegger as his lack of acting talent gives him a non-human feel, helped by his having about ten lines of dialogue in the entire film.
And so what if some of the special effects have aged? I'm glad Cameron hasn't felt the need to do a George Lucas and remake scenes. So yes, in the scene where the Terminator fixes itself back up it's obvious it isn't Arnie's head for real - but I still wince a little when he takes the scalpel to his eyeball and digs in.
Years on, Cameron would bring us Terminator 2: Judgement Day, a worthy enough sequel whose best feature was the transformation of Sarah Connor from terrified young woman into kick-arse warrior. The less said about further sequels and TV series the better.
That's not the fault of the original - and even Cameron jumped ship before it all went to bollocks - which remains in my top 10 till life mirrors art and the machines take over. Though I never did understand why in the gun shop scene the machine doesn't just snap the owner's neck and take what he wants rather than ask him to get the hardware he needs. Perhaps Terminators need to socialise too.
Director James Cameron's plot itself isn't too complex (unless you want to get into the whole mechanics of time travel stuff) and is essentially a 'chase' film given a sci-fi twist: cyborg from the future is out to get teenage waitress and soon-to-be mother of the hero of the human resistance Sarah Connor, whose only help comes from Kyle Reese, also from the future. The idea of a seemingly unstoppable being killing all and sundry wasn't all that new - Alien had covered the same kind of ground in 1979 to equally successful effect.
For me, the whole film spins on the character of Reese. As someone born into a world where humans are being hunted to extinction, he's tough as boots and quick on his feet. Initially, he appears as cold as the machine he's fighting. It's only after he's arrested and gets frustrated with being interrogated that he shows any kind of emotion.
Like with any great film, we allow a bit of creative license. Quite how a cyborg is going to work as a successful infiltration unit in a post-apocalypse world when it looks and sounds like an Austrian champion bodybuilder is a tad confusing. Unless the gyms in the LA area somehow managed to avoid the nuclear fire. Casting Lance Henrikssen (who appears as a police detective) would have made more sense, logically. But it works perfectly with Schwarzenegger as his lack of acting talent gives him a non-human feel, helped by his having about ten lines of dialogue in the entire film.
And so what if some of the special effects have aged? I'm glad Cameron hasn't felt the need to do a George Lucas and remake scenes. So yes, in the scene where the Terminator fixes itself back up it's obvious it isn't Arnie's head for real - but I still wince a little when he takes the scalpel to his eyeball and digs in.
Years on, Cameron would bring us Terminator 2: Judgement Day, a worthy enough sequel whose best feature was the transformation of Sarah Connor from terrified young woman into kick-arse warrior. The less said about further sequels and TV series the better.
That's not the fault of the original - and even Cameron jumped ship before it all went to bollocks - which remains in my top 10 till life mirrors art and the machines take over. Though I never did understand why in the gun shop scene the machine doesn't just snap the owner's neck and take what he wants rather than ask him to get the hardware he needs. Perhaps Terminators need to socialise too.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Dead Air
Watching 10 O' Clock Live on Channel 4 last night was a baffling experience. Certainly, C4 have hyped the show to the skies to the degree that even someone as ignorant of modern culture as me knew about it. I can see the logic in trying to put together a British version of the enjoyable The Daily Show, and it would appear that this was a move of doing so.
And yet, what we were left with was a show exposing the worst aspects of modern British comedy. A whooping, irritating audience lapping up Jimmy Carr jokes about Alan Johnson being replaced by Ed Balls because their names can refer to parts of the male genitals. Brilliant, and not just the same kind of shit that the average 12 year old could knock together. The whole routine had the grim inevitability of a Monday morning.
Later on, Carr was given the task of interviewing a scientist on the subject of climate change. The guy made some good points, principally that current moves to cut carbon emissions are doomed to failure because people in the developed world won't change their lifestyles (very true) and people in the developing world want their share of cars and fridge freezers. In Carr's hands, the guy was made to look like a bit of a mad professor cliche.
As with C4's election night coverage (which must have been some kind of success to merit this), Carr was joined by Charlie Brooker, Lauren Laverne and David Mitchell. Brooker is a man I have some respect for going back to his time as a journo on PC Zone magazine, but live TV is not his medium. Laverne's presence is baffling and her main role seemed to be to act in a beyond dreadful "skit" on trying to make the news of the Sudanese political situation amusing, in which it crashed and burned like the Hindenburg hitting a fireworks factory.
Mitchell was the one saving grace and the one and only reason I may tune in next week. His monologue was a superb piece of opinion and comedy and his interviews showed no shortage of interest in the subjects. It's not his fault also that interviewing three guests on the matter of banker's bonuses and only having about five minutes to cover the subject is a pointless an exercise as can be.
If Channel 4 are serious about bringing a comedy/satire show onto our screens that will last any length of time, they may consider:
a) Dropping the whole 'Live' aspect. It's a weekly show, not daily, so it's nothing but a gimmick to add an edge that isn't needed.
b) Make David Mitchell the main host of the show. Get rid of Carr and Laverne, keep Charlie Brooker on to make pre-filmed inserts. I'm sure he'd be happier spending his Thursday nights tucked up with Konnie Huq anyways, the jammy get.
c) Get in some quality writers. I know we're not in the 60s, when a show like That Was The Week That Was could call on John Cleese or Michael Palin, but surely there's some young writers out there that can write a political joke that doesn't resort to "huh huh... Johnson, Balls" levels.
d) Get rid of all cuts to the audience laughing. I don't care about them!
Not that I expect any of these to happen, of course. Indeed, I expect that over the next few months that the show runs, most of us will instead tune over to Question Time in the hope that Will Self is on to provide us with some laughs.
And yet, what we were left with was a show exposing the worst aspects of modern British comedy. A whooping, irritating audience lapping up Jimmy Carr jokes about Alan Johnson being replaced by Ed Balls because their names can refer to parts of the male genitals. Brilliant, and not just the same kind of shit that the average 12 year old could knock together. The whole routine had the grim inevitability of a Monday morning.
Later on, Carr was given the task of interviewing a scientist on the subject of climate change. The guy made some good points, principally that current moves to cut carbon emissions are doomed to failure because people in the developed world won't change their lifestyles (very true) and people in the developing world want their share of cars and fridge freezers. In Carr's hands, the guy was made to look like a bit of a mad professor cliche.
As with C4's election night coverage (which must have been some kind of success to merit this), Carr was joined by Charlie Brooker, Lauren Laverne and David Mitchell. Brooker is a man I have some respect for going back to his time as a journo on PC Zone magazine, but live TV is not his medium. Laverne's presence is baffling and her main role seemed to be to act in a beyond dreadful "skit" on trying to make the news of the Sudanese political situation amusing, in which it crashed and burned like the Hindenburg hitting a fireworks factory.
Mitchell was the one saving grace and the one and only reason I may tune in next week. His monologue was a superb piece of opinion and comedy and his interviews showed no shortage of interest in the subjects. It's not his fault also that interviewing three guests on the matter of banker's bonuses and only having about five minutes to cover the subject is a pointless an exercise as can be.
If Channel 4 are serious about bringing a comedy/satire show onto our screens that will last any length of time, they may consider:
a) Dropping the whole 'Live' aspect. It's a weekly show, not daily, so it's nothing but a gimmick to add an edge that isn't needed.
b) Make David Mitchell the main host of the show. Get rid of Carr and Laverne, keep Charlie Brooker on to make pre-filmed inserts. I'm sure he'd be happier spending his Thursday nights tucked up with Konnie Huq anyways, the jammy get.
c) Get in some quality writers. I know we're not in the 60s, when a show like That Was The Week That Was could call on John Cleese or Michael Palin, but surely there's some young writers out there that can write a political joke that doesn't resort to "huh huh... Johnson, Balls" levels.
d) Get rid of all cuts to the audience laughing. I don't care about them!
Not that I expect any of these to happen, of course. Indeed, I expect that over the next few months that the show runs, most of us will instead tune over to Question Time in the hope that Will Self is on to provide us with some laughs.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Entering The Real World
Graduations are made for everyone but the poor sods who are actually graduating. Families get to be proud of little Johnny/Mary and reel off countless films taking pictures of them resplendent in their cap and gown. Professional photographers make stupid amounts of money doing their trade and Lecturers get the satisfaction of knowing that every graduate is +1 on the success list.
As for us lot whose success we are supposed to be celebrating... we sweat in our uncomfortable costumes, force smiles for hours on end, then pick up a piece of paper. To me, the sense of occasion is far overtaken by the intense hyperbole of the event. For months I've been non-ambivalent. Bizarrely, I woke up this morning feeling nervous. What the fuck?
However, this nagging thought was justified whilst queuing up for my cap/gown rental (the cost of which adds another group doing well out of this experience), talking to Victoria, or Vic to you and me. Vic is a nearly a foot and a half shorter then me and is bouncing around in anticipation. Turning round, she notes my looming frame with a peculiar sense of having almost missed me.
"Oh, hi! I’m so nervous! I couldn't eat my breakfast this morning!"
Which makes me feel a little better obviously. But this is the last time I’ll think of Vic for a long, long time as she’s a peripheral character at best. It’s not a slight against her, but in the context of the story of my life so far she doesn't really feature outside a few drunken conversations that I try not to remember for fear of unbalancing the context of my biography in so far as I know.
"No, me neither." I offer in reply, then suddenly from nowhere
"Same here!"
Bill, cocky London cunt that he is, is has barged right into the whole scenario so I turn back round to face my parents whilst trying not to engage in any conversation. Thankfully this is the last time I have to put up with this knobhound from hell. A friend and me have been talking about beating the living shite out of Bill for nearly two years now and my mind is going through the possibilities of ramming his smug looking features into the wall. Almost the perfect way to sign off my university life. Then I remember who I’m with and say that yes, it really is a lovely day for it.
Later on, and looking the prize prick but relieved I’m one in a big bag of them, I’m standing in what might well be - to someone not familiar with this part of the world - the main contender for ‘World’s Ugliest Cathedral’ prize. However, to anyone who’s spent any time in this neck of the woods, it’s a perfect exclamation mark of a city obviously designed by people who liked wanking over their Maths kit.
I’m not sure if the Luftwaffe did a fly-by round this way. Maybe they should have. Coventry can use that excuse for it’s dull greyness of a city centre where tramps beat the shit out of each other for a Big Issue selling patch. This place is a mess of the contrasting styles of a modern shopping centre - complete with (fast) Food Court where teenagers can terrorise everyone else with their bad acne, cheap gold chains and creative swearing - and narrow side streets hinting at a Tudor past.
Think Milton Keynes crossed with York after nuclear fallout.
Anyways, I digress. This wonderfully hideous cathedral is our setting on this fine summer day. The actual graduation has failed to emblazon itself on my mind, much in the same way weddings or funerals do. I hate occasion. The crux of this story is the revelation that hit me standing on the back row of a grandstand knocked together (somewhat rapidly, I worry) for the big picture of every graduate of the Faculty of Art and Media, 2002.
The revelation is this: I’m not going to see most of these people ever again.
I was right, too.
As for us lot whose success we are supposed to be celebrating... we sweat in our uncomfortable costumes, force smiles for hours on end, then pick up a piece of paper. To me, the sense of occasion is far overtaken by the intense hyperbole of the event. For months I've been non-ambivalent. Bizarrely, I woke up this morning feeling nervous. What the fuck?
However, this nagging thought was justified whilst queuing up for my cap/gown rental (the cost of which adds another group doing well out of this experience), talking to Victoria, or Vic to you and me. Vic is a nearly a foot and a half shorter then me and is bouncing around in anticipation. Turning round, she notes my looming frame with a peculiar sense of having almost missed me.
"Oh, hi! I’m so nervous! I couldn't eat my breakfast this morning!"
Which makes me feel a little better obviously. But this is the last time I’ll think of Vic for a long, long time as she’s a peripheral character at best. It’s not a slight against her, but in the context of the story of my life so far she doesn't really feature outside a few drunken conversations that I try not to remember for fear of unbalancing the context of my biography in so far as I know.
"No, me neither." I offer in reply, then suddenly from nowhere
"Same here!"
Bill, cocky London cunt that he is, is has barged right into the whole scenario so I turn back round to face my parents whilst trying not to engage in any conversation. Thankfully this is the last time I have to put up with this knobhound from hell. A friend and me have been talking about beating the living shite out of Bill for nearly two years now and my mind is going through the possibilities of ramming his smug looking features into the wall. Almost the perfect way to sign off my university life. Then I remember who I’m with and say that yes, it really is a lovely day for it.
Later on, and looking the prize prick but relieved I’m one in a big bag of them, I’m standing in what might well be - to someone not familiar with this part of the world - the main contender for ‘World’s Ugliest Cathedral’ prize. However, to anyone who’s spent any time in this neck of the woods, it’s a perfect exclamation mark of a city obviously designed by people who liked wanking over their Maths kit.
I’m not sure if the Luftwaffe did a fly-by round this way. Maybe they should have. Coventry can use that excuse for it’s dull greyness of a city centre where tramps beat the shit out of each other for a Big Issue selling patch. This place is a mess of the contrasting styles of a modern shopping centre - complete with (fast) Food Court where teenagers can terrorise everyone else with their bad acne, cheap gold chains and creative swearing - and narrow side streets hinting at a Tudor past.
Think Milton Keynes crossed with York after nuclear fallout.
Anyways, I digress. This wonderfully hideous cathedral is our setting on this fine summer day. The actual graduation has failed to emblazon itself on my mind, much in the same way weddings or funerals do. I hate occasion. The crux of this story is the revelation that hit me standing on the back row of a grandstand knocked together (somewhat rapidly, I worry) for the big picture of every graduate of the Faculty of Art and Media, 2002.
The revelation is this: I’m not going to see most of these people ever again.
I was right, too.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Labelled With Love
I've recently finished reading Document and Eyewitness: An Intimate History of Rough Trade, a comprehensive account of the record store that grew into a label that's still kicking around today, albeit under somewhat different circumstances.
It's easy to draw comparisons between Rough Trade (the label) and Factory Records. Both were driven by middle class, Cambridge graduates with a deep love of music and both managed to house esoteric artists (Robert Wyatt, Durutti Column) and those that managed major commercial success (Joy Division/New Order, the Smiths). Both also suffered in the early 90s from financial problems and went under with major debts. Unlike Anthony H. Wilson, however, Rough Trade mainman Geoff Travis has managed to keep the name as a viable concern into the present age thanks to a number of artists that, frankly, I can't stand, such as the Strokes, Duffy and the Libertines. Yet anyone who allows British Sea Power to do their thing still gets major kudos points from this hack.
Document and Eyewitness is certainly an entertaining read due to the chaotic nature of what running an indie label must be like. Somewhat obviously, the early days are the most interesting, with stories of armed robberies on the shop that founded the brand and aiding with the release of pioneering singles by the likes of the Normal and Scritti Polliti.
Yet where it pales in comparison to the Factory Records story (of which I've yet to read the definitive account, though the Shadowplayers documentary DVD from a few years ago did a superb job) is that there's so few really interesting, eccentric characters to compare with the likes of Wilson, Rob Gretton, Martin Hannett and Vini Reilly. Rough Trade's stance on letting band's always choose their own artwork also didn't help create the kind of unifying identity Factory had, which is of course probably more to the benefit of many artists. Also, perhaps the cynic in me found the constant debate over the Rough Trade 'ethos' a bit tiring - much as Wilson's situationist gig may have grated the vast majority, he never really did care about making money, which explained Factory's collapse. From reading this, it seems Rough Trade increased the amount of business bods around and still managed to lose millions.
At the end, Factory obviously makes for a better story, hence the existence of 24 Hour Party People. Wilson was an expert at creating and building myths around his bands, his label and himself, not surprising for a guy with a background in television. Travis, on the other hand, comes across as a guy for whom it's just about the music. If I were in a band in the 80s, your head would tell you to sign for Rough Trade, but your heart would be drawn to the insanity of Factory and the snob in me would always want to have a Peter Saville design on the cover of an album.
It's easy to draw comparisons between Rough Trade (the label) and Factory Records. Both were driven by middle class, Cambridge graduates with a deep love of music and both managed to house esoteric artists (Robert Wyatt, Durutti Column) and those that managed major commercial success (Joy Division/New Order, the Smiths). Both also suffered in the early 90s from financial problems and went under with major debts. Unlike Anthony H. Wilson, however, Rough Trade mainman Geoff Travis has managed to keep the name as a viable concern into the present age thanks to a number of artists that, frankly, I can't stand, such as the Strokes, Duffy and the Libertines. Yet anyone who allows British Sea Power to do their thing still gets major kudos points from this hack.
Document and Eyewitness is certainly an entertaining read due to the chaotic nature of what running an indie label must be like. Somewhat obviously, the early days are the most interesting, with stories of armed robberies on the shop that founded the brand and aiding with the release of pioneering singles by the likes of the Normal and Scritti Polliti.
Yet where it pales in comparison to the Factory Records story (of which I've yet to read the definitive account, though the Shadowplayers documentary DVD from a few years ago did a superb job) is that there's so few really interesting, eccentric characters to compare with the likes of Wilson, Rob Gretton, Martin Hannett and Vini Reilly. Rough Trade's stance on letting band's always choose their own artwork also didn't help create the kind of unifying identity Factory had, which is of course probably more to the benefit of many artists. Also, perhaps the cynic in me found the constant debate over the Rough Trade 'ethos' a bit tiring - much as Wilson's situationist gig may have grated the vast majority, he never really did care about making money, which explained Factory's collapse. From reading this, it seems Rough Trade increased the amount of business bods around and still managed to lose millions.
At the end, Factory obviously makes for a better story, hence the existence of 24 Hour Party People. Wilson was an expert at creating and building myths around his bands, his label and himself, not surprising for a guy with a background in television. Travis, on the other hand, comes across as a guy for whom it's just about the music. If I were in a band in the 80s, your head would tell you to sign for Rough Trade, but your heart would be drawn to the insanity of Factory and the snob in me would always want to have a Peter Saville design on the cover of an album.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
American Nightmare
When I was around the ages of 17-21, I listened to the works of Bruce Springsteen from 1973 to 1987 a lot. I was probably the right age for it, and I was also from a dead end town that had long been in decline.
Of course, I didn't have a car or a girlfriend called Mary. Or called anything. Despite that, those early Springsteen albums did hit a note on days where I'd feel stuck in my room, desperate to get out of town and do something spectacular as the characters in Born To Run and The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle did. The killer here is that by the time you get to Darkness On The Edge of Town and The River, you see those same people never did escape and instead got married/pregnant and stuck in dead end jobs or unemployment. The narrative of the song The River could easily apply to West Cumbria as to New Jersey in 1980: guy is brought up "to do like your daddy done", but the recession puts paid to that despite our man's getting girlfriend getting pregnant. Marriage follows but over time he and Mary are leading empty lives and even the memory of their happy younger days by the river seem cruel - "is a dream a lie if it don't come true?"
Half a decade after The River, Springsteen was one of the biggest stars in the world when Born In The USA sold millions. In between, he released Nebraska, a set of solo acoustic recordings made in his home. Curiously, until very recently I'd never got round to listening to any of it bar Atlantic City until very recently. Perhaps I always associated the man's sound with the 'everything including the kitchen sink' approach of the E Street Band - especially as I found the Human Touch and Lucky Town albums he recorded with other musicians disappointing.
Nebraska is an excellent album, though. Lyrically, it could be his finest work that I've heard. It's filled with crime, desperation and murder from the opening title track, inspired by the film Badlands, which he had of course used for a song title previously. As Springsteen's version of mass murderer Charles Starkweather is led away for execution, he shows no remorse, attributing his actions to there being "a meanness in the world" and that he wishes that they pull the switch that "my pretty baby is sittin' right there in my lap".
Murder and execution appears later on in Johnny 99, a song later covered by Johnny Cash. While Starkweather's crimes were those of a psychopath, Johnny 99 is a man laid off at the auto plant who turns first to drink for answers, which leads to a botched attempted robbery that sees a night clerk dead. Sentenced to 99 years in prison, he instead tells the judge that "I do believe I'd be better off dead" and pleads for the death sentence.
These two songs are the most desperate on the album - there is little of the even vague hope of salvation and redemption that coloured previous works. The narrator of Highway Patrolman is a decent man who turned to working for the law after economics ended his farm life. But when his troubled younger brother returns to town and ends up killing a man in a bar brawl. he chases him as far as the border with Canada before pulling over and letting him escape, insisting that "if it was any other man I'd just put him straight away" but "man turns his back on his family, well he just ain't no good".
At the time (1982), it must have come as a shock to those used to huge-sounding tunes like Hungry Heart, Prove It All Night and Thunder Road. You can imagine the label wouldn't have been too happy, these being the days before the idea of releasing demo-quality recordings was seen as a good idea. It's a little strange to think after that making an album with a timeless quality, he would two years later give the world Born In The USA, his most dated work in terms of production values.
Nearly 30 years on, it's become one of his most well-regarding works, for very good reason. He would go on to cover similar ground again ten years later with The Ghost of Tom Joad, but this remains the place Springsteen explored the true darkness of American life.
Of course, I didn't have a car or a girlfriend called Mary. Or called anything. Despite that, those early Springsteen albums did hit a note on days where I'd feel stuck in my room, desperate to get out of town and do something spectacular as the characters in Born To Run and The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle did. The killer here is that by the time you get to Darkness On The Edge of Town and The River, you see those same people never did escape and instead got married/pregnant and stuck in dead end jobs or unemployment. The narrative of the song The River could easily apply to West Cumbria as to New Jersey in 1980: guy is brought up "to do like your daddy done", but the recession puts paid to that despite our man's getting girlfriend getting pregnant. Marriage follows but over time he and Mary are leading empty lives and even the memory of their happy younger days by the river seem cruel - "is a dream a lie if it don't come true?"
Half a decade after The River, Springsteen was one of the biggest stars in the world when Born In The USA sold millions. In between, he released Nebraska, a set of solo acoustic recordings made in his home. Curiously, until very recently I'd never got round to listening to any of it bar Atlantic City until very recently. Perhaps I always associated the man's sound with the 'everything including the kitchen sink' approach of the E Street Band - especially as I found the Human Touch and Lucky Town albums he recorded with other musicians disappointing.
Nebraska is an excellent album, though. Lyrically, it could be his finest work that I've heard. It's filled with crime, desperation and murder from the opening title track, inspired by the film Badlands, which he had of course used for a song title previously. As Springsteen's version of mass murderer Charles Starkweather is led away for execution, he shows no remorse, attributing his actions to there being "a meanness in the world" and that he wishes that they pull the switch that "my pretty baby is sittin' right there in my lap".
Murder and execution appears later on in Johnny 99, a song later covered by Johnny Cash. While Starkweather's crimes were those of a psychopath, Johnny 99 is a man laid off at the auto plant who turns first to drink for answers, which leads to a botched attempted robbery that sees a night clerk dead. Sentenced to 99 years in prison, he instead tells the judge that "I do believe I'd be better off dead" and pleads for the death sentence.
These two songs are the most desperate on the album - there is little of the even vague hope of salvation and redemption that coloured previous works. The narrator of Highway Patrolman is a decent man who turned to working for the law after economics ended his farm life. But when his troubled younger brother returns to town and ends up killing a man in a bar brawl. he chases him as far as the border with Canada before pulling over and letting him escape, insisting that "if it was any other man I'd just put him straight away" but "man turns his back on his family, well he just ain't no good".
At the time (1982), it must have come as a shock to those used to huge-sounding tunes like Hungry Heart, Prove It All Night and Thunder Road. You can imagine the label wouldn't have been too happy, these being the days before the idea of releasing demo-quality recordings was seen as a good idea. It's a little strange to think after that making an album with a timeless quality, he would two years later give the world Born In The USA, his most dated work in terms of production values.
Nearly 30 years on, it's become one of his most well-regarding works, for very good reason. He would go on to cover similar ground again ten years later with The Ghost of Tom Joad, but this remains the place Springsteen explored the true darkness of American life.
Monday, 3 January 2011
Looking Back
2010, then. What the fuck was all that about? A World Cup and an election brought some excitement, along with the usual fuck ups by the English as a footballing and voting nation. No real surprise on either front there, then, and just my personal opinion, y'honour.
On the matter of the personal, 2010 was a year that I doubt I'll remember much for if I'm still around in ten years time. Didn't do much, pissed about in the same job, met a few guitarists with a view to getting a band together but didn't get on with any of them. Alas. But here's a few things I did like about the year just gone.
Game of the Year: All important, this one. Down to two contenders - Fallout New Vegas and Gran Turismo 5. A late shout was Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit, but it being nothing but pure thrills and an over-emphasis on online play ensured it's purpose doesn't go beyond the odd ten minute burst.
Despite my criticisms the other week, it's the Fallout title that gets the nod here, but only after I managed to get the damn thing debugged to the point where I can complete it. A whole lot of trouble, but ultimately worth it. GT5 is a superb racing game, but it can involve a fair bit of repetition in order to see the whole game and the need for technical fiddling to get the best results is a bit beyond my ken. Also, the B-spec mode is incredibly dull and often outright irritating.
Album of the Year: Though recorded a few years ago, it was only released in 2010, so Paul Simpson's Man In A Burning Anorak: Volume 2 was my favourite new sounds of the year. My only vague criticism was that it should have been released under it's original title of The Wickedest Man In The World. Brilliantly downbeat, it's interesting to see if Simpson can equal or top it with the forthcoming Wild Swans album.
Kudos also goes to Small Black for their very enjoyable New Chain debut album, which is still getting regular plays round this part of the world.
Film of the Year: I didn't actually go the cinema at all in 2010, so no comment here. I did get the Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres For DVD, however, which was most amusing.
Footballer of the Year: For my beloved Manchester United, natch. Again, a toughie as not many of the boys had a solid calender year except for the ever-solid Serbian machine, Nermanja Vidic, recently made captain. But I'm going to go with Dimitar Berbatov, because I love the fact he's a lazy bastard who has more creative talent in his little toe than most the rest of the team put together. Plus a hat-trick past Liverpool is enough to endear anyone to my heart for life.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year: Much as it's easy to give this to David Cameron, it wouldn't be an honest assessment. After all, he's a Tory, and you know where you stand with that shower. You can sit back and await the cuts to services because that's what they do, and always have done. It's not excusing them, but at least you can assume a more comfortable position for when they want to come and fuck you up the arse.
With that in mind, step forward Nick Clegg, sadly not above a trapdoor that will drop you into a shark infested pool if I press a button. Now, we're all adults here, and I'm sure nobody is surprised when a politician stretches the truth of forgets the odd pre-election promise. Despite that, Clegg takes the mouldy biscuit by making his pledge to never vote against tuition fees a major part of his campaign and subsequently inviting future students to kiss his arse instead.
It'll be interesting to see where the Liberal Democrat party is in ten years or so. Not that Clegg will have to worry, as his new chums in the Conservatives will doubtless have a cushy number lined up for him. And yes, I'm bitter because I voted for that shower of shite.
On the matter of the personal, 2010 was a year that I doubt I'll remember much for if I'm still around in ten years time. Didn't do much, pissed about in the same job, met a few guitarists with a view to getting a band together but didn't get on with any of them. Alas. But here's a few things I did like about the year just gone.
Game of the Year: All important, this one. Down to two contenders - Fallout New Vegas and Gran Turismo 5. A late shout was Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit, but it being nothing but pure thrills and an over-emphasis on online play ensured it's purpose doesn't go beyond the odd ten minute burst.
Despite my criticisms the other week, it's the Fallout title that gets the nod here, but only after I managed to get the damn thing debugged to the point where I can complete it. A whole lot of trouble, but ultimately worth it. GT5 is a superb racing game, but it can involve a fair bit of repetition in order to see the whole game and the need for technical fiddling to get the best results is a bit beyond my ken. Also, the B-spec mode is incredibly dull and often outright irritating.
Album of the Year: Though recorded a few years ago, it was only released in 2010, so Paul Simpson's Man In A Burning Anorak: Volume 2 was my favourite new sounds of the year. My only vague criticism was that it should have been released under it's original title of The Wickedest Man In The World. Brilliantly downbeat, it's interesting to see if Simpson can equal or top it with the forthcoming Wild Swans album.
Kudos also goes to Small Black for their very enjoyable New Chain debut album, which is still getting regular plays round this part of the world.
Film of the Year: I didn't actually go the cinema at all in 2010, so no comment here. I did get the Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres For DVD, however, which was most amusing.
Footballer of the Year: For my beloved Manchester United, natch. Again, a toughie as not many of the boys had a solid calender year except for the ever-solid Serbian machine, Nermanja Vidic, recently made captain. But I'm going to go with Dimitar Berbatov, because I love the fact he's a lazy bastard who has more creative talent in his little toe than most the rest of the team put together. Plus a hat-trick past Liverpool is enough to endear anyone to my heart for life.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year: Much as it's easy to give this to David Cameron, it wouldn't be an honest assessment. After all, he's a Tory, and you know where you stand with that shower. You can sit back and await the cuts to services because that's what they do, and always have done. It's not excusing them, but at least you can assume a more comfortable position for when they want to come and fuck you up the arse.
With that in mind, step forward Nick Clegg, sadly not above a trapdoor that will drop you into a shark infested pool if I press a button. Now, we're all adults here, and I'm sure nobody is surprised when a politician stretches the truth of forgets the odd pre-election promise. Despite that, Clegg takes the mouldy biscuit by making his pledge to never vote against tuition fees a major part of his campaign and subsequently inviting future students to kiss his arse instead.
It'll be interesting to see where the Liberal Democrat party is in ten years or so. Not that Clegg will have to worry, as his new chums in the Conservatives will doubtless have a cushy number lined up for him. And yes, I'm bitter because I voted for that shower of shite.
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