Let’s be upfront and honest – in 1984 nobody gave a toss about Julian Cope.

That’s a little bit unfair, there were a few fans out there turning up for his low key tour in the Spring of that year, still reliably buying his records in dwindling numbers, enough to scrape into the lower reaches of the Top 75 for a week or two then disappear into the bargain bins of obscurity. He still had support from the evening shows on Radio 1, he secured sessions with David Jensen, Janice Long and John Peel that year but the music press took much pleasure in mocking him and his music. He had already had rags to riches back to rags success story with the Teardrop Explodes, starting with independent credibility on Zoo Records before signing with Mercury in 1980, having huge success with “Reward” and “Treason”, somehow becoming a teen idol in 1981 before drugs, personal differences, more drugs, musical differences and even more drugs led to a fractious and messy end four years on from their first gig. Now a solo artist, he isolated himself from the music business by living back in his home town of Tamworth in the Midlands. He told his record company he had two albums to make which were “pure back catalogue”. His first solo album “World shut your mouth” had been issued in March 1984 to generally dismissive reviews from the music press, happy to kick a man while he was down.  The tour to support the album was a strange affair, his band a mix of friends from Liverpool and seasoned session men, ending with Cope cutting open his chest with a broken mic stand at the climax of the gig at the Hammersmith Odeon in London, shouting the immortal words of Kenneth Williams as Julius Caesar – “Infamy! Infamy! They’ve all got it in for me!”

There was still Cope’s second album of “back catalogue” to deal with and in the summer of 1984 he settled into Spaceward Studio in Cambridge – so close to the home of Syd Barrett – to record it. Most of the songs were written already. Some had been performed for the John Peel show in a session recorded at the end of May – a mainly solo session of Cope on guitars and his Casio keyboard. Other songs had been previewed on a David Jensen session with the WSYM tour band. As the recording progressed – cheaply, quickly, efficiently, under the radar of his record label – a vision became clear. This was Cope pure and naked, emotionally as well as aesthetically. There was nowhere to hide, no technical wizardry, no Fairlights, no gated drums, no Emulators, no samples.  Steve Lovell produced the album with a light touch, the antithesis of mid 1980s music. “Two tribes” and “Mother’s Talk” and “Careless Whisper” and “The reflex” could fight for dominance at the top of the charts. This album wasn’t going to compete. It would stand alone, human and humane. As such the cover image for “Fried” – the album title chosen from the start of the project – would reflect the contents perfectly. Cope, naked under a giant turtle shell, staring at a broken red toy truck. Kissing the tortoiseshell? Well “Seven seas” was in the charts competing too. The cover of “Fried” was a million miles from the blue lit cave on the sleeve of “Ocean Rain”, though both Cope and the Bunnymen were isolated in their own way – the Bunnymen adrift on a lake, Cope was vulnerable and alone in the middle of England. Even the typography on the rear sleeve was designed to mimic a mid 60s Elektra LP like “Happy sad”. “Fried” was in a different world with its own references and knowledge. Competition? There was no competition.

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I’d started to buy Melody Maker every week in February 1984. It felt like the right thing to do, to expand my knowledge beyond the charts. There was a whole world of music out there, I just needed a guide. Within a few weeks I had read “Julian – a suitable case for treatment”, a not exactly complimentary interview with Cope to support “World Shut Your Mouth”. I may have heard “The greatness and perfection of love” on the radio but it held no real significance to me. I vaguely remembered the Teardrop Explodes from their short-lived period of success and had bought “Reward” from a local charity shop for 25p. The A side was great but bloody hell the B side was weird. So the first time I took notice of Julian Cope was the Peel session of May 1984. By the summer of that year I had started listening to John Peel, usually with my finger poised over the pause button, waiting for something interesting. The Cope session was definitely interesting.

I’d have to check the Wikipedia for the broadcast date but I’m pretty sure it was the third and last time the session was played, probably in July. It’s possible I heard it before that and was listening out for it. But the order I heard the songs – and that’s the order I recorded them, onto an orange BASF C90 tape – was the right order for me. “Me singing” first, heartfelt and honest. “Hobby”, short and bittersweet, just getting going as it fades out. “Search party”, scared and spooked. “Sunspots”, the joy after the doubt, sounding like the music I made with my Casio. Only a million times better. I played that tape over and over that summer, letting the songs sink in. I had no idea if they were old songs or new songs, I just loved them as they were.

In November 1984, Melody Maker had news of a new Julian Cope album, listing the songs – and I wrote in my diary “Including “Sunspots’!!!” With three exclamation marks so it was clearly important. I remember Cope appearing on the Janice Long evening show one night around this time previewing a few songs from the album (years later I would buy a 12″ promo EP with the four songs played on the show). There was also another session for Janice Long broadcast around Christmas featuring more new songs, songs I really didn’t understand, like “Crazy farm animal”, “Christmas mourning” and “Pulsar”. What was that all about? Somehow “Fried” ended up in my Top 5 albums of the year, even though at that point I hadn’t heard all of it. I just trusted that it would be one of the best albums of the year. Of course I had bought the double seven inch single EP package of “Sunspots” when it was issued early in 1985, a glorious song, backed with some intriguing b sides.

Jump ahead to mid August 1985. The Morgan family are on holiday in Yorkshire, around Hebden Bridge. We are in a house isolated in a forest down a long single lane track off a winding hill road. Every day we visit a different town in the area. One day we are in Haworth, climbing the cobbled main street up the hill and stopping at the Copper Kettle halfway up, admiring the pretty waitresses. We eat at a pub next to the steam railway, pie and mash and gravy. We say we will return later in the week. Another day we’re in Halifax, shopping in a market, I buy “The Crackdown” LP for £2. At night I play one tape over and over again. On one side it has the Cure’s recent session for John Peel – songs from the forthcoming “Head on the door” album, then the “Say what you mean, mean what you say” EP by the Durutti Column, a new discovery bought at the start of August for 99p. On the other side of the tape is “Wilder” by the Teardrop Explodes. I’d bought “You disappear from view” in May, then “Kilimanjaro” a week later, then hunted high and low for “Wilder”, picking it up in Kelly’s in Cardiff Market just before the German exchange in July.

On the last day of the holiday we return to Haworth but before that visit another town in the area whose name escapes me now. There we gravitate towards any record shops we can find and in the only shop I locate “Fried” on tape. What a fortuitous discovery, and it only costs £4 which is all the money I’ve got left. So I buy it and as we travel from the unremembered town to Haworth, I place the tape into my cheap knock off Walkman and slip on the headphones.

“Reynard the fox” kicks off side one of the tape and immediately I’m in what’s now known as “what the fuck?” mode. Because the entire drum track is over there in my left earphone and there’s nothing else there. I’ve listened to enough old Beatles albums in horrible early 60s stereo to know that this must be a conscious decision and not a mistake. Once the shock of that is over, the song itself is a kick in the pants, not heavy but a simple three chord riff played with a glam intensity yet with a pastoral air from the oboe or cor anglais or whatever Kate St John is playing. The song seems to be sung from the point of view of a fox being hunted, scared and scarred and freaking out. It’s thrilling, fast and rocking. After a few minutes of this, there’s a guitar solo and then it breaks down to bass and drums and the tension, oh the tension. Cope speaks, mixing the fox’s thoughts with his own personal history, slowly getting grosser and grosser, linking to the Hammersmith Odeon incident… What the hell is all this shouting about plastic bags?… And then it just fucking KILLS, everyone rocks out like their lives depend on how fast they can get away, the chase is on and the fox runs like hell, an absolutely thrilling minute or so of breathtaking music.

What the hell happens after that intense six minutes? Only the perfect guitar pop of “Bill Drummond Said”. Sure there’s a slight psychedelic edge with that looping backwards guitar at the start but bloody hell why isn’t this sort of thing in the charts? I’m looking out of the car window, lost in my own thoughts of jangling guitars and an alternative universe where this sort of skewed perfection would set the charts aflame. Do I know who Bill Drummond is at this point? Probably. Do I care? Probably not. It’s over before I know it, a haze of harmony vocals and lightly strummed guitars.

“Laughing boy” I was not expecting. I didn’t know any Tim Buckley at this point so had no reference point to hold on to. And why’s there no bass guitar? But that just adds to the weightless mid tempo drift of the song, lightly tapped drums and cymbal waves, that cor anglais again, sparkling clean guitar lines, lightly dissonant yet perfectly in tune. And it sounds like love, the emotion not the band. “The wind it plays upon your hair…” Wherever we are on the journey now, I’m breezing along and feeling solace – “Don’t cast me out, I’ve got no place to go”.

“Me singing” I know from the Peel session and it loses the slightly annoying organ on the intro. Again it sounds like love, just simple guitar strums and occasional Casio organ on the chorus. Losing yourself in someone else – “your eyes are lost in mine or are they my eyes lost in yours?” So intimate and naked, musically and emotionally. You and me against the world. How I wanted my life to be. The electric lead guitar part chiming and clear, just lovely.

“Sunspots” closes side one of the tape and it’s exactly what I expected. The Peel version sounded like the horrible tapes I was making in my bedroom, a glimpse of the possibilities available. Now “Sunspots” was huge. Choppy guitars, big drums, built to compete? Hardly, it sounds like someone’s playing a tuba for the bass. Again it sounds like love, in a car. These songs are written from the heart, in the right way. Hang on, there’s a sodding recorder solo. Are we in junior school? Oh whatever. It’s just such a joyous song, and gradually builds to a Hey Jude style climax of a crowd singing along, cheering and shouting while more melody lines are thrown in over the top. Over the top? No never. This isn’t The Big Music, this is just pure joy.

As the song fades out, the car pulls into a car park and I remove the headphones. Are we here? Ok. Soon we’re back in the pub and I’ve got another plate of pie and mash and gravy and it’s just as delicious as last time and the radio is playing “Yesterday’s men” by Madness which I’m hearing for the first time. “It must get better in the long run…” Then we’re off again and heading back to the cottage and I’m ready for Side Two.

“The bloody assizes”, according to the Melody Maker review of the album, does sound like Love. The band, not the emotion. Not knowing what Love sound like at this point, to me it sounds like a second cousin to “Reynard the fox”. Another primal riff and an insistent drum beat, almost a spaghetti western vibe. It’s great, seems to be about the Tolpuddle Martyrs. Because why not? Englishness, you see.

“Search party” is absolutely desolate and devasting. A slow crawl of acoustic 12 strings and lonely electric guitar, it really does sound like it’s recorded half way up a mountain. Scared and scarred again, sketches of peril and love and unsettled ache. The chorus feels like a relief, those becalmed harmony vocals, until the last line. As the song fades into a reverb haze, Donald Ross Skinner’s crystalline lead guitar goes into stranger places. Uneasy listening in the back of the car. It doesn’t get easier.

“O king of chaos” pounds away on piano, Cope proclaiming about uncontrollable spirits and raging at full volume. Again it’s dissonant and strange, with an insistent organ line adding to the implicit madness. As the song progresses the piano and organ get wilder and more offbeat. Wilder indeed. Raging full on.

“Holy love” comes as some relief then. It’s the sort of pop song I would have expected from Julian Cope if I had no knowledge of him beyond the Teardrop Explodes’ hit singles. Another perfect pop song, another perfect love song, a simple verse leading to an expansive chorus, and after the second chorus an instrumental section of such stunning pastoral beauty, cor anglais and chiming guitars and trumpets, such an English sound. An instant favourite, the type of deep cut that fans adore. Absolutely lovely.

Finally “Torpedo”. The car is slowing down, we’re driving along the winding roads through the woods towards the cottage. “Torpedo” fits that feeling of coming to an end, the last day of the holiday, the return home and back to school. It’s simple, an organ chord held with bass movement underneath. Nothing else. You could be in a church, you could be in a room, it’s intimate, quiet, heartfelt.

“If I knew
That there was any other way to you…”

This is straight from the heart. Does the truth have to hurt? Sometimes the truth heals.

“And anything I want to say
Has probably been said many better ways”

A line so perfect it cuts like a knife. Let other people find better ways to say those words. It doesn’t matter. These words are fine, Julian, just fine.

Each line of “Torpedo” is so personal, yet so universal too. Sure, he’s weird and does odd things, but everything is fine when they’re together. He’s trying to understand his feelings, but the knowledge of The Other is enough. He wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s some distant autoharp strums, then the organ fades into the distance just as the car parks up. Are there tears in my eyes? Quite possibly.

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I’ve listened to “Fried” hundreds of times since 1985 and it always reminds me of that late summer feeling, the secret melancholy knowledge of heading back to real life after a holiday. And “Fried” became a secret to be shared amongst my musical friends.  I passed the tape around in the autumn term. Some people couldn’t take it (or take it seriously), didn’t understand where it was coming from. Nigel loved it, bought his own copy. Two years later he’d be down the front with me at Cope’s gig at Cardiff University. But “Fried” feels like a secret shared by the few. It really is a “fan favourite” and most definitely “back catalogue” yet contains at least two songs which have become concert favourites from then to now – “Sunspots” being a singalong favourite and “Reynard the fox” is the perfect set closer. “Fried” is the closest Cope came to being a true solo album, he is the lone performer on some of the songs. In that way it’s the purest distillation of his art. And yet it’s not wilfully weird, there’s enough melodic invention to keep the milkman whistling. In that parallel universe “Sunspots” would have been a huge hit single, leading people back to the album, and Cope back into the mainstream. That wouldn’t happen for another few years though.

At the end of 1984 nobody cared about “Fried”. It crawled into the bottom end of the chart for a week or so then disappeared. But it reached out to the right people. (And I don’t mean Nigel and me). I seem to remember Melody Maker gave it a grudgingly moderate review, even if they did highlight the turtle shell. Andy Strike (aka Strickland) gave it a very positive review in Record Mirror, he seemed to get it. “This is what pop music needs – not million pounds studios and leather ball pouches”. Years later I’d see the video for “There’s no other way” by Blur and notice Damon Albarn’s shaggy bowl cut and creepy smiley demeanor and I knew they’d heard “Fried”, confirmed when Blur released “Modern life is rubbish”, their own celebration of Englishness, featuring the cor anglais of Kate St John. Pressure on Julian? Not likely. And of course there would be no “The Man” by Bill Drummond without “Bill Drummond Said”. And if “The Man” hadn’t happened then Drummond wouldn’t have been in the Creation office when McGee played the Baby Amphetamine single, which convinced Drummond to try hip hop. So you could say “Fried” led to the KLF. If you squint hard enough.

All the press comparisons to Syd Barrett did Cope no favours. There wasn’t much correlation between the two. Yes Barrett issued two albums in 1970 and Cope issued two albums in 1984 but there the comparison ends. “Barrett” sounds like a mind in freefall, Syd barely capable of playing beyond basic strumming, relying on the work of his former band mates and Dave Gilmour’s production skills, songs like sketches filled in by competent sidemen. I love the album, but it’s not “Fried”. Cope knew precisely what he was doing and had an artistic vision for the album which worked perfectly. From the music to the packaging – the ugly poster, the inner sleeve legend “Namdam am I, I’m a madman” to the crazy spiel on the tape cover – “We suggest you muck about with all tone controls, Dolby switches and Tape Select knobs until you get what you think is a great sounding combination making this cassette sound totally brilliant. If it still sounds naff may we suggest you dump that old music centre and splash out on a CD player” – there’s a crafty knowingness to the whole package. You think Julian Cope is crazy? He’s crazy like a fox. Sweet, spooked, desperate, joyful, and full of love love love. “Fried” is a masterpiece of underground English music and should be listed as a national treasure, just like the creator of the album.

Wally Salem is a networker. Not only is he an honourable fellow with a huge love of music and knowledge to boot but he knows a multitude of people around the world with similar interests and tastes. Wally has a knack of putting the right people in touch with each other. He also runs a wonderful little record label too. Anyway, it was Wally who passed on my name to Greg Williams and Greg passed on his album to me and here I am writing about it.

Because I won’t write about anything and everything that comes my way. There has to be a reason to write, to spend my time exploring the music, to get inside the songs and the production and equally for the songs to get under my skin. Life is too short.

“Stone on stone” has definitely impressed me. I don’t know that much about Williams’ past musical exploits – a quick look at his bio online indicates a musical history spanning back decades (hats off for naming a band The Every Brothers) – but I think I need to investigate further based on this album because it’s very good indeed.

The album opens with one of my favourite songs from “Stone on stone” – “Sing for you”. A midtempo groove, this is like Pink Floyd jamming with the Verve, lots of Gilmour-esque guitar and occasional blasts of Hammond organ conjure up an image of some early 70s crash pad, incense burning, scarves over the lampshades… And intriguing words. In fact across the whole album the words are excellent and thought provoking.

If the opener invokes the Floyd, the second track is more Iggy fronting early Psychedelic Furs. “Rock song” does what it says on the tin, but is more meta if you dig deeper – it sounds like a commentary on the current music scene, even the wailing wah wah guitar solo is played with a knowing wink. “Rock song” has a cousin further into the album –  hopefully “My blues” has its tongue firmly in its cheek, a portrait of a rocker with everything too perfectly in place. Lenny Kravitz comes to mind, for some reason. It’s played straight but again there’s a knowingness about it.

“This life” has nothing to do with the old TV show but reflects personal confusion, is it the start or end of a relationship? “The all time greatest mystery is what you were thinking when you said that you loved me” is such a great line, self doubt in excelsis. I can identify with that one. “The things make me happy” is like a second cousin to “In between days” musically but again the lyrics reflect love and doubt and confusion yet the chorus soars with hope.

“Through my hands” is a change of tempo halfway through the album, guitar arpeggios and subtle rhythms and a gentle build up of layers over two verses and just when you expect the song to explode into an anthemic chorus it doesnt, it throws in a xylophone solo. Unexpected, ingenious and rather beautiful.

Of course, with Greg Williams being Australian there’s comparison points with other Antipodean bands, in particular The Triffids and The Go-Betweens. Williams’ voice has a certain twang to it that lifts the songs nicely. But magically there’s a wide range of influences which Williams makes his own. Another favourite is “Hare On-Na” which filters a “Howdy!” era Teenage Fanclub vibe with some cool brass arrangements and an unexpected choral vocal chant at the end of the chorus.  This sounds like another pen portrait of some impossible vision, evocative and cool, singing to the radio. Across the album, the lyrics are great. There’s hard won wisdom and maturity and a tendency to turn clichés on their head. “I’ll be dead when you’re sorry” has some exceptional lines, where cynicism meets brutal honesty, and the music matches the words too.

If I had one criticism of “Stone on stone” it comes right at the end. The opening words and melody of “Thank you” are too close to “Days” by the Kinks for comfort and I do find that distracting. Otherwise it’s a cool acoustic tribute to friendship and love and hope, themes reflected throughout the album.

These days there’s so much music released that it can be overwhelming, sometimes you need a little nudge in the right direction from someone in the know. Thank you to Wally for the nudge towards “Stone on stone”. The album is a hidden gem, made with love, wit, care and compassion. Place it next to “Daniel” by Real Estate and “Daydream” by the Shop Window as one of the best indie guitar albums of the year.

https://gregwilliams.bandcamp.com/album/stone-on-stone

What music do you remember from primary school?

I only ask because I’ve been thinking about this question in the last week or so while listening to the new album “Lost things returning” by We Are Muffy.

I don’t know what music is taught in primary school these days, maybe it’s all eurorack modular synthesis, ukuleles and Garageband on the class iPad, creating another banger for the end of year disco. But my primary school years – and we’re talking 1974 to 1980 – were more primitive times. We gathered around the piano in the hall and sang songs from “Appuskidu” or the latest quarterly “Time and Tune”. Sometimes we were allowed to make our own noise, barely musical sounds from a collection of kazoos, xylophones, recorders and percussion instruments. Sometimes a hip teacher would strum an acoustic guitar to give some semblance of structure to the noise generated. We would sing in weird harmony with each other, some high and some low. It wasn’t quite the Langley Schools Music Project – I doubt our teachers would have taught us “Desperado” or “Space oddity” – but it was our own expression, for better or worse.

In a way, we were creating our own folk music, influenced by the music we would see and hear on the occasional TV show. There was Rod, Jane and Freddy on “Rainbow” – our generation’s Peter Paul and Mary – and Toni Arthur and Derek Griffiths on “Play Away” and Keith Field and Maria Morgan on “A handful of songs”. This wasn’t synthesised tape splicing Radiophonic Workshop music, this was music we could almost make ourselves and our teachers would try to stimulate with ideas. This is where Time And Tune would come in I suppose. Every few months a new book would arrive which would be photocopied and distributed to the class, we’d hear the songs on an accompanying tape and learn them. I can still sing some of these songs many decades on from the classroom. That’s the power of simple music, I suppose.

Which brings us back to “Lost things returning” by We Are Muffy. This album sounds like it was created and recorded in someone’s sitting room – truly “Sitting room songs”? – with whatever instruments just happened to be on hand, mostly acoustic. We Are Muffy are a duo of Nick Duffy and Angeline Morrison and together they created a quite beguiling sound, somewhere in a triangle populated by the Incredible String Band, Tyrannosaurus Rex and early Steeleye Span. The harmonies are strange but enticing, the songs simple – at least on the surface – and the presentation without artifice. It’s utterly charming.

And yet scratch the surface of the songs and something odd happens. Suddenly the lightly strummed autoharp and lightly swinging bass on “20th century folk hymnal” seem to take on a darker hue. What exactly are the words saying? How come the backing vocals evoke the soundtrack of “Bagpuss” created by Sandra Kerr and John Faulkner? Nothing is quite as it seems on this album.

Now I will admit that the music on   “Lost things returning” is well outside of my comfort zone. I don’t have the knowledge of the English folk tradition to understand half of what is going on here, which is probably why most of my reference points are from the folk music of my childhood (lucky my dad is a Steeleye Span fan then) But that doesn’t stop me absolutely adoring the album either. It does bring to mind the unique psych folk album “These trails” from 1973, the handmade feel of the music, the off kilter male / female harmonies. There’s so much to enjoy across the fourteen songs on the album. There are spooked folk songs in “Singbird”, the chanted and reverb drenched “Light in darkness” and the droning “Good again”. “Bread pudding” could literally be a song from “Time and Tune”, so simple and yet so odd. The title track is an instant favourite, the recorders and flute refrain bringing to mind a primary school orchestra playing a slowed down “La Bamba”. “Hurly Burly” is a dewy eyed remembrance of a fun fair, as far from “Rusholme Ruffians” as possible. “The Way” is quietly funky, if that is possible, and is another favourite of mine. “Qwerty letter” is a tongue in cheek homage to “Paperback writer” while “One thing where” is a vignette of an uncertain life which slowly unfolds into a rich tapestry of layered vocals and acoustic sound which is utterly beautiful and one of my favourite songs of the year. 

In a world where sea shanties can become viral hits I see no reason why this couldn’t become hugely successful. That probably isn’t the aim of the artists, but you never can tell what may happen these days. We’ve had a Brat Summer, are we ready for a Muffy Autumn? This is music to snuggle up to under a blanket as the nights draw in. Prepare to fall in love.

“Lost things returning” is available now via Country Mile Records and Last Night From Glasgow.

https://wearemuffy.bandcamp.com/album/lost-things-returning

There’s under the radar and there’s nowhere near the radar, and for two decades Assistant were completely off the screen. Formed in Brighton in 2002, they recorded two albums which were barely noticed and then real life happened and the band drifted apart. That was the first act of the tale. During the lockdown of 2020 the three members of Assistant found they missed each other and wanted to make music again, and somehow recorded their third album “In the April Sun” in isolation. Once the world had returned to normal (well it’s all relative), Assistant recorded a second album “This world could be so much fun”. They placed all their catalogue on Bandcamp and waited for anyone to take notice. And quite frankly that could have been the end of the second act. Only these days you never know what’s going to happen next.

A few months ago Assistant set up a Twitter account (no it’s not X and it never will be) and started tweeting about their music. Slowly it got noticed. It seems Jonathan (who runs the Assistant twitter account) and I bonded over our dislike of SubmitHub in December – that gained him an instant follow. A month or so later I listened to “This world…” after seeing a tweet about it, and responded positively, comparing it to Felt in places. And slowly a relationship was built up.

The Assistant Twitter account isn’t just for promoting the band’s music though. It’s a truly interactive experience. Sure there are tweets about the albums or songs, sometimes about their genesis or the story of the band. But there’s just as many tweets about other artists’ music, whether it be their influences, old favourites or new discoveries. They’ve even said nice things about Honeybourne. But through all the interactions there’s a humanity there, a humble attitude of “This is us, maybe you’ll like us, in the meantime try this thing we love”. It’s very charming, it’s very English, it’s very indie. 

And slowly over the past few months people have taken notice.  There’s been radio plays around the world, there’s been blogs and reviews, and the fine people at Subjangle Records are releasing the two most recent Assistant albums on limited edition CD and digital download in early May. Quite amazing for a band who practically nobody had heard of at the start of the year. And yet even with this success Jonathan is putting together a digital fanzine as an extra for the release.

The digital format of two consecutive albums does the albums a disservice to be honest. In much the same way as that old Big Beat CD of “#1 record” and “Radio city” was a little bit too much to take in one go, the full one hour and twenty four minutes shouldn’t be consumed all at once. The best way to enjoy this release is more than likely on the limited CD issue, as there are two albums with their own distinct sound and format. Hearing them straight through – all 26 songs in one sitting – can be a little daunting, so I would recommend listening to tracks 1 to 16 first repeatedly before moving to track 17 and onwards.  It will make more sense that way, and you won’t be overloaded with new information.

So what about the albums? “In the April Sun” has all the hallmarks of a lockdown project. The occasional audio failing betrays the home recording format, but adds to the charm. They weren’t the first or the last band to create a lockdown album  (waves at Si and John in Milk Bottle Sympathy) but this does seem very well done. The opening two songs “I recall the rain” and “I have no answer” set the stall for the album – gentle, wistful, wise and witty. There’s hints of Belle and Sebastian, Blueboy and the Go Betweens but these influences are given a good mix and shake. “I have no answer” features a bright and clean single note guitar solo, like Hank Marvin just dropped by. I definitely picked up a Shadows influence in the guitar playing. Two themes resonate across the album – a lack of freedom imposed by the lockdown and a chance to examine the past. Memories of friends and place appear regularly. “Lockdown” looks at COVID 19 through the eyes of nature and a chance to stop and smell the roses metaphorically – “You can’t lock down the Spring” indeed. “In a lifeboat” and “Submarine” have a similar aquatic theme of isolation and looking for comfort and friendship. “Who do you love?” is a classic pop song with clever lyrics and such an obvious melody I’m amazed nobody has used it before. “The greatest night we ever had” recalls Jim Irvin’s post-Furniture band Because in its honesty and simplicity, even the vocal style is similar. “Minded to stay” has an instrumental break of guitar and piano which lifts the song into another tier of greatness. Not every song on the album works, but even the lesser songs have moments of wonder, either instrumentally or lyrically such as the line ” I am too formless to function” in the middle of “Wake me up”. “Train song” is the perfect closer though, it emphasises the simplicity of the songs in performance and construction, sounding like Syd Barrett or Dan Treacy fronting Stereolab if they were signed to Sarah Records.

The second album “This world could be so much fun” shows a marked development from “In the April Sun”. It sounds more like a band playing in the same room rather than a group of people collaborating remotely. There’s also an expanded musical palette and a more confident production. The songs remain as good and as touching as ever. “The ballad of Assistant” is a good start, more comfort in friendship and helpfulness. Another perfect guitar pop song. The more varied guitar tones, extensive use of piano and keyboards on this album – along with the added vocals from Anne-Sophie – lend comparison to Yo La Tengo, especially on “In this world” and the gnarly “I’ll see you online”. “Shooting the moon” could be the Field Mice, the layers of reverberation around the guitars and the slow buildup of instruments, a song which – for me – could go on longer. “I wrote you a letter” similarly sounds like a tribute to Northern Picture Library’s “Dear faraway friend”, only 60% shorter. “Sugarcane” is high quality bedroom techno pop. “Tarboro” is an oddity, taken on one level it’s just a song about dislocation and trying to get home, yet there’s hints of disquiet in the music and the lyrics. Maybe I’m looking too hard into these things, it just feels unsettling in a way, the overdriven guitars in the final 30 seconds seem to confirm this. Again there’s another fine album closer – “Remember me”, understated organ and jangling guitar and an extended ending have the feel of “Poem of the river” era Felt. And that’s my favourite era, you know. The coda is beautiful too, I won’t spoil it.

Both Assistant albums here are charmingly wayward, naive yet wise, an amalgam of influences creating something new and unique. Very charming, very English, very indie. None of those words are used in an insulting way. As I said before, listening to them as two albums is preferable but that’s just my opinion. Assistant shouldn’t remain off the radar for much longer, and it’ll be interesting to see what the future holds. Will the interest from these releases lead to more music, maybe even a gig or two? What happens next is a difficult question, I hope they don’t postpone answering that for a while.

In The April Sun / This World Could Be So Much Fun is available from Subjangle Records here

Other Assistant music is available here

Follow Assistant on Twitter here

What do you do when the world around you grinds to a halt? For Burning Ferns the obvious answer is to create and record an album which reflects the lockdown, but also touches on other modern neuroses and “First World Problems”. But don’t think this is the new “Dark Side Of The Moon”. Though frankly I’d be happy to see this hanging around the charts for a decade or two. It won’t happen, which is a crying shame. But those who love guitar pop with a bit of brains (or a bit of Brains) will adore “World of the wars”.

But let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. Who and what are Burning Ferns? They’re a five piece band based in South Wales and their new album “World of the wars” is their third album, released on Country Mile Records. It’s been five years since their second album “Public Mono” was issued, and some of the songs on this album have been hanging around for four years waiting to be recorded and released, having been played live in 2019. Of course the events of 2020 halted any natural progress for the band – alongside everyone else – but somehow the band managed to get the album recorded piecemeal and it really is a very accomplished work.

To be honest, my first listen to the album left me feeling slightly disappointed. This is partly due to seeing the band recently perform a number of these songs in Le Pub, and recalling the speedy effortlessness with which the band tore into the new material – pleased to be able to present it to the public at last. There also didn’t seem to be an equivalent of “Bullet Train” – the standout song from their last album. However further listens led to a greater sense of satisfaction. True – the frantic energy of yore may be mostly absent but it’s replaced by a subtle sense of songcraft and musicianship all round. The addition of new drummer Erik Stams seems to have upped everyone else’s game – the songs have more variety rhythmically and musically, the band tear into little licks and riffs here and there, bouncing off the stop start rhythms. It’s as if Burning Ferns have leapt straight from “Bandwagonesque” to “Songs from Northern Britain” without passing Go.

In a way the Teenage Fanclub comparison is a good place to start on what Burning Ferns sound like, but it’s not all they are. Sure the guitars can chime and jangle and there’s plenty of harmony vocals spread across the album’s twelve songs, but there’s plenty more – wisps of Mellotron appear on a number of albums, there’s a honky tonk piano on “Roadmen” and there’s a general richness to the band’s sound which compliments the songs well. The musicianship isn’t showy but you get the feeling that if they wanted to, they could rip it up and play like demons. But that wouldn’t really suit the songs.

And what great songs they are. Well crafted and filled with twists and turns musically and lyrically. “We’re in the wars” sets up the scene for the album, a glance around at what’s happening and what’s happened and attempting to make sense of it all (nice verse about The Orange One too). Both “Tell me something I don’t know” and “Danger in the western world” explore similar themes (isn’t that Kelly Anne Conway at the end of the former song? Hmm) The latter song – previewed on Kevin McGrath’s excellent V 4 Velindre fundraiser – is an album highlight, inspired by Buffalo Springfield and jammed with harmonies and clipped jangles. “Frustration” is slow and tense, matching the mood of the lyrics about how little tensions can explode. “The bank of no” is a jazzy soft shoe shuffle about money, “Oh no bonobo” is a tuneful private joke, or a view on meatheads – or maybe both? There’s almost a “White Album” vibe to “Digging your heels” which is the ultimate slow burner – after many plays it became one of my favourite songs on the album. “Nothing to hide” is a heartfelt love song with some metaphors which would make McAloon and McManus proud. “Roadmen” a jolly rockabilly jaunt with a kazoo solo (referencing back to my beloved “Cool calm and collected”?), cracking bar room piano and a guitar solo Dave Edmunds would be proud of. In fact in places this album does remind me of Rockpile – the lyrical wit and wisdom of Nick Lowe matched to the old school chime of Dave Edmunds. Anthony Gray’s lyrics are a constant delight, his love of language and wordplay and way with an ear catching phrase would definitely get a nod of approval from Lowe himself. For evidence, listen to all the extended metaphors and lyrical puns in “It’s about time” or “Nothing to hide”. This is extremely skilful songwriting. But it’s not just his show – every musician plays a vital role in the music, the guitars of Nathan Abraham and David Corten are perfect for each song – tasteful licks and rich open rhythm patterns, while the rhythm section of Brychan Todd and Erik Stams are rock solid yet supple enough to swing. It’s called playing as a band, working out smart arrangements which best serve the songs.

At the album’s close sits “The Town Crier” which feels like a summation of all that has gone before – they’ve examined the world as it is today, found it lacking / interesting / worrying / amusing (delete as applicable), and now they’re telling the humble listener how they see it. It’s not preachy, It’s not depressing, it’s not bitter or twisted, it’s an honest reflection of life as it’s lived these days. In a way it’s similar to the best of Microdisney’s songs – telling truths smuggled behind a veil of tunefulness.

Burning Ferns have created a delightful thought provoking and tuneful album, perfect for the onset of spring and warm nights outdoors watching the sun setting in the distance. The album offers instant tunefulness with a lingering aftertaste of thoughtfulness. Let’s hope we don’t have to wait so long for the next album. Yet another cracking album from the Country Mile stable then.

“World of the wars” will be released on 7th April 2023.

Other Burning Ferns music – and their new album – are available here

https://burningferns.bandcamp.com/

Other Country Mile releases are available here. May I recommend Armstrong, the Grief Brothers and the Men Of Gwent?

http://www.countrymile.org/

So far, this year – to put it bluntly – has been weird. You don’t need me to tell you how weird, you know what’s been happening. Either that or you’ve been living in a cave for the past nine months in which case hi how are you and have I got news for you…

Anyway, this year. I’ve not been listening to much new music this year. Lockdown hasn’t been conducive with music for me. I think subconsciously I didn’t want music to be associated with what was happening. The exception to this rule at the start of lockdown was “Head Sounds” by Super 8, an album of homespun jangle pop from the heart and soul of Paul Ryan aka Trip. Somehow his gentle version of “Across the universe” became a totem of normality under the strangest of circumstances. “Nothing’s gonna change my world” indeed.

Now a few months on from that release and Super 8 have another album on the blocks, this time a collaboration between Trip and Lisa Mychols, a California native who has been creating sun drenched power pop for nearly two decades. The musical marriage of Trip and Ellie (as Lisa is known to her friends) is made in pop heaven.

The music has a ramshackle charm all of its own, and the mix of Trip’s casually brilliant musicianship and Lisa’s spot on harmonies and both their songwriting skills merge perfectly – it’s as if the Free Design had a collaboration with Emitt Rhodes (RIP) Sun baked California soft pop with a Beatles-ish lilt. Perfect.

The album kicks off with two theme songs – “What will be?” will be familiar if you’ve listened to Beth’s Indie Lounge while “Trip and Ellie’s Music Factory” has the feel of a children’s TV show theme tune (this is in no way a criticism, think of a theme song from a kid’s show in your childhood, see how well you remember it…) I could be wrong but it may have a homage to “Fakin’ it” too 😎 “Timebomb” – their initial collaboration from last year – is a groovy rocker, somewhere between “Bohemian like you” and “Rocks” but with plenty of charm alongside its bite. “You and me, me and you” is sweet as candy and instantly catchy too, as is “Honey bee” (love the reference to a cherry red Gibson 335 – my dream guitar).

There are two covers on the album which fit perfectly into the flow. “Peaceful” by Kenny Rankin is a long time favourite song of mine and I’ve yet to find a bad version of the song (I can recommend Bobbie Gentry’s version alongside the original). Trip and Ellie make it their own, building from acoustic guitar to a full on arrangement and back again, a lovely performance. “Witchi Tai To” is beautiful too – highlighting Lisa’s vocal skills, and is a match for the gorgeous version by Harper’s Bizarre. These covers are respectful and show their influences on the music. The West Coast soft pop vibes continue through the latter half of the album with “Laguna nights to remember” and the dreamy “Your summer theme”.

The two highlights of the album are what would have been the side closers if there was a vinyl equivalent – “Flying close to the sun” and “The arms of water”. Both songs extend the sunshine pop into a more psychedelic experience – the songs are expansive and take swerves in odd directions and Trip throws in some sound effects, field recordings and backwards guitars. These songs highlight how perfectly Trip and Lisa work together – you’d never guess they created this music thousands of miles apart. The album is full of sunshine and the perfect music for slowly emerging from lockdown, hanging out with friends you’ve not seen for ages and chilling out. Put your worries behind you, relax and let Trip and Ellie soundtrack this weird summer.

The Super 8 and Lisa Mychols album is available now via Wally Salem’s fantastic label The Beautiful Music.

Wally has impeccable taste – witness his ongoing project of Television Personalities covers – and TBM has issued great albums by Dot Dash, Armstrong, The Irony Board, Skytone, The Yellow Melodies and many more. Wally was kind enough to send me an advance copy of a forthcoming album his label will be releasing in August, thinking I would enjoy it and he was right, I loved it.

I must admit I’ve not come across Exploding Flowers before (and a quick Google tells me about the photographic process to explode a flower) but it seems the members of this four piece band have been around the LA underground scene for many years. All this experience shows in the music on “Stumbling Blocks”. If Trip and Ellie’s album is the sound of two musicians bonding over a long distance internet connection, Exploding Flowers is the sound of four musicians playing together in a room as a band. That might be quite an old fashioned idea in the 21st century but it does create some timeless music.

Exploding Flowers tip their collective hats towards some intriguing music. Sure, the twelve strings chime like the Byrds in flight as you would expect but there’s a plainly chorded organ harking back to the Chills and numerous US 60s garage bands or even the early sides by the Sea Urchins (think “Sullen eyes”). There’s hints of psychedelia too and not just the 60s variety – some songs here could easily fit onto the renowned New Psychedelic compilation “A splash of colour” and there’s a Paisley Underground vibe as well. Third hand psych? Not at all. The sound is fresh and vivid, and the songs are superb too. Highlights include the rollicking title track – that insistent guitar lick drives into your head and sticks there – and the perfect pop of “Far but never gone” (some cool backing vocals on this) and “Billions just like you here today”. There’s almost a ska feel to some of the organ parts on these songs, filtered through a New Wave sensibility.

As great as the uptempo songs are, my favourite songs here are when the band slow down a little and stretch out on midtempo songs. “Timing is everything” is 100 seconds of bliss, leading into my two album highlights. “Imagine all the possibilities” is a minor key gem, 12 strings chiming, descending chords and some beautiful unexpected melodic swerves. You would hardly notice the lyric sung so sweetly is a political diatribe worthy of Stereolab. The following song “Amongst burnt out stars” is just as good, descending arpeggios of guitars in the verse leading into a forceful verse, with more melodic swerves (regular readers will know I love a good melodic swerve). Towards the end of the album “Mirror to mirror, face to face” makes the most of its two chords and stretches out with a sax solo at the end, while “Are we so disposable?” is a melancholic closer, built on tympani drums and toy piano – not so much a Wall Of Sound as a Partition Of Sound. Basically if you cherish albums by the Barracudas, the Liquor Giants and Diableros then this album will fit nicely in your collection. The music will draw you in and the lyrics will intrigue you and you will sing these songs all summer.

Both the Super 8 and Lisa Mychols and Exploding Flowers albums have different takes on how to soundtrack these strange times with jangling guitars and melodies and thought provoking words. Both albums will repay repeated listens with great rewards and are well worth your time. Give them a chance to soundtrack your endless summer.

Both albums are available at www.thebeautifulmusic.com and Wally will probably throw in some other goodies for you if you order through him. Tell him a goldfish sent you 😎

In case you had missed the teaser campaign on TV, the billboards and the hour long tributes across all BBC Radio stations, today (24th May 2019) is my fiftieth birthday. Admittedly it’s also Jacob Rees-Mogg’s 50th birthday too, so you’re more likely to read about his half century of achievements than mine, but let’s leave the ghost of a Victorian workhouse owner out of these celebrations.

So yeah, my fiftieth birthday. A time for reflection, a time for looking ahead (at last, I can sort out a Sun Life Over 50s Plan), and a time to… I dunno. There should be something there but my brain is turning to mush and I’m getting forgetful. I’m 50, yet I feel about 25 in my head. I’d like to thank everyone who got me here (friends, family, workmates, bands) and especially those who say I don’t look 50. Well I wasn’t until today anyway so…

Originally I planned to put together (because “curate’ is a stupid word) a Goldfish Radio show or two with a song from each year, but I didn’t really have to time for that. Instead I’ve made this 50 song Spotify playlist which does indeed have a song from each year. There were rules, of course. Each song has to be from the year, and must have been part of my life in that year… Let me explain… It would have been easy for me to pick a song from “Another green world” for 1975, but I wasn’t listening to “Another green world” in 1975, it was still ten years before I heard it. This invalidated a few choices along the way – I had “Tubular Bells” a year after it was released, ditto “Keep on Wombling” (I’m not joking, I would have happily included music from both these albums if possible). So now you’re looking at the playlist thinking “So how come “Get back’ is there then?” Well firstly it was number one when I was born and as my parents were both Beatles fans it was part of my life at that point, though technically it wasn’t part of the Morgan household until 1970 when they bought “Let it be” but rules are there to be broken… So yes the early songs on the playlist are more my parents taste than mine, but each song here had a specific memory attached to it, whether it be “Misty Roses” and staring at the cover of “One Year” in the front room in Leeds, or “School’s out” being my “Starman on TOTP” moment (it’s my first memory of watching the show)

So the 70s have me listening to my parents’ music and enjoying it, and towards the end of the 70s starting to develop my own taste, hence the synthesised sounds of “Magic Fly”, and “Are ‘friends’ electric?” (TOTP performance forty years ago today, fact fans!). By the early 80s I had my own radio / cassette player and was listening to Radio One constantly, and by 1983 I was buying my own records and well you can read the old Goldfish posts for that story. Some – if not all – of these songs have specific memories attached, happy times, sad times, drunken times, weird times, uncertain times, hopeful times. I could go through each of the 50 songs, but some memories aren’t for sharing. I wish there was a wider spread of genres but then I’m kinda limited in my tastes, and those tastes have become narrower over time. It’s a fair reflection, I suppose. Unsurprisingly two songs are 17 minutes long.

But hey, enough of my yakkin’. Whaddaya say, let’s boogie…

A few years ago, BBC Four broadcast an old episode of “Top Of The Pops” from late 1981. The Teardrop Explodes were making their second appearance to promote “Passionate Friend” which was obstinately stuck in the mid 20s of the chart, even though it sounded like the most perfect pop song ever, an endless climb of melody tied to words which made little sense, unless you knew the singer was singing about having a secret affair with the sister of his arch rival. But even so this was a very different Teardrop Explodes to the band who had appeared on the first performance of “Passionate Friend” a few weeks before. That first performance has become legendary simply through the telling of it in Julian Cope’s first volume of his autobiography “Head on”. Cope is off his head standing on a white grand piano, played by Jeff Hammer, while bass player Alfie Agius does his nerdy bop dance which always got the teenybopper girls squealing. But that was then, Agius and Hammer had gone, now Dave Balfe was playing bass, and for some reason Cope was away from the rest of the band – singing from a stand across the audience from Balfe, Gary Dwyer and Troy Tate. And Tate here was the revelation – a perfect mop top of tousled hair, shades and an enigmatic smile, while playing Cope’s beautiful cherry red Gibson 335-12 guitar. In fact Tate looked like he had been beamed in from the future – three years from this performance Johnny Marr would show the same mix of attitude and cool on the same stage. And don’t forget that Marr and Tate worked together – Tate produced the first version of the Smiths’ debut album in 1983, almost all of which was dumped and rerecorded.

But before the Teardrops exploded onto the TOTP stage, the show’s host Mike Read introduced the band with the line “It’s always nice to have a fellow Scott Walker fan on the show….” This is of course a reference to Cope and his much heralded fondness for Walker… by this point he had licenced some Walker songs for “Fire Escape In The Sky – the godlike genius of Scott Walker” on Zoo, which introduced Walker to the post punk audience who had either forgotten him or ignored him. However Mike Read also had participated in some kind of Walker revival. As a regular listener to Read’s breakfast show I had heard him spin a few Walker Brothers tunes along the way, though I remember him enthusing more about “l’ll keep on holding on” by The Action more. He also played “First love” by The Walker Brothers a lot, as part of a feature on first loves he had on his show and I knew that song because my mum had the first Walker Brothers album . By 1982 Midge Ure had hit the charts with a synthetic cover of the Walker Brothers’ mid 70s hit “No regrets” which itself was a Tom Rush song. And I didn’t know it at the time but Ultravox’s “Vienna” bore some resemblance to “The Electrician”, the highlight of The Walker Brothers’ final album “Nite flights” from 1978. Even without reading the music papers, I had the impression that Scott Walker was this maverick hermit who made some great records in the sixties and then disappeared. He was a genuine legend and he never issued any music at all.

So I was a little surprised when he issued a new album in 1984. I was an avid reader of Melody Maker by then, and devoured every page of every issue every Wednesday. Even if I didn’t know anything about the acts I just read it anyway. So I read “Julian – a suitable case for treatment” – an interview with Julian Cope to support “World shut your mouth” which mentioned Scott Walker. I was intrigued. And then the man himself turned up on “The Tube” interviewed by Muriel Gray, both looking uncomfortable. The video for the new single “Track 3” was shown too, but it didn’t sound like a hit single. Mike Read played the single too, but only once, and returned to playing “The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore” because that was what he expected Scott Walker to sound like. The album “Climate of hunter” came and went, to a puzzled review in MM, and then life moved on and nobody seemed to care. It was like a ghost from the past, dropping by, saying hello and disappearing again.

But the name Scott Walker kept being dropped all the time. Certainly by Julian Cope, but also by others too. Cathal Coughlan of Microdisney mentioned the album “Scott 4” as one of his favourites yet that album didn’t appear in my copy of “Guinness Hit Albums” besides Scotts 1, 2 and 3 which were all top three albums. How had 4 disappeared? The mystery deepened and so did the myth. There were rumours of Scott working with Brian Eno and that intrigued me even more.

Finally I bought a Scott Walker album. During the long grim silent summer of 1986 I chose “Climate of Hunter” from that quarter’s Gema Records list and hoped for the best. Gema Records was a peculiar mail order record store – every few months they’d send out a closely typed list of all the records available, we would pore over it with my magnifying glass, picking out gems and adding them to our order then post it off with a cheque and wait and hope and wait and hope. It was all a bit random, sometimes I’d get an avalanche of records, sometimes I’d get nothing at all. There’s a lot of Gema Records orders which had significant moments attached to them and I’ve mentioned them before on Goldfish (see the Durutti Column and Dalek I Love You entries). And again on 19th August 1986 a Gema Records parcel arrived smack in the middle of another dramatic day.

It was the day I returned to school to get my grade for my additional Maths “O’ Level, a halfway point through the two years of sixth form before moving onto my A Level in the upper sixth. Not a lot was expected of me, I’d had a dreadful report in July and had fallen into a deep dark hole of isolated depression, seeing no-one, writing and recording miserable songs and plotting … At school friends were picking up their results and saying “I got a U” or “I got an E”. I was expecting the worst. Don’t forget a week before this my brother had picked up his A level results and failed all three quite dismally.

So I nervously opened my envelope and read my result. I had a ‘C’. I looked again to check it wasn’t a mistake. No, definitely a ‘C’. I couldn’t believe it. I’d passed. I was over the moon. I returned home like a conquering hero. Then my brother said “Oh Brud the Gema Records order has come” and handed me three records – “Banal” 12″ by Bill Nelson, “Da Capo” by Love and “Climate of hunter” by Scott Walker.

It looked strange, to begin with, even before placing the record on my turntable. Scott with his hand in midair, as if in mid conversation with a friend (or the listener), and on the reverse a long list of credits, mostly names I didn’t recognise except for two – Billy Ocean and Mark Knopfler. At the time, the former was having hits like “When the going gets tough” and “Caribbean Queen” and the latter was leading Dire Straits around the world on the back of the multi platinum “Brothers in Arms” album. And they were working with Scott Walker? A genuine What The Fuck moment. And the song titles…. Half the songs don’t have them, just “Track 3”, “Track 5″… And opener “Rawhide”…. Will Scott really start singing “Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin'”? (Hat tip to the Froncos here, which will make at most two readers laugh)

No, he wouldn’t. A cowbell saunters across the stereo field as if a solitary cow is walking around the studio and then… it just starts. And stays there. So much of the album is static. Not white noise static, but stationary. The music hovers in midair, like Scott’s hand, never landing or ascending higher, a permanent statis. Strings don’t soar, they hum. The bass couldn’t be more mid 80s, sliding like Pino Palladino (but it isn’t, I discovered the other day the bass is played by the bass player in Ice, a late 60s Decca act who made two melancholy organ led psychpop beauties. Oh and he played in other bands too like Affinity. But Ice, man!) And then Scott sings at last, his voice sonorous and rounded. “This is how you disappear”. Yes Scott that’s my summer in five words. I’m not going to analyse the words too much, because whatever sense they achieve is beyond me. They have their own internal logic and it’s not for me to comment. Is he singing about a cow? Does it matter? Considering the piss taken out of Cope for his cow metaphor on “An elegant chaos”… Yeah but this is Scott. Slowly the song builds up, the tempo increases, the strings stir up but there’s no crescendo, it just returns to its initial hover state.

And that’s how most of the songs on the album progress. Hover to lift to hover again. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. “Dealer” hovers in mid air for five whole minutes. Drugs? Who knows. The only movement comes from the bass guitar. The first chord change appears after 90 seconds. Strange trumpet noises from names I didn’t know then. What the hell was going on? “Track three” was the single, so it’s kind of fast, but starting with a synth discord which runs through the whole song… Scott and Billy Ocean (a colleague from the mid 70s Brothers reunion – they were on the same label) harmonise, but Ocean’s harmony is so sharp and desperate and painful. A single? Are you kidding?

The side closes with “Sleepwalkers woman”, and this is probably the closest to what I was expecting a Scott Walker to sound like. Sumptuous strings and a harp and Celeste playing slow arpeggios, but still static – rising so slowly and changing so slowly. But the voice, oh the voice, oh the voice. It sounds gorgeous, even if I couldn’t work out what the words meant. It’s beautiful. Tears? Oh of course. Then and now.

Side two and three tracks without titles. “Track five” seems to encapsulate the whole album in one song, starting slow and moody, guitar harmonics and brushed percussion, uneasy synths, focusing on the vocal. After a minute the drums and bass burst in and while the song has propulsion the chords don’t exactly move far, Scott is almost shouting, it seems to link back to “Rawhide”. At two minutes strings and horns arrive, and suddenly there’s chord changes every four bars, which is a surprise giving everything else so far.

“Track six” is more uneasy listening, slow and dark. Actually I’ve just realised this album is.balanced – the songs on each side balance each other in mood and tempo (this applies to “Loveless” too if you ignore “Touched”). And at the first chord change what sounds like a flotilla of seals start chattering and continue to annoy. I’m presuming this is Evan Parker’s saxes (if Marcello is reading, please confirm). “Track seven” begins like background music for “Bergerac” – moody synth chords, before the gated drums kick you into the mid 80s, chugging guitars, and a wailing guitar solo. This is pure 80s. Even chord changes. It drops back and forth but this is probably the most normal song on the album. Still a mile or so from whatever else was happening in 1983. Ray Russell’s guitar wails as the song fades.

And finally after all the electricity, a plain acoustic guitar. Unmistakably Mark Knopfler, sounding tentative but deliberate if that’s possible. “Blanket roll blues” is the only song ever written by Tennessee Williams, and Scott and Mark make it their own. It’s quite beautiful. And today it’s making me cry. Is it the memories of the day? Or the song itself? Or the knowledge that Scott has crossed the river now? Even just ending the song on that discord is perfect and links back to the other discords on the album…

So that was “Climate of Hunter” – inscrutable, strange and oddly alluring. A puzzle within an enigma. No wonder the reviews were dismissive, even though it’s barely 30 minutes long it’s an album it could take a decade to fathom out. Thirty three years on it still baffles me, but I still love it. For one thing it reminds me of that August day, an unexpected glimmer of hope, and what would come after it. Even in my diary I mention it as “weird and great”.

I wanted more Scott Walker and in September 86 I found two albums in Kelly’s Records in Cardiff market but only had enough money on me to buy one. On one hand, an original mono copy of “Scott”, looking a bit battered around the edges. On the other hand “The best of Scott Walker”, an early 80s attempt by Philips to capitalise on the renewal of interest in Scott after Julian Cope had compiled “Fire escape in the sky” for Zoo Records. What did I choose? Fucking hell I chose the wrong one, didn’t I? Leaving “Scott” in the racks and hoping it would still be there the next time I looked (hint – it wasn’t) I took “The best of Scott Walker” home and gave it some in depth listening, while also checking the credits and getting confused.

You see back in those days there wasn’t a lot of information around on Scott Walker. The general story went Walker Brothers Scott 1 2 3 4 flop disappearance Walker Brothers reunion disappearance again Climate Of Hunter. There weren’t books or biographies around, and if the NME had profiled him then it was way before I started reading the music press. So I was mightily confused by the credits on “The Best Of Scott Walker”. If he had disappeared in the 70s how come “The me I never knew” had a copyright date of 1973? Also presuming Scott 1 was 1967, 2 was 1968 and 3 and 4 were 1969…. Were “The impossible dream” and “If you go away” (dated 1969) on 3 or 4? I did not get it, not one bit at all. Great music, great songs, but was this the Scott Walker I expected or the Scott Walker that the record company wanted me to think was Scott Walker? I mean… Some of these songs were like show tunes. How did the brassy glare of “Will you still be mine?” fit in? And how come Scott drops in little hints of his own in there, about Julie Christie and a self-mocking reference to singing in tune? It’s like he’s playing to an audience…. Of course not long after I bought this album I found “Scott Walker Sings Songs From His TV Series” and realised there were gaps in the discography and that’s where some of these songs came from.

Even still there was enough on “The best of Scott Walker” to make me beg for more. Even if the tempos are generally slinky and low, the arrangements obvious and a bit middle of the road… But then that was the dichotomy of Scott Walker, he may have been striving for importance and moving his music forward but he still had an audience of teenage girls and a weekly BBC show to produce. And probably a record company and manager breathing down his neck, as they always do. So “The Best of Scott Walker” is more Jack Jones than I expected. But I still loved it. Don’t forget that this was the period I was also delving into the Andy Williams back catalogue too. In fact I distinctly remember comparing Andy’s version of “The Impossible Dream” with Scott’s version and found Scott’s wanting. But that’s another story and I must not get distracted.

The best songs on the compilation were inevitably the songs I would eventually find on Scotts 1 to 4 (or 1 to 3 as it would turn out). “Montague Terrace (in blue)”, ‘Jackie”, “The lady came from Baltimore” and “If you go away”. “Baltimore” was weird, it sounded like country rock, but with Mellotron flutes. I only knew one other Tim Hardin song at the time, Rod Stewart’s version of “Reason to believe”. Or Andy Williams’ version. Don’t get me started again on that. But somewhere there was a kernel of truth throughout the songs which struck me in my situation of leaving something huge behind (see other Goldfishes). September 86 was empty like that. Of course the one song which hit home the hardest was “If you go away”, and that song ended up on so many compilation tapes for friends. And yes I did suppose it must be on “Scott 4” based purely on its brilliance and copyright date. Yes I was a fool, but only as good as the limited knowledge I had at the time. Jesus that song chills the heart.

————

As the 80s became the 90s, Scott’s name was dropped more frequently. His absence was just considered to be normal. Would he return? Who knew? Meanwhile Scotts 1 to 4 increased in value and scarcity, legendary albums you never heard but heard a lot about.

Then Phonogram under the Fontana label began a reissue programme for the CD age. First of all were two compilations – “Scott Walker Sings Jacques Brel” (all his Brel covers, obviously) and “Boy Child”, concentrating on his self written material across his first five solo albums (if we ignore the BBC album). For a start this was a surprise, there were more albums? But this shouldn’t have been much of a surprise really. I had come across a CBS cassette of his 1973 “Stretch” album on a market stall in Leeds in 1989 (I didn’t buy it, I bought a tape of “Crumbling the antiseptic beauty” and “The splendour of fear” instead) and was confused again… This wasn’t on Philips, he was smiling on the cover… And it was 1973. But “Boy Child” put the spotlight back onto Scott and his songwriting.

Now this is where it gets odd. My brother bought “Boy Child” around the same time he bought a new hifi in the summer of 1990, and I remember listening to it, but honest to God I didn’t take the blindest bit of notice of it because I can’t remember any of it actually engaging with my brain. Admittedly I had other things to think about musically that summer (I’m looking at you “Temple Cloud”, “Snowball” and “Skywriting”) but either I didn’t listen properly or … I dunno. It just passed me by. I wasn’t ready for it.

But the next summer I was totally ready for it. My brother’s copy had disappeared with him back to wherever he was at the time (somewhere between Hull and Stockport) and it was the best summer ever, a combination of perfect weather, an easy job, a ton of money to spend on a ton of records and finally a place in town to feel at home and oh yeah there was someone else too who I was trying not to crush on because it was going to spoil a good friendship. And in the middle of that I bought “Boy Child”.

Was it the revelation I was expecting? Yes it was. I won’t go through it song by song here because I will be repeating myself. But what I will say is that “The Bridge” hit me like a ton of bricks. So slow, so taut, so graceful… Even listening now takes me straight back to that summer. The surge into the chorus always brings tears, and the “before the bottle dulled my eyes” lines too. It was that kind of summer. In amongst all the great new music I was listening too (and summer 91 was great, don’t deny it) this music struck chords and pulled heartstrings and somehow felt totally relevant and part of that era. And there were connections too… Hearing the opening of “The war is over” – “Everything still, everything silent, as after the rain…” and realising that Eyeless In Gaza stole the entire line for “Lie still, sleep long”. And later that year hearing “Reprise” by Moose and realising it’s an amalgam of loops from “The war is over”, “Such a small love”, “Boy child” and many more.

The first four Scott Walker albums were finally reissued on Fontana in 1992, in groups of two if I remember correctly. Or I may be wrong in that one. I know there was quite a bit of publicity around them, and they received good reviews from the music magazines who cared or noticed. Maybe I think the albums came out in twos because that’s how I bought them that summer, and they fitted into my life quite snuggly.

Because the summer of 1992 was a time of great change. I’d finally found a decent job – a computer programmer in the Stats Office in Newport – and was one of two groups of trainees, one bunch of ten started in June, the second in July. I was in the first batch, and immediately started crushing on one of my fellow trainees. (I should point out that I have a tendency to crush on people when I’m in a new situation, like a new workplace or something like that. Of course it doesn’t happen any more) Then once the July trainees arrived I started crushing on one of them too, slowly but surely…. I’ve mentioned this before, right? Anyway that summer was finding my feet in a new town in a new job spending 90 minutes travelling back and forth and listening to a lot of music. And it was in the early stages of this that Scotts 1 to 4 arrived.

“Scott” – as I’ve already said – was his debut album from 1967 and he was already chafing at the chains of stardom around him. What other album cover from that psychedelic year would feature a black and white photo of the singer, hiding behind shades and a scarf, looking downcast? It looks like a surveillance photo, through a long telephoto lens. And in a way the album feels like that too, glimpses of Scott from far away, not quite in focus yet.

“Mathilde” is a rollicking opener, setting the stall with blasts of trumpets in a fanfare and an uptempo jog, the first of Scott’s Brel covers, and a perfect fit. He sings like he’s already at the end of his tether – “Mama, can you hear me tell? Your baby boy’s gone back to hell” is such a moment. There’s a brilliant clip of him performing this on the Dusty Springfield show where he seems to collapse exhausted at the end of the song. Already the listener knows he means it, maan. The first sign of Brel. “Montague Terrace (in blue)” is lovely, Scott’s own pen sketching glimpses of fellow tenement residents stomping and shagging and dreaming, exploding into a chorus where hopes and dreams seem so close. A beauty. “Angelica” is another favourite, even though it seems nobody mentions it, Scott sings this heartbreaking tale with all the passion it deserves, he really inhabits the forgetful yet regretful lover, and I love it. “The lady came from Baltimore” is country rock before such a thing existed. “When Joanna loved me” is Scott doing Tony Bennett, he’s still the consummate entertainer. And then the second Brel song “My death”. And … Cough .. I don’t get it. It’s all very dramatic but it doesn’t move me. It’s a bit hammy, overacted and overplayed.

Side two then kicks off with “The big hurt” and frankly this sounds more like it. Even the arrangement has some nice touches, and Scott sings beautifully. “Such a small love” sees the arrival of a Scott trope, the hovering static string arrangement later seen on “Sleepwalkers woman”, and the song is great too. Images of a friend’s funeral (I presume), and the song only enlivens towards the end when happy memories start to swirl around the narrator. “You’re gonna hear from me” and “Through a long and sleepless night” are fine enough but nowt special, Scott’s vocal can make anything worth listening to, but these are just fine. They pass the time. Scott’s final self written song “Always coming back to you” is better, more memories of a past love, glimpses of happiness in rainfall, always in rainfall, and tossed off asides vocally, slowly building to the crescendo of loss. Finally “Amsterdam” and Brel and I still don’t get it. Sorry, Brel lovers, and Scott singing Brel lovers. But for now this does nothing to me. But bear with me, dear reader, because (spoiler alert) I promise I get some Brel eventually.

So that was the debut. About as unpsychedelic as you can get. It still reached the top three in the album charts. That was good enough to carry on, and “Scott 2” emerged a year later. This time the front cover is a shot of Scott in action, on stage (presumably), while on the reverse there are moodier shots of Scott looking pensive, and a sleeve note from “his friend” which we shall return to after examining the album itself.

It starts, as did “Scott” with a galloping Brel song. “Jackie” was already quite infamous, Scott’s debut solo single from 1967 and banned by the BBC, though I presume it was played on whatever was left of pirate radio. And he appeared on the Frankie Howerd show on ITV. But generally it wasn’t a huge hit so placing it at the start of the album was either a misguided attempt at selling it again, or a reminder of what could have been. All of which distracts from the song which is a wild romp. Though of course really he should have called it “Scotty”. (Momus got this right with his version “Nicky”). It’s still a breathless and rather funny tale. Straight into “Best of both worlds” which gives an idea of how a 60s Scott Walker Bond theme would sound. The arrangement here is lovely, there’s already progression from the debut album, more subtlety, and the song suits him well. “Black sheep boy” is another Tim Hardin song and has a similar feel to “The lady came from Baltimore”, and another tale of outsiderdom. Quite lovely. “The amourous Humphrey Plugg” is the first Scott written epic and moves gracefully, some verses narrated by the protagonist’s partner (I think) while others are the protagonist’s own words or thoughts or fantasies. An escape from the humdrum drone of life, dreams of seduction and sin. “Pavements of poets will write that I died in nine angel’s arms” is such a great line. And where is Channing Way? Bradford??? “Next” comes – er – next and suddenly I realise why I’m not fond of some of these Brel songs. It’s down to my brother playing Bowie’s “My death” and “Amsterdam” over and over when I was younger (and I never really had that Bowie moment everyone else had has, but I did have the Scott Walker moment …) And “Next” of course is my brother playing the Sensational Alex Harvey Band version at me over and over. And I can’t get past that. Scott does his best and screams and hollers but I still don’t like it. Maybe I’m a prude. Hmm. “The girls from the streets” almost makes up for it, another night of sin, being led astray… Admittedly from this distance it’s a bit dodgy. Even so, “don’t look sad, things aren’t so bad, they’re just more wrong than right” remains relevant under any circumstances. The move from thumping verse into the waltzing chorus is glorious. There’s a lack of morality amongst these songs, no denouncement of what happens, another outsider viewpoint on life, making no judgements but observing.

“Plastic Palace People” used to be disturbing, it certainly was for a long time until I realised… Billy is the balloon, isn’t he? The gentle rise and fall of the verse is lovely but slightly unsettling. God I still can’t listen to this, it’s still making me tear up. You see I can’t do metaphor, analogies and personification. I take everything at face value. The chorus is more traditional, those high static string lines again. And then at the end of the chorus it goes even more unsettled, Scott’s voice gets a delay effect and the song collapses… No, I can’t listen to this still. I do like how the song swirls into its own kaleidoscope of sound as it fades out, a hint of psychedelia, which hasn’t been touched at all so far in Scott’s music. “Wait until dark” is quite lovely after that, a gentle breeze of a song. Notice how the orchestrations have become richer but also there’s slightly more emphasis on guitar and drums. “The girls and the dogs” is my favourite Brel song so far, partly for the joyous music and the tongue in cheek lyrics, even with some quite terrible rhymes. And Scott absolutely smashes this one, his singing is so spot on and funny, as is the arrangement, as noted by Tim Worthington as “the Terry Scott Falls Through A Chair comedy trombone” at the end of the song. (Read Tim’s excellent Scott post here)

The change over from the jocular to the serious then for Bacharach and David’s “Windows on the world” is quite something. This song is one of my favourite Scott covers actually, the arrangement is sympathetic and quietly paced, Scott doesn’t over-emote, and the delicate glockenspiel figures which conclude each chorus are heart stopping. And the song itself is quietly stunning too – are there references to the call up in America in the second verse? And the third a reference to Vietnam? That it is followed by “The Bridge” – another emotional song for me – this final trio of songs killed me. (Have I mentioned I split 12 song albums into 4 groups of three songs?) Yes “The Bridge”… Sudden thought, is the name “Madeleine” an oblique Proust reference? Oh lord this song kills me. “Come next spring” is a hopeful end to the album, which needed to be after the last two songs.

In the sleevenotes written by his friend, Scott says of the album “it’s the work of a lazy self indulgent man. Now the nonsense must stop and the serious business must begin”, and in a way I feel he was right. At this point his songwriting has stepped up a gear, and the song choices are better but there’s still an angle of all round showbiz entertainer on the album, even if the emotional depth of the songs – original and covers – is greater. The next album would be self written, with three Brel songs at the end.

So “Scott” and “Scott 2” arrived in my life on the same day, and I loved them so much I wanted 3 and 4 as soon as possible. I ended up buying both in August on a trip to Bristol, where I also bought the first single by Medicine and a Jasmine Minks album (I’d bought “Creation Soup vol 3” the week before and was so impressed by “Cold Heart” that I wanted to hear what an album of theirs was like). By now the crush was establishing itself, slowly and surely and I was quietly besotted. Not that this has any relevance to Scott Walker, but it might have had an impact on how I listened to these songs.

“Scott 3”, a close-up of an eye with Scott looking pensive in the eye of the storm. And a pretentious sleeve note. Let’s just look at the music…

“It’s raining today” and the static dissonant strings hover, gentle strummed guitars… Loves lost and found and lost and memories of “summer and you”. Those strings don’t bloody move. Scary. A sudden stop and the song turns … Normal, Scott remembers and moves on, but the static returns and nothing is changed really. Let the rain fall. “Copenhagen” is more hopeful, built on harps and pizzicato strings. The surges are ecstatic, the music falls like snowdrops. Again the song stops before the chorus, and Scott feels innocent and warm and in love, the children’s carousel at the end feels light headed and giddy. “Rosemary” is already heartbreaking in its sadness, even though the music is upbeat, a savage string arrangement. Remembrances of a dalliance, memories of a incipient dream which have been dashed… The final lines where Rosemary speaks herself are so true. So true. “Big Louise”… I mean I know it’s about a transvestite but Christ almighty it’s so much more universal than that, is it just me who empathises with this song? Jesus I can feel myself welling up on the lines “because the world’s passed her by”. Christ this song HURTS. So many chord changes which twist and turn and hurt like hell. Sorry, I think “Scott 3” will be like this. Didn’t time sound sweet yesterday? That line. Absolutely slays me every time. How can people listen to this and not be moved? “We came through” is a strident blast of hope, though there’s so much death and despair in here. A fatalism worth fighting for. The fireworks at the end are surely ironic. (Whispers) I don’t really get this one. We’ll come back to this soon. “Butterfly” is a gentle song, a happy interlude here. I can hear Andy Williams singing this. Lovely. “Two ragged soldiers”, oh here we go again. Tears again. Thumps the bed with his fist. So many twists of the musical knife. Memories and the past shared by two. The last verse again is a killer. This could be the tale of any two friends. I can’t see the screen I’m typing on. Sorry. Stunning. I’m not doing well here. Sorry. “30 Century Man” is such a shock after all the strings and drums – just Scott and his guitar. Play it cool. I actually find this quite funny, but am I meant to? “Winter night”… Here we go again. Tears. There are so many little parts of the arrangement which kill me. He’s singing about someone who is frozen and it should be me. It should be me. I’m supposed to be the rock, the Asperger’s making me unemotional, but this stuff KILLS ME, absolutely kills me. I can’t explain it either. It just hits nerves, the music and the words… Even the surge around the minute mark turns to melancholy with “But I’ll never light them up again”. After this “Two weeks since you’ve gone” is just as bad, frankly. More heartbreak and pain and yes tears and haven’t we all been here? And those chord changes. “And if I walk these streets long enough will you happen to me once again?” The move to that section is amazing, the introduction of bass and distant piano. And the change from “walk these streets” to “close my eyes”, just the remembrance and hope is there, and the song fades out on the piano and strings waltzing into the distance. And here is one of the most perfect song changeovers ever, as “Sons of” starts with almost the same waltzing piano in just about the same key and it’s perfect. Now we are into the three Brel songs and fuck me if I’m not already in tears by the end of the first verse of “Sons of” and I didn’t know why then and I think I do know why now. I think it’s called growing up. “Sons of” builds up beautifully, a perfect arrangement, and so gently sung. Fantastic. An ending which still surprises. “Funeral Tango” is dark humour at its finest, and considering how I didn’t like “Next” I think this is far better. Well I think it’s funny. And to follow this with “if you go away”, amazing. Have I mentioned how this song kills me too? Yes? It’s an emotionally draining performance at the end of an emotionally draining album.

“Scott 3” is such a huge leap onwards from the first two albums, the Brel songs match the darkness of the original songs and there’s a consistency across the arrangements and performances. Just ignore the sleeve notes. “3” was issued in March 1969, while Scott’s TV show was on the BBC, and songs from the album were performed on the show – “Winter night” and “We came through” surrounding two Dudley Moore Trio songs on the 11th March, “Big Louise” and “Funeral Tango” surrounding “Girl talk” by Maynard Ferguson on 1st April. But the exposure must have helped the album which reached the top five again in March. It was followed in July by the “Songs from his TV series” LP and then “Scott 4” was issued in November and disappeared almost immediately.

“The Seventh Seal” sets out the album and already there’s a difference, the mariachi trumpet, spaghetti western feel and emphasis on thumping bass and drums and guitar show this is a different Scott to the orchestra led numbers on his previous album. Sure there’s a string arrangement here but it’s not foregrounded, and the insistent tambourine leads the way, along with the Russian boatmen chorus. And Scott basically provides a synopsis of the film, with numerous key changes. And .. oh god…. I’m not really that impressed. Again, we will get to this later. “On your own again” is a beautiful miniature, gentle acoustic guitars and Scott singing close and intimate, and the surge at 50 seconds is quite gorgeous. What exactly is going on here I’ve never figured out, really. There’s so many personal pronouns involved it makes it hard to follow, you and ours, he and I… Still the final line is a killer “I was so happy I didn’t feel like me”. Yep, know that feeling. “The world’s strongest man” is Scott at his most vulnerable, a bed of wobbly organ and a soaring string arrangement on the chorus and oh look the tambourine is back. Of course Scott isn’t strong, and that makes the song more human, and it brings shudders – “And I need your love, you know, I can’t pretend it any more”. Scott scats away as the song fades. “Angels of ashes” is stunning, it just is, and it’s another song to induce tears. I have no idea what it means, but sometimes you don’t need to have meaning, you can just feel the emotional resonance. So many great lines here, I’m not going to quote. Oh my. It’s beautiful. Sometimes I feel like I’m a fraud writing this stuff, you’ve waded through thousands of words and I can’t even tell you what the songs mean, but I can tell you what they mean to me. Or maybe I can’t even achieve that. But I try. Is that ok? I hope so. “Angels of Ashes” is perfect. Is that ok? Oh damn, I’ve got “Boy child” next. “Boy child” is like “Sleepwalkers woman”, static and silence, spaces and emotions, you don’t need me now, do you? It’s just heart stopping. Emotionally exhausting. The lyrics seem metaphysical, I suppose. Vague but close enough for the listening to make their own interpretation. “Hero of the war” at the start of side two is quite a change, rapidly strummed acoustic guitars, tribal drums and that tambourine again. There’s a lot of bass guitar on “Scott 4”, you notice. Is this deliberate? Scott of course was the bass player in the Walker Brothers. I do like the phased string arrangement. All of which diverts from the fact the lyric is a bit heavy handed and obvious. Scott scats again. “The old man’s back again”… Listen to that bass again. Oh I feel bad about this, you know.. I love so many songs on “Scott 4” but this and “Hero of the war” and “The seventh seal” aren’t my favourites. I think I find them too obvious, I don’t enjoy them as much as the more personal songs. Maybe it’s because I want escapism, I want something which touches me on a personal level, not someone talking about a film or a news story. I guess I’m just simple really, I’ve not read the books, seen the films, got the references. But sing about love or a relationship and it touches my soul. Case in point – “Duchess”. Absolutely gorgeous and heartbreaking. It’s almost Dylan-esque, just around the corner from “Sad eyed lady of the lowlands”, and with as much florid language. And of course the final four words turn the whole song on its head. “Get behind me”. Who, the devil? The past? It’s whatever you want to escape. It’s some strange AOR music, female backing singers must be wondering what the hell they’re singing about. The queasy minor to major changes shift beautifully and the bizarre bass jumps up and down and fuzz guitar soars. Sounds like “Throw down a line”, in a way. “So we won’t feel the gravity of time” – trying not to grow old, trying to move on. Passionate performance regardless. And finally “Rhymes of goodbye”. Another song which can bring me to tears and I don’t know why. It just kills me.

Every three years I would make up a top 40 songs and put them on a tape, 1983, 86, 89, 92. September 9th, if you must know. “Rhymes of goodbye” was a top ten entry in 92 and it’s still up there in my favourite songs ever. Up there with “Statues”, “A winter’s dawn”, “All that love and maths can do”, this is hallowed company for me. I must dig out the tapes for 92, it’s a classic. But remember I’d only had the album less than a month and it made such an impression that it was a top ten song. It’s weird, it’s another song I don’t understand but I feel like I get comfort from it. A warmth, an understanding glow. This is my interpretation, it’s how it reflects on me. And it kills me. Absolutely every time.

It’s weird, looking back…. The songs on the four Scott albums had absolutely nothing to do with what I was going through at the time, how could they reflect that? And that’s what the Biff Bang Pow albums were for. And yes I’m over it all. A long time ago. Listen to “Past caring” and “Spoiling the grand design”. But the albums seemed to paint the atmosphere a dark shade of blue, infuse my life and thoughts with deeper meaning, even if they didn’t directly attach themselves to memories.

Of course “Scott 4” wasn’t the end of the story. At some point in 1992 my brother bought a battered copy of “‘Til the band comes in”, what could have been “Scott 5”. I was slightly less impressed. When it’s good it’s great – “Little things”, the title track, “Long about now”. I knew the latter from the Fatima Mansions version on “Bertie’s Brochures”. But the cover versions were ropey, and again Andy Williams does a better version of “It’s over”, Scott phoning it in while Andy makes you believe the world is over. Was I interested in lacklustre cover albums from the 70s? No. Was I happy to find a copy of “Nite flights” and finally hear Scott’s four songs there? Damn right I was.

But new music? That was a bolt out of the blue. “Tilt” in 1995 was so different, so strange, so alien… Again it felt like a lifetime’s worth of energy went into it, and it would take a lifetime to unfathom it. Scott appeared on “Later…”, alone with a guitar, passionate and deeply into his performance. And then disappearance again, though not fully. There was always music on the sidelines, on film soundtracks, Dylan covers. And like Halley’s comet a new album every so often, each time deeper and more serious and more impenetrable, but still that voice and that power. Always moving on to something new.

And now he’s gone. Two weeks since he’s gone and I feel like an idiot for not writing this before. I started this post years ago, actually the day after that 1981 Top Of The Pops broadcast. His music has touched my heart and soul like the best, most loved music in my life. The memories are there, the music is there. I may not be clever enough to understand it all, I don’t know my Camus from my Sartre, I’m as existential as a penguin. But when it cuts to the heart of the human condition, songs like “Big Louise”, “Sleepwalkers woman”, “Duchess” and “The Bridge” will always be there for me. Thank you Scott and goodbye, I trust the angels of ashes are taking good care of you.

Thoughts on “Hex” by Bark Psychosis, twenty five years on

For me “Hex” is the sound of an unfamiliar town as a cold winter turns into a slightly less cold spring. Dark nights, catching buses which take odd turns into housing estates I have no idea about, feeling uneasy, paranoid – where ARE we going? I don’t recognise this street, can everyone see the panic on my face? I’d only been living in Newport for a month or so, slowly settling into my new house. I didn’t know the town, only how to catch a bus in to the bus station and a bus out to work. If anything happened differently I was lost. One day it snowed and all the buses stopped, I tried to walk to work and got completely lost and ended up having to ring in to work from a call box to admit defeat and say I wasn’t coming in. My parents brought my cat Bez to live with me and he hated it – he missed his three feline playmates in Penarth, he didn’t like being stuck inside the house all the time and spent most of his days sat on top of my wardrobe miaowing at me. He went back after a week. It wasn’t that easy for me.

And “Hex” by Bark Psychosis is that feeling put into music.

Released 25 years ago today (that’s Valentine’s Day 1994) “Hex” was a debut album which had been four years in the making, and in a way was a culmination of a trend in music, and for all the times it has been referenced since, it stands alone and outside of everything.

Bark Psychosis were formed by Graham Sutton (guitar and vocals) and John Ling (bass) in 1986 when they were both 14, and became more of a going concern with the addition of Mark Simnett on drums and Daniel Gish on keyboards. They started gigging in 1988, playing live sets characterised by noise and aggression, hence the band name. After an initial appearance on a flexidisc free with Clawhammer fanzine, they signed to Cheree Records – home of The Telescopes and Whipping Boy – to issue their initial singles in 1990. Debut single “All different things” defined an early template for them – quiet tension, deep reverb, haunting minimal vocals then loud explosions of noise to release the tension. “Nothing feels” / “I know” was quieter still, all hushed whispers, heartbeat drums and atmosphere in spades. They were noticed in the music press and the likes of Simon Reynolds waxed lyrical on them in Melody Maker.

After a move to Third Stone Records, a new EP was issued in 1991 – “Manman”. This was progress… There was more emphasis on rhythm, a solid bottom of throbbing bass on the title track, a propulsive movement. But the following songs were even better. “Blood rush” is far from that, gentle waves of tremelo guitars, lightly brushed ride cymbals, Sutton’s subtle vocals, and then slowly the song rises over seven minutes, before merging into “Tooled up”, a brutal rhythm, again more tension and threat. Again more kind words from the music press…

And then there was “Scum”, an absolutely extraordinary single issued late in 1992. It felt like music was constantly striving for something greater, longer, more expansive at the time – singles like “Avenue”, “Gravity grave”, “Lazarus” and “The Blue Room” were pushing boundaries, and “Scum” was right up there with those singles. It was recorded in a church and sounded like it, so much natural reverb, so much space… nothing happened for minutes on end, just sound. Then drums in the distance, then a strummed chord of guitar, baseline throbbing and those whispered vocals again…. “don’t tell me that we’re all free”… (A response to “Everybody’s free to feel good” apparently). And it kept on building to a crescendo over minutes and minutes before floating back to silence. Over twenty whole minutes. Stunning.

That’s where I picked up on Bark Psychosis. I was intrigued by the rapturous praise from Melody Maker and bought the single and it was as good as they said. I couldn’t find any of their old records though so I just waited and waited for something new.

The first and last single from “Hex” was “A street scene”, and I bought the ten inch red vinyl from Diverse Records – one of my first purchases after moving to Newport in January 1994. It was almost a normal song, had dynamics and a tune but the slowing down coda was beautiful. And the b side “Reserve shot gunman” was more rhythm and threat with a squealling guitar solo. What would the album bring?

I bought “Hex” on the day it was issued, Valentine’s Day 1994. Not that I had a valentine that year. When lovers everywhere indulged in meals and chocolates and huge inflated prices for roses, I spent the night listening to the new Bark Psychosis album.

It’s not a conventional rock album – it was after all the album that gave rise to Simon Reynolds’ term “post-rock” – but it is mainly played out on conventional instruments. it was recorded meticulously and sequenced in places using whatever now-primitive technology was available at the time, but it all sounds natural. It doesn’t sound synthetic at all. There’s lovely tremelo guitar, bass and drums, piano sometimes in chords and patterns, sometimes just notes. The music ebbs and flows naturally, quiet to loud to quiet, the drums are brushed rather than hit hard, spaces in the music… And Graham Sutton’s whisper of a voice telling secrets and truths – “It’s gonna work out anyway”, “You turn my world upside down”, “And that’s the biggest joke of all”. Everything about the album is perfectly placed, not a note or second jarring or spoiling the late night atmosphere. And it does sound completely natural, you’d be hard pressed to hear the technology at work, the year spent working on samplers and sequencers was worth it to make it sound so much like a group of musicians playing together in a room (or a church)

Somehow it feels wrong to take the album song by song, dismantle the magic there and try to describe what happens. “Hex” is such a perfectly formed piece that I don’t want to do that. Each song is magnificent, moving along the pace deliberately and carefully. Each song means something special to me, those memories, those times. How about highlights then? The entrance of the Duke Quartet over the piano on “The Loom”, the gentle deceleration in the coda of “A street scene”. The twinkling guitars and synths which take over the second half of “Absent friend”. The night drive around town of “Big shot”. Then the closing two songs. “Eyes and smiles” flows from one section to another, that guitar pattern, cymbals keeping time, occasional bass, keyboards like a sunrise, moving across eight minutes of logic and beauty, rising to a crescendo as the musicians slowly increase the pressure, the drums swing around, the bass juts in, wild Miles Davis style trumpets blatt in, the levels increase and Sutton finally lets loose, shouting “And you’ve got to go on!”. After that – no more words. “Pendulum man” is a nine minute drift of guitars and synth washes, making the most of the echoes in the church being used to record the album. A great closer, relieving the tension building up to that point.

As I keep saying “Hex” felt like something ending and in a way it was. It was effectively the end of Bark Psychosis as a band, members were dropping out as the album was recorded, leaving only Sutton and Simnett as the members. But also it was the end of a trend in music too. Bands like Seefeel, Insides, Spoonfed Hybrid, Pram, Disco Inferno and Butterfly Child has been pushing the boundaries of music, integrating technology and sampling into their sound, and Bark Psychosis were part of this. When Simon Reynolds used the term “post-rock” when reviewing “Hex” he included all these artists in the same breath – there was a Melody Maker article on this around the same time. And somehow it felt by naming it the spirit of adventure was sullied in some way, and by 1995 post-rock was no longer what these artists had achieved but was moving towards America, towards Tortoise and La Bradford and instrumental textures. Nothing wrong with that, but the spirit of adventure in the British music was slowly dissapating. But that’s another tale. Bark Psychosis issued one more single “Blue” – a heartfelt and passionate New Order homage – before disappearing, Sutton moved on to jungle and Boymerang and a career as a producer with an incredible ear for space and sound. Bark Psychosis would return in 2004 with the album “Codename : Dustsucker”, an excellent follow up to “Hex” but it was a Sutton solo project.

But “Hex” has had an interesting afterlife. I always thought Scott Walker’s “Tilt” album had hints of Bark Psychosis in it. Certainly Slowdive were listening because “Blue skied an’ clear” on “Pygmalion” owes a lot to “Hex”. And as time has passed songs appear which are in thrall to Bark Psychosis, by bands like These New Puritans, Mogwai, Doves and Trembling Blue Stars. “Hex” became a touchstone for other artists or fans to mention in awe, alongside “DI go Pop”. A reissue and remaster two years ago was welcome. Of course now it’s seen in the lineage of experimental rock music alongside the later Talk Talk albums (whose own use of silence and noise must have had some influence on Bark Psychosis). It’s also an album which stands outside of time – nothing in the sounds datestamps the music to a particular year, no synths or drum machines to date the music. Timeless.

But let’s not forget the album itself and that moment in time – “Hex” was issued on Circa Records, a subsidiary of Virgin, and I clearly remember a lot of promotion going into it – the single discounted in shops, album displays in HMV and Virgin, posters all over Corporation Road for “Hex” (and that’s another memory I would rather forget), songs appearing on Virgin samplers – “A street scene” on “Signed sealed delivered” compilation, “Pendulum Man” on the 3rd “Ambient” collection. The label really pushed “Hex” and maybe there was a hope it could become mainstream. Who knows? A major label took a chance on such an odd record at such an odd time. Those days are long gone.

So turn off the lights, watch the night fall with the curtains open and let “Hex” weave its magical spell. Try not to get lost

Thoughts on “Why hasn’t everything already disappeared?” by Deerhunter

Sometimes it’s good to approach an album knowing nothing about the artist. Sometimes it’s better to approach an album having misconceptions about the artist which can be destroyed by listening to the album. I don’t know where I got the idea that Deerhunter were some weird Avant Garde act, I may have even confused them with Deerhoof, but I know it was based on a live review I saw in an old issue of Mojo many years ago and quite frankly I don’t see the point in investigating that one. But let me be perfectly clear on this – whatever I thought Deerhunter were, I wasn’t expecting this.

Ignorance is bliss too. I’ve tried to avoid as much information about the album so I can assess it just on how it sounds and how the words come through. You know, listen without prejudice. There are stories of inspirations for some songs, but I feel they get in the way of the songs. Do I need to know the genesis of “No one’s sleeping”? No, I can pick up the unease from a cursory listen to the song.

And so to the album itself, or rather a second attempt at the album. A first attempt was so pitiful that I binned it so I’m trying again…

You see, I’ve been making a case for this album that yes maybe it’s about darkness and death but you can’t really tell that from the music alone. But that’s a lie really. Of course you can pick that up. Maybe I’m just naive, or I don’t listen closely enough. As soon as I started to analyse the songs the darkness was overwhelming, I couldn’t help spotting the references. This annoyed me, not because it went against my own argument, but because listening to the music alone I didn’t pick up the darkness. Or maybe I’m just a bit shallow and don’t listen properly.

So yes lyrically there’s darkness and death and fear. “Death in midsummer” (death, Rob, death, it’s there right in your face) has Bradford Cox singing “Your friends have died… They are in graves now” and in the quiet coda he looks on sadly at the world “Look around and you’ll see what’s fading”. And that’s just the opening song. There’s more, a lot more. “Element” seems to be describing an apocalypse, “Threads” in a pop song (not an original thought, but nuclear dread is so 20th century). “Curtain call for all those lives spent surviving for that final day”. “No-one’s sleeping” due to a great unrest, and even the village greens aren’t safe any more. (I’m trying to avoid the subject matter on that one because it does touch nerves). “Futurism” seems to hinge on Cox almost stopping the song to deliver the final word on the line “Call it what you want dear, I call it ‘Fear'”. I don’t know… And what does happen to people? That’s a question asked on here, why do they change? From idealism to … What exactly?

But behind the darkness the music is rich, colourful and far from melancholy. “No-one’s sleeping” ends with a glorious instrumental coda, “Element” has Chamberlain strings and autoharps buzzing, “Futurism” and “Plains” are deceptively upbeat musically. This isn’t minor chord sadness, if it is apocalypse that Cox is facing, then he’s facing it with a grin on his face.

There’s a few detours along the way. “Greenpoint Gothic” is pure cusp of the 80s Gary Numan, those Vox Humana PolyMoog sounds are complimented nicely by gamelan piano and marimbas. “Tarnung” again points to the early 80s, a marimba pattern repeats with high and lonesome monosynths and pattering drum machines, an oriental tone. There’s hints of Japan, the quieter side of “Deceit” era This Heat and the clanking background noise on early Eyeless In Gaza songs. Spooked to say the least.

And then there’s “Detournement” which unsettles the flow of the album. Not musically, the slow build of layers of guitars, pianos and synths makes sense. But the vocal … It’s a spoken word piece, placed through some peculiar electronics to harmonise and pitchshift, to smear and smudge the words. And it still freaks me out. I don’t know what the words are trying to say, it seems like a travelogue around the world. But the effect on the voice unsettles me, I find it uncomfortable to listen to. I’ve always been this way, from “Fitter happier” backwards to “Radioland”, it sends shivers down my spine.

The closing song “Nocturne” has a similar effect. A slow crawl with electric pianos and a stumbling drumbeat, Cox’s vocal is cut up and smeared, dropping out here and there, making it impossible to understand (the lyric sheet is the same, missing letters and words). Again it’s uncomfortable, sense is abandoned, though Cox’s passion to express himself is evident. But the cut out vocal has an unfortunate effect of invoking the memory of Norman Collier, which probably isn’t the idea. So the voice is imperfect again but at least I can get past it now. Thankfully once the vocal is abandoned after two minutes, the tempo is doubled and everything rights itself – a piano thumps out a regular chord sequence, drums are clattered, and waves of synths add melody upon melody. Another 1981 reference – it sounds like an outtake from “Anywhere”, New Musik’s marvellous second album. And this continues for about four minutes, with a few changes along the way. It’s like sunlight after the rain, a joyous return to normality, or a final ascension to heaven. Either way, it’s a great way to close the album.

Does “Why hasn’t everything already disappeared?” reflect life? Depends how life is. Does anyone have this much to worry about? Probably doesn’t reflect Bill Gates’ or Theresa May’s lives. They may have other worries than those expressed here. But it may reflect life for you, if you think deeper than me. Maybe that’s why I’m a goldfish. Walk around and you’ll see what’s faded.

It’s the time of year when everyone gets their lists out and everyone else goes “Oh come on, what about …. And …. and…. ” We’ve all done it. Looked at lists and thought “I don’t know half of these” or “Half of these are shit” or “I swear they’ve made these up” or “But is the Low album that good?” (Answer – yes it is actually).

I’ve made up lists before and I probably will again, but this year I don’t feel like it. I’ve consumed as much music as last year but I don’t feel like it has nourished me as much as it did last year. Maybe that’s me, who knows? Music has gone in and gone out, and there haven’t been that many albums which have stuck around in my mind or my iPod or phone or whatever playback method I have chosen. There have been some, but not many.

But one album has remained constant this year from the moment I heard it. I’ve not removed it from my phone since the Summer, and I’m still listening to it now in December and still finding new corners and ideas and lyrics….

That album is “DejaVu” by Matty.

It’s all Colin Newman’s fault, to be honest. I wouldn’t have discovered the album if Newman hadn’t included it on his Bakers Dozen article in the Quietus in the summer, July 17th to be honest. Newman’s comments mentioning Todd Rundgrun, Emmit Rhodes and other 70s soft rockers piqued my interest and the next day I listened to the album for the first time, and immediately downloaded it. It certainly made an impression, I even remarked on my Twitter feed about one song going full on skronk at the end.

And then I kept listening to it. Not all the time, not obsessively, but every few days I would return to it, listen in full and start to recognise the songs in order, hear lyrics which resonated, and feel like I was knowing the songs more. That hasn’t changed from July to December. I’m still listening to the album every few days. A week certainly hasn’t past where I haven’t listened to it. I’ve probably banged on about it on Twitter to anyone and everyone and all my followers are probably sick of it, in which case this post is a chance to get Matty out of my system once and for all.

So who is Matty? Matty is Matthew Tavares, of Toronto. He is the keyboard player in Badbadnotgood, and I’m not going to pretend I know anything about them because I don’t. It seems that a year or so ago Tavares had some kind of burn out, took time away from the band to create “DejaVu”. There may have been some other things happening in his life at the time, the lyrics indicate some heartbreak and disappointment in relationships. But that’s just my reading. Whatever happened, he channelled his feelings into the album and it shows.

The album opens with “Embarrassed”, a midtempo loping song, already setting up the general parameters within which most of the album will operate. Simple drums and bass (played by other members of Badbadnotgood) anchor the song while washes of synth chords swirl around the listener, and an insistent keyboard melody makes an impression. Matty’s vocal seems to be about social embarrassment – “it’s why I keep the conversations small” – but as the song progresses it becomes clear the “other” voice – the “you” in the lyric – is his own inner voice, the one telling him uncomfortable truthes.

“Verocai” (I have no idea what that means) is the closest here to the Rundgrun / Rhodes 70s soft rock the album was billed as. The melody and chords are all piano based, the tune slipping and sliding with occasional dropped beats (there’s no percussion at all on this song), but as the chorus draws near, more instrumentation comes into view – a synthetic string arrangement which enriches the song immensely. I’m really not sure what the lyrics are trying to say here – harking back to a past before a relationship started maybe – “When things have gone too far there’s always a way to go backwards” – but the heavenly lift of Matty’s falsetto on the chorus, alongside the sudden string arrangement, brings an early album highlight. In a way this reminds me of early Plush, so it’s 70s soft rock third hand in a way. Still lovely though.

“How can he be” is a breezy pop song which owes a hint towards “Hey Ya” (to my ears anyway), maybe it’s the snappily strummed acoustic guitar chords. The words however have a ring of bitterness – he’s seen her with someone else who looks like him and it’s tearing him up, possibly through his own lack – “the flames of love stifled through insecurity”. Two verses and choruses pass by before you even notice and the quiet coda leads nicely into the next song, but this may be the most instant song on the album.

“I’ll gladly place myself below you” is the heart of the album for me. So many contradictions and so much self doubt, it’s almost painful to listen to the words, and yet they are sung so sweetly in such a world weary manner too. The song itself is quiet, clanking sounds like partly working machinery around four repeated chords and minimal drum machine, but there are layers added as the song moves on – marimbas and more. The whole lyric is so heartbreaking, each line adding another shovel on dirt on a relationship which is clearly toxic, nobody is happy, nobody is getting what they need, lines end with a world weary “oh man….”. And in the middle a line so perfect it makes me gasp for breath each time I hear it – “Here in the mystery of what can make me content”. So much to unpack in those ten words, and yet they are followed by the coruscating “I guess the only thing that’s left to change is my intent …But I won’t“. Each line cuts deep. Around two minutes the song builds up, wordless high harmonies, more keyboards and drums finally appear, rolling onwards to a crescendo of painful truth, for everything to drop out after a final chorus, two keyboard parts weave around in the air, and an instrumental coda feels like the calm after the storm. A stunning song.

“Clear” is anything but, except for the music which is pure bliss. In a way, the music is close to yacht rock here – not too fast, a slight swing to the beat, but not to begin with – Matty sings the first verse over a bed of synth chords. He’s in a new relationship but there’s ghosts of the previous relationship hanging over him – “If you’re the one I needed / Why does her memory still creep in?” Yet the music is lovely, lots of wordless high harmonies and the second half has peculiar half sung vocals over the squelchy synths and stumbling drum fills.

“Polished” has a bass drum and hi-hat pulse rushing through it with softly strummed guitars and odd synthetic orchestral instrumentation. The lyrics seem to be about seeing the perfection in someone but there’s a distance here, a reflection, a vision once removed. Once the singing stops a sax of some kind wails away, starting in a melodic manner but getting more and more “out there” and skronky as it progresses, until a dead stop.

“Nothing, yet” is complicated yet simple. The music is uptempo in the verses before moving to half that tempo in the chorus, a bright and breezy little three chord tune, sung so sweetly. Yet the words take in so many aspects, moving through another dimension in death, personal philosophy on life, bitchy statements on other people…. It hurts but is sung so gently, even the work “motherfuckers” slips down easily. And in the middle of the second chorus “I’m too afraid of always bein’ rejected / Or accepted too“. In which case basically he can’t win, can he? Harsh.

“Butter” sees Matty stop looking inward and looking outward to his family. He gives glimpses of his mother, father and brother with small vignettes of their existence but none of them seem satisfied, “How can life be beautiful without it being pitiful?” But the chorus brings it into focus – “Life is always weird and hard” before a plea for love. But “Butter” is one of the loveliest songs here, I hear hints of “You showed me” by The Turtles amongst the bass guitar samples, strange noises clashing and a rich string arrangement, half pizzicato plucking. And it’s so ridiculously catchy too. Another highlight.

And finally the album reaches the title track. It starts with a simple bass drum pulse over which various layers of keyboards bang on one chord, and stay on that chord for nearly two minutes before hovering around to other chords, drum machines join in, piano chords add dissonant tones, yet the movement around the song is minimal… The pulsing gets more insistent even though the chord changes are few and far between, allowing the listener to focus on what different layers are being faded in and out. By four minutes it seems the chords have stabilised into one place and a rattling cheap little drum machine is slowly introduced, and finally at 5:30 it drops to just the cheap drum machine and a bass pulse. And Matty decides to sing, and it feels like he’s worked out his feelings at last.

“I was kind to everybody
‘Cause I needed love so badly
That I traded happiness
At my own expense”

Slowly layers are added, keyboards add melody here and there before dropping away to a piano playing three melancholy chords as Matty sings

“So I guess this is goodbye
To my previous lies
Thanks for all the wasted time
Not that I was regrettin’”

Has he found some solace? It’s ambiguous – he doesn’t regret wasting his time, but the music (now richer, repeating those melancholy chords) does not give resolution either, and in the wrong mood can induce tears in me. Don’t know why, maybe it’s the bittersweet nature of it all. Either way, the full eight and a half minutes of “DejaVu” have become my favourite song of the year, played on repeat, added to mixes, mixed in against other songs like “Heads” by Medicine which has a similar pulse and poise.

One other thing about the song… And I may end up sounding like an idiot here…. Have you ever come into a song halfway through a beat or a bar, so the whole rhythm sounds off kilter? Does this happen to other people? To start listening to a song on the third beat of a bar and your brain can’t quite process where the bar is supposed to start and the song takes on a new dimension of wrongness? Just me then. Oh. Anyway, this happens a lot with “DejaVu”, it’s easy to mishear the start of the bar and to be swept along in the song hearing it in the wrong way, and it’s only when the song drops down to drum machine at five minutes that the brain snaps back into the proper rhythm. Amazing when it happens.

So that’s “DejaVu” by Matty. It seems he has returned to Badbadnotgood now and it’s possible the album was a chance to express feelings felt at the time, and once the expression has been made there’s no need for a solo ‘career”. But this is still my favourite album of the year, a one off, a unique event. There’s touches of other music here – I’ve seen mentions for yacht rock and Tame Impala’s modern psychedelia, and Tavares coats his vocals in a double tracked reverb haze, and the music is suitably hazy in places. But this is refreshing, melodic, invigorating and with depths and layers within the music and the words. If Tavares produces no more solo material, I’ll be happy that he produced this one record and made my life better through it.

Well this has been fun, my first Goldfish post in over 18 months. Maybe I should do this more often. I may put together another playlist of my favourite songs of the year. Watch this space.

September 1986.

A time for a change of scenery, somewhere different, stuck in the same place for six years, starting out as success then gradually sinking to the bottom, uncared for, spurned by friends, ignored by everyone else. .. start again, no history, fresh start, clean slate, see what happens.

My first year in the sixth form had been an unmitigated disaster. Any hopes of passing any A Levels were thrown out of the window. Either I didn’t understand the questions or I wasn’t going to ask for help and my mind was befuddled by girls and music and God knows what else, but I was sinking and hated it and didn’t really know how to stop it. The escape route was shown by my brother – a year older than me, he sat his A Levels in the summer of 1986 and comprehensively failed them. Everyone went nuts, the school was blamed and he was found a place to resit the A Levels in New College, a fee paying school in the centre of Cardiff. After a little bit of shuffling, it was agreed that I should transfer there as well to complete my second year of A level studies.

So September was a chance to say goodbye to the old school and hello to the new college. No more uniform, no more useless teachers, no more staring at crushes across the common room. I returned to school for one brief moment, mainly to say goodbye, stick two fingers up at people and tell the teachers to piss off (except for one,  who had tears in her eyes). After this supposedly triumphant exit from the state school system, I felt like a bit of a arse for being so horrible but it did feel good at the time. I then settled down to life at New College.

As it was in Cardiff, my brother and I would have to travel by train every day to get there. Luckily my father worked in Brunel House, the enormous building next to Queen Street station, so caught the train from Penarth to Queen Street every day and we simply joined him. It was quite a novelty, leaving the house together, picking up reading matter in the newsagents (always NME and MM for me) and standing in the recently built red metal shelter on the platform, squeezing on the multiple units, the train jogging down the hill towards Cogan, then through the many tracks around the Grangetown works area, into Cardiff Central where we may alight or on to Queen Street… It was a very different Cardiff then,  out of Central I would walk behind the Central Hotel (where I would regularly buy bootlegs at record fairs), along Bute Terrace beside the railway line to get to New College, a lovely 18th century building full of oak floors, dark corridors and cosy classrooms. Leaving Queen Street, I’d head past the Tandy store on the corner onto Churchill Way, past the British Gas building and along to what used to be the British Gas building before the redevelopments of the eighties, back when Mill Lane went somewhere….

And I settled in quickly, made a few friends, realised that being in Cardiff everyday would be detrimental to my bank account if I was to buy all the records I saw. September brought “Brotherhood”, “The Pacific Age”, “Spacemate”, “Filigree and shadow”, “Gone to earth”, “Talking with the taxman about poetry”, “Blood and chocolate” (the Virgin branch on the top floor of Debenhams had the cassette made to look like a bar of Bourneville chocolate)… I hardly bought any of these at the time…. Two albums in fact, and we won’t discuss either of those now, because it wasn’t just albums in September 1986, there were singles too and one in particular….

September 1986

A time for a change of scenery, somewhere different, stuck in the same place for six years, starting out as success then gradually sinking to the bottom, uncared for, spurned by friends, ignored by everyone else. .. start again, no history, fresh start, clean slate, see what happens.

Julian Cope had signed to Phonogram Records in 1980 at the behest of David Bates who thought Cope could be a pop star and in the six years that followed, his career path had peaked and troughed quite mightily. The singles “Reward” and “Treason” had placed his band The Teardrop Explodes in the spotlight while he was fracturing his psyche with an alarming quantity of mind altering chemicals. Commercial failure for the second Teardrops album led to a slow form of collapse for the band, shedding members every few months yet still creating marvellous music along the way. Cope’s solo career had garnered little critical acclaim and even fewer sales, but his cult loved him and the music, and cherished nuggets from his two solo albums “World Shut Your Mouth” and “Fried”. But in 1986 there was a change – he moved from Phonogram to Island Records, paid off the debt to the former label through a new publishing deal and set about a new phase of his music. No new music had emerged since the start of 1985 – the b sides to “Sunspots” which were clearly in the same mould as “Fried”, and the songs recorded for Janice Long at the end of 1984, a session I remember had confused me a lot at the time. But in 1984 I wasn’t that aware of his catalogue, of course that would change in 1985 (see many previous Goldfish posts). By September 1986 I had bought all the back catalogue I could (I think only the first two Teardrops singles in Zoo had eluded me at that point) and had a few bootlegs of unreleased Teardrops, Cope live shows, Cope radio sessions, all kinds of things. And I was certainly ready for new music from Julian Cope.

Of course I bought the twelve inch of “World Shut Your Mouth” on the day of release. There’s an immediate advantage to being in Cardiff on Mondays. I didn’t have to hang around for the weekend to buy my favourite records. And I was very happy with the new music too. The title track was simple, a “Louie Louie” and “Hang on Sloopy” for the 80s, sharp pop with an edge, but still a little more glossy than even the poppiest moments on “Fried”. The song stuck in your head after one listen, it had a chorus you could easily make your own, a cracking little guitar solo, loads of key changes as the song proceeds to its close. What was there not to love? It sounded like a hit record.  Admittedly it sounded like very little else in the charts but it did sound like it belonged there.

There were still four other new songs on the twelve inch,  and I knew from experience that Cope liked to have decent b sides. “I’ve got levitation” was a 13th Floor Elevators song and sounded like it was cut from the same cloth as the lead song – simple riffs, a raw performance, rather brilliant, but then at this point I didn’t know the original. “Non alignment pact” originally opened Pere Ubu’s debut LP “The modern dance”. Obviously Cope can’t compete with David Thomas’ unearthly shriek and there’s no squealing synth noise to delight / distract, otherwise entirely creditable. “Umpteenth unnatural blues” is a cracking little song, some very neat lines and a cool yet simple arrangement, but my diary records that I thought it was somewhere close to the greatest song on earth. It’s not that great, but it’s pretty good. Lastly “Transporting” is a psychedelic groover, sounding like the band aren’t quite listening to each other (which turns out to be close to the truth) and features a rather nifty riff which I would promptly steal for myself.

“World Shut Your Mouth” was a big deal. And this time it would be unavoidable. For once the media loved him, and welcomed him back with open arms. He was there on “Wogan”, the Irish broadcaster looking slightly baffled by Cope hanging off his green mic stand / climbing frame contraption. He was there on “Number 73”, the band playing live and sounding spot on. And best of all he was back on Top Of The Pops, after five years absence. The song was all over the radio, it sounded like a huge hit, it felt like a huge hit… and it slowly climbed the charts to reach number 19 in October, a very slow crawl. But somehow it felt like it was a much bigger hit than that, the video was always on TV and the new fangled video jukebox which took over my local pub The Railway that Autumn.  I remember it being played a lot there, alongside “To Be A Lover” by Billy Idol. Both songs harkened back to classic songwriting tropes and stood out in the charts.

And this should have been my moment. I had spent the previous year trying to get my friends interested in Cope’s music and nobody had listened, except Nigel who was always receptive to whatever I recommended, and this was around the time he bought his prized copy of “The wrong people” by Furniture and he would play me “She gets out the scrapbook” and we would both sigh wistfully. But nobody else listened to me, and now people I knew who had ignored me were buying the latest record by my hero. This should have been the time I made compilation tapes for Beverley and Jeremy and anyone else. “You like him now? Try this…” Erm I was seventeen, remember. Of course this didn’t really happen, partly because I’m too shy to ever do that, and partly because I’d bloody well left the school behind where all my friends knew I was a Cope freak, and was now in a college where nobody knew me. I did still see a few friends at the Railway but I was still keeping my head down there after being thrown out for underage drinking that summer (again, see previous Goldfish post).

But the fact that nobody knew me in New College could be turned to my advantage. I had no past, no burden of knowledge of previous stupidities. It was a chance to start again, without any taint or trace of my former actions.

(I would learn many years later that this is a typical Aspergers trait too. The need to compartmentalise my past and my present so the two never meet. There’s other traits which we will get to soon enough…)

But for the Autumn of 1986, I was happy. My hero was back, making great music, all over the media and in the charts. He had promised an album called “Saint Julian” in an interview with Melody Maker back in early 1985 and it looked like it was going to happen in the spring of 1987. I had a lot to look forward to.

January 1987
I had a small circle of friends at New College. So small it could be counted on one hand, but that was enough for me really. Manoj was in my Computer Studies class and was a good laugh, and Meg and Anji were two friends from the lower sixth, inseparable and always hanging around the computer room playing “Thrust” on the BBC Micros there. (“Thrust” was an anti-gravity game as I recall – you had to fly a lunar module on rocky terrain using thrusters and the ability to spin your craft – like “Asteroids” without the asteroids. picking up fuel and flying away, it was as much fun as you could have with 32K). Together the four of us hung out and chatted about all kinds of things, nothing of much importance. Chris Jones – our computing teacher and also a weekend DJ on Radio Wales at the time – thought the four of us were trouble but we never were. We just helped each other out if one of us got stuck on some tricky coding in BASIC. Nobody asked about my past and I wasn’t about to tell anyone either, it wasn’t relevant and nobody was bothered. Life at New College was good. I had a parents evening in January where my teachers all told my parents they loved me, which is better than I would have had at my school. “But your maths teacher is a bit of a wimp” they added.

January brought a flurry of record buying, some second hand records (“Neu!” on United Artists in the bright red sleeve, £2 from Jacobs Market, a Troy Tate 10” EP on Why Fi) but more importantly it was the second single by Julian Cope on Island. I’d heard “Trampolene” on the radio just before the new year and called it “more complex”, which isn’t hard really. I bought the 12 inch EP on the day of release (5th January) and absorbed four new songs. “Trampolene” was superb, yes it was more complex than “World Shut Your Mouth” but it felt like it was jammed full of hooks, enough to explode all over the radio. It sounded great on the radio too, big drums, chiming guitar licks and rocking riffs, another simple chorus, a lyric with more to it than “WSYM” and again key changes at the end to ramp up the tension, finally exploding on a drum roll and a long sustained fade out on the final chord. It screamed hit single, it screamed play me again, and this time a bit louder. It sounded fantastic to me. Two other songs on the EP were great. “Disaster” is a bit of a sea shanty, a tale of a ship’s journey, a song full of incident and change. Or maybe it’s an extended allegory for a relationship? My favourite part is towards the end,  Cope is contemplating some kind of shipwreck – “We are listing needlessly, won’t you come and marry me?” – a fantastic non-sequiter – before everyone drops away, a guitar plays a riff and slowly more instrumental layers chime in, pounding out the prime riff, as some raucous guitar lines are thrown over the top, all chugging along on a one note riff . A personal favourite still. “Mock turtle” is slower, more considered and instantly familar – the opening chords and melody are from “Flipped out on LSD”, a legendary 15 minute piece recorded towards the end of the Teardrop Explodes’ life, supposedly released as a twelve inch by La Place De La Concorde but available on a few bootlegs. And that’s just the start. The rest of the song works as a modus operandi for Cope at that time – unsure what he was doing and where he was going but trying his best. “Mock turtle” is a rare slice of direct honesty and is a hidden gem. Which is more than can be said for “Edward the Kingmaker” which is just a clattering noise.  But three great songs out of four ain’t bad.

Again, Cope was everywhere to promote the single. My diary records each incident – front cover of the NME, on “The Tube”, a children’s TV show, the first episode of late night chat show “The Last Resort” (“being interviewed by a prick”, says my diary) and all over the radio. Island did their best to make multiple versions of the single available and by God I bought the bloody set.

I started with the twelve inch on the day of release, then I wanted the seven inch with the gatefold sleeve, which I bought on 12th Jan. And it snowed the previous day, so we all had lots of fun walking to the station in the snow, then walking through Cardiff to find hardly anyone was there. Meg and I slipped and slid our way to HMV to buy the gatefold seven inch that day, and she bought a game for her BBC micro from a shop on Churchill Way. Nobody else was around, it was nice. A fond memory. A week later there was a second twelve inch, a remix of “Trampolene” which extended all the right parts, plus a sticker with it. So I had to buy that. And a week later a 7 inch EP in a cardboard box with a poster, so I had to buy that as well. Manoj would say to me “Haven’t you bought it enough times yet?” each time I would return from HMV. It became a bit of a joke – had I bought another Julian Cope record that week? Manoj, Meg, Anji and I would hang out and chat about all kinds of things, strolling to Wimpy – never McDonald’s as Meg was a vegetarian and she had to have Wimpy spicy bean burgers…  See, I bet you can all see what’s coming, can’t you? Anji and Manoj tried to arrange a night out at the pictures for the four of us then agreed to not go so Meg and myself would be alone,  together. But we all got cold feet. It turned out we were both happy to be friends, and to stay that way.

Meanwhile, I watched the charts to see how “Trampolene” was progressing. On the first week it entered the chart at 33, and I was ecstatic. Then it stayed there for two more weeks, before climbing to 31 in its fourth week before falling out of the top 40. Clearly this wasn’t what anyone expected, least of all me. I’d bought into this single four times, why wasn’t it a bigger hit? Cope has done his bit too, he had been unavoidable. What did he have to do to get a decent hit?

March 1987
Tensions are running high. The A Levels were looming for both my brother and I, and I don’t know about him but I was feeling the strain. I’d always struggled with the Maths A level material, it just made no sense to me. Vectors, differentiation, equations that just looked like nonsense on a page – it completely blew my mind. We sat some final test papers in March and hoped for the best. We were also heading off around the country to look at universities and polytechnics – for me it was Liverpool, Salford, Sheffield, Bath, Trefforest…. I was slightly freaked out at Trefforest because Meg and Anji were there, they kept passing me in corridors. It turned out Meg’s father was a lecturer there, and they were trying to wind me up. They didn’t need to, I was already wound up anyway…. the interview there had turned into a shambles, somehow the interviewer thought my visual impairments were worse than they actually were and had asked a lot of patronising questions about my mobility and disability. God knows why they thought that, I suspected my old school had become involved in the UCCA / PCAS application process. Paranoia was running high.

Some relief was provided by the release of “Saint Julian” on March 2nd. HMV had some signed copies for sale but I wanted to play my records, not keep them as artefacts. (A ridiculous statement considering how many times I’d bought “Trampolene”). I bought the album on the day of release and took it into the computer suite where Manoj ripped the piss out of the cover – “Christ in a scrapyard – Christ on a bike more like”. I wasn’t put off though, I devoured the sleeve and the insert and the little poem (“Saint Julian ain’t Julian” should have been the warning sign) and couldn’t wait to get the album home.

“Trampolene” kicks the album off quite gloriously, and I still couldn’t understand why it wasn’t a hit. So many hooks, so many sections, was it too much?  There’s a cleanliness to this rock, not a horrible distortion, just enough to make me smile. The song was a hymn to an impossible imagined female and frankly I liked that. “Shot down” continued the rock theme, this was taut, lean stuff – not a moment was being wasted. There’s even a tense middle eight with stops and starts. God knows what the song is about though. And it rocks. There’s some odd lyrics about war and uniform (which harks back to lyrics on his debut album) but it works nicely. Are there some sexual references? Could be. “Eve’s volcano” is lightweight fluff after that, a mid tempo melodic joy. Immediately I thought this should be the next single. If that couldn’t reach the charts there was no hope… I suppose all the “ba-ba” and “Do-do-do’ become a little annoying after a while, but this is the closest Cope comes to a Teardrops singalong. Another sexual reference? I’m spotting a theme here. “Spacehopper” had been around a bit, it was mentioned as an early Cope / McCulloch song from the Crucial Three / A Shallow Madness era in Mark Cooper’s “Liverpool Explodes” book. It was the simplest riff, the simplest groove and it sounded great. Why did it fade out? I wanted it to go on longer. Not another sexual reference too? It’s daft as hell, but rather funny too. Closing side one was “Planet Ride”, which was supposed to be a collaboration with Troublefunk – fellow Island label mates and at that point hot as hell at the forefront of go-go. But no, Cope’s band were playing it, a kind of stiff white funk which tried its best to swing. Still, I liked it, even if it seemed to be about sex. Nothing wrong with that. God, how many sex references are there here? This isn’t as stiff (sorry) as I remember it, and once Cope shuts up the musical interplay is rather cool.

Side two then starts with the “big” hit single “World shut your mouth” which is the only song you may hear on this album these days. But in this context, yeah that’s fine. “Saint Julian” is next and this is an odd one, Kate St John is back on cor anglais, it sounds like a “Fried” song after a shave and a haircut, but the lyrics are cutting – a bit anti religion in places but each to their own. This song may be the key to the album, the reference to Ankerside Shopping Centre in Tamworth, but we’ll get to that soon enough… “Pulsar” is the song that confused me in 1984, I didn’t get it at all, it was just a stupid riff…. what did I know? Three years later it made sense in the context of the rest of the album, another stupid riff but bloody hell what a wonderful stupid riff! A song which begged to be played loud. And the lyrics were fantastic too, I would quote them extensively – “And I was quite in love, ‘cos you told me so”, “Don’t have to tell me honey, that’s the way I feel”… yes this was quite a song for me. Next was “Screaming secrets”, an old old song… the Teardrops had played it all the time in ’81 and ’82, they had even recorded it (quite badly) for a Richard Skinner session in 1981, there was a fantastic version on a Whistle Test live concert from 1982…. and it fitted it perfectly now. Sure Donald Ross Skinner couldn’t quite match Troy Tate but there’s enough energy here to get by. And frankly it was great to finally have a favourite song recorded at last.

And finally….

“A crack in the clouds” is an epic. There wasn’t much precedent for it in the back catalogue at the time, and there isn’t really much like it in the rest of Cope’s extensive career, and it’s a shame because this song is gorgeous. There’s storm clouds and sound effects, a disquieting guitar arpeggio, a descending bass line and Cope singing of strange things… After two minutes of disquiet, the band comes in and the chorus is glorious… I mean I don’t know what the song means even now, there’s images of water and floating and maybe I think I’m the wrong person to write this sort of thing. But between the tense quiet of the verses and the triumphant choruses, this song soars. There’s a glorious string arrangement which rises up through the song, and once the final chorus is out of the way, there’s a change to the music, a resolution to the harmonies, and it continues to soar higher and higher and I love it to bits. I’m sorry, I love this song, it always makes me cry and I’m doing a crap job again…. Yet maybe it’s down to a single line… “A quiet village boy takes leave of his life and walks off into the mountains…” Yes, maybe it’s that one dream of escape.

Of course years later I read Cope’s second autobiography “Repossessed” and learnt more about the album. How someone had shyly offered to write songs for him after a meeting at Ankerside Shopping Centre, how that had inspired the batch of songs on “Saint Julian” to be one step removed – Cope imagining how someone else would write songs for him. And there’s the birth of the Two Car Garage Band around Donald Ross Skinner, James Eller and Chris Whitten. And if I had known the b sides to “World Shut Your Mouth” had been recorded in Caerleon not that far from Penarth I would have gone completely mental. But that’s just the way I was.

Of course I played the album a lot when it came out. My diary notes that the CD was issued a week later, on the same day as “The Joshua Tree” and “Men and women”, two albums I didn’t buy…ah the days when a CD release wasn’t always a given. There was also another edition of the LP with an interview disc and I bought that and played it probably twice (but a sentence from the interview ended up in the introduction to “Falling away” many years later). March progressed… I had an interview at Sheffield Poly which lasted all of three minutes, I bought “Angels in the architecture” because it was cheap (£1.99 on tape), I bought tickets for Julian Cope at Cardiff Uni in April, I checked out midi hifi systems with CD players in Laskys  (Laskys!), I worked hard but not hard enough… oh and BBC showed a Cope concert from Westminster Hall earlier in the year, and our Betamax video chose that time to self destruct.

April brought joy and pain. There was tension around my maths, I still had no idea what I was doing and I was struggling but I wasn’t telling anyone. I spent a lot of time in the computer lab working on my computer programming assignment, creating flowcharts and all kinds of useless bollocks on paper for a program about which I can remember absolutely nothing. And then something stupid I did came back to bite me on the arse…

Back at the very start of my diary (Feb 1983) i had written the Teacher Files where I wrote a one sentence put down of all my teachers up to that point. As my diary was being read by my English teacher at the time, she went mental, ripped the pages out and told me to respect my teachers. Immediately my diary became notorious and my friends wanted to know what was in it. Jump ahead to early 1987, I was deeply paranoid about my old school as they seemed to be interfering with the college applications and I was pissed off with my friends for some reason – probably they hadn’t turned up at the Railway when I’d arranged to. So I wrote pages and pages of horrible notes, both the Teacher Files and The Pupil Files. 95% of it was pure invective and vitriol. Hardly anyone came out of it well, except about two teachers and three friends. And foolishly I gave these notes to a friend in my old school, who proceeded to sit down in the common room and start reading them. Soon he wasn’t the only one. The notes ended up pinned to a notice board, got distributed around all of the sixth form, and a few teachers too. And unsurprisingly nobody was happy about what I’d written. Jump ahead a week or so, I turn up at the Railway and find that all my friends are ignoring me. I thought it was a bit odd, then someone tells me that everyone was pissed off with me because of the things I’d written. I dash up to my friend’s house where he tells me what happened and I laugh and cry a lot. I then return to the Railway and apologise profusely for my stupidity. Turns out most people forgave me and eventually saw the funny side. I still have the Teacher and Pupil Files and they really are rather horrible, I can understand why everyone didn’t like me for it.

(Again, this kind of attention seeking behaviour is also typical Aspergers. Or maybe I’m just an idiot. You decide. Maybe I’m just an idiot for even mentioning it now)

Meanwhile, I was gearing up for the Julian Cope concert. “Eves volcano” was issued as a third single, slightly unnecessary I thought unless it was meant to promote the tour. But it received a good review on Peter Powell’s Pop Panel (“Sounds like Passionate Friend” said one reviewer, with a long memory) Still, I bought the CD single, and the twelve inch, and the twelve inch remix with the poster. After all, the twelve inch had a voucher to send off to get a three song live video from the Westminster Hall Concert (I’ve still got the video too, somewhere). And this was my first CD single, even though I’d not bought a CD player yet. As for b sides, “Almost beautiful child” was a looping instrumental which was pretty and idiotic, there were two live songs and the full five minute version of “Spacehopper” which didn’t fade out but came to a natural conclusion.

So I was ready for the live experience. I’d seen OMD a few times at St David’s Hall but this was going to be different, this was at the hall in Cardiff University, this was a standing only gig and I wanted to be standing at the front. Nigel and I took the train to Cathays station and popped into a corner shop to buy some alcohol. We bought a can of Tennants Super each, and kept hold of them. We were amongst the first in the queue so got to the front for the gig, and there were two support acts. First was Crazyhead, then riding high in the indie charts with their single “What gives you the idea that you’re so amazing baby?” My diary recalls that I wasn’t impressed. Lots of leather, lots of feedback and noise, “45 minutes of Crazyhead was more than enough”. What my diary doesn’t say is that the bass player Porkbeast kept shouting into his mic for beer, which of course prompted the audience to throw beer cans at him. These were lax days for security, we had both walked in with our tins of Super in our jacket pockets and kept hold of them throughout the gig. Next were The Faith Brothers, politically correct but a little bit boring live. “Tears For Fears with guitars” said Nigel. They ended their set by covering “Biko”, a very worthy thing to do in 1987. We’d let some female Faith Brothers fans into the front row but now we moved back into the front for the main attraction.

And the main attraction was a total blast. I was in the front row, to the left of me was James Eller on bass, about six foot to the right was Cope himself, on his mic stand climbing frame (blue, if you’re interested) and that beautiful red Gibson 335 twelve string. A fantastic set too (“Trampolene”, “Pulsar”, “Eves volcano”, “Strasbourg”, “Non alignment pact”, “Bouncing babies”, “The great dominions” – chills down spine there – “Shot down”, “Planet Ride”, a new arrangement of “Read it in books”, “Spacehopper” into “World Shut Your Mouth”… )  Cope told us they’d been on a “hippie trip” at Rockfield Studios that day, and from then on referred to the audience as hippies – “How are you doing, hippies?” Encores were “Someone like me” (promised as a forthcoming single) and “Reynard the fox” where Cope leant into the crowd on his mic stand, then fell off and rolled around the floor before destroying the stand.

It was awesome, and Nigel and I were stunned afterwards – deaf too. I bought a t shirt and we walked back into Cardiff drinking our warm cans of Tennants Super which tasted like treacle.  A fantastic night, which was a sharp contrast to what happened the next day or so.

It’s all a bit vague at this distance, and my diary for once isn’t particularly helpful, but this is how I remember it. I’d fallen out with the Maths teacher in New College and somehow I’d said I didn’t trust him or want him teaching me any longer. I’m not sure what happened after that,  but on the day after the concert I was “invited” into the head teachers office where he came down on me like a ton of bricks and made me feel like a piece of shit for daring to question one of his teachers. Then I had something similar happen at home and was told in no uncertain terms that I had to work my socks off to pass my A level maths. It was a bit fraught and I was a bit fragile and I hid myself away. My parents found me a maths tutor who actually helped me make sense of vectors and I revised like mad and did my best before the exams at the end of May.

On the last entry of the year’s diary – 23rd May 1987 – I wrote “I may never see Meg again”. There was more to it than that…. we had a sort of emotional break up on Cardiff station. Anji and Meg and I… They were getting onto a train up the valleys on platform six, I was heading for Penarth on platform seven… Anji was looking at us waiting for either of us to acknowledge we might be upset about it, but we didn’t.  It was very British, very stiff upper lip. Maybe she didn’t like me after all, I sort of liked her but never said it, she never said anything to me and we went our own ways. And that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Jump ahead to June 1991, the start of the best summer of my life. I was working in Brunel House with my father at BT after completing my third attempt at my second year at poly. The first attempt in Sheffield was a disaster where I left or got kicked off the course (and we will get to that eventually). Then I’d tried again at the Poly of Wales but the issues I had from Sheffield hadn’t been addressed so I flunked out again (and we won’t get to that, ever) so I tried again, a third attempt, I tried my best and did the coursework and attended all the lectures and got bullied mercilessly for sitting at the front of lectures squinting  (so much so that one day when I was absent the lecturer told the class off for it – I also suspect that during this year I met my future brother in law but I’m not sure to be honest). Anyway, come that June day it was time to get the results. So I caught the train from Cardiff Queen Street up to Trefforest and wandered up to get the results. My name was on a list to see the course tutor at a given time, so I headed to the common room to have a sit down and wonder what was going on.

As I sat and pondered, there was a tap on my shoulder. “Hello Rob, how are you?” it was Meg, popping in to see her father who was still lecturing at the Poly of Wales. I was amazed – she looked lovely and she still remembered me, even though I now had a beard (another reason for bullying at the Poly, if I recall correctly).  She asked why I was there, I said about my results and she was sure I’d have done ok. We chatted for about five minutes, catching up with where she was and Anji and Manoj, she was still in touch with them and I’d drifted away into my own world. Then she kissed me goodbye and good luck and disappeared again. I then went to the course tutors office where he told me I’d failed everything, I couldn’t try again, and “You’re on the scrapheap now, you’ll never amount to anything. Goodbye”.

Then I returned to my work at BT for the afternoon, kept my head down, wondered about my future, and wrote a song called “True life story” about meeting up with Meg on such an inauspicious day. This became the start of my first album called “Songs about girls”. I recorded it later that Summer and it is still a scared and scary reminder of a bad day. You can find it at the bottom of this post, hopefully.

Oh my A Levels?  I got a C in Computer Studies, a D in Physics and scrapped an E in Maths which is a minor miracle. Those grades seem really shit now, when kids get five A* grades in their A Levels but a lot of blood sweat and tears – very much tears – went into those grades.

As for the “Saint Julian” era… it’s sort of ignored now. Sure “World shut your mouth” turns up on just about every 80s compilation going, but when did you last hear “Trampolene” on the radio? (Fair play to Josh Meadows on Main FM in Castlemaine, he played it on his show It’s a Jangle Out There last week as I finalised this piece and I have it on good authority that Adam Jeffery will play it on his Indie show this week)  Maybe it was over glossy, an attempt to get noticed which backfired. It was a dash for the mainstream and buffed up a good set of songs into a clean rock sound. But maybe it’s worth going back and investigating again – I certainly hadn’t played “Saint Julian” for a long time before I started writing this and it’s better than I remembered. There wasn’t much around which sounded like it at the time – Echo and the Bunnymen were falling apart and blanding out, U2 were about to become massive on a global scale, there was The Cult with their dictionary of rock moves, the indie section was still going through its shambling phase of lofi, The Smiths were in their own imperial phase before they fell apart… it was unique within its own parameters, it was a clean rock sound that Cope would never return to, but it sounded like nothing else at the time and so sounds timeless (except for the drum sounds). It certainly gained Cope new followers and raised his profile but probably set standards within the management at Island which he would never maintain. He was always destined to be a cult artist but it was always a pleasure to see him orbiting within the pop media as he would again in 1991. But “Saint Julian” is a worthwhile brush with the mainstream, bringing it’s own ideas of garage rock, Stooges simplicity and early Alice Cooper snarl to a pop audience. Have a listen to “Spacehopper” and try not to grin like an idiot – you can’t do it. As for the mainstream, Cope will never go back there, but it was sometimes fun while it lasted. A bit like my year at New College then.

On 30th April 1983 I bought some records and my life tilted slightly off its axis. On 30th April 2013 I wrote about that day 30 years previously on a new blog I tentatively named after a line from a Yeah Yeah Noh song. And that’s how it all started. Three years on, there’s over one hundred posts on the main blog, a few posts on the sister blog One Hundred Goldfish and numerous pieces I have written for other blogs. Not to mention over twenty podcasts for Goldfish Radio.

Blimey, how did that all happen?

Well I suppose it happened because of you, dear reader. If it wasn’t for the support of my readers I wouldn’t still be writing.  I’m always amazed by the reaction I receive to anything I create – self depreciation hides low self esteem, I can always find fault in my own work so… Er. .there’s no end to that sentence. (Can you tell I’m writing this ten minutes after I woke up?) But the response and support of those around me has kept me going on here, it’s lovely to know that other people like the same kind of things as me or are prepared to let me witter on about whatever I want to ramble about for their websites.

So yes I haven’t really written much recently on this blog and yes that’s my fault for neglecting the Goldfish but the new Microdisney post is doing well and seems to have hit a nerve with readers old and new. But maybe it’s time I did a round up of pieces I have written for other blogs in the last few months, just in case you missed them.

Back in February, Nicola at the Sounds Familiar website was on Twitter saying how “Rubber Soul” was one of her favourite Beatles albums and I fired back a series of tweets of points why I loved it. She asked me to expand on my thoughts for her website and the article is here. It’s quite a good little article and was written about a week before George Martin passed away so I’m glad I mentioned his contribution to the album which was very important but also subtle.

I have also written a few pieces for the Everything Indie Over 40 website. I may have previously mentioned I wrote a few Indie CV articles, one on Margaret Fiedler and another on Jez and Andy Williams. I should be writing another Indie CV soon too. Anyway, I reviewed the latest album by Murals for the website, which turned into a rumination on how technology has changed our listening habits. But the Murals album is great, you should give it a listen. I also wrote a gig review of Ride at Bristol Ansom Rooms at the end of last year which was a tremendous gig.  Thanks to Ray at Country Mile offering me a ticket.

I’ve also written a few Toppermost articles, not many admittedly but there will be a new one along very soon on The Electric Prunes.  I have updated my Toppermost page at the top of the blog to include my latest musings there.  Always check out Toppermost, there’s always something interesting there, a great collection of writers passionate about music – the recent contributions by John Hartley have been top notch and … well… if you like my style of writing, then John does it a hundred times better than me. (Self depreciation again). Anyway, have a look.

I’ve also been creating a load of Goldfish Radio podcasts – twenty three of them in total with more to come. There’s a dedicated page with information about all of the shows here, people seem to like them, maybe you will too.

As ever I have to think so many people for their help and support throughout these years. Merric at Toppermost and Steve at Everything Indie Over 40 have been great and very patient with me. Adam J at Radio Scarborough and Nicola T at Sounds Familiar have also helped spread the word. Josh M at Main FM in Castlemaine has been fab too. Can’t forget Marcello and Lena at Then Play Long – huge support there, always sharing what I do. There’s probably more if I think about it…. David S in Prospect Hill, Esther in California, Ray at Country Mile, Wally at The Beautiful Music, Keith S, Rick L David T, Dave B, all my family and friends, the PTFA and staff at school, everyone in the Everything Indie Over 40 community, The Autumn Stones, Huge Shark, Andy M, Darren R, Tim W… love you all, thank you all.

Anything else? No? Let’s blow out the candles and cut the cake up. Happy birthday Goldfish!

What a difference a year makes.

This time last year I was living in a cold draughty three bedroom house with awful parking, far too close to school and far too close to the city centre to make it a regular thoroughfare for drunks returning home from a skinful of booze around midnight every night. And now I’m not. That sounds dreadfully boastful actually and I don’t mean it like that. I’m just not there any more. But this time last year I wasn’t even thinking of moving house, it just happened very suddenly and the stars aligned and everything fell into place. It’s been that sort of year really. I certainly didn’t expect to be living in a different house this time last year. I didn’t expect to have made more than a dozen podcasts or to have my name mentioned regularly on the radio. Maybe I do have a reputation after all. Maybe people do like me after all.

This isn’t going anywhere really. It’s been an odd year. I haven’t achieved anything – still haven’t found a job even after a few useless interviews (“What kind of biscuit are you?” Seriously?) There’s been highlights and lowlights, joys and tears. And along the way I listened to some music and wrote about it. To be honest, this time last year I couldn’t see this blog continuing much further. I nearly stopped it completely in April, due to the house move and other commitments. I didn’t think I had that much to write about. Heavens I even ended up listening to The Grateful Dead for a while – how desperate was I?

Then I started to make a podcast or two. I found it was (a) quite easy and (b) a lot of fun. And best of all, people seemed to like them. Either that or you’re all being really nice to me. And the podcasts have raised my profile, not that that was the point. The point was to introduce some cool music to people. It seems to have worked.

A year ago I wrote that I hadn’t really listened to much new music that year, but still listed a lot of music I had enjoyed that year. This year I feel exactly the same. I should point out that I have heard some wonderful new music this year but I’m not saying comprehensively “These are my albums of the year” because I’ve not heard everything issued this year, so don’t even think of adding these End Of Year lists.

So what albums have I enjoyed this year? “Escapists” by The Autumn Stones has fulfilled the promise their singles from last year hinted at – an album of light and shade, both musically and lyrically, which rewards repeated listening. Imagine shoegazing crossed with early Psychedelic Furs, with emphasis on peculiar words, sax solos and catchy melodies. Definitely an album worth a listen. Ryley Walker’s “Primrose Green” album sounds like Tim Buckley and Van Morrison in some 1968 idyll, sun dappled jazz inflected acoustic dreamscapes. Beautiful stuff. “854” by Eyelids is like a more psychedelic Teenage Fanclub, crunchy guitars and harmonies but with peculiar angles. “The broken heed” by The Broken Heed (pseudonym for John Hartley) takes the simplicity of Harvey Williams’ solo albums and adds heartbreaking, deeply affecting and heartfelt words, and some of those heart stopping chord changes that I adore so much – well worth investigating and raising money for a good cause too. “Fragments of a former moon” by Lightning In A Twilight Hour is of course Bob Wratten’s latest project and is as beautiful as his previous works in The Field Mice, Trembling Blue Stars and Northern Picture Library. In the odd electronica corner I’ve enjoyed albums by Kode9 and Floating Points. Then there’s “The Race For Space” by Public Service Broadcasting. Now I wasn’t impressed by their previous album which I felt couldn’t decide if it wanted to be pop or hauntology, but this year’s album – themed around audio clips from space travel – gripped me from start to finish. If you don’t hold your breath during “The other side”… well, maybe you’re not human. And “Go!” – perfect thrilling pop music. Oh and amazingly Yeah Yeah Noh made a new album, their first in 30 years, and updated their typically English psychedelia with synths and more marvellous turns of phrase.

As always it’s not just about new music, there’s still a myriad of old music to discover. So here’s a list of some songs I have enjoyed this year.

Indelible – Huge Shark
Umbrella wars – Spent
Are you ready to be heartbroken? – Lloyd Cole and The Commotions
The other side – Public Service Broadcasting
Jealous – Nick Jonas (pop single of the year, folks)
The seventh plane – Mystic Moods Orchestra
Scandinavian wastes – The Invisible Girls
Funny little things – The Broken Heed
Mountains of the moon – The Grateful Dead
Plan A (Selling off the silver) – The Drain On The Balcony
Forget about tomorrow – Eyelids
Harvest time – The Clientele
Beauty #2 – Butterfly Child
Satellite (Far out) – Dot Dash
You make no bones – Alfie
Please tell mother (Peel session) – The Telescopes
Wadmalaw island – Power Tools
Please don’t say remember – The Apartments

There’s probably more that I’ve loved this year but can’t remember. I may well add to the list.

I’d like to recommend a few books which I have enjoyed this year. “The year of reading dangerously” by Andy Miller tells of how the author regained his love for reading and is touching, very funny and very accurate. He loves his music too, does Mr Miller, and that shines through the writing – well worth a read. “Popkiss – the life and afterlife of Sarah Records” by Michael White is a meticulously researched and highly readable book on the legendary Bristol indie label, lots of background information on the bands and music plus the early chapters give an excellent history of the development of indie pop. But only one paragraph on the Sweetest Ache??? Lastly “Higher than the sun” by Tim Worthington is a wonderful book about how Creation Records came to issue four brilliant lps within a few months of each other during the Autumn of 1991. Again lots of great background on the mid 80s indie scene there and fascinating insights into the worlds of Primal Scream, Saint Etienne, Teenage Fanclub and My Bloody Valentine and the Creation scene in general. You’d love it, I know you would.

So what does the future hold? More podcasts for a start, and more writing. There will be posts on Microdisney, Saint Etienne, Ride, Scott Walker, Virginia Astley, Eyeless In Gaza and more. But don’t hold your breath, these things take time. There will be more Toppermost articles too – thanks for your patience Merric – and other pieces here and there. I’ve recently written a few pieces for the Everything Indie Over 40 site which is always full of interesting articles (not just mine) on obscure indie bands. Have a look here.

As ever, huge thanks to everyone who has helped me along the way, shared my posts and podcasts, offered advice or asked me to write for them. I would write a list but I fear I may forget someone important… ok here goes… Esther, Wally, Ray, Steve, Adam, Nicola, Dawn, Marcello, Lena, Pete, Josh, Lee, John, David, Merric, Rick, Justin, Tim, Darren, Andy, Fiona, my family, Tara, Donna… I’ve forgotten people I’m sure… sorry… I tried….

Anyway, it’s New Years Eve, there’s probably a ton of things you need to be doing, I know there’s a ton of things I should be doing right now, so I’ll let you get on. Happy New Year and don’t feed the goldfish any cheese slices.

Don’t worry, the goldfish is asleep

There’s a few changes going on around here – exciting things like the possibility of a part time job and grappling with a new phone (cos you all know I run Goldfish off a Blackberry, don’t you?). And there’s other things which are slightly less exciting, but overall I’m not going to have the time over the next month to write anything here (or anywhere else for that matter – sorry Toppermost fans). But rest assured the Goldfish will return as and when I have the time and energy to write. Oh, and something to write about too obviously. I’ll still be on Twitter and there may be a Spotify playlist soon once I work out how to achieve it, but for now the Goldfish isn’t dead, it’s just having a good snooze.