'Ask' - The Smiths (1986)

"Spending warm Summer days indoors,

Writing frightening verse,

To a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg."

Morrissey wants you to hang out of a car door. Speeding down a motorway. With a video camera. Sounds like a dream job. This was the brief given to an old work colleague of mine called Chris. (No, not that Chris. Or this Chris. There are too many people called Chris in my life.)  

In 1986, The Smiths commissioned a short film from director Derek Jarman to support the release of ‘The Queen Is Dead’. The agreement seems to have been ‘you can do what you like, just don’t expect the band to appear’. Chris was the cameraman on the wildly expressionistic results  – and he appears briefly in the background to the playful video for ‘Ask’ that was recorded the same year.

When I met Chris, nearly a decade had passed and he was a salesman at the video production company where I got my first job. You could tell his heart was elsewhere. And most days his body was elsewhere too, as he continually called in with increasingly inventive excuses as to why he wouldn’t be coming in to the office. Two favourites were…
"I slept in a graveyard."

"I’m chained to a bed and haven’t got the key."

But I think he topped both of these the day he sent us a fax from his local library:
"Can’t make calls today. Lost my voice."

And he never returned.

A big thanks...

The completist in me is now very happy indeed. 

Met up with my old school friend Chris this week for the first time in many years, and as a wonderful surprise gift he’d found me the remaining Wedding Present singles from 1992 that I needed for my collection. 

They are a delight to behold and a glory to hear on vinyl for the first time. Super chuffed and immensely thankful.  

'River Of No Return' - Ghost Dance (1986)

"Where the fear and the four winds blow,

That’s where I’m headed now."

And so darkness fell. And an acrid mist did rise. Through the glooming comes a pulse of light. Indistinct silhouettes. An incessant pounding. A mordant wailing. Welcome to Ghost Dance (featuring ex-members of the Sisters and Skeletal Family) at the Kilburn Town & Country Club (now the HMV Forum, kids).

   

Little did we know at the time that these same conditions were being replicated on the late-October streets outside – with perhaps a little less wailing. Though only a little less. Stepping out of the uncomfortably sweaty gig in to the bitter cold midnight air, we discovered North London had been shrouded in a thick mist. It really was like something out of a Stephen King tale. Specifically, ‘The Mist’. In fact, you could see next to nothing, which would make it more like a fog. The kind of creeping, suffocating haze you’d get in a horror movie. Specifically, ‘The Fog’.    

Somehow we had to drive home through this. I say ‘we' but my friend Chris was doing the actual driving (in his trusty Mini). My job was to stick my head out of the window and see if I could read any of the road signs. Or spot any other cars before we hit them. It was a tortuously slow and highly treacherous journey – long before the days of sat navs and even mobile phones. And worried parents were waiting up at home. But we finally made it back to our pleasant Surrey suburb, without landing in a ditch or encountering the vengeful ghosts of shipwrecked Californian mariners. We were just sleep-deprived, nervous wrecks in school assembly the next day.

‘Crocodiles’ – Echo And The Bunnymen (1980)

"Listen to the ups and downs,

Listen to the sound they make.

Don’t be scared when it gets loud,

When your skin begins to shake."

Every town should have an indie record store. Why isn’t this a law already? In my teens/early twenties, mine was the glorious Rock Box in Camberley. Every Saturday morning was spent there. And very many Mondays (record release day), if I could hitch a lift in my friend Chris’ Mini during school lunch-time.

At a guess, I’d say about a quarter of the records I write about here were bought in that vinyl treasure trove. You can always tell which ones, as the owner would pencil the price on the inside of the sleeves. You could usually pick up an album for £3.49, a 12-inch for £1.99 and singles for 99p – a little bit of historical context for you there.  

As with all the best indie record stores, it was situated on a street where none of the big shops wanted to be. The Top 40 atrocities of Our Price sat gleaming away in the pedestrianised shopping arcade, while the Rock Box needed to be sought out on a back road, between the rundown carpet store and the boarded-up dry cleaners. To me, it seemed as magical as the TARDIS in the way such a plain and small shopfront could house so many wonders inside and take you on so many musical journeys.    

I’d head down there for a Bunnymen album, and come out with a Fall white vinyl german import, a Mission box set, a Primitives T-shirt, a Cure In Orange billboard-sized poster, some Siouxsie Sioux postcards, and a Smiths badge set. Bliss.

For a few days in 1989, it even inspired me to open my own record store when I left school. That never happened. But I did use the Rock Box as a case study for my A-level Industrial Studies project that year – must dig that out some time. A quick Google search tells me the Rock Box is still there, and long may it run. I’d like to think I'll pop back in some time and find the vinyl version of The Fall’s ’Grotesque’ that’s always eluded me.  

£3.49. See?

Spotify linky:

Echo And The Bunnymen – Crocodiles

‘Hex Enduction Hour’ – The Fall (1982)

"White collar hits motorway services;

It’s the hip priest.

From the eyes he can see they know;

It’s the hip priest."

"What’s this meant to be?!" That was pretty much the shared reaction from the sixth form common room whenever my friend Chris or I popped an album on the stereo. Which just encouraged us further. Climaxing in us attending a Prince-themed party with a copy of ‘Hex Enduction Hour’. Yes, I know. Let’s rewind. A lot to take in there.

One: Why am I at a party? Well, I think I went to about three parties in total between the years 1980 and, well, present day really. I like to go to one every decade to remind myself why I don’t go to more. Two: Prince-themed? Really? Yep, Chris and I had a mutual friend named Christopher ("Well, that's just confusing") who loved Prince and had a birthday bash every Christmas Eve. I think I’ve mentioned him before. Yes, I have, in my very first post. Keep up. Anyhoo… he lived on a steady diet of Prince. He had every record by his Purple Majesty you could imagine. ("Even the Black album before it was officially released?" Yep, even the Black album before it was officially released.) So any party Christopher held was in effect a Prince-themed party. Three: You’re taking 'Hex Enduction Hour' to a party? Well, it would seem so. But I can’t quite recall why. I think Chris and I were just so captivated by it at the time that we carried it around to share with people at every opportunity. Just look at that wonderful sleeve for starters. Banned from the windows and shelves of Virgin record stores at the time for being too amateurish, fact fans.  

Now after three hours of non-stop Prince records, I think you’ll agree it was about time someone hi-jacked the stereo. But I guess what you may not agree with is us hi-jacking the stereo to play such party floor fillers as ‘Jawbone and the Air-rifle’ and ‘Mere Pseud Mag. Ed’. We actually never made it that far through the album – from memory we got to about track three (‘Hip Priest’) before the revelers broke through our makeshift sofa cushion barrier and Prince was restored. You can perhaps now see why it was another ten years before I ventured out to my next party. But I left ‘Hex Enduction Hour’ at home that time.    

Spotify linky: 

The Fall – Hip Priest

‘The Ballad Of El Goodo’ – Big Star (1972)

"Years ago my heart was set to live, oh.

But I've been trying hard against unbelievable odds."

If David Bowie was playing in my car parking space right now, I wouldn’t even look out the window. Well, ok, I’d probably take a peek, because I love Bowie. But I know I should really have seen him as Ziggy at the Hammersmith Odeon on July 2nd/3rd back in 1973. My excuse is I was only two years old. The same is true of Bob Dylan (who turned 70 this week - happy belated birthday, Bob!). When I get my TARDIS working I’ll be setting the controls for the Manchester Free Trade Hall on 17th May 1966 to see him move beyond his folk roots and dare to to plug in an electric guitar, much to the horror of the "Judas!"-heckling audience. But I just can’t get excited about seeing Dylan in the modern day.

80/90s indie bands reforming to play their ‘classic’ albums at the Brixton Academy have the same effect on me. Pixies playing ‘Doolittle’. Dinosaur Jr playing ‘Bug’. Suede playing, er, ‘Suede’. All great, but I saw them the first time round in small North London pubs and university halls while the songs were often still unrecorded. Play me something new and I’ll be there.

So you can imagine I was somewhat surprised back in 1993 to find myself all smiles to hear that Big Star were reforming after almost 20 years and heading to the Reading Festival. Perhaps it was because they achieved such little recognition for their magnificent trilogy of albums back in the 70s, that it felt like their greatest performance was still ahead of them. My friend Chris was certainly bemused on that Sunday night at Reading as I left him watching New Order while I disappeared through the pungent haze of burning plastic beakers to the Melody Maker stage. Let’s point out here that there are few bands I’d choose over New Order, but we’d seen them at Reading four years earlier playing the sublime ‘Technique’ so I felt pretty certain I’d made the right decision. And I wasn’t disappointed. Orginal members Alex Chilton and Jody Stephens had enlisted two Posies (Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow, fact fans) and treated us to songs from all their albums. It was a revelation to hear ‘The Ballad Of El Goodo’ and all my other favourites played live for the first time.

Chris and I argued all the way back to Reading station that night about who had seen the greatest show. We’ll never really know. But let’s just all agree I had.      

RIP Alex Chilton, Christopher Bell and Andy Hummel.

Spotify linky:

Big Star – The Ballad Of El Goodo

'Run' - New Order (1989)

"So what's the use in complaining,

when you've got everything you need."

This was so very almost the final song I ever heard. See, how’s that for a come back? Straight in to the drama. Bet you’ve missed that.

It’s a sun-drenched Monday, 30th January 1989, and New Order have just released their very last album that was any good (fact!): ‘Technique’. And, oh, was it good. I still remember the Chris Roberts review from Melody Maker that week: ‘It was worth the wait. In Gold.’ And it was. New Order were always my concession to the joys of what we’ll call here ‘dance music’. It’s something I know very little about. But every three years New Order would pop up talking about ‘Chicago house’ or ‘Balearic beats’ and for about a week I’d feel connected to another musical world – with ‘Technique’ it was the thrills of Ibiza in nine perfect pop moments. And then I’d go back to floppy-fringed indie-boy stuff.

So my friend Chris and I have been bursting for the school lunch break so he can drive us in to Camberley town centre to pick up our copies. I’ve spent my £4.49 on the cassette version so we can listen to it immediately in his car (well, actually his mum’s Mini) on the way back. We’ve listened to the first half of the album as we stop at the bottom of a hill near the school gates to let some fellow pupils cross. And that’s when I stare death in the face. Well, in reality, that’s when I close my eyes and quickly curl into a ball in the passenger seat having just glimpsed a car come speeding Dukes of Hazzard-style over the crest of the hill behind us. Then there’s all the sounds you come to associate with car crashes from watching them every night on the telly – tyres squealing, metal scraping, etc. But now with added New Order. The fact that I can still hear Bernard singing, and have felt no impact, means Chris and I have had a near miss. And on opening my eyes, I can see the car behind has managed to steer itself on to the pavement alongside us without harming anything more important than a school railing.

I knew we’d be all right really. At 18, you picture yourself dying to Morrissey or Robert Smith, not New Order. They became like my patron saints of travel. I used to hang the cassette round my neck. No, I didn’t; so no angry comments please.

Note: My 'Technique' cassette is nowhere to be found today, so above is the 12-inch sleeve for the 'Run' remix - fact fans.

Spotify linky:

New Order – Run

‘Heartland’ – The The (1986)

‘Well it ain't written in the papers,

But it’s written on the walls,

The way this country is divided to fall.

So the cranes are moving on the skyline,

Trying to knock down this town.

But the stains on the heartland, can never be removed,

From this country, that's sick, sad, and confused.’

Music lyrics are the modern day poetry. Discuss. Actually … let’s not. My school friend Chris though did once put this to the test in Ms Taylor’s English class. Our homework was to write a poem on urban decay. I’ve never had much heart for poetry, so have no idea what I cobbled together. But I remember that Chris decided to simply copy out the lyrics to ‘Heartland’ and hand them in as his own.

So what mark did Ms Taylor give the biting social commentary of Matt Johnson? B minus. I think he could be happy with that. Chris wasn’t. Especially as I got a B.

(This song and the album 'Infected' were accompanied by a great set of videos that I'm still hoping will one day be released on DVD to replace my now wonky video copy. Are you listening Sony/BMG?)

Spotify linky:

The The – Heartland

‘Christine’ – The House Of Love (1988)

“And the whole world dragged us down,
And the whole world turned aside.”

This song made me want to make friends with a Christine. I still haven’t to this day. It’s one of the great disappointments in my life. I love it when songs do that to me. It always adds that extra poignancy to a great song when it shares a name with one of your friends.

I knew a Charlotte, so The Cure’s ‘Charlotte Sometimes’ was made that bit more special. But I’ve yet to meet a Lola or a Velouria. I need more exotic friends. Especially if I’m ever to meet a Candy. That would surely top trump them all.

So I don’t have a Christine in my life to make me think of this song. Instead, it reminds me of sitting on the pavement outside the old Town and Country Club in Kentish Town (now the HMV Forum *sighs*) with my friend Chris the year this single came out. He’d talked me into coming up to town to see The House Of Love take part in the Creation Records ‘Doing It For The Kids’ gig. It’d been sold out for ages. We didn’t have tickets. And we never got tickets. But we enjoyed ourselves just hanging outside for a few hours with other fans. Those were simpler times.

P.S. If you’re reading this and called Christine, get in touch.

Spotify linky:
The House Of Love – Christine - John Peel 2/4/89

(The full-blown single version has yet to appear on Spotify, so I’ve linked to an acoustic radio session.)

'This Corrosion' - The Sisters Of Mercy (1987)

“Well, what do you say
D’you have a word for Giving Away?
Got a song for me?”

Aaah … the Great Goth War of 1987. Yes, I remember it well. The battlefield? The Sixth Form Common Room. The prize? Control of the beat-up hi-fi. The battlelines were quickly drawn. In the back-combed, winkle-picking Gothic corner, my good self and my friend Chris (not the Mary Chain Christopher from earlier – he was too busy funking out in the music room). And all around us were our arch enemies: the casual lads of the Upper Sixth who all looked like they’d been dressed from a Littlewoods catalogue by their mums. It was clear from the very first break-time that our arrival was far from welcome in their sanctuary of tan chinos and fluorescent cardigans.

‘This Corrosion’ came out in September of 1987, at the start of the new term. As a result, it was the first casualty of the Battle of the Bosch (I can’t recall if it actually was a Bosch hi-fi – I just liked the alliteration). The Sisters were cruelly cut down in their 11-minute, bombastic, choir-laden prime by the bass-slapping, insipid bleatings of Level 42.

Chris and I lost a lot of good tapes that year, as they were yanked from the stereo and flung back at our heads. Skeletal Family. Ghost Dance. Rose of Avalanche. We salute you.

Just over a year later, it was always amusing to see these casual clowns back from their first weeks at University and claiming to have always liked The Smiths and Echo & the Bunnymen. May we never meet again.

Spotify linky:
Sisters Of Mercy – This Corrosion

P.S. Remind me to write about the Gothic thrills of Kensington Market some time.