SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO
15. POKING MY EYES OUT TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE: BETA BAND, JULY 1999
PART 1
A WORD of warning campers national express coaches are to the world of travel what ketamine is to the world of drugs. A really bad trip. However, due to a low-budget I had to endure a six-hour journey to Victoria in this sorry form of transportation. I could've sworn I'd prematurely started hallucinating, when, on arrival, wandering around Trafalgar, every other person had a riot squad helmet on. I only had the misfortune to run right into the centre of the Anti-Capitalism demonstrations.
On my way to the tube these protesters meant nothing to me, and, only on my way to Kilburn did I give it a second thought and challenged myself to think of one person who's benefited from the over-privileges, fortune offers in the 20th century. I couldn't think of anybody. I was travelling there to witness a gig by a group I consider being of great significance in these sorry times; The Beta Band. Having been fortunate enough to attend their gig in Manchester last year, where they managed to colour-in an otherwise dull Monday night, I was somewhat disappointed by the lack of intimacy and friendliness in London.
Its feel-good warmth was replaced by something akin to cynical isolation. Although their music still transcended me to a warmer place that offered some hope, it was a place nonetheless where I knew I was all alone. Once again an alien voyeur peering over the ledge only to be blinded by the light.
When they kicked into an eagerly anticipated Hard One, it all made the most perfect sense. The 20th Century was all about looking, but hopefully the future will engage us in more stimulating ways. Sight is for wimps. And with this newfound realization, I shook a few limbs to the ever-varying House Song, then just shut my eyes until the music stopped and the punters had exited. Basically, until the bouncers tapped me on the shoulder telling me to 'fuck off.'
I departed via a mini-cab to Brixton, due to a failure on the tube-line, and sat back, pretending to be blind. The driver pulled over right outside the gaff without stopping the cab once. I needed some confirmation, and he concurred that he hadn't hit one red-light. I'm onto something here, right?
PART 2
FAST FORWARD to my arrival back here with their self-titled LP spinning on my stereo, and I'm listening out for something. Like, really listening. You see, this album, by and large, has been given cracking reviews. Albeit, a few rags called it patchy and self-indulgent. But, the only people to label it 'complete shite' are the band themselves. I read their self-depreciation on the way to Kilburn and presumed they were just taking the piss, but, having now watched their live set and re-read the article, I now know they were deadly serious. (I'm still listening.)
The band, current media darlings, are signed to EMI and had already stated in the past that they wanted a similar license as The Beatles had when they produced Sgt Peppers. The same studio time to 'fuck about for fun.' They weren't given it.
They don't over assault us visually to court MTV. If they wanted the big-screen, they'd direct feature-films. It must be soul-destroying for a band with earnest ambition to witness today's record-company investments. They aren't alone. Badly Drawn Boy's live set is suffering similar setbacks. One minute he's anonymous in the crowd, then the next the stage lights flash and the crowd cheers with over expectancy. He's up there, alone, with his low number of instruments.
He makes beautifully intense, soulful pop in the studio, but he's shrewd enough to know he can never meet his audience's demands, so gives us short sets. A knowing 'fuck you.' These artists suffer because they're solely interested in creating honest, emotive music, and don't want any part in the fake lifestyle that record-companies still invest the bulk of their money in. We've become a nation so pre-occupied with looking and talking that we've forgotten how to listen and think.
It's now time to acknowledge thousands of wonderful, sacrificial skeletons for giving us such stunning, fantastical art to take with us into the next century, but to also acknowledge that for all its beauty, history will still define it as an ugly century.
Only by opening our hearts and ears more and our mouths and eyes less can we begin to capture any real beauty in the future.
I wrote this for Brian's short-lived 409 fanzine back in the summer of 1999.
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