SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

 8. WORLD OF TWIST : Lessons not learnt.

PART 1

MY FAVOURITE band; the band that fill me with the warmest memories were undoubtedly the World Of Twist. I still haven't truly forgiven my sister for pilfering my Embassy tee and I can still recall the great sorrow I felt when Tony and Syd died so close together. Kindred spirits. WOT made great press and preceded all the others who came in their wake, that found success diluting their formula, by light years.

Their favourite Julian Cope album was also mine (yes, the one whose lead single charted for one week at number 76), and they still spun in a similar musical orbit as myself, despite driving their raw form of psychedelia, soul, kitsch, and rock through antiquated gear and E to make uniquely mind blowing music. Whereas my hackneyed poetry delivered on a bed of basic garage riff and cheap micro-dot wasn't even escaping my head. 

The highwater marks for me were Blackpool Tower Suite and a mind blowing gig at the Ritz Ballroom. Un-burnished psychedelia and a playful ode to prog welded together in giant wave washes before finally teasing in a fresh way to introduce the purest version of the Storm. ABC would've been proud. I played it over and over. When we talk of tunes today and say things like, great for flailing on the hammock during a sunny day, we clean forget that music used to make us feel fucking majestic. Every hair was standing on end during that gig and listening to that record. 

They looked, moved, and sounded truly amazing. It reinvigorated a desire to catch the train to Manchester and go back into nightclubs after getting banned from the Hangout a year earlier. I was supposed to be catching an overnight ferry to Amsterdam's Paradiso Club from there, but couldn't locate my passport from inside my own coat pocket and was refused entry thereafter. Every bouncer in Manchester, it seemed, had a cousin who'd died of drugs.  

Yep, I tried the Konspiracy twice, but felt a bit too scared. Unfortunately, I also braved a train to Sheffield in March to watch them at the Leadmill, convinced I would meet like-minded folk to get me back home. I was instead freezing all night, until the first train arrived the morning after, too out of it to talk to anybody at the gig. Unlike the compos mentis who revelled in Kick Out the Jams, I just thought 'oh, shit' as my brain had shut off the receptors in my ears. Lesson not learnt. 

 

Their LP Quality Street sort of plopped and was hugely disappointing. As their songs were a confected pop, they needed a production that rubbed against them, to add a bit of menace, more attune to live renditions. Not the Grid, who attempted a DNA style dance makeover. Whereas DNA's treatments added space and value, the Grid just added a sugary overcoat to songs with the potential to be far better and basically buggered them up.

 

250k was a lot of money to waste back then. A great sleeve, though. Had the Storm gone top 20 I'm sure things would've been different. Hannett gave them an edgier sound, but their preferred choice, the legendary Keith Mansfield a Tony Blackburn favourite, may have fully realized their vision, had he not turned them down to tend his garden.  

The Mondays lad banter was wearing thin, so the comparative sophistication and eclecticism of a dance scene fed by the mere remnants of indie-dance, US house & garage, Balearic beats, and rave was the preferred social backdrop of choice for both myself and WOT. They were Hacienda veterans, but after cutting their teeth live at Isadora's with the seminal line up; they took up near residency in the Boardwalk. 

PART 2

THE BOARDWALK bouncers were better dressed than anyone, but back the WOT oozed style. Most of us wore ill-fitting clobber, more synonymous with the era. I recall the first-floor being like a sweaty gym full of chain smoking skinny folk in wrong fitting shorts all freaking out to suspect PA's by the likes of Sub Sub and Hypnotone. And an ever smiling DJ Tin-Tin who spun overplayed shit like Play that Funky Music and Back By Dope Demand. A very likeable chap when he wasn't DJing. 

Whereas upstairs a less likeable but more impressive John Robb would glare at folk, looking  like a constrained punk rocker or someone having about 20 light bulb moments all at once. Tony Ogden added to the intensity, saying things like 'don't buy that new single' with a stern expression. A born comic, he was also prone to fits of contagious laughter, usually after sharing his own wry observations. It was all, not as Bernard Sumner wrongly noted a 'bit we are weird' but  fucking wired. 

After attending many Most Excellent related nights and expecting massive things from Circus, that evolved out of Glitter Baby, a new Saturday night at the State, I found myself in the queue with Tony on its opening night and despite his disappointment with the album he was looking forward to headlining the Academy. In my typical wrong headedness, I assumed walking in with him would give me kudos. However, Ross Mackenzie, for the one and only time, instead turned me away.

We dejectedly moved to Legends propping up the bar, and I was truly gutted. Probably as gutted at missing Circus as he was playing back their album for the first time. We retired to my sister's car and discussed Elvis's Love me Tender, which we decided was better than the Memphis era. Whilst he rolled the biggest spliff I have ever seen, that he then smoked all by himself. The only other person selfish enough to do that in my company, albeit with dinky joints, was Nigel Pivaro, or Terry, as we then called him.

  

Surprisingly, he took up my invite to attend Luvdup, where he danced manically in full Saturday night attire in front of a big mirror like he was in a video shoot and not a mid-week party in the Venue. As it was a school night, I could only manage a slight shuffle and felt uncomfortable. 

The dance scene that kick-started Jockey Slut and many a career, in retrospect, did WOT no favours. Fluke whose single Philly was euphoric and a game-changer, instead remixed She's A Rainbow into a whimper and a fitting footnote for a year of wasted opportunity and money. Lessons not learnt. Nothing epitomises this cruel transfer of power more than a Paradise Factory, Jockey Slut night where the Dust Brothers, triumphantly, and in an act of unintentional irony, span The Mondays glorious WFL Hannett version whilst a dishevelled Tony, replete with full beard sat slumped over in the corner, with Julia (MC Shells) unable to pull him together. 

In time, we all take our turns at being triumphant and then slumped over, I guess, but the WOT took their turn far more intensely and with a lot more style than anyone else.   

 

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO 

7. RIDING ON THROUGH. the unsung glamorous life

PART 1

RUNNING CONCURRENTLY with the Hacienda's inflatable-fixated, hedonism craze was a more dressy poppy, and, knowing, London Wag acid-house craze. I wasn't part of either. I did, however, get a glass smashed over my head acid-dancing to S-Express's smash hit Theme from by a Beano- punk in Oldham. Mark Moore name-checked Wire and looked odd, which was enough to start an obsession that hasn't ended. I always salvage his colourful music from charity shops, so have mountains of it. Identity is important. However, defining oneself through style in an ocean of like-minded folk is tough and the style-mags that defined the era have a lot to answer for. 

ABC's dramatic and brilliant Lexicon of Love LP was my soulmate in a dreary Welsh caravan park in 1982 and still gets an occasional spin. Unfortunately, just like Paul Weller and Kevin Rowland, Martin Fry didn't just undergo musical changes thereafter. Ironically, his worst of many suspect wardrobe transformations was when he tried to impersonate the archetypal Shoom regular. The music was still boss though once recovered from charity shops years later. 

In contrast, Boy George even looked great on smack. Loud projection when done right is dazzling. Marc Almond made larger-than-life videos and always looked way cooler than his straight contemporaries when accompanying his technicolour music. His Stars We Are album was both a haven and a pop-up book of endless life possibility. I'd swapped the caravan park for the bedroom and only when leaving it and entering the Ritz, looking at a big room of uniform goth, did his allure start to fade. Unfortunately, our town also had an Almond look-alike who shagged my mate's missus. More disappointingly, he managed a Morrision's supermarket by day. 

Another early concert was Prince's Lovesexy tour. Possibly note perfect and definitely wonderful to watch. I was about 5 rows away but sort of knew that Cat was out of way out of my league, though thousands didn't think she was out of theirs. These select few pop stars who flirt with fashion always get it right whereas most of us don't. These same select few pop stars got momentarily swept aside as dance music's provincial sweep took hold, and hugging your mate's scruffy younger brother (a welder by day) became the club norm. The rave-scene democratized the music so that your mate's scruffy younger brother (a welder by day) could also write a hit single.

Thankfully, it wasn't too long a hiatus as gangs soon took control of the city and Dee-Lite the airwaves. I hid in the Number One club, The State, and even The Venue, whilst folk were shaking in fear at the Hacienda doorway. We were locked into the Like A Prayer acapella and Ce Ce Penniston pop heaven. 

Ross Mackenzie was a genius who picked up on the duality of style and music being equally important. Greg Fenton and Jon Dasilva with their disco and Chicago gouse sounds casually always attracted glamour, whereas Justin Robertson's proggresive house crowd needed weaning off their Ariel tee's and sort of looked uncomfortable in their Richmond clobber thereafter. There was something about the music that lent itself to glamour; Outrage's Tall N' Handsome always created a stampede of mainly straight guys. To say I was confused was an understatement, as I stampeded.

Trips to in Nottingham ensued, hearing D-Ream's Ur the Best Thing amazing Sasha dub for the first time. Shoom became Pure Sexy and dungarees were traded in for leather trousers. It was a crying shame that by the early hours of Sunday morning, most of us stank of piss and looked like shit. The high-water mark of such shenanigans was blinking from sleep and waking up next to Wonder, the Secret Knowledge diva with the everlasting woo's, then, blinking again and realizing I was fully clothed in a room full of fellow reprobates on a Salford flat floorboard.

 PART 2

 

WITH THE benefit of hindsight everyone who was anyone had a huge E rush in 1988 and had been chasing it ever since while the rest of us had this notion of what could be indelibly imprinted on our minds because of them, as we drank cheap brandy. 

I was just leaving park-culture behind and oblivious to the fact that Soft Cell's classic debut Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret was created on the very same E rush years earlier, and, was also getting confused as I realized I didn't fit into my surroundings both at work or in the boozer. I much preferred records and being out of my head, although my sisters insisted on taking money off me to buy a few trendy items that quickly got unsightly holes burned into them.

 

I was happy being a voyeur and soaking everything in and initially only Mark Luvdup made any effort to chat. When Most Excellent migrated to the Wiggly Worm, more folk engaged in conversation, but all I talked about was music and pop-fashions. I realize now that in those circles where folk work in record stores and hang around clothes shops that talking about music and fashion is boring. I made more headway when I demonstrated that dropping a bottle of rolling rock from a high-rise window will not smash it.

When Dee-lite played Manchester, it was a massive event. It was jampacked with all the faces out in force. Folk have written about the curse of having a massive hit and how it consigns the rest of the oeuvre to the shadows. Had they shelved Groove, they would've been truly massive. 

Consequently, whereas Soft Cell and Culture Club had multiple hit singles, S-Express and Dee-Lite didn't, despite making wonderful debut albums. By the time I met my hero Mark Moore in the Paradise Factory, I was a bit sick of garage and trance and especially his combination of both at the same time and was happy when his set finished. 

Similarly, in 1997, Boy George on a train journey to play some boutique dress-code club was perfectly cordial with my work-mate, chatting about this and that and posing for pictures with an uninteresting bag of records. He still looked great, and was no doubt building up some vexation, as he listened to my half cut mate talking about his divorce and West Ham United. I wanted him to shout 'Fuck-Off!' I shouted 'Fuck off! at the pair of them' only inaudibly, inside my head, which is where my angst ridden self also lived. I was a little less confused when the train arrived and I felt sheer relief watching him saunter off.

I then remembered I still had to share a taxi and that anecdote with my work-mate, indefinitely. 

HALF TERM REPORT

COVID-19, WHILST being a nightmare, has given me time to process some positive thoughts. I had put on some acts that would not have ordinarily happened. Antoine's London show was pulled, but thanks to a team effort, our show went ahead as planned. Jeb and Huw both met Chris, who was in a much better place to assist them than me. I caught Jeb spin some choice music with Chris and Fritz just before lock-down. A consummate gent as ever, he gave me my last handshake.

A second Torn Sail LP has become a reality and all I need is Huw to pop my copy in the post and wait about a fortnight. Excited. A big buzz for me last year was hearing Farel's Friday in July. George Koutalkieris then sent me a link to a new cut, and I was blown away. So pleased to see that same cut Early Morning Ferry precede an LP proper on Nunorthern Soul. It's the most accomplished piece on the sampler twelve and I'm proper made up. That said Huw's pal BJ Smith's breezy cover of the Prefabs mighty All the World Loves Lovers suffocates the song in summer. The world can be small and beautiful with enough quality musicians in it.

Music to forget COVID-19 has thankfully been a steady stream. Eclectics label is going from strength to strength with 2 twelves sent out and 2 in the pipeline. Of the 2 I've got Max Manetti's remix of Visions by Statues is the best. A haunting quality that teases out the vocal and still manages to scream out summer. And artwork by Santi Oviedo, whose mix series Brisa: Music for Tea can not be more highly recommended. Another label going down the Qrates route that needs support to realize releases is Balearic Social. Come payday I will be investing in it coz Misterioso by Expositions is brilliant. What was always a cottage industry is in greater decline when music this good takes an age to sell a 100 units. Begin has been posting some more of his mighty fine music on Bandcamp, most notably Super Barrio. There's enough for 2 twelves by my reckoning. Fingers crossed. We need lots more vinyl.

Or lots more cassettes. Another sleeve designed and crafted by Santi is Bobby Lee's Shakedown in Slabtown cassette. Only heard Sacred Swimming Hole then bought this pre-order on sight. The Rhizosphere DJ mix by Skyrager lovingly released by Good Morning Tapes is delightful, as is Manu Archeo's Cosmic Empathy mix released on Paesaggi records. Great mixes for contemplative long lock-down soaks, of which there have been many.

A few sevens have dripped through the pressing plants and fallen my way. I'm loving Saskia's understated synth pop gem, You Left Your Soul Behind on Stroom. My kind of bedroom bound gold dust. Thanks to Jason Boardman for sharing Maxado & Alex Figueira's Quando Sera. The flute version is glorious. Flower records spoiled me with 2 singles. Groovin' by Reggae Disco Rockers hits the spot whilst the brilliant Coastlines, West Coast, maintains their very high standard of sock free might. Would love to play all this music loud on a bloody great big beach, but instead it just wafts breezily into my modest outdoor space.

I have decided to invest more time and energy into SFH despite my misgivings about musical direction, live performance, and age. With no work-spar it is difficult, but music loving supersedes my love of art despite not having a piece of paper to suggest so. I realized this in Big Hands a few years ago when talking to a young band. I never get that buzz talking to folk in galleries. I only pursued study to improve my fanzine writing and worked to buy records and books and it sort of all spiralled out of control. Addictive personality in full effect. There will be a big announcement soon. Well, big, by my sorry standards.

11. FLUXABILITY

By Jean-Luc Razza

for Sock Free Hideaway

I WAS introduced to Jean-Luc Razza by the already much lamented Krossfingers, and I thought he was perfect for a marathon-mix, which is just as well coz that was exactly what he proposed. This interpretation of a SFH is that marathon and really takes us on a rewarding epic-journey, with enough undulating soft breezy passages to satisfy the horizontally inclined, and enough subtle intensity to reward anyone desiring unexpected harmonies. Less unexpected now. Jean-Luc, a massive thank you for truly going above and beyond the call of duty and digging out so much sun-kissed vinyl. The rest of you, enjoy your afternoon on the hammock ...

https://www.mixcloud.com/david7322/jean-luc-razza-fluxability-mix-for-sock-free-hideaway/

In his own words;

I’m from Mayo (West of Ireland) living in Cork city.

Been collecting records years and years. I co- run a night called Not How, When! with Flukey Flukes and Sonny Emerald. We started it in 2008 and have had many guests over to various venues in Cork like Phil Mison, Abel Nagengast, Andi Hanley, Jan Schulte, Tako Reyenga and many more.

As well as Cork we travel around and guest at other underground parties. Most memorable in past years were Backwards (Limerick), One Night Love Affair (Galway), Bierhaus (Galway), Hang Dai (Dublin), A very special 3 hour set on Red Light Radio (Amsterdam) and the superb Dynamic Range Music Bar (Zaandam). Just doing some Radio at the moment in Cork on Radio Otherway and like everyone, hoping we get back to being able to dance together soon.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

 

6. SPACEMEN 3 : In the church of the poisoned mind.

PART 1

MY OCD, hypochondria, and poor mental health have meant the last few months have been hard. In retreat I was initially submerged in other people's mixes and nostalgia, but lately I've hidden in the cassette world of my own fucked up late teens. 

Acid house was strange to me at first. I loved a lot of the music but hated the tribalism and easy fashion. Peers who generally wore suits on nights out disappeared to shit places like Blackburn, dressed like an ill-fitting Bananarama, after sitting tripping in the pub for an hour, hiding in their walk-man's. 

Not folk I could relate to in any way. What was being conveyed in Off-Beat magazine and the music press about all the love and unity wasn't corresponding to my actual experiences. When I finally began tripping, I was on a far higher plane. My music was much more potent and everything in society was going to change. The Spacemen 3 had taken over much of my life. I stopped attending church coz in all truth; I felt I was receiving communion through their music. I didn't like Revolution all that much, but loved the soft gospel washes and fuzzy drones that got bolder and bolder, becoming fully realized songs on Honey and Lord Can You Hear Me?

To counterbalance the seriousness, I'd still play the clown and fuck myself up. Hence, my entry into the club. I was very lucky that a shop existed called Musicworld in my local town that seemed to stock everything. So much Spacemen related back catalogue was bought there. Glass originals no one had gone near. I wasn't in a proper mental state to venture out to Eastern Bloc on many occasions. Their re-work of Red Crayola's Transparent Radiation is simply majestic. Moving the psychedelic centre of the universe to Rugby is no mean feat. Hats off!

Consequently, there's a lot of sadness stirring as I reread the lofty pretentiousness of my late teens, made manifest in these notebooks that accompany the cassettes. It's not unsurprising to learn that covid has meant I have had time to scrawl through these notebooks and listen to these cassettes. For someone uneducated, I was both deeply angry and analytical. I dropped out of school late so still had a bit of brain I guess. I was furious that the Stone Roses were sweeping everything aside, as I sat on the floor, in the Hacienda, zoning out to the Spacemen 3. The Monday club was far livelier the week before when the local band played, but not as brilliant.  

I was devastated at missing what was to be their final show at the Reading Festival. They were on Friday afternoon and my coach was late. I was in a right state watching New Order later that night. Think I had the Stooges in my headphones at some point. Their interviews along with fellow West Midlands icon Lawrence's were my favourites coz unlike Morrissey, whose cleverness was selfish, they were turning me onto music that changed my perceptions forever. Unlike many acts, re-working covers punctuate throughout, and, looking beyond classic albums, meant I was constantly in charity shops through their pre-internet heydays.  

According to my notes, I was very angry with the management at work. I'm guessing their biggest crime was being alive, as I was in part responsible for sending my own father (a manager), to an early grave. This was possibly why I fucked myself up. I identified with the Spacemen 3, and Mudhoney, and had a cordial relationship with Paul Smith, who managed Blast First records. They always responded to my letters, admittedly in the Spacemen's case only when I bought something. Sonic Youth in contrast, were like acid house luminaries. Very sharp and imposing characters. 

I was also very shy, but so desperate to feel a part of something. Looking back, not fitting in at all, has done me no great harm. When I play these cassettes, they sound very eclectic still. A lot of US imports, ambient, and nearly always a Spacemen 3 track. Jack Barron, Dele Fadele, Everett True, John Robb and Simon Dudfield were my portal in. Snub TV was all I watched. Over and over. 

I hated Andrew Collins for slating Sonic Boom's Spectrum LP. Making a prison out of records and drugs was also what I was doing. No wonder I was angry at the criticism levelled at him. There was no doubt that he had taken over Brian Jones as my guru, and both led me to make some shockingly bad decisions in life.

PART 2

RECURRING WAS a one sided LP as far as I was concerned. Uncharacteristically, I even bought a CD to hear their Mudhoney cover of When Tomorrow Hits. An almighty version. Big City fittingly became a clubland smash at the century's end when after all I got was ridicule for namedropping them constantly throughout the 90s. Jason Pierce, with his more commercial songs, split the band I loved. Spectrum was a conciliation. 

Their debut Soul Kiss was astounding and made that year's Reading Festival headliners, the Inspiral Carpets, organ derived pop, sound utterly childish. I stayed in my tent in protest when the Inspirals were playing, but did venture out on the Sunday to watch Spiritualized. I was hyper-critical. Noting that the sit down gig had no energy. By contrast, I saw Spectrum at the International play a mesmerizing Friday show to a packed audience. Albeit, by being billed as Sonic Boom. The pre-show music, which included Julian Cope's unheralded but brilliant My Nation Underground, created a lot of energy. 

By 1994's second long player Undo the Taboo, they kept in step with so much subtle techno I was playing, yet remained a cult. I997's Forever Alien sort of makes that explicit. Its first two sides share some resemblance with song structures of the past, but the last sides are far more experimental, signalling Sonic's road ahead.

These albums are truly mind-blowing and are all way ahead of their time. I was angry with Pierce and wasn't reconciled until I heard Ladies and Gentlemen. I think him getting fucked over by Richard Ashcroft gave me the closure I needed. I even began playing side 2 of Recurring and was blown away.

Attending the Spiritualized Sunday show at the Hacienda (shortly before its closure), seemed fitting, but I was still a bit disappointed in support Spring Heel Jack. They seemed too stylized, and I recall being sober enough to watch Tiger Woods win his first masters later in the evening. Not something I was capable of doing in 1989. I even ditched the lifestyle and went back to my local parish church.

I was so overcome with emotion when I realized all the great music I've been turned onto by wonderful people still sounded magical straight. Still does.

THANK YOU FOR ENDING

MY YEAR, thankfully, petered out whilst so many folks capitulated to forces of darkness. With their moral compasses smashed and their ears turned to cloth, their red-faced anger is now all they have left. At the turn of the millennium, me and Rob cobbled together fanzine pieces titled Mentalism : Bitter and Twisted in the 21st Century which were ahead of their time. The dehumanization that characterizes modern living was felt by us earlier than most. What did we have a beef with? Everything. Thanks to the power of music, I found my way back to the light.

Fantasy Love re-issued Oscar Weathers wonderful We're Running out of Time just before the years, end. It's a warm twelve that is relentlessly groovy. Athens of the North rivalled it by skittlin' 3 want-list gems in one go. Unfortunately, the pressing on Al Charles Outstanding is poor. Fortunately, I have no such beef with Sonia's Easier to Love and Jean & Trevor's Back together Again. Absolute bombs.

2019 saw the big-hitters Lexx and Psychemagik deliver the long-player goods. Cosmic Shift saw Lexx bring the summer to life. So much goodness but my favourites are Too Hot and Hot Weather. The latter features Harriet Brown's  silky vocals. Gorgeous. Also check out Apiento's Down that Road to hear that voice radiating warmth into the cold winter nights. Was surprised to learn from Paul Hillery that Psychemagik's Valley of Paradise was an organically derived piece of studio orchestration and not an edit. Played as a whole, I Feel how this Night should Sound is truly epic. La Paix Est Une Fleur absolutely soars and I begin to heal. I owe these artists more than they'll ever know.

More low-key but equally praiseworthy is Steve Cobby's Sweet Jesus long player. His intimate video-clips let us peek into his musical universe, but the final result still disarmed me by being a creation of pastoral elegance. Chauffeur De Camion sets the benchmark high on side a but finally gets eclipsed on the final track Truer than Words. Hard to recognize the same man in terms of style who made the brilliant Saudade in 2014, but the quality is still identical. 

I've been lucky enough to hear the 2nd Torn Sail album Leisue & Technology. Without giving away too many spoilers, only 2 tracks Sadness All Over and A Beautiful life are reminiscent of the songs contained on the majestic debut. I also hear a third is in the can. Buses spring to mind. Magic buses. A special mention needs to go to Seance Centre who not only produced 2 gems but also turned me onto my only contemporary cassette purchase and The Students. Coincidental that like Efficient Space and Be With who jointly put out reissue of the year to propel the talent that is Steve Hiett, the label intended to release Robert Oumaou's work to introduce him to a wider audience.

Sadly, both passed away before seeing the warm reception these releases both received. Compiled from 3 LP's Gwakasonné's Vwayajé is dynamite. W3 and Nirvacina are the highlights, but the whole collection is accomplished and a truly fitting tribute to Oumaou. Not to be outshone, Smokey Haangala's 76 set Unka Ma Kwacha is truly hypnotic and cements the label as serious hitters. Check out Lungowe for the full effect. As if these offerings weren't enough, they turned me onto a wonderful cassette by C R Gillespie called Tlon. Both warm and subtly atmospheric the artist sent me some lavender that also gave it healing properties. I needed healing and still do. The Students LP Students in Summer was their last gift to me and is the best indie LP I'd not heard. The quality of both the record and pressing is top-notch, but when I proudly waved it at Antoine, he couldn't hide his disdain. He may find an original or more than likely have one or two already. For us mere mortals, this is essential.

  

As 2020 begins, I already own an amazing Steele Bonus cassette. Ideal Mix-Tape 26 is simply great. Just check out Tapes Summer Jam on Em. Fantastic. As if that's not suggesting the year is off to a flyer Beats in Space are releasing a new Andras LP Joyful. Check out River Red for an instant moment.

I think this year will be better. A lot better.

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO 

 5. Blisters and bruises; Icerink records.

PART 1 

COINCIDING WITH my first real taste of introspection, the Icerink label, run by the boys from Saint Etienne, and a subsidiary of Creation, came into being. Unlike Sarah records, this label had some reprobates on its roster and was all the better for it. John Robb was a Sounds journo who I was used to seeing frequently and the promo of his band's Sensuround debut Blind Faith contained a Doors sample which was given a Creation records catalogue number. It's as rare as hen's teeth, but somewhat imperfect.  

However, once plugged by Justin Robertson, the Icerink version lost the sample but gained a whopping Dean Thatcher remix. The oscillating swing between guest vocalist Tracey Carmen and Robb's voices, dark and light, euphoria and gloom, night and day, was made starker, and it became arguably the most epic progressive track of the era. Robb, with an apology to Jon Savage, penned some memorable sleeve notes that also infused a bit of energy in what was a pretty drab time to be alive. 

I saw them support MBV at the Ritz and thought pop stardom awaited. With such a strong stage presence, it was little wonder that he was feted by Jockey Slut to grace the cover of their second edition. Had entertainment been preoccupied with intensely glorious oddballs and not the exploitation of labour, their story could've been very different.  

Alas, their second and final single When I Get To Heaven pushed hard on the euphoria button without letting in the dark forces until the third track. Had they been from continental Europe and not Mancunian, they may have got away with it, but as it was, they sank without a trace. The overlooked third track Deep Inside Your Love (Hulme mix) crawls and snakes out of the woodwork and the blurb got it right by noting that it sounds just like The Residents covering Hank Williams.

Golden was this seemingly fey girl band but there was something a little darker at work below the surface. They had Micky Finn remixes when he was a buzzword on jungle cassettes and covered Pulp long before they became a household name. Debut standout Don't Destroy Me stands up with the best of the era.

There was something similar going on with Andrew Loog Oldham and Marianne Faithfull in 1964, but she had Jagger / Richards penning her hit, making her an overnight sensation. Anglo-American (Finn Family Dub) is a little less subtle and is a relentless piece of twisted dance-floor pop. An essential salvage from any mid nineties bargain crate. When reading the liners you get the feeling that after a few shandies all these by the wayside musical references were the brainchild of Saint Etienne too, but I did think they were dead cool at the time, because of it, before the cynicism set in. 

I-D Aug 91

I'm reminded of the time Natalie, who always gave Most Excellent related nights a bit of glamour, later confided in me that promoter Ross had to buy her dresses to keep her attending his nights. On the one hand, I thought 'yeah, genius', but on the other hand I'd have liked a night off myself. Reminding myself that it's the 'time of my life.' Luckily, it wasn't. 

PART 2

THE LABEL was allegedly committed to the glittery pop dream and creating pop stars, and in a weird way, that is what it did. Shampoo were a bit like the Monkees in that they were manufactured, but, whereas the sixties band tried to wrestle control from the poppy producers and session players, they instead rebelled against the pure punk aesthetics imposed on their debut. Arguably the most snarly song of the nineties, Bouffant Headbutt with its line 'you're fucking dead' sort of scared the pants off me. 

Co-written with Lawrence, the follow up Blisters and Bruises injected a pop influence that made them sound like Chequered Love era Kim Wilde. The blueprint for their success was formulated. Unfortunately, not on Icerink as Lawrence was/ is still the unluckiest man in pop. He put out a single on the label that was a precursor for his Novelty Rock album under the guise of Supermarket. Ray Keith turned in a remix that unsurprisingly still rocks but predictably it too sank without a trace. 

Massive kudos to Bob for releasing Earl Brutus's skull-fuck of a glittery stomper Life's Too Long, on the label. Not least because it is. He saw the remnants of World of Twist and If? And had his own mind blown and so kindly decided to blow ours. If this was twinned on a good sound-system with The Fall at their deranged best, people would go insane. And I do mean insane.  

 

     

For me, the story ends with the dubby majesty of Oval. Love Hour wrestles a great Human League song out of the hands of Martin Rushent and instead hands it to Burt Bacharach. Creating something saccharine yet somehow elegant in the process. A future pop classic even. Ginger Kilburn is the opus that plays like a swan-song for the label itself. Brilliant, but should be longer. 

The genius of Icerink was that (Lawrence excepted) it captured everybody at the zenith of their musical powers. John Robb and Shampoo may disagree, but in order to stay in the public consciousness, they had to become caricatures of themselves. Not even necessarily themselves. Whatever they first tested out on this label. That potency to my mind marks their musical zenith. Whilst their roster was falling to pieces, a compilation CD surfaced as a footnote featuring the usual suspects. If it ever gets a vinyl pressing, I might dive in. Icerink both looked at the past and future to create a scene inside a scene. 

Like Natalie, and Most Excellent, it tried to distance itself by putting a bit of sparkle into a landscape otherwise swamped in beige and the constant talk of excess.