October, 2013. Here are a few of the songs I found on the
Internet. Filtered for your listening pleasure.
"Vibration (Parts 1 and 2)", by Joe Brown and the
Soul Eldorados. When I was a kid, listening to ABC radio sport on a Saturday
afternoon, every half an hour or so they would cut to a horse race, which would
inevitably be called by Joe Brown. He was a Melbourne horse racing legend. This
is not that Joe Brown.
"Hey Joe", by Johnny Hallyday. Like The Beatles in
England, Johnny Hallyday was so big in France that he didn't have to put his
name on his record covers. Just the word "Johnny" and a photograph
would suffice to project his records into the stratosphere. On the one hand,
this is just another cover version of what must be one of the most covered
songs in the history of the world. On the other hand, it's in French, which
sets it apart and gives it just a hint of the exotic.
"No Fun", by Doctor Mix. So anyway, I don't
profess to know everything there is to know about the UK music scene in the
post-punk era, but I am nevertheless surprised when something comes up that I
would have expected to have at least heard of, or read about. Especially if it
was released as a Rough Trade seven-inch. And especially if it was a cover of a
song by The Stooges. So here we go: Doctor Mix. Never heard of them. "No
Fun", by Doctor Mix. On Rough Trade. Never heard of it. I wonder what else
is out there, lurking in the historical shadows. (Also, the picture sleeve
looks like the cover of a Stereolab record 20 years before the fact.)
"Screaming in the Darkness", by Pauline Murray and
the Invisible Girls. It must be something like 35 years since I last heard this
song. The Invisible Girls were the banged-together studio band of producer
Martin Hannett, who also provided the musical accompaniment for John Cooper
Clarke's northern poetry. This song positively reeks of Manchester circa 1980. The
credits disavow the idea that it is Barry Adamson on bass but, come on, nobody
else plays the bass like that.
"Sportsman", by Haruomi Hosono. Electronic pop
music from Japan, from the dawn of the 1980s. It is, I think, just far enough
to the left of cheese to be embraceable by you, me, and everybody else.
"Curtains", by Yukihiro Takahashi. As above,
except without so much of the cheese. Yuki was the pure-pop voice of YMO, I
think, Hosono the larrikin experimentalist/comedian (YMO's Holger Czukay,
perhaps) and Ryuichi Sakamoto the lush emotional heart. Together they were
unbeatable, but individually each was strong enough to stand on his own two
feet.
"Blowout", by Jah Wobble. Earlier, we mentioned
Barry Adamson. Wobble was the other notable bass player of the era (well, we
can't really not mention Peter Hook), responsible for the
concrete-floor-crushing bottom end of Public Image Ltd. He went on to have a
prolific, if largely unheralded, solo career (which continues). This
twelve-inch from 1985 picks up where the "Snake Charmer" EP, from a
year or so earlier, left off.
"I'm In Love With a German Film Star (Original Radio
Edit)", by Sam Taylor-Wood produced by Pet Shop Boys. This is where it
gets difficult. The original of this song, by The Passions, is so deeply
embedded in the core of my, uh, being, that if the song itself somehow ceased to exist, I suspect
that I would, too. So I am reluctant to delve too deeply into the reason for my
connection with it, for fear that to do so would only end up destroying the
bond. Fortunately, I don't have to: this version, essentially a tastefully
Kompaktified take on the song, has all the charm and ineffable mystery of the
original, and I can enjoy it guilt-free and without having to undergo therapy.
Phew.
"International Smark", by Payfone. Where the hell has this come from? It seems to be, at fleeting moments, bursting straight
out of the Propaganda playbook, but with clean lines that bring it up to date
sonically, and with a delicate hint of, of all things, "yacht rock"
guitar. Well, that's what I'm hearing. Any way you cut it, though, it is
irresistible.
"Up and Down (Beep) (Special Disco Version)", by
Moxie. AKA (allegedly, anyway) a James Murphy/Pat Mahoney "re-edit"
from 2008 of an obscure late-seventies banger that might conveniently (if
possibly misguidedly) be labelled italo/space disco. Listen to what it does
around the 2.45 mark. And then what it does around the 3.45 mark. And at the
5.30 mark. Then there's what happens at 8.50. In fact, you might as well just
sit back and enjoy the whole shebang. Warning: contains cowbells. Surprise!
"Down South", by Museum of Love. And speaking of
Pat Mahoney, this is a recent project involving him. On DFA, naturally. If you
ask me, it has a bit of an old-school John Foxx feel to it. Which is fine by
me.
"Dancing With the Mentally Ill", by Club 8. I
wouldn't be surprised to find out that these folk had been listening to the
third Raincoats album before making this record. File under "tribal
pop". (Note: YouTube clip below has gratuitous four minutes of silence at the end of the song. Enjoy!)
"Garden's Heart", by Natasha Khan and Jon Hopkins.
You could take the high road with this one and say that it puts you in mind of
Cocteau Twins. Or you could take the low road and say that it puts you in mind
of Enya. Me, I'll take the high road, but the evidence might not be all one way.
"Living for Love", by Realities. File under
"dream pop". I really don't know what else I can say.
"Gillie Amma, I Love You", by Four Tet. This
drifts on a bed of benign synths, in a way that Four Tet's more recent releases
haven't done. Pillowy voices float in and out of, and around, the music. It's a
bit mysterious, and slightly unsettling (or ominous). It's like you spend most
of its length waiting for the point, until eventually you realise that the
absence of point is its point. And a point well made.
"Tahoultine", by Mdou Moctar. You heard Peter
Frampton sing "I want you / To show me the way". So you tried to show
him the way; but you gave him bad directions, and he ended up in the African
desert. While there, he lost his "talking box". A wandering Tuareg
found it, and decided to make a record. This is that record.
"Time", by Lambert & Nuttycombe. No, I've
never heard of them either. But from the darkened corners of Herb Alpert's
A&M Records they sprang forth with this small acoustic gem, in the style
of, let's say, Phil Ochs' "Changes", which, in an alternative 1970,
could have been huge.
