Featured

THE NEW PERFECT COLLECTION Follow @tnpcollection

The Perfect Collection was published in 1982. Subtitled “The Rock Albums everybody should have and why”, editor Tom Hibbert and his contributors selected 200+ albums, which, if you bought them all, you’d have a “broad, balanced, lively, collection of all thats best in rock music”.

When this book appeared in our local library it consumed and obsessed us. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t inspire us to track down all of the records like some other lists of the “greatest records ever made” (I’ve still not heard some of them). It included Vanilla Fudge’s The Beat Goes On which it claims is probably the worst album ever made. It included Pat Boone, Cliff Richard and Gary Glitter and omitted Howlin’ Wolf, Link Wray, T Rex and Can.

Where the book got it right was the inclusion of some records which I have never seen included in any other best of lists. It turned us on to records like The Standells’ Try It, The Seeds’ Raw & Alive and The Flaming Groovies’ Teenage Head which remain firm favourites thirty plus years after first reading about them. It included Gene Clark’s No Other and Big Star’s Radio City which were not acknowledged as classics for another decade or two.

While it included many of the big hitters and acknowledged classics, what was clear was that the rest of these albums were the real personal favourites of the contributors, the ones that you would fight for.

What we intend to do is write about the 200 or so albums that we would include in our perfect collection. While it would be tempting to only include records recorded since the books publication, it may include what we would consider glaring omissions from the original book. Like the book, if an artist has two albums of equal artistic merit, an alternative  choice will be denoted with an ‘a’. Various artist compilation were not included in the book, and will not be included here (sorry Nuggets et al) We have tried to avoid the bigger names and shine a light on those names that don’t usually figure in best of lists.

Dedicated to

Tom Hibbert, Andy Schwartz, Brian Hogg, Bill Knight, Chris Charlesworth, C. P. Lee, Chris Welch, Fran Kershner, Giovanni Dadomo, Harry, Shapiro, Ian Birch, John Tobler, Kerry King, Michael Heatley, Mike McDowell, Martin Plimmer, Mark Williams, Nigel Cross, Neville Wiggins, Peter Clark, Patrick Humphries, Paddy Poltock, Paul Whitcombe, Stephen Lee, Sally Payne.

Advertisements

118. CRAIG DAVIES – LIKE NARCISSUS (1988) Guest Contributor: Edgar Breau (Simply Saucer)

Edgar Breau is frontman of Canadian psych-punk legends Simply Saucer, still going strong after 40 years. The band’s classic Cyborgs Revisited featured in TNPC last year. We invited Edgar to write about one of his own favourite underrated albums. As lost gems go, this takes some beating…

I found this beguiling LP by Manchester singer songwriter Craig Davies on an afternoon foray through the junk store aisles of Bibles for Mission thrift store on Upper Wellington St. on Hamilton Ontario’s ‘mountain’, as we call it, really it’s an escarpment. There lying next to the usual Mantovani, Percy Faith, James Last. polka assortments, scratchy beer stained country albums and obscure hillbilly gospel local legends, was an LP on Rough Trade by someone I had never heard of but which I picked up, curious . The record was entitled Like Narcissus, the cover a blurred orangey blotchy photo of Craig. My copy was a ‘Special Low Price LP Limited Edition’, used of course, and at 49 cents, a real bargain as I would soon discover. The insert told me that the great Danny Thompson, founding member of Pentangle played stand up bass on it. Recorded in 1988, the songs are timeless classics sung in a strange, oddly adaptable quivering voice at times reminiscent of Marc Bolan, Tom Waits, Bowie perhaps but finally in the last analysis totally Craig Davies and strikingly original.

There’s a bluesy, New Orleans folk jazz beat poety approach on all the material. It’s a rainy day record, darkly comic at times, romantic. Think the Buckleys, a bit Scott Faganish, I dunno you decide. A find! Worth the trip to a most unlikely place to find a cult artist of this stature. I’m ordering his second 1990’s offering, Groovin’ on a Shaft Cycle. Can’t wait!!

Edgar Breau (November 2017)

117. PAUL BUTTERFIELD BLUES BAND – EAST-WEST (1966) Guest Contributor: Rick Brown (The Misunderstood)

TNPC is delighted to invite frontman of legendary ’60s psych outfit The Misunderstood, to tell us about one of his favourite ‘lost gems’.

During the mid 1960s the electric guitar as a lead instrument came of age in the UK. It seems to initially have been brought to the fore by his holiness Eric Clapton, but carried to perfection by his successor Jeff Beck.

Beck combined sustain, fuzz and treble with style, progressing with each song until finally, in ‘Mister You’re A Better Man than I’, he gave birth to the phenomenon of the lead guitar solo being the stand out part of the song. Subsequently people would anticipate the next Yardbirds release just to hear the guitar solo.          

But back in the USA, the guitar players were nothing of the sort. If British lead guitarists could have been compared to “Mods on acid,” then the USA versions were more like “hillbillies on glue”. This was the thinking at the time The Misunderstood went to UK in 1966.    

In London we were excited about the lead guitarists, from late Mick Wayne (Junior’s Eyes) up to Beck – the master himself. In UK, lead guitar was supreme; and we were in awe of the British “metallic” sound of The Creation and The Who, etc., etc.. So much power and ‘edge’. Even Hendrix had to tap into that British sound in order to make it. 

But from the Yank ranks we had no one to brag about, except Mike Bloomfiefd. It seemed like Bloomfield was the only American lead guitarist who was respected in the UK at the time East-West came out.  

East-West was the 2nd album by Paul Butterfield Blues Band – and featured the long instrumental of the same name. The title track takes the listener around the world musically, and Bloomfield is fantastic. At some points the drone becomes so intense it can give one goosebumps. 

Other outstanding tracks on the album, including ‘Walkin’ Blues’ are all powerful electric guitar and harp driven blues rockers – better heard than explained. The entire album is outstanding. Nevertheless East-West has fallen into some obscurity now, and I have been surprised by the number of people who have never heard it. Of course the harmonica playing of Paul Butterfield is a whole other subject.

This album is worth a listen by any one who loves intense lead guitar and harmonica. East-West never gets outdated.

Rick Brown (The Misunderstood, Nov 24, 2017)

116. THE MISUNDERSTOOD- BEFORE THE DREAM FADED (1982*)

When it comes to the Champions League Cup Final of pub debates – that of course being which are the greatest albums ever made – there inevitably arises the odd point of contention. For instance, there are those records which proffer such a sharp contrast in styles between their two sides so as to make consensus virtually impossible. These albums may be a major triumph (Low, Bringing It All Back Home, Neu ’75), a minor triumph (Rust Never Sleeps), or perhaps something less than a triumph (Abbey Road). Then there are those double albums (The Beatles, Tago Mago) and triple albums (Sandinista!, All Things Must Pass) which some will argue would have been better as a single volume, and others (Tales From Topographic Oceans, The Wall) which others reckon ought not to exist at all. Next there are those albums let down by at least one clunker (Surfs Up, Younger Than Yesterday, dare I be as bold to suggest Revolver?) But might it be a legitimate choice to include a record based on the merits of only one of its two sides? I certainly think so. Take for example Da Capo by Love, justly lauded in the original book The Perfect Collection. A magnificent first side certainly, but who ever really listens to ‘Revelation’? Then there’s the whole issue around the validity of including compilation albums. Often a hung jury is declared on that one.
Given the latter two considerations, it may appear like utter folly to make allowance for one whole side of what is ostensibly a Best Of compilation, for that album would for many, fail the test on both counts. And yet it would be equally foolish to exclude Before The Dream Faded by The Misunderstood on the basis of the otherwise quite reasonable gripe that it contains only six tracks worthy of note. For what if those six tracks authentically rank among the greatest psychedelic tracks ever recorded?

The Misunderstood were formed in Riverside California in 1963, one of the many thousands of garage bands to spring up across the States following the Brit Invasion. And like so many other bands of the time, their sound was a coalescence of bruising R&B, Bo Diddley shuffles and high-powered beat music. Nothing particularly new there, but by ’65 the embryonic fourpiece had gained a reputation as a fearsome live act. Not only that, but they also staked a claim to be one of the first bands to pioneer the live psychedelic light show. John Peel, then working as a DJ at KMEN in California, immediately recognised their potential, rating their performance at Pandora’s Box in Hollywood in early ’66 as one of the ten best live performances he ever witnessed in his life. At Peel’s behest the band were persuaded to move to London, in retrospect a somewhat strange move, considering the explosion of acid rock and psychedelia taking place back home in California. By then however, they had undergone some personnel changes – guitarists Greg Treadwell and George Phelps were replaced by Tony Hill and Glenn Ross Campbell respectively – leading to a vital and inspirational alteration of their sonic landscape. Now, with Campbell’s steel guitar at the centre, no-one else sounded remotely like them. The future looked promising, but after recording only seven tracks in London, vocalist Rick Brown was forced to return to The States to face the draft board. Eventually Fontana picked up the band, releasing two 45s before they disbanded. Peel famously quipped that: “By God, they were a great band! If they hadn’t been broken up by the US Government when they tried to draft Rick … they would have ruled the world.” Of that claim, one can only speculate. The four sides of those 45s along with two other tracks recorded at the time, make up the first side of Before The Dream Faded. And well, this is really about as good as it gets…

On ‘Children Of The Sun’ which initially appeared as one side of the second 45 from the sessions, Steve Whiting’s turbo charged bass struggles to wrap itself around Tony Hill’s scything feedback-drenched guitar. This is ‘Shapes Of Things’ on a seriously heavy dose of steroids and Whiting’s three-dimensional throb takes on a life of it’s own, predating John Cale’s jaw dropping outro on ‘White Light/ White Heat’ by over twelve months. Meanwhile, Rick Brown’s primitive howl seems at first to speed up then to slow down – is it poor mastering, or is it designed to mess with your head? – as he emphatically proclaims his acid-fried manifesto: “Let go lovely children/Close your eyes and drift away/When you wake again tomorrow/You’ll be born again to stay/Thus the word of love has spoken/You’ve joined the children of the sun.”


As explosive as ‘Children Of The Sun’ is, ‘My Mind’ is even more innovative, beginning with some Eastern raga-esque harmonics before Whiting’s pummelling sliding bass distortions take over. Brown is on top form now: “If there is anyone in my mind/Would they please take themselves away/Cause all time to stop/Cause all light to fade” …then a stuttering frenetic mess of thoughts and sound:..”There is no sense in this dimension/If I could leave there’d be no question/Of what I’d find/Peace of mind yeah…” and then…suddenly…the strangest intrusion you will ever hear in the middle of a madcap psychedelic wigout – Campbell’s steel guitar. Playing a different tune. On its own. It belongs as much here as a theremin solo would in the middle of ‘Pretty Vacant’ – at first that sense of utter incongruousness is unavoidable but slowly gives way to the realisation that this is insanely beautiful, utterly inspirational.

Next up and you expect they might have dug out their old workclothes to tackle Bo’s ‘Who Do You Love’. Not so. First of all the intro segues so seamlessly from the tail of ‘My Mind’ as to render the junction indistinguishable, before it’s zig zagging chords slowly begin to relent and Diddley’s standard is savagely ripped apart like a rag doll. And then Campbell repeats his feat, although this time, it seems less a bizarre musical interlude, than one of the most beautiful and haunting instrumental sections in all of popular music. If, on acid, Brian Wilson really did see God, then Campbell must have ingested a double dose of the same compound, for this brief but bewitching passage is genuinely paradisaical.

The macabre lyrical content of ‘I Unseen’ (“I’m only seven although I died/In Hiroshima long ago/I’m seven now as I was then/For I am dead, yes I am dead/My hair was scorched by swirling flame/My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind/Death came and turned my bones to dust/And that was scattered by the wind”) is adapted from a work by Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet (The Byrds’ did likewise on ‘I Come And Stand At Every Door’) and might possibly even outweigh its sonic potency, while the intensity and immediacy of its galloping rhythm illustrates the crucial advantage of a perfectly fluid album sequence. The first chords of this Yardbirds raveup turned inside out, are merely a bugle blast short of the charge of the Light Brigade, and provide the perfect counterpoint to the twisted elongated coda of ‘Who Do You Love’. Brown’s stonking harmonica solo is just the icing on the cake.

By the time ‘Find A Hidden Door’s demented staccato rhythms begin to melt your mind, Campbell’s steel guitar is now orchestrating proceedings like some all-seeing eye. By now the tempo is relentless, and one’s mind begins to crave momentary respite from the onslaught…

Cue ‘I Can Take You To The Sun’, the first 45 to appear on Fontana. In 1968, Peel famously called it “the best popular record that has ever been recorded”, and he wasn’t far off the mark. It plays with light and shade, power and fragility, as skilfully as The Velvets and Syd did at the same time. Building to a pulsating crescendo, suddenly the valves are loosened, and Hill demonstrates his versatility with a beautiful acoustic passage, the balalaika-style picking just unnerving enough to leave you suitably disoriented before the needle locks into the run out groove.

The second side here – a collection of recordings, most of which date from a year earlier, and which feature the original lineup, are by no means bad, but they do not compare with the sheer power, verve and originality of the later tracks, and seem to exist as if merely to emphasise the incredible metamorphosis in the band’s sound. Suffice to say, the songs on the first side more than make up for it. The band’s promise may have been tragically unfulfilled, but the dreams they have woven will never fade. (JJ)

115. BABY’S GOT A GUN – ONLY ONES (1980)

BABY’S GOT A GUN – ONLY ONES (1980)


“Their third. Their best.” The advert’s assertion was blunt, a brusque collision of commercial and artistic imperatives, but few agreed, then or now.
Possibly including me. Of the Only Ones’ three albums, the middle, 1979’s Even Serpents Shine, is often pushed forward as their masterpiece but there are three places on a podium. Serpents… lunges over the line powered by a higher consistency than its siblings, while the first, eponymous album, is noticeably more uneven but will always be distinguished by having by far the best known Only Ones song, Another Girl, Another Planet, rightly famed for its cardiovascular propulsion, John Perry’s skyscraper-scaling solo and its impeccable timing in unravelling itself in exactly three minutes.
As it wasn’t a bona fide hit, apart from reaching 17 in the 1978 Festive 50, it was an albatross they were able to wear comparatively lightly in their lifetime.The dead hand of mythology and the deadweight of telecoms advertising would increase the pressure years later but, more than probably any other supposed one-song band, the Only Ones were nothing of the sort.
Perfect as it is, Another Girl… was just one arrow in a quiver packed with swift, lethal bolts – Lovers Of Today, City Of Fun, The Beast (notwithstanding Motley Crue later -surely unwittingly – duplicating its riff on their horrible, even by their standards, Girls Girls Girls) Flaming Torch, Miles From Nowhere – and a sizeable proportion of Baby’s Got A Gun, which here gets the leg-up that posterity has too often denied it.
It’s a simplistic sketch to say the least but if there was ever a British answer to Television, it was the Only Ones. Skilled musicians with too many miles on the clock to be strictly punk (as well as Perrett’s prehistory with England’s Glory, bassist Alan Mair was a mid-60s veteran of Glasgow band Beatstalkers, whose hometown appearances sparked riots  before they’d so much as issued a record and were the subject of at least three front page splashes in the city’s Evening Times in 1965-6, while late drummer Mike Kellie had seen quite different service to the Only Ones in Spooky Tooth) but more than enough internal combustion to be as near as dang, an Impressionist painter’s exquisite craft and dissolute demeanour, singers pouring their hearts out in steady trickles – the pieces mirrored each other like the coasts of Africa and South America.
In Peter Perrett, the Only Ones had a frontman whose weary disposition belied a heart that sparked and crackled like all the world’s cities on New Year’s Eve. Second only to Syd Barrett in unequivocal Englishness, his speciality was to make the most straightforward and heartfelt romantic declarations, offset by further pronouncements that were either self-lacerating or simply peculiar, like these masterly and flawlessly delivered lines from Lovers Of Today: “If we ever  touched, it would disturb the calm/Physical exertion often causes mental harm/I don’t have the energy/You could say things get pretty tranquil with me/Maybe you can’t see that I love you, baby/Much more than me.” Ardour and desire, tempered by a fragility possibly linked to Perrett’s long-running problems (more than enough said about that elsewhere, nothing to add here; some of his his many face-value love songs  could well also be metaphors, though he recently maintained they weren’t all about one thing) but also the  product of an emotional candour which is there in plain view anyway.
It’s there on  Baby’s Got A Gun’s opener, The  Happy Pilgrim, where Perrett’s Canterbury Tale, initially, couldn’t be clearer, or more tender: “I’m gonna give it to you, all the love that’s in my heart/I’m gonna give it to you/We’ll never part, you and me.” But then: “Take me into your heart/Protect me from myself…Keep me safe from evil…I’ve had enough of tragic people.” Suddenly, the love song of promises has turned into a prayer of pleas but it’s such an abrupt volte-face that you end up wondering if there’s a proto-Morrissey wink in Perrett’s eye. It’s likely the Bard of Stretford was listening; it’s almost certain that Johnny Marr was too, with this song’s subtle yet vigorous trajectory finding echoes in him a few years later; it also has more than a few contemporary ripples towards the Jam.
The same rock’n’ romanticism is in Reunion, where Perry’s cocky riff builds a seemingly unlikely bridge between the south bank of Sweet Home Alabama and the north bank of Dum Dum Boys. It sounds celebratory but Perrett’s heart is mourning: “I had so much love inside me/I don’t know where that feeling’s gone/I’m mortified by this recurring dream.” The reunion seems to be either a distant memory or a remote possibility, even as his sister-in-law, Koulla Kakoulli, chimes in on what are not so much harmonies as shadows.
Trouble In The World charges in on a steed of a bassline from Mair as the band  fashion an edifice from a couple of rock’s sturdiest pillars, with Perrett and Perry pulling blades like Richards and Jones on the Stones’ version of I Wanna Be Your Man and Perrett unpacking a prime Dylan delivery. It starts as one of his gloomiest lyrics: The ‘Trouble’ is the final inevitable and, as Nick Drake did on Pink Moon, he reminds the biggest and the toughest that they won’t wriggle free either: “If you do happen to be stronger/It only means you’re gonna take longer to go under.” Later, though, he seems to find at least some hope, pleading: “Don’t be scared to have children” and making it the only song I’ve ever come across to include the word “preordained.” Please let us know if you’re aware of any others.
The two shortest songs on Baby’s Got A Gun are unlike anything else they ever did. Castle Built On Sand opens, genuinely unsettlingly, with the cry of a baby but before you can run to fetch the bottle, it’s gently pushed aside by a Barret-esque (him again) melody, complete with carnival organ and incongruously forceful drums from Kellie. It effortlessly sidesteps the now-cliched sinister nursery rhyme schtick and, in well under two minutes, finds room for plenty of apocalyptic imagery of “masked men on horses” at Traitors’ Gate and “jackals fighting for the carcass”; meanwhile, not only is the disappearance of the protagonist in the first and repeated last verse acknowledged as a mystery but we’re given no indication of why he should be “overcome with guilt.”
Fools is  a duet between Perrett and  Pauline Murray, who had recently split Penetration and was putting together her one brilliant album with the Invisible Girls (aka, among others, Martin Hannett, John Maher and Vini Reilly). The single from the album and a  rare cover – of a song by country singer Johnny Duncan – it could have been only a Radio 2 whim away from becoming a hit, though you would never have had the people who previously sang Language Problem and Firing Squad gazing gooily at each other as they harmonised. Even so, it foregoes the saccharine that blights country at its worst and tells of a love that seems at best ill-advised, at worst illicit or mutually destructive.

 https://youtu.be/SnlavQAnzI8

Then there are the two longest songs, which occupy opposite extremes. While Me And My Shadow is the album’s one real misfire, its Diddley skeleton poking too visibly through the flesh of a somewhat ungainly, overlong song, the Big Sleep is its centrepiece. The Chandler-derived title again hints at mortality but it’s something Perrett has been rescued from. For what, though? He insists it’s love but “you taught me how to think cheap…there’s no such thing as glory…I don’t have the strength to break an empty shell.” It’s no good for him but it’s what he wants and the turmoil boils over in a melody that rolls endlessly like the boulder of Sisyphus, up one hill trod earlier on Roxy Music’s In Every Dream Home A Heartache and down another trod later on REM’s Camera.
“They’ve made this album before, though not necessarily in this order,” said David Hepworth – paraphrasing Eric Morecambe – in his Smash Hits review of Baby’s Got A Gun. This lukewarmth would take hold as the shadow of Another Girl’… grew ever longer in the public imagination and the album would dwell – if it dwelt anywhere – in the answer to the pub quiz question about albums which don’t feature their title track (other residents: Waiting For The Sun; Houses Of The Holy; World Shut Your Mouth; Screamadelica; Sheer Heart Attack).
But only a little scrutiny reveals a record of joy in the face of horror, defiance in the face of meanness, a battle for redemption in the face of ill-will. Perrett has now finally prevailed and, after a couple of false restarts, delivered a fine solo album, How The West Was Won, but even if none of the Only Ones had been heard of again after they came to an end in 1981, their stamp had already been left. It is – as they put it themselves – The Immortal Story (PG).

 114. NEIL YOUNG (1969)

The hideous painting on the sleeve was a little off putting to say the least. The song titles too were unfamiliar, but in the top right hand corner the price label read £1.99, so it had to be worth a shot. Yet another bargain from Rebel Records. As soon as I put it on the turntable, it began to crackle away. A good sign. It must have seen some proper service with its previous owner. It’s the unplayed records you want to worry about. But the surface noise could not disguise the fact that something had gone badly wrong with the production – the electric guitar seemed suffocated, its strangulated stabs and squeals occasionally puncturing what sounded like a thick protective quilt. And those trebly tonsils, buried so low in the mix. But here was a record I couldn’t help but fall in love with, and it has been a favourite ever since. 

Even I’m not convinced it’s his best album, but it’s almost universal dismissal I find irksome: “a godawful debut”; a “stuttering false start” to his solo career, or at best a mere “prelude to Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere“. It’s as if he was saving everything in reserve, gearing up for the real thing, but that rarely happens with debut albums. Popular music is all about the present moment, and by autumn ’68, Neil Young had a point to prove. The wax on the last Buffalo Springfield album had barely had time to dry before Neil Young hit the stores. The cover of Last Time Around told the story of Buffalo Springfield’s sad and premature demise. The photo montage pictured Young positioned with his back to the others, steadfastly facing in the opposite direction as if he could no longer even bear to pretend anymore. Bruce Palmer’s departure in early ’67 had effectively sounded the death knell for the band. Palmer had been, according to Young, the “soul of the band”, if you will,  Buffalo Springfield’s very own Brian Jones. The clash of egos would play out a familiar battle and everything soon fell apart. Last Time Around was a hastily assembled contractual obligation album, but it had in effect delivered Young’s first solo recording to the world, ‘I Am A Child’, which foreshadowed the bedsit folk troubadour of After The Gold Rush.


By August 1968, Young was back in the studio with David Briggs and Jack Nitzsche. It was in many ways a painful time. In Jimmy McDonough’s bio Shakey, Young recalled: “It was either a lonely experience or a labour of love. I was really glad when it was over, because it was so technical, took so much thinking.”

The instrumental overtures which kick off each side provide scant indication of any ‘labour of love”, at least on Young’s part. The laidback country twang of the first, ‘The Emperor of Wyoming’ is matched to a relatively unfussy string arrangement, while the second, the brief Nitzsche-penned ‘String Quartet From Whiskey Boot Hill’ only hints at some of the complexity characteristic of the rest of the album.

A more explicit benchmark of the album’s ‘everything bar the kitchen sink’ production, is ‘The Loner’ where strings soar beneath meaty chunks of stomping guitar, at times fizzing like a squadron of mosquitos fighting for air in a glass bottle, which has the subtle acoustic interludes running for cover. There’s s parallel performance on the conquering metallic riff of ‘I’ve Been Waiting For You’, which renders as mere subtext the intricate underlay of piano and organ.

Young has stated that he wished his voice on the record to sound “a million miles away, but right there” and in the floating reverie of ‘I Could Have Her Tonight’ his wish is granted. Barely whispered, it’s unassuming country jangle has a strange little twist in the tail which Television may have lifted for the coda of ‘Torn Curtain’.

Perhaps the most polarising track on the album is ‘The Old Laughing Lady’. Jack Nitzche’s overwrought orchestration often comes in for some criticism, but when Ry Cooder’s languid guitar and Nitzsche’s fluid electric piano ooze into the big soul chorus – take a bow Merry Clayton, Brenda Holloway, Gloria Jones et al – the results are utterly euphoric. It’s simply magnificent.

If Nitzsche’s aspirations were ambitious here, then David Briggs’ contributions were equally so. ‘Here We Are In The Years’ – on the surface a stately ballad – weaves little melodic miracles throughout its patchwork structure and features one of Young’s most earnest vocal performances: “Here we are in the years/Where the showman shifts the gears/Lives become careers/Children cry in fear/Let us out of here!” “We got tones nobody’s ever got, even Hendrix” said Briggs at the time, and here – bizarre moog solo aside – the balance was just about right. Similarly on ‘I’ve Loved Her So Long’ the arrangements (vibes, electric piano, soul chorus, even woodwind) are well-balanced, pretty and entirely satisfying. 

The best tracks more than offset the album’s one blatant misstep, the bumblingly neurotic and supremely self-indulgent nine minute acoustic dirge ‘Last Trip To Tulsa’, of which the less said the better.

I am sure I speak not only for myself when I adjudge the best Buffalo Springfield moments to be ‘Expecting To Fly’ and ‘Broken Arrow’, both transcendent sound collages, as opposed to ‘For What Its Worth’ or Neil’s very own ‘Burned’. That he aimed to crystallise some of that airborne-ness, and twine a few fragments of baroque into the album’s tapestry is most certainly a plus, and not a minus. Neil Young is the last time he would venture quite as boldly in that direction. The great sin from that moment onwards was to ‘overthink’ composing and arranging. That perhaps accounts in part for such a prolific output. Perhaps he was right too, but undoubtedly something  was lost in the process. For the man himself, Neil Young represented a steep learning curve, and if for him it was a failure, for us it was a glorious one. (JJ)

113. ORANGE JUICE – TEXAS FEVER (1984)

I could begin with a sad lament about how Orange Juice should have been the greatest pop group of the early ’80s. But I’ll leave that ’til the end.

So let me tell you instead about ‘The Bridge’. Who, but Orange Juice, could so naturally calibrate a perfect synthesis of Chic and The Velvet Underground, blending them together with such effortless joi de vivre, then, as if playing ‘keepy-uppy’ with a 5-0 advantage, leavening into the mix some owlish ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ ooh-ooh-oohs, not to mention having the downright audacity to be the only band in history to reference Isambard Kingdom Brunel in popular song? PS. This is a rhetorical question.

Or I could have begun by arguing that You Cant Hide Your Love Forever, more than any other single LP, invented ‘indie’ music, and taken my cue from there. No OJ, then no Smiths, no Pastels etc etc.

But instead I’d rather ask you a question about ‘Craziest Feeling’. Did you know that Malcolm Ross could play guitar with the same shrapnel spraying agitation and wit (yes, guitars can be witty too) as John McGeoch, or that Edwyn Collins, while unashamedly a savant, had a huge passion for the bubblegum trash culture of 50s America and a devilish sense of humour to boot? Or that he really just dressed up some good old-fashioned love songs in a modernist post-punk garb and a pair of dark shades? Or had you forgotten about all that? Then either you are too young or have a short memory.

Now why didn’t I start by eliciting readers’ nostalgia through fondly recalling some happening nights at ‘Texas Fever’ (or ’46 West George St’ to us Glasgow folk), the indie disco named in honour of this very record? That would have made sense.

But at this point I am half way through listening to the record again – wait a minute, no, I am half way through Remain In Light, or am I? – and in the midst of Edwyn’s sudden despair: “And I can feel the black lies fly/They’re in my sleep, they’re in my eyes/I hate this head, these feet and hands/I’m tired of being a man”, he exclaims on the scything dark bubble-funk of ‘Punch Drunk’, probably the best Josef K record that Orange Juice ever made. That’s because it was written by Malcolm Ross. It might be a million miles from the positivity and innocence of YCHYLF, but that’s because Edwyn knows what it means to be happy and to be sad. Sometimes all at the same time. 

I should have set out some context and told you how 1984 was a dreadfully difficult year for Orange Juice. It undoubtedly was. Four would soon become two. And not long after, none. But you can read about that elsewhere. 

The real truth of the matter is that David McClymont’s fingers fell off playing bass on ‘The Day I Went Down To Texas’. Yes sir, they fell right clean off. He and Zeke had to work their goddam socks off to put ’em back on. Son of a gun.

Surely it would have been prudent and fitting to acknowledge Edwyn’s heroic and courageous battle in his recovery from a dual cerebral haemorrhage? Heartbreakingly sad. 

But I think Edwyn would be happier knowing that his songs – songs I’ve lived with and grown up with and played air guitar to and danced along to and thought about and cried over (“There’s a place in my heart/I wish that your eyes could see/And there’ s no one on earth/Who loves you as much as me”) and laughed about (“Glory hallelujah, gonna sock it to ya!” – both from the same song people!) – are loved very dearly indeed, almost none more so than ‘A Place In My Heart’ with those little Buffalo Springfield guitar licks gilding a sublime slice of blue eyed soul.

Let’s talk about whether or not Texas Fever is an album or a mini-album or an EP? On second thoughts, let’s not bother. Who the hell cares?

I keep thinking as that bass intro steadies it’s nerves at the beginning of ‘A Sad Lament’ that we’re heading into ‘Sister Ray’ and while I adore ‘Sister Ray’ it’s hard not to feel an overwhelming sense of relief and then joy, yes joy – a goosepimply shivery crying and laughing at the same time kind of joy – when that organ arrives to elevate it and save it from the devil’s clutches. Why is it when Edwyn sings: “You came exactly on the hour/Such precision worries me” that I want to punch the air with delight? Or that today ‘A Sad Lament’ sounds not only like Orange Juice’s greatest ever moment, but the finest pop moment of the ’80s? If I could tell you why I surely would. 

I was going to begin with a sad lament about how Orange Juice should have been the greatest pop group of the early ’80s. But then I remembered that they were. (JJ)

112. BANDSTAND – FAMILY (1972)

BANDSTAND – FAMILY (1972)
Any mention of John Peel, particularly since his horribly untimely death, will invariably prompt a roll-call of the acts he cherished the most: the Undertones; the Fall; the Smiths; the White Stripes. It’s usually a pretty reductive list, indicative of an approach summed up by Lauren Laverne as simply pulling out Teenage Kicks and declaring “job done.”
It’s an overly simplistic view of tastes which spanned half a century, could test even those who consider themselves musically unshockable and embraced an often-overlooked predilection for novelty. What’s unarguable, though, and was something Peel took pride in, was his forward-looking, close to scorched-earth attitude. He took only his most prized memories with him and few of those dated from the early ’70s. When the Strange Fruit venture gave overdue official releases to sessions previously blighted on tape by unbidden coughs and unsolicited percussion from the kitchen sink next door, his lack of enthusiasm for that era was palpable – he was perplexed by his one-time fondness for “unutterable crap like James Taylor” but alongside oft-proclaimed stalwarts like Beefheart, Robert Wyatt and Kevin Coyne, one of the few to escape the Me Decade purge were Family.
This wasn’t particularly surprising. Family tend to be conveniently dropped in the prog bag these days and while that was one of the points on their compass – it undoubtedly describes possibly their best-known song, the deathbed drama Weaver’s Answer, though that’s one I’ve never got on too well with – they rarely had the requisite pomposity or verbosity. Only four songs across their seven albums exceeded six minutes and they were just as likely to dally with folk, R & B, psychedelia or flat out hard rock.
They weren’t inherently seers or visionaries – and I’d suggest they had that in common with the Beatles. But also that both bands had insatiably curious ears and a willingness to try anything, while always having their R & B/ R & R roots within grasp and returning to them as they neared their respective ends. In fact, one of the most frequently told anecdotes about Family is that they were among the very few who ever got their way at the expense of the Beatles. They nabbed the title Music In A Doll’s House for their 1968 debut while the Quality Quartet – who had mooted a similar title for their upcoming album – prevaricated, compelling them to go eponymous and White a few months later.
It’s also often observed that they were named Family by Kim Fowley, as their sharp-dressed, imposing demeanour put him in mind of East Midlands mafiosi. Not quite the full Corleone but definitely one of the most convincing gangs-as-bands of their era. Liam Gallagher fondly sees their Leicester successors, Kasabian, as a gang but does so merely by defining them, Paul Calf-style, in opposition to stuuudents. But what he thinks Kasabian are, Family actually were – they simply got on with job of, if not upsetting the hippy applecart, then at least discombobulating it.
An extended Family too – in common with another true gang, the Ramones, they adopted when siblings went astray and racked up 11 members in their seven years (perhaps more like a football team – after all, they were depicted as Leicester City players on the cover of a posthumous Best Of album and were introduced at their 2013 reunion gigs by the legendarily free-spirited former Foxes striker Frank Worthington; Gary Lineker was presumably unavailable). And like yet another, Dr Feelgood, a surfeit of Johns pressed nicknames and middle names into service, so that John Whitney became Charlie, John Palmer was reborn as Poli and, for his time as a Family guy, the late John Wetton was dubbed Ken. John Weider had the privilege of getting to keep the name.
It all added to the picture of an outwardly ramshackle yet acutely questing squad, though by the time of Bandstand, their penultimate album, a degree of professionalism was in place. There had always been spiny tangents to their sound – Peace Of Mind from …Doll’s House (which the Damned, psychedelia connoisseurs that they are, were most assuredly familiar with, if their Disco Man is anything to go by) was underpinned by the carpet burn violin of Ric Grech, shortly before he was poached by Blind Faith; Hung Up Down from 1969’s Family Entertainment had woven into its belligerent stomp a flute which, given time, starts to make sense but never ceases to be slightly incongruous, and Save Some For Thee from 1971’s Fearless was all but thrown off course by the almost non-sequitur intrusion of a marching band. Bandstand was one of their most conventional outings but was still also one of their most diverse and inventive – their shirts were still hanging out but one or two of them were at least sometimes wearing ties.
Not singer Roger Chapman, though – not then. Not ever. Few voices have ever been so polarising – Joe Cocker was a boy soprano next to this fellow, who claimed he was simply interpreting in his own way the R & B voices he’d grown up hearing. His stage presence put breakable objects as much at risk from his
flailing limbs as from his gargling-with-sand vibrato – both among the attributes which caught Peel’s attention the most. “You were always grateful for a few bodies between you and Roger,” he once observed, and Chapman was one of the most obvious manifestations of his penchant for extreme vocalists. As unlikely as it may seem, Chapman had a good deal in common with another, Marc Bolan – it was polymorphism for the ears. If Bolan was diamond, Chapman was graphite.

You can hear all of this coalesce on Bolero Babe, which, in time-honoured Peel-challenging fashion, fades in to proto-synth bleeps and Rob Townsend’s drum tattoo nodding vigorously to Ravel’s classic a full decade before anyone had thought of skating to it, while showing it was equally suited to looning. The lofty strings echo those which Bolan and Tony Visconti superstitously put on T Rex singles after the success they brought Ride A White Swan, as well as anticipating, oddly, those of Massive Attack’s Unfinished Sympathy. Where you expect a chorus to surge and thrust, you can almost hear this one being held back – as Chapman exhales: “I can see it shine/ Light years from here” is he declaring “its” mighty brightness or silently adding: so why bother going to it? But this sounds not like proto-slackerdom, nor the indolence which had become so prevalent, but a protective restraint.
Dark Eyes, by contrast, is a whisper that fills a room. Less than two minutes long, it announces itself with the most sweetly discordant piano you’ll ever hear, an acoustic guitar pirouettes and a double-tracked Chapman sings, not for the last time on this album, with compassion and empathy (“A shadow of the evening/And your baby at your side/ A sadness that’s within you/Your eyes refuse to hide”). A flute adrift from Bryter Layter finds shelter before the sudden fade – it all sounds as soothing as pretty much everything was for me as a pre-school child while they recorded this. I was oblivious to this song, this band, and to the turmoil they soundtracked that was as prevalent as it’s ever been – Dark Eyes occupies the gap between those worlds.
As, to some extent, does My Friend The Sun, which could be interpreted as an opportunistic pitch to Rod Stewart’s by then massive audience. But it’s not remotely calculated and even if it was, cause shouldn’t be emphasised over effect, as it’s simply the most beautiful thing Family ever did. It’s bucolic without emphasising the colic, the sound of that morning moment when you realise it doesn’t matter if you don’t do a thing all day. Chapman is again at his warmest- “I know that you’re lonely, come in from the cold/Your shoes they need mending, your clothes they look old” – and if, as we’re often told, the difference between violin and fiddle is attitude, this song is poised at the exact moment where the attitude switches. Harmonies descend like a freewheeling downhill cyclist though, as if to remind us we’re still dealing with the Strange Band, the tape lead is dislodged and reinserted at the very last moment. And no busker’s bass drum and tambourine to create an unnecessary Mumfords hoedown 40 years before the fact. It’s said to have been played at a number of funerals in recent years, reflecting a shift from mourning who we’ve lost to celebrating who we had and fitting to the bittersweet brew of this song.
Far more bitter than sweet – in fact, a riot – is Broken Nose. For precisely three seconds, it offers the promise of a Hispanic voyage – Crude Sketches of Spain, maybe – before becoming a barrage during which the titular injury could easily occur. The chorus stomps through the floor and waves to Sly and the Family Stone’s I Want To Take You Higher on the floor below, before all is subsumed by the swell of a Charles Babbage synth. Somehow, room is found for one more layer in the backing vocal of Linda Lewis, later to have a hit with High Wire and to cover My Friend The Sun.
It took me years to figure out that Glove is something of a gem, too ribald to be tender yet also too poignant to be seedy. It’s a balance Mott the Hoople were particularly adept at striking and Family locate that sweetest of spots here – nudged forward by a bassline so simple you wonder if Wetton has temporarily forgotten his proficiency, and with a wholly secular yet thoroughly gospel melody and arrangement, Chapman gets as close as he can to crooning as he performs what, lyrically, is effectively a folk ballad. He returns the dropped garment to a lady who ultimately invites him, in keeping with tradition, to “accompany me to walk awhile.” There’s no chance, though, of Chappo swapping his vest and braces for doublet and hose; this courtly request doesn’t come before “I swore and bit my clumsy tongue” but the surreptitious crescendo and chivvying strings push them off into the sunset – in the manner of a Charlie Chaplin finale, gauche and touching at the same time
.Closer Top Of The Hill opens like a soul stew, twinkling and bubbling to set the scene for the entrance of Stevie Wonder, Al Green or even Alan Toussaint. It maintains this pretence for more than a minute before a terse riff kicks down the door and a clenched, breaking-point drama barges through. It simmers with unresolved tension as the strings swoop like a squadron of pterodactyls and race Palmer’s vibes to the summit. But they’ve not seen Townsend surreptitiously scaling the south face and he gets there first – with an unforeseen snare roll, he plants the flag and Bandstand is done.
Family had one year left. They would sign off with It’s Only A Movie, which largely took its cue from Bandstand’s opener Burlesque – a song which gave them their third and last top 20 hit and, with its bawdy Faces stomp, really was an incursion into Rodland. They split in, it would appear, comparatively amicable circumstances, too soon to be sitting ducks for punk ire but, despite their prog toppings, their vigorous bravura might have spared them the worst of it – in fact, a decade and a half later, the very same accidental urban sage spirit would be all over, under and inside Happy Mondays.
They stayed split for a full 40 years and even those reunion gigs were a brief visitation, played, furthermore, without the now seemingly retired Whitney.
The reverence handed down through the generations to Zeppelin, Floyd and Sabbath has eluded them but at their best, they rivalled them for, respectively, tenderness abutting steamhammer momentum, what-does-this-button-do inventiveness and realising industrial landscapes in blasted, lurid sound. If that makes them prog, I’ll get my cape  (PG).