Is it Really so Strange?

“I wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside”

“I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar”

“I am sick and I am dull and I am plain”

“Call me morbid, call me pale...”

“Sixteen, clumsy and shy...”

“Don’t try to wake me in the morning ‘cause I will be gone”

I was, and to a certain extent, remain the archetypal boxroom rebel, the ambitious outsider, half a person, a sweet and tender hooligan desperately pleading for someone to please, please, please let me get what I want.

It’s very difficult to explain the why and the what of The Smiths now.

In 1989 shortly before my sixteenth birthday a friend gave me a cassette with two albums recorded onto it.  On the “A” side was an album by a band called “Westworld” who are now only remembered by the members of the band and their parents.  On the “B”side was an album by a band I hadn’t ever heard of; “The Smiths” and the album was a compilation of singles and album tracks called “The World Won’t Listen”.  

When I finished listening to “Westworld” I turned the cassette over and started to listen to “The World Won’t Listen”.  I can remember, quite clearly, thinking that it was an odd name for an album and that “The Smiths” was an even odder name for a band...it was so, well, dull.  My expectations were not high.

The first track was called “Panic” and the first thing that struck me was the peculiar, and peculiarly English, vocal of the singer.  Then the chiming, crashing guitar.  Next the references to Leeds and Dundee.  Finally, most importantly, came the line that changed my life forever...oh, I know how melodramatic that sounds but it’s true...”Burn down the disco, hang the blessed DJ because the music that they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life”

That was it.

Everything changed.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

I had always felt that I didn’t really fit in...I had friends but no “best” friend.  I didn’t have a girlfriend.  I had acne, greasy hair and was a bit, well, eccentric in my own way.  I wanted to belong, I wanted to fit in but I just didn’t.  I wasn’t bullied or ostracised but I just didn’t feel like I was a part of what was going on around me.

To hear someone say something as shocking as “...the music that they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life” was just incredible.  Here was someone who understood, someone who knew what it meant to be, forgive me, me.  What was more astonishing was that I didn’t even know who I was yet but this voice, that voice, did.  The next track was “Ask”; “...shyness is nice and shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you’d like to”, then “London” with its desperate tale of a young man running away from home and heading for the smoke, the bloody and brutal violence of “Bigmouth Strikes Again” with it’s smashing and bludgeoning, references to Joan of Arc, “Shakespeares Sister” a hymn to suicide...on and on it went, each and every track doing exactly what every other song I had heard couldn’t manage; to say something to me about MY life.

From then on I searched high and low for everything I could to do with this band...I bought all of their albums then began an expensive and extensive hunt for the singles, the 12” records, posters, magazine articles, fanzines.  My bedroom became a shrine to The Smiths...not an inch of wall left uncovered.

The voice, of course, belonged to Morrissey and soon his beatific face looked down on me from every corner of the room.  I hung on his every written, sung and spoken word...I was a disciple; “Meat is Murder”...I became a vegetarian, a photo-shoot with a bottle of Ecover washing up liquid used as a water bottle...I did the same, never seen without it, flowers in his back pocket during the early days of The Smiths...I had a bunch of flowers at every social occasion, a reference to Oscar Wilde...I bought his complete works and memorised witticisms, Shelagh Delaney...I found and learned every line from her “A Taste of Honey”, name-checks for bands like the New York Dolls or Patti Smith...I gobbled up their back catalogue.

I even adopted the look...hair quiffed, vintage Levi jeans, suit jackets.  Wherever He went, whatever He said, whenever He spoke...I was there, a clumsy, pale immitation.  Like hundreds of other young men up and down the UK I had found something to make life...livable, bearable.

The developmental psychologist Erikson argued that the conflict that must be overcome during adolescence is identity versus role confusion.  In other words the adolescent must fashion some sense of who they are, begin to “fit in”.  For me that was impossible in high school...I wasn’t popular enough, clever enough, handsome enough or athletic enough to ever truly “belong” but in the world of The Smiths I found an identity.  I entered a world with a moral code...respect for animals, tolerance of all sexuality, where knowledge and intelligence were praised and desired.  It even gave me a “look” and opened up doors to other worlds...books, theatre, music, film and more.

Clever old Morrissey...the saviour of the rebel without a cause.

Even now, some years later, I cannot escape the influence of The Smiths and Morrissey.    My walls are lined with framed Smiths/Morrissey related artwork, I still use lines from their songs in conversation, I still have the quiff (however thin it might now be), I still buy magazines He appears in, even as I write this I’m listening to His music.  Why?  Oh dear, I’m afraid I can’t answer that...a psychologist would have a wonderful time attempting to!  A desperate desire to cling to my youth?  Maybe, but I didn’t much like my youth.  A stubborn refusal to let go?  Maybe, but I’m not really sentimental.  I think it comes down to the fact that He and they got me at the right time...they wormed their way into my life and into my heart and they'’ve never left.  I'’m happy (as happy as I can ever be) about that.

Depressed Beyond Tablets

There are few things in life that are more miserable than "comedy" songs.

You know the sort of thing "Weird" Al Yankovich gurning his way through a Michael Jackson parody.  The Mike Flowers Pops smirking through their easy listening version of "Wonderwall".  Alexei Sayle and his suicide inducing "Hello John Got a New Motor".

The last time I saw the wonderful Stewart Lee he ended his set with a song.

The moment I saw the guitar being handed to him I could feel a lonely teardrop work its way down my cheek.

Here was someone I adored and admired about to ruin everything good by performing a "hilarious" song.

Thankfully Lee is a gifted enough performer that it wasn't in the same league of dreadfulness as the other acts I have mentioned but my devotion to Britains second best comic was tested to the limit...don't do it again Stewart; you need me as much as I need you.  Maybe.  OK, you don't but still.

Half Man Half Biscuit are a band who have a name so painful that it would be easy to dismiss them without ever having listened to a single note.  For a very long time I refused to listen to them simply because of the name...it seemed a bit, well, "wacky" and student union for my liking.

The song titles didn't help either..."All I Want For Christmas is a Dukla Prague Away Kit" for example.

I couldn't get past it.

I don't want musicians to be comedians.

I want musicians to be musicians.

I want them to write songs that lift me, crush me, console me, destroy me and understand me.

If I want jokes I'll pull a cracker with my nan on December 25th.

This year however I was persuaded to listen to HMHB by a very dear friend, the singer-songwriter, wit and raconteur Ben Gunstone.  He was evangelical in his defense of this band...they were clever, they were knowing, they were scathing, they were political and, yes, they had the ability to make you smile and laugh out loud (lol for younger readers).

I trust Ben.

He is, without a doubt, my closest and oldest friend...he's also the most gifted person I have ever met.

So...off I popped to the local record emporium and selected "Achtung Bono"(2005) and headed home to place it gingerly on my record playing machine.  As the needle hit the vinyl and the room was filled with that anticipatory hiss I felt nervous.  If this was just a collection of comedy songs with wacky lyrics I wouldn't ever be able to forgive Ben and a friendship would be forever damaged.  A lot was resting on this.

I had put the future of my friendship in the hands of some Tranmere supporting Northerners.

What was I thinking?

Surely this wasn't a risk worth taking.

Before I could swipe the needle off of the cold, black, disc the first song had started...

"Here she lies in a fleecy gown, by my side in the eiderdown but she can't get a ticket to morning town, cos I've got restless legs"

Ah.

This was funny.

Silly almost.

But...importantly...it wasn't wacky and it wasn't a comedy song.

This was a song reveling in the ordinary.

An ordinary man, in an ordinary town, with an (extra) ordinary problem...he's got restless legs.

I was smiling but I wasn't laughing.

There weren't any puns.

There were no comedy musings.

"In the kingdom of the blind it's said the one eyed man is king...and in the kingdom of the bland, it's 9 o clock on ITV"

"You never hear of folk getting knocked on the bonce but there was a drive-by shouting once"

"I could have put my head in a bucketful of porridge and moaned about the hospital parking scheme, I would have saved fourteen pounds that I just splashed out on your second album, for that's what it's akin to..."

Every track contained an insight into the world that people actually live in.

The lyrics were clever, thoughtful, acidic, vitriolic but also full of warmth, wit, verve and guile.

Praise be.

Ben hadn't let me down.

My friendship was in tact and I had found a band to listen to.

That is the greatest compliment you can play to any band.

"I listen to them"

Few bands are worth actually and actively listening to.

I could name a few but you will have your own.

Songs appear on the radio and you tap a toe, hum along and swing your hips a bit.

You hear the opening bars of some indie anthem at the alternative night in the local nite-klub and you hit the floor with arms aloft.

You're not listening.

You're participating in something...and there's nothing wrong with that...but you are not listening.

That is quite often a good thing because the moment you do stop and listen you are, more often than not, left with a feeling of crushing disappointment...Razorlight, Kaiser Chiefs, Oasis and a host of others are all bands who sold records to people who were not really listening.  These are songs for drunk, stupid people made by drunk, stupid people.  Good for them.

I want more care.

HMHB...despite a name that makes you squirm whenever you tell people about them are a band who are worth listening to.

You should listen to them.

Now.

Songs to Save Your Life

Antony and the Johnsons .

What a terribly good name for a group.

Very often in popular music groups are let down by their name (hello to the "Arctic Monkeys") and it can be very difficult for them to get past that initial hurdle.

Groups can also be let down by their look (hello again to Sheffields "Arctic Monkeys" who look rather like Anthony from the Royal Family...not a good thing) and this can detract from the power of the music.

Artwork can be another stumbling block (oh dear, once again we have to point to the "Monkeys"...have you seen their "art"work?) because, as Oscar Wilde put it; "only a fool doesn't judge a book by it's cover". He was, as always, absolutely right.

Only once these obstacles have been overcome can one get down to the nitty-gritty of actually listening to a band properly. There is nothing more depressing than hearing a song on the radio, enjoying it and then discovering that the band are called, well, The Arctic Monkeys and that they look like Anthony Royal and have spent about 5 minutes on their artwork.

Look at The Strokes...a fine band, good songs, good name, good look but dreadful artwork and that is why I will never really love them.

Pop music should be about the complete package...why settle for anything less?

I was wary when I first heard Antony and the Johnsons...he/she (I wasn't sure at that point) sounded incredible. The voice of a castrato angel. Songs so gentle that one was afraid to sing along in case they broke. But would he turn out to be dressed in a Ben Sherman shirt and have a picture of a "tasty bird" on the front cover?

No and no again.

Antony was a giant of a man...like Roald Dahls BFG but clad in black. He looked as delicate, despite his size, as his songs sounded. No "laddish" affectations. No desperate attempt at fitting in. No desire to be "hip". This was an artist who looked like he sounded...beautifull, ethereal, hopeful and hopeless.

The artwork was achingly wonderful. Simple. Plain. Stylish but never stylised.



The Mercury prize winning "I Am A Bird Now" is both haunting and affecting but never gothic or affected. It is full of beautiful songs of the sort not heard since...oh goodness only knows.

This is no rock 'n' roll spectacular.

This is no "indie" pop moment.

This is a record to be cherished.

Every single song should be listened to time and again so that you can be sure that your initial impression that this is one of the greatest albums of all time is correct.

You will meet people after you hear it who will say cruel things about this record.

Cut those people out of your life.

They are not worth knowing.

Find the people who appreciate this record...they are your people.

Try this...when Antony performs "You are my Sister" live with Boy George...if you're heart melts then you understand. If it doesn't then you are either Liam Gallagher or dead.

Snowtown

The Australian film industry has been responsible for, at least, two of my favourite films of the last few years in "Samson and Delilah" and "Animal Kingdom" both of which were powerful, original and visceral.  Much of the power of those films lay in their honesty and their almost stubborn refusal to gloss over the hideous reality of the lives of ordinary people.

Now comes "Snowtown" from director Justin Kurzel.

"Snowtown" tells, in the most brutal fashion, the true story of serial killer John Bunting and his awful crimes.

Bunting, unlike many other serial killers, was not a lone operator and unlike some other serial killers he was not part of a deadly duo but was, uniquely, a man who involved multiple players in his sickening crimes.

Driven by a seemingly far right ideology that focused on "weak" or "disgusting" people including homosexuals, pedophiles and the obese he murdered at least 11 people in increasingly sadistic ways and claimed victims from a fairly small geographical zone.  Often he would force his victims to record farewell messages to their families in order to mask their disappearance and on other occasions he, or his partners, would fake such messages.

Bunting is played here by Daniel Henshall (the only professional actor in the film) and it is a performance of such conviction that it is unlikely you will ever forget it.  He embodies the idea of evil absolutely and is terrifying in a way that dozens of "Buffalo Bills", "Freddies", "Jasons" and "Hannibal the Cannibal" could never be.

The focus of this film, and the source of the fear, is Buntings relationship with Elizabeth Harvey and her family.  Harvey is depressed, battered and beaten...her latest partner has been revealed as a pedophile who has been taking pornographic photographs of her sons and who is living in the sort of run down, sink estate that drains hope from even the most hopeful.  She tries to find some solace in the local evangelical Church but it is only when Bunting arrives and drives out her former lover (in a scene that involves the mutilation of the corpses of two kangaroos) that she is able to smile again.

That smile doesn't last long as Bunting quickly asserts himself as the head of a group of locals who are hell-bent on ridding their community of the sick and diseased...by which they mean gays, transvestites and pedophiles.  Bunting whips the group up into a frenzy and encourages them to discuss the ways in which they would punish pedophiles and strategies for driving homosexuals out of teaching.  At the same time he develops an awful fixation on Harveys son, Jamie Vlassakis (Lucas Pittaway) who is desperate for a father figure and for a way to escape the "attentions" of his older brother Troy who has been abusing him since he entered his teens.

Slowly, steadily and with increasing assurance Bunting draws Jamie into his world and soon the boy is involved in the murder of his own brother and in helping Bunting and his other "friends" target victims and dispose of bodies.

Pittaway gives a superb performance as Vlassakis...quivering with fear, sobbing with regret and continuously submitting to the will of men in whom he has placed his trust and from whom he receives nothing but further abuse.  This is a calling card performance and Pittaway will surely now develop into a performer to watch in the future.

"Snowtown" reveals the terror that can exist in the most normal and dreary of worlds.  Buntings crimes are messy, brutal and with the flimsiest of motives behind them.  That he was able to co-opt multiple players into his sickening game is, perhaps, more horrific than the crimes they committed.  It is not a film for the faint of heart and it is not a film that one could recommend or enjoy but it is magnificent and important film-making.

OrlandO - Passive Soul

The mid-1990's was a curious time for popular music.

The most ambitious outsiders had managed to take control of the mainstream thanks, for the most part, to the efforts of certain journalists to look for a homegrown alternative to the hideously pervasive "grunge" scene.

The sight of middle-class children wandering the streets of this once proud nation wearing plaid shirts and trying their very best to look like the worst possible sort of trailer trash was too much for me to bare...it was a horrible time. One couldn't move without being forced to look deep into the eyes of Kurt Cobain or his wife Ms. Love...can you imagine anything more horrible?

Fortunately the oft derided Britpop came along and provided us all with an excuse to start dressing well and having a gay old time of it...of course the whole thing was a media invention and ultimately turned sour thanks to Oasis and the arrival of "lad" culture.


As awful as the gurgling grunge scene was with its screaming trees and literally sub-pop records it wasn't even half as vulgar as the sight of beer soaked men from Wakefield hi-jacking Manic Street Preachers concerts just so they could roar "WE ONLY WANNA GET DRUNK" during "A Design for Life".


Ben Sherman shirts, once the staple of every young modernists wardrobe became the uniform of the sort of "men" who read "Loaded" and saw Liam Gallagher as having something to say.  


Untucked too!


I mean, really.

As Britpop turned into Britpap Simon Price of Melody Maker decided that what was needed was to take the burgeoning underground New Romantic revival in Londons clubs overground...the result?

RoMo.

Romantic Modernism.


Clever, no?


Well no but what RoMo lacked in substance it made up for in style and, as well know, it's style wot really matters.  

Pretty boys and pretty girls getting their rocks off to elctro-pop of the sort not heard since the Human League "Dare"d us to cut our hair in the most ridiculous fashion imagineable and get all "arty".  RoMo was the antidote to lad culture.  It was fey, it was sexy, it was meaningless and it was the epitome of a "scene".

For the most part the entire RoMo scene was dreadful.

Bands like Plastic Fantastic were the equivalent of Menswe@r...a wonderful idea on paper but without the songs to support the hype.

DexDexter had a wonderful name but no real songs to accompany it.

Viva!

Sexus.

Hollywood.

None of them amounted to very much.

The Melody Maker gave away a free RoMo tape..."Fiddling While RoMo Burns".

It wasn't very good.

One track, however, was beyond being simply "good"...it was astonishing.

The track in question was "Natures Hated" by OrlandO.

"I don't kiss and tell, I'm too fond of kissing"

What a line!

Morrissey would have been desperate for a line like that even at the peak of The Smiths powers.

The music was a glorious marriage of the Pet Shop Boys with Motowns Funk Brothers...electro-soul.

The accompanying RoMo tour was an utter disaster...I attended the Glasgow gig along with, perhaps, 20 other people. It felt a little embarrassing...until OrlandO took to the stage and held me spellbound with a set of songs each the match of "Natures Hated"

Their debut, and only, album "Passive Soul" is, quite probably, the best album released in the '90's.  Song writer and mastermind Dickon Edwards (what a name) and Tim Chipping, the voice,  arrived at the right time but within the wrong scene...RoMo was ridiculous and was the subject of much ridicule.  They were doomed.  The whole thing felt too contrived and was too London-centric.


This wasn't the fault of OrlandO...they were victims of the very thing that gave them their chance.  Theirs is one of pop musics great tragedies.  They coulda been contenders.  They coulda been somebodies.
Dickon Edwards had the ability to reduce me to tears in a single line; "I can't bare to be where there isn't you", "Just for a second, you lowered your defences and confessed what the world had guessed, deep down I fear, I might actually be, unremarkable", "So you lie afraid again, cos freedom brings only, half lives as half lived as ours".


Tim Chipping had one of "those" voices.


It was flawed, it wobbled around the edges but it soared at times and was so fragile at others that it forced you to really listen.


"Don't Sleep Alone"


"Natures Hated"


"Happily Unhappy"


Song titles like that deserve to find an audience.


A band who can write songs like these deserve to find fans prepared to scratch their name on their arms with a fountain pen...that means they really love them.
Here was the natural heir to Morrissey...here was a band that you could believe in.

It wasn't to be of course.

In the hail of Oasis wannabes where even people who should have known better let themselves be swept along on the "lad" wave (hell, even JDB from the Manics produced an album for "Northern Uproar"!) there was no chance for something as beautiful and delicate as OrlandO to survive.


So, instead, they withered and died with only a handful of people noticing.


It's a crime...a crime I tell you.


OrlandO are a band you could fall in love with and fall out of love to.

"Passive Soul" a record to treasure.