Any Major Dude With Half A Heart

And here we leave the 1970s. The first year of the 1980s would turn out to be a fantastic year. If I’m still going to run this blog (as I am writing, I am short on time and, to be honest, motivation), I’ll look forward to sharing the records that take me back to that year.

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B.A. Robertson – Bang Bang.mp3
A pal of mine tells a great story about he lost his virginity to this song, in a shed, of all places. Imagine that, losing your cherry to a song called Bang Bang about hanky panky. I suspect it was not a carefully orchestrated scene of romantic seduction. Bang Bang contains half of the plot of season 2 of Rome in two verses: “Tony and Cleo struck out for the freedom down Egypt’s way, but Caesar had squeezed her in Rome on his quilt for a day, hey hey. Now Anthony got really angry about old Caesar’s hanky panky. She told ’em she would use ’em, and boy did she abuse ’em. Fall in love and blew ’em away.” Can this be used as a Grade 8 tutorial for Shakespeare’s play about shenanigans in the Roman Empire?

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Boomtown Rats – Diamond Smiles.mp3
I had long been a bit of a Boomtown Rats fan, from the debut album, and welcomed the success of I Don’t Like Mondays, just so that I could point out to my less sophisticated pals that I had been a fan longer than they had been (and at 13, a year or so is a mighty long time). I Don’t Like Mondays is a great song, but spoiled forever at Live Aid by Geldof’s pregnant pause after the line “and the lesson today is how to die”. Bob, mate, it’s a song about a high school shooting, not about famine. A pregnant pause would’ve been appropriate at a Columbine benefit. In relation to famine, it was as appropriate as playing Too Drunk To Fuck would be at a wedding – there might be alcohol-induced libido inhibitors at wedding receptions, but it’s not the drift which the gentlemen from Dead Kennedy were hoping to impart. So instead silicon chips set to overload (in 1979, Geldof knew how to anticipate the halcyon ’80s), let’s hear it for one of a trio of outstanding tracks on the Rats’ The Fine Art Of Surfacing LP (the other being Someone’s Looking At You). Diamond Smiles is one of the great entries in the canon of suicide anthems. Keep it in mind for that essential self-annihilation mix-tape!

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Tubeway Army – Are ‘Friends’ Electric?.mp3
This Kraftwerk-influenced song was quite unique when it came out, and may well be regarded as the prototype for the New Romantic sound which would take residence in the charts the following year with acts such as Visage and Orchestral Manouevres in the Dark. Much as I liked Are ‘Friends’ Electric?, I later found it difficult to regard it fondly when Gary Numan revealed himself as a Thatcherite Tory. That, of course, raises the question of whether an artist’s politics should influence our appreciation of his or her music. I still resent Neil Young for his Reagan/Bush-supporting ways, and I would have none of Ted Nugent’s music even if it was actually any good. At the same time, I don’t care that Elvis or Sammy Davis Jr were in love with Richard Nixon. But they are Americans, a nation that votes for tax cuts for the rich at the expense of social services for the poor (and the difference between the two parties on that count is, in real terms, minimal). In Britain the battlelines were more clearly drawn:  you knew what your vote would get you. Numan cheerfully stated his support for the apartheid-loving, pro-rich and anti-poor Klassenfeind Margaret Thatcher. Are  “Friends” Tories? I damn well hope not.

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Buggles – Video Killed The Radio Star.mp3
Who said Americans have no sense of irony? This was first music video ever to be shown on MTV, setting out the new channel’s ideology of domination by playing a song that anticipated and bemoaned the age of the music video. Trevor Horn, who also anticipated the appalling advertising yuppie look of the mid-’80s, regretted the name Buggles: “I know the name’s awful, but at the time it was the era of the great punk thing. I’d got fed up of producing people who were generally idiots but called themselves all sorts of clever names like The Unwanted, The Unwashed, The Unheard… when it came to choosing our name I thought I’d pick the most disgusting name possible.” My brother gave this to me as a present, redeeming himself for his transgression in early 1978 of desecrating my Sex Pistols LP with a biro in revenge of some transgression that might have involved damage to his poster of Winnetou, the Native American character of a German TV show based on a book by a chap who had never even been to America.

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Status Quo – Living On An Island.mp3
When I was younger I spent much of my childhood at my grandmother’s place. As I’ve noted before, she lived her appreciation of the German Schlager vicariously through me, and later she helped finance my fast-growing record collection. I don’t know if Status Quo’s Living On An Island – their bid at mid-tempo AOR and a rather nice number – was the last record I bought while staying with her, but it’s the last one I remember bringing to her warm house that always smelled of freshly made coffee. I know it was in December; her last. Soon I visited her less and less. I was a teenager now, after all. And she didn’t like my new interest in politics, much less my leftist leanings. She was still my grandmother, but I had changed, and a gap had appeared in our once close relationship.

Living On An Island transports me to her flat, with the white-and-gold patterned wallpaper in the living room, the display cabinet with delicate porcelain figures (some of them nudes, which I found interesting), the veranda which looked out on the garden with trees and bushes which in summer would bear cherries, apples, pears, plums and currants (red, white and black, like the German flag my grandmother saluted in two world wars). I felt safe in that place, even at 13.

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Thom Pace – Maybe.mp3
This is the theme song of a TV series, The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams (known in Germany as Der Mann in den Bergen), which was produced in 1977/78 but came to German TV only in 1979, finding greater success there than it did in the country of its origin. Like the TV series, the title song is pretty soft. It can be enjoyed only in the pursuit of feeding nostalgia, though my grandmother was very fond of it (maybe this was the last record I bought while staying with her).  The single topped the West German charts at the height of disco. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t mind watching an episode of Grizzly Adams again – just for the nostalgia, of course.

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More Stepping Back

In the belated second part of the 1978 instalment in this series (in which I revisit songs that have the capacity to take me back to the time when they were hits), the 12-year-old version of Any Major Dude shows himself to be an eclectic sort. In the first part, which covered the first three months of 1978, we became reacquainted with Blondie’s X-Offender and songs by the likes of Uriah Heep, Bonnie Tyler, Tom Robinson Band, Sex Pistols, Wings  and The Stranglers. Here we revisit Blondie, Sham 69, Boomtown Rats, a couple of Italians, and some prog-rockers.

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Blondie – (I’m Always Touched By Your) Presence Dear.mp3
Blondie – Denis.mp3
In the first part of 1978 I described how it was the image of Debbie Harry that made me buy X-Offender unheard. I loved the song, and when on a trip to Amsterdam I bought the Presence Dear single (with the pictured cover) I became even more smitten. Deborah looks positively post-coital on the cover, though I don’t think that at the time I quite realised that. Her smile was appealing though. On the same trip I bought a fold-out Blondie fan magazine thing; a rather odd thing, because there wasn’t a big poster on the reverse side of all the photos and articles. And these were in Dutch, which I could more or less translate into German. Not that the text fascinated me much; far more agreeable were the pictures – and in particular a nude shot of the lovely Ms Harry (I have tried to locate in, unsuccessfully). Needless to say, it went up my wall; on the concealed side where I guessed – possibly incorrectly – my mother would not look.

I’m not sure about the release dates of Blondie singles. Most references date the release of Denis before Presence Dear. Perhaps the Dutch did things differently, or maybe they released Denis long before it came out in Germany. Anyhow, I bought the single soon after our return from the Amsterdam trip. By now I was so much a Blondie fan that I insisted our new kitten be named Denis. The song is one of those Blondie covers which the band chose astutely; that is, the originals tended to be not very well known. The original of Denis, by Randy & the Rainbows, was discussed in The Originals Vol. 1. Other Blondie covers treated in the series are Hanging On The Telephone and The Tide Is High. My unconditional love for Blondie reached an end a year later with Heart Of Glass, a discofied number which in a fit of misplaced self-righteousness I regarded as a sell-out.

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Sham 69 – Angels With Dirty Faces.mp3
Coming late into my barely pubescent punk career, this is still a favourite. I bought this single before it was a hit in Britain. It entered the UK charts in mid-May; I bought it in late April, even if I did so unheard and only because the cover suggested that this was a punk song (I might have listened to it on headphones in department store’s record bar though). I was so taken with the song that I bought a big yellow badge with some sort of reflector pattern and in red the name Sham 69, “the people you don’t wanna know”. It was the most disco item I have ever owned, but at the time the irony of that passed me by completely. I’ve often wondered about the name Sham 69. For many years I had no clue, and the idea that it refers to a faked position in the mutual administration of oral sex just made no sense. Apparently it’s lifted from a graffito that said, “Walton and Hersham ’69”, a reference to the band’s local football club winning an amateur league in 1969.

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Genesis – Follow You, Follow Me.mp3
In the mid-80s I left my record collection back home while living in London for three years. When I returned I found that almost all of my many singles and several LPs disappeared. I suspect they were stolen by a particular someone (ironically with the initials CD) and sold on to feed whatever partying habit he was maintaining. Among the few records he did not take were this and the late Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street (which might have featured here, but I’ve heard it too often since to let it transport me to April ’78). The Genesis single was the first the group released after Peter Gabriel and Steve Hackett’s departure and the first with Phil Collins at lead vocals. At that point we had no idea just how unloved Collins would become among right-thinking people. There isn’t much Genesis v.2 has done that I approve of, and a lot I positively despise (I Can’t Dance and its supposedly satirical video above all), but I do like Follow You, Follow Me, especially Tony Banks’ keyboards.

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El Pasador – Amada mia, amore mia.mp3
At this point I must emphasise that the songs featured in this series are those that take me back, when I hear them, to the time when they were hits. Many of them I had on record, others I recorded off the radio. Most I still rather like. And then there are songs like this, the single of which I decidedly did not own (I mean, look at the guy’s comedy moustache!). But it was everywhere in the first half of 1978. I never owned the record, and much as I was a student of popular music, I never even knew the name of the performer until I came across the song by pure coincident a few years ago. And yet, when I hear it (preferably not too often), I can smell the corridor of my school, and taste the sickly sweet cold drinks the machine in the hall dispensed in flimsy plastic cups. I can feel the heat of the slightly more agreeable hot chocolate dispensed in the same flimsy plastic cups (the same machine also offered clear broth; surely nobody ever bought that). A Schlager herbert by the name of Roland Kaiser, who had a bit of a line in covering Mediterranean hits, made a German version of this, incoporating the Italian title in a feeble seduction routine. Some people thought it was very amusing; to me there was no mirth to be derived from Schlager singers; not until the following year when I was faintly amused, for a moment, by a song about drinking in suburban Berlin.

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La Bionda – One For You, One For Me.mp3
Likewise, One For You, One For Me wasn’t really my bag either. Though when the Italo-disco track was performed on the Musikladen TV show, I thought it was rather sexy, what with the cover girl cut-out’s nipple caps and the dancer’s very transparent blouse. Remember, I was 12; I would have considered surrealist art depicting deboned chicken breasts sublimely sexy. Surely the Zappa-lite on guitar and that absurd drummer should’ve persuaded me that there are sights that involuntarily and sometimes abruptly unsettle the libido.  I cannot say that my opinion of the song has improved greatly, though if it played at a retro party, I’d get up and boogie. The opening piano riff is actually pretty good. The La Bionda brothers, Michelangelo and Carmelo, apparently specialised in folk and prog-rock before jumping aboard the disco gravy train.

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Jethro Tull – Moths.mp3
I might have been on the cutting scene of punk, but I also took an apparent interest in prog rock. Hell, I had two Barclay James Harvest albums by then. I liked neither of them (except for their song Hymn), but pretended that they were spiritually enriching. But I did love Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s Davy’s On The Road Again. Anyway, at around this time my older brother by six years began to introduce me to the music he listened to, mostly prog rock stuff (plus, I remember, Them and Donovan). When you’re 12, six years is a massive age difference, of course. Plus he was a DJ for the church youth group. And he had a party cellar populated by people with moustaches and girls with make-up who all smoked (Marlboro packets look really good when stuck on the ceiling next to each other) and probably drunk too. And perhaps had sex (even the lovely Sandra!). So when so cool a role model introduces you to the wonders of Jethro Tull’s Aqualung, and soon after you happen upon the brand new single by that group, you obviously buy it, unheard, to impress the old guy. Happily, the song was quite nice. Anderson looked a bit like the British TV character Catweazle, and I supposed that he might sound like Catweazle in the programme’s original English dub.

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Goldie – Making Up Again.mp3
More rock stuff, so these chaps are not to be confused with the British artist of dental misfortune and Strictly Come Dancing appearance. In fact, I don’t know much about this Goldie lot at all. I know they were label mates of Uriah Heep on the Bronze label, and that they were English (from Northumberland, a bastion of rock). Their founder, Dave Black, toured with David Bowie in 1976, which would have given the group some cool factor which their sole hit must have quickly negated. Their look, seriously rivalling that of REO Speedwagon, can’t have helped either. Making Up Again, a UK Top 10 hit, sounds like a song which Boston refused as being too soft. I may sound like I’m mocking it, but I actually rather like the song.

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The Boomtown Rats – Like Clockwork.mp3
The kind reader may regard this writer as an individual of entirely sinless record, but there were times when he deserved punishment. One such merited punishment included, apart from a good thrashing, the confiscation of my record collection, for the crime of redistributing the familial wealth. The cruel penalty would prove, contrary to initial threats, transient (a little over a month, perhaps). In the interim, my dear grandmother financed my unabated record-purchasing addiction, and in a spirit of clandestine conspiracy let me keep new acquisitions at her place, to be played on her gleaming old music box. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture, with a mirrored liquor cabinet that smelt of brandy. To access the record player, you had to press a button, whereupon the middle front of the cabinet opened. The record player had known opera and classical music, Schlager and the dreadful German Volksmusik that always seemed to include too much yodelling. Now it could add the pub-rock of the Boomtown Rats to its playlist. The alarm clock bell at the end of the song is pretty good.

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The Motors – Airport.mp3
In those heady days of 1977/78 any rock act that wasn’t prog or glam was prone to be called punk. Pub rocker Elvis Costello was initially called punk, for pity’s sake. So were The Motors. Look at their picture on the sleeve for Airport. None of them is likely to kill their girlfriend in a crazed heroin rush. They look like the third-choice goalkeeper for Rochdale, a geography teacher at a secondary school in North Wales, a trainer in telesales for Tupperware products, and a university economics major dropout battling his way through by working as a bus conductor to finance the modern arts course he really wanted to do but his father vetoed. All noble conditions of existence, of course, but unequivocally not punk (though the bus conductor might join the other arts students in being punks when he re-enters academic pursuits). And Airport is much better than most punk records. It’s a splendid song. In his marvellous memoir of growing up with vinyl, Lost In Music, Giles Smith recalls how he and his mates would endeavour to time the high-pitched background cries of “airport”. I did the same, as did a fellow with whom I discussed Airport at, of all places, the Dead Sea.

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More Stepping Back

Today marks the 25^th anniversary of Live Aid, a sentence that makes me feel old. I wrote what I think is my definitive take on the day two years ago. I have nothing new to add, except for a few minor edits. But it’s the 25^th anniversary of a big event I actually attended, so I will recycle that post and re-upload my Live Aid mix, ripped from DVD.To see what else happened that day and what awful music populated the US charts, check out the always enjoyable The Hits Just Keep Coming blog.

The music was mostly terrible, the artists tended to be self-serving and smug, we had shit seats right at the back of Wembley Stadium, and the legacy of the event is questioned by many. And still, Live Aid ranks among the best days of my life, at least in as far as concerts are concerned.

Indisputably, there were long stretches of tedium, watching wasters like Sting and Phil Collins being bumptious, Spandau Ballet demonstrating why they were a rubbish live act, Adam Ant destroying his already skidding career with one song, and the creations of mad hairstylists immortalising the decade of my youth as one bereft of sense and elegance.

But these dull stretches were enlivened by some high point. Everybody is right, Queen were indeed, well, majestic. Fred had sex with the whole of Wembley stadium, and left us panting for more. Queen’s set provided my abiding memory: the crowds doing that arms-aloft-clap-clap-arms-aloft-clap-clap thing from the video of Radio Gaga – what a sight that was from where I was sitting overlooking the masses on the pitch  – followed by Mercury leading the 80,000 people (or whatever) in vocal exercises. And I’m not even a Queen fan, certainly wasn’t in 1985.

Other highlights included getting to watch The Who play live, playing my favourite song of their catalogue, Won’t Get Fooled Again; and U2 playing my favourite of their repertoire, Bad, with the mulleted Bono (then not yet conclusively the pompous ponce we know him as today) grabbing that girl from the crowd. It was not a spontaneous act, though; he performed that shtick, probably stolen from Springsteen’s Dancing In The Dark video, during every concert at the time (I saw him do it three times in three countries that summer). At the time I thought his sampling of other people’s songs (here Lou Reed and the Rolling Stones), was cool; now not so much. And George Michael, coming out as a bearded man for the first time, was magnificent when he sang Elton John’s Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me. When he got around to recording it almost a decade later, it had lost its magic.

In Philadelphia, Hall & Oates stole the show. In a pretty soul-free line-up, the blue-eyed soulmen hooked up with bona fide soul legends, singing soul music. Otherwise there were the Four Tops, and, at some point when nobody was watching, Ashford & Simpson with Teddy Pendergrass (R.I.P.), the latter appearing on stage for the first time since his accident which left him paraplegic. Oh, and Pati LaBelle, whose acute histrionics were entirely distressing. And, I must say, Madonna (wearing entirely regrettable floral trousers) was energetic. Her line, “I’m not gonna take shit off tonight” in reference to just released nude photos of her in Penthouse was a welcome glimpse of humour.

Embarrassing moments prevailed, however. Sumon Le Bon, never a good singer, totally missed a note in A View To A Kill.  Bob Dylan and the two craggies from the Stones (who looked 60 then, but were only in their early 40s) contrived to perform an amusing cacophony, which the performers believably blamed on not being able to hear each other. Frankly, I thought Keef was high, Ronny pissed and Dylan no different from usual.

But the cringe moment of the day belonged to the man who made Live Aid possible, Bob Geldof (Midge fucking who?). Of course, credit to Bob for doing something; indeed, more than most of us have done. It was commendable and all that. When it was their turn, the Boomtown Rats gave a particularly feckless rendition of I Don’t Like Mondays, with the sidekicks not even bothering to sing the backing vocals in tune. Then at the line “and the lesson today is how to die”, in a song about a schoolground shooting, Geldof stopped, raised his fist and let the crowd lap up his status as Temporary Messiah while they reflected on the supposed symbolic magnitude of the line. You see, Ethiopians are dying, and the lesson today is how to die. Which is deep man. Especially if you consider how many Ethiopians are running around with silicon chips inside their heads getting switched to overload.

Likewise, the use of the Cars’ song Drive to soundtrack that utterly devastating video of starving people was embarrassing. One misapplied line in a love song is not suitable as a device for the manipulation of those who viewed the video. It was not just mawkish; it was ill-judged, trivialising the famine, as though it can be explained by a random pop number. It symbolised the cocaine-fuelled rock triumphalism of the day. Perhaps Midge Ure captured the true spirit of Live Aid’s star-roster when he crooned that line from Vienna: “This means nothing to me.”

Doubtless many acts on the bill felt deeply about feeding the world and reminding the starving Ethiopians that they were doing their best to ensure that there will be snow in Africa next Christmastime, regardless of the inopportune consequences of such radical climate change. But many of those who took part were in truth opportunists, wanting in on the cash-in. Some, such as Queen (who might have been sincere or opportunistic or both), revived their flagging careers on the back of Live Aid. All but one act recorded increased sales after the event, the exception being the hapless Adam Ant. Live Aid was at least as much about corporate profiteering as it was about social engagement. Did much of the profits from increased post-Live Aid sales go to famine relief? Didn’t think so.

Paradoxically, Live Aid was also a bit of a racist event, and the 4-DVD set aggravates that defect. No African artists other than the Nigerian-born but otherwise decidedly western Sade appeared in London or Philadelphia; an oddity when the event was supposed to raise awareness about Africa. As noted above, black artists were very thin on the bill. The DVD set even manages to exclude the Four Tops’ 5-song set, as well as those of Billy Ocean and Run-DMC (featured in the extras). The only other excised acts are Santana and, commendably, Power Station.

I don’t buy into the fairly popular idea that Live Aid was in itself malign. Pragmatically, it raised money which saved some lives, and helped build clinics and water purification schemes. That is admirable. It did raise awareness on a range of issues concerning famine, albeit imperfectly, and promoted some sense of social responsibility. In the callous, self-centred 1980s, Live Aid made charity cool. But it also proposed a notion that charity is not selfless, that for your charity you must get something in return — at the very least the option to congratulate yourself. Consumerist charity, one might call it.

Live Aid did not see itself as a solution but as a contribution to a problem. Its contribution was effective in addressing an immediate crisis. The music, however, was mostly shit. To celebrate the music that wasn’t, or to observe the performances which were poor but stand as novelties we may marvel at, here is a compilation of my highlights of Live Aid (plus the chaos of Bob, Keef and Ron).

TRACKLISTING:

1. Status Quo – Rockin’ All Over The World
2. Boomtown Rats – I Don’t Like Mondays
3. Elvis Costello – All You Need Is Love
4. U2 – Bad
5. Beach Boys – Good Vibrations
6. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
7. Queen - Radio Gaga
8. David Bowie – Heroes
9. The Who – Won’t Get Fooled Again
10. George Michael – Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me
11. Paul McCartney – Let It Be
12. Crosby, Stills & Nash – Teach Your Children
13. Neil Young – Nothing Is Perfect (In God’s Perfect Plan)
14. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks - Get Ready
15. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks & David Ruffin – Ain’t Too Proud To Beg
16. Hall & Oates with Eddie Kendricks & David Ruffin – My Girl
17. Bob Dylan, Keith Richards & Ron Wood – Blowing In The Wind

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