o m g it's o m d

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark - great band, great name, but fortunately for anyone writing about them OMD works just as well.

Founded by Wirral schoolfriends Andy McCluskey and Paul Humphreys OMD originally grew from the duo's first band, The Id.  But whilst The Id were at least trying to create vaguely commercial sounds, McCluskey and Humphreys also had a side project named VCL X1 which interested them more. Inspired by their love of Kraftwerk and Eno's experimental music Andy and Paul threw themselves into VCL X1 when the Id split in the summer of 1978.

Renaming the band Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark they set about working on new tunes and a new way of presenting the music. Backed only by tape loops of industrial rhythm tracks they played their new music on primitive synths - to emphasise the importance of the backing tapes to the band as a whole, the machine was even given a name, Winston. Across the Pennines the Human League were doing much the same thing, incorporating synthetic sounds into fragmentary pop songs, although OMD were arguably better at marrying the experimental with the commercial (the Human League only had success when they dropped the wilfully obscure sounds and went all out for pop stardom).

In late 1979 OMD prepared their self titled first album, an intriguing mixture of chirpy upbeat tunes with oddly downbeat lyrics, and a series of industrial inspired soundscapes overlaid with opaque, haunting vocals.

The opening two songs set the scene very well with "Bunker Soldiers" showing off OMD's trademark wonky keyboards and hissing rhythm tracks (plus some bizarre lyics) followed by the warmly buzzing synths and tender vocals of "Almost". As with most of the tracks on this album the percussion sounds seem to be taken from factory machinery, all hissing and clanking as if steam powered. It's like the vast machinery of Metropolis has been utilised for music. As well as the very successful moodier pieces there are a number of unlikely pop songs such as "Red Frame White Light" all about the 'phone box outside the studio and the frankly bizarre "Dancing", a woozy instrumental with extremely drunk sounding synths. Although "Mystereality" breaks up the mechanised sounds with a cheery saxophone it's the synth pop songs that are the most successful.

Both "Messages" and "Electricity" were re-recorded for single release but it's the album versions that are perhaps the most impressive. "Messages" is an unlikely song of lost love sung over a very Kraftwerkian melody (the single boosted the drums and beefed up the synths but it made the song less unique) and "Electricity" is a tribute to... well... electricity. Another very Kraftwerkian concept. 

Each side ends with atmospheric laments - "The Messerschmitt Twins" is a nickname that Andy and Paul once gave themselves and "Pretending To See The Future" is an ironic view of how their career might progress.

One song that wasn't quite complete at the time of recording the OMD album was "Enola Gay", perhaps the only pop song about the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Named after the aircraft that carried the bomb, the poetically grim lyrics reflect on the decision to use it and ask the listener to consider whether the bombings were necessary - "It shouldn't ever have to end this way" sings McCluskey. "It's 8:15, and that's the time that it's always been" refers to the precise time of the detonation of the Little Boy bomb over Hiroshima. For such a weighty subject it's perhaps odd that "Enola Gay" had perhaps the catchiest melody of any OMD song to date, and odder still when it became a top ten single. Surely the radio stations that continually played it during the autumn of 1980 can't have really understood what the song was about.

"Enola Gay" preceded OMD's second album, which was released in late October 1980. Named Organisation (after the collective of musicians that eventually became Kraftwerk ten years earlier) this was a much darker affair than the debut. Andy and Paul had also been influenced by Joy Division during the recording of this record and Ian Curtis' suicide had greatly upset McCluskey, leading to a much more sombre mood. The palette of instrumentation was widened too; the success of the debut album had enabled the duo to increase the scale of their synths and utilise ex Id drummer Malcolm Holmes (who now fully replaced the creaking Winston) and Martin Cooper who played additional keyboards. For the first time Paul Humphreys felt confident enough to take lead vocals on his self penned "Promise", his clear vocals contrasting with McCluskey's more exuberant style. The greater range of this album is apparent on nearly every track, but perhaps no more obvious than on the final piece "Stanlow". Once again celebrating the industrial, this track is named after a massive oil refinery at nearby Ellesmere Port and the harshly metallic sounds of the intro reinforce this - it sounds like heavy chains being dragged laboriously, as pistons gasp and whoosh. The grand epic scale of the rest of the track is magnificent.

Ending side one is smaller scale, minor epic."Statues" was written as a tribute to the late Ian Curtis and McCluskey wonders what went wrong - "I can't imagine, how this ever came to be" he sings. It is haunting, intensely moving and quite magical, and is arguably the finest song in OMD's catalogue.

After the success of Organisation OMD toured extensively, cementing their reputation as a fine live act. Then they headed straight back to studios for their third, and perhaps their best album. Architecture And Morality is the most consistent OMD album, with every track of a uniformly high standard. The complex sleeve, with geometrical patterns and photos glimpsed through cut-outs in the outer cardboard seems excessively fussy today, as does the tongue twisting title. But album titles made of deliberately contrasting words seemed all the rage in 1981 (see also Heaven 17's Penthouse And Pavement or Simple Minds' Empires And Dance amongst many others). The title for the OMD album was actually taken from a book, and was suggested to Paul Humphreys by Martha Ladly, one of two Martha's in Martha And The Muffins who shared the same record company as OMD.

The first track recorded for A&M was the beautiful "Souvenir". Constructed from a series of tape loops and supplemented with Mellotron choral effects "Souvenir" showcased Paul Humphreys' angelic voice as he sung the prettiest melody yet recorded by OMD. It was, deservedly, a massive hit single in the late summer of 1981. Although, as with "Enola Gay" it wasn't really representative of the album. When A&M was released a few months later in November listeners were surprised by the harshness of the opening song. "The New Stone Age" begins with hissing and scratching before launching into a fiercely strummed guitar part which is overlaid with discordant synths and McCluskey's hoarse vocal. It really is a stunning and totally unexpected track.

Things return to normal with "She's Leaving", which is certainly derived in spirit from "She's Leaving Home" by fellow Scousers, the Beatles. "Souvenir" follows and side one ends with "Sealand". The longest OMD track thus far, it begins gently and builds gradually for a couple of minutes until the most majestic tune bursts forth. Warm synths unfold slowly and lazily as they play for a truly beautiful couple of minutes. I could listen to this section all day. A short couple of verses follow before the music fades away leaving only an insistent drum beat which, after a short burst of incongruous metallic hammering, takes the song to its conclusion on gentle keyboards which drift the song away as imperceptibly as it arrived. One of the absolute essential OMD tunes. 

Side two begins with two songs called "Joan Of Arc". Both were issued as singles but the record company insisted on the second one being subtitled "Maid Of Orleans" to avoid totally confusing the public. The first is more conventional being yet another pretty song complete with mellotron samples and what sounds like a child's music box, but the second is frankly bizarre. Strange backwards tapes and unearthly noises give way to synths that sound like bagpipes playing a strident tune, accompanied by military drumming giving the whole song a very martial feel. And if that wasn't odd enough, it's in waltz time. 

The avant garde soundscapes of the title track make for an interesting interlude before we hit the home straight - "Georgia" shows OMD's commercial side once more but "The Beginning and the End" brings it down again with some choral loops creating a heavenly circular melody.    

OMD were at a crossroads. One the one hand they were scoring substantial chart success, but both Paul and Andy wanted to further the experimental side of the band, so they determined to see how far they could go whilst still retaining a commercial edge. The results became apparent on their fourth album Dazzle Ships. Produced by the band in collaboration with Roxy Music producer Rhett Davies, the album failed on almost every count.

To begin with the sleeve was horridly busy and off putting, and the clever die cut cardboard that worked on A&M seemed way too contrived here. Musically it seemed like Paul and Andy had not really taken on board what had worked on previous records, or perhaps they had but were determined not to repeat it. Either way the album contained far too much musique concrete, annoying clips of radio call signs and pointless sound effects. And these took up half the twelve tracks. The rest of the album featured "Radio Waves" (a song that the Id used to play) and "Telegraph", "Of All The Things We've Made" and the "Romance of the Telescope" which all dated from the A&M sessions leaving only two actual new songs - Dazzle Ships took over a year to complete, prompting the question - had OMD run out of ideas?

In both "Of All The Things..." and "Romance..." OMD had two of their finest songs ever, the former taking the repetitively strummed guitar of "The New Stone Age" but slowing and calming it down, adding a perfectly poised one finger piano motif, and the latter being all mellotron beauty and wistful vocals. Both had been issued in early draft forms as b-sides to A&M singles, but it is telling that these are by far the best songs on this album.

Dazzle Ships was a major disappointment, both critically and commercially. Andy and Paul had a rethink and when OMD returned a year later Junk Culture was simply a strong collection of 1984 pop songs. Although the album did contain a little of the previous experimentation it was clear which way OMD had decided to head. Me, I headed a different way...

why do I like the music I like?

Even though I have thousands of songs, on CDs, records, cassettes and on my iPod I do actually have favourites. And although I'm constantly seeking out new music (either brand new bands or artists, or older stuff that is 'new' to me) I tend to find that my absolute top favourite songs have remained pretty consistent for many years. Does this mean that new stuff I'm hearing isn't as good? Well no, not at all, but there was a study recently which, annoyingly, I simply cannot find now, which put forth the theory that the songs we really like in our teens are the ones that tend to leave the biggest mark. In my case this is certainly true. I wish I could find that study - I've looked in vain for the University of Spurious Factoids... anyway...

Although I love recent acquisitions such as "Way Out Of Here" by Porcupine Tree or Johnny Cash's "If You Could Read My Mind" (just two of many songs that have affected me deeply in the past year or so) my all time favourites are songs which I first heard between starting senior school and leaving University. 

So why is this, and why haven't (arguably better) songs that I've heard in the past 20 years or so had quite such an affect on me?  

Mum used to play a lot of music when I was young - I remember lots of Beatles, who I still really like. But society dictates that it's not cool to like your parents' music, and although I was never that bothered about being cool it's when you hit your teens that you start to individualise your likes and dislikes. Even subconsciously you move away from the things that your parents are into, even if you weren't especially rebellious, like me.

There was something old fashioned about the previous generation's music, a distinction that doesn't seem to apply as much today - with iTunes and the ability to download any music from any era, downloading Elvis followed by Lady Gaga really doesn't seem that odd. My iPod slots Robin Guthrie next to Roxy Music next to Roy Orbison - music that is separated by half a century, but which can be played one track after another without sounding strange. I suppose it just proves that good music is genuinely timeless. 

The stuff I started buying in 1980, David Bowie, Ultravox, Visage in the very first instances was the first music that I had actively chosen myself. This, I think, is what makes this music so special, and so memorable. It was mine, it related to me and I related to the music.  

Of course around the same time I had pocket money that could be spent on records. This also allowed me the freedom to buy whatever I wanted. This is when Iggy Pop entered my collection, records that my parents wouldn't like (and still don't to be honest...). I didn't buy Raw Power deliberately to annoy anyone, I really liked it, but I was aware that the sheer noise of the record was my secret, not to be shared with anyone else. This freedom was terribly exciting and I suppose that the music from those years is indelibly bound up with those emotions. Possibly why it sticks in the memory so well.

Another reason is that, unlike now, when I have thousands of songs at my fingertips, then every new album was obsessively poured over, every sleeve note was read and re-read, every note was listened to again and again. I even remembered all the track times of David Bowie's songs for heaven's sake. No idea why, I just remembered them all - for the record "Ziggy Stardust" is 3.23 long, as if anyone else really cares...

With just a few albums in my possession each song was proportionately more important, and was played hundreds of times. Everything I heard was new, every album, every song, every note opened new worlds, new possibilities. There's also the feeling that the music I was discovering then was somehow just right - to me this was how music was supposed to sound, explaining why music that came a generation before me and all that came after I was grown up sometimes sound a bit 'wrong'. This was my music. It wasn't the popular music that I liked either, it was just stuff that I liked, and much of it was downright weird and left field. Plus I had no musical training, so I had no way of explaining why I liked what I liked, it was just a gut reaction. Even now I can't explain that, oh here's a I-IV-I-V chord progression and there's a key change one whole tone higher for the last chorus, or various other bits of music theory and song construction, but intuitively I understand what's going on, and I know what sounds good to me. Subconsciously my brain has absorbed the bits that I like, and I excitedly recognise further combinations of really cool key changes etc, without knowing exactly what it is that I'm hearing.

The lack of portability (I didn't have a Walkman until the end of the 1980s) meant that pretty much all my listening took place in my bedroom between the two large speakers diametrically placed in opposite corners - one on top of the wardrobe, one at the foot of the bed. So many songs remind me so much of sitting at my desk or laying on my bed. It was my own private world and I loved it. And while it is marvellous having an iPod so I can take all my music anywhere at all, I wonder if this lack of a permanent 'home' for all these songs contributes to some of them lacking that emotional sense of belonging. Maybe music, just like people, needs a proper home and a nebulous bit of digital memory somehow isn't quite right.

the album I've played more than any other

I have probably played Scary Monsters And Super Creeps by David Bowie more than any other album; I know every part of every track inside out. But it’s a measure of how good this record is that I still don’t get bored of it, never skip any tracks, and get a huge amount of pleasure from it, every time I hear it.

The basic tracks for Scary Monsters were recorded in a two week period in New York in the early part of 1980, then DB took a break to work on the lyrics. By April 1980 he was in London overdubbing and recording the vocals. In between early gigs with the League Of Gentlemen Robert Fripp would travel to Tony Visconti’s Good Earth studio to lay down what he later described as 'burning guitar'. It was released in September just after “Ashes To Ashes” had become Bowie’s second ever number one. Promoted by the most New Romantic of New Romantic videos (and featuring Steve Strange and other weirdly attired denizens of Strange’s Blitz Club) this was a truly magical marriage of sound and vision, and it was seeing this video on Top Of The Pops that really converted me to David Bowie. I bought Scary Monsters on cassette as I didn’t have a record player at that time. From Woolworths as I remember, at the very end of 1980, using some of my Christmas money. And I loved every track straight away - never has an album had such a huge and immediate impact on me. I have, quite obviously, never looked back… Buying that cassette is surely one of the pivotal moments of my life.

The first track features tons of tape hiss, a mad Japanese woman shouting angrily, some seriously odd singing from Bowie, Fripp’s anguished guitar and an ending that involves Fripp playing an atonal circular pattern until someone screams out 'Shut Up!' - I had no idea what was happening but I knew right away that it was, somehow, quite brilliant.

After the torment of "It's No Game" we get the lopsided chant of "Up The Hill Backwards" where DB is buried in the mass of vocals and after just two oblique verses and no obvious chorus the song dissolves into more Frippian noise. The title track follows, with Bowie's mockney voice back on show, though with a sinister, theatening edge. There is also an eerie electronic sibilence present on the sss sounds, just enough to make you shiver slightly. A propulsively catchy song, though it was no more chart friendly than "Up The Hill..." - that didn't stop RCA milking the album for all it was worth and issuing both as singles in early 1981.

The fourth track is the magnificent "Ashes To Ashes", a follow up to Bowie's first big hit, "Space Oddity". A vaguely reggaeish beat, cool synths, mysteriously obscure lyrics - the was the blueprint for all subsequent New Romantic songs. The video just capped it all beautifully. 

"Fashion" follows next, one of the sleekest and catchiest dance tracks Bowie has ever recorded. It's impossible to sit still while this song plays. Yet amongst the hard New York funk there's still space for some savage guitar from Fripp. 

Over on side two things seem a little calmer to begin with. "Teenage Wildlife" comes on like an update of the "Heroes" sound, not least in the mid paced tempo and Fripp's laser beam lead lines. There's a stunning fatalistic quality to the whole song and the the lyrics and especially the vocals themselves take it to another place altogether. As Bowie reflects on his life he finds himself being asked for advice by the new wave... although he rather sadly sees them as 'the same old thing, in brand new drag...'. One of them asks him directly, 'David what shall I do, they wait for me in the hallways?' to which he replies, rather wonderfully, 'Don't ask me, I don't know any hallways'. It's rare that Bowie ever refers to himself directly in song, and on this occasion he's deliberately distancing himself from the next wave of musicians and artists, setting himself apart once again. At just 33 he doesn't like the way he's being set up as an elder statesman to the next generation.

"Scream Like A Baby" follows, and we are back in one of David's nightmare future worlds. As with "Diamond Dogs" or "Sons Of The Silent Age" an unnamed State is persecuting anyone with individuality. It's a chilling song but presented in a remarkably cheery tune.

Tom Verlaine's "Kingdom Come" is the only cover on the record but both the sound of the recording and the lyrics themselves fit perfectly with the mood of side two - a resigned acceptance of whatever fate throws at us. Bowie's acrobatic vocals are arguably some of his finest ever. 

"Because You're Young" is desperately sad. Ostensibly addressed to his son, it becomes a lament to lost opportunities as it touches on the pain of his broken marriage. For someone who usually hides genuine emotion behind characters and play-acting the line 'She took back everything she said, and left him nearly out of his mind' is about as raw a line as Bowie has ever written, and it's hard not to cry at the conclusion as he really sings his heart out - 'a million dreams, a million scars'.

After that the second version of "It's No Game" comes as something of relief. Shorn of the manic Japanese vocals, and with Fripp reigning it in, this version restates the themes of tolerance and acceptance whilst at the same time condemning fascism and extremists. A few seconds after the song has ended we hear the sound of the tape running off the spool and flicking round and round.

There is the sense that much of Scary Monsters is concerned with tying up the loose ends of the 1970s. "It's No Game" was first demoed in 1970 and the revised lyrics put to bed the ghosts of Bowie's Thin White Duke phase when he was falsely accused of flirting with fascist iconography. "Fashion" was developed from a 1975 song called "Jamaica"; "Scream Like A Baby" takes the tune from "I Am A Laser", a 1973 song from the unfinished Astronettes project. Add to this the way that "Ashes To Ashes" brings down the blinds on the Major Tom saga and "Because You're Young" brushes away the ashes of his marriage and it is clear that Bowie wanted to start the 1980s with a clean slate.

So strong is Scary Monsters that it has become the benchmark by which every subsequent Bowie album is marked. So many Bowie album reviews in the last 30 years have included the words 'perhaps Bowie's best since Scary Monsters...'

For me it is one of the greatest albums ever made, and certainly Bowie's greatest achievement, a collection of 10 songs linked by a mood, a vague theme of regret and remembrance balanced by an urgency and desire to move forwards. There are moments on this album that are among my very favourite musical moments ever - for example, the spine-tingling synth solo at the end of "Ashes To Ashes" is something I wish could go on for ever. It doesn't but that doesn't matter; Scary Monsters has been with me for 31 years now, and I know it will be with me for another 31 and for ever.

harold budd / cocteau twins - the moon and the melodies

It's weird how just one song can conjure up so many memories.

A chance encounter with the rather ungrammatical "Ooze Out And Away, Onehow" from The Moon And The Melodies took me right back to the house I rented in Lancaster for the autumn term 1986. After a long winded series of housing disasters three of us ended up in a lovely three storey Victorian terraced house in lofty Regents Street. A great house, with high ceilings, large rooms, a scarily dark basement and a bathroom that might well have been the original (I'm pretty sure the very clunky plumbing was).

The top storey of the house was locked up - the landlord lived there, or rather he did when he was in the country. I think he was a roadie or something like that, he certainly wasn't a responsible landlord as we were to find out. The bedrooms were all on the first floor and we drew lots for the rooms. I ended up with the biggest, across the whole of the front with two tall windows overlooking the leafy street. Kevin and Tim, both of whom I've entirely lost touch with, had rooms at the back, still decently sized though not as enormous as my room. It was about 25 feet across by perhaps 15 deep, furnished only by a ricketty wardrobe, a massive bed, a big, saggy armchair dragged upstairs from the lounge that we never bothered to use, and a tiny desk that I never found a satisfactory home for, moving it almost daily around the huge room so that it constantly faced a different direction.

Music came from my solid little Sony cassette deck and a constantly growing selection of tapes. That term I remember playing lots of Cocteau Twins, lots of Grace Jones, King Crimson and the two Cluster and Brian Eno albums which I must've just got hold of as I played them loads - I remember one night playing "Broken Head" over and over as I loved the weird wobbliness of the keyboards.

So far so good. We had friends just a few houses down the street in an identical house, though their cellar was clear and clean and perfect for some excellent parties. We settled in well, my £200 Vauxhall Viva worked just enough to get me to and from the campus and apart from reversing into a tree everything was great (I genuinely didn't see the magnificent oak behind me; I swear it must have leapt about three feet forwards).

Then the landlord vanished. He had never been around much, but he just disappeared completely. And the bills, which were all in his name (electricity and gas were all included in our rent), started to mount up. After a few weeks of increasingly red reminders dropping through the letterbox we decided to open one. Hundreds of pounds were owed, going back way before we'd moved in. A phone call to the Gas Board found them sympathetic, but not enough not to cut off the gas. The electricity company kindly let us keep the power, but they installed a meter (looking back, I'm not sure why the gas people didn't do that too, but they didn't). So with about 4 weeks of term left we had lights and power but no hot water or central heating. And it was then that having the biggest room became a problem. The lovely huge windows were very draughty, and a the wind would howl down the chimney into my impressive chunky fireplace. I froze.

I spent more time than ever in bed, keeping warm under the duvet. Tricky when it came to write essays though. I can remember working late into the night, which everyone knows is the best time to write history essays, and sometimes it was bitterly cold. One night I woke up at about 4am to watch the Australian Grand Prix, live. I dragged my little black and white portable over and perched it on the end of the bed and watched through a gap in the covers. Nigel Mansell simply had to finish in the points to win the Championship. Towards the end of a race that he'd led from the start he managed to blow a tyre along a dead straight bit of the track and put himself out of the race and the Championship. Poor Murray Walker was beside himself.

Anyway, that song, the strangely titled "Ooze Out And Away, Onehow". It's from an album recorded by the brilliant Californian pianist Harold Budd in conjunction with Scottish ethearalists Cocteau Twins (who aren't twins, and there's three of them). I was already a big fan of both Budd (especially his groundbreaking ambient records with Brian Eno) and the Twins so this collaboration was perfect for me. The eight tracks that comprise The Moon And The Melodies are divided cleanly into four songs and four instrumentals, with the songs beginning and ending each side of the record (remember them?). The album was released on 10 November 1986 so I must've had a good month in which I played that chilly echoey music to death, in my chilly echoey room. The songs are basically gentler Cocteau Twins songs, with the drum programmes turned down a bit. Budd's atmospheric keyboards are to the fore where they compete with Robin Guthrie's equally atmospheric guitar. The instrumentals are more Budd, but with added synths, swirly guitar effects and sometimes a saxophone so faint that you wonder if you've imagined it.

Despite the clear cut division of labour the whole album works extremely well as a whole album, and without exception every track is superb. Harold Budd reused "Memory Gongs" on his own album, the excellent Lovely Thunder (released around the same time as TMATM. For no obvious reason he retitled the piece "Flowered Knife Shadows" which is a rather silly title, though secretly I'm rather impressed by the sheer pretentiousness of it. Some of the other track titles derive from earlier Cocteau's songs - "Ooze Out And Away, Onehow" actually comes from a line in a song on Head Over Heels. 

It's also the final song on TMATM and begins imperceptibly, building halfway through with the introduction of the drums. Elizabeth Fraser's vocals are magnificent; no idea what she's singing as usual, but it doesn't matter as the sound of her voice is far more important that the meaning. Every track gives off a glacial feel, every track is imbued with winter itself creating images of chilly fog and ice on branches... I played it over and over; the album was the soundtrack to those chilly nights as I tried to write essays at my itinerant little desk, or as I sat in the huge armchair drinking extremely cheap wine (hey, we were students) while candles lit the room and dribbled multicoloured rivulets of wax down the old wine bottles I used as candlesticks (really, how much more student-y can you get?).

At the end of that term the University took pity on us and found us all rooms back on campus after Christmas, so we were back in the warm, and with hot water once again!

Sometimes that all seems such a long time ago, but then I hear something like The Moon And The Melodies and it all comes back again. It's a record that is absolutely right for a house in which you could see your breath indoors. 

it's immaterial

It’s Immaterial. Anyone remember them?

A duo who made a handful of singles and only two albums – the first in 1986 Life’s Hard And Then You Die, followed four years later by their masterpiece, Song. Then – nothing.

John Campbell, a Mancunian, formed the band with some Liverpudlian friends in 1980. One of the early members was Henry Priestman, who later formed The Christians. Jarvis Whitehead joined the band in 1982 and a small number of well received, but commercially unsuccessful singles ensued. (One of these, the faintly loopy "A Giant Raft (In The Philippines)" seems to have been issued again and again - the band must have thought it was good, but still no-one bought it...) By 1984 the band was down to just Campbell and Whitehead, but a John Peel session that year revealed a newfound determination, and some cracking new songs. With his very dry wit and laconic delivery Campbell's new songs amusingly celebrated the mundane and the ordinary and transformed them into something heroic.

And then they had a hit single! The sombre yet oddly jolly "Driving Away From Home" slipped into the top twenty in early 1986, an infectiously catchy road movie for the ears, set in the industrial north of England and surely the only song in the world to sing the praises of motoring on the M62... It's Immaterial entered the glitzy world of Top Of The Pops, videos and pop stardom with their customary reticence and slightly bemused embarrassment. A follow up single, "Ed's Funky Diner", was not as successful but paved the way for their first album Life's Hard And Then You Die. Although perhaps none of the songs are quite as quirkily moody as "Driving..." the album still contains a wealth of invention and darkly catchy melodies. It’s as if The Blue Nile has been given a minor injection of funk, mixed with the dry social commentary of the Pet Shop Boys, topped by with some gorgeous harmonies courtesy of members of The Christians - the album is nothing less than delightful.

And then they vanished until 1990 when the album Song just appeared – with no fanfare, no publicity, no promotion. The accompanying single "Heaven Knows" did receive a little airplay, but was strangely released some months after the album (although it did contain a couple of non-album tracks as b-sides).

The critics loved it but hardly anyone bought either single or album, which was a terrible shame as Song is 50 minutes of handcrafted perfection. Calum Malcolm produces - he was also responsible for The Blue Nile’s contemporaneous Hats, (a truly stunning record with which Song compares very favourably). The similarities are strong – the wistful aching vocals, the minor key balladry, the simple yet catchy keyboard led songs, the way many tunes build from near-silence to a passionate heart-rending conclusion, yet all achieved with seemingly little effort or the usual rock / pop bluster. These two albums inhabit their own worlds. They have little or nothing in common with the prevailing musical trends of the late 1980’s. The subject matter is often banal – the trials and tribulations of everyday suburban life – work, the kids, holidays, attempts to move house - but dealt with in such a surprisingly emotional way.

Song contains some beautifully elegant songs – the opening "New Brighton" sets the scene, led by delicate keyboards and a robust but unobtrusive drum programme and a weary and melancholic mood conjuring up an air of remembrance and regret. "Heaven Knows" offers gentle encouragement 'it's gonna be alright' over a wistful backing. "Life On The Hill" is more solid, with insistent programming creating an understated funky rhythm, but in general the album lives in a  world of rain, small Northern towns and people who may wish to escape the mundanity of their lives, but can't but really escape their surroundings or their pasts,

No further It's Immaterial records ever emerged. A third album, House For Sale, was recorded and apparently finished in 1992, but it has never been released. John Campbell was told by various labels that they would not issue the record as it was 'too dark'. In 2010 a couple of tracks leaked onto the internet - far from being dark, these songs reveal themselves as a continuation of the themes and sound of Song; melancholy and introspective yes, but not really 'dark'.

What they did after this is a complete mystery to me. Neither Campbell or Whitehead appear to have formed other bands, or recorded any other songs. It's a terrible shame as It's Immaterial created some extremely clever and memorable songs, and Song in particular is so very lovely and clearly the product of two very talented musicians. 

explorers

After Roxy Music fell apart at the end of the 1983 USA tour Bryan Ferry embarked upon years of solo work, overdubbing slowly and painstakingly. 

His Roxy colleagues, Phil Manzanera and Andy Mackay, preferred a more traditional band environment and stuck together as The Explorers. Recruiting a friend of Andy's, James Wraith, as a vocalist, the trio recorded their self-titled album during 1984 with the assistance of Phil and Andy's stellar musician friends - variously, Jerry Marotta or Steve Gadd on drums, Tony Levin or Alan Spenner on bass, and Guy Fletcher or Paul Carrack on keyboards.

The Explorers recorded just two albums; the debut was issued in 1985, but the follow up, recorded that year was not released until 1988 under the hugely underwhelming title Manzanera and Mackay.

Frankly these are not the greatest albums ever made. And they generally aren't a patch on the classic Roxy records. But approached with a fresh ear, and few expectations both albums reveal some truly excellent songs, beautifully played.

The first album is the best, with a number of tracks that are arguably equal to some great Roxy songs. The opening "Ship Of Fools" is a slowburning overture, with some characteristically robust guitar work from PM. The faster, pop songs which make up the rest of side one are perhaps a little weak, though all have some neat twists and are still leagues ahead of many other mid 1980s pop songs. It's side two that really cements this album's reputation. Beautiful oboe from Andy permeates "Prussian Blue", and imbues it with a passion and emotion that is quite unexpected. "Two Worlds Apart" and "Robert Louis Stevenson" are superb, very catchy, grown up, elegantly crafted songs. And the closing "You Go Up In Smoke" is a lovely late night ballad.

On the CD the dance version of "Falling For Nightlife" is a dubious bonus, containing some of the worst excesses of 1985 remix technology. Lots of stuttering and pretend scratching (see Paul Hardcastle's "N N N Nineteen" for the blueprint), some hugely amplified drums and some silly early attempts at sampled voices. However, despite all this it's actually terrific fun. (And it must be the only song to include Eddy Grant, Moody Blue Justin Hayward and 10cc's Eric Stewart all on backing vocals).

The second album begins strongly with the excellent "Black Gang Chine", which contains a lovely descending chiming guitar motif and some of James Wraith's best vocals - James was constantly accused of being a Ferry copyist. I simply cannot hear any evidence of this - sloppy and lazy journalists perpetuated this error however. His voice and mannerisms are closer to that of Andy Bell of Erasure in my opinion, though in general he's simply a competent but sadly unremarkable singer. He carries the songs well, but there's not quite enough emotional pull in his voice, in my opinion. No idea what he's doing now. Anyway the rest of the album is strong, but for the most part there are no other stand out tracks. Which is maybe why it took a few years to be released, not on Virgin like the first record, but on Manzanera's Expression label. A few out-takes from the second album sessions surfaced on the Complete Explorers compilation issued a few years ago - one is sung by Andy’s friend Dennis Waterman (a chugging version of "Not Fade Away"), and another by Leo Sayer, a friend of Phil’s since Leo got his first exposure as Roxy's support act in 1974. Thankfully neither are as dreadful as you might think. Sayer, in particular has an excellent voice; it's a pity he doesn't record better material.

Hmm, pondering the worth of Leo Sayer's songs, a rather bizarre note to end on…

visage

One of the very first albums I ever owned was Visage, by Visage.

Released in 1980 it is quite remarkable how well this record stands the test of time. Sure the synths are perhaps a little dated and the occasional drum machine sounds slightly clunky, but on the whole it really doesn’t sound 31 years old.

Partly this is to do with (mostly) real drums and bass - as with Gary Numan’s best stuff, the songs are rooted by ‘real instruments’ with loads of treated guitars and keyboards (plus some chirpy saxophone) over the top. And it’s interesting how much burning guitar is present. Midge Ure, (fresh from his stint in punky New Wavers the Rich Kids, where Rusty Egan was the drummer, and from his deputizing as Thin Lizzy’s tour guitarist after Gary Moore abruptly left) contributes loads of screaming guitar, and Magazine’s John McGeoch plays snarly choppy licks (alongside his Magazine bandmates bassist Barry Adamson and keyboards whizz Dave Formula). Both the instrumental "The Dancer" and the lovely Clint Eastwood homage "Malpaso Man" feature some surprisingly heavy guitar.

The vocals often blend Steve Strange’s not terribly strong voice with the distinctive Scottish brogue of Midge Ure – this works superbly. Later Visage songs often sound somewhat weedy and this is primarily down to Steve singing solo, and exposing the weaknesses in his voice. 

One of my favourites is the closing instrumental "The Steps" – slabs of massive synths attempting to sound like a church organ and deeply booming drums create a wonderfully atmospheric conclusion. It's filmic and huge and miles away from the delightfully light "Mind Of A Toy". With it's musical box theme and the sounds of children playing (seemingly essential to all New Romantic albums) "Mind Of A Toy" was a very successful single, but has perhaps dated the most of all the songs on this album. Other highlights include the brilliant opening statement of intent "Visage" and "Tar, an unusual attack on cigarettes – which makes it perhaps more and more relevant as the years pass.

But it’s "Fade To Grey" that still stands out as an absolutely classic song – the pretentious French lady, the warmly buzzing synths, the snappy drumming, the eminently danceable rhythm and the supremely catchy chorus – it’s the blueprint for virtually every other New Romantic song.

It almost makes me want to don some makeup and wear ridiculous clothes… well almost...

classic concert moments

I recently read an online piece in which the author described some magical moments he'd experienced at concerts.

I knew what he meant - I've been to loads of gigs, most of them pretty good, but a handful have had moments that absolutely floored me. Moments where my hair has stood on end, moments where I've been reduced to tears, moments where I literally held my breath.

The very first gig I saw was David Bowie at Milton Keynes Bowl, July 3rd 1983 marked the last show of the Serious Moonlight European tour, and was also exactly the tenth anniversary of the last ever Ziggy Stardust gig. The crowd was buzzing with rumours that loads of Ziggy songs would be played. In fact only one song from that album made the set list that night, one of the least remembered too - "Star". But the rest of the gig was wonderful anyway. Oddly however it was the full on blast of "White Light / White Heat" a song that I was only slightly familiar with, that really blew me away that night. The combination of Earl Slick's superb guitar and the power of the horn section was astounding.

One of the most amazing moments came at the David Sylvian concert in 1988. The show began with two lengthy instrumentals. Sylvian shuffled on stage with the band, his hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing baggy trousers and what looked like someone else's cardigan. It was a long way from the heavily made up, sharp suited Japan days. The instrumentals were great mood setters, but then the opening chords of the beautiful "Orpheus" began and real shivers were sent down my spine. I can't explain it, but the whole song left me tingling and I was unaware of anything else but the music - an almost out of body experience.

That sort of moment is extremely rare but has occasionally happened since.

It happened again the next time I saw Sylvian. He played the Royal Albert Hall with Robert Fripp. The whole gig was brilliant as they played lots from the new, and very noisy, album The First Day. Then they played "Damage", haunting and quiet. Just Sylvian at the keyboard, Fripp playing some fragile and delicate soundscapes, and Trey Gunn on occasional bass. The vocals were achingly sad, and Sylvian sang them with such passion. It was an amazingly beautiful brand new song that no-one had heard before, yet the whole place listened in hushed silence, which was quite something. This performance can be found on the live album Damage, and it's just as moving on the record. Any time I play it I still feel the same emotion that I felt in my seat at the Albert Hall.

In 1989 I was near the front at the Town and Country Club for my first Dead Can Dance concert. After an acappella song of stunning power from Lisa Gerrard, the band then launched into "The Host Of Seraphim". This track is amazing on record, emotional, powerful, and devastatingly gorgeous - on record it seems like Lisa's soaring voice has been multi tracked and layered, but to my astonishment she sang it just the same in concert. It was utterly spellbinding, the audience was transfixed, completely silent in awe and amazement at the music that poured forth.

The next year and I was only a few rows from the front for the Bowie greatest hits show at Milton Keynes again. He'd been telling everyone that this Sound + Vision tour would be the last time he'd feel obliged to play the obvious hits, so every track promised to be special - possibly the last time we'd hear them live. I was so familiar with all of Bowie's songs and I had seen an earlier show on this tour so I was expecting simply to have a great time. Unexpectedly, the opening chords of "Space Oddity" nearly had me in tears; I can't explain why as I'm not even an especially big fan of this song, but there was a majesty and beauty about the start of the song that affected me deeply.

The last Bowie show I ever saw (and most likely it will be the last Bowie show I will ever see, as he shows no signs of breaking his retirement) was at Wembley Arena. A terrible barn of a venue, but I had good seats along the side, raised up above the floor. At a couple of points - the mass sing along with "Starman" was one, the sound of the crowd as one, with DB belting out the song - the atmosphere was something I'd never experienced before. Such a gloriously happy feeling tangibly spreading across 10,000 people. And looking out across the crowd as it swayed and sang along to "Life On Mars?" brought tears to my eyes again. It was amazing to think that all these songs that had meant so much to me for 25 years or more were being performed so brilliantly, right there. All these songs that were really an important part of my life that I never thought I'd hear in concert. And everyone else obviously felt the same. Fantastic.

A few years earlier watching Roxy Music at Hammersmith in 2001 I had the same sort of feeling. Waves of sheer happiness and goosebumps as Andy Mackay played that glorious saxophone solo on "A Song For Europe". The power of the music was simply magical.

There are loads of other top concert moments -
In the front row at the Manchester Iggy Pop gig in 1988 - he fell on me more than once, it made my night!
Kraftwerk motionless behind their podiums yet keeping the absolute attention of every member of the audience at the Festival Hall in 2004;
Tin Machine - both nights at Brixton in 1991. So great to see Bowie in a smallish venue, up close and having fun. And he had total control of the crowd. Incredible performer;
Television at the Town and Country Club in 1992, a band I never thought I'd see live, but have seen them numerous times since and every show has been thrilling;
Daniel Lanois at his first ever UK show in 1990 (where we sat behind Brian Eno and had better seats than Peter Gabriel) and in 2011 with his new band Black Dub;
James in 1997 - one of my favourite bands and a mesmerising performance;
King Crimson in 1996, playing loads of favourites and a very rare outing for "21st Century Schizoid Man" which really caught us all out - the roar from the crowd was enormous;
The Rolling Stones at Wembley (twice) in 1990 - there's a band who know how to put on a stadium show;
Iggy at Brixton in 1991 - possibly the loudest gig ever although the Stooges at Hammersmith in 2007 and 2010 might come close, but what a consummate performer, so much energy;
Peter Murphy's recent brilliant shows are both hilarious and totally engaging. He's a tremendously warm performer, involving everyone in the crowd.

There are loads more, but the ones above are just a few of those that really affected me; when, at the risk of sounding terribly pseudy and pretentious, I felt a real connection with the music. Or to slightly misquote Robert Fripp - 'Music leaned over and took me into her confidence'.

And yes, that does sound pretentious... but you know what, I don't care!

david bowie

Put the iPod on Shuffle, select all my David Bowie tracks and this is what happens. An hour of randomly selected Bowie tracks...  

"Underground" from the Labyrinth soundtrack. This is actually a terrific song. The fairly clunky 1986 percussion and faux gospel choir during the second half predates Madonna’s remarkably similar "Like A Prayer" by well over a year. DB sings brilliantly.

Staying with the 80s – "Glass Spider" – well, it would have seemed like a good idea on paper. A moody spoken word intro over swathes of even moodier synths before launching into a propulsive rock song. I mean, it worked brilliantly on Diamond Dogs. However, the spangly synths are the very opposite of moody, and the narration is so absurdly po-faced and nonsensical that it provokes laughter rather the desired sense of awe and mystery. Once the song itself begins it’s not actually that bad - a great little melody and a genuine sense of urgency with the ‘gone, gone, the waters all gone’ lines. But the damage has already been done with that twinkly and pretentiously daft intro. I’m all for DB being pretentious, but really, what was he thinking? He could have done with Graham Chapman marching in and saying ‘stop this song, it’s far too silly. What started as a perfectly good idea with spiders acting as oblique metaphors for alienation has just got silly. And that awful haircut has to go as well, far too silly.’

"Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere" – ok so the haircuts were silly in 1973 too, but what a great cover this is, from Pin Ups. Not many people can take on the Who and win, but DB does here. And Aynsley Dunbar outdoes Keith Moon as well. Amazing.

"My Death" from the final Ziggy show. I like how DB starts the song, then pauses and tells the crowd to be quiet. And they do as they are told! Until the very end, when he pauses again after, ‘for in front of that door, there is…’ and thousands of little voices shriek ‘Me! Me! Me David, Me!’ and he casually stops the song there with a very cool ‘thank you’.

"Always Crashing In The Same Car" live at the BBC in 2000. As much as like this song there’s something about live versions of it (and he performed it on every tour from 1997 until the end, though never before that) that just don’t quite work. It’s too… safe. The original has a paranoid, jumpy feeling about it, it’s understated and effective. Here, although it’s beautifully well played and sung, it’s lacking that edge that made the original so good.

"Hang On To Yourself" from the Reality tour. A great blast from the past and one which the band clearly loved playing. Loads of energy and a great sense of fun and enjoyment. DB’s vocals are excellent as with virtually every song he dug up on this tour.

"The Dreamers" – the final track on Hours… and a song that with hindsight strikes me as an early attempt to achieve the sound and feel of "Heathen (The Rays)". It doesn’t quite come off for two reasons – firstly that the song itself isn’t strong enough (although the vocals are superb), and secondly because the production of the song is really quite clunky (something that afflicts quite a few songs on Hours…). Nonetheless it was good to hear this track again.

"It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City" – an out-take from Young Americans. Or is it? There has been much discussion over on one of the DB boards about the true origins of this remarkable song. Some releases of this track even refer to it as a Station To Station out-take. It most certainly isn’t. Tony Visconti’s unmistakable strings and Mike Garson’s distinctive piano rule that out as neither were anywhere near Cherokee Studios in October 1975 when STS was recorded.

Both were involved with Young Americans, but here we have a problem in that the YA sessions were quite concise and a core band of musicians worked on them. We have no musician credits for "Saint" but it’s clearly a different drummer and Earl Slick has confirmed that it’s not him playing guitar.

So the conclusion that has been reached is that the song actually dates from late 1973 / early 1974. Visconti was brought in during the latter stages of Diamond Dogs, Aynsley Dunbar played some drums on that album (and it does sound like his busy style) and DB himself played guitar (and the guitarwork is quite Dogs-ish). The fact that it sounds more soulful (and thus Young Americans-ish) than the other Dogs material in no way rules this theory out as, during the same period, DB recorded soulful tracks with the Astronettes (basically his backing singers) and with Lulu, who, after the success of "The Man Who Sold The World" in autumn 1973 attempted to record a whole album with DB in early 1974. One of the songs written for this project was "Can You Hear Me?" which DB reclaimed for Young Americans after the Lulu project fell by the wayside.

Anyway, after all that, "Saint" is a marvellous cover of an unremarkable Springsteen song, complete with gravity defying vocals and whizzy strings. Great fun.

"Black Country Rock" – almost actionable Bolan impressions aside this is probably the weakest track on The Man Who Sold The World. Repetitive and simply not interesting enough, this song backs up Visconti’s recollections that DB lost interest in the album half way through and left Mick Ronson and Tony Visconti to come up with the remaining tunes to which he then added half thought-out words. Although most of the album thankfully doesn’t really sound like that was the case, this song and "She Shook Me Cold" (basically a verse with a guitar berserk-out added on) do come across as rather unfinished.

"And I Say To Myself" – I find this 1966 track rather charming. The call and response vocals are great, especially towards the end when he sings ‘and I say to myself you’re a fool’ and the backing vocals mockingly sing back ‘you’re a fool..!’ It’s simple stuff, fairly unremarkable really and would probably have disappeared entirely if it wasn’t early DB; but it is, and I like it, and that’s that.

Ten years later and DB was recording Low. "Art Decade" – great track, very atmospheric, conjuring up dark alleys and drizzle through neon lights.

"White Light / White Heat" from one of the 1972 BBC sessions. This is the better of the two BBC versions of "WL/WH" in which he changes the words to ‘white light makes me feel like Lou Reed’ thus giving Reed one of his first ever mentions on Radio One. Ronno rules this track.

And finally – "Cat People (Putting Out Fire)" the original Giorgio Moroder version, and the full six minute 12" mix no less. Check out those subterranean vocals at the beginning! And listen to how DB explodes into life ‘with GASOLIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNE’. Thrilling stuff. Much as love this version it must be said that Moroder’s backing track is rather Euro Rock at times, and it’s really the superb vocal that totally carries the song. And it’s miles better than the far inferior arrangement on Let’s Dance – quite why DB redid it is beyond me.

white light / white heat - the velvet underground

White Light / White Heat is one noisy album. I remember first hearing it around 30 years ago and it was the very definition of 'mind blowing'. It was recorded around the same time as Sgt Pepper, but is the polar opposite of the Beatles' magnum opus.

Annie Nightingale played “The Gift” on her Sunday evening show, in stereo, (the spoken word story coming entirely from one speaker, the grind of the music entirely from the other) and I was enthralled.

But even with the bizarre introduction of “The Gift” I doubt I was ready for the whole album. The first side was weird enough – I knew the title track from the straight-ahead rock versions that Bowie did in the early 70’s, but the Velvet’s original is nothing like that. It’s just under three minutes of distortion and a brilliant mess of speed influenced madness and truly dreadful acoustics. The track creates a heavy oppressive mood, mainly via the compressed and distorted recording itself.

“The Gift” - that bizarre story of Waldo Jeffers mailing himself to his girlfriend totally captivated me and the grunging music powering along on it’s own in the other channel was amazing. John Cale's laconic delivery only adds to the otherworldliness of it all.

“Lady Godiva’s Operation” – a sinister song containing some bizarre vocal effects. The plan was to have Lou, Sterling and John take turns with alternating lines, but to have each line dovetail smoothly with the next. However, technical difficulties meant that each vocal ended up differing and jarring weirdly with the others - it's these disquieting changes in tone and volume that actually give the song its unique edge, but it was purely accidental.

Side one with the lovely “Here She Comes Now” – a thankfully peaceful and dreamy two minutes which does nothing to prepare the listener for side two.

“I Heard Her Call My Name”. the frantic but basic rock'n'roll strum of the verses is trampled to death by the frightening wall of noise that Lou's guitar creates! After the comment ‘And then my mind split open’ the shrieks and squeals of Lou Reed’s ‘solo’ are surely some of the most incredible and totally 'out there' sounds ever recorded. It's tremendously exciting, utterly terrifying, deafeningly hideous and brilliantly played - all at the same time.

And then you get 17 minutes of “Sister Ray” - the word relentless is by far the best one to describe "Sister Ray". It powers along like an unstoppable locomotive, instruments rise and fall depending on the who turned their amps up the most, Cale's organ actually burns itself out at one point as if utterly exhausted by trying to keep up. At the root of it all is Mo Tucker's rock solid drumming. She had such an assured sense of rhythm and an unerring ability to keep an absolute beat. This makes "Sister Ray" a great song for listening to on an iPod - the relentless beat makes you march along at quite a pace (which has surely got to be good for you). All that distortion and leakage and organs burning up and screams of feedback are just a fabulous bonus.

There’s a great story about the recording of this song. The Velvets plugged in and the engineer tried to set the levels. Lou told him -

“Turn everything right up to the max.”

“OK,” was the doubtful answer from the engineer, “but how long is the song?”

“No idea, we’ll just play until we’ve had enough.”

So they did. 17 minutes later one of the most distorted songs ever recorded was done. And it brings to a close an album that is quite unlike any other album, before or since.

johnny cash - american recordings

A recent chance encounter with Johnny Cash’s amazing version of Trent Reznor’s "Hurt" prompted me to download more of the American Recordings that Cash made in the last few years of his life. I was aware of his earlier stuff (though I didn't have any) – songs like "Ring Of Fire" and "I Walk The Line", but hadn’t heard the material he recorded with Rick Rubin.

Rubin basically resurrected Cash’s career in 1995 with the first American Recordings album, in which Cash’s distinctive voice was given a wonderfully sparse but compelling backing. The second Rubin production married Cash with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and featured much more upbeat material. Then Cash got sick and installments 3 and 4 were recorded in quick succession as Johnny Cash stared death in the face. So strong was the Man In Black that Death actually retreated for a while...

But Johnny's baritone was reduced somewhat, to a much more emotional and at times fragile tone. However, this only adds to the drama of the songs. As with volumes 1 and 2 the songs are still a mixture of Cash originals, some re-recordings of classic Johnny Cash songs from the 50s & 60s and some choice covers. Here is where you find U2’s "One" cut down to it’s bare bones, and it is stunning. An astonishing take on "Personal Jesus" (yes the Depeche Mode song) is just brilliant, and the aforementioned "Hurt" which is devastatingly raw. I'm not so enamoured with Cash’s take on "Bridge Over Troubled Water" or some of the standards such as "Danny Boy", though the Beatles’ "In My Life" suits him well.

All four of these albums are well worth hearing, and for me I reckon the second two ones are better, just because they are less obviously ‘country’.

Volume 5 was completed from recordings made just weeks before he died, using Johnny’s vocals and adding the backing musicians afterwards. Here we have my favourite of all these songs. Well, perhaps favourite isn’t the right word because "If You Could Read My Mind" is quite possibly the most affecting, most emotional, and saddest song I’ve ever heard. The first time I heard this I found myself playing it over and over, and I actually cried. Cash’s voice cracks and falters and he genuinely sounds on the verge of tears, but he manages to invest the song which such quiet beauty and utter sadness that it is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. The music is gorgeous too, simple but absolutely perfect. But it’s the vocal that gets me. Amazingly well recorded, on headphones he sounds like he’s sitting next to you.

Volume 6 picks up songs that didn’t make it onto previous albums, and isn’t so essential, suggesting that the right choices had already been made.

ultravox!

Today’s music – early Ultravox! That’s the John Foxx stuff and the band’s name with the ! (an idea nicked from Neu!)

The first self titled Ultravox! album is a bit of a muddle, with half a dozen directions indicated, lots of scratchy new wave style guitars, incongruous violin, some punky stuff, some surprisingly sophisticated songs (like the hugely commercial sound of "Dangerous Rhythm"). It doesn’t really hang together terribly well, but it’s interestingly inventive, and although they were lumped together with the emerging punk movement this debut album proves that Foxx and the boys were on an entirely different course. In many ways it reminds me of the first Japan album, in that it has many punk / new wave elements, (plus some not always successful attempts at spiky white boy funk) but these are surface trappings and there is something entirely different, and impressively original, at its heart. There are synths here, but only to contribute occasional additional ‘weirdness’.

And the first album is produced by Steve Lillywhite and Brian Eno. John Foxx recalls taking a phone call which began "Hallo, this is David Bowie, is Brian Eno there please?" Foxx was speechless. DB was actually inviting the Domed One to Paris to help with the Low sessions…!

Second album Ha Ha Ha starts off very punky and frantic for a few tracks, and it’s all a bit patchy and samey (unlike the debut album), then all of a sudden "Distant Smile" begins with some lovely keyboards and atmospherics. Sadly once the vocals begin it’s as if Ultravox are trying to be the Buzzcocks, and failing rather badly.

Then it all perks up with "The Man Who Dies Every Day", strange, moody and unusual. And despite Foxx’s John Lydon snarl on "While I’m Still Alive" it’s better than much of the early PiL stuff that it sounds like.

But the real killer on this album is the Kraftwerkian drum machine led "Hiroshima, Mon Amour" – it clearly points the way towards both Foxx’s later electronic balladry and Ultravox’s most successful period under Midge Ure. The Andy Mackay-esque saxophone adds a lovely mournful air. And it’s totally out of place on this record! (There is a totally different recording of this track which was used as a b side, and is all guitars and real drums, and would have fitted far better on the album. Interestingly they dropped the more conventional sounding track for the more machine-like version).


1978’s System’s Of Romance takes the band even further from scuzzy guitars and punked up beats. Picking up from "Hiroshima"s lead here we see many more synth dominated tracks, and where the guitar is used it’s often for atmosphere rather than the lead instrument. The opening "Slow Motion" is terrific, and although there are still some of the more frantic New Wave type songs, these are clearly the weaker tracks. The drumming is more machine-like too, the songs pulse and throb rather than rocking out. "Quiet Men" exemplifies this – over a martial drum machine and synth bass Foxx sings in a monotone, and although the guitars are still present the overall impression is that this is a synth band now. The following eerie "Dislocation" takes this further and it is clearly Foxx’s preferred direction as it prefigures tracks like "Burning Car" or "No-One Driving" much more than it does "Sleepwalk" or "Passing Strangers". "Cross Fade" is another pointer to Metamatic. Having said that if you substituted Foxx’s unusual vocals for Midge’s on "When You Walk Through Me" then it wouldn’t be a bad fit on Vienna. Robin Simon’s guitar sound is very close to Midge’s too.

Ultravox split during early 1979 with Foxx going off to record the totally mechanised Metamatic. Billy Currie joined Gary Numan’s band for a while. Numan was a huge Ultravox fan so he was delighted – Currie’s involvement really cements the similarities between Systems Of Romance and Numan’s Replicas and Pleasure Principle. In fact you could mix up many of the songs of these albums and you’d be hard pressed to tell which was which! (Ultravox’s "Maximum Acceleration" is a clear blueprint for Numan tracks like "M.E", especially in the rigid drumming, deep bassy throb and fat minimoog). Numan really copies Foxx’s blanked out whiney vocals too


Currie also worked with Visage during 1979 and it was there that he met ex-Rich Kid (and then a member of Thin Lizzy, weirdly) Midge Ure. Midge connected with Billy straight away – both had strong ideas for atmospheric synth dominated, yet still commercial, music. Midge was introduced to the other members of Ultravox and it was decided to give the band another try. This proved to be a good idea, as the exploratory sessions resulted in an album called Vienna…