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.