Infected was the second CD I ever bought (yeah, yeah, after The Joshua Tree – I wasn’t exclusively furrow-browed agit-pop) and a jolly listen it is too. Matt Johnson was always pretty straight-faced, but by The The’s second album proper, he wasn’t merely serious – he was grave. ‘Sweet Bird Of Truth’ tackles the dying panic of an American pilot plunging into the Gulf of Arabia, swearing that he’s only done his duty, that he’s never believed in God, but might God be so kind as to lend a hand anyway? It’s bitter, nihilistic and one of many kicks in the teeth Infected dishes out to the good ol’ US of A. I think Leona Lewis covers it on her new album.
But it’s also a sterling tune, dramatic and punchy, almost demanding an uncomfortable sing-song. Junior dances like a drunk to it, rolling her eyes, flailing her limbs – rather like Johnson himself in that bankrupting feature-length video accompanying the album. Insane pop-political statements, eh? Weren’t the 80s great?
TIME TO TACKLE 1986 AT LAST and we start with Moz, j’en ai mar and litigious chums. But first, a final word on The Beatles. Enjoyed this little exchange in the Past Masters sleevenotes, Brian Matthew interviewing the chaps in 1964 on the release of Beatles For Sale:
BM: I’ve heard it said that a lot of these would make good singles. Do you think there’s any likelihood at all of them being released?
John: You can’t release singles off an LP after the LP’s been out.
BM: A Lot of people do.
Paul: Well, in America they do…
John: Well, they’re different over there, aren’t they?
Paul: In America they do that, but it’s a bit of a drag.
The Beatles were, of course, er, past masters at dishing out the quality singles without recourse (on the whole) to plundering their albums, but it’s become a rare practice. In this sense, The Smiths were one of their last natural heirs, hurling out singles and albums at breakneck speed without repetition – until the record company squeezed everything they could out of Strangeways, Here We Come. ‘Paint A Vulgar Picture’, indeed.
’Panic’ was one of those bonuses. Christ, it was released one month after The Queen Is Dead and doesn’t even appear on it. Throwaway downloads aside, I can’t imagine that happening now. Remind me if I’m forgetting something. Anyway, ‘Panic’ has a taste of will-this-do? about it, but it clangs and saunters amiably and is suitably apocalyptic, if on a provincial scale. Its signature line, “hang the DJ” smells a bit of sniffiness towards burgeoning club culture, but you can prefer to hear it as an early blood-on-the-carpet attack on Simes and DLT. Junior prefers to hear it as “gingerbread man, gingerbread man, gingerbread man”.
Gingerbread or not, she loves it, identifying with the title – “I do that sometimes, don’t I?” – and puzzling over the band members not actually being related. Like half the world, I’m in a Beatles moment right now, but she later makes me switch off Abbey Road to “play The Smiths again”. God, Dad, you’re so square.
As Beatlemania strikes for the fourth time – yes, fourth: there was that first one, then the chronological single releases in the 80s, then Anthology, now these rather comely remasters – it seems only fitting to gad about playing Stones records.
But what would The Beatles be like if they were still around today? Notwithstanding some high profile deaths, would we be dismissing them for not having had a Top 10 hit since ‘Got My Mind Set On You’? Would we be saying, “Oh, but you have to see them live to understand. Not that they’ve performed since that rooftop gig in ‘69”? Would we be suggesting their last great peak was when Linda supported an addled Lennon on guitar duties in the early 70s?
Mick Taylor was the Stones’ unsung hero as 60s turned to 70s, initially stepping in when Brian Jones was seemingly not fit for the job, and then way too dead for the job. But the man on Exile On Main Street’s ‘Tumbling Dice’ is still Keef, a trademark riff boogie-ing the song along. It’s an easy, devastated rocker, bang-on cool in its barely glued swagger, and the touchstone for all those would-be Stones. Just pick up Primal Scream’s Give Out But Don’t Be Give Up and jump to ‘Call On Me’. “Carbon-copy” implies a laborious step between the two.
Charlie Watts would be pleased in his dotage to hear Junior praising the drums. She goes on to join the gospel backing for the “baaayyy-beh”s, and she and her sister give it the full lungs for the fading “got to roll me”s, swept up in the ecstatic cyclone of soul-soaked seedy rawk.
A month-long gap is inexcusable of course. Anyway, my excuses are holiday, seasonal lack of exciting releases and a nagging sense I should be searching for a new job. I have your sympathy now, don’t I?
This is a single from a couple of months back, from an album about 10 months back. Topical. It’s the only obviously Princey song from TV On The Radio’s reputedly very Princey Dear Science, funking along with a guitar riff that could cut your hair. Still, while the album might not be massively Minneapolitan, it’s completely bloody amazing and the global critical consensus says, “Here, here.” Everyone’s jumped on board now, possibly because it’s the most accessible thing TVOTR have done; there’s a sense of relief they’ve shipped out challenging for tuneful, but even though the sound was murkier on Return To Cookie Mountain, it was really no less melodic. You just had to try a little harder. Maybe no one wants to try a little harder.
We didn’t try all that hard here, mind. No chance Junior could keep still in the car seat as TVOTR hit their groove, but we reserved our critical faculties for Kyp Malone’s name. Surely no one’s called Kyp? “Harvey at nursery’s middle name is Kyp.” I’ll take her at her word.
In some cold sense, Lady GaGa is a fantastic pop star – all glitz and Vegas glamour, ever-changing, seemingly personality-free – yet it’s those very things that make her one big nothing. In my shady day job as editor of a horrifyingly mainstream music site, GaGa is a godsend. She’s full of juicy quotes, decked out in a new flesh-flashing doily every day, selling phenomenal amounts of records and it’s all so… so… boring.
On the other hand, she put on a sterling if robotic show at Glastonbury and ‘Just Dance’, ‘Poker Face’ and ‘Paparazzi’ are the sort of ear-worms that The Saturdays, say, would kill for. I’ve gone with the third single here because – hey! – it’s recent and we’re nothing if not bleeding-edge. ‘Paparazzi’ is a huge great clunking metaphor for slavish empty adoration; just the kind GaGa needs for these 15 minutes.
Is Junior her biggest fan? She shuffles in her seat as she takes the standard eon to eat her cornflakes, but in the end the song merits a shrug. I try to fire some debate: “Do you know what ‘Paparazzi’ means?” “Morris has got one.” Her friend Morris calls his dad “Papa”, you see. Maybe he’s seen him sneak off into the night with his Canon, in hot pursuit of a mini-Madonna in a bubble dress. It’s a living.
One of my favourite albums at the moment is Spinnerette’s taut, hard-rockin’, saucy debut. It’s fronted by ex-Distiller and current Mrs Josh Homme Brody Dalle, with riffing support from Tony Bevilacqua, Alain Johannes and Jack Irons, and bowls along like a teeth-baring monster truck – too fierce to be ridiculous. ‘Ghetto Love’ – an almost 2009 single – sets the stall out, swinging and bulldozing with carefree intensity, addictive as wine gums.
Junior reckons the guitars are “louder than mine”, which is good news all round. She also declares, with some thought, “I like this and Hannah Montana. Just this and Hannah Montana.” Someone tell Brody – she’s made the big time.
Probably our dozen favourite British albums of the past 12 months:
David Holmes, The Holy Pictures
Bloc Party, Intimacy
Los Campesinos!, We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
The Invisible, The Invisible
Higamos Hogamos, Higamos Hogamos
Dananananaykroyd, Hey Everyone!
The Horrors, Primary Colours
The Wave Pictures, If You Leave It Alone
Eg, Adventure Man
God Help The Girl, God Help The Girl
Little Boots, Hands
Damian Lazarus, Smoke The Monster Out
Winner to be announced when we get over the mediocrity of the list.
Let’s get this up now, before they all take to the field at Lord’s and tear up the history books. The Age Of Revolution, eh? Shorter forms of the game, pyjamas, fewer strokes through extra covers – and massive fourth innings winning totals? Just because 522 hasn’t been achieved before, doesn’t mean these pesky Aussies won’t do it.
Neil Hannon (Lewis) and Thomas Walsh (Duckworth)’s glorious cricket concept album sails so close to arch parody (what? With Hannon on board?), but squeaks through thanks to its wit, affection and tunes. ‘The Age Of Revolution’ is that old chestnut, funky Charleston, and revels in a changing game. It’s a tasty scene-setter for an often hilarious and poignant record, warm with nostalgia and wide-eyed at possibilities.
Junior smiles as it wheezes into action, but when pressed on her thoughts says, “I haven’t decided.” She’s hedging her bets. Me? I think Australia will win.
Now, I bow to no man in my devotion to all things synthy/plonky/tinny, but aren’t La Roux a step too far? Isn’t theirs a slavish fixation on 1981 electrobop, right down to the hairsprayed-within-an-inch quiff? Isn’t it all an unseemly retread? No!
Hmmm. Yes. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter when it’s done with this much panache, with this many hooks, with a singer possessed of just the right amount of pouty glower to slip seamlessly into Ultravox. June Ackland’s daughter Elly Jackson is doing a marvellous job rubbing everyone up the wrong way – well, rubbing interviewers up the wrong way, while the public falls for her in swoony droves – and that’s how we like our pop stars. OK, that’s how we like some of our pop stars. More than a handful of Mark E Smiths is too much of a good thing.
Anyway, let’s take opinions from a cross-section of the kids. Junior pouts like a common Elly and says she doesn’t like ‘In For The Kill’. Is it the auditory challenge of Jackson’s high-pitched trill? No, she just wants to watch Milkshake. Different response from Junior 2 – let’s call her A-Trak – who bodypops in her highchair with all the glee that Junior’s pouted out.
La Roux, then: big with the kids unless Peppa Pig’s on.
Jukebox Junior 