Musique Non Stop

I, somewhat depressingly I admit, regard myself as being the classic jack of all trades and master of none. I take an avid interest in many things - cooking, gardening, environmental issues, history, architecture, film, art among many others - but not to any great depth. I skim the surface, gleaning nuggets of information but never delving down into significant detail. Consequently I am able to hold a conversation with many people about many esoteric things, but if someone I am talking to happens to be an enthusiast in any of these areas then quite rapidly my knowledge is exposed as nothing more than cheap guide book highlights.

The one exception would be music; this would be my major passion in life. With everything else I've sort of dabbled up to a certain point, wavered and finally given up completely. Any of the various interests and hobbies I tried in my earlier years would fall into this category, but music is the only constant. Anyone who knows me would know that music is my major love, and therefore it may come as a surprise that it's taken me this long to write about it, given that it has been a major part of my life for such a long time.

My early music exposure was hardly spectacular. In the Smith family home, music was not a major feature, and what there was would hardly be described as having a major bearing on my life. Mum had her ABBA LPs, which may or may not have led to my later love of 'camp' eighties electro pop (I use inverted commas around the word camp as I actually don't think my favourite band, Erasure - there, I've said it - are necessarily camp, but most people would probably tend to disagree); my dad had some Elvis tapes, which I'd probably love today, but at the time didn't set my world alight. Apparently my parents used to have a much larger record collection including an allegedly valuable psychedelic LP picked up from a Hare Krishna monk in Trafalgar Square in the 1970s, but any gems that may or may not have existed were sold to a collector early in my childhood. I have subsequently appropriated for myself a couple of records from the parental collection which nestle comfortably in one of my many vinyl boxes, including the seminal 'Magic Fly' by Space (not the 1990s Scouse reprobates) and a Booker T And The MGs LP whose cover is stuck together by weathered tape.

Thus my early music exposure was to Barbara Dixon LPs and the chart, wherein the music I liked was pedestrian, middle of the road pop. Aside from two Smurfs 7"s, which I will never dispose of, the first official 7" I owned was 'The Riddle' by Nik Kershaw, a doyen of everything eighties, but who I will vehemently defend as a quality song-writer to this day. Chesney Hawkes' 'I Am The One And Only', if you ignore the singer, is actually a perfect example of Kershaw's lyrical expertise. Trust me. After Nik, there was an extended gap until I had enough money to buy records myself, whereupon my small but burgeoning record collection became filled with some atrocious releases, and some others which I look back on and think 'Wow' even now - MARRS' 'Pump Up The Volume' for example would be the latter, Technotronik feat. Ya Kid K would probably fall into the former. I even reserve a special place in my heart for the first Kylie Minogue album (the one where she's wearing essentially the brim of a hat through which her permed hair protrudes), which I received for my 11th birthday.

By the end of the 1980s my favourite band was Erasure. They still are my favourite band, and I don't care whether you like them or not. I think of Erasure as producing clever pop, even to this day. The 'camp' thing stems chiefly from Andy Bell's homosexuality and tawdry on-stage antics, but the lyrics and synth backdrops are actually very evocative and emotional. But don't just take it from me - the NME or Melody Maker upon the release of the duo's 'Always' in 1994 (ah, 1994 - that was a good year) remarked that everyone, whether they liked it or not, loved at least one Erasure song. So even if you think you don't, you do.

I have Erasure to thank for getting me into some seriously experimental music. You may find this a hilarious notion, but an avid music lover's journey to the underbelly of popular song often arises out of unexpected places. Erasure are still to this day signed to the Mute record label. Mute, until very recently were the UK largest independent (indie) record label until they were snaffled up by EMI earlier this decade; set up by an innovative, visionary chap called Daniel Miller, Mute's roster includes exceptionally mainstream acts - Depeche Mode, Moby and Erasure - some cult acts - Nick Cave, Neubauten, pre-Geffen Sonic Youth, Wire - and some niche, experimental and uncompromising folk - Boyd Rice / Non, most of the Blast First sub-roster. An indie label arguably shouldn't take such a financially-risky scattergun approach to their ‘sound’, but Mute have Depeche Mode, Erasure and Moby to thank for effectively bankrolling the label and allowing them to invest into arguably more risky areas.

What happened was that I bought my first Erasure 12” in the summer of 1991 and it included a large square brochure detailing all of Mute’s releases up to that point, right from The Normal’s ‘Warm Leatherette / TVOD’ up to 1991. There they all were, in catalogue number order, all these albums and singles, mostly by bands I’d never even heard of. I just couldn’t fathom why it was that these acts had not become known to me even though I listened to the full Top 40 on Radio 1 every week. It didn’t even occur to me that there was a music scene outside of pop. I mistakenly, but quite prophetically, believed that all acts on the Mute label would all sound the same.

So, to cut a long story short, I ended up getting into all sorts of esoteric artists and groups simply from getting that 12” single with those rostered artists within it. My love of Mute extended to developing the Documentary Evidence website – www.documentaryevidence.co.uk – in homage to the square pamphlet, also titled Documentary Evidence, that I found in that Erasure 12” fifteen years ago. From Mute I got into underground techno which then, quite logically at least to me saw me getting into monochord punk rock, guitar soundscapes and all sorts of unusual bands. Call it a passion or a way of life but it was basically an all-encompassing addiction that has cost me an arm and a leg over the years to fund. But it’s still Erasure, and also Depeche Mode (from whence Erasure were born, fact fans), that are the principal loves within my music collection, and always will be.

I’ve always said, put me on Mastermind and my chosen specialised subject would be 'Depeche Mode 1981 - 2006, including offshoots and collaborations'. That is, I always thought of myself as being expert in this subject. Despite my avid following of the Mode, even this specialist knowledge was challenged earlier this year when a new colleague started working alongside me, who was also mad about Depeche. All those hundreds and hundreds of pounds spent collecting every Depeche Mode release on every conceivable format became effectively worthless when it became more and more apparent that John knew more than I ever did.

‘”Life in the so-called space age” – know what that’s from?’ He enquired one day. Depressed, I shook my head as I mentally ran through assorted Depeche Mode lyrics in vain, trying desperately to identify the song where John had lifted this wry social, sub-Futurist comment from.

‘Black Celebration, rear sleeve, centre, bottom,’ he said, referring to the tiny quote tucked away at the very bottom of the sleeve. And with that brief conversation, I realised that my knowledge of this band that I’ve loved for years and years was far from exemplary, and so going back to very first point, even with something where I do consider myself an expert I realise I am a mere novice.

Changes in priorities and a sudden curtailing of disposable income has put paid to my ability to spend vast sums of money following all the disparate bands that I’ve followed over the years, and accordingly my music taste seems to have moved away from the more radical elements to a sort of middle-aged musical conservatism; a need to create some space has seen me start the painful process of selling records I can no longer justify keeping.

I just hope that one day my daughter finds herself looking through our combined music collection and is able to say ‘Wow dad! Throbbing Gristle? Who were they?’ and having her eyes opened to the diverse world of music like her father did when he was fifteen, rather than shackling herself only to crass pop commercialism.

Male, 30 (just), seeks low-risk thrills and new experiences

Having just turned thirty, I have been reflecting on preceding birthdays and have come to the conclusion that my last two birthdays rank, without question, as my two best birthdays so far. Forget those ones you had as a child where you’d have friends round and party bags – those supposedly golden, halcyon days don’t stack up next to my 29th and 30th birthdays.

Partly this is down to not actually being able to remember many of my young birthdays, barring a couple – one where I had a fight with my friend James Valcomo over a Spiderman helicopter that he wanted to play with, despite it being a present to me that I hadn’t even played with yet; the obligatory keeping-up-with-the-Jones’ McDonalds party where they gave you a tour of the kitchen and, the piece de resistance, took you in the freezers. Wow. There was another where my mum rented us the first Star Trek movie as my friends and I were all into sci-fi films (see notes on Star Wars above) but no-one was interested; another time I got given some Learning Tree books by a girl – Kathryn, I seem to recall – who was a couple of years older than me, and thinking about it, despite being no older than 6, was probably my first crush. That is, after Anna Louise Field and Claire Powell, both of whom I apparently ‘married’ during my first year at primary school. Actually, now that I’ve started to write about this, I can remember quite a few, but none are as memorable as the last two.

My 16th was quite good. It was a school day, but I woke up early to see my dad before he went to work. I got a Philips electric razor for my main present and a Depeche Mode black Violator T-shirt. As a class, we English Literature students went on a field trip that day, to the Swan Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon to meet set designers and do an acting workshop, and then we watched All’s Well That Ends Well at the RSC in the afternoon. I’m not a thespian, nor was I particularly interested in the theatre at all (when you live in a town you want to rally against all that arty nonsense, until you move away and then you miss it), but it was a day out of school so that was good. The weekend after, however, was not – I was visited by my then-girlfriend, Hayley, and it should have been the evening of my first kiss (I was a late developer, okay?), but instead it became an awkward affair of clashing teeth and extreme embarrassment and we split up the following week.

My 18th was a disaster of far greater magnitude, seeing me end the evening being very sick into my lap in the main bar of Stratford’s Falcon Hotel, without having even got remotely drunk. It ranks among the most embarrassing moments in my life. As for my 21st, I would have happy memories of the meal attended by my mum and dad, sister and her boyfriend, and friends Steve and Tina, were it not for the fact that I was with my ex-girlfriend, leaving me not wishing to remember something that would otherwise have been one of the most memorable days of my life.

I should say that the first birthday I shared with my wife was a fantastic birthday. She laid on a buffet of epic proportions; proper party food like you’d have at the parties above, insisting that I spend the afternoon shut away in the spare room while she not only made the food but decorated the lounge with balloons and banners, and tried to repair an otherwise perfectly-iced cake that the cat had knocked off the kitchen table a couple of days before. But even that doesn’t compare to the last two birthdays.

My 29th was so good because Michelle and I had only a few weeks before discovered that we were expecting our first child, and that whole period now seems like such a magical, exciting time filled with hope, promise and nervous excitement. We went to a National Trust property not too far from where we live called Stowe Landscape Gardens, somewhere on our doorstep but not a place we’d previously been to. It has since become one of my favourite places on earth, a dramatic blend of the wild and natural and the man-made, and was the principal reason that Michelle and I became National Trust members (much to the amusement of some of my friends). It was a perfect setting for our deep and meaningful conversations about the changes that were about to take place in our lives. We made our own pizzas for tea, which turned out somewhat disastrous, and watched the fantastic Al Pacino movie Serpico as the evening drew to a close.

And of course upon turning 30 we were now a family unit, blessed by the addition of a beautiful baby girl in May. That alone made my 30th birthday a memorable event rather than the miserable affair I had initially expected it to be a few years back. The second factor that made the day so good was that it was the first birthday I’ve ever spent out of the country, for we were on holiday in Portugal; far away, perhaps, from jibes and sarcastic comments from my younger colleagues about becoming an old man, but more importantly just being away from drudging domesticity made for a far more enjoyable birthday than I would have had at home.

It was certainly a far cry from some friends who organised elaborate parties and celebrations – we hired a car, drove to the beach, had lunch out and had a really nice pasta dish in the evening. But having a simple, relaxing day with my immediate family was perfect for me.

However, I was determined not to underestimate the significance of the conclusion of my first three decades. I decided that it was high time that I started to challenge myself a little more or more precisely be slightly less conservative and shy in my actions; an unusual point in the year to start talking about resolutions, but appropriate nonetheless in light of my advancing years. However, in the context of what might be considered a challenge to other people, the new experiences I am actively going to seek out over the next twelve months – by way of a rule that I must do one new thing each week over the next year – may look pretty tiny. But nonetheless they are an attempt to feel more fulfilled as an individual.

I’ve tried to do this before. Eighteen months ago, at one of those dreadful off-site corporate team-building events, we all had to say what we were going to do differently over the next twelve months. Much to the amusement of my colleagues, I said I was going to take more risks in my life. I recall that one colleague laughed heartily at this and wondered whether I might be about to have some sort of mid-life crisis and start bungee jumping at the weekend and start pursuing all sorts of crazy sports. How they laughed. I’m a pretty conservative guy really, and don’t really take any risks. It is, however, ironic when you work for a fund manager.

My response was that risk is relative, and as someone who doesn’t actually take much risk to start with, these new risks could be as simple as trying something on a menu in a restaurant that you’ve always been too scared to try. Using this as a very valid example, I started that very evening by eating calamari for the first time – I know, I know, it’s hardly naked ironing on a remote mountain top, but I’ve always been apprehensive about eating calamari and it seemed like a reasonable enough place to start. Looking back I suspect that this was in fact the only thing I did that could broadly be considered as more adventurous, and my conservative life continued much as before.

That’s why the rule – of needing to achieve something new each week – is so important; setting myself a rule means I have to be disciplined. The week runs from Sunday to Sunday, I can’t miss a week and I can’t complete two in one week for example and carry one forward to the next. The result will be a list, which if I am committed enough to complete it, may form one of these blogs this time next year, under the title of ’52 Personally Significant But Actually Pretty Meaningless (To You) Achievements’.

Then again, given how hard it’s been to find one new thing to do this week – just a few weeks into this challenge – it might not.

Teenage Illogic And Stadium Tedium

I went to a fantastic concert at Wembley Arena last night that I just have to tell you about. It was this great contradiction of a band – a vocalist with a perfect voice but instead of playing with the type of band that would perhaps complement his vocal style, he was singing his intelligent, passionate songs over a bed of pure, strangled noise. Imagine Antony Heggarty singing his tortured blues over the soundtrack to David Lynch’s Eraserhead, Rufus Wainwright singing with Neubauten or Jeff Buckley duelling with Throbbing Gristle and you’d be close to the mark.

Except that this wasn’t at all how it should have sounded. The singer is one Johnny Borrell and the band are Razorlight, who have recently jumped a few gears in the indie crossover stakes and celebrated their first number one single – ‘America’ – this past fortnight. As even the most cursory listen to the pastoral ‘America’ would inform you, Razorlight’s sound is hardly one of feedback, pounded leaden rhythms or pure unadulterated noise; but that is how it sounded at Wembley last night. You could hear every cadence in Borrell’s voice – a bonus compared to some concerts I’ve been to there – but the music was just a muddy, distorted, sludgy mess. Noise like the imaginary collaborations described above can be a thrilling, if punishing, event, but when it’s not intentional it’s just unacceptable. Take drummer Andy Burrows for example – his drumming style is both impressive to watch and intricate in its approach, but he may as well have been pounding dustbin lids for all you could make out.

In part I was expecting to be quite negative about this concert. Razorlight have joined the big league with a carefully-crafted form and profile that belies their release of just two albums and a loyal following that two years would have trekked to any manner of dingy North London pubs to catch a concert by them. It’s not their success that bothers me, because I think the band represent a shot in the arm for the British music scene, and I truly believe that Borrell will go on to become either a cult or legendary figure in British music, if only because his focus, drive and ambition will ensure that he doesn’t sit anywhere less than the very top within rock’s hierarchy. I don’t have a problem with the band’s fame, in fact I think it well-deserved.

I remember seeing Razorlight on the now-defunct Top Of The Pops just prior to the release of their breakthrough single ‘Golden Touch’. I recall remarking to my wife, who was by now already smitten by both the music and Borrell’s image, that these guys were a proper rock ‘n roll band. They just had that attitude and arrogance, I suppose, that has served them so well.

Neither do I have a problem with their second, eponymously-titled album, which seems to lack the consistent energy of their debut; it’s just a less direct, upbeat album, a bit more subdued and thoughtful, the sound of a band keen not to restrict themselves to a certain milieu and plough rock’s furrows in pursuit of no particular rock style. That’s actually quite brave for what would be regarded as that ‘difficult’ second album that music rags like to blow on about. It also shows how confident this band are that they could move so quickly from the near-punk nihilism of ‘Rock ‘n Roll Lies’ to the ethereal ‘America’ or the skiffle of next single ‘Before I Fall To Pieces’, or the country hybrid evident in ‘Kirby’s House’. Impressively, last night they played every single song from their second album – this was a far cry from the last concert we went to, Red Hot Chili Peppers at Earl’s Court, where the band, just fresh from releasing a 28-track double album, played about five songs from that new album in their entire set. That says a lot to me about how much Razorlight believe in their new material.

I don’t have a problem with the political sloganeering which has seen Razorlight aligning themselves fully with the Live 8 / Make Poverty History / Curtis / Geldof / Bono thing. Passionate about certain subjects Mr Borrell may well be, but not in the irritating way that Bono likes to drone on about all these disparate causes trying to alleviate misery and suffering. He could probably achieve this far better if he shelled out a bit more money on these charities and stopped singing; that would certainly put an end to my suffering. Last night the screens prior to Razorlight taking to the stage were not filled with the usual commercial advertising that you normally see at stadium concerts, but instead long clips advertising The Big Ask which seeks to address and halt climate change, and a film detailing the collapse of our environment with harrowing imagery of Hurricane Katrina and the New Orleans disaster. Admittedly this was then replaced by an opportunity for audience members to pay £1.50 by SMS for a video download of one of the songs performed on stage live that very evening; whether you like it or not, despite bands’ frequent protestations to the contrary, making music professionally is all about making money.

The main thing I have a problem with is a jarring disappointment at having to watch this incredible band in a venue like Wembley. Fair enough it may well be expected by a band that have now become a much more successful act, but the last time we saw them was in the intimate North London venue The Garage in Islington, where we were among around 500 committed fans. Standing there last night avoiding aggressively-slung half-empty plastic beer glasses, watching the clowning casual fans stadium-chanting their way through the choruses of only the most obvious tracks, I realised just how disappointing it was seeing this band in such a large, cold venue compared to the warmth and intimacy of The Garage where the audience consisted only of the most die-hard fans. We were spoilt with getting to see them at The Garage, much as we were spoilt last year by being in the audience at a 1000 ticket concert at Atlantic City’s Borgata Hotel by the Chili Peppers – one of the biggest bands in the world in intimate surroundings where you could almost touch them.

And then of course there’s the sound at Wembley. I’ve been to concerts at this flagship London venue several times before and every time have come away saying I’d never go back again. Now that the venue has been refurbished inside and out, my hopes that the sound would have similarly improved were proved to be mere pipe dreams, as the sound, as described above was just as abysmal as ever. We had a similar thing with the Red Hot Chili Peppers after hearing a superior mix at The Borgata only to get horrendous stadium sound at both Coventry’s Ricoh Stadium and Earl’s Court. But whilst Wembley might now look much more modern, the sound still sounds appalling. I cannot vituperate enough about the short-changing you get from shelling out not insignificant sums on concert tickets only to be greeted by a sound that disappoints.

I found myself observing the audience more than the band itself, wondering how it was that such casual non-fans even bothered to buy tickets if all they were going to do was shout at one another and decide who was going to head to the bar for the next round. Judging by their dancing, I can only assume that most of these individuals were big club-goers in the late 1990s and early 2000s who suddenly realised that music tastes had changed away from dance music in favour of live rock music, and that all the sexy girls were heading out to gigs rather than nightclubs. This would explain their housey ‘hands in the air’ attempts at dancing to rock music. It would be quite amusing were it not so bloody irritating.

I know music is supposed to be a populist affair accessible by everyone, but when concerts start attracting the type of individuals who go along to festivals to get wasted while listening to music rather than listening to the music in the first instance, there is a bit of a problem. Not just for committed fans such as my wife and I, but also for the band whom I can’t imagine find it particularly gratifying to play to an admittedly packed venue but one where less than half are really there for your band.
There is, however, the possibility that the concert sound was actually fantastic, that the band thought the audience were really behind them and that casual and die-hard fans locked arms in an ell-embracing solidarity, and that I’ve just become too old for concerts like this one.