"Len, you're a conundrum."

THE UNDERTONES - Wednesday Week (1980)

Here’s a mid-career hit (#11 U.K.) from Ireland’s wonderful Undertones, best remembered today for authoring BBC radio legend John Peel’s favourite song, “Teenage Kicks.”

I get to tell people all the time that the best Irish band starting with the letter “U” is this one - not U2 - and in a few minutes maybe you’ll be able to as well.

The ‘Tones managed seven Top 40 singles and three Top 20 LPs in the U.K. between 1978 and 1981 - hardly a poor showing from an indie punk band - but perceived wisdom had singer Feargal Sharkey deep-sixing the gang in 1983 because they weren’t popular enough. Sharkey had pop star ambitions, briefly realized a few years later, but that’s another story.

The ‘Tones released four albums between 1979 and 1983, quickly moving from chunky, energetic punk-pop (Ramones and Buzzcocks are fair comparisons) to art-rock to soul-charged pop, but the common thread was songwriting excellence, best realized through an amazing skein of top-grade singles.

From the immortal “Teenage Kicks” (these are all hot-linked to video clips, by the way; don’t make my work go for naught) to the thudding “Get Over You,” to the snarky “My Perfect Cousin,” to the charming, tempo-shifting ”It’s Going To Happen!,” to the dramatically trippy “Beautiful Friend,” it was all riches with these guys. I’m racking my brain in an attempt to compare them to one of today’s bands, and I’m stumped. In a recording career that ran about as long as the gap between U2 albums today, The Undertones covered a lot of ground and stayed as classy as Ron Burgundy’s San Diego. Sharkey’s piercing vocal is the lone common characteristic to the songs listed above; it sounds as though he’s fronting a series of very, very good bands. Listen to the above samples and then go downlo- I mean, buy yourself a record.

As for the rest of the story…Sharkey had a Top Five hit with Vince Clarke the year before the latter formed Erasure with Andy Bell, and then he went solo, scoring a U.K. Number One in 1985 with ”A Good Heart.” Two more ‘Tones - brothers Damian and John O’Neill - formed That Petrol Emotion, making a series of strong records under that identity. The Undertones - minus Sharkey, but with a new singer - reformed in 1999, recorded a pair of well-received albums, and stayed active on the touring circuit. Sharkey is quite unlikely to return to the fold.

Sharkey is a significant player on the business side of the British music industry now. Currently CEO of UK Music, an umbrella performing rights organization, he previously worked as an A&R rep for Polydor Records, and served in numerous capacities for licensing and rights governing bodies, including a government-appointed task force (thus conjuring images of Pirate Radio’s Mr. Twatt). As of 2008, in recognition of such achievements, you may now even refer to him as “Dr. Sharkey.”

A doctor of rock, how about that?

SHALAMAR - Dead Giveaway (1983)

Here’s one of my favourite songs from a neat little three- or four-year period when new wave, synthpop and R&B melded into a pretty appealing whole, producing a bevy of tunes long on great singing, club-savvy beats, squiggly synths and fiery guitar solos. Like anything else of worth, the mashup got hammered into the ground to the point of ubiquity (or, as a soundtrack to episodes of Miami Vice and Hunter). For awhile though, the airwaves were humming with this juicy fruit.

They called the genre “contemporary R&B,” and anyone can identify its Mount Rushmore: Rick James’ “Super Freak,” Daryl Hall John Oates’ “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do),” Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and Prince’s output from 1982-1984. James famously said “Super Freak” was a straight up club jam until he spilled some ghostly synthesizer peals over the mix to give the white people something to listen to. Jackson’s decision to incorporate a hard rock guitar solo by Eddie Van Halen produced the most important single of the decade (give or take a Run-D.M.C.-Aerosmith duet). But a quarter-century later, these songs - all great - are endlessly played and compiled, leaving a host of terrific singles in the shadows.

Shalamar was the brainchild of Dick Griffey, an industry vet who launched the group as his keynote act for the new SOLAR label in 1977. SOLAR (“Sound Of Los Angeles Records”) continued the R&B tradition of twinning a sound and vibe to an American city (Motown-Detroit, Stax-Memphis, PIR-Philadelphia), but with far less success. Shalamar, The Whispers, Midnight Star and Klymaxx were popular acts, but SOLAR never approached the cultural impact enjoyed by its celebrated forebears.

“Dead Giveaway,” a #22 U.S./#8 U.K. hit, glistens and throbs like a mid-tempo aerobic exercise tape, containing just enough hooks to keep the narrative moving, before the requisite, sinewy guitar solo appears in the final 90 seconds. Ultimately, the blurring of creative influences creates a song that sounds as much at home amid a set of Isley Brothers and Donna Summer records as it would stuffed between Culture Club and Duran Duran 45s. That was the beauty of the period, an anything-goes pastiche that broke down the genre barriers at a time MTV was still limiting exposure of black artists to its cable subscribers. Jackson stormed the gates, true. But songs like “Dead Giveaway” were crucial to maintaining the flow.

If you’re interested in more of the same, check out Mtume (“Juicy Fruit”), Eddy Grant (“Electric Avenue”), The Time (“Jungle Love”) and Chaka Khan (“I Feel For You”).

Shalamar racked up four U.S. Top 40 hits (and did even better in the U.K., with 11 Top 40s). Howard Hewitt was the capable lead singer, but his band mates had more post-Shalamar impact: Jody Watley became a successful solo artist and Jeffrey Daniel, the cat with the crazy haircut, not only taught Michael Jackson the moonwalk (he did it on T.V. in the U.K. in 1982, a year before Jacko’s infamous Motown 25 appearance), he also co-choreographed the “Bad” and “Smooth Criminal” videos and enjoyed a lengthy professional friendship with Jackson. 

Footage of Daniel’s moonwalk can be seen here. Scroll 1:44 into the clip for a display about three times as long Jackson’s.

CLOSE LOBSTERS - Let’s Make Some Plans (1988)

In the wake of The Smiths’ emergence in 1983-84, the blinds pulled back on scores of new U.K. guitar bands driven to reclaim indie chart prominence from the synthesizer-dominated sound of the previous two years.

It took awhile before guitar-pop stood on equal footing, but the shift back to the standard rock band dynamic was in full swing by 1986, when music weekly New Music Express issued C86, a cassette-only compilation that introduced 22 emerging bands to its readership. The predominantly jangly guitar sound bespoke the grassroots popularity of The Smiths and R.E.M.; crucially, it confirmed that isolated D.I.Y. pockets had existed for years throughout the U.K., away from the mainstream.

A hearty pack of guitar combos fired volleys into that mainstream over the next few years, and Glasgow’s Close Lobsters stood out to sympathetic ears as one of the great underdogs, possessed of strong songs, an excitable vibe and enough unintelligible lyrics to invite almost any listener interpretation.

Via YouTube, I’m happy to be able to share one of the band’s greatest songs in the heart-stirring “Let’s Make Some Plans,” from the 1988 EP What Is There To Smile About? I can’t recommend this one enough to punters into The Smiths, The Church or The Chameleons. The winding guitar-plus-organ hook is sex on a stick and the “dumb” wordplay is supremely hummable. John Rivers was behind the board for this one, right around the time he was producing fine records for Felt and Love And Rockets, and this one’s thick and juicy-sounding.

Lastly, some good news for Close Lobsters fans. Even as the lone Lobster website was eighty-sixed when GeoCities closed shop last month, Fire Records has issued a best-of CD: Forever, Until Victory! will make your ’80s collection immeasurably cooler and has arrived just in time for Christmas. The comp includes “In Spite Of These Times,” which is so deliriously awesome I might need my thesaurus to describe the blood rush I get from the mandolin break that comes screaming out of the speakers before the humongous chorus. If ever there was a song to go deaf to, this might be the one.

Alright. Give ‘er a listen for me.

THE BEACH BOYS - The Monster Mash (1964)

In the spirit of Halloween - my favourite day of the year - here’s The Beach Boys’ cover of Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s chart-topping “Monster Mash,” recorded December 17, 1964 for Shindig!, featuring Mike Love on the ghoulish lead vocal, and a totally uncool crowd of shrieking teenyboppers threatening to shred Brian Wilson’s good ear.

Early Beach Boys concerts featured a curious mix of hit singles, second-tier album tracks and a lot of cover versions. In an era when 30-to-45 minute sets were the norm, that heavy emphasis on other artists’ songs seemed misplaced.

From an archivist’s perspective, though, it’s a gas to watch old clips of the legendary golden throats rippin’ up lightweight novelties like “Long Tall Texan,” or rock ‘n’ roll classics like “Johnny B. Goode” and “The Little Old Lady From Pasadena.”

For you historians out there, check out that date again. Although he seems in awfully good spirits here, Brian Wilson suffered his first nervous breakdown six days later. He played that night’s show in Houston, then flew home, and retired from touring. A pre-stardom Glen Campbell was in the lineup the next night. I’m not saying we should blame Mike Love for everything that went wrong in Beach Boysville but, ooooh, get a load of that scream at 1:25. Foreshadowing?

(For a larger sampling from that show [Christmas perennial “Little Saint Nick,” “Monster Mash,” ”Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow” and “Johnny B. Goode”], head here. Not a Beach Boys regular to be found, but any student of Brian and Mike’s wonderfully complimentary singing styles should stick it out through “Papa” at least, because the throat-shredding acrobatics on the nonsensical lyric are awesome. Don’t try this at home.)

John Tavares. Your Long Island saviour.

First game, first goal. Against the defending champions, no less.

Now go give us another 499. 

DAVID BOWIE - Can’t Help Thinking About Me (1999)

“It does contain two of the worst lines I’ve ever written.”

Oooh, watch David Bowie do exactly what we wish all musical legends would do: delve deep into the murky past and play something you never expected to hear.

1999’s Hours… heralded the final phase of Bowie’s recording career, a stately chapter that did away with costume and pose and drew attention to his writing chops, if not his performance élan. After the madcap art-fuckery of 1995’s outstanding Outside and the nervy approximation of jungle and Cool Britannia that begat ‘97’s Eart hl i ng, Bowie cut the tempo and dropped the gaudy presentation.

He wouldn’t tour Hours… in the traditional sense, preferring instead a series of T.V. appearances, many of which were programmed to allow him the opportunity to stretch out for an hour or more.

Now remember, Bowie had retired his best-known songs in 1990. For the balance of the decade, he cherry-picked from the old RCA LPs, which led to some delightful surprises on the touring circuit, but the biggest shock dropped in ‘99 when he used VH1’s Storytellers forum to dip back further than ever before.

Amused references to 1967’s novelty single “The Laughing Gnome” aside, Bowie’s early stylistic fumbles never got any mainstream press, and he didn’t help matters by studiously avoiding the dozens of songs he’d issued before 1969’s “Space Oddity.” This all changed on August 23, 1999, when Bowie announced “Can’t Help Thinking About Me” to the Storytellers studio audience.

In 1966, “Can’t Help Thinking About Me” was a derivative bit of beat pop that snuck into the lower reaches of the chart not by virtue of its revved-up chorus or confessional wordplay, but through the efforts of team Bowie, who rigged its #34 chart peak in Melody Maker and got the 19-year-old a slot on Ready! Steady! Go! Nothing came of the manufactured brush with success and Bowie went under for another spell. It’d be three years before the moon came calling. You know the rest.

In 2000, Bowie set to recording about a dozen of his own sixties nuggets for the prospective Toy LP. Label indifference quashed the project, and Bowie let a few songs trickle out as B-sides in 2002-03. Interestingly, it’s not as though Toy was a desperate ploy from a dried-up writer: Bowie issued strong original albums in both 2002 and 2003. It seems as though he just genuinely enjoyed digging way back into his vault for this stuff. Toy can be found in the blogosphere, if you know where to look.

A clearer clip of the Storytellers performance is here, but I linked to the one above because it’s got the disarming preamble.

The 1966 original - the definitive version, of course - is here. It’s not the R!S!G! video - I’m pretty sure the footage got wiped by the BBC, as per practices of the day.

THE BEACH BOYS - I Can Hear Music (1969)

The great American songwriter Ellie Greenwich died last Wednesday, and our iPods, blip.fm streams and CD changers have been humming with the likes of “Be My Baby,” “Leader Of The Pack,” “Da Doo Ron Ron” and “Chapel Of Love” in memoriam to her estimable body of work with partner Jeff Barry.

And this brings me to my favourite Ellie Greenwich confection: a gleaming cover of The Ronettes’ 1966 single ”I Can Hear Music,” as done by The Beach Boys.

Backstory:

The Beach Boys’ star was in full retreat by the time they recorded this on October 1, 1968. Brian Wilson had abandoned SMiLE, the music press had condemned the band for bailing on a headline spot at the Monterey Pop Festival in ‘67, and the records were tanking on radio and in the shops. The band’s contract with Capitol Records was nearing term, and the next LP was conceivably the last they’d get to record for the label.

Brian Wilson was still de facto producer for the band, but the “I Can Hear Music” session is notable for the fact he had nothing to do with its finished product. The whole shebang was the work of the youngest Wilson brother, 22-year-old Carl, who led the session, supplied the lush guitar strums, shepherded the Boys through a series of stunning vocal parts and sang the sterling lead. I mean, holy shit, if you haven’t heard this one before, slip on the headphones and crank it, because the intro and crystalline lead vocal are so sharp they’ll clear your sinuses for a week. Absolutely gobsmacking. And the angelic mid-song a cappella break shoots this into a league of its own, in terms of cover versions of songs from the Phil Spector stable.

Carl’s grand efforts were rewarded: in spite of the band’s low stock, the single made #24 U.S. and #10 U.K. in early 1969.

Greenwich and Barry never worked with The Beach Boys, but their songs clearly had an impact on the band:

• “Then I Kissed Her,” done wonderfully well for 1965’s Summer Days (And Summer Nights!!) LP, and a #5 U.K. single in 1967,
• “I Can Hear Music,” recorded twice, the second time as a gloopy 1996 country-pop duet with Kathy Troccoli,
• “Chapel Of Love,” appearing as a wheezy synth-rock album filler on 1976’s 15 Big Ones LP, and
• “Be My Baby,” never recorded by the band, but oft-stated as Brian Wilson’s favourite pop record of all-time.

In a perverse turn, Beach Boys lead singer/curmudgeon/Brian foil Mike Love recorded “Be My Baby” in 1981 for his much-derided solo LP Looking Back With Love. Given his strained relationship with Brian at the time, most observers heard Love’s cover as a barb directed at his troubled cousin. I’m willing to bet it was part tribute, part fuck-you. Mike’s amazingly adept at double-edged swordplay.

Anyway, R.I.P. Miss Ellie. You’ll be missed. It’s only a matter of months ‘til “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” reminds us again of your gift.

MAGAZINE - Shot By Both Sides (1978)

Rolling Stone said it was “the best rock ‘n’ roll record of 1978, punk or otherwise.”

Most of the ink accorded to great Mancunian bands goes to Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths and Oasis, but there’s an undercard stuffed full of other top bands that’s equally engrossing. One such band sprang from an amicable split between the two men at the helm of the good ship Buzzcocks, and that’s the one I’ve been playing ad nauseum this week: Magazine.

“I wormed my way into the heart of the crowd,

I was shocked to find what was allowed…”

Magazine formed in late 1977, after singer/lyricist Howard Devoto left the fledgling pop-punk Buzzcocks in guitarist/singer Pete Shelley’s care. While Buzzcocks went on to middling chart success amid great critical fanfare for a superb run of late 1970s singles, Devoto’s new band took a darker turn towards themes of isolation, disconnection and sexual politics. Ooh, and if that sounds heavy, the music was equally hard-hearted: a demented carnival of throbbing basslines, gaudy keyboards and diamond-hard guitar lines, all held in check by a flinty-eyed vocalist who didn’t sing so much as declaim.

I could be almost be describing The Fall. But Magazine went them one better by being great musicians. Guitarist John McGeoch and bassist Barry Adamson gave Magazine a pair of genuine post-punk axe heroes, and the thrusting energy they brought to Magazine’s debut single must’ve caught the collective ear of the Rolling Stoneeditors. The record’s ecstatic reception should’ve propelled Magazine to great heights, but apparently it all went awry in the 135 seconds allotted to the band in this Top Of The Pops videoclip.

In Simon Reynolds’ post-punk overview Rip It Up And Start Again, Magazine’s lone appearance on the iconic British pop music program is painted as an unmitigated disaster, the singular moment when one of Britain’s brightest new bands forever loses the plot. Reynolds fusses over Devoto’s performance - white-face makeup, motionless pose at the mic, chilly demeanor - and attributes these elements to Magazine’s inability to win over the crowd. Whatever the effect, the coruscating anthem died on the charts at #41 that week, and Magazine never troubled the pop airwaves again.

It makes for nice copy, but I’ve watched hundreds of limply mimed television performances and this one seems no worse than any other. Of course, it was a different climate, then, and maybe Magazine’s allegedly rabid following expected Devoto to eat the mic and combust on the spot. I dunno.

I’ll say this much for Magazine: they were great. Whether it was the sardonic circus atmosphere engulfing 1978’s debut LP Real Life, or the glacial nightmare scenes that characterized 1979’s meisterwerk Secondhand Daylight (“…as the day stops dead at the place where we’re lost, I will drug you and fuck you on the permafrost…”), or the scattershot pop approach to 1980’s friendlier The Correct Use Of Soap, the band didn’t disappoint. Each LP is highly recommended.

Guitarist McGeoch left in 1980 to pursue a dual career in Visage and Siouxsie And The Banshees, and Magazine made one more LP before splitting. Devoto continued to make good records in a number of guises. Adamson became a soundtrack composer, contributing material to Natural Born Killers and Lost Highway, among others. In early 2009, the classic lineup reformed - minus McGeoch, who died in 2004 - to play a limited run of shows in the U.K. Some of it’s been recorded and product is sure to follow.

As a bonus, a 1980 live version of “Permafrost” is here.

THE STYLE COUNCIL - Long Hot Summer (1983)

It’s finally hot in southern Ontario, so it’s not force-feeding if I drop The Style Council’s simmering “Long Hot Summer” onto your plate today, is it? A top three single in England in 1983, it was one of the most aqueous, audibly visual productions of its day.

Once you wrap your head around the fact Paul Weller disbanded The Jam at the height of its monster popularity in the U.K. to focus his energies on creating nouveau soul and garden pop, it’s easier to appreciate The Style Council for the fairly good band it was.

Roland Orzabal’s memorable diss aside (“Kick out The Style! Bring back The Jam!” rang the pre-chorus to “Sowing The Seeds Of Love”), Weller and Councilmate Mick Talbot crafted - that really was the operative word here - some really good singles in the mid-1980s, and although the LPs were inconsistent, any singles compilation paints a pretty enough picture.

The Council did well, racking up seven UK top ten hits, but it was shaded by The Jam’s nine, which included four number ones. Weller closed 1982 as the reigning “voice of young England,” but squandered the title after forming The Council. Duran Duran, The Thompson Twins and Culture Club took over the pop charts, while Morrissey assumed the mantle of youth icon. It’s probably safe to say that Weller was the last ’80s figure to hold both commercial sway and genuine sociological import over such a large segment of the population.

What’s so pleasing about this clip - a live-in-studio performance - is to see Weller handling bass guitar so adeptly. Weller was strictly a guitar player in The Jam, so I had no idea he was so proficient on bass. I guess he was watching Bruce Foxton during their Jam years together.

The orginal video clip is here.