Guest Listener - Lavinia Greenlaw

Who’s Lavinia when she’s at home?

I write books, mostly poetry but also including The Importance of Music to Girls and a novel about Seventies Essex and the coming of punk called Mary George of Allnorthover.

Lavinia’s Top 3 albums ever?

Mary Margaret O’Hara – Miss America

The Pop Group - Y

Can – Monster Movie

What great album has she never heard before?

Bat out of Hell by Meat Loaf

Released in 1977

Before we get to Lavinia, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Bat out of Hell

All right everyone.

I had this week’s edition all planned out. 

It was going to be all about “Guilty Pleasures” and how that’s such a strange concept in relation to music.

Basically, to cut 2000 words short, why the guilt? Why not just like what you like and be proud of it? 

Why did my mate Dave, for example, feel like he had to apologetically “come out” as a Beautiful South fan that time, as if confronting some dark secret that had tortured him all his life -

“You see…….the thing is…..when all’s said and done….they do write some really good pop songs you know.” 

"It’s fine Dave.”

So that was the plan. There’d be no potted biography this week - just a load of stuff about “guilty pleasures” and a bit where I publicly humiliate Dave for liking that song about the fella who loves girls from the bottom of his pencil case.

I was all set, looking forward to it.

And then I read Meat Loaf’s autobiography, To Hell and Back, and my head fell off.

It’s genuinely unlike any other biography I’ve ever read, in fact it’s unlike any book I’ve ever read. There was NO WAY I could not tell his story.

Dave was out, and Meat was in. 

Here we go.

In my humble opinion, most artist biographies make the mistake of dwelling far too long on the subject’s childhood. There’s always at least a page about the occupation of the Grandparents (WHO CARES!) and loads of quotes from unknown school kids who have since been interviewed as unknown adults - “You could always tell XXX was going to make it,” mumbled Kevin, an allotment supervisor from Barrow in Furness.

Meat Loaf, though, turns this convention on its head and provides the best childhood biography I’ve ever read. In fact it was so good, I almost didn’t want him to grow up and become famous.

Just in case you don’t believe me, I’ve collected here for the first time, my Top 7 moments from Meat Loaf’s childhood. 

1) He absolutely LOVED a 7-Eleven.

In an effort to stop him visiting the store, his mum tied him to the clothesline in the garden with a massive rope.

Meat Loaf would always manage to untie the knot though and his parents would eventually find him in the 7-Eleven, covered in Dr Pepper and Hot Dogs. 

Eventually, and this isn’t a joke, the family thought it was easier to move to somewhere without a 7-Eleven nearby.

I know, right. What a great start. There’s another 6 of these.

2) He had a terrible imaginary friend called Bad Bob.

Bad Bob convinced him to pull a wasp’s nest out of a tree. As he held the nest, he started to hear it buzz (no shit), and lost his balance. He fell to the ground, with the wasp’s nest on top of him, and was stung multiple times.

He had to be wrapped up in bandages and looked a bit like an overweight Invisible Man.

 All I’m saying here is that Bad Bob is the worst imaginary friend I’ve ever heard of, even worse than that one out of The Shining. 

3) His real name was Marvin Aday and he changed it because of a Levi’s ad.

Even as a child, he was always big and struggled to find clothes that could fit him. Then a Levi’s ad came along with the tag line - “Poor fat Marvin can’t wear Levi’s”. 

He was devastated - as if the advert was deliberately mocking him and he was the punchline to everyone else’s joke. 

So he started going by the name Meat Loaf instead because, er, the last thing he wanted was a name that’s going to draw attention to his size.

He’s still never forgiven Levi’s either and, in a fantastic exchange, writes -

“I’ll buy Wrangler. I’ll buy Guess. I’ll buy anything, but I refuse to this day to wear Levi’s" 

If someone could put that to music I reckon he’d have another number one. 

4) Other parents didn’t want him playing with their kids.

He tried to play with this kid once and his mother came out of her house and yelled - "You can’t play with my son, you’re too fat!”

He picked up a broom and smashed her window. 

Reflecting on the incident, he writes -

“Being too fat to play with the other children probably has a lot to do with the way I am today. I’m usually alone in my hotel room from right after the show until the next day’s sound check. And I’m never bored; I don’t get bored. Probably because mothers wouldn’t let their kids play with me.”

I mean, I’ve read as much Camus as the next guy but that is some proper existential shit from Meat Loaf. 

5) He didn’t really like music as a kid.

In fact, he only liked 4 songs. 

3 of them are really good - Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford and Running Bear and Teen Angel by Johnny Preston. But the fourth one was Life in the Fast Lane by The Eagles and that massively disappointed me.

It reminded me of when Michael Owen admitted to only seeing 5 films and one of them was Cool Runnings.

6) He kept getting knocked out.

In the course of his childhood, Meat Loaf gets knocked out 17 times in a variety of comic accidents - the best one being when he got hit on the head by a shot put at an athletics meeting.

I know it’s one of the best ones because he’s helpfully included a chapter entitled My Favourite Concussions - a first in all the rock star biographies I’ve read. 

7) Meat Loaf and the JFK Assassination.

I know, that’s a sentence I never thought I’d write either. 

On the 22nd of November 1963, Meat Loaf and his mates went to greet JFK when he arrived at Love Field Airport in Dallas - managing to sneak through a gap in the fence and get up close to the President and his wife.

An hour later, they’re driving along when a secret service man stops their car in the middle of the road and makes them drive him to Parkland Hospital. He tells them the President has been shot. 

They get to the hospital and see all the chaos first hand - Jackie covered in blood, a wounded Governor Connolly, and loads of people in hysterical grief. Apparently there’s a photo somewhere of a group of African American women crying their eyes out next to a confused Meat Loaf - the would be singer, not the meal. 

Again, reflecting on the incident Meat Loaf indulges in wondrous speculation about what happened that day and even considers whether the secret service man that stopped him was part of the conspiracy. He ends by saying that Oswald definitely didn’t do it before adding his own helpful conclusion -

“Not that I know who did it. I don’t”

Thanks Meat.

Long term readers of this blog, all 8 of them, will remember that the JFK assassination is a particular hobby of mine and I’ve been “studying” it for years. As I read Meat Loaf’s account, a thought suddenly struck me that I’ve been unable to shake ever since.

As the presidential limousine turned on to Elm Street, with the book depository overhead and the grassy knoll on the right, what if JFK actually turned to Jackie and said -

“Remember those kids back at Love Field Jackie? Was it me, or were they calling the big one Meat?”

What if they were his last words?

I guess we’ll never know.

Right then, that’s the 7 complete. So let me now up the tempo and race through the transformation from childhood to Rock legend - not that the story gets any more sensible.

After his abusive father tried to kill him with a butcher’s knife (I told you), Meat Loaf escapes to L.A. and starts performing in a series of bands until he forms one of his own - Meat Loaf Soul.

To say they were an odd bunch is probably an understatement. Meat Loaf was barefoot and wore a tuxedo, the drummer was dressed like a clown, and the bass player wore an Indian costume. Oh, and there was woman called Sue who was dressed like a swan.

Did I mention the drummer didn’t have any fingers?

The drummer didn’t have any fingers.

After receiving zero interest from record companies, the band split up. 

He also had a weird encounter with Charles Manson where the would-be serial killer told Meat Loaf he used to be a cat in a former life.

Again, not vital to the story, but how am I supposed to not mention that?

Right, what’s next?

During a job interview for a parking attendant in a theatre, a nearby casting director asks Meat Loaf if he can sing and offers him a part in the musical Hair. The show is a huge success and he finds himself on Broadway singing that Aquarius song.

It’s also around this time that he meets Jim Steinman - a slightly weird fella who wore leather gloves and had a portfolio of REALLY long songs where people lost their virginity to spine tingling baseball commentary.

We’ll come back to him in a bit.

Next, Meat Loaf gets offered a part in a new musical called The Rocky Horror Show. Again, it’s a massive success and EVERYONE came to see the show - John Lennon, Elvis Presley, and Keith Moon to name a few. In fact Moon was so taken by Rocky Horror that he was a regular at the theatre, sitting in the front row with 9 bottles of champagne on the stage - one for each member of the cast.

The musical then gets made into a film, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but bombs on its release. Meat Loaf then appears in a Shakespeare musical called Rock a Bye Hamlet, which sounds like the worst thing ever, and decides to quit musicals for good.

Instead, he went back to that Steinman fella and started working on those REALLY long songs. 

What happens next is my probably my favourite bit in the whole story.

Rather than doing what normal bands do, i.e. record a demo tape, Meat Loaf decided it would be a good idea to perform the songs live in front of label executives. Typically this would involve Meat Loaf, Jim Steinman on piano, and a singer called Ellen Foley going through an early version of Paradise by The Dashboard Light.

The record labels hated it as soon as it started and were further appalled when they got to the bit in the song where Meat Loaf and Ellen Foley started to make out with each other RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM!

It’s some image - a 25 stone man in a frilly shirt getting off with a slim blonde, whilst some weirdo sits in the corner playing the piano with his leather gloves on.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t get a deal.

It was only when the songs came to the attention of Todd Rundgren, the former New York Dolls producer, that they started to get somewhere. He thought the songs were so “out there” that he had to get involved - giving the material a whole new arrangement and recruiting various members of the E-street band to flesh out the sound.

The turning point came when Steve Van Zandt heard the intro to You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth and decided it was the best 15 seconds of music he ever heard. With his help, they brokered a deal with a small label called Cleveland International and, finally, in 1977 they released Bat out of Hell.

You all know the rest - it stayed on the charts for a thousand years and everyone has an opinion on the album.

Very briefly, here’s mine.

 It’s brilliant.

Who on earth opens an album with a song like Bat out of Hell? The song tries to end about 10 times and when it finally finishes you wish it hadn’t. 

I love that bit where he spells it out - 

“THEN. LIKE. A. SINNER. BEFORE. THE. GATES. OF. HEAVEN. I’LL. COME. CRAWLING. ON. BACK. TO. YOU.”

I love the handclap ending of You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth.

I love everything about Paradise by the Dashboard Light and Ellen Foley’s “Stop Right There!” is an absolute fucking moment. I mean, if you’re going to interrupt one of the best songs ever that’s how you do it.

But more than all of that, I think I just love him. It’s the way he seizes his moment - not with anxiety but with total joy. 

I love the fact that he turns his autobiography into a picaresque comedy and invites you to laugh with him - Bad Bob, his Favourite Concussions, and his ongoing feud with Levi’s. It’s so brilliant, he’s taken me over my word count and I don’t even care. In the hands of anyone else his story would be a rags to riches cliché and the seriousness would kick in when he made it - “I’m an artist now. Remember Kevin? He always told you that I would be.”

In the hands of Meat Loaf, though, it’s fun all the way.

I imagine he’s exactly the sort of guy that doesn’t have guilty pleasures.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Bat out of Hell

Rolling Stone ranked it the 343 greatest album of all time.

There isn’t a retrospective Pitchfork Review, which I’m gutted about, but they’d definitely give it a 10.0

It still sells 200,000 copies every year and I reckon those 200,000 people are the happiest 200,000 people on the planet – for at least a week.

So, over to you Lavinia. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

 In 1977, I was confused. I had been immersed in disco, funk and soul, but was terrible at being a girl and unable to adhere to disco-girl standards. That year I abandoned all attempts to fit in. I cut off my hair, ripped my jacket, hid my Motown and then I hesitated. I was thrilled by punk but it kept hesitating too. I watched The Jam perform on Marc Bolan’s TV show and The Pistols torment Bill Grundy, and couldn’t understand why this didn’t immediately change everything.

I was forgetting the torpor that lay on the land. When I was eleven, my family moved from London to an Essex village. Growing up in Seventies provincial England was like being subjected to a stronger form of gravity. Teenagers plodded about, oppressed by maxi-skirts and flares, platforms and drooping hair, lumbering humour and hushed violence. There was a deep-held suspicion of foreigners and glamour, art and sex, which were just the things I was looking for. I wasn’t going to find them in pub rock, prog rock or rock operas, and Meat Loaf draws on all three.

Nothing prompted me to seek Meat Loaf out. At the time, I would have categorised this as music for people who aren’t serious about music. It seemed generalised and efficient. I had friends who felt strongly about Yes, Led Zeppelin, Bowie, The Carpenters and Marvin Gaye but I didn’t know anyone who felt strongly about Meat Loaf so no one made me listen. Up until last week I couldn’t have told you the names of more than a couple of his songs although fragments have apparently stuck: ‘Like a bat out of hell something something something dawn’,  ‘Will you love me for ever? Let me sleep on it something’, ‘You took the words right out of my mouth. It must have been while something something something’.

In 1978 I caught Meat Loaf on The Old Grey Whistle Test singing Paradise by the Dashboard Light. I couldn’t have told you that was the song – I had to look it up. What I remembered was his hair, so baby-fine and overgrown, as if uncut from birth. And that he was wearing a shirt with precision frills and clutching a massive handkerchief. The song and his voice made no impression but then from behind Mr Loaf appeared this gorgeous woman, all weary and fierce, being theatrical as hell but in a way that made everything sharper and deeper. This was Ellen Foley, and her voice was also sharp and deep. She was all needle while he was all handkerchief.

The problem was also that I’d seen this before and done much better by The Tubes with Don’t Touch Me There: a motorbike not on the album cover but onstage, not just kissing but writhing, extreme theatre, and music that broke itself open.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

Now I know that Bat Out of Hell was intended to be a musical, I can practically hear the curtain going up. At first I thought I was listening to a medley from Tommy. There’s a two-minute frenetic overture that says we’re going to give you this and this and this: proggy piano twiddles, yawning guitar breaks and great walls of everything else.  On first listen I found the album over-structured and under-formed, although those hooks that have stayed with me for almost forty years now seem quite brilliant. Having listened three times, I still can’t get a grip on what lies on either side of them, nor can I get them out of my head.

I approached each song full of good will only to be frustrated by all the stopping and starting.  By third listening this felt less jarring as I knew what was coming but I didn’t feel I could dance or drive to this, that I would be made to move and keep moving. Even slow songs should bring about a kind of delicious implosion. Something should happen other than noise.

Meat Loaf’s voice has a dry fragility that reminds me at source of Robert Wyatt or John Martyn, but he lacks their sense of how to use it. He isn’t helped by such a featherbed of backing vocals either.  It was good to be able to hear him properly on Heaven Can Wait until the oo-ing chorus steps in. Is this a great song trapped inside a poor arrangement and casual production? For Crying Out Loud is similarly ruined. The whole thing is part X-Factor, part-Eurovision when these ballads could have been heartbreakers.

These songs strike me as being built in ordinary ways which are then repeated so that they pile up into something that sounds monumental and teetering but is actually all a bit ho-hum. By my third listening, I enjoyed bits more and more but I didn’t look forward to wading through an entire track to reach them. The record kept raising my hopes - motorbike noise! (Where are the Shangri-Lahs?) It’s ended! No it bloody hasn’t.

The experience was made worthwhile by  - no surprise – Ellen Foley who arrives four tracks in, wakes it all up and prompts Meat Loaf to raise his game. The pub-rock tempo and overwhelming melodic ordinariness of All Revved Up are a shame but things are lurching now and he is yelling in a way that isn’t just about sounding louder. Foley’s voice seems immune to the general mulch around her. Now we have acceleration and almost reach lift-off only there’s another bloody ballad on the way.

Foley is back with Paradise by the Dashboard Light which I enjoyed more and more. It works from start to finish (minus the school-boy joke of the baseball commentary). He is cracking and breaking, and the song is strong enough to hold its lurches from pomp to skittering boppiness. God I love her voice. When she takes charge with her list of demands, her voice warms up and so does his. For once the repetitions work. His prevarications are exquisite. 

So it grew on me. Or the bits that had been quietly growing on me for forty years grew more. But as I got to know it better, I didn’t settle in or find any further surprises. I realise I haven’t said anything about the lyrics.

I have nothing to say about the lyrics.

Would you listen to it again?

If he didn’t sleep on it.

​​A mark out of 10?

6 (but 10 for Ellen Foley)

Ram Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 6

Overall – 7.5

So that was week 61 and that was Lavinia Greenlaw. Turns out she’d never listened to Bat out of Hell before because she prefers needles to handkerchiefs. So we made her listen to it three times and the hankies grew on her, but not as much as the needles.

Next Week, David Quantick listens to something from 1972 for the first time.

Until then, here’s Paradise by The Dashboard Light from Bat Out of Hell.

Have a great Easter

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - David Quantick

Who’s David Quantick when he’s at home?

David Quantick is an Emmy-winning TV comedy writer and author. He has two books out right now, a novel called The Mule (“the Da Vinci Code with jokes” - Independent) and a collection of interviews called How To Be A Writer (“If only Morrissey had read this book” – John Niven).

David’s Top 3 albums ever?

The White Album - The Beatles

Low  - David Bowie

Another Music In A Different Kitchen – Buzzcocks

Before we get to David, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Foxtrot

All right everyone.

This is the second Genesis album we’ve done and, I must admit, I’m feeling a certain amount of pressure.

Let me explain.

Last year we did Selling England by The Pound, with Andrew Male from Mojo as the guest.

We started, gently, with the following line -

“Imagine a band so bad that the one you’d most like to go out for a pint with is Phil Collins”

The article then descended into an affectionate “hate” piece that mostly took the piss out of Genesis, particularly Tony Banks, before Andrew and I apologetically admitted that we were rather taken by the album.

Par for the course really. 

But then a thread on a thing called The Steve Hoffman Music Forum appeared and it was called, “The Funniest Genesis Article Ever”.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware of The Steve Hoffman Music Forum, firstly let me say that I envy you. Secondly let me now ruin your life by introducing you to it - it’s basically a website where very serious people argue about hi-fi systems and important matters like whether, on balance, disco was a good thing or not.

As you can imagine it’s a slightly weird place that conjures up all the imagery of an un-aired room and a website that was designed in 1998.  

Today, for example, there’s a 6 page thread entitled “Songs with audible breathing”.

The starting point for that particular thread is -

“Does anyone know of any songs that feature the performers breathing, intentionally or unintentionally? There are many instances of inhaling right before a big note, but I’m thinking more as an instrument." 

Obviously, I’ve read all 6 pages - before nearly setting fire to myself.

Anyway, when "The Funniest Genesis Article Ever” thread appeared I was initially flattered. After all, there’s probably been loads of Genesis articles and to be labelled “the funniest ever” by a group of people who had definitely read them all was quite the compliment.

But then some of the members got angry at me and Andrew. One of them even called me a “young punk idiot” which I strongly refute on account of being a “middle aged twee indie pop idiot”.

Nevertheless, I dusted myself down and continued to read a thread where people argued whether it was acceptable to take the piss out of Genesis or not. Eventually it collapsed in on itself and, as is often the case with these things, the fight for the last word fizzled out amongst a pile of wearily typed emojis and acronyms.

As I said, it’s a weird place. Often, I’ve considered the possibility that the members are in a hostage situation, perpetrated by Steve Hoffman himself.

“Hello, is that the Police?”

“Yes”

“Good. I’m fairly sure there’s a fella called Steve Hoffman and he’s got a load of people imprisoned in a room where he forces them to discuss things like what’s the best Bob Dylan live album to listen to when your wife has ran off with another man?”

“Ok. We’ll look into it”

“Thanks. It’s Hard Rain by the way” 

"No it isn’t, it’s Live ‘66″.

Anyway, anyway.

Now you can understand why I’m under so much pressure. Oh no, it’s not the fact that I’ll get abused again or called a punk. That bit’s fine. It’s the fact that we’ve already done "The Funniest Genesis Article Ever.”

How are we supposed to follow that?

Well, fortunately the band have been generous enough to provide enough comedy moments in their own history to get us through this. 

So, here we go. The 5 stages of Genesis before we get to Foxtrot.

1) In The Beginning

The band were formed whilst studying at Charterhouse and the initial strategy was to write a load of songs that they hoped to sell to other artists.

One of their early efforts was called The Hair on the Arms and the Legs and another one was called Lost in a Drawer.

Unfortunately they were both rubbish and, as a result, we’ll never have that anthem that sums up the frustration of losing something, probably batteries, in a drawer.

2) The Difficult First Album

The band’s first album, From Genesis to Revelation, was a concept album loosely based around the books of the bible. As if that wasn’t bad enough (trust me it was), a load of record shops incorrectly filed it in the religious section.

It’s tempting to feel a degree of sympathy for Genesis here. However, my real sympathy is reserved for those people that actually thought they were buying a religious album.

Imagine the horror when they got home.

3) The Difficult Second Album.

After the debacle of the first album, Genesis decided to move into a big cottage. 

By all accounts, they just stayed in for months listening to that King Crimson album with the mad cover. No visits to the pub, no country walks, no outside influences at all.

Basically, imagine an episode of The Monkees directed by Ingmar Bergman.

After a while, even they got bored and decided to go on tour in an old bread van, supporting the likes of Bowie, T-Rex, and Nick Drake in the process.

Charisma Records sign them and release their second album - Trespass.

The good news is that it wasn’t filed under the religious section this time. The bad news was that meant more people heard it and it still wasn’t very good. 

4) Phil Collins

I love this bit.

Genesis decided they needed a new drummer so put an ad in Melody Maker that said the following -

“Wanted - a drummer sensitive to acoustic music" 

Phil Collins, a man not known for his sensitivity to acoustic music, answered the ad and was invited to audition at Peter Gabriel’s parents’ house in Surrey. When the day came, Collins arrived early and was told to make use of the pool whilst he waited for his turn.

So he did, swimming around whilst listening to a series of drummers trying to play the same song over and over again. By the time he got his chance, he knew exactly what to play and got offered the job.

And that’s it everyone.

That’s exactly how Phil Collins happened - he gained an unfair advantage by spying on a load of drummers whilst having a massive swim. 

He would later go on to front the band, have a massively successful solo career, and dominate the ‘80s with a series of badly produced songs about ex-wives.

You really have got to hand it to him.

5) A New Guitarist

Around the time that Collins joined the band, a guitarist called Steve Hackett put his own ad in Melody Maker that said -

"Imaginative guitarist/writer seeks involvement with receptive musicians determined to strive beyond existing stagnant music forms”

All I’m saying here is if that ad appeared on The Steve Hoffman Music Forum then he’d need at least 3 new servers to cope with the demand.

But back in 1971, the rest of Genesis simply thought “he sounds good, let’s get him in” and phoned the number in the ad. With that, the classic Genesis line-up was in place and they made their first TV appearance - on a BBC 2 show called Disco 2.

To be honest, it’s probably the only time you’ll see the words “Genesis” and “Disco” in the same sentence.

The band now start to take off.

Enhanced by the twin talents of Collins and Hackett, and a Mellotron that they bought off King Crimson, the band write their best songs so far. Not only that, they actually started to feel like a band - a proper band. Collins and Hackett spoke the language of experienced musicians and this, as much as anything, gave the other three the confidence that they could develop further.

Their next album, Nursery Cryme, is easily their best to date and has a brilliant cover with a couple of girls playing croquet with people’s heads. On top of that, guitar aficionados will also tell you that it saw the introduction of Hackett’s guitar tapping technique which went on to influence people like Eddie Van Halen. 

I’m obviously not a guitar aficionado though, I just got that bit from Wikipedia.

Fresh from a triumphant set at The 1971 Reading Festival, which included loads of pyro and Peter Gabriel’s new Egyptian style haircut, the band started work on the next album - Foxtrot.

Firstly, let’s do the funny bits. 

There’s a song called Get Em Out by Friday which tells the story of ruthless property developers in 2012. From what I can work out, the developers evict some poor family and then place a 4 ft height limit on future tenants so they can cram more people in the property. 

I know, I can’t imagine that’s been used as the first dance at many weddings.

And it goes on for 8 MINUTES AND 36 SECONDS!

But it gets better.

The entire second side is taken up by a song called Supper’s Ready which goes on for - wait for it - 23 MINUTES AND 3 SECONDS!

I couldn’t even begin to tell you what it’s about other to say it’s supposed to be 7 songs rolled into one and the last part of the song is apparently called As sure as eggs is eggs.

Does that help? No, I didn’t think so.

Still, I’m generally in favour of songs about “supper” as it’s an underrated meal and needs all the publicity it can get. Distinguishable from a dinner, it’s something light and straightforward after a big lunch, something that your mum brings you - a few cold cuts and a slice of Battenberg cake.

Not that they get a mention in Supper’s Ready - it’s all butterflies and Winston Churchill.

Ok, no more jokes. Let me end with something half serious.

I really like Genesis.

The difficulty for someone like me, though, has been trying to get to prog cleanly - to get past the aftermath of 1976 that was writ so large and simplistically when I was growing up. You couldn’t help be influenced by its message -  "there was a massive battle of the bands when you were a kid and those guys lost. Whatever you do, don’t have anything to do with them or you may as well become a Geography lecturer on The Open University or, even worse, Jeremy Clarkson.“

You’re never told about the Genesis fans who were also into The Clash.

But ultimately you get past it.

Old punks now embarrass themselves with their war stories and there comes a point when you realise you’ve been misled and this wasn’t about music at all - it was about class. It was about people staking a claim for authenticity and the rights to the truth.

So you’re told that a bunch of posh kids from Charterhouse can’t possibly say anything about your life.

But you’re never told the same thing about Kraftwerk.

You’re never told that something now defined as "classic” or “mature” was actually just a bunch of kids, that it’s ALWAYS just a bunch of kids - that the oldest one in the band was just 22 when Foxtrot was released.

You’re never allowed to remove the context and, for better or worse, experience the freeze frame of a band like Genesis in 1972.

Because there’s always someone taking the piss.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Foxtrot

Rolling Stone ranked it the 14^th Greatest Prog Rock Album of all time.

Q and Mojo ranked it number 2 in a list they actually called “40 Cosmic Rock Albums” 

So, over to you David. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

I like two songs by Genesis, both from the album And Then There Were Three which is one of the first with Phil Collins as the singer. I couldn’t stand early Genesis when it was played on the sixth form record player in the ‘70s and I loathed the slick pop Genesis of the ‘80s (like everyone else, I’ve never heard the invisible Genesis of the 1990s).

In recent years I’ve accepted that my dislike of prog may just be thoughtless bias so I’ve gone out of my way to listen to bands I would once have rejected. I am also quite bored of people laughing at the paraphernalia of prog – the clothes, the twin-neck guitars, the time changes. All music looks silly to someone; in the end it’s what it sounds like which matters.

And so time has eroded my stronger feelings toward this complicated, musicianly form of rock. I am no longer a hater for hating’s sake. I like a bit of Yes, for example. I absolutely love King Crimson. And I have seriously tried listening to Genesis, with a view to liking them. Last year I even asked friends who liked Genesis to recommend me songs I might enjoy. I didn’t enjoy any of them except some of I Know What I Like In Your Wardrobe and maybe a bit of Carpet Crawlers.

So when I was allocated Foxtrot in the harsh lottery of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club, I did not have high hopes. Or any hopes, really.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

The overall impression of Foxtrot is of a boat on a stormy sea, pitching and tossing as it lurches up and down the enormous waves. There’s a lot of drama, a great deal of variety, and a slight sense that the whole thing is kept in check with enormous, if precarious skill. Playing this stuff must be very difficult – as soon as you’ve had a verse and a chorus of one song, the whole thing charges off again in a different direction, with new melodies, tempo and feeling. It must be knackering to play; it’s certainly exhausting to listen to.

I instantly liked the parts that sounded familiar: the Procol Harum-ish melody of Time Table, for example, the staccato riffs of Watcher In The Skies. I pretty much really liked Watcher In The Skies; it‘s a rocker. I enjoyed the beginning of Supper’s Ready and found Gabriel’s lyric and vocal both warm and human, like he’s singing about being at home with someone he loves. And there’s a great guitar break in the middle of Supper’s Ready as well.

Apart from that, I was less happy. The endless tempo and tune changes got on my nerves after a while; it’s like the band had lots of songs they hadn’t got round to finishing so they stuck them together in the manner of Abbey Road’s side two medley. Just as you’re starting to enjoy something (say, the start of Supper’s Ready) the track sees a shiny object in the distance and gallops off and you’re mired in a series of riffs which go round and round until they find another, boggier bit of song to crash around in. And there are boggy bits galore. Several times when playing this album (I listened to it six or seven times) I would find my attention wandering and suddenly realise that I was in the middle of another pointless instrumental section or a rant from Gabriel about something or other. Most of it was pleasant enough, but it was a bit odd to keep being dragged back from a daydream about laundry or dog walking and discover that you were listening to some music.

That was the good stuff. The bad stuff was very bad indeed. And by “bad stuff” I mean Get ‘Em Out By Friday, a track I hated so much I can barely bring myself to publicise its existence by typing its name.  What a horrible, horrible song. Eight and a half minutes of some inane story about evictions which turns into satirical drivel about shrinking people or something. Awful. I made the mistake of looking it up, too. The “character” of “The Winkler” would be the most patronising portrayal of a working class person ever – Keith Moon voice, cockney cackle and all – were it not for the other character in the song – the Sad Poor Person who is Being Evicted. And the bit where the Sad Poor Person sings that they’re prepared to pay “double the rent” suggests that Gabriel’s visits to the Real World were at this point infrequent. It’s an embarrassing and horrible piece of music with all the time changes, amateur theatrics and just sheer uggh arrgh make it stop of Genesis at their worst. I did not enjoy it at all.

And it tipped the balance for me, from this album being “OK” to “unbearable.”

Would you listen to it again?

Apart from Watcher In The Skies and some of Supper’s Ready, no. I would run away if I heard it again.

A mark out of 10?

 3.

RAM RATING – 7

Guest Rating – 3

Overall – 5

So that was Week 62 and that was David Quantick. Turns out he’d never listened to Foxtrot before because he tried it once in 6^th Form and didn’t like it. I had a similar experience with Sociology. Anyway, we made him listen to it 3 times and he got a bit seasick and threw up all over the place. These things can, unfortunately, happen.

Next week, Chris Addison listens to something from 1971 for the first time.

In the meantime, here’s Watcher in the Skies from Foxtrot. It sounds a bit like Battles if you ask me.

Have a great week

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest listener - Chris Addison

Who’s Chris Addison when he’s at home?

I direct some things, act in some other things, write still other things and now and then do stand-up for coins and/or accommodation.

Chris’s Top 3 albums ever

I really don’t have a Top 3, but big moments for me in pop include:

The Smiths – The Queen Is Dead

Sugarcubes – Life’s Too Good

The Leisure Society – Into The Murky Water

What great album has he never heard before?

What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye

Released in 1971

Before we get to Chris, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of What’s Going on.

All right, everyone.

On Monday we announced this week’s album and, if I’m honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.

What typically happens is 50% of people tell us the album is brilliant whilst the other 50% tell us it’s rubbish and they hope the guest gives it a right good kicking. But this week was different. It was 100% pro-album - the first time that’s ever happened.

And it wasn’t just an expression of light hearted joy either - it was weightier than that. There I was on Monday afternoon, trying my best to relax with a bag of Wotsits, when I was suddenly confronted with a load of tweets laced with reverence and implicit threat.

Here are just some examples -

@StuartBunby, who has an avatar of a chimpanzee playing baseball, said, 

“I really hope he likes it. It would be really good if we could all continue to get along”

I’ll admit, the double use of the word “really” scared me a bit and made me think that this Bunby character was a great deal more menacing than his surname suggests - I.e. Not menacing at all because he’s called Mr Bunby. 

@John_p_d, who describes himself as a “jazz lover” said,  

“I can’t see how it would be humanly possible not to love this record.”

I can’t see how it would be humanly possible to love jazz.

And finally, @tillyv lived up to her Twitter bio (”Ambiguity alludes me”) by saying -

"Woah. He won’t be able to write with the religious experience he is about to have.”

I found this one particularly odd because one of the reasons the world is in such a mess is precisely because of people writing about the religious experiences they’ve had. 

But never mind. I decided not to pull her up on this because a) she seems nice and b) I’m not Ricky Gervais.

On Tuesday, I then ventured off my timeline for a routine check-up at the dentist. Brian, the dentist, is a jovial sort and long term reader of our blog who occasionally chastises me for telling silly jokes about the bands he loves.

Again, Tuesday was different.

He had me upside down in his chair, shone the bright light RIGHT in my face and, whilst prizing my mouth open with what seemed like half of B & Q, said,

“You do know What’s Going On is one of my favourite albums, don’t you?”

It was a bit like that scene in Marathon Man, except Brian isn’t a Nazi trying to escape his past. 

Well, he says he isn’t anyway.

So, with all these expectations, I struggled with what approach to take and was conscious that I had to do the album “justice.”  

With that in mind, here are some potential angles that I considered -

1) - The Father and Son angle with some amateur psychology thrown in for good measure.

Any piece about Marvin Gaye is usually dominated by accounts of a ruthless father who used to beat him mercilessly as a child. Some people go even further and seek to explain his entire career as an attempt to simultaneously escape his father whilst also making him proud.

That may be true but it sort of ruins the jaunty opening.

With that in mind, just like we did with Pet Sounds, I decided to move on and ignore the “terrible dad spawns great artist” angle.

Sorry, terrible dads.

2) The Motown angle.

I considered doing the entire piece on how Motown is easily the best record label ever and, with the possible exception of Chess, no one else even comes close.

In fact, it’s so good that it’s now an adjective in its own right and people quite naturally walk around saying “I’m into Motown” in a way that no one has ever said “I’m into Sony” or “I’m into Bella Union”.

No doubt there’s someone shouting “I PREFER STAX, ACTUALLY!” at their computer right now, but surely that’s just one of those weird things that people say - like Salt and Vinegar crisps belong in green packets. 

Everything about Motown, particularly in the early days, makes me happy - they produced entertainers rather than singers; they recorded within hours of writing the song to capture the spontaneity; and they often ripped up their own release schedules because they were so excited about whatever brilliant song they just recorded.

Do you know what Motown’s first million seller was?

Shop Around by Smoky Robinson and The Miracles.

Do you know what Shop Around is about? 

It’s about Smoky Robinson’s mum pulling him to one side and basically saying “before you get married, son, have as many girlfriends as you possibly can." 

What a woman. I wish my mum had said the same to me.

My love of Motown also explains my suspicion of Northern Soul. Why is everyone messing about with b-sides and rarities? Just put Needle in a Haystack on by The Velvelettes and be done with it.

And why are we in Wigan? And why’s everyone covered in talcum powder?

Sorry, it’s not for me. 

Finally, I love the fact that all you needed for a career at Motown was to be in close proximity to the recording studio. That was it. Just hang around and your time will come, like it did for Diana Ross and Martha Reeves - office girls that were put on the production line just because they were within reach. 

“Excuse me Martha, can you stop typing for a second and come in here and sing Heatwave please.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Great, and can you bring the Vandellas with you please.”

I’m fairly sure that if I’d been working there as a cleaner then I’d probably have had 15 Top Ten hits by now and currently be on tour somewhere with the surviving members of The Four Tops.

That’s how good it was.

Yet, when you look at Gaye’s career it’s complex and goes against the grain of the other artists. He starts out as a drummer, then gets marketed as a Nat King Cole style crooner, before he decides to rebel against the company ethos. This basically involved smoking a load of weed, snorting a load of coke, and being a terrible pupil at the John Roberts Powers School for Social Grace where he was sent to be groomed.

He’s also not helped by a stop start discography that never quite takes off in the same way as The Supremes, The Four Tops, or The Temptations. For every Can I get a Witnessand How Sweet It Is (to be loved by you) there’s a string of unforgettable songs that aren’t hits. It’s only really when he teams up with Tammi Terrell in 1966 that he has consolidated success for the first time.

Tragically, though, Terrell collapses in his arms on stage one night in 1967 and is later diagnosed with a brain tumour. She dies 3 years later, at the age of just 24.

So, despite everything that I associate with Motown, the opposite appears to be the case for Marvin Gaye. His success is, at best, sporadic and his personal life is littered with tragedy and unease. 

Come the end of the ‘60s, with the label starting to fall apart, Marvin Gaye is still hanging on and looking for another move. 

And he’s just had his biggest hit so far - I Heard It Through The Grapevine.

3) The Political Angle

One of the more interesting aspects of Gaye’s career is how he became overtly politicised towards the end of the ‘60s in a way that other Motown artists didn’t. Throughout his life he had personal battles with authority (his Father, Motown), and as the decade wore on he embraced an emerging subculture that was defiantly anti-war and anti-government. 

He tells of a time when he heard one of his own songs on the radio interrupted by a newsflash about the Watts Riots. 

He tells of how his brother would come back from Vietnam with stories that would terrify and infuriate him.

Yet, all the while, Motown are still pushing him to "entertain”, to meet their expectations of who Marvin Gaye was.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

Instead, he started wearing hoodies, grew a beard, and refused to pay his taxes in case the government used them to bomb Vietnam. 

It’s in this frame of mind that he starts work on What’s Going On - an album that turned its back on a career of love songs and focussed on the Vietnam war, spirituality, environmentalism, and saving babies instead.

So here we are. Having considered the three obvious angles I still felt dissatisfied. None of them seemed to adequately sum up the album and I felt there was still something missing.

For example, there’s The James Jamerson story.

For those of you that don’t know, Jamerson was the legendary bass player at Motown who played on practically all their hits. Naturally, Gaye wanted him for What’s Going On so tracked him down to a club and dragged him into the studio to record his part. There was only one problem – Jamerson was so drunk that he could barely stand up.

It didn’t matter, though, Jamerson lay on the floor, pissed out of his head, and nailed his part in one take. To this day it’s one of the best bass lines ever and I’ll never know how he did it.

So, yeah, at one point I considered doing 2000 words on a drunk bass player.

Finally, desperate for a new angle, I even considered a piece of fan fiction based on the following photo.

The idea was based around this being the opening scene to a story where Marvin Gaye goes searching for those two kids out of The Shining. It even had a title – Marvin Gaye Goes Searching For Those Two Kids Out Of The Shining– and there was a bit where he chased them around The Alps singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.

But that was as far I got.

And that was nearly that. I’d given up trying to find something that captured the essence of What’s Going On and, instead, settled for what I had - some biography plotlines and a few daft jokes.

Par for the course, really.

Then I saw it.

In an interview just before he made What’s Going On, Marvin Gaye said the following -

“I had to be an artist, and artists work in the privacy of their own imaginations”.

It was that final phrase that really struck me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it and it went round my head for hours. He’d come up with the perfect description for the creative process, one that explained why debut albums are often the best, why you should never cater for your audience, and why you should always ignore other people’s expectations.

But more than that, he explained his own transformation.

He explained that What’s Going On is as much about personal politics as it is about a wider context - the legacy narrative that now gives the album its weight.

He let you in on the secret of what happened and, in the process, reminded me that these stories are ALWAYS best kept personal. So if you’re asking me what I think of What’s Going On, to do it justice, I would say its magic is in that phrase. 

After 12 years and 10 albums, Marvin Gaye finally discovered what he’d been looking for the whole time - the privacy of his own imagination.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on What’s Going On

In 1985, the NME voted it the best album of all time.

A 1999 critics’ poll for The Guardian named it “The Greatest Album of the 20^th Century”

Sorry Chris, just thought I’d add MORE PRESSURE.

So, over to you Chris. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

It takes me a long time to get round to things – the films of Billy Wilder, tax returns, writing this – and Motown was just another one of those foolishly neglected items on my very long list. When I was little most of the music in our house was classical. That came from my Dad, the son of an Austrian woman who brought the Viennese love of chamber music with the suitcase of possessions she packed when she fled the Nazis. My childhood was all schnitzel and sauerkraut and septets. There was the occasional burst of pop too but only really through the records my mum had bought, which she seemed to have stopped doing once her children came along. It would be ten years until I’d hear of the existence of David Bowie. My first exposure to any kind of R&B was in the form of Boney M’s 1978 Nightflight To Venus. 

Charities have been started for less.

Leaving aside an early flirtation with the works of Queen, my own pop education began quite late under the tutelage of my schoolbus comrade Bob, who filled the vital role of Slightly Older Kid with Advanced Record Collection. He made me a copy of The Smiths Strangeways Here We Come and since TDK D90s had two sides slung in The Pogues’ If I Should Fall From Grace With God too. These were a revelation. The energy of the Pogues, the sly gallows wit of Morrissey, the music from Marr the like of which I’d just never imagined existed blew out a wall to my left and when the clouds of plaster thinned, there was this whole other world – whole other part of my brain, actually – a valley of possibilities, stretching away. I let slip Queen’s hand and off into that valley I gambolled, writhing around in Indie like an extra in a drug scene from a 1960s movie: The House of Love, The Sugarcubes, They Might Be Giants and the fey, pre-Roses la-la pop that Manchester put out (God, I loved The Man from Delmonte like only a weedy nerd could). By the time Madchester came along, I was an old Indie hand in the right place at the right time.

For years after that I was pretty tribal about pop, as the gauche often are; I was an indie kid, all fanzines and certainty. That probably lasted about a decade until I met my wife, who is on every level a better person than me. She loves all the things I took pride in disdaining: soul, musicals, celery. And in a war of attrition over the last almost twenty years, she’s got me round to the first two. (I will die before admitting celery is a foodstuff, mind.) Now among the thousands of LPs, CDs and downloads I own there’s stuff in every genre. Except metal, which continues to elude me. But what all those lost years meant was that in spite of listening to (and loving) a great deal more of it in recent times, whole swathes of soul, funk, R&B and related sub-genres that would be bunged in the same grey slots in HMV have passed me by, including all but the title track of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

God, the pressure. People love this, don’t they? I mean, really fanatically love it as an album, an artefact, a milestone. God, the pressure.

I’ve been on a bit of an up and down journey with this one. See, that opening track is so strong, such a great piece of music, that I think I was waiting for an album of something similar – something that immediately grabs you, a constantly startling adventure in music, twists and turns and revelations at every corner. This is not that album. That first listen was a surprise. No, I’ll be more honest: it was a disappointment. But that’s the problem with the expectations we build up, isn’t it? That’s why so many critics level that utterly redundant opinion “I would have preferred it if it was a bit more like…,” the correct response to which is “Well, it isn’t, so suck it up and take it on its own terms, you solipsistic imbecile.” 

So, having washed my expectations away, I went back to it and I must say I liked it a good deal better, which was exciting and pleasing and something of a relief because I’m a cultural coward and I’d hate to be seen as a dunce who can’t appreciate A Classic. The third time I put it on, I was truly looking forward to being in its company again, but as the record turned… nothing. It just didn’t take. To be absolutely straight with you, I got a bit bored.

I hope that we can still be friends.

Marvin starts out asking What’s Going On and neither having received a satisfactory answer nor being the kind of fellow to let a thing go, he investigates further with a song called What’s Happening, Brother. Actually, there’s no question mark, so it’s difficult to tell whether he’s just reframed his original question or is now providing the answer to it. My guess is that it’s a supplementary enquiry related to the first one since it starts with exactly the same musical sequence the last song finished with. Because what seems to happen after the belting opener is that Marvin noodles around for fifteen minutes or so asking vague questions over music that doesn’t seem to change pace or go anywhere different to any great degree, making breaks at arbitrary moments when he’s thought of another question. I find the meandering makes it hard to get hold of anything. 

Flyin’ High (In The Friendly Sky) and Save The Children together sound like an extended improv looking for a hook, which is occasionally glimpsed before we lose all sight of it again. It’s like variations on a theme without an actual, you know, theme. I liked God Is Love and Mercy, Mercy Me (The Ecology) better. They seemed to have more of a shape. The latter even surviving the addition of a saxophone, an instrument which when blown with any vigour rarely doesn’t sound like a pig trapped in a barrel. And Inner City Blues is simply great. It has more purpose than anything since the title track, marching forward on the hookiest of hooks. It’s simpler at its core than a lot of the other tracks and perhaps that’s why I like it. Maybe here’s the focus I’ve been sub-consciously looking for; the song seems to develop, rather than wander.

I hope that we can still be friends.

I hesitate to say this, but there just don’t seem to be as many ideas here as there are songs. STOP! NO! LISTEN! I’m aware that I’m hearing it forty-five years after the event and that in fact any of the extraordinary, ground-breaking musical things he may well have done here will have been so appropriated and re-used over the time since that it’s impossible for me to see them clearly from my vantage point. I know someone who hates Monty Python because before he saw any of their work he’d seen a million thudding sixth-form acolytes attempt to synthesise their genius, their turns of phrase. So by the time he got to Python itself, it was ruined for him. 

That could well be happening with me and this album because, oh look, here are the strings I find so cheesy and awful in disco and here’s the jazz flute that I’ve hated since 1970s Italian kids cartoon Mr. Rossi and the sound of Right On has been parodied so often in Blaxploitation/cop spoofs that its hard to take it seriously, but maybe I’m just looking the wrong way up the tube. Even so, it’s the only way I can look.

I hope that we can still be friends.

I also know that this album is supposed to be an explosive political statement and so I’m chary of not liking it for reasons of cultural sensitivity and – more importantly – the aforementioned cowardice. Yet, the songs are so frustratingly vague. He starts with the general thesis that there’s something going on and then goes on to specify only that some of the things that are going on are going on with drugs and other things that are going on are going on with children.

Following that is a quick side bar in which he’s keen to point out that none of it is God’s fault before he’s right back to it, noting that something’s also going on with “The Ecology.” He’s really no more specific about the problems than this. I have started to suspect that if I were to buy the deluxe reissue of this album, I’d find tracks that didn’t make the original cut called ‘Seriously Mate, Right?’ and ‘Cuh. Life, Eh?’ His obvious sincerity is not in any doubt and I’m certain that at the time it was released this was something quite extraordinary, but I want my explosive political statements to be all fire and revolution and lyrical petrol in a musical bottle, Marvin, get out of second gear! But yet again, I’m falling into the idiot’s trap of measuring this thing by my own expectations, so let’s take the lyrics on their own terms. Here’s a segment of Save The Children:

“Oh what a shame, such a bad way to live

All who is to blame, we can’t stop livin’

Live, live for life

But let live everybody

Live life for the children

Oh, for the children

You see, let’s save the children

Let’s save all the children

Save the babies, save the babies.”

I mean, I can’t say I disagree with him. In fact I loudly applaud the whole notion, but it just doesn’t come as any great revelation, you know, the idea that we should really try to save the babies. To be brutally plain, you could absolutely take those lines and alternate them between two old men nursing Guinness at a bar, drunkenly agreeing with each other over and over.

ARTHUR: Live life for the children.

PETEY: Oh, for the children.

ARTHUR: You see, let’s save the children.

PETEY: Let’s save all the children.

ARTHUR: Save the babies.

PETEY: Save the babies. Have you any Scampi Fries back there, love?

I confess I’m being slightly harsh to hammer the point, but as great statements go it does all feel a bit undercooked.

I hope that we can still be friends.

But look, I don’t like not liking this album since it’s so important to so many people I know (+ cowardice etc. etc.) I’m comforted by the fact that a friend of mine who is an enormously knowledgeable classical music buff took until he was in his 50s to get his head round Mozart; maybe I just haven’t found the key that unlocks What’s Going On yet. So let’s focus on the positive: I did really enjoy it the second time I heard it and if you incorporate the fact that I adore the title track and Inner City Blues is fabulous, then I enjoyed it at least 60% of the time I was listening to it. Which also means that I very well might enjoy it again. The best things grow on you, don’t they? Apart from athlete’s foot – that one’s the exception. So that’s what I’m taking from this: an acquaintance that if worked at might one day become a firm friendship.

I really do hope that we can still be friends.

Would you listen to it again?

I definitely will. Late at night with whisky next, I think. But I won’t listen to it as A Classic, just some music. See what happens if I come at it from that angle. See if it can breathe a bit more out from under the weight of everyone telling me how good it is.

A mark out of 10?

I enjoyed 60% of my listening, so 6. For now. 

RAM Rating – 8

Guest Rating – 6

Overall – 7

So that was Week 63 and that was Chris Addison. Turns out he’d never listened to What’s Going On before because the man who listened to the Man from Delmonte said no. So we made him listen to it, and he sort of liked and he sort of didn’t. More important than all of that though, he nearly made me sick by pairing Scampi Fries with Guinness. Everyone knows it should be Mini Cheddars.

Next week, the MP Shabana Mahmood listens to something from 1979 for the first time.

In the meantime, here’s What’s Going On from, er, What’s Going On.

Have a great week.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest listener - Shabana Mahmood

Who’s Shabana Mahmood when she’s at home?

Labour MP for Birmingham Ladywood; born and bred Brummie, practising Muslim, cooker of Kashmiri cuisine, weight training addict, recovering Netflix-holic and lover of all things Marvel.

Shabana’s Top 3 albums ever?

Oh the pressure of a List. With the words Top and Ever. After (too) much deliberation, a fair amount of stress, and feelings of guilt and disloyalty that are totally unbecoming for a 35 year-old adult, I finally settled on: 

A Northern Soul – The Verve

50 Greatest Hits - Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan

Everything Must Go – Manic Street Preachers

What great album has she never heard before?

Setting Sons by The Jam

Released in 1979

Before we get to Shabana, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Setting Sons

“Hello Richard”

“Oh, hiya Martin, you alright?”

“Yeah, great thanks. What you up to?”

“I’ve just got a new job haven’t I”

“I don’t know, have you?”

“Yeah, I’m working on that Large Hadron Collider aren’t I”

“I don’t know, are you?”

“Yeah, I start on Monday.”

“Oh aye, what’s all that about then?

"Well, basically we fire a load of particles together.”

“What for?”

“So we can try and understand more about the basic laws governing the interactions and forces among the elementary objects, the deep structure of space and time, and in particular the interrelation between quantum mechanics and relatively" 

"Bloody hell.”

“Anyway, what you up to?”

“I’m writing an article that will try and reclaim Paul Weller from his haircut and convince people that he used to be really cool.”

“Fucking hell mate, good luck with that.”

All right, everyone. 

It’s The Jam this week so I thought I’d take a leaf out of their book and just crack on with it.

Here’s my 11 reasons why The Jam are one of the best bands ever.

1) Accidents will happen.

In the mid ‘70s, The Jam were a terrible band that wore black shirts, black and white brogues, and huge white kipper ties. Basically, imagine a version of Bugsy Malone that’s set in Woking and everyone sings Small Faces’ songs instead of that one about wanting to be a boxer.

This is how they originally lined up - 

Steve Brookes - Guitar

Bruce Foxton - Guitar 

Rick Buckler - Drums

And playing a Hofner bass, just like his hero, was a 17 year old Paul McCartney fanatic called John Weller. In fact, he idolised McCartney so much that he called himself Paul.

Anyway, one day there was a big fight in the back of the van and Bruce Foxton sat on Weller’s bass and snapped the neck in two. Weller responded by saying "right, you can play bass now, I’m on guitar.”

Shortly after, he bought a Rickenbacker 330, a copy of The Who’s My Generation, and off they went. 

That’s right everyone. Paul Weller’s entire career comes down to a fight in the back of a van because someone sat on his bass.

As pivotal moments in rock history go, it’s probably my favourite.

Oh yeah, they got rid of that Steve Brookes fella too and, crucially, stopped wearing kipper ties.

2) Off they went.

After gate-crashing the London Punk scene, The Jam released their first album, In the City, in May 1977.

Over the next 4 years and 10 months, the band released 6 studio albums of which 3 are brilliant (All Mod Cons, Setting Sons, Sound Affects), 2 are very good (In the City and The Gift) and 1 is just good (This is the Modern World). 

To make this even more impressive, they also released 19 hit singles - 9 of which they couldn’t even be bothered to put on the albums. 

So yeah, the complete discography takes place in less than 5 years and sees them dabble with Punk, Mod, New Wave, and Soul in the process. 

The secret to this? 

Well, other than an incredibly pushy record company, they treated the band as if it was a job - they worked 10-6 in the studio so Weller could get home to watch Coronation Street, and they had a Christmas party every year.

The Jam - what a great place to work.

3) When you’re young.

Paul Weller was only 23 when The Jam recorded their final album. If you really think about that, about everything The Jam did, that’s mad to have that ticked off at such a young age.

The only other band I can think of that broke up at such a young age were Bros and they don’t count because they wrote the following lyric -

“I read Karl Marx and taught myself to dance.”

4) A forensic analysis of Down in the Tube Station at Midnight.

I’ll be honest, this is one of the most ridiculous songs I’ve ever heard and it actually keeps me up at night.

The story is basically this - Paul Weller is in a tube station at midnight when a couple of dodgy fellas approach him and ask him if he has any money.

Weller replies - 

“I’ve a little money and a take-away curry, I’m on my way home to the wife. 

She’ll be lining up the cutlery, you know she’s expecting me, 

Polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork.”

Firstly, if someone approaches you late at night and asks if you have any money, the answer is always “No mate.”

Secondly, what’s going on in the Weller household? 

Why does the poor Mrs Weller have to stay up till past Midnight before she can have her meal? It’s not really fair, and if I’m being honest, I’ve spent the best part of 37 years feeling sorry for her and hoping that she finds someone else - someone who lets her eat her tea earlier in the evening.

And why is she opening a bottle of wine? And setting the table? For a curry?

I could understand all of this if the song was called “Down in the Tube Station at about 7pm” but it isn’t.

Anyway, back to the story.. 

The two fellas proceed to mug the witless Weller before leaving him beaten on the floor. As he lies there, no doubt regretting his entire approach to this incident, he says -

“I’m down in the tube station at midnight. The wine will be flat and the curry’s gone cold.”

Paul, I hate to break this to you mate, but WINE IS FLAT!

Before anyone makes a case that Mrs Weller might have opened a bottle of Babycham, or any other fizzy wine, let me point you to a lyric in The Jam’s Saturday’s Kids - 

“Saturday’s kids work in Tescos and Woolworths,

Wear cheap perfume 'cause it’s all they can afford,

Go to discos, they drink BABYCHAM”

There you go, Paul Weller is quite capable of specifying Babycham if he wants to.

Notwithstanding all of this, “Tube Station” is a brilliant song, and the one that gave their career a kick start after being written off as “punk has-beens.”

What’s really remarkable, though, is that it nearly didn’t happen.

By all accounts Weller had thrown the handwritten lyrics in the bin where they were found by their producer - Vic Coppersmith Heaven. It was Heaven who then convinced the band to record it.

“But Vic, it doesn’t make any sense. The whole wife thing, it’s crazy. And the time contradiction too. Basically, I’ve set a scene in the house that’s definitely early evening but the scene in the tube station is at midnight. Oh, and it IS Babycham that she’s opened. Me and the wife, we love a bit of Babycham with our curry but I couldn’t get the lyrics to scan because it has too many syllables. So I used "wine” instead, even though I know wine is obviously flat. That’s why the song doesn’t really work and I threw it in the bin.“

"Don’t worry Paul, no one will pick up on that.”

“Ok, let’s record it tomorrow. Coronation Street starts in an hour.”

5) I’m so bored of the U.S.A.

In 1980 The Jam were on tour in America when their label phoned them with the news that Going Underground had entered the charts at number one. 

They immediately cancelled the rest of the tour, flew back to England, and appeared on Top of the Pops where Paul Weller wore an apron. 

I don’t know what other evidence you’d need to convince you that, along with Robert De Niro and Bjorn Borg, Paul Weller was the coolest man on the planet between 1980 and 1982. 

6) Rick Buckler’s Autobiography. 

I’d always assumed that Rick Buckler, the drummer in The Jam, was a no-nonsense sort of fella – a bit like Terry in Minder.

Then I read his autobiography and discovered that he’s actually more like Alan Bennett.

Consider this paragraph - 

“My dad was a postman and, along with a lot of others from his generation, smoked cigarettes. Smoking was the norm and he would get into trouble when he lit up in the sorting office. Postmen weren’t allowed to do that in case they set fire to the mail, but he was always sneaking a fag here and there though. Players Number Six was his brand of choice and they came with coupons that could be saved up and eventually swapped for something, like a new teapot.”

I didn’t think anything could happen that could increase my love for The Jam, but imagining Rick Buckler as a frustrated Alan Bennett made me like them even more.

I also imagined Alan Bennett trying to play the drums on Funeral Pyre but, to be honest, that didn’t really work.

7) I don’t even like Mods.

That’s an understatement actually, I hate mods. There’s no excuse for that haircut and anyone that does their top button up without wearing a tie is obviously mad.

I wish they’d all just have a day off, by which I DON’T mean have a day off and go to the seaside with your other mod mates and do mod stuff. I literally mean - have a day off.

Every time I see a mod in the 21^st Century I think about a TV show that I haven’t written yet called Brit Pops. 

“So what’s the idea behind Brit Pops then?”

“Well, it’s about those mods who persist with that haircut whilst struggling with the responsibility of fatherhood. In the first episode, two of the dads meet at the school gates to discuss how many mirrors on a scooter constitutes "too many mirrors”. They’re so absorbed in their conversation that their children get kidnapped and the dads end up having to sell their original pressing of Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake to pay the ransom.“

"Is it a comedy?”

“Not really.”

Look I get it, every generation watches Quadrophenia and thinks it might be a good idea to be a mod. And don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Quadrophenia - I used to have it on VHS and watch it all the time. 

But I also loved The Blues Brothers and you don’t see me driving around in an old police car ordering four fried chickens and a coke every 5 minutes do you?

No, you don’t.

So, look, it’s testament to how brilliant The Jam are that I can get past the mod thing. 

8) Guitar Hero.

Bruce Foxton wrote an average song called News of the World and then Paul Weller decided to make it brilliant by adding a great solo.

Off the top of my head, the only other solo that he does in The Jam is the one on Start. I imagine his thought process there was –

“Everyone’s going to say I took the chords from Taxman so, just to shut them up, I’m going to show Paul McCartney how he should have done the solo.”

Paul Weller’s guitar style then – helping out his mates and starting fights with The Beatles.

What a great bloke.

9) Bonus Endings

Most bands adopt the following song structure –

Verse, Chorus, Verse, Chorus, Middle Eight, Chorus.

The Jam, though, sometimes did this –

Verse, Chorus, Verse, Chorus, Middle Eight, Chorus, Bonus Ending.

Often these “bonus endings” were entirely different from the rest of the song but always brilliant. See Smithers Jones, Strange Town, When You’re Young and, best of all, Little Boy Soldiers.

Paul Weller has continued the “bonus ending” theme in his solo career too, but with a slight variation –i.e. it’s a bonus when any of his songs end.

Fair play to him.

10) The Video for “The Bitterest Pill.”

Possibly the strangest 4 minutes of film I’ve ever seen. From what I can work out, Paul Weller has broken up with his partner and she decides to go out with the other two members of the band – probably because they’ll let her eat before midnight.

At one point, Paul Weller looks through a window and sees his lost love having a great time in front of the fire with Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler.

You can see why The Jam broke up shortly afterwards.

11) The Break Up.

The second best decision Paul Weller ever made was to break up The Jam at their absolute peak. Their last single, Beat Surrender, had entered at number one and, having sold out 5 nights at Wembley Arena, they had to plead with the promoter to stop adding any more.

And his reasons were impeccable – he didn’t want to damage the legacy, to drag it out and become a middle aged man singing songs that were written by an angry young man. He wanted to create a time capsule, a body of work that was preserved forever and would never fade.

The best decision he ever made, the one he makes every single day, is to never reform The Jam and ruin that.

Bonus ending

“Hello Richard.”

“Oh hiya Martin, you alright?”

“Yeah, good thanks. How’s that job at the Large Hadron Collider going?”

“It’s mad you know. Sometimes I have to marvel at the scope of what we’re trying to achieve, y’know, trying to recreate the circumstances of the big bang and all that.”

“It does sound mad.”

“One of the fellas there has this theory that we’re all in a Large Hadron Collider.”

“You what?”

“Yeah, he reckons that we’re living out a previous experiment where some other scientists had created the big bang and our whole world is being monitored in another Large Hadron Collider somewhere else.”

“Bloody hell. I don’t think I can cope with this Richard. My head’s starting to hurt.”

“That’s quantum physics for you Martin. Anyway, how did that Paul Weller article go?

“Alright. I did this whole bit about “Down in the Tube Station at Midnight.””

“I LOVE that song. It’s was mine and Julie’s first dance when we got married.”

“Your first dance was “Down in the Tube Station at Midnight?””

“Yeah. We met in Tottenham Court Road tube station, at around midnight, and there aren’t many songs that cover that. It just seemed appropriate and we both really love the song. We listen to it all the time and it reminds us of when we first met and, of course, our wedding.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, what did you say about it?”

“Not much. I just pointed out the internal contradiction within the heart of the song - namely the time inconsistency between the two places, the issue with the wine, and the fact that it makes no sense whatsoever. But then you probably knew all that anyway.”

“Richard? You knew all that right?”

“Richard?”

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Setting Sons 

Smash Hits gave it 9/10 and that’s all you need to know.

So, over to you Shabana. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Well I really wish I could lay claim to some irrational prejudice against The Jam in order to answer your question but I don’t have one. I had definitely heard of them, because there seemed to be a time (during my peak Oasis obsession) where you couldn’t read a Noel Gallagher interview without him talking about how much he loves Paul Weller.

I wonder if he still does that?

I definitely remember being reliably informed, I believe by Heat magazine, that the whole mod thing was a thing. But me actually listen to their music? It just never happened.

And the reasons for that? Well it’s a bit complicated.

“English” or “Western” Music did not feature much in my house when I was growing up. Both my parents are first generation immigrants who came to this country from Pakistan - my Dad in the 60s and my mum in the late 70s. The soundtrack to my early childhood therefore has a very deep “sub-continent” flavour; qawwaali, naaths and ghazals. Lots of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (hence his inclusion in my top three ever list). I absolutely loved this music even though most of the time I hadn’t a clue what was actually being said because a) I am appalling with music lyrics which I often get wrong and b) I didn’t learn Urdu or Punjabi until my very late teens.

So for a long time I just didn’t have other music on my radar. But part way through secondary school, when I was about thirteen I knew this had to change. My “major swot” status, which I secretly revelled in, already made me massively uncool. Retaining “total music loser” on my charge sheet didn’t seem very smart as it was something I could actually change. And so it came to pass that my first proper and concerted foray into non-Asian music, at the tender age of about 13, was East 17.

I fully realise this probably puts me firmly back into the “total music loser” box, perhaps forever, but in my defence it was what my friends were in to, and though this is a very low bar, they were much cooler than me. And my deeply religious, strict parents definitely didn’t approve. And I, their deeply religious, strict daughter also didn’t entirely approve so that had to be a win, right? And East 17 were way better than the pretty boys of Take That. Even I knew that.

After that, most of of the music I got in to was through my friends, and all the staples of the 90s and Noughties featured – Oasis, Radiohead, Nirvana, Manics, Kings of Leon, The White Stripes, Eminem, (even Coldplay, for mention of which I sincerely apologise) interspersed with the pop music which we all publicly derided but secretly loved (Britney, Sugababes, Backstreet Boys, Kylie).

There were some random obsessions too along the way which I seemed to have conjured up all by myself for which I blame MTV (does MTV still exist?) - Linkin Park and Staind to name but two. I have no idea how these happened and they are not things I actually admitted to at the time. But my abiding obsession is the first proper band I discovered for myself and not through someone else - The Verve.

And being a tech-know-nothing I seem to have bypassed most of the turning points in the way in which music is consumed. I have gone from cassettes to CDs straight to injecting Spotify directly into my bloodstream with nothing in between. The only constant is Heart FM, which basically means I have spent 20 years listening to Careless Whisper on repeat.

So in a nutshell I haven’t listened to The Jam before (not just Setting Sons, but no Jam at all, ever) because I got in to (non-Asian) music quite late (its my parents’ fault), none of my friends ever suggested them to me (its all their fault), I didn’t discover them for myself in that haphazard and random way in which people like me come across new/old music, Heart FM never seem to have them on, the Spotify algorithm obviously doesn’t think I would like them and they’re not The Verve.

And lastly, because this album was released in 1979 and I was born in 1980. I’m just not that good with music from before my time. Even the stuff I have heard of and listened to I usually don’t like or get. I am afraid this includes some biggies like The Beatles. And The Rolling Stones.

So I approach this task with some trepidation, especially given the fervour with which fans of The Jam have been filling up my twitter timeline, and cause these days I am a politician and seeking approval is a thing, indeed a professional requirement in this line of work…

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

It’s a bit complicated.

The first listen was awful. I barely understood most of the lyrics. I told you I am appalling with music lyrics. And before anyone wisecracks about me needing to refer myself to one of David Cameron’s English classes for Muslim women, let me assure you English is my first and only fluently spoken language. And there really isn’t anything wrong with my hearing, I’ve had it checked. I’m just bad with music lyrics. So part way through the first listen I am barely understanding it and feeling all defensive. But without getting all of the words, the music on its own was not enough to hold my attention which wondered straight to “why do people think this is A Classic?” “what degree of music loser does this make me?” and a fervent prayer that none of The Jam fans reading this live in my constituency.

And the brutal truth dear reader is this: if I wasn’t listening to this album for the purposes of this blog, I would have gone straight back to my current Spotify list of Florence + The Machine and the soundtrack to Rocky IV.

But the listen to it three times rule is a good one. So for my second listen I armed myself with the lyrics and gave it another go. The slight downside of this though was that knowing I had to listen to the music, read the flipping lyrics and write this, meant that by this time the whole experience felt like my weekly essay crisis at uni minus the 2am trip to Hassan’s kebab van to buy chips.

So, still not enjoyable.

It took me another five listens before I had enough familiarity to start to work out what I think. And I still don’t understand why it’s A Classic. Its too confusing to be A Classic surely?? Girl on the Phone and Heatwave are both incongruous and feel out of place. That they are placed at the beginning and end of the album just messed with my head. I know every song doesn’t have to “fit” for an album to make sense and hang together but these two songs feel out of step in a way that doesn’t sound like its deliberate. Or if it is I’m afraid I just don’t get it. And Girl on the Phone is a stalker song which might have been ok in 1979 but feels a bit creepy in 2016.

I thought the songs about friendship (Thick as Thieves, Burning Sky) were ok, sort of sad but not memorable.

The bit of the album that reflects on ordinary lives (Private Hell, Wasteland, Smithers-Jones, Saturday’s Kids) with its critique of society, and honesty about boredom and despair was good but in my world that’s what the Manics are for. I realise that middle aged men and women who love The Jam reading this will be thinking something along the lines of “bloody kids these days know nothing” but there you have it. If I’m looking for leftist politics and culture in my music its James Dean Bradfield not Paul Weller for me.

But I did love The Eton Rifles. I thought it was powerful, I got it straight away. There was no need to check the lyrics, not because I could make them all out (I couldn’t but he definitely mumbles some of them I’m sure) but because I didn’t need to in order to get the song. It was just ace, A Classic even. I sincerely hope I don’t now discover that this is the one song on this album considered Not A Classic.

But on its own is it enough to carry the whole album? As good as I think it is, the answer is no.

Would you listen to it again?

I’d listen to The Eton Rifles, but probably not the rest of it.

​​A mark out of 10?

The Eton Rifles – 10/10

The album as a whole – 4/10

RAM Rating – 9.5/10

Guest Rating – 4/10

Overall – 6.75/10

So that was Week 64 and that was Shabana Mahmood. Turns out she’d never listened to Setting Sons before because she was listening to someone called Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan who hadan album called 50 Greatest Hits. I’ve never heard of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan but anyonewho has had 50 Greatest Hits is alright with me. Anyway, we made her listen to Setting Sons and she really liked Eton Rifles.

Next week, Geoff Lloyd from Absolute Radio listens to something from 2012 for the first time.

In the meantime, here’s Little Boy Soldiers from Setting Sons. Watch out for the bonus ending.

Guest listener - Geoff Lloyd

Who’s Geoff Lloyd when he’s at home?

I host a radio show with my friend Annabel Port at 6pm, weekdays on Absolute Radio. I never know how to describe it, but the Radio Times once called it ‘near hip’. Annabel and I witter on with ourselves, and there are interviews with comedians, writers, musicians, scientists and so on. It’s a podcast, too.

I also host Beatles Brunch on Absolute Radio 60s – two hours of Beatle music, Sunday mornings from 10am.

Geoff’s Top 3 albums ever

(With the caveat that this top three is non binding)

The Beatles - Abbey Road

Aztec Camera - High Land, Hard Rain

Billy Bragg – Workers Playtime

What great album has he never heard before?

Good Kid Maad City by Kendrick Lamar

Released in 2012

Before we get to Geoff, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Good Kid Maad City

All right, everyone.

When we booked Geoff Lloyd as a guest, we’d just come off the back of editions about Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, and The Beach Boys. Knowing that we also had Meatloaf and Genesis to come, I was worried that we might start to get a reputation and people would start knocking on our door.

“Er, is this the right place?” 

“For what?”

“You know. To discuss Curved Air. I’ve brought the entire discography with me.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“This is Ruth and Martin’s Album Club isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look. If you’re only going to feature old albums then occasionally you’re going to get fellas like me knocking at the door wanting to discuss Curved Air.”

“But last year we did Taylor Swift and Sun Kil Moon?”

“Did you? Well I only started following in January and the most recent album you’ve done this year is from 1993.”

“The worst year in the history of music.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Look the thing is, I have nothing against modern music, it’s just that the intros are easier to write for the older albums.”

“Hmmm”

“It’s true. You can say what you want about Genesis, and trust me I have, but it’s easier to write 2000 words on them than it is about FKA Twigs. I’ve got a full time job you know. I need to make this as easy for me as possible.”

“Look, can I come in and discuss Curved Air or not?“ 

"No.” 

“How about Frumpy?”

“Who?”

“Frumpy. They’re a German prog rock band. I’ve brought some of their albums too.”

“Definitely not.”

“Suit yourself.”

With awkward conversations like this on my mind, I decided to limit Geoff’s choice to some of my favourite albums that have been released since 2012 - minus FKA Twigs of course.

This is what we offered him, along with some potential ideas that I had for the intro - 

Killer Mike - Rap Music

There’s a song on this album called Reagan which is probably my favourite protest song from the last 10 years. The best bit is a sample of one of Reagan’s speeches on the Iran/Contra affair where he actually says the following -

“A few months ago I told the American people I did not trade arms for hostages. My heart and my best intentions still tell me that’s true, but the facts and the evidence tell me that it’s not.” 

That sentence is easily the maddest thing an American president has ever said and I could have spent at least 70% of my intro talking about that. 

Cloud Nothings - Here and Nowhere Else.

I’m a huge fan of their drummer and, when I listen to this album, I often think he would win that Omelette Challenge on Saturday Kitchen. 

For those of you unfamilair with the concept, the Omelette Challenge is a thing where professional chefs race each other at making an omelette. It includes lots of vigorous stirring, hence being ideally suited to a drummer with incredibly fast hands.

This led me to think of an Omelette Challenge that exclusively involved musicians and I concluded that, with a shadow of a doubt, Leonard Cohen would come last.

This could have been my best intro yet.

Father John Misty - I love you, Honeybear.

This album really reminds me of early Elton John and I LOVE early Elton John. 

The repeat chorus in Rocket Man is amazing, Bennie and the Jets is the best name for a band ever, and wouldn’t it have been amazing if he actually sang Crocodile Rock at Diana’s funeral instead of that dreary re-write of Candle in the Wind. Imagine that - funny glasses, outlandish costume, and a full band joining in -

“I remember when rock was young,

Me and Susie had so much fun.”

That would have got the assorted dignitaries dancing and, let’s be honest, it’s what she would have wanted.

It then occurred to me that I should probably just get someone to do an Elton John album one day so I could expand on this.

Sufjan Stevens - Carrie and Lowell.

No idea why I included this. There are literally no jokes. 

Kendrick Lamar - Good Kid Maad City

And here we are - the album that Geoff picked. 

So, let’s begin.

1) The Good Kid.

Kendrick Lamar was born and raised in Compton.

Once asked about his childhood, he said,

“I’m 6 years old, seein’ my uncles playing with shotguns, sellin’ dope in front of the apartment. My moms and pops never said nothing, ‘cause they were young and living wild too.”

When he was 9 years old it got even worse - after finishing his cereal one morning he ventured on to the streets of Compton only to see someone get their head blown off. 

I know, maybe Sufjan Stevens wouldn’t have been so bad after all.

Fortunately, for the sake of this story as much as anything, something happens that doesn’t involve anyone getting shot - his father took him to the Compton Swap Meet to watch Dr Dre and Tupac film the video for California Love. 

Hundreds of people turned out to watch the homecoming of the two heroes and a star struck crowd greeted them accordingly. The young Kendrick Lamar witnessed the whole thing, perched on his dad’s shoulders and later said -

"I knew then, consciously or subconsciously, that this is what I wanted.”

It’s also around this time that Lamar begins a process of meditation that he’ll continue for the rest of his life. Every morning, for 10 minutes, he would stare at himself in the mirror to try and discover his true self.

When I read about this, I thought I would try it myself. 

So I went into the bathroom and started to look at myself in the mirror. At first it just seemed weird but then after a while I could feel something happening, that I was being taken off somewhere and losing all sense of my surroundings. Then after about 6 minutes my partner knocked on the door because she needed a shit.

It sorted of ruined the whole thing to be honest. 

2) The Mad City.

As a teenager, Lamar gravitated towards the Compton street life and became involved in gangs, drugs, and shootings. Like any teenager, he tried his best to fit in with his peer group - it’s just that they were either in gangs or in jail. 

What set Lamar apart, though, and sent him on a different path, were two parents that encouraged him to do better – that relentlessly warned him against repeating their mistakes. He worked hard in school, becoming a straight ‘A’ student, and, when he wasn’t studying, he devoted himself to music - perfecting his lyrics and performing in a series of rap battles in the neighbourhood.

Everyone rated him, they knew it straight away, and when he recorded his first mixtape, he knew it too.

“The first time I heard my voice play through the speakers I was addicted. That was it.”

I love that. Most people recoil when they hear themselves for the first time. Not Kendrick Lamar, though - he literally loved the sound of his own voice.

3) The Education.

At the age of 16, Kendrick Lamar was signed by Top Dawg - an independent record label working out of Compton.

What follows though is one of the longest apprenticeships ever. He spends the next seven years working in studios and learning the art of production. Seven years! And all he really has to show for it is a hook here, a guest verse there, and 6 mix tapes that he releases under the name of K Dot.

Still, all the time he’s learning – figuring out his sound and delivery.

His problem, which he ultimately recognises, is that he’s too susceptible - he’s too influenced by the legends of Gangsta Rap and swayed by everyone’s advice on how he should sound. Tired of it all, and bored of going nowhere, he does something brilliant - he changes his name back to Kendrick Lamar and decides to do it his way.

4) What a great bloke.

He releases his first EP and it has 17 songs on it!

People in the industry were confused by such an obvious breach of convention and questioned what he was doing.

He didn’t care though,

"I don’t give a fuck”, he said. “Play it and call it whatever.”

See, I told you he didn’t care.

He was beginning to gain confidence in his own identity and stand out from the crowd. You can see the transformation in any of the videos filmed around Compton at this time. Whilst his friends are pranking and excitable, fluttering all over the place, he’s perfectly still and assured. 

He quickly followed his 17 song EP with his first official album - Section 80. It would go on to sell 100,000 copies in the first few months, a decent performance for an independent artist, and it earnt recognition from the wider Hip Hop community. In 2011, he’s invited to perform at a concert with Dr Dre, Snoop Dogg, and The Game, where they anoint him as “The New King of West Coast Hip Hop.” 

He broke down in tears on stage and would later say, "That’s the moment I realised I made it.”

Under Dr Dre’s wing, Lamar starts work on his second album in 2012 - Good Kid Maad City.

What he does is remarkable - he reverts back to an album that he’s had in his head for years - the cover, the idea, the story - it was all premeditated and a long time coming. It was the prequel to everything that’s happened since -  the story of his own life, told through a series of events that take place over a single day in 2004.

Everything’s there - the family, the neighbourhood, the peer pressure to succumb when, instead, you want to achieve. It’s a story that, on the one hand, is resolutely set on the streets of Compton but, on the other, is told from a new perspective - the good kid that wants the permanent happy ending rather than the short lived honour.

That’s what I love most about Kendrick Lamar - he went backwards to tell his own story and, in the process, gave himself a future. Rather than being anchored within his environment, and the traditions of Gangsta Rap, he created something that transcended both.

He gave himself the freedom to move, and the opportunity to become a superstar.

What a great bloke.

A week later.

“Er, is this the right place?”

“For what?” 

“You know, to discuss Kendrick Lamar.”

"Do I know you?”

“Er, no.”

“You sure we haven’t met before?”

“Er, no”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a brand new baseball cap?”

“I can wear what I want mate. Look, can I come in or not?”

“I’m not sure. Let me look at those records you’re holding.”

“Here you go.”

“Right, let’s see what you’ve got. Run the Jewels 2, To Pimp a Butterfly by Kendrick Lamar, Rap Music by Killer Mike, Old by Danny Brown. Ok this is all good. Maybe I’ll let you in and we’ll become best mates. Hang on though, what’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“There’s an album here that’s tucked inside one of the others. As if someone’s trying to hide it!” 

"Oh.”

“The Best of Frumpy!”

“Shit.”

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Good Kid Maad City

Pitchfork rated it 9.5 out of 10 and the best album of 2012

Vibe rated it the 19^th best album on its “50 greatest albums since 1993” list

So, over to you Geoff. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

I’m at pains to point out it’s not because I’m anti hip-hop.

If that sounds overly- defensive, it’s because I’ve spent the best part of two decades working at a radio station which has occasionally embarrassed itself by claiming to play only ‘real music’ (defined as The Stereophonics, Razorlight and everything in between.) At one particularly low point, they made jingles that said “All rap is crap” and featured a sound effect of Ms Dynamite exploding. I don’t subscribe to this: I’m always delighted when a rapper headlines Glastonbury – not out of any particular desire to buy a ticket, but because of how much it enrages a certain type of narrow-minded, Shine compilation indie-music fan.

All that being said, I can’t remember the last time I listened to a hip-hop album. It’s a very underrepresented genre in my collection, and most of what I have is almost thirty years old – 3 Feet High and Rising, It Takes a Nation of Millions, Paid in Full etc. Clearly, I stalled at some stage. A similar thing happened to me with swimming – after a few weeks of lessons, I got a perforated eardrum and wasn’t allowed in the water for months. I only ever mastered the breaststroke, but I keep telling myself I’ll get back to learning one day, possibly in retirement. I’ve resigned myself to the same policy on hip-hop.

By the mid-nineties, I was already falling behind. My go-to type of music is fey, jangly pop, and it was a boom time for that subset of music fans who also enjoy bookshops, stationery, and cardigans. My head was full of Belle and Sebastian, Pulp, Saint Etienne, Divine Comedy etc.  My friend Chris would stick hip-hop stuff he thought I’d like under my nose, but I was losing even a vague grasp of what was around. I finally admitted defeat around the time of that Jay-Z song which sampled A Hard Knock Life from the Annie soundtrack. I was done for: I couldn’t reconcile the worlds of musical theatre and rap – those weren’t things that belonged together. People went nuts for it, and I didn’t understand. I couldn’t keep up. I decided to set hip-hop aside, to be revisited at a later date.

I’ve been fairly resolute since then. A few things have trickled through - Outkast, MIA, Scroobius Pip – but even the biggest of names have passed me by. A young person once mocked me for calling 50 Cent ’50 Cents’. I know who Kanye West is married to, and that he enjoys his anus being interfered with, but I’ve never knowingly heard one of his records. My most frequent exposure to modern hip-hop is seeing it performed by mostly white, middle-class people at karaoke, and nothing about that makes me want to dip back in.

And so to Kendrick Lamar: I’d heard the name, but I genuinely thought he was a former Fame Academy contestant, and it would be R&B. I’m not joking. Since I’ve now learned he’s one of the biggest and most critically acclaimed stars of his generation, I’m deeply ashamed of this. I can offer little by way of a defence; I rarely listen to music radio, save for a bit of BBC 6Music here and there, and Radio 2 while I’m performing my ablutions. Most of the new music I hear is through recommendations from friends and social media, so I must be mixing with the wrong kind of people.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I didn’t get along with it on my first go. I listened on headphones whilst distracted – popping to the post office, taking the bus, buying some light bulbs. The music was the soundtrack to my errands, but I was only dipping in and out of the lyrics; I wasn’t really hearing them in context of the songs, let alone the whole album. I felt terribly self-conscious with ‘bitch’ this, and ‘pussy’ that ringing in my ears as I pottered around my neighbourhood. I’ve always struggled to circle the square of misogyny in hip-hop: I know that it’s a reflection of a culture, but I’m squeamish when it’s so blatant. Objectification of women tends to be insidious in most of the music/film/TV I consume, so I don’t actually have to confront it.

The only thing I liked on my initial listen was the track where he says that, like Martin Luther King, he has a dream. He then goes on to explain that his dream is that his penis will grow to the size of the Eiffel Tower, so he can fuck the world for 72 hours. It suggested a sense of humour I wasn’t expecting. By and large, though, I was pretty nonplussed the first time around. I tried to write down some positives, and scribbled ‘great production!’ which boded poorly: If you’ve got nothing nice to say, say something about the production. 

I gave it another go a couple of days later, this time at home. On the previous listen, I’d found it on Spotify and immediately shoved my phone back into my pocket. This time I looked at the artwork, and saw it was subtitled ‘A Short Film by Kendrick Lamar’. Embarrassingly, only then did I realise there was a narrative arc to the album, and it probably deserved more careful attention. This terrified me – I associate album-as-story with stuff like Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds, or the work of Meatloaf.

I read some background on the album to give me context, and I’m so pleased that I did. I’m the sort of person who doesn’t even like to read the labels in art galleries – I’ve convinced myself it’s because I want to have a pure emotional reaction to the paintings, but it’s probably more to do with laziness. Doing a bit of homework on Kendrick was one of two things that unlocked the album for me. The other was reading along with the lyrics while I listened. My friend Annabel has started watching all television with subtitles, to stop her mind from drifting. I applied the same technique to Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City, and I was gripped.

I preferred the tracks that adhered to the story structure. I could live without Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe (although it has become my new catchphrase around the house), and as much as I enjoyed the Eiffel Tower/penis dream in Backseat Freestyle, it didn’t do much to drive the plot forward. I really liked almost all of the rest of the album, though. I loved the way the opening track (Sherane a.k.a. Master Splinter’s Daughter) left me itching to know what happened next, like finishing a TV boxed set episode and immediately having to watch the next one. Another early-ish track I liked was The Art of Peer Pressure - I particularly enjoyed the line ‘hotboxing like George Foreman, grilling the masses.’

My favourite was Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst– it’s brilliant, character-led storytelling. In fact, that’s true of fairly much the whole LP; it does an incredible job of applying the classic get-your-protagonist-up-a-tree/throw-rocks-at-him/get-him-down-again formula to an album, which is a trick I’ve never heard pulled off before. It’s properly filmic, and although on first listen, I really didn’t like the inclusion of answerphone messages and clips of dialogue, finding it to be a handbrake, I’ve done a complete volte-face, and now think it’s a very smart structural device.

It’s a shame about the last track, Compton. It’s awfully cheesy compared with the preceding three quarters of an hour. I was especially disappointed, because it featured Dr Dre, and I’ve heard him. It’s like a big ensemble number at the end of a stage musical. And I enjoy musical theatre, but as I established earlier, I strongly feel it’s something that should be kept away from hip-hop.

I think I really enjoyed this album. I think I’m excited to listen to the follow-up, To Pimp a Butterfly. However, a tiny part of me wonders if I forced myself to like it, to prove I’m still open-minded about hip-hop. There’s an episode of The Larry Sanders Show where Hank tries to demonstrate he’s still hip and relevant by telling the Wu Tang Clan how much he enjoys their latest album. He (of course) humiliates himself. I hope I haven’t just done the same.  

Would you listen to it again? 

I intend to, but I’ll probably keep putting it off.

A mark out of 10? 

8

Ram Rating – 10

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 9

So that was Week 65 and that was Geoff Lloyd. Turns out he’d never listened to Good Kid Maad City before because the musical Annie put him off Hip Hop for life. So we made him to listen to it, and he thinks he likes it, but mostly he’s just walking round the house saying “Bitch don’t kill my vibe” to his family.

Next week, Hadley Freeman listens to something from 1992 for the first time. Until then, here’s Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst from Good Kid Maad City.

Have a great week.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest listener - Hadley Freeman

Who’s Hadley Freeman when she’s at home?

Hadley Freeman is a journalist and is mainly to be found in The Guardian. She’s also written a couple of books, the most recent one, Life Moves Pretty Fast, is a slightly obsessive fan letter to 80s movies. She was born in New York and now lives in London with a sportswriter from Somerset, their 7 month old twins and a 5 year old Norfolk terrier named Arthur.

Hadley’s Top 3 albums ever?

Madonna, Like a Prayer

Beastie Boys, Paul’s Boutique

The Cure, Disintegration

What great album has she never heard before?

Slanted and Enchanted by Pavement

Released in 1992 

Before we get to Hadley, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Slanted and Enchanted

All right, everyone.

I’ve got so much to say here that we’re launching right into it - I don’t even have enough time for one of those imaginary conversations that I like to do.

“Oh go on.”

“No.”

Here’s my story of Pavement in 10 parts.

1) Our Hero

A fella called Joseph Campbell once wrote a book called The Hero Has a Thousand Faces. In it, he argues that all heroes follow the same journey which is essentially this - an innocent youth meets an older “guide” and they embark on an arduous quest before a decisive victory is won.

He uses various ancient myths and legends to support his case - from Jesus to that Athenian bloke who killed a Minotaur in a maze - and it’s been argued that his work has inspired contemporary stories such as Star Wars, Harry Potter, and The Lion King.

Anyway, here’s Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus talking about his childhood -

“I was a playful kid, like good champagne. I wore little Lacoste jumpsuits and went to the beach with my grandma, who loved me. I had a good tan.”

So there you have it, the repetition of a theme - a child being mentored by an elder.

But unlike Luke Skywalker, Harry Potter or Simba, Stephen Malkmus was dressed in Lacoste and looked after his tan.

What a great start.

2) Stars of track and field

Whilst Malkmus was at school in Stockton, California, he thought American sports were a complete waste of time and decided to play Soccer instead.

This fact alone automatically makes him cooler than virtually all other Americans.

It’s also led to me having a series of incredibly pleasant daydreams about Stephen Malkmus playing football. I’d imagine him as an American version of Alan Hansen - elegant and graceful, a last line of defence wearing a plaid shirt. 

To satisfy my curiosity, I asked him on Twitter what position he played.

Unbelievably, he replied,

“The guy at the edge of the wall who ducks when the free kick comes.”

I should have known.

It was on the football pitch, though, that Malkmus would meet another cool kid - Scott Kannberg.

3) The ridiculously easy first EP

In 1989, 14 years after they first met on a football pitch, Malkmus and Kannberg form a band and borrow enough money to record a single. Naturally, they decide the best place to do this is at a local studio run by an alcoholic hippy called Gary Young.

Young describes their music as “weird guitar noise” and asks if he can join in on drums. Malkmus and Kannberg agree, the three of them make the whole thing up as they go along, and four hours later they’d recorded their first EP - Slay Tracks.

Upon hearing the finished product Young said - “this Malkmus idiot is a complete songwriting genius.”

1000 copies of the EP were produced and, before the inevitable happens, I want you to consider one thing - imagine if Gary Young couldn’t play drums.

4) Big in Austria

As Slay Tracks is due to be released, Malkmus decides it might be a good idea to go travelling around the world.

In a record shop in Austria, he hears the EP playing on the stereo and is so shocked that he asks whether he can see it. After confirming that it was indeed the single he recorded with his mate and some weird hippy fella, he told the shop assistant that Pavement were his band.

He replied -

“That’s a good name, somebody had to use it.”

Malkmus phones Kannberg back in the States and tells him that he’s just heard the single being played in Austria. Kannberg, who doesn’t remember sending any copies to Austria, wonders what on earth is going on.

The Austrian shop assistant was correct in his assessment by the way - Pavement is a brilliant name and, according to The National Word Association of America, it’s one of the twenty most pleasant sounding words in the English language.

“Serendipity” is also on that list though, and I just want to make it clear that I would set fire to any band that had the nerve to call themselves that.

5) Bigger in Leeds

After Austria, the Slay Tracks EP then fell into the hands of The Wedding Present - a sort of indie pop prequel to Last of The Summer Wine. 

They liked the EP so much that they covered one of the songs, Box Elder, and this led to generous airplay on John Peel’s radio show. Before long, people wanted to know more about Pavement.

Who were they? Why have they got such a brilliant name?

The Wedding Present didn’t even know, they’d never met them or even asked their permission to cover the song. It was a mystery. The only information available was on the liner notes to the Wedding Present EP -

“Box Elder, written by Pavement from Stockton, California.”

Again, word reaches Kannberg of the news - this time that indie legends in the UK have covered one of their songs. He goes mad.

Who do they think they are? How dare they cover our songs without asking us?

He then realises that the exposure might be good for the band and calms down.

And how does Malkmus react?

No one knows because he’s still on his holidays.

6) The best story ever

Malkmus finally decides to return home.

Pavement release another couple of EPs, again with Gary Young on drums, and then Malkmus decides on another brilliant career move - he goes to New York to become a security guard.

Whilst in New York he moves into an apartment with Bob Nastanovich and David Berman where they form a side project called Silver Jews. Then this, the best story ever, actually happened  -

Somehow they managed to get the home phone number for Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth. Once or twice a week, they’d get drunk, phone the number and record a jam on their answering machine!

Imagine that, Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon come home from a gruelling tour, listen to their messages only to find that some experimental art band have been playing songs down their phone for a laugh.

Again, I reached out to Twitter to satisfy my curiosity.

This time I asked Bob Nastanovich whether Sonic Youth ever discovered the identity of the band who left all those songs on their answering machine.

Unbelievably, he replied, 

“I honestly don’t know. Seems like Malkmus would have told Kim. They’re good friends.”

Bob Nastanovich would later go on to join Pavement and become a massive fan of horse racing. 

Wanna hear a great fact about him? 

He’s the only known American to have visited all 60 race courses in the UK. Weird that isn’t it? If someone had told you that only one American had achieved such a feat, I’m guessing the last person you’d think of was a fella who used to be in Pavement. 

I have two more things to say on this section.

Firstly, the former members of Pavement give great customer service on Twitter. I’ve asked two of them questions now and they’ve both got back to me within an hour. East Midlands Trains could really learn a lot from this.

Secondly, I’ve already written a letter to the BBC to try and get funding for my new sitcom - Stephen Malkmus, Security Guard.

7) Slanted and Enchanted

During the Christmas of 1990, Malkmus stopped bothering Sonic Youth via their answering machine and returned home to Stockton, California.

It’s here that Pavement record their first album - Slanted and Enchanted.

The process, if you can call it that, was just as shambolic as the first EP. Malkmus and Kannberg would turn up at Gary Young’s home studio at around noon and eat chicken and vegetables that had been cooked in the fireplace. They would then work on barely rehearsed songs, often making lyrics up on the spot, and jam until about 10pm.

When they felt they had something they could commit to tape, Young would go into the laundry room, start the tape, and then run barefoot back into the studio to play drums. After the song was finished, he then ran back into the laundry room to stop the tape. As you can imagine, this became exhausting after a while so they eventually decided to settle on the earlier takes of each song.

10 days later Pavement have finished their first album. Two kids who met playing football, messing about with an alcoholic who just happened to be a brilliant drummer.

It’s one of the best albums of the ‘90s.

8) A real band

Pavement now recruit two new members – the aforementioned Bob Nastanovich and Mark Ibold.

Mark Ibold played bass and smiled a lot, and Bob Nastanovich was brought in as “Assistant Time Keeper” - essentially to keep the brilliant, but erratic, Young in check.

In fact, they’re the only band I know of where one of the members is an assistant to another one.

Yet, off they go.

The initial live shows are reminiscent of a debauched frat party and Young, in particular, is quite the character. He couldn’t understand why bands would hang out backstage before the gigs so, instead, he would greet the fans at the door as if they were coming round his house.

Often he would say things to them like “May I ask you what brings you here this evening?”

Most people just thought he was mad and ignored him, and virtually no one believed he was in the band until they saw him on stage.

On another occasion, he made toast for the entire audience.

“I could sit there and play drums”, he said, “but where’s the fun in that? Don’t you think it’s more fun to give out Cinnamon toast? I sat there for 45 minutes at London University with a toaster and four loaves of bread and a tub of butter and some cinnamon and I made cinnamon toast for the audience.”

At a gig in Berlin, he greeted fans at the door and gave them a cabbage.

Like me, you’re probably reading these snippets of Young’s behaviour and thinking he sounds brilliant. Pavement, on the other hand, had to live with it on a daily basis and the antics, and his alcoholism, soon wore thin.

As a result, Young and Pavement parted company.

The new drummer was a fella called Steve West. He probably wasn’t as good a musician as Young but, on the plus side, he didn’t greet you at the door with a vegetable.

9) The rest of their career in 190 words

They release five more albums and become one of the best bands of the '90s - providing much needed relief from Britpop and the drummer from M People who was absolutely everywhere.

In Range Life, Malkmus improvised some lyrics that took the piss out of The Smashing Pumpkins and The Stone Temple Pilots.

In Unseen Power of the Picket Fence, he wrote an entire song dedicated to how brilliant early R.E.M were.

There’s this lyric by The Hold Steady -

“It’s a funny bit of chemistry, how a cool car makes a guy seem that much cooler.”

I can’t drive and I hate cars so, to me, that lyric is about Pavement.

Let me explain.

Take the most uncool person you can think of - for example Chris Grayling, the current Leader of The House of Commons. Now imagine that you’ve just read an interview with him where he says his favourite band are Pavement.

See, suddenly Chris Grayling is much cooler.

That’s Pavement in a nutshell - they were brilliant and, whether by accident or design, they were the coolest band around.

But even more importantly, they weren’t Weezer.

10) Everything’s ending here

Stephen Malkmus once said Pavement didn’t have any real plans because they weren’t a real band.

Yet, that’s exactly what they became. And in 1999, he decided he didn’t want that anymore.

Their final show was at Brixton Academy and Malkmus played the whole gig with a pair of handcuffs attached to his microphone. During the gig, he told the audience that they symbolised what it’s like being in a band for all these years.

They end the show, beautifully, with Here from Slanted and Enchanted and then their record label put out the following statement -

Pavement are retiring for the foreseeable future in order to:

1) Start Families!

2) Sail around the world!

3) Get into the computer industry!

4) Dance!

5) Get some attention!

The bit they left out, and it’s crucial, is that a decisive victory had been won.

Dear Mr Fitzgerald,

We’d like to thank you for sending us the script for “Stephen Malkmus, Security Guard.”

Whilst we thought the idea had its merits, and at least 4 good jokes, we have decided to pass on the opportunity and focus all our efforts on a new sitcom called “Brit Pops”.

Whilst I’m here, I’d also like to thank you for your script for “ATP vs The Walking Dead”.

Your idea for a zombie apocalypse at a music festival in Pontins amused me mildly and, like you, I also think Pavement would survive the longest on account of looking like Zombies in the first place. Unlike you, though, I wasn’t very happy that you killed off Yo La Tengo in the Little Tykes Play Area in episode 3.

For this reason, we have decided to pass on this too.

All the best.

Bobby Hundreds

Head of TV. 

The Critics on Slanted and Enchanted

Pitchfork awarded the album their maximum grade of 10.0/10.0 and ranked it as the fifth greatest album of the ‘90s.

Rolling Stonemagazine called Slanted and Enchanted "the quintessential indie rock album.“

So, over to you Hadley. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

There is a two word answer to why I have never listened to this album by Pavement or, indeed, any album by Pavement: Jamie Macintosh.

Jamie Macintosh was the cool boy at my school, or, at least, he seemed like the cool boy to me: he was a bit of a skater and he smoked weed. To a sheltered teenager from Manhattan’s Upper East Side that is pretty much the bleeding cutting edge. In fact, he was a lot like Travis in Clueless, who I still maintain is the real heartthrob in that film (sorry Paul Rudd.) He was also – and this is possibly not entirely relevant to today’s discussion, but what the hell – cute as a button, with sad eyes and curly hair and a long lanky body. Obviously, I knew he had no idea who I was, but I knew everything about him, such as that he was a big Pavement fan, and I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out because he wore a Pavement t-shirt to school pretty much every other day.

Now, some girls might spot a boy they fancy, figure out what band that boy likes and then obsessively listen to that band so as to have something to discuss with him. I, however, am a girl who didn’t even kiss a boy until she was almost 20 so obviously my flirting technique as a teenager was somewhat lacking. No, my conclusion upon learning Jamie’s musical taste was that I should never listen to Pavement because it was obviously cool music and therefore I’d hate it.

I was not a cool teenager.

When people say that now they mean they were a cool geek, in a sort of Michael Cera or Jesse Eisenberg way. Let me reiterate this point: I was not a cool teenager. I was not a cool geek teenager. I was just a big dork. Or at least, that’s how I saw myself so I had this idea that anything cool people liked would be utterly alien to me, whether that was smoking, music festivals or Pavement.

When I was in my 20s and mildly less self-loathing than I was in my teens, I tried out two of those things and it turned out that I was right about smoking (disgusting) and wrong about music festivals (fun, sometimes.) But I never bothered to investigate Pavement, mainly because it continued to be the band all boys I fancied liked, and, even in my 20s, I found that weirdly offputting.

Maybe I found these boys so weirdly incomprehensible anyway that I avoided any further evidence of their difference from me. I remember one boy telling me when he was 25 that he once housesat for Stephen Malkmus. I knew enough at this point to pretend to be impressed, but I also suspected that this guy was lying. That tableau – of him lying about Stephen Malkmus to impress me and me pretending to be impressed to impress him – pretty much captures all my memories of dating in my 20s.

There was another issue: I was not really into a lot of 90s music. 90s music to me seemed to be divided into four categories: R’nB, dance, grunge and Brit pop. Of those four, only r’n’b and some dance music were acceptable – everything else was depressing and pretty much unlistenable, and I strongly suspected Pavement would fall into the “tedious miserable grunge” category.

So there you have it, that’s why I never listened to Pavement: because I was a total dork who was too busy listening to Boyz 2 Men

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

The first time I listened to it I was basically Baaaaaddad from The Adam and Joe Show in the episode when he reviewed The Prodigy: what IS this? It’s just NOISE! I hate this! O cruel world!

The second time I didn’t hate it: I was mainly amused at how it seemed like a sonic encapsulation of the 90s, with Malkmus sounding slightly bored but then also CARING VERY INTENTLY; the guitar feedback; the song titles that make absolutely no sense. All that was lacking was someone encouraging me to wear a Kookai floral dress over a pair of French Connection black trousers (classic look.) For a moment I wondered if I’d once made out with a boy to In the Mouth a Desert, but then I realized it just sounded like the kind of song I thought I’d make out to in the 90s (in fact, the first time I made out with some guy to music it was to The Verve, and I bloody hated The Verve.)

The third time I actually listened to it and thought it was… fine. I thought it was fine. I couldn’t do with to the ones where Malkmus is screaming into the mic (No Life Singed Her, Conduit for Sale!), and the strummy ones (Zurich is Stained, Trigger Cut / Wounded Kite at :17) bored me, but others – like Summer Babe and In the Mouth a Desert– were rather lovely. I also liked how obvious it was that Damon Albarn had been listening to Here on loop before he wrote Tender, and I see why: it’s a good song to listen to if the love of your life has just left you.

So of course I can see the appeal in the album – I’m a dork but I’m not deaf - but it just isn’t for me. If an album isn’t going to make me want to dance (Madonna) or rap in front of my mirror (Beastie Boys), then it has to have moments of transcendent beauty (The Cure), and Slanted and Enchanted just didn’t have that for me. And I guess I knew all along that’s how it would be for me and Pavement.

So here’s a funny story about Jamie Macintosh, because I’m sure you’re all dying to hear how that turned out. So I left the school I went to with Jamie after my GCSE’s to go to boarding school for my A-levels, and it was about two weeks after I started my new school that something incredible happened: Jamie called me. Three times! In one month! Can you imagine how shocked I was? Can you fathom what it would take to make a 16 year old boy call up a boarding school just to speak to some random girl he’d hardly ever spoken to before? Can you grasp just how badly I misread the whole situation the year before?

And then something even weirder happened: I did not encourage his phone calls. What I mean is, I never asked him to call again, let alone visit, and I never called him, and eventually he stopped bothering – and who can blame him? At the time, I put my handling of the situation down to me being a giant dork with no social skills. But in retrospect, I think the truth was that I liked to look at him, but I knew we actually had nothing in common, so I left it at that. Just like Pavement, really: I can see the appeal, but not for me. And you know what? I think I’m fine with that.  

Would you listen to it again?

Probably not deliberately, no. But I wouldn’t leave the room if it came on. How’s that for high praise?

A mark out of 10?

7

RAM Rating – 9.5

Guest Rating – 7

Overall – 8.25

So that was Week 66 and that was Hadley Freeman. Turns out that she’d never listened to Slanted and Enchanted before because some handsome fella called Jamie wore a t-shirt and put her off. So we made her listen to it and she liked it but not enough to dance, rap in front of a mirror, or hand out vegetables to people turning up at her house.

Next week, Eddie Argos from Art Brut listens to something from 1983 for the first time.

In the meantime, here’s that final performance of Here at Brixton Academy.

Until then, have a great week.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - Eddie Argos

Who’s Eddie Argos when he’s at home?

I am Eddie Argos, I am the singer in a band called Art Brut and a few other bands, I’m a lo-fi punk rock motherfucker and I also write and paint a bit.

Eddie’s Top 3 albums ever?

Just like everybody else says, this changes on an almost hourly basis. At 22.59pm on Tuesday May 3^rd it is

1.Shiney On The Inside by David Devant and His Spirit Wife

2.Sexy World by The Yummy Fur

3.The Kids Are All Square by Thee Headcoats

What great album has he never heard before?

Murmur by R.E.M

Released in 1983

Before we get to Eddie, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Murmur

All right, everyone. 

Here, without any ado at all, is the story of R.E.M. 

1) Buck meets Stipe

The young Peter Buck was the sort of fella who listened to so much music that, had we existed at the time, he would have thought that even Ruth and Martin’s Album Club couldn’t find a blind spot.

“I’ve heard everything”, he’d say. “I got heavily, and I mean HEAVILY, into Exile on Main Street by The Rolling Stones when I was 15. After that I bought as many albums as I could. At last count, I had 25,000.”

“That’s what they all say”, I’d reply. “But I always find something.”

“Not with me you won’t. I’m dedicated. I once found a Velvet Underground record in a garage sale and spent about a year trying to solve The Murder Mystery.”

“Sounds a bit Steve Hoffman Music Forum that mate.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind, look here’s Achtung Bono by Half Man Half Biscuit. I need your review by next Friday and, remember, you need to listen to it three times.”

“Half Man Half Biscuit? Ok, you’ve got me there.”

Back in 1979, Peter Buck does the two most obvious things that all fellas like him end up doing - he learns how to play guitar and gets a job in a record shop so he can listen to even more music. 

One of the regular customers catches his eye - another teenager that was always surrounded by beautiful girls and buying EXACTLY the same records as him. They get talking and discover they both bought Horses by Patti Smith on the day it came out. 

For this reason, as much as any other, Peter Buck and Michael Stipe decide to form a band and move into a disused church in Athens, Georgia.

2) Berry meets Mills

Bill Berry was a juvenile delinquent and a bully. 

Mike Mills was a smart bespectacled kid who all the grown-ups liked. He looked a bit like Richie Cunningham in Happy Days. 

“We hated each other”, Berry would later say. “He was the class nerd, straight A’s, and I was just getting into drugs and stuff.”

Alright Bill, calm down mate.

“He was everything I despised: great student, got along with teachers, didn’t smoke cigarettes or smoke pot”

Alright Bill, you’ve made your point. 

During 10th grade, one of Bill Berry’s mates asked if he would like to play drums on a “Boogie Woogie” jamming session. Berry agrees and drives across town to the house where the rehearsal is due to take place. Once he arrives, he carries his kit down a load of stairs to the basement.

Shortly after, the bass player arrives - Mike Mills.

Berry has since said that if he was playing any other instrument, I.e. something more portable, he would have stormed off there and then. However, because he couldn’t be bothered to move his drums again, he decided to stay put and make peace with his nemesis. 

“This is ridiculous” Berry said to Mills.

“Yeah”, Mills replied. 

With that, they shook hands. 

The mad part of this story isn’t that they’ve been best friends ever since, or even that they became the rhythm section in one of the biggest bands in the world.

No, the mad part is that anyone other than Jools Holland would agree to take part on a “Boogie Woogie” jamming session.

3) Everyone Meets Everyone

At the start of 1980, the two halves of R.E.M were still unknown to each other - Peter Buck and Michael Stipe were trying to get something going in a disused church, whereas Bill Berry and Mike Mills were in a series of bands that went nowhere. 

A mutual friend was needed and she came in the shape of Kathleen O'Brian. Kathleen lived in the church, and also had a huge crush on Bill Berry. So, knowing that her two churchmates needed a rhythm section, she brought everyone together. 

This is it. 

It’s THE pivotal moment in alternative American music and Bill Berry sums up the meeting perfectly with the only thing he can remember about it -

“It was cold out and we are all wearing coats.”

Thanks Bill. 

Stipe, on the other hand, remembers meeting a really drunk Mike Mills who could barely stand up.

“No way! NO WAY!” said Stipe. “I’m not going to be in a band with this guy, there’s no way on earth!”

Berry eventually talked him round and the four of them set a date to rehearse at the church. When the day arrived, though, somebody didn’t turn up so they decided to knock the whole thing on the head. 

A couple of weeks later Peter Buck bumped into Berry, purely by chance, and said “Let’s give it one more try.”

4) Kathleen’s Birthday

Having brought the band together, Kathleen now decides that their first gig should be at her birthday party, held in the church. 

I have to say that I’m a big fan of this Kathleen. We’ve done over 70 of these now and I think she’s the first person I’ve come across that has formed a band and then made them play their first gig in her honour.

I mean she’s pushy, but I like her.

Exactly 125 people were invited to the party but something like 600 turned up - ready to witness the first performance of a band that, at this stage, were called The Twisted Kites. 

Despite the fact they were playing a gig in their own house they were, in Bill Berry’s words, “scared shitless.” They proceeded to get drunk and staggered through as many covers as they could remember - including God Save the Queen by the Sex Pistols and a 15 minute version of Roadrunner by Jonathan Richman. 

However, towards the end of the gig, members of the audience had to take over on vocals as Michael Stipe had badly burned himself with a cigarette. 

And that was supposed to be that. A one off gig for a friend’s birthday. 

5) A Second Gig

An unexpected downside of the debut gig was that the brilliant Kathleen was now in debt - largely because everyone had drank a load of booze that she only paid a $200 deposit for. In order to help her out, the band decided to put on a fundraising gig at the 11:11 Koffee Klub. 

“I really didn’t want to play there,” says Bill, “but we had to get some money for Kathleen." 

This story really would be awful without Kathleen you know.

The band also decided they didn’t want to be called Twisted Kites anymore so they held a meeting at the church where everyone got drunk and wrote a load of names on the wall. 

They awoke the next morning and whittled it down to the following choices - 

Negro Eyes

Slut Bank

Cans of Piss

R.E.M.

I know, they picked the worst one. 

To make matters worse, the gig at the Koffee Klub was a disaster. The police were called  and shut it down after a couple of songs because the club didn't have a license for alcohol. Everyone had their names taken and the establishment was subsequently closed for good.

It’s probably worth a quick recap of where we are.

A woman called Kathleen formed a band from two kids that met in a record store and another two kids who used to hate each other. During their first gig the singer nearly set fire to himself and their second gig resulted in a local venue going out of business.

What a great start.

6) Their First EP

In 1983, R.E.M. start work on their first EP - Chronic Town. 

Michael Stipe was so nervous about his voice that it was mixed as low as possible. Then, just to make sure, he sang all 5 songs with a rubbish bin on his head. 

You could barely hear him, and you had no idea what he was singing. Still, the EP was so good that when a record label called IRS heard it they offered them a deal. 

”But our singer sings with a rubbish bin on his head"

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine”

7) Murmur 

They start the sessions by putting two dinosaur mascots on the speakers for good luck. 

Despite these, Stipe is still so nervous that he records his vocals lying down in the dark - on top of a staircase outside the main studio. Bill Berry has to play alongside a click-track in order to keep in time, and Peter Buck plays an acoustic guitar for the first time in his life.

When they record Talk about the Passion it’s the first time they’ve ever played it the whole way through - it was supposed to be a rehearsal take. It was brilliant though and the producer told them they needn’t bother playing it again. 

That’s the final version you hear on the album.

It’s not only one of the best debuts ever, it’s one of the best albums ever. For all the jokes, the haphazard approach, they came out of the blocks as the most assured band in America. 

They kept the dinosaurs and brought them along for all future albums.  

8) Their First TV Performance 

In 1983, R.E.M appeared on Letterman and performed Radio Free Europe. 

Whilst the rest of the band throw themselves at the occasion in the spirit of a dream come true, Stipe looks absolutely terrified. He spends the whole performance motionless, hiding behind his long hair and clinging to the microphone for dear life.

After the performance, Letterman walks over and Stipe exits the stage so he can watch the host interview the rest of the band. Stipe then comes back on and sings So. Central Rain - again nervously attached to the microphone the whole time.

Stipe was so absent from the “performance” that the Musicians Union assumed Peter Buck was the band leader and paid him twice as much money as everyone else. 

9) The Tube in 1985

It’s now two years later and R.E.M appear on The Tube to perform Can’t Get There From Here from Fables of the Reconstruction. 

The band are still as energetic as before, they look virtually identical, but Stipe is a changed man. He’s dyed his hair with mustard, he’s found his feet, and proceeds to show us his moves. 

For the next 3 minutes and 29 seconds he doesn’t touch the microphone once.

To this day, it’s my favourite TV performance from any band ever.

10) Stipe, Buck, Mills, Berry, Me

Stipe would go on to become one of the great frontmen. By 1989 he was topless on Top of the Pops and signing Orange Crush through a loud speaker.

Peter Buck started out as the weakest musician in R.E.M - a guitar band where the guitarist wasn’t that good - but he got much better. He also got so drunk on a plane once that he tried to insert a CD into the drinks trolley because he thought it was a CD player. What a great bloke.

Mike Mills sang the best backing vocals of all time on It’s the End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine) and is the member of R.E.M. I’d most trust to look after a cat. 

Bill Berry was so good, so important to the band, that they were never quite the same when he left in 1996. He also wrote Perfect Circle, which may be the best song ever written by a drummer. 

Being a fan in the ‘80s was the nearest thing I’ve ever had to being a member of a secret society. It warranted its own handshake - a sign that you could give to others that you were also into this band with unintelligible lyrics that once lived in a church in the Deep South. 

And it never wore off. Even when the lyrics made sense and the mystique had faded, they were always capable of being brilliant. 

Put simply, the 10 albums from Murmur to New Adventures in Hi-Fi are probably the best run of 10 albums that anyone has ever produced. 

Kathleen should be really proud.

Hi Ruth and Martin,

Hope you’re both well.

I just wanted to drop you a line to let you know how I’m getting on with Achtung Bono.

I have to say, upon first listen I’ve spent most of my time on Google trying to work out all the references in the lyrics. So much of it was new to me - Ogwen Lake, Del Boy, Nick Knowles, Matalan. I mean, how can they expect to be big in Athens, Georgia when they’re focussing on all this esoteric English stuff?

No wonder I’d never heard of them.

But then I heard Joy Division Oven Gloves.

I haven’t laughed so much since we released Shiny Happy People and Bill Berry suggested we should change our name to Cans of Piss.  

All the best. 

Peter Buck

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Murmur

In a retrospective review Pitchfork gave it 10/10 and ranked it the 5^th best album of the ‘80s

Rolling Stone Magazine ranked it the 8^th best of the ‘80s,

So, over to you Eddie. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

It’s not just Murmur, I haven’t listened to any REM albums. I mean what’s the point? I’ve heard enough REM songs on the radio to know what REM sound like, they warrant about as much investigating of their back catalogue as Coldplay do.

I suppose the problem is that Murmur came out when I was three years old. By the time I was old enough to start getting excited about music, REM were already defined by their MASSIVE HITS. 

I know what I like about music. I like it to be experimental, to be about empowerment or reinvention, to contain heart on the sleeve sincerity. I like songs to be about something and to have a bit of personality. I can only really get passionate about bands that do interesting things or have some kind of punk or independent outsider spirit to them. REM as defined by their MASSIVE HITS contain none of these qualities.

Perhaps if REM had been less ubiquitous in my formative years I would have had an inclination to go back and find out more about them.

But they were everywhere.

My least favourite song by REM is Everybody Hurts. I find that song to be an annoying litany of patronising greeting card style platitudes, cynically designed to sell mawkish sentimentality to anguished angsty teens and middle-aged people who should definitely know better. I hate it. The first time I heard it I knew I never wanted to hear it again. It is a completely empty song devoid of any actual real feeling. It is the song equivalent of someone not really listening, but just nodding along and making sympathetic noises to you as you tell them your problems. It is an insincere bastard of a song.

Despite the fact I have actively avoided Everybody Hurts, I could definitely sing - well maybe not sing but certainly speak - all of it to you right now, just from the sheer number of times I’ve had to endure it by being close to a radio I’ve not been in charge of. The very fact I have a least favourite song by a band I have no real interest in shows you just how inescapable REM are.

I suppose the short answer to why I have never heard Murmur before is that REM get played a sufficient amount everywhere I go without my permission, so I’ve never really felt the need to play them at home.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I just want to say, before I begin, that even though I have just ranted about REM, I really was genuinely excited to give this album a try. I’m a big fan of The Replacements and when I’m sneaking around on the internet reading about the Replacements on forums and facebook groups and whatnot, I see a lot of their fans also like early REM. This has always made me feel that perhaps I’m missing out on something, that maybe REM were amazing  in their early days, before their massive career defining hits, and I just arrived too late to the party. Being asked to listen to Murmur seemed like a great opportunity to find out.

I never normally listen to music in the shower but because I was excited about hearing Murmur for the first time, and because I didn’t have a lot of time, I made an exception. I brought my iPad into the bathroom, turned the water on and put the album on as loud as I could - so it was possible to hear it over the top of the running water.

Murmur begins with some strange noises and in the shower it sounded a lot like somebody hitting the underneath of a car with a spanner. That was unexpected, I thought, and quite exciting. Fuck! I think I might actually really enjoy this record.

Then Radio Free Europe began and it sounded a lot like Roadrunner by Jonathan Richman. I believe that Roadrunner by Jonathan Richman is mankind’s greatest achievement, and always have a lot of time for any song that bares even a passing resemblance to it. My curiosity was piqued. I turned the shower off, sat in the bath and started to give Murmur my full attention.

I could hear the REM that I know in Radio Free Europe for sure, but to my ears, on this first listen, it was a more provocative REM than the one I know from their HITS. REM songs often have very similar choruses, and this one definitely followed the same format, but on this occasion it caught me completely off guard. I loved it. It sounded like it had been flown in from a different song, and flawlessly fitted on to this Roadrunner pastiche. In a good way. All of a sudden the song was new and vibrant and exciting; it made me think of how exhilarating it must have been for REM to record THIS, the first song on their debut album. They weren’t fully moulded yet, not really, they were still playing with style and form and I imagined how they might have even surprised themselves with how great Radio Free Europe had come out. I thought of all the amazing potential this debut album must have coursing through it, to have made everybody listen to it at the time, helping REM  become one of the biggest bands of all time. This album was a big deal, it is a lot of people I respect’s favourite album. All my cynicism went, I even had goosebumps thinking of the treat that lay in store for me.

Then with a feeling of dread I suddenly realised:

'Oh shit, I’m totally going to massively enjoy this album and have to write that I had an epiphany about how amazing REM are while I was sitting in an empty bath. I’ve become the sort of person I despise.’

Then Pilgrimage began. It used the same ‘weird noises before the song starts’ trick as Radio Free Europe but then the most amazing bass guitar part comes in, and again I thought:

'FUCK! I really am going to have to write about having some kind of transformative experience with REM while lying naked in an empty bath. (Sorry for putting that image in your head.)

Thankfully though, once the singing starts the song turns out to be totally shit, an unbelievably boring dirge. I wait for the next song, just in case this is the exception, but it turns out to be the rule. The next song is called Laughing and again, despite a promising intro, it turns into what sounds like a discarded Tom Petty demo.

I stand up and turn the water back on. While I’m thankful I don’t have to write about having an epiphany in an empty bath tub, I am still hopeful that something will grab my attention and make me sit down and turn off the water again, totally enthralled. Nothing does.

The second time I listen to the album is later the same day, I’m not in such a rush this time and so give it my full attention. I lie down on my bed with my headphones on and promise to myself that I will give it a fair trial.

There is no water running this time, so I hear that what I thought was a spanner hitting the bottom of car at the beginning of Radio Free Europe is actually just some kind of synthesiser noise, or a sound the studio made and they just decided to leave it on the recording. Not as interesting as I thought. I don’t enjoy Radio Free Europe this time as much as I did in the shower, mainly because now I know it’s not the beginning of an exciting odyssey into a band I’d been denying myself, but just an ok song at the beginning of quite a slog of an album. I brace myself for what is to come.

That intro to Pilgrimage sounds great still, as does the intro to Laughing and 9-9, but this now feels like a cruel trick as I know what the songs that follow those intros sound like, and it is a sudden and very steep drop in quality.

On this second listen through Murmur, I can kind of hear in places why some Replacement fans also like early REM. I can definitely hear shades of that life changing incredible band on songs like Laughing and Catapult. I manage to convince myself I would actually like Catapult if Paul Westerberg from The Replacements had been involved in some way, it has a nice tune. Unfortunately, Michael Stipe has none of the wit, charisma, talent, intelligence, passion, humour or presence of that immense front man. In fact, by the time I’ve reached Catapult on my second listen through the album, I start to doubt that Michael Stipe exists at all. Perhaps, he is also just a strange studio noise 'accidentally on purpose’ left on the recording.

I persevere. I finish the album. I was ambivalent after the first listen but as I cross the finish line this time I have decided that I hate this record and anybody who likes it. This makes me a little bit sad. I’m definitely the type of man that enjoys having a strong opinion, but I also love having my expectations confounded, and I really was secretly hoping this is what was going to happen with Murmur. 

To celebrate making it through Murmur without falling asleep I have a chocolate biscuit and start toying with the idea of only pretending to listen to it a third time. 

But I am a man of my word, Martin from RAM album club seems like a good guy and I did promise him I’d listen three times, so reluctantly I give Murmur one last seemingly never-ending run around the block.

I hate Radio Free Europe now, it is still by quite a large margin my favourite song on the album, but the false promise it gave me on that first listen has made me despise it. I feel conned. 

However, by this point it is the only song on the record that can conjure up any emotion from me whatsoever, so I savour the hate I feel for it and prepare myself for the beige blank page that is the rest of the album.

I find it very hard to concentrate. I really don’t understand the point of this record. It is a nothingness. I’ve been listening to it using my girlfriend’s spotify account. Yvonne has a premium account and I’m beginning to sort of wish she didn’t as some shouty adverts might break up the tedium of Murmur, anything with a bit of personality would be welcome at this point.

Murmur could easily be radio static, my mind starts to drift, I start to think about my favourite conspiracy theory - that the CIA funded the Abstract Expressionism art movement because they wanted to give prominence to an art form that you can’t put any kind of message or meaning into. I start to think that perhaps the CIA also funded REM’s rise to prominence too, because, just like Abstract Expressionism, it is also impossible to put messages or meaning into REM songs.

Murmur drifts onwards, I start to think that if I hadn’t had to write down my feelings about it, I might have forgotten it exists at all. Are these three play throughs really the first time I’ve heard it? Perhaps it is just the first time I’ve managed to recall listening to it. Mediocre music, no personality, weird for weird’s sake, laughable lyrics that are understandably buried deep in the swampy mix; there is nothing here to hold onto and certainly very little to enjoy. 

On the upside, like the REM songs that I know, at least these ones will be gone by the morning. 

I look forward to forgetting Murmur again.

Would you listen to it again?

No

A mark out of 10?

I’m really sorry as I know a lot of people love this album, but I give it nothing out of 10. It is not for me. 

RAM Rating – 9.75

Guest Rating – 0

Overall – 4.875

So that was Week 67 and that was Eddie Argos. Turned out he’d never listened to Murmur before because Everybody Hurts used to make his head hurt. So we made him listen to it and, despite a promising start in the bath, he hated it once he got out and dried himself off.

Next week, Rachael Krishna from Buzzfeed listens to something from 2000 for the first time.

Until then, here’s R.E.M’s first TV performance on David Letterman – singing Radio Free Europe and So. Central Rain.

Oh and here’s that performance of Can’t Get There From Here on The Tube.

Guest listener - Rachael Krishna

Who’s Rachael when she’s at home?

I am Rachael Krishna, I’m 23, I’m a junior reporter for BuzzFeed News. Most of my life is spent trying to explain the things I see teenagers post on Tumblr to regular folk. Outside of this, I read a lot of comics and stalk Shiba Inus on Instagram.

Rachael’s Top 3 albums ever?

Whilst I can name the last three albums I listened to in full (Drake’s “Views”, Skepta’s “Konnichiwa” and Beyonce’s “Lemonade”), pinpointing three I still have on regular rotation is a lot more difficult.

Off the top of my head,

1) You’re Gonna Miss It All - Modern Baseball

2) My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy - Kanye West

3) Biffy Clyro - Puzzle

What great album has she never heard before?

Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea by PJ Harvey

Released in 2000

Before we get to Rachael, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea

All right, everyone.

Something a little different this week.

Here’s MY PJ Harvey story - told through her first five albums.

1) Dry - 1992

I was 21 at the time - into Sonic Youth, Nirvana, The Fall, R.E.M, and The Wedding Present. More than just a list of bands though, or a collection of t-shirts, it was a period of my life where music was everywhere. In clubs like The Venue in New Cross, pubs like The George in Beckenham, and my mate Brian’s living room - all everyone did was listen to and talk about music.

Everyone was endlessly 21, always finding somewhere else to go. No one went home, no one went to work, and no one had to be adult and mature about other people’s music taste.

Entire friendships were built upon a shared record collection and, likewise, actual human beings were shunned for being into a shit band. At the London School of Economics, where I was pretending to be mature, I successfully managed to avoid a man called Jeremy for 3 whole years just because he once wore a Marillion t-shirt from their Misplaced Childhood Tour.

No hard feelings eh Jez.

“It’s Jeremy actually and I think you’ll find Misplaced Childhood is now an acknowledged classic you prick.”

“Oh.”

The first PJ Harvey song I ever heard was Sheela-Na-Gig.

In this musical network of people and places it was unavoidable, and I loved it immediately. It quickly replaced Kennedy by The Wedding Present as the song I most liked to dance to on a Saturday night whilst wearing army trousers and drinking snakebite and black. Her guitar, all top strings, her great line about taking her hips to a man that cares, and those really mad drums by Rob Elllis.

I had no idea that a sheela-na-gig was a carving of a woman holding her vagina open and laughing madly. I had no idea that some of the lyrics came from South Pacific. All I really knew, and arguably all that mattered, was that those drums really did my head in and I never tired of dancing to them.

Shortly after, I saw pictures of her in the NME and Melody Maker. She looked just like the girls down The Venue - leggings and Doctor Marten Boots.

Obviously I bought the album and loved that too.

2) Rid of Me -1993

I’ve gone from being endlessly 21 to being bloody 22.

Having graduated from the LSE I spent 18 months being unemployed. Suddenly I had nowhere to go. Friends had moved on, got jobs or left town, and I was left trying to make a pack of Golden Virginia last as long as possible whilst watching The X Files with a face on.

I think I got turned down for over 100 jobs in the end - as a result of being overqualified, inexperienced, and looking like I was in Mudhoney.

To make matters worse, regular readers will know that 1993 was the worst year in the history of music. Everything had gone dark, the problem was there for all to see - it was a band called The Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

It’s hard to explain exactly how this band ruined my life but let me assure you they did. Imagine an idyllic indie club of angular fringes and people wearing their mum’s cardigans. Sounds great doesn’t it? Well that was my weekend for years - the occasional bit of dancing mixed with cautious looks at some girl who looked a bit like her from The Sundays. 

I was so happy, even though I never showed it.

Then all of a sudden a bunch of pricks in shorts entered the club, swooshing their hair about to that awful Give it Away song. Some of them even took their tops off. For those of you that were fortunate enough to miss it, here’s a picture of a dog that looks like every Red Hot Chilli Pepper’s fan dancing to Give it Away.

The whole thing was unsightly and made me want to stay in forever. Somehow they’d simultaneously ruined my weekends and spawned a load of other bands who were, remarkably, even worse.

To this day, I don’t think the world of indie clubbing has ever fully recovered from what happened here. 

In fact, the only person in 1993 who was having a worse time than me was PJ Harvey. She’d had a breakdown following the pressures of early fame and couldn’t even manage basic functions like washing and eating. Even I wasn’t that bad, although I did go 4 days once without knowing the clocks had gone forward.

Still, Harvey pulled herself together to make Rid of Me - recording the entire album on a diet of potatoes. The mood in the studio was so dark that Steve Albini, the producer, used to set fire to his feet just to cheer everyone up. 

I saved up and bought the album the day it was released, such was my Harvey fandom at that point, and I thought it was even better than Dry. It had jokes on it (50 ft Queenie), stuff about licking her legs, and a song about Yuri Gagarin.

And the drums, THE DRUMS! It was that same combination that I’d fallen in love with a year before. She’d come good and achieved something brilliant in a terrible year.

As for me?

Well I finally got a job in December, working in the Ticketmaster Call Centre for £3 an hour.

3) To Bring you my Love - 1995

Its two years later and I’m still at Ticketmaster, trying to turn a job into a career. On the plus side, I’ve started to earn more than £3 an hour but, on the downside, I’ve started to come into contact with people who like Rugby Union.

At heart, though, I’m still a whiny indie kid who is now listening to the likes of Pavement and Yo La Tengo. But somethings changed - music is not quite the pervasive thing it used to be in my life. I know, I’m only 24 but somehow I don’t seem to have the time anymore - I’m going to clubs less, barely listening to the radio, and only occasionally reading the music papers.

Already, it feels like I’m hanging on and finding it harder to keep up. Rather than being round Brian’s house ranking R.E.M albums in ascending order, i’m now having after work drinks with a bunch of people who would rather discuss why Dave in marketing is a total and utter cunt.

Meanwhile, PJ Harvey has a new album out and it sneaks up on me. My first exposure to the material is her singing Down by the Water on Jools Holland. Gone are the leggings and Doctor Marten boots, absent is the mad drummer, and in their place is dramatic makeup, high heels and a bald fella playing his guitar with a knife. It’s a little avant garde, a bit bluesy, and, I’ll be honest, I hate everything about it.

With all the tenacity of someone who no longer has the time nor the inclination, I decide I’m done with PJ Harvey based on that one performance. There’ll always be Dry and Rid of Me but this new stuff really isn’t for me.

No hard feelings eh Polly Jean.

“Polly Jean? I think you’ll find that To Bring You My Love is now acknowledged as a classic. It’s not my fault you were working too hard and didn’t have the time to give it a proper chance you wimp.”

“Oh.”

4) Is this Desire? - 1998

God I’m old. 

I’m now 27 and have a career that involves me going straight home after work whilst people go to the pub to discuss whether I’m a total cunt or not.

As for music, I’m basically a full time Belle and Sebastian fan and listen to them to the exclusion of everything else. That’s the stage I’ve got to - I’ve gone all in on one band because it’s easier and saves time.

I don’t even know what a radio is anymore, I haven’t danced in a club for years, and I’ve given up with the music press because the biggest band in Britain contains a fella called Bonehead. 

Someone called PJ Harvey, who I used to really like, releases an album called Is this Desire? and I couldn’t tell you the name of a single song. I vaguely remember reading somewhere that the new sound was “industrial” which, coincidentally, is my safe word for when anyone tries to make me listen to Industrial Music.

I also vaguely remember reading that the album came out after the break up of her relationship with Nick Cave. At the time, there was lots of wild and sordid speculation regarding their sex life - how they probably made animal sacrifices before going at it in some gothic palace full of candles, patchouli oil, and voyeuristic bats.

The reality was they probably just did it in their bedroom, after Match of the Day like everyone else.

The album passed me by. I was now an ex PJ Harvey fan.

5) Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea - 2000

Having spent seven years building a career at Ticketmaster I suddenly decide to leave my job. It was a spur of the moment decision - I’d come back from a long weekend in Bridlington and was depressed by an inbox that told me what exactly what had happened when I was away.

I handed in my notice and decided to take 6 months off before even looking for another job.

My plans didn’t stretch any further than doing nothing and enjoying the freedom - watching films till the early hours and sleeping in the next day. I had a vague notion that I wanted to be a writer and I had a very real notion that maybe I could use the time to become really good at darts - that maybe if I practiced every day I could secretly become brilliant and turn professional.

I wrote a short story about a kid who got a pair of shoes that changed his life but, to this day, I’ve never got a 180. Both careers were abandoned in their infancy.

In terms of music, I was now mainlining an MTV alternative channel whose name escapes me and something called VH1. The latter used to have a program called Pop Up Video which was basically a load of videos with information bubbles. It was the greatest TV program ever made.

But this was how I consumed music in 2000 - through two channels that I flicked between every time a Limp Biskit came on.

It was here that I saw and heard PJ Harvey again, for the first time since that Jools Holland performance. She had a song out called Good Fortune and the video showed her swinging round lamp posts and twirling a gold bag like she’d had a big win at bingo. It was celebratory, a huge laugh, and a great song.

More importantly, though, the drums were back.

It was like catching up with an old friend - one that wore leggings and DMs at University but now looks like she works for a big firm in the city. I listened to all her news and caught up with everything I missed.

To Bring You My Love - it’s brilliant. I was now ready to hear it and The Dancer became my favourite ever PJ Harvey song.

Is this Desire? - it wasn’t industrial at all. It was nothing like Front 242 or Nine Inch Nails. It was just as good as everything else she’d ever done.

Then we caught up on what she was doing now - Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea. More than anything else she’d done, at this moment she sounded beautiful and confident.

She was in a good place and it was great to be reunited. 

Years later, I saw her at a party. She was in the corner of a room, with a couple of fellas, drinking a bottle of Budweiser.  

At one point my partner had gone to get a drink and her mates had got involved with another crowd. I’m standing there on my own, probably 5 yards away from PJ Harvey who is reading the label on the bottle for something to do. I could easily say hello, tell her I’m a fan and thank her or something. She’d probably be dead nice, no doubt she’s used to sort of thing.

But there’s something about her and, like today, I resisted the temptation to intrude.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea

Q Magazine named it the greatest album of all time by a female artist. 

In 2009, NME named it the 6^th best album of the decade

So, over to you Rachael. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Being age of 23 I’d like to plead that I have had less time on this earth than most to explore the rich back catalogue of most of the greats, let alone keep up with the weekly new releases that become part of the lexicon required to do my job covering internet news.

Nevertheless, growing up in the late 2000s, hearing the name PJ Harvey brought to mind a stuffy sort of institutional approval that my somewhat rebellious self took great care to avoid. Harvey was nominated for Mercury prizes and praised by music critics, the same award shows and music journalists who judged my beloved emo, nu rave, and pop punk music with a type of snobbery that immediately set me against anything they loved. For the 14 year old me, the glitter loving, rave promoting band The Klaxons winning the Mercury prize in 2007 was a small act of rebellion against this.

Away from this, I had always associated Harvey with a sort of matured music taste that I had yet to acquire – or simply decided not to – and so avoided it all together. I imagined people listening to her music in comfy Surrey kitchens, before switching over to Radio 4 for the Archers. I could never see people dancing, let alone forming a mosh pit to her music, so I was uninterested. I went to gigs to cause minor injury to myself, not appreciate composition.

This may be something to do with how my music taste was initially shaped: I started playing drums aged 10 in 2003, right around the release of Green Day’s American Idiot and the formation of the emo scene. I’d learn and play along to whatever album was newly released, ensuring early and intense exposure to drum-heavy chaotic music. I continued to follow this scene as it developed into Nu Rave, and when I did briefly break from this trend in my late teens to embrace a folk acoustic revival, my attention was more drawn to artists such as The Smiths and Belle and Sebastian, perhaps foolishly overlooking Harvey as too mature. In the last few years, a focus on rap and hip hop artists has yet again allowed me to avoid what I assumed was Harvey’s more somber tones.

In short, I’ve never thought I was ready or right for Harvey’s music.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I didn’t expect the album to open the way it did, and it was a pleasant surprise.

The revving guitar and Harvey’s aggressive vocals made me think immediately of Iggy Pop’s I Wanna Be Your Dog, and I loved it. It was totally punk in a really swirling and summery 90s way and I couldn’t help but wish to be dancing around in a long swirling dress, reaching my hands up to the sun. The album’s opening three tracks really warmed me in a nostalgic way. I’m aware it was released in 2000, but I couldn’t help but listen to those opening tracks and think in a sepia-like tone, flicking through a faded photo album.

It was super comforting.

The drop between One Line and Beautiful Feeling is jarring and to be honest I switched off for a bit at this point. I guess maybe because this is the type of track that I thought might appear, and so I became disinterested – the kind of song at drowsy gigs where people politely sway and take in the ‘atmosphere’. This is what I feared. This seems to happen throughout the album: a whispery song like Beautiful Feeling jumps to Harvey screeching on The Whores Hustle and The Hustlers Whore. This happens again after one of my favourite tracks, This Is Love; a song that’s a pure sex anthem. Why does it cut to the barely audible Horses in My Dreams?

It really feels like there’s two albums happening here, one I really love and another pit against it. The contrast between the two made it difficult to immerse myself in the album fully – once I’d found a track I loved, I was thrown out again.

Upon my first listen I completely missed This Mess We’re In; a collaboration between Thom Yorke and Harvey, and a track raved about by my friends. After repeated listens, I can see the appeal in Yorke’s mystical vocals on the chorus, but again I can’t tell what album this song is meant to be on. I like it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not confused as to why it’s even on this album.

When I reached the final two tracks of the album, Harvey had seemed to decide that experimental was her vibe, waiting nearly two minutes to make any noises on the final track, This Wicked Tongue. This is probably a statement of some kind, but by the time I’d got to the song and had been thrown about by the rest of the album, I’d honestly given up. Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea would have worked better as two albums and saved me a hell of a lot of skipping back and forth to check I hadn’t zoned out and missed a track.

Also that opening verse on You Said Something made me cringe. I welcome fights about this.

Would you listen to it again?

The 7 tracks I like, yes.

​​A mark out of 10? 

6/10

RAM Rating – 8

Guest Rating – 6

Overall – 7

So that was Week 68 and that was Rachael Krishna. Turns out she’d never heard Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea before because she was too busy being into emo and assumed PJ Harvey was a bit like Annie Lennox. So we made her listen to it and she really liked half of it and now has a new sex anthem.

Next week, Iain Lee listens to something from 1997 for the first time.

In the meantime, here’s Good Fortune from Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea.

Have a great week.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest listener - Iain Lee

Who’s Iain Lee when he’s at home?

Iain Lee hosts a late night radio phone-in show on www.talkradio.co.uk weeknights from 10. He recently got canned from the BBC for calling a bigot a ‘bigot’. He also got in trouble online for suggesting that maybe Beach Boy Mike Love is ‘an alright guy’.

You may remember him as the bloke from the 11 O’ Clock Show or Big Brother’s Bit On The Side.

He’s also started his own record label to release obscure Monkees material www.7aRecords.com

Iain’s Top 3 albums ever?

3 – Instant Replay by The Monkees

2- Revolver by The Beatles

1 – Sunflower by The Beach Boys

What great album has he never heard before?

I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One by Yo La Tengo

Released in 1997

Before we get to Iain, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One

All right, everyone.

Here’s the story of Yo La Tengo - my favourite band.

1) Ira Kaplan’s conversation with Ray Davies.

Ira Kaplan grew in Hoboken, New Jersey, and was obsessed with music from an early age. In particular, he was a huge fan of The Kinks and saw them play approximately 30 times when he was growing up.

In 1975, he went to see them three nights in a row.

On the first night, during a break in songs, he shouted for Autumn Almanac.

Ray Davies responded with “Oh, that’s a terrible song”

On the second night, he shouted for Dead End Street - another song that wasn’t in their repertoire at the time. Davies heard him once more and responded with “Oh, that’s a good song. We’ll do that one tomorrow.”

On the third and final night, The Kinks played Dead End Street and the young Ira Kaplan went crazy. 

We’re only 154 words into our Yo La Tengo edition and if you don’t already think Ira Kaplan is the coolest bloke ever then, frankly, you may as well not bother with the rest.

Not only is he dictating The Kinks’ set list from the audience, not only is he right about Autumn Almanac when Ray Davies is wrong, but he’s also about to become the indie rock star that sounds most like a protagonist in a Philip Roth novel.

Note: I’m not even going to mention the fact that Kaplan also loved The Monkees and once wrote, individually, to all four of them asking a load of fanboy questions.

That would obviously be unfair to Iain.

2) Ira the Music Journalist.

Ira continued being an A+ music nerd and became a regular at CBGBs - catching early performances from the likes of Television, Patti Smith, Talking Heads, and Blondie.

Desperate to join the conversation, he began to write articles and reviews for the SoHo Weekly News where he also launched the brilliantly named “Swinging Singles” review column. From there, he would go on to work at the New York Rocker and Village Voice, becoming one of the most respected music journalists around. 

For example, he was one of the first writers in New York to pick up on an act from Georgia who he described as possessing “wistful minor chords and jangling Byrds’ guitars”. 

He finished the article by saying - “By all means, check out R.E.M. live.”

In short, he was a far better music journalist than I’ll ever be, and if he had registered the domain name swingingsingles.com he would have made an absolute fortune.

3) Ira the Promoter.

After a terrible time interviewing Kiss, Ira decided he didn’t want to be a music journalist anymore so became a promoter instead, working out of Folk City in Greenwich Village. His remit was to put on a night of new music every Wednesday which he called “Music for Dozens” - his optimistic projection of how many people would turn up.

He does two brilliant things though - 

Firstly, he operates a strict “No Guest List” policy which, trust me, is the best guest list policy.

Secondly, he books Sonic Youth and is the first promoter in New York to put on The Replacements, Husker Du, and The Minutemen.

He’s now in his late 20s and so far he’s been a brilliant fan, writer, and promoter. It’s probably about time he stopped mucking about and found someone to form a band with.

4) A Partner.

Like Ira Kaplan, Georgia Hubley was a total music geek who lived in Hoboken, New Jersey.

She saw The Kids are Alright and thought that Keith Moon was having so much fun that she decided to become a drummer - the entirely correct response for anyone watching that film.

Having seen each other in record shops around town, Ira and Georgia finally met at a Feelies gig. They were both immediately taken by the similarities in each other - a certain degree of shyness they hoped to overcome, a love of baseball and, of course, a shared obsession with music.

Ira and Georgia decided to form a band and get married - the entirely correct response to meeting anyone of the opposite sex at a Feelies gig.

5) The Advert

 With Ira on guitar and Georgia on drums, they placed an advert in The Village Voice looking for others. It read -

“Guitarist and bassist wanted for band that may, or may not, sound like The Soft Boys, Mission of Burma, and Love.”

A huge part of me thinks this advert is a work of art, in the way that it simultaneously encourages and discourages people from applying. I mean, do you apply if you’re a massive fan of Love or not? It’s like an unsolvable puzzle - intriguing yet utterly confusing.

The other part of me thinks it probably explains why they went through 14 different bass players before they settled on James McNew.

Of the previous 13 candidates, my absolute favourite is a fella from Switzerland called Stephan who was so tall that he couldn’t fit in their rehearsal space. As if being an actual giant wasn’t bad enough, he barely spoke either - a friend of the band once described him as “literally the quietest person with the known capacity for speech I’d ever met”

One day he asked the rest of the band the following question -

“What is a puddle?”

This is what happens if you place cryptic adverts in the music press.

6) Yo La Tengo

 Regular readers will know that I’m childishly obsessed with band names and the story behind them. So, it’s with great fanfare that I’ll tell you how Yo la Tengo acquired their’s.

In 1962, The New York Mets had one of the worst seasons in the history of baseball - losing 120 out of 160 games. Despite the multitude of problems that contributed to this failing, i.e. being terrible at baseball, there was one particular issue they looked to resolve -

Every time a ball went up for a catch, a fella called Richie Ashburn kept colliding with another fella called Elio Chacon.

Ashburn would track the ball in the air, shouting “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”. Meanwhile Chacon, who only spoke Spanish, would also track the ball and eventually run into him. Rather than doing the obvious thing and teaching Chacon the one English phrase that would solve the problem, they did the opposite - they taught the rest of the squad the Spanish for “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

They even had a meeting, an actual meeting, where all the players were told to shout the new phrase when the ball was in the air.

During the next game, the ball went up in the air and Ashburn tracked it, this time shouting “Yo la tengo! Yo la tengo!” - Spanish for "I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Chacon understood this time and backed off, leaving Ashburn clear to make the catch.

Unfortunately, there was one player who didn’t attend the meeting - a left fielder called Frank Thomas who ran straight into Ashburn. As the pair got up, and dusted themselves down, Thomas said -

“What’s a yellow tango?”

Ira and Georgia were huge fans of the Mets and decided to take their name from this mad anecdote. It’s obviously one of the best names ever and, if you don’t believe me, just ask Iain Lee.

In 2016, I sent him a list of about 30 albums to choose from and he picked Yo La Tengo because a) he thought they had a cool name and b) he couldn’t stand the prospect of listening to Roxy Music.

7) The Career.

Yo La Tengo begin with all the professionalism and confidence you would expect from a bohemian couple with a revolving door of comedy bass players. During their first gig, Ira is paralysed by fear and can barely sing. He also forgets the importance of taking a back-up guitar with him so every time he broke a string, basically every night, he would sit at the side of the stage and take ages re-stringing his guitar.

“Georgia, maybe tell the audience how we got our name whilst I sort this out”

“Sure thing, Ira”

When they eventually enter the studio to record their first album, Georgia is so nervous about singing that they have to build a screen for her to sit behind. Notwithstanding this, or because of it, the first album is a charm and includes the best liner note ever -

“Ira Kaplan - Naive Guitar." 

Over the next 10 years, whilst contemporaries like R.E.M and Sonic Youth rise and fall, Yo La Tengo plough their own unique furrow - never becoming THE band of any moment or nailing their sound to any particular genre. They become, if anything, the sound of their own eclectic taste - happy to follow a 10 minute thrash with a 3 minute bossa nova.

They also manage to avoid the darker clichés of rock, the moods and the drugs, and present an image that’s often undervalued - they’re nice people. They sit around and watch game shows like The Wheel of Fortune, they play charades, they make homemade granola, and when they’ve done all that, they’ll go on stage and burst your eardrums. 

An indication of the level of confidence and independence they achieve is best illustrated by an incident in 1992. 

Their record label ask them to come up with a hit - something that can be played on the radio. Yo La Tengo present the label with a 24 minute jam called Sunsquashed.

"Ira, it’s 24 minutes long!” an executive complained.

“Yes”, he replied. “But it only feels like 17.”

What a great bloke.

8) Murdering the Classics.

Throughout their career, they never forget their own fandom and maintain a strong commitment to the cover version. In fact their knowledge is so encyclopedic, their enthusiasm so complete, that they even decide to raise funds for a radio station by renting themselves out as the house band.

Listeners were encouraged to phone up and pledge for Yo La Tengo to perform a song of their choice live. They did this every year between 1996 and 2003, taking requests from listeners, and covering songs as diverse as Downtown by Petula Clark, Raw Power by The Stooges, and The Night Chicago Died by Paper Lace.

During the cover of Rock The Boat by The Hues Corporation Ira forgets the words so just sings -

“Our love is like a ship on the ocean

Got something something with love and devotion" 

I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a band having so much fun in my entire life.

9) This week’s album in 58 words.

I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One was released in 1997 and sounds like about 10 different bands making one great album.

Personally, I like all of them, but my favourite song is Autumn Sweater.

"We could slip away, wouldn’t that be better,

me with nothing to say, you in your Autumn sweater.”

Have that Ray Davies.

10) My Favourite Band

It’s now 2016, 32 years since Yo La Tengo were formed, and they’re still going - an achievement to be celebrated. That’s not because I think they’re brilliant, or that everyone should like them, it’s just that I admire the spirit that drives their career.

That’s why they’re my favourite band - not necessarily because of the music they’ve produced but because of who they are, or at least who I think they are. They’re fans, they’re what happens if people like me, Ruth, Iain Lee, and the 38 people who read this every week try and channel our inner music geek into actual sounds. It’s an unbridled enthusiasm, a commitment to music that’s so strong that it’s hard to imagine them ever breaking up, or deciding it would ever be a good idea to stop being in Yo La Tengo.

The end game, the entire point of the enterprise, was just to be a band - the career and achievement summed up in one goal. Seems obvious but you’d be amazed how they’re the exception - how their own fandom is the only agenda they ever had.

They called their first compilation album Prisoners of Love.

More than the 2000 words I’ve just written, it perfectly sums them up.

“Enjoyed that Martin.”

“Thanks Ruth.”

“You’ve got me thinking, though. I reckon it’s probably about time we formed a band.”

“Sure. Let’s do it, I can play naive guitar.”

“And I can play drums.”

“Really? You never said.”

“Well I’m really good at table tennis, I figure it’s pretty much the same thing.”

“Ok, we need a bass player.”

“Iain Lee?”

“Could work. He’s definitely tall.”

“Ok, let’s see how he gets on with the album.”

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One

Pitchfork gave it 9.7 out of 10 and ranked it the 25^th best album of the ‘90s

Something called Paste ranked it the 22^nd best album of the ‘90s

So, over to you Iain. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

As you can tell, I like albums by bands that start with the definite article. THE Beatles, THE Beach Boys. When I was growing up in the 80’s, I was really into THE 60’s. I became obsessed with THE Monkees at a very young age and they kind of dominated everything for, well, pretty much all of my life so far. I tended not to stray too far from the formula.

Yo La Tengo never really entered my consciousness. This album came out in 1997. I was 24 and, well, I think I was getting drunk a lot. I thought I had heard of them before, when I saw the name on the list offered to me by RAM I was convinced I’d heard a reference to them in a John Hughes film, but I can find no evidence to back that up so I suspect I made that ‘fact’ up.

I WAS listening to some crazy stuff in ’97 actually, Pizzicato 5 who are on the same label, so there is some crossover, but…oh no, hang on. I was in Pakistan for 3 months that year, working as a Christopher Lee double (actual true story) and I was discovering Hanson (again, true story) for myself.

I chose this album from the long and ever changing list sent to me because I knew nothing about them. I knew nothing about a lot of the acts on there, but something about the name grabbed me. I honestly thought that with a name like that, they would be a fun, upbeat, Spanish group playing world music in a similar vein to The Buena Vista Social Club. I have to stress here, I have never actually heard The Buena Vista Social Club, and I’m not sure if they really are a band or just a film, but I imagine if they are a band they make fun, bouncy, Spanish type music.

I ordered a CD of it as I really wanted to invest myself in this by owning a physical copy. I’m not a huge fan of streaming, so actually purchasing something I could touch and feel, to me, is important if I want the music to mean something to me. It’s a hard (and expensive) album to get hold of but I really, really wanted to like this.

I joke that I have enough bands and don’t need any more, but actually, I’m aware that I am a bit of a gag myself because I always bang on about The Monkees and The Beach Boys. ALL. THE. TIME. I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One would be my sonic ticket into new, uncharted spheres of music. The tunes would enchant me, and I would be transported to sonic places I had never dreamed existed. I’d buy the entire back catalogue, and spontaneously purchase all the ‘Customers who bought Yo La Tengo also bought….’ recommendations on Amazon, because I finally I would have found something new.

OK, well, let’s just say, it didn’t quite work out like that.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I didn’t want to read anything about the group before I wrote this piece as I wanted the writing to be pure, based entirely on my musical experience and not any pre-conceived ideas I might pick up for Wikipedia. But I just had to have a look and see exactly which part of Spain or South America they were from - 

‘Yo La Tengo (often abbreviated as YLT) is an American indie rock band formed in Hoboken, New Jersey.’

Ah. Right. Disappointing. Well, let’s see what happens when I listen.

The CD arrived and I played it in the car on the way to the radio show one night. I remember John Peel being interviewed years ago and saying he preferred to listen to new CD’s in the car as, well, I can’t recall the actual reason, but I do remember thinking that was a bit sad. Life, however, doesn’t really give me much time apart from when I’m driving to listen to an entire album, now that really is sad.

The opening track was totally not what I was expecting, which is of course, not always a bad thing. A somber instrumental, I quite liked it. It reminded me of a downbeat version of the theme tune to Kids In The Hall, a Canadian sketch show from the 90’s I was once briefly obsessed with. This was going to be brilliant! A moody opener followed by light hearted, catchy and amusing pop songs from a quirky American band.

Then track two, Moby Octopad, kicked in and fuck me, it was shit. The sort of tuneless, ‘artistic’ drivel that the cool kids would listen to when I was at college and I would sagely nod along to as I didn’t want to stand up and shout ‘what are you all thinking? This is obviously bollocks! There’s no tune. They’re chancers and you’ve all been sucked in by it. The emperor is not only naked, but he’s doing a massive poo at the same time and you’re all applauding him!’ 

It really was that bad. Wikipedia had told me that Yo La Tengo were considered ‘the quintessential critics’ band’ and this particular album ‘received considerable acclaim from music critics.” 

Music critics.

There’s your problem right there.

Damn. I wanted to write a positive piece and look, I’m slagging off some people who made a record. I’ve never made a record. It must be hard. But some people do it so well, and Yo La Tengo, in my humble, worthless opinion, haven’t done it very well at all here.

Let me try and find some positives, and there are a few. Yes, the cover of The Beach Boys Little Honda is an abomination, one that sucks all of the youthful exuberance of the original, throw away ditty. And the 10 minute and 40 second instrumental Spec Bebop is, and I say this as fact, the worst piece of music I have ever heard but…but…but…

But. There are some gems tucked away. First listen I came away feeling angry. Angry with the band for making such a racket. Angry with me for not choosing Roxy Music from the list of albums I’d been offered. Angry that I had to listen to this twice more. I’m glad I went back though, because I did find some very sharp moments of sunlight amidst the darkness.

The songs that I liked were when the band dropped the noise and went soft. Soft guitars and soft vocals from the female singer. There was still angst and uncertainty and disappointment in the music, but it was actually quite beautiful.

Centre Of Gravity is a fey, bossa nova love song. Dumb fifth form poetry lyrics that were stunning in their naivety. A joyful celebration of the simplicity of being with someone who is everything to you, expressed in almost ‘aw, gee, shucks’ language. Absolutely brilliant.

Another highlight is their attempt at country. One PM Again is a cracking tune. It may be a joke, I can’t tell as it is so out of character with the rest of the record, but who cares? It’s pitched perfectly. Beautiful harmonies and even a faithful pedal steel guitar solo in the middle. Stunning.

There are just enough of these slow, thoughtful, beautiful tunes, that by the third listen, I get angry again. Not because I feel I’ve wasted my time. But because I feel the band are wasting THEIR time with the industrial noise that is the main thrust of this record. Yo La Tengo, can obviously DO IT. They have the skills to make good music (by good music, I of course mean, music I like). Instead of using their powers for good, they use them for evil.

I’m reminded of when I used to tape my sister’s early REM LP’s. I’d just record the poppier tunes and ignore the rest, so that worked out at about 3 songs a record for the first few albums. I’d have done the same with this back in the day. 

It wouldn’t have taken up much space on a C90.

Would you listen to it again?

What do you think? Really? You ask me that after what I’ve just written?

​​A mark out of 10?

3 (although Centre Of Gravity gets an 8)

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 3

Overall – 6

So that was Week 69 and that was Iain Lee. Turns out he’d never listened to Yo La Tengo before because, well, he’d never heard of them. So we made him listen to them and he mostly hated them. More importantly, though, he has failed the audition for our new band – El Hombre En (Spanish for Man On!). As a result, we’ll not only have to continue with this album club but we’ll also have to cancel our wedding.

Thanks Iain.

Next week Tim Farron, the leader of something called The Liberal Democrats, listens to something from 1988 for the first time.

Until then, have a great week and here’s Autumn Sweater by Yo La Tengo

 Ruth and Martin

RamAlbumClub (previously of El Hombre En)

Guest listener - Tim Farron

Who’s Tim Farron when he’s at home?

Tim Farron is Leader of the Liberal Democrats and Member of Parliament for Westmorland and Lonsdale in the Lake District. He was born in Lancaster and before entering politics he worked at Lancaster University.

In his spare time Tim enjoys walking in the countryside with his wife Rosie and their four children, and watching his beloved Blackburn Rovers’ attempts to return to the Premier League.  

Tim’s Top 3 albums ever?

Steve McQueen - Prefab Sprout

The Clash’s first album (but the US version because it’s got white man in Hammersmith Palais and Complete Control on it)

Since I left you - The Avalanches

What great album has he never heard before?

Straight Outta Compton by N.W.A

Released in 1988

Before we get to Tim, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Straight Outta Compton

All right, everyone.

Here’s the story of N.W.A - told over 4 meetings.

1) Prologue - 1985

Consider the following -

Los Angeles is spread over 465 square miles and has 8400 police officers.

New York is spread over 321 square miles and has 39,110 police officers.

If you boil that down, it means that Los Angeles has to maintain law and order with 103 fewer police officers per square mile.

The odds don’t seem right do they? How can such a small police force effectively cover such a large area? 

The answer was simple - they were brutal, they intimidated the streets. They would say, generously, they were preventing crimes before they happened, laying down the law whether it was broken or not. Yet the truth was less about police work, or justice. They were sending a message.

Indeed their own Police Chief, Daryl Gates, once said the following -

“Casual drug users should be taken out and shot.”

That’s not an overheard remark, or a slip of the tongue, that was a comment made before the US Senate. The Los Angeles Chief of Police, in front of the country’s elected representatives, actually said that casual drug users should be taken out and shot.

And no one did anything.

If there was one particular district in L.A. that was singled out for special treatment from the LAPD it was Compton. Unemployment and poverty were widespread, and the largely African American population were in the grip of a crack cocaine epidemic that was destroying nearly everything in sight.

The police decided to resort to extreme measures to solve the problem - they acquired a tank and flattened properties in a notional search for drugs and criminality. On one occasion Nancy Reagan, cheerfully sat in on one of the raids.

She ate a fruit salad as the tank knocked down the walls of someone’s home.

After finding just one gram of crack, she was quoted as saying -

“I saw people on the floor, rooms that were unfurnished… all very depressing. These people in here are beyond the point of teaching and rehabilitating. There’s no life, and that’s very discouraging.”

And no one did anything.

2) The First Meeting

Jerry Heller had brought Elton John and Pink Floyd to America. He’d represented Van Morrison, ELO, Marvin Gaye, The Who, Journey, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Four Tops, and Black Sabbath. Yet, in the mid ‘80s, he’d run out of talent and found himself loitering around L.A. trying to catch a break.

His friend Lonzo approaches him in 1987 -

"Hey, Jerry. I got this Compton guy keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“Yeah? A rapper?” Jerry asks.

“Nah. He’s like a street guy, got a lot of big ideas. He says he wants to start a record store or something.”

Jerry’s heard it all before. 47 and world weary, he tells his friend to spare him the story and move along.

But he doesn’t. Over the next weeks and months, Lonzo keeps chasing Jerry about the kid from Compton -

“Hey, man. You got to see this Compton guy. He’s on at me all the time about it."  

Heller became simultaneously exasperated and intrigued. On the one hand, he berated his friend whilst, on the other, he knew that playing hard to get was a deliberate move and only the most determined would get through his defences. The kid from Compton, whoever he was, was playing his part to perfection.

Finally, Lonzo approaches Heller again -

"Listen, Jerry. The guy says he’ll pay me for an introduction to you.”

Heller’s ears pricked up. 

“How much?”

“Seven hundred and fifty.” Lonzo replied “And to be honest I could use the money.”

It wasn’t the money that swayed Heller, or a sense of duty to his friend. He just appreciated the initiative, the fact that some kid he didn’t even know was prepared to offer $750 just to meet him.

Heller gave in.

On Tuesday 3rd of March, 1987, a car pulls up outside Heller’s business premises and out steps a short kid wearing wraparound sunglasses and a Raiders cap.

Lonzo introduced them, “Jerry, this is Eric Wright aka Easy E.”

Easy said nothing and just pulled out a roll of notes from his sock and paid Lonzo his finder’s fee on the spot. Heller watches on, charmed by the fact that the kid didn’t once move his lips whilst he was counting the money.

Heller asks, “You want to play me something?”

Easy speaks for the first time.

“Sure.”

He played him Boyz n the Hood, 8 Ball and Dopeman and Heller thought it was the best thing he’d heard in years.

Easy then began to talk -

“I want to start my own label. A place where an artist could work without anyone looking over his shoulder, telling him what he could and could not do - a free environment, no rules, no catering to any taste other than the artist’s own.”

Heller asked him if the label had a name.

“Ruthless Records”, Easy said

Heller asked him if his group had a name.

“N.W.A.” Easy said

“What’s that mean, No Whites Allowed?” asked Heller.

Easy laughed for the first time during the meeting.

“Sort of”, he said.

3) The Second Meeting

Heller spins through his Rolodex, his life’s work rolling before him. He needs a friend, someone to help him distribute. He finally arrives at Joe Smith, chairman of Capitol Records - nicknamed The Gentleman.

Heller visits The Capitol Building, optimistically designed to look like a stack of hit singles, and excitedly enters Smith’s office.

He played him Boyz n the Hood.

Smith was horrified.

Heller then flipped it over and played Dopeman.

Smith was still horrified.

“Stop, stop!”

There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men. And then Smith gave his verdict -

“Jerry, what makes you think anyone is going to buy this garbage? Who’s going to listen? Tell me, who’s going to play this? No radio station in the world.”

Heller tried his best to convince Smith. He reminded him of The Stones, The Sex Pistols and a whole host of other bands that seemed “too much” to one generation but never enough for another.” 

Smith held his ground.

“This crap is never going to make it.”

He then offered Heller a million dollars, just for the rights to the name Ruthless Records.

“It’s a great name. Really, I’ll have my girl bring in the chequebook.”

“I don’t want to sell the name. I want to sell the music.” insisted Heller.

“Never. It’ll never sell.”

Heller left the office dejected, the vibration of another door slammed behind him. He gave Easy E the bad news.

“The Gentleman at Capitol said no.”

 Easy absorbed the information, without a hint of reaction.

“That’s cool”, he said. “Fuck 'em”

4) The Third Meeting

Heller was desperate, everyone had turned their back on him and he was running out of options. In a move befitting the situation, he set up a meeting with Priority Records.

Who was the biggest act on Priority at the time?

A bunch of animated raisins called The California Raisins. They mostly sang Motown covers.

Heller walked into their offices, this time accompanied by Easy E, and played Straight Outta Compton.

“You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.”

The room was silent.

“Straight outta Compton

Crazy motherfucker called Ice Cube

From the gang called Niggas with Attitude.”

It was a shock to the system for a label used to dealing with dried fruit.

Heller then played Fuck tha Police -

“Fuck tha police coming straight from the underground

A young nigga got it bad cos I’m brown" 

The room was still silent.

Then Heller went in, business to business. He used all his old tricks, about why these were the perfect label and how Priority was the best "fit” for N.W.A. All the while he’s trying to read their body language because, still, they haven’t spoken since they heard Straight Outta Compton.

Finally, Easy interjected. He’d watched the whole performance from the corner and felt it was time to say something -

“Why don’t you at least come down and hear the band play?” he asked

“Ok”, they replied

Easy E knew he had them.

5) The Final Meeting

It could never last. The tension, and the attention, brought on by success started to tear it down. 

Ice Cube, the band’s lyricist, had left amidst accusations of being ripped off.

Dr Dre, the producer, was being courted by record labels that, all of a sudden, were ready to listen.

“We got to work this shit out”, Dre says as he picks up the phone to Easy.

Easy doesn’t say anything

“This is important.” Dre pleads. “You want to get with me up here?”

They arrange to meet at the studio, two old friends from Compton trying to work out how they can keep this thing together. When Easy arrives though, Dre isn’t there. Instead, Suge Knight walks in, flanked by bodyguards holding baseball bats.

Easy knows he’s been set up.

“You got to sign this.” Knight says, holding up a contract that releases Dre from his commitment to Ruthless Records.

Easy doesn’t move.

 “You see that white van parked down there on the street?” Knight continues. “We got Jerry Heller tied up in the back of that van, gun to his head, blow his goddam fucking brains out.”

Easy doesn’t move.

“We can get your moms too. You want us to?”

Easy signs.

It was the end of N.W.A. They’d sent a message of their own but now it was time for the start of something else. 

6) Epilogue

On March 3rd 1991, three African American men were driving along the freeway in The San Fernando Valley. A police car noticed the driver was speeding and started to pursue him.

The driver started to panic.

He was on parole for a previous robbery conviction and was concerned that this could be seen as a violation. He’d also drank some alcohol during the evening and wasn’t sure whether he was over the limit or not.

Rather than taking any chances, he decided to put his foot down and outrun the police. The pursuit raced through residential suburbs, with multiple police cars joining the hunt, and a helicopter calmly watching overhead.

Eventually, they cornered the car and ordered the passengers out of the vehicle.

The first to emerge, Bryant Allen, was kicked, taunted, and threatened.

The second to emerge, Freddie Helms, was hit on the head while lying on the ground.

Finally, the driver emerged - Rodney King. 

He laughed, he smiled, he waved to the helicopter overhead.

The police officers forced him to the ground, kicked him 6 times and struck him 33 times with their batons whilst, unbeknown to them, the entire incident was being filmed from across the street. King was eventually arrested and taken to hospital where he was treated for a fractured facial bone, a broken right ankle, and an assortment of bruises and lacerations.

During his treatment, a nurse watched as the police officers that brought him in were laughing and bragging about how many times they’d hit him.

But then the film of the incident went public.

America saw how the LAPD policed its streets and was rightly horrified. There were calls for both justice and calm. The Police had to be arrested, the men who were so guilty, who were seen to be so guilty, had to be punished and brought before the law that they themselves had bent out of shape.

On April 22nd, 1992, a jury of 10 whites, 1 Latino, and 1 Asian acquitted the police officers and they were free to go.

And this time, the people did do something.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Straight Outta Compton

In a retrospective review, Pitchfork gave it 9.7 out of 10

Rolling Stone ranked it the 144^th greatest album of all time.

Chris Rock ranked it the best Hip Hop album of all time.

So, over to you Tim. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

NWA's Straight Outta Compton is a classic album, one those albums you must listen to before you die.

So, question number one is: given that I am a self-proclaimed music nerd, why did I never buy this record and why have I never knowingly listened to it all the way through before?

Well, I’m not completely sure. Maybe there’s only so many hours in the day and you can’t listen to everything? Maybe rap is not my thing? But then again I bought, love and still listen to De La Soul's 3 Feet High and Rising… but De La Soul are safe and cuddly, so maybeStraight Outta Compton is too edgy, sweary, violent and misogynistic for a tame chap like me? Actually, that might well be it… but perhaps the main reason is that I felt it wasn’t for me.

Forgive me, but I’ve always had a problem with David Cameron saying that he likes the Smiths, in particular that he likes The Queen is Dead. There’s a line in Panic that goes ’…the music he constantly plays, it says nothing to me about my life…’ I don’t want to be an inverse snob, but The Smiths do not sing to David Cameron about anything in his life at all. What Morrissey sings cannot possibly resonate with him. I’m a Northern working class bloke, an angsty 1980s teenager, The Smiths say plenty to me about my life. 

Now, for some music that doesn’t matter.  Even fairly avante garde or ground breaking stuff like the White Stripes, Cocteau Twins, Blur aren’t setting out a manifesto or representing anyone or anything. There isn’t an ideology simmering away there, they aren’t speaking of their particular life experiences, offering a personal sense of belonging to those who share that identity and that’s absolutely fine - and I love all three of those bands by the way and, for what it’s worth, I would have no complaints if the PM liked any of them - indeed he has my blessing!

But NWA have a simmering ideology, a boiling one even. They speak about their lives, they share their identity.  There is fury in this album which is as authentic and sincere as it is foul-mouthed and misogynistic. But I’m not straight outta Compton, I’m straight out o’ Preston and what I knew about NWA is that they said little to me about my life… Which is absolutely ok, but I simply - in my over earnest way - felt that I would be insincere, inauthentic, a wannabe, a fake if I got into NWA. So I listened to all the Madchester stuff instead.  

So, excuses over…

Over the years I’ve come to accept that music is music and that I should stop being so up myself and just listen to stuff!!  

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

It’s a good piece of work. To misquote Public Enemy, you can believe the hype. This is an important and influential album but it is also a great musical accomplishment. It’s full of energy, sincerity and lyrical intelligence. It’s also pretty funky, decent tunes. The last track Something 2 Dance 2 is preceded by several other tracks that you can most certainly dance to. In fact listening to the album I have flash backs of being at university in Newcastle dancing to a few of these - in particular track 4  If It Ain’t Ruff which has a knowingly jazzy feel to it.

Much of the rap that I’d listened to in the 80s was about the samples that underpinned the rap as much as the words themselves. This album is well produced, it’s full of good tunes, clever mixes but the words are King. All music is derivative, there’s nothing new under the sun, but my first impression is that the lyrical focus of this album owes more to Gil Scot Heron than to earlier rap artists. Only Gil Scot Heron didn’t swear so often, he appeared to respect women and he had a few solutions to the problems he identified.  And I now sound like my dad…

So let’s get my criticisms out of the way. The swearing is ridiculous - it sounds like a pastiche of itself, I couldn’t help laughing at it, thinking to myself of Chris Morris’s 'Uzi lover’ from Brass Eye or even the appallingly toilet-mouthed Rude Kid from the pages of Viz. 

Worst of all is the way in which women are spoken of. The language is more than misogynistic- it is a blanket treatment of women as sex objects and nothing more.  Some will say that we have to accept this as social realism and all that - and again I don’t doubt their sincerity - but to be angry against society and authority, or to celebrate hedonism, does not need to bring with it such a loveless, graceless and damaging assault on womankind.  

Oh, and I should point out that much as I admire Eazy E, Dr Dre and Ice Cube, the Liberal Democrats take a rather different position to them on law and order…

That may all sound pretty damning, but on balance I have to say I liked the record. 

The opening burst of the title track, F*** Tha Police and Gangsta Gangsta leave you very clear over what these guys are about! Self- referential, dramatic backdrops, fresh, brave, resonant of early punk, hedonism with a bit of nihilism…and no Chic bass lines.  

Having established themselves, NWA then seem to feel free to let the tunes elbow their way in.   If It Ain’t Ruff, Parental Discretion, Something Like That and Express Yourself, contain laid back grooves, the occasional recognisable sample, and an odd piano loop. 

The rest of the album focusses again heavily on the rhymes and the lyrical content. Ice Cube’s rant against women in I Ain’t Tha 1 contains the delightful line addressed to his female companion 'I got what I want, now beat it’ which I suppose makes this track the closest thing NWA get to tender love song…

Compton’s N The House sounds clichéd but only because I’ve heard so many copying this kind of impressively egotistical attack on wannabes, copycats and also-rans over the last 20 years. It’s easy to forget that this isn’t a cliché, we are listening to the originals.  We finish with Something 2 dance 2. Great track, and incredibly well produced… Indeed the album is a great piece of production as well as a great musical work.  

Music is all about connections and 'what does this remind me of?’  The album it reminded me of the most is The Sex Pistols, Never Mind the Bollocks. They share the same air of desperation, of churning out a shocking but brilliant piece of work almost as if they had no choice to do anything else. And both albums were influential beyond compare. Both albums made music accessible - and the making of music affordable and comprehensible.  To me, almost everything worthwhile in music in the last 40 years owes something to the Pistols.  Straight Outta Compton is certainly worthwhile, and it owes plenty to Johnny Rotten and co.

Would you listen to it again?

I would listen to it again, but not with the kids around….

​​A mark out of 10? 

I’d give it 8 out of 10 artistically, but for my personal enjoyment of it more like 6 out of 10

RAM Rating – 9.5

Guest Rating – I’ve done some maths and decided that’s a 7

Overall – 8.25 

So that was Week 70 and that was Tim Farron. Turns out he’d never listened to Straight Outta Compton before because he wasn’t sure if the music that NWA played said anything about his life. So we made him listen to it and he rather enjoyed it, apart from the sexism and the lack of songs about proportional representation (old Lib Dem joke there everyone).

Next week, Anita Rani listens to something from 2000 for the first time.

Until then, here’s Fuck Tha Police by NWA.

Have a great week.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - Anita Rani

Who’s Anita Rani when she’s at home?

Anita is an English radio presenter and journalist. You may have seen her on Countryfile, The One Show, or Strictly Come Dancing with a fella with a nice chest.

Anita’s Top 3 albums ever?

The Smiths – The Queen is Dead

Various Artists - Soundbombing 2

Michael Jackson – Off the Wall/Thriller/Bad (all three)

What great album has she never heard before?

Is This It by The Strokes

Released in 2001

Before we get to Anita, here’s what Martin thinks of Is This It

All right, everyone.

Here’s how The Strokes released a classic Rock ‘n’ Roll record whilst some people were listening to Nu-Metal.

1) An Early Test 

Julian Casablancas was minding his own business at college one day when a bunch of mates suddenly invited him to their room and shut the door.

Apprehensive, apprehended, Julian stood there and considered his fate. 

The leader of the gang spoke - asking Julian to state his name, swear a loyalty to their fraternity, and declare his favourite sexual position. 

As pivotal moments in the history of Rock and Roll go, it’s a big one. If Julian plays this wrong he could end as a frat boy for life or, even worse, a member of Blink 182. However, if he plays it right there’s still a chance that the best album of 2000 will happen.

He considered his options.

Then he spoke. 

“My name is Julian Casablancas. I don’t want to join your fraternity and I don’t know why I’m here.”

What a great bloke. 

2) A Gang

Having avoided hell, Julian then got some new mates and formed a band. 

Let me quickly introduce the line-up - 

On vocals we have the aforementioned Julian Casablancas
On guitar we Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jnr.
On bass we have Nikolai Fraiture 
And last, but definitely not least, on drums we have Fab Moretti.

You’d be forgiven for assuming that some of these are made up, or from a Rock and Roll Comic Strip, but remarkably they’re all real. Put simply, they’re the best five names that any collection of five people have ever possessed and, without even hearing a note, you already know they’re going to be better than a band with names like - 

Liam Gallagher
Noel Gallagher 
Tony McCarroll
Paul McGuigan 
Paul “Bonehead” Arthurs

In fact, the only downside of the brilliance of these names is a tinge of sympathy for Julian Casablancas. In any other band he’d immediately hold the title of “The One with The Coolest Name” but here he’s denied that honour because he’s in a band with a fella who has the best name ever - Fab Moretti. 

Oh, and one last thing - The Strokes is a great name too. It’s practically impossible to come up with a good “The” name these days. 

Just ask The Pigeon Detectives.

3) Phwoar! 

Ok, they’ve got the names, it would now help if they also had the looks. The last thing The Strokes need is to look like a bunch of trainee vicars, or Radiohead (actually that’s the same thing.)

But fear not. Look who just walked in - 

As you can see, The Strokes are probably the only band to achieve a 100% “I would” ratio - considerably better than The Rolling Stones (60%), The Beatles (50%) or The Who (0%). Only The Monkees come close but I’ve decided they don’t count because a) there’s only four of them and b) they’d be too tired to have sex because they run around a lot. 

Even modern boy bands, who are specifically put together based on their “sex appeal”, always have one who’s a bit chubby and would rather be hugged or taken seriously - like that bloke in Westlife who looks like someone has drawn a good looking person on a jacket potato - 

The Strokes, however, have no such problem. To a man they all look like male models. Even the bass player who looks like a butler in a horror film looks like a REALLY good looking butler in a horror film. 

And finally, whilst I’m being shallow, they complimented their good looks with an impeccable wardrobe. At a time when people were wearing hoodies and huge jeans with hundreds of pockets, they came along with a classic denim and leather look that was simultaneously timeless and refreshing. 

Nick Valensi once told the rest of the band to “dress every day like we’re going to play a show”. 

That’s great advice to be honest.

Unless you’re Genesis

4) A Guru

In our Pavement edition you may remember that I referenced a book called The Hero Has a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.

“I didn’t read your Pavement edition mate.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll quickly summarise it here.”

The book suggests that all mythical heroes essentially follow the same journey and points to the fact there is always an older guide to help them along their way. For every Luke Skywalker there’s an Obi Wan Kenobi, for every Frodo there’s a Gandalf, and for every Terry McCann there’s an Arthur Daley. 

The Strokes were no different and had their own guru to point the way - JP Bowersock.

Bowersock’s initial role was to teach Albert Hammond Jnr how to play guitar but he was so knowledgable that the rest of the band started to turn up to the lessons to hear what he had to say. He’d spend a lot of time talking to Julian about the craft of songwriting, collaborating on ideas and testing out different structures. He played Nick Valensi a load of records he’d never heard and that massively influenced his guitar style.

The whole band were mesmerised by him and quickly received a comprehensive musical history that took in everything from Elmore James, to Link Wray, to the Nuggets compilations. 

Such was his influence that he even made the album artwork.

Oh, and I hate to labour the point, but JP Bowersock is a brilliant name - considerably better than Dumbledore. 

5) The Velvet Underground Rule

During an interview in 2002, Julian Casablancas said The Velvet Underground are the only band that all five members of The Strokes like. 

Along with the whole “dressing like you’re always going to play a show” thing, this is another great piece of advice that all bands should be forced to adhere to from the beginning. 

Had it been a legal requirement there’d be no Red Hot Chilli Peppers, half of Arcade Fire, that fella in M-People who calls himself Shovel, The Rembrandts, that bloke out of The View who thinks it’s a big deal to wear jeans for four days, Scouting for Girls, The Orb, Mani, Babybird, Ugly Kid Joe, and John Cale.

Would Pete Best have liked The Velvet Underground?

No, and the rest of The Beatles knew it.

6) Rehearsals

With all the hard stuff in place, The Strokes now just needed to do the easy bit - become a decent band. 

At the start of 1999 they diligently rehearsed in a tiny studio in the Hell’s Kitchen district of Manhattan - the same place Madonna had rehearsed when she first arrived in New York. Starting at 10pm each night and working through to 8am, they financed the entire enterprise with a series of day jobs including selling frozen yoghurt, working in second hand record stores, and bars

Even Nick Valensi getting mugged three times in the same night by the same man couldn’t put them off. They never missed a rehearsal and, crucially, they never thought they were ready until they actually were. 

6 months after they started, 6 months of working through the night, they finally emerged and decided to play their first gig.

7) A Live Band

The Strokes’ first gig was at a small New York club called The Spiral. The audience contained 6 people and Casablancas was so nervous that he threw up before going on stage. 

Despite an inauspicious start, which left the band demoralised, they dissected the performance in minute detail and decided to soldier on - playing a series of local “toilet” venues where Casabalancas still used to throw up before taking the stage. One of these included playing a lobster restaurant in Delaware in front of a family of five who were trying to enjoy a meal. 

Eventually they got bored of all these venues and decided to do what all great bands do - just find one venue and let the audience find them. They secured a residency at the Mercury Lounge in New York, just over the road from where they started out at The Spiral. 50 people turned up for the first gig, which quickly became a 100, and before long they had sold out.

They’d found their Cavern, quit their jobs, and developed into something like the band you hear on the first album. 

8) The Demo 

By the time they entered the studio, everyone had stopped throwing up and they produced one of the best demo tapes ever, containing the songs The Modern Age, Barely Legal, and Last Nite. 

Geoff Travis at Rough Trade was half way through the first song and made an offer to their manager before it had finished. In fact, he was so impressed with it that he decided to release in its current form.

How often has that happened? A 100% strike rate with a record company and a demo that’s so good it becomes your first single. It’s tempting to view this as a remarkable chain of events but, in reality, Travis’s response was entirely sensible and level headed. When I first heard the chorus of The Modern Age I thought it was the best thing I’d heard in years. When I later heard Last Nite my head actually fell off. 

Had I been in charge of a record company, had anyone been in charge of a record company, they would have followed exactly the same course of action. 

A few weeks after Rough Trade had signed them, Noel Gallagher was at The Strokes’ first London gig, trying to crane his neck to see what all the fuss was about whilst wishing he wasn’t called Noel Gallagher. 

9) Is This It?

Yes it is, thank you very much.

We’ve all been taken in only to be let down by someone who turns out to be Babylon Zoo. Yet, whatever anyone thinks about The Strokes’ later career, and the terrible bands they spawned, you have to give them the debut. I loved it at the time but I can safely say, listening to it all week, that I love it even more now. 

More than that though, as if liking the songs isn’t enough, there was a refreshing quality about it that belied its obvious influences. In 2001, I’d been listening to The Flaming Lips and Lambchop, both of whom I liked but only in that way people in their 30s like bands that make music for people in their 30s. I never thought they were exciting, or even cool.  I just thought they were age appropriate and had a load of good songs. 

Then The Strokes came along with no keyboards, a wardrobe of denim and leather, Red Marlboros, and even better songs.

Just like The Velvet Underground, just like Television, just like The Jesus and Mary Chain. 

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Is This It

The NME gave it 10/10

Pitchfork gave it 9.1/10

David Browne of Entertainment Weekly said “the record just feels right, and sometimes that’s enough”

So, over to you Anita. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

When I was a kid, music was my world. I remember singing Olivia Newton John’s Let’s Get Physical in the playground aged 3 at my Day nursery. I distinctly recall trying to discuss Top of the Pops with the other kids in kindergarten, who probably had sensible bedtimes and weren’t allowed to watch anything beyond Rainbow. 

Aged 11, I discovered New Kids on The Block and then woke up aged 13, with taste, a die hard fan of The Smiths. There followed a period of Grunge, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, New Model Army, which morphed into dance and electronic music.

Once I began Uni in 1996 my musical education exploded. I was soaking it up wherever I could. Discovering more and more. The beauty of opening one album and it leading into portals and portals of new genres. From Manchester to Bristol, Chicago to Detroit. Paris to Mumbai

I’d pop into Crash records in Leeds on a weekly basis to hungrily listen to the latest Drum and Bass releases. Hours could disappear in Jumbo records discovering bluegrass albums or hip hop compilations.

Back then I was a muso nerd and, along with it, a total musical snob.

I remember clearly when Is This It was released and exactly why I didn’t listen to it. It was 2001 and I was 21 years old. I had landed a job for a TV company which specialised in music, in London. I was finally leaving my beloved North. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Working as a researcher earning barely enough money to keep me in packets of cheap noodles, encona chilli sauce and the odd pint or three.

I remember a conversation was taking place in the office on the brilliance of this new band The Strokes. Back then, the bits I heard did nothing for me. I wasn’t going out to gigs in Camden, I was much happier in clubs in East London. I had such a wide range of taste but I couldn’t hear what everyone else could hear in The Strokes, or maybe I didn’t want to.

Inverted snobbery. If the crowd was telling me it was the best band ever or the NME had heralded them the saviours of rock n roll, I’d dismiss them off hand and decide to listen in my own sweet time.

In this case 15 years later.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

May 2016 I’m off to NYC baby, to film a new project for the BBC. I figure the best place to introduce myself to this record is its birthplace. So on my first day I take a long walk from midtown to Chinatown with Is This It plugged into my ears.

It’s strangely familiar for an album I’ve never listened to before. The dring dring dring dring dring dring of the guitar and Julian Casablancas’ lazy vocals trigger a nostalgia that must have been formed via osmosis back in 2001.The album sounds timeless. It could it be a New York band from the 70s or an album just released. 

It does feel as though each song morphs into the other but what I may have seen as a sign of sameness back in my 20s now feels like a perfect continuous mix.

And then SOMEDAY kicks in. 2001 comes flooding back. I have a flashback of jumping around to this record in some sweaty pub in Camden or maybe it was Kings College Union overlooking London. Suddenly I’m homesick.

This maybe a band from New York but everything about their music says London to me and that’s where I need to hear it. So I select Kendrick Lamarr for the rest of my time in NYC and press play when I’m back across the pond.

It’s an overcast, generic Monday morning back in London. I’m riding the tube at rush hour. It’s grim but I’m in an alternate universe, fashioned by a bunch of greasy New Yorkers in leather jackets. 

Hard To Explain seems to be carrying me through the crowds. I don’t think my feet are even on the floor. The manic, repetitive guitar and Julian’s casual vocals. I like that contrast: it’s like my own relaxed inner-world against the back drop of rush hour insanity.

Trying Their Luck switches down the pace as Julian’s voice becomes more lyrical. Now this I like a lot. That lovely twiddly guitar solo. I’m absorbed in this now.

I must have mellowed a lot since 2001. Perhaps I’m less discerning. Or free from the restraints of youthful cultural tribalism. I’m more open-minded and listening to this band now feels different. I get it now. It’s a recording that bottled the essence and vigour of youth.  I might not have cared for The Strokes so much back then but it turns out that they were doing a good job of bottling my twenties all along.

I’m delighted I took the time to experience Is This It. It may have passed me by forever but it’s taken me back to early carefree days in London when music defined me more than anything else. I’m so pleased I’ve ditched the stubborn teens and now have the ability to listen with open ears. 

Would you listen to it again?

The task was to listen to this album 3 times. This morning was the fifth play.

​​A mark out of 10?

8

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 8.5

So that was Week 71 and that was Anita Rani. Turns out she’d never listened to Is This It before because, understandably, the NME had put her off. So we made her listen to it and she enjoyed it in New York but especially in London, on a tube crammed full of commuters. To be honest, if it works there, it will work anywhere.

Next week, The Guyliner listens to something from 1973 for the first time.

Until then, here’s the demo version of The Modern Age by The Strokes.

Guest Listener - The Guyliner

Who’s The Guyliner when he’s at home?

I’m a freelance writer who writes about dating and I’m also an advice columnist in Gay Times magazine. I write a weekly review of the Guardian’s Blind Date column too, for reasons even I don’t quite unferstand.

The Guyliner’s Top 3 albums ever?

I sense a trap. I’ve no idea.

Um.

Amy Winehouse – Back to Black

Madonna – Confessions on a Dance Floor (I am gay, and while Ray of Light and Like A Prayer are ‘the big ones’, this is wall-to-wall bangers and I like a banger)

I assume I can’t have a greatest hits (it would be the Blondie one with the blue cover from the ‘80s), so I’ll say Mary J Blige – What’s the 411.

What great album has he never heard before?

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John

Released in 1973

Before we get to The Guyliner, here’s what Martin thinks of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

All right, everyone.

I’ll be honest, I’ve been looking forward to this Elton edition for AGES!

So, let’s get stuck in.

1) Want some?

The picture painted of the young Reg Dwight is of a shy schoolboy, sitting at the back of the class and doing his best to avoid attention and other boy’s fists*.  

*Awaits injunction.

Outside of the classroom, though, Dwight threw himself into sports and was a keen footballer. His contemporaries have since remarked that what he lacked in flair and skill he more than made up for in grit and determination - a short, focussed kid, feverishly running around the field giving every thing he had (apart from balletic turns and eye catching back heels). 

At weekends he would devoutly follow his local team, Wealdstone FC, and like any child who could kick a ball, he would watch and daydream about a future career of last minute winners and adoration from the crowds.

So there you have it.

In the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy has a choice of roads to travel at the start of the film. Eventually, she gives in to Munchkin peer pressure (the worst peer pressure there is) and chooses the Yellow Brick one. With that, the die was cast. There may have been other films along the other roads but we only get to see the choice she made.

The same applies here.

Reg Dwight could have gone on to become a footballer, probably a slightly more entertaining version of James Milner. Failing that, he could have gone on to achieve even greater notoriety as The Wealdstone Raider and taunted opposing teams with an orchestrated rendition of “Got No Fans”

But he didn’t. He became a pianist and that’s the biography you’re going to see.

2) Piano Boy

Whilst other 3 year olds we’re learning how to use the toilet and get as much ice cream as possible over their face, Dwight decided to learn piano instead. 

He practiced diligently and, at the age of 11, was invited to audition for a junior scholarship at the Royal Academy of Music. Although he couldn’t read music at all, he passed the audition due to an exceptionally good ear that marked him out as an instinctive, rather than educated, talent.

One of his teachers at the Academy remembers playing him a piece by Handel which was four pages long whilst Dwight patiently sat next to her, taking it all in. 

When she was finished, he played the whole piece back and echoed her perfectly.

Despite his prodigious talent, though, he remained a shy and quiet pupil. At odds with the character we know now, he would be rooted to the back of the class, doing his best to fade into the background.

3) Early signs.

After Dwight left the Royal Academy, he started looking for a band and was introduced to a bunch of local kids who needed a pianist - The Corvettes.

There was only one problem though - his image. The band had given themselves a sleek ‘60s name, wanting to conjure up an image of teenage cool, of a gang in pursuit of Rock and Roll thrills, and along came Dwight with his short hair, rounds glasses, and sensible trousers.

He looked like one of those fellas who sit huddled together on the chairs at Marks and Spencer’s whilst their wives do some shopping. Hardly the requisite look for a band called The Corvettes and the other alternative, changing their name to “M&S Husbands On A Low Heat”, wasn’t really an option either.

Fear not though, reader, because Dwight sorted it. 

He came to the audition and terrorised them with a rendition of Great Balls of Fire, transforming himself in the process. Suddenly he was animated - eyes wide open, mouth ajar, boiling over on the piano.

The Corvettes stopped being idiots and decided he was very much the man for them.

4) Down the Pub.

Ok, The Corvettes broke up shortly afterwards. Serves them right for naming their band after a car.

For Dwight’s next move he looked to his local - The Northwood Hills Pub. For years they had engaged the services of a blind pianist called Albino Bob who entertained the regulars at weekends with his name and his piano playing. However, for reasons that have escaped me, Albino Bob decided to knock it on the head one day and vacate the piano.

Dwight seized his chance.

He auditioned for the landlord who, on first hearing, was less than impressed and dubious as to whether this resolutely normal teenager could fill the void that the flamboyant Bob had left behind. But Dwight had an ally - the landlord’s wife thought he had something and convinced her husband to give him a chance.

Before long, amidst the scepticism of regulars, Dwight had established himself with a repertoire of early Rock and Roll, Winifred Attwell, and whatever the drunken audience menacingly requested. He was even befriended by a group of travellers who accepted him as one of their own and protected him when trouble broke out in the pub. On one occasion, they shielded him and carried him through the window whilst a huge brawl broke out that saw glasses and furniture flying through the air.

In summary then, due to a benevolent Landlord’s wife, a group of protective travellers, and the demise of Albino Bob’s career, Reg Dwight had finally found an audience to play for.

Top marks to all involved.

5) This again

Every time I do a giant from the early '70s (Bowie, Bolan, Jimmy Page) there’s always this period I have to try and make sense of - The Denmark Street bit. 

It seems that all these stars spent the vast majority of their time in the '60s hanging out in England’s Tin Pan Alley trying to hawk their songs amongst a variety of music publishers that were looking for “the next big thing”.

Have you been to Denmark Street?

I ask because it amazes me how tiny it is - no more than about 30 buildings in a road that takes less than a minute to walk down. Yet, it was here that you would find the anonymous and embryonic careers of Bowie, Bolan, and Jimmy Page start to take shape.

As for Dwight? He got his first job on Denmark Street because Eric “Monster Monster” Hall was sacked over a misdemeanour with a bowler hat.

Course he did.

Meanwhile, some kid called Bernie Taupin was spending so much time wandering around the Lincolnshire countryside that he started to think he was a poet.

Course he did.

6) The Ad.

In June 1967, Liberty Records placed an ad in the NME for new talent. 

Dwight auditioned and played a Jim Reeves song that received a mixed response over his talent and a unanimous one about his image. It was the middle of the Summer of Love, there were lava lamps everywhere, and Dwight was still in his Autumn of Beige phase.

Playing a Jim Reeves song whilst everyone was on LSD probably didn’t help either.

It wasn’t looking good for our hero.

Shortly after, though, the record company opened another letter from the thousands of responses. It was one that had been sat on the author’s mantelpiece for days before, unbeknown to him, his mother spotted it and popped it in the post.

“Dear Mr Williams.

I am basically a poet, but I think my words can be set to music

Bernie Taupin”

I know. 

Considering he’s trying to sell himself as a poet that is literally the least poetic thing I’ve ever read in my life. I’m basically a poet? I think my words can be set to music? Fucking hell mate, if this was the final version, I’d hate to see the drafts.

It also probably explains why they palmed him off on Dwight and said “See if you two can work something out”

7) Becoming Elton 

Finally, the penny dropped.

First to go was his dreadful name because, let’s be honest, “Reg Dwight Pop Star” was never going to happen. So, using an amalgamation of two friends (Elton Dean and John Baldry) he became ELTON JOHN!

All his mates laughed at him and told him he was ridiculous.

He didn’t care though and the next day he turned up in Denmark Street wearing a Noddy t-shirt.

What a great bloke. 

Along with the name and wardrobe change, he was also starting to get somewhere with Taupin.

Taupin would send him loads of poems in the post which Elton would stack up against the piano and try to write music to. If he couldn’t get the poem to work straight away he’d just bin it and move on the the next one, editing as he went along and skipping large sections that were getting in the way of his melody. It worked though, this isolated collaboration, and they started to produce material that they thought could be sold to other artists.

Their big break came when one of their songs made it to the final six of the UK’s entry to the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest. Lulu sang it, along with the five others, on her TV show.

It came last.

Stung by the criticism, Elton John decided to do two things - he bought a Minnie Mouse t-shirt and stopped writing songs for other people.

8) The career up to Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.

You know that bit when you’re growing up and you think Robert De Niro and Al Pacino were the best actors in the '70s? Like Bowie, or Bolan, they have an appeal which is completely accessible and requires little thought to devote yourself to it. 

Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Dog Day Afternoon, Serpico - Hunky Dory, Ziggy Stardust, Electric Warrior, Get it On on Top of the Pops.

It’s so easy.

Well, all I’m saying is there comes a point when you realise that Dustin Hoffman in his prime was better than all of them.

The Graduate, Midnight Cowboy, All The President’s Men, Straight Time, Papillon, Marathon Man - The repeat chorus in Rocket Man, the fact that about 20 seconds of Bennie and The Jets is one note, Tiny Dancer, that intro to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, that costume in Tommy, that time he played the Hollywood Bowl and five pianos opened their lids to spell out E.L.T.O.N and released a load of terrified doves that saw Reg Dwight dressed like this.

In 1973, Elton John and Bernie Taupin started work on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Taupin wrote all the lyrics in two and a half weeks and Elton composed most of the music in 3 days whilst staying in The Pink Flamingo Hotel in Jamaica. 

Course they fucking did.

9) Funeral for a Friend

That funeral did my head in.

Why would you re-write that song? Taupin didn’t even like Monroe that much and to recycle it, badly, seems so weird. Dare I say, even a little dishonest. Then there’s the setting, the black suit costume, and the sense that the whole day has nothing going for it at all. The last person I’d want to see there is Elton John having no fun whatsoever.

Duty though isn’t it, giving yourself to others and performing a role that’s expected. It’s the sort of thing Reg Dwight would have done and, ultimately, I admire Reg Dwight for doing it.

Someone had to.

Oh, but Elton. Where was Elton? How different would it have been if HE had turned up.

If only, at the last minute, he had discarded Dwight, throwing off the suit, and baring the costume underneath. Of course there’d be silence. And rightly so. You’re expecting Candle in the Wind, not a fella dressed in green.

And then he bends down and picks up a head dress. It’s got teeth, more teeth than you’ve ever seen, and huge hunting eyes.

Of course there’s still silence.

But then he starts to play.

“I remember when rock was young, me and Susie had so much fun”

Baring his teeth, eyes wide open, boiling over.

“Holding hands and skimming stones, had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own”

It starts outside the Abbey, the assembled crowd have cottoned on first and start to sing along

“But the biggest kick I ever got, was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock”

It now starts inside the Abbey. A queen taps her foot on the floor of Westminster Abbey, a dignitary from the Commonwealth clicks his fingers. Suddenly someone gets up and gestures to everyone else to do the same.

“La! La la la la la”

The place goes wild, an explosion of pure unbridled fun.

In my daydream, and it is only a daydream, it’s what everyone would have wanted.

*Prepares for injunction bukkake*

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Rolling Stone Magazine ranked it the 91st best album of all time.

Channel 4 ranked it the 59th best album of all time

So, over to you Guyliner. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Darling, we were never introduced. My parents never played any Elton in the house, so my first brush with him was the chart-bothering incarnation a whole decade after Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. By the time Elt was front-and-centre in my living room, in the early 1980s, he was not-quite-gay-yet, fighting a losing battle with his follicles and marrying his female assistant.

Thanks to Nikita and I’m Still Standing, I knew him as the guy looking mawkishly through great big Deirdre Barlow-specs and driving Corvettes while ice-maiden border control agents checked his passport, or dancing frenetically on the beach with oiled-up hunks.

Later on, Elton came to mean dreary ballads and a ruiner of summers when that live version of Candle In The Wind in the late ‘80s clogged up the Top 40 rundown. His no. 1 Sacrifice, followed by the ropey scoutmaster’s hairdo, finished me off and I consigned him to history – until Candle In The Wind was inexplicably revived to send Princess Diana off to that great publicity stunt in the sky.

In addition, when you’re a proto-gay growing up in Yorkshire in the 1980s, you’re very conscious of associating yourself with anything ‘flamboyant’. You distance yourself from anything that might be a ‘tell’. You wouldn’t believe how many childhood photos show me posing with a football – I think I’ve kicked one precisely three times in my life.

Elton John was probably one of the first openly gay popstars (eventually) and as I grew up I associated him with being gay, so I largely avoided his music. That’s quite sad, isn’t it? Allow me to pause here and dry my eyes. Maybe I feel a trace of that still, all these years later – I never even think to listen to him. He has almost become too big a persona for me; his predilection for moodswings and gemstones and the great spectacle of being Elton makes you forget he was ever a popstar, that he had hits.

My only inkling of the kind of artist he might have been back in the day was from an aunt who used to listen to The Bitch Is Back while smoking a succession of Superkings down to the nub. I was mildly interested for the briefest of seconds, but by then, my head had been turned by house music, I was wearing baseball caps back to front, jeans wider than bedsheets and listening to faceless tracks created by people who took  ecstasy for breakfast, and loads of Kylie or Madonna (in secret). That common teenage phase of hunting through old records and trying to grow a music taste of your own had almost eluded me, save for half-hearted riffling through my mum’s Motown 45s in the bottom of the wardrobe and irrevocably scratching the house copy of Rumours. Beyond that, I was as contemporary as a loud shirt on the sales rack of Clock House at C&A.

I like I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues, the ‘80s ones I mention above and I once danced to Are You Ready For Love at a wedding. Elton’s a puzzle I’ve never been remotely interested in solving.

So I’ve never listened to it simply because I’m not particularly curious where Reg is concerned. Not musically, anyway. His hair fascinates me, as does his impressive refusal to conform and appear in any way likeable or approachable, unless you’re Elizabeth Hurley or Lady Gaga floating toward him, a vision in tulle.

I am ready to have my mind changed for ever.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

As this isn’t an album I’d ever have listened to by choice, I agonised over how best to listen to it. As a teenager, whenever I bought a new album I didn’t know, I’d press play and lie down on the floor to listen to it, my head right between the speakers, close my eyes and smoke a fag, balancing the ashtray on my chest – sometimes burning myself in the process. I would get lost in the sound. I’m not a teenager anymore, though; any mirror can tell you that.

The first listen was the most sacrilegious of all, on my laptop, where it piped out of my speakers like lift muzak. On the second I graduated to earphones and for the third and final hearing – and SPOILER it is definitely the final one – I let it boom out of the stereo. Well, I say boom; I grew up on woofers and climbing in and out of bass bins with my pupils swirling like ice cream sundaes on a lazy Susan. My stereo system did its best, but Goodbye Yellow Brick Road didn’t grab me by the throat and demand my attention, as overblown as that great big intro is.

As I listened, I felt I was hearing music that was meant to be significant, like a record my dad would probably play me and commentate all the way through. I realised I did know most of the singles from it, and they do stand out here as the kind of tracks you would pick to be a single. Candle In The Wind, though, so early on: already the dregs before the wine was halfway through. Imagine that being the bestselling single of all time – why aren’t we marching the streets protesting at this injustice?

As much of an innocent autobiographical ramble as this collection appears, it’s much more calculating than that. On first listen, Elton felt like an excitable friend telling you about his gap year set to music, having us click through and like all his pics and laugh at his pithy comments. I realised, though, it was much more purposeful and – dare I say – pretentious. This was created with masterpiece status in mind.

“This is the one,” Elton and Bernie Taupin may have said, clinking avocado-green Tupperware tumblers. “This is our opus.” This isn’t a guy talking you through his grungy gap year at all; it’s a fully paid-up round-the-world ticket. Your mate travelled in business class, he stayed in nice hotels, he slipped the locals $10 to pose with him. This is Instagram-ready, an album on a selfie stick. It knows the world is watching, and it is thirsty.

I wanted to be into this, album I really did. I wanted to show that I can appreciate artistry, that there’s more to me than snark but… I cannot deliver. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road has exposed me as the shallow, disdainful robot I always knew I was, for while I don’t hate it, I cannot love this. I shall not.

There’s certainly artistry, of course, you don’t get Elton and Bernie Taupin in the same room and come out with a load of old toot – well, not for a few years, anyway – but the songs soon became indistinguishable to me. I had to keep checking the tracklisting to see where we were. I know piano is Elton’s thing but there was so much tinkling of ivories, I was dying for the lid to slam shut on his fingers.

A lot of Taupin’s lyrics seemed quite personal, like scores to settle. Some of them ruffled my special snowflake sensibilities and made me uncomfortable. The issue with lyrics with ‘meaning’ is eventually you crave a break from them; you want to dip your wick in mediocrity. I became hungry for hollow declarations of love or eulogies to anonymous dancefloors.

One contender was the weird Jamaican Jerk-off, plonked early on in the set to serve no other purpose than to own a title infinitely more exciting than its actual content. Would a song like that be made now? Madonna was still problematically screeching in Sanskrit years later on Ray of Light in 1998 – do vanity interludes like this still exist?

Elton’s voice is on what I suppose you would call fine form if you couldn’t think of anything else to say and were being pressed for a compliment at a wake, but I have always found his vocal talents skilled yet awfully affected. Enunciate! I do love a crisp, clear vocal and Elton’s rambling left me wanting. That said, you can definitely pick Elt’s voice out of a lineup, and he does sound like he really means it. Whatever he’s saying.

A kind of euphoria – or perhaps hysteria – hit me around Social Disease. I realised I was nearing the end of the album, and Elton sounded lighter, perkier. This is the first track I really liked – but we were way too far into the album for this to be happening now. To teach me a lesson, Elton closed off the album with another “wave your Watford scarf in the air and turn to the person next to you and tell them you love them even though you couldn’t squeeze out a tear at your grandma’s funeral” dirge. Years hence, this track would read a self-help book, get its nails done and try anti-depressants, becoming John Lennon’s equally execrable Imagine.

I felt like I wasn’t being stimulated. What would I do while I listened to this album? The dusting? Aerobics? An entire blister pack of Xanax? It is a journey, it demands you do nothing but listen. Admirable for 1973 when there was nothing on TV and your taste for the exotic never got past Vesta curries, but over here in 2016, I’ve no time for journeys, only short commutes. Here in the now, I can’t transfer myself, physically or mentally, to the type of stratospheric boredom that would make me lie back down between my speakers and spark up a Marlboro today, not for Elton.

But I will find positives. What it did do was redeem Elton John for me. Briefly, tiaras, tantrums and 40 years of “Do you know who I am?” fell away, and I saw Elton as he was back then, trying to do something different, make himself immortal, with all mistakes in front of him yet to make. His ego still bubbling under, the music speaking for itself.

But while I can appreciate what it was, and what it means to a generation, I can’t like it. I doff my cap to it, I would give it my seat on the bus, but Goodbye Yellow Brick Road will never have my heart.

Would you listen to it again?

Perhaps if my life depended on it.

​​A mark out of 10?

5

RAM Rating - 10

Guest Rating - 5

Overall - 7.5

So that was week 72 and that was The Guyliner. Turns out he’d never listened to Goodybye Yellow Brick Road before because his ‘80s output was appalling and Yorkshire. So we made him listen to it 3 times and he hated most of it, disliked some of it, and liked a bit of it.

Next week, Richard Osman listens to something from 1973 for the first time. Until then, here’s Bennie and the Jets on Soul Train

Guest listener - Richard Osman

Who’s Richard Osman when he’s at home?

That guy from that thing.

Richard’s Top 3 albums ever?

The Lemonheads – It’s A Shame About Ray

Snoop Doggy Dogg – Doggy Style

Stone Roses – Stone Roses

(The more I’ve thought about this the more I realise I have really bad taste in music. At one point ‘my Manics playlist on Spotify’ was in my top 3)

What great album has he never heard before?

For Your Pleasure by Roxy Music

Released in 1973

Before we get to Richard, here’s what Martin thinks of For Your Pleasure

All right, everyone.

Ever since Thursday’s result, Richard and I have been inundated with requests for an edition to cheer people up. So, it’s with some relief that we’re not doing Berlin by Lou Reed but an album where a Geordie falls in love with a blow up doll.

Let’s go.

1) Actual Best Dad Ever

Regular readers will know that I barely mention the parents of the artists we feature. Typically they’re either abusive or controlling dads who I have no interest in or they’re so inoffensive, invisible to the story, that they barely warrant a mention.

Then along came Bryan Ferry’s dad, straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel.

Ferry Snr worked in the mines of Newcastle, looking after pit ponies, and hardly had a penny to his name. Despite this, he courted the love of his life in the most amazing manner - by riding to her on a carthorse, wearing a bowler hat, spats, and a sprig of Lavender in his buttonhole.

And he did this for 10 years!

Eventually he saved up enough money to get married and the couple decided to mark their union by giving birth to Bryan Ferry.

A fitting end to the courtship I’m sure you’ll agree.

Ferry adored his dad so much that when he became a star he asked him to move in to his Surrey Estate. Rather than winding down in splendour, or trying to control his son’s career, Ferry Snr opted for a much more sensible option - he mostly rode around the grounds on a lawnmower wearing a mad hat.

What a lovely image.

Oh, and I’ve saved the best bit till last.

His name was Fred. Fred Ferry.

Cheered up? I know I am

2) The Childhood Bit

Contrary to the St Moritz playboy image we now have of Ferry, he started life in his own version of Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen Sketch. The family had no phone, no car, no TV and, in the backyard, a tin bath hung on the wall.

“We were so poor I couldn’t even afford air for my blow up doll”

Still, the early signs of a desire for decadence were there and Ferry has since spoken of feeling “out of place” as a child. On Saturdays, he worked at a local tailors and poured through magazines showing impeccably dressed men stepping out of sports cars. He dreamt of being an actor, a mountaineer, and even a cyclist winning the Tour de France.

Yet the defining moment came in 1968. The young Ferry hitchhiked to London and saw the Stax Revue - Otis Redding and Sam and Dave taking the stage in some of the best suits he’d ever seen.

“It was just what I wanted to see and hear”, he said.

3) The First Attempts at Stardom bit.

Fresh from his experience in London, Ferry returned to Newcastle and formed a band with a terrible name - The Gas Board. Mike Figgis, future director of Leaving Las Vegas, was also a member and claimed that Ferry couldn’t really sing. Others also questioned his commitment, saying he never rehearsed and just had a habit of turning up at gigs with a couple of girls on each arm.

Not really sure what sort of lead singer The Gas Board were after to be honest. 

Anyway, Ferry was subsequently sacked and moved to London to further his career, initially making do in a series of day jobs including van driver, antiques restorer, and, best of all, ceramics teacher at an all -girls school in Hammersmith. His approach to education was as follows -

“If they wanted to talk about their boyfriends, I’d talk about their boyfriends. If they brought records in, I’d play them.”

Obviously they sacked him.

With The Gas Board and The School Board now in the past, he then attempted to infiltrate an even more frightening organisation - King Crimson.

Fortunately, he failed at that too and couldn’t get past the audition. So, tired of everything, and everyone, he acquired a piano, started to write his own songs, and went looking for the rest of Roxy Music.

4) Sliding Doors

First up, Ferry places an ad in The Melody Maker and recruits a fella called Andy Mackay - a trained saxophonist and oboe player.

Good start Bryan, every band needs one of them.

A short while later, Mackay was on the tube on the Northern Line and, unbeknown to him, a friend was waiting on the platform at the next stop. As the doors opened, the friend had the choice of the two carriages - an empty one and the one that Mackay was in. He opted for the latter, saw his friend, and was quickly recruited into the band.

His name was, wait for it, Brian Peter George St John Le Baptiste De La Salle Eno.

Whereas Mackay played terrible instruments, Eno couldn’t play any at all. Instead, he owned 32 tape recorders, a little black book of “ideas”, and performed experiments like recording a pen hitting a tin lampshade and then slowing it down to see what it sounded like.

It sounded like someone slowly hitting a tin lampshade with a pen.

Remarkably, though, these were the credentials that led him to become the band’s “sound doctor” and, subsequently, hero to many - a non-musician who was small on technique but big on ideas. In fact, many other people doing do this intro would probably dedicate the whole thing to his “genius” and his “influence”. I get that, but I still think that Ferry sums him up the best -

“With Eno, there were always wires everywhere.”

Ferry finds the rest of the band but, unfortunately, the recruitment process is relatively boring so I won’t go into it here. The only thing of note, and remember I’m trying to cheer people up, is that they had a bass player who used to be in a band called Mouseproof.

5) 1971

The band needed a name and exclusively narrowed it down to a list of old cinemas, places of classical grandeur and ornate interiors where the public would go to forget about everything outside - Odeon, Gaumont, Essoldo.

They settled for Roxy, a name both mundane and evocative, and then expanded it to Roxy Music after finding out an American band, undoubtedly awful, had got there first.

With a cool sounding name and a collection of mostly amateur musicians, Roxy Music spent most of 1971 as a “behind closed doors” project that eschewed the traditional route of gigging their way into form. There were too many disparate parts that no one quite knew what direction they were taking - a revolving door of bass players and guitarists, that fella on the oboe, a Geordie that people thought couldn’t sing, and Eno being Eno.

The assumption, probably correct, was that no one wanted to see that supporting Badfinger in 1971.

So instead, Ferry tried something else.

He put together a tape of the band’s songs, added loads of stickers of little aeroplanes flying over tall buildings skywriting the name “Roxy”, and sent it to a journalist at the Melody Maker. The journalist loved it and phoned up the number written on the back on the box.

In the subsequent interview, Ferry was quoted as saying -

“We’ve got a lot of confidence in what we’re doing and we’re determined to make it in as civilised way as possible. The average age of the band is about 27, and we’re not interested in scuffling. If someone will invest some time and money in us, we’ll be very good indeed”

What a Gent.

6) 1972

There are a couple of quotes about Roxy Music in 1972 from two of my heroes that have always intrigued me.

Michael Stipe of R.E.M once affectionately referred to the band as “the car wreck that was Roxy Music in 1972”

Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian wrote the following line in their song Me and the Major -

“He remembers all the punks and the hippies too

And he remembers Roxy Music in ‘72″ 

1972 is the key year then. So what happened?

Well, firstly they released their debut album which contains a brilliant song with a car number plate for a chorus.

Secondly, they finally left the house and started playing these chaotic gigs where Ferry would be acting weird at one end of the stage and Eno would be doing his best to match him at the other. Already a palpable tension between them, they divided the fan’s affections and created a "Bryan camp” pitted against a “Brian camp” - one half of the audience migrating to Ferry and the other half to Eno. By all accounts, the gigs were haphazard and raw but, refreshingly different. Whilst Bowie and Bolan were glam versions of a musical heritage, Roxy Music, for better or worse, were making it up as they went along.

Thirdly, they released Virginia Plain and appeared on Top of The Pops looking like a band that had been shipped in from another planet to play in front of an audience of tank tops and Keith Chegwin haircuts.

But more than all this, their attitude and image was different - a combination of excess and refinement that set them apart from their glitter contemporaries, the status quo, and Status Quo.

Ferry said in an interview at the time that “whilst other bands wanted to wreck hotel rooms, Roxy Music wanted to redecorate them.”

As usual, he’s put it far better than I ever could.

7) For Your Pleasure

The crowning moment of all of THIS - a genuinely brilliant album that often gets overlooked and ignored by a modern audience that has convinced itself Roxy Music were never THIS good.

But they were.

In Every New Home a Heartache is simultaneously unnerving, funny, gothic, post-modern, and spectacular. Not just because of how it must have sounded then but because of how it sounds now. 

Nothing quite prepares you for the introduction of the doll. 

Beauty Queen proved that Ferry WAS a singer and Editions of You is obviously the best punk song ever written.

For an album that was released over 40 years ago it somehow feels preserved, rather than dated. It creates its own images and doesn’t let early ‘70s nostalgia get in the way. Morrissey said it was the only truly great British album he could think of.

In response to Morrissey’s kind words, Ferry said -

“I believe that sort of sad chap, Morrissey, is a progeny of mine. Though I don’t think he is nearly as virile”

I know. He’s done it again.

8) A final word on Ferry.

The future has been a little unkind to our hero.

Whilst Eno’s brilliance has drained a lot of the critical acclaim away from Roxy Music, and on to him, you can’t help but feel Ferry has been slightly overlooked. It now seems forgotten that they were HIS band and HIS songs. Instead, he’s been thrown under the bus and lumped in with a load of 80s groups like Johnny Hates Jazz - a soundtrack to some terrible wine bar that has since closed down.

And when you’re down on your luck, making comments about how cool the Nazis looked and having a son that campaigns for fox hunting probably doesn’t help the situation. It adds to an overall suspicion of Ferry, a sense that he’s anything but a working class hero and he’s betrayed his roots. You can get away with being earnest and dressing down, apparently, but being aloof in a great suit is a hard act to pull off.

But that’s the problem with it not being 1972 anymore. You look at him now through the prism of everything that’s happened since and you scratch your head a bit.

Whereas in 1972, it was a different story - a classic about a kid who took the best from his dad and went to the big city for an adventure.

Aren’t they the stories we all love?

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on For Your Pleasure

In one of those Pitchfork retrospective reviews that I like so much they gave it 10/10

Q magazine ranked it the 33^rd best British album ever.

So, over to you Richard. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Roxy Music utterly passed me by, and if I thought about them at all I just had an image of a guy in a suit singing in a weird voice about things I wasn’t interested in, so I never felt the need to get involved. I think in my brain the words ‘Roxy Music’ were entirely represented by Kevin Eldon singing ‘Virginia Plain’ on ‘Big Train’.

I was interested to know if I was missing out on something, so I texted my brother ‘Mat out of Suede’ – who has utterly unimpeachable taste in music – to tell him I was doing the RAM Album Club.

“I’m listening to some iconic Roxy Music album. I chose it because I’ve always instinctively hated Roxy Music and I don’t know why. But I think you’re a fan?”

He replied instantly.

“Wait, you don’t like Roxy Music?”

I know my brother well enough to know how to wind him up next.

“I liked ‘Jealous Guy”

His measured reply.

“You’re dead to me”

And so, headphones on, let’s Roxy.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

On my first listen I have to say I was feeling vindicated. I liked some of the songs, but I just couldn’t get past Ferry’s mannered voice, with its quivers and quavers. I hope I speak for many of us when I say that often when I listen to music I like to pretend that it’s really me singing and all of my friends and exes are watching me on stage and saying “Wow, I didn’t know Richard was such an amazing singer! And apparently he wrote this amazing song himself too!” Even if I’m doing Gin & Juice by Snoop.

If I imagined them watching me singing ‘Do The Strand’ I knew they’d be saying  “Why is Richard singing in that weird voice? I’m glad we split up”

Again I texted to enlist the sage advice of Mat out of Suede.

“Why does he sing like that?”

“Partly a pop-art affectation, spoofing 50s crooners. Partly adenoids”.

“Why don’t the rest of the band say ‘we’ve written some really great songs, why are you spoiling them by not singing properly?”

“Because he’s one of THE great British voices, and because they come from art-school backgrounds and an ultra-styled surface is important”

My brother is cleverer than me, as evidenced by my reply.

“I honestly get embarrassed listening to his voice. I’d rather listen to The Fratellis”

Mat doesn’t take the bait and instead sends me an essay about why Brian Eno is a genius.

Okay, round 2

On second listen I start to be reeled in, firstly by Beauty Queen, which I don’t think is supposed to be the best song on the album, but seems like a fabulous tune to me, and then by Editions Of You which Mat had told me was the prototype for most of British punk.

I had secretly hoped that I was going to end up loving this album, but then stumbled over the final three songs on the album, The Bogus Man, Grey Lagoons and For Your Pleasure. Each has the odd little bit that would be a good middle-eight in a Killers song, but these three songs go on for 20 minutes. The Bogus Man is 9 minutes long, which I felt inexcusable. I started noticing Bryan Ferry’s voice again.

Ok, stop getting angry about that Killers reference. Third listen.

Well wouldn’t you know, I love this stuff. Do The Strand which I’d sort of dismissed as a novelty song for some reason, is clearly a pop gem and Beauty Queen has now taken residence in my head. Strictly Confidential is a bit ‘Anthony & The Johnsons b-side’ for me, but Editions Of You and In Every Dream Home A Heartache get us back on track.

I’m not ever going to get on with the last three songs on this album, but it was the 1970s, I understand that. Perhaps I would have written a 9-minute long song if Viennetta hadn’t even been invented yet.

I texted my brother.

“I really like this album”

He took a while to reply, but I thought he’d be impressed by my new-found taste. He finally answered.

“What? Even ‘The Bogus Man’?”

This is a guy who knows his music.

Would you listen to it again?

I don’t think I would ever choose to listen to the whole album again, but I am very grateful to have been introduced to the 4 songs I particularly love, and I think I have been cured of my fear of Roxy Music. I am delighted to have found another great band, and ashamed it has taken me so long.

I still think I might prefer Roxy Music without Bryan Ferry though. Please supply your own ‘Brexit’ joke here.

​​A mark out of 10?

8

RAM Rating – 10

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 9

So that was week 73 and that was Richard Osman. Turns out he’d never listened to For Your Pleasure before even though he has a brother who is Suede. At first I thought that was weird but then I remembered my brother works in Sainsburys and I haven’t got a nectar card. So we made him listen to it 3 times and, eventually, he grew to love most of it – with a little help from his brother.

Next week, Peter Hitchens listens to Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks for the first time. Until then, here’s Editions of You.

Have a great week

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - Peter Hitchens 

Who’s Peter Hitchens when he’s at home?

Author and journalist, currently columnist for ‘The Mail on Sunday’, born 1951.

Peter’s Top 3 albums ever?

Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony

Arcangelo Corelli, Concerti Grossi  

G.F. Handel ‘Messiah’  

What great album has he never heard before?

The Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks

Released in 1968

Before we get to Peter, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of The Village Green Preservation Society

All right, everyone.

So here we are, the final edition and I’m over the moon it’s The Kinks.

Let’s go.

1) Ray and Dave.

Everything started so well for Ray.

Born in 1944, he was the youngest member of the family and star of the house. Six older sisters would take turns in mothering him, reading him stories, and playing records to send him off to sleep.

Sounds like the perfect life. But then Dave was born.

“I fucked it up for him,” Dave said. “He was the baby of the family, the centre of attention for three years. Then I came along and stole his thunder.”

Great start then - a baby is born and, with that act alone, he’s already ruined his brother’s life and set in motion a rivalry that lasts to this day.

2) Opposites.

The brothers would grow up as very different children.

Ray was insular, thoughtful, and would often go for long periods without speaking to anyone. He also suffered from insomnia and, when he did finally get some sleep, he was prone to bouts of sleepwalking. His parents became so concerned with Ray’s subdued behaviour they sent him to a child psychiatrist for counselling.

Dave, on the other hand, was hotheaded and enthusiastic - determined to get as much fun out of life as possible. He threw mud at his neighbour’s washing lines and, on his third day at school, he threw some plasticine at his teacher because she shouted too much.

Basically, he was good at throwing things.

Despite these personality differences, though, there’s an interesting story that explains the strong connection between them.

When Ray was 10 years old he was admitted to hospital for an operation and, at one point, it looked as if he might die - only an emergency tracheotomy saved him. Meanwhile, back at home, Dave suddenly awoke in the middle of the night - covered in sweat and gasping for breath. He hurried into his parents room, gesturing to his throat and, in between his erratic breathing, pleaded for help. His mum calmed him down, wiping away his sweat and giving him glasses of water until his breathing was under control again.

She would later discover that Dave woke up from his sleep at exactly the same time the hospital was performing the tracheotomy on Ray.

Spooky.

3) Thwarted Ambition.

Ray had looked into the future and decided he didn’t want the mundane life that his parents lived in Muswell Hill. He wanted to be a leader, a star.

He threw all his efforts into sport and became a talented footballer, athlete, and local boxing champion. A star of track and field, until he injured his back by falling awkwardly on a goalpost.

Next up, a girl passed him a note during class and said he’d been voted “Best Bum in School”. A nice compliment, one of the best, but in 1960 that wasn’t the career move it probably is today.

And Dave? What was he up to?

When he wasn’t throwing things, he spent a large portion of his childhood building a papier-mache mountain in his room that got so big he couldn’t get it out of the door.

Now put yourself in the position of their parents for a moment.

They’ve spawned a nice bum with a bad back and an early version of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of The Third Kind. What would you do? Probably the same as them - buy them both guitars and hope they stop mucking about and become one of the best bands of the ‘60s.

Ray of course played his guitar thoughtfully and artistically, leaning over the instrument and picking out Spanish style arpeggios and complex chord arrangements. Dave, on the other hand, just cranked up the volume and played a load of power chords as powerfully as he could.

Course he did.

4) The Kinks.

I’m going to rush through the whole “forming the band and getting signed thing”.

All you really need to know is they recruited Peter Quaife on bass and a succession of drummers until they settled on Mick Avory. That just left a vacancy for a singer which was temporarily filled by a young Rod Stewart, and a variety of others, until one of them smashed his mouth on a microphone during a gig and exited the stage to tend his wounds.

Without a ready made replacement, Ray stepped up and that was that.

They were subsequently signed to Pye and given the opportunity to record three singles to prove themselves.

No pressure.

5) The Third Single.

The first single was a mediocre cover of Little Richard’s Long Tall Sally. It reached number 42 in the charts.

The second single was a Ray Davies original called You Still Want Me? It fared even worse - failing to chart at all.

With one single left to save their career, Pye were already considering dropping them.

Ray then comes into the studio and plays the opening bars of You Really Got Me on a piano, originally thinking it would be a nice, relaxed tune that might give them a chance in the charts.

Whether he was right we’ll never know, because as soon as Dave heard it he realised it would sound better speeded up, through an electric guitar. Not only that, he also thought it would be a good idea to take a razor blade to his amp so it sounded “different” and then added one of the great solos to top it off.

You Really Got Me went to number one.

It was Ray’s song, but Dave, by being Dave, had saved The Kinks.

6) Meet The Beatles.

The Kinks and The Beatles came face to face on the 2nd of August at The Gaumont Cinema in Bournemouth.

As the Kinks’ support slot drew closer and closer, Lennon was hanging about on stage basking in the adoration of an audience that were there for him. Ray Davies watched him mark his ground and felt anxiety at the prospect ahead - supporting The Beatles, the biggest band in the world.

Still, he walked up to Lennon and said,

“It’s our turn. You’re on after us”

Lennon, the absolute Scouser, immediately put him in his place.

“With The Beatles, laddie, nobody gets a turn. You’re just there to keep the crowd occupied until we go on.”

Laddie? I’m surprised Dave Davies didn’t throw something at him from the wings.

Chastened by the experience, The Kinks meandered through their set whilst a Beatlemania audience chanted for their band. They then finished with You Really Got Me and the place went nuts.

“Later I watched The Beatles play and actually heard some fans screaming "We Want The Kinks”“, said Ray.

London 1 Liverpool 0.

7) Singles 3 - 8.

I have a theory about these early Kinks’ singles - they all tell one story.  

In You Really Got Me, Ray is madly in love. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can’t even sleep at night (he never could to be honest) and says "See, don’t ever set me free. I always wanna be your side.”

He continues in All Day and All Of The Night. Still desperately in love, he now wants a 24 hour companion and the only time he feels alright is by her side - “I believe that you and me last forever.”

He then goes through the ups and down of a fragile romance. Impatient and fed up in Tired of Waiting of You, followed by one last optimistic plea to her in Everybody’s Gonna be Happy - including you and me my love.

But then he throws the towel in for good.

In Set Me Free he literally tells her to do just that and, in See My Friends, he declares that “She is gone, she is gone and now there’s no one there.” He ends by telling her he’ll probably be ok because he’s got loads of great mates that lie around in rivers.

Finally, in Till The End of The Day he validates everything by saying “Baby I feel good, from the moment I rise, till the end of the day”. He’s back on that 24 hour thing again and tells her that they’re both free and their life can now begin.

There you go, over the course of a few singles, through a continuing narrative, Ray writes himself out of the Boy/Girl love song.

8) The Ray Davies Wedding Story.

Really short this, but worth including.

Ray got married and Dave was the Best Man. Ah, that’s nice. They’ve finally realised that blood IS thicker than water and put all their differences aside for Ray’s big day.

However, when the time came for Dave to do his duty, and give a speech, no one could find him. The sisters organised a search party and eventually discovered him upstairs having sex with one of the guests.

I told you it was short but, I think you’ll agree, definitely worth including.

9) The Best Band Fight Story Ever.

A lot’s been said about the rivalry and explosive relationship between the two brothers but, arguably, the biggest fight was the one between Dave Davies and the drummer, Mick Avory.

It all started in the hotel, the night before a gig. Dave and Mick had got into an argument and Mick, the tallest drummer ever, had punched Dave in the face - giving him two black eyes. The next night, Dave went on stage wearing sunglasses to hide his defeat and stood there smarting the whole night.

Suddenly, in between songs, he turns to Mick and says something.

Mick immediately leaps from his drum kit and hits Dave over the head with his drum pedal, leaving him unconscious on the floor.

He actually thought he’d killed him and, with his own preservation in mind, he ran out of the venue and tried to lie low - a difficult task for someone wearing an Edwardian hunting jacket and a pink frilly shirt. Still, he managed to find sanctuary at a friend’s house and nervously passed the time away with all the anxiety of someone who thinks he’s just murdered the lead guitarist of The Kinks.

Of course, he hadn’t. Dave awoke in hospital covered in blood but lived to fight another day.

So what had Dave said to him during the gig? What could be so bad that it would lead to such an altercation?

During a break in songs, Dave had turned to the drummer and said “Hey Mick, you’d be better off playing the drums with your cock mate.”

As last words go, they’re up there with Nelson’s if ask me.

The band would continue to fight at nearly every opportunity and were eventually banned from playing America after a chaotic tour where they beat everyone up.

10) Singles 9 - 13.

Having freed himself from the love song, and an American audience, Ray then wrote a series of English character studies - Dedicated Follower of Fashion, Sunny Afternoon, Dead End Street, Waterloo Sunset, and Autumn Almanac.

What sets these songs apart is the lack of broad brush in the storytelling. The attention to detail, to the minutiae, holds sway and Ray produces little vignettes of living with cracks in the ceiling, men in frilly nylons, and a couple that are so in love they imagine Waterloo NOT to be the grimy train station that it undoubtedly was, but a sun drenched vista that solves everything.

My particular favourite is Autumn Almanac - the best song Blur never wrote and a pre-emptive strike against the chaos of Sky Sports’ kick off times.

“I like my football on a Saturday,
Roast Beef on Sundays, alright.”

Dave Davies may have saved The Kinks but it was now Ray’s eye, and his imagination, that took them in another direction.

11) The Village Green Preservation Society.

And this is where it took him. This is where we end.

Like all nostalgia, it’s a con, an outright lie - a symptom of someone with an active imagination who wasn’t happy with the present day.

Yet, like all nostalgia, it’s seductive in what it promises and careful in what it avoids.

Was there ever a Merrie England? Of village greens and cheerful cricketers? Was it ever this bright? This clear?

I’m not sure it was and I’m equally sure that throwing our lot into “preserving the old ways” is a recipe for disaster. We all have our own imagined past but those that shout the loudest about theirs are often those that are the most unhappy today.

That, more than anything, worries me - an Unmerrie England that takes refuge in its past.

So I take two things.

The songs are great, the songs are really great, but it won’t be God, or even The Kinks, that save the little shops.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

So, over to you Peter. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

What’s wrong with me is a puritanical desire to be serious, and an actual inability to take popular music seriously. I pretty much gave up listening to pop music round about the time Radio London (Big L, 266 on the medium wave band, not the BBC one)  went off the air in 1967, and absolutely gave up soon after I crashed my motorbike in the late summer of 1969, an event that strengthened my wish to be serious.  

I’d been listening to tin pan alley , I can now work out, since about 1963 (’Pick of the Pops’ on Sunday afternoons was eventually permitted by my boarding-school headmaster who until then had insisted nobody could listen to the radio unless he could make his own set, which a couple of my schoolfellows did, so subverting the ban). So I was in on the beginning of it, and it was all catchy, memorable singles which quickly came and quickly went, and the waters closed over them. I don’t think anyone ever expected to hear them again once they’d dropped off the charts, and it was amazing how quickly singles vanished from the shops once they had stopped selling. 

As a result, they’re great memory-joggers, instantly taking me back to certain long-ago moments.  But most of them are pretty artless. I never thought it was anything more than an ephemeral pleasure, and I still don’t, though one or two singles e.g.  ‘We’ve Gotta Get out of this Place’ and ‘Meet on the Ledge’,  appealed to my gloomy instincts more than the rest.  

It seemed to have run out of energy and originality, and after Big L, BBC Radio 1 was impossible to listen to, for some reason. I saw the whole thing as entertainment, ice-cream for the mind,  except for Bob Dylan, which was something separate anyway, and I kept up an interest in him until ‘Blood on the Tracks’ in 1975 (I’m surprised, on looking this up, to find out that this was so late. My lying memory would have put it four or five years earlier) . Even then, I suspected (and still suspect) that Dylan was having us on,  most of the time. Who was going to dare to laugh, however pretentious and obscure he got? Mind you, I get the same feeling about ‘The Waste Land’ . 

A schoolfriend urged early Pink Floyd on to me, but I just got bored.  And then, though utterly musically uneducated, I found out about Beethoven, whose music is like a Cathedral, whereas this stuff is like an asbestos youth club hut.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

Bored. Bored. And Bored again. Did you think I was a nostalgist? Common mistake. The past is dead, that’s the point about it.  I quite liked  ‘Days’, which has a faintly elegiac, plangent tinge to it, especially if you can’t make out the words properly.  I have heard it somewhere else, long ago, without having any idea who was singing it (this is quite common for me – once you stop listening systematically you have quite a lot of these half-memories and then discover that everybody else knows what they are called and who sang them. This can be quite funny sometimes.   Mostly,  the album (as we must now call it)  reminds me of that early Pink Floyd,   especially something which began ‘I’ve got a bike, you can ride it if you like…’ - and these were grown men, singing this nursery stuff. And then more boredom. And then even more boredom. I looked up the lyrics, to see if there was anything there either. Banality, and a feeling of someone trying to fill up an LP (as this must have been when it started life). It’s a search for meaning, but it doesn’t find anything. But by then I’d found revolutionary socialism, which had plenty of meaning, even if it was all a mistake.  

HANG ON A MINUTE! SHOUTS MARTIN

So, I received Peter’s piece sometime in May and whilst I liked it, I wanted more. I hadn’t really got to know him through his writing and felt a little brushed aside - like one of those fellas in the Question Time audience who has made a cheap point just for the applause. But no one applauded.

An over sensitivity on my part? Always.

Still, I did want more. It’s the final edition and I wasn’t happy with it being left there.

With that in mind I contacted Peter and what follows is the correspondence that took place on a bank holiday some time ago. It wasn’t intended for publication, it was just two fellas emailing each other, but once I realised it gave me everything I was after, I approached Peter and he kindly agreed for me to use it here.

Here it is.

Martin:  Hi Peter. Thanks for your piece and apologies for not getting back to you sooner. Had a crazy weekend with Tim Farron listening to NWA for the first time - you know how it is.

Anyway, I love it.

If, between now and mid-June, you have anything to add then please do as, if anything, it’s a little short. 

The second part may be hard to expand on as you have nothing really to say about the album other than what you’ve said. Except maybe, did you have a memory of The Kinks from the '60s? 

The first part is fascinating though. I could have read so much more. You were the right age in what people often say is the right decade to be the RIGHT age (I wouldn’t know, I was born in 1971). Yet there seemed to be a clash and you didn’t want ice cream. In fact, you hated ice cream so much that you haven’t ever tasted it since.

Don’t you miss ice cream? On a hot day?

Appreciate I’m imposing on you to do more and you’re already done enough by giving your time for free. But it’s only because I know me, the readers, and the ice cream makers - we all want more.

I probably overplayed the ice cream analogy there - forgive me.

Peter: I’ll take another look in a week or two, and if I feel the urge, I’ll add. But not for the moment. Ice-cream’s a thing for the young. I didn’t hate it. I just reckoned I was too old for it. I used to like corned beef sandwiches and Corona fizzy drinks, too, but I don’t now. These days ice cream hurts and rots my teeth and makes me fatter.

If I remember anything about the Kinks from the 1960s it is the words ‘…to the end of the day’. I can’t recall what came before or afterwards.

To be ‘the right age’ you had to have experienced the world before pop culture. I wasn’t sure it was a good thing, and now I’m sure it wasn’t.

Martin: Firstly, delighted you’re carrying on the ice cream analogy. I feel much better about the whole thing now.

Secondly, I’ve always been more than a little annoyed that the '60s is now told through it’s stock footage – mini-skirts in Carnaby Street and everything’s swinging all over the place. I’m sure it wasn’t like that, it must be a lie. Mustn’t it?

Our club is about trying to tell different truths, to come at things from other angles. The '60s as a concept now seems overplayed to me, but it’s still incredibly pervasive. So I guess I’m just interested in hearing a different take for a change.

It can’t have been fab and groovy in Darlington, and it sounds like it wasn’t for Peter Hitchens. Not that I’m comparing you to Darlington - I’ve never actually been. 

But, yes, only if you feel the urge and have the time.

Peter: I was mostly in non-university Oxford (and non-university Cambridge, oddly enough). There was definitely something going on, a kind of shiver through the landscape, a feeling of weakened authority and infinite possibility.
Take a look at the original film of ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ with Julie Christie and Terence Stamp, (so much better than the recent remake, and now available on DVD)  or Antonioni’s ‘Blow-Up’, and you’ll get a hint of how thrilling it was. Those girls!  The feeling of a summer morning and an endless blue day coming (like almost all English days, it clouded over quite quickly, of course).

But the ordinary world carried on often quite obliviously, while all this gestated in the middle of it.

Peter Hitchens in the ‘60s

There’s a lovely Youtube film (a tiny bit of Carnaby street but lots of more normal London) in which B. Dylan singing ‘Don’t think twice, it’s all right’ (that’s how to find it)  is played as background to a series of scenes from London as it was in about 1965. 

It was *exactly* like that.

Martin: Did you ever see Bob Dylan in the '60s? My imagination tells me it must have been brilliant but that’s the problem with my imagination - it’s endlessly cheerful. In reality, I suspect I would have had to sit next to a beatnik who wore a beret and smoked Gauloises all evening.

It’s interesting that use colour to describe what was happening. 

As someone who wasn’t there and has only seen it on the TV it always strikes me that the '60s is about a transition from a supposedly black and white world to full technicolour. Then I remind myself that I’m being misled again - I.e. People actually live in colour. There were no black and white lives, just televisions.

Yet, there was a promise, or at the very least a suggestion, of an endless blue for you?

Just to touch on a previous email. I had some corned beef recently and was reminded of how nice it was. It’s the beef that works best with vinegar I think.

Peter: No, never saw Dylan. Too young and too broke to do the necessary travel, I think. In any case, I think you’d have had to be around in the early sixties, and in the USA, to see the real thing, before he went electric .There’s a wonderful Youtube of him singing Tambourine Man (one verse missing) at Newport, before he was a megastar. You can see the wind blowing in the trees. 

My wife (a Londoner) did see Mick Jagger in his dress at the Hyde Park Brian Jones benefit. Of course that time was lived in colour, though in fact the colours of clothes, cars,  buses, advertising billboards etc were different (and cruder) in that largely pre-synthetic age. And it was a lot shabbier and more run-down, even in the parts that were supposed to be OK. But now it somehow seems more real in black and white, which underlines that these events are impossibly unreachable, and the people you can see in them are irrecoverably altered or dead.

Here’s an odd thing, coincidental for me but for nobody else.

I think you noticed my recent interest in Sandy Denny . This isn’t especially musical, though I think her voice in ‘Meet on the Ledge’ and ‘Farewell, Farewell’ is fit to break your heart if you were alive then, and know what happened to her later. Notice how Irish, or at least gaelic, she gets, in ‘Farewell, Farewell’ and that strange skirling yell she lets out in ‘Ledge’ . Ancestry coming out, I think.

Well, I’d never heard ‘Farewell, Farewell’ until about a year ago. And now I have, I cannot get it out of my head and I am quite sure it was about that terrible crash they had in early 1969, and I know why Richard Thompson never sings it any more.  I didn’t know about that then.

But I had my own crash later that same year in which, by the grace of God, I hurt nobody but myself. And, my goodness, that was the end of the blue day. From then till now, I’m set apart from everyone who’s never been in such a thing. The veil comes right off, you feel real fear, and real pain, and then real remorse, and the old naked skull is there grinning at you, as he does on all those old tombstones. I’ve never been the same since, though I have to walk about ten miles before the old broken bone begins to ache, and the scars aren’t where anyone can see them. 

Poor old Sandy wasn’t in the Fairport crash, of course. She had a different kind of crash later. But look at her little happy face, with the big red scarf, in that picture of them all in the midst of a load of hay, and you’ll see what the sixties were like at the beginning. Then look at the later pictures of her (not the posed, glamorised ones, the ordinary ones, a bit bloated and sagging) and you’ll see what happened later. We all thought we were playing harmless games in a safe suburban garden. And we were in a jungle.

Martin: That’s incredible Peter. I hope the after effects of the crash continue to lessen. I’ve never really had my Fairport Convention phase yet, although I know I will. All these things are about timing don’t you think?

I mean, if you weren’t there, absorbing it at the time, then you have to choose wisely when approaching “the great works”.

Catcher in the Rye, Portnoys’ Complaint - best appreciated when adolescent I suspect. 

Blood on the Tracks - well that’s probably a different thing. For me anyway.

And Village Green? Well probably anytime other than when it came out, in 1968.

So, I think so much of what’s in the past is probably ahead of me. Sandy Denny, Beethoven, and Lawrence of Arabia - a film I try every 10 years and still can’t grasp. 

Yet people say you had to be there. So much of any generation teases future travellers as if their time and their works of art can only be enjoyed in that context. But I’m never sure that’s as vital as the personal - the place YOU exist in when the approach the past. 

Throughout the last year and a half of running this club it’s the thing that’s struck me the most - there is no objective good or bad, of course there isn’t, there’s just people colliding with things at different times, with different sentiments. 

Peter: Oh, I’m very grateful for the crash. It did me very little harm, killed or seriously injured nobody else, and did me a great deal of lasting good, though it could explain why so many things seem obvious to me that are baffling to others, and why I am such a physical coward. 

I had no Fairport phase or moment. I was just thrilled by ‘Meet on the Ledge’ at the time, and amazed long years afterwards to find it had become a sort of classic. I also intuitively understood it at the time, in a way I now recognise was more or less accurate. The poor things ( well, some of them) were already doomed when they sang it, in their various ways.

Films are very personal. And when ‘Lawrence’ first came out, in an era of 405-line black and white TVs with ten-inch screens, there probably was no more powerful aesthetic experience available. Though I’m surprised it doesn’t resonate at all, as David Lean was a genius (‘Great Expectations’ was far better, but never mind) and I can instantly recall several scenes, from ‘no prisoners!’ to Lawrence bringing the Arab boy into the officers’ mess in Cairo after Aqaba, and the filthy hospital in Damascus.

Beethoven, well, just listen to the slow (second) movement of the Seventh symphony, with no distractions to hand, through headphones, preferably at twilight. Do it three times. You won’t regret it. Then you can move outwards from there.

And there is an objective measure, though few of us know how to use it.

‘Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought  
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!    
When old age shall this generation waste,          
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe          
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,            
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all            
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

RAM Rating - 9 

Guest Rating - he didn’t give one and I felt i’d imposed too much on him at that stage.

Overall - 9 plus “he didn’t give one and I felt i’d imposed too much on him at that stage” divided by two

So that was The Final Edition and that was Peter Hitchens. Turns out that he’d never listened to The Kinks before and, once he did, he decided that he hated them. But then we had a lovely chat and that’s really all that matters. 

Before we leave you for an extended break, I just want to thank two groups of people.

Firstly - The Guests.

This blog was only possible because of the participation and enthusiasm of over 80 guests. Whether famous or anonymous, each one has delivered personal pieces and provided unique insights into their lives and the albums they’ve reviewed. I can’t thank them enough for the time and effort they have given but, more than that, for the enjoyment they’ve provided.

Secondly - The Readers.

When I started an online blog, largely promoted via social media, I was conscious, and fearful, of the fact that so many of these things can descend into a cat fight of abuse from people who are “right” about everything. Thankfully, though, our experience has been the opposite and the feedback, on the whole, has been tolerant, enthusiastic, and positive. My biggest thanks go to everyone who has read these pieces, shared them, and commented on them. It’s YOU that has made this such an enjoyable experience for me.

Finally, we’ll be releasing a book of some of our editions (and some new ones) at the end of this year. You can pledge for that here and, again, I want to say a huge thanks to everyone who has pledged so far - 

https://unbound.co.uk/books/ram-record-club

Let’s end on a song. Here’s that video of London in the ‘60s that Peter referred to.

See you soon.

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - J.K Rowling

Who’s J.K Rowling when she’s at home?

I write novels and screenplays. For light relief, I get into rows about politics on Twitter.

Jo’s Top 3 albums ever?

1. Revolver, The Beatles. 

2. Broken English, Marianne Faithful. 

3. Changes daily. Yesterday it was White Light, White Heat by the Velvet Underground. Today it’s Hozier by Hozier

What great album has she never heard before?

Violent Femmes by Violent Femmes

Released in 1983

Before we get to Jo, here’s what Martin thinks of Violent Femmes

I was talking to my friend Ben about this album the other day.

“Did you know most of these songs were written by a kid in school?”, I asked.

He didn’t.

Like most normal people, he probably assumed that one of the best debut albums ever was written by an adult - someone who had matured and deleted all his teenage drafts.  For example, when Kurt Cobain was in high school the best he could come up with was a song about Spam.

Yet Gordon Gano, future lead singer and songwriter for The Violent Femmes, somehow managed to do something incredibly rare - he created the definitive account of being a teenager, by a teenager.

Ben and I talk about this. The sheer madness of writing songs in school, sat at the back of class, or in between homework and football practice. What are the chances of that being any good? If Gano can write Blister in The Sun at school, then how good were his English essays?

“Surely he was the most popular kid in class?” Ben says. “It’s like Ferris Bueller The Album!”

I see where he’s coming from, except he’s wrong. Because everyone loves Ferris and the whole school rallies around him just because he has one bloody day off sick. They even make a film about it.h

No, this isn’t “Ferris Bueller The Album.”

Ben tries again.

“You’re right, it’s more like an album made by his mate Cameron - the weird one”

I don’t tell Ben he’s wrong again because, frankly, he’ll just keep going with the Ferris Bueller comparisons before probably moving onto Diary Of A Wimpy Kid. So I laugh and just agree.

“Yeah, it’s as if Cameron made an album.”

But it isn’t. Because at least Cameron had Ferris and Ferris is the most popular kid in the world.

Gano, on the other hand, doesn’t have anyone so ends up writing stuff like -

“And I’m so lonely
I just don’t think I can take it anymore
And I’m so lonely
I just don’t know what to do
And I’m so lonely
Feel like I’m gonna crawl away and die
And I’m so lonely
Feel like I’m gonna
Hack hack hack hack it apart”

Fast forward a couple of years in the life of Gordon Gano.

It’s 1981, he’s found a couple of mates, and they’re now busking outside a Pretenders’ gig in Milwaukee - singing those same songs he wrote in school. It doesn’t feel like a launch pad for success but, of course, in this story, it becomes exactly that.

James Honeyman-Scott and Chrissie Hynde from The Pretenders walk past the bedraggled trio and are so impressed that, rather than throwing them a couple of dollars, they offer them a slot on their show that night. Within an hour they go from the street corner to playing in front of 2000 people.

It is, without question, the most successful piece of busking ever.

From there, they secure a record deal and in the summer of 1982 go into the studio to record their first album - Violent Femmes. And the best part is they change NOTHING. It’s the same old songs, the same sound they made on the street, and the whole album is largely played out using just an acoustic guitar, an acoustic bass, and a snare drum.

Only on the the 9th song, Gone Daddy Gone, do they make a concession to the fact they’re now in a studio and they’re not busking anymore - they use a Xylophone.

All they needed now was an album cover.

Enter Billie Jo Campbell, a three year old who was walking down the street with her mother in California.

A stranger approaches and asks the mother whether he can photograph the girl for an album cover he’s working on and pays her $100 for the privilege. He then tells the girl to look into a derelict building where he assures her they’ll be loads of animals roaming inside. So, without posing or even really knowing what was going on, she gets on her tip toes and peeks through the window - trying to see what she’s been promised.

After a while, she pulls back from the window -

“There are no animals in there”, she says.

And she’s right, there weren’t. But by that point the photographer had already got what he wanted and he moved on.

Violent Femmes was released in the summer of 1983 to minimal fanfare and poor initial sales. When it was recorded, Gordon Gano was just 18-years-old.

Fast forward to 1989, to my own life.

I’m 18 years old and mooching about The Venue in New Cross, an indie club from a golden age before The Red Hot Chilli Peppers released Give It Away and ruined everything.

During this particular evening, a song comes on I’ve never heard before - a thin, whiny voice asking why he can’t get JUST ONE FUCK! Immediately, it cut through the twee and gothic melodrama that I’d been used to and grabbed my attention.

That voice again - “THERE’’S NOTHING I CAN SAY WHEN I’M IN YOUR THIGHS.”

It was exactly what I wanted - a song about someone who couldn’t get laid and then, when it finally happens, they’re unable to talk. What 18 year old wearing a second hand cardigan can’t relate to that?

After it finished, I approached the DJ.

“What was that song you just played mate?”

“Add it Up by The Violent Femmes”.

Obviously, should a situation like this happen today I could have mainlined Spotify on the way home and listened to it on repeat. But this was 1989, you couldn’t just listen to a song whenever you wanted to. So, faced with the prospect of waiting a whole week for the possibility of hearing it again, I decided to take the only sensible course of action open to me - I went into a record shop the next day and handed over £10.99 for an album on the strength of one song.

It looked amazing, but it sounded even better. The whole thing, from start to finish, blew my head off. That voice, the simplicity of the lyrics and the way it seemed, in places, like a rough draft scattered with annotations and unfinished thoughts.

“Third verse, same as the first.”

“8, I forget what 8 was for.”

Who cares what 8 is for? I didn’t.

Yet for all it’s angst and triviality, there was something else which I admired. It seems weird to focus on it now, but Violent Femmes was released at a time when albums had sides that couldn’t be shuffled or disorganised. You had to get that order right and I’ve always thought, well since 1989, that no one has done it better than them - 2 sides of 5 songs where the first two are fast, the third slows you down, the fourth picks you up, and the fifth provides a finale.

Put simply - you can’t put these 10 songs in any other order and make them better than THIS.

It became a staple, an album I haven’t gone six months without listening to since I found it in 1989. And, during our break this summer, I was horrified to realise that WE hadn’t even done it!

If it wasn’t for JK Rowling I’d probably still be repeatedly punching myself in the face.

Fast forward, one last time, to 1997.

Billie Jo Campbell, the girl on the cover, is now 18 and The Violent Femmes have slowly made it. In various times, in different places, people have found this album that was quietly released in 1983 and it’s now sold millions of copies. Grosse Point Blank, a romantic comedy, rolls it’s credits to Blister in the Sun whilst Minnie Driver and John Cusack drive off into the distance.

The songs have seeped through to a new audience, they’re being played at college parties and Billie Jo Campbell is hearing them for the first time.

How does she feel to be reminded of her 3 year old self and the photograph that she was tricked into? How did she feel when it came back to her as an 18 year old?

It’s tempting to think that she would have been like any other teenager - simultaneously energetic and anxious about what the future holds. If that was true, then maybe she found the same qualities in the album that I did when I was 18, the same account that Gordon Gano wrote when he was in high school.

Who knows? What I do know is that Billie Jo Campbell decided to pursue the best option open to her.

She became a massive fan of The Violent Femmes.

She framed the album cover and put it on her wall.

She used the fact that SHE was the girl on the cover to help boost her confidence and meet boys.

And in 2008, she married one of them.

Roll credits.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

So, over to you Jo. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

I’m not quite sure how the Violent Femmes passed me by. I turned 18 the year this album came out, but I was obsessed with The Beatles at the time. Of contemporary bands I really loved, the standouts were the Smiths and the Psychedelic Furs. I loved any band with a great guitarist. I played guitar myself, mostly alone in my bedroom.

It’s possible that I heard the Violent Femmes but I’ve forgotten. They could easily have been part of the informal seminars on alternative music I received from the muso I dated in my late teens. His parents were Dutch and we hung out mostly at his house, because we were allowed to smoke in his attic bedroom. I’ve got happy memories of sunlit wooden rafters and smoke rings and walls covered in black and white pictures he’d clipped out of NME, while the Dead Kennedys, Jah Wobble or the Birthday Party blasted out of the speakers. Setting aside the fact that I had a pair of very long-lived goldfish named after Guggi and Gavin of the Virgin Prunes, I never became a whole-hearted convert of his favourite bands. Much as I adored him, I didn’t share Muso Boyfriend’s attitude to music: his scorn for the accessible and tuneful, the baffling mixture of irony and obsession with which he regarded his favourites, and his conviction that if the herd hates something, it’s almost certainly brilliant.

The NME was Muso Boyfriend’s bible and it took a hard line on nearly anything commercial or popular, talking about bands in the top ten with the kind of contempt most people reserve for child abusers. A few real Gods could be forgiven commercial success, obviously: people like Bowie or the Stones, but the likes of Nik Kershaw might as well have been Thatcher herself as far as NME were concerned

When the Stranglers released ‘Feline’ and it went to number 4 in the album charts, an NME journo went into meltdown, ranting about the fact that people who’d never heard ‘Rattus Norvegicus’ were now calling themselves Stranglers fans. You could almost see the flecks of spittle on the page. (I’d bought ‘Feline.’ I didn’t own ‘Rattus Norvegicus.’) And I still vividly remember an NME interview with Gary Kemp from Spandau Ballet, a band I never liked, though I admired Gary’s chutzpah in agreeing to talk to them. The interviewer’s disapproval of Gary and everything he stood for reached a glorious peak with the phrase ‘this whorehouse called success.’ I never made much headway arguing about this sort of thing with Muso Boyfriend, though, so after a bit of snogging I’d cycle home and listen to ‘Rubber Soul.’

My first live gig and my first music festival were both with Muso Boyfriend: Big Country at Dingwalls in Bristol, supporting act: John Cooper Clarke, the punk poet. We spent my 18th birthday at the Elephant Fayre in Cornwall, hitching there from South Wales. I’d told my parents some whopping lie about how we were getting there, probably that Muso Boyfriend’s older brother was driving us. Half an hour of unsuccessful hitching later, it suddenly occurred to me that my parents had said they were going shopping later. This meant they might soon be driving past us, so I kept diving for cover every time a Honda Civic came into view.

We finally got a lift, thank God, so I survived to enjoy my birthday at the Elephant Fayre. We pitched the two-person tent by a marquee full of Rastas selling tea and hot knives and saw the Cure, whom Muso Boyfriend was weirdly keen to hear, in spite of the fact that they’d actually been on Top of the Pops. The only other act I remember well from the Elephant Fayre is Benjamin Zephaniah. He did a poem about having the shit kicked out of him by a policeman. Twenty odd years later, I was on a team with him at a kids’ book quiz at the Edinburgh Book Festival.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I didn’t Google the band or the album before listening, because that felt like cheating, so I knew virtually nothing about them except that this came out in 1983. When I told my friend Euan which album I was going to review he assured me I’d like it, but his favourite album’s by The Cramps, so that wasn’t entirely reassuring.

Wanting to concentrate, I go outside to my writing room in the garden, which has a wooden ceiling. This, unlikely as it may seem, is relevant information.

So I put on the Violent Femmes and hear a catchy acoustic guitar riff and I think, this is great! I’m going to love them! I’ll get a Violent Femmes T-shirt, buy the entire back catalogue and bore everyone rigid with my new obsession!

But then the vocalist kicks in and I have an immediate, visceral response of ‘no, scratch everything, I hate this.’ The change of mood is so abrupt my mind goes blank. I try to analyse why I moved from appreciation to intense dislike in a matter of seconds, but the best I can do is ‘I’ve heard voices like that before.’

By the time I reach track seven, all I can think about is the Toy Dolls’ cover of Nelly the Elephant. I’m not proud. I know this says more about me than the Violent Femmes.

After I’ve listened to the whole album once, I look down at the place where I was supposed to be making notes and all I’ve written is: ‘his upper register sounds like a bee in a plastic cup,’ which the professional writer in me recognizes as ‘not 500 words’. Feeling glum, I postpone a second listen to the following day.

It’s raining next morning and I can’t be bothered to go and find shoes, so I don’t take the album into the writing room, but stay in the kitchen. With minimal enthusiasm, I put on the album again.

This is weird. The vocalist is actually, um… good. Where did the bloke I heard yesterday go? Now I’m not busy hating him, I notice all the great hooks and how they sometimes sound like a manic skiffle band. There’s a nice bit of bluesy slide guitar and an actual xylophone on ‘Gone Daddy Gone’. Plus, when he half talks, half sings, Gordon Gano (I checked the album credits) sounds a bit Lou Reed, and I love Lou Reed. Apart from being the vocalist, Gano also happens to be the guitarist I fell for yesterday.

I can’t understand why he grated on me so much first time round. Beneath my wooden ceiling, he was the Ur-voice of all those NME-approved punky bands I never liked: nasal, whiny and brash. Today, sitting beside my kettle, he’s raw, catchy and soulful.

Only then, staring into a mug of tea, do I have the little epiphany that you, clever reader, saw coming a mile off. Listening to an album that reeks of 1983, in a room that bears a passing resemblance to that attic of long ago, was a mistake. It wasn’t Gordon Gano who was the problem: it was me. I was listening with a ghostly eighteen year old ex-boyfriend at my shoulder, and behind him, a chorus of snarling early eighties NME journalists, all ready to jeer, because even if I like the Violent Femmes, I’ll like them in the wrong way.

So the sun came out and I took the Violent Femmes back across the wet lawn into the writing room, telling myself that it’s not 1983 any more, and this is between me and the Violent Femmes, nobody else. On the third listen, I realized that I loved the album. Before I knew it, I was listening to it over and over again. Only then did I let myself look at their Wikipedia page.

The Violent Femmes, I read, were ‘one of the most successful alternative rock bands of the 1980s, selling over 9 million albums by 2005.’ Yes, the Violent Femmes ended up in that whorehouse called success, and you know what? It only makes me love them more.

Would you listen to it again?

Yes.

​​A mark out of 10?

8.5/10

RAM Rating - 9.5

Guest Rating - 8.5

Overall - 9

Who are The Pissed Jeans when they’re at home?

They’re a punk/noise band from Allentown, Pennsylvania, and have one of those names my friend Helen would hate.

Their previous name, which she also would have hated, was “Unrequited Hard-On”.

Just like Pink Floyd, they all met at school.

Why Love Now is their 5^th Album and was released by Sub Pop on the 24th of February 2017.

What’s it like?

Really good.

Lots of reviews are calling it things like the “first post-Trump record” and setting it within a political context that probably ignores the fact that it was conceived and recorded before the US election. I don’t really understand any of that so will just stick to saying it’s “really good” and it’s only 37 minutes long.

It might even be the best record of the year so far*

*I’ve only heard 3.

What insight do you derive from their lyrics?

There’s a song called Activia where the singer repeatedly says “I’ll be your Activia”

I’m not sure if The Pissed Jeans know this, but Activia is a popular yogurt brand in the UK so I thought this was an interesting way to make a declaration to someone.

Also, Helen eats Activia every morning for her breakfast so this might be her way in to the band.

Maybe they knew this all along.

Cunning.

What’s the cover like?

Amazing.

Unlike Pink Floyd, I reckon I could be mates with at least 2 of them.

RAM Rating

8.5 out of 10

If you like this album you might also like?

Happy Days

Who is The Stormzy when he’s at home?

The Stormzy is a hip hop/grime artist.

He’s from Thornton Heath, South East London, which is just down the road from where I grew up - Beckenham.

Not that I’m trying to start a turf war or anything*

*I am

Gang Signs and Prayer is his first album and was released on #Merky Records. Every single song on the album is currently in Spotify’s top 50.

What’s it like?

Hmmm.

I like the angry hardcore Stormzy but the album is ruined by the occasional appearance of a gentler version who has “feelings”.

Maybe those songs would work better on a different album, in a different phase of his career, but they just seem out of place here. Imagine listening to NeverMind The Bollocks for the first time only to find that track 4 is a cover of I’veNever Been To Me by Charlene. 

Yeah, it’s basically like that. 

Still, the angry hardcore stuff is REALLY great.

What insight do you derive from his lyrics?

It’s good to see people finally writing songs about beef.

What’s the cover like?

Amazing.

They’re off to a fancy dress party as the IRA and the little one looks like he’d rather go as a character from Star Wars.

I have a lot of empathy with that child.

RAM Rating

7.5 out of 10

If you like this you might also like?

Beckenham.

They have a sweet shop in the high street that still sells those hard liquorice sticks and half day closing on a Wednesday.

Do they have that in Thornton Heath?

Do they fuck.

Guest listener - Robin Ince

Who’s Robin Ince when he’s at home?

I present a Radio 4 science show w/ Brian Cox (“sexy face of particle physics” tm) called the Infinite Monkey Cage, write and present documentaries on things like Bertrand Russell, Schrodinger’s Cat, Melancholy and Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds, and until recently, I was touring my stand up shows endlessly, but have now ended that after all.

Robin’s Top 3 albums ever?

No More Shall We Part by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds

Meat is Murder by The Smiths

Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven by Godspeed You! Black Emperor

(these were my immediate thoughts, I have no real top 3)

What great album has he never heard before?

Led Zeppelin II by Led Zeppelin

Released in October 1969

Before we get to Robin, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Led Zeppelin II

Of all the stories, this would make the best film.

It begins with a montage of Jimmy Page’s greatest hits.

As a session musician, he had recorded with The Who, The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, and virtually every other band that needed a job doing in the studio. Often working 3 sessions a day, 7 days a week, he would just pop in, nail his part, and then move on again - a bit like The Littlest Hobo if The Littlest Hobo was a really good guitarist rather than a dog that enjoyed the occasional caper.

But anyway….

With all these contacts Page became one of the most well-known, but least famous, guitarists of the mid ‘60s. He’s so good that The Yardbirds hatch a plan for him to replace Eric Clapton but Page turns them down. After Clapton eventually leaves The Yardbirds, they approach him again but he still wasn’t interested - this time suggesting his friend Jeff Beck as the perfect replacement. 

So here he is, emerging from the credits as a man living in the shadows - content to ply his trade as THE go-to session musician in town.

Just to flesh out the character a bit more, it’s worth noting that he’s been into the occult since he was 15, loves all things Aleister Crowley, and looks a bit like an extremely posh woman who has just heard she’s made it to the final of The Great British Bake Off.

Then in 1966, he has the idea that drives the plot.

Jeff Beck had started work on a solo project which, for some reason, involved recording a version of Ravel’s Bolero - imaginatively titled Beck’s Bolero. To help him out he recruited some of the finest musicians around - John Paul Jones, Nicky Hopkins, Keith Moon, and, of course, Jimmy Page. As they rehearsed, Page imagined a group that was beyond anything else at the time. What if they could just cherry pick from existing bands and create a new one where EVERYONE played their part to perfection? A great guitarist, a hooligan rhythm section, and a brilliant singer.

He floated the idea to the assembled company and Keith Moon gave his response.

“Yeah, it’ll go down like a lead zeppelin.”

Everyone laughed their heads off. Everyone except Page, who was completely serious. So much so that he then sets about trying to break up some of the best bands around to realise his vision. He approaches Stevie Marriot from The Small Faces as a potential singer and continues telling Keith Moon, and subsequently John Entwistle, that their futures would be best served by leaving The Who.  

But it never happened.

Moon and Entwistle stayed loyal and Stevie Marriot’s manager phoned up Page and asked him how he would like to play the guitar with broken fingers. As if that wasn’t bad enough (it is) Page then increasingly found himself out of work. The original R&B groups were moving away from killer riffs towards overblown orchestral arrangements and, in some cases, a theremin.

Frankly, it all went a bit The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore.

So, with nowhere else to turn, he finally did the one thing that he’d been avoiding for two years - he joined the bloody Yardbirds.

Again, cue montage. This time of a band outstaying its welcome, a band out of time. Images flashing past the screen of matching suits and moody blues against a backdrop of flowers and kaftans, of people blowing bubbles and looking at them as if it’s the first time they’ve seen a bubble.

The montage tells you that something has to give and inevitably it does. After two years of trying to keep up The Yardbirds finally call it a day and play their final gig at a college in, of all places, Luton - the worst end to a story ever 

Page walks away from the wreckage of The Yardbirds frustrated, yet determined. He may only be the third most famous guitarist the band has produced but he’s had a taste of the limelight, albeit flickering, and he wants more. In particular, he still has this idea that he’s been nurturing for two years - this imagined band that, if he could just find the right people, would blow everyone’s head off.

Then out steps another character from the shadows - Peter Grant, the 25 stone co-manager of The Yardbirds. Equally frustrated with the bit part role he’s had so far, he joins forces with Page and gives him the confidence he needs. Encouraging him, cajoling him - one of those massive cockneys who doesn’t need to shout because the quiet, deliberate version is even more terrifying.

“Go and find the band and I’ll do the rest”.“

Of course, it’s a great scene - obvious despite itself, but nevertheless a great scene. And what a character Grant is, what an introduction to the film. The absolute size of the bastard, the implicit threat - you can’t take your eyes off him.

Page sets off to find a singer and approaches a fella called Terry Reid who goes by the nickname of "Superlungs”. Sounds promising, but Reid turns down the opportunity, backing himself to make it as a solo artist. Instead he recommends another singer - a 19 year old called Robert Plant.

Page’s first question, which is brilliant, is “what does he look like?”

Reid says he looks like a Greek God and that people call him “The Wild Man of The Black Country” - that industrial part of the West Midlands where people get really annoyed if you call it Birmingham.

But then Page gets the bad news - Robert Plant is already in a band and they’re called Hobbstweedle. Personally, that would have been it for me. No matter how great he looked or how well he sang, anyone that was in a band that sounded like an unwelcome guest ale would have been crossed off the list.

But Jimmy Page was obviously more tolerant, or desperate, and he actually travelled to Birmingham to see Hobbstweedle live.

It goes without saying that they were awful, all flower and no power, but Page was impressed enough with Plant that he invited him to his house to get to know him. A couple of days later Plant turns up, probably with an open shirt, and the two men spar with each other as they play records and smoke dope.

Page’s mind is working overtime, asking himself all the right questions underneath a cover of geniality. “Is this the guy? Is this actually THE guy?

At this stage he’s not sure, but then Plant does himself the biggest favour imaginable.

"Oh yeah, I know this drummer too”

He then tells Page all about John Bonham - a brick shithouse of a drummer who was also from Birmingham and went by the name of Bonzo. Intrigued, Page goes to see him play in the unlikely setting of a country club in Hampstead and his head fell off. Bonham was the loudest, most powerful thing he’d ever seen. He immediately finds a phone and calls Grant.

A telephone box in Hampstead. A close up - “I’ve just seen this drummer. We need to get him.”

After over 40 telegrams had been ignored, Grant turns up at Bonham’s council flat in Birmingham and uses his powers of persuasion to recruit him. Eventually, he accepts.

Two down, one to go.

John Paul Jones, one of the originals from the Beck’s Bolero session hears that Page is on the lookout for musicians and, prompted by his wife, puts a call in.

“I hear you need a bass player.”

And that was that, the line-up was complete. It’s a bit like how The Magnificent Seven were formed but with a lot more trips to Birmingham.

With the band now formed, they book their first rehearsal in a tiny room beneath a record shop in Soho. Imagine the scene - people are upstairs trying to buy Dusty in Memphis and below Led Zeppelin are playing for the first time. Suddenly the place starts shaking and records start falling off the wall, landing on people’s heads. It’s total chaos. Meanwhile, downstairs the band have clicked straight away. After just one song, they’re grinning from ear to ear and each one is amazed at how brilliant the other three are. What started out as a speculative rehearsal ends with them thinking they’re in the best band in the world.

Page’s imagined band is now a reality, and they’re far beyond his wildest dreams.

They play a few gigs under the banner of The New Yardbirds (thankfully not The New Hobstweedle), and then get to work recording their first album - the entire project funded by Page and recorded in under 30 hours. Meanwhile, Grant plays his part to perfection, negotiating a deal with Atlantic Records after deciding that British labels were a waste of time and that he might as well just go and break America. 

The band receive a huge advance and, in my favourite part of the film, John Bonham uses his share to do up his council flat with some oak panelling, loads of chandeliers, and some gold taps. Bless him, he doesn’t yet realise that he’ll spend the rest of his life in the biggest band in the world and, instead, acts like a bricklayer who has won the pools.

At some point during all this, The Old Yardbirds send a “cease and desist” letter to The New Yardbirds so, remembering Keith Moon’s quip from 2 years before, they change their name to Led Zeppelin. It was Grant who suggested altering the spelling to Led and Page agreed, concerned that otherwise people might mispronounce it - as in “lead guitar”

He was right too. I know at least 3 people who would have done that.

They release their first album, brilliantly titled Led Zeppelin, and head straight to America. Again, cue montage. This time of newspaper clippings, of sold out shows, and audiences that are getting pulverised from New York to Los Angeles.

It’s during this mayhem that they write and record their second album. 

Like all the best things in the '60s it’s done in a rush, by a band on the run that never set out to create something that some idiot like me would be writing about 47 years later. They can’t even be bothered to think of a name so just call it Led Zeppelin II. It works though, the whole things works - it’s incredible.

And now the final scene, the end of the film.

Led Zeppelin arrive in Boston where they’re scheduled to play for one hour. After they walk off stage the place goes nuts so they come back and perform 12 encores. 12 ENCORES! After that, they walk off stage again and this time the audience literally drag them back on. By the time they’re done, the gig has lasted four and a half hours and they’ve run out of songs.

They walk off stage for the last time, exhausted, and greeted by a joyful Peter Grant. He hugs them and lifts them all off the ground at once.

There’ll be sequels of course, overblown and excessive, but the original ends here - a freeze frame of Peter Grant with the whole band in his arms. And if the film has been made properly you won’t have heard a single Led Zeppelin song yet. But now you do, when the credits roll you hear Bring it On Home.

Sitting in the cinema you think “is this it? Is this what all the fuss was about?” A wailing harmonica? A singer trying to sound like Willie Dixon? Maybe you get up to leave, maybe you’re half way to the exit, but then after exactly 103 seconds that riff comes in, through one ear and out the other. Then that hooligan rhythm section that bounces and pauses all over the place.

You sit back down. You hide in your seat and hope no one notices you. You’re grinning from ear to ear - ready to watch the whole thing again.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Led Zeppelin II

In a retrospective review, Pitchfork gave it 10/10

Rolling Stone Magazine ranked it the 75th best album of all time

So, over to you Robin. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

I missed out on heavy rock, metal or whatever genre title must be given - blues rock, mouth organ apocalypse etc etc. I fell in with the Oxfam overcoat mob, and it was all Joy Division, Smiths and 60s Motown round my teenage head, plus a lot of John Barry. I was 20 by the time Nirvana’s Bleach and Mudhoney’s Touch Me, I’m Sick started beating me around.

Maybe then I should have started working backwards, but I didn’t.

I think it was because of the denim of my neighbours, who were heavily patched and with walls adorned with Robert Plant images that also made me think it might not be for me. It all seemed so very masculine. Also, I am not too keen on too many songs that are about “my woman” “I need my woman” “woman you make me heavily damp” and I thought that might be what it was all about 

You’d think Aleister Crowley would be my entry point but, no, that didn’t do it either. Plus, I don’t like Lord of the Rings so that didn’t help.

Things started to change when I realised I liked prog…some prog. Then there was watching metallica ay Glastonbury, and having a hilarious night at The Classic Rock Awards (Tequila supplied by Cleo Rocos)

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

I didn’t love Led Zeppellin 2, but I do wish that I had listened to it when I was younger.

I have grown to really like later Led Zeppellin, but I missed out on earlier stuff. It was a combination of Abel Ferrara’s use of Kashmir in Bad Lieutenant, seeing The Song Remains the Same, and John Paul Jone’s production work with REM that prodded me, far too slowly towards “blues rock” or “hard rock” or whatever it is called. All the bits in between the bits used by Top of the Pops in Whole Lotta Love were magnificent and It’s only now that I realise how wonderful it is that a non singles band were the theme of TV’s biggest celebration of singles. They would never be on Top of the Pops but they were on Top of the Pops all the time – if you know what I mean.

I no longer fear this sort of rock, and it makes me want to buy a lot of blues records. I’m still not sure which songs are just about sex and which ones are about Bilbo Baggins. I am quite keen on drum solos at the moment, frequently revelling in the enormously lengthy solo of Panic in Detroit (live at Nassau, from Bowie’s Station to Station tour), so Moby Dick was a treat. I like the idea, “how shall we deal with the complexity of Herman Melville’s lengthy novel Moby Dick? …why of course, let there be drums.” Great.

And I think The Lemon Song is about as “male” as I can get listening to a record before I have to pull the duffle coat hood over my head. It’s those juice running down the leg after squeezing me elements that make my 1940s Ealing movie face wrinkle and wince. This album is as old as I am, and it conjures up lurid images of a past that is not mine. As the snippets I’ve heard become a full piece of work it fascinates me how my mind and memories of late 60s, post Altamont images create a messy collage.

It doesn’t make me hanker for a past I never had, but the boldness of it all makes me wish this was a time when you could play something new and find it shocking (in a positive way). There is much contemporary music I love, Savages new album is superb, proper punching to the face and ears, but that shock of the new is a rarer thing. I envy those in 1969 who would have over a decade of hearing rapidly changing and reassembling genres and think, “what the fuck is this now?”

I am never as keen on the slower things, as with Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters, I listen and think, “no no no, do fast and loud, do fast and loud” and I worry that Thank You may be being sung to someone before they are then used as a sacrifice over Aleister Crowley’s blood filled ornamental pond that he kept behind the dismantled swannery.

So all in all, it’s Ramble on and Moby Dick for me.

The older I have become, the more I like elegant cacophony. Listening to this all now, I can see what a gateway this album is to so many musical possibilities. Oh look, it’s the blues, oh no hang on, speed everything up, collide with everything, then back to the blues.

I hope that most ramblers, as they seemingly mosey along a bridlepath near brambles and blackberries, secretly have Ramble On playing very loudly in their head. That is their secret.

I think Physical Graffiti is my favourite, but I realise there is much work to be done, and much to be listened to. This is another example of the annoyance of musical taste broadening.

I’m still trying to get to terms with jazz, then there’s so much prog, now I realise I want to go to Download.

Would you listen to it again?

Yes I would, but I would skip songs. And I would probably listen to Robert Plant’s Lullaby…and the Ceaseless Roar, which I bloody love.

​​A mark out of 10?

8

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 8.5

So that was Week 56 and that was Robin Ince. Turns out he’d never listened to Led Zeppelin II before because his neighbours wore denim and he didn’t like Lord of the Rings. So we made him listen to it and he really liked bits of it, even Ramble On which has a bit in it where Robert Plant is hanging around middle earth with his girlfriend and then loses her to that Gollum thing - a situation I’m sure we can all relate to.

Next week, Brian Bilston listens to something from 1972 for the first time.

Until then, here’s Bring it on Home from Led Zeppelin II

Lots of love

Ruth and Martin

xx

Guest Listener - Brian Bilston

Who’s Brian Bilston when he’s at home?

I write poetry but I (and others) would hesitate to call myself a poet. I have been sharing my verse on Twitter and Facebook for the last few years with varying degrees of success. I write about the stuff of everyday life, with a particular emphasis on buses and bin days. My first collection of poetry, You Caught the Last Bus Home, will be published with Unbound later this year - https://unbound.co.uk/books/brian-bilston

Brian’s Top 3 albums ever?

Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths

Different Class by Pulp

Doolittle by Pixies

What great album has he never heard before?

Harvest by Neil Young

Released in February 1972

Before we get to Brian, here’s what Martin of Ruth and Martin’s Album Club thinks of Harvest.

So much happens here, until the very best part - when nothing happens at all.

Let’s begin with a whistle stop tour of Neil Young’s childhood. 

1) He was born in Toronto in 1945 and, by all accounts, was a bit chubby and grinned a lot.

2) He then contracted Polio at the age of 5 and it looked like he might die.

I know, that escalated quickly didn’t it?

3) Fortunately he survived and, at the age of 10, decided he wanted to be a farmer and raise chickens. He even saved up his pocket money and bought a coop.

4) He swapped the coop for a guitar when he heard Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry on a local radio station called CHUM.

5) CHUM is the best name for a radio station ever and, whilst not integral to the story, I thought it was worth mentioning and dedicating a whole point to.

6) His family were constantly travelling and he ended up going to something like 11 or 12 schools as a result. That’s basically a school every year, which is a bit mental. Eventually he dropped out in the eleventh grade having decided that school wasn’t really for him. He should know to be fair - he tried loads of them.

And this is where we pick him up.

He’s 16 years old and walking at 6 ft. 3 with an air of detachment befitting of someone whose chicken farming days are behind him.

So he starts to get busy.

After a short lived spell in an instrumental band called The Squires, Young hits the road as a solo artist under the influence of Bob Dylan. What follows is a series of impromptu performances at Canadian folk clubs and coffee houses, a fleeting figure with a guitar strapped to his back and sideburns that had taken on a life of their own. Along the way he meets Stephen Stills and Joni Mitchell for the first time and on his 19th birthday he wrote Sugar Mountain - a song he must have known was a bit special.

His own image of himself at the time is of someone walking around in the middle of the night in the snow, wondering where to go next - always with another destination in mind. On the one hand he was thrilled at the troubadour life he was living, whilst on the other he naturally worried where it would all lead to as each year passed without any sign of breaking through.

Enter an admirer to give him a hand.

A bass player called Bruce Palmer was so taken by the sight of Neil Young just walking down the street that he introduced himself and suggested a jamming session.

Simple as that - “That tall fella looks dead cool, I wonder if he wants to come back to mine and be in a band with me.”

It worked though. Young went back to Palmer’s house and, before long, they formed a band called The Mynah Birds, with a young black singer called Ricky James. In keeping with the breakneck pace of this story they somehow got signed to Motown just three weeks after their first gig and were on their way to Detroit to record their first album.

But then disaster struck, which is why you’re not reading a piece about The Mynah Birds’ classic debut album.

Firstly, their manager had overdosed on heroin. Secondly, their singer was arrested and jailed after it was discovered that he was a deserter from the Navy. Neil Young returned to Canada a dejected figure and, in what must have been his lowest ebb, he was then beaten up whilst hitchhiking and left unconscious in a ditch. When he eventually came round, he decided to hit the road again.

He sold everything he owned, bought a hearse, and drove to L.A. to seek out an old friend - Stephen Stills.

It’s here that his next band, Buffalo Springfield, are formed. Despite being named after a particular type of steamroller they quickly caused a stir within the L.A. garage rock scene and were soon playing alongside contemporaries like Love and The Doors. They even had a huge hit, the Stephen Stills penned For What it’s Worth, which was quickly adopted as THE anti-war anthem of its time.

Success, but it was far from perfect. Stephen Stills was very much the boss and, to make matters worse, he often wore a cowboy hat. Young rebelled and felt he could never quite realise his own vision within the band - despite the fact that he was turning out brilliant songs of his own like Burned and Mr Soul. It’s also at this point that he experiences his first epileptic seizure and is put on medication that made him even more moody and withdrawn than he was anyway. After a couple of albums, multiple arguments with Stills, and a seizure live on stage, Young decided to quit Buffalo Springfield for good in May 1968.

You’d think he’d relax for a bit now, be a bit more Neil Young, and take it easy. But no, he’s on the move again.

Over the next 18 months he releases two solo albums, forms a new backing band with a bunch of tough guys called Crazy Horse, and starts hanging around with the singer songwriter and would-be serial killer Charles Manson. At one point he even tries to convince Warners to sign Manson in what would have been the worst decision by a record company since Motown decided to sign The Mynah Birds.

Inexplicably, he also decides working with Stephen Stills again is a good idea and joins the board of the worst firm ever - Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Why he thought this was a good idea is anyone’s guess and the inevitable happened straight away. Not only was he clashing with Stills, but now he had to put up with Crosby as well - the pair of them taking so much cocaine that they once considered calling the band The Frozen Noses.

Can you think of anything worse?

OK - Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, and Manson would be worse, but you get my point.

After one album that took over 800 studio hours to complete, the band descended into a predictable haze of drugs and competing egos. When Nash ran off with a woman that Stephen Stills fancied the band thankfully broke up for good - but not before Neil Young had wasted a load of time on them and some great songs like Helpless and Ohio.

He momentarily returns to Crazy Horse, but after seeing them beset with drug problems of their own he finally decides it would be best for everyone if he stopped messing about with a load of dysfunctional bands and just became Neil Young Solo instead.

He’s starting to slow down. He’s getting there.

In September 1970, he releases the brilliant After the Gold Rush and celebrates by moving to a big isolated ranch in L.A. And finally, it’s here that it happens - the pivot from which the whole story revolves.

Whilst moving some slabs of polished walnut, Neil Young does his back in and spends the next few months in bed.

At last, we now have him where he want him.

After a lifetime of perpetual motion and bad company he finally takes shelter in solitude and inactivity - it’s the part where nothing happens, where he takes time out and just reflects. He didn’t even have the strength to lift his electric guitar so he had to play an acoustic instead. And the songs start pouring out of him - songs about the old man that lived on the ranch, the friends he’d seen ravaged by drugs and, best of all, a song about a lonely boy that just packed it all in and went down to L.A. Gone was his clawhammer style, his wild abandon, and instead came a sparse finesse that suited the material perfectly.

It was the sound of someone recuperating - not just from his present ailment but from everything that had come before.

He now just needed an opportunity to do them justice in the studio and, again, a happy accident provides the solution.

In February 1971, Young travelled to Nashville to appear on The Johnny Cash Show and, whilst in town, had dinner on the Saturday night with a producer called Elliot Mazer. Throughout the dinner Mazer tries to convince Young to record his next album in his studio. After the meal Young effectively says “Ok, ready when you are”.

Mazer probably thought that meant they were going to schedule a slot in the studio for some future date but Young actually meant he was READY, i.e. let’s do it now. Mazer made a few calls to see who was about and rounded up a bunch of local session musicians including Kenny Buttrey who had played drums Blonde on Blonde. They went to the studio and started recording Harvest - THAT EVENING!

How mad is that? One minute you’re having dinner and the next minute, completely unplanned, you’re recording one of the best albums ever.

“Oh but hang on, who can we get to play drums?”

“Will the fella who played on Blonde on Blonde do?”

“Of course he will!”

The bass player was found because he just happened to be walking down the street at the time - a great example of why you should never stay in on a Saturday night.

But look, the whole thing gloriously comes together. Young is in charge like never before and embraces a bunch of musicians who were content to play from the sides. Everyone did as they were told and they did it REALLY quickly - most songs being completed in just a couple of takes. Any attempts at virtuosity and showmanship were outlawed in favour of a sound that was simple yet beautifully effective. On the song Harvest, for instance, Buttrey plays the whole thing with one hand yet it’s some of the best drumming you’ll ever hear.

After the sessions in Nashville, Young then enlists the help of The London Symphony Orchestra whilst on a visit to the UK and records a couple of songs with electric guitars in a massive barn on his ranch. Unbelievably, he invites Crosby, Stills, and Nash along to provide some backing vocals.

Once the album was finished Mazer set up a huge outdoor stereo system with one stack of speakers in the barn and another in Young’s house. He then plays it to Neil Young whilst he’s rowing in a nearby lake.

Young, from his boat, shouted “More barn!”  

It’s the image that sums the whole thing up for me - Neil Young having a massive laugh whilst listening to his new album on a lake.

Whilst some tough guy music critics have accused Harvest of being compromised, I prefer to see it as pure - as the work of a man who was forced to slow down and enjoy the sound of his own company. Glistening and still, it represents a noble ambition - that doing nothing can be productive, and being busy can get you nowhere.

That’s the album in a nutshell, the luxury it affords - the imposition of time and space, from the artist to the listener.

And it’s why I love it so much. Because, whatever I’m doing when I hear it, it always slows me down.

Martin Fitzgerald (@RamAlbumClub)

The Critics on Harvest 

In a retrospective review, Pitchfork gave it 9.3/10

Rolling Stone ranked it as the 78th best album of all time after initially deciding it was rubbish. 

Lol @ Rolling Stone

So, over to you, Brian. Why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?????

Requiem for the Things I Haven’t Done

My life is a litany
of things unachieved,
unbegun tasks, unfinished deeds;

the unwritten novels
and untaken goals,
unfulfilled words, unfilled holes,

jobs unhad
and places unbeen,
unchosen paths, unfollowed dreams,

unseen films, plays, artists,
and all that unlistening to
Neil Young’s Harvest.

But why? Such reasons
are long since lost
to the passing of the seasons.

Maybe I saw him wearing a hat.
I never like it
when musicians do that.

Or did I think it rather
the sort of thing
liked by my father,

some kind of AOR accident,
a middle of the road spill
on the Highway to Grownupville.

For I have never held
much stock
by either country or rock,

it said nothing to me
about my life
and besides, I was busy

in my unachieving prime.
I had so much not to do
and so little time.

You’ve now listened to it, at least 3 times, what do you think?

Harvesting

Out on a weekday, earplugs in,
iPod synced in to my plod,
preparing for the worst.

The opening bars plod along, too,
catch up with me and, together,
we head into the verse.

His tenor comes to greet me
with the resignation
of the condemned

and I listen in close
to the words he’s penned
See the lonely boy out on the weekend

and it’s then that I know
I have a new friend.

You made me feel, Neil Young.
You made me feel as though Spring had not sprung.
You made me feel when your songs were sung.

And although I thought
I would never be ready for the country,
I became a harvester,

went out into the fields,
reaped, gathered, stored.
A few crops left me bored

but I brought them in anyway,
and grew to love them over the days.
Because a man needs some maize.

But others rippled proudly
in golden fields
and those I played loudly

until pins and needles begun
to tickle my ears,
and the damage was done.

I carried these songs inside,
having chopped them down
with my scythe,

and ‘though I wonder
what my young self
might have thought,

I’ve been in my mind,
it’s such a fine line
that keeps me searching

for a heart of gold
and now that I’m getting old,
I think I’m getting Young.

Would you listen to it again?

I’m all out of poems now, thankfully.

Yes, absolutely. I found it something of a ragbag of an album but, almost in spite of itself, it somehow seems to hang together. The highs when they come are glorious and I can see myself returning to this many times.

​​A mark out of 10?

8

RAM Rating – 9

Guest Rating – 8

Overall – 8.5

So that was Week 57 and that was Brian Bilston. Turns out he’d never heard Harvest before because he may have seen Neil Young wearing a hat. So we made him listen to it and he loved it so much that he gave it an 8. 

I know, I wished hat and 8 rhymed too.

Next week, Bonnie Greer listens to something from 1966 for the first time.

Until then, here’s Out on the Weekend from Harvest

1. The Headmaster Ritual
2. Rusholme Ruffians
3. I Want the One I Can’t Have
4. What She Said
5. That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore
6. Nowhere Fast
7. Well I Wonder
8. Barbarism Begins at Home
9. Meat Is Murder

First time listener — Brian Koppelman

I’m a co-creator/executive producer/showrunner of the television series Billions. Before that I worked on a bunch of films like Ocean’s Thirteen, Solitary Man, Rounders, Runaway Jury, The Illusionist and I Smile Back.

Before all that, I was executive producer of Tracy Chapman’s first album.

Brian’s top three albums

I could list three Bob Dylan albums, and I wouldn’t be lying.

I could list three R.E.M. albums, and I wouldn’t be lying.

I could list three Lou Reed albums, and I wouldn’t be lying if one of them could be a Velvet Underground album.  

Before we get to Brian, here’s what Martin thinks of Meat Is Murder

My favourite origin story. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to tell it.

Anyway.

An eighteen-year-old Johnny Marr is in need of a singer. Despite his young age, he’s already been in a succession of failed bands. The usual story of the usual lads meeting up and giving it a go — giving it a go until it falls apart.

So he decides to turn it on his head.

He decides the rest of the band can wait. The bass, the drums, he’ll get to them in due course. They’re the easy bit. Before that, he needs a singer, a singer who can also write the songs and front the band.

And he’s heard of someone.

Someone that he met briefly at a Patti Smith gig three years before but has never come across since. A slightly odd, enigmatic character who is unemployed, has few close friends and spends most of his time in his bedroom. Somehow Marr thinks this might be his man and, in either an act of desperation or the most inspired piece of recruitment ever, decides to just turn up, uninvited, at his house.

Taking a mate along for moral support, he boards the number 263 bus in Manchester, resplendent in his best clothes to try and make a good impression — vintage Levi’s, biker boots and a US-style men’s flying cap that sits back from a tinted quiff. Yes, a tinted quiff. Imagine seeing that on a bus in Manchester in 1982.

‘Where’s he off to then? With his tinted quiff.’

'Dunno, probably going to form some band called The Smiths who will go on to become the most influential group of their time and inspire a religious devotion amongst their legion of fans. Give it a couple of years, this bus will be full of tinted quiffs. Mark my words.’

’Oh.’

Anyway, Marr and his mate get off the bus, head to 384 Kings Road and knock on the door. And nothing happens. They knock again. And nothing happens. Then, just as they’re about to leave, they hear the footsteps of someone slowly coming down the stairs and eventually the door opens. And there he is, with a cardigan and a quiff of his own — the twenty-two-year-old Morrissey.

Now as much as I love this story, we have to leave it for a moment so I can just give you more of an idea of who it was that came down those stairs that day.

So here’s the potted biography.

Like virtually all the pupils in his primary school, Morrissey failed his 11+ and was sent to a secondary modern school that specialised in preparing teenagers for the factory floor whilst simultaneously physically abusing them via an endless, and at times random, regime of corporal punishment. Basically that school in the film Kes. To save time, assume he went there.

Whilst other pupils were somehow hardened by the experience (there were accounts of some pupils fighting back and hitting the teachers) this definitely wasn’t the case for our hero, delicate flower that he is. He hated it, every minute of it. One his classmates has since eloquently said,

'He was too clever for us. We were all fucking dur-durs from the council estate fighting each other and robbing each other. He shouldn’t have been in that school.’

Another classmate has said that the young Morrissey avoided the bullishness of the playground and, during breaks, just wandered around the school’s corridors on his own, 'looking at things intently’.

Any attempt he made at social inclusion outside of school backfired too. He once went to watch Manchester United play and fainted because he thought George Best was beautiful. He once went to a fairground too, but someone head butted him for no reason.

So, naturally, he withdraws into his shell and provides his own curriculum. And it’s all the things we know and love about him — Oscar Wilde, British New Wave cinema, James Dean, Sandie Shaw, more Oscar Wilde, Republicanism, sixties girl groups, Feminism, The New York Dolls and Oscar Wilde. As a result, he leaves school with barely a qualification to his name but an exhaustive knowledge of the aforementioned subjects.

It’s worth noting here how much Morrissey is a product of the education system of his time. Had he been born in the nineties it’s reasonable to assume that he would have avoided the brutality and misery of a secondary modern and become one of the 40 per cent that now end up at university, where he could mix with like-minded souls and develop his interests further. No doubt he’d have done a degree in English literature and, instead of being the lead singer in The Smiths, he would now be working at Buzzfeed creating listicles of hamsters that resemble Lord Byron. 

But he never goes to university. Instead, he goes from dead end job to dead end job, punctuated by large periods of unemployment. All the while his lifelines being music and writing. He becomes the scourge of the music press, dispatching missives from his bedroom about all the things that they’re getting wrong, constantly writing letters to them and submitting his own reviews whether they want them or not — generally being an incorrigible pest. He also has a string of pen pals, back bedroom relationships with people around the country, where he displays early evidence of the narcissism that his detractors are all too happy to accuse him of. He opens one of his letters with —

'So pleased that you enjoyed my last letter. Why don’t you just admit that every word I write fascinates you?’

So here he is in 1982, a Lee Harvey Oswald character, a legend in his own mind if not quite in reality. A lonely, depressed, obsessive writer with an overdeveloped sense of his own destiny.

I’m not even joking with that comparison by the way. Look at these lines from Oswald’s diary —

‘Watch my life whirl away. I think to myself, “how easy to die” and a sweet death, (to violins).’

See what I mean?

If only a great guitarist had knocked on Oswald’s door in November 1963, the course of history may have been different. Maybe they did, maybe he wasn’t in.

Morrissey was in though. Of course he was. As he’s said since with customary drama, 'I was just there, dying, and he rescued me’.

So here we are, back on the doorstep, and now you have more of an idea who came down the stairs that day.

Morrissey invites Marr in and they go up to his bedroom where he sees a life-size cutout of James Dean, a bookshelf full of Wilde, Delaney, and Sillitoe and a load of seven-inches from Cilla Black to The Fall. It’s like Johnny Marr has walked into the bedroom of the biggest Morrissey fan in the world — which, in some respects, he has.

Marr picks out the B-side of a Smokey Robinson single, puts it on, and about an hour later they decide to form a band. Simple as that. The next time they meet, about a week later, they write The Hand That Rocks the Cradle and Suffer Little Children. Simple as that. They sit down and write two songs that will appear on the first album. Within a year of them meeting they’ve been signed by Rough Trade and their first single, Hand in Glove is released.

It’s incredible really, the extent to which there is no trial and error and nothing is discarded. They rush out of the blocks, two finished articles meeting each other and just getting straight down to it. Morrissey’s lyrics and Marr’s guitar — developed in isolation but coming together and working straight away. To put this into context, Lennon and McCartney met in 1957 and it took them five years to write Love Me Do. And, let’s face it, Lennon and McCartney were not known for wasting their time.

Morrissey and Marr then audition a load of drummers who fail to impress until Mike Joyce turns up, powered by magic mushrooms, and wins them over with his 'energy’. Andy Rourke follows suit on bass shortly afterwards and there you have it — The Smiths. Marr got to them in due course, they were the easy bit.

Over the next five years, the time it took Lennon and McCartney to release one single, The Smiths release 108 songs, four studio albums, three compilation albums and a live album. A phenomenal level of output made all the more remarkable by how brilliant it is. In fact it’s so good, so consistent, that the ten worst Smiths songs are better than any other bands ten worst songs - a bizarre award category that I acknowledge i’ve just made up..

On top of the recorded output they left a cultural mark too, which, ironically, took hold amongst the students of the colleges and universities that Morrissey himself missed out on. Whilst their devotion was tribal, The Smiths were anything but. From the commonality of their name, the mundanity of their dress, all the way to their pure pop sound, they were entirely inclusive. Neither goth, nor punk, nor new wave — they defined 'indie’ before it was even a term. They allowed people like me to dance with a cardigan stretched over my hands, with a fringe that covered a multitude of sins, with a load of other kids that were different, different just like me. Those halcyon days of the UK indie disco before Give It Away by The Red Hot Chili Peppers brought along a load of kids wearing shorts, who mostly danced with their hair, and generally ruined the whole thing because we were too soft and shy to do anything about it. The bastards.

But Morrissey. Our hero.

My dad absolutely hated him. Physically repulsed by a topless Morrissey, he once turned off Top of the Pops, complaining that he was trying to eat. But I loved him. Not in the religious, devotional way that Smiths fans are often accused of. I’m not vegetarian or celibate, and I’ve got huge issues with the film Saturday Night Sunday Morning. No, it wasn’t any of the baggage. It was him, just him.

He was one of the greatest front men I’ve ever seen, having way more fun than all the other eighties pop stars. Whilst his lyrics may have reflected a time when he was 'dying’, the success and adulation that followed very much brought him to life - ripping his shirt open and proposing, doing a pirouette with a load of flowers in his back pocket. Simon Le Bon wasn’t doing any of that, was he?

No, of course he wasn’t.

But Morrissey was. A back bedroom casualty that opened the door to a great guitarist and grasped his opportunity as if his life depended it. As if his very life depended on it.

And who knows, maybe it did.

Martin Fitzgerald

So over to Brian, why haven’t you listened to it? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU??????

There’s no way for me to talk about The Smiths without talking about R.E.M. first. Because R.E.M. saved my life.

Overly dramatic? Maybe. But as we are talking about The Smiths, I think overly dramatic is fine. Called for even.

And anyway, that’s how it felt, nineteen years old, driving around freezing cold Boston, Massachusetts in a Jeep CJ-7 with broken windows, the music of Michael Stipe, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills the only thing keeping me from turning the damn thing right into the Charles River.

I had come to their records a bit late; Fables of the Reconstruction had just been released. Before, in high school, I was a heavy metal fan — Van Halen, Iron Maiden, AC/DC — and a fan of American rock and rollers like Bruce, John Cougar and Pat Benatar. But then, college, a bad breakup, driving through the snow in the busted-up Jeep, and a friend handing me Murmur with the following instructions: 'Put it on while you are doing something else, cleaning, studying, reading, and just let it kind of seep in. They’ll become your favourite band.’ (And no, it wasn’t you, Martin, though it sure as fuck sounds as if it could have been).

I did as ordered, the album did as promised, and R.E.M. and I were, forevermore, bound together.

From there, I dove headlong into The Replacements, The Cure, Hüsker Dü, and back into The Clash and Wire and The Velvet Underground and Lou and every other band of that lineage. Every other band, that is, except The Smiths. I avoided The Smiths with the same focused determination I used to avoid the girl who had put me in a perilous state of mind in the first place.

Here’s why: I didn’t think you were allowed to like both Morrissey and Michael Stipe. Somehow, I had got it into my head that they were rivals, that Morrissey, with his British intellect, witty literary references and arch demeanor, was staking a claim for voice of his generation, our generation, when I had already made the decision that Mr Stipe was that man.

This belief was reinforced when I’d come across an interview with Morrissey and look at pictures, or when I’d be at some concert and a guy with a God Save the Queen shirt would be standing next to me, posing as he smoked clove cigarettes, and acting as superior as I believed Morrissey would act were he standing there with us. I mean, sure, I was posing too, in my black jeans, black T-shirt, black boots way, but I knew deep down that I meant it. And he was just pretending.

As the years went on, my generalised antipathy for The Smiths dissipated. I’d see a picture of Stipe with Morrissey and think, 'huh’. When I’d hear The Smiths spun at a party or on radio, I’d recognize Johnny Marr’s brilliant playing, and when I’d catch a lyric, I’d smile, sometimes, and admit to myself that Morrissey was, in fact, every bit as clever as he thought he was.

But something in me, some vestigial unasked for loyalty, prevented me from ever buying or streaming a Smiths album. Prevented me from ever really giving them a chance.

Until now.

You’ve now listened to it at least three times, what do you think?

The First Listen 

I want to like this. That’s the thought running through my ​brain as I slide the iPhone into its speaker cradle and hit play.

Then the music starts. Jaunty and emotional at the same time.

I’m lying in bed, lights are off, it’s late at night, and my plan is to allow the music to seep in as I drift off to sleep. I do this every night. Usually with my favourite bands playing. I start earlier than usual this time, because I am meant to actually listen to the entire thing before sleep. I succeed. But also fail. Which is to say that I do make it through every single song. But I also cannot make myself like it.

The voice, the affect, the whole thing grates on me. I can hear that it is a sturdy record. That the guitar playing is excellent, that the melodies are catchy, that the thing has a unified tone and is, distinctly, a work of art.

It just doesn’t appear to be a work of art I like. Yet.

This is, after all, just the first listen.

The Second Listen

On a bicycle, riding downtown on the path adjacent to New York City’s West Side Highway, the Hudson River and New Jersey to my right, all of Manhattan to my left.

Earbuds in, nothing to distract me from the music, nothing but Morrissey and me gliding along together.

This time, The Smiths sound like The Smithereens, only without the raucous urgency. And I realize that there is no garage rock influence on the band at all. The music I love often feels like it might come apart at the seams. This doesn’t. It feels thought out, planned, executed at a very high level. Boring. Even the folk music I love has a recklessness about it. It’s missing here.

I ride on to my destination, starting to understand that it might not just be my atavistic dislike of Morrissey. I might just not like what The Smiths do.

The Third Listen

At home. On the couch. This time, with lyric sheet in front of me.

And it turns out that Morrissey, the lyricist, is my favourite part of the band. He is, without a doubt, every bit the wordsmith he thinks he is. Important subjects, deeply considered, personally revelatory and universally significant. I understand the lineage from which he comes, the poets from the past with whom he is engaging, the way it must have hit like-minded kids of the era.

I respect the fucking hell out of it. But I still don’t actually enjoy it.

Would you listen to it again?

​Nope.

But I wouldn’t turn it off if you put it on.

A mark out of 10?

​It is a record of high quality and purpose. And so an objective mark would be 8.​

So that was a little preview of our upcoming book.You can pledge for it at the link below and if you do so before May the 5th then you’ll be able to see you name in ink - or e-ink if you go for the digital version.

Thanks 

Martin

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https://unbound.com/books/ram-record-club