Guilty Pleasures, Part 7 – I Heart Muzak

I spend an inordinate amount of time in Pret (sans laptop, as I’d only pour latte into it); one of things I love about the place is the incidental music that's piped into the store (or to use the correct parlance, Muzak). For the most part, it’s a pleasing mash-up of samba, laid back jazz, Vegas lounge and 70s porno movie soundtrack. Intrigued, I asked what it was. “Dunno – we get it from Head Office.” Further enquiries on the Pret website led me nowhere. So there we have it – one of life’s great mysteries: where exactly does the music in Pret come from?

The weird thing about muzak is that it isn’t really designed to be heard, or at the least properly noticed: aural wallpaper, I suppose you’d call it. It’s predominantly designed to create a pleasing ambience in whatever (mostly retail) space it’s used in. Of course, no discussion on ambient music would be complete without a mention of Brian Eno (and in particular David Toop’s book, Ocean of Sound, which contains this immortal line: Anal scents: what was their relation to a cultural shift?). Eno’s best known ambient recordings date from 1978: in the original liner notes, Ambient 1: Music for Airports contained references to Muzak Inc, and was even installed at the Marine Terminal at LaGuardia Airport for a while.

Even though the Ambient series is superb, Eno’s influence in the muzak sphere is vastly overstated. You’re more likely to walk into a department store and hear a recording of clapped out old session musicians murdering Oasis’s Wonderwall than some weighty Eno composition: and to me, that’s half the fun of muzak. It isn’t meant to be all po-faced seriousness, minimalism and heavyweight classical references (I couldn’t imagine going into Pret and sitting down to Gavin Bryars’s The Sinking of the Titanic - great music, but not something to sup your mocha to, unless you’ve got a couple of cyanide tablets to hand); it’s more likely to be Richard Clayderman-inspired piano foppery, or tacky instrumental arrangements of pop standards. And you know something? I love all of it: the more clapped out and cheesy the better.

The best muzak I’ve heard recently is the Beastie Boys album, The In Sound from Way Out, a collection of instrumental music culled from various albums released between 1992-96. Like the soundtrack to my Pret coffee, it’s a collision of influences – jazz, soul, laidback funk – all fed through a peculiarly seventies sensibility. And surprisingly for a bunch of instrumentals it’s funny, and delivered with exactly the right amount of cheese. Even the French sleeve notes are (unintentionally?) demented:

Un des premiers voyageurs de hip hop, il ont connu pour un mix de humeur et style. Avec leur beer swilling et glue sniffing (tactiques Brechtienne) ils ont ecrit leur signature definitive sur le face du rap.

Those crazy French, eh! As above, muzak is best served up without great dollops of silly pretension. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a coffee to finish.

Don’t Forget the (Rubbish) Lyrics

There was a news story a while back here, that aimed to find the worst ever lyric in pop music. From a list that included Oasis’s Champagne Supernova and Razorlight’s Somewhere Else, Des’ree’s Life came out top:

I don't want to see a ghost
It's the sight that I fear most
I'd rather have a piece of toast
Watch the evening news

It’s rubbish all right, but at least it means something (Des’ree has an understandable aversion to ghosts and would much rather stay in of an evening and watch Huw Edwards on the telly box – this I understand. However, comprehension does not make it any less rubbish). However, when bands stray into the realms of the nonsensical whilst pretending all the while to be profound and/or meaningful, that’s when truly bad lyrics come into their own.

How about this from Risingson, by Massive Attack:

Toy-like people make me boy-like

What the blue blazes does that mean?

Here’s a suggestion – it doesn’t mean anything: it’s a stream of clodhopping meaninglessness that just happens to fit the song. What’s worse, it has the effect of turning an excellent song into something that makes your toes curl up with embarrassment – as a result, I simply can’t listen to it any more. And it gets better (this made me laugh for a full five minutes when I first heard it):

Nicer than the bird up in the tree top
Cheaper than the chip inside my lap top

Massive Attack’s major problem seems to be the fact that the music comes first – most of their lyrics sound as if they’re an afterthought, written and recorded with all the care and craft of a Vengaboys song.

I have much the same problem with Interpol. Great music, supremely rubbish lyrics. This is from Slow Hands:

I submit my incentive is romance
I watched the pole dance of the stars
We rejoice because the hurting is so painless
From the distance of passing cars

Uh, hello? And that’s without the vomit inducing:

You make me want to pick up a guitar
And celebrate the myriad ways that I love you.

Or – Sweet Jesus! – this from Obstacle 1:

Her stories are boring and stuff
She’s always calling my bluff

Even the greats get it wrong. Here’s Nick Drake with Man in a Shed:

Please don’t think I’m not your sort
You’ll find that sheds are nicer than you thought.

To round things off with a truly monstrous cringe, here’s Sting from The Police with Walking in your Footsteps:

Hey Mr. Dinosaur
You really couldn't ask for more
You were God's favourite creature
But you didn't have a future.

Move over, Des’ree – I think we’ve found a new winner.

Tagged

Adaddinsane tagged me with this: If you could go back to live in any one year from your lifetime, which one would you choose?

Jesus H Christmas, that’s a bitch of a tag, isn’t it? I was tempted to go all wibbly and post-modern and select a variety of incidents from a variety of different years. Then I went and read Michelle Lipton’s post on the same subject (after which I got something in my eye), and came to the conclusion that doing things that way would be a massive cheat.

So, let’s see: oooh, 1988 looks like a good one to me (screen goes wavy as we enter flashback mode):

I played in a band named after a Russ Meyer film – our collective sound was described (by a friend, no less) as ‘five people all playing in different time zones’. One of the stupidest/best things we ever did was to get drunk prior to a BBC Radio Sussex interview, during which we talked about our (fictitious) love for progressive rock (I seem to remember making a fatuous comment about Iron Butterfly). We then all went to a sweaty Taxi Pata Pata gig, during which the band divided into two warring factions – after some Machiavellian manoeuvring by our guitarist (the phenomenally talented Mister Rose), the singer (and his stolen percussion) got thrown out. Trouble was, after that we couldn’t find anyone else even half as good. So that was that.

Of course hindsight is wonderful, but the way we played and wrote music was quite unlike anything I’ve experienced since. Within the band, there were some fiercely talented players (and me, struggling to keep up mostly, especially when the drummer dipped out of 4/4 time, the gifted swine), but nobody came to rehearsals with even half an idea of where things were going to go or even what we were going to do. Chaos reigned, but in a good way: songs were painstakingly built from the ground up via endless jamming and improvisation – if something sounded good, it went into the mix. And when it all got too tiring (rehearsals until four in the morning were pretty commonplace), we’d launch into our only death metal song just to shake things out.

Once the band split, I auditioned for a local band looking for a bass player. Jesus, were they boring: they wrote songs like this, where the autocratic guitarist would hand out sheet music to his hapless band members and then expect everyone to fall in line. Of course, I didn’t – which is why I lasted for exactly one rehearsal.

If I had to relive 1988 again, I’d slap my collective band mates round the back of their legs and tell them to pull themselves together; we obviously didn’t know a good thing when we were in it, and by the time the in-fighting had broken out, it was too late. The fact that I’ve never found a band since that I wanted to play with speaks volumes, which is perhaps something to do with the way we worked: chaotic, improvised, haphazard, and at times downright experimental. I’m not saying that we sounded great, and listening to demos today it of course sounds a little dated. But we had one helluva lot of fun.

7 Songs

Oooh, I’ve been memed by the Target obsessed Mr Stickler (honestly, Rob: Starship Trooper featuring Sarah Brightman? Zoiks!):

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring.

Well, let’s see now:

1) Holiday in Cambodia - Dead Kennedys (picked out the first album today for a blast).
2) Create and Melt – Dali’s Car (don’t ask, please).
3) Love and Mathematics – Broken Social Scene
4) The International Tweexcore Underground – Los Campesinos!
5) Glasgow Mega Snake - Mogwai
6) Fucked Up Kid – Kevin Drew
7) New Year – Death Cab for Cutie.

(Thank God this meme wasn’t called 9 Songs, otherwise this post would have been another anti-Winterbottom rant).

OK, I tag Robin, Lucy, Elinor and Rachael, although I suspect they’ve all been ‘done’ already – so consider yourselves double memed! Or something.

Slab! in the Sunday Times

Tim Elsenburg’s article on Slab! has finally appeared in the Sunday Times today – read it here. However, if you can’t be arsed to click on the link, click on the scanned article below (it looks far shinier in print that in dull old html). A potted history of the band can also be found by clicking here – 98 comments and counting, m’lud.

Off on a Tangent, Part 11 - Everything is Connected

Over the next few months, this blog could turn into a smorgasbord of musical mayhem with a frenzy of gig going, reviews and rampant Question & Answer sessions sprouting out all over like so much damp cress on a warm windowsill...

First off, I wrote this back in August last year about a band called Slab! – the thinking man’s industrial noiseniks. And stone me, the band’s two prime movers – Stephen Dray and Paul Jarvis – have both left comments on the post. I’m trying to arrange a Q&A session right here for them at some point (plus some unreleased music?), so stay tuned. Slab’s MySpace page has also attracted the attentions of their last drummer, Rob Allum, who now plays with Turin Brakes as well as being a founder member of The High Llamas. To say I am excited by all these developments would be the understatement of the century.

Strangely enough, the chap who set up the Slab! MySpace page is Tim Elsenburg, who fronts up the rather awesome band Sweet Billy Pilgrim. Tim has previously played with Martin Grech, whose song Open Heart Zoo was used a few years back for a Lexus advert. My wife loved the song, so I bought her the album not really expecting much of a big deal. Like – wow – how wrong was I? Open Heart Zoo is pleasant enough, but it doesn’t really prepare you for the full-on brainstorming onslaught of Dali. I’m still trying to get to grips with Grech’s second album, Unholy, which is austere and noisily mentalist in equal measures. His third – released last year – is apparently another about face, this time into the realms of introspective folk (I suspect that’s his Kerrang audience safely alienated then!). Tim has also remixed David Sylvian, and has collaborated and toured with David’s brother Steve Jansen (I never was a huge Japan fan, but have an unfortunately neurotic tendency to buy everything that David Sylvian ever releases). Tim’s blog is awash with tour stories and details of Steve Jansen’s inexplicable (and highly amusing) fear of lifts, and is well worth a visit.

Gig-wise, I have the following to look forward to:

UK Subs, Freebutt, Brighton, May 5th – the last time I saw the Subs there were two tattooed lunatics down the front fighting anybody who had the sheer audacity to go near them – so much so that the band had to stop playing several times to wade in and sort them out. Punk rock! The fact that my brother ended up being best of buddies with these two lunatics is neither here nor there.

Battles, Astoria, May 14th (support from Liars) – Battles continue their ambitions for world dominance by moving up a league from the Koko to packing out the Astoria – and rightly so.

Feist, Albert Hall, May 23rd – the last time I saw Feist was at the Komedia, a small(ish) venue in Brighton. The gig was fantastic. And here she is a year later selling out the Albert Hall – just shows what a fantastic album, an iPod advert and some Vanity Fair coverage can do for your career.

Broken Social Scene, Shepherds Bush Empire, May 25th – similarly, the Scene have moved up a notch from the Koko to the Empire (where Crackerjack used to be recorded). The last time I was at the Empire was for a Helmet gig, which featured – rather bizarrely – a stage diving Paul King! All together now: Love, and Pride! Time to grow a mullet and spray paint those Doc Martens...

The upshot of all this is that if you play in a band and hanker after fame, riches and endless critical praise, the place to be featured is – well, obviously – Unfit for Print! Battles, Feist and the Scene have all gone onto bigger and better things since being featured in these hallowed pages (the Subs have had their turn, I reckon!), and I like to think (in my entirely delusional and brain softened state) that it’s all down to UfP! Sheesh! I should start my own record label (coincidentally, my resemblance to Rick Rubin is really quite scary). Bearing in mind the good fortune this blog bestows on all and sundry, I’ll have a go at reviewing the Sweet Billy Pilgrim album as well – it hasn’t been off my virtual turntable (better known as a CD player) for at least a fortnight and I feel the overwhelming urge to write about it.

And no, I didn’t screw up last week’s meeting with the producer/director. Not a lot to report back on at the moment, but more as it develops...

The MP3 Files, Part 1 - Feist, La Sirena

I'm feeling very pleased with myself at the moment, as I've just figured out how to stream audio from this blog. Yeah, yeah, I know, everyone and his/her dog has been at it for years, but for the technologically retarded (i.e., me), this is a huge step forward. The next step: programming the DVD-R (I suspect this may be a step too far).

So, here's the first in an occasional series - this is from Leslie Feist's difficult to find first first album, Monarch. Click on the link below and the track should play in whatever Media Player you have on your system. Yowsa!

Feist - La Sirena

Off on a Tangent, part 8 - Chester Babcock Calling...

This has got nothing to do with anything, apart from the fact that it made me laugh...

The following is an excerpt from an article on Chester Babcock in this February's Vanity Fair:

His favourite word, for more than one reason, was "cock". As Frank Sinatra's best friend, songwriter in chief, and sometime travelling partner in the hard-swinging 50s, Jimmy Van Heusen - born Edward Chester Babcock - had a habit, upon arriving in any American city, of leafing through the directory and phoning at random anyone whose last name, Hancock, Woodcock or Hitchcock, happened to end in the same pungent suffix as his own. It was always nice if a lady answered. "Mrs Glasscock?" he'd say, in his W.C. Fields-ian tones, "Chester Babcock calling. I just wanted to check what the other cocks were up to." Sinatra, it is reported, would roll on the floor every time.

When Frank and entourage stayed at Rome's Grand Hotel, Van Heusen would step onto his balcony each morning and, like some crazed American rooster, crow out the word at the top of his lungs. Back in the States, piloting his own plane cross-country, he would screech it into the radio until, inevitably, some poor, confused air-traffic controller would squawk back, "Please identify yourself!" At which point Van Heusen would declaim it louder still. Even after suffering a stroke in his late 60s, wheelchair-bound, language having largely deserted him, "just out of nowhere, he'd yell 'Cock!'", a witness remembers.

"Jimmy," Van Heusen's good friend and occasional lover Angie Dickinson recalls fondly, "could say 'cock' like nobody else."

There's got to be a short script in there somewhere.

Off on a Tangent (Part 6 of Many) - Koko Times Two

The Koko in dirty old Camden is a venue so good I had to visit it twice:

Battles, 12th October – also see here. What a superb venue the Koko is: a thirty second walk from Mornington Crescent, a beautifully refurbished interior, air conditioning, a glitter ball the size of a mobile home – what more could anyone want?

Battles kicked up an absolute storm and looked far happier than they did at the Concorde a couple of weeks back. John Stanier celebrated by sweating through his clothes and not taking off his shirt. The sound was so loud as to be fucking PUNISHING – even the pre-show DJ (playing what sounded like mash-ups between Battles and Jennifer Lopez) had the volume cranked up to eleven. The support band – Parts and Labor – even had a few decent tunes – if only they would calm down a bit and stop pretending to be a hardcore band, I would sleep a little better at night.

Broken Social Scene play Spirit If... by Kevin Drew, 19th October – back to the Koko (have I already said what a fab venue it is?)

Kevin Drew musters a few Broken Social Scene cronies and heads out for another marathon tour to promote his (rather excellent) solo record, all mixed up with a few gems from the mightily impressive BSS back catalogue.

That said, they got off to a very slow start – even Cause=Time couldn’t get the audience suitably roused, not that it was entirely anyone's fault. The stripped back BSS looked a little lacklustre, a little too organised – along the lines of a really good support band, but hardly headlining stuff. That is, until Frightening Lives – the band dug in Somme-style and the atmosphere began to hum.

This is a band that thrives on a certain degree of randomness, of spontaneity. Kevin Drew is comfortable spending an entire song sat on the floor fiddling with an effects pedal, and it's this type of organised chaos that the band is so good at manufacturing. By the time BSS had torn through a blistering Superconnected and an extended version of Lover's Spit, the crowd were lapping it up. I haven’t been to many gigs where band and audience have had a weird symbiotic relationship with each other, but this was one of them. Emily Haines came on for Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl and a gloriously thrashy Almost Crimes - time for everyone in the place to go spaz.

One chaotic sing-song later (crap mobile phone footage above), BSS had done it – a stupendous gig rescued from the brink of averageness by sheer willpower alone.

Off on a Tangent (Part 5 of many)

The problem with Sonic Youth is that they get right on my tits.

There – I’ve said it. The fact that one of the most supposedly coolest bands on the planet is a frustratingly inconsistent grab-bag of scratchy guitars and half-arsed can’t-be-bothered ‘tunes’ is probably not a popular point of view, but screw it – I’m fed up with half baked, mediocre albums such as Sonic Nurse, and have decided that all four of them need a good slap round the back of the legs (and it looks like I’m not the only one).

Consider, if you will, the evidence:

Daydream Nation – one of my favourite albums of all time (except for the half-arsed feedback noodling, of course). However, once you consider that the whole thing is really an elaborate piss take on the concept of the ‘rock album’ (i.e., a seventy minute running time, each band member being represented by a symbol a la Led Zeppelin, a song cycle entitled Trilogy, self-consciously dumb ‘rock’ lyrics – “You got it, ride the silver rocket, can't stop it, burning a hole in your pocket”), then it starts to take on a slightly different hue. Daydream Nation is fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but it’s Sonic Youth both paying homage and taking the michael out of what they consider to be the bloated American rock record. I’m sure the band look upon as some type of high falutin’ art/conceptual as well as a damn good rock record, but it isn’t really. Subsequent Sonic Youth releases have returned to their more experimental roots, which do not make for great records – that means that their greatest ever release is in essence part piss-take, which can only means that’s very little mileage in their more left of field recordings. This is highly unfortunate, as everything else they have ever recorded fits neatly into this latter category.

Every Other Sonic Youth release – in stark comparison to Daydream Nation, most of Sonic Youth’s recorded output verges dangerously on being hugely disposable. Goo has its moments, but once you discount boring, pointless fillers such as My Friend Goo, Scooter and Jinx and Mildred Pierce, what are you left with? Six three-quarter decent songs, and one that outstays its welcome very quickly (Tunic (Song for Karen)). Sonic Nurse? No thanks. Washing Machine? Passable, I suppose. A Thousand Leaves? Zzzz.... Murray Street, the supposed return to form? Plastic Sun is another rubbish Kim Gordon song (see below), and as for Radical Adults Lick Godhead Style – sheesh. A collection of random words that supposedly pass for lyrics – and they took eight months recording this?

Kim Gordon – I’m sorry, but Kim Gordon is ever so slightly rubbish. In my humble opinion, she can’t play bass for toffee, and she doesn’t so much sing as breathe heavily – which is all very, you know, punk rock and all that, but surely you’ve got to mix it up over the course of a career, not stay in the same rut for twenty flippin’ years. When it works, it works brilliantly (Drunken Butterfly from Dirty) – when it doesn’t, you want to chisel your ears off in protest (My Friend Goo, Plastic Sun).

Then there was Perfect Partner – a film and rock concert ‘mash-up’ that, whilst admirable in ambition, was 98% unmitigated tosh (the factt that it was backed with Arts Council money should speak volumes) . I saw it at the Brighton Dome and the place was half full (the people who stayed away obviously knew something I didn’t). After the ‘gig’ (which spanned 50 minutes and was completely atmosphere-free, much like a Russ Abbot party), my brother asked why none of the musicians backing Kim Gordon (including Jim O’Rourke, who looked as if he was daydreaming about cream cakes) had been in fits of laughter when Kim started to writhe under a silver blanket (the sort of thing they give marathon runners at the end of a race). We could only assume it was because they were being paid too much.

Sonic Youth live at the Forum, 1996 – a while back, I saw SY perform at the Forum, promoting their Washing Machine album. One of the support bands was called Descension, who came on and made a godless, ear grating, wholly improvised racket for no apparent reason. In protest, someone in the audience threw a glass at the drummer, whio took umbrage and waded into the crowd, fists flailing. Someone else threw a glass full of water at the guitarist, but it missed and hit his amplifier, which promptly went up in smoke. Two security guards the size of Hampshire later, the water-throwing muppet was out on the pavement, leaving Descension to rumble on, much to the chagrin of the audience, who absolutely bloody hated them.

A little later, Sonic Youth come on to frenzied applause. They then start to make exactly the same noise as Descension – a trademarked scree of feedback and high-end ear shredding. But instead of rushing the stage and giving the band a collective Chinese burn, the audience stroked their collective chin and nodded in time to the ‘music’.

I have absolutely nothing against bands who want to come on stage and make a godawful racket for no reason – if that’s their bag, give them some respect and above all, don’t chuck stuff at them! However, if the headlining band starts doing exactly the same thing, why should you even give them the time of day? Thurston Moore made a comment about Descension, along the lines of ‘the band who would not be denied’ – it got the biggest cheer of the night, which only goes to show that all rock audiences are stupid.

(The episode at the Forum seems to have become infamous in music circles for being a ‘riot’ – it was nothing of the sort. A few people down the front threw bottles, but certainly not the ‘rain of glass’ that Stefan Jaworzyn seems to remember. I think this is a better description of what really happened. And yes, after Descension, Sonic Youth were incredibly boring).

Lee Ranaldo’s ‘artwork’ – ahem.

The piece consits (sic) of a bare speaker wired to a piece of the physical gallery, in this case a steam radiator. The tape loop plays a 5 second hi volume burst of sound every 6 minutes. Otherwise the piece remains silent.

This sounds like an analogy for the entire recorded output of Sonic Youth to me...

Incidental Music

Someone at ITV is now chewing their way through my CD collection (see here for the same with the BBC). I stumbled inadvertently across the X-Factor last night (whilst looking for Screen Wipe tthat took the piss out of it), and was amazed to hear yet more of my CD collection plundered for incidental music. Some strange choices as well – Roger Eno, anyone? (Brian’s little brother). We had the usual borrowing from Sigur Ros (Takk is turning into a real incidental music fave, both on BBC and ITV), and also a smattering of Craig Armstrong – all in the space of ten minutes. Wow. And there’s me saying that that the X-Factor is a programme for people who don’t like music (it is, but, yeah, well, you get my drift...)

What’s next I wonder? Boris on Emmerdale? Fugazi on Eastenders? Helmet on Country File? The mind boggles.

Off on a Tangent (Part 4 of many)

Battles at the Concorde 2, Brighton, 21st August

Battles made the Concorde sweat right through its scruffy, seen-better-days Shellac t-shirt – this, in a venue whose idea of air conditioning is to keep the back door open. I’m certain that most bands that play the Concorde haven’t got the first idea what they’re letting themselves in for. The Concorde – Brighton’s Premier Music Venue proclaim the banners – the reality is a little different. When bands such as Battles or Wire play here, I always think – why the hell aren’t you guys playing up the road at the Dome? Much more civilised. The Concorde is so grimy and indie (for that read credible) it positively smarts. And don’t get me started on the sound. The way in which the venue is constructed means that the acoustics are totally shagged – that is, when the whole PA doesn’t pack up like it did when Wire played there last. Battles set up their own equipment, and I don’t blame them – I’m not so sure anyone on the Concorde crew is qualified to touch it, let alone try to get a decent sound out of it.

Quite how Battles do what they do is quite beyond me – no-one in this band actually seems to play anything (with the exception of John Stanier). Ian Williams fingers a few frets and jabs on a keyboard. David Konopka doesn’t really play what you and I would understand to be a bass line – half the time, the bass is there for low end texture, rumbling away like a tube train in some unseen tunnel beneath your feet. And Tyondai Braxton’s vocals (when they aren’t buried in the bloody atrocious mix) aren’t ‘vocals’ at all – they’re high pitched, highly treated wails, pushed through about a hundred different effects pedals.

And John Stanier? Good god, the man’s a demented power tool. How he keeps the barrage up for nearly ninety minutes is completely beyond me (if you want to know why the Helmet reformation didn’t work, look no further – trying to do it without John Stanier is unthinkable).

Apart from the crapped out sound, the only other major problem with this gig was the fact that I was standing behind a man wearing a trilby. Note to all future gig goers: if you stand six feet two in your socks, do not wear a fucking trilby and stand in front of me. Forty minutes in, I took drastic action and ended up stamping on some poor girl’s foot (and judging from the footwear of the average Brighton gig goer, I bet it hurt as well – sorry!).

Oh, by the way, Battles rocked. But you don’t need me to tell you that.

Off on a Tangent (Part 3 of many)

Lack of Knowledge - Grey EP, 1983

This 7" single appeared in 1983 on the Crass label, home of the original "dog on a string" brigade and perhaps the sole inspiration for smelly anarcho crusties across the land. However, on the face of it, this lot were different. From what I can gather, Lack of Knowledge were predominantly led by Tony Barber, who now plays bass for the Buzzcocks: they toiled around the usual anarcho gig sweat pots where their drainpipes and skinny ties attracted odd looks. The fact that they only played a handful of gigs perhaps shows that they didn't fit into the punk ‘scene' very well. Bear in mind that at the time, Crass Records specialised in apoplectic punk rock and wildly left of centre experimental nuttiness: spoken word EPs, a novelty Christmas record played entirely on a pocket Yamaha synthesiser, even a single by Captain Sensible. Merely admitting you could play an instrument to a proficient standard would automatically elevate you over the amount of angry punk rock detritus the label shovelled out with alarming frequency. However, it wasn't just the musicianship that elevated LOK - it was much more.

The four songs on this single are LOK's finest ten minutes. Even the LP that followed a little later - Sirens are Back - couldn't match what these guys did here. OK, so it's only four songs, but whatever it was - a fluke of a fluctuating line up or the attentions of a sympathetic producer – LOK were never able to reproduce what they did on this single. Comparisons to Joy Division are perhaps inevitable given the New Wave tag, but where Joy Division's sound was often cold and alienating, LOK's is warm, lush, pensive even, which is ironic given their lyrical concerns: Northern Ireland, imminent nuclear collapse, a dispiriting vision of the future that still sounds strangely contemporary today.

These concerns are a pretty good match with those of the other bands on the Crass roster, but LOK are more subtle – these guys want to tell stories rather than swear and sneer and carry on. And besides, this is hardly what you call a genre puck record: We’re Looking for People features a riff that isn’t the obligatory three chord racket – good god, the song even features a literate guitar solo! The drums are a little militaristic in keeping with the Crass house style, but are kept down in the mix, and just as well – man, that bass player can play! Another Sunset is flooded with (shock, horror) expansive keyboard washes which add to the melancholic vibe: this isn’t punk rock as we know it, and thank god for that.

Having the publicity that being 'signed' to Crass Records afforded them, LOK were never exactly obscure in the same way that Slab! were. The records that followed Grey made you wish they were. After Grey, they thrashed away with the obligatory three chords as the compilation Americanised demonstrates (where the criteria appears to be quantity not quality) – which makes Grey seem like a complete aberration. Sirens are Back has its moments, which certainly does not include a clunky funk work out halfway through Weapons Range (someone’s been listening to too much Pop Group). The fact that this record is self-produced speaks volumes. It really isn't very good.

There was a slight return to form on Chainsaw Records 12" Sentinel, but it sounds a little clumsy, derivative even, probably the result of recruiting a 'trainee' bass player in the shape of Karen Gower, Tony Barber’s girlfriend (the legend has it that when she joined the band, she had never played a bass before, let alone picked one up – subsequently, she was told to “fucking well hurry up and learn it’”!). The internal rhythmic engine that fuelled Grey had changed, and not for the better.

The thing that amazes me about LOK is the fact that after the triumph of Grey, they slowly returned to the punk formula of three thrashy chords and general lack of imagination. Tony Barber went on to play bass for the Buzzcocks in 1993, and since then LOK have not exactly done a lot. Ah well – perhaps expecting them to top Grey was asking a little too much.

I Bin Tagged

Oli tagged me with this from Lucy Vee’s blog:

When I hear music I like I always imagine what kind of scene in a film it could go in, so that's going to be the focus of this meme: you have to imagine you're in a particular kind of movie as outlined below and what your soundtrack will be.

The deal is, you have to come up with five types of film… and tag five other other people.

Crikey.

1. If I was in a Slasher Movie: Happiness In Slavery, by Nine Inch Nails. Says it all really.

2. If I was in a Hip Hop/Urban Movie: Just Another Victim, by Helmet/House of Pain, or Ladyflash, by The Go! Team. Two songs – is that cheating?

3. If I was in Tron (that's not really a 'type' of film is it? Ah, screw it): Leyendecker, by Battles. Amazingly enough, this song sounds like a video game you’re actually winning.

4. If I was in a David Cronenberg movie: Dali, by Martin Grech. There’s only one word to describe this song, and that’s UNHINGED.

5. If I was in a Rom-Com: So Sorry, by Feist. My cuddly, torch singer side coming to the fore.

Right then. I tag:

Elinor

Mr Andy G, who doesn't have a blog but hey, we can't all be perfect...

Georgia, who I just KNOW is lurking out there somewhere (Dali says 'hi', by the way)...

Oh, hang on, someone else tagged Elinor earlier - sorry, that’s ten songs she needs to come up with now (I’m not really getting the hang of this, am I?). So, I need two more… help… I’m kinda new round here and you Scribosphere lot look a bit weird to me ;-)