1993 - Time to break free, nothin' can stop me

At some point during the year, one of my newer Rotaract colleagues, Elaine, expressed excitement at the rumour of Gary Barlow moving to Billericay. Noticing my blank look, she seemed part pained, part amused at my apparent – and genuine – ignorance of the aforementioned celebrity, who may or may not have been gracing our town with his presence. “You know? Take That!”.

Well, at least I had heard of Take That; I just wasn’t au fait with the individual band members. By the end of 1993 there probably wasn’t anybody under the age of 50 who didn’t know Gary, Robbie, Mark, Jason and Howard. During the previous year they had racked up five top 20 singles, culminating in the up-tempo cover of ‘Could it Be Magic?’ at Christmas which peaked at three. The next single, the dreary ‘Why Can’t I Wake Up With You’ made two but it was ‘Pray’ which signalled their arrival as true pop stars.

It was a brilliant song, nice vocals by Gary, a beat you could tap your toes to, and another of those daft almost homoerotic videos full of moody, topless poses and slo-mo shakes of the head in water. Their days as purely gay icons were gone; suddenly every young female was after the quintet. To my knowledge, Mr Barlow never bought a house in Norsey Road but his songs were everywhere. Not only ‘Pray’, but also ‘Relight My Fire’ and ‘Babe’ went straight in at number one, making Take That the first act ever to have such a hat-trick in the UK.

I don’t remember the term ‘boy band’ being applied to any previous group, but suddenly it was a popular label with which TT were encumbered, prompting the launching of various copies such as Louis Walsh’s Boyzone. However, Gary and the boys were not ready to relinquish their crowns as pop princes.

I suppose the Osmonds and The Jackson Five had been prototype pop boy bands, releasing a stream of mostly vocal hits. They did actually play some instruments although it was obvious that, apart from Gary on the piano, Take That were primarily eye candy, decent dancers (apart from Gary, again) and proponents of passable vocal harmonies. Michael Jackson’s career clearly hadn’t been harmed by his abandoning his brothers; he was, after all, only the biggest star on the planet.

One reason for that was his willingness to experiment and attract some top-notch collaborators from other genres. One of my favourite Jacko singles from the Nineties was ‘Give In To Me’ which reached number two in March ’93. It was a true rock ballad, fuelled by Slash’s guitar licks and solos. At the same time, Lenny Kravitz was doing the same thing, swinging his dreads while knocking out some mean rock riffs on a ‘flying V’. That month, Iron Maiden also made it a temporary haven for old-school metal. It didn’t last. However, the summer did deliver another slice of meat-and-two-veg rock in the form of ‘Two Princes’ by New York’s Spin Doctors. Angie hates it and it has been voted one of the worst songs ever. Not in my book. Its simplicity, basic structure without the excesses of contemporary icons Kiss and Aerosmith, makes this track one of my not-so-guilty pleasures.

Two British superstars who had long since left the bands which made their respective fortunes were earning rave reviews with new albums. Sting brought out ‘Ten Summoner’s Tales’, including some sumptuous singles. I remember one of my work colleagues, with whom I tended to associate more muscular music, going into raptures over the bucolic charms of ‘Fields of Gold’, and quite rightly so. It’s one of those songs whose layers of echoing synth chords and delicious vocals beg you to stop what you’re doing and listen and lose yourself in the music. ‘If I Ever Lose My Faith in You’ was another great record, yet neither pierced the UK top ten, which is quite baffling.

The solo career of another post-punk New Waver, Paul Weller, really gathered momentum with 'Wild Wood'. I recall being delighted on first hearing the title track, yet it spent a mere three weeks on the chart. Another mystery. Maybe it was deliberately deleted by the artist or his record company, but it deserved a longer shelf life.

Duran Duran had taken a few sabbaticals but sensibly Simon le Bon never attempted to go it alone. In January, their beautiful ‘Ordinary World’, from their ‘Wedding album’, crept up to six and proved to the world they weren’t to be consigned to the bargain bins of New Romanticism. Lovely lyrics, written and delivered with mature restraint by a 34 year-old Simon Le Bon, combine with an elegant verse and stirring chorus, topped off by a memorable descending guitar riff. This is probably their last great single but it’s life-affirming that Duran Duran still tour and make new music, free of the nostalgia circuit. Long may they do so!

1993 was the year when I finally realised that, to grow up properly, I really needed to escape the bosom of the family home. I had always got on extremely well with Mum and Dad, which made the whole palaver of searching for my own place less urgent. However, my days in Rotaract (nominally for 18-29s) were clearly numbered and the prospect of finding my own way was not as frightening as it had once been. I had sufficient savings for a deposit, so finance wasn’t an issue. I wasn’t looking to move too far, and so we perused together some local properties. I came close to securing a 2-bed flat but it wasn’t until the next year when I finally moved into 30 Radford Court for the princely sum of £52,000!

All of this coincided with the success of M People’s Elegant Slumming album, including the intoxicating ‘Moving On Up’. Obviously it wasn’t written with my house-hunting in mind. It was more a feminist anthem giving an errant boyfriend the heave-ho, and with Heather Small’s deep, rich voice, no boyfriend would dare challenge the decision. I’m pretty sure I didn’t associate my own life and the song title at the time; only in retrospect does the title neatly encapsulate my thinking. Anyway, Heather Small’s distinctive towering hairstyle was everywhere that year and M People were deservedly hoovering up all sorts of awards.

It was also a year that brought two other very different artists to my attention for the first time. Radiohead seemed quite ‘normal’ back then, and their re-released debut single ‘Creep’ struck a chord with me. Not the weird lyrics about some form of obsession, but the semi-grungey music. That grumbling bass intro, the mysterious chord progression and ugly double guitar slashes were like nothing I’d heard before, not even from Nirvana. This was before Thom Yorke, Jonny Greenwood et al became rock legends with a disturbingly obsessive, possessive fanbase. Their massively popular Nineties albums did yield the occasional commercial single I liked, such as ‘Fade Out’, but I have never ‘got’ Radiohead, and in my mid-fifties, surely never will.

Of course, they have a right to exist. In fact the rock world would be a poorer place without them. I’ve long felt the same about Bjork. The diminutive ex-Sugarcubes singer has been pigeonholed in the ‘difficult’ box, labelled as perennially weird and an enemy of the media. She may have had her run-ins with intrusive photographers; quite frankly, considering it natural behaviour for a mum protecting her child, I don’t blame her. As for Bjork’s music, my relationship with her has followed similar lines to that with Radiohead. However, in 1993 she released three astonishingly contrasting singles. ‘Play Dead’, made with David Arnold, was a movie song but not for James Bond. They surely missed a trick there. ‘Big Time Sensuality’ was a shimmering electronic oddity, showcasing Bjork’s endearingly unique vocal style, full of squawks and childish dancing. However, it was seeing her perform ‘Venus as a Boy’ on telly, not TOTP, that I recognised her exquisite talent.

It wasn’t a big hit, but the vulnerability and gentle emotion in her voice grabbed me by the gut in a way the Icelander has never achieved since. With her pretty, elfinlike appearance, she came across not so much a pop star but as a fairytale character; not as distant as Enya, less precisely rehearsed than Kate Bush. Bjork was half-tomboy, half pixie. She possessed the innocent moon face of a tweenie, yet the mature musical mind of a 27 year-old woman. The song itself has hints of jazz and touches of Indian percussion yet at heart it’s a simple pop ballad. Her Glastonbury performance sums up everything which seemed so wondrous, yet simultaneously slightly irritating about her.

Michael Stipe was another mild eccentric who by ’93 was helping REM to global superstardom. After hearing the rocking ‘The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite’, baffling ‘Man on the Moon’, bewitching ‘Everybody Hurts’ and the beautiful nostalgic drum-free ‘Nightswimming’, I was moved to buy their new album ‘Automatic for the People’, the year’s second biggest-seller. Even the failed single ‘Find the River’, which closed side two (yes, they still had 12” LPs) was glorious. For all the ingenious string and woodwind arrangements, and Mike Mills’ piano, on ‘Nightswimming’, it was the lullaby-like ‘Everybody Hurts’ which most represents REM that year.

I found it hard to like Stipe’s twang, but I could at least appreciate his phrasing of his own lyrics. The band was impressively talented, too, swapping instruments while the front man did his usual angsty thing at the mic. Like most great acts, they passed me by in the live sense. However, I always enjoyed watching them performing live on TV, if only to spot the fleeting moments when Michael Stipe’s face cracked into a smile!

New Order had been quiet for three years, so it was a welcome treat to see the video for their new single ‘Regret’ on TOTP. Well, the ‘Baywatch’ aspect was largely lost on me – and the band don’t exactly look comfortable on a Californian beach either - but the rockier sound met with my approval. Their ‘Best Of…’ compilation came out the following Christmas and I think I bought the cassette not long after. I think they are dreadfully under-rated. They have done dance, electronica, pop-rock, and often in the same song! From sustaining the Eighties Hacienda scene to appearing at the 1993 Reading Festival, the rockers’ mecca, they were always a cool band. Still are.

2Unlimited certainly weren’t cool but ‘No Limit’ proved to be their biggest UK hit. The contemporary joke was that, once the minute-long techno intro finally gave way to Anita’s vocals, she sang “No, no, no-no-no-no, no-no-no-no, no-no there’s no lyrics”. Of course, dance anthems don’t exactly demand deep and meaningful words, and the Dutch duo enjoyed a string of successful singles using the same winning formula.

There was more of the same from Capella’s ‘U Got to Let the Music’, Culture Beat’s ‘Mr Vain’ and one of the great Nineties tracks from any genre, Haddaway’s ‘What is Love?’. The Germany-based Trinidadian gave us this majestic debut, a searing dance beat with a melody worthy of listening to without your dancing shoes on. DJ Jazzy Jeff and the pre-Will Smith Fresh Prince hip-hopped their way to number one with ‘Boom Shake Shake the Room’. One of the rare rap tracks I quite liked, thanks to Will’s tongue-in-cheek delivery, it was a million miles from the new breed of gangsta rappers like Snoop Doggy Dogg, Tupac and Public Enemy who were beginning to infiltrate the UK singles chart.

For some reason, 1993 became one of the biggest years ever for reggae and its modern offshoot, ragga. In one March week, the top three consisted of Shaggy’s “catchy” ‘O Carolina’, Canadian white boy Snow’s ‘Informer’ (“repetitive crap”) and Shabba Ranks’ “sexist ego trip”, ‘Mr Loverman’. Note the italicised quotes from my diary on 26^th March.

Two months later, it was a top three consisting entirely of more traditional reggae. Only Inner Circle were Jamaican, and ‘Sweat (la-la-Long)’ bounced its merry way to number three, justifying my description as “a jolly little holiday song”. Swedish band Ace of Base went further with their ‘All That She Wants’. The Berggren sisters could sing live, too, as they did on TOTP here. The blonde-brunette combo had a slight touch of the Abbas about them, and indeed their 30 million global sales put them third behind the fab foursome and Roxette in Swedish pop annals. ‘The Sign’ was another number one the following year and, to my surprise, it even became America’s biggest-seller of 1994.

Of course, any period of reggae dominance must include our own UB40. On their way to the top that week in May, their inevitable contribution was another cover version, this time of ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love’. Shuffling along in the same predictable groove as ‘Red, Red Wine’, it had similar huge success without really floating my boat. It was at least better than the “erotic” Sharon Stone thriller Sliver from which the track emerged. However, when it came to enervating Caribbean rhythms, the year belonged to Chaka Demus and Pliers.

The Jamaican DJ and singer combined to entertaining effect, making the top three with three consecutive singles. At first, I didn’t appreciate ‘Tease Me’, but it grew on me. ‘She Don’t Let Nobody’ was a slower number but probably my favourite was their ragga take on ‘Twist and Shout’. It never stood a chance of being the Christmas number one, but did top the chart once the decorations came down. I’ll even go as far as saying this version surpasses that of Brian Poole or The Beatles three decades earlier. It’s not exactly the same structure, of course, but through the patois you can just about detect the familiar guitar riff.

Apart from Take That, what kept Chaka Demus and Pliers at bay for a few weeks was an act which sends shivers down the spine to this day. The ‘performer’ must be the tallest ever to make number one and probably the pinkest. Mr Blobby was simply unstoppable that Christmas! The spin-off from BBC1’s Saturday evening show Noel’s House Party was the first, and surely the worst, in a sequence of home-grown children’s TV characters to achieve Christmas success. Give me Bob the Builder any day! At least the proceeds helped supplement the Beeb’s income and kept me in a job!

From Mr Blobby to Meatloaf isn’t as vast a chasm as you might think. And I’m not talking merely of the physical similarities, uncanny as they are. No, size is unimportant; I simply hate them both.

I cannot fathom why normally sane friends dissolve into raptures on hearing the first chords of ‘Bat Out of Hell’, a track so long I’m convinced whole civilisations have grown and collapsed before the final bursts of motor bike engine. The news that Meatloaf and Jim Steinman were working on a sequel to the original Seventies album filled me with dread. Unsurprisingly Bat Out of Hell 2 conquered all in 1993. But worst of all was the lead single, ‘I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)’. Seven weeks at the top felt like seven years, it was a typical “interminable epic”. I won’t give it the extra exposure of a YouTube link but I can’t deny it formed part of my musical backdrop that autumn.

Changing the subject rapidly…. Ah, I refer to a band which has become possibly my favourite of all time. Yes, I know I have raved about Abba, Madness or even The Beatles, but they are predictable choices. I can claim only a quantum share of such musical megastars. However, I feel this band is more – well – mine: Saint Etienne.

They’ve had only one top ten hit, but umpteen which briefly illuminated the top thirty. In 1993, I first became enamoured of their wistful, Sixties-influenced covers and original music, when ‘You’re in a Bad Way’ and the joyous ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ adorned the stage of TOTP. Sarah Cracknell’s fresh and light vocals proved such a perfect fit with the rhythms of Pete Wiggs and Bob Stanley, and I must confess I found her easy on the eye, too. My relationship with Saint (never St.) Etienne intensified two years later when they released a singles compilation Too Young to Die.

They may have taken their name from the French football club but Saint Etienne are very much part of the fabric of London. Most of their material from the mid-Nineties have been love songs to hidden corners of the capital and its people. Bob and Pete are also well into capturing the city on film, while Bob has written some well-received books and articles about the history of pop. His byline in The Guardian is always a welcome sight.

Imagine my delight, too, when I caught a short ad in Metro for remaining tickets to the band’s 2003 Christmas concert at the London Palladium. Who cared if I had nobody to go with; this was an opportunity not to be missed. It also turned out to be an unforgettable evening’s trawl through all their singles complete with guest stars like Etienne Daho and Edwyn Collins. Sarah self-consciously performed - complete with small baby bump! – front of stage, while black-clad Bob and Pete twiddled knobs behind banks of synthesisers. Thank you, Saint Etienne, for your enduring talent, and also staying below the celebrity radar and allowing me to feel that little bit closer to you.

Another London band was garnering rave reviews amongst the more mainstream media. Suede hadn’t really done much chart-wise but Melody Maker’s 1992 description of them as ‘the best new band on Britain’ helped convince the BPI and BBC to open the prestigious 1993 Brit Award broadcast with ‘Animal Nitrate’. I’m not sure they merited the introductory epithet of ‘already legendary’ but their performance of the song certainly made an impression on me.

The single was propelled to seven in the chart and Suede blasted off into the forefront of a whole new UK-born musical genre. Brett Anderson’s love of removing his shirt did nothing for me, and neither did his exaggerated vocal Cockneyisms, but I’d never before heard guitar work like Bernard Butler’s. If I had been remotely musical, I’m sure he would have inspired me to take up the instrument myself. Instead I contented myself with listening to his instinctive ear for accompanying melodies, riffs and licks on several chart hits. Maybe The Stone Roses and other indie bands had done something similar before, but for me this was a whole new sound. The shy Butler left Suede the following year but the band became a cornerstone, and maybe a catalyst, for a host of new bands which exploded from the underworld in 1994. Shining singles like ‘Trash’ and ‘Wild Ones’ were still to come but, while the term had yet to be coined, Britpop was upon us.

1982 – We Are Far Too Young and Clever

This was a funny old year. Musically it was a right mish-mash, with a load of chart-toppers which deserve to be buried in an impenetrable vault on a distant planet never to be rediscovered. Personally I had to knuckle down to pass my Finals and, after bingeing on the football World Cup and a nervy, uncertain summer break, enter the real world of work for the first time.

In retrospect, I’d say music took a bit of a back seat in my life, but of course it couldn’t be suppressed for long. Madness enjoyed their first and only number one, thanks to ‘House of Fun’ and those hilarious video cornershop scenes. Later on, ‘Our House’ maintained the humour but brought a more mature sound which at long last attracted an American audience. Years later, my Canadian cousin Suzanne enthused about Madness but seemed oblivious of the band’s umpteen previous hits.

New Romanticism was now the mainstream, and the decade burst into a carnival of colour. Most of it must have been compressed into Duran Duran’s most famous album, ‘Rio’. Released in May, it was kept off the top by a combination of Complete Madness and Roxy Music’s Avalon, but it has become perhaps the quintessential early-Eighties record.

And Duran Duran changed videos forever. Madness ventured out of London briefly for a Great Yarmouth rollercoaster ride. Meanwhile, Simon and the boys sweltered in pastels under the fierce sun of Sri Lanka. Exotic didn’t begin to describe it. I didn’t much like ‘Hungry Like a Wolf’ at the time, ‘Rio’ was a gaudy but vibrant video without a song but the single which split the two was fantastic. ‘Save a Prayer’ was five and a half minutes of beautiful melody, a stunning synth which would have wowed me even without one of the most atmospheric promo films I’ve had the pleasure of watching. The band got a bit too big for their boots in the subsequent years but, despite their number ones, for me the less successful ‘Rio’ era in 1982 stands as their career highpoint.

Later in the year, I distinctly remember watching TOTP the week we had our first televisual experience of Culture Club. The tabloids had been bigging up the performance of their debut single ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ but not because of the music. No, the fuss was all centred on the lead singer and the Big Question Everyone Is Asking: Is it Male or Female? Well, if we weren’t actually asking the question, it certainly prompted discussion in the West End office of the BBC’s Central Directorates Accounts the next morning! Given that the vocalist’s stage name was Boy George, the clue was in the name. The publicity may have been politically incorrect (had the term existed) but it propelled George into the big time, with a string of top five singles. His unique fashion style was hardly surprising given his background at the Blitz Club, but his mellow asexual soulful voice was undoubtedly commercial. The rest of the band looked ‘straight’ but it emerged that they were anything but; a real dysfunctional ‘family’ which within a few years had been destroyed by sex and class A drugs.

There was nothing obviously straight about Marc Almond, but Soft Cell had four hit singles in ’82, all of which I adored. ‘Torch’ and ‘What’ were uncomplicated up-tempo synth pop, peaking at two, book-ended by a couple of epic electro ballads, ‘Where the Heart Is’ and ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’. The latter, at number three in February, has remained ensconced in my list of all-time favourites ever since. I knew all the words and, perhaps encouraged by Almond’s occasionally tenuous grip on pitch and key, I used to have a sing in the bath. Might have been embarrassing in the shared facilities of Raddon House should anyone else have been sober enough to hear me and work out the source! Nobody mentioned it to my face so hopefully I got away with it.

It was also the year when ABC launched The Lexicon of Love, from which three top ten hits were borne. Like The Human League they hailed from Sheffield, but their music and lush orchestration seemed to be more transatlantic. That never goes down well with me. I recall noting in my diary at the time of ‘Poison Arrow’ that singer Martin Fry looked a cross between David Bowie and Brian Ferry. Smiling was frowned upon; it was all about The Look, and not necessarily the ‘Look of Love’! Normally dressed in silver or gold lame, with that lopsided, floppy blonde fringe, I thought Fry was trying too hard but – hey! – it did him no harm.

Tinkly pop was alive and well in the hands of Depeche Mode (‘See You’) and their Vince Clarke spin-off, Yazoo. Vince teamed up with another ex- Nicholas School pupil Alison Moyet and, despite being a decidedly odd couple, produced some great songs in their short time together.

Skinny Clarke was happy to be the quiet one at the back, writing the music and playing keyboards. ‘Alf’ Moyet, big in body as well as voice, looked like a heavyweight ‘punk’ (as her previous band had indeed been) but sounded like a first-class blues exponent. On paper, Yazoo shouldn’t have worked, but it did, thanks largely to the quality of writing. ‘Only You’ was a synth love song, while ‘Don’t Go’ was somewhat livelier. Both made number three, but it was their chalk’n’cheese image which made them so interesting. I most enjoyed their 1983 single ‘Nobody’s Diary’, but by the time it entered the top ten, the duo had announced their split. It transpired they hadn’t been such a well-suited creative couple after all. Fortunately they weren’t away for long.

Another classy musical duo who made an impression on me in ’82 were Tears For Fears. ‘Mad World’ may have been synth-heavy but compared with the likes of Depeche Mode, Yazoo, Human League, Ultravox et al, was decidedly darker in tone and content. With lyrics like “the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had” the music was perhaps more upbeat than it should have been. Indeed, the bleak 2001 Michael Andrews/Gary Jules version sounded far more apposite. Nevertheless, I really liked the Roland Orzabal/Curt Smith original, and their subsequent releases weren’t bad either.

TFF hailed from bourgeois Bath but over in Dusseldorf, Kraftwerk had been pioneering synthesizer music for years. Back in the Seventies, I remember watching a TOTP film of the slick robotic suited quartet tapping strange-looking machines and hitting ‘hot plates’ with black rods. That was ‘Autobahn’ but then in January 1982 they had an unlikely chart-topper with ‘The Model’. Strictly speaking, it was a double A-sider with ‘Computer Love’ but ‘The Model’ was far more commercial and I loved listening to it.

Perhaps less successful that year but en route for greater things was the bunch of Glaswegians known as Simple Minds. In the small halls of residence library, I occasionalIy perused the pages of Sounds or Melody Maker. Usually frustrated at being ignorant of most of the artists being written about, or not understanding most of the language it was written in, I do nonetheless remember reading praise of the band, who were finally breaking through with the New Gold Dream album. I still wasn’t really into LPs, but was decidedly intrigued by ‘Glittering Prize’. Immaculate-sounding production complemented Jim Kerr’s arty vocals and Charlie Burchill’s guitar, and they had definite student appeal. I don’t remember them appearing at the Great Hall but had they done so, I’d have regretted missing out.

Another Scottish synth-rock band with a cult following was The Associates. When they appeared on TOTP, I’m sure all of us watching in the TV room cast puzzled side-long glances at each other when singer Billy Mackenzie opened his mouth. It was just manic, frantic falsetto! What was he on?! ‘Party Fears Two’ achieved top ten status but I don’t remember their subsequent material.

Other rather bonkers performers were in the charts and, despite my aversion, my ears. The Damned’s Captain Sensible (surely the most inappropriate pop moniker) topped the UK chart with an excruciating version of South Pacific’s ‘Happy Talk’. Kid Creole enjoyed considerable success backed by his female Coconuts. His Latino lover image on hits like ‘I’m a Wonderful Thing, Baby’ was not to my taste, but the carnival sound of ‘Annie, I’m Not Your Daddy’ was mildly diverting.

Maybe they weren’t actually do-lally, but Renee and Renato held the top spot at Christmas with their semi-operatic ballad ‘Save Your Love’. So bad, it was (almost) good. I stress the ‘almost’. Only at Christmas, eh? Just behind them in December was the even more implausible pairing of David Bowie and Bing Crosby crooning ‘Little Drummer Boy’. Arrghhh! Paul McCartney joined forces with Stevie Wonder on the well-intentioned racial harmony song ‘Ebony and Ivory’ but despite its success, it’s one to forget! I also couldn’t fathom why so many people bought The Goombay Dance Band’s’ ‘7 Tears’ (German! Fire-eating! Crap!!) or Charlene’s ‘I’ve Never Been to Me’ either.

Toni Basil’s persona on ‘Mickey’ caught the eye and ear but it quickly lost its novelty appeal. I had more fondness for Chas and Dave’s ‘Ain’t No Pleasing You’, a rare foray into straight pop as opposed to their trademark pub singalong ‘Rockney’. German threesome Trio went to number two with the very simple ‘Da Da Da’: deadpan vocals accompanied mainly by a basic pre-programmed rhythm on a Casio keyboard rather than a Moog, Fairlight or Roland synthesizer.

Catherine was into Haircut 100, as close to a twenty-first century boy band as we got in 1982. Nick Heyward was a cheerful front man of a band which dressed in fishermen’s style knitted jumpers or scarves, releasing pleasant but flimsy singles like ‘Love Plus One’. 20 year-old Heyward seemed destined for bigger things but he parted company with his bandmates in 1983, had a few decent solo singles and faded from the scene. It’s not on Wikipedia but I reckon Haircut 100 returned to earth two decades later as Busted. I saw Heyward on telly recently and was struck by his appearance. He's my age yet looked at least ten years younger. Lucky b*st*rd...

The Jam had their best year, singles-wise, but their music was evolving. My favourite was ‘The Bitterest Pill’, a slowish Sixtie-ish record backed by lush strings. It was kept from the top by Survivor’s ‘Eye of the Tiger’ but both ‘A Town Called Malice’ and ‘Beat Surrender’ went all the way. Nevertheless, Paul Weller’s transformation from angry young mod to blue-eyed soul-boy was almost complete by the end of 1982, and that was that for The Jam. It was several years later when I bought their collection ‘Snap!’ and realised once and for all what a great band they had been. It wasn’t just the singles, but also the album tracks like ‘Man in the Corner Shop’ and ‘Tales from the Riverbank’ that marked them out. It’s a shame that Weller no longer plays more than one or two Jam songs in his current gigs but I suppose he is entitled to place more emphasis on his twenty-year solo career, dammit..

My favourite punk band The Stranglers were also developing a different sound. The keyboards, whilst always integral to their sound were taking centre stage and Hugh Cornwell’s growl was evolving into a pleasant croon. ‘Golden Brown’ was even written in 6:8 waltz time. Was it about heroin? Possibly. Difficult to dance to? Definitely! Nevertheless, it made for a beautiful listen, and only The Jam stood in the way of a first number one single. They were never dull and deserve to be considered one of the best British bands of the Seventies and Eighties.

Disco was officially dead but while Kool and the Gang were around there was music to dance to. I know the ‘Kool’ referred to bass player Robert Bell but to me it was singer JT Taylor always seemed so cool with a ‘C’. They’d already released ‘Celebration’ and ‘Ladies Night’ but, with Taylor’s no-frills soulful vocals, ‘Get Down on It’ was their most successful single, making three in January. It was also the one that made me jig about more than any other! Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards also gave Carly Simon an Eighties hit with ‘Why’, right up there with most of their Chic material.

 The American TV series ‘Fame’ was hugely popular. Like its descendant ‘Glee’, the tales of talented young New York entertainers left me cold, but it built on the 1980 movie to create the second biggest selling single and album of 1982. Irene Cara’s theme song was a huge summer hit, while the ‘Kids from Fame’ sold out arenas for years to come. Not my scene but it spawned any number of teen dance blockbusters and massive sales of leg-warmers in the subsequent few years.  

When Pigbag recorded ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Pigbag’ I doubt they anticipated it being sung at football matches three decades later. However, the exuberant, brassy instrumental made for an enjoyable diversion from the Falkland War horrors in April and May. The Steve Miller Band’s ‘Abracadabra’ and Rockers Revenge’s ‘Walking on Sunshine’ were also really good, even though unfamiliar to twenty-first century Premier League crowds. 

In September, I started working at the BBC in Palladium House with a mixed bunch of individuals with musical tastes ranging from Dionne Warwick’s ‘Heartbreaker’ to new pop duo Wham. Not only was I earning my first salary (£4,970 per year!) but also travelling into Central London by train and Tube offered my first real taste of multiculturalism. On TV and the radio, too, British reggae was notably prominent. Birmingham schoolboys Musical Youth topped the chart with ‘Pass the Dutchie’ then Eddy Grant did the same with the rather staid and sedate ‘I Don’t Wanna Dance’. The former had novelty value given the age of the artists but, to be honest, not a lot else.

I was never a fan of glossy soul-dance, and therefore American trio Shalamar weren’t really my bag. They were on the radio a lot, so hard to avoid. Howard Hewett was the lead singer but, as then only female, Jody Watley garnered the most attention from the media. However, when they were due to perform ‘Night to Remember’ on TOTP that summer, only Jeffrey Darnell took to the floor. This turned out to be one of the most memorable three minutes in the show’s history. A noted dancer, Darnell proceeded to make jaws drop with his ‘body-popping’ to the song. It was the first time any of us had witnessed what was to become known as ‘moonwalking’, and Michael Jackson went on to make it his own. Fortunately he credited Darnell and signed him up to co-choreograph some of Jacko’s most celebrated videos like ‘Smooth Criminal’. Of course, after that TOTP broadcast, we all had a sneaky attempt at that ‘back-sliding’ manoeuvre, but I’ve never seen anyone pull it off successfully in real life. 

I spent a fortnight between university and the world of work with Mum and Dad in the Austrian Tirol. Loads of fresh Alpine air, magnificent mountain scenery and pleasant strolls around gorgeous green meadows were just what the doctor ordered. We also explored the surrounding towns and valleys by holiday company coach. Two of them were guided by our own hotel rep who proved to be a very informative and entertaining host. On the return journeys home he tended to shut up and let us relax or doze to a soundtrack of piano music. To my surprise, I found myself listening and quite enjoying what I heard; the music sounded perfect for a mountain drive. To such an extent that, alighting from the vehicle one occasion, I made sure of noting the title and artist on the cassette case: ‘Impresionen’ by Richard Clayderman. At the time I’d never heard of him but, while that particular album was unknown in the UK, the young blonde classical pianist soon became a household name and, dare I say it, sex symbol. However, for me, he is forever associated with chalets and cowbells. 

The biggest single hit of 1982 was undoubtedly ‘Come On Eileen’ by Dexy’s Midnight Runners’. Kevin Rowland’s ensemble was now all about folky fiddles and unappealing dungarees and this record was a weird mish-mash of Celtic dance, tribute to Johnny Ray and young love which somehow struck a chord. Indeed, as well as selling a million, ‘Come On Eileen’ proceeded to be part of my life soundtrack for many years to follow. A perennial favourite at Rotaract discos and wedding receptions, it was a song which would elicit groans all around and yet provide a clarion call for the dancefloor to fill with idiots eager to do that final manic accelerating ‘can-can’. An Eighties classic!

1981 - The devil take your stereo and your record collection!

This was a mighty strange year for pop, with a unique penchant for packaging nostalgia, allied to a mood for the new. Once ‘There’s No-One Quite like Grandma’ had run its Christmas course, John Lennon took his rightful place at number one. ‘Imagine’ went from decent Seventies hit to a karaoke classic beloved of buskers and – well – everyone, really. The climax of the video shot in the near-empty white room, where John turns to Yoko, pulls an affectionate silly face and plants a tender kiss, is enough to melt the most metallic of hearts.

‘Imagine’ was displaced by one of John’s new songs, ‘Woman’. And if you don’t blub at seeing that posthumous promo film, then you ain’t human. It still gets me every time. I genuinely think it could have gone all the way even had Lennon been alive. It’s such a gorgeous love song, with an entrancing chord progression in the verse and an unambiguously romantic chorus.

Others got in on the act, of course. George Harrison’s Countryfied tribute ‘All Those Years Ago’ was a bitter disappointment. However, Roxy Music’s decision to release their version of ‘Jealous Guy’ paid off, giving them their first and only chart-topper. In my ignorance, I hadn’t realised it had been a Lennon track from ten years earlier. It didn’t matter. Bryan Ferry and friends did it justice, I felt, and provided a fitting climax to the grieving period.

In the meantime, I continued to learn more about Lennon’s history. I even splashed out on buying The Beatles’ 1973 Red and Blue compilation albums, helping me fully appreciate John’s massive contribution to the greatest group the world has ever known. It wasn’t only his role in the familiar hits; I also became acquainted with amazing album tracks such as ‘Nowhere Man’ and ‘Across the Universe’. A few years later I also purchased his own greatest hits album, introducing me to his solo specials like ‘No.9 Dream’. Of course, John Lennon transcended music and, in a year of Cold War chaos, his message of peace was sorely missed.

On 11^th May came the news that Bob Marley had died of cancer. This wasn’t as earth-shattering as Lennon’s passing but of course it was a landmark in musical history. And yet in the UK there was no mass re-release of Marley’s back catalogue; ‘No Woman No Cry’ went to number eight, but that was it. Instead, it was Sugar Minott’s gentle ‘Good Thing Going’ which was our reggae record of the year. Nevertheless, death has proved no barrier to success. Bob’s music continues to sell, and his likeness adorns millions of posters, portraits, T-shirts and bath-towels across the nation, and indeed the world. I don’t condone smoking of ganja but it’s impossible not to like Marley’s brand of reggae. As with Lennon, his message of spiritualism and peace lives on, too.

In 1981, there wasn’t much goodwill to all men (or women) in the UK. Thatcher’s Government had succeeded in trebling unemployment. By the start of the year, more than 10% of the working age population were out of work. Months later, many urban areas, notably Brixton, saw anti-police rioting which left streets resembling war zones. At least the political situation inspired some great music.

Back then, UB40 were a politically-conscious outfit rather than a globally-successful reggae-by-numbers covers band. I still reckon their best song was 1981’s ‘One in Ten’, motivated by those appalling unemployment statistics. With bleak lyrics like:

“My arms enfold the dole queue
Malnutrition dulls my hair
My eyes are black and lifeless
With an underprivileged stare”.

it almost felt wrong to dance to it.

Probably the most famous British political single of the early Eighties came that summer, when The Specials swept to the top with ‘Ghost Town’. For once Terry Hall’s hollow, disinterested vocal style suited the subject-matter, which was the impact on local communities by the Tories’ economic policies. He did have help from Lynval Golding and Nevile Staple, not to mention Jerry Dammers, who wrote the gloomy lyrics on urban decay such as:-

“No job to be found in this country
Can't go on no more
The people getting angry”

The contrast with Royal Wedding fever was stark. There we were on 29^th July, encouraged to go nuts for zillionaires Charles and Diana and TOTP would sign off with The Specials careering around sombre cheerless streets in an ancient Vauxhall Cresta. That was 1981 in a nutshell.

Fortunately, even in such miserable times, pop music can come to the rescue before we all slash our wrists. ‘Ghost Town’ was replaced at the top by Shakin’ Stevens, who restored a spark of optimism to the summer. Already in his thirties, Shaky had an incredible year with his Elvis-lite performances. Rubbish miming and shameless wearing of the dreaded double-denim didn’t prevent him topping the charts with fifties covers ‘This Ole House’ and ‘Green Door’, split by an original song ‘You Drive Me Crazy’ which stalled at number two for a whole month. I can’t say Shaky – born just down the road in Cardiff from where I’m typing this – drove me crazy but he had enough fans to make him an improbable biggest-selling singles artist of the entire decade! I still can’t get my head around that statistic but, love him or hate him, Shaky was always within earshot in 1981.

That August, the four of us enjoyed what I think was our final summer holiday as a complete family. The following year Catherine was to grow up quicker than I did, doing her own thing with friends. However, in ’81, we all headed to Pembrokeshire, with overnight B&B stops along the way, there and back. I recall some warm sunshine and our exploration of the Wye Valley and West Wales unfolded to a backdrop of amazing sporting achievement. Ian Botham was doing his thing for English cricket, while Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett were trading middle-distance running world records seemingly every few days.

The musical soundtrack to that holiday was provided, not only by Mr Stevens but the likes of Aneka, who showed him the (green) door while we were away. A Scottish folk singer, Mary Sandeman looked about as oriental as I did, but her song ‘Japanese Boy’ was a surprise hit. Jumping on the Kelly Marie bandwagon, it had obvious similarities with ‘Feels Like I’m In Love’ but there was a naïve charm about it which I actually warmed to.

Bucks Fizz cheered the nation in Spring by winning the Eurovision Song Contest with ‘Making Your Mind Up’. Like Shaky’s hits, it harked back to the rock’n’roll and jive era, and was incredibly popular, if not with undergraduates like me. I recall babysitting next-door during the Easter holidays, watching the programme. Obviously the colourful, ripping-off-the-skirts gimmick was by then familiar from pre-Contest performances, but it was nevertheless quite uplifting to see them take the title.

I wasn’t sure whether I should go along with the old-fashioned good-natured style of Joe Dolce, whose ‘Shuddapa Your Face’ so famously kept ‘Vienna’ off the top in March, or want to kill him. Actually, I found Dolce and his singalongaJoe shtick quite endearing. Sorry, Midge! On the other hand, I couldn’t stand Julio Iglesias. He took the mantle of ‘Housewives’ Euro crumpet’ from Distel and Roussos, his soft-focus Spanish tones propelling ‘Begin the Beguine’ to number one just before Christmas. It wasn’t the worst hit single of the year. That must surely have been The Tweets’ ‘Birdie Song’, which sold more than half a million during the autumn term. But who bought it? Anyone who has even attempted to do the dance moves is equally culpable. Own up!

The New Romantic movement really took hold in 1981. It could easily have been a victory of style over substance, but the music was undeniably good. Emerging from the Blitz club scene, Spandau Ballet wasted no time in hitting the charts, but I did find their swirling ‘Highlander’ skirts a mite pretentious. Tony Hadley’s impressively precise old school vocals made an immediate impact on me, even if their take on electronic music didn’t. On the other hand, I did like Duran Duran’s ‘Girls on Film'. I wasn’t sure about the chubby-faced, bandana-clad lead singer but their fashion wasn’t as ridiculous as Spandau’s, and the blend of John Taylor’s funky bass, Andy Taylor’s riffs, Nick Rhodes’ synths and Roger Taylor’s drums definitely boasted ‘something’.

In the lyrics to 1980’s ‘My Perfect Cousin', young Kevin’s mum had bought him a synthesiser and “got the Human League in to advise her”. The result was “Now he's making lots of noise Playing along with the Art school boys”. Lucky Kevin! But maybe he wasn’t moving in the right circles as envisaged by his well-connected mother. By 1981, the original ‘art school Human League had split in two. After their experimental phase, Phil Oakey’s section left the arty crowd behind them and proceeded to make some of the best synth pop ever. 

It took their summer hit ‘Love Action' to make me realise that Sheffield’s finest were actually very listenable. Oakey still boasted the striking but rather silly ‘long one side, short the other’ hairstyle, but the schoolgirl backing singers and dancers Susan Sulley and Joanne Catherall had given up university ambitions to join full-time. ‘Love Action’ sounded incredible, and I loved that bass synth line. The Human League’s album ‘Dare’ was the year’s third biggest seller and, with no traditional drums anywhere on the record, it broke new ground, even in the States. 

They even conquered Christmas with the supreme synth classic, ‘Don’t You Want Me'. It has so far sold over 1 ½ million copies here and I could listen to it every day without ever getting bored. While they never quite hit the same heights again, there were more first-class singles to follow, including ‘Mirror Man’, ‘Keep Feeling Fascination’ and ‘The Lebanon’. More impressive still is that, for all those art school origins, Oakey and the girls never sound pretentious, and they are still doing the circuit. I can vouch that Phil’s voice, in particular, is undimmed by the passing years.

Back in August I recall sitting in the room I shared with Catherine in an old hotel in the Malverns, listening to the new Sunday evening chart rundown. By the time they reached the number one position, I was extremely puzzled. For the life of me, I couldn’t work out who could be at the top. Had a record shot straight in? No, the presenter would surely have mentioned it to build some extra excitement. When it was revealed that Soft Cell’s ‘Tainted Love’ occupied the number one spot, I was surprised. Four months later, I had a similar mental frustration trying to guess the year’s top-selling single. Blow me: it was ‘Tainted Love’ again!

I really didn’t see the appeal. The song sounded mediocre, and Marc Almond’s camp performance in eyeliner, tight black gear and studded wristbands seemed to lack much substance. So, what do I know?! I much preferred the follow-up, ‘Bedsitter’ and their string of successful torch songs in the next year or so. Some of the gay artists were obviously ‘out’ and for the coming years, camp but clever electro-pop duos were definitely ‘in’. 

1981 also saw the introduction of Basildon boys Depeche Mode to the charts. They had a bright and breezy synth sound, typified by Vince Clarke’s ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’. I didn’t really expect them to amount to much, especially once Clarke left to form Yazoo. It was therefore a pleasure to hear them evolve into a darker, more political band without losing their musical mojo. OMD also stepped up a gear. ‘Souvenir’ had a softer, lusher sound and the quieter vocals of Paul Humphreys, and went to number three. Andy McCluskey’s voice was back in charge for another top fiver, ‘Joan of Arc', in November. Joan was to make an appearance in their next single in 1982’s waltz-time ‘Maid of Orleans’, too, a track introduced by 30 seconds of atonal electronic whine. OMD seemed unable to create a poor record.

The power of the video was growing by the week. In February, Ultravox blew everyone away with their atmospheric gothic masterpiece, ‘Vienna’. A rare synth-pop ballad, the five-minute mini-movie featuring moonlit Covent Garden cobbles, an exotic party, climactic murder and Midge Ure’s sharp collars - and even sharper sideburns - really ladled on the atmosphere. ‘Vienna’ was voted best number two single of all time but its video was definitely part of the whole package. 

Midge also wrote the lyrics to another iconic New Romantic record, ‘Fade to Grey' by Visage. Now, this was pretentious with a capital ‘P’. Just as its singer Steve Strange was, well, strange with a capital ‘S’! I still love the music, though and, like ‘Vienna’, the video images linger long in the memory.  

They were largely the creative brainchild of ex-10cc-ers Kevin Godley and Lol Crème. It was all a bit incestuous at the time, and the chain continues with Godley and Crème performing my favourite song of the year, ‘Under Your Thumb’. I loved it so much I bought the single. That’s two in two years! It was a brilliantly crafted record; the synth replicates the sound of a speeding train, an appropriate backdrop to a spooky story of “woman throws herself from speeding train, identity unknown”. A rare example of a song whose lyrics I could hear and remember, yet for all G and C’s video wizardry, it didn’t need an eerie film to spoon-feed you with imagery; the words and music did the job perfectly well on their own. 

When I went up to Uni, I had abhorred Talking Heads’ ‘Psycho Killer’. However, I really liked their new single, ‘Once in a Lifetime’. It had a strange rhythm to it, but David Byrne’s frankly scary vocals and the even scarier video made it work for me. Another arty-farty oddball was Julian Cope. Before his prodigious psychedelic drug intake sent him over the edge, his band The Teardrop Explodes produced some great pop music. In February, they zoomed to number six with the stirring ‘Reward’ and ‘Treason’ also entered the top twenty. Before he became the ultimate hippy for the twenty-first century, Cope was a charismatic frontman with a great voice as well as a talented tunesmith, and I wasn’t the only undergrad fan of his. 

Dum-chah, dum-chah, dum-chah!. 1981 turned out to be the year of the medley single, with the ubiquitous and monotonous ‘clap track’. Even we students had brains subconsciously alive to the ‘dum-chah’ beat. While party medleys weren’t new, a Dutch producer spotted a gap in the singles market and StarSound was born. The first ‘Stars on 45’ 7” edit featured session musicians singing ‘Sugar Sugar’ and ‘Venus’, followed by eight Beatles tracks (mostly B sides like ‘Drive My Car’), and peaked at no.2. That seemed a bit random, but Volume 2 focussed entirely on Abba. It, too, narrowly failed to top the chart but brought to my attention lesser-known songs like ‘Boom-a-Boomerang’ which, like ‘S.O.S’’, ‘Voulez-Vous’, etc, fitted the default beat to perfection.

The bandwagon’s axles must have been close to collapse under the weight of other acts jumping on it. Tight Fit did well with early 60s stuff and Adrian Baker’s falsetto came in useful on Gidea Park’s Beach Boys and Four Seasons segues. There were also Caribbean boom-chahs, Chas and Dave brought out ‘Stars Over 45’ for Christmas and real groups like The Hollies cashed in before a tribute act or unknown Dutchmen could get there first. 

Perhaps the most unlikely bandwagon-leapers were the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Louis Clark created the Hooked on Classics brand which not only created a number two single but also hugely successful albums and concerts Even I went to one at the Barbican later in the decade. The RPO were professional musicians, of course, not session singers. That gave them an advantage of being able to tamper with the time signatures and rhythms of Beethoven, Mozart, Sibelius, Tchaikovsky et al to fit the steady ‘dum-chah’ claptrack. Clark and the RPO must have done more to subsidise classical music than a generation of stingy governments, and good on ‘em!

Another classical number two single came from Ennio Morricone’s ‘Chi Mai’, and 1981 also experienced one of the most famous classical synth records of all time. Greek composer and synth wizard Vangelis was everywhere. Not only did he combine with ex-Yes singer Jon Anderson to release pleasant jingly-jangly ballads like ‘Find My Way Home’ but his popular ‘Chariots of Fire’ theme has probably done more to inspire amateur runners than any piece of music ever written. 

The pouting face of 20 year-old Kim Wilde covered a myriad of student walls after her anthemic debut ‘Kids in America’ blasted the charts early in the year. Co-written by her dad Marty and brother Ricky, the family effort paid off in spades, even if Kim so clearly was a kid from the Home Counties. The rhythm section was traditional but the soaring synths gave the record an ultra-modern vibe. Fantastic ending, too. More hits followed during the year, my favourite being the slower ‘Cambodia’, but ‘Kids..’ must be one of the best examples of early Eighties rock-pop. 

Another hugely successful female artist in 1981 was Toyah Wilcox. Her bright bouncy orange mop-top was a familiar sight on TV throughout the year and beyond. Looking like the love child of John Lydon and Kate Bush, she was often touted as a punk. Indeed, the first time I saw her was in the crime series Shoestring playing, yes, a punk rocker with a heart. Her music proved to be anything but punk. Her first record went top four in February, an EP led by ‘It’s a Mystery’. Her hint of a lisp left her fair game for comediennes like Tracey Ullman to take the pith, but her squeaky voice was endearing and irritating in equal measure. When she sang ‘I Wanna Be Free’, she sounded less a dangerous rebel and more a Roedean teenager having a hissy fit.

Hazel O’Connor had been a far more convincing post-punk icon than Toyah, and then in 1981 she released one of my all-time fave ballads, ‘Will You?’ Going against all my natural instincts, I have to confess that the record was turned from merely great to sensational by Wesley Magoogan’s sultry sensual sax solo. It was so moving that it took over the entire second half of the track. I don’t recall loving it quite so much at the time but it grew on me year by year. It sounds pretty darned cool in this live performance, too.

No saxophones in sight but another hot girl singer was Clare Grogan. In ’81 she played Gregory’s Girl in the brilliant Bill Forsyth comedy, then led Altered Images to number two with ‘Happy Birthday’ in September. I missed the chance to see them play the Great Hall but one of my neighbours insisted on playing the song all the bloody time! I admit I had a mini-crush on young Clare, with her feather-light fluffy voice and engaging stage presence. Altered Images not only had more hits but, along with The Skids and The Tourists helped launch a raft of excellent Eighties Scottish bands. 

Coincidentally, another ‘Happy Birthday’ anthem also reached number two. However, Stevie Wonder’s song was a different kettle of fish. An unapologetic musical demand for a national public holiday to mark the birthday of Martin Luther King, it was the first Wonder composition I really liked. It flopped in the racist USA but eventually succeeded in its objective when, two years later, even President Reagan was persuaded to accede to Stevie’s heartfelt appeal. A delightful record, too.

David Grant’s voice was not altogether different from Stevie’s and his hit ‘Intuition’ with Linx was one of my top singles from 1981. The lively and light-hearted reflection on childhood went to number seven thanks in part to an entertaining video which served its purpose during another TOTP technicians’ strike. ‘So This Is Romance’ followed in similar vein, albeit perhaps a bit funkier thanks to bass player Sketch. Grant went on to pursue a solo career as a poor man’s Michael Jackson but with limited success. 

Another soulful group who enjoyed the first of their five top 20 singles that year was Imagination. Singer Leee John seeemed over-fond not only of ‘e’s but also of spinning on the spot, while bassist Ashley Ingram often appeared to be getting jiggy with his instrument. Nevertheless, ‘Body Talk’ sounded sexy, albeit not as much as the band seemed to think! ‘Just an Illusion’ went to number two the following year and they were TOTP staples for a while.

Some bigger names than Imagination enjoyed their final flirtations with the top ten in 1981. Abba’s unbroken run of perfect pop hits ended with ‘One of Us’ in December. I associate the song with a family journey to Uncle David’s house on Christmas Eve. I don’t know if it was a new chart rundown, but it was dark, it was cold, and it was snowing as it played on the car radio! We weren’t to know it, but they didn’t even pierce the top twenty with subsequent new releases. It was another peerless four minutes of emotional vocals and melody, but Bjorn and Benny were never to repeat the success.

‘Start Me Up’ proved to be the last classic Rolling Stones top-tenner, too, but Slade enjoyed a renaissance  - as heavy rockers! With ‘We’ll Bring the House Down’ and ‘Lock Up Your Daughters’, Noddy et al delivered a totally unexpected reinvention and they were an extremely popular act at the Reading Festival to boot. You can’t keep a good group down for long.

A hundred miles further down the Great Western line from Reading, my halls of residence held their Summer Ball in June. The unofficial Ents Officer Chas seemed to boast an impressive contact book for his age. One year we had comic singer Jake Thackray but in 1981 Chas booked Fassbender Russell as the headline act. “Woo-hoo!” you may sardonically reply. But actually they had, under Susan Fassbender’s name, enjoyed a top 30 single, ‘Twilight Café’, at the start of the year, and fortunately I had enjoyed it. In her unfashionable glasses, Fassbender looked nothing like your average pop star and Kate Russell was a rarity, a female guitarist which I recall prompted a shameful sexist comment by one of the TOTP presenters. I remember nothing else from their set at Exeter that warm summer evening, but ‘Twilight Café’ was worth the wait. It was therefore shocking to read recently that Fassbender had committed suicide just ten years later. The world can be a cruel place.

The world can also be a bright place, especially when Madness are around. They were really hitting their stride, the first band whose videos we all anticipated at least as much as the new singles they were made to promote. The TV room at Birks would fill just to laugh at the latest daft adventures of the Nutty Boys, cavorting around various North London locations like Camden High Street and Hampstead Heath. They had no fewer than four top ten singles in 1981: Labi Siffre’s ‘It Must Be Love’ (he even has a cameo in the video), Mike Barson’s dark ‘Grey Day’, the comical ‘Shut Up’ and ‘The Return of the Los Palmas Seven’ (superb lyrics: “Waiter” was the only word). But they clearly weren’t just a comedy troupe. They were a tight musical unit, brilliant live, as I was to witness for myself at the O2 a decade or so ago.  

Yet, when it came to whimsical, tongue-in-cheek videos, Madness had serious competition that year in Adam and the Ants, surely the biggest band in Britain. From ragged New Wavers at the end of 1980, they blew our socks off in May 1981 by going straight in at number one with ‘Stand and Deliver’. It proved to be the second biggest selling single of the year, and the video’s fleeting singing wolfhound is priceless. The follow-up, ‘Prince Charming’ was third. Their album’ Kings of the Wild Frontier’ was simply unassailable. 

Adam’s ‘dandy highwayman’, complete with trademark white face stripe, and Regency prince were supreme examples of zany pop persona running hand in hand with clever marketing. Not since early 70s Bowie had we seen anything like it. And don’t tell me Johnny Depp’s movie pirate Captain Jack Sparrow wasn’t influenced by Adam Ant’s 1981 characters. Adam’s face and entertaining videos defined 1981 more than any other. He may have invited parody but, as he sang in his second chart-topper, “Ridicule is nothing to be scared of”. A message for us all in the '80s!

1979 – Another lonely day, no one here but me-o

This was another of those personal landmark years. Struggling through months of A level revision was bad enough, without the ill-effects of sickness and loss of appetite to contend with. The specialist diagnosis turned out to be Crohn’s Disease and it took a year or so for the treatment to settle the inflammation. Meanwhile I bade farewell to my second home for seven years, the Mayflower School, and made those initial nervous steps into higher education. I probably wasn’t cut out for the whirlwind of sudden independence thrust upon me by attending Exeter University. However, I was exposed to a more eclectic mix of music than I had been whilst relying on the regimented rules of chart-led media. I even went to a few gigs, but they were still some way off

The year began with two massive hits following each other to the top. The Village People's ‘YMCA’ was irritatingly catchy, its brass ‘n’ bass rhythm and arm actions instantly recognisable to this day. I actually preferred the follow-up, ‘In The Navy’, which stalled at two. Hot on the heels of that particular disco classic came the highlight of Ian Dury’s career. ‘Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick’ shouldn’t really have been successful. Nonsense lyrics, an uncommercial funk vibe, a disabled lead singer whose voice seemed to have been constructed from the gravel pits of the Thames Estuary itself…? Yet it sold a million! ‘What A Waste’ had raised his profile nationally the previous year, but ‘Rhythm Stick’ was on a different plane altogether. Behind Dury’s lyric, those Blockheads were in fine form, too. Norman Watt-Roy’s shimmering bassline and that double-sax solo by Davey Payne were so distinctive. Even Dad liked it!

The song also motivated me to find out more, discovering songs like ‘Billericay Dickie’, ‘Clever Trevor’ and ‘Sex ‘n’ Drugs ‘n’ Rock ‘n’ Roll’. The former proved a handy way of introducing myself and my home town to fellow undergraduates that autumn. What I hadn’t quite grasped was that the eponymous character was hardly – shall we say – an icon of middle-class respectability!  As the first verse explains:-

“A seasoned up hyena
Could not have been more obscener”

Hmm. Well. With regard to the fairer sex, I left Exeter as green as I arrived, but at least I got to see Ian and the Blockheads live in the Great Hall.

The band were the leading lights of Stiff Records, a label which had also nurtured Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe and a rejuvenated Dave Edmunds. These three also produced songs I really enjoyed in 1979. Costello soared to number two with his bitter but clever ‘Oliver’s Army’, Edmunds to four with the rollocking ‘Girl Talk’ and Lowe had a few hits of his own while playing bass with Edmunds.

Stiff probably would not have existed without the financial fillip provided by Lee Brilleaux, co-founder and chain-smoking singer with Canvey Island’s finest, Dr Feelgood. Already with a number one album to their name, they pierced the singles top ten in February with the powerful ‘Milk and Alcohol’. It was the only time they reached even the top 30, but in our part of Essex they were huge. Not really into R’n’B, it took a while to appreciate their music but a decade or so later I did finally tag along to a gig in Chelmsford to see what all the fuss was about. Being showered with fag ash ain’t my idea of fun, but the atmosphere further back was undeniably fast and furious!

The year also featured the first singles from another Stiff group, Madness. Their revival of the Sixties ska sound left me cold. I’d never even heard of Prince Buster. However, I did recognise ‘One Step Beyond’ as an entertaining foot-tapper, even though Madness were a year or two away from becoming my favourite band. Suddenly ska was everywhere. My first few terms at Exeter played out to a soundtrack of 2-Tone records. Hot Chocolate, The Foundations and The Equals were no longer the only multi-racial groups I’d heard of. In addition to the music, itself a blend of reggae and punk influences, having black and white artists together demonstrated defiance against the rise of the racist National Front and Margaret Thatcher’s new right-wing government. Jerry Dammers’ The Special AKA (not yet The Specials) and The Beat made the top ten, but I favoured the bouncy beat of The Selector’s ‘On My Radio’.

Still in the Home Counties, Squeeze’s ‘Cool For Cats’ was popular with my schoolmates. Amusing lyrics, a deadpan vocal from Chris Difford and cigar-puffing Jools Holland on keyboards was very sixth former-friendly stuff and it went to number two. ‘Up the Junction’ did the same, but was a very different song. Glenn Tilbrook’s lighter voice was perfect for the sweet story of a doomed Clapham romance, which was quite moving. I still can’t decide which of the two hits I prefer. The following few years brought more singles, albeit less popular. ‘Pulling Mussels’ (with a delightful piano interlude from Jools) and ‘Is That Love?’ earned few sales but won my heart. One of my many regrets from those Exeter days was that I didn’t see Squeeze perform there. Difford and Tilbrook are still on the scene so maybe there’s still time….

Wit and whimsicality were not the sole preserve of Londoners like Dury and Difford. Glaswegian B.A. Robertson achieved fame with a sequence of jocular singles in ’79 and ’80, the first of which, ‘Bang Bang’, pulled off the rare feat of being both genuinely funny and great to listen to. ‘Knocked it Off’ was more of a comedy song but also made the top ten. You couldn’t help warm to him. With such depressing politics and economic news weighing heavily even on us teenagers, music to lighten the mood was extremely welcome. 

Disco was still very much to the fore, delivering some crunching dance numbers to complement the 2Toners and wry balladeers. I have never stopped loving the work of Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards. 1979 was their peak year. Not only did their group Chic release the wonderful ‘I Want Your Love’ and ‘My Forbidden Lover’ but the two ace American musicians/composers/producers gave Sister Sledge their first taste of true success. ‘We Are Family’ is the track which to this day seems to generate most airplay, but in my mind, it’s ‘He’s the Greatest Dancer’ which stands proud amongst the top three disco records of all time. It’s one you can listen to, but for a pure dance track, Chic’s 1978 track ‘Le Freak’ probably has the edge. Sadly Edwards is no longer with us but, despite his prodigious drug intake over the years, at the time of writing Rogers is very much active - and perhaps even cooler than he was in the Seventies! 

South Essex hadn't really taken the new American fad for roller-disco to its bosom. However, it was prominent in the promo for Gloria Gaynor’s early girlpower anthem, ‘I Will Survive’. Yes, it’s Gloria’s song but it was the segments spotlighting Sheila Reid-Pender’s graceful roller-dancing which for me are the most enduring images. The record displaced The Bee Gees’ ‘Tragedy’ from the number one position here. I confess I liked neither. When the American rock community launched their record-burning backlash and the nation turned against the Bee Gees, with ‘Tragedy’ in my head I could almost feel they had a point. 

However, the huge hit holding the top spot between Ian Dury and the Gibbs was more to my taste. Blondie may have infuriated their old punk supporters when they released ‘Heart of Glass’, but it made them global superstars, and Debbie Harry a thirty-something sex symbol. If I’d been into buying posters, I’m sure she’d have been on one of them! They didn’t become a disco band, though. Their next chart-topper, ‘Sunday Girl’, was a lighter, almost Sixties-ish pop song. Taking these together with the previous year’s rockier New Wave tracks, you had the heart of Blondie’s LP ‘Parallel Lines’, which was the year’s biggest-seller. 

When it came to singles, nothing sold more than Art Garfunkel’s dreamy ‘Bright Eyes’. Of course it was a beautiful song. Everything performed by Art is. However, the association with the ‘Watership Down’ animated movie meant that the oft-repeated film of fluffy rabbits wore somewhat thin! Cliff Richard’s massive hit ‘We Don’t Talk Any More’ was another song which sounded good for the first few weeks before becoming merely irritating. Even with a twenty-year career behind him, Cliff was still a significant artist back then. 

It was a good year for virtuoso guitarists, too. Cliff’s old mates, The Shadows notched a couple of top-tenners with their own instrumental versions of current popular tunes. Much as I had come to appreciate his enormous influence on rock music back in the early Sixties, Hank Marvin’s mix of grinning and gurning over his Fender tremolo arm in 1979 seemed peculiar to say the least. Yet ‘Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina’ and ‘Cavatina’ did really well. The latter had been revived by its use in the groundbreaking film ‘The Deer Hunter’ and it was only fitting that the man who had originally recorded the tune, classical supremo John Williams, should also make the top twenty with his acoustic version. I’d never seen ‘The Deer Hunter’ until recently and I still associate the mesmeric melody with children’s TV series ‘Vision On’...

Gary Moore’s ‘Parisienne Walkways’ was another great guitar single, but I was more impressed by Mark Knopfler’s frenetic fretwork on ‘Sultans of Swing’. On that final epic solo, how can anyone play so many notes in such a short time – and in the right order?! I first heard it travelling down to Devon in a minibus for a Geography school field trip. It sure took my mind off the relentless rain! 

There was another great guitar solo in that year’s unforeseen Christmas number one, Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall’. With its imagery of kids being fed into a meat mincer, and calls of “We don’t need no educay-shun”, it was another of those records which got many educationalists in a tizz. Not Dad, of course. True to form, it merely amused him! It did indeed a memorable video, if somewhat bleak, especially for the season of turkey and tinsel.

The video was in its infancy but starting to move on from Abba-style ‘two-shots’ and bands miming in various locations. As with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, promo films could make a difference to sales. The Buggles’ ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ was a case in point. I recall first hearing the song on Radio 1 and feeling distinctly underwhelmed. It looked like languishing unloved in the lower reaches of the Top 30 until the video was shown on TOTP. Suddenly I ‘got’ it! Three weeks later in October it was at number one. It all looks rather tame and basic nowadays, but it was cutting edge in the Seventies. Singer-writer Trevor Horn proceeded to be one of the most prolific and influential producers of the Eighties so, ironically, under his guidance, video didn’t actually kill the radio star after all.

Another powerful promo belonged to The Boomtown Rats’ ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’. Appropriately for the song’s subject-matter (an American girl’s killing spree) there are lots of scary classroom close-ups and sharp editing but it was the dazzling white-light studio scenes which packed the greatest punch. A great record but an even greater video.

I've written before about my childhood infatuation with drumming. The arrival of punkish white reggae (well, ‘Regatta de Blanc’) group The Police in ’79 brought to my attention the idiosyncratic stickwork of Stewart Copeland. Until that point, most drumming on chart records was regulation stuff. I’m no technical expert but some of Copeland’s rhythms were refreshingly different. Of course, The Police were a trio of brilliant musicians and writers and went on to be so successful, better than the sum of their constituent parts. I first heard them when ‘Roxanne’ reached twelve in the Spring. It didn’t do much for me. However, when ‘Can’t Stand Losing You’ soared to number two (behind the Rats) in July, I began to pay closer attention. A few months later, I felt an instant emotional connection with ‘Message in a Bottle’. Topping the chart when I went up to Exeter University, the lyrics chimed with the loneliness I experienced during those early days in hall, trying to get to grips with new surroundings, colleagues and ways of working. I suppose I, too, was “sending out an SOS” but when Sting sang:-

“Walked out this morning I don't believe what I saw
A hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore

there was a modicum of hope. As the next line revealed, I realised “I’m not alone in being alone”. I may not have possessed in my room a means of actually playing a record, but ‘Message in a Bottle’ was the first 7” I bought purely for me, a personal statement. I wouldn’t have bought it just for the empathetic words, though. It was a fabulous record. A simple guitar riff, bass line, vocal and fairly straightforward structure, but it all came together in such an energetic package, and The Police had such quality no band could touch them for the next few years.

M’s ‘Pop Muzik’ and The Knack’s ‘My Sharona’ were similar examples of classy singles but they were one-offs. XTC delivered the brilliant ‘Making Plans for Nigel’, but failed to penetrate the top ten. The Jam’s ‘Eton Rifles’ was a tantalising preview of what was to come from Paul Weller and co, while Michael Jackson seemed to come of age with his effortless dance moves and vocals on ‘Rock With You’, ‘Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough’ and, with his brothers, ‘Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)’.

I wasn’t really into his music, but his talent was obvious. This was the year of his ‘Off the Wall’ collaboration with producer Quincy Jones, and the hit singles flowed. The ‘Thriller’/’Bad’ Eighties era probably marked Jackson’s pinnacle as a zillion-selling global musical icon. However, 1979/80 appears in retrospect to be the time when young Michael was at his peak as an unblemished human being, before Jacko started to become Wacko.

There was plenty of cheesy pop, of course. Most has been mercifully forgotten but some was too ubiquitous to be easily disposed of with a mental ‘delete’ button. While the Americans had The Jacksons, we had The Dooleys! I kind-of recall 'The Chosen View' but as a product of the Northern club circuit they were pretty dreadful. Not the worst of the year, though…

The Ramblers’ ‘Sparrow Song’ towards Christmas signalled a horrendous start of songs featuring cute kids, culminating in the next year’s mind-numbing number one by St Winifred’s School Choir. I also loathed Lena Martell’s big hit ‘One Day at a Time’ but not all cheese leaves a nasty, mould-ridden taste in the mouth. Dollar were borne out of the crap vocal group Guys and Dolls but David van Day and Thereza Bazar were to release a string of singles in the late ‘70s and, when Trevor Horn assumed control, the early ‘80s. A good-looking couple, but Bazar’s feather-light voice wasn’t really up to much; it didn’t seem to hold them back. As for the music, it wasn’t their most successful, but I had a sneaking regard for their 1979 effort, ‘Who Were You With in the Moonlight’.

It was also the year when ABBA blotted their copybook by releasing ‘I Have a Dream’. For all their amazing back catalogue, I suppose they are allowed one dodgy moment. The simple ballad is OK but once the dreaded school choir kicks in, my patience checks out. 1979 was also unusual given that the Swedes failed to clock a single UK chart-topper. ‘Chiquitita’ came mighty close and is now one of my favourites.

Under 1978, I raved about the Electric Light Orchestra. It’s not that they were top of my list at the time but nostalgia and age has boosted their appeal. In ’79, their album ‘Discovery’ was the second biggest seller, including ‘The Diary of Horace Wimp’. Not one of the most famous ELO songs, but I love it. A silly story, but lovely melody and orchestral arrangements, and the vocoder is used cleverly as a rhythm machine. That autumn, ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’ peaked at a very respectable three and consisted of much ‘E’ but no ‘O’. A rock number, allowing Bev Bevan to thrash the drumkit at live shows, I quite liked it, despite the string section’s sabbatical. For all the great Seventies singles, and a few more in 1981, it is painful to recall that ELO’s only chart-topper was the feeble ‘Xanadu’ with Olivia Newton-John in 1980. The least said about that, the better. 

Violins and cellos are all very well, but sounded prehistoric in comparison with a record which captured the imagination in the summer of ’79, much as ‘I Feel Love’ had done a few years previously. Back then we were amidst a feeding frenzy of sci-fi blockbusters like the original ‘Star Wars’ and ‘Star Trek movies. Then, as if beamed down from another galaxy, appeared on our TV screens The Tubeway Army. Dressed like Kraftwerk and with a voice akin to a part-alien David Bowie, front man Gary Numan invaded the charts with banks of synthesisers so that pop would never be the same again. At least he also had the foresight to include a few drums and guitars to placate the awe-struck earthlings. ‘Are Friends Electric?’ even had a quizzical title, suggesting an affirmative response was in order. Two years before, The Carpenters had charted with the epic ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’. Now we knew the result. It was Numan who had - to paraphrase the lyric - been observing our earth, wanting to make a contact with us. 

The song was all so epic, yet futuristic. In fact, Numan WAS the future. I loved it and, despite those booming synth chords, I feel it has stood the test of time. Its sample even helped launch the Sugababes' career two decades later. Numan went solo for the follow-up single ‘Cars’ which was number one just before I left Billericay for Exeter. Used for so many adverts in the intervening years, it feels as if it has never been away. Other hit records followed but none had the impact of the first. It paved the way for a new electronic era in pop which caught hold in the Eighties, a decade which was suddenly upon us…