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!

1977 – He got an ice pick, which made his ears burn

This is a year lauded as a special one in the history of music. Punk rock spelled the end of prog rock, although it was the death of Elvis which left a gaping hole in rock’n’roll. As for me, there was less of a feeling that the sands were shifting in such a momentous way. After all, I had more important things to worry about – like ‘O’ levels.

It transpired that 1977’s biggest sellers followed each other to the top spot from January to March. For all the new genres, David Soul seemed to create one of his own. Already popular as one half of TV’s detectives ‘Starsky and Hutch’, Soul set about dominating the UK singles charts with some rather plaintive piano ’n’ strings love songs led by ‘Don’t Give On Us Baby’. I preferred the slightly rockier ‘Silver Lady’, a number one in October.

Leo Sayer achieved his greatest success with another dreary ballad, ‘When I Need You’, and ABBA’s march to near-global supremacy with ‘The Name of the Game’ and another four minutes of pop perfection in ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’. Cue shots of snowy landscapes, front- and side-on close-ups and bittersweet lyrics. A-ha-ahhhh.

A period of big musicals was set in motion by Evita. Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber had enjoyed some hits from ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ but they were dwarfed by the popularity of the Act 2 scene-stealer, ‘Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina’. Julie Covington’s beautiful rendition was in the top ten for seemingly forever. Accept no imposters like Madonna or assorted Pussycat Dolls! I wasn’t a fan of the song but it’s an undeniable giant of West End musical theatre. Years later I was to see a lot of London musicals but somehow Evita has always eluded me.

Winter was setting in when I first heard a new record by Paul McCartney and Wings. I was happy to say aloud that the simple celebration of rural Scotland would never be a hit. Ever the man with his finger on the pulse of British pop taste, I was proved wrong as never before or since; ‘Mull of Kintyre’ sold two million copies in the UK alone! Not even ‘Sgt Dave Hutchinson’ (aka D Soul) could compete with acoustic guitar, an ex-Beatle and bagpipes.

In contrast to the above, the lens of retrospective specs reveals that there were indeed some pretty pivotal singles released. At the time, I just took them at face value. And that was just the ones I heard. The Clash wouldn’t have been seen dead performing ‘White Riot’ on TOTP, nor do I recall watching Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Don’t Stop’; neither managed to scrape in to the top 30.

Until 1977 all of my favourites tended to be top-tenners. However, while freed from school class attendance obligations during the exam period, I listened to Radio 1 shows beyond the usual Top 20 and Jimmy Savile. I think it may have been Tony Blackburn following the Noel Edmonds breakfast show, so I became familiar with his irritating ways and preferences. Of course, he probably had little say in the tracks played, as there were new releases besides those who’d already climbed the charts. As a result, I got to know, and like, a lot of singles which, despite heavy airplay, were left languishing in the twenties or thirties.

For example, another of the tracks from Fleetwood Mac’s epoch-making ‘Rumours’ album was ‘Dreams’. I loved the soft rock rhythm, the bassline and, of course, Stevie Nicks’ idiosyncratic vocals. I dispute her assertion that “thunder only happens when it’s raining” but it was a cracking record all the same. Yet it peaked at just 24 in the UK.

Another mostly British band who crossed the Atlantic to achieve success were Supertramp. I’d been drawn to a previous hit ‘Dreamer’ and in ’77, it was the turn of the less manic ‘Give A Little Bit’. Even more surprising today is the realisation that David Bowie’s evergreen ‘Heroes’ was another song whose class didn’t translate into contemporary sales. Robert Fripp’s legendary guitar work sounded so, well, heroic, and for me Bowie’s voice was never better. Yet by far his biggest hit of the year was ‘Sound and Vision’, the first half of which was instrumental. I had a friend who really loved Bowie, then seen as way ahead of his time. Perhaps, but that just meant most of us hated his material.

I had a few friends who raved about American country rockers The Eagles. I never really shared their enthusiasm, but they were never far from my ears or eyes in 1977. It was the year when the album ‘Hotel California’ was released. I didn’t really like the first single, ‘New Kid in Town’, but the title track boasted that intriguing lengthy intro and that (then) unusual guitar duet by Joe Walsh and Don Felder at the end. I’d no idea it would become such an iconic rock song, but it eased into the UK top ten, and the performance in this clip from the same year captures their languid LA style to perfection.  

Talking of classics, Boston’s ‘More Than a Feeling’ and Joe Walsh’s ‘Rocky Mountain Way’ made little impression on me or anyone else. However, the year gave us two British rock-pop staples by home-grown giants. Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’ and Status Quo’s ‘Rockin’ All Over the World’ were top three singles which appealed to me, although they hardly blew my mind.

The voice of Lionel Richie is so familiar now, it feels like we were born with it in our brains but probably the first time I heard it was in 1977 on The Commodores’ ‘Easy’. It may have been ‘easy on a Sunday morning’ but on the Sunday evening chart show it was a bit of a yawnathon. The only redeeming feature was that guitar solo!

Manhattan Transfer topped the chart in March with ‘Chanson d’Amour’. Their 40s pastiche didn’t appeal to me at all and I was surprised that a few classmates actually sang along to it. It did introduce the saxophone as a supposed instrument of gratuitous sophistication to pop, for which the Transfer should grovel for forgiveness. ‘Chanson…’ already had a French title. There was no need to add a sax solo; the record was pretentious enough as it was! Thank goodness for ‘Baker Street’ and ‘Will You’ for delivering the sax from jazz and pop hell! 

Those weekday breakfasts spent listening to Radio 1, delaying another summer session of tedious revision, also left me with some real turkeys filling my head. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Alessi’s ‘O Lori’, Tony Etoria’s ‘I Can Prove It’ and ‘You’re Gonna Get Next To Me’ by Bo Kirkland and Ruth Davis. Yuk! There were some goodies, though. At the end of June, Hot Chocolate finally achieved number one status with ‘So You Win Again’. Even then, we all knew that Errol Brown et al had never topped the singles charts so perhaps the great British public heard the new song and bought it out of sympathy. It wasn’t their best, but a reliable mid-tempo ‘lost love’ number which I couldn’t help liking either. 

Less successful was ‘Heaven on the Seventh Floor’, the latest in a line of unassuming lively ditties from Paul Nicholas, but Smokie reached five with ‘It’s Your Life’. Back then I was unfamiliar with Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s prog rock reputation. I didn’t even know what prog rock was. Nevertheless, if ‘Fanfare of the Common Man’ was anything to go by, I’d sing its praises. The radio edit soared like Keith Emerson’s keyboards to number two, but if TOTP had featured the full eight minutes of their frost-filled performance in the Montreal Olympic stadium, I would surely have re-considered.

Considerable airplay was also given to Boney M’s ‘Ma Baker’. Their third consecutive top-tenner, I loved it. Opening with that snarling "Freeze, I'm Ma Baker, put your hands in the air! Gimme all your money", it opened out into a great dance track. German producer-guru Frank Farian had assembled a visually-arresting quartet of West Indian singers and dancers, the most notable being Bobby Farrell and his afro. His gyrations rarely appeared to be in time with the music, and he famously mimed to Farian’s vocals. I recall watching a clip from a German TV show where Boney M sang ‘Daddy Cool’ live. It became crystal clear why Farrell didn’t sing on the recordings. All he needed to do was get five words in tune but no, he was hopeless! 

Hot Chocolate were followed at the top by a record which undoubtedly did make my jaw drop when I first heard it. Donna Summer’s previous hit ‘Love to Love You Baby’ had been banned because of its unambiguous groans and sighs. However, when ‘I Feel Love’ launched into that synthesizer sequencer line, I felt I had been transported into the future. Indeed I had. Giorgio Moroder’s productions were no strangers to the charts but, assisted by Donna’s sexy voice, this innovative use of the Moog and key changes influenced a new generation of musicians, let alone clubbers or ordinary listeners like me. It was disco, but not as we knew it.

Tavares, Trammps and Rose Royce had more conventional disco hits, not really to my taste, but one of my favourite up-tempo hits of 1977 was Heatwave’s ‘Boogie Nights’. A rare British giant of the genre, this was another record which grabbed you by the throat on first exposure. It sounds quite tame nowadays, but in Spring 1977 that funky growling guitar line seemed really heavy. Their moves in this video are laughable, but it was the sound which blew me away.

It wasn’t only Giorgio Moroder pioneering electronic music in the charts. In France, a twenty-something composer and synth wizard released his LP ‘Oxygene’ to an unsuspecting world. The fourth ‘track’, ‘Oxygene IV’ captured the imagination. It sounded so clean, so crisp, so… new! Totally instrumental, of course, but it led to a new genre of boring-bloke-behind-synths-with-laser-show concerts. Later open-air gigs attracted crowds of a million-plus but not sure how many of them would have seen Monsieur Jarre actually doing his thing. It made four in our charts, and the album also did rather well.

Yet it wasn’t even my favourite French electronic instrumental of the year; that was Space’s ‘Magic Fly’. The helmets in the video were a precursor to the shy, mysterious image so beloved of twenty-first century dancemeisters Daft Punk but the synth melody, bass and drums, together with the visuals, made for such a futuristic package I was instantly hooked. A shame that it was held at number two for three weeks in September, but it was perhaps understandable given the circumstances which began on 16^th August. 

I distinctly remember sitting in a rather austere hotel restaurant in Rimini having breakfast. We were talking about the previous night’s awesome firework display marking the Feast of the Assumption. Then, whether it was seeing the front page on someone’s newspaper or other Brits in our group telling us, I forget, but that was the morning we discovered that Elvis Presley had died.

It was more of a shock to Mum who, while hardly a rock’n’roller, was the same age as Elvis, and who had probably been a major part of her musical soundtrack through the Fifties. My generation was less attached to him and his music, but his singles had continued to sprinkle the charts throughout my life. Apart from the re-released ‘Girl of My Best Friend’ in 1976, I hadn’t liked any of them particularly. However, I knew from the Jimmy Savile show how much of a legend he had been; all those groundbreaking chart-toppers such as ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and ‘It’s Now Or Never’ plus tearjerkers like ‘In The Ghetto’.

His voice and charisma were unmistakeable, even to a child of the ‘60s and ‘70s like me. It’s just that his music didn’t speak to me the way it had done to the previous generation. Unsurprisingly, sales of his recent compilations soared, and his new single ‘Way Down’ predictably went to number one. It didn’t change my opinion of his music but there was no escaping it for a few weeks. There was also the dreadful by-product in the form of the commemorative single ‘I Remember Elvis Presley’ by Dutch producer-singer Danny Mirror. Thousands of people fell for it and it went to number four. It was simply WRONG!

The Fifties and Sixties had already generated huge LP sales that year. The Shadows, Slim Whitman, The Supremes and others all led the album charts. Prog rockers like Pink Floyd, Yes, ELP and Genesis were also in the mainstream. Despite the hiccup of post-Presley grief purchases, the scene was set for a new set of rockers to register their protest against the old guard of music and politicians. They were, of course, the Punks. 

This isn’t a history of pop so I’ll focus on my own belated introduction to the strange world of sneers, safety pins and two-minute bursts of frenetic energy. Malcolm McLaren had been marketing his pet band The Sex Pistols for a while, but it took the nation’s preoccupation with the Queen’s Silver Jubilee to provide the fertile seedbed from which a powerful brand grew into the mainstream with alarming speed.  As the Union Flag bunting mushroomed around the streets of Britain, and pressure mounted on all of us to commemorate Liz 2’s twenty-five years on the throne, it was a clever move to release a snarling alternative anthem appealing to the working classes unimpressed by the real thing. The Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ featuring Johnny Rotten’s biting vocals was banned by the BBC and the main record stores and famously thwarted from taking the number one position in Jubilee week by Rod Stewart. Much as I enjoyed ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’, I would have appreciated the opportunity to hear the record everyone was either talking about or desperately trying to ignore.

When I did manage to catch it, I realised it was nothing special. The follow-up, ‘Pretty Vacant’ was far superior. I recall the TOTP presenter - Kid Jensen, I think it was – linking another doomed and forgettable Cilla Black effort with this film. ‘I also quite liked ‘Holidays in the Sun’, another single from the ‘Never Mind the Bollocks…’ album. However, it was really only the descending guitar riff, ripped off The Jam’s ‘In The City’ and the first verse. The rest degenerated into Johnny wailing on about the Berlin Wall. Eh?

Punk rock was hardly aimed at comfortable middle-class kids like me, but it did have an impact on many teenagers in leafy Billericay. I remember waiting to go into a class and one of the girls – well spoken and certainly no wild child – was raving about a Damned gig she’d been to the night before: “They were gobbing and everything!” she enthused. It was obvious that there was a new world order in pop music. 

TOTP had to change, too. Blackburn, Edmonds, Savile and their ilk needed to give way to presenters like Jensen, Mike Read and Peter Powell. The latter actually appeared to like the New Wave bands he was introducing, and his enthusiasm rubbed off on teens like me. Nevertheless, it was DLT who did the honours for probably the most memorable live TOTP performance EVER. His words were apposite; the world really wasn’t ready for John Otway and Wild Willy Barrett’s ramshackle rendition of ‘Really Free’! It only scraped into the top 30 but was a talking point in our sixth form common room. 

If Otway and even the Pistols had a fairly short singles chart shelf life, the same wasn’t true of The Stranglers. I first saw them on TOTP in around June, Jean-Jacques Burnel bounding around miming to ‘Go Buddy Go’, wielding a guitar with no strings! At least they didn’t wreck their set. They had an ugly reputation for concert violence and even been banned from the Exeter University Great Hall after one fiery gig. A great shame because they were great musicians and songwriters. They were hardly young tearaways, either; drummer Jet Black was already pushing forty! I didn’t appreciate some of their other early hits like ‘Something Better Change’ and ‘Hanging Around’ until later, but ‘No More Heroes’ was in my opinion one of the best records of 1977. With Hugh Cornwell’s superior vocals, J-J’s filthy bass sound and Dave Greenfield’s swirling keyboards to the fore, it had that punk vibe but a great melody, too. The following year or two gave us more terrific hits like ‘5 Minutes’, ‘Nice ‘n’ Sleazy’ and ‘Walk On By’. The Stranglers were notoriously lazy lip-synchers, though. Cornwell and Burnel never seemed to take their TV performances seriously, but I suppose that was part of the image. They were punks and so obviously didn’t care! They also demonstrated that with some quality songs I could be a bit of a punk, too. In spirit, at least.

The Stranglers thus became my favourite band. But the song I accorded the title of favourite song of the year could not have provided a more dramatic contrast. It was Berni Flint’s sweet ‘I Don’t Want to Put a Hold on You’. Acoustic guitar, no instrument destruction, an artist graduating from ITV’s ‘Opportunity Knocks’. Definitely not the new wave. My musical tastes were as broad as ever.