"Because" / The Dave Clark Five
In memory of Mike Smith, 1943-2008
Sure, they weren't the Beatles, but in those first few months after the British Invasion hit America, we seriously thought of the Dave Clark Five as the Beatles' main competition. They were turning out catchy, melodic hit singles with nice vocal harmonies and punchy drumming (Dave Clark himself was the drummer), and until it became clear that they hadn't the Beatles' range, we were ready to buy them. Speaking strictly as a pre-teen fan, the Dave Clark Five met my chief requirement: they had a cute lead singer with a powerful, gritty voice. (I'm just realizing that my Patrick McGoohan crush was based on how much he looked like Mike Smith.) If I had abandoned the Beatles, it would have been because of Mike Smith.
Mike Smith died of pneumonia last Thursday, the last of many complications from a spinal cord injury he sustained in 2003. Heartbreakingly, that injury occurred only a few months after he'd returned to performing, and then lost his only son in a scuba diving accident. Yeesh. I contributed to the worldwide Mike Smith relief effort by attending a benefit concert here in New York in summer 2005 (Peter & Gordon, the Zombies, Denny Laine, the Fab Faux -- a truly fantastic concert). Every band on the bill performed a different DC5 hit, which really brought home to me how many there had been -- four Top Ten singles in 1964 alone. "Because" was the fourth, and the first to try a softer, more ballad-like approach. I guess when your band leader is a drummer (Clark even set up his drum kit at the front of the stage, ahead of Smith's keyboards), you emphasize the drum-heavy dance numbers.
"Because" is a lovely change of pace; maybe they should have done more of this sort of stuff. The sentiment is simple, unclouded, and straightforward, in a way that Lennon-McCartney love songs rarely were (compare this to "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You"): "It's right that I should care about you / And try to make you happy when you’re blue / It’s right, it’s right / To feel the way I do/ Because, because / I love you." There's a hint of friction in the bridge, but in the second verse, his devotion is back on track: "Give me one kiss and I’ll be happy / Just, just to be with you / Give me, give me, / A chance to be near you / Because, because / I love you." Mike even got to do an organ solo in the middle.
I love the shifting chord progressions of the vocal harmonies on those repeated phrases, the "it's right's" and "give me's" and, of course, the repeated "because's." It's not like Roger Daltry's stutter in "My Generation," more as if by saying it twice, the guy can convince her how sincere he is. But the thing that really sells this song is Smith's slightly husky voice, the urgency underlying every crescendo. As a love song, it just works.
I'm surprised this track isn't featured on more British Beat compilations; I had a hard time finding a source for you to listen to it, though the source I finally found -- Dave Clark's website -- has a cool jukebox that'll let you listen to lots more DC5 material. Clark was always a sharp businessman, and possibly he's controlling the rights to these tracks so tightly, he may have cheated this band out of their rightful place in the 60s pantheon. The Dave Clark Five is finally due to be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on March 10; Mike came so close to getting there at last. It makes me sad all over.
"Because" on the Dave Clark jukebox
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
"Thriller" / Michael Jackson
Juiced as I am over the 30th anniversary of Jesus of Cool, I know that in the real world, the big recent event was the 25th anniversary of Michael Jackson's Thriller. Nick Lowe only sold about fifty-leven copies of Jesus of Cool; Thriller sold 23 billion copies, or something in that neighborhood. Still, that's not why looking back at Thriller makes me feel depressed. It's because it marked the beginning of the end for me; that record album killed my interest in pop music for nearly 20 years.
I don't mean to get into any Michael-bashing here -- he's way too easy a target these days. I was brought up on Motown and I loved the Jackson 5; I'm not ashamed to admit I owned Off the Wall, either. Hey, there were some good dance tracks on there -- "Off the Wall," "Rock With Me," and especially "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough," with their delirious marriage of funk and disco. Seamlessly slick, yes, but with such a propulsive joyful beat, you couldn't resist.
And the first singles to come off of Thriller were dyn-o-mite. It's hard to divorce them from the videos, of course; this was the heyday of MTV, and Michael Jackson was the king of music video. The first one I remember was "Billie Jean," which was absolutely superb. I was mesmerized by that menacing bassline, those zaps of synth, not to mention Michael's trademark gasps and chokes. Of course we all believed him when he protested "The kid is not my son!" (And that was before we knew anything of his personal life.)
Then came "Beat It", which was even better -- and, to my mind, the best music video ever. The choreography perfectly conveyed the waves of tension in this song, from the jittery verses to that howling chorus; it even managed to be about something -- a passionate inquiry in the nature of machismo. (Our first clue to Michael's troubled gender issues.)
And then, with an enormous amount of hype, MTV premiered the "Thriller" video. I remember watching it for the first time -- that bloated production, the jacked-up musical frenzy, the incoherence of the whole outing -- and thinking to myself, "I will never believe in MTV again." How could this piece of crap be the "masterpiece" they had promised? Music video used to be great short form moviemaking, kept to its taut 3 1/2-minute format, bing bang boom, get in and get out -- and now they were adding extraneous dramatic scenes, full sound-stage sets, Oscar-quality make-up effects, and a cast of thousands. And there was absolutely no dramatic pay-off. I actually shut off the television set, went into another room, and picked up a book. Henry James, probably.
The funk was completely gone, leaving only the most vacuous kind of disco in its place. Seamlessly slick, again, but this time coated with creamy plastic, a robotic rhythm, flabby riffs played in endless loops, and a wall of sound so dense I could never imagine a real band on stage performing it. It was the most soulless thing I had ever heard -- and from the Crown Prince of Soul, yet. It was a musical hunk of concrete, dropped on the unsuspecting heads of the record-buying public. And yet the record was simply flying out of the stores! Everybody had to own it! Clearly there was something wrong with me if I didn't like it.
Other tracks came and went. There was his duet "The Girl Is Mine" with Paul McCartney -- really a Paul McCartney song, though, and a sub-par one at that. (And you know me, I love nearly everything Macca does.") There was also a track called "Human Nature," which was particularly creepy -- "Tell 'em that it's human nature / Why -- why / Does he do me that way?" This song should have been admissible evidence in his trial; he'd have been convicted in a heartbeat.
I kept waiting to hear something that would redeem Thriller, that would make it worth buying -- but there was nothing. Instead, I got out my old Beatle records and decided that modern American music wasn't for me. I still listened to British pop for a while, but a steady diet of the Thompson Twins, Flock of Seagulls, and Tears and Fears just wasn't gonna suffice, and eventually even Elvis Costello started to go sour on me. I began going to the opera instead.
Thanks for nothing, Michael.
Thriller sample
Juiced as I am over the 30th anniversary of Jesus of Cool, I know that in the real world, the big recent event was the 25th anniversary of Michael Jackson's Thriller. Nick Lowe only sold about fifty-leven copies of Jesus of Cool; Thriller sold 23 billion copies, or something in that neighborhood. Still, that's not why looking back at Thriller makes me feel depressed. It's because it marked the beginning of the end for me; that record album killed my interest in pop music for nearly 20 years.
I don't mean to get into any Michael-bashing here -- he's way too easy a target these days. I was brought up on Motown and I loved the Jackson 5; I'm not ashamed to admit I owned Off the Wall, either. Hey, there were some good dance tracks on there -- "Off the Wall," "Rock With Me," and especially "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough," with their delirious marriage of funk and disco. Seamlessly slick, yes, but with such a propulsive joyful beat, you couldn't resist.
And the first singles to come off of Thriller were dyn-o-mite. It's hard to divorce them from the videos, of course; this was the heyday of MTV, and Michael Jackson was the king of music video. The first one I remember was "Billie Jean," which was absolutely superb. I was mesmerized by that menacing bassline, those zaps of synth, not to mention Michael's trademark gasps and chokes. Of course we all believed him when he protested "The kid is not my son!" (And that was before we knew anything of his personal life.)
Then came "Beat It", which was even better -- and, to my mind, the best music video ever. The choreography perfectly conveyed the waves of tension in this song, from the jittery verses to that howling chorus; it even managed to be about something -- a passionate inquiry in the nature of machismo. (Our first clue to Michael's troubled gender issues.)
And then, with an enormous amount of hype, MTV premiered the "Thriller" video. I remember watching it for the first time -- that bloated production, the jacked-up musical frenzy, the incoherence of the whole outing -- and thinking to myself, "I will never believe in MTV again." How could this piece of crap be the "masterpiece" they had promised? Music video used to be great short form moviemaking, kept to its taut 3 1/2-minute format, bing bang boom, get in and get out -- and now they were adding extraneous dramatic scenes, full sound-stage sets, Oscar-quality make-up effects, and a cast of thousands. And there was absolutely no dramatic pay-off. I actually shut off the television set, went into another room, and picked up a book. Henry James, probably.
The funk was completely gone, leaving only the most vacuous kind of disco in its place. Seamlessly slick, again, but this time coated with creamy plastic, a robotic rhythm, flabby riffs played in endless loops, and a wall of sound so dense I could never imagine a real band on stage performing it. It was the most soulless thing I had ever heard -- and from the Crown Prince of Soul, yet. It was a musical hunk of concrete, dropped on the unsuspecting heads of the record-buying public. And yet the record was simply flying out of the stores! Everybody had to own it! Clearly there was something wrong with me if I didn't like it.
Other tracks came and went. There was his duet "The Girl Is Mine" with Paul McCartney -- really a Paul McCartney song, though, and a sub-par one at that. (And you know me, I love nearly everything Macca does.") There was also a track called "Human Nature," which was particularly creepy -- "Tell 'em that it's human nature / Why -- why / Does he do me that way?" This song should have been admissible evidence in his trial; he'd have been convicted in a heartbeat.
I kept waiting to hear something that would redeem Thriller, that would make it worth buying -- but there was nothing. Instead, I got out my old Beatle records and decided that modern American music wasn't for me. I still listened to British pop for a while, but a steady diet of the Thompson Twins, Flock of Seagulls, and Tears and Fears just wasn't gonna suffice, and eventually even Elvis Costello started to go sour on me. I began going to the opera instead.
Thanks for nothing, Michael.
Thriller sample
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
"Well Respected Man" / The Kinks
When Diablo Cody went to collect her Oscar last Sunday night for writing the film Juno, what song did the orchestra play? Even though most of the soundtrack is by Kimya Dawson, maestro Bill Conti went instead for "Well-Respected Man" -- great choice, sir!
When this song was released in 1965 (on the Kwyet Kinks EP in the UK, the Kinkdom LP in the States), it sure didn't fit the mold the Kinks had established for themselves with songs like "You Really Got Me," "All Day and All of the Night," "Tired of Waiting for You," and "Set Me Free." I remember hearing this one on the radio and being baffled when my older brother said it was the Kinks. Where were the grinding guitar chords, the inarticulate longing, the undertones of hostility and aggression?
Instead, here was a song that was actually...perky. And all those words! I hadn't a clue what British music hall sounded like, but I certainly hadn't heard it in rock & roll before. The earliest similar Beatles tune I can think of would be "Drive My Car," which Lennon & McCartney wrote in October '65, a month after the Kwyet Kinks EP came out. Coincidence? I think not.
Ray Davies knew what he was doing: The music hall style was perfect for social satire like this, and Ray gave it an extra spin with his slightly effete vocal and exaggerated pronunciation of the new polysyllabic lyrics. I love the eye-rolling emphasis of brother Dave backing up Ray on the repeated high notes of "OH SO good" and "OH SO fine" in the chorus. Between the bouncy rhythm and the flippant style, this send-up comes off as clever rather than vicious. There's always been a vein of sympathy in Ray's satire -- think of "Autumn Almanac," "Dead End Street," "Shangri-La," even "David Watts" (the one exception being "Dedicated Follower of Fashion" -- he doesn't cut that guy any slack.)
As the song develops, I feel more and more sorry for this well-respected man, boxed in by his job and his routine and his reputation and that awful controlling mother. I mean, what kind of joy is there, really, in a "world built 'round punctuality" and being "healthy in his body and his mind" and "doing the best thing / So conserva-tive-ly"? True, he is a self-satisfied prig, as Ray reminds us in verse three: "He likes his own back yard" (like in "Autumn Almanac," "This is my street / And I'm never gonna leave it"), he likes his cigarettes the best (were Jagger and Richards thinking of this song when they wrote "Satisfaction"?), and he even thinks "his own sweat smells the best." Notice how Ray gives up rhyming at this point, ending every line with the predictable "best," in perfectly clipped diction.
Ray explores the cracks in that polished facade in verse four: "And he goes to the Regatta, / And he adores the girl next door, / 'Cause he's dying to get at her." ("Regat-ta/ get at her" -- now there's a rhyme I would give anything to have written.) There is a bit of juice in the well respected man after all. But the manacles clamp down on him in the next line: "But his mother knows the best about / The mata-ri-mo-nial state." The guy hasn't got a chance.
Honestly, "You Really Got Me" disturbed me at age 10; I was way too young, and too much a girl, to become a Kinks fan based on those early singles. But this sort of stuff? It was much more my cup of tea. Of course, just a few months later the Kinks would mysteriously disappear from the US airwaves, and I'd lose sight of them until 1971. But the seeds of my Kinks addiction were already sown.
A Well Respected Man sample
When Diablo Cody went to collect her Oscar last Sunday night for writing the film Juno, what song did the orchestra play? Even though most of the soundtrack is by Kimya Dawson, maestro Bill Conti went instead for "Well-Respected Man" -- great choice, sir!
When this song was released in 1965 (on the Kwyet Kinks EP in the UK, the Kinkdom LP in the States), it sure didn't fit the mold the Kinks had established for themselves with songs like "You Really Got Me," "All Day and All of the Night," "Tired of Waiting for You," and "Set Me Free." I remember hearing this one on the radio and being baffled when my older brother said it was the Kinks. Where were the grinding guitar chords, the inarticulate longing, the undertones of hostility and aggression?
Instead, here was a song that was actually...perky. And all those words! I hadn't a clue what British music hall sounded like, but I certainly hadn't heard it in rock & roll before. The earliest similar Beatles tune I can think of would be "Drive My Car," which Lennon & McCartney wrote in October '65, a month after the Kwyet Kinks EP came out. Coincidence? I think not.
Ray Davies knew what he was doing: The music hall style was perfect for social satire like this, and Ray gave it an extra spin with his slightly effete vocal and exaggerated pronunciation of the new polysyllabic lyrics. I love the eye-rolling emphasis of brother Dave backing up Ray on the repeated high notes of "OH SO good" and "OH SO fine" in the chorus. Between the bouncy rhythm and the flippant style, this send-up comes off as clever rather than vicious. There's always been a vein of sympathy in Ray's satire -- think of "Autumn Almanac," "Dead End Street," "Shangri-La," even "David Watts" (the one exception being "Dedicated Follower of Fashion" -- he doesn't cut that guy any slack.)
As the song develops, I feel more and more sorry for this well-respected man, boxed in by his job and his routine and his reputation and that awful controlling mother. I mean, what kind of joy is there, really, in a "world built 'round punctuality" and being "healthy in his body and his mind" and "doing the best thing / So conserva-tive-ly"? True, he is a self-satisfied prig, as Ray reminds us in verse three: "He likes his own back yard" (like in "Autumn Almanac," "This is my street / And I'm never gonna leave it"), he likes his cigarettes the best (were Jagger and Richards thinking of this song when they wrote "Satisfaction"?), and he even thinks "his own sweat smells the best." Notice how Ray gives up rhyming at this point, ending every line with the predictable "best," in perfectly clipped diction.
Ray explores the cracks in that polished facade in verse four: "And he goes to the Regatta, / And he adores the girl next door, / 'Cause he's dying to get at her." ("Regat-ta/ get at her" -- now there's a rhyme I would give anything to have written.) There is a bit of juice in the well respected man after all. But the manacles clamp down on him in the next line: "But his mother knows the best about / The mata-ri-mo-nial state." The guy hasn't got a chance.
Honestly, "You Really Got Me" disturbed me at age 10; I was way too young, and too much a girl, to become a Kinks fan based on those early singles. But this sort of stuff? It was much more my cup of tea. Of course, just a few months later the Kinks would mysteriously disappear from the US airwaves, and I'd lose sight of them until 1971. But the seeds of my Kinks addiction were already sown.
A Well Respected Man sample
Friday, February 22, 2008
PUB ROCK WEEK
“Do Anything You Want To Do” / Eddie & the Hot Rods
“Do Anything You Want To Do” / Eddie & the Hot Rods
I know, I know, you guys thought I’d end pub rock week with the Brinsleys – but there’s so much more to pub rock, I haven’t even scratched the surface. (What, no Ducks Deluxe? No Kilburn & the High Roads? No Fabulous Poodles?) And I really can’t check out without paying tribute to Eddie & the Hot Rods, a band I think of as the missing link between pub rock and punk.
Take a dose of Dr. Feelgood’s visceral energy and throw in the hard-hitting crunch of mid-60s American rockers like the Stooges and the MC5, and then play it at overdrive speed – that was the idea behind the Hot Rods (“Eddie” was actually their manager, Eddie Hollis, who wrote this song). They also were writing songs about adolescent hang-ups and attitudes, which spoke to the younger audiences moving into the old pub rock venues. And how could mellow country rockers play these stages after a band like Eddie & The Hot Rods (or their colleagues the 101ers, fronted by a pre-Clash Joe Strummer)?
Sure, it’s a classic sentiment, but every kid who goes through this feels like the only rebel in the world. And then you turn on the radio and hear a song like this and it’s like those musicians read your mind.
Pub rock had pretty much run its course by the time “Do Anything You Want To Do” hit the Top Ten in 1977. By this time, I guess Eddie & the Hot Rods had lost a little of their rawness -- like any ambitious band might when it starts to get radio play -- and with a wave of hungry punk bands coming up behind them, that lost rawness made the Hot Rods irrelevant. The Sex Pistols—who’d once been the opening act for the Hot Rods--had already released “Anarchy in the
Thursday, February 21, 2008
PUB ROCK WEEK
“I Love You So You’re Mine” / Dr. Feelgood
There was nothing country about Dr. Feelgood—just a super-charged R&B intensity that must have torn down the house at every performance. They qualified as pub rockers because they played the same venues, but trading in plaid shirts for mortician-like black suits and skinny ties, they definitely moved the scene into a new direction.
Feelgoods frontman Lee Brilleaux apparently had a riveting stage presence; I only wish I could have seen him (sadly, he died of lymphoma in 1994, only 41 years old). His voice had a dangerous rasp and snarl to it, and his material played into that, dwelling on the darker side of human emotions – jealousy, possessiveness, suspicion, revenge, the really juicy stuff. The main character in “I Love You So You’re Mine” is a compulsive egotist and misogynist, and Brilleaux plays him with zest.
There’s a great vein of dramatic irony running through this song: This guy is so determined to get his girl, he refuses to recognize that she may feel differently. I’d love to hear her side of things, but all we get is his bullheaded certainty. “Well honey I ain’t buying what it is you’re trying to sell,” he insists, “Cause when I look into your eyes now, I can see just how you feel / Forget about the lies now, Cause I know our love is real.”
I suspect those "lies" he's talking about may have something to do with the fact that she's interested in somebody else, damn it. Yet he chafes against having to stand in line, and he gets more and more flagrant with every verse: “One and one is two now, / There ain’t no room for any more / I don’t wanna make you blue now, / I’m about to lock your door.” This isn’t pleading or begging; it’s coercion. A threat of physical violence is right under the surface, underscored with a menacing harmonica and scolding guitar line (not to mention the smack-around drumbeat.)
And yet, round about verse three, his insistence actually begins to be a little intoxicating: “So what’s all this I’m hearing / About the way it’s gonna be? / Cause when the dust is clearing, / There’s only you, there’s only me.” There's something pulsing and immediate about that image; my defenses begin to crumble. "You better get it right now / Get your feet back on the ground/ I’m taking you tonight now, / You know I don’t mess around.” Well, all's I'm saying is, you can see how a girl might give in in the end.
Granted, this Feelgoods track comes from much later in their career, in the mid-80s. Unlike the earlier pub rock bands, Dr. Feelgood landed a major label deal and continued to tour in various incarnations until Brilleaux’s death. But while the later albums may have layered in a horn section or two, the sound stayed essentially the same – visceral, adrenaline-charged R&B with a cynical view of the war between the sexes. The sound may have been vintage but the sensibility put a whole new neurotic spin on things. Could New Wave be far behind?
“I Love You So You’re Mine” / Dr. Feelgood
There was nothing country about Dr. Feelgood—just a super-charged R&B intensity that must have torn down the house at every performance. They qualified as pub rockers because they played the same venues, but trading in plaid shirts for mortician-like black suits and skinny ties, they definitely moved the scene into a new direction.
Feelgoods frontman Lee Brilleaux apparently had a riveting stage presence; I only wish I could have seen him (sadly, he died of lymphoma in 1994, only 41 years old). His voice had a dangerous rasp and snarl to it, and his material played into that, dwelling on the darker side of human emotions – jealousy, possessiveness, suspicion, revenge, the really juicy stuff. The main character in “I Love You So You’re Mine” is a compulsive egotist and misogynist, and Brilleaux plays him with zest.
There’s a great vein of dramatic irony running through this song: This guy is so determined to get his girl, he refuses to recognize that she may feel differently. I’d love to hear her side of things, but all we get is his bullheaded certainty. “Well honey I ain’t buying what it is you’re trying to sell,” he insists, “Cause when I look into your eyes now, I can see just how you feel / Forget about the lies now, Cause I know our love is real.”
I suspect those "lies" he's talking about may have something to do with the fact that she's interested in somebody else, damn it. Yet he chafes against having to stand in line, and he gets more and more flagrant with every verse: “One and one is two now, / There ain’t no room for any more / I don’t wanna make you blue now, / I’m about to lock your door.” This isn’t pleading or begging; it’s coercion. A threat of physical violence is right under the surface, underscored with a menacing harmonica and scolding guitar line (not to mention the smack-around drumbeat.)
And yet, round about verse three, his insistence actually begins to be a little intoxicating: “So what’s all this I’m hearing / About the way it’s gonna be? / Cause when the dust is clearing, / There’s only you, there’s only me.” There's something pulsing and immediate about that image; my defenses begin to crumble. "You better get it right now / Get your feet back on the ground/ I’m taking you tonight now, / You know I don’t mess around.” Well, all's I'm saying is, you can see how a girl might give in in the end.
Granted, this Feelgoods track comes from much later in their career, in the mid-80s. Unlike the earlier pub rock bands, Dr. Feelgood landed a major label deal and continued to tour in various incarnations until Brilleaux’s death. But while the later albums may have layered in a horn section or two, the sound stayed essentially the same – visceral, adrenaline-charged R&B with a cynical view of the war between the sexes. The sound may have been vintage but the sensibility put a whole new neurotic spin on things. Could New Wave be far behind?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
PUB ROCK WEEK
“Drinking Socially” / The Kursaal Flyers
Well, they called it pub rock, after all – it was bound to spawn a few drinking songs (and, being the 70s, a few toking songs as well). But this one is really brilliant, a boozy honky-tonk number loaded up with irony and snarky cleverness.
We all know what people say – “Oh, I only had one or two drinks” – it’s the great lie every barhound lives on. Kursaal Flyers frontman Paul Shuttleworth (who co-wrote this song with guitarist Vic Collins) plays this thirsty hypocrite to the hilt. “I’m a guy, I guess it’s true, / Who likes to take a drink or two,” he begins, soberly enough; “I’m just drinking socially.” Then, with a shrug, he adds, “And there are times I will agree / Perhaps I stretch to two or three / But I’m just drinking socially.” Oh, yes, of course. Shifting into confessional mode in the bridge, he amplifies: “Sometimes I drink a little more, / The weekends maybe three or four / Don’t you fret, I’ll survive / Long as I get four or five...”
And so it builds, until he’s sucking ‘em back desperately: “Clock on the wall says ten to eleven, / I’ve only managed six or seven” (remember, by law British pubs had to stop serving at 11pm back then). “No time for talking, I got here late,” he adds – can’t you just see him lining them up on the bar in front of him? “Might have time for seven or eight / But I’m just drinking socially.”
Somehow, the vagueness of that drink count makes it so much easier to pass off: “Don’t think about me I’m doing fine / I only drunk about eight or nine / And I ain’t counting, but then again, / I’d have to say at least nine or ten.” By the end, he’s on the floor, having drunk a dozen or more – but he’s still convinced he’s just “drinking socially.”
It’s in the second bridge where Shuttleworth really skewers the scene: “Now I’ve been drinking socially for quite a while / As I look around this barroom / I turn my head and smile.” The fact is, he’s not the only social drinker patronizing this establishment: “They say they drink specifically / For the good of their anatomy / But I know they’re social drinkers just like me.” Then he throws in a quick shout-out “Get social now!” and a delicious guitar solo ensues. I’ll drink to that.
I’m sorry I couldn't find an mp3 to post, but you can find this track on the Kursaal Flyers’ CDs Golden Mile or Hit Records. The Flyers had a good run with pub rock, scoring one Top Ten hit, “Little Does She Know” in 1976 (this was all in the UK, mind you – not a whisper of this reached us in the States); drummer Will Birch eventually wound up in the Records (remember their power pop hit “Starry Eyes”?), while guitarist Graeme Douglas went on to Eddie & the Hot Rods. Some of them still get together for Kursaals reunion gigs inLondon
“Drinking Socially” / The Kursaal Flyers
Well, they called it pub rock, after all – it was bound to spawn a few drinking songs (and, being the 70s, a few toking songs as well). But this one is really brilliant, a boozy honky-tonk number loaded up with irony and snarky cleverness.
We all know what people say – “Oh, I only had one or two drinks” – it’s the great lie every barhound lives on. Kursaal Flyers frontman Paul Shuttleworth (who co-wrote this song with guitarist Vic Collins) plays this thirsty hypocrite to the hilt. “I’m a guy, I guess it’s true, / Who likes to take a drink or two,” he begins, soberly enough; “I’m just drinking socially.” Then, with a shrug, he adds, “And there are times I will agree / Perhaps I stretch to two or three / But I’m just drinking socially.” Oh, yes, of course. Shifting into confessional mode in the bridge, he amplifies: “Sometimes I drink a little more, / The weekends maybe three or four / Don’t you fret, I’ll survive / Long as I get four or five...”
And so it builds, until he’s sucking ‘em back desperately: “Clock on the wall says ten to eleven, / I’ve only managed six or seven” (remember, by law British pubs had to stop serving at 11pm back then). “No time for talking, I got here late,” he adds – can’t you just see him lining them up on the bar in front of him? “Might have time for seven or eight / But I’m just drinking socially.”
Somehow, the vagueness of that drink count makes it so much easier to pass off: “Don’t think about me I’m doing fine / I only drunk about eight or nine / And I ain’t counting, but then again, / I’d have to say at least nine or ten.” By the end, he’s on the floor, having drunk a dozen or more – but he’s still convinced he’s just “drinking socially.”
It’s in the second bridge where Shuttleworth really skewers the scene: “Now I’ve been drinking socially for quite a while / As I look around this barroom / I turn my head and smile.” The fact is, he’s not the only social drinker patronizing this establishment: “They say they drink specifically / For the good of their anatomy / But I know they’re social drinkers just like me.” Then he throws in a quick shout-out “Get social now!” and a delicious guitar solo ensues. I’ll drink to that.
I’m sorry I couldn't find an mp3 to post, but you can find this track on the Kursaal Flyers’ CDs Golden Mile or Hit Records. The Flyers had a good run with pub rock, scoring one Top Ten hit, “Little Does She Know” in 1976 (this was all in the UK, mind you – not a whisper of this reached us in the States); drummer Will Birch eventually wound up in the Records (remember their power pop hit “Starry Eyes”?), while guitarist Graeme Douglas went on to Eddie & the Hot Rods. Some of them still get together for Kursaals reunion gigs in
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
PUB ROCK WEEK
“Namali” / Bees Make Honey
Then, suddenly, they click into another mode for the bridge, legato and dreamy and minor-key folky: “Playing my guitar, working out my line / At every place from here to who knows where / Maybe I was born to cast my fortune to the wind, / But I don’t want to travel down a road that never ends.” It’s like an entirely different song; maybe he is just trying out another way of getting through to her (remember Stephen Bishop playing the guitar on the stairs of Delta House during the toga party?). More and more these days, I love tempo changes; that’s how you know you’ve got human beings on deck, not a drum machine and a metronome. Was it disco that killed tempo changes?
“Namali” / Bees Make Honey
Then, suddenly, they click into another mode for the bridge, legato and dreamy and minor-key folky: “Playing my guitar, working out my line / At every place from here to who knows where / Maybe I was born to cast my fortune to the wind, / But I don’t want to travel down a road that never ends.” It’s like an entirely different song; maybe he is just trying out another way of getting through to her (remember Stephen Bishop playing the guitar on the stairs of Delta House during the toga party?). More and more these days, I love tempo changes; that’s how you know you’ve got human beings on deck, not a drum machine and a metronome. Was it disco that killed tempo changes?
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