Rewind: Bill Brewster on “Sextet”

In discussion with Bill Brewster on “Sextet” by A Certain Ratio (1982).

What is your personal history with this particular album? How and when was your first encounter with it?

I bought it the week it came out. I had just moved back to Grimsby (my hometown) after working in London and Switzerland as a chef for five years. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life but I knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of it sweating in a kitchen. I’d met some new people who were trying to do cool stuff with music. We’d all been punks in 1976 and 1977 but got bored of how musically limited it all was. We were searching for something new. We had a musical mentor, a guy who ran a musical instrument shop with a few boxes of records in the back, called Roy Bainton. He was 15 years older than us and knew loads about music, everything from Mike Westbrook and Carla Bley to Graham Central Station and, in particular, the blues. We were listening to all this brilliant old stuff that was new to us and also discovering bands like A Certain Ratio and 23 Skidoo who, like us, were also groping towards something different. We were in the process of forming a band when this album came out.

What made you decide for „Sextet“ instead of other of their albums?

They toured to promote this album and we went to see them at this bizarre wine bar in Leeds. I went with all the guys who were in my band. The venue was brightly lit, chrome-plated, horrible. And it was nearly empty, but they didn’t give a fuck: they were astonishing, really tight (helped somewhat by Donald Johnson’s prowess behind the traps). I suppose what “„Sextet“” represents to me is a crossroads of where I had arrived and where they were headed; a sort of Robert Johnson involving trams, drizzle and Northern misery. What is interesting about „Sextet“, listening back now, is that they’d reached a certain competence on their instruments but they still had a thirst for wayward and interesting song ideas and arrangements. Later on, when they were recording stuff like “Don’t You Worry Bout A Thing”, they ended up sounding like those pale Britfunk imitations of the real deal, whereas what makes „Sextet“ endearing is that they sound like nothing and no-one else. The world they inhabited then, it seemed to me, was hermetically sealed from outside influences. I imagined them living together in a big house in Whalley Range, a bit like the Monkees, except with acid and analogue instruments. Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Philip Sherburne on “The Flat Earth”

In discussion with Philip Sherburne about “The Flat Earth” by Thomas Dolby (1984).

Why did you choose this album, and how did you come across Thomas Dolby in the first place?

Until I was 12 or 13, I got most of my pop music from Top 40 radio. There weren’t a lot of other options for kid living in suburban Portland, Oregon in the late ’70s and early ’80s, and I loved a lot of things that I’d probably cringe at now, simply because they were all that was available. This is not one of them, though. Thomas Dolby’s “The Flat Earth” has remained a personal favorite for a quarter century now, and within it I can find many of the seeds of my eventual love for electronic music. I don’t remember any first encounter with Thomas Dolby’s 1982 single “She Blinded Me With Science,” which was all over the radio that year. I’m sure it was the synths and samples that grabbed me. I had discovered synthesizers through the music shop where I bought piano sheet music – Bach, Czerny, Phil Collins – and was nuts about anything with synths in it (In 1983, I’d get one of my own, a Korg Poly-800). Curiously, I didn’t dig any further into Dolby’s music at the time, but then, the song was ubiquitous, and in retrospect, it was such an odd single it probably didn’t gesture towards a form bigger than itself, like an album. It was what it was, and that was plenty. In 1984 or 1985, I went through a brief period of checking out LPs from the Multnomah County Library. That’s where I came across „The Flat Earth“. It was the cover that got me. Around that time, I would latch onto anything that had the faintest hint of “new wave” to it, and the cover’s pseudoscientific markings and cryptic photo-montage seemed like the most modern thing I’d ever seen. In retrospect, the sleeve is hardly so dazzling — a slightly watered down version of Peter Saville. (In fact, it looks a little like a cross between the Durutti Column’s “Circuses & Bread” and Section 25’s “From the Hip”, but it lacks the elegance of either.) Still, it was good enough for a 14-year-old jonesing for the New. I remember sitting on the floor of my parents’ living room, hunched over the sleeve, trying to make sense of the whole package. Not to repeat myself, but “cryptic” is the only word that fits. Everything about the music seemed to hint at hidden meanings, from the sleeve to the lyrics: “Keith talked in alphanumerals,” after all. Who the hell was the guy panning for gold on the cover? Who were these mysterious Mulu, people of the rainforest? What was a drug cathedral, and why an octohedron? (I had so much to learn.) Etc., etc. I’ve long since stopped caring much about lyrics, much less concept albums, but I was young and impressionable then, and every flip of the record seemed to offer another clue as to some strange, grownup world I couldn’t begin to decipher. The same went for the music, of course. For starters, there was the stylistic range: “Dissidents” and “White City” were recognizable as pop music, after a fashion, but what was “Screen Kiss”? It presented a kind of liquidity I don’t remember having recognized in music before that – first in the fretless bass, the synthesizers and the stacked harmonies, and even the chord changes, but mainly it was the way it trailed off into the scratchy patter of L.A. traffic reports, multi-tracked and run through delay. I’d never heard the “real world” breaking into pop music before, and certainly not spun into such a purely “ambient” sound. “Mulu the Rain Forest” was another weird one – again, an approximation of ambient, long before I’d discover it. And “I Scare Myself” totally threw me for a loop. What was a Latin lounge jazz song doing here, especially sandwiched between the humid “Mulu” and the jagged, chromed funk of “Hyperactive”? There was no doubting the continuity of the album, but the pieces felt at odds, as fractured as the cut-up sleeve imagery; the sequencing seemed erratic and the two sides of the LP felt out of balance with each other, and yet you couldn’t have put it together any other way. Just like venturing to the edge of the (flat) earth, flipping the record had a weirdly vertiginous quality to it. (I was, you may note, an unusually impressionable adolescent, at least where music was concerned.)

At the time I got this it took some time to grow on me. Was it the same with you or was it love at first sight?

A little of both. There was definitely something off-putting about the record at first, but I devoured it anyway. I’d go so far as to say that the parts that alienated me were precisely what sent me back into it. I wanted to figure it out. All this might sound a little silly now. Today, I can recognize that a lot of it is pretty overblown, beginning with the lyrics: “My writing/ is an iron fist/ in a glove full of Vaseline”? That’s… pretty awful. (Also, it may go some way towards explaining the purplish quality of my own youthful stabs at poesy.) But for all its excesses, it kept drawing me in. I still listen to the fade out from “Dissidents” into “The Flat Earth” and feel a thrill all over again, all those gangly licks and hard-edged FM tones giving way to hushed percussion and a yielding soundfield… It’s funny, too, to listen today to the title track and even hear the tiniest hint of disco and proto-house in the rolling conga rhythms, things I had absolutely no idea about then. Whatever its failures, this was the album that, more than any other up until that time, convinced me that records offered more than just a hook and a chorus, that they deserved to be puzzled through, analyzed, unpacked. That they offered up their own little worlds, worlds I would aspire to inhabit. Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Maurice Summen über “No Tears”

Im Gespräch mit Maurice Summen über “No Tears” von Tuxedomoon (1978).

In meiner frühen Jugend war “No Tears” einer dieser Songs, die in Clubs, in denen alles zwischen Italo Disco und New Wave gespielt wurde, quasi automatisch die Tanzfläche füllten. Bist Du in einem ähnlichen Kontext auf den Song gestoßen? Was ist Deine persönliche Geschichte mit “No Tears”?

Es gab im Münsterland in den 80er Jahren einen schönen Laden namens “Fabrik” in der Kleinstadt Coesfeld. Ein Treffpunkt für Wave, Punk, EBM, Psychobilly und Cure-Fans. Ein fantastischer  Ort: Tolle Frisuren, Domestos-Jeans, Ratten auf den Schultern und ein wirklich bizarrer Musikmix. “No Tears” war ähnlich wie “Surfin’ Bird” von den Trashmen  eine Art Schnittmengenstück für nahezu alle subkulturellen Lager.

Der Song hat ja diesen sehr charismatischen Text. “No tears for the creatures of the night”. Jeder konnte das für sich auslegen, und so wurde das von der New Wave- bzw. Grufti-Szene bis heute zu Electroclash und Nachfolgendem immer weitergetragen und neu eingesetzt. Aber wie hast Du diesen Text für Dich persönlich ausgelegt? Einsamkeit in der Menge? Entfremdung in der nächtlichen Stadt? Es bieten sich ja viele Deutungsmöglichkeiten…

Meine Eltern haben damals eine schwere Beziehungskrise durchlebt, Schule habe ich nicht bzw. hat mich nicht verstanden, Mädchen waren für mich auch ein großes Mysterium. Sie hingen mit den etwas älteren Dorfprolls herum, nur weil die schon ein Auto hatten!  Na ja, so in etwa habe ich mir das damals in zusammengereimt… Ich war folgerichtig gegen alles! Die „Creatures“ waren eben all “die anderen”! Und für die hatte ich einfach kein Mitleid! Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Philip Marshall on “Introspective”

In discussion with Philip Marshall about the album “Introspective” by the Pet Shop Boys (1988).

There is plenty to choose from in the history of the Pet Shop Boys, why did you pick this album?

It’s all about time, and my personal trajectory. In late 88 I was 16, going on 17… And life was unfurling before me. No longer trapped in suburbia, I was spending increasing times in London Town, growing up, and learning all about myself – clubbing and all that entails included. I dug deep into London’s rich vein of “equity culture”, and quickly discovered my late teenage was perfectly in sync with the most exciting of explosions in music culture since post-punk. At this time, lines were blurred. I made a commitment to myself, and sold off hundreds of indie vinyl down the Notting Hill record & tape exchange in order to fund my new-found love of nightlife and the music coupled to it. No mop-headed moaning guitar drivel would ever sully my collection again (or, so I thought back then…). An end to teenage angst, sold by the crate-load. Out with the gloom. In with 808 State, Electribe 101 and never ending weekends… But, the electronic pop I had loved when young stayed with me…

I think it is safe to say that they wanted to do something different from their first two albums. How do you place this in the output of the Pet Shop Boys?

It’s all about timing – “Introspective” was released that November, when my introspection first ended. A thread – from a pop past, to a future life. For them, it was a definite embrace of the then fresh house culture that Europe had plunged into – a relatively brave move for an established pop act and before others, such as ABC, jumped that train… As far as placing in their personal timeline, well one of the things I love about this album is its single-minded stance. Although the songwriting and lyricism is as strong as what went before and what was to come, its formatting, arrangement and structure was wilfully, almost arrogantly, other. Here was a group having number one hits in Europe and the USA, coming off the back of two consecutive number ones, and returning with a release that 1.) was six tracks long, 2.) comprised of extended mixes, 3.) didn’t have their image on the cover, 4.) was oblique, lyrically, in parts… The confidence and, presumably, freedom from EMI’s meddling that their earlier success lent them, afforded them the space to make an other statement. A few weeks ago, I was tearing through the English countryside with Jon Wozencroft , on our way to a Suffolk performance. His car had a cassette player, and we were rifling through his old tape collection. “Introspective” was played. We agreed; it is the “Sgt. Pepper” of house – the sound of a band at the peak of its popularity stretching and flexing its remit without fear of a crash. Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Terre Thaemlitz on “Dazzle Ships”

In discussion with Terre Thaemlitz about the album “Dazzle Ships” by Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark (1983).

A lot of interesting electronic music was produced in 1983, the year “Dazzle Ships” was released. What drew you to Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark, and this album in particular?

To be honest, I don’t recall exactly how I came to own this record. I think it was probably the usual budgetary situation where I had heard about OMD, I wanted to buy a record to check them out, and “Dazzle Ships” was the cheapest album to buy. As a teen, my record collection was built on unpopular records from the $1.00 bin. This was economically unavoidable. It also meant my point of entry for a lot of bands was through their “commercial flops”. And as an “outsider” who did not fit in with others and was therefore a flop of sorts myself, I found resonance with these failures at assimilation. Gary Numan’s “Dance” is a brilliant example – thinking back, to be 13 years old in Springfield, Missouri, and really into that album, it really signifies a kind of social isolation. A “normal” or “healthy” 13 year old could not be into that album. Impossible. So I believe this entire process of arriving at an album like “Dazzle Ships” must never be reduced to a simple matter of taste. It’s tied to issues of economics, class, socialization… in the US it is also tied to race and the divide between “black music” and “white music,” etc.

With this album, OMD experimented with elements beyond their Pop abilities, like shortwave recordings, sound collages and cold war/eastern bloc imagery. How would you describe the concept of this album?

I think “Architecture & Morality” already introduced a lot of those elements. I don’t know for sure, but as a producer myself I imagine this is partly related to the emergence of better sampling technology. They could use samplers to play back all kinds of sound elements, rather than being limited to synths and multi-track recording. I also imagine, drawing from my own experiences, that “Dazzle Ships” (like Numan’s “Dance”) represents a crisis in their relationships to their record labels and Pop music generally. A crisis with capitalism, the demand for sales, demand for audio conformity… and in this way the socialist imagery of the album is perhaps a reflection of their struggling against these processes. I remember reading some article – which I have no idea if it was trustworthy or not, but – it talked about the tremendous pressure labels put on OMD to become more Pop. I believe they were asked to finally decide if they wanted to be the new “Abba” or not, and if so, to change their style accordingly. This was a brutal trend in UK new wave. It destroyed the Eurythmics, The Human League, Gary Numan, OMD, Depeche Mode, and on and on… These are all UK bands, all extremely influential, and all totally boring in the end. Very few groups came out of these struggles for the better – one exception being Talk Talk, who did abandon their synth sound but became something marvelously unmarketable in another way. All of these New Wave bands had to become Rock bands capable of penetrating the US market, blah, blah – dumb American Dreams. Techno-Pop was dismissed as a fad by industry, and the artists seem to have gotten swept up in the hype of possible “success”. Ironically, of course, even if they got a brief flash of super-Pop success they alienated their core fans who had been drawn to them as other than Pop. I know I felt extremely betrayed. I still do, at age 41. When I was young, it was a personal betrayal, now it strikes me as a cultural betrayal. I could be totally wrong, but I guess for me, all of this feeds into the concept of “Dazzle Ships”, the title being a reference to massive battle ships. The idea of sending this album afloat in the marketplace, poised to attack and conquer as the label wants – but stylistically it also clearly sabotages any prospect of popularity. I think it was OMD’s attack on the labels that released it – a final kick in resistance before transforming into the Pop band that produced “Junk Culture” (although it could have also been a tremendous extension of A&R pampering in which the label let their artists run amuck – but that is so much less inspiring to me). And you have to forgive me, coming from the US, I have no idea how these records operated in Europe. I can imagine they got radio play. But not in the US. So my view is slanted by this. In the US these were all anti-Pop albums with no airplay, except in a few major cities. They had to be hunted down. And this camouflaged cover, in a way, also carried this metaphor of a product hidden in the marketplace, hard to find, elusive. But present. I like this metaphor – it predates the queer motto “We are everywhere” by a good number of years. Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Cio D’Or über “Upekah”

Im Gespräch mit Cio D’Or über “Upekah” von Son.sine (2000).

Neuseeland ist eher nicht für elektronische Musik bekannt. Wie bist du auf Son.sine gestoßen? Kennst Du andere Produktionen von diesem Künstler?

Ich hörte ihn das erste Mal in einem Mix und verliebte mich sofort in den Track, unwissendlich, wer der Künstler ist. Danach brachte mir ein Freund einige Tracks von sich mit, sowie auch diesen. Da kein Name auf dem Wav-File war, wusste ich noch immer nicht, von wem das Stück ist. Bei meinem letzten Radiomix für Oceanclub baute ich ihn mit ein und er war das einzige unbenannte Stück. Erst Chris von mnml ssgs meinte dann „Wow…there is Son.sine’s „Upekah“ from Nurture“, und somit konnte ich ihn endlich orten. Andere Produktionen hörte ich mir noch an, die mir auch gut gefallen haben, aber „Upekah“ ist für mich nicht zu toppen. Neuseeland scheint ein guter Ort für Musikproduktionen zu sein.

Wie würdest Du diese Platte beschreiben?

Unendliche Tiefen mit einer zärtlichen und berührenden, fast schmerzenden Schönheit, die sowohl Trauer als auch Glück in sich trägt. Mit einer großen Portion Sehnsucht und dennoch Hoffnung und Unendlichkeit, einem grandiosen, subtilen Rhythmus und die Auflösung heißt: Vorangehen, nach vorn schauen, und dennoch den Moment leben und bejahen. Am Schluss hat der Track sogar etwas Forsches und Treibendes. Einfach eine großartige Widerspiegelung diverser Emotionen und absolut Weltklasse in ihrer Vielschichtigkeit in dieser Kategorie Musik! Wow! Danke, Son.sine! Read the rest of this entry »

Rewind: Jorge Socarras on “You Forgot To Answer”

In discussion with Jorge Socarras about “You Forgot To Answer” by Nico, from the album “The End” (1974).

What makes this song so special for you? Are there personal experiences involved or is it more a decision of musical taste?

For me a song that is truly special effects a seamless conflation of aesthetic and subjective elements. The combination allows me, as listener, to at the same time admire and experience the song. We could say that it blurs the distinction between objective and subjective, balances the either/or of the question. This is precisely what I find so special about “You Forgot To Answer”.

Nico seemed to be very determined and uncompromising with what she wanted to do as an artist. How would you place this song in her musical history?

I see this song as representing the pinnacle of her musical achievement. The artistic promise that she showed on “Chelsea Girl” and “The Velvet Underground with Nico” is at “The End” stage fully realized. Not to say that these early achievements aren’t beautiful and worthwhile – on the contrary. But her artistry is most unmistakably individuated and formidable on “The End” album, especially in “You Forgot To Answer”. That uncompromising quality you mention is so articulated and refined in this song that one could almost interpret it as a refutal of her earlier, more celebrity-identified persona (or personas). John Cale, of course, played no small part in Nico’s coming to artistic maturation. Their creative relationship was so evidently mutually inspiring – she playing muse, he Svengali. She was the ideal songstress and he the ideal arranger for the quite serious music they envisioned. Read the rest of this entry »