Kingston upon Hull, famous for having its own communications company and being almost completely destroyed in the blitz –only for Thatcher to do her best to better that 40 years later. Politics, aside, it’s an area of the UK that’s definitely had its detractors, yet in 2017 it was (rightly) made the UK City of Culture.
Almost a decade before, culture was alive and well in this part of Yorkshire, doing just as well as the neighbouring cities of Leeds, Sheffield and Bradford in terms of quality art and music. Perhaps better. Better because of Fonda 500.
You’ll likely know their songs, as they’ve graced plenty of TV shows such as Skins and Teachers, and the Colin Farrell film, Intermission. They’ve got a cult following, that’s for sure. Je M’Apelle Stereo is their sixth album, but the one that brought them to wider attention for those wanting something fresher and weirder from their art rock bands.
Fonda 500 deliver in spades on this album.
They really should be global superstars, yet it’s their Britishness and idiosyncratic way of making music that compels them to retain a cult status. Although once signed to Truck Records, this album they went out on their own label, bringing their mix of Beach Boys-esque vocal harmonies, catchy indie rock à laWe Are Scientists (although I can also detect a slab of Monster Magnet-ism in there, and some Super Furries), and their use of weird and novelty instruments (including beatboxing and 8-bit Casio sounds) to the 14 songs, each feeling slightly different to the one that came before.
The big song here is Jenny #1, yet there are many, many more gems to be unearthed, including The Sounds Sound Warmer When The Sound Is Shared, Silver Sounds, Electronique Bee 101 and Super Dots & Lights, which all show the range and experimentation the band brings to every critically-acclaimed recording. They’re also an energetic live band, which you can always catch even if they’ve not been releasing music.
They’re as exciting as a spacehopper on your birthday in the 70s, the release of a new Argos catalogue in the 80s, or cheese on toast for breakfast (and just as bonkers). Yet, somehow, they still make great indie pop songs. And they’d sound great released on vinyl, which is a format this album has never been put out on.
Imagine: you’re at the height of your fame, despite being a new band (although you yourself have been in several bands over the years), and you’re described as the focal point of a ‘movement’ that only really exists in the minds of the media. You want to do something out of the ordinary, musically, but it would be career suicide (again, in the minds of the media. Mostly).
What do you do?
You start a side project.
Here at Unspun Heroes, we know a thing or two about a side project. This is, after all, one of them. But we’re not (hopefully) at the height of our fame and we’re not going to do anything that breaks our initial vision.
For Pearl Jam’s founding guitarist, Stone Gossard, an outlet for his considerable musical talents came via jamming with his friends. And so, Brad was formed. Named after the man who owned the rights to the band’s original name, Shame – which subsequently became the album title – they released a very un-grunge record.
It’s experimental, off-beat, different, constantly shifting its musical references, shuffling them like a blackjack croupier on the Vegas strip. Yet, it’s so very Stone in sound and intent.
Kerrang placed it in their list of 100 albums you need to hear before you die, five years after its release, but in 1993 it barely troubled the charts on either side of the Atlantic.
30 years on, it’s held up (rightly) as one of the best albums of that year. I’d suggest it’s better than the output of Pearl Jam’s difficult third album, but that’s my opinion and it may well differ from yours. I know, it’s hard to comprehend that people can like different things and still like the same things as well.
Four years ago, Shawn Smith, the singer of Brad (and Satchel, plus others) passed away. The album he was working on with the other members of Brad was released earlier this year, in tribute. Yet, the first Brad album showcases Smith’s unusual style and Gossard’s abilities to reach past the niche he was placed in by the rock media. The original pressing commands high numbers on the resale market. Now it’s 30 years old, not only it is worth a second, third… hundredth listen, it’s surely worth a reissue. They came close on subsequent releases, but Shame was the album that defined them. Rather than shame, though, it’s pride that shines through.
As the eighties came to an end, and the heavier punk rock days of the NYC indie scene gave way to psychedelic indie pop, so Lida Husik arrived. Originally from Washington D.C., she settled in New York and signed to seminal label, Shimmy Disc (home to artists such as Ween, Galaxie 500 and Daniel Johnston). They released three of her albums, of which Bozo was the first.
Introspective and almost like a collection of demos, Lida played virtually every instrument on Bozo’s 12 songs – a huge feat considering she is completely self-taught. Imagine if The Velvet Underground had sprung up a couple of decades later and you’ll get a sense of the sound, but there is more to this than a pastiche of that well-known NYC sound.
Described as an album with songs that are ‘programmed to sink slowly into the listener’s subconscious, like a magic potion’, it’s feels like it could have been created as an aural depiction of a drug haze, or the US-version of shoegaze; it reminds me of the morning after wandering around the countryside while on ‘shrooms. Impressionistic, experimental.
It’s claimed that Lida’s first two album were recorded while on massive doses of hallucinogens, which might explain things. No doubt, also influenced by The Teardrop Explodes’ use of swirling organs and liberal use of LSD from a decade before. It’s this that makes it both of its time and timeless.
This is not a dark album; its naïve construction and hazy delivery ensure it is lifted away from the introspection contemporary artists were known for. Occasionally, on songs such as Halloween and Mom, it delights with melodies that might even be described as catchy. For sure there are earworms here (Farmhouse, for example), yet this is not music I would describe as tunes for bopping along to while you mix cocktails or make cheese on toast (or both, I’m not here to judge).
What it does deserve is wider attention. Bozo showcases an artist doing things on her own terms, and succeeding.
And as the late, great Bill Hicks said, “If you think drugs are bad, go home tonight and burn all your albums, all your tapes and all your CDs, because the people who made that great music that has enhanced your lives throughout the years… real fucking high on drugs.”
When I think of bands that are quintessentially English, I think of The Wave Pictures. Yet, they also have an edge that sounds like they could be from the US; there’s a distinct Violent Femmes sound to their music, and that is demonstrated on Instant Coffee Baby in spades.
It’s unusual, too, to be talking about a band’s seventh album. We’re usually showcasing their debut or second album. Yet, here we are. This was the album that broke the band beyond the fringes of Herman Düne fans; this is the album that cemented their cult status.
If you grew up outside of the big cities, there’s a sense of the sublime and ridiculous that is woven into the tapestry of rural life. Lead singer, Dave Tattersall, has surely collected all of these weird and wonderful pieces of the human psyche and poured it into the 13 songs that make up Instant Coffee Baby. It’s both a love letter to Loughborough, and a warning to anyone thinking of settling there.
The Guardian weren’t fans, suggesting that “If off-key vocals, low production values and lyrics about tinned peaches and sculptures of marmalade enchant you, Instant Coffee Baby won’t leave your stereo for weeks.” Then again, they completely garble the lyrics they quote, so you can’t take their word for it – or 150 words of it, because that’s all they could feel inspired to write.
Yes, it’s lo-fi. It’s meant to be. Yes, it’s quirky and slightly adolescent, it’s meant to be. It’s philosophical and takes on deeper meaning, if you’re willing to take time to uncover the secrets hidden in plain sight. Like the anti-folk movement that The Wave Pictures sit within, and also slightly outside, it’s probably like the first time you heard The Smiths and either loved them or hated them. There are no grey areas with The Wave Pictures, either.
Again, I refer you to Violent Femmes.
This is the brilliance of the group. They sound like they’re shambolic (to Guardian reviewers in 2008) yet there is an accomplished set of musicians and songwriters here. Catchy songs, humorous lyrics supported by backing vocals that are surely accompanied by knowing winks and wry smiles as they were delivered. If you played it to your parents they’d probably tap their feet and bop their heads, yet be confounded by the masterful tongue-in-cheek lyrical content, particularly those of the title track.
Those lyrics are as good as a certain Sheffield band’s early work, too. It’s just a folksy part of the world they sing about.
This set of songs sounds as fresh today, 15 years on. Those bouncy guitar solos, the proficient drums that belie expectations, the slight croon of David’s voice as he sings about a typical night out in Loughborough and the girl from Baker’s Oven holding back the hair of a puking friend. Despite some of the lyrics, this is a happy album. It’s hard not to want to dance to it. Or singalong with David – who you feel would be happy to duet with you at a gig.
It was reissued by Moshi Moshi only a few years ago. Yet, as with all great cult albums, it sold out and, when it does appear, continues to attract high prices in the secondhand market. One can only hope they’ll reissue it again.
Of course, the band are now approaching their 20th album and playing live regularly. They’re as brilliantly bonkers as ever, yet have retained that sense of exquisite songwriting and composition that makes Instant Coffee Baby an instant classic.
“This might be the greatest record no-one has ever heard of!”
It’s not unusual for the Unspun Heroes team to send each other over-excited WhatsApp messages about new discoveries, but two weeks ago we found a record that none of us had heard of, doesn’t exist on Spotify and where very little is known about the musicians.
The eponymous debut album of a short-lived UK group, Tranquility, is sort of folky, Americana, proggy stuff with immaculate close harmony singing that CSN would have been proud of. The guitar playing is tight and on the right side of noodly, the rhythm section is bang on and the driving organ underneath gives it all a sense of epicness.
If Tranquility were released in the late 60s, rather than early 70s, it might have done very well. But it got caught between changing musical times and tastes. Everyone had come down from the Summer of Love, the economy was shot to pieces and people were looking for a different, grittier type of escapism. While Bowie was giving birth to glam and Sabbath were inventing doom metal, Tranquility were still making gorgeous songs that talked about love and gratitude and nature. Post decimal UK was more interested in sequins, space and Satan.
Now, not every song on the album is a winner; a couple of the songs on Side Two stray into the sort of music hall nonsense that The Beatles and every other UK band in 1968 were peddling. But, the main songwriter and lead guitarist Terry Shaddick hits much more than he misses.
And that brings us on to the musicians – who are they? There is no wikipedia entry for the band and no information on the usual sources such as Allmusic. A bit of digging shows most of the players disappeared into obscurity, but Terry Shaddick did re-emerge in the 1980s as a professional songwriter, penning – of all things – Physical by Olivia Newton John. Which is weirdly great.
You can pick up the original Tranquility LP on Discogs for less than a tenner. Or you can listen to it on YouTube if you “want to get digital, digital”. [Ed: Complaints about Dad jokes to @moonbolt please.] Either way, it is perfect Sunday listening and a complete joy to have picked up on a whim.
Editor’s note After a little more digging, it turns out Tranquility were put together by Donovan’s former manager, Ashley Kozak. They were held in high esteem in the US, so much so that when they toured in support of their debut they booked an additional two months’ worth of dates!
Also, it turns out that Physical was originally penned for Rod Stewart.
When it comes to pop’s mainstream male black musicians, the mid-1980s belonged, ostensibly, to Michael Jackson. Alongside were the supporting cast of Billy Ocean and Luther Vandross. You could hear the intros to any music from these three artists and know instantly who was singing. Yes, there were others, but these three were household names in the UK.
I think the same thing could, or should, be said of the singer who’s the focus of today’s post. Especially when referencing Track One, Side Two from one of the albums that passed a lot of people by when it came out in 1985. An album that continues to pass many people by.
Back in the 80s, people living in large towns and cities in the UK bought their music from a shop called Woolworths. Okay, they used independent records stores, too (and at Christmas from WHSmith when your gran bought you vouchers – because it’s a stationers and pens and pencils and beautiful notepads aren’t the kind of thing 12 year old boys like me wanted, they’re the kind of things that 50 year old me wants, but I am totally off-track now, so…)
What I’m saying is, there were only a few places that always had the latest, greatest thing. Woolworths was one of them.
Back in 1985, I can vividly remember walking into my local Woolworths, taking the stairs to the second floor and seeing an album that had a man in a brown leather trench coat on the front. He had a moustache even though Movember hadn’t been invented. And he oozed coolness to pre-teen me. The cover also had a sort of cartoon-style text that just said Colonel Abrams. I probably thought that, maybe, he was in the army or something. Whatever, it spoke to me. I wanted the album.
I pulled out my money and paid whatever it cost to have it. I’m guessing it was about four pounds. I treasured it on the long bus journey home.
Then I made a mistake that, it turned out, was the best mistake to make. I put Side Two on first.
The song that kicks off the second side of this debut album is Trapped. Wow. What a track. As an opener (to me) it blew my tiny mind so much I lifted the needle at the end of it and placed it back down so I could hear it again. I was hooked.
That’s not to say the rest of the album is bad. It’s not. The basslines and synth work on many tracks is sublime, including the actual opening track, The Truth, I’m Not Gonna Let, and Picture Me In Love With You. This is a man who played in a band with Prince on guitar and had been working as a singer in the music industry for a couple of decades before scoring his biggest hit.
Colonel made the kind of music I would later hear as the soulful building blocks of Chicago House, and what is now known as R&B. The rhythms are layered. The toots and wheeps of the synths don’t follow the melody but suck the listener in like a sonic whirlpool. And the beats… it’s here that the production (by the notable producer, and drummer, Richard James Burgess) not only positions this album in the decade of its making, but also makes it more than the sum of its parts.
This was a man at the top of his game, with major label backing and some of the best production available. However, a glittering career was to remain out of Colonel’s reach. In 2015, he was back in the limelight, but sadly for very different reasons. The man behind the soulful voice from Detroit, a city renowned for its music and its musical legacy, was struggling. Homeless and suffering from diabetes, he was down on his luck. Despite a crowdfunding campaign, Colonel passed away in 2016. A year of many legends passing away, so his name was simply added to a long list of lost luminaries.
Unlike many of those artists, Colonel’s work has yet to revisited. The CD of this amazing debut was reissued in 2010. It contains a gold-selling record, but it’s more than just one track. It’s time to revisit it for the classic it absolutely is.
Found sounds, experimental noises and a husky female voice that sounds like it’s been flavoured by decades of cigarettes and brandy over plucked acoustic and electric guitars. Intimate recordings are the cornerstone of Katie Kim’s debut album, Twelve. It’s a style that’s served her well, and which she has honed to beyond perfection on her fourth and latest LP, Hour of the Ox.
It’s Twelve we’re here to celebrate, though. As a whole, it’s a celebration itself across the ten tracks. It’s like Katie has found a cauldron in which to pour all the best elements of other amazing women in the music business, such as PJ Harvey, Soccer Mommy and Hope Sandoval, stirred it up with a sprinkling of her Gaelic roots and making it very much her own through her use of loops and unstructured structure. It makes her music into something both ethereal and yet as solid as a claw hammer thrown over and over against an anvil.
Taking that description you’d think this album was difficult, but it’s anything but. Yes, it has moments that are distinctly non-indie-folk (if that’s even the best way to describe this album); however, overall it’s bright and warm, but perhaps in the same way the house in Handsel and Gretel is warm and bright. There’s an uncurrent of something almost indescribable that adds excitement and a sense that you’re not in control of how it pulls you in.
The album was the result of over 50 other songs being wiped from her hard drive. Perhaps that’s why it has that bubbling frustration threaded through it? Maybe that’s why this sounds like a performer at the height of her game so early on in her career? It really doesn’t matter, because whatever it is it doesn’t diminish the extraordinary nature of this album, the depths and layers that you’ll pick out on the third, fifth or fifteenth listen.
And you will listen to it that many times, because you’ll wonder how it escaped your attention for so long – and you’ll want to share the experience of hearing the adept playing and composition throughout this album – such as that slide guitar far back in the mix – with others. You can hear Twelve on Katie’s Bandcamp page. Or stream it here. And then enjoy the rest of her stunning discography.
Prizes awarded to artists for their work are not often controversial. 2005 was different. Certainly for the Mercury Music Prize, which is awarded to an album that a panel of industry judges deems to have been released the previous year in the UK for a British or Irish act. It’s usually obvious who will win. However, in 2005 it was controversially awarded to Antony & The Johnsons who many complained was living in the US and therefore not eligible.
It was almost as controversial as 1994, the year that M People won it.
Of course, any judgment that isn’t the one you would have made is wrong. However, the point is often not who wins but who doesn’t. And in 1995, the biggest winner was a young man from Devon called Seth Lakeman.
Previously known for his work with his brothers, Sam and Sean, Seth went solo in 2002. Kitty Jay, nominated in those controversial Mercury Music Awards, was his second album. The story goes that it was recorded for less than £300 and its title track tells the story of a Dartmoor landmark, Jay’s Grave.
What was immediately clear from Seth live appearances was here was a young artist reaching his potential. Often singing while playing violin, the album is everything folk can be while also not sounding like a folk album might be expected to sound. It’s pacy. It has an undercurrent that might be described as unnerving and potentially violent. It makes your heart race and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. It’s also contains a warmth and humility thanks to the stories that act as scaffold for Seth’s songwriting skills.
And then there’s his voice, shown off on more traditional interpretations such as Farewell My Love and Cape Clear. Strong, with a tone that evokes bucolic scenes and the traditions from which its words are drawn, but which has an edge of punk venom.
It’s undeniably indie pop wrapped in folk instrumentalism. And that’s a good thing. It takes the elements of pop composition and presents them using sounds and instruments not traditionally associated with the oeuvre from which it draws. The result is something quite special.
Its rawness perfectly suits the subject matter. However, it would sound just as amazing with a full orchestra, I’m certain. I can attest to the fact that seeing this album live lifts it into another realm. Seth is a performer from whom you cannot tear your eyes, or ears. Listening back now, as I write this, the title track could easily be sampled by Wu Tang Clan and no one would think anything of it. As versatile and it is virtuoso.
Available on CD only, it’s an Unspun Hero that really needs to make the leap to vinyl. Stream it in full below.
At 10 the vocal genius of Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. This wasn’t cool.
No. 9 was Queen “It’s a kind of magic”. Not cool.
At 8 the highest climber was Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” re-released on the back of Nick Kamen’s iconic appearance in his boxers (they became cool) for Levi’s. This was a very cool record.
Position 7 was Five Star and “Can’t Wait Another Minute”. This collection of five brothers and sisters showed loads of promise but sat stubbornly the wrong side of cool (too much choreography for me).
At 6 was George Michael with “Different Corner”. This was the start of George’s solo career and was way cooler than everyone thought it would be; a song that has stood the test of time.
No. 5 was Janet Jackson with her first single “What Have You Done For Me Lately?”. Not my bag at all.
At 4 we saw Patti Labelle and Michael McDonald singing to each other (one in NYC and one at the coast). Patti looking supreme and sounding amazing, Michael looking like your uncle Nigel but sounding pretty good. This kind of duet didn’t float my boat and was definitely one for my Nan.
No. 3 was slap-bass maestro Mark King and his Level 42 with “Lessons of Love”. I can’t really say anything bad about Level 42 – they were (maybe still are) a good band. The Chinese Way was a belting single. There was a hint of the soul-boy string vest about them but that’s not a bad thing.
At 2 was a song I had completely erased from my memory – Madonna’s “Live to Tell”. I’ve just watched the video again and even though that was only five minutes ago, I still can’t remember it. At this point Madonna could have released a recording of her gently snoring and it would break the top 5.
And, after a slow climb, Austrian musical genius Falco. Described as the Austrian godfather of white rap by some, his track, Amadeus, was number 1 everywhere. Pretty cool I think.
Why am I giving you a Bruno Brookes-style rundown? Well, I wanted to paint a picture of the background against which one of my favourite albums of all time “Boat to Bolivia” by Martin Stephenson & the Daintees was released. This backdrop of over-produced tunes (excluding Marvin Gaye and George Michael, of course) was a distinct contrast to Boat to Bolivia (admittedly outside the top ten there were a few brilliant and more indie tunes including The Cure, Suzanne Vega, It’s Immaterial, the B52s, and Doctor and the Medics) and was simple and beautiful.
This period saw me listening to a lot of Lloyd Cole and the beginnings of the C86 bands, and of course, The Housemartins (still the best gig I ever went to I think, although Blur at ULU in 1990 comes close). Then, in the middle of all that, Martin Stephenson released Boat to Bolivia and me and my mate Pete were hooked. It was the record that was played each lunchtime and break in the sixth form. It was the record that mirrored, or charted, my first proper relationship. It was the record (and this was probably more important than I realised at the time) that made me feel cool-ish. It was the record that started the conversation with the people at Uni that became my best friends, the record that my wife and I listened to the most (actually maybe that was Donovan but this was a close second).
It’s the record I go back to when I need a hug.
Martin is from the North East, born in Durham and celebrated for his NE folk roots (to which he has returned) and this can be heard throughout the album. My brother was at Sunderland University and I fell in love with the coast up there.
Martin was set free by punk. In an interview with Folking he says:
“I was born in a rough environment but I was always a deer. I wasn’t a wolf but I thought I was a wolf because I was running with the wolves but one day at the watering hole I caught a glimpse of my reflection and I saw Bambi there. When I was fifteen Punk came along and even to my guru Punk was shite but to me it was like being reborn. I thought at that time you had to be a genius to play music but Punk gave you the confidence to have a go and be primitive so I started as a guitarist. I was a punk guitarist from fifteen to seventeen or eighteen but punk started to move on into New Wave and then I started to educate myself. I bought a classical guitar book, a jazz guitar book, a folk guitar book and I would usually get through the first ten or eleven pages and get bored and go and put the kettle on. It was the journey from giving up on a classical exercise to putting the kettle on where I would meet conceptual art. I became a songwriter and I‘d have little bits of jazz, blues, country – jack of all, master of none – I just used what I had. I was a guitar fan and a bit of a poet and it just started merging. I’d probably been taught how to channel as well so every time I wrote a song I was bringing it through the crown chakra, I wasn’t getting in the way. I felt that I didn’t have the craftsmanship to get in the way but that was giving me a head start with the songs.”
This blend of influences is what hooked me in. Plus, the fact that he wasn’t a popstar. This was the fag-end of the New Romantics and the height of the pretentiousness of Morrisey and The Smiths. Martin felt like the antidote to both.
For me the thing that runs through the album like “BLACKPOOL” through a stick of rock is Love. Unashamedly. I’m not going to go through each song in detail. But I’ll tell you how it made me feel. In an era of heightened masculinity, it was unusual to talk and sing about feelings, about sexuality, about aging, about nostalgically prone alcoholics, about slow loving. The album balanced my life (rugby playing on one side, poetry writing on the other), it helped me express my form of masculinity. Martin also looked great. Pre-baggy and post-Smiths, finding a sartorial direction was challenging. Bros had emerged and added Grolsch bottle tops to their Docs, the tail-end of Goth was very much still evident and neither felt like me. Martin’s look did. In short, the album reached a hand out to me when I needed it most. Those mid teen years are tough and it’s easy to get a little lost.
Martin Stephenson became a talismanic figure to me and my mates, a symbol of new masculinity as much as music. But the music was great. “Coleen” still makes me weep a little today, as does the “Little Red Bottle” in a different way. The great washing of “Running Waters” was like a baptism. Washing away the old me and revealing the new. I utterly love this album from the marrow of my bones.
The album has travelled through time with me. Like my best friend. Always there when I needed it. Sometimes forgotten and then re-discovered. I found out about 5 years ago that Martin (now living in the Highlands of Scotland) was recording again. I googled, found him on Facebook and we chatted. What a lovely and wholly humble man he is. We met up before a gig in Birmingham (and what a gig). We arrived on time (The Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath). The door was shut but I could hear someone coming down the stairs. It was Martin and the band off for a curry. He was just about to perform, after a veg dopiaza. Hats off and kudos. He was ace, friendly, warm. His love for his art, his band, his kids, and his friends is tangible and warm. They say never to meet your heroes as you’ll be disappointed. Well in this case I wasn’t. I don’t think life has always been easy, but he is still smiling and still writing and recording great music.
The album can be hard to find now, but well worth searching out. It’s one of those albums that flows, that’s been put together to listen to from front to back rather than on shuffle. The vinyl is rare, and I love nothing more than putting it on and sitting and listening through. It’s a time machine, an emotional crutch, a best friend, a mentor, and a reason to be cheerful.
Thanks Martin. You’re a diamond. Faceted, sparkling and a one-off.
Give Boat To Bolivia a listen via Martin’s Bandcamp, embedded below.
In 1985, Beltane Fire had a short-lived moment in the spotlight as Sony Music’s latest signing. They produced one album and toured extensively, supporting Adam and the Ants, Ian Dury, and Marillion at the height of Kayleigh fame. It must have been fun while it lasted, which wasn’t long.
The band was formed out of the Neo-Rockabilly band The Blue Cats, who as a group of south London teenagers fused their love of old 50’s classics with a modern flavour. Then came the likes of Adam Ant, Marillion and Tenpole Tudor, along with a swathe of sword and sorcery movies and TV series such as Robin of Sherwood. The Blue Cats became Beltane Fire, started wearing leather jerkins, clipped on some hair extensions and invested in a dry ice machine. The result was the album Different Breed, which builds on their rockabilly base, but added synths, military drums and loads of reverb.
The main single from the album is Fortune Favours The Brave, which is accompanied by a video featuring the obligatory fist clenching, candlelight, dangling chains and wavy flags.
Video for Beltane Fire’s single, Fortune Favours The Brave.
The rest of the album is a journey through Arthurian legends, pirates and poachers. The record didn’t trouble the charts and the money ran out – largely because they spent a load of cash on the album artwork.
The whole thing is massively overblown and very silly, but it is bags and bags of fun.
After they were dropped by Sony, the band went back to being The Blue Cats, where they produced the excellent album The Tunnel. The guitar work on “Man on a Mission” is particularly excellent.
Video for Man on a Mission by The Blue Cats.
There was a rumour going around that lead guitarist Carlo Edwards gave The Edge a few tips back in the day. Carlo’s day job is as head baker at the Box Hill café in Surrey if you want to ask him directly.
As someone who joined Twitter back in the early days and used it to find and learn from individuals whom I’d never have known about without such a service, to see it become the Hellscape of 2023 has been hard. So much so that I left.
The issue is, when it comes to starting something and finding like-minded people, it’s hard to beat. So when Unspun Heroes became a thing, it was a joy to discover that, in the main, ‘Music Twitter’ is a bit like those halcyon days of 2007/2008 where you could find a community and they would embrace you and allow you into their fold and, in many cases, tell other people what you’re doing. All without really knowing much about you.
And it doesn’t even matter if you like different music. Mostly.
It’s been fascinating being on the edges of ‘Music Twitter’ these past few weeks. And as I learn about the community, so I see the moments of beauty that make spaces such as this a delight to be a very small part of.
One of those is Joel’s Vinyl Adoption Agency, which is a service created by Joel from Brighter Day Record Shop. It is, perhaps, one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen on Twitter, up there with the ‘I’ve found this kid’s teddy on a train and want to reunite it with its owner’ posts that were once a key ingredient of everyone’s Twitter experience.
Now, I don’t know Joel. I’ve not met him. I know he has a magnificent moustache and an eye for great vinyl. I know he used to, until just this week, stay up stupidly late on Thursdays to do a flick-thru of his recent purchases and find new homes for these from paying customers. (Please note, these are now a Sunday Service, the first of which will happen later today!)
But, above all of the usually commercial endeavours of a record shop owner, his freely giving away a record because it has little commercial value but is still deserving of some love is what stands out. Other people do flick-thrus. Others do reviews. Perhaps others do give things away on a regular basis (at least once a week for Joel) but he does it with absolutely panache and without ego. Hard to do on a medium that rewards self-promotion.
And so, in a sideways step from our usual Sunday Unspun Heroes blog posts, this week I wanted to point towards the community of vinyl-loving music nerds (moustache not required) and highlight someone, and something, that deserves our admiration and applause.
Joel’s choices are varied, so you never know what might come up. Today (Sunday, 28 May, 2023), it was Tighten Up. Next time it could be almost anything. What you can be assured of is that it’ll be interesting and offered up with self-effacement and wit.
If you’re not already following Joel, you should do so. Who knows, you might bag yourself a free vinyl records and be able to give it the love it deserves. That kind of kindness is priceless.
Thanks Joel.
Occasionally, we’ll highlight someone in the community we see and enjoy. If you think of someone, drop us a hello in the comments, or via Twitter or Instagram.
I’ll admit it, I’m a sucker for acoustic guitar and piano, especially when they’re paired with delicate soundscapes that evoke specific times of the year, or push the emotions into places of calm, or even sadness.
The first time I heard Emphemetry, which is essentially the pseudonym of the artist, Richard J. Birkin, I was hooked. Elements of Gravenhurst, but with a classical backdrop. A clear, northern accent piercing like strands of sunlight through a cloudy day. It’s obvious, almost immediately, that this isn’t your standard laidback singer songwriter album.
Richard has scored music for film and TV, played with the London Contemporary Orchestra, recorded music for, and at, Abbey Road Studios, and released critically-acclaimed classical-inspired albums. Yet, it’s his earlier, guitar-led work that deserves wider attention.
Each song on ‘A Lullaby Hum for Tired Streets’ flows, like a meandering river; they evoke late-night drives through industrial towns; they’re reminiscent of watching dust motes float through derelict mills, or through half-built new builds of the edge of a once-bustling town. Yet, it is a shining light that brings beauty to all those ideas of decay and forgottenness. There’s a sense it could have some beats applied and you’d have an after-club-comedown soundtrack, too. A Lullaby Hum for Tired Streets is aptly named in that respect.
While it’s a dozen years old now, like all good Unspun Heroes it travels through time and somehow remains current even as it ages. You’re pulled like a riptide towards songs such as Five Fields, or Francis Thompson, which is over nine minutes in length but sails through those minutes like it’s a catchy pop song; as it nears its end, so it breaks down to the bedrock of the song’s structure, all the while never feeling like it’s repetitive or drawn out. Or Emileodie, which begins with a piano refrain that is simple, yet intricate, shifting to a minor key just as you think you’ve got a handle on it.
There are so many beautiful moments scattered throughout the ten tracks. But it’s Richard’s voice that really makes this album a triumph. He uses his voice like a painter uses a brush, to add texture or highlights. It’s not the focus of the album like you’d expect. However, if it were to be removed from these songs it would leave them feeling unfinished, or perhaps bereft would be the better word. No more so than on So Long Magic Helper, one of the many, many highlights.
The album is available on a limited edition vinyl release, mastered by Nils Frahm and pressed in Berlin. You should add it to your collection.
Music, as always, situates you in a time and place. To hear a drum intro, or guitar riff, or the opening words of a chorus you remember screaming along to at some tiny gig in a venue with dubious adherence to fire regulations. Or a shift in your own circumstances, perhaps?
2008. A year of missing out on sleep. A new baby. A new home. Loss and grief, too.
The Shaky Hands reminds me of painting my kitchen, of being stuck on the sofa snuggled with my child gently snoring against my shoulder as he finally crashed out after a feed. It was playing in the car on the way to scatter my Mum’s ashes into the woodland where she loved to walk. It’s soundtracked a lot of different moods and feelings, has Lunglight.
Listening recently, it transported me back to that time, but it also reminded me what a fucking great album it is.
Hailing from Portland, Oregon, at a time when the city was mostly known for another jangly indie band and their song which became the background to a certain mobile phone company. Dandy, you might say.
Lunglight, though, was different. It had way more energy, a lot more punk in its veins, songs that spoke of sweaty basement gigs and spilt beer. The vocals calling something urgent and primal from within. Staccato guitar and drum licks that carry you along, giving a sense of speed even when the tempo slows, most obvious on songs Loosen Up and We Are Young.
The engine of the band for this, their second album, were the brothers, Nick and Nathan Delffs. However, it was a band in which every member brought something unique that, when pulled together on songs like Settle On, You’re The Light, and final song, Oh No, demonstrates why they’re an Unspun Hero. On Lunglight, here was a band on the verge of something and their music spelled it out better than any words I can write down.
It wasn’t to be, though. Still, we are left with 13 brilliant tracks that captured their youthful energy and dynamism. Listen on their Bandcamp page.
I was lucky. A friend lived in Leeds and worked as a roadie, moonlighting as a web developer between gigs. He also shared a house with the entertainments manager of Leeds Uni. Getting out of London to the north was, therefore, a fairly normal thing every weekend. They were even nice to this soft southerner. Mostly.
It was after some sweaty gig that I was introduced to a someone who handed me a CDr of local bands they’d burned at home. On it were a whole host of tracks, mostly forgotten. One of these we played again and again on the long drive down the M1. It was Keepsakes by Sky Larkin from their self-released Souvenir EP.
It made me think of the film, Shallow Grave, which I loved (and still do). It made me ‘car seat dance’ when the inevitable traffic jams brought us to a standstill. It brought out a grin on my face. As soon as I got back home I got on the internet and searched them out. I found two more songs to (legally) download from a fantastic Blogger website called Burning World (now defunct) and a release date for an album.
I was hooked.
Here was a three-piece that sounded like there were twice as many members. A strong female singer who had a knack for great lyrics and even greater riffs. There was more than a slight resemblance to Sleater-Kinney, but with a distinctly northern English grit and humour and perhaps a large splash of that cheeky Los Campesinos personality. They stood out when much of the year I first heard them was wall-to-wall Arctic Monkeys.
The album hasn’t dated in the past 14 years or so. It remains a great album chock full of songs you can sing along to, dance to (car seat or other places), or whatever you want to do while it plays. It gets a regular airing at Unspun Heroes HQ. It was an original take on guitar-based indie when it came out and it is still an original sound.
Because of Sky Larkin, I have the fondest memories of Leeds and the messy weekends at the Uni bar that made up a fair chunk of my late 20s. It really deserves a reissue, though, because it’s bloody hard to find and we’d love a copy. We think you’d love a copy, too.
Plus Katie Harkin, the guitarist and founding member of Sky Larkin hasn’t stopped. She’s still making great music as Harkin (her latest album, Honeymoon Suite is definitely worth checking out once you’ve got your ears around her original band’s debut, which you do below).
It’s the final song on this album that most people will know, and while it’s a piece of brilliance, we should start from the beginning.
The beginning of this album is storytelling. Each song is a vignette, almost a film script contained within four minutes or so of post-punk pop songs. Stanard Ridgway, as he was before he shortened his name for pop stardom, was already well known on the scene thanks to his previous band, Wall of Voodoo. Exhibiting a more synth-led sound, they had Stanard’s idiosyncratic voice and songwriting skills in common.
However, it was to be The Big Heat that ignited my fascination with Ridgway and his ability to conjure up an entire world within a song, complete with narrative, back story, and supporting cast. You get the feeling each song could win every Oscar going despite not being a film.
Whether the noir feel of Drive, She Said, or the Depeche Mode-esque Pick It Up (And Put It In Your Pocket), or the singalong melody of Camouflage, each song has depth that pop songs rarely had, or have. Ridgway brought several of his musical influences into the songs. It makes the album feel out of its time, yet nails its 1980’s colours to the mast at the same time.
Yet, the final song, Camouflage, a song about a soldier caught without a working gun in the jungles of Vietnam who is rescued by a man-mountain who can seemingly dodge bullets, is what takes all the ideas of every other song and pulls it into something special.
That man-mountain, the eponymous Camouflage of the song’s title, who you can picture as flesh and blood (perhaps mixed with Stallone’s Rambo in my head), saving the day even while he lies dead in a tent back at the army camp. It’s got a sing-along chorus, anthemic yet intricate, with a narrative arc that could have been written by Vonnegut. It runs for over seven minutes but never feels laboured or repetitive. It’s the perfect bookend for everything that comes before it, almost as if Ridgway perfected his performative songwriting just for this final hurrah.
It’s absolutely faultless, this album. It’s not shiny, throwaway stuff, this album. It warrants deeper consideration, like all Unspun Heroes. Even though many people I mention it to consider it to be gimmicky and full of novelty. Yet, great pop songs transcend novelty and The Big Heat is chock full of pop sensibility. It’s heinous that it’s not been reissued on vinyl since its original release in 1986.
Settle back, press play and enjoy an album that deserves wider attention.
