New Order: One more week at number one on 5th September 1987
The Smiths: One more week at number one on 12th September 1987
Here the record buyers go again, ruining the natural cut and flow of my blog with their historical purchasing decisions.
As we've seen before, rebound number ones are very common in the NME Indie Chart - sometimes because a record doesn't immediately realise its full potential and has a second or even third wave of mainstream support ("Blue Monday"), sometimes because a limited edition single only offers a short-term threat to the top spot and allows its predecessor to take back the prize, and occasionally just because two extremely competitive singles are out at the same time. And that's essentially what happened here - "True Faith" and "Girlfriend In A Coma" were two huge alternative singles in September 1987, and while in most indie charts "True Faith" held the top spot confidently, that wasn't the case in the NME.
There's nothing more to say beyond that, so let's look at the new entries lower down those charts.
Week One
5. The Soup Dragons - Soft As Your Face (Raw TV)
Peak position: 4
The Soups return with a soft chunk of sixties inspired pop; there had been signs of this proclivity before, most notably in the Byrdsian chimes of the wonderful "Head Gone Astray", but never had they been so directly expressed. These aren't touches or hints of an influence so much as a full-blown homage.
Despite this, the single was popular with fans and only just missed matching the Official Chart peak of its predecessor "Can't Take No More" (it peaked at number 66 versus that effort's number 65 placing). Its fey, summery paisley tones are pretty, merry, and unlike a lot of other groups from this period, not remotely snide or condescending towards late sixties pop - until I started writing this blog, I'd totally forgotten how many eighties indie acts suffered from the Austin Powers Tendency. Despite this, it feels like a weaker effort when placed up against the sheer power of their previous four singles, and as time went on, the group began to lean into this side of things increasingly often, sacrificing abrasion and firepower for slower, brighter harmonies.
Meanwhile, we should obviously be grateful to Sean Dickson for the YouTube upload, but it's a shame his copy of the video has suffered a bit of damage over the years.
Week Two
8. Big Black - He's A Whore / The Model (Blast First)
Peak position: 2
Steve Albini's gang return with two sonic blasts, neither of which are quite as uncompromising as I remember. "He's A Whore" sounded difficult for 1987 but wouldn't have been remotely out of place in 1993, thanks to his continued cultural spell-casting through the American alternative scene. In truth, it's beginning to sound strangely tepid these days, with those solid, steady beats making it seem almost (but not quite) as ordinary as a rough Beatles Cavern bootleg.
A lot of people bought this for the cover Kraftwerk's "The Model" on the other side, which replaces basic electronica with guitars which sound like insects stuck on flypaper. On the general spectrum of punk cover versions, it's closer to Devo than The Dickies in its stylings, but once again doesn't sound as impressive or as mighty as I remember. Or maybe I've reached the point in my life where genre-bending covers no longer seem that interesting.
9. Depeche Mode - Never Let Me Down Again (Mute)
Peak position: 3
This was taken from "Music For The Masses", the LP which turned the suburban Essex boys into a stadium band, and created so much of the trouble and confusion that lay ahead for them. "Never Let Me Down" is a beast worthy of any arena, though, an absolute juggernaut of a single which oscillates between slapping industrial rhythms and an almost symphonic sounding chorus. At this point, Anton Corbijn had also got fully on board to produce all their videos, grainy Super 8 affairs laced with dream-like imagery which worked with the music almost perfectly. Everything was gelling.
"Music For The Masses" came in a sleeve featuring a glossy photograph of a huge red megaphone, presumably broadcasting the album to an abandoned piece of twilight countryside, a string of lights from a road in the distance being the only sign of life. Internal sleeve shots showed the megaphone up mountains or by lakes and canals - in my mind, the bash and clatter of "Never Let Me Down Again" was coming out of all of them. What else would be? The track sounds like a proclamation, an announcement worthy of instant attention. It's a truly great single, the sound of all the best and most interesting elements of the eighties rolled into one ball.
At the time, it didn't really command the attention it warranted in the UK, slipping out as a cult single in common with all their other recent shots. Over time, though, it became the high point of their live set to fans, their hands waving in the air like fields of barley. It might seldom be heard on Radio Two, but it's as important to the clan as "Enjoy The Silence".
26. Poison - Cry Tough (Music For Nations)
Peak position: 26
Meanwhile, here was the "true" sound of the stadiums and concert halls of America, operating in tandem with Depeche's ongoing threat. Poison's glam metal feels strangely cushioned and polished by our modern day standards and expectations of rock, closer to One Direction on one of their glam tips than any of the current pretenders. Nonetheless, something about that gloss and sheen obviously appealed just slightly to the Manic Street Preachers, whose first album "Generation Terrorists" occasionally has a little bit of that cushioned blow to its production.
It's also surprisingly enjoyable, its daftness and flamboyance seeming as breezy and daffy as a Dick Emery sketch these days.
28. The Three Johns - Never And Always (Abstract)
Peak position: 7
In which the Johns link up with Adrian Sherwood to explosive effect, causing them to sound more challenging and current than any of the other new entries in the chart this week - those rattlesnake drum machine rolls and jackhammer beats suddenly give the group a modern but also deeply threatening foil to react against. It's nasty but strangely compelling, not Indie Dance in any conventional sense of the phrase, but persuasive nonetheless. Probably their most astonishing single.
Sometimes, amidst a string of often more noble efforts, one particular single becomes a catchphrase in a band’s career. It’s not necessarily their best single, or the most advanced, or even their biggest hit; it’s the one that seems, rightly or wrongly, to define their whole ethic to the Mums, Dads and "squares".
While watching “The Chart Show” in the summer of 1987, the video for “Girlfriend In A Coma” came on and my parents immediately began spluttering in disbelief. “Oh, come on. Is this a joke?” they roared; a question that probably needed to be asked, since Morrissey was, as ever, playing his role dryly. “Well, I’ve heard everything now”, my Dad muttered, and from that day forth, whenever Morrissey appeared on television, “Girlfriend In A Coma” would be brought up. To my parents, Morrissey was no longer the man with some flowers up his bum – his previous identifying factor in my house - but the bloke who had a partner in intensive care.
“Is this his new one, then?” my Dad would ask. “Is it about his girlfriend again? Is she out of hospital now? Well, at least he’s got that going for him, anyway”.
And it didn’t stop with my parents. Smash Hits listed the single as having one of 1987’s very many “rum” song titles. It also later became the name of a reasonably good novel by Smiths fan Douglas Copeland, and I’ve also seen poetry events named after it (“Girlfriend In A Comma”) and reviews of curry houses referring to it (“Girlfriend In A Korma”, even though that doesn’t really work unless the eatery involves cannibalism). On and on the track’s influence churns, despite the fact that it’s not exactly a radio favourite – and is obviously banned from every hospital radio playlist in the land – and wasn’t really regarded as much more than a quirky glitch in the Smiths catalogue at the time. It was reviewed favourably enough and sold healthily, but it hardly sat alongside “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” or “This Charming Man” as being their most respected work.
Firstly, as to the completely fair question about whether this is a joke – I would argue (as I did with my parents at the time) that it’s really more of a cheeky homage. “Girlfriend In A Coma” feels spectacularly indebted to the sixties death disc, although instead of The Shangri-Las “Leader Of The Pack”, it appears to be taking its cue from Twinkle’s much more mournful, understated motorcycle crash 45 “Terry”.
Twinkle was supposed to have been a superstar in the sixties, a prodigious teenage singer-songwriter whose pop songs seeped with vulnerability and introversion. Instead, the music business pulled her in then spat her out with distaste after her attempts to follow up her big hit faltered. Her second single “Golden Lights” was a mournful study of the downside of being a famous person’s other half, and was actually written while she was dating Dec Cluskey of The Bachelors. The public only cared enough to take it to number 21, and it would be her second and final hit.
The Smiths covered it in 1986 and placed it as the extra track on the 12” single of “Ask”, so they had already doffed a cap to her work. “Girlfriend In A Coma” appears to be looking more in the direction of “Terry”, noting its strangely hushed and understated delivery of a deeply controversial subject matter (it was effectively banned by the BBC for its morbidity). If the subject matter of the leathered-up motorcycle tragedy of “Terry” is vaguely rock and roll – even though its shuffling rhythms and delicately plucked instruments barely qualify – “Girlfriend” erases every last final drop of teenage rebellion from its likely influence and is lyrically stark and almost weirdly understated.
Marr’s simple, unambitious but pretty acoustic guitar lines combine with Morrissey’s softly sung pleas of “I know, I know it’s serious”, “No I don’t want to see her” and, contradicting himself in his mental muddle, “Would you please let me see her”, to create what can only be described as a sombre lullaby of panic. The string section adds some drama to the mix, but it’s ultimately an exhausted collection of thoughts, positive and negative, guilty and concerned (“There are times when I could have strangled her/ but you know, I would hate anything to happen to her”).
There’s an alternative reading to the above, of course. Just as you might listen to Cliff Richard’s “Carrie” and suspect the man at Carrie’s old address had murdered her, I’ve often had a slight feeling of unease that Morrissey is hinting that he is in some way responsible for the coma. His lines about murdering or strangling her followed with “you know, I would hate anything to happen to her” feel almost as if he’s protesting too much, playing a role; yes, of course we regularly bickered, your honour, but it wasn’t me in the greenhouse with the quiff and the cricket bat.
The only thing that scuppers the above is the track’s genuine sense of kitchen sink distress, the repetition and disorder. Where Twinkle sang “Don’t do it, don’t do it!” Morrissey also repeats himself and circles slowly around the truth, arriving thereas the reality of his situation cements itself (“Let me whisper my last goodbyes”).
Of course, I have no doubt that the single probably isn’t intended as an entirely serious artistic statement – it’s The Smiths attempting sixties baroque pop but amping the tragedy and the melodrama to the max, taking the ideas as far as they’ll go before the balloon bursts and the idea becomes too ridiculous to contemplate. It walks a very fine line between homage and parody, and in its own way is as attention seeking as “Panic” or “Shoplifters Of The World Unite” – only the idea seems to have had much more durability and continued shock value than either of those, the thought of quiet ballads to comatose lovers being too ludicrous for some to handle.
In the eighties, New Order never really seemed like the kind of group to embrace the idea of a "Greatest Hits" album. Snapping all their 45rpm moments into one neat, consumer-friendly brochure for casual shoppers seemed a strange idea for a group (and record label) who were against the idea of even advertising their new releases. Nonetheless, 1987 saw the arrival of "Substance", one of the best "Best Ofs" the entire decade had to offer; beautifully packaged (especially the cassette) and near-perfect in its contents.
It also resulted in New Order being given a tight, pressing deadline by their label boss Tony Wilson – to record two new tracks in London with producer Stephen Hague, one of which would be used on the compilation. Studio time was booked for ten days with Hague, a producer the band hadn’t worked with before, but whose reputation had begun to spike due to his recent work with the Pet Shop Boys. Perhaps somewhat foolishly, the band entered the studio with just a handful of ideas.
While Tony Wilson made several nervous phone calls to check things were progressing well, the band toyed and tinkered away and began to forge the basis of two songs which would become “True Faith” and “1963”. Problematically though, Bernard Sumner hadn’t written lyrics for either, and Hague began to grow impatient, stating that he found it extremely hard to understand what direction the song should be taking without a clear lyrical map to follow. Sumner ummed and ahhed, then welched on his promise to come up with something to an agreed deadline, until he was “accidentally” locked inside the West London flat the band were renting and left without food for an entire day (history does not record who was responsible for this, or indeed whether it was deliberate).
Left without anything to do apart from stew in his own hunger and misfortune, Sumner turned out possibly the finest set of lyrics of his career for one of the tracks (and some of the most baffling ones ever for the B-side). “True Faith” is overwhelmingly about drug addiction, though the band ultimately backtracked on the original draft for one of the verses, the much more explicit “When I was a very small boy/ very small boys talked to me/ now that we’ve grown up together/ they’re all taking drugs with me”. Doing so, and changing the final line to “They’re afraid of what they see”, has probably given the song an ambiguity and mystique it may otherwise not have had, besides ensuring larger amounts of radio airplay.
The end result is a track which sounds both euphoric and troubled, fresh and exotic and yet disintegrating. It skips and bounces, and has a chorus which could almost be heard as celebratory, but never once sounds truly triumphant, and always feels giddy and unstable. The chimes fall and despond, those bizarre panpipe sounds, which seem as if they would ordinarily belong on a New Age gift shop CD, hum in the background like the soundtrack to a yogic daze, and Sumner delivers lines which are appropriately contradictory – the reserved joy of “A certain sense of liberty” sits alongside the despair of “I don’t care if I’m here tomorrow”, while the line “I used to think that the day would never come” could sit in either camp. Are you delighted that you’re finally here, bathed in sunlight, watching yourself from the outside, or horrified? Or both?
Sumner utterly nails it with the simple line “the childhood I lost replaced by fear” too; making the way addicts self-medicate their way out of their own prisons a central focal point of the song. The song is not glorifying the use of heroin, or indeed any other drug, but instead trying to understand why it became such a huge issue in the mid-eighties. In doing so, it’s more empathetic than any number of grainy, gritty Government adverts where a narrator whispered, in a voice somewhere between Gary Lineker and David Attenborough, that if you took it, you’d start to look “tired… and spotty” (we all looked a bit tired and spotty in those days, whether we were on or off The Horse). Musically and lyrically, it’s a hazy, faded, pastel shaded sketch of a situation which is portrayed as a frustrated, fragile and finite kind of luke-warm happiness, one where the sharp hooks of reality are capable of penetrating the bliss. Even if New Order hadn’t changed the original lyrics, it’s hard to hear how anybody would have thought the song was written in an approving way.
It sometimes feels as if people were mourning the death of the hippy dream within five minutes of the whole thing starting. I’m exaggerating for effect, obviously, but the nostalgia and regret seem to start fairly sharply. Thunderclap Newman’s 1969 number one “Something In The Air” drips with desperation – the line “We have got to get it together” sounding more panicked than optimistic, urging somebody somewhere not to just do something, but attempt it in an organised, unified way.
More bizarrely still, the obscure track “Imagine”*, recorded by Elton John, Rodger Hodgson (of eventual Supertramp fame) and friends in the same year seems to be fondly looking back at an era which had only just passed. “You'll find that the flowers won't wait/ they will disintegrate” warns Hodgson; and by 1969 they had, broadly speaking. Both songs feel as if they’re taking place at a wake, or at least on the last bank holiday of August when a faint chill can be felt on the breeze.
The seventies weren’t without occasional dabbles back into the land of corduroy toadstools – Hawkwind’s entire damn career and Rainbow Cottage’s freak 1976 hit “Seagull” are indicative of that – but the children did indeed grow up, and the British kids who took their place post-1976 were often angry, marginalised and aggrieved rather than peace loving. There’s a frequently unspoken and unreferenced commonality between the underground hippies and the seventies punks, but the Year Zero effects of punk rock rendered the frilliest and softest edges of psychedelic pop redundant; there would be no more pollen on 45 for awhile (excepting The Damned's occasional dabbles).
Attitudes softened again in the eighties with a bunch of “Paisley Underground” types emerging in 1982, but few were bold enough to try to earnestly shove Flower Power front and centre of anything they did. References were made, but mainly in a very knowing, nudging fashion. This meant that by the time All About Eve’s “Flowers In Our Hair” emerged in 1987, music critics inevitably balked at the ludicrous balls on it; here was a single, after all, which seemed to be weeping a lament for the loss of a potentially transformative era, right down to the promo video which saw the heavy-handed imagery of a coffin daubed with the words “Hippy – RIP” being set ablaze. These people, concluded the journalists, were either very brave or very stupid.
Or possibly neither. Despite their goth following, All About Eve were one of the few acts of this era to have a genuinely romantic and unironic view of the recent pre-punk past. Psychedelia didn’t play a prominent role in their musical thinking, but the early to mid seventies did. Miles Hunt of The Wonder Stuff scoffed that the group were like Fleetwood Mac**, but his barbs aside, they also clearly had Fairport Convention in their record collections too (or at the very least lead singer Julianne Regan certainly did). The group could rock out, but there was a floaty, measured, almost gentile aspect to everything they did – the airy softness and wondrous expression of Regan’s voice dictating the backdrop and ensuring the group were never going to be anchored to thundering basslines and reverb-heavy rhythms. You just can’t mix those kinds of flavours together.
Perhaps it would have been more surprising if such a group hadn’t released a single about the death of the hippy dream, then. Despite this, “Flowers In Our Hair” is, it has to be said, somewhat heavy handed, but with sentiments utterly in keeping with the kind of last gasps we heard in 1969. “We earn the flowers in our hair my friend/ So take my hand/ ‘One day’ is always too far away” Regan sings, with a bit of a regretful trill towards the instrumental break. The track also concludes with perhaps the key point a lot of journalists missed, unable to see the cynicism for the paisley patterns: “We only dare to say 'please love me'/ At the seventh glass of wine”. Aha. So it’s as much about buttoned-up English repression and how that ties in with disappointment and sourness and unrealised emotional aspirations. It also explains an earlier line “Do you ever think we’ll make it/ something more than a uniform?”
Regan’s voice and easy, floaty charisma enabled her to get away with these ideas in a way very few other vocalists at the time could have pulled off. She’s too confident and powerful in her delivery to be child-like (which would have rendered this record an horrendous, twee mess – imagine it sung in a lisping, prim voice to get what I mean) but has enough natural charm and gentleness to also make the ideas seem almost palatable, even slap-bang in the middle of a Thatcherite decade where you were supposed to be either greedy or angry (or possibly both). She appeared to have inherited the independent spirit and waywardness of punk in terms of attitude, but the record collection of a mid seventies university graduate.
When I started writing this blog, I did idly wonder what the hundredth number one might be, and promised myself that I wouldn’t draft a full list in advance and project ahead. That would spoil the beezer surprise for me, after all – supposing it’s a really appropriate, “era defining” classic? Or, even better than that, something the indie-kids would get agitated about; an Erasure single, perhaps, or one of the many Rhythm King releases that dominated the late eighties? What would that co(s)mic event tell us?
In reality, and at the risk of sounding like Hannah Fry, sequential numbers don’t care much about your preferred narratives. Just as nothing exciting happened when your car’s mileometer hit 5,000, and you just passed a boarded up carpet store rather than the Angel of the North or the house of the first person you ever loved, centenaries occur just because eventually they have to. The law of sequences demands it, and whether they coincide with something memorable depends entirely on the way the coin lands that day (go and look up the 100th Official UK Number One and you’ll see what I mean. I’ve been told the answer to that one before, many times, but I still have to keep reminding myself).
Back in 1987 though, The Soup Dragons taking the crown at this point would have felt somewhat appropriate, even though I can’t remember anyone noting it. While the start of their career saw them regarded as another one of those cheap and cheeky C86 acts, all fizz and charm, and the tail end saw them cast as bandwagon-hopping chancers, there was a brief sunlit period where they were critically lauded as the next big cult thing. Front page magazine shoots were gained, a highly reputable manager swept in to guide them, and a serious buzz emerged.
“Can’t Take No More” landed at the apex of all the fuss, and became their first single to enter the national Top 75. At this point, the group were still playing true to their roots, and the promotion around it was misleadingly low-key – The Chart Show played the accompanying video a few times, making a big deal of the fact that it was shot by the group for £80, tactfully ignoring the backing they had at this point.
The song itself is actually the third slam-dunk in a row for the band, following both “Hang Ten” and “Head Gone Astray” into some kind of scratchy indie heaven. The three singles are markedly different from each other yet still, amazingly, identifiable as Soups product. “Hang Ten” stays true to their C86 roots and serves up two minutes of exhilarating rattle and roll, while “Head Gone Astray” is somehow punky yet beautiful jangle pop, and then “Can’t Take No More” is a stranger beast still – shouty, stammering, always evolving then collapsing again, and downright furious about the inconsistencies and wrongdoings of a significant other. “Your attitude always ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes/ like the weather!” rants Sean Dickson angrily, while staccato drumbeats and distorted guitars follow him behind.
It could choose to all be over in two minutes like “Hang Ten”, but instead it twists and evolves, featuring shimmering guitar breakdowns and taunting, childlike “na na na” vocalisations, before finishing on an ear-splitting electric organ break. It’s almost as if the group had two possible objectives, either a track akin to The Who’s “I Can See For Miles”, or a Slade styled rave-up, and decided to go for both at once, but keep the production and the presentation raw and cheap.
It’s easy to attempt something like this and come back with something perfectly listenable but ultimately insubstantial – thousands of low-key indie bands have done just that – but they channel so much adrenalin and frustration into one three minute single they manage to make the listener feel both peppy and disorientated at the same time. Elements of this, particularly the sharper and more discordant aspects, sound as if they would have slotted very neatly alongside some of the groups emerging out of the USA in a year or two’s time; Black Francis, for one, seems as if he might have appreciated it. Far from staying true to this indie era’s dominant idea that singles should be cheap, raw and simple, the Soups bounce and ricochet off the walls in ways which aren’t immediately predictable (the disorientating psychedelic dizziness of the latter half of each verse is interesting and proof they were already operating in a different territory to either The Wedding Presents or Bodines of this world).
