1981 In Summary

If you came into this blog believing that the indie charts were the place where progression, invention and innovation had a firm place, you might have been surprised by 1981’s listings. They’ve often felt like a parallel universe where New Romanticism and New Pop never happened and “Proper Punk” – none of that post-punk hoopla, thank you - won the day.

In a sense, that shouldn’t be too surprising. Punk may not have been big news in 1981, but it still had an audience. The key development was that major labels had grown to understand that audience’s limitations; they knew they tended not to be cash-rich kids who were able to spend all their readies on picture discs and extended 12” singles, and in many cases wouldn’t have wanted to even if they could. Even as early as the late seventies, some music business moguls were even beginning to comment that the opportunities punk presented were limiting, that no matter how much promotion or clever marketing you threw at a punk band, chances are the maximum reach would always be around 60,000 willing buyers.

Major labels aren’t usually interested in acts who can just about break even – they’re interested in long-term propositions, acts with a global reach who are able to build on their earliest successes rather than stay rooted to the spot. The Clash were able to develop in a way that fulfilled that brief, but the vast majority of punk bands couldn’t, especially once the mainstream media and the music press became desensitized to the movement’s initial impact and began to move on.

Big business did what it always does when confronted with these problems, by signing the more commercial acts who had absorbed punk’s influences into the broader church of “New Wave”, and ignoring any who didn’t seem as if they stood a chance of getting playlisted at Radio One. Essentially, this meant that if you were a group determined to make a demented racket in 1981, or even an established punk band whose last album on EMI charted at a disappointing number 67, you were decamped to the indie ghetto to try your luck there.

By this point, I suspect a lot of punk bands were able to make the indie sector work relatively well on their behalf. Those signed to fair-minded fledgling labels on contracts with extremely favourable royalty deals probably even did better – 15% of 40,000 sales will always be better than 5% of 60,000. The bigger problem is that indie labels were more cash-strapped and volatile, less equipped to deal with the queues at pressing plants and the bribes the major labels could offer (the yo-yoing of some of these records up and down the charts tells its own story in that respect) and often couldn’t afford to invest in a band’s long-term promotion.

What they could do, however, was quickly get a punk band in the studio to record a fast and dirty album or EP without fuss and without their commitment or attention wavering. They were cheap and easy to produce and ideal indie sector fodder.

Coming up, the 1982 charts coming up do present a continuation of the dominant story with possibly even more punk entries than 1981 (I haven’t done a tally, but it feels that way) but by the end of the year, the largest of the second-wave punk bands will become rather battered and demotivated and in some cases cease to exist. Despite that, punk never quite loses its hold over the indie charts, and as time moves on, even if there are no bona-fide first or second wave punks in the chart at all, the listings are dominated by people who will – subconsciously or otherwise – have been influenced by the movement, whether that’s Nirvana, Happy Mondays, Pixies or any number of C86 bands. As we’ve started, we will continue – kind of.

In the meantime, turn your attention to the massive Spotify playlist of 1982 chart entries to your right. That is all the advance listening you’ll need for what’s up ahead.

1981’s menu is available (again) below, but don’t eat it all at once. Seriously. It’s a bad idea (it’s also nine-and-a-half hours long, so your day would need to be spectacularly well organised).

14. The Exploited and Anti-Pasti - Don't Let 'Em Grind You Down (EP)

 

Two weeks at number one from 19th December 1981

The final indie chart number one of 1981, and now the Standard garden firework has been lit at our New Years Eve party, let’s make sure all our dogs and cats are locked inside. Then we can stand around to admire the tiny white fountain of sparks, the pathetic razz it emits and hold our noses at the accompanying eggy smell. In another dimension, we could have done better than this. We could have had Catherine Wheels at least.

In some ways, this is arguably the most appropriate way to finish the year, given the manner in which second wave punk has dominated the charts; whether you appreciate the artists or not, it feels apt that they should don the final Christmas crown. In other respects, it shows that for all the ideas of purity people had about the indie sector in 1981 (and still have now) it doesn’t necessarily follow that everyone operating within it was a kind soul - for make no bones about it, this is a deeply shoddy product.

Side one of the EP consists of some hastily recorded live tracks by The Exploited, which are of a listenable bootleg quality, a valid experience for hardcore fans only. Both tracks rant and rave about the police force and what a shower of bastards they are, but the lyrics are so inaudible that I doubt any of the boys in blue bothered to note them on a special branch file anywhere; even the most dedicated inspector would have given up on that job after the third listen.

Side two is just a couple of 1980 demos recorded by Anti-Pasti which are better, but rough and ready and clearly outline sketches rather than completed efforts. They churn and chug away a bit and sod off with a shrug.

“But what could be more punk rock than such a rough around the edges artefact, showing the bands with no frills attached?” I hear you protest, and that was probably precisely the defence of their ex-manager who had these recordings and released them without seeking either group's permission. The fact it offered four tracks by two cult bands with dedicated fanbases probably made it seem like value for money, and helped it get to number 70 in the national charts during the peak Christmas market – but it’s a grim reminder that even the supposedly fair-minded world of punk could fall victim to music business sleight-of-hand.

This EP is officially deemed a bootleg on Discogs these days, and therefore unavailable for sale there. This also probably makes it the only live bootleg, unsanctioned by the group in question, to make it into the official national charts. An interesting achievement but one I doubt anyone celebrates.

13. The Damned - Friday the 13th (EP) (NEMS)

 

One week at number one on 12th December 1981

The thirteenth number one of 1981, and indeed of the NME Indie Charts in general, is The Damned’s “Friday the 13th EP” – a neat coincidence, or perhaps a case of demonic interference?

It’s certainly a rare victory for punk’s old guard whether Satan’s stinking finger nudged them to the top or not. The indie charts of 81 were generally dominated by Gary Bushell approved second wave acts, with the old school 70s bands with new homes on small labels clinging on in the foothills; if punk wasn’t exactly dead, it certainly seemed as if some of its original proponents were living in less assured circumstances.

Of all those groups, The Damned couldn’t be more “first wave” if they tried – they were the first UK band to issue a punk rock single in the form of “New Rose” and the first to push an album out. Unlike many of the more serious-minded acts who quickly usurped them, The Damned were cartoonish rogues, a hammer horror Ramones offering scuffed-up hyper garage rock. None of their songs offered clear manifestos or pushed ideologies, even for effect, unless of course “Can a man be a mystery man/ can a doll be a baby doll” is code for something I don’t fully understand. I suppose you could even argue that “Problem Child” off the second LP “Music For Pleasure” is a punk throwback to Cilla Black’s “Liverpool Lullaby”, but let’s forget I even thought of that idea.

The second album was a huge problem child in its own right, though. The Damned’s love of sixties psychedelia led them to approach Syd Barrett to produce the record, which inevitably came to nought. Pink Floyd’s drummer Nick Mason took on the job instead as a consolation prize, and produced a negatively reviewed and poorly selling record in “Music For Pleasure”. So underwhelmed were critics and fans alike by the disc that it contributed to the group’s split afterwards.

Perhaps understanding that they had handled a typical case of second album syndrome too hastily, the group reformed without the original guitarist Brian James for the “Machine Gun Etiquette” album in 1979, which charted (unlike its predecessor) then pushed out “The Black Album” in 1980 which saw them broadening their palette and gradually moving away from their original punk sound. While goth wasn’t yet popularly understood as a musical genre in 1980, Dave Vanian’s vocals became deeper and eerier while the clanging of bells could occasionally be heard beneath the group’s toughened up (and incredibly well performed) R&B sounds – on some moments like the superb opening track “Wait For the Blackout”, it’s possible to visualise the group as The Pretty Things or The Downliners Sect with Lord Sutch on guest vocals after having had some valuable singing lessons.

Of all the punk groups, The Damned were generally the most open about their previous influences and also closer to the musos punk meant to replace. Captain Sensible once expressed outrage that The Pistols stole the Damned’s thunder, commenting that he bought a copy of “Anarchy In The UK”, desperate to hear what “our rivals” had produced, and feeling aghast when he heard “Old Man Steptoe singing”. They may have been fast, raucous, chaotic and even extremely daft, but they were probably always closer to their pub rock cousins than most of the emerging set; good musicians with sixties influences creating an exhilarating noise. They were therefore assured a longevity that a lot of the earliest 100 Club and Roxy hopefuls were never going to achieve.

Despite being somewhat unexpectedly produced by New Musik's Tony Mansfield, the “Friday the 13th EP” is really a sharp dose of more of the same, with lead track “Disco Man” pulling up water from the same well; those vocal harmonies, sharp guitar riffs and thumping backbeats don’t lie. “Limit Club” even combines gothic atmospheres with sixties psychedelia, proving that punk didn’t necessarily eliminate the hippies – it absorbed ideas from them too (the crossover between the hippy underground press and the fanzines also proved that the breaks weren’t as clean as everybody suggested).

12. Toyah - Four More From Toyah (EP) (Safari)

 

One week at number one - 5th December 1981

What a funny, slippery, tricky old business punk rock was in retrospect. If initially it could be categorised as a DIY, breath-of-fresh-air, give-music-back-to-the-kids movement - forgive the inevitable cliches - it morphed very quickly and collected a lot of disparate ideas under its umbrella. We started with The Ramones, The Damned and The Pistols, who all seemed easy enough to lump together, then within a year or two the movement shape-shifted as it was claimed by various weirdos whose musical ideas were a bit more than 1-2-3-4 - so much so that arguments continue about what is and isn’t “canon”.

Toyah is a case in point. While her childhood was troubled with serious physical health problems and dyslexia, and she became a textbook teenage outsider as a result, she initially trained at drama school rather than taking the route of forming an angry punk band. Her small stature and lisp made her the victim of some superficial critical feedback from the school she paid fees to, with report notes stating that she was “not attractive” and had “a lisp”. It’s either a testament to the changing times or her determination and talent (or more likely both) that her career nonetheless took off sharply with roles in the National Theatre, as well as parts in the films “Jubilee” and “The Tempest”.

The music came later with a band being formed in her own name, leading to questions about her authenticity. She had been an on-screen punk rocker in “Jubilee” and to some it seemed as if she had tucked the role under her arm and walked off with it, bringing her acting academy dressing up games into music. While these days around 40% of the charts seem to consist of ex-performing arts school graduates, punks were deeply suspicious of trained media figures moving in on their patch. Having a previous media or recording career didn’t prevent some punks from being credible (Poly Styrene had an interesting background, for example) but it helped if it was very uncommon public knowledge. There was nowhere to hide for an actress with an existing public profile. The proof was there on celluloid for all to see.

Despite this, or perhaps possibly because of her existing profile, the indie label Safari Records were quick to sign her. They began marketing her in some obvious ways, such as using the then-novel picture disc format as a frame for her striking image, plus some stranger ones, such as making her unusually titled debut mini-LP “Sheep Farming In Barnet” a budget seven inch record which played at 33rpm.

Further records trickled out in 1979 and 1980, each creeping closer to the mainstream than the last, before the “Four From Toyah EP” in February 1981 vaulted to number four in the national charts, helped no end by the lead track “It’s A Mystery”. It’s a track she had no hand in writing, but still regularly introduces at concerts as one “which has been very good to me”. Unexpected demand for the EP was such that Safari had to use melted down and recycled vinyl to keep up demand, which led to some copies sounding very rough indeed on people’s turntables; on occasion sudden success comes at a cost to the fans as well as the artist.

From “It’s A Mystery” onwards, Toyah was a huge presence in the media. Colourful and glamorous in an unorthodox way, she could sit on the front page of Smash Hits as easily as the middle of Sounds. Her backstory was a genuine and interesting one of a teenage misfit; such characters seemed two-a-penny in the late seventies and early eighties, but surprisingly few of them could also be trusted to appear on Swap Shop or be interviewed on early evening news magazine shows without causing a ruckus. Toyah, on the other hand, appeared smiling and genial, telling school-going teenagers that of course their Mums would be concerned if they chose to dye their hair exotic colours. She was a Pro at being herself without offending many people in Middle England, doing little apart from cause Mums and Dads to talk about “the state of that” while their children beamed on excitedly.

11. Anti-Pasti - 6 Guns

 

One week at number one on 28th November 1981

There seemed to be a spirit of camaraderie among second wave British punk bands in the early eighties. While the most known of those groups are undoubtedly The Exploited and the Anti Nowhere League, there were a whole brace of other groups welcome inside that parameter fence as the groups all sat on the same bill at numerous punk all-dayers.

With one honourable exception aside, Anti-Pasti didn't get inside the official Top 75, but they were frequently close to dining at the captain's (sensible?) table on the Great Ship Bushell. Their debut LP “The Last Call” got to number 31 on the album charts, and many of their singles also flew high in the independent listings.

Some were ultra lo-fi and bruised sounding, scratching their way around common concerns at the time like audio brillo pads trying to scrape away the shine of capitalism (right kids?). “No Government”, for example, is a pretty straightforward anti-monarchy and anti-Thatcher single which also reminds its listeners that the Queen doesn’t fight in the army, so why should they? The whole thing sounds like one man yelling over the buzzing of a Remington electric shaver which has become embedded in a wasps nest.




“6 Guns” is surprisingly commercial and almost first wave by comparison, consisting of the kind of anthemic punk chorus neither Sham 69 or UK Subs would turn their noses up at. There are no surprises or red herrings stylistically here, with the group not being even vaguely tempted to acknowledge post-punk or the more rockist leanings some of their heroes were beginning to lean towards; it really is brittle, immediate and tight punk rock, and as such it’s difficult to find anything new to say about it.

10. Pigbag - Sunny Day (Y Records)

 

Number one for two weeks from 14th November 1981

Well, this is a sticky situation. The indie number one we’re tackling by Pigbag is not the track for which they are best known – that single (“Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag” if it really needs to be spelt out) has spent months dithering around the indie charts, selling out, being repressed or reissued then selling out again, and has yet to reach the summit. This means we’re discussing the group’s other minor hit before we come to their biggie, which was recorded and released before it. Confused? I will be.

Obviously, there should be little doubt that “Sunny Day” made it to the indie summit (and the middle reaches of the National Top 75) on the back of the goodwill created by its older brother. “Papa” had been played on evening radio and in clubs for months on end and the group’s name had gone from being an ultra-underground concern, a vague rabble of jazzy post-punk garage jammers from Bristol, to a promising, potentially mainstream act.

On paper, a group creating wigged-out instrumental post punk records seems like a deeply unlikely commercial proposition, but 1981 was a time where normal rules didn’t always apply, and Pigbag’s sound wasn’t as isolated as it might appear. Other groups such as Rip Rig and Panic were blasting out their own ramshackle bedsit party soul-jazz sounds to a curious public, so even the denser, harsher aspects of their style wouldn’t have felt like a bolt from the blue. For all their angularity, Pigbag also swung like demons when they wanted to, the sheer size of the band membership allowing for various instrumental grooves to thread their way through the mix, from hooky brass riffs to clattering carnivalesque drum patterns.

“Sunny Day” is good evidence of this. What’s surprising about it is how much more of a fluid funk groove it seems compared to “Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag”. That single regularly took shrieking and jarring slip roads away from the motorway of the track’s central riff before rejoining it, whereas “Sunny Day” is actually more radio-friendly, less of a racket and frankly less likely to confuse Dave Lee Travis. It almost has as powerful a hook as “Papa”, and doesn’t veer too far way from it, augmenting it with funky guitar riffs and elastic basslines.

The group and label could perhaps have been forgiven for expecting a proper breakthrough hit, but its comparative conventionality may have been a curse. These days you’ll struggle to find many people who respond to it. I used to carry a vinyl copy of “Sunny Day” in my DJ’ing box, but quickly removed it when I realised the only reactions it got were requests for “Papa” to be played instead (“Haven’t you got their other one?”). Pepped up audiences know what they want to hear, and it’s the group’s anthem, however jagged that was.

9. The Exploited - Dead Cities (EP) (Secret)

 

Two weeks at number one from 31 Oct 1981

Intro/disclaimer – I walked into this with a crate full of simple ideas about The Exploited, who they were,  and what they stood for, but every time I attempted further research on the group a contradiction exploded behind me like a flash bomb, and I had to rewrite the entry slightly. Then it would occur again, and again, until I began to give up on any fixed ideas about the band at all. Were they misanthropic dumb-asses pretending to be anarchists, or were the neck pains I was getting from being pulled one way and then another proof that they were anarchists after all? Don’t answer that question. Just read on and hope for the best.

As a kid growing up, I became very aware of the slogan “Punk’s Not Dead” sprayed on brick walls in a wide variety of locations. At the time, I was (like most eight year olds) broadly ignorant of youth cults and subgenres and assumed that this slogan had emerged organically like a football chant, as if all the leftover punks in the eighties had hit upon the same idea at the same time. It seemed like a quick and simple way of saying “There are fewer of us, but we’re still here, and we need to let the world know in case they’ve stopped noticing the occasional flash of a spiky barnet in the local High Street”.

I didn’t really know anything about The Exploited and was therefore ignorant of their enormous cult LP “Punk’s Not Dead” which reached the mainstream Top 20 in 1981, selling tens of thousands of copies. Then one day, while watching Top of the Pops on the cheapo portable black and white television in the bedroom (the TV in the front room must have been reserved for whatever drama serial my parents were insisting on viewing in those pre-VCR days) the group appeared for two short minutes to deliver “Dead Cities”, a surprise Top 40 hit in 1981.

This didn’t feel like long enough for my eight-year old brain to process what was happening. I was very aware of punk rock, and even liked some of it – you couldn’t survive your infancy in the late seventies and remain ignorant – but this felt rougher, harsher, more threatening somehow. A rush of noise hit the television’s speakers accompanied by a hard, heavy looking group whose lead singer had a bright mohican, then there was a hyperactive flash of studio lights, a shot of a few game members of the TOTP audience pogoing, then it all seemed to be over as soon as it started. I never saw or heard from the group on the television or radio again. It felt as if a very strange mistake had occurred, an unauthorised interruption, a 1981 styled precursor to the Max Headroom incident.

I wasn’t impressed so much as stunned and dumbfounded, though other older people apparently complained to the BBC. I quickly forgot the name of the band, and there were moments in the pre-Internet years that followed where I wondered if it might be a false memory and I was actually recalling a performance on The Tube or another Channel 4 programme.

If the BBC complaints might have seemed petty to anyone not in the know (and I’m sure a great deal of them were from irritated Mums and Dads in St Albans who were equally ignorant of the band) the fact remains that The Exploited were not entirely unproblematic. They began pressing their own records back in their home city of Edinburgh in 1980, and immediately set out their stall with the debut EP “Army Life”, which came with the message “To all the Edinburgh punks and skins – keep on mod-bashing!” on the rear of the sleeve. Later, when performing a gig around the corner from a Jam concert, their lead singer Wattie suggested on-mic that their audience should kick a few mod’s heads in outside the venue. A number of them did as he wished, leading to street battles between Jam fans (many of whom probably weren’t mods anyway) and The Exploited’s following.

What’s fascinating about this incident is it reveals how polarised the punk scene had become. Deeply fundamentalist attitudes were beginning to slip in as interest declined. The Jam and their fans began in the seventies by reasonably comfortably co-existing with the rest of the movement, then eventually became pariahs, too successful, too clean-cut, not enough of a threat to society, in need of something to worry about.

8. New Order - Everything's Gone Green (Factory)

 

Number one for three weeks from 10^th October 1981

Note – this was technically a double A-side with “Procession”, but the NME chart only listed “Everything’s Gone Green”, so that’s what we’ll be focussing on.

So, there was this thing called punk rock, and that was very important… and also this band from Manchester who emerged from punk rock, but were financed by a newsreader, and overcame tragedy when… and you probably know this already… but... oh fuck it.

It’s unprofessional of me not to begin this entry with the backstory of New Order. The problem is it would feel either cliche-ridden or strange to bother. Who is reading this right now who doesn’t know their story, or about Ian Curtis’s suicide, or the legend of Factory records? Even the most poorly programmed AI bot in the world could spew that stuff back at you to perfection.

If I had something new to add to the thousands of pieces of work out there (not least a whole motion picture) I could try, but by this point my angle remains as typical and as factual as any Wikipedia entry. So you’ll hopefully forgive me for not starting right at the beginning, for not mentioning Warsaw, The Sex Pistols, Tony Wilson doing regional news on the television, or any of that hoopla. There are ways out of this jammy fix, admittedly; if I wanted this entry to be both original and clickbait friendly I could claim that it was all over-puffed and silly and everyone involved should be regarded as a footnote in any story about British independent music, especially while Toyah Willcox had records out at the same time and was higher up in the actual proper grown-up charts, but I’m not here to play those games.

Except… what can get overlooked in the aftermath of Joy Division is how confused New Order initially seemed. Their debut single “Ceremony” was a recording of an unreleased Joy Division song issued after Curtis’s death, and sounds exactly as you would expect – a continuation of the story rather than any kind of new project. If other groups had been faced with a similar situation, it could also have acted as a full stop, a short tribute before everyone agreed that nothing would ever be the same again and all went their separate ways. That would have provided a way out which would have denied New Order years of trauma at live shows as punters cried out for Joy Division songs which were too painful for the band to perform.

It was not to be, though. “Everything’s Gone Green” – named after a flippant, stoned remark in a recording studio – followed and sounds like the first true New Order single, the one where they’ve found a voice which isn’t purely an imitation of Ian Curtis’s, and yet it’s a strange, uncomfortable hybrid, at moments sounding like a rough 1977 Giorgio Moroder demo of a remix of an unfinished Joy Division song.

In the jokey IPC comics I was bought as a child, the future of all factories and technology was usually portrayed in slightly overblown and monstrous ways, often featuring giant metallic robotic crab shaped machines who tinned food, built cars or even operated on people. The people in these comic strips would generally be cowed by the shiny beast, quivering in corners, stammering or insisting that it was out of control and everyone concerned should step away from it. In “Everything’s Gone Green”, New Order are those visitors to an evil genius’s factory, backed into a corner, surrendering nervously to the electronics but not surfing their waves entirely successfully. The pulsing nature of this single seems like an unnatural fit at certain moments; they sound swamped in places, and in others just a fraction of a beat behind the mechanical precision. The ending is the most revealing aspect; the machines get the last word via some polite digital burbling, not the group.

7. Depeche Mode - Just Can't Get Enough (Mute)

 

Number one for two weeks from 26th September 1981

“I can, you will” – Patrick Humphries, Melody Maker

I can’t think of many other groups whose opening shots were such red herrings. With “Photographic”, “Dreaming Of Me” and “New Life”, Depeche Mode had presented themselves as a synth-pop act with sharp melodies, but with cryptic, creepy and occasionally dystopian elements tacked on.

“Photographic” (which appeared on the Some Bizarre sampler LP) was a hushed, pulsing meditation on either criminal espionage or stalking an unfortunate woman – you decide which – whereas “Dreaming Of Me” is a series of filmic, cinematic images which all add up to apparently mean nothing much in particular but sound, like “Photographic”, in love with the idea of the machinery behind the art, the projectionist's filter through which the activity is made possible. We’ve already discussed “New Life” and what the hell might be going on there, but then…

“Just Can’t Get Enough” eschews all this for a boy/girl (or boy/boy or girl/girl if you prefer) love story of almost inane simplicity. And once “Just Can’t Get Enough” happened, neither Depeche Mode or Vince Clarke were ever quite the same again. It was to be Clarke’s last single for them - shortly after it was released he stated that he no longer wanted to suffer the trappings of being in a band; but despite this, he would never return to his word salad of bright lights, dark rooms, rising casts or red shadows, and nor would the remaining band try to emulate it. He would write more straightforward songs about love and interpersonal relationships, occasionally making the odd political statement, whereas the group he left behind eventually found their natural home writing about the big universal subjects – religion, human relationships (romantic and inter-personal) human failings, sex and love (Yes, this is an over-simplification if we're talking about their earlier LPs, and we'll have plenty of opportunities to see how as this blog progresses).

It’s not as if “Just Can’t Get Enough” shot in from the sidelines and turned everyone’s creative practice around. Anyone who has heard their debut album “Speak And Spell” knows that there are even more straightforward songs on offer (“Nodisco” and “What's Your Name” anyone? Let's not link to them, it seems kindest) but in terms of the broader public perception of the band, it may have proved to be a bit of a curse as well as a blessing. While it only reached number eight in the national charts, it remains one of their best known and most played songs to this day, soundtracking adverts, popping up on oldies radio, covered by kids on TikTok and YouTube in a variety of unlikely ways, all of which fail to ever escape the simple joy of the song. If the band weren’t already thought of by some critics as being cute, gleeful teens with candyfloss melodies, they were now.

My wife recently mentioned that in her mind, “Just Can’t Get Enough” and The Beatles “She Loves You” share a similar space, and I get her point. Both are unapologetically effervescent songs about young love. “She Loves You” has a bit more of a narrative to it, and it’s clear that the biggest enthusiast for the individual’s relationship is the singer who is addressing his daft mate (an interesting way of delivering the song’s central message) but the principle remains the same. Both songs are not unduly weighed down by doubt, mixed emotions or past experiences like most love songs are. They’re not ballads either – they’re boppy, excited, rowdy, the thrilling noise of a 15 or 16 year old realising they’re actually wanted and desired by somebody.

The facile lyrical nature of some of Vince Clarke’s later work for Depeche Mode can be painful to listen to at times, but it also partly contributes to the strengths of “Just Can’t Get Enough”. Dave Gahan sounds uncharacteristically chipper throughout, as if he can’t believe his luck and is almost deliriously senseless – “We walk together, we’re walking down the street!” he sings, barely able to believe such a simple act could be possible. Mostly though, the lyrics just repeat the title, chanting it as well as hollering it, until it becomes almost a meta comment on the hooky, addictive nature of the song itself as well as the relationship.

6. Birthday Party - Release The Bats (4AD)

 

Number one for three weeks from 5th September 1981

While many interviews have revealed his uniquely dry sense of humour, Nick Cave isn’t particularly renowned for his way with a catchphrase or punchline. In the mid-nineties, you could shove Jarvis Cocker – a man who isn’t averse to a bit of spite and darkness himself - on a panel show and be assured of a few cheeky giggles, but it’s safe to say that nobody called Nick Cave’s manager about putting him on Pop Quiz.

So it's strange to listen to “Release The Bats” afresh for the first time in decades, years after it last pummelled my ears during Friday nights at the Rayleigh Pink Toothbrush (goths welcome), and notice both how camply brilliant it is and how indebted to simple sloganeering. For a track which is largely regarded as spearheading the gothic movement, it owes a far bigger debt to Joe Meek and Screaming Lord Sutch than Joy Division or Bauhaus, taking the ketchup and cleavage gore of a thousand cheap Hammer spin-offs as its source text.

“Bite! Bite!” demands Cave at the start, before asking loudly but almost incoherently “Tell me that it doesn’t hurt/ a hundred fluttering in your skirt?” an image which is immediately ludicrous rather than disgusting.

The track, like many Birthday Party singles, starts as it means to continue, like an unchallenged steamroller slowly crumpling up the edge of the street where the parked cars live. There’s no discernable chorus, just a continued barrage of stabbed guitar lines, catchphrases (which as the song progresses descend into excited gibberish such as “sex horror sex bat sex sex horror sex vampire”) and Cave ripping himself into a state of either ecstasy or fury. He seems conflicted about the bats, wanting to destroy them (or “explode” them) as much as he wants to celebrate them, like a wildlife preservation officer who happens to have some living in his attic.

The drumming is also worthy of mention here; in common with a lot of the indie chart entries I’ve been listening to for this period of 1981, the near complete aversion to a cymbal or a hi-hat is both notable and strangely typical. Martin Hannett famously got the ball rolling on this percussive style with Joy Division, but it also became adopted by acts whose debt to Joy Division was less immediately obvious – Felt, for example, were also adding bottom-heavy percussion to their otherwise airy indie-pop compositions at this point. In The Birthday Party’s case, it anchors the sound down with those jazzy basslines, making “Release The Bats” bit-part punk racket with a strange unwieldy swing on top.

5. Theatre Of Hate - Nero (Burning Rome)

 

Number one for one week on 29th August 1981

Every era produces cult rock stars who are slightly too well known to be deemed underground, but not successful enough to be immediately recognisable to casual listeners. This was something I understood at a very early age, precocious nerd that I was.

This ability is perhaps best illustrated by a pointless school playground row which broke out about my cluelessness around the topics of sport, film and tv programmes.

“He knows nothing about anything!” mocked one short-arsed kid, who seemed to be the ringleader in all this. “Doesn’t watch The A-Team. Doesn’t support a football team. Reads stupid kids’ comics and not war comics. And I’ll bet he hasn’t even seen [insert name of some obscure “video nasty” here]. He wouldn’t even know where to get [name of obscure “video nasty”], but I do! I’ve watched it TWICE!”

“Oh yeah?” I countered. “Well, you know nothing about music. You probably don’t even know who Kirk Brandon is!”

People began to titter, and the short-arse retaliated.

“Berk Brandon? Why the hell should I give a shit who Berk Brandon is?!” he sneered, and everyone laughed uproariously.

I don’t know what became of that kid, by the way, but so far as I know he didn’t become a sub-editor at the NME despite seemingly already having the requisite skills at the age of eleven (It also now strikes me that with a few modest alterations, the above exchange could be an argument between Stewart Lee and Richard Herring in series one of “Fist Of Fun”.)

But still… the fact I can still remember this playground exchange points to two things – firstly, I possibly still have some stuff I need to work through with a therapist. Secondly, it signals that Brandon was neither muckling nor mickling in the eighties, even at the height of his success (which is when I had the argument). He was the kind of rock star who crept into the corners of Smash Hits as well as gaining the full-spread treatment in the NME, Melody Maker and Sounds. He was invariably portrayed as an edgy and out-there dude, but somehow lacked the recognisability and warped glamour of a Julian Cope, Ian McCulloch, Morrissey or Robert Smith character. By accident or design, those singers became mighty brands, supremely individualistic in their stylings and opinions and adopted as gurus by impressionable kids desperate for idols. Brandon, with his short crop of peroxide hair, looked as if he could have been a member of any number of post-punk bands. I’m not arguing that this matters to me, but – certainly in the eighties – this mattered if you wanted to be something more than a casual curiosity to most.

To make matters possibly more challenging, his early music career was also unsullied by involvement with major labels, despite growing interest in his work. His recording career initially began with the group The Pack on Rough Trade, before shifting onwards to Theatre Of Hate, who issued all their records on their producer’s own Burning Rome records – a label solely set up to deliver Brandon-related product. Despite taking this none-more-Buzzcocks styled DIY approach, Theatre of Hate certainly weren’t akin to the various standard issue punks and anarcho-punks littering the indie charts at this time. Rather, their sound was gloomier, with agitated vocals and slow rattling rhythms being anchored by clattering and swooping basslines. While the group have seldom been tagged with the ‘g’ (goth) word elements of their sound are certainly some steps ahead of that movement.

4. Depeche Mode - New Life (Mute)

 

Number one for seven weeks from 11th July 1981

The camera on Top Of The Pops focuses on Simon Bates. He appears to be about to go into some kind of public announcement for the benefit of families at home, standing on command. Bates as a broadcaster never seemed to know how to express excitement for music, news or ideas, instead clinging purely to a Reithian idea of mature gravitas. His Bisto brown voice, perfect for piracy warnings on VHS rental tapes, also loaned their authority to subjects as diverse as teenage lost love and the unexpected death of partners on his “Our Tunes” segment, or occasionally irritated disappointment about an irresponsible act (such as the KLF trying to “ruin it for everyone else” at the Brit Awards).

In this case, he tells us that he’s going to introduce us to a new group. The last single of theirs, “Dreaming Of Me”, didn’t do “all that it might” (he sounds slightly pained as he says this) but this time it’s going to be different. That feels like a threat more than a promise, as if he’s almost daring us not to buy the record. It’s strange he should care so much – whatever else you want to say about Bates, he rarely threw his lot behind new bands.

It’s stranger still that the band he should pick would be Depeche Mode. On the surface, they were an unpromising long-term proposition. Despite press acclaim and a rapidly growing fanbase, Mode seemed inherently flawed, hemmed in by their limitations. While other synth-pop bands like Soft Cell, The Human League and Ultravox had major label budgets and carefully controlled imagery, Depeche were cash-strapped teenagers from Basildon on an indie label. They looked like New Romantics, but they weren’t carefully coiffured like Steve Strange or threateningly feminine like Phil Oakey, appearing more like hyperactive fashion students grabbing the first clothes they could afford off the sales rails. On their debut “Top Of The Pops” performance, you get the sense that they’re all trying to suppress grins (Vince Clarke is noticeably failing at points) and there’s a twitchy, antsy energy to them. Gary Numan performing “Are Friends Electric” this isn’t.

Their sound, too, lacked the gloss or technological sophistication of “Tainted Love” or “Don’t You Want Me”. Those songs showed that synthesisers could be used to portray heartbreak and complicated emotions in an eerie, detached and timelessly relatable way – anyone who is in the early throes of a painful break-up can probably relate more to the ominous digital backing of “Tainted Love” than the organic earnestness of one of Abba’s finest ballads (which tend to be the kind of resigned thing you turn to when the dust has almost settled). At this stage in their careers, however, Depeche Mode’s A-sides bubbled, bounced, pinged and ponged for all they were worth, with drum machines punching and snapping in a staccato way in the background.

“Dreaming Of Me” even featured oscillation in its instrumental break, recalling the Theremin experiments of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Joe Meek in previous decades. While it didn’t sound dated in 1981 to my ears, listening back to it now, recontextualising it against the moment it came out, it feels sonically a year or two behind its time, like a bunch of teens with Electronics magazine subscriptions mending and making do.

Sometimes, though, weaknesses can turn into strengths and limitations, self-imposed or otherwise, can create a sound which becomes a group’s early signature. Depeche Mode were lovable in those days precisely because they were new town dabblers. When Daniel Miller started the Mute label, he created a fictional group called The Silicon Teens to fulfil his as-yet unrealised fantasy of an adolescent pop group playing with affordable modern technology. The idea of kids using keyboards to express themselves fascinated him, but scanning the gig circuit and the demo tape pile for candidates, he found only mature(ish) twenty-somethings ready to fill that role. When Depeche Mode emerged, however, the Silicon Teens concept was retired and he threw himself wholesale into his new, real-life flesh and blood project.

The idea obviously didn’t just appeal to Miller. A bunch of kids lugging synths around on public transport to every promotional appointment was marketable and exciting to a novelty-chasing media as well - the future, after all, was about technology being accessible for us all - and the group had in Vince Clarke a great songwriter, and in Miller an astute producer. Clarke could pen memorable futuristic anthems, while Miller, almost operating in a Joe Meek role to begin with, knew how to make their bugs seem like features and their low budget sound appear punchy and current.

“New Life” is an extremely good example of this. The synths slide in angelically during the intro, only to duet with some dinstinctly Binitone ping-pong sounds. This repeats itself, building up tension, until there’s a low descending synth bass pattern and those “drums” kick in, as metronomically as ever. While they sound undeniably cheap, the reverb packed on to them gives them a pulsing, addictive kick – the first time I heard “New Life” on a Sony Walkman in 1984, it slapped against my ears far harder than many other more current sounds.

3. Dead Kennedys - Too Drunk To Fuck (Cherry Red)

 

Number One for five weeks from 6th June 1981 - 4th July 1981

It’s hard to imagine from this distance, but cussing and graphic descriptions of sexual activity on records in the early eighties – whether on hit singles or otherwise – was still deemed to be pretty damn controversial. Times have changed and we now live in an era where numerous singles featuring the f-word have scaled high in the national charts, and while it might make for a funny aside at the end of the week’s chart news, it rarely causes uproar.

The eighties are deemed by some to be the beginning of a much more permissive society, but the reality is that 1981 was only a few short years on from “Never Mind The Bollocks”, and the fact that album wasn’t withdrawn from sale didn’t mean that the public gave up and changed their minds about crudity overnight. Tony Harrison’s epic and distinctly non-punk poem “V” was broadcast on Channel 4 in 1987 and caused outrage merely for quoting the work of vandals who had grafittied gravestones in the graveyard where his parents lay. Gratuitous swearing was harder to defend than that, particularly if delivered by young people with loud guitars who probably didn’t have any intellectual aspirations or sensible advice for young people in mind.

Punks knew only too well the power it still had and gravitated towards it. The movement may have been somewhat stale in mainstream terms by 1981, but the eruptions created by The Sex Pistols in particular had left scores of people hungry for further establishment baiting. This single was a huge juicy worm on a hook for that set, causing horror in record stores – the group responded to this by supplying concerned stockists with a sticker over the f-word, reading “Caution: You are the victim of yet another stodgy retailer afraid to warp your mind by revealing the title of this record so peel slowly and see...”

Which potentially makes this a lovely tabloid thunderstrike in a Charles and Di mug, but in retrospect, “Too Drunk To Fuck” feels like one of the least jagged uses of the f-word in pop and rock. If you don’t hear it mentioned often in relation to controversial uses of naughty words, it’s probably because it’s not exactly “Fuck The Police”. In common with a lot of punk and hardcore punk singles of the period, it takes a dire, shitty situation and amps it up for both satirical effect and disgust – “You give me head/ it makes it worse/ take out your fuckin’ retainer/ put it in your purse” growls Jello Biafra over a chugging rhythm.

Radio banned the song – do I even need to write that? - but it nuzzled the lower reaches of the National Top 40 at number 36 regardless, causing panic at the Beeb about whether the Top 30 rundown on “Top of the Pops” would eventually need to mention the unmentionable. In the meantime, Tony Blackburn dodged the issue while delivering the Sunday chart rundown by referring to it as “Too Drunk” by The Kennedys, and a nation’s easily corruptible youth were saved from indecency once again (note – some versions of this story state that Tony Blackburn said ‘the single at number 36 is by a group calling themselves The Dead Kennedys’ before promptly moving on. If anyone actually has a recording of this rundown I’d really like to hear it).

The song became a staple of mixtapes and party tapes for years afterwards. Before I knew a damn thing about The Dead Kennedys friends of mine snuck it on to C90 cassettes as a neat slice of subversion to put between other noisy offerings. The fact it’s never been embraced by oldies or alternative radio means it remains one of those rare examples of a hit single (however minor) you had to buy, or have a friend tape for you, to actually hear in the pre-internet era. I saw it quoted in the Guinness Book of British Hit Singles as a kid and was immediately intrigued, asking my Dad if he knew anything more about it while pointing towards the entry with my index finger. My Dad just spluttered with laughter and said “Probably a punk record. Shouldn’t imagine it was played anywhere”.

I had a long wait to discover what it sounded like, and when I finally heard it on a compilation tape a friend made for me, I was slightly disappointed. The long build-up had been too much and left me as disappointed as Jello Biafra’s sexual partner. So this was it? A demonic chugging riff beneath some lyrics about a limp penis? And what, I suppose, really did I expect? My Saisho music centre to splinter into fragments on impact with it?

2. UB40 - Don't Slow Down (DEP International)

 

Number One for one week on 30th May 1981

Note – This single was a double A-side with Don’t Let It Pass You By – the NME Charts (either deliberately or mistakenly) list it solely as “Don’t Slow Down”, so that’s the side I’ll focus on here.

When you’re having conversations with someone else about music, it’s always interesting to witness the assumptions that pop up; for example, until fairly recently I assumed everyone knew that UB40 were once an extremely credible band. I took it for granted that their backstory was so enormous that it hadn’t been forgotten, even beneath the crushing weight of oldies radio exposure their biggest hits get. Very often, though, people are astonished by the idea that they were ever anything more than a very commercial Breeze FM friendly act. Their childhood memories begin at “Red Red Wine” and go back no further.

That’s a strange mistake to make. UB40, as most people reading this almost certainly realise, had deeply humble, lo-fi underground beginnings. Starting off as a Birmingham live act, they signed to the independent label Graduate in 1980 and proceeded to issue a string of successful top ten hits which felt like reggae viewed through a grease-smeared post-punk lens. Titles like “The Earth Dies Screaming”, referencing a possible nuclear apocalypse, felt more targeted towards IPC journalists and John Peel than the national top ten, but somehow pushed their way through anyway.

This period is also significant in that it produced allegedly the first ever single on an indie label to go top ten – “King”. I’ve seen this fact bandied around often, but nonetheless I doubt it’s entirely true, or at the very least it depends on what your definition of ‘indie’ is. President Records were distributed by Lugton in the sixties (a company far away from the business of major labels) and got The Equals to number one, and Joe Meek’s Triumph Records earlier in that decade also scored a top ten hit in the form of Michael Cox’s “Angela Jones”. What I think people mean is that UB40 were the first to score a major hit single while an independent chart of some form also existed, which is a clear difference.

No matter; to begin with, UB40 were certainly operating on minuscule budgets. Their debut LP “Signing Off” was recorded in a bedsit in Birmingham, and contained a reproduction of an unemployment form on the cover. It was deemed a brave, brilliant and authentic record at the time, and found support among dopeheads, students, reggae fans, soulies and casual listeners alike. I heard the LP frequently in the bedroom I shared with my brothers growing up, and when I was old enough to eventually buy a copy for myself, I did. “Signing Off” is nothing like UB40 at their commercial peak – it’s far too skeletal and dour for that – but despite that, its sound and dominant themes were entirely right for the period. Like The Specials’ “Ghost Town”, its sulk sums up the mood of the early eighties. While it may have been more compressed, boxed in and less widescreen than that record, the disc and its packaging are equally tied to an era which promised little for those in the old industrial heartlands.

Following the success of that album, the group left Graduate Records – who survived without them for awhile but never found another act who caught the public imagination to the same extent - and formed their own label DEP International, with a view to issuing their own material and that of other reggae artists they admired. The first handful of DEP records were distributed by Spartan and, in common with their previous work, entered the indie charts as a result.

1. Discharge - Why? (Clay Records)

 

Number One from 18th May 1981 for two weeks

Back in the early nineties a label called Connoisseur Collection issued a series of thoughtfully compiled records called “The Indie Scene”. Each documented a year in the life of British independent labels, and while it was occasionally guilty of inauthenticity (even the most liberal definition of “indie” shouldn’t include The Stranglers releases on United Artists) the booklets were enthusiastically written and informative, and some of the CDs contained material which had been unavailable in a digital format before.

Despite this, missing from these compilations was any kind of (even passing) reference to the early eighties punk scene. Whether this was due to rights issues or master tape problems is a question, but cynical old me suspects that it was probably because those bands didn’t fit the narrative, despite their overwhelming popularity in underground terms. I can imagine the conversations in the office – “Post punk? Definitely, that’s going in. Industrial? Of course. Synth pop? Well, we can hardly leave Mute out of the story. Hardcore Punk? Forget it. Nobody is going to buy these compilations to listen to one minute and thirty seconds of a man grunting and raging against the failings of a supposedly liberal Western society while a group thrash away behind him”.

Whether my assumptions are correct or not, I generally feel the rush of enthusiasm for these releases has been wiped out of indie history. It fits the story in one respect, in that all these groups were operating outside the mainstream, had a distinct sound, passion and purpose, and were sometimes played by John Peel, but they certainly don’t neatly fit the preferred mainstream BBC 6 Music narrative, the backwards looking one with its tidy cuts and edits to the messy edges of the story.

In addition, punks in general had a significantly reduced visibility by the early eighties. They were still apparent, but seemed to have become more of a small town phenomenon; similar to the way in which you don’t see motorcycle gangs in urban areas anymore but one miraculously emerges as soon as you take a day trip to Cheddar, punks now seemed to have become a phenomenon of the bored suburbs and strange between-city outposts rather than the troubled estates.

At the time, I noticed the graffiti “Punk’s Not Dead” popping up in odd places (we’ll come back to this slogan again in good time) which even as an eight year old I understood wasn’t a good sign. People don’t tend to walk around protesting something’s not dead if it’s obviously in rude health. When our neighbour told us that her Dad was still alive, it was only because this seemed like a miraculous fact given his health woes, not because he had taken up tap dancing.

Punk, though, had both infected other genres and itself splintered into many different factions and forms. The Oi scene, championed and promoted by future tabloid superhack Gary Bushell, seemed to imagine an alternate universe where Sham 69 were the artistic champions of the movement and not The Clash or The Pistols. Then other “punk pathetique” groups like Splodgenessabounds and Peter and the Test Tube Babies occupied the gleefully childish fringes of the movement, as if they had decided that refusing to act like a grown up and celebrating, rather than railing against, the daft trivialities of daily life was one of the most anarchic and free-spirited things a human being could still do (I might be inclined to agree with them).

Then there was hardcore punk, though how long it took before anybody actually referred to it as such in the UK is open to question. Bushell didn’t seem to talk as enthusiastically about those bands, though he certainly gave them space. They were harder, heavier, nastier and, for all their relative musical amateurism, more Metal than the first wave of British punk bands.

Stoke-on-Trent’s Discharge were pioneers of the British movement, and the “Why?” EP shows us how they did it. It’s akin to Wire’s earliest work in that each song is a short, mean stab which doesn’t take up more time than it has to – the EP consists of ten tracks but is over in less than twenty minutes. Completely unlike any of Wire’s work, however, this is persistently, relentlessly harsh, a distorted and furious cacophony which barely stops for breath. Cal Morris’ vocals practically invent the doomy guttural chant of modern metal, while the group surge, clatter and charge behind him.

The Concept

 

C81 and up and on

What you’re reading, if you hadn’t already guessed for yourself, is a blog focusing on all the singles which topped the NME Independent Singles Chart from 1981 (when their chart launched) onwards.

And why?

If you’re of a cynical persuasion, your first thought is probably "Why? Isn’t the indie chart a very antiquated concept? In the 21st Century, haven’t we accepted that all music has the ability to be groundbreaking and innovative, without being issued on small labels? And who cares about labels anymore anyway?"

Well, yes. I’m going to potentially cause some of you to click away by raising the obvious point that a lot of my favourite music of all time was actually issued by major labels. Also, it's my view that while indie snobbery (where singles issued in xeroxed sleeves by tiny labels were wowed over in favour of chartbound sounds) was definitely rife in the eighties and occasionally felt like a necessary reaction, it’s not something I feel much affinity for now. The idea that "the underground is where the best music can be found" is unbelievably restrictive and untrue, especially as most genres tend not to stay underground forever.

But then again... a lot of my favourite singles of all-time were put out on indie labels and they were the place where the initial spells were cast. I'm fascinated by the stirrings of ideas, the initial flawed fumblings of genres and even the groups who were supposed to be the future but failed to effectively represent any era, including the one they were spawned in. History doesn't always have to be written about the winners. 

Also, much of the material in the lower reaches of the charts has since become long-forgotten despite its presence on evening radio and the press at the time, making it ripe for reexamination in a way that other groups aren’t – for every Smiths or New Order hit there were a hundred groups who shoved out a couple of well-reviewed singles before finding they couldn’t forge any further ahead. None of these bands have ever had the luxury of a Sony or Universal reissue, and have instead slid into a weird cultural oubliette.

Even the groups behind indie number ones are not necessarily remembered by most in the 21st Century. Many were genre-based or fanbase-driven flashes in the pan, a chance for an underground group to quickly peer up beneath the crack in the manhole into the mainstream, only for their heads to be stomped on by uncaring pedestrians rushing out to buy a Stars on 45 medley instead.