16. Theatre Of Hate - Do You Believe In The West World? (Burning Rome)

 

Number one for one week on 30 January 1982

The idea that the cold war exercised a clammy grip on the imagination of eighties pop is a dominant cliche. There’s plenty of evidence to back it up, obviously. Duran Duran clumsily used the frequently mocked “you’re about as easy as a nuclear war” line, and Ultravox penned one of the eeriest pop ballads ever, “Dancing With Tears in My Eyes”, and directed a child-melting video to go with it. Bigger and louder than either of those were Frankie Goes To Hollywood who spent nine weeks at number one with a record partially consisting of the actor Patrick Allen issuing post-nuclear bomb public information on top of agitated, urgent rhythms.

All those tracks emerged in 1983 or 1984, either around or not long after the point Ronald Reagan called the USSR an “evil empire” and the cold war entered its deepest freeze. Prior to that, while the threat was apparent, its shadow was perhaps more apparent in the atmosphere of some of the odder, more unsettled records to attract public excitement and attention; in that respect, it feels appropriate that “O Superman” was a huge seller in 1981 in a way I doubt it would have been five years earlier or later. Was it actually directly about nuclear war, though? Possibly not.

Records which actually directly referenced nuclear war, even in the indie chart, were relatively thin on the ground prior to that point, with tracks like UB40’s “The Earth Dies Screaming” being the exceptions that proved the rule. In general, most of the punk underground were more interested in issuing rattlingly irritated singles about the futility of war in general. The Exploited were particularly exercised by such matters, with lead singer Wattie’s previous career as a soldier serving in Northern Ireland feeding into his obsession with the futility of armed conflict.

“Do You Believe in the West World” was a bit of an exception, and emerged packaged in a provocative sleeve, signposting the actual meaning of the lyrics for anyone who wasn’t listening closely enough. Kirk Brandon uses a Western film backdrop as the canvas to scrawl his message on, offering us not very subtle hints such as “That was before the circus with the bear arrived/ oh the bear it roared as the gun was fired/ then the cowboy turned the gun on himself as he sang/ ‘no-one’s alive’”.

“Westworld” is actually a cunning and surprisingly rewarding single which seems to crush a wide range of influences into one song, from the obvious (actual Western films) to the more current. The track opens with a post-punk thunder of bottom-heavy tribal drumming, before allowing an almost funky rhythm guitar to slip in, as if to remind us that in the event of armageddon, Orange Juice and Edwyn Collins would be evaporated as well as Brandon’s more anguished music. 

As the track progresses and inevitably lets in some Morricone inspired twang, it also eventually permits a raging sax solo as well, making this sound like a condensed representation of rock and roll in the nuclear age. Whereas Theatre of Hate’s previous indie number one “Nero” was a static atmosphere piece with feet of clay, “Westworld” unfolds gracefully, managing more in its five minutes than most post-punk groups of the period bothered with.

15. Anti Nowhere League - Streets of London (WXYZ)

 

Three weeks at number one from 9^th January 1982

There’s a sketch in the series “Big Train” which portrays Ralph McTell struggling to engage with an audience who only want to hear his hit “Streets of London”. Whenever he begins to play anything else, everyone gasps in astonishment at his audacity, and begins heckling furiously until he is forced to concede and play the song again. And again.  

It does a brilliant job of sending up the plight of talented songwriters who are mainly known for their one huge success – for make no mistake, McTell was (and is) damn good. He’s the closest Britain ever came to producing a Gordon Lightfoot styled folk singer, and at his very best his work intertwines beautiful storytelling with intricate finger-picked guitar lines. The actual B-side of “Streets Of London”, “Summer Lightning”, could have acted as a point of entry to anyone wanting to journey further into his catalogue, and the album that was plucked from (“Easy”) contains other material like “Maginot Waltz” whose unexpected lyrical conclusion acts as a stab to the heart. 

His slightly undeserved "one hit wonder" status very nearly didn’t happen for him at all – he didn’t regard “Streets of London” as a contender for either of his first two albums when he first penned it in the sixties, deeming the subject matter too depressing. The producer Gus Dudgeon persuaded him otherwise and got him to record it in simple acoustic form for his second album “Spiral Staircase”, issued on the independent Transatlantic Records in 1969. 

From there on, “Streets of London” began to slowly grow in popularity, becoming a track that other folk performers sang in pubs and clubs. A ripple effect was created in the process, elongating its life far beyond the usual lifespan of a track from an (at best) cultish folk album. 

Thanks to its burgeoning reputation, McTell finally released it as a single in a swollen, more intricately produced form on the Warner Brothers subsidiary Reprise in 1974, and it climbed to number two in the national charts early the following year. That version is disliked by some purists for its wintery choral embellishments which could be argued to treacle up the song and over-embellish the point; the unvarnished 1969 recording is the one most folkies would point you towards.

I have to be honest, the production – whether raw and authentic or luxurious and icy - has never been the central issue for me. As much as I love McTell’s voice and the sumptuous melodies, and even some of the observational aspects of the verses, the chorus is a slightly unnecessary slap in the face. We’re expected to believe that because homelessness and human suffering exists, all other emotional reactions to personal tragedies, depression or emptiness are null and void. “How can you tell me you’re lonely?” pleads McTell. “Very easily actually, Ralph”, the listener could be forgiven for replying. “My Mum died last month and my partner is being an unsympathetic arse. And no, I don’t think your idea of a tramp pointing session in Central London is going to make me feel better, thanks all the same.” 

The central philosophy to “Streets of London” is rather too abrupt and facile, the musical equivalent of your irritating work colleague sneering “First world problems” when you tell them your car didn’t start that morning, or perhaps even Bono’s Band Aid cry of “Tonight thank God its them instead of you” stretched to an entire song. Unlike McTell’s best work, it’s an unsurprising and simplistic narrative, and that’s probably why it did so well commercially. The mass market generally only tends to have time for folk music when it tilts heavily towards sentimentality. Bert Jansch, who performed on the 1974 version of the track, stated that unlike McTell's other work it had “no mystery”, which feels like a fair assessment. 

The public adored the song's simple, sharp message, though, and the track simply wouldn't fade from view, eventually becoming bashed about by so many honking buskers and amateur performers that it felt inescapable. Victoria Wood took aim at its ubiquity in the eighties, featuring it in a sketch about care homes, where every single example of live residential entertainment involved terrible musicians singing the song in an inappropriately cheery fashion. 

By the time enough wannabe Dylans got their plectrums around it, McTell’s gentle baritone had been replaced in the public’s consciousness with a street poet rasp – so by 1982, your average British provincial High Street might have featured two things; a busker straining his way through “Streets of London” outside WH Smith, harmonica strapped around his neck, while 100 yards further down, a group of young mohicaned town punks sat throwing crisps at each other outside a branch of Presto. That halfway point, within earshot of both the wannabe beatnik and the teenage Sid Vicious wannabes, is where the Anti Nowhere League come in (finally). 

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.