47. Sandie Shaw - Hand In Glove (Rough Trade)

 

One week at number one on w/e 28th April 1984

Arthur Crabtree: Hey. I say, is that that bird?

Billy Fisher: What bird?

Arthur Crabtree: There. Getting a lift in that lorry. That bird that wanted you to go to France with her.

Billy Fisher: Do you mean Liz?

Arthur Crabtree: Yes, where's she been this time, then?

Billy Fisher: I don't know. She goes where she feels like. She's crazy. She just enjoys herself.

Billy Liar.

There’s an idealistic, euphoric vision of the sixties I carry around with me in my head (having never lived through it myself) which clashes with the lived reality of others – my parents, for example. My Dad once told me that for him the sixties didn’t result in any real change. He still had the same job and the same lifestyle, and his only minor brush with the era’s glamour was when a friendly post-fame Peter Sarstedt mistakenly walked into the wrong South London boozer. Carnaby Street styles and fame tended not to reach Peckham. They disintegrated on impact with the South Circular Road.

Then there’s the vision I have of the famous people who littered the era, some of which is probably highly accurate (I’ve devoured enough Beatles biographies to at least have a fair idea of what went on) some driven by fantasy. Sandie Shaw, for example. She was fascinating to me because she was from Dagenham, a mere few miles from where I grew up, and my best friend’s mother was mates with her as a child, a fact she always revealed very cautiously and defensively. Of all the famous female British singers in the sixties, Sandie seemed the most local and the most relatable, but also the most flexible and shapeshifting. Who was she? Seemingly, whatever I wanted her to be.

In early promotional photographs, she looks as if she’s won the football pools and is posing for a Littlewoods advertising campaign. She’s pretty and breezy, all delighted smiles, light eyes and freckles. This fits the narrative. She was a Ford factory worker at the Dagenham plant who won second prize in a local talent contest, earning her a slot at a charity event in London where she was spotted by Adam Faith. He put in a word for her with his manager, and as such, Shaw is an early example of the “working class girl unexpectedly lands showbiz opportunity” sixties fairytale. There would be more of those (and then eventually, as the decades drifted forward, less again).

Earning numerous massive hits, including two number ones, her image moved gracefully forward with the sixties. Almost in sympathy with her aspirations (or her manager’s) to be a pan-European star, she recorded hit singles in French, German, Spanish and Italian, and slowly the image changed to that of a glamorous professional, a Saturday teatime ratings puller, a cosmopolitan singer who could be either playful, insouciant or sophisticated when the song or occasion demanded it.

Perhaps inevitably, her continental appeal led to her representing Britain in the Eurovision Song Contest in 1967, resulting in a song she never liked (“Puppet On A String”) being voted as the public’s choice for her to perform. She won, but blamed the subsequent steady decline of her career on the kitsch, tacky image the tune and event gave her (though she was quite happy to sell anniversary souvenir whisky glasses of the victory not long ago, one of which I bought and still happily drink from). “Puppet” is an oompah heavy, knees-up piece of simple pub-friendly, tankards aloft pop dropped into an era of colour and experimentation, closer to The Scaffold than "Strawberry Fields Forever". It worked perfectly in the context of Eurovision and was extremely popular with the British public, who gave her a third number one, but in terms of fashion and the onward movement of popular culture in the late sixties, it couldn’t have seemed more dated; a bubbly bit of Parnes-era pop parachuted into the wrong end of the decade.

Whether it directly caused the decline of her career is a point I’d probably contest. The last few singles leading up to “Puppet” were comparatively weak sellers (the one prior to it, “I Don’t Need Anything”, only just charted at number 50) and I’d actually argue the Eurovision win relaunched her in the UK for a brief period as showbiz royalty, our Queen of Light Entertainment. Despite the temporary lift it gave her, though, it sat awkwardly with who she truly wanted to be, which was pushing the boundaries of pop along with many of her fellow stars.

An album was released in 1969, “Reviewing The Situation”, where she attempted to reposition herself as a progressive artist and correct the public’s view. It’s damn good, and could have been her “Surf’s Up”, but sold naff-all. From that point forward, she would score no further hit singles, living out her showbiz life through occasional appearances on light entertainment shows, performing old standards and even music hall ditties with a slight glimmer of reluctance in her eyes. She attempted to retrain as an actress – something you can easily imagine her succeeding at – but her husband Jeff Banks’ bankruptcy forced her back towards familiar territory to keep the household finances afloat.

The eighties started to be gentler to her. Martyn Ware and Ian Marsh of Human League/ Heaven 17 produced her version of “Anyone Who Had A Heart” in 1982 which failed to chart, but brought her back into the public eye as a credible artist. A none-more-eighties electro-Buddhist single “Wish I Was” followed, and in the background, long-term fans Morrissey and Marr were desperate to earn her attention and get her to cover one of their songs.

There was reluctance on Shaw’s part initially, who seemed untrusting of the group’s slightly unusual angle on the world. This was exacerbated by the tabloid outrage caused by the song “Suffer Little Children” about the Moors Murderers, which nearly caused her to completely withdraw from any associations with them. Eventually, however, she was talked around to the idea of recording with them, and this cover of The Smiths underperforming debut single “Hand In Glove” is the end result.

The first thing that strikes you is how effortlessly Shaw has shapeshifted yet again. The Smiths lyrics weren’t typical of the eighties or any era before them, but she adapts, instantly understanding what to do with her vocals and how to both gel with the strange angles around her and also project her own personality on to them. She barks defiantly, almost in block capitals, “The good life is out there somewhere!” She copies Morrissey’s hollers and howls, but with confidence rather than despair – they seem to suggest “This is who I am” as opposed to “Oh God, so this is who I am”.

46. Depeche Mode - People Are People (Mute)

 

Two weeks at number one from w/e 14th April 1984

Depeche Mode’s first single of 1984 begins with what sounds like an explosion in a crockery cupboard, followed by five swings into a digital punchbag, before looping back again. It feels loud, up-to-the-minute - those samples as brutal as anything Art of Noise were doing that year – then thuds its last, entering into a glistening electronic harp effect, before Gahan sings the big reveal:

“People are People so why should it be/ you and I should get along so aw-fully?”

Oh. You immediately get the impression Martin Gore thought he had created a grand slogan here, one which could proudly open the song, but it’s an unfortunate example of him falling back into his naive teenage ways (despite no longer being a teen). On “See You” he pronounced that “I think that you’ll find people are basically the same”, and “People Are People” returns to this point. Are we not, he seems to ask, fundamentally driven by the same desires, the same emotions, the same need to commune in pleasancy?

As the song unfolds it at least expands on this point a bit more gracefully. If “We’re different colours/ and we’re different creeds/ and different people have different needs” sounds a little bit too close to David Brent for comfort, the sneer of “I’m relying on your common decency/ So far it hasn’t surfaced/ but I’m sure it exists/ it just take a while to travel/ from your head to your fists” is at least a smart putdown, albeit one which probably would cut no ice with the person shouting aggressively in a pub car park.

The song’s strengths lie away from its well-meaning but wide-eyed lyrics. “People Are People” sees Depeche progressing from the gentile industrialisms of “Construction Time Again”, where at certain moments it felt as if they were tinkling on metallic surfaces gracefully, into something harder, more aggressive. The compressed thwacks and crashes are both akin to the harder edges of the emerging industrial scene and strangely dancefloor friendly, and the arrangement packs everything it can into it; vocal breakdowns, Art of Noise styled bass vocal samples, despairing symphonic synth lines and crashing orchestral stabs.

It is, in short, as subtle as a brick in the face but complicated all the same, which is one reason the lyrics can sometimes be ignored or dismissed. If you’re going to place them within the context of an arrangement which is essentially one melodic exclamation mark after another, you can just about get away with viewing society through a panicked, simplistic and over-dramatic lens. Taken by itself, it’s an enjoyable cacophony, an overloaded piece of pop whose only real attempts at subtlety are Martin Gore singing “I can’t understand what makes a man hate another man” like a wounded child in a playground. Even that, it has to be said, isn’t exactly understated. 

Walter Mitty's Little White Lies - Brave New England (Hip Records)

One of my biggest reasons for abandoning my old blog "Left and to the Back" was the fact that focusing on genuine obscurities - singles which hadn't been made available online before in any form - was becoming a tougher and tougher mission. We live in an age where even if Spotify hasn't hoovered up the goodies, some brat on YouTube will inevitably have uploaded something for everyone's pleasure, and even if they've failed, Cherry Red are there in the sidelines waiting for something surprising for their next "150 New Wave Obscurities" box set.

I honestly didn't expect to begin this blog, focusing on indie chart entries which almost all received some airplay and press coverage, and unearth anything which might have been worthy of a place on the old site. There it was in the 1981 Indie Charts, though - "Brave New England", which despite eventually peaking at number 17 and even being reissued by RCA later that year, had left no audio trace behind online.

As a dog that returneth to his vomit, so is a fool that repeateth his folly, and inevitably I ended up buying a second hand copy of this purely to satisfy my curiosity about who the group were and what it sounded like, and also to upload it online for the benefit of you good people.

It looks as if Walter Mitty's Little White Lies - henceforth known as WMLWL - were a Liverpool based act with Gary McGuinness on guitar and vocals, Jon Rupert Holt on keyboards, Colin Walker on guitar, Paul Williams on bass, Colin Ventre on drums and Gerry Garland on saxophone. 

"Brave New England" is very much the kind of New Wave single which feels as if it has some "pub rock heritage" about it, being closer in style and feel to Tom Robinson than XTC or Talking Heads. There are no hard angles or unexpected discords; instead, the group deliver a fluent pop/rock song whose cult level sales combined with radio appeal must have made the band catnip to RCA, who swept in to reissue it later on in 1981.

Copies of the RCA single seem even more scarce than the original on the tiny Hip Records, though, and the group weren't given any other chances to record for a major (or indeed any other) label. This is what we've been left with, and while it's not clear to me what promotion it received to manage a mid-placed indie chart position - I can find no signs that the music press reviewed it first time out or John Peel played it, for example - enough people cared to get it there. 

45. Crass - You're Already Dead (Crass)

Two weeks at number one from w/e 31st March 1984

“You’re Already Dead” isn’t Crass’s final single – that would be “Ten Notes On A Summer’s Day”, released in 1986 – but it was the last one to be released while the group were a going concern. They entered 1984 in a state of disarray, burdened by heavy legal costs from the obscene publications court case around their album “Penis Envy”. They were also under the microscope of the tabloid press and the government thanks to their anti-Thatcher single “Mother of a Thousand Dead”, and their creation of a doctored recording faking a conversation between The Iron Lady and Reagan.

It’s impossible to speak on their behalf, but Crass were possibly beginning to feel the downsides of being a scratchy anarcho-collective living off their wits and little other external support. They may have operated successively away from the music business, taking matters into their own hands and surviving, but the more their reputation grew, the more interest they attracted from the mainstream media as well as the music press.

Music journalists in the eighties were, for all their critical savagery and their belief that they could make or break careers, pussycats compared to the tabloid press. They adored rebellion, and most were also niche publications, talking to an audience who understood their language, had sympathies with the idea of rock music being an agency for change, and generally didn’t get too upset about punk groups with hard-hitting viewpoints provided they weren’t fascistic.

Newspapers, on the other hand, were widely read, still thought of punk rock as being a possible threat to society, and loved the idea of singling out smart-arsed angry young men and women for a public flogging. That’s essentially where the Sex Pistols ended up in the late seventies, and in the case of Crass, typewriters in Fleet Street were beginning to become damaged by hacks bashing out feverish stories about these disgusting lawless vagabonds. In a flash of total absurdity, News Of The World were even moved to comment that the title of Crass’s album “Penis Envy” was “too obscene to print”. You hardly need me to highlight the stupidity, hypocrisy and irony in those four words.

It’s tempting to think that experienced warhorses such as Crass were able to roar with laughter, let these situations pass and even enjoy being provocateurs spreading their ideas to the broadest possible audience. I suspect, though, that they quickly found out that readers of tabloid newspapers are strangely unforgiving types, willing to apply pressure to the families of people featured in their stories as well as the individuals themselves. Penny Rimbaud commented in the liner notes for their compilation LP “Best Before 1984”:

“We found ourselves in a strange and frightening arena. We had wanted to make our views public, had wanted to share them with like minded people, but now those views were being analysed by those dark shadows who inhabited the corridors of power… We had gained a form of political power, found a voice, were being treated with a slightly awed respect, but was that really what we wanted? Was that what we had set out to achieve all those years ago?”

On top of that, the group were beginning to disagree with each other about some of their core political principles, including whether or not pacifism was a viable position. Pressure came from within and without, and the central supporting beam could not hold the weight.

“You’re Already Dead” almost seems like an audio souvenir of these contradictions and struggles. If The Jam had “Beat Surrender” as a farewell single where Weller set out his reasons for throwing in the towel – a very straightforward and principled address to The Kids – the very sound of YAD feels like a group falling into pieces in front of you in real time. It starts immediately with a cacophony of out-of-time musicians and screaming and swearing, before slowly finding its order and beginning properly as something akin to a sleepy, creepy anarcho-punk reading of the “Are You Being Served?” theme, as we’re told “Ask no questions, hear no lies/ And you'll be living in the comfort of a fool's paradise.”

44. The Smiths – What Difference Does It Make? (Rough Trade)

9 weeks at number one from w/e 28th January 1984

Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich, despite their enviable string of hits, have not been given much respect in the UK. Besides belonging to the cohort of groups with bloody silly names which sound gimmicky rather than mysterious, they were fronted by ex-copper Dee; he may have been the first policeman on the scene of the car crash which killed Eddie Cochran, but other than that didn’t really ooze rock and roll. In every single one of his video performances online, he gives the impression of being the steady pop professional, delivering the songs of others with gentle, almost suppressed stage flourishes (he even cracks a whip in “Legend of Xanadu” like he’s trying to flick the residue of some treacle off his hand.)

The songwriters behind the group, Alan Blaikley and Ken Howard, were a different matter. Both were gay men who had worked with Joe Meek and penned songs which occasionally nudged and winked towards homosexual society for anyone paying enough attention. The Honeycombs 1964 flop single “Eyes” is a painful, agonised track about finding love in secret, shadowy places away from society’s gaze, combined with disordered pinging guitars and almost proto-post-punk pattering drum patterns. Meek adored it, the public begged to differ. Then, in 1968, they foisted the ominously titled “Last Night In Soho” on to DDBMT.

In typical fashion, “Last Night In Soho” isn’t explicit, but over a keening, grumbling cello, dramatic church organ flourishes and almost hysterical orchestrations, Dave Dee protests that he thought “I’d find strength to make me go straight”, “I’m just not worthy of you”, and “I’ve never told you of some things I’ve done I’m so ashamed of”. These, however, are coupled with the notion that something else happened in Soho that night which was criminal but not sexual; references are also made to a mysterious “little job” some lads in Soho have offered to Dave Dee, which he should take if he doesn’t want “aggravation” – but anyone waiting for the song’s conclusion to tell them exactly what the protagonist has done would be wasting their time. It is locked up tight as a mystery, a riddle wrapped in a lot of hand-wringing drama, though even in 1968 you have to wonder how anyone could have concluded that perhaps he held up a Post Office. The camp hysteria gives the game away by itself.

I’ve no idea if Morrissey was thinking about “Last Night In Soho” when he penned the lyrics for “What Difference Does It Make”. I somehow doubt it, but given his eclectic tastes in sixties pop, it’s possible. Whatever the facts, it falls back on the same narrative devices, teasing and riddling the listener, just less hysterically. It addresses an unknown other and begins on the line “All men have secrets and here is mine/ so let it be known” before failing to actually reveal the issue to the listener, only telling us the person the song is directed at, whom Morrissey would “leap in front of a flying bullet” for (why was he always so obsessed with sacrifice?) is now disgusted by his revelations. This is seen to be foolish - “Your prejudice won’t keep you warm tonight”, he warns. This feels, shall we say, similar, but there’s a different tone here. There is no begging for forgiveness, no shame; whatever will be will be.

Once again though, some plausible deniability creeps in and the idea is aired that Morrissey’s crime might actually be an arrestable offence by 1984’s standards – “I stole and lied and why?/ Because you asked me to!” The idea that this is just about something darkly illegal is also hinted at by the record’s sleeve, showing actor Terence Stamp cheerily holding up a chloroform patch; the still in question is from the film “The Collector”, in which Stamp’s character stalks and kidnaps an attractive female art student. There’s an alternative lyrical reading here which is altogether nastier than someone simply coming out of the closet, by the standards of any age.

43. Cocteau Twins - Sunburst and Snowblind (EP) (4AD)

One week at number one on w/e 21st January 1984

I currently live in a terraced house next door to some students, a situation which causes endless eye-rolling and sighs when I mention it to any locals. These are usually followed by comments along the lines of “What did you ever do to deserve that, eh?” and commiserations for my sleep deprivation and the inevitable vermin crawling through the walls.

In reality, I’ve been through three sets of student neighbours now and at worst, they’ve all been no more noisy than a family with small children. Only occasionally do sounds of loud music or conversation seep out of open windows in late Spring and early summer, and on one of these warm days in 2023, I was decluttering the front garden when I heard a familiar drone drifting my way. It was The Cocteau Twins, leaking gently into the June air outside, making Liz Fraser one of the first singers I heard when I started university in 1993 (as mentioned in the This Mortal Coil entry) and one of the earliest things I heard when I first bought a house next door to some students thirty whole years later.

There’s a neat linearity and consistency to this which suggests that the Cocteau Twins have some timeless boho/student quality about them, and while we shouldn’t trust anecdotal evidence – I honestly don’t believe most student digs in 2025 are humming to the sound of their work – it’s not unreasonable to suggest that they’ve largely resisted the winds of change. There are any number of acclaimed indie groups this decade whose sound could be, consciously or otherwise, described as having a debt to their ideas. By saying this, it’s not as if I’m offering a fresh viewpoint either; a quick look at the comments section of just about any of their YouTube videos will surface a ton of comments along the lines of “These guys invented dreampop/ shoegaze!” for anyone who couldn’t tell that just by using their ears and checking the copyright date.

So it was with this in mind that I cued this EP up, ready to give it a close listen and dissect it in a frothing way, hailing Fraser, Guthrie and Raymonde as prophets who understood the likely direction of alternative music far beyond the early edges of the eighties, when something strange happened. I realised that, in the context of the years running up to it, the individual components making up their sound aren’t as radical as you’d think. For the last six months now, as I’ve ploughed through weeks of indie chart listings, numerous groups have surfaced with hazy, out-of-focus guitar lines droning against deep Joy Division inspired bass lines. Within that early eighties lineage, the sounds on “Sunburst and Snowblind” are neither alien nor entirely fresh, just oddly aligned.

You can hear it in the low throbbing bass, the guitars obscured by aerosol mist, in Liz Fraser’s proud and emotive but vague psychedelic pronouncements; this is really just post-punk with a twist at this stage. For all the surprisingly familiarity, though, they share with The Smiths a technique and ability which combine to create something which sounds more confident and less fumbling than most of the work which preceded it, and in the process something much more strange and distinct.

Fraser’s commanding presence – she’s often written about as if she’s a frail waif warbling mystical spells, but these vocals are bold and precise – feels key here, but Robin Guthrie and Simon Raymonde were also prime contributors. Little was made of it at the time, but Simon is the son of the arranger Ivor Raymonde whose credits are splashed across numerous sixties singles from artists as varied as The Walker Brothers, Dusty Springfield, The Stylistics, Ken Dodd, and then rather more messy, scuzzy acts such as The Flies and Los Bravos, and the largely forgotten, melodramatic likes of Paul Slade.

Having a parent who played a key backroom role in music probably gave Simon Raymonde the confidence to pursue a living on his own artistic terms, but it’s hard to hear much of father Ivor’s influence in The Cocteau Twins work. His work usually consisted of either pin-point precise orchestrations or rough sixties rave ups (try on Los Bravos “Going Nowhere” for size) while, if anything, The Cocteau Twins specialised in what could be described as abstract smudginess – manipulating the studio to create imprecise waterlogged sounds the likes of Dusty Springfield would have rejected. If Ivor was the man wandering around the recording studio polishing everything until it shone, Simon’s (and Guthrie’s) default mode seemed to be pride in their vagueness, stomping pastel crayons over their canvas rather than creating airbrushed prettiness.

1984

 

1983 has been a fairly predictable year, one of continuation with both familiar indie names (New Order, Depeche Mode and Vince Clarke doing whatever he feels like doing in any given week) and familiar old hands who were IPC critical favourites joining the amateur leagues for various reasons of their own (Elvis Costello, Robert Wyatt, Tom Robinson). 

There's also been a lot of fury in the racks as well with the anti-Falklands War sentiment seeping over from 1982, and the punk movement continuing to have its say lower down the charts, although there's been a clear weakening of the grip in this respect. Beyond that, it's hard to point towards unique trends or unexpected developments which aren't in the shape of Morrissey's ambitious quiff. It's hard not to get the feeling that The Smiths weren't just damn good at what they did, the hysteria around their arrival was due to the fact that they were also introducing something fresh to a scene which was beginning to become trapped in a predictable post-punk holding pattern. 

1984 approaches, and without introducing too many spoilers, it does feel as if huge changes occur in the indie charts ahead, many of them practical rather than stylistic. 

For one thing, a sluggishness sets in which feels unfamiliar. The indie charts have always been a place where the big sellers have hogged the top ten for weeks on end while the culty new releases buzz beneath them, but given the growing number of dominant groups with long sales tails - yer New Orders, Smiths, Cocteaus and Depeches - it feels more pronounced in 1984 and contributes to a much more static chart overall. The number of new entries each week feels proportionately very low by comparison, and there are a couple of weeks where there are none whatsoever and the rest of the chart is just a shuffling of the previous week's pack. 

This isn't the only thing that's contributed to a less populated Spotify playlist than usual, though. There's also the small matter of the IPC strike which took place over the summer of 1984, knocking out production of the NME and also (logically enough) publication of the NME Chart. What might have occurred during that period is a problem we may have to confront later - but in reality, we'll never truly know what might have been number one throughout that summer period unless somebody turns up with a batch of unpublished information. The odds of that happening are close to zero. 

There were also bigger business problems in 1984 which saw Pinnacle entering a period of crisis towards the tail end of the year, poor sales for the valve electronics aspect of their business causing the receiver to be called in. While Windsong eventually rescued their distribution side, this led to a number of artists and labels temporarily shifting distribution away from the indie sector and towards major labels, also creating a sense of stasis in the indie chart for a brief period. 

Stylistically though, it's possible to sense a shift occurring. The first few Creation releases make their presence felt in 1984 (spoiler - The Legend! does not chart) and while only one makes a major impression, some of the others show McGee was very astute about where underground pop might be going next, even if the records he offered up initially were seldom more than "quite good". Indeed, elsewhere it's also possible to spot a few groups who would later be seen as none-more-1986 indie acts just starting to build a fanbase and make a bit of headway, no doubt influenced by The Smiths sudden appearance as the biggest new name on the chart. 

But that's what's up ahead. For your last chance to kiss goodbye to 1983, dig into the Spotify playlist below. The 1984 list of all available Top 30 tunes is to your right. 

Meanwhile... I've also published some handy data and indexing for the number ones over here. Now you have a map, you lucky people. 

Furthermore, as we're now 42 singles deep into this project, it feels logical (and less onerous on any sane reader) to produce an overall playlist of the actual number ones. This can also be found on the right hand side of the page. To avoid spoilers, I'll add to this gradually after we've covered each new number one. 

41b. The Smiths - This Charming Man (Rough Trade)

 

Returned to number one for six more weeks on w/e 3rd December 1983

The Assembly's "Never Never" may have been a huge chart hit, but The Smiths finished 1983 as an ever-growing and unstoppable cult, and in the world of the indie charts, the ferocity of the cult is everything. The underground kids are the ones marching towards Rough Trade en masse to buy the most important new record, after all, not the biggest pop hit. 

That "This Charming Man" managed only week at the top in November felt implausibly stingy at the time, so it's no surprise to see them back on top and managing to hold that position until well into 1984. It's a result that disrupts the natural flow and timeline of this blog somewhat - it would have been much better to see out 1983 and begin 1984 with a brand new track - but sometimes an excess of liquid causes the jug to overflow, and all we can do is mop up the mess around the table as best we can.

Here is what happened in the rest of the indie charts while The Smiths were back at number one.

Week One

12. Birthday Party - "Mutiny! EP" (Mute)

Peak position: 3

The final release following Birthday Party's split in mid-1983, the "Mutiny!" EP shows Nick Cave clearly moving towards the Bad Seeds style. While nobody would dare to suggest that the title track "Jennifer's Veil" was anything approaching pop music, the chaotic fury of their earliest releases has now totally been replaced by something much more controlled but no less sinister. Cave is the clear leader here while the rest of the group twang and strum behind. 

20. The Higsons: "Push Out The Boat" (Waap)

Peak position: 14

Charlie Higson and his boys were deeply unlucky not to score a genuine hit in the early eighties - if Pigbag managed to cross over with their angular dancefloor friendly post-punk, there's absolutely no reason why The Higsons frequently more commercial singles couldn't have become a bigger deal as well.

"Push Out The Boat" probably emerged far too late in the day, just as the tide was going out for this kind of affair, but it's an absolute triumph, combining taut dancefloor grooves with a sense of urgency and purpose so many of their compatriots were too cool to get close to. If it weren't for the fact that Higson eventually became best known as a comedy writer and performer, chances are he would have enjoyed a stronger reappraisal at the turn of the 21st Century, but by that point he didn't seem obscure enough or "serious" enough for the Hoxton Hipsters. 

21. Red Lorry Yellow Lorry - He's Read (Red Rhino)

Peak position: 21

27. !Action Pact! - Question of Choice (Fall Out)

Peak position: 19

Week Two

15. New Model Army - Great Expectations (Abstract)

Peak position: 15

New Model Army would rapidly go on to become a huge cult rock band, simultaneously blessed and cursed with a fanbase who were almost as fanatical as The Smiths' tribe, but often more confrontational. Stories abounded of interested punters casually turning up to their gigs and being beaten up for not looking the part. 

Unlike The Exploited, it's hard to imagine New Model Army encouraging this behaviour. While their political ideologies were often strict and puritanical, the group themselves were keen for the ideas to reach as large an audience as possible. Their second single "Great Expectations" is a sneering attack both on the way naive capitalist ideas worm their way into both the education system and parenting. "They said 'Son, it could all be yours, you just work hard and pay your dues/ Don't be content with what you've got, there's always more that you can want/ Everybody's on the make - that's what made this country great" - these are words which could just as easily have been written yesterday as in the Thatcherite sunlit uplands of 1983. 

Unlike a lot of the political rants that bind up the indie charts, NMA put across their ideas with both a degree of intelligence and relish. "Great Expectations" is a tight morality tale accompanied with a sneering thrash, and a chorus which Paul Weller (who they probably hated) wouldn't have been ashamed of. 

42. The Assembly - Never Never (Mute)

 

Number one for one week on w/e 26th November 1983

Where Vince Clarke's head was at in the early eighties is a subject that's enjoyed surprisingly little debate, but following Yazoo's dissolution he forged the concept The Assembly. The idea behind the somewhat practically named unit was that he and long-term studio engineer and producer Eric Radcliffe would hire a revolving cast of lead singers to front Clarke's songs.  

This is a fascinating plan which seems to have been borne more of Clarke’s wariness than any commercial or even creative considerations, and the only song to emerge from it is this one led by Feargal Sharkey. Sharkey was also idly kicking a tin can around in late 1983 - The Undertones were one of many punk groups to have found the commercial headwinds of the early eighties insurmountable, and their final album “The Sin Of Pride”, released in March that year, managed to climb only to number 43 in the album charts (15 spaces lower than plucky Oi hopefuls Blitz, to give some sense of how much even the punk market had moved on). The record saw the group trying to shift direction, incorporating soul, sixties garage and Motown ideas, but the end results failed to create a hit single.

By May 1983 Sharkey had announced the group’s split, and they struggled through to the end of a European Tour, waved goodbye to their remaining fans, and disappeared with surprisingly little fuss or fanfare given the levels of success they had achieved in their prime. A Best Of, “All Wrapped Up”, emerged in Autumn 1983 and performed worse than “The Sin Of Pride”, climbing only to number 67. The Undertones could seemingly win neither with a change of musical direction, nor with their Golden Greats. Nobody apart from their most loyal fans really gave a shit that “Teenage Kicks” was John Peel’s favourite single of all time, or wanted to hear “My Perfect Cousin” or “Jimmy Jimmy” again; that degree of reappraisal would take a long time to ferment.

Under the circumstances, Sharkey had everything to win and nothing to lose from sharing a studio with Vince Clarke. While the latter may have been in a similar position and was equally bandless and perhaps bereft of direction, he had recent success on his side. The charts also proved that Sharkey loaning his voice to a synthetic backdrop wasn’t going to cost him any punk credibility – that counted for nought by this point. As if to illustrate this point, while “All Wrapped Up” was struggling in the lower reaches of the album charts, “Never Never” was already in the national top ten.

His presence also doesn't really upend everything as much as you’d expect. Despite his quivering but tough “big boys don’t cry” vocal stylings, “Never Never” remains a quintessential early eighties era Clarke track. Had this been handed to Moyet as a farewell single instead, there’s no doubt it would have had the same impact; akin to “Only You”, it’s another delicate, spring-wound synth ballad, which despite the high-tech setting – there’s a Fairlight CMI in the mix here - sounds almost rustic. The arrangement knocks and creaks like a windmill in Old Amsterdam (perhaps inspiring the promo video, shot in a windmill in Essex), while the keyboards ring out depressive, autumnal chimes. There are moments where it even sounds like an instrumental excerpt from the soundtrack of a children’s stop-motion animation.

Clarke and Radcliffe are the despondent organ grinders while Sharkey bemoans his loveless fate – “Love’s just a door that’s locked and there’s no key” – and finally, it seems, finds an appropriate setting for his voice outside The Undertones. Their later singles may have been more soulful than usual, but were still attacked vigorously with their primary colour loaded paintbrush, leaving him in his usual role as the exuberant and forceful punk era frontman. “Never Never” allows softer pastel hues in, and proves he had a flexibility few might have suspected in The Undertones earliest years.

Following the success of this single, and against the reckoning of many music critics of the period, Sharkey eventually regained his footing and achieved enormous success by the mid-eighties, his version of Maria McKee’s “A Good Heart” going on to become one of the more enduring number ones of the decade. “Never Never” had presented his ruggedness in a pop context and succeeded, and arguably gave major labels the confidence to view his career afresh.

41. The Smiths - This Charming Man (Rough Trade)

One week at number one on w/e 14th November 1983

Retrospectively trying to describe the birth of a phenomenon is difficult. The further down the road you go as you pass the scene of the incident, the more it slowly retreats in the rear view mirror, the details becoming less clear, the conversation about what happened getting confused by the conflicting voices in the car.

Using that analogy with The Smiths, it sometimes feels as if the rear view mirror was also cracked and twisted, offering so many illusions that nobody is sure what’s true anymore. They were revolutionaries who changed music! They were reactionaries who dragged it backwards! Morrissey spoke to millions of lonely bookish leftists and is also a fascist! And sometimes, besides this, you find yourself leaning on the second-hand anecdotes from friends which may or may not be deeply exaggerated. I’m forced to recall an older friend telling me that he once saw a man with a broken leg dancing ecstatically at an early Smiths concert, so passionately moved by what he saw and heard that being in front of Morrissey and Marr was like a trip to Lourdes.

I heard these tales only from older friends because frankly (Mr. Shankly) I was ten years old when The Smiths broke. The first I truly knew of them was through Tom Hibbert and Sylvia Patterson’s interviews in Smash Hits. That magazine’s approach to all pop stars, whether aspiring or established, was to hold a fairground mirror up to them and distort their eccentricities until certain aspects of their personalities dominated, each interview acting more like a caricaturist’s sketch than a respectful, gushing homage. Paul McCartney became known as “Fab Macca Thumbs Aloft”. Rod Stewart’s nickname was “Uncle Disgusting”. Even when Tom Hibbert interviewed Margaret Thatcher, the one quote that shone through the final article was her icy reply of “Always be serious!” to one of his more flippant, joky comments (in this case, about whether Cliff Richard should be knighted).

Morrissey never had a nickname at Smash Hits, but the way he was portrayed in that magazine often felt more revealing than the reverence bestowed on him by the NME and Melody Maker. For one thing, his quick wit shone through in that publication far more than the others – rival music journalists seemed to want to engage with his cerebral side, ignoring the fact that his lyrics clearly revealed someone with a sharp sense of humour.

On the flipside of this, however, he also frequently came across as a deeply lonely and gloomy soul; the kind of figure who rose at Noon, watched a black and white film on the television while slowly sipping soup, and waited for the phone to ring. Not a pop star, just an alienated man with a lifestyle less appealing than the elderly widower next door; that neighbour may not have had much to envy, but he at least waved from his window cheerily every morning. The Smash Hits Morrissey would never have done that. 

I couldn’t relate to him, and he didn’t inspire me. If anything, I worried on his behalf - my Dad had a troubled friend who lived down the road, an eternal bachelor who had on occasion been sectioned due to his depressive episodes. To me, the Smash Hits Morrissey felt strangely close to the man I knew as Uncle Frank.

Also, for all their originality, there was also something very antiquated about The Smiths which felt odd to the hopeful ten-year old me. With the exception of the bold text on their sleeves, everything was deliberately black and white, frequently featuring pictures of fifties and sixties stars frozen in their monochromatic, pre-1967 world. This approach was not entirely without precedent; Paul Weller was also known to nod backwards in his choice of sleeve design and certainly sleevenotes, and obvious retro-heads like Meri Wilson and The Maisonettes might have shared this aesthetic, but generally speaking, early eighties popular culture was about keeping your eye on the horizon in front of you, not looking behind at a “better” past.

The older I became, the more I was won round. Musically they were often equally backwards-looking but less straightforward. The Smiths were proudly and obviously a “beat combo”, present to prove to the eighties that groups with guitars were absolutely not on their way out (an early review of “This Charming Man” even regurgitates this Decca audition quote) but this is where they ace it. Their sound is, like all brilliant groups, an inexplicable cocktail of everything that ever inspired them, combining to sound like nothing that went before. So much is going on here; the sharpness and brevity of sixties beat singles, the ambitious guitar work of post-punk (Marr has stated he was influenced by Maurice Deebank out of Felt – among others - but his approach is much more urgent and frantic) the taut, driving rhythms of a bass player and drummer who had obviously heard some Motown, all topped off with Morrissey’s shivering timbre, a sealion’s bray communicating one-line quips and deflated profundities, frequently with each following the other.

33c. New Order - Blue Monday (Factory)

Returned to number one on 12th November 1983 for one week

Groundhog Day hits us again as "Blue Monday" jumps up from number three to reclaim the top spot from This Mortail Coil. Let's look at what's happening further down the... oh.

The fact is, this event also occurred on a very dull and uninteresting week where there are only three new entries, of which one is a future number one, and another is just an old record we've already covered with its B-side flipped to the plug position. Let's not make a big song and dance about this, let's just get this covered and move on to the main entry tomorrow, I think....

New Entries (such as they are)

24. Alien Sex Fiend - Lips Can't Go (Anagram)

Peak position: 9

There are very few groups on the goth circuit whose career has ridden the greatest crests of the movement and also the most loveless troughs, but Alien Sex Fiend have persisted against all the odds, throwing an album into the shops every decade since the eighties (with the exception of the 2020s, though I suspect it's only a matter of time).

This is remarkable as unlike some of their more well-known peers, they never really had a watershed moment. Their only album to get inside the mainstream charts was "Maximum Security" in 1985, which spent one week at number 100; beyond that, they've never graced the Guinness Book of Hit Singles or Albums with their presence. 

"Lips Can't Go" probably gives you an idea about why. The first time I played this a couple of weeks ago, I got so pissed off with its unshifting, minimal electro-racket that I gave up halfway through. Just now, however, I found myself almost enjoying its clattering, pulsing, horror-comic dirginess, and who knows, a third play might actually spark something. You can also hear the approach of groups like Nitzer Ebb and even Front 242 in its basic sound, proving that they were probably just as much on the side of the emerging industrial music as the sounds of the kids in that Batcave.

28. The Escalators - The Munsters Theme (Big Beat)

Peak position: 28

This was originally released as the flipside to their single "Monday", but Big Beat obviously noticed that it was starting to pick up more attention and subsequently ran off some new picture sleeves with "The Munsters" being promoted as the A-side instead... and here we are. In any ordinary week I'd stick the boot up this one and refuse to dignify it with more than a link to the relevant video - it's a re-release in all but name - but we're not exactly spoiled for choice right now.

Questions should probably be asked about why exactly a twang-tastic sixties instro take on The Munsters theme should have been getting attention nobody intended it to receive, and there are probably a couple of key things going on here; firstly, there's the minor factor that Channel 4 had started screening old episodes of The Munsters on British TV in the late afternoons, causing it to pick up new appreciation from schoolkids, students and the unemployed. Then, of course, there was the fact that goths were growing in number and desperate to pick up anything which had any associations with the ghoulish, freakish and bizarre. While The Escalators weren't courting that audience at all, it's safe to assume that a fair few of them bought this record. 

It's actually a very effective cover which sharpens up the original theme in the way those cynical approximations of popular television tunes did on Decca, Columbia and Pye in the early sixties. The group's guitars sound sharp as pins and have the clean, preppy tones of an instrumental rock era which is now largely ignored by most music listeners. Even in 1983 it was a little bit too niche in its revivalisms for its own good, which probably explains its inability to climb higher up the indie chart. 

For the full charts, please go to the UKMix Forums

Number One In The Official Charts

Billy Joel: "Uptown Girl" (CBS)

40. This Mortal Coil - Song To The Siren (4AD)

 

One week at number one on w/e 5th November 1983

For a song as tasteful, respected and covered by all and sundry, “Song To The Siren” had an unbelievably ignoble and shaky start. Tim Buckley made several failed attempts to record the track before finally committing it to vinyl, meaning its debut release was a tossed off version by Pat Boone (complete with Pat doing an impromptu pirate impersonation at the start). Less objectionable, but no less unlikely than that, the first broadcast version by Buckley saw him singing it (beautifully) on an episode of “The Monkees”.




Buckley’s version on “Starsailor”, however, complete with the heat haze of reverb-heavy guitar and his sonorous voice, finally saw the track becoming the kind of cult classic eventually taped on to endless cream coloured TDK cassettes and swapped between friends in the know.

Its visibility was starting to wane by the early eighties, at which point 4AD entered the fray. This Mortal Coil were a label project rather than a proper band, an excuse for 4AD’s owner Ivo Watts-Russell to build his own troupe using a talent pool of all the different voices on the label. A world apart from Pat Boone’s version, “Song To The Siren” is, in the hands of Watts-Russell, Liz Fraser and Robin Guthrie, suddenly something arctic, unhurried, debagged of Buckley’s weighty, elaborate vocal bulk. It breathes slowly, embraces absolute silence where emptiness has the greatest impact, and is unafraid of the cold and dark – Fraser’s performance is exquisite, broken but confident, always leaving the impression that she could push harder and go further, without her being tempted to actually do that. Just when you then think you’re close to reaching her, the song stops abruptly, messing with the fabric of time as it does so; you think you’ve been listening for a mere minute-and-a-half, but it’s clearly been playing for over twice as long.

The phrase “effortless sounding” is bandied around a lot by critics to describe all manner of tracks, from catchy two minute punk-pop wonders to improv jazz, and is usually pulled out when they can’t quite do their job and define what it is about the damn thing that works. The fact that I’ve apologised for reaching for that phrase doesn’t make the use of it any more excusable; but explaining why I find this version to be more effective than any of the many that have followed it since (from people as varied as George Michael, Bryan Ferry, Robert Plant, The The, Sinead O’Connor, Garbage and even Half Man Half Biscuit) almost feels like an act of science, like trying to dissect the emotional impact of one voice and its accompanying half-asleep guitar with a stopwatch and notebook.

The best conclusion I’ve ever managed to draw is that in this instance, “Song To The Siren” succeeds because of what it doesn’t do. In the same manner that a performer in a jazz or folk club taking the stage to do an impromptu open-mic performance can sometimes be the best live performance you’ve heard all year, it realises that laying the track bare, giving it an unfussy space and letting Liz Fraser gently embody its essence is the best bet – she knows exactly where to take it, precisely when less is more (which is interesting, given that some of her performances can be as showy and dazzling in their own eccentric way as Buckley’s) and her instinct aligns with the listener’s emotions. In her hands, this song sounds as ancient as the Greek myths Buckley was embracing, as if you first heard it forty lifetimes ago. The subtle, cold 4AD production just adds to the impression of a song trapped and frozen between two worlds, the ancient and the modern; no wonder David Lynch became so obsessed with it.

While it only entered into the lower reaches of the national Top 75 – which you may rightly deem to be unjust, but it was hardly likely to ever be played on Steve Wright In The Afternoon – “Song To The Siren” hovered around the NME Indie Charts for 54 weeks, keeping “Blue Monday” endless company.

33b. New Order - Blue Monday (Factory)

Number One for five more weeks from 1st October 1983

Anybody who read the preceding entry to this one could hardly be surprised to find "Blue Monday" back at number one. The indie chart is more volatile to tracks yo-yoing around the listings than most, but even the National Charts couldn't shake themselves free of Blue Monday's broad and enduring appeal. As holiday makers returned from the club nights they'd enjoyed during the long, sticky summer of 1983, demand was reinvigorated and it ricocheted into the National Top Ten for the first time.

For what else went on while it enjoyed a second stay at the top, please see below.

Week One

7. The Fall - Kicker Conspiracy (Rough Trade)

Peak position: 3

Way before New Order's football record, here was The Fall's, with less ecstacy and more hot dogs, lager and weary references to football hooliganism. "Kicker Conspiracy" occasionally sees Mark E Smith at his least cryptic and most everyday - even a Cockney Rejects fan could understand what "Remember! You are abroad/ Remember! The police are rough!" is referring to - but then he veers back into the land of The Fall and manages to make the sport sound mystical and arcane. To this day, I haven't made my mind up what "Plastic, slime, partitions, cocktail, zig-zag, tudor bar" actually means (I suspect it's a reference to the gentrification of the big game, but leave your own ideas in the comments).

Still, this is as populist and immediate as early Fall gets, and it's a corker, its strident, military march feeling somewhat appropriate for a Saturday session. 

17. Depeche Mode - Love In Itself (Mute)

Peak position: 4

The least political track on "Construction Time Again" becomes the second and final single to be taken from it, and while it worked perfectly fine as the album's opener, something seems awry on 45, almost as if it's a hook or two short of becoming the pop anthem it truly wants to be. 

Still, the razzing, brassy synthetic intro is powerful enough to stop the track from being merely middling, and Gahan sounds almost livid while he ruminates on love and its actual meaning in a society filled with anything but. In 1982, Martin Gore asked us what the meaning of love was and sounded child-like. Here, he sounds like it might have dawned on him and he's now embittered. A year is a long time if you're in your early twenties.

The final synth solo at the end of this track sounds as if Alan Wilder is making things up as he goes along, and that mad spree gives the single a much needed final boost, but it wasn't enough - this was their first single to fail to reach the national top twenty since their debut "Dreaming Of Me" (it had to make do with a number 21 placing). 

20. Play Dead - Shine (Beggars Banquet)

Peak position: 10

23. Under Two Flags - Lest We Forget (Situation Two)

Peak position: 23

28. Combat 84 - Rapist (Victory)

Peak position: 23

Elsewhere in their catalogue, skinhead punk group Combat 84 ranted and raved "Fuck Off CND!" and "It's better to be dead than red!" On this one, they go into an irate diatribe about how all rapists should be hung. "We want capital punishment!" they demand.

Their politics were much debated at the time, but hardly really need to be guessed at here. Remember - the indie charts are a very broad church. 

39. New Order - Confusion (Factory)

Three weeks at number one from w/e 10th September 1983

In 1991, a peculiar, almost unprecedented chart quirk occurred. Bryan Adams’ single “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” held firm at number one for so long that his label A&M were faced with a tricky decision – should they hold back his follow-up single “Can’t Stop This Thing We Started” until it ran out of steam (which it showed no imminent signs of doing) or just put it out anyway and risk it being overshadowed?

Ultimately, A&M took the latter route, leading to the absurd spectacle of “Can’t Stop” rising, peaking and falling out of the charts before its elder brother had fallen from the top spot. Radio stations gave it some begrudging plays and DJs asked daft questions like “I wonder if he can do it again with this one?” but everyone knew the answer to that question already. In 1991 at least, Bryan Adams was going to be The Bloke With The Robin Hood Song to Mr and Mrs Woolworths.

Obviously I’m troubling you with seemingly unrelated Bryan Adams trivia because New Order were faced with a similar flattering but awkward problem in 1983. “Blue Monday” was proving to have such longevity with both British post-punk kids and common-or-garden clubbers that any follow-up single was going to find itself competing with its predecessor both critically and commercially. On the official charts “Confusion” did lead the way for a few weeks, peaking at a very respectable number 12 (the same peak position as Adams’ “Can’t Stop This Thing We Started”, serendipity fans) before being usurped by their earlier release rising back up above it. It was almost as if “Confusion” served the purpose of reminding the public that New Order had another better single in the shops at the same time.

Despite being one of New Order’s biggest eighties hits, “Confusion” doesn’t seem to have quite recovered from being overshadowed. I can’t remember the last time I heard the original mix on the radio and I don’t think I’ve ever heard it played in a club (although this is certainly an "age thing" – the US club charts point towards lots of turntable spins over there at least). It was slightly grudgingly well-reviewed at the time, with lots of luke-warm praise littered with reservations; Tom Hibbert's half-hearted verdict of "vaguely toe-tapping" in Smash Hits not being entirely atypical. It didn’t appear to be what people expected.

I have to wonder if the shadow cast by “Blue Monday” was the only problem here. Immersing myself in this single again, the first thing I’m struck by is a hesitancy and uncertainty we haven’t heard from New Order since “Everything’s Gone Green”. Bernard Sumner feels fractionally out of time with the rhythm track and strangely ill at ease with the limits of his vocals for the first couple of minutes at least. Arthur Baker was one of the most credible American producers of the era, a painfully cool operator despite his unremarkable hairy appearance, and the group sound almost cowed, desperate to impress and slot neatly alongside his plans.

Eventually everything coheres, but the boisterous, Americanised chanting of “Why can’t you see – What – You – Mean – TO – ME!” feels tacked on, like a badge of New York street credibility piercing the skin of an underfed, pale Manc kid. More than on any post-Blue Monday record of New Order’s career, the group sound like they know what they want to be rather than aware of the strengths of who they truly are, but an unexpectedly monstrous hit will often create these schisms.

38. Depeche Mode - Everything Counts (Mute)

4 weeks at number one from w/e 13th August 1983

“With someone like Crass, all you can get drawn in by is the lyrics and that’s it… the music is so hard that a lot of people won’t go near it. But with ‘Everything Counts’ they’ll give it a chance and then they’ll hear the lyric” – Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode talking to X Moore, NME 17th September 1983.

The crisis continues. Crass may have vacated the number one spot, heaving the doors open and drunkenly chanting as they left, but the broader British malaise continued; the problem of what being left-wing meant in a society where Thatcherism and the harder edges of capitalism were portrayed as the only answer. You would have expected Crass to have something to say on the matter but Depeche Mode? Politics didn’t really seem to be their thing.

There had been hints of it on “A Broken Frame”, of course, but only in an obvious, non-committal way. Their sinister anti-Hitler Youth deep cut “Shouldn’t Have Done That” didn’t say anything new beyond “Fascism is a bad idea”; something even a Daily Telegraph reader could have got on board with (back in those days at least. Who knows now?) At the time, too, the sleeve offered little, the image of a peasant woman with a scythe being only the barest of hints.

In 1983, their third album “Construction Time Again” emerged with the cover art showing a man swinging a large hammer over his head while standing high on a mountainside, backed by an antiseptic mouthwash sky. It looked like something from a political propaganda poster, an idealised, romanticised view of the European working man. A few critics and fans were quick to spot something else – what if the scythe on the sleeve for “A Broken Frame” could also be interpreted as a sickle? What were they trying to tell us?

While Depeche Mode didn’t design their own sleeves, “Construction Time Again” wasn’t shy about the band’s left-leaning political ideas. It was an album I bought as a teenager and instantly fell in love with, because it expressed its ideas so starkly and simply, echoing my own emerging thoughts without clouding the messaging with doubts or ifs and buts. These days, some of it feels naive and the album has toppled in my estimations as a result – at its most preachy, there’s a thin line between the broad socialism they present on tracks like “Pipeline” (“Taking from the greedy, giving to the needy”) and “Shame” (“Do you ever get that feeling when the guilt begins to hurt/ seeing all the children wallowing in dirt”) and Michael Jackson at his most pious.

The key difference here, the artistically (rather than lyrically) revolutionary aspect, is that Depeche, influenced by the industrial music scene sprouting around them, introduced a digitally sampled crashing and clattering to the simple sentiments, not new in itself, but certainly a fresh idea in a pop context – its release date even beats ZTT’s debut record, The Art of Noise’s “Into Battle EP”, by some margin.

The record’s uneasy, irate mood was influenced by Martin Gore’s world opening up beyond the confines of South East Essex. Having travelled to Thailand and witnessed crippling poverty, then returning home again to comfort, he became struck by the concept of a world shrinking thanks to the availability of technology and air travel, but failing to ‘eradicate its problems’ despite the glaring obviousness of the disparity between wealth and poverty. The excuses of ignorance and television’s distancing effect could not longer be leant on if the problem was right there, literally in front of most of us, and also very literally begging and appealing to our better nature.

“Everything Counts” is so central to the album’s theme that it appears twice – once in full, at the end of Side One, then again as a brief, muted reprise at the end of Side Two, nudging us in the ribs gently. Its initial appearance is far from subtle. It begins with a grinding, panning, metallic effect, like the work of a panel beater echoing around a mountain valley, then adds large, cinematic, sombre notes and a wailing, unearthly Shawm noise created by a synthesiser. Within barely twenty seconds, the track has managed to enter into conflict with itself; modernity versus ancient art, progress against tradition.

37. Crass - Who Dunnit? (Crass)

Two weeks at number one from w/e 30th July 1983

Sometimes political records treat the music itself as a bit of an afterthought. For every Joe Strummer or Billy Bragg creating records which stand the test of time as good rock music as well as political protest, there have been many attempts where the medium has been used (or abused) purely to carry some slogans beyond a cause or campaign.

Besides that, often people just want to dream use the charts as a medium for their message. As recently as 2020, Basildon controversy seekers Kunt and The Gang released the single “Boris Johnson is a Fucking Cunt”, then followed it up in 2021 with “Boris Johnson is Still a Fucking Cunt”, two snappy diatribes, the latter of which – thanks to the group’s weaponising of social media, digital music streaming and their fanbase - got to number 5 in the national charts at Christmastime. It’s doubtful anybody who bought either of their singles still plays them for pleasure; the motivation for buying both seems to have been anger, and the sense that the charts were there to be gamed to send a message to Number 10 during the Sunday Teatime chart rundown. Neither are truly terrible records, but nor is Mr Kunt in the business of attempting to pen poignant classics.

Nor is this behaviour unique to people on the left. It’s doubtful that any of Kunt and The Gang’s fans bought George Bowyer’s stiff and commanding 1998 single “Guardians of The Land”, a tepid and tacky CD protest single triggered by the Labour Party’s fox hunting ban (though barely mentioning the details of that “sport” in its lyrics). Countryside Alliance told their members that if they all went out and bought a copy, they should expect a number one – in the event, it managed one week at number 33 and if you’ve forgotten all about it, I wouldn’t be surprised. Most of the people who bought it probably have as well.

Perhaps, given all that, it shouldn't be a shock that the indie chart provides us with an example at the absolute extreme end of the spectrum here. I doubt Crass had the means or even motivation to hype “Who Dunnit” into the national top 40, but it’s the ultimate anarchistic souvenir single. Side A features Crass and some “mates in the pub” singing “Birds put the turd in custard/ But who put the turd in Number Ten?” over and over again in response to the recent General Election result, while a few bits of inconsequential half-baked comedy happen in the background. The B side is more of the same.

The single came on translucent brown vinyl housed in a transparent “evidence” bag, which was placed inside a cover containing turd-and-tissue art. It wasn’t the first time Crass had attempted to use a record to make a statement rather than be listened to for enjoyment – their Casiotone Christmas 45 in 1981 also did that job – and wouldn’t be the last.

There are two dominant theories about why this record existed. One is that the group were wounded by the 1983 General Election result and it was a deliberately hopeless response to that. The other is that they were increasingly tired of boneheaded punks buying their singles and barely paying any attention to the sleevenotes or lyrics, and wanted to leave them in no doubt about their political leanings.

While both theories arguably have a grain of truth about them, this sits alongside a run of other 1983 indie number ones which all, one way or another, tell us something about the mood among a certain section of society. Elvis Costello and Tom Robinson were deemed serious artists – whatever that means in practice - but were producing lyrically scattershot, angry, fearful records which sounded nothing like Crass, but had the same feeling of elasticated lyrical lines barely managing to contain all their rage and ideas.

36. Tom Robinson - War Baby (Panic)

Three weeks at number one from w/e 9th July 1983

At some point in the early eighties I caught a glimpse of Tom Robinson singing “Glad To Be Gay” on the television and sat dumbfounded. I was shocked not because he was gay, but because he wasn’t homosexual in a way I’d been lead to expect. I was a naive child, not even a teen, and my limited awareness came from the music press and national newspapers, who generally put either very camp and effeminate or exaggeratedly butch gay men front and centre of their coverage.

If your childhood is lived in an eighties suburban bubble without much other experience to draw from, that becomes what you think “gay” means (besides a bog-standard playground insult). Yet here was Tom Robinson, a confident but regular looking performer, singing about how proud he was to be gay without make-up or any of the other cliched stylings apparent on his person. How could he be proud if he presented himself as such? Why wasn’t he dragging up like Boy George as he must obviously want to do? So many contradictions here to which there appeared so few answers in deepest South East Essex. I chalked Mr Robinson up as yet another one of those Elvis Costello type performers who was too much of a studious riddler for me to make sense of, and went back to reading my copy of Whizzer and Chips.

Of course, in retrospect I find all this hilarious because – at the risk of heavily signposting the obvious childish errors and ironies – Tom Robinson was an absolute trailblazer for gay rights way before any of the new crop of performers had even left school. Originally discovered by Ray Davies, who briefly signed him to his Konk label in 1973, “Glad To Be Gay” was issued by the charity Campaign for Homosexual Equality (or CHE) in 1975 while Robinson was out of contract. He decided to declare his pride before punk had even emerged, never mind the more open and out aspects of New Romanticism, performing the song defiantly in front of rock audiences. To put this into context, homosexuality had only been decriminalised in the UK for eight years at that point, and seventies rock audiences (and indeed even allegedly right-on rock critics) were not always renowned for their tolerance.

"Glad To Be Gay" remains a superb anthem and portrait of an intolerant, "non-woke" period so many of my moping, sad-arsed fellow heterosexual middle-aged men and ladies would like to return to. Every line is precise and jagged, highlighting hypocrisies and societal inconsistencies so obvious they should never have existed - "Pictures of naked young women are fun/ In Titbits and Playboy, page three of The Sun/ There's no nudes in Gay News, our one magazine/ But they still find excuses to call it obscene". Those were the days, eh chaps? Still, at least we were free to drink water from hosepipes and trepan our skulls or some shit. 

There were other trailblazers besides Robinson, but few actually politicised their sexuality. For his troubles, “Glad To Be Gay” was banned from BBC radio despite containing absolutely nothing that could be deemed controversial a mere 6 or 7 years later. Other tracks of his slipped gay references under the radar and picked up radio play, and for a few years in the late seventies he scored hit singles on EMI, not least the deathless “2. 4. 6. 8. Motorway” which remains an oldies radio staple and heavily compiled anthem.

Later releases struggled, however, with even a songwriting collaboration with Elton John “Never Going To Fall In Love… (Again)” failing to chart. He was dropped by EMI, formed the rock band Sector 27 who signed to a reactivated Fontana records, scored no hit singles with them and promptly found himself completely broke, without a record contract or group and bereft of direction. He moved to Hamburg for a while acting as a musician for hire and gigging around the circuit in Germany, before having an unpleasant, alienating evening in a gay sauna which would at least partially inspire this song.

Frustrated, he spewed various stream-of-consciousness lines into a notepad, including the opening lines here “Only the very young and the very beautiful can be so aloof/ Hanging out with the boys, all swagger and poise”. Having emptied his pen of his thoughts, they sat in his notebook for an undefined period before eventually being used to fill “War Baby”, each line a complaint, a charge, or a recently excavated nugget from his anxious belly, each one not necessarily connected to the one before - “Corresponding disasters every night on the TV/ Sickening reality keeps gripping me in its guts” sits alongside “I don't wanna batter you to your feet and knees and elbows/ When I'm kneeling by the candle at the foot of my own bed” as personal angst jars and rattles against the universal.

You can speculate all you want about what “War Baby” is actually about – Tom Robinson has never helped us in this respect, and the safest conclusion to draw is that the chaotic state of life in the early eighties and his own personal life coalesced to create a frustrated outburst on 45. While the song itself is almost as anthemic as “Motorway”, the lyrical scansion is almost as loose as a Crass record, some lines stumbling hither and tither, stretching to try and fit the melody; I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that many of the lines weren’t radically adapted from his notes. Misgivings topple into panic then into grievance and fear before Robinson sings the chorus’s final hook of “I’m scared, so scared, whatever it is you keep putting me through”.

So far, so unbelievably uncommercial, but “War Baby” has major features on its side. The first is the gentle, rocking melody and seductive sax – two things much beloved in the early eighties – but the aforementioned anthemic chorus acts as a glorious, luminous lighthouse beam, spinning around and hitting the listener amidst the choppy scramble of the lyrics. There, in the middle of it all, is the message we could all cling on to. 

35. The Imposter (aka Elvis Costello) - Pills And Soap (Imp)

Three weeks at number from w/e 18th June 1983

Not really much of an “imposter”, more an interloper to the indie charts. While “Pills and Soap” was presented in some quarters as a pseudonymous “mystery single”, in reality Elvis Costello did virtually nothing to dupe the public with this, not even bothering to disguise his extremely distinctive voice. By the time it emerged in the UK National Top 40, he even appeared on Top of the Pops, where John Peel and “Kid” Jenkins both sarcastically pretended not to know his true identity (Peel: “It’s not Shakey, is it?”)




There were some very dull reasons underlying this quarter-hearted deception. In 1983, Elvis Costello’s record label F-Beat were undergoing a change in their worldwide distribution arrangements, moving from Warner Brothers to RCA. The protracted legal discussions had delayed the release of his next album “Punch The Clock”, and rather than also delay the release of the first single “Pills and Soap” longer than necessary, Costello opted to release it under a pseudonym on F-Beat’s “indie” subsidiary Imp Records.

There are two possible reasons why he took this path – firstly, there’s a strong chance that he may have been impatient while bureaucratic issues were being discussed in the background, feeing that if he didn’t get something fresh out soon, momentum may be lost. There was also the small matter of the imminent General Election in the UK, which caused the subjects touched upon during this single to potentially feel more relevant, pressing and explosive.

“Pills and Soap” could, to a half-listening person, be referring to animal cruelty with the references to Noah’s ark and melting animals “down for pills and soap”. This was the explanation Costello gave to the BBC when they nervously asked him what the song was about. Closer inspection reveals this to be nonsense, though. Firstly, the chorus refers to “children and animals, two by two”, then points its finger towards the aristocracy and perhaps even the royal family: “The king is in the counting house, some folk have all the luck/ And all we get is pictures of Lord and Lady Muck/ They come from lovely people with a hardline in hypocrisy/ There are ashtrays of emotion for the fag ends of the aristocracy”. There are other sharp, bitter tasting lines on offer besides, such as “You think your country needs you but you know it never will”, which totally give the game away.

If “Shipbuilding” was a sympathetic gaze at a community (and country) in crisis, “Pills and Soap” is unfocused invective – an unfixed list of the malaise that Costello feels the UK fell under in the early eighties; decadence, distraction, blind patriotism, the establishment worshipping view of the tabloid press. The animals and children being melted down are the expendable lower classes; though of course, the fact Costello is a vegetarian isn’t a complete coincidence here.

Musically speaking, it’s absurdly simple, with a drum machine generating simple, clicking beatnik Daddio rhythms which combine with Steve Naive’s thundering, Hammer Horror piano lines. It’s an extraordinarily daring first single to lift from an album, offering the polar opposite of so much eighties pop – while that was often elaborate and multi-faceted, “Pills And Soap” is threadbare and puts the emphasis and weight of the record’s worth on its lyrics.

How you feel about it really depends upon how receptive you are to such earnest singer-songwriter minimalism, and also crucially when you first heard this. In 1983, there’s little doubt that Costello’s observations were controversial and insightful. Britain was under the early spell of Thatcherism and the behaviour of the press and the Government in power was quite radical – earlier Conservative governments obviously held aspirations to defeat Trade Unions, but few had swung the axe with as much enthusiasm and as little regard for communities as Auntie Maggie.

34. Yazoo - Nobody's Diary (Mute)

One week at number one on w/e 11th June 1983

Imagine being the person who had to manage Vince Clarke’s career in the early eighties – that flibbertigibbet with the haircut of a sulphur crested bird who also seemed as unpredictable and (obvious pun intended) flighty as a cockatoo himself. Consider how it must have felt to have had a meeting with him, relaxed and confident about his current level of success and ready to talk about “cracking the USA”, only for him to tell you that he feels something’s wrong again and he's ready to move on.

Having quit Depeche Mode after only one album, Clarke then promptly formed Yazoo with Alison Moyet, only to discover that, primarily for personal rather than musical differences, they didn’t enjoy working with each other. Moyet’s extraversion appeared to jar with Clarke’s quiet, considered and non-communicative working practices, and neither could seem to find a way of making the duo feel like a satisfactory working partnership. The second album “You And Me Both” – appropriately housed in a sleeve showing two dogs baring their teeth at each other – was therefore recorded with Clarke and Moyet largely handling their parts in the studio at separate times, choosing to have as little to do with each other as possible.

It’s worth speculating whether a more experienced individual than Daniel Miller at Mute Records would have seen the signs or been able to intervene earlier. While there are exceptions to the general rule (Haircut One Hundred?) major labels are usually quick to smell groups whose working relationships are on flimsy or moribund territory. Yazoo were formed very quickly, not long after Clarke left Depeche Mode, and seemingly without a chance to get to understand each other – combine that pressure with the sudden rush of hit singles and touring, and the end result feels almost inevitable. In fact, it seems astonishing we even got two albums out of them in such short order.

“Nobody’s Diary” was the only single to be plucked from “You And Me Both”, and unusually was solely penned by Moyet without any of Clarke’s involvement. Whether the intention was that the record would act as a calling card to anyone wanting to sign Moyet as a solo artist or not, her subsequent view of the record has become unfavourable. Noting that she wrote the song at the age of sixteen, she appears embarrassed by the lyrical contents, feeling that her emotional experience was inadequate to handle the romantic subject matter.

There’s an interesting parallel with Depeche Mode’s “See You” here, the first Martin Gore written track to be released as a single following Clarke’s departure. That too was regarded grimly by Gore as he became older due to its schoolboy lyricisms, but unlike “See You” this single does at least feel more specific in places – “My head was so full of things to say/ But as I open my lips all my words slip away” summons a frustration we’ve all felt as a relationship collapses (ironically enough) into poor communication, and is followed then by a piece of bad, scattershot communication itself – “And anyway!” she snaps, changing the subject. It’s a world apart from walks in the park and sitting on benches, and shows that whatever her doubts were, Moyet’s sixteen year old self could handle this stuff as well as anyone else in the charts that week.

Melodically, the song is beautiful, opening with twitchy, metallic synth sounds before gradually blooming into something considerably more detailed and not as desperate and immediate as much of Clarke’s work. This is no pop banger, instead progressing gradually and unveiling itself, confident that while what it has to offer may be subtle, the song is strong enough to hold the listener’s attention without resorting to repetitive slogans or persuasive drum machine loops. Just when you’re finally admiring it and enjoying its company, it slides back to the icy, minimal synth riff it opened with before slowly fading away.

Moyet’s vocals ensure the song’s impact is fully realised. More so than on previous Yazoo releases, she gives the impression of fully throwing herself into this one, to the degree that when I read about her misgivings I was shocked – I had assumed she was singing about a deeply personal situation, so invested does she sound in the lyrics.