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.”

26. Robert Wyatt - Shipbuilding (Rough Trade)

Four weeks at number one from 16th October 1982

There’s a moment in Sue Townsend’s bestselling novel “The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole” where, upon learning that the Falklands War has broken out, Adrian’s father has a meltdown and tumbles out of bed, believing Britain to potentially be under attack. When the Moles are reassured that nothing of the sort is about to happen, and realise the Falklands are located off the coast of Argentina (hidden beneath a cake crumb in their atlas) normal family order resumes.

In the current age, where war seems to be a continual rumble in the background, it’s almost difficult to relate to this fictional overreaction. In 1982 though, the Falklands conflict was a shock. While the decades following World War II hadn’t been entirely peaceful, another country hadn’t actually invaded British territory in that time. As an innocent nine year old, I too sought reassurance from my parents that Argentinian soldiers weren’t likely to be parading down our street anytime soon. I had never heard of the Falklands and assumed they were either in the Channel Islands or off the coast of Scotland; this smelt to me like big trouble.

Once the national shock subsided, political blame began to be apportioned and sides began to be taken. Doubts were raised that the military or the British government had been taking the Argentinian threat seriously, leading to them being surprised by an attack which they had been repeatedly warned was imminent (this later led to conspiracy theories that Margaret Thatcher had actually allowed the war to occur for her own electoral benefit; I’m no fan of hers, but this seems unlikely). There were questions about whether an insignificant, sparsely populated island in South America was really worth risking human life over, and the inevitable counter-argument that the vast majority of Falklanders did not want to live under the rule of Argentina’s military dictatorship, and Britain had a duty to them.

It would be naive to assume there were clear left/right wing lines on these complex issues, though the general assumption was that left-wingers were supposed to be against the conflict while those on the right felt Britain had to protect its own citizens. To this day, I haven’t formed a clear opinion of my own on the situation, though by the time I was an adult and in a learned enough position to do so, the war seemed like a distant memory, so the pressure to have a proper opinion was off.

Meanwhile, out there in insignificant, gun-free indieland, it felt as if every group had a view. The anarcho-punks were against the war, obviously. Mark E Smith felt that the war had to happen, the first   contrary political position he had taken which apparently alienated him from some of his peers (it wouldn’t be for the last time). Some of the Oi groups were less subtle than that. And Elvis Costello and Clive Langer wrote this song.

Costello was vocally anti-Thatcher, and not necessarily subtly so. “Tramp The Dirt Down”, from his 1989 album “Spike”, is a fantasy about dancing on her grave when she finally passes away. While that song was visceral, “Shipbuilding” is subtle and unique among protest songs for not giving the listener an easy steer. Instead of laying down the law or satirically mocking the government, it takes the rare step of putting the singer in the shoes of an ordinary unemployed shipbuilder in a neglected industrial town – notably, the very towns Thatcher had virtually abandoned as non-Conservative voting lost causes in the eighties.

Robert Wyatt, who recorded the vocal in a couple of hours, is an inspired choice for the message. His voice has the correct levels of earthiness and vulnerability to carry the song, and he knows exactly where the difficulties and contradictions lie. “Shipbuilding” presents the war as an opportunity and a threat; a chance for a deprived town to be given serious work for awhile by helping to build the ships which may send their sons home, alive or dead. “Is it worth it?” Wyatt asks. “A new winter coat and shoes for the wife/ and a bicycle on the boy’s birthday”. The song opens with the mundane, the everyday, despite the enormity of the problem the record is addressing.

In common with the rest of the country, disagreements in the town spill over: “Somebody said that someone got filled in/ for saying that people get killed in/ the result of the shipbuilding” Wyatt sings breathlessly. This is probably the clumsiest lyric in the whole song, but his tight, rushed delivery ensures that it’s made to work; the one direct mention of the event every parent is dreading, skirted over quickly, almost in denial.

At various moments, you sense Wyatt protesting himself, justifying allowing himself to feel upbeat, the line “It’s all we’re skilled in!” saying everything in five short words. What else do we expect or want them to do? Sit out the chance to take their families out of poverty, albeit briefly?

Unlike most political records, “Shipbuilding” understands the micro-events that underpin society. As individuals living in capitalist societies, we are all to some degree complicit in wars, slavery, and cruelty we would not otherwise condone. We may have opinions, but our jobs and lives, and our ability to put food on tables, are inextricably bound up in situations we may only be dimly aware of. Even the melody understands this, the piano line following “It’s all we’re skilled in” allowing itself to sound almost triumphant, before falling back into a minor chord again.