48. Cocteau Twins - Pearly Dewdrops Drops (4AD)

One week at number one on w/e 5th May 1984

When I recently scanned back though old press coverage of Cocteau Twins, I realised that my perception of their critical acclaim was shot full of holes. My memory suggested they were universally gushed over by rock journalists for their innovation and their enigmatic, mysterious songs; an airbrushed and simplistic version of the truth, as it turns out, probably gleaned from the more appreciative NME and Melody Maker coverage of my later teenage years.

While they were generally acclaimed, the early-to-mid eighties landscape in music journalism was a lot more confused and inconsistent than that, featuring writers who had cut their teeth during the “punk rock wars”. Most disapproved of anything which might seem even remotely like a retrograde step back into stoned hippy “atmospheres” or spangly psychedelia. “How dare we sit around burning joss sticks and smoking dope while THATCHER is in power?” seemed to be the central crux to many of these arguments, to which the answer (always, whether the individual is Thatcher, Reagan, Blair, Trump or even Hitler) should be: well, why not, at least occasionally? Should we stop eating ice cream and tending beautiful flowerbeds in our parks and gardens while we’re at it? Are those also distractions put in place by The Man to quell the possible revolution? Is it an act of treachery to appreciate beautiful things when we can get them?

There were also others who felt that the group were miscast; a flimsy New Age noise slyly rebadged as something more revolutionary than that. Across the water, the US critic Robert Christgau was typically brashly dismissive on this front - “Harold Budd records in their studio,” he exclaimed in outrage as his opening “need I say more?” salvo, before eventually underlining the key point: “These faeries are in the aura business. So what are they doing on the alternative rock charts? Ever hear the one about being so open-minded that when you lay down to sleep your brains fall out?”

I strongly suspect, whether any journalist would admit it or otherwise, one other point of frustration about the Cocteaus is the fact that unless you want to be insultingly glib about their output and yell “Hippies!” before spitting at the floor, they’re actually a tough band to write about too. The lyrics are frequently flooded by the arrangements and feel incomprehensible, and when some coherence does seep through, it doesn’t appear to have any tangible meaning to possibly anyone except the group. This allowed listeners to weave their own narratives and ideas around their work, but doubtless snookered writers searching for something to hook a review on to.

Nor does the sound really fit the traditional language of eighties music journalism. It’s a consistently soupy, waterlogged arrangement and production which lacks the technically dazzling flash and scream of progressive rock, while also lacking the sharp whip-crack rebellion of punk or rock and roll. Anyone trying to interview the group was also often left with nothing much to go on; they weren’t big on explaining themselves.

“Pearly Dewdrops’ Drops” was actually their commercial peak on 45, reaching number 29 in the national singles charts, but didn’t offer any sops to either radio playlist programmers or the press to get there. They refused to appear on Top of the Pops and remained determinedly themselves, meaning the lyrics – of which numerous interpretations are available – are repetitive slices of twee bucolic imagery. There are several noble attempts to pull the delicate silk strands together into something meaningful online, but none (even one from an alleged insider who seems to claim that PDD is a coded poison pen letter to 4AD boss Ivo Watts-Russell) convinces me that what they’re doing here is even average lyricism, least of all complex poetry. What it means feels as if it shouldn’t matter to us, whether it’s comprehensible to the group or not.

Instead, Liz Fraser’s voice, filled with high pitched hiccups, breathlessly rushed and repetitive lines, and lingering hollering, is just another element in the mix. Intertwining with it, surprisingly jangly guitar lines emerge as well as that thundering post-punk bassline, but Fraser is the most flexible and impressive element – working overtime, jabbering, stretching her vocals and howling, the restless magician who both stops the track from seeming too hypnotic and delirious (imagine it without her singing to get what I mean) and also makes it feel somehow exotic.

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.