103. The Smiths - Girlfriend In A Coma (Rough Trade)

One week at number one on 29th August 1987

Sometimes, amidst a string of often more noble efforts, one particular single becomes a catchphrase in a band’s career. It’s not necessarily their best single, or the most advanced, or even their biggest hit; it’s the one that seems, rightly or wrongly, to define their whole ethic to the Mums, Dads and "squares".

While watching “The Chart Show” in the summer of 1987, the video for “Girlfriend In A Coma” came on and my parents immediately began spluttering in disbelief. “Oh, come on. Is this a joke?” they roared; a question that probably needed to be asked, since Morrissey was, as ever, playing his role dryly. “Well, I’ve heard everything now”, my Dad muttered, and from that day forth, whenever Morrissey appeared on television, “Girlfriend In A Coma” would be brought up. To my parents, Morrissey was no longer the man with some flowers up his bum – his previous identifying factor in my house - but the bloke who had a partner in intensive care.

“Is this his new one, then?” my Dad would ask. “Is it about his girlfriend again? Is she out of hospital now? Well, at least he’s got that going for him, anyway”.

And it didn’t stop with my parents. Smash Hits listed the single as having one of 1987’s very many “rum” song titles. It also later became the name of a reasonably good novel by Smiths fan Douglas Copeland, and I’ve also seen poetry events named after it (“Girlfriend In A Comma”) and reviews of curry houses referring to it (“Girlfriend In A Korma”, even though that doesn’t really work unless the eatery involves cannibalism). On and on the track’s influence churns, despite the fact that it’s not exactly a radio favourite – and is obviously banned from every hospital radio playlist in the land – and wasn’t really regarded as much more than a quirky glitch in the Smiths catalogue at the time. It was reviewed favourably enough and sold healthily, but it hardly sat alongside “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” or “This Charming Man” as being their most respected work.

Firstly, as to the completely fair question about whether this is a joke – I would argue (as I did with my parents at the time) that it’s really more of a cheeky homage. “Girlfriend In A Coma” feels spectacularly indebted to the sixties death disc, although instead of The Shangri-Las “Leader Of The Pack”, it appears to be taking its cue from Twinkle’s much more mournful, understated motorcycle crash 45 “Terry”.

Twinkle was supposed to have been a superstar in the sixties, a prodigious teenage singer-songwriter whose pop songs seeped with vulnerability and introversion. Instead, the music business pulled her in then spat her out with distaste after her attempts to follow up her big hit faltered. Her second single “Golden Lights” was a mournful study of the downside of being a famous person’s other half, and was actually written while she was dating Dec Cluskey of The Bachelors. The public only cared enough to take it to number 21, and it would be her second and final hit.

The Smiths covered it in 1986 and placed it as the extra track on the 12” single of “Ask”, so they had already doffed a cap to her work. “Girlfriend In A Coma” appears to be looking more in the direction of “Terry”, noting its strangely hushed and understated delivery of a deeply controversial subject matter (it was effectively banned by the BBC for its morbidity). If the subject matter of the leathered-up motorcycle tragedy of “Terry” is vaguely rock and roll – even though its shuffling rhythms and delicately plucked instruments barely qualify – “Girlfriend” erases every last final drop of teenage rebellion from its likely influence and is lyrically stark and almost weirdly understated.

Marr’s simple, unambitious but pretty acoustic guitar lines combine with Morrissey’s softly sung pleas of “I know, I know it’s serious”, “No I don’t want to see her” and, contradicting himself in his mental muddle, “Would you please let me see her”, to create what can only be described as a sombre lullaby of panic. The string section adds some drama to the mix, but it’s ultimately an exhausted collection of thoughts, positive and negative, guilty and concerned (“There are times when I could have strangled her/ but you know, I would hate anything to happen to her”).

There’s an alternative reading to the above, of course. Just as you might listen to Cliff Richard’s “Carrie” and suspect the man at Carrie’s old address had murdered her, I’ve often had a slight feeling of unease that Morrissey is hinting that he is in some way responsible for the coma. His lines about murdering or strangling her followed with “you know, I would hate anything to happen to her” feel almost as if he’s protesting too much, playing a role; yes, of course we regularly bickered, your honour, but it wasn’t me in the greenhouse with the quiff and the cricket bat.

The only thing that scuppers the above is the track’s genuine sense of kitchen sink distress, the repetition and disorder. Where Twinkle sang “Don’t do it, don’t do it!” Morrissey also repeats himself and circles slowly around the truth, arriving thereas the reality of his situation cements itself (“Let me whisper my last goodbyes”).

Of course, I have no doubt that the single probably isn’t intended as an entirely serious artistic statement – it’s The Smiths attempting sixties baroque pop but amping the tragedy and the melodrama to the max, taking the ideas as far as they’ll go before the balloon bursts and the idea becomes too ridiculous to contemplate. It walks a very fine line between homage and parody, and in its own way is as attention seeking as “Panic” or “Shoplifters Of The World Unite” – only the idea seems to have had much more durability and continued shock value than either of those, the thought of quiet ballads to comatose lovers being too ludicrous for some to handle.

94. The Primitives - Stop Killing Me (Lazy)

Three weeks at number one from 21st March 1987

BAMALAMALAMALAMA…. Rarely do singles begin with such an abrasive attack of guitars, right from the very first second, before putting their bristles down again. Most groups, even alternative ones, are aware of the need to consider the delicate sensibilities of radio listeners and save their noisiest moments for later on in the single. Coventry’s The Primitives couldn’t have given a damn in this instance, though, putting their loudest attack right at the start of the single, then never quite hitting that peak again.

That said, The Primitives were an odd bunch to start with, creating slightly misshapen alternative pop whose influences were obvious (and tantalisingly fashionable) but were stretched into an unforced coolness of their own. Early songs liberally utilised the feedback screeching beloved of the Jesus & Mary Chain, the simple pop attack of The Ramones, Motown choruses, and the scratchiness of the Shop Assistants and The Flatmates, topped off with their own unique weapon in lead singer Tracey Tracey. While other female vocalists in the indie chart communicated with anger, conviction, sweetness or heartbreak, sometimes all in the same song, Tracey usually rolled her eyes with impatience. You can hear the disdain in almost every Primitives song at this point (bar “Thru The Flowers”) – perfectly enunciated, softly sung. Previous single “Really Stupid” is a prime example, taking its very title from the tired, understated insult that peppers the song.

It’s close to punk rock, but punks tended to sneer forcefully rather than seem utterly, offhandedly above whoever they were addressing. Tracey’s vocal style is actually quite chilling as a result; she feels like every woman who wearily sighed at your weak jokes, or gave you steely glances across a club dancefloor to pre-warn you that your chances with her were nil. Whether her style has the same effect on women (making them feel as if she is unapproachable and cooler-than-thou) is something I’ve never asked, but from a male perspective there’s something inherently but relatably threatening about it. She gave the impression of being somebody who Took No Shit without needing to heavily articulate the fact.

“Stop Killing Me” combines her vocals with guitars which skid off in various directions at different moments, beginning with that immediate machine gun fire, then settling on a distorted Ramones riff, then chiming beautifully in the chorus, then get steadily more gnarly until feedback starts to bleed around the edges. It is a very sharp, short and simple pop song at heart – Tracey even “ba ba ba bas” in the chorus, like a back-up singer with a soda pop in one hand – but what it lacks in complexity, it makes up for in its many flavours of menace. Insouciance and noise meet melody and friction, and it manages in two minutes what some singles fail to achieve in five; something that’s thrilling and hooky but also a little bit alienating and challenging at the same time. “Just keep away from me/ ‘cos you’re killing me” sings Tracey, and you believe that not only might she mean it, but she may be directing it at you.

By this point, the music press were beginning to get seriously excited by the group, which seemed to represent everything about British alternative rock they loved rolled together into one package. Tracey’s charisma and the rest of the band’s obvious love of pop hooks made them seem like one of the few groups in the late eighties indie charts who stood a strong chance in the outside world, and the media cuttings piled up quickly.

In time, they would be referred to as being part of the “Blonde” movement, a particularly unimaginative and press contrived scene which rather reductively grouped vaguely alt-leaning bands together who had blonde female singers. As a result, The Primitives found themselves lumped in with Transvision Vamp, The Darling Buds and The Parachute Men, despite only really having anything in common with one of those acts.

Such idleness and borderline misogyny from the music press was fleeting and quickly forgotten, and the group ended up floating far above it when they finally signed to RCA and managed a major Top Five hit with “Crash”. Its parent album “Lovely” sits in my record collection, and sands down the rougher edges of their sound slightly, but places the abrasion alongside flowery pop-psych, bright sunshine melodies and occasional bursts of almost Cocteaus-styled haziness (“Ocean Blue” feels almost as if its pushing at the shoegaze door three years too early). A cynic might argue that the group were having their cake and eating it – trying to be all things to all the different kinds of inky music press reading people – but they never quite lose their sense of self throughout, and the final results make for a surprisingly even listen. Even “Stop Killing Me” finds a natural home right next to the tranquil buoyancy of “Out Of Reach”.

The album only just failed to follow “Crash” into the national top five, but sold incredibly well for an alternative record, bagging the group a gold disc and a lot of music press and major label goodwill. By the following year, though, their follow-up album “Pure” only just managed a place inside the Top 40, and a crisis meeting was allegedly held at RCA asking if Tracey’s new deep red hair colour was to blame. Seldom in rock history has hair been regarded as such a central factor in a group’s successes and failings.