51. March Violets - Walk Into The Sun

Three weeks at number one from w/e 11th August 1984

Back in my teens, I was a member of a twee indie trio who augmented their contemplative janglings about strange teenage girls and rainy days with a cheap Casio drum machine. We knew no drummers, saw no obvious way of getting acquainted with any, and in any case, we didn’t have and couldn’t afford a suitable rehearsal space to put a full drumkit in.

The band’s principle songwriter was strangely defensive of the crappy machine, though, constantly trying to make out it was a unique selling point rather than a hinderance, and had worked out ways of making it sound more interesting; piling on the reverb and ladening it with odd effects. I stood playing bass alongside the shuffling, precise, echoing thump and hiss of this digital steam engine and felt increasingly that this wasn’t what being in a rhythm section should be about. The other two members had each other to trade off and lean on – I had a machine I hated which just winked at me with one red LED eye. I obviously whined about this far too much, as one day they just stopped telling me when rehearsals were taking place.

Further back still than that, in the early eighties in the Leeds area, all kinds of goth-adjacent groups were choosing not to put little cards in the windows of music shops asking for drummers (or if they did, nobody replied). Sisters Of Mercy, Rose Of Avalanche and Red Lorry Yellow Lorry all decided this was a distinctly unnecessary and hassle-filled pre-eighties extravagance, and March Violets followed suit. The cavernous thwack of the drum machine therefore became synonymous with a particular brand of northern Goth rock, the lamp black musings of those groups always being anchored in place forcibly by that precise, immovable and sometimes unshifting rhythm pattern.

I’ve made my personal experiences plain from the outset here not as an excuse to waffle on about my embarrassing teenage years in groups – I barely give a shit about them now, so I fail to see why you should - but as a clear conflict of interest. I always hated the bloody machines in a rock context and now when I hear one on a professional rock recording, I often can’t get past it. The problem with drum machines wedded to anything predominantly guitar based is you’re usually going to have to work very hard to make a limitation sound like a positive feature.

The March Violets started, according to member Tom Ashton, as a “reaction to all the synthy pap that was filling the Top 40. We wanted to dance but we were also still punk rockers at heart. And we couldn’t be bothered to audition drummers, so we did what we did!”

Besides the fact that I obviously inwardly sighed when I read the slagging of “synthy pap”, there’s nothing wrong with this ambition it’s just – well – how do you dance to this single? To be fair to the group, they are ambitious with the beatbox. It shifts and changes and approximates a live drummer fairly decently throughout, but you can still tell. There’s a measuredness to it, a pulse without frills or fills or spontaneity. The guitars chunter and clang alongside it, and the added feature of the shifting but fussy beat just makes “Walk Into The Sun” sound leaden, too heavy to cavort around the dancefloor to, but also too far away from Proper Rock to mosh or throw yourself around.

Let’s not completely lose focus, though. More than many of their compatriots, The Violets have a distinctive sound of their own here, pulling politely away from theatrical doominess and towards something that almost allows some daylight in. You can hear it in singer Rosie Garland’s careful and almost gleeful annunciations during the chorus, or in the almost celebratory burst of sax towards the end. “The sun machine is coming down/ and we’re going to have a party” they declare, ripping off Bowie but at least making their intentions pretty clear. “Walk Into The Sun” makes it sound as if the kids in black were having a whale of a time after all.

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.

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.

26b. Robert Wyatt - Shipbuilding (Rough Trade)

 

Number One for a further week on 27th November 1982

As the shock and appeal of Crass's single "How Does It Feel To Be The Mother of a Thousand Dead" subsided, Robert Wyatt managed to push himself back up to the number one spot for a further week. Rather than discuss the Falklands War yet again, let's take a peek lower down the chart at the new entries, including one extremely significant one:

21. Blue Orchids - Agents of Change (Rough Trade)

Every Fall member who has either been dismissed from the group or wandered off to chart their own course has never quite hit the same creative highs, whether it's Marc Riley's Creepers, Brix's Extricated, or this lot. Having Martin Bramah, Una Baines and Rick Goldstraw in their ranks, Blue Orchids should have been a serious, organised force away from the alleged chaos of Smith. 

"Agents Of Change" is a fascinating track, but even by Fall standards it's barely a single. The celestial backing vocals mix and merge prettily with lo-fi post-punk riffs and rhythms, but the end impression is subdued and beguiling rather than offering an immediate impression; and as uncompromising as much of The Fall's output may have been, they excelled at grabbing you by the throat on 45.

22. Andy T - Weary Of The Flesh (Crass)

Another ranter from the live poetry circuit sneaks into the Indie Top 30. "Weary Of The Flesh" is 14 poems on a 45rpm 7" single, backed with ambient noise and sound effects. Andy T is an aggrieved man whose delivery nonetheless never rises above dour, letting the force of his words do the bulk of the work; not for him the shock theatrics of some of his peers. 

In honesty, it's hard to hear what sets him apart aside from that, but the increase of poets suddenly diving on to live music stages to give audiences pieces of their minds became increasingly prevalent in the early eighties. Had Craig Charles not jumped on stage at Club Zoo just before a Teardrop Explodes performance, it's entirely possible he wouldn't be gracing our television screens today. Andy T, however, would have to stay underground and far away from soaps, sci-fi comedies and BBC funk radio shows.

23. The Lurkers - Drag You Out (Clay)

25. Renee and Renato - Save Your Love (Hollywood)

There's a cliched belief that the independent music sector is there for the marginalised performers, the punks, the innovators, the folkies, the weirdos with ideas above their station. This misses one crucial point - some of the sector's biggest customers throughout the seventies and beyond were social club performers or cruise ship entertainers. Their management would occasionally press up a few thousand copies of them covering an oldie, keep some for selling at Butlins and the local clubs and bars, and try to get a small distributor to take on the rest. 

Rarely did this ever pay off. Local charity shops are littered with shrapnel from provincial entertainers who may have given their community a few good nights out, but never stood a hope of going national. The singing Italian waiter Renato Pagliari was a rare and strange exception. After he was spotted on "New Faces" by songwriter Johnny Edward (also the creator and voice of "Metal Mickey"), the song "Save Your Love" was handed to him and Hilary Lister (aka Renee) to record for Edward's tiny and inappropriately named Hollywood label. Instead of just shifting a few hundred copies in the Midlands, it exploded. 

To my ears, and to the lugholes of anyone who has spent most of their lives listening closely to music, this is actually inexplicable. The production and arrangement of "Save Your Love" is cheap, claustrophic and uninspired, the sound of some musicians trapped in a wardrobe desperate to get out of the closet and on to the next decent paying job. The vocal performance is also gimmicky, with Renato bellowing and showboating for all he's worth; this contrasts interestingly with Lister's more subdued approach, which sounds like muted sarcasm in response. 

Renato's one appearance on "New Faces" had occurred in 1976, and this single also seems like something which had been gathering dust from the light entertainment world of the previous decade. The video even manages to look more faded and distant than that, the staged romance feeling like a promotional video from some particularly obscure Communist bloc country. 

It's an utterly dreadful record, but unlike the work of other singing bus drivers or hoteliers who were local heroes, Renato managed to leap up the charts to become the Christmas Number One - the first time any independent distributor had ever managed to achieve this feat since the indie charts began (though it almost certainly wasn't the first independently distributed number one, as I'll explain later on). 

Champagne corks were popped at Pinnacle HQ that Christmas, and staff were asked to celebrate the achievements of the company's distribution arm, who had proven that they could take on the likes of EMI and Phonogram and win. At least a few of those staff wondered if this is what their dayjobs should be about, and if so, whether they might as well be earning better money at EMI or Phonogram instead. 

"Save Your Love" was an unquestionable achievement for the indie sector (in as much as pushing shit records to the top of the charts is ever something to be celebrated) but it was also a clear warning. Pinnacle was a business - and by this point a struggling one - not a charity. If it had opportunities to take local eccentrics and screen actors into the charts, there was no reason why it shouldn't, and it had certainly disproved the idea that it couldn't. Nothing would change very quickly at first, but later on in the eighties, the difference between their business model and Rough Trade's would begin to feel ever more acute.