101. All About Eve - Flowers In Our Hair (Eden)

One week at number one on 1st August 1987

It sometimes feels as if people were mourning the death of the hippy dream within five minutes of the whole thing starting. I’m exaggerating for effect, obviously, but the nostalgia and regret seem to start fairly sharply. Thunderclap Newman’s 1969 number one “Something In The Air” drips with desperation – the line “We have got to get it together” sounding more panicked than optimistic, urging somebody somewhere not to just do something, but attempt it in an organised, unified way. 

More bizarrely still, the obscure track “Imagine”*, recorded by Elton John, Rodger Hodgson (of eventual Supertramp fame) and friends in the same year seems to be fondly looking back at an era which had only just passed. “You'll find that the flowers won't wait/ they will disintegrate” warns Hodgson; and by 1969 they had, broadly speaking. Both songs feel as if they’re taking place at a wake, or at least on the last bank holiday of August when a faint chill can be felt on the breeze.

The seventies weren’t without occasional dabbles back into the land of corduroy toadstools – Hawkwind’s entire damn career and Rainbow Cottage’s freak 1976 hit “Seagull” are indicative of that – but the children did indeed grow up, and the British kids who took their place post-1976 were often angry, marginalised and aggrieved rather than peace loving. There’s a frequently unspoken and unreferenced commonality between the underground hippies and the seventies punks, but the Year Zero effects of punk rock rendered the frilliest and softest edges of psychedelic pop redundant; there would be no more pollen on 45 for awhile (excepting The Damned's occasional dabbles).

Attitudes softened again in the eighties with a bunch of “Paisley Underground” types emerging in 1982, but few were bold enough to try to earnestly shove Flower Power front and centre of anything they did. References were made, but mainly in a very knowing, nudging fashion. This meant that by the time All About Eve’s “Flowers In Our Hair” emerged in 1987, music critics inevitably balked at the ludicrous balls on it; here was a single, after all, which seemed to be weeping a lament for the loss of a potentially transformative era, right down to the promo video which saw the heavy-handed imagery of a coffin daubed with the words “Hippy – RIP” being set ablaze. These people, concluded the journalists, were either very brave or very stupid. 

Or possibly neither. Despite their goth following, All About Eve were one of the few acts of this era to have a genuinely romantic and unironic view of the recent pre-punk past. Psychedelia didn’t play a prominent role in their musical thinking, but the early to mid seventies did. Miles Hunt of The Wonder Stuff scoffed that the group were like Fleetwood Mac**, but his barbs aside, they also clearly had Fairport Convention in their record collections too (or at the very least lead singer Julianne Regan certainly did). The group could rock out, but there was a floaty, measured, almost gentile aspect to everything they did – the airy softness and wondrous expression of Regan’s voice dictating the backdrop and ensuring the group were never going to be anchored to thundering basslines and reverb-heavy rhythms. You just can’t mix those kinds of flavours together.

Moreover, Regan wasn’t shy about passionately embracing topics of conversation the mainstream press almost certainly regarded as passé – she happily spilled forth about paganism and spells at a point in time where even Julian Cope could get a bit cautious around the subject. It was never exactly clear whether she simply didn’t give a shit whether she was being fashionable or was too carried away with her own trip to notice. Her interviews at this time were fascinatingly but almost innocently out of time, enthusiastic must-reads for anyone who didn’t want to wade through even more rock decadence and punk inspired nihilism.

Perhaps it would have been more surprising if such a group hadn’t released a single about the death of the hippy dream, then. Despite this, “Flowers In Our Hair” is, it has to be said, somewhat heavy handed, but with sentiments utterly in keeping with the kind of last gasps we heard in 1969. “We earn the flowers in our hair my friend/ So take my hand/ ‘One day’ is always too far away” Regan sings, with a bit of a regretful trill towards the instrumental break. The track also concludes with perhaps the key point a lot of journalists missed, unable to see the cynicism for the paisley patterns: “We only dare to say 'please love me'/ At the seventh glass of wine”. Aha. So it’s as much about buttoned-up English repression and how that ties in with disappointment and sourness and unrealised emotional aspirations. It also explains an earlier line “Do you ever think we’ll make it/ something more than a uniform?” 

Regan’s voice and easy, floaty charisma enabled her to get away with these ideas in a way very few other vocalists at the time could have pulled off. She’s too confident and powerful in her delivery to be child-like (which would have rendered this record an horrendous, twee mess – imagine it sung in a lisping, prim voice to get what I mean) but has enough natural charm and gentleness to also make the ideas seem almost palatable, even slap-bang in the middle of a Thatcherite decade where you were supposed to be either greedy or angry (or possibly both). She appeared to have inherited the independent spirit and waywardness of punk in terms of attitude, but the record collection of a mid seventies university graduate.

95. Rose of Avalanche - Always There (Fire)

One week at number one on 11th April 1987

By the late eighties, the goth movement – if it could sensibly be called a "movement" – had become one of the most unbudging aspects of alternative music. I’ve now spent over two years writing this blog, covering six years worth of music; goth was there from the off with Bauhaus and The Birthday Party, and their surviving (metaphorical) kin and offspring only seemed to get stronger and reach ever-larger audiences following their demise. Goth didn’t fade from view like anarcho-punk or the quirkier jolts of New Wave, it sat enigmatically in the corner of the nightclub recruiting more and more people to its cause.

As the decade progressed, a pattern emerged which is typical of most sub-genres and movements; there were groups deemed goth royalty whom nobody was allowed to blaspheme against, whose inevitable second-week chart peak appearances on Top of the Pops were deemed victories for the sect. Beneath those honoured few, however, lay scores of bands who might, if they were lucky and a fair wind was behind them on a Spring afternoon, score a high placing indie chart entry. Despite this, they would never be radio playlisted or let close to any television programme which wasn’t The Tube or the Oxford Roadshow, and as such would remain fringe concerns. Your Dad might have sung along to The Cure’s “The Lovecats” when it came on the radio, but he wasn’t getting anywhere near Red Lorry Yellow Lorry’s “Open Up” (though nor would you have wanted him to - I mean, imagine that).

Sometimes, if the indie charts were soft and not much else was happening, they might even score a number one. We saw this with the March Violets in the typically sleepy August of 1984, and Rose of Avalanche repeat the trick again close to the Easter period of 1987. They were always one of the more straightforward goth bands; loyal to their leaden, reverb-heavy and spartan drumbeats, sombre melodies and slowly scaling ideas which sometimes stretched beyond the five minute mark (their single prior to this one, “Velveteen”, was an epic tribute to Nico which is probably their most enduring song in both length and subsequent reputation).

In common with many goth bands, they disputed ever being part of the movement, and in this case I’ll sympathise. They often seemed like university students who had tried too hard to impress the kids who dressed like Velvet Underground members in their first year, and found themselves shunned and dealing with their next closest compatriots instead. Never quite hip enough, always wondering what might have happened if they’d just played it a bit cooler during Fresher’s Week.

They were, to all intents and purposes, a band who could just as easily have been on Creation and hanging out with Pete Astor and Bobby Gillespie. They loved psychedelic rock and The Doors, they wore leather jackets and sunglasses at night, and they weren’t against wearing paisley clothing. As you’d therefore expect, their music occasionally lifted its head out of the mourning bow to shuffle, boogie and stride; they were never averse to a simple garage rock chorus or an airy, stoned rock-out.

Which is essentially where we come in with “Always There”, which sadly isn't a cover of Marti Webb's version of the "Howard's Way" theme, but a pretty jangle and stride through verses and choruses you wouldn’t be surprised to find on a sixties obscurities compilation. If the chorus of “I know death won’t find us” is very goth indeed, its surrounding melodies, harmonies and production would have been equally at home on a House Of Love single. Their only drawback is their straightforwardness – where Terry Bickers would have found space to scrape and wail around unpredictably, The Rose of Avalanche are steadfastly loyal to the central rhythm and riff, seeming afraid to wander too far off the track in case they lose grip of the plot.

In that sense, then, they were very goth; the band themselves acknowledged this paradox, calling themselves “too rock for goths, too goth for rockers”. Many of the minor goth acts clutched on to their basic ideas and drum machine patterns tightly, offering a shady safeness from guitar hero licks or skittering dancefloor rhythms; there’s a reason that many goths held Joy Division close to their bosoms but could be faintly sniffy about New Order, and it had everything to do with the way the latter used their drum machine to lift feet off the floor rather than keep them anchored with a dead weight.