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.

43. Cocteau Twins - Sunburst and Snowblind (EP) (4AD)

One week at number one on w/e 21st January 1984

I currently live in a terraced house next door to some students, a situation which causes endless eye-rolling and sighs when I mention it to any locals. These are usually followed by comments along the lines of “What did you ever do to deserve that, eh?” and commiserations for my sleep deprivation and the inevitable vermin crawling through the walls.

In reality, I’ve been through three sets of student neighbours now and at worst, they’ve all been no more noisy than a family with small children. Only occasionally do sounds of loud music or conversation seep out of open windows in late Spring and early summer, and on one of these warm days in 2023, I was decluttering the front garden when I heard a familiar drone drifting my way. It was The Cocteau Twins, leaking gently into the June air outside, making Liz Fraser one of the first singers I heard when I started university in 1993 (as mentioned in the This Mortal Coil entry) and one of the earliest things I heard when I first bought a house next door to some students thirty whole years later.

There’s a neat linearity and consistency to this which suggests that the Cocteau Twins have some timeless boho/student quality about them, and while we shouldn’t trust anecdotal evidence – I honestly don’t believe most student digs in 2025 are humming to the sound of their work – it’s not unreasonable to suggest that they’ve largely resisted the winds of change. There are any number of acclaimed indie groups this decade whose sound could be, consciously or otherwise, described as having a debt to their ideas. By saying this, it’s not as if I’m offering a fresh viewpoint either; a quick look at the comments section of just about any of their YouTube videos will surface a ton of comments along the lines of “These guys invented dreampop/ shoegaze!” for anyone who couldn’t tell that just by using their ears and checking the copyright date.

So it was with this in mind that I cued this EP up, ready to give it a close listen and dissect it in a frothing way, hailing Fraser, Guthrie and Raymonde as prophets who understood the likely direction of alternative music far beyond the early edges of the eighties, when something strange happened. I realised that, in the context of the years running up to it, the individual components making up their sound aren’t as radical as you’d think. For the last six months now, as I’ve ploughed through weeks of indie chart listings, numerous groups have surfaced with hazy, out-of-focus guitar lines droning against deep Joy Division inspired bass lines. Within that early eighties lineage, the sounds on “Sunburst and Snowblind” are neither alien nor entirely fresh, just oddly aligned.

You can hear it in the low throbbing bass, the guitars obscured by aerosol mist, in Liz Fraser’s proud and emotive but vague psychedelic pronouncements; this is really just post-punk with a twist at this stage. For all the surprisingly familiarity, though, they share with The Smiths a technique and ability which combine to create something which sounds more confident and less fumbling than most of the work which preceded it, and in the process something much more strange and distinct.

Fraser’s commanding presence – she’s often written about as if she’s a frail waif warbling mystical spells, but these vocals are bold and precise – feels key here, but Robin Guthrie and Simon Raymonde were also prime contributors. Little was made of it at the time, but Simon is the son of the arranger Ivor Raymonde whose credits are splashed across numerous sixties singles from artists as varied as The Walker Brothers, Dusty Springfield, The Stylistics, Ken Dodd, and then rather more messy, scuzzy acts such as The Flies and Los Bravos, and the largely forgotten, melodramatic likes of Paul Slade.

Having a parent who played a key backroom role in music probably gave Simon Raymonde the confidence to pursue a living on his own artistic terms, but it’s hard to hear much of father Ivor’s influence in The Cocteau Twins work. His work usually consisted of either pin-point precise orchestrations or rough sixties rave ups (try on Los Bravos “Going Nowhere” for size) while, if anything, The Cocteau Twins specialised in what could be described as abstract smudginess – manipulating the studio to create imprecise waterlogged sounds the likes of Dusty Springfield would have rejected. If Ivor was the man wandering around the recording studio polishing everything until it shone, Simon’s (and Guthrie’s) default mode seemed to be pride in their vagueness, stomping pastel crayons over their canvas rather than creating airbrushed prettiness.

1984

 

1983 has been a fairly predictable year, one of continuation with both familiar indie names (New Order, Depeche Mode and Vince Clarke doing whatever he feels like doing in any given week) and familiar old hands who were IPC critical favourites joining the amateur leagues for various reasons of their own (Elvis Costello, Robert Wyatt, Tom Robinson). 

There's also been a lot of fury in the racks as well with the anti-Falklands War sentiment seeping over from 1982, and the punk movement continuing to have its say lower down the charts, although there's been a clear weakening of the grip in this respect. Beyond that, it's hard to point towards unique trends or unexpected developments which aren't in the shape of Morrissey's ambitious quiff. It's hard not to get the feeling that The Smiths weren't just damn good at what they did, the hysteria around their arrival was due to the fact that they were also introducing something fresh to a scene which was beginning to become trapped in a predictable post-punk holding pattern. 

1984 approaches, and without introducing too many spoilers, it does feel as if huge changes occur in the indie charts ahead, many of them practical rather than stylistic. 

For one thing, a sluggishness sets in which feels unfamiliar. The indie charts have always been a place where the big sellers have hogged the top ten for weeks on end while the culty new releases buzz beneath them, but given the growing number of dominant groups with long sales tails - yer New Orders, Smiths, Cocteaus and Depeches - it feels more pronounced in 1984 and contributes to a much more static chart overall. The number of new entries each week feels proportionately very low by comparison, and there are a couple of weeks where there are none whatsoever and the rest of the chart is just a shuffling of the previous week's pack. 

This isn't the only thing that's contributed to a less populated Spotify playlist than usual, though. There's also the small matter of the IPC strike which took place over the summer of 1984, knocking out production of the NME and also (logically enough) publication of the NME Chart. What might have occurred during that period is a problem we may have to confront later - but in reality, we'll never truly know what might have been number one throughout that summer period unless somebody turns up with a batch of unpublished information. The odds of that happening are close to zero. 

There were also bigger business problems in 1984 which saw Pinnacle entering a period of crisis towards the tail end of the year, poor sales for the valve electronics aspect of their business causing the receiver to be called in. While Windsong eventually rescued their distribution side, this led to a number of artists and labels temporarily shifting distribution away from the indie sector and towards major labels, also creating a sense of stasis in the indie chart for a brief period. 

Stylistically though, it's possible to sense a shift occurring. The first few Creation releases make their presence felt in 1984 (spoiler - The Legend! does not chart) and while only one makes a major impression, some of the others show McGee was very astute about where underground pop might be going next, even if the records he offered up initially were seldom more than "quite good". Indeed, elsewhere it's also possible to spot a few groups who would later be seen as none-more-1986 indie acts just starting to build a fanbase and make a bit of headway, no doubt influenced by The Smiths sudden appearance as the biggest new name on the chart. 

But that's what's up ahead. For your last chance to kiss goodbye to 1983, dig into the Spotify playlist below. The 1984 list of all available Top 30 tunes is to your right. 

Meanwhile... I've also published some handy data and indexing for the number ones over here. Now you have a map, you lucky people. 

Furthermore, as we're now 42 singles deep into this project, it feels logical (and less onerous on any sane reader) to produce an overall playlist of the actual number ones. This can also be found on the right hand side of the page. To avoid spoilers, I'll add to this gradually after we've covered each new number one. 

41b. The Smiths - This Charming Man (Rough Trade)

 

Returned to number one for six more weeks on w/e 3rd December 1983

The Assembly's "Never Never" may have been a huge chart hit, but The Smiths finished 1983 as an ever-growing and unstoppable cult, and in the world of the indie charts, the ferocity of the cult is everything. The underground kids are the ones marching towards Rough Trade en masse to buy the most important new record, after all, not the biggest pop hit. 

That "This Charming Man" managed only week at the top in November felt implausibly stingy at the time, so it's no surprise to see them back on top and managing to hold that position until well into 1984. It's a result that disrupts the natural flow and timeline of this blog somewhat - it would have been much better to see out 1983 and begin 1984 with a brand new track - but sometimes an excess of liquid causes the jug to overflow, and all we can do is mop up the mess around the table as best we can.

Here is what happened in the rest of the indie charts while The Smiths were back at number one.

Week One

12. Birthday Party - "Mutiny! EP" (Mute)

Peak position: 3

The final release following Birthday Party's split in mid-1983, the "Mutiny!" EP shows Nick Cave clearly moving towards the Bad Seeds style. While nobody would dare to suggest that the title track "Jennifer's Veil" was anything approaching pop music, the chaotic fury of their earliest releases has now totally been replaced by something much more controlled but no less sinister. Cave is the clear leader here while the rest of the group twang and strum behind. 

20. The Higsons: "Push Out The Boat" (Waap)

Peak position: 14

Charlie Higson and his boys were deeply unlucky not to score a genuine hit in the early eighties - if Pigbag managed to cross over with their angular dancefloor friendly post-punk, there's absolutely no reason why The Higsons frequently more commercial singles couldn't have become a bigger deal as well.

"Push Out The Boat" probably emerged far too late in the day, just as the tide was going out for this kind of affair, but it's an absolute triumph, combining taut dancefloor grooves with a sense of urgency and purpose so many of their compatriots were too cool to get close to. If it weren't for the fact that Higson eventually became best known as a comedy writer and performer, chances are he would have enjoyed a stronger reappraisal at the turn of the 21st Century, but by that point he didn't seem obscure enough or "serious" enough for the Hoxton Hipsters. 

21. Red Lorry Yellow Lorry - He's Read (Red Rhino)

Peak position: 21

27. !Action Pact! - Question of Choice (Fall Out)

Peak position: 19

Week Two

15. New Model Army - Great Expectations (Abstract)

Peak position: 15

New Model Army would rapidly go on to become a huge cult rock band, simultaneously blessed and cursed with a fanbase who were almost as fanatical as The Smiths' tribe, but often more confrontational. Stories abounded of interested punters casually turning up to their gigs and being beaten up for not looking the part. 

Unlike The Exploited, it's hard to imagine New Model Army encouraging this behaviour. While their political ideologies were often strict and puritanical, the group themselves were keen for the ideas to reach as large an audience as possible. Their second single "Great Expectations" is a sneering attack both on the way naive capitalist ideas worm their way into both the education system and parenting. "They said 'Son, it could all be yours, you just work hard and pay your dues/ Don't be content with what you've got, there's always more that you can want/ Everybody's on the make - that's what made this country great" - these are words which could just as easily have been written yesterday as in the Thatcherite sunlit uplands of 1983. 

Unlike a lot of the political rants that bind up the indie charts, NMA put across their ideas with both a degree of intelligence and relish. "Great Expectations" is a tight morality tale accompanied with a sneering thrash, and a chorus which Paul Weller (who they probably hated) wouldn't have been ashamed of. 

42. The Assembly - Never Never (Mute)

 

Number one for one week on w/e 26th November 1983

Where Vince Clarke's head was at in the early eighties is a subject that's enjoyed surprisingly little debate, but following Yazoo's dissolution he forged the concept The Assembly. The idea behind the somewhat practically named unit was that he and long-term studio engineer and producer Eric Radcliffe would hire a revolving cast of lead singers to front Clarke's songs.  

This is a fascinating plan which seems to have been borne more of Clarke’s wariness than any commercial or even creative considerations, and the only song to emerge from it is this one led by Feargal Sharkey. Sharkey was also idly kicking a tin can around in late 1983 - The Undertones were one of many punk groups to have found the commercial headwinds of the early eighties insurmountable, and their final album “The Sin Of Pride”, released in March that year, managed to climb only to number 43 in the album charts (15 spaces lower than plucky Oi hopefuls Blitz, to give some sense of how much even the punk market had moved on). The record saw the group trying to shift direction, incorporating soul, sixties garage and Motown ideas, but the end results failed to create a hit single.

By May 1983 Sharkey had announced the group’s split, and they struggled through to the end of a European Tour, waved goodbye to their remaining fans, and disappeared with surprisingly little fuss or fanfare given the levels of success they had achieved in their prime. A Best Of, “All Wrapped Up”, emerged in Autumn 1983 and performed worse than “The Sin Of Pride”, climbing only to number 67. The Undertones could seemingly win neither with a change of musical direction, nor with their Golden Greats. Nobody apart from their most loyal fans really gave a shit that “Teenage Kicks” was John Peel’s favourite single of all time, or wanted to hear “My Perfect Cousin” or “Jimmy Jimmy” again; that degree of reappraisal would take a long time to ferment.

Under the circumstances, Sharkey had everything to win and nothing to lose from sharing a studio with Vince Clarke. While the latter may have been in a similar position and was equally bandless and perhaps bereft of direction, he had recent success on his side. The charts also proved that Sharkey loaning his voice to a synthetic backdrop wasn’t going to cost him any punk credibility – that counted for nought by this point. As if to illustrate this point, while “All Wrapped Up” was struggling in the lower reaches of the album charts, “Never Never” was already in the national top ten.

His presence also doesn't really upend everything as much as you’d expect. Despite his quivering but tough “big boys don’t cry” vocal stylings, “Never Never” remains a quintessential early eighties era Clarke track. Had this been handed to Moyet as a farewell single instead, there’s no doubt it would have had the same impact; akin to “Only You”, it’s another delicate, spring-wound synth ballad, which despite the high-tech setting – there’s a Fairlight CMI in the mix here - sounds almost rustic. The arrangement knocks and creaks like a windmill in Old Amsterdam (perhaps inspiring the promo video, shot in a windmill in Essex), while the keyboards ring out depressive, autumnal chimes. There are moments where it even sounds like an instrumental excerpt from the soundtrack of a children’s stop-motion animation.

Clarke and Radcliffe are the despondent organ grinders while Sharkey bemoans his loveless fate – “Love’s just a door that’s locked and there’s no key” – and finally, it seems, finds an appropriate setting for his voice outside The Undertones. Their later singles may have been more soulful than usual, but were still attacked vigorously with their primary colour loaded paintbrush, leaving him in his usual role as the exuberant and forceful punk era frontman. “Never Never” allows softer pastel hues in, and proves he had a flexibility few might have suspected in The Undertones earliest years.

Following the success of this single, and against the reckoning of many music critics of the period, Sharkey eventually regained his footing and achieved enormous success by the mid-eighties, his version of Maria McKee’s “A Good Heart” going on to become one of the more enduring number ones of the decade. “Never Never” had presented his ruggedness in a pop context and succeeded, and arguably gave major labels the confidence to view his career afresh.