Tagged: Suicide

The Feelies vs Lou Reed

I have two records sitting at the base of my stereo at the moment, both purchased last week. One is the Feelies’ new album Here Before, which I have been giving a severe flogging. The other is a lovely, near-mint original American pressing of Lou Reed’s Berlin, which so far I have been too scared to play.

Here Before is the first Feelies record for close to 20 years, and it’s as though they’ve never been away. There’s no great advance on the last three albums that the band recorded in the late ’80s and early ’90s, all of which are more relaxed, pastoral affairs than the band’s brilliant but twitchy 1980 debut, Crazy Rhythms. (That record opened with a song called The Boy With The Perpetual Nervousness, which was a pretty apt description of the four of them, and the music they made together.)

Looking around for some information about Here Before, I came across this review, and I was struck by the following quote by writer Jordan Cronk, which sums up the record and my feelings towards it perfectly: “Here Before could have come out in 1987 or 2027 and my feelings about it would be more or less the same: this is a good album with a lot of easy-going songs that sound pretty much the same.”

I love this. Rock critics are like peacocks at the best of times, so it’s refreshing to read a review that eschews preening and instead gets right to the nub of things in a plain manner. He’s right: Here Before is a very easy listen, and many of the songs do sound, frankly, interchangeable. They do, however, consistently tingle the nerve endings in a pleasing manner. But when did I start becoming so satisfied with that?

Lou Reed is one of the Feelies’ obvious heroes – many of their songs recall the more mellow moments of the Velvet Underground, such as Some Kinda Love, or when they’re in a more energetic mood What Goes On (which they’ve covered).

I suspect, though, they never spent much time with Berlin, which is quite possibly the most depressing album ever made. It’s even more depressing than Joy Division’s awesomely bleak Closer, a reissue of which I also bought recently. Closer is an incredibly moving, magisterial piece of work, but it’s in no danger of being overplayed, because I never fail to end up feeling worse after listening to it. (As opposed to, say, the Ramones, who always leave me feeling better, regardless of how up or down I’m feeling on any given day.)

Berlin, though, leaves Closer for dead. It hits its peak of emotional devastation on The Kids, in which authorities are sent to remove the children of their speed-freak mother Caroline, the album’s central character. The song plays out – for several, awful minutes – to what sounds like a live recording of their screams and wails: “Mommy!” It’s so primal and genuinely upsetting that, on hearing this song playing in a record store a while back, I actually had to flee.

So, anyway, it’s been sitting in front of my stereo, daring me to play it. I will get around to it, perhaps after Christmas, but before the New Year. Who would want to kick off 2012 in such a fashion? Um, I probably won’t play it while my fiancée is around, either.

And after I’ve played it, it will be filed where it belongs, right after Transformer, Reed’s peppy, bitchy, completely wonderful take on New York’s ’70s drag scene. I’ll probably play that record, which is one of my favourites, another 20 times or more before returning to Berlin.

About eight years ago, I read Nick Hornby’s 31 Songs. I hated it. I hated its smug, tossed-off nature; the conceit that 31 examples of Nick Hornby’s self-absorption made for a meaningful exercise in criticism. But most of all, I hated it for an essay comparing Suicide’s Frankie Teardrop to Teenage Fanclub’s Ain’t That Enough.

In Hornby’s view, rock critics are a pretty sheltered lot. It is, he points out, a young person’s game, and young people tend not to have had a lot of life experience. Fancying themselves as romantic poets, they’re drawn to the dark side, and thus prone to over-excitement when art is calculated to shock and awe, as Frankie Teardrop (and Berlin) undoubtedly is.

I might have accepted this if Hornby had been honest or at least self-deprecating enough to have included a younger version of himself in this monstrous over-generalisation. Instead he proclaimed to need no convincing that life could be scary. He was 44; his son had been diagnosed with autism; his friends were starting to die; and he never knew when a terrorist might invade his own home and blow up his whole family.

“It is important that we are occasionally, perhaps even frequently, depressed by books, challenged by films, shocked by paintings, maybe even disturbed by music,” he writes in conclusion. “But do they have to do these things all the time? Can’t we let them console, uplift, inspire, move, cheer? Please? Just every now and then, when we’ve had a really shitty day? I need somewhere to run to, now more than ever, and songs like Ain’t That Enough is where I run.”

I mean, please, my 32-year-old self thought. Cry me a river, why don’t you, or just have a good hot cup of HTFU.

Now I’m 40. I have a mother with Alzheimer’s Disease. But also (and this is perhaps more important) I’m engaged, in love, my heart is completely full; it’s no longer nine parts water, one part sand. And Berlin’s still sitting there, unplayed. I’m starting to understand how Hornby felt.

The Great Australian Songbook II (40-31)

As promised from yesterday. I’ve tried to cover as many bases as possible in terms of decade and genre, avoiding multiple selections for the same artist.

Without further ado, here’s the list from 40 to 31.

40. COSMIC PSYCHOS – Lost Cause (1988)

It was Spinal Tap who pointed out the fine line between clever and stupid. In Australia, you won’t find three smarter beer-swilling yobs than The Cosmic Psychos. This isn’t a song about punching above your weight – it’s about being out of your weight division entirely. “Dr” Ross Knight, the band’s bass player, is a farmer from outside Bendigo who’s been known to cancel tours when his tractor breaks down. At the time he wrote this song, he was working part-time in the medical records department of a local hospital, where he fell under the spell of an attractive young lady who’s “only 19, not a has-been!” “I was about 25, 26 at that point, a bogan fucking pisshead,” Knight recalls. “I said to a mate of mine, ‘I wouldn’t mind taking her out,’ and he goes, ‘Nah – have a look at you! She’s a lost cause, mate!” The song was later covered by L7 and The Prodigy.

39. DO RE MI – Man Overboard (1985)

After the comic ribaldry of the Cosmic Psychos, it’s nice to follow Lost Cause with the best piece of feminist polemic set to pop music in Australia since Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman. Do Re Mi’s lean, agitated funk provided all the space required for Deborah Conway’s sharp-eyed, razor-tongued portrait of a relationship in terminal decay. Critic Toby Creswell reckoned Conway had a voice like a braying donkey. If that’s the case, it’s even more impressive that a song with no chorus and lyrics that referenced sexual boredom, penis envy and anal humour actually became a top five hit.

38. SEVERED HEADS – Dead Eyes Opened (1984; remixed 1995)

Australia is not well known for its electronic music output, but long before the Avalanches scored with Since I Left You in 2000 there was Tom Ellard’s brilliant Severed Heads. Exploring the space between the industrial terror of Suicide, the pop smarts of New Order and the minimalism of Kraftwerk, the creepy Dead Eyes Opened was both of its time and ahead of it, and proved it by being a hit twice: once upon its release in 1984, and then again with a remixed version in 1995.

37. DAVE GRANEY & THE CORAL SNAKES – You’re Just Too Hip, Baby (1993)

On one hand, Dave Graney is an eccentric from Mt Gambier, South Australia who’s read too many Raymond Chandler novels. His genius is in filtering his influences through his own uniquely idiosyncratic worldview, and you won’t find a better example than this minor hit from 1993 that set the former Moodist on his way to unlikely Australian King of Pop status a couple of years later. “You take a feather from every bird you see / You’ll never fly” is the perfect rejoinder to a jaded hipster, accented by Rod Hayward’s stinging guitar breaks.

36. MENTAL AS ANYTHING – The Nips Are Getting Bigger (1979)

One of the all-time great Australian drinking songs. It starts out just drinking beer, then it progresses to Jamaican rum, and things are all downhill from there for poor Martin Plaza: “Wiping out brain cells by the million, but I don’t care / It doesn’t worry me even though I ain’t got a lot to spare.” Reg Mombassa’s splashes (splatters?) of guitar are as colourful as his designs for Mambo, but it’s Plaza’s sad, funny and true portrait of everyday alcoholic waste that, once heard, never leaves you.

35. REGURGITATOR – ! (The Song Formerly Known As) (1997)

First, there’s a chuckle. Add a clipped white-funk guitar (which actually sounds more like Chic’s Nile Rodgers than Prince), then a belching bass keyboard fill, and voilà: instant party. Except it’s a party that Quan Yeomans doesn’t want to go to. He’d rather stay at home, dancing in ugly pants in the comfort of his suburban lounge room. Regurgitator are amazingly versatile – they can do hardcore, they can do pop, and their contribution to Australian hip-hop is massively undersold, but this wonderful paean to the socially awkward is their finest moment, and propelled its parent album, Unit, to triple-platinum status. Thank you, Mr DJ.

34. THE CRUEL SEA – This Is Not The Way Home (1991)

This is a driving song, best suited to very long, very straight, very red roads far beyond Woop Woop, with a bunch of mates and a case of beer for company: just leave the actual driving to whichever one of you is least inebriated. Snatches of conversations, casual observations, hints of violence and a chugging rhythm – Dan Rumour’s introductory snippet of guitar before the rhythm section kicks in is akin to a smooth change from third to fourth – and you’re away, with the throttling slide guitar in the chorus putting the whole thing into overdrive. Somehow, I’ve never been busted speeding to it.

33. DIVINYLS – Back To The Wall (1988)

Boys In Town, Pleasure And Pain, Science Fiction and the masturbatory epic I Touch Myself were all bigger hits, and it would be easier to choose any of them for popularity’s sake. But on this killer tune, Chrissy Amphlett nailed her tough but vulnerable rock-chick persona for all time. Swathed in co-conspirator/lover Mark McEntee’s echoing Rickenbacker and unobtrusive keyboards, this is dangerous, borderline stuff, all the more compelling for its restraint: the predicted eruption never arrives, but Amphlett’s threats hang in the air, leaving you cowering in a corner.

32. SCIENTISTS – Swampland (1982)

Years ago I was trying to write a book about Australian garage rock under this title, and I bumped into the song’s author, Kim Salmon, at a Mudhoney show earlier this week. He joked that at the rate I’m going, he’d have his memoirs out before my own effort. He’s calling his work-in-progress Nine Parts Water, One Part Sand: How I Invented Grunge, and while he’s at least partly joking, there are plenty (Mudhoney included) who don’t dispute his claim. The Scientists were doing the soft-loud thing long before the Pixies, and with equal style: imagine the Count Five, the Cramps and Creedence jamming in a garage, and you’re back on the Bayou.

31. LAUGHING CLOWNS – Eternally Yours (1984)

After the Saints, Ed Kuepper formed the all but unclassifiable (and, occasionally, all but unlistenable) Laughing Clowns. With three virtuoso players in their ranks, the Clowns were musician’s musicians, with Kuepper – one of this country’s greatest guitarists – backed by drummer Jeff Wegener and saxophonist Louise Elliott. Here, Elliott’s the star, building from an austere melody to a stupendous climax: prepare to have your breath taken away at 4.21, when she holds a long note for eight full seconds, before taking flight for an extraordinary finale. Rock music doesn’t get much more stirring than this.