Tagged: The Only Ones

Peter Perrett returns to earth from another planet

Rock journalist Nina Antonia said it best. “If there was only one song in the universe and it was Another Girl, Another Planet, I would still have all I ever wanted,” she wrote. Though not a hit at the time, the song, released in 1978 by London group the Only Ones, is now a celebrated classic: a muted guitar intro swiftly blooming into a headlong rush, set to lyrics that make little effort to conceal singer Peter Perrett’s narcotic love affair.

“You get under my skin, I don’t find it irritating / You always play to win, but I don’t need rehabilitating,” Perrett sang. And for decades, Perrett was a man beyond rehabilitation: in a variation of the famous Charlie Watts story about Keith Richards telling the Rolling Stones drummer he had a problem, former New York Dolls guitarist Johnny Thunders – one of rock’s most notorious junkies – once paid Perrett a visit to lambast him for wasting his talent.

Thunders died in 1991; Perrett, miraculously, is still alive. After three albums with the Only Ones, who recorded some of the most elegantly wasted rock music ever made between 1976 and 1981, he disappeared into an abyss of addictions: first heroin, then crack. There was a brief reappearance in the mid-1990s, followed by another decade’s silence before a brief Only Ones reunion. “That was my avatar there on stage, it wasn’t really me,” he says.

And now, in what is surely this year’s most unexpected and best resurrection, Perrett has returned, aged 65 and looking about 85, despite a still-impressive mop of rock-star hair. His first solo album How The West Was Won shows his sleepy Sarf London voice and droll humour preserved intact, its title track sardonically declaring his love for Kim Kardashian: “She’s taken over from J-Lo as my number one / Even though I know she’s just a bum.”

The album was made with his sons Jamie and Peter Perrett jnr on guitar and bass respectively. Previously, they’d played for a short time in Babyshambles with Pete Doherty, Perrett’s modern wastrel equivalent. “It was my family who drew me back into music,” Perrett says. “They rehearse upstairs from where I live. I’d hear them rehearsing and they’d come down and say ‘Why don’t you come up and play, Dad?’ “

Perrett hadn’t picked up a guitar in years. “I got refocused and disciplined,” he says. “My life had changed, and I started living a more orderly existence.” Songs poured forth: 40 of them from the summer of 2015, pared down to 10 for just his fifth album in 39 years. “I’ve always believed in quality rather than quantity,” he deadpans, but awareness that his time may be limited means he’s already working on a follow-up.

The Only Ones had reformed in 2007, after Another Girl, Another Planet was used in a British ad campaign. Originally, the song had charted for one solitary week – at number 44, in New Zealand, three years after its release. “Maybe it’s because it’s got a 32-bar intro, with a great big long guitar solo before the vocals come in,” Perrett muses, when asked why, or how, his most beloved song flopped. Or maybe it was the subject matter.

Regardless, it will long outlive its maker. “I’d much rather have a song which people still listen to 40 years later and respect and do covers of, rather than have something which is a big hit and is then forgotten,” he says. “[With] Another Girl, Another Planet you can’t really tell when it was recorded, because I think it’s timeless. I think everything we did was timeless.”

But recruiting the band again wasn’t an option. Drummer Mike Kellie, who died earlier this year, was seriously ill and an earlier foray back into the studio hadn’t gone well. The band gigged for a couple of years before things fell apart again. “I was there in body but not in mind. My mind was back in my room with my various paraphernalia, that I wanted to return to as soon as possible.”

Perrett was also aware of the danger of tarnishing the band’s legacy. He says the sessions the band recorded were “a pale representation of what we were”. In hindsight, he says, “nothing new was going to come out of it because I wasn’t in a state to be productive, or even want to be productive. It always felt slightly nostalgic, and if I’m going to do music I want to do it because I’ve got something new to say.”

Clean at last, with the support of his sons and drummer Jake Woodward, Perrett had a young, fresh band imprinted with his own musical DNA. Nostalgia was replaced with an urge to start anew. “If I’m not feeling my emotions to the fullest extent then I haven’t got that driving force to be in that state. Before, my mind was very distracted and my emotions were numb, and to me that’s not the way to produce your best work,” he says.

Years of abuse have taken a toll on Perrett’s body. “My lungs aren’t that great, but they manage to sing,” he says. “I had to learn how to sing again; it’s like a harmonium where the bellows are a bit squeaky. So I had to find a way of singing where they sounded great again. The one drawback is we’ve got to start gigging soon, and I won’t be able to jump around the stage. I have to conserve my energy to concentrate on singing.”

I ask what has pulled him through. “What’s got me though is basically love,” Perrett says. He’s not joking. His wife of 47 years, Xena, has stood by him throughout. “I’ve shared all my experiences with my soul mate. That’s why I had to have four love songs on the album.” (Although one of them, Troika, might be better described as a paean to a triumvirate: “You must admit there’s strength in numbers,” he sings).

In the album’s most telling and triumphant song, Something In My Brain, Perrett describes an experiment with a rat. “He could choose food / Or he could choose crack / Well the rat, he starved to death / But I didn’t die, at least not yet / I’m still just about capable / Of one last defiant breath.” It finishes with a raised fist, or maybe it’s a middle finger: “Now rock & roll is back in me – oh yeah!”

But as he also sings in An Epic Story, it’s too late for repentance of sins. Perrett insists he wouldn’t do anything differently. “It’s sort of embarrassing how many times you have to do something before you learn your lesson, but I can’t really regret it, it’s just me,” he says. “You know, I’m a flawed person, I’m an imperfect human being … The advice I’d give to young people is don’t do what I did, but I wouldn’t change any of my decisions.

“It’s not constructive to think about mistakes that you’ve made and how things might have been different. To have the pleasure of making an album that was the perfect album I could make, for that time, makes me celebrate the past. Even though I can be honest about certain aspects of it, to me it’s still a celebration of survival. You know, lots of my friends aren’t here.”

First published in Spectrum (The Sydney Morning Herald/The Age), 2 September 2017

Sunnyboys: The Complete Albert Sessions/New Kicks

The recent re-emergence of the Sunnyboys on stages around the country has been a genuine feel-good story. Between roughly 1980 and 1984, the band – singer and guitarist Jeremy Oxley, his brother Peter on bass, Bil Bilson on drums and second guitarist Richard Burgmann – were a flaming meteor across the Australian music landscape, adored by fans and critics alike. And then, like a meteor, they just fizzled out: the band’s momentum cruelled by changing fashions and Jeremy’s descent into a long battle with schizophrenia.

It’s a story well told in a recent documentary, The Sunnyboy, that has brought new attention to this great Australian band’s legacy. An earlier compilation, This Is Real, and the band’s tentative return to live performance via the Hoodoo Gurus-curated Dig It Up festival has cleared the path for a serious re-evaluation of their small but vital catalogue of recordings, and it starts here, with the classic self-titled debut from 1981 spread over two discs and stacked with more bonus material than any fan could dream of.

The Sunnyboys’ brilliance lay in a combination of sensitivity and toughness that distinguished them from both their predecessors (after raw beginnings in northern New South Wales, they emerged fully-formed from the late ’70s Sydney punk scene left behind by Radio Birdman) and those that followed, such as the Gurus. Lines like “I fall back into your arms / My body rests like a charm around your neck” (from I’m Shakin’) won them legions of female fans – something their more macho contemporaries could only dream of.

But listening to Sunnyboys, you’d be forgiven for wondering if these young lads ever dared to make the first move. It’s hard knowing what to say when you’re a teenager, especially to someone you’re attracted to. Jeremy’s social phobia is obvious from the first song, I Can’t Talk To You, a magnificent surge of energy powered by Bil Bilson’s drums (actually, the song is pretty much one long drum roll). Happy Man spells it out again: “I’ve got a hangup / I can’t communicate,” he confesses.

Elsewhere lies only confusion: “Watching the news I don’t learn anything / It all seems so far away,” he cries on My Only Friend, a sort of distant precursor to God’s epochal 1988 single My Pal. It would certainly be a mistake to suggest Trouble In My Brain is some kind of premonition about Jeremy’s later mental health struggles: as he points out, everyone around him is going insane. The only thing that matters in such a crazy world is being able to connect.

But how to do that, when “the conversation’s terror” and “death is coming to the phone”? This is pure teenage angst. Anyone who has ever been an adolescent can relate to this stuff. And it’s all delivered in one of the plainest, most honest voices you will ever hear, completely free of pretension or false accent, yet richly melodic: Birdman might have edged the Sunnyboys for energy, but would never get close to a tune to rival Alone With You.

Saying hello, of course, is hard enough; learning how to say goodbye is even worse. Let You Go captures the trauma of farewelling a lover, knowing in your heart it’s the right thing to do, only to then experience the visceral hurt of seeing them hook up again just a little too soon: “It still don’t seem right to watch you go and love somebody else.” There’s nothing especially musical about the solo that follows; it’s just a scream of agony.

It’s the eloquence of this music, its ability to match the mood of the lyrics, that still stuns. My Only Friend follows I Can’t Talk To You and immediately catches the listener off guard as its sharp strumming switches abruptly from major to minor chords, giving Oxley’s observations exquisite poignancy. “Doesn’t matter if I’m right, doesn’t matter if I’m wrong / Because I’ve got you,” he sings.

And what is there left to say about Alone With You, one of the very best singles of its era? As good as anything by the Kinks or the Only Ones, its indelible chorus should be tattooed on the brain every Australian of a certain age. And just hen you think this magical four-minute song can’t get any better – having already found room for not just one but two solos, with not a note wasted – Jeremy uncorks a third, pealing effort to take the song out.

The rest of disc one – the Complete Albert Sessions, from the studio where the album was made – is filled with a swag of extra tracks, most of which became beloved B-sides that would have been best-of material in the hands of any lesser band. If that was all, you would need this reissue, simply because this remaster lays waste to any previous CD version (although we should start petitioning for a vinyl release). But, for all that, it’s the second disc, New Kicks, that is the real revelation.

Certain Sunnyboys members have long maintained, while praising the work done by their producer, Lobby Loyde, that Sunnyboys didn’t really capture the power of the band’s sound on stage. This Is Real featured live material that went a long way to validating that caveat. New Kicks, a recently unearthed complete demo session for the album recorded in a single day, confirms it beyond all doubt. It is simply the sound of a red-hot band playing live – sans audience – in a great-sounding room.

Some of the takes here – notably My Only Friend, Let You Go and I’m Shakin’ – are better, and certainly more exciting to these ears than the more polished finished versions. The fact that these are arguably three of the best four songs on an album that’s extremely difficult to pick highlights from makes the discovery of these tapes all the more important. There are 17 tracks overall, recorded with such pristine clarity and ferocious commitment that New Kicks could easily have made a classic first album in its own right.

If you never much cared for the whistling on I’m Shakin’ – one of the original album’s most thrilling songs – here it’s absent, leaving the incredible interplay between the guitars of Oxley and Richard Burgmann laid bare. This pairing was a lead/rhythm combination to rival anyone, anywhere. Burgmann’s tough, gutsy counterpoints deserve special commendation for complementing Oxley’s wiry, mile-a-minute leads perfectly.

There are demos of many of the same B-sides featured on the first disc, as well as a few songs that ended up on the Sunnyboys’ next two, less successful albums, and a couple more previously unheard tracks. As fine as New Kicks, Thrill and I Don’t Want You are, the reason why they were rejected is clear: these are all fast songs, reflective of the band’s earlier origins, and unsuited to the final album’s moodier, more melancholic feel. Taken out of this context, they are still pretty much as good as rock & roll gets.

Suffice to say that whether you’ve loved this album for years, or are lucky enough to be hearing it for the first time, this reissue is an essential purchase. Long after you’ve outgrown adolescence – when all that youthful ebullience slowly gives way to a world of higher responsibilities, and you still don’t feel like you’re learning anything by watching the news – this album will be your friend. Maybe, at the times you most need it, your only friend.

First published by Double J, 30 April 2014

The Great Australian Songbook IV (20-11)

Now it starts to get hard! This is where I start to become ultra-conscious of who and what’s getting left out. The songs get harder to put in any kind of order. And I haven’t made it any easier for myself – I found I’d written Nick Cave’s The Mercy Seat down twice in my initial list of 40 (hmm – should that make it higher?), meaning I now have to find an entirely new song that’s magically going to vault straight into my top 20! Choices, choices…

20. BILLY THORPE & THE AZTECS – Most People I Know Think That I’m Crazy (1972)

This wasn’t the song, by the way. I always had this one in here. (I won’t cheapen which one it actually is by revealing it.) But, in short: what a wonderful chord progression this is, and what a great lyric, that anyone who’s ever got shitfaced in a bar with their friends should be able to relate to. Don’t we all, deep down, feel a little crazy as we try to navigate our way through a world we never asked to be born into? To be honest, I struggle to understand the fuss about much of Thorpie’s catalogue, but props to him for this brilliant common touch.

19. HOODOO GURUS – Like Wow Wipeout! (1985)

This one is all about the beat, hammered home by a human metronome called Mark Kingsmill (Richard’s older brother). Two chords and a chorus that rhymes “walk” and “talk” do the rest. But that beat! It’s a stomp made for football stadiums, and though the Hoodoo Gurus didn’t quite reach that level of success, it’s true that for a while, cricket fans would hold up placards reading “Like Wow Wipeout!”, usually after a six was struck in a one-day game. As a humbled Dave Faulkner noted, the real stars in Australia are our sports heroes anyway.

18. HUNTERS & COLLECTORS – Throw Your Arms Around Me (1984; re-recorded 1986)

A lot of folks would have this higher, and I can understand why. Crowded House recognised its potential by making it a staple of their live shows for years, but had too much respect for the song to even attempt recording it. (Of course, the Crowdies may have been biased; their bass player Nick Seymour was the brother of the song’s author Mark.) Eddie Vedder and Ben Harper have also covered it. So why wasn’t this now beloved tune a hit? It’s true that both the 1984 single and 1986 album recordings, by radio standards of the day, are rough and ready, and that probably cruelled Throw Your Arms Around Me’s chances at the time. But that surely says more about the tin ears of the fools that made such dumb decisions. Really, how could anyone not like this song?

17. SUNNYBOYS – Alone With You (1981)

Like Throw Your Arms Around Me, this song touches with its directness. But whereas the former track is a timeless soul ballad that wouldn’t have sounded out of place if recorded by Otis Redding or Wilson Pickett in the 1960s, the Sunnyboys were fans of the Kinks, the Remains and Radio Birdman, and the urgency of Alone With You is a reflection of that. Jeremy Oxley was a prodigy until tragically cut down by illness: his lyrics are straight to the point, he wore his heart on his sleeve, and his voice is effortlessly warm and natural. And just when you think this magical song can’t get any better – having already somehow found room for not one but two solos, with not a note wasted – he uncorks a third, pealing effort to take the song out. Wow.

16. RUSSELL MORRIS – The Real Thing (1969)

If you were under the misapprehension that Johnny Young was just that prat from Young Talent Time and that Molly Meldrum’s contribution to Australian music began and ended with Countdown, you need to hear this amazing song. Written by Young, produced by Meldrum, and sung/spoken in tongues by Russell Morris with unusual fervour, is this a hippy anthem or proto-punk madness? I’m not sure, but Little Richard would be proud of this inspired nonsense: “Come and see the real thing, come and see the real thing. Oo-mow-ma-mow-mow, oo-mow-ma-mow-mow.” Confused? Don’t worry, Morris can explain: “There’s meaning there, but the meaning there doesn’t really mean a thing.” (And get well, Molly.)

15. THE CHURCH – Under The Milky Way (1988)

Like the Only Ones’ Another Girl, Another Planet, or the Stranglers’ Golden Brown, or Johnny Thunders’ more direct Chinese Rocks, this could be an ode to heroin, which singer/bassist/writer Steve Kilbey has admitted to having a passionate relationship with. Or maybe that’s just a thought implanted by this song’s opaque, narcotic haze. It drifts blissfully by in a wash of 12-string acoustic splendour, with Kilbey murmuring gently in your ear like a slightly more stoned Lou Reed, with not even an e-bow solo destroying the effect (that’s the one that makes Peter Koppes’ guitar sound like bagpipes). After that unexpectedly noisy interlude, you’re back in a stoned stupor, Kilbey’s whispering again, and a more conventional but even more psychedelic guitar solo – with just a hint of wah-wah this time – drops you gently back to earth.

14. ARCHIE ROACH – Took The Children Away (1990)

“This story’s right, this story’s true. I would not tell lies to you.” And with that declaration, Archie Roach tells you his story, and the story of his people, with such quiet, understated hurt that the challenge for the listener is to get to the end of the song without weeping. It succeeds for two reasons: Roach’s words forced white people to imagine – as Paul Keating noted we failed to do, in his famous Redfern Speech two years later – these things being done to us. But songs don’t work as essays or speeches, even when they’re this well written. The real power comes from Roach’s beautiful singing: full of humility, grace, and unspeakable pain, it never forces itself on the listener. But it compelled a nation to listen and – eventually – say sorry.

13. THE REELS – Quasimodo’s Dream (1981)

A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a riddle, Quasimodo’s Dream – which writer Dave Mason has disparaged as “just complete rubbish when you listen to it” – doesn’t seem to add up to anything. That hasn’t kept other singers and songwriters including Jimmy Little (who gave it several new dimensions) and Kate Ceberano (who missed the mark with an upbeat dance pop/big band approach) from going back to it, trying to tease something fresh from its haunting, otherworldly beauty. The key to its effectiveness is the tender conviction which Mason invests in those spooked, baffling lyrics, making this slow, sparse song sound clammy and claustrophobic. Whatever you end up making of it, once heard, it never leaves you.

12. THE GO-BETWEENS – Cattle And Cane (1983)

Written on a battered acoustic guitar belonging to Nick Cave while the Go-Betweens were squatting with the Birthday Party in dank London, Cattle And Cane is nonetheless the ultimate expression of their “striped sunlight sound”. Its acoustic/electric texture and tension – thanks largely to Lindy Morrison’s quirky, shifting time signatures – created, as bass player Robert Vickers noted, a song that was “complex but also memorable, which is an almost impossible thing in music”. Every part works, even the perfectly weighted bass solo that underpins the guitar break, with the late, great Grant McLennan’s gorgeous, heartfelt vignettes of growing up in north Queensland front and centre. Has a singer ever had more sincere eyebrows than this man?

11. THE BEE GEES – Spicks And Specks (1966)

What do you say about this? Younger generations have the introductory piano theme tattooed on their brains, thanks to the ABC’s long-running and much loved music trivia show; older Australians will never have forgotten it. The military march of the drums and punchy arrangement, topped off by a trumpet finale, never swamps the best harmony pop/boy band Australia ever produced. It’s too bad that their lack of success in Australia at the time forced the Brothers Gibb to return to their native England in late 1966 – while still at sea, they found out Spicks And Specks had become their first number one hit.