A fond farewell, then, to R.E.M., one of the most eminent bands of the last 30 years, whose work I always admired - but, to be honest, struggled to love. I’ve got most of their albums, but with a few exceptions, never really listened to them more than once or twice; it’s all a little bit too cerebral and civilised, and in need of a few more “volume up to 11″ moments (such as “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth”). TM puts it very well (via God’s great gift of irony) when describing their break-up:

“I knew it was too good to be true … all that ‘caring about the world’ and ‘eating tofu’ has finally got the better of them and they’ve broken down in a bilious display of acrimonious nastiness. Here’s some classic band break-up nastiness from Stipe: “I hope our fans realise this wasn’t an easy decision; but all things must end, and we wanted to do it right, to do it our way,” Stipe said as he announced the split. It’s like the Sex Pistols or Pixies all over again…”

R.E.M.’s “vegan break-up” was indeed emblematic of my struggles to really love them - and in order to completely contradict myself for no good reason, the tribute song I’ve chosen as TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI is one of their most sensitive and tragic; even bordering on mawkish. It’s “The Wrong Child”, last track on side 1 of their breakthrough album “Green”, and it’s a fairly self-explanatory tale told from the point of view of a child struggling to gain acceptance from his peers. The lyrics are reasonably obvious (although they do a great job); the real genius is in the arrangement. The slightly off-key mandolin, the canon-style backing vocal and the stripped-down production make it a haunting, emotionally-piercing experience which is difficult to forget. (Some considerably more intelligent analysis of the song can be found here.)

(Apologies for temporary inability to upload song. I’m sure it’s all TM’s fault - the fact that I haven’t done any routine maintenance to the relevant software on my machine for MONTHS can have nothing whatsoever to do with it.)

It strikes me, a mere fortnight after my initial post, that some of you won’t have heard anything by either The Clash or Yes - a situation which is easily remediable through the under-employed interface of my TOTDOWOHO(I)CBATCI. We’ll start with a tune by The Clash, mainly because the internet has yet to evolve enough bandwidth to allow the upload of one of Yes’s 3-week song-cycles all in one go. (TM?)

The one I’ve gone for is “Rock the Casbah”, a lively little ditty from 1982 which is actually quite a long way removed from the punk sound for which the band is best known, and closer to the crossover pop of Big Audio Dynamite, the band which musical mainman Mick Jones fronted after The Clash’s implosion It’s catchy as hell, and was by some margin the band’s biggest hit in the States.

“Rock the Casbah” (as I read it) is a song about disobeying authority in the name of rock ‘n’ roll; however, because of the middle-eastern lyrical references, it has sadly (and, given The Clash’s political leanings, ridiculously) been adopted by the American right-wing and military as a gung-ho anthem during the “war on terror”. The words “Rock the Casbah” were apparently even painted on the side of US bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan, to the intense chagrin of Clash lyricist and singer, the late Joe Strummer, a man who loathed imperialism in all of its manifestations. (Seriously, you can’t imagine a more brain-dead significance-missing piece of yee-ha Yankee sloganeering; it’s almost equivalent to McDonalds glorying in daubing Morrissey’s “Meat is Murder”on the top of their burger boxes.)

Sorry, that’s quite enough tree-hugging lefty-liberal ranting from me - enjoy The Clash’s late-career pop masterpiece (… and await with dread the Wagnerian-lengthed Yes track which must inevitably follow at some point…)

An (as always) long-overdue change to my TOTDOWOHOICBATCI; this year’s first offering is a gem from Nik Kershaw, one of only two famous musicians* to hail from my home town of Ipswich (the other being the lead vocalist of comedy metallists “Cradle of Filth”, Danni Minogue, or something.)

“The Riddle” is the title track of Kershaw’s second album, and it’s brilliant. The lyrics are frankly wacky (although to be fair, he does give us fair warning of this in the title.) In fact, oblique lyrics seemed to be the ’80s pop artist’s stock-in-trade (look up the lyrics of most tracks by Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Tears for Fears etc, and they are usually utterly impenetrable; sixth form poetry on acid) - Kershaw might well be taking the rise gently out of some of his peers. Or there may actually be a riddle… I’ve never worked it out. (Chez?)

The melody is simple and incredibly catchy; I defy you to listen to this a couple of times, and not then go around for the rest of the day humming “da-da tree by a river de-de hole in the ground, la-la dum-dum-de-dum-dum goes around and around”. By contrast the chord progression is fairly tricky-sounding, but surprisingly easy to play on a guitar - indicating which instrument it was composed on, despite its synthy production.

Kershaw is most often likened to fellow big-haired intelligent pop-purveyor Howard Jones, but there are also several likenesses to Sting; namely i) both were serious musicians who’d already been “payin’ dues” for several years before hitting paydirt slightly late with a teeny fanbase (thanks in no small part to judicious use of hair product); ii) both were liberal in the employment of a reggae lilt to lend a rhythmical hook to their early hits; and finally iii) both were known to engage in 18-hour tantric sex sessions with members of Amazonian rainforest tribes who’d had dinner plates inserted into their upper lips**.

As “pop” goes, this kicks seven shades out of the crap we endure today; never mind today’s endless highly-choreographed “Glee” routines, the processed hi-NRG guff which TM listens to whilst pumping iron, and the armies of manufactured, immediately forgettable indie-folkie-twee girlies and dishevelled posh blokes whose dads own the record company - this is a real song, composed on a real instrument by the person who ended up performing it, and repeatable by the same person 25 years later on the same instrument. I’d like to see any Cowell acolyte do a convincing solo version of one of their hits NOW, never mind in 25 years’ time.

It’s official - Nik Kershaw rocks, and Ipswich was clearly the centre of the musical universe in the 1980s.

(* - apart from i) Tommy Stupid of legendary skate punks The Stupids, and ii) the now-forgotten performer of a daring note-for-note cover version of  Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”, which ran to an impressive 300 7″ vinyl copies in 1987.)

(** - this one might not be true.)

T’s latest TOTDOWOHOHCBATCI might not be to everyone’s taste, but the majority of my remaining 1.5 readers will undoubtedly agree (given that I’m one of them) that it’s an expression of the finest musical virtuosity to rival Rachmaninov, Du Pre or even Gaga. It’s guitarist Joe Satriani playing probably his signature piece, “Flying in a Blue Dream”, from the 1989 album of the same name. Satriani came to prominence in the late ’80s, during an “arms race” of increasingly spectacular rock guitarists, all competing to out-do the others in terms of speed, technical proficiency and foreign-sounding names. Eddie Van Halen was one of the first, superseded by the likes of Satriani, Steve Vai, and Yngwie J Malmsteen  (who clearly takes the plaudits in the latter category).

Their sort of expertise demanded that the guitar be the main instrument in the piece (rather than a vocal part), and this has unfortunately (if often fairly) led to the music being mocked as “widdly widdly” guitar playing. Granted, speed and technique were often expressed at the expense of soul, but I think that Satriani gets the balance just right here; the melody is kept simple in the first “verse”, but then followed a fantastic improvisation on the theme in the second, and a blistering rock-out of a middle section (thereafter, from about 3 mins in, it pretty much repeats to the end.)

Like I say, it’s not for everyone; but if you’re a reasonably-capable-but-lazy guitarist living in the Folkestone area who enjoys listening to technically brilliant rock music through headphones and air-guitaring whilst looking in the mirror, all the time pretending that “I could do that if I put my mind to it” but never actually putting his mind to it and almost certainly being delusional about his abilities in the first place, then it’s absolutely ideal. I’m sure that description represents a fairly broad demographic…

Finally a new TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI(WIMLETMTDTLS*) for your delectation - by common consent, the best song never to go to number 1 in the UK charts: “Vienna” by Ultravox. It was kept off by Joe Dolce’s “Shaddap You Face“, a fact which filled me, as a half-Italian 8-year-old with a pronounced sense of over-loyalty to all things relating to my fatherland, with a great sense of pride. In hindsight, I can see that even Mussolini would have preferred “Vienna” (had Hitler not anschlussed it already, guffaw.)

“Vienna” is a quite astonishing piece of brooding, portentous synth-pop, with atmospheric lyrics of indeterminate meaning over a heartbeat-style drum, and one of the greatest choruses of all time delivered by Midge Ure’s piercing tenor. It’s great stuff all the way through, but the way the speeded-up middle “railway” section slows into the final chorus is nothing short of hairs-on-the-back-of-your-neck utterly majestic.

To be brutal, the rest of Ultravox’s oeuvre is mostly stodge (I struggle to get through the greatest hits, let alone individual albums) - but “Vienna” undoubtedly sits in the very top echelon of all-time-great pop songs, and, however many times you hear it, rarely fails to get you standing legs akimbo in full rock-star-manque pose, gurning earnestly into the mirror whilst groping unsuccessfully for the high notes. Despite all this, many eminent critics have argued that the Vic Reeves version was actually the worthier candidate for that elusive number one position.**

(* Which Is More Like Every Two Months These Days, The Lazy Sod)
(** - No, Tafkass, they haven’t.)

Crivvens! A new TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI - and it hasn’t even been a full month yet! Anyone would think that I was sitting at home on a Friday night with nothing to do and no prospect of entertainment apart from watching fifth-time-repeated back-to-back episodes of “Mock the Week” on Dave (or the snooker*.)

Ahhh, but summer is looming, my sap is rising, and I’m once again breaking out my Kula Shaker collection for sun-kissed top-down bucolic in-car listening. Please be stifling that giggle; Kula Shaker were a seriously good band. Part of the second (or maybe third) wave of Britpop in the mid ’90s, they were breathtakingly exciting live, with an extremely tight and talented band playing classic rock riffs under the trademark roar of lead vocalist Crispian Mills - imagine a cross between Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, with a soupcon of “All Things Must Pass”-era George Harrison thrown in. Ultimately, though, they were stymied by a) the “Indian mysticism” theme running through their music and lyrics, which became something of an albatross around their collective necks, and relegated them in the minds of many to “Darkness” novelty stakes, b) a lot of inverse snobbery surrounding Mills (son of actress Hayley and from an undoubtedly very privileged background) and c) a fairly vicious right-on press campaign following some ill-judged comments from Mills about swastikas. Although that sort of thing never worried Bowie.

This offering, “Govinda”, is one of many outstanding tracks from their debut oeuvre “K”. The album sold by the bucket-load, so you can undoubtedly pick up a copy on Amazon for 1p - and it’s a worthwhile investment, despite having possibly the worst cover art since Whitesnake’s “Love Hunter”. Note a) the rock-tabulous beginning and ending, and b) the fact that, rather cleverly, the song SUGGESTS the major third in the 1-3-5 triad of the main chord, but (apart from in the vocal part) only uses it very sparingly, and indeed repeatedly teases us with the MINOR third. (Riveting, eh?)

(* - Don’t worry, things haven’t got THAT bad yet…)

Another TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI update (I’d say “belated”, but they look to be averaging out at around one a month, so this is pretty much on cue), and it’s a second appearance for latterday progsters Marillion. The song in question is “Waiting to Happen”, from their second “different lead singer, not the enormous Scottish bloke you probably remember, but another fella who has a great voice but sounds as if he may have a case of mild sinusitis, you know, a bit like Rory McGrath” album, entitled “Holidays in Eden”. It’s a very sweet acoustic-driven number about the love finally found by someone who had given up on the idea.

It’s nice enough, but if I’m honest, slightly mushy for my palate. I can take it or leave it - that is right up ’til the last 50 seconds or so, when guitarist Steve Rothery cuts loose, turns on the rock afterburners and launches into an unexpected-chord-change-tastic full-on cojones-out up-to-eleven axes-aloft wig-out (with a delicious fade-out coda on the piano), which I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the last two days, and which brings the song up disproportionately in my estimation. And yours as well, if you have any taste.

Actually, if I rationalise it, the fact that I’m enormously ambivalent about the bulk of the song with its warm, emotional-but-mature “never give up on the hope of love” lyrical theme, yet still (19 years after first hearing the song) get ludicrously excited about the soaring arpeggiatorial majesty of the guitar solo at the end might just offer a clue as to how my own “vie d’amour” is destined to progress…

A new and overdue TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI - the wonderful “Hallelujah” by the equally wonderful Prefab Sprout. The Sprouts are one of those funny little ’80s bands cursed with an irredeemably stupid name (like another favourite of mine, “It Bites”) who lurk in the back of the consciousness, and whose output you’re probably not aware of, barring the odd hot dog or jumping frog.

They were, though, for two albums at least, right at the top of the pop tree - 1985’s “Steve McQueen” (known in the States as “Two Wheels Good” because the actor’s estate objected) often rivals The Smiths in the “best album ever” stakes amongst yer slightly twee romantic indie-ish types. The whole album’s well worth an investment, but “Hallelujah” is my standout track - special kudos for Wendy Smith’s ethereal vocals, the impossible-to-follow chord sequence, and the use of what I believe to be a muted French Horn halfway through…

Everybody out there over the age of 30 will be familiar with The Human League’s “Dare!” (and if they aren’t, they bally well should be) - it’s one of the definitive albums of the 1980s, and the template for a million and one pale and uninteresting imitators currently engaged in a synthpop revival - so I’ll spare you a bit of the the usual muso-socio-politico-historico-eco-lefty-liberal-socialist guff that normally goes with a TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI. But not all of it, obviously.

“Love Action” was the first single from “Dare!”, but not the biggest; that was, of course, “Don’t You Want Me”. But - whisper it soft - in the author’s opinion, “Love Action” is actually the better song. It’s absolutely classic pop, catchy and minimalist, and memorable for three other reasons: 1) the rhythmically tricky intro (it’s in 4/4, the easiest time signature of all, but try counting along and picking exactly when the main drum part comes in - it’s VERY difficult) 2) the impenetrable chorus lyrics - “I love your love action / Love’s just a distraction / No talking, just looking / Watching your love action”. Eh? Is he watching a porno? Watching his partner “enjoy herself”, as it were? (There’s probably an easy answer - those of you who may have spent more time on the Good Ship Venus might want to enlighten me) and 3) Phil Oakey’s portentous baritone. I challenge anyone to try singing this song without artificially deepening the timbre of their voice, dancing robotically, pulling a moody face, growing their hair long, having it militarily straightened and then cutting half of it off by mistake…

A long-overdue change for TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI; the latest incumbent is the riff-tastic “Queen Bitch” by David Bowie, from his 1971 album “Hunky Dory”. It’s classic early(ish) Bowie; he’s still ostensibly a guitar-based singer-songwriter, but has by this stage assembled a tight-as-fuck band, including brilliant guitarist Mick Ronson; you can see the feelings and ideas for Bowie’s next project, the legendary Ziggy and the Spiders, already germinating in live performances at the time. The song itself, with its semi-spoken lyrics about a fearsome-possibly-transvestite-female-vamp-type, is fairly Lou Reed-y, but rocks like a mofo nonetheless.

Bowie, like Bob Dylan, could do no wrong up to a certain point in his career; thereafter, despite the slavish aspirations of a sycophantic music press transferred through encouraging reviews, he did nothing right. The shark-jump in Bowie’s case was 1983’s “Tonight” album, universally hailed as being “Too-shite” (see what I did there?) All of Bowie’s previous albums had some merit; none of the subsequent ones had any, really - least of all “Earthling”, which was purportedly heavily influenced by drum ‘n’ bass, a concept roughly analogous to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” being covered by Val Doonican. Similarly, everything Bowie did in public before 1983 (the odd Hitler salute aside) was cool; after 1983 came the appearance as Jareth the Cockney Goblin in “Labyrinth”, the appalling chest-thrust-fest which was “Dancing in the Street” with Mick Jagger, the ultra-appalling “Absolute Beginners”, and the unspeakably appalling cheeks-ruddy-with-embarrasment recitation of the Lord’s Prayer at the Freddie Mercury tribute concert.

Anyway, never mind Bowie’s Diamond / Dog career, enjoy this stonker. (It’s a track which, incidentally, scores high in the “best starts to a song ever” reckoning, a topic about which I’ll no doubt bang on interminably at a later stage.)

* - 10 VP points to anyone coming up with a valid criticism of this rather lame post title, including reference to the subject’s offspring.