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Sulk by The
Associates
(WEA/ 1982)
I heard "Party Fears Two" on the radio recently for the first
time in ages: it was a blast from the past which to my ears still sounded
as startlingly brilliant as it did way back when it was first released
in early 1982.
In fact, revelling in the moment, I was about to comment smugly to my
colleagues in the office that, "they don't make 'em like that anymore",
when I thought better of it, realising that to do so would make me sound
like those reactionary old codgers I'd always despised: you know, those
sanctimonious types who always sought to undermine your enthusiasm for
the pop music of the day, by insisting that nothing would ever sound as
good as The Beatles (of course, growing up close to Liverpool, I encountered
many such folk who sincerely believed this – putting me off the
fab four forever – I don't own any Beatles albums).
Also, I realised that some wag would inevitably counter, "thank bloody
Christ for that!", which would have knocked me clean out of my momentary
rapture and left me scrabbling around for the kind of wise-guy retort
that would prove immediately elusive, but which no doubt would have come
to me some hours later – invariably when I was in bed or on the
toilet.
But without wishing to sound too much like the type of person I've just
been condemning, it has to be said that the early-Eighties were a good
time for British pop music, with the prevailing climate of musical non
conformity and idiosyncratic innovation conducive enough to allow a song
as wilfully eccentric as "Party Fears Two" to climb as high
as number nine in the charts.
I have to admit that I was caught by surprise by the Associates seemingly
overnight transformation from obscure John Peel show favourites to preening
pop stars, but I really shouldn't have been. Especially as at the time,
all manner of post punk bands from New Order to Simple Minds were beginning
to score major hits.
Like "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush and "This Town Ain't
Big Enough for the Both of Us" by Sparks before it, "Party Fears
Two" was one of those records which by rights should have been far
too outré for mass consumption, but which somehow succeeded in
capturing the imagination of the great British public.
But it was no mere fluke, as the band succeeded in repeating the trick
with their follow-up, the gloriously histrionic "Club Country"
– a song which after all these years still has the power to make
the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention (which may have something
to do with the sheer exhilarating drama of the track; particularly the
way singer Billy MacKenzie seemingly teases us momentarily with the line
"Alive and Kicking" before truly cutting loose and soaring through
the chorus operatic style accompanied by that screaming synth –
a truly extraordinary vocal performance). Oh, and "Club Country"
never fails to make me go all misty-eyed at the remembrance of youthful
nights of frantic jerky dancing at local night clubs such as Jokers and
Angels.
However, despite these two wonderful singles contributing significantly
to the soundtrack of yet another frustratingly sexless summer (I was to
find love later that year), it was only fairly recently that I came to
own any Associates records. In fact – bought from a charity shop
in Stoke Newington – Sulk was actually the very last addition
to my collection of vinyl, prior to setting out on this foolhardy project.
I had heard the album many years before, though, having borrowed it from
a friend when I was at college. I remember being a little underwhelmed
by it then, but I was intrigued to hear it again in light of the late
Billy MacKenzie's current posthumous status of tragic genius (MacKenzie
committed suicide in 1997 after a long period of depression).
Well, I'd certainly have to hear a little more of the Associates' work
as well as MacKenzie's own solo releases, before being able to offer any
kind meaningful opinion on his artistic standing. What I can say though,
is that with its heavily treated drums and obtuse white funk rhythms this
album sounds hopelessly dated. Having said that, the more I play it; the
more it grows on me. Musically camp and lyrically oblique, it's a decidedly
odd affair all round which comes to a majestic climax midway through side
two with extended versions of the two aforementioned singles running one
after the other, before tailing off into 'Nothinginsomethingparticular',
an inconsequential little instrumental which sounds more than vaguely
reminiscent of 'Come Dancing' by The Kinks as interpreted by an end of
the pier organist.
But there are other highlights in the form of the playful pop of 'Skipping';
as well as 'Gloomy Sunday', a beautifully mournful and eerily prophetic
ode to suicide, which in terms of vocal delivery owes a strong debt to
Station to Station-era Bowie. And the cover's rather tasty too,
in an conspicuously ostentatious Eighties kind of way.
Copyright" Poke-in-the-Eye Publishing 2005