For all the ink spent writing about the importance of punk and post-punk, the sounds coming out of Harlem and the Bronx in the early 80s were even more revolutionary and, given how pop music has evolved since, more influential too. Punk liked to proclaim that you didn’t need to know how to play an instrument to make a record, but hip-hop said that you didn’t need instruments at all. As the song said all you needed were two turntables and a microphone.
For several years it was thrilling music but I lost interest in hip-hop by the beginning of the 1990s as I suspect a lot of (white?) people my age did too. I’m not entirely sure why, unlike punk hip-hop never died or went underground but took over the entire planet so maybe the “novelty” wore off and the initial burst of creativity stagnated into cliched sounds and poses. I’m sure there are still great hip-hop records being made but at some point my ears drew a line and said “that’s enough for me, I’ll just stick with the records I’ve already got thanks very much.”
Like these old favourites which still sound fantastic.
Before 1981 scratching was something you did when you had a rash and sampling was what you did at a wine tasting. Then came “The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash on The Wheels Of Steel” by Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five which was the first record to feature a DJ scratching snippets of different tracks together on the fly – in this case Chic, Blondie and Queen – using his turntables as “instruments” to create something entirely new. I remember hearing it for the first time at a house party that year and my reaction was similar to the first time I heard the Sex Pistols, not so much “this is revolutionary genius!” but more like “what the bloody hell is this?” as I tried to dance to it’s stuttering, cut-and-pasted beat. I literally hadn’t heard anything like it before because no one had made a record like that before and it still sounds absolutely mental today.
The second record to have scratching on it (and the first chart hit) came from a highly unlikely source: former Pistols and Bow Wow Wow manager and notorious bullshitter Malcolm McLaren. Back then the idea of that wideboy making a record of his own seemed like it must be a joke, or a con, or both. Turns out he wasn’t all mouth and no trousers though, as not only was “Buffalo Gals” quite brilliant but also — shock horror — one of the most influential singles of the 1980s. There had been a couple of rap hits before — “Rappers Delight” and Kurtis Blow’s “Christmas Rapping” — but it was “Buffalo Gals” (and its video) that really brought all the other elements of New York hip-hop culture — scratching, breakdancing, sampling, graffiti, DJs — to a wide audience for the first time, and pop music was never the same again.
You could be churlish and say McLaren was just a magpie dilettante nicking other people’s ideas for fun and profit. You could also say that a lot of the records brilliance was down to producer Trevor Horn and the funky backing by the musicians who later became Art of Noise (with guest keyboardist Thomas Dolby). The subsequent album “Duck Rock” was full of even more dodgy knock-offs of other musical styles from New York to Soweto, Havana, and Appalachia, producing a collage of global sounds years before your local record shop had a section called “World Music.” It might have all fallen off the back of a lorry but it was a ridiculously entertaining record.
But, apart from having the crazy balls to come up with the idea of mixing hip-hop with square dancing in the first place, McLaren’s talent was being an instigator and ringmaster and there is a certain genius in having the antenna to identify the sounds and people that are right now, and turning that into gold. He did it with the Pistols and he did it again with “Buffalo Gals”. To help start one musical revolution is impressive enough, to blag a seat at the beginning of the next one too does take some talent, and more front than Blackpool.
Then there are those records which not only didn’t make the charts but seemed to have made so little impression anywhere you get the feeling you were the only person on the planet who bought a copy. Like “Questionnaire” by ex-Blockhead Chaz Jankel which I’d even forgotten I owned myself until I dug it out the other day. I thought it would probably sound dated and make me wonder why the hell I did buy it (I have quite a few records like that) but it still sounded like a pretty tasty slice of dance pop, not bad considering it came out in 1981. I can’t remember ever hearing it on the radio or in a club but I suppose I must have at least once otherwise I wouldn’t have bought it — in 12″ format too. But did anyone else? That’s the, um, question.
I’m still amazed that this brilliant, brilliant record wasn’t a monster hit but it only got to #21 in 1985. I always thought Big Sound Authority was a great name for a band too. Sadly they split up a year after this was released which doesn’t surprise me, if I’d recorded something as fantastic as this only to see it fail to make the Top 20 I’d want to throw in the towel too.
(One of the great, long-lost singles of 1980, and in this case I mean literally long-lost. “Is That All There Is?” was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller in 1968 (and was a big hit for Peggy Lee) but when they heard how Cristina had “updated” their lyrics with decadent references to drugs and violence they were so vexed they sued her record label and made them take it off the market, so you couldn’t buy a copy of it for nearly twenty five years. It was finally reissued on a Cristina CD a few years ago but that’s been deleted too now so it’s lost again, only to be found for a very pretty penny. Luckily I bought a copy of the 12″ when it came out, it might turn out to be a better investment than my retirement account is these days.)
Was there ever a social situation more stressful and ripe for humiliation and embarrassment than asking a girl to slow dance? Walking across that dancefloor to approach some young lady with the question often felt like climbing out of a trench in WWI and crossing No Man’s Land to face the enemy guns and certain death.
The “slowie” was a fixture at every club and disco (or “meat market” if you’d prefer) I went to in my teens where the music was secondary to getting off with the opposite sex. They always played a few at the end of the evening so you knew it was coming and had time to scout around for potential candidates and maybe try to impress her in advance with your dancefloor moves to the faster songs. You’d need a few pints of Dutch Courage before you could work up the nerve (but not too many, you didn’t want to fall all over the poor girl) and when the moment came you’d go up to her trying to act all nonchalant and pretend it was no skin off your nose if she did or not — one thing my more sexually-successful friends always told me was that girls hate a bloke who seems too keen. But of course I did care and if she turned me down I might ask someone else but more often than not I’d slink back to the bar for a lonely pint where I stood and enviously watched all the jammy bastards who’d managed to score.
But occasionally you got lucky and she’d say “yes” so you’d have the few minutes the record lasted (and maybe another one) to make the most of the opportunity. If things were going well and you were feeling brave (or just drunk) you’d let your hands slowly and gingerly make their way down her back until — if she raised no objection — they rested happily on her bottom. Most of the time it never went any further than that and when the record ended she’d say “thanks” and go back to her mates never to be seen again, but occasionally you’d get a phone number or even a snog out of it and go home with a satisfied smile on your face — even if you didn’t get your hands on her bum. No matter how depressingly unsuccessful you usually were, it was that possibility which kept you coming back weekend after weekend, ready to go through the same painful ritual all over again.
If I had to pick one slow record that was the definitive soundtrack to the British high street disco experience and that end-of-the-evening feeling when air was thick with the scent of Paco Rabanne, sweat, lager, Silk Cut and hormones, it would be this one.
Just hearing that clipped guitar intro I can see myself standing at the bar in some long-closed, chrome-and-carpet disco pub, everyone around me is busy coupling up and hitting the dancefloor while I’m still trying to summon up the nerve to make a move on some lucky girl.
But if Spandau aren’t your cup of tea these were always good for a smooch too. Lots of memories here, mostly frustrating ones.
I almost posted “Silly Games” by Janet Kay when I wrote about school discos the other week but it came out in 1979 and by then I was already hitting the pubs and clubs of London so I was a bit beyond forlorn nights pining over schoolgirls in dingy classrooms. Instead I was spending forlorn nights at nightclubs like The Best Disco In Town at the Lyceum Ballroom or chrome-plated meat markets in the suburbs with names like Tiffany’s and Cheeky Pete’s where I’d still be pining over girls but at least I could drink and smoke (two newly acquired habits). But this track is such a classic anthem of it’s time and place I felt I had to post it anyway.
Lovers Rock was an offshoot of Reggae that came out of South London in the 1970s which was more laid back and soulful than the seriously heavy roots sounds of bands like Culture,The Upsetters, and Burning Spear who were always banging on about Jah and Babylon over thick bassy riddims. That stuff was very hip with the Rastas and Punks around Ladbroke Grove but didn’t mean a whole lot to a Soul Boy from Fulham. I don’t know how big it was outside of London but round my way it was very popular indeed, at my school there was a conflict between the Soul Boys (who were mostly white) and the Reggae-loving West Indian kids about whose music was the best — a battle often fought over the Youth Center record player — but Lovers Rock was the one thing they both liked. More importantly, girls loved it and anything that could get you in with them was good.
“Silly Games” is about the most beautiful Lovers record ever made (that I’ve heard anyway) and was the biggest hit the genre produced, getting to No. 2 in the charts. Written and produced by Dennis Bovell (who went on to work with The Slits and Orange Juice) who was trying to emulate the sweet sound of Minnie Riperton and got Janet to record the song because she was able to hit the same really high notes as her. (at times on this she reaches notes only dogs can hear).
This is the long 12″ version with the spacey Dub section at the end that was compulsory on all Reggae 12″ singles at the time. Even after all these years it sounds as lovely as ever.
The sentimental musings of an ageing expat in words, music, and pictures. Mp3 files are up for a limited time so drink them while they're hot.
Contact me: lee at londonlee dot com
