Discovering a Pauline Murray clip I haven’t seen before always makes my day. Finding one where she’s singing the gorgeous, ethereal “Dream Sequence” is even more of a treat. One of the great singles of the post-punk era I think.
The Saturday job I had in the record department of the Putney WH Smith in the late 70s might not have been as hip as working at Rough Trade or Groove Records, but the guy who ran the department was a serious music geek as were the kids I worked with and we stocked plenty of Post-Punk and Indie records, and had a good section of 12″ singles. There were three independent record shops on Putney High Street at the time (three!) and we considered them our competition, not Woolies or Boot’s.
The naff brown blazers and ties we had to wear didn’t make us look very cool but if you came into the store on a Saturday you’d be just as likely to hear The Jam or Joy Division playing than Neil Diamond or ABBA, much to the annoyance of the store manager. One time he came over when we were playing Gary Numan’s The Pleasure Principle album and said “Take this off and play something more popular!” to which one of the kids snarkily replied “Actually, it’s Number One at the moment.” First time I ever heard Unknown Pleasures was while working there.
But Smiths were still a “respectable” High Street chain better known for selling books and stationery than edgy records. One Saturday in 1979 a letter arrived from corporate HQ in Swindon telling us to remove from the racks all copies of the debut albums by Public Image and Stiff Little Fingers as the company would no longer be selling them — in other words, they were being banned.
The letter never gave any reason (it may have actually been two separate letters at different times, my memory is hazy on that point) but it wasn’t hard to figure out why they considered SLF’s Inflammable Material so controversial with it’s abrasive songs about the Northern Ireland conflict. We were a little puzzled about the Public Image album, but decided that it was down to the “sacrilegious” song “Religion” which would probably still ruffle a few feathers today.
The strange thing was that both albums had been out for a while, the Public Image album was nearly a year old, so this was a case of shutting the barn door after the horse had bolted. I can only imagine that the old duffers who ran Smiths were a bit slow on the uptake, or maybe they’d had a few Mr. Angry letters from outraged customers — I once had a woman return a Billy Connolly album to the store complaining that one of the sketches on it was “blasphemous”. The Stiff Little Fingers ban was obviously blatant political censorship though, the Chairman of Smiths at the time was a chap called Sir Charles Hugh Willis Troughton and with a name like that you can imagine what his political sympathies were. He probably went to public school with half the Thatcher cabinet.
I don’t remember any of this being in the news back then, not even the music press who you think would be outraged at the establishment once again banning rock records, but the whole event seemed to be unnoticed except for those of us who worked at Smiths.
Smiths doesn’t sell music anymore (neither does any other High Street store) and now John Lydon does butter commercials while Stiff Little Fingers are on the punk nostalgia circuit. But there was a time when they were considered an affront to the decent law-abiding citizens who popped into Smiths to get their TV Times and the latest Barry Manilow album. You can’t say this about a lot of music from back then, but these records do still sound confrontational. Still worth banning, really.
One of those songs you can hear a million times but never fails to be less than glorious. Who among us doesn’t still love to sing the “Space travel is in my blood” bit?
This is a rather scorching live version too.
Like every John Peel-listening Indie kid in 1979 I bought a copy of this single (still have it!), had a crush on lead singer Ramona, and had no idea what she was singing about.
I dressed a lot like Edwyn Collins back then. I had the vintage shirts, the bootlace tie, the Chelsea boots, the haircut. But somehow I never looked as cool as him.
This clip — the Human League’s first ever appearance on television I believe — is from a show called Mainstream which I have no memory of and can find no information about on the internets. I may have scrubbed it from my memory though because the presenter was such a smug prick, he’s like the most superior and condescending record shop clerk in the world.
I can’t say I was listening to much post-punk influenced music in 2001 (Trip Hop more my thing back then) so it’s not surprising I missed out on the album Any Other City by Scottish indie band Life Without Buildings. I wasn’t the only one either because it didn’t sell a lot and ended up being the only album they ever released — not counting a posthumous live set — as they amicably spit up a year later. But over the years it developed a cult following and has just been reissued after falling out of print for a while, which is how I came to hear it and fall under its spell too.
Any Other City is exactly the sort of idiosyncratic record that inspires cult devotion, especially when the band don’t make another one. The Young Marble Giants are another band like that who come to mind and Life Without Buildings do also sound like something you might have heard on the John Peel show in the late 70s, all scratchy and angular indie with a spiky charm that reminds me of other female-fronted post-punk bands like Delta 5 and The Raincoats.
What gives them distinction though is lead singer (and currently fine artist) Sue Tompkins who scats, free-associates, and rambles over the music, with words tumbling out of her like the hyper-active nutter you hope doesn’t sit next to you on the bus. I think she’s what you’d call a Marmite singer, you’ll either love her or hate her. I’m firmly in the former camp.
The version of A Forest they play at the start of this clip is from before they recorded the song and it was called At Night. I preferred The Cure when they made spiky pop like this and think it’s a shame that when they went into the studio to make the record Robert Smith said to the band “Nah, too fast. Make it more dreary.”