Germfree Adolescents - X-Ray Spex

 

Provenance: I borrowed this album from a chap I worked with (alongside Crises by Mike Oldfield) and really enjoyed it. If memory serves, I loaned him Ted Nugent's Free-For-All. A fair exchange?

Review: I had no idea what I'd be reviewing today. I had noticed that I was on for a hat-trick of eponymous band names if I were to continue in the Van Halen / Santana vein, but I've already done Montrose and never quite plumbed the depths of owning a Bon Jovi record, so my options were limited. Would the Von Hertzen Brothers count?

Nonetheless, a tweet alerted me to the fact that today is the tenth anniversary of the passing of X-Ray Spex singer and bandleader Poly Styrene. I've wanted to do Germfree Adolescents for a while now, and here's the perfect excuse. 

Beyond all musical considerations, X-Ray Spex were an important force in punk history; how many women of colour can you think of who fronted, or continue to front, a rock band? Now ask yourself how many of those preceded X-Ray Spex? Not many, I'd wager (well done if you remembered the existence of Fanny, though!). It's easy in retrospect to discern some of the more conservative elements of the first wave of punk music, and whilst it's fair to say that bands like the Slits and the Raincoats offered new templates for the role of women in music, it was still a pretty white caper. The transformation of Marianne Joan Elliot-Said into Poly Styrene mattered.

Of course, all of this would be dulled somewhat if the music wasn't up to snuff. Fret not - Germfree Adolescents is a thumping album,

Yeah, a little bit of the sloganeering is a bit dusty (but it's effortless to forgive when delivered with such youthful gusto), as are a couple of the production choices - what's with all those echoed song intros? Those are going to be the only two quibbles you'll hear in this review.

I love that it's a punchy thirty-five or so minutes long; I love just how chunky and solid the guitars are; I love Styrene's police siren voice; and above all I love, love, love Rudi Thomson's saxophone, a quirky choice of instrumentation for a punk band but one that pays off over and again. I've long been a sax advocate - forget the cheezy stuff from the 1980s, forget even my beloved Steely Dan, and think of how exciting it sounds in the Rolling Stones, or skronking away behind Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, or when it cuts like a scythe through Roxy Music's 'Editions Of You'. In fact, that's what I'm feeling here, a lot of the time; just check out the ending of 'I Live Off You' for proof. Saxophone is also used to double the chorus melody of 'Warrior In Woolworths', one of the (slightly) more sedate tracks here, and it elevates the whole enterprise; so much punk music trades on being abrasive or energetic, but Germfree Adolescents retains those elements without compromising on being a bloody fine listen.

Those moments that are just smash-mouth rock music are, however, simply exhilarating. 'Art-I-Ficial' sounds like a missile launch, and 'I Am A Poseur' is what would happen if Motorhead incorporated a brass section into their ranks. It's easy, amidst the sturm and drang, to miss the lyrics being hooted out with such exuberance by Styrene, but closer inspection reveals how pleasingly surreal they are, bespeaking of personal alienation in an increasingly synthetic, consumer-oriented world. When Styrene fantasises about becoming Hitler on 'Plastic Bag', it's telling that after proclaiming herself "ruler of the universe" she sounds even more excited to be "ruler of the supermarkets".

Could such an album as Germfree Adolescents appear today? I think not. It's too guileless, too freewheeling and the product of too singular a vision to be midwifed in such an interconnected age. Someone in a suit would say "fewer songs about department stores, please", or a producer would try to 'fix' some of the singing or playing to make it more palatable through a laptop speaker. Never mind - what matters is that X-Ray Spex had day-glo boots on the ground at the right time, breaking down barriers with a gleeful, shack-shaking abandon. Safe journey, Poly Styrene.   

2112 - Rush

Provenance: I'm not sure why or where I bought this album. Fairly certain that it wasn't a gift. Who buys people Rush albums as presents? I knew I had it before university, as the following text will bear out.

Anyway, I was today reminded about Rush as my very good friend Birke matched with a guy on Tinder who said he was a fan. Big respect to anyone who goes public on a hookup site with that. Apparently he works at CERN, which makes sense.

This one's dedicated to you, Birke.

Review: I own not one, not two but five Rush studio albums. They're in a special CD rack that also has multiple albums by artists like Alice Cooper, Cheap Trick, Steely Dan and Tom Waits (though not Blue Oyster Cult - they have their own special rack). That I've bought many albums by these musicians suggests that I like their output, and indeed, many of the albums experience heavy rotation. But I literally had to dust off this motherfucker before putting it in my stereo. Five Rush albums, unplayed, unloved. What's the issue?

I guess it's this - in my head, Rush are a good band without ever being great, plus they wed too much of their material to the risible Objectivism of Ayn Rand. It's like biting into a nice juicy apple to find half a not-so-nice (but equally juicy) worm poking out. I've talked previously about how Ted Nugent's dumbass beliefs spoilt Craveman for me and I'm anticipating something similar here. The other misgiving I have with Rush is that they never overawed me with any one element of their music. Instead, I was often left with an impression of a group of songwriters hobbled by formality, creating a kind of prog that sounds like it was done with compasses and calculators. It never seemed to bounce along as well as a Yes song, was never as earthy as the best Jethro Tull, nor could it compete with the avant-garde leanings of King Crimson. Still, the whole point of this exercise is that I reappraise albums in my collection, so let's give 2112 a fair go.

I know I owned this album prior to university as I made one of my first friends on my course, Mike, discussing it. Specifically, side one - '2112', rather grandly split into seven parts. I credit Mike with opening my ears to the dazzling world of jazz music, but I recall vividly his summation of the intro to '2112' - "it's cool because in 'Overture' they play all the riffs in the coming sections, like it's a blueprint for what you're about to hear." Ha ha! It's not strictly true, but more or less right, and it's a beautiful way to think about it. And truly, I had forgotten how thrillingly virtuosic this section is.

Equally, I had forgotten just how mind-numbingly idiotic '2112' is as a story, and how irritating Geddy Lee's voice was back then. If I do listen to Rush these days it tends to be something more modern, because Lee's dog-bothering upper register is largely absent. No matter though - neither helium lungs nor stupid lyrics can spoil part two, 'The Temples of Syrinx'. Big, bombastic, exhilarating, fun even. The next section, 'Discovery', where a man finds an ancient relic we know to be a guitar (music is tightly controlled by the aforementioned clergy in this dystopian future) is cleverly done; the dissonance of an untuned guitar gently give way to pleasant arpeggios; and as this schmuck becomes more entranced with his discovery, the excitement is mirrored by changes in tempo and picking techniques. Alright, 2112 is pretty good so far.

Unfortunately, nothing in the coming sections of the '2112' suite quite matches either the power or cleverness of the opening two parts, in execution at least. If you don't give a fuck about the storyline - which I don't - then you've got a clutch of movements that start to sound fairly similar to each other, dynamically and tonally. Probably my favourite bit here is 'Grand Finale', where everything is sucked into a whirling sonic vortex and a sinister voice says some crap like "WE HAVE ASSUMED CONTROL", and authoritarianism, as we all know, is a totally metal thing (either its assertion, or busting free from its bonds).

Now it's side two - starting with the risible 'Passage To Bangkok', an absolute turd of a track. In its allusions to drug use this song gives the listener such a prod with the elbow that it would crack a rib or two. Everything fucking sucks, plus they use the 'Oriental riff' twice and I can't tell if they're being ironic or not (probably not), so it's a relief that the succeeding song 'The Twilight Zone' is rather good. Better than that - it's superb, combining punchy verses with a woozy, delicate chorus.

The quality is maintained with both 'Lessons', which marries a jangly Doobie Brothers feel in the verses to a hard rock chorus. It should be said that Lee's voice sounds great here, especially when doubling Alex Lifeson's guitar riff. Next up - 'Tears'. What a belter. Not only is it a welcome change of pace, it also possesses a hitherto unrevealed depth of emotion - a yearningly, achingly crystalline confection, and so simple too. I can play this on a single acoustic guitar and it sounds good (NB: everything sounds good in my capable hands).

Having exposed my prejudices prior to listening it feels as if I've unjustifiably maligned 2112. It's not perfect; that designation is reserved solely for Boston's debut and Steely goddamn Dan. The lyrics are still shite (Neil Peart, a supreme drummer, should have the pen wrestled out of his hands every time he goes near a piece of paper) but it's very listenable and, when one is in the right mood for Objectivist hokum, rather enjoyable.

Craveman - Ted Nugent

Provenance: Back in the day it took a whole night to illegally download a couple of tunes off Napster, and there was literally no guarantee that they file you'd found corresponded to what actually ended up playing from your speakers. We're talking about a time when people would list 'surfing the net' as a hobby.

A lesser remembered feature of Napster was the ability to send messages to other users. One morning I came downstairs to find an American guy was downloading an Alice Cooper track from my account. During a brief exchange he recommended three artists to me - Bob Seger, Molly Hatchet and Ted Nugent.

A couple of evenings later I had a single song by each artist - 'Old Time Rock and Roll' by Seger (eh), 'Flirtin' With Disaster' by Molly Hatchet (cool as hell) and 'Free For All' by the Nuge (ditto). At this point in life I knew not who Ted Nugent was or what he professed the finer things in life to be, and thus felt no compunction in purchasing Cat Scratch Fever. Not long after, I think my parents got me this for Christmas.

Review: I'd love to be able to sit here and put aside the fact that Ted Nugent is one of the more choice individuals out there, and instead focus exclusively on the merits and demerits of the album. I really wanted to do it, because (whisper it) I quite like some of his early stuff. You could, if you're a desperate guy trying to cling onto the tatters of your fandom, try to argue that the rampant machismo and unabashed objectification of women were merely poses, or the facets of a hyper-real performative entity like an Alice Cooper or the guys in KISS (who weren't actually demons or space aliens, I was surprised to read). The problem here is that many have accused Nugent directly of worse things than reductive and sexist portrayals of women within the context of musical performances.

The second problem is that on Craveman the two public faces of Ted Nugent - the one who writes literary masterpieces such as 'Wang Dang Sweet Poontang' and 'Motor City Madhouse' - and the one that rants almost incoherently on conservative talk radio about hunting, immigrants and firearms, have come together in unholy confederacy. His rancid and retrograde views pollute almost every corner and crevice of this album. Here's a sample lyric from (shit) opening track 'Klstrphnky':

Look at all the dirty nookie!
Keep that shit away from me!
Do you think I'm kinda kooky? (I can't even stand to looky)
It's all infected HIV!

If that's not tasteless enough for you, don't worry - Ted signs off from 'Klstrphnky' with the immortal line "Well I'm the world's biggest nigga, and all you dirty whiteys suk!" (sic). Nothing else reaches quite that level of offensiveness; nevertheless, here are a few couplets that somehow eluded Shakespeare:

"My ballz drip catnip / No shit bullshit" ('Pussywhipped')
"I wasn't afraid of your lightning baby, your thunder was a part of me / I'd dance with the devil at midnight maybe, your threat is a catastrophe" ('I Won't Go Away')
"My baby likes my frosting on her cake / I put the caffeine back in her beans" ('My Baby Likes My Butter On Her Gritz', an entire track of sub-'Sex Farm' metaphor salad)

Then we've got the big boy braggadocio of 'Rawdogs & Warhogs' which is all pathetic flag waving and how "I'm ready to fight, just pick a night, here I come!" - except that when the US draft in effect during the Vietnam War did 'pick a night', Nugent may have taken some fairly drastic measures to ensure he stayed out of that particular pagga. Whether or not Nugent did soil himself in public to avoid Vietnam, the fact remains that he exclusively shoots at things that are unable to fire back. Bravery comes in many guises, I guess.

The real frustration is that behind the blather (the lyrics are either moronic or incoherent) there is a kernel of a good hard rock album. Nugent is a good guitarist with a keen ear for a tasty hook, exemplified best by 'Crave', an exhilarating head-rush with a spiralling riff to rival Motley Crue's 'Girls, Girls, Girls'. Elsewhere, subtract the lyrics and 'Rawdogs & Warhogs' is a fine update of Nugent's own 'Workin' Hard, Playin' Hard'. Once again, mute the singing and 'Pussywhipped' is a rollicking stomper of a tune. There are bits and pieces throughout Craveman that remind you of why Ted Nugent was able to sell millions and pack out stadiums, but much else to make you wish it was he, and not Frank Zappa, who released an album titled Shut Up and Play Yer Guitar. Doubly so because the instrumental 'Earthtones' is quite lovely.

However, in a business where success can be fleeting, you could suggest that Nugent has been shrewd enough to parlay his simplistic, ignorant and inconsistent worldview into a second career as a conservative talking head. Thanks to his pungent and frequently expressed views the chickens may be coming home to roost on his performing career, but that's not likely to unduly trouble a man of his stripe. It's a real shame that Craveman is so imbued with Nugent's sub-Pithecanthropoid politics that the experience becomes something close to unpalatable. I wasn't expecting the lyrical embodiment William F Buckley, but this crap is just insulting. Then again, ol' Bill Buckley never could crank out 'Stranglehold' in front of thousands at the Cobo Hall, so I'll give that one to the Nuge.