Heartical is patois for genuine or sincere and this 1990 recording sees Lloyd Hemmings getting straight to the point on nothing less than the key tenet of Rastafari: The time to pack up, leave behind the everyday world of Babylon and make the journey to Zion to reconcile with Jah. The problem is, as Hemmings notes, too many people are obsessed with fighting wars or fighting with each other, to set their differences aside and make the collective move. Whether it’s warring countries or warring family members, Heartical Decision is a lament for the time and energy wasted on negative emotion.
It’s just unfortunate that it’s only in its last 20 odd seconds, from 3:00 to 3:25, that Hemmings really seems to get animated with a message to the older generation about how they may be able to persuade their children to accompany them, instead of being bidden off by them in ill grace. Typical that just as we start to get some detail on how this split could be avoided, the fade out kicks in - though the video segues on to the dub side of the single which was overseen by Augustus Pablo and Rockers All Stars.
Welcome everyone to another edition of A & R Officers’ Corner, where we once again try to answer the thorniest of questions about the mechanics of the music industry. Today, we go back to a real doozy, a point that’s been debated for as long as the marriage of art and commerce has existed. And that question is: Should singles released from an album serve as a gateway to what listeners can expect from an album, or should they purely be focussed on getting the public’s attention as a means of potentially luring them into buying the album, even if that ends up being something they didn’t expect?
If Kurt Cobain had been happy to write and record three Smells Like Teen Spirit-alikes alongside 9 or 10 tracks of whatever noisy, discordant, abrasive music he wanted to make on subsequent Nirvana albums, then maybe the course of his life would have taken a different turn. I’ve not been able to establish whether Dr. Phibes and the House of Wax Equations were deliberately trying to fool record buyers with the single releases that led up to their second and final album, Hypnotwister, or whether they were following a plan to put accessible material out there ahead of unleashing the ball of fury that large parts of the album are made up of. I’ll be posting again about some of the tracks that best summarise the vibe of Hypnotwister, in the coming months, but having first suggested that they were trying to channel a spacier Red Hot Chili Peppers vibe with the November 1992 single, Misdiagnosedive, Dr. Phibes and the House of Wax Equations now stepped on to The Verve’s * territory with the spacy and contemplative Moment of Truth.
Anyone who missed Misdiagnosedive - as I appear to have done on this blog - would have been tempted to hear Moment of Truth and think, “Ah! They’re going ambient.” And that’s no bad thing here. The track is far less tedious than The Verve could sometimes be in similar compositions. Indeed, the 9 and a half minutes fly by, despite the languid tone, and even when the track tries to up its tempo and energy levels in the last 2 minutes, the band maintain wonderful control over things. There’s never any sense of impatience or impetuosity, they know exactly what sounds they want to make and where they want to take the listener to. The rock solid rhythm section keep things perfectly moored as Howard King Jr. coaxes atmosphere and moodlines from his guitar.
Three times the track coalesces around a scat-mantra from King Jr., which sounds like it’s describing a process of transition. Does Howard’s reference to resurrection soulicide or worlds colliding refer to the moment that the consciousness passes from straight to high, or perhaps from life to death? In contrast to most of the material that the band recorded for Hypnotwister, this manages to be quite supportive and comforting. An oasis of calm in what ended up sounding like an emotionally incendiary record; and all put out in a single to lure in the unsuspecting.
I can only think it must have been a sales masterplan, especially given that neither the band nor John Peel followed the advice I would have been frantically giving to put out or play the album’s best track, Real World.
Apart from a comment that Fats Domino didn’t seem to get much contemporary radio play, Peel didn’t add anything else about his playing of Domino’s 1956 recording of Blue Monday on this show, but I’m wondering whether he was subconsciously inspired to do it by the fact that Sting’s new single, Seven Days had been released earlier that week, and maybe he felt that his audience deserved to hear a better example of a song about the stresses of a week.
For myself, I call an honourable draw between them, especially given that Seven Days deals with Sting spending his week contemplating having to genuinely fight a rival for his lover’s affection, who is bigger and stronger than he is; whereas Fats deals with the standard blues lamentations of having to face the horror of Monday morning and then dragging his ass through the working week to get to payday on Friday before a day of debauchery on Saturday, and a day of rest on Sunday. You’ve heard those themes a million times but Fats’s style carries the day.
In case you’re wondering, after playing this version of Blue Monday, Peel chose not to follow it up with an obvious open goal.
Listening to Seven Days again, I can imagine Fats Domino absolutely smashing a cover of this.
Videos courtesy of Jazz Everday! (Fats) and kirtww (Sting).
A classic case of misdirection in the title as there’s nothing particularly jazzy - or indeed jizzy - in this mix of Spunky Marimba. The Spunky Mix does feature some keyboard parts which sound marimba like, but is a less interesting track than the Marimba Mix, which, curiously, doesn’t feature anything resembling a marimba.
Instead we have a perfectly serviceable piece of techno electronica, which with its whistle refrains and drum breaks intermingling with pulsing rhythms and shadily, melancholic synth lines does a good job of taking the listener to the Shindig club nights running in Newcastle at the time. Shindig started as a duo (Lee Mellor and Scott Bradford). On subsequent releases - though not this one - they would be joined by Chris Scott, who would go on to enjoy a top 10 UK hit with I Believe as part of Happy Clappers. That record got its initial release on Shindig’s own label.
Video courtesy of The Space Cadet 90s House and Techno.
For all that though, why have I only included one track from Roovel Oobik’s session? Well, I should say that it was touch and go that Betterlife [Recreation Version] made it on to the metaphorical mixtape at all, but having listened to the session again this morning, I did seriously consider including the whole session here. We’re back in Revolver territory again…
All of the songs in the session follow a pattern: strong, melodic starts which get undercut by weak vocals - albeit I need to make allowances that vocalist, Tonu Pedaru, was singing in a second language - and that ultimately lead onto slightly overindulgent playouts. I did nearly change my mind and include Masters of Day Dream Machinery here as well, but I think that Betterlife [Recreation Version] does all anyone really needs to be able to enjoy Roovel Oobik. For me, the gorgeousness of the wah-wah guitar work and the ska-dub playout counterbalance the gormless vocals. We can’t have one without the other, so let’s embrace the glorious and the grim here.
Peel hoped that Roovel Oobik would come back and do another session the following year, but in the event, he never played anything by them ever again after the session was repeated on 20 August 1993. He doesn’t appear to have played anything from their 1994 album, Psychikosmos, and it took him a decade to discover that from the mid-90s onwards, several members of the band had been recording and gigging as a dance act called Una Bomba.
He always spoke fondly of them though, remembering when, during their brief stay at Peel Acres, the band would always go outside to smoke on a grass verge opposite the house. During one smoking break, Peel went out to join them and told them to consider the verge as a part of Estonia, the band even made up a sign which they planted on the verge saying, Welcome to Estonia. In 2003, an Estonian TV crew interviewed Peel about the band and took footage of the verge. They also passed on to him a copy of the Una Bomba album, Aerosol and Peel played a track from it on 19 March 2003.
In 2005, Roovel Oobik reformed to release an album called Supersymmetry. Since then they’ve released two further albums, the most recent being 2024’s Transcent.
Video courtesy of VibraCobra23 Redux
Apologies for not being able to include the dots over the o in the band’s name.
The video is taken from Peel’s show on 17/4/93, and as you’ll hear him say, Come Alive is taken from the album, Cake and Eat It, but what he didn’t mention was the lengthy journey that The Blue Up? had gone through to get an album distributed.
Formed as an all-female quartet in 1984, the Minnesota outfit released two singles in the mid-80s on Susstones and by 1989 were set to record their first album. The album, called Introducing Sorrow, was due to be released by British label, Midnight Music, but it ultimately never saw the light of day due to Midnight Music going bust. By the time The Blue Up? recorded Cake and Eat It, they had reduced themselves to a trio and, clearly eager to make up for lost time, produced an album boasting 23 tracks, albeit half a dozen of them were snippets ranging between 7 & 23 seconds in length.
With its jittery time-signature verses and strident choruses, Come Alive somehow marries together Eastern European folk with Goth rock. In the verses, singer Rachel Olson - now better known as Ana Voog - sounds as though she’s channeling the heroine of Another Day by Paul McCartney, a woman out of place in the modern world, simply trying to get through another day without being harmed or hurt. And yet lurking under the surface is a more confident, sensual figure waiting to burst forth when the time is right. The cries of despair after each chorus showing how desperately the heroine wants to break free of the constraints placed upon her, constraints which in Voog’s case were later attributed to Post-traumatic stress disorder and agoraphobia. These conditions foreshadowed Voog’s later work as a visual and internet artist, where she would garner notoriety with anacam, one of the earliest life-casts on the nascent internet, in which she set up a webcam to broadcast her life 24/7, and did so for 13 years. This Vice article by Voog from 2018 gives more details of why she did it and what she learnt from it.
The band clearly had a high opinion of Come Alive as they re-recorded it for their only major label album, Spool Forka Dish, released on Columbia Records in 1995, but the snippet of that which I heard on genius.com suggests that, like Shonen Knife before them, The Blue Up? lost something of what made them so compelling once they stepped into bigger and shinier facilities. Stay in the Catacombs where The Blue Up? recorded this version and enjoy something both catchy, chilling and icily magnificent.
Back in the 60s and 70s, if John Peel was excited about the release of a new album, it was common practice for him to play the whole record on one of his shows. Examples include Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles* and Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan** (as well as Desire by the same artist). In subsequent years, Peel would content himself by playing trios or quartets of tracks from new records that particularly excited him.
On 17/4/93, he dotted 4 tracks from Blonder Tongue Audio Baton, the debut album by Swirlies, throughout his programme. My notes show that only Pancake would have interested me enough to keep on a mixtape. I like the tension between the driving, grinding rock sound coming up against the woozy keyboards and off-key singsong vocals of Seana Carmody. The lyrics mentioned missed classes, and given that the album’s tracklisting featured titles such as Bell and His Life of Academic Freedom, I wondered whether the album might be a concept record about life in college. I listened to the record last night and soon discovered that it wasn’t. If the record has any kind of theme, it’s around those of regret and tough love, but most of the lyrics are too abstract to be definitively pinned down.
What I must say about Blonder Tongue Audio Baton is that it is very much a record of two halves, and as I waited for Pancake to roll around - it’s the sixth track out of eleven on the album - I found myself wishing that I hadn’t felt the need to satisfy my curiosity about whether the record was a concept album. I found the first five tracks a slog to listen to, mainly because Swirlies fell into the trap of layering them in all kinds of discordant sounds and weird modulations, while simultaneously failing to lift the tempo above meandering, and I discovered last night that I really cannot get on with meandering drone rock, no matter how scuzzed up the band make it.
Then we reached Pancake, the halfway mark in the album and the first track that Carmody sings on. The first five tracks were sung by Damon Tuntunjian, which had me wondering whether Swirlies were in the same category as Moonshake and whether I would find myself leaning more towards “her over him”. Nevertheless, it was a welcome harbour to reach after 5 tracks of audio gristle. But then something rather wonderful happened. Over the second half of the record, Swirlies leave behind the sonic kinks and knots and let the material breathe a bit more. The album becomes progressively more “songy”, more involving and more exciting to listen to. I’m always happier to hear an album which has a stronger second half than first half, not least because it’s better to be looking at the time and thinking “How much more have I got left to enjoy?” instead of “How much more have I got to endure?”
But I only took one track out of the four that Peel played. A look at the tracklisting for this show reveals that, alongside Pancake, Peel played Bell, His Love Just Washed Away and His Life of Academic Freedom, which are…let’s see…tracks 2, 4 & 5 on Blonder Tongue Audio Baton. So, Peel was leaving us in no doubt which half of the album his preferences lay with. In fairness, he did play tracks from the second half of the record in subsequent programmes, ***but based on my experiences with it, I can’t help but wish that he’d gone back to his 1970s self and played the whole album, so as to give a fuller and truer picture of what it was like. Sometimes, John Walters’s attitude of We’re not here to give the public what they want, we’re here to give them what they didn’t know they needed could work against both audiences and artists, and that’s something which I feel happened in this programme.
Video courtesy of Swirlies - Topic
*Strictly speaking, the link doesn’t go to a Peel show. Radio London got an advance copy of Pepper about three weeks before it was released, and Ed Stewart was the first DJ to play it, albeit with a highly emotional Peel sitting in with him as he did so. I’d be surprised if Peel didn’t give the album a full play on The Perfumed Garden at some point.
*** On 1 May 1993, Peel played what I think may be the best track on the album, Jeremy Parker, but aggravatingly, the file of that show, which I made my selections from, missed the track off, so it won’t be blogged about here.
2) 13 year old, Tom Ravenscroft’s apparently pitch perfect impression of PJ Harvey. His father was so impressed by it that he wanted to record it and play it on this programme, only for Tom to make himself scarce every time he tried to get it down on tape.
There were two tracks that fell from favour on my original list of selections:
Trumans Water - Limbs - The Spasm Smashers etc are always an acquired taste, though up to now I’ve generally given them the benefit of the doubt. Limbs has elements in it which led me to think about including it, but it’s one of those tracks where, for too much of it, the dissonant elements conspire to drive the listener away, and the dynamics of the final minute couldn’t quite claw the deficit back.
Spine Wrench - Fleshstorm - I can only conclude that I felt that as there are very few tracks out of the 900+ on this blog that showcase the demonic growling vocals of say, Raw Noise or Disemboweled Corpse, that there was clearly an opening available for the Norwich industrial rockers, Spine Wrench, especially given that Fleshstorm told a bit of a story. But when I listened to it again, as part of a split LP they shared with Sin called No Rest For the Wicked, I was almost rendered unconscious by the sheer tedium of the whole enterprise.
Our last post covered the future of car insurance, it makes sense to follow that with a track which appears to be encouraging listeners to get their funeral care sorted.
Throughout the previous year, Jacob’s Mouse had been a regular feature on Kat’s Karavan with tracks from their LP, No Fish Shop Parking. They had shown that they could rock out or hold down a groove as well as anyone. Now, they were back on a new label (Wiiija) and with a new album, I’m Scared. The previous year’s Peel Session gave everyone some indications of what to expect, featuring as it did an early versions of the LP track, It’s A Thin Sound. Box Hole showed that while Jacob’s Mouse could still switch effortlessly from rock to funk, they were now throwing in both industrial metal and noise rock as well. Box Hole is one of those thrilling pieces of guitar music that comes along periodically, grabs the listener by the ear and shows us all just how fascinating and exciting rock music can be. There are at least three different cue points at which anyone listening to the track could find themselves leaping out of their chair to get to the dancefloor, and this serves to keep it a constant delight each time it’s played.
1) Acid heads will be able to attune themselves to the trebly dynamics of the track’s opening section as Hugo Boothby’s piercing yet melodic line intersects with his twin brother, Jebb’s contemplative bass line.
2) Dub freaks will find themselves honing in on the Butterfly suits they are watching, watching section.
3) Everybody gets to have a good old fashioned early 90s mosh around during the What am I s’posed to say?/What do I have to say? thrash section.
I had initially thought the theme of the song was about getting away from the world and hiding, with box hole being use as a variation on foxhole, but I now find myself agreeing with the consensus that the song is actually about death. This makes perfect sense if we regard:
a) a box hole to mean a resting place for a coffin.
b) the butterfly suits they are watching, watching to mean angels and spirits which walk alongside us, waiting to welcome us into their domain.
c) What am I s’posed to say?/What do I have to say? sounds like the desperate cry of someone trying and failing to find the words to comfort the bereaved.
If that all sounds a bit scattershot, then it’s at least of a piece with Jacob’s Mouse’s methods of working which were to pack in all the ideas that they could to a song and see what happened. I’ve written before about my theory that because their singer, Sam Marsh, was also the drummer, it made sense not to write reams and reams of lyrics. Instead of writing lyrical epics, the band came up with single, repetitive lines which they could build the different stylistic sections of the song around. One of the strengths of this approach, as recorded in this article from B-Side Magazine, reprinted through repeatfanzine.co.uk is that it allowed the group to be one of the most experimental rock bands of the period.
Curiously though, Peel doesn’t appear to have embraced I’m Scared as much as No Fish Shop Parking. A look at the John Peel Wiki shows only 7 plays of I’m Scared material, against 11 plays from No Fish Shop Parking. Tellingly, Box Hole accounts for 3 of those plays.*
If it wasn’t for the fact that my notes for this 16/4/93 show go over two pages and Link Wray is on one page, while The Sonics are on the other page, then I would have paired Rumble up in a post with Dirty Robber in a “future of car insurance advertising” mash-up.
Rumble was Wray’s debut release in 1958, and it gave him both his biggest hit (Number 16 on the US charts) and his signature tune. It is celebrated as one of the first rock ‘n’ roll records to make use of tremelo and distortion, and has in one sense or another influenced practically every electric guitarist since. When played next to its catchier, more conventional sounding b-side, The Swag, it sounds positively futuristic.
Rumble was a hit despite concerns over its title’s link to gang violence, and its famous two note refrain certainly implies menace and malevolence. I’d imagine it would have been a popular record to play if you saw yourself as a street smart tough guy, and you needed a tune to get you in the mood for a night out.
It’s future use on the Confused.com insurance adverts was but a glint in an advertising executive’s eye when John Peel was including Rumble in his live sets, and some 35 years after its release, it was still entrancing young people who had grown up on music made by artists who had channelled Wray’s style. After playing Rumble on this show, Peel remarked I played that at The Powerhaus last week and lots of interesting young people with skin conditions came up and wanted to know what it was.
Peel was still receiving correspondence about his week covering for Jakki Brambles and on this show he read a letter from Barry Warren congratulating him on his stint.* Warren said that he had last written to Peel back in the days of The Perfumed Garden to request a play of Get Me to the World on Time by The Electric Prunes. Peel hadn’t played it for Warren in 1967, and he wasn’t holding his breath in 1993, to which Peel could only reply, Better late than never, Barry….
A US top 30 hit - and only 2 places away from breaking into the UK Top 40 - in March/April 1967, Get Me to the World On Time does an excellent job of reworking the trick of a song like Got To Get You Into My Life in that every line of its lyrics could be interpreted either as a love song or a drug song.
The love song angle leans more towards the sexual than the hand holding, and it’s supported by the music which sounds at times like it’s evoking heavy breathing, throbbing heartbeats and the surge towards an orgasm. The world in this case means the sweet spot inside James Lowe’s lover, rather than Planet Earth.
If Get Me to the World on Time was a drug song, the songwriters Annette Tucker and Jill Jones chose to hide in plain sight by referencing chemical reactions, disturbed minds and shaken hormones, in a trip to the world on the other side of perception. But, so skilful is the writing that the song could be performed either at the church disco or during a full-on, freak-out orgy and would fit in either setting.
I can find no evidence of Get Me to the World on Time being hit by airplay bans or censorship, but it’s possible that the ambiguity of the lyric stopped it going as high as it should have. If so, it would be another example of the way in which the acts of others conspired to make life difficult for The Electric Prunes. Nobody seems to have been content to let them do their own thing. Although they wrote songs for their first two albums, their producer, David Hassinger, encouraged them to record original material by other writers alongside their own content. This gave them their chart hits but in December 1967, it led to the band going into the studio to record an album which would be written, arranged and produced by David Axelrod. Mass in F Minor yanked The Electric Prunes from Bo Diddley-style psychedelia to religious music, sung in Latin and Greek, albeit fed through a psychedelic pop-rock filter.** The classically trained Axelrod’s compositions were more complicated than The Electric Prunes were able to cope with, but instead of changing course, the Electric Prunes found themselves being sidelined - only 3/5 of the band played on the record; session musicians taking up the brunt of the work.
After some poorly received attempts to play tracks from the album on tour in early 1968, the original Electric Prunes lineup disbanded, but as the rights to the name were held by Hassinger, he put together a new lineup and set them up to record another album with Axelrod, Release of an Oath, which was released in November ‘68.
30 years later, the original line-up reformed to play live and record again, releasing three albums since the turn of the Millennium. The band has continued to the present day, but in a case of history repeating itself, none of the original members are with the band anymore following James Lowe’s death in May 2025.
Video courtesy of Duophonic for Stereo Phonographs ll
**I listened to a bit of Mass in F Minor while writing this post, and “awkward” doesn’t even begin to describe the stylistic fit. Take your Prunes from either 1966/67 or 21st Century and it’ll keep you regular. Anything else will go right through you.
As with The Wedding Present’s Rotterdam, And Then Again owes its place on the metaphorical mixtape to a single piece of sound which lifts the track above the swamp of indifference - though that being said, I do think this is a better song overall than Rotterdam.
Starting the track off and then recurring throughout each verse is a ringing, single note that serves as an almost celestial presence over Arcwelder’s performance. I tried to think what it was that the note reminded me of: tear ducts as in the piano riff on Trouble by Coldplay? Not quite, it put me more in mind of the “guitar in a bell” sound that Datblygu achieved in their Peel Session version of Carpiog. The bell motif stayed with me, and then I got it. That note: insistent, urgent, remorseless was like an alarm clock, desperately trying to arouse its owner from a dream. Though this isn’t a particularly striking revelation given that the chorus begins with the line, This is a dream…
When we consider the content of And Then Again, we find ourselves in a sad domestic nightmare. At least one half of the relationship realises that they’re in trouble, given that the second line of the chorus is This is a lie. The woman has left because she can no longer believe in the relationship or get her partner’s nose out of the paper to notice her. Instead of an alarm clock, the ringing note could be an alarm bell ringing from inside the man’s subconscious about the state of his relationship. And the sudden shut off of the note at the end of the song feels like recognition of the problem suddenly arriving, only to be drowned out by the fading echo of the recently slammed door.
As was previously mentioned, Peel had received a copy of the latest album by The Fall. In this case, his first listen to The Infotainment Scan came via its cassette version. This was useful as he had had recently had a new car radio fitted, which had included a cassette player. He was pleased about this as it meant that he could listen to demo tapes while out driving again. Peel continued his campaign against the onslaught of developing technology by taking the time to find a radio which could be tuned by turning a dial rather than by pressing buttons.
So, the essential website, The Annotated Fall appears to be no longer operational. This is dreadful news for Peel show bloggers because it means we now need to stick our necks out and try and interpret for ourselves what Mark E.Smith meant in his lyrics. I guess it’s the image of the old bastard, sitting up in a pub on a cloud somewhere, pissing himself laughing and saying to himself, “He’s a genius this bloke, isn’t he? He really should be teaching musicology somewhere. I could learn from him.” that has us so wary of interpreting his material. However, in the case of Service, I have a theory which I think fits well enough. So using the Who-What-Why-When-Where-How theory and mixing it with the kind of mental deductions required for the latter rounds of 3-2-1, my take on Service is that it is a poignant song about ghosts and mental illness.
Winter is here declares Smith. A line setting which gets further clarification with references to kicking rotting leaves, the brownness of tree branches and streets washed clean by the rain. However, the lines referring to vulperines (anything with the features of a fox), wolverines (which here refers less to the X-Man and more to the carnivorous animal, which by extension leads to thoughts of werewolves) and the witch that is at Smith’s left shoulder all conspire to give a strong Halloween vibe. But Service doesn’t exist in the world of little kids in plastic masks and cheap capes going door to door for fizzy candy, it lives squarely in the realm of the supernatural. Smith’s character is putting on his hat and corny brown leather jacket in order to go to work at the local mental hospital. I assume he sometimes has to sleep in at work on some nights and that the man who would spit out two or three teeth a night on the floor is the same patient who also laughs at everything and nothing. I think that this particular patient might be equally at home with the witches, vulperines, wolverines and all things associated with All Hallows Eve. It’s my supposition that the patient is R.M. Renfield, the servant of Count Dracula - which is where the title, Service is taken from in this song. Renfield spends the majority of his time in an asylum, both proclaiming the coming of his master and fearful of it.
One striking thing about Service is how elegant it is, with its central piano figure managing to conjure both the feel of a once stately castle and the approaching storm clouds of Dracula’s flight. If it wasn’t for some poor mixing which drowns Smith out at times and the dated synth trumpets, I’d be calling this one of my favourite Fall songs to listen to for pleasure.
During his stint covering for Jakki Brambles, Peel played The Fall’s cover of Lost in Music. On this 16/4/93 show, he played the other cover tune which made it on to The Infotainment Scan, the lesser known I’m Going to Spain, recorded by Steve Bent, an actor who was best known for his appearances in the ITV soap opera, Crossroads. His single, which was released in 1976, appears at face value to be trying to cash in on the vogue for holiday themed singles which became big hits on the UK charts in the mid-70s, such as Y Viva Espana or Barbados. Unlike them, Bent’s more modest effort missed out on the charts, but was considered awful enough to merit inclusion on the 1978 compilation album, Kenny Everett - The World’s Worst Record Show.* Outside of this, the record had languished in obscurity. Peel didn’t have a copy of his own, and when he signed Bent’s single out of the BBC Record Library so that he could include it in a future programme, he noted that he had been the first person to borrow the record in 17 years.
The Fall didn’t record a cover of it just to take the piss. For a start, Smith liked Crossroads, not least because it starred Carl Wayne for a time, and The Move were one of Smith’s favourite groups. I’m Going to Spain isn’t a great song, but what makes it interesting is that it isn’t concerned about sun, sea and sangria, but about using travel as a way to broaden the mind and life experience. The refrain at the end of each chorus is I hope I can quickly learn the language, after all. Smith may also have enjoyed the ambivalent humour on lines like :
The factory floor presented me with some tapes of Elton John.
Though that should keep me company
And I hate them,
Yes I hate the goodbyes….
If we need any further evidence of the regard in which Smith held the song, it’s that he tried to sing it in the same high key register that Bent did. They even sneak the castanets in at the end.
It’s exactly 1 year since Guided by Voices first appeared on this blog, a year which covers 3 weeks in terms of Peel shows. My God, how does anything get accomplished here? It’s a good thing he wasn’t doing daytime stand-ins on a regular basis or we’d get nowhere.
So happy anniversary to GbV and it’s a pleasure to come back to a track from the album, Propeller. This was originally intended to be the swansong release for Guided by Voices, who had spent most of the last decade plugging away to widespread indifference. They had quit live performance and chose to make Propeller a bit of a special occasion to sign off with. They restricted its run to 500 vinyl copies and took the time to give each copy a unique cover.
Exit Flagger, which is the job title given to anyone on a roadworks team who flags traffic off at exits when a road has been closed, alludes to the changes which awaited a band who were ready to take the exit from being Guided by Voices and potentially from music altogether.
I don’t know where I’ve come from.
I don’t know where I’m going.
And I need to find a way out.
And he’s here to help me find it.
The exit flagger could represent all those people down the years who may have advised Robert Pollard that it was time to put rock ‘n’ roll dreams aside and find a “proper” way to make a living. And with the refrain, I’m not going to race you today, it sounds as though Pollard was ready to agree with them. The song continues with Pollard continuing to make promises of change, at least real soon i.e.once GbV have finished their final album. And if Propeller hadn’t found the attention it did, which led the band to carry on, then who knows what road Pollard and friends may have found themselves travelling on. In the event the exit flagger directed them to the future Pollard always wanted.
On Thursday 25 March, 1993, Hole recorded their second and last session for John Peel. In the two years that had passed since they recorded their first session, they had replaced Jill Emery and Caroline Rue with Kristen Pfaff and Patty Schemel on bass and drums respectively. They brought three songs to the session which would eventually feature on the band’s next album, Live Through This, which was released almost a year after this session went out. Interestingly, Live Through This would also feature two songs which the band had played in their 1991 Peel Session.
Two of the songs saw Hole in attack mode. I wasn’t taken by She Walks On Me, which according to Courtney Love is about the way geeky girls try to impersonate weird girls in order to seem more interesting. Beyond its everyday observation, this could have been a swipe against Riot grrrl bands that Love had so little time for.
They were certainly the target in Olympia, the capital city of Washington State, noted both for the liberal arts/progressive politics at Evergreen State College, and its music scene which was seen as the hive for riot grrrl bands such as Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, Heavens to Betsy etc, in the way that Seattle was seen as the hive for grunge music. Although Love’s upbringing was peripatetic, marriage to Kurt Cobain had seen them set up home in Seattle, and on one hand it’s possible to look at Olympia as a song in which one major city disses another major city within the same state. Hole take the piss out of the political earnestness and community ethos of the bands in Olympia, compared to the more nihilistic attitude underpinning the music of Seattle’s bands. The collection of yelped “Yeah?”s which end the track sound somewhat passive aggressive. Less “yeah, I agree with you”, more “yeah, I thought you were a moron and everything you say is confirming it, so I’ll keep drawing out your stupidity for everyone to see.”
The version that Hole recorded for the Peel Session had several differences from the out-take version
which ended up hastily substituting for the original album closer Rock Star* on Live Through This. There’s less profanity for a start, and the session version also has a verse scoffing about time spent with someone called Calvin. This appears to be Calvin Johnson, whose record label K, had distributed records by numerous Olympia bands for over a decade at this point. On the album, the track cuts much more quickly to its point that too many of the bands look and sound the same, that they are condescending to their audience and that all of them preach revolution but leave Love unconvinced that any of them would know what to do if they achieved their goal. Love’s whispered “fascist nexus” comment is particular to the session, and in 1993, could be read as a reaction against politically correct feminism, as embodied by the attitudes of the riot grrrl groups. It’s a reminder that, in the age of wokeism, the terminology changes but the insults stay the same.
I don’t have many things in common with Courtney Love, but one thing we both had to endure was being given a derogatory nickname in our childhoods. For me, the failure to pull out a handkerchief when I sneezed in a lesson at junior school, and exposed my classmates to a shower of mucus, meant I had to put up with being called Bogieman for the best part of two years, until I went to secondary school.** Love’s nickname was marginally worse as she was known as Pee Girl, mainly due to the smell of urine on unwashed clothes that she often had to wear while living on a hippie commune. In adulthood, Love managed to regain some semblance of ownership on the nickname. She included it in the lyrics to 20 Years in the Dakota, which was recorded as a b-side to their then current single, Beautiful Son.
Now, it had a song all to itself, but there’s nothing particularly triumphant or self-asserting about its use here. This is a song in which its lonely and vulnerable heroine is seeking a friend to confide in and unburden themself to amid bursts of domestic violence (Pee girl gets the belt) and allusions to potential sexual abuse (Your milk is so sour). When the song was recorded for Live Through This under the title Softer, Softest, the line became even more uncompromising (Your milk has a dick). Having not long become a mother herself, Love appears to be hitting out at her own mother for the abuse she suffered (Burn the witch/The witch is dead/Burn the witch/Just bring me back her head). She also references her own struggles and self-destructive behaviour, which she was trying to break free from (I’ve got a blister from touching everything I see/The chasm opens up, it steals everything from me.) The song tries to surge in its final 40 seconds, but remains a sad and dispiriting piece.
Peel played The Raincoats original recording of The Void from their eponymous 1979 debut album on this show and broadcast Hole’s cover of it, 10 tracks later. When you hear the chorus line on The Void it sounds tailor made for Love’s voice. Hole slightly rework the lyrics, referring back to their own Olympia with references to revolution, but both versions do a good job of addressing depression and ennui in a manner which seems invigorating rather than crippling, although the churning violin on The Raincoats original recording provides an extra layer of emotion which isn’t quite there on Hole’s cover.
It could be argued that, in 1993, no-one was doing more to boost the reputation of The Raincoats than Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. The previous autumn, Cobain had met Ana da Silva while she was working in her cousin’s antiques shop in London. He wrote about this meeting and his request for a copy of The Raincoats debut album in the liner notes to Nirvana’s rarities and early tracks compilation, Incesticide. A few months after this session was broadcast, all three of The Raincoats albums, recorded between 1979 and 1984, were reissued in the UK and US. Cobain again contributed liner notes to the reissue of The Raincoats. Early in 1994, The Raincoats reformed after a 10 year hiatus, and exactly a year after this show, Peel broadcast a new session by them, which included a dedication to the recently deceased Cobain.
When considering this session as a whole - pardon the pun - it’s a curious beast really. A cover and 3 works in progress. It shows signs of the poppier direction that Hole were looking to move in, away from the days of Pretty On the Inside and which had prompted original bassist, Jill Emery to leave the band. I wonder whether the content of this session would have produced any new Hole fans. I’m not sure that it would have, but it’s an interesting signpost to where the band were going and would have asked any existing fans, listening in, whether they were going to join them on their journey. At the end though, I find myself going back to a comment Peel made after playing Hole’s session version of Drown Soda on 13 March 1992: There are so many bands doing pop, but only one band doing Hole.
*Although Olympia replaced Rock Star on Live Through This, the substitution was made after the album artwork and track listings had been completed. Live Through This was released a week after Kurt Cobain’s suicide and Rock Star’s refrain of You’d rather die was attached to verses about being in Nirvana, creating an unbearably shocking case of art imitating life. Curiously, the titles have never been changed on reissues of the album, making the Peel Session one of the few recordings to feature Olympia under its own name.
** It could have ended up being replaced by an even worse nickname in subsequent months, given that an attack of diarrhoea during a PE lesson in Year 5 caused me to shit myself. But I got away with that to a large extent because while people were aware it happened, no-one actually witnessed it, they just knew that something pretty extreme had happened which meant I had to be cleaned up by the headmistress in the toilets.
Hole videos courtesy of Anna Logyka, VibraCobra23 Redux and JusticeforCourtney.
Mecano was the lead track on an EP called Mekanix, and it makes for a wonderful listen with its blend of techno, tribal and musique concrete. As the video shows, Peel made another of his invariably inaccurate attempts to identify the distant voice at the start of the track. His guess at Mark E. Smith may well have been due to over-excitement given that this 16/4/93 show, which the video is directly taken from, featured Peel’s first plays of tracks from the new Fall album, The Infotainment Scan. It quickly becomes clear that the voice wasn’t Smith’s unless he was working for NASA on the side, which provides quite the picture come launch day: Commencing countdown. 10-ah, 9-ah, 8-ah, 7-ah, 6-ah, 5-ah, 4-ah, 3-ah, 2-ah, 1-ah. Lift off! Lift off! It’s cleared the tower. Oh…that’s fucked then, isn’t it?
“Spacey” best describes the vibe around Mecano, and the collection of voice samples from Mission Control, tribal cries and I am a mechanical man refrain sounds like a dry run for a concept album where robots from the future land on a planet/time populated by primitive man. I’d have bought that record, but isn’t it curious how yet again in this show, we find ourselves back in the milieu of Planet of the Apes.
Placing at Number 22 on The Phantom Fifty and completely unconnected to The Beautiful South’s hit single of the same name, this is something of a damp squib for its first two minutes. That’s not because of the content, despite the fact that it breaks no new ground. It’s a Wedding Present song, so obviously David Gedge is lamenting the latest piece of miscommunication which has left him grovelling apologetically to a woman. She feels sad, and he feels bad for making her that way. I wanted you but not the way you think. We’ve heard it all before and perhaps because of this, the producer of the track, Steve Albini has decided that we don’t need to clearly hear what Gedge is singing. It isn’t quite John Lennon yelling the final chorus of Yer Blues into a dead microphone, but you have to strain to hear what Gedge is singing and it doesn’t help the song given that Gedge’s singing voice has always walked the line between distinctive and unprepossessing. My notes from this show had a question mark next to Rotterdam, and when I listened to it again for the first time in a year, last week, I was all ready to keep it off the metaphorical mix tape, based on those first two minutes.
And then, at precisely 2:00, the reason for sticking with Rotterdam makes its entrance. Peter Solowka’s multi-note guitar riff encapsulates a choked sob of such distress that it can’t fail to move the listener. Over the last minute, the whole band move in on this as the riffs and drum fills get more urgent, taking the sound from sobs and tears to the metaphorical smashing up of the room. It could be Gedge taking out his regret on anything that isn’t nailed down, or his friend breaking everything in sight while he sits cowering in the corner. Either way, it’s the closest thing to violence that I’ve ever heard on a Wedding Present song and pulls the dollars out of the fire in fine style.
Rotterdam was recorded for The Wedding Present’s 1991 album, Seamonsters, which marked Solowka’s last work with the band, before he devoted himself full time to The Ukrainians.
John Lennon demonstrates how dead mic singing should be done from 3:17.
Videos courtesy of The Wedding Present - Topic and The Beatles - Topic
Lyrics are copyright of David Gedge and as we can’t hear them, please feel free to read them.
NOTICE - This post contains mild spoilers relating to Planet of the Apes (1968). I mean it’s a twist that’s quite widely known, but I don’t want to make assumptions.
The world was a simpler place when The Mummies recorded (You Must Fight to Live) On the Planet of the Apes. In 1993, one could listen to this piece of lumbering, yet enjoyable slice of garage metal and conclude that singer Trent Ruane and friends had completed a binge watch of the five Planet of the Apes movies released between 1968 & 1973, and chose to mark the occasion by writing a song, most likely told from the perspective of Charlton Heston’s character, George Taylor, an astronaut who finds himself on a future version of Earth, where in the centuries following a nuclear holocaust, apes became the dominant, intelligent species, while man was reduced to mute animals. The lyrics describe some of the authoritarian stratas seen within that society with gorillas as the military class, orang-utans representing the religious orders and chimpanzees as the scientific elites. It’s through striking up a relationship with a pair of scientists that Taylor gets into a position where he can escape and try to live as a free man.
Alternatively, we could have looked at this as an allegory of an allegory, with the broader context being about the way in which man’s cruelty to man - in ways both large and small - sees us treating others as though they were animals. The fight to live on this planet of apes could relate to the struggle to get from one end of the day to another. The great strength of the Planet of the Apes series is that it’s open to so many interpretations and packs in so many concepts: slavery, the science/religion debate, nuclear dread, genocide, cultural shift, fear of the outsider and so much more. It is, to my mind, one of the greatest series in 20th Century film.
But in 2025, (You Must Fight to Live) On the Planet of the Apes feels like a state of the nation address on politics in the United States. Characters from the films can now be replaced by current symbols of authority which are running unchecked in the United States. For example:
And where in Trump’s America are the figures that Ruane could strike up a relationship of mutual understanding with? Either intimdated into silence or tacitly accepting of the new reality in America.
With two members of their band having South East Asian heritage, The Mummies would not have been unaware of the conflicts and prejudices that their friends went through in early 90s America and how vulnerable they would be if the events of the Planet of the Apes films ever bled through to the real world, but back then, such things seemed the work of fantasy that they were. It’s the certainty of a world and a time which was still a layer or two removed from the venality of 2025 which people lament and pine for when they talk about “how great the 90s were” on any message board or set of YouTube comments. I appreciate that it’s lazy writing on my part when I say that songs from 30+ years ago speak more to the times we live through now, than they did when they were originally recorded, but I can’t be the only one who misses the days when songs like (You Must Fight to Live) On the Planet of the Apes were fables instead of documentaries.
A pleasant time passer from the session recorded by Zimbabwe Cha Cha Cha Kings on 24 November 1992. The session had Peel promising to catch the group if they came to the UK in 1993, as he had missed them last time they had toured here.
My lists initially included another track from this session called Naome, but I suspect if I was making up a mixtape, I would be more eager to replay Shanduko, so I’ve just gone with that one. The other tracks on the session were Dear Maideyi and Makandiramba. The whole session, together with Peel links from 16/4/93, can be heard here.
Balle Balle Balle is a Punjabi phrase which translates as Hooray Hooray Hooray. The vibe of the track is celebratory and upbeat, though as ever I retain a trace of concern as I don’t know what it is the track is cheering about. We’ll have to take it on trust.
I think what I respond to in particular are the leaping passages first heard around the 55 second mark, which recur throughout the track. The interconnected nature of music shows itself as those tightly strung Eastern guitar lines sound surprisingly close to the Celtic jigs and reels of Matt Molloy.
Sky’s the Limit seems to have struck a chord with Peel as he played a number of tracks from the album up to June 1993. It remains to be seen whether any of them turn up here, but Balle Balle Balle makes me hopeful.
Video courtesy of Akash - Topic (so enjoy it while it’s here).
Given the name of the artists, both Peel and I missed a trick by not pairing this up with Dirty Robber by The Sonics from this same 16/4/93 programme.
Tommy McCook formed the Supersonics in 1965 after the dissolution of his previous band, The Skatalites. They would serve as the house band for Duke Reid’s Treasure Isle label. In general, Treasure Isle singles in the 1960s operated on a split single principle. They would feature the Supersonics backing a featured artist on one side of the disc, with a performance by McCook and the Supersonics on the other side. The title, Second Fiddle, potentially offers an insight into what McCook thought of this arrangement. However, it’s a jaunty, jazzy rocksteady instrumental which showcases McCook’s saxophone work and the skills of his flautist. It was issued in 1968 as the flip to I’ll Be Lonely by Jay and Joya (John Holt and Joya Landis).
I never went to a rave. I wasn’t well connected enough to know where any of them in Cornwall were taking place, and if I had known, I don’t think I’d have been too enthusiastic about trying to get out to a remote beach on the arse end of the coast, especially given that I would have been too nervous to do any drugs in order to make the long night pass by more beautifully.
I don’t tend to think of this as a major omission in my life experience until I hear a tune like Going All The Way by the free party collective, Spiral Tribe, and then I know that with its hypnotic, eddying runs of sound - I especially like the part around 1:37 which sounds like it’s remixing Tuesday by Milk Cult at 128bpm - and banging tribal drum beats, I’d have been set to dance way beyond dawn and all the way up to lunchtime.
Unfortunately though, if I’d wanted to do so in 1993, I’d have had to take a crossing to France given that Spiral Tribe moved their operations over there due to increasingly repressive UK legislation - sparked off by the vastly over attended Castlemorton Common Festival and culminating in the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 - which sought to stamp out unlicensed raves and festivals. Once again, the UK’s loss would prove to be Europe’s gain. At least Spiral Tribe put out a steady stream of official and unofficial releases throughout the 90s in order to bring the raves to those who couldn’t get to them.
