The Adverts: Live At The Roxy Club

THE ADVERTS: LIVE AT THE ROXY CLUB (1977; 1990)

1) Safety In Numbers; 2) Newboys; 3) One Chord Wonders; 4) On The Roof; 5) New Day Dawning; 6) Great British Mistake; 7) Bombsite Boy; 8) No Time To Be 21; 9) Quick Step; 10) New Church; 11) Bored Teenagers; 12) Gary Gilmore's Eyes.

Given the legendary (cult) status of The Adverts, it is almost surprising that the number of post­mortem releases on their part is so embarrassingly small — just this one live album, released on the Receiver label, and a bunch of radio performances or something. The Adverts were quite well known for the ferocity of their live shows, true to the core of the punk spirit and all, so it makes total sense to have them commemorated with this early and relatively intimate (but wild) club session that took place at the Roxy Club before the first album was even recorded. Fortunately, the sound quality, while far from perfect, is satisfactory enough to both enjoy the show in its «totality» and to pay attention to all the individual contributions.

Setlist-wise, you can predict that this is going to be Crossing The Red Sea With The Adverts Live, and it is — they play 11 out of 13 songs live, adding the B-side ʽQuick Stepʼ and offering no particularly new melodic insights into the legend. However, you can also very easily see that they still share the old rock aesthetics of keeping it «dirtier» on stage and «cleaning it up» in the studio. The studio recordings, underneath all the heaviness, could have an acoustic underbelly, or at least some colorful electric «jangle» — live in 1977, everything is plastered with chainsaw buzz. Understandably, this undermines the songs' melodic potential, but adds tons of power, and if even subtle artists like The Who understood the payoffs, why shouldn't The Adverts? Howard Pickup, Gaye Black, and T. V. Smith are seen here as a simple, straightforward, and totally focu­sed three-head beast who know exactly what they want — state that they do not know what they want in a laconic set of bash-your-head-over movements.

I do not really have much to say here except that this is one of the best live documents from the early punk era — raw, lo-fi (but listenable), replete with the idealism of 1977 when certain young people once again got the idea that they could somehow change the world, or at least shake it out of its general indifference and somnambulance. For all the notes that T. V. Smith flubs in this performance (compared to the much better rehearsed and engineered singing on the studio record), there is that spontaneous, taken-over-by-spirits yearning in his voice that convinces you even today — this whole enterprise may be futile, but it certainly is not fake. Nor is his reluctance to communicate with the audience, as all the songs are introduced with a brief "this is..." and some­times concluded with an even briefer "yeah!" (not a single «thank you», I believe, even though the audience sounds quite enthusiastic throughout).

It does have to be remarked that, for a band that almost prided itself on knowing exactly one chord (figuratively speaking), The Adverts are remarkably tight live; the drummer may be their weakest spot on the whole (though he's at least competent enough not to let the rhythm slide), but the bass/guitar duo always keep up the tempos and are well coordinated with each other, leaving the singer free to roam on his own. Nothing exceptional, but once again, the legend of proper punk bands «not knowing how to play» is put to rest — restricting yourself to the bare musical minimum is certainly not the equivalent of not knowing how to play that minimum. Check out ʽNo Time To Be 21ʼ as proof — there's a relatively lengthy instrumental part there where Gaye and Howard are musically flirting with each other, she playing simple, but fun bass figures around his sea of distortion and he eventually leading his guitar towards a set of orgasmic scree­ches (okay, this reads sexier than it sounds, but now that I wrote it, I am beginning to feel that it is actually starting to sound sexier than it reads).

On the whole, a well-assured thumbs up here — if the studio albums convinced you that The Adverts were much more than a mere footnote in the early punk movement, Live At The Roxy is an essential addition to the legacy, rather than a footnote to a footnote. From what I read, its title may be an unfortunate lie (as the album is now said to have been recorded at Nottingham's Rock City), but everything else is the truth, and a good source of youthful inspiration even when you're listening to it at the age of 50.

The Adverts: Cast Of Thousands

THE ADVERTS: CAST OF THOUSANDS (1979)

1) Cast Of Thousands; 2) The Adverts; 3) My Place; 4) Male Assault; 5) Television's Over; 6) Fate Of Criminals; 7) Love Songs; 8) I Surrender; 9) I Looked At The Sun; 10) I Will Walk You Home; 11*) Television's Over (single ver­sion); 12*) Back From The Dead.

More or less conventional wisdom has it this way: Just like so many great punk bands, The Ad­verts had only one great album in them. Having said everything they had to say on Crossing The Red Sea, they tried to say the same stuff in a radically different way on their second album — sa­crificing most of their strengths and turning out forgettable cheesy shit. Consequently, out of the two sole choices available to all Great Punk Bands — go on dragging through the dirt for decades or disband — they chose the latter. Curtains.

This story you usually get from people happy with conventional, simplistic models. Reality, how­ever, shows that, as convincing as these models look in theory, there is, in fact, very little evi­dence to back them up each time you pick a particular case. For one thing, The Adverts did not dis­band because they felt embarrassed about this album — quite on the contrary, T. V. Smith al­ways talked about how Cast Of Thousands was a good record misunderstood by the masses — and they did not disband because they no longer believed in The Idea Of The Adverts or any such crap. For another thing, there is nothing inherently wrong with Cast Of Thousands.

Sure, it does not rock with the same explosive force as the band's debut — the same could be said about a million other bands, raising hell in the early days and calming down as time went by, and there is no unbreakable law about preferring one side over the other: surely a guy like Van Morri­son, for instance, is not a primary object of reverence these days because of his garage output with Them, no matter how scorching that output could be. And yes, it somewhat downplays the talents of the band's lovely bass player: one reason, perhaps, why The Adverts eventually went their own ways — T. V. Smith towers over his bandmates on this album in a way that is decided­ly un-brotherlike. Well, it never hurt Jethro Tull, so why quibble before listening?

Somewhat more biting are accusations of musical degradation. Fans did not quite see the deep meaning of placing the production in the hands of Tom Newman, a one-time session guitarist for Mike Oldfield, and of his burdening the band with the piano playing of Tim Cross, another Old­field veteran — watch his slightly dorky appearance on Mike's recently released Live At Mon­t­reux 1981 video to understand that his compatibility with the rough-tough Adverts can hardly be taken as a given.

Nor is it necessarily a good thing to see so many good old-fashioned concentra­ted rapid-fire gui­tar assaults replaced by near-operatic bombast: big, burly, overdubbed arrange­ments that, from time to time, gravitate towards the E Street Band, or even — God forbid! — the likes of Meatloaf. Cast one thought in the wrong direction and you may get the evil idea that T. V. Smith is trying to become a commercial arena-rock hero. It is not that the band seems to be «betraying» the punk ae­sthetics — quite a few great bands, from the Clash to the Police, couldn't help but be bored with upholding that aesthetics for more than one or two records — it is simply that, unlike those others, they seem to have taken quite the wrong road to betrayal.

But if Cast Of Thousands let down expectations back in 1979, there is no reason why it should still be judged according to those expectations of a long-gone era. In retrospect, it is simply less of a bare-bones rock'n'roll album. Yet T. V. Smith's gift for songwriting is still there, and so is his artistic dedication. The whole thing is a bit more tragic, a desperate lament to the disillusionment of the punk movement, some say, but every bit as sincere and emotionally ravaging. Tim Cross is actually an excellent addition, contributing lovely «sub-melodies» throughout. And as for the cheapening of the guitar sound, well, Howard Pickup was never all that hot as a player to begin with. It's the de-emphasis of the bass, really, that saddens me the most.

The title track and 'I Looked At The Sun' are the two staggering highlights — total punkish aban­don given an almost Phil Spector sheen, pompous, but also ass-kicking and catchy anthems on which even the synthesizer parts feel completely at home (but their somewhat «progressive» in­clinations, of course, must have provoked quite a few spasms of rage among British teenagers). The lead single, 'Television's Over', puts the same Big Gloss mantle on the band's Gothic ways of expression (with doom-laden harmonies on the chorus and Cross' keyboards imitating funeral bells). More straightahead punk statements preserve the poppy melodicity of old, reminding those who are willing to be reminded that The Adverts were never the quintessential 1977-style punk band in the first place ('Male Assault', 'Love Songs' — the latter almost completely sounds like one of those sleazy barroom-issued New York Dolls numbers). And the closing number, 'I Will Walk You Home', is probably the gloomiest song ever recorded about walking someone home. (Would make a terrific contrastive flip to somebody covering Fats Domino' 'I Want To Walk You Home' on the A-side).

Thus, while it may be too much of a fuss to call Cast Of Thousands a criminally underrated clas­sic, it is fairly obvious, at this time, that it should be at least considered the legitimate second half of The Adverts' story, rather than a misguided, forgettable footnote, and that, historically, The Adverts may have been a «one-album band», but artistically, they qualify quite fully for a «two-album band». The only difference is — to love Crossing The Red Sea, all you have to do is to have an appreciation for the punk rock spirit. To love Cast Of Thousands, you have to have a separate appreciation for the spirit of T. V. Smith. But then again, for some people, it may be easier to un­derstand and love the spirit of one particular person than that of an abstract, never clearly defined, some say musical, some say social, some say cultural, some say spiritual move­ment. And furthermore, if you hate generalizations and over-analysis, Cast Of Thousands is sim­ply one more collection of well-written, memorable, butt-kicking music bits. Thumbs up.

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The Adverts: Crossing The Red Sea With The Adverts

THE ADVERTS: CROSSING THE RED SEA WITH THE ADVERTS (1978)

1) One Chord Wonders; 2) Bored Teenagers; 3) New Church; 4) On The Roof; 5) Newboys; 6) Gary Gilmore's Eyes; 7) Bombsite Boy; 8) No Time To Be 21; 9) Safety In Numbers; 10) New Day Dawns; 11) Drowning Men; 12) On Wheels; 13) Great British Mistake.

Arriving on the scene just a little too late to upstage the Sex Pistols, disbanding way too early to scale the epic heights of the Clash, The Adverts are relatively rarely remembered these days among the general public. Still, their debut LP had almost immediately gained huge critical suc­cess, and has never been off the critical lists since then; nobody with even a faint interest in the first wave of the British punk movement can pretend to have never heard about it.

And the critics are damn right — Crossing The Red Sea, an album whose very title is a perfect reflection of its ambitious drive, is not just one of the best 1970s punk rock albums; it is one of the best 1970s albums, period. These thirteen songs (eleven on the original release, which omits one crucial hit single), all penned by band leader and vocalist T. V. (Tim) Smith, encapsulate eve­rything that was good about the punk movement, omit most of what could be bad about it, and, actually, go way beyond the stereotypical punk formula.

From a certain point of view, this isn't even «punk»: the guitars are not inclined towards chainsaw buzz, which sets them way apart from the Ramones, and the vocalist tends to actually sing rather than bark, which sets them even more apart from the Pistols and the Clash. The band had been formed in 1976, and their idea must have been to continue the noble work of Sixties garage and «proto-punk» acts rather than to try and invent some radically new sound. This sort of «traditio­nalism» is indirectly supported by the sarcastic lyrics of 'Safety In Numbers': "What are you go­ing to do with your new wave?.. Here we all are in the latest craze, stick with the crowd, hope it's not a passing phase... what about the new wave? did you think it would change things?"

This sceptical atmosphere is completely balanced by The Adverts' approach. They are here to do two things: write aggressive rock songs and voice relevant complaints on life's various injustices — actually, you could say it's all just one thing. No toying with reggae or electronics, no arrogant post-modern minimalism à la Wire, just simple, direct, accessible statements. Had T. V. Smith happened to suffer from melodic cluelessness, or had his band been one ounce less committed to the idea, Crossing The Red Sea would — today, at least, with the floodgates chugging in tons of old albums by justly forgotten bands every day — be a disaster. As it is, it's a masterpiece.

Even though most of the songs feature the same formula (loud, fast, usually too lazy to even in­troduce a proper bridge section), each one has an irresistible vocal hook, hammering in a specific crazy feeling. 'One Chord Wonders', from the very start, bares their self-conscious attitude, slyly goading the listener into a state of shame — as T. V. Smith, in a Christ-like pose, proclaims how outcast his amateurish band is going to be among the audiences, yet "The wonders don't care — we don't give a damn!", one can't help but admire the self-sacrifice. 'Bored Teenagers' has Smith playing his own psychoanalyst and, in passing, producing one of the year's most sing-along an­thems for the young 'uns. 'No Time To Be 21' is fun to interpret as a follow-up to Cooper's 'I'm 18': the confused, disoriented teenager now adding violence and indignation to his emotional spectrum, just the kind of thing you'd expect to happen in three years' time.

Although guitarist Howard Pickup and drummer Laurie Driver are merely «competent» on their instruments (which they could certainly play with the required energy and dedication, and who are we to demand more?), second important Advert after Smith is unquestionably his girlfriend Gaye Black or Gaye Advert on bass — not only the first ever successful female punk star, but, seemingly, the one band member who bore the biggest brunt of shaping Smith's ideas into musi­cal form. This is why, out of all the possible paths to take when trying to expand on the «punk» image, the band usually chooses the doom-and-gloom thing: 'On Wheels' begins with several bars of a near-Gothic melody played solely on bass, which is still dominating the song even after the guitar and drums have kicked in. (With an atmosphere, by the way, that is way more reminiscent of classic Alice Cooper circa Killer time than any of the band's contemporary competition).

This «evil» streak, just a tiny bit theatrical, but quite realistic all the same, works ever so well with 'Gary Gilmore's Eyes', depicting an imaginary situation in which the protagonist has been transplanted the eyes of a murderer — but the chorus, spat out at the listener in a shower of des­cending notes played and sung by Gaye and Smith in unison, is delivered as a punkish message, so you are forced to read this as some sort of social metaphor — not an easy thing to do — so bi­zarre and challenging — quite an efficient trick to pull it up on the charts. Although far less fa­mous, the «evil» and «angry» sides of the band are just as marvelously matched on 'Bombsite Boy'. Few, if any, people in the history of rock music could deliver the line "Thank God I never compromised" with more power than these lovable whippersnappers.

The CD reissue of the album remasters the original admirably — Gaye's imaginative basslines and Smith's passionate vocals never wash out each other, and the whole thing (produced by a still young John Leckie, later famous for his work with The Stone Roses) is among the crispest re­cords of the year 1978. The bonus tracks, unfortunately, are not up to par — mostly single ver­sions of LP tracks, and a bunch of live performances taped in horrendous quality, a real cold sho­wer after the perfect studio sound. None of which has anything to do with the fact that this album is to be owned, propagated, and, of course, played very, very loud. Thumbs up!

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