Associates: The Radio 1 Sessions Vol. 2

ASSOCIATES: THE RADIO ONE SESSIONS VOL. 2 (1984-1985; 2003)

1) A Matter Of Gender; 2) Message Oblique Speech; 3) The Affectionate Punch; 4) Kites; 5) The Crying Game; 6) Even Dogs In The Wild; 7) Gloomy Sunday; 8) Heart Of Glass; 9) Obsession Magnificent; 10) Take Me To The Girl; 11) Give; 12) Helicopter Helicopter; 13) Breakfast; 14) Perhaps.

The second volume of The Radio Sessions covers the first years of the «Associates» without Rankine — which is already disheartening — during which McKenzie was still more concerned about aesthetics than about choreography — which is a little better. It is no way as overwhelmingly strong a collection as the first volume, which goes as far as to present the band in a certain light that is unshed by their studio catalog. But it is still more of a must-own for McKenzie fans than The Glamour Chase or Wild And Lonely.

Curiously, the 1984-85 sessions that McKenzie's «Mark II» Associates did for Radio 1 were not at all centered around tracks for the upcoming Perhaps. Three tunes from that album that are tacked onto the end of the CD are not live at all: they represent either alternate mixes or simply the exact same tracks (I don't have the time or will to check it out more accurately) as Perhaps it­self — padding out the running length without any clear reason. The real live tracks all date back to The Affectionate Punch / Sulk era, and represent McKenzie's attempts at somehow prolon­ging these songs' breathing period by reinventing them.

The first four tracks give us a more disciplined, a more tightly buttoned Associates brand, where the drummer looks more like a robot than a punk on fire, the guitarist shuns unpredictable synco­pation or flourishes like plague, and the wall-of-sound, if present, seems static rather than «con­stantly evolving». However, they still sound like an actual band, perhaps moving closer to The Cure in spirit, and this means that, for instance, ʽA Matter Of Genderʼ gets one more life here — the original studio take, the Rankine-era live version, and the post-Rankine rendition all sound like different statements. And ʽMessage Oblique Speechʼ, a track I never noticed much on Fourth Drawer Down, is seriously sped up, given a repetitive, but catchy new synth-riff, and be­comes a hysterical anthem instead of a meditative bore.

The second session yields three stripped-down performances, centered around McKenzie's sin­ging and a lonesome piano: a torching rendition of Dave Berry's ʽThe Crying Gameʼ, plus beau­tiful takes on ʽEven Dogs In The Wildʼ (the song works great with a bass/piano/finger-clicking accompaniment — and that chord sequence in the chorus, probably the deepest, most inspired thing these guys ever came up with, sounds even more stunning on solo piano than in its original electric guitar arrangement) and ʽGloomy Sundayʼ — it all sounds surprisingly fresh and lively compared to the stuffed synth-pop aura of all the post-Rankine productions.

The final section has a couple tracks that are unavailable elsewhere (ʽObsession Magnificentʼ, ʽGiveʼ), as well as an early take on ʽHeart Of Glassʼ that is much better than the «finished» ver­sion on Glamour Chase, with more of a live than computer feeling — at the very least, it sounds inoffensive enough to actually let you start thinking of the possible benefits that a replacement of Debbie Harry by Billy McKenzie could accrue in this context. Or maybe not. But it does sound inoffensive enough — real guitars instead of synth loops are a good guarantee.

Overall, if you decide to own Vol. 1, there is no reason to stay away from Vol. 2, but you got to be prepared for its being a little different. It is a good travel companion to Perhaps, despite focu­sing on earlier (or later!) material — and an invitation to feed some more on the bleeding heart of Billy McKenzie that should be taken quite seriously by all of his vampire admirers. My own fangs are a bit short, but a thumbs up is still guaranteed.

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Associates: The Radio Sessions Vol. 1 (1981-1983)

ASSOCIATES: THE RADIO SESSIONS VOL. 1 (1981-1983; 2003)

1) Me, Myself, And The Tragic Story; 2) Nude Spoons; 3) A Matter Of Gender; 4) It's Better This Way; 5) Ulcra­gy­cep­timol; 6) Waiting For The Love Boat; 7) Australia; 8) Love Hangover; 9) A Severe Bout Of Career Insecurity; 10) God Bless The Child; 11) This Flame; 12) Helicopter, Helicopter; 13) Theme From Perhaps; 14) Perhaps (schizo­phrenic version); 15) Don't Give Me That I Told You So Look; 16) Breakfast.

Due to the briefness of their shooting star, the original Associates never left behind a proper live album; nor, perhaps, did they really need one, because their sound relied much more on studio craft than explosive live-by-the-moment energetics. For this reason, you might well think, just like I did, that their live radio sessions, released seriously postfactum from the BBC archives, may be ignored without serious consequences. Don't make that mistake! Every once in a while, obsessive completism pays off properly.

The first nine songs on this collection, recorded on April 28, 1981 and March 6, 1982, respective­ly, not only feature Rankine on guitar, playing some of the band's best material: they present the best sound that you will ever get out of the Associates. Recorded live in the BBC studio, the songs only allow that much excessive Eighties gloss to be spoiled with. Real live drumming; a minimum of keyboard layers; and, most importantly, guitar a-plenty, guitar that screams and wails as much as it wants to, instead of being subject to rude discrimination. But at the same time, it's still the Associates — moody, echoey music, hysterical vocals and all.

Take ʽA Matter Of Genderʼ, for instance. The original was an atmospheric rocker, whose spark was ignited by rubbing together a heavy funky bass line and a slight, shrill, «see-saw-y» guitar riff. Live, the guitar minimalism is expanded to become a veritable banshee celebration of the in­strument — it does not exactly become better, but it sacrifices a little bit of «mystery» in order to gain the guise of a tempest. The pseudo-Eastern riff that opens ʽIt's Better This Wayʼ is played out with twice as more muscle, and the vocals do not creep out like a swampy echo from behind the generic electronic drums, but are delivered straight in your face. And ʽNude Spoonsʼ? The guitar buzzes and stings like a swarm of bees on speed, where on the Sulk studio original it just left a dirty trail of sonic slime in the back of your speakers. Cool!

In addition, there are a few tracks that never got album release — the instrumental ʽMe, Myself And The Tragic Storyʼ is another brawny, flashy, inspiring composition, if not particularly me­morable; and ʽA Severe Bout Of Career Insecurityʼ probably has the best pure piano melody on any Associates record of the Rankine era. Also, ʽLove Hangoverʼ gets a long near-accappella in­troduction (with just a few piano notes to back McKenzie), a must-hear for everyone who just sits there waiting for one more chance to go crazy over McKenzie's tonal magic.

The remaining seven songs are from 1983 and already feature several early versions of McKen­zie's Perhaps compositions. These are less exciting, because there are fewer differences from the final takes, and with Rankine's departure, the new band was no longer interested in emphasizing the «live» nature of the sound. Still, there is an interesting take on the Billie Holiday classic ʽGod Bless The Childʼ — I abhor it, currently, but just because I cannot see anyone improving on the original; Billy really does a fine job in his style.

In any case, the first nine tracks alone merit a rock-solid thumbs up: one of those indisputable cases, I think, which fully justify the existence of the BBC Archives — they may have put out a huge lot of redundant, hardcore-fan-only «pale-shadows», but this is one of the major exceptions. It's too bad they didn't record their entire catalog that way — or I'd have no problem recommen­ding to just go for the BBC stuff, and forget about regular studio work.

Associates: Wild And Lonely

ASSOCIATES: WILD AND LONELY (1990)

1) Fire To Ice; 2) Fever; 3) People We Meet; 4) Just Can't Say Goodbye; 5) Calling All Around The World; 6) The Glamour Chase; 7) Where There's Love; 8) Something's Got To Give; 9) Strasbourg Square; 10) Ever Since That Day; 11) Wild And Lonely; 12) Fever In The Shadows.

I do not understand why The Glamour Chase was rejected and Wild & Lonely was accepted. Or, rather, I do: because Billy was dropped by WEA and went to some obscure minor label in­stead. Which had nothing to do with the music on the record — most of which was awful. At least The Glamour Chase was a disappointing failure; Wild & Lonely is just an annoying pim­ple on the pop music surface.

Two things are certain: (a) Billy Mackenzie still got his pretty voice; (b) most of these songs are danceable. This is more or less all the accolades I can screw out of my brain. It is hardly possible to discuss individual songs, because how do you tell bubbly synth patterns one from another? I doubt anyone will ever be interested in the tablature for any of these songs.

Initially, there is serious temptation to trash the whole thing as primitively disgusting «Euro­dance». It takes several listens to even begin to understand that Billy actually did take some care of the ar­rangements. For instance, ʽFeverʼ, in addition to the basic chugging synth bass part, has layers of pianos, (synthesized) strings, and (synthesized) harps, all of which could theoretically add up to something distinctive. But they don't, because none of the parts make any sense other than a «oh, that sounds too naked, let me throw on some "artsiness" here».

Worse, it takes serious digging to clear a way to Billy's heart — most of the songs are so utterly faceless, it's as if he'd completely lost all sense of purpose. Why the heck does a thing like ʽCal­ling Around The Worldʼ even exist? Its horn-driven theme is cheesy, its «happy« vocals are pho­ny, its chorus is unmemorable. Where are the angst and the anguish? The despair and the disen­chantment? The gloom and the glamour? Shame, shame, shame.

If you suffer long enough, you may get a mild, inadequate reward in the guise of the title track, which completes the record in a soft-jazz / adult-contemporary mode. As the electronic drum­ming gets softer and slightly «Latinized», the synth bass dies down to an echo, and minimalistic piano chords and strings take center stage, Billy gives a tragic-romantic delivery in the grand tra­dition of a Scott Walker (or a David Bowie, if you prefer someone with advanced star power). Does it help much? No. It's just one last song, and it isn't very memorable, and there is no way it would save the album from an inevitable thumbs down. But at least it sounds natural, which is the last word I would want to associate with the rest of this record.

After the predictable, and justifiable, flop of the album — it might have helped if Billy were a hot young teenage girl in a leotard, but no guarantee — Mackenzie finally had the good sense to re­tire the «Associates» brand, a thing that he should have done at least three years earlier (Perhaps can still be qualified as an «Associates» record in spirit). As far as I know, having only listened to brief snippets, his last solo album, Beyond The Sun, released just before or just after his suicide in 1997, somewhat reinstates his standing, moving away from generic dance-pop, but I have no plans for a detailed review of Billy's solo career. It's too bad, though, how the Associates thing ended — what began as an inspiring combination of elements ended up ground and chewn in the stupid pop cliché machine: one more victim of the mercyless Eighties.

Associates: The Glamour Chase

ASSOCIATES: THE GLAMOUR CHASE (1988)

1) Reach The Top; 2) Heart Of Glass; 3) Terrorbeat; 4) Set Me Up; 5) Country Boy; 6) Because You Love; 7) The Rhythm Divine; 8) Snowball; 9) You'd Be The One; 10) Empires Of Your Heart; 11) In Windows All; 12) Heaven's Blue; 13) Take Me To The Girl.

Even the record company failed to find enough trust in this album: upon completion, it was re­jec­ted by the label and remained unreleased until 2003, when it was finally given the green light du­ring a general campaign to remaster and re-release the entire Associates catalog. The only diffe­rence is that the label did not see the album as «commercial»; me, I just don't see it as «interes­ting» or «inspired». Or could that be the same thing? Sometimes, at least?..

It is odd, because some of the ingredients are still there. Mackenzie still got his voice, his perso­nal problems and sentiments, and some desire to experiment. The whole thing is not «just» ano­ther synth-pop crapfest. But when your work happens to be within the synth-pop idiom, tremen­dously strong vitaminization is required to make stuff work. Perhaps still had plenty of exciting ingredients. The Glamour Chase has next to none.

ʽReach The Topʼ, for instance, is the worst start-off number in Associates history so far: other than the chorus vocals, it has nothing even vaguely reminiscent of a hook, and even the vocals are delivered in a flat, lifeless way, without making use of Mackenzie's impressive potential. Basical­ly, it is just a song that could have been done by any generic act of the era — possibly an attempt on Billie's part to really go «commercial» and give the club kids a fresh butt-wiggler. The shame, the awful shame.

Likewise, what was the point of covering Blondie's ʽHeart Of Glassʼ? It's not just that the original already was pure disco perfection; it's that the song cannot possibly benefit from a Mackenzie touch, unlike, say, ʽLove Hangoverʼ — its superficially happy sarcasm cannot be re-molded into an Associates-type pattern, and it isn't. It's just a stupid, overlong, completely unnecessary cover, probably feeding off the assumption that people may need to be reminded of how cool it was to dance to disco-Blondie in a past era. A tenth anniversary tribute to the song or something.

The only tunes here that are at least marginally interesting are those that try to cross synth-pop with older genres. ʽCountry Boyʼ turns the chorus into a «traditional» crooner-fest; and ʽSnow­ballʼ dives into cabaret territory (a thing that Robert Smith, however, had already done much better with ʽLovecatsʼ). But even these little tactical victories are nullified when seven-minute long monsters like ʽIn Windows Allʼ come along and bore you with slow, draggy, pompous syn­thesizer minimalism — few things are more evil than a solemn synth-pop epic devoid of mind-blowing chord sequences to justify the size.

In the end, all that remains is just a small bunch of cherries — a cool violin twist here, a juicy bass pluck there, and some vocal parts that will be definitely appreciated by Billy fans (ʽThe Rhythm Divineʼ is fairly soulful — if only the music were in the least bit interesting as well). In general, though, the well is running dry; had the album remained in the vaults forever, the world would hardly have missed a chance to become a better place than it already is. Thumbs down, although, if Billy Mackenzie is your soul brother, you will probably still want to scrape some soul off the bottom of this barrel as well.

Associates: Perhaps

ASSOCIATES: PERHAPS (1985)

1) Those First Impressions; 2) Waiting For The Loveboat; 3) Perhaps; 4) Schampout; 5) Helicopter Helicopter; 6) Breakfast; 7) Thirteen Feelings; 8) The Stranger In Your Voice; 9) The Best Of You; 10) Don't Give Me That I Told You So Look.

Post-Rankine era Associates are generally forgotten, since even the band name does not really make any sense when nobody is genuinely «associated» with Billy Mackenzie any more. Natu­rally, if your original image is built on the successful collage of «guy with guitar» and «guy with ego», critics and fans alike will not be impressed when the «guy with guitar» is gone, and you simply retain the original name for publicity purposes. Perhaps took a fairly long time to make — two years of recording only to get completely scrapped and restarted from scratch — and when it eventually came out, it fared poorly. Still reaching something like #23 on the UK charts, but it didn't stay there long, even despite the sexy suit on the front sleeve.

But you know what? I actually found it much more interesting than Sulk. At this point, nobody pretends any more that this has anything to do with a «rock» sound: the entire album is stereoty­pical synth-pop, with very few guitar overdubs of any importance — and, instead of having Ran­kine, a modestly inventive, but technically mediocre, player, handle the goods, Mackenzie hires expert player Stephen Betts, a.k.a. Howard Hughes, as a full-time member. The record is no lon­ger produced by Mike Hedges, too, removing and discarding most of The Cure associations; in­stead, there is a whole bunch of various synth-poppers responsible for production, and it seems to me that their chief task along the way was to steal away as much of Mackenzie's usual darkness and schizophrenia as possible. Much of it still remains — at his peak, Mackenzie was all dark­ness and schizophrenia, so you couldn't steal away everything, no matter how hard you tried — but overall, Perhaps is much less disturbing than Sulk.

So, it is synth-pop, it is relatively lighter and brighter than usual, it is a solo album masquerading as a band effort, a re-recording made at the record company's insistence — by all these parame­ters, it's a suckjob that doesn't even deserve its own review at the All-Music Guide. But its open­ing number, ʽThose First Impressionsʼ, happens to be the most beautiful song in Mackenzie's ca­reer. If you happen to be fond of stuff like Roxy Music's ʽMore Than Thisʼ and other Avalon-era creations, there is no way you won't be impressed by ʽImpressionsʼ — its more than tasteful mix of minimalistic piano chords, quiet horn and guitar perks, grumbly bass explosions, and, most important of all, a gorgeous vocal melody from Billy. It may not be entirely true to his personali­ty, but it is hard for me to believe that the entire performance could be «faked» when it is such a flawlessly executed vocal tour-de-force. Sweet, touching, danceable, immaculately produced (the voice is not lost in the mix even for one second, always dancing several feet above the instrumen­tal surface), a genuine gem of 1980s electronic pop.

None of the other tunes can keep up, but there is plenty of creativity anyway. ʽWaiting For The Loveboatʼ and the title track are hook-filled, memorable pop-rockers whose choruses can poten­tially annoy, but are definitely not senseless (ʽPerhapsʼ is at least as good as your average Depe­che Mode hit). ʽHelicopter Helicopterʼ is fast and crazy, not unlike a goofy Oingo Boingo num­ber with its robotic-funky horn and synth arrangements. ʽBreakfastʼ places its faith in a French-tinged piano and strings arrangement — it should be a particularly acquired taste, but it's interesting to see Mackenzie try out something completely different. ʽThe Best Of Youʼ has an excellent bass groove (although the vocals, courtesy of guest singer Eddi Reader, are questionable). And minor melodic attractions can be found just about anywhere.

All the way through, I kept pinching myself, but the truth is out: I am really, really quite impres­sed by the record. It does have one major flaw: almost all of the songs are drastically overlong — they are not that good to deserve five-to-six minute running times, so that a humble collection of just 10 numbers runs well over fifty minutes. This isn't really a «party» album to keep the guests on their feet, no matter how many technically danceable numbers there are — it is still an attempt to hew out some «art», and I would definitely feel strange dancing to songs that reference "dee­per days of quintessential innocence" and such. Hence, no need to keep the groove up and going once it has worked out its potential.

But other than that, it is an imaginative, diverse, and honest attempt to make a progressive synthe­sis of old school chamber pop and R'n'B with the new electronic inventory at hand. Like all such attempts done in the mid-Eighties, it remains thoroughly dated (the drum sound, in particular, is mostly horrible) — but repeated listenings let me look past that, and simply appreciate the record for all of its little inventions, the power of Mackenzie's voice, and the undeniable beauty of ʽThose First Impressionsʼ. Thumbs up.

Associates: Sulk

ASSOCIATES: SULK (1982)

1) Arrogance Gave Him Up; 2) No; 3) Bapdelabap; 4) Gloomy Sunday; 5) Nude Spoons; 6) Skipping; 7) It's Better This Way; 8) Party Fears Two; 9) Club Country; 10) Nothinginsomethingparticular; 11*) Love Hangover; 12*) 18 Carat Love Affair; 13*) Ulcragyceptimol; 14*) And Then I Read A Book; 15*) Grecian 2000; 16*) Australia; 17*) The Room We Sat In Before.

Considering the noticeable increase in tempos and repetitive choruses, it is hard to refrain from the thought that Mackenzie kept pushing the band in a more commercial direction — leading, eventually, to a split with Rankine, who (not without reason) thought that he was becoming side­tracked, and left for a solo career. On the other hand, «commercial» is not an easy word to use when you are dealing with the deliriously paranoid  lifeform that is Billy Mackenzie: for every new fan that he was gaining with the band's re-orientation on the dance-pop market, he was pro­bably alienating at least one old (pissed off at all the trendy keyboard sounds) and at least one po­tential (scared of Mackenzie's hystrionics).

The recent CD re-release of Sulk is seventeen tracks long, and since the style generally remains the same, may be overkill. However, the expansion is due to a healthy bunch of A- and B-sides from around the same year that the LP came out, and some of them are honestly better than the stuff they put on the LP. Arguably the best way to enjoy the trip is to program out the five or six tunes that you find too boring or annoying — and believe me, everyone will have a bunch of an­noyingly boring favorites on Sulk — and be left with the catchiest, and most energetic collection of electronic dance-pop romances in the band's history.

The best of the lot never made it on the original LP: it is a thoroughly disloyal cover of Diana Ross' ʽLove Hangoverʼ, throttling the sweet lovey-dovey attitude of the disco original and repla­cing it with a lower, darker groove over which Mackenzie spreads out a tour-de-force perfor­mance. As a matter of fact, Diana's original never sounded much like a «hangover» — if our hangovers took on the form of her sweet ecstasy, we'd all be doomed alcoholics by now. In the hands of Mackenzie, however, the song finally justifies its title: the man plays out a real «hang­over» — it's killing, yes it is, splitting headaches and all, but, for some reason, this is the state that he'd rather remain in for life. «Love» becomes a bout of masochism here, not some sort of generic ab­stract «pleasure».

This idea of reinterpreting ʽLove Hangoverʼ ties in brilliantly with the band's original vision. Sulk is almost nearly a conceptual album about the psychic dangers of love — at least half of the songs, both musically and lyrically, are about suffering from its side effects. Way too dark to be able to compete with the comparatively «fluffy» Duran Duran, yet much lighter than the contem­porary Cure records, because Billy Mackenzie's ego never amounted to even half the size of Ro­bert's Smith (yet again, not that it's necessarily a good thing: Robert Smith regularly offered plen­ty of musical fat to prop up the size of his ego — and no, that is not a veiled hint at the man's weight problems).

I have to confess that the actual music behind this attitude is fairly routine. With Rankine as­sign­ed to synthesizer duties, spending far more time at the keys than at his guitar strings, the toughest musical link in the band at this point is bass player Michael Dempsey, who, incidentally, joined the Associates soon after quitting The Cure. Considering that Three Imaginary Boys from 1979 was one of The Cure's bass-strongest records, that hardly comes as a surprise: most of the bass grooves on Sulk are first-rate, particularly on ʽSkippingʼ and ʽParty Fears Twoʼ. The keyboard work, on the other hand, leaves much to be desired. Most of the time I just feel like Rankine is weaving little flourishes around Mackenzie's «arias» that never take our attention span away from the vocals. Proving my point, the two completely instrumental numbers that bookmark the record are both utterly forgettable — minimalistic synth patterns pinned to bouncy rhythms; you could get that kind of stuff for a dime a dozen in 1982.

Mackenzie himself is quite good, though. Besides ʽLove Hangoverʼ, he also reinvents the old jazz standard ʽGloomy Sundayʼ (also known as ʽHungarian Suicide Songʼ) — it is fun to listen to his version alongside Billie Holiday's, showing how much and how little has changed over the fourty years that allegedly shook the world. ʽParty Fears Twoʼ remains stuck in the head as well, if only for the wall-rattling "AWAKE ME!" that serves as its climax — it's one of those tunes that is exactly 50% drunk romantic happiness and exactly 50% bleak suicidal despair, an explosive mix inherited from Roxy Music, but stripped of Bryan Ferry's salon smoothness. On the other hand, sometimes the silliness-as-seriousness is a bit too much to take — ʽBap De La Bapʼ is a dumb title, and the lyrics match its dumbness without even compensating with a bit of humour that could be expected from such a title. Dumb title, dumb lyrics, dumb «spooky» vocal delivery + annoying synthesizer sound = the Eighties forget no one.

Sulk is no masterpiece, and won't become one even when all the fat has been trimmed. In most retrospectives, it usually cuts off the «highly starred» period of the Associates' career, because most reviewers instinctively think that «loss of a key member» is always an objective event that the band needs to be penalized for. But Alan Rankine never was a particularly awesome guitarist, just a good one; and Sulk makes relatively little use of his talents in a relatively useful way — this is the Mackenzie show through and through, so the gap between it and the next stage of the «band» is not nearly as huge as one could believe from just browsing through the All-Music Guide. Still, it's got some good hooks, and, most importantly, when it is at its best, it's got that odd mood — how would you like to slit your veins while feeling totally happy about it? never mind, don't try that at home unless you are a Struggling Artist — that alone justifies a respectable thumbs up. I mean, I'm not sure I like that mood — in fact, I'm pretty sure I don't — but hey, a mood is a mood, and sometimes you just have to respect a mood while being detached from it. If everybody starts driving scooters into the oceans to the sounds of ʽLove Reign O'er Meʼ, that's gonna take a heavy toll on the fish population.

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Associates: Fourth Drawer Down

ASSOCIATES: FOURTH DRAWER DOWN (1981)

1) White Car In Germany; 2) A Girl Named Property; 3) Kitchen Person; 4) Q Quarters; 5) Tell Me Easter's On Friday; 6) The Associate; 7) Message Oblique Speech; 8) An Even Whiter Car; 9*) Fearless (It Takes A Full Moon); 10*) Point Si; 11*) Straw Towels; 12*) Kissed; 13*) Blue Soap.

It is hard to surprise anyone by describing an early 1980s album as «dark and cold». Even the New Romantics, whose basic goals involved finding fresh new ways to get girls to sleep with them, thrived on sounding «dark and cold» — the colder you are, the hotter will be the girls that you are going to get. And, considering how much the Associates' debut was influenced by the Bo­wie/Eno team, it would be very easy to dismiss their further developments on Fourth Drawer Down as even more bandwagon-jumping.

But during this very brief streak, the Associates were not really jumping on the bandwagon — on the contrary, they were helping to build the bandwagon. First of all, these six singles, first relea­sed separately, then knocked together in a coherent single monster, are wildly experimental. Ran­kine and Mackenzie were not interested in simply trading in their post-punk guitar band sound for a bunch of synthesizers: nearly each of the tracks had to include various sound effects and over­lays that would all contribute to the «authentic eeriness» of the atmosphere. Second, throughout the working process Mackenzie was feeding the band his personal disturbance and paranoia — and where it did not seem enough, they were enhancing the mood with drugs (allegedly, both of the key members even had to be hospitalized at one point).

In terms of complexity or meticulousness of production, Fourth Drawer Down does not stand comparison with The Cure, for instance. But it does not really have to. Robert Smith's target has always been the arena — his internal anguish had to be projected over the entire world, and that, by itself, required a tremendous amount of work so as not to come out as laughable. Mackenzie, on the other hand, is not singing about the end of the world or about humanity being forever chai­ned to eternal bleakness, despair, and soul torment. Hence, this is «chamber-oriented» art-pop, not the «symphony-oriented» brand of Robert Smith; and most of the sonic waves seem oriented straight at myself, rather than at occupying the airspace around.

Starting, actually, with the first throbbing pulses that open ʽWhite Car In Germanyʼ. As your sub­woofer threatens to blow up under the weight of the song's massive «leaden» punch, Mackenzie pours out waves of lyrical nonsense with such keywords as "cold", "infirmary", "spies", "surgery", "premature senility", and, yes, "white car in Germany". Whether it's all about an ER vehicle or something else is irrelevant: the main aim is to get a shivery, clinically sterile, living-dead sound, a variety of «morgue muzak», if I may say so. There is no overexaggerated depression or faked in­sanity here — it's simply an anatomical deconstruction of death with no emotional evaluation attached. None needed, in fact.

ʽWhite Carʼ is one of the album's least guitar-dependent songs, though; a more typical formula involves some particular, relatively simple, but catchy, guitar figure, devised by Rankine and us­ed as the basic anchor — the unnerving voice of your internal doomsayer. Next come Macken­zie's ice-cold operatic waves, and finally, all the extra overdubs. It applies to ʽA Girl Named Pro­pertyʼ (where several guitars drone on, layered across each other, in a disturbingly Crimsonian manner); the faster-paced, but still living-dead ʽKitchen Personʼ; and ʽMessage Oblique Speechʼ. ʽQ Quartersʼ pushes the guitar drone into the deep background, keeping the foreground minima­listic-ambient, with a little bit of pseudo-harpsichord to ensure that the mood is still flowing. And ʽTell Me Easter's On Fridayʼ floats on a thin little keyboard riff instead, probably being the clo­sest to generic «synth-pop» that this record gets.

The original record only included eight songs, still managing to run for a good fourty minutes be­cause of the length; however, the six bonus tracks on the CD reissue, bringing back all the nearly lost B-sides, add a brief epic touch — the extra twenty-five minutes will probably just irritate you if you find yourself incapable of «getting in the spirit», but for those who like a solid morgue-ori­ented album from time to time, ʽPoint Siʼ, with its quasi-annoying buzzing guitar groove, and ʽStraw Towelsʼ, one of the album's fastest songs, will be fine additional touches to the sonic pa­norama. (The only true misstep is the final number, ʽBlue Soapʼ, which features Mackenzie sin­ging accappella through a megaphone or something, set against a backdrop of dripping water and what sounds like a faraway orchestra rehearsal — gimmicky and quite meaningless).

It is thoroughly not «my kind of album» — quite inevitably, I find myself bored each time I get to the third or fourth song on it. Me, I'd rather hear one more time about the end of the world than be reminded, in such an intricate manner, of the existence of the cold-room. But if that's the point, Fourth Drawer Down definitely succeeds in making it — don't forget to throw on a sweater or something before loading the record into your CD player. Oh, and the melodies? I'd say they are on the same level as with The Affectionate Punch: modestly catchy «growers» with little, if any, «gripping» power. Oh, and the sound effects? Well, there's typewriters, coughing, singing thro­ugh vacuum cleaner hoses, probably lots of other stuff — no string quartets or nightingales, as could be guessed — it all contributes to some atmosphere, I guess. I could turn my thumbs down, theoretically, but they seem to have been frozen in the thumbs up position.

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Associates: The Affectionate Punch

ASSOCIATES: THE AFFECTIONATE PUNCH (1980)

1) The Affectionate Punch; 2) Amused As Always; 3) Logan Time; 4) Paper House; 5) Transport To Central; 6) A Matter Of Gender; 7) Even Dogs In The Wild; 8) Would I… Bounce Back?; 9) Deeply Concerned; 10) A.

Although there were many places around the world in which a man could get unhappy in the early 1980s, Scotland would probably count as one of the top contenders. Cold climate, coal mi­ning, and bagpipes will do that to you, I guess; throw in Margaret Thatcher, and there's a good enough recipe for suicide, even if took Billy MacKenzie, the frontman of the Associates, twenty years of an up-and-down musical career to remember how it goes.

In 1979, the chief idol for this young aspiring creative unit, consisting of MacKenzie, multi-in­st­ru­­mentalist Alan Rankine, and whoever else would drop in at the local studio, was David Bowie; they even released his own ʽBoys Keep Swingingʼ as their debut single. Unsurprisingly, much of The Affectionate Punch actually sounds like Bowie, although, of course, on a much less pro­fes­sional and experienced level. On the other hand, it's got such factors as youth, fresh energy, and novelty on its side — and, perhaps, even a dim feeling that Billy MacKenzie might be more genu­inely «into the spirit of it all» than the lovable old con man Bowie. After all, Billy MacKenzie did end up killing himself, and the old con man is still alive. Crap argument, I know, but still worth some sick consideration.

Anyway, this is what they usually call «post-punk», meaning «music that punks begin to play when they get tired of being punks». Dark, angry, melancholic, aggressive, heavy on the bass, the echo, and the creepy guitar effects, low on solo instrumental passages and pretty melodies. The vocalist sounds like a slightly higher-pitched Bowie most of the time, but occasionally tries on the morbid Old Testamental solemnity of Scott Walker, and always sings with an echo, because he obviously does not like the idea of getting too close to his audience. The multi-instrumentalist clearly has more fun laying on the bass parts, which are loud, driving, catchy, and moody, and less fun adding the guitar, which he regularly plays in Andy Summers mode (i. e. the fewer notes played, the better, because the great reggae gods told us so). And, apparently, Robert Smith of The Cure adds some backing vocals — which I could not ever tell without the liner notes, but I'm thinking that his actual presence in the studio was a bigger kick for MacKenzie and Rankine than any possible contribution he could make. Because, let's face it, just one look at Robert Smith, and your depression quotient goes up five points.

But also, The Affectionate Punch is the band's most «rock»-oriented album, with a general live feel to all the tracks — pretty soon the duo would be moving in a synth-poppier direction. Not that this is particularly important: the Associates rocked on a moderate scale, with a bit of theat­rical restraint and somewhat limited playing technique. They fare much better on the songwriting scale: quite a few of these tracks easily stand competition with Lodger-era Bowie in terms of creative ideas, even if, to me, only one stands out as instantly memorable: ʽEven Dogs In The Wildʼ, a superbly bleak, pessimistic look at humanity, encapsuled in a grumbly bass groove, an anthemic-romantic guitar riff, and a repetitive chorus that somehow trascends its repetitiveness and grows into a mantra of despair: "Even dogs in the wild, even dogs in the wild... could do bet­ter than this". This is the one they snatched from Heaven; not so sure about the others.

Still, as long as the others move along at decent tempos, they manage to be tense, sharp, and pa­ranoid, just as the doctor ordered. The title track bounces on a sea of old-fashionedly distorted guitar chords and piano counterpoints, as MacKenzie and his vocal backers sing about "the affec­tionate punch" that "draws even more blood". Think about the deep meaning long enough to go crazy, and fandom will be your reward. ʽPaper Houseʼ shuffles along to a tricky tempo and a flood of wailing licks that remind of The Edge's style, but without the heroic echo effects. And on ʽWould I... Bounce Backʼ, MacKenzie wonders "if I threw myself from the ninth storey, would I levitate back to three?" against a wall of phased guitar sound that does seem to be bouncing up and down. (Don't try this at home, though).

Some of the slower ones really drag and require a deep admiration for MacKenzie's handsome, but not all that original operatic intonations to turn into personal favorites (ʽLogan Timeʼ; the noise-drenched ʽTransport To Centralʼ). But, since the band has a solid understanding of all their influences, and since MacKenzie rarely, if ever, goes completely over the top, and since the lyrics are appropriately obscure and ambiguous most of the time, The Affectionate Punch has no gla­ringly obvious downsides, other than failing to make it into the year's top 10 most impressive re­leases. And for all those who think that pop music really reached its zenith with Berlin-era Bowie, Joy Division, and Echo & The Bunnymen, The Affectionate Punch is required listening in any case. One could even say that the MacKenzie/Rankine duo paves the way for the much better known pairing of Morrissey and Marr — although the differences are as copious here as the re­semblances. Anyway, a modest thumbs up.

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