1970@50: JOHN LENNON/PLASTIC ONO BAND

A church bell tolls. Lennon comes in with the band, a soaring vocal over tolling piano chords. "Mother, you had me but I never had you ...." Then it's his father's turn and then his own as he pleads to his children not to follow him. Finally, he cries with increasing power until he is screaming. Mama don't go. Daddy come home. By the end of this section which is almost as long as the rest of the song, he is tearing his voice to shreds with elongated syllables firing up from the centre of his wounds. This is not a berserker Twist and Shout scream but it might have come from the same place, however undeclared. 

Lennon's first album of more conventional song writing after the dissolution of The Beatles continues in pursuit of confession, self-exposure and demon-hunting. And while it holds a range of musical textures and approaches it feels like a cohesive whole. Hold On breaks from its pleasing pentatonic strum to push at the edges of the sweetness. 

I Found Out spits out at fakes, hangers on, the drug of the great society in a serpentine hiss of a blues workout. Working Class Hero shows the drier and darker influence of Dylan than found on Help or Rubber Soul and continues the theme of the previous one. Isolation continues the tired feel of Hero and Lennon's light touch on the vocal belies the complexity of the melody. That's all to good effect when the prolongation of the word of the title appears. A breakout section strides in double tracked force like a pulpit-thumping sermon before settling back but only long enough for one last "I-i-i-i-so-laaaaaaaaa-shun!"

A Beatlesque piano canter begins Remember and a shouting vocal tightens the stomping pace. The chorus breaks the tension with a forceful singalong. Repeat until what sounds like a surprise joke about Guy Fawkes day but is more likely to refer to life's disastrous surprises as the powder keg explodes.

The fragile Love enters slowly on piano. The vocal is as naked and plain as on the White Album's Julia. What might have come across as a series of naïve statements is transferred through vulnerability into something raw and experiential. It's in these nooks and corners of this album where Lennon really takes the power of his craft to fruition. 

Well Well Well takes up the blues thread of I Found Out and tells of his new life away from the old moptop coterie where sex and food and revolution are things to do and sing. The chorus is the title repeated into a searing frenzy. Look at Me returns to the weary vocal of Love and Working Class Hero. He accompanies himself with the fingerstyle acoustic playing he favoured from the trip to India onwards (taught by Donovan Leitch, no less) There is the same spookiness he found in singing about his mother on Julia.

God begins as a soul figure on the piano and a sermonising introduction with a few lines about god being the concept we use to measure our pain before a pleading litany of disbelief as he strips himself of allegiances and creeds to arrive at his immediate locale of self and Yoko before some poignant words to Beatle fans offering them the tip to do the same thing themselves and ditch the pop idolising. The dream is, as it fully feels, over.

And then in a strange echo of Her Majesty on Abbey comes My Mummy's Dead recorded roughly and roughened further. A plain statement of pain. When first heard this sounds like a pointless defusing of the grandeur of the previous track but there is a real poignancy to its openness and simplicity. It's not simple as in elegant but sheer and unpadded. It jolts after God but it's meant to. 

Like a lot of these revisit blogs I get a better understanding of records I considered myself immune to. By having to describe them and as fairly as I can I hear more of their beauty and conviction than I started with. Here's another case. I still can't distinguish Well Well Well from I Found Out until I listen to them back to back. The possible archness of the call to "follow me" in Working Class Hero only seems to reveal itself when I'm listening but in memory seems always to feel ugly and narcissistic. The flatness of melody strikes me as being anti-Beatles until I take each song in turn and hear something quite the contrary. I will probably never love this album and it's not one I would choose to listen to without an ulterior motive but it remains a strong and convicted statement of how one of the most famous and best loved public figures on the planet found himself after leaving one of the most famous and beloved units of happiness manufacture. The demons in the shadows and the chest-bursting monsters were pursued, located and dealt with and the result is seldom other than violent and bloody. For that it deserves its exultation. I just almost never choose to listen to it.

The canonical opinion on this record is that it is raw and that its rawness is enough. Lennon's biography is essential to understanding it, goes another one. Maybe. Certainly, if you do know that it followed most of a decade of being at the top of the pop music food chain which nurtured some of the most forward thinking music of the rock era then poignancy of this stripped back approach released about a year after the most lavish Beatles album will not be lost on you. What gets in the way of that is the fact of the back to basics Let It Be, regardless of when it was recorded, was released only months before this. Nevertheless, the character of rawness is the one you hear about most. In fact you hear about it more than you hear about the music.

When Andrew Nichol taped me his import copy of it in about 1977 I took it home wanting it to be all of those things and I imagined something like Lennon's shoutier tracks on the White Album and maybe a few Because-like moments and maybe even an Across the Universe or two. Mother is a strong opening but after that I was really digging around as my attention drifted to whatever crap was going on in my school day life at the time. I wasn't particularly listening to lyrics because I seldom do, even now, so what I was hearing was a lot of samey blues riff guitar. At no point did it strike me as significant or even admirable that it sounded nothing like The Beatles. As a second generation (i.e. fanatical even through the punk wars) Beatles fan it sounded like a whimper. I already had Imagine and liked most of it but even with that the string arrangements bothered me as they sounded like organ chords and veered towards the kind of muzak he damns McCartney for making in How Do You Sleep. But it did have songs you could tell apart.

These days I still find this album unengaging. When it isn't musically bland it feels self serving rather than self fulfilling. I can say that for almost all of Lennon's solo output. I really did try to like it but liked it so little that I felt guilty for thinking that way when I heard of his murder. If this record is just the clear expression of someone at a significant chapter of his life then fine. If you feel affinity with it that's fine, too. 

Me, I didn't feel guilty at thinking ten years later that Double Fantasy was dull and its single Starting Over embarrassing. I also felt saddened that his hopeful message of revival was delivered in such a bland package. Sure, he was only singing about who he was and that's what he was doing with Plastic Ono Band but for me he never seemed more distant the closer he got to his self actualisation. Maybe it was the time but it wasn't mine and to me this just looked like someone who, having healed, walked away, a raw and ravaged showbiz turn smoking behind him.

1980@40

January 1980. 17 and hungover, I was staring down the failure of my Year 12 and my driving test. I had joked probably once too often and angrily about joining the army because my sister pleaded successfully with my Mum to pack me off to Hubbards for another tilt at Uni. Well, I didn't know anyone there so all the parties and crap I'd been doing instead of studying were off the table. If I could keep my head down for just one year.

I knew I'd done this to myself but I was still 17 so I blamed them for not telling me sooner. Still, I had a way out. So, Off I went on the great silver bird to Brisbane. My brother Michael picked me up from the airport and drove me, along with his wife and tiny child along the scenic route to Auchenflower where I'd call home for the next four and a bit years. Brisbane felt like a city. I liked how I could hear the people next door and how the streets were all undulating as though someone had come in and squeezed them into hills and valleys to make room for the new houses. Michael and Honora had visitors from overseas that afternoon. We had tea and cake and it felt grown up. Then, after the visitors left, Honora picked a fight with Michael which had such a ringing emotional violence to it I could only stand and gape. That happened almost every day I shared that house with them. 

Monday and admissions. Mum had again shown that she was better with the idea and the gesture than the admin so I had to work it out with the Principal, the wiry and wonderful Doc Squire. So I mostly brooded and smoked in the study room as the sounds of the classes murmured from the hallway of the dusty second floor of the old brick clump in Charlotte Street that Hubbards was. And I pondered all the wrong that I'd faced, all the smug academic monsters who succeeded at my expense who would regret every beaming smile once I rose in force with .... Oh that's the other thing, talented and trammelled, friendless in a new place and feeling my best stab at identity was through contrarianism I started calling myself a fascist. No, really.

Apart from the pure obscenity of it, here's what was wrong with that: I had no agenda. Nothing, that is, beyond a sense that I deserved the adoration of the despot. Gets sillier. At no time did I give up my disgust at the Bjelke Petersen regime in Queensland which was, with its politicised police force, all but a fascist state already. Nor did I give up any part of the fantasy that I would soon be a rock star (which was diametrically opposite to any goosestepping daydreams I was having). Also, the only way of becoming a fascist leader of any kind is to have a following and the only way of getting that is to appeal to the types who would do all the biffing necessary for the start of such a career and the only way of getting any of that sorted was to deal with such people in such a way that wouldn't end with my being binned in seconds of the attempt. Non-success at being a fascist is a failure I'll take any day. A year later I was comfortably absorbing the ways of the left which is where I have remained. In any case all that became moot. I got a social life and the blackshirt line was just a conversation starter, then a joke, then kind of nothing.

At the other end of it I had so successfully self-isolated that I had become a decent sort of student and was able to accommodate both books and parties. It was actually a pretty good life for a year. Then again, I was living with the most unsettled marriage I have ever experienced. When Honora wasn't tearing at my brother for having constant affairs (her imagination from what was probably a single slip-up on his part) she was targetting me for supposedly never doing any cleaning. She didn't do much herself but I figured if I took the worst job and did it perfectly on a weekly basis she'd fuck off and it worked. Every Saturday afternoon I'd clean the bathroom free of spots while Sounds played in the next room. If a song was good I'd stop scrubbing the loo and go and look. I had no player and all my records were back in Townsville. But there was 4ZZZ. And Night Moves was on the weekend for when I had to stay home and there was always something good on that. And that was the next thing I liked about 1980, the music was really good.

Because I've been doing the albums separately I'll just call the singles here.

The Vapors' Turning Japanese was a clever take on teenage angst that (despite the literal images of the vid was not about its title or chorus) while Major Matchbox's Rockabilly Rebel matched a slinky verse with an embarrassing football hooligan chorus, Split Enz kept their Neil Finn winning streak going with I Got You while Queen pleasantly surprised with their understated rockabilly Crazy Little Thing Called Love, John Lennon sounded like an old uncle with glory days stories in Starting Over and in Coming Up Paul MacCartney sounded like his cousin, John Foxx turned the aircon down to Arctic for Underpass with a video that looked like Ballardian sci-fi, I rolled the dial of all the stations in the study room downstairs to hear Ashes to Ashes again and almost got it on a personal rotation while swatting for exams, see also Psycho Chicken by the Fools which I can't listen to now but thought was hilarious then, like Xanadu Can't Stop the Music was put into the water supply and I wanted both boiled into the ether but Brass in Pocket by the Pretenders was fresh and bright and Space Invaders was the ugliest earworm of the year, He's my Number One was a song I only knew by the chorus because that's all I ever saw on Countdown when they'd play a little bit in the top ten montage but masterproggers Pink Floyd actually had a big hit with their stern ditty about school Another Brick in the Wall while Ghengis Khan thought Moscow was a place where every night night night there was laughter and every night night night there was love, while Blondie yelled out a banger about love for sale with Call Me from the movie American Gigolo which might well have been set in Funky Town, according to Lipps Inc but wasn't where you'd take a Holiday in Cambodia (that was schoolies week and HiC was one of the anthems of that particular fortnight) and Flowers did as much with We Can Get Together and before that with the intriguing and still strong I Can't Help Myself which was what U2 might have been thinking when they sang I Will Follow over one of the decades biggest and best guitar riffs and not to be outdone in the brightness stakes Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark mixed '50s kitsch with the atomic bomb in Enola Gay which was a B29 while the later model B52s dazzled with the whirling Private Idaho which is a state that might have had forests but they weren't anything like the forest in the Cure's A Forest while Siouxsie and the Banshees Happy House might have been in its very dark centre and if Madness plinked and cranked about school days in Baggy Trousers Talking Heads rose with the big spooky epic Once in a Lifetime and Joy Division chilled us all down with a whistling keyboard riff and a cry from the grave with Love Will Tear Us Apart.

And then there were exams in November. They were held in Cloudland, a big spring loaded ballroom where everyone from Glenn Miller to The Clash had or would play. And on the day of the last exam I crunched over the hail in the gutter as Mark pulled up in his car to ask if I needed a lift down to the Coast for Schoolies. Thumbs up and see ya later. Whatever that exam was I could only think of the end of the day. After a self-treat of a long neck of something beery I packed a bag in time for Mark to drop by and we headed for the freeway. The big leggo blocks of Surfers Paradise rose in the dusk in invitation.

We got to his family unit on the somethingth floor of a high rise on Broadbeach. We made pasta for dinner and I ogled the flats of the buildings across the road, open living rooms and money. We went out for a drink later just because. Not a rage but a start. The next days were parties in canal-land, the flat the girls were staying at, beach bonfires, walking through the streets of Mermaid Beach after Friday the 13th at the cinema as the news of the Balaclava Killer seeped into the airwaves. So much. I will never eat another Chiko roll but I will always remember Kaylene (but I'm meant to say that). 

Mark dropped by the flat to pick me up. I didn't want to go but my plane was that day. We drove back to Brisbane in the rain with Flowers and Tubeway Army on cassette. There was a card on my dresser. It was from a friend back in Townsville. Her common law husband had been shot. The front of the card was a cute watercolour of a wombat. The news and this picture drew a rising swell of nausea in me like that one drink too many after midnight when you're rolling around the lawn in the dark. It was Rik. I knew him well and liked him a lot. Dead. Not just dead. Murdered. I showered and tumbled into bed and slept till noon. 

Michael tried to get out of giving me a lift to the airport but I prevailed. The flight was easy. Mum picked me up at the airport and it was good to hear her chirping mundanity. Dad had built this thing and new people had moved into the rental house with my brother Greg (his former flatmates had kept their rent, which was meant to be paying me my allowance which meant that I really did go without food for a week) and Nita moved into Nanna's old place etc. etc. I threw my bags into my old room, went to the kitchen to fix a lemonade and vermouth, collapsed into a banana lounge by the pool and heard the song So Long by Fischer Z play from somewhere nearby. It wasn't the words, just the feel of the song. It got to me. I sipped, closed my eyes and wept for a few minutes. Parties. Home. Parties. At the end of January my little brother ran through the rain to fetch a big yellow envelope from the letterbox. It was for me. I'd got in to Griffith Uni. Summer.

1970@50: ALL THINGS MUST PASS - GEORGE HARRISON

Harrison left the White Album back in London, wandered until he found a bunk in Bob Dylan's cabin where The Band were throwing ideas around and making music that breathed. His song notebook grew heavy and he made his way back. He strode into Apple to the news of yet another movie, this time about them getting back to basics and playing live again. The last movie was a cartoon and the one before it was a disaster and this new scene felt like the old one: formula and work. He offered some songs which were variously knocked back or ridiculed.

The next album was a big production. He had two of its best songs and one of those was his first A-side. It was a lavish business and probably felt good because final. I'm making that up but what he did after that is instructive. He went on the road, not with The Beatles but with friends and just played music again. He hung around musicians and felt like getting them all together and so he did. If anything out of any of the four of them said solo outpouring it was this, a mammoth six sides of vinyl with everything in those notebooks plus the other thing the old outfit never seemed to do, jam.

And if Phil Spector had annoyed Paul with the heavenly choirs on Long and Winding Road he had spliced a tight and better-lengthed I Me Mine and George had always been a fan of the big Philly Sound, anyway. And so it was that Phil and his eighty tambourines, three drummers and eighty-six piece orchestra got the gig of dambuster to George's pent up creations. 

I'd Have You Anytime doesn't sound Beatley at all. A slow wafting love song that sounded ... grown up. The big massed acoustic strum starts My Sweet Lord which takes a well judged verse and a bit before getting fatter and deeper with a call and response vocal of genuine exultation. Also on this track, a hit single (and future lawsuit), was the sweet Stratocaster silding that would become the artist's signature for the rest of his career. A crunchy electric riff gives way to an infinity piece band. A buried vocal has yet the strength that Harrison found at the top of his range. Wah Wah does use the effect of its title but also refers to a headache and a certain moptop that bandmate John would also refer to the following year in less bright and poppy terms. The arrangement is a big mess like so many of the tracks here but this one at least chucks a few surprise 7th chords in for texture and extra fun. the Version One version of Isn't it a Pity has the pumping vamp that would feed many a future track from George and John. It's a straight read with that kind of rising progression that every singer songwriter was learning how to use for a whole career. It might also bring later Pink Floyd to mind. The orchestration sounds like Phil Spector rather than George Martin and you understand that this late Beatles style song has been taken to a deliberately different shop.

A cheeky descending fuzz guitar figure sounds twice before the Phil Spector Cosmos Orchestra comes in with the catering. That said, What is Life is a well fashioned pop number with a searching lyric characteristic of Harrison since Rubber Soul. If Not For You is a Dylan cover but one done from a personal acquaintance with the author. He's not trying to impress Mr Caustic by sounding like him or doing the Turtles/Byrds quanglewangle. It's presented in a restrained, laid back arrangement which actually does sound like a band. Harrison's vocal is full throated and melodious. A delightful breather of a track. Behind that Locked Door shows Harrison in a convincing country mood, adding side swiping chord changes that would have had him run out of Nashville after one verse. But it's a lovely effort, flowing on well from the intimacy of the Dylan song.

Let it Down begins in a canyon of sound but settles into a gentle phasey groove, Harrison cooing into pleasant 9ths. Run of the Mill passes by without incident more than a mention of Dylan's influence. Beware of Darkness lifts with tasteful interplay between acoustic and electric, a dramatic chord progression and expressive vocal. One of Harrison's best, this was allowed to keep to a plain atmosphere and only benefits from the restraint. Apple Scruffs does sound like it was meant to impress Dylan with Bob's aimless harp wailing and a whimsical tune and lyric about hangers on. Don't care about it.

Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let it Roll) starts with an ethereal muffled guitar descent through a minor progression bolstered by meaty piano and solid drums. Harrison seems to be telling a story here but the ambience with its frequent quiet fairytale breaks give it a mystery courted at the time by the likes of Genesis and the proggers. A lovely oddity. Awaiting on You All is such a botched wall of sound effort that it ends up sounding like a late '60s Tang commercial. Not for me.

All things Must Pass rounds off the old side three. A beautiful philosophical ballad rejected by the Beatles (though they did try it). The minor change in the chorus as the languid title phrase sounds. It's very tempting to imagine this treated by the other three and George Martin. It would sound like side one of Abbey Road with less of the cliches of Spector's orchestration. Surprisingly, it ends hard where you might expect a long fade. This is the one moment where you can hear a kind of bitterness in his approach to the new circumstances. It's there in the otherness of the arrangement. To me he's saying, well, you lot didn't want it. Still, an indestructible piece.

By the side four things are filling out under the listener's exhaustion. I Dig Love begins with a kind of horror movie chromatic descent/ascent with a vocal that intones the title tirelessly before giving into the refuge of a kind of blues progression for the chorus (with the same words). But then there's Art of Dying, launching with a few big wah wah squeals before it takes off into a Bond anthem on good Hamburg seagoing speed. He had this number around the time of Revolver but you probably shouldn't know that until after you hear it or you'll start wishing it had been done then instead of here where it gets buried under the sods and turf of Spectorvision. That really is a pity. Then it fades. Then Isn't it a Pity (version Two) starts. It's a starker approach with echoey guitar and percussion falling around the vocal which convinces better for being more restrained. It does go on, though. Hear Me Lord bursts in with a minor key progression. The prayer of the lyric is delivered in a sincere voice. Again, the sheer density of the piece keeps itself at arm's length. This track is entirely in step with its time but reminds me of too much that came after it where a grinding minor key blues with earnest vocal preached or beseeched and left me cold as a tuckshop doughnut. Sorry, not for me.

But that ends the songs of the first two discs. Then the reality of the three disc magnitude deflates into perspective as you gradually understand that a full extra disc is really only going to be like Hear Me Lord but without vocals. Endless vamps and sax solos, organ outings here and there. Johnny's Birthday interrupts for a brief naff joke before we fall arse backwards into another jam. At least they did admit that's what they were. Anyway, more music for parties in movies where zonked out girls say things like "oh, get with it, you square." I Remember Jeep begins with a surprise visit by the synthesiser that lent such colour to Abbey Road as it rises in a high white tide before fading into a perky, directionless twelve bar workout. Thanks for the Pepperoni (a title that dares you to think it won't be a pointless instrumental) begins with a Chuck Berry fuzzy intro and speeds to nowehere for another five minutes and that's it.

But for all the waste of vinyl of the last disc the good thing I can say about All Things Must Pass is that it really does sound like someone so happy to be free that he can't wait until the real songs are over tgo get out the beer and beach towels and head for the sand. As with the other's first post-Beatles records it's a strange business trying to think of how they would have sounded to fans at the time. Abbey Road was a grand effort, taking them to the peak of the massive sound they had been climbing towards but then Let It Be sounded like it was recorded in a bike shed. 

Ringo produced some outstanding singles but his albums embarrassed the other three. Paul made a record at home and chucked at least one bona fide classic from the studio which he didn't release as a single. John was about to get raw and shouty and very basic but also very pro. But here was the quiet one blasting out from under the tablecloth with a massive show of strength, joy and genuine if odd religious light. No one's album is perfect but no one expected this two fisted red hot go at that very thing. You might have wondered if George hadn't been the stifled one, the spark below the louder flames. Just for a while, at least.

1970@50: THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD - DAVID BOWIE

 

If his 1969 album (various titles: it's the one with Space Oddity) showed an artist emerging into definition as a songwriter his follow up was the first indication that he was going to make moves on his image and sound. With 2020 hindsight it looks like a bold game plan but the thing Bowie picked up between his eclectic 1967 eponymous debut and his rebooted eponymous debut two years later was that a committed record was a better bet. So, on the 1969 one he sounds like one singer songwriter with a band behind him and two sides of whatever he had that had srpouted out of the now tired folk rock genre. Then he made a metal album.

The Man Who Sold the World is the same kind of songs, if more brutal, arranged with even less variation than the previous platter. This album is also the first one on which Bowie worked with the great Mick Ronson, rock guitarist extraordinaire and deft arranger. With a folder bursting with dark themed lyrics and very finished songs the pair set to creating Bowie's blackest record until Diamond Dogs.

The epic Width of a Circle opens with tremulous feedback and a snakey descending guitar riff, joined in cruisey fashion by the band until it grunts into gear as a hard rock groove. Bowie's vocal is the high nasal rock shine he would affect well into the Ziggy Years before abandoning it from Young Americans onward. Immediately, we lose the whole metal goodness of the track and understand that this one doesn't want to play normal. The lyric itself is a kind of debauched pilgrim's progress, taking the narrator from a personal trek of self discovery and self-loathing to a S&M encounter with god or a demon (it's hard to tell) in a second section driven by a more conventional boogie rock growl. There's a kind of ascent into apotheosis in the wordless repeat of the opening figure. Someone's risen.

All the Madmen begins with a quiet fumble on the acoustic which soon articulates as a real chord figure. It's joined by an eerie low profile feedback. We're in Hammer Horror territory. Bowie's vocal is his "other" voice, the one he'd use on half of the next album and all of Ziggy; a kind of comb and tissue paper buzzing tone, kind of camp but also a real character each time. "Day after day, they send my friends away to mansions cold and gray to the far side of town where the thin men stalk the streets and the sane stay underground." The Paul McCartney of Eleanor Rigby would have maimed and killed for that compact narrative. Immediately, the landscape is grim and that's just a few lines. Add a loopy recorder and some robust Les Paul chording and then a shreiking synthesiser and you have a nightmare to beat the band. Except that you can sing along to it because this is Bowie and he never forgets to bring a tune. A horror movie in a song. It wont' be the last. Important to note, this was inspired by Bowie (maybe we should say David Jones for this) visiting his half brother Terry, who was confined in care with schizophrenia. Bowie took his frustration out in song and here it is, pounding at us as we join in the chorus. Getting a vibe yet? "Zane zane zane, ouvre le chien!" Nor do I but I am getting the vibe.

Black Country Rock might seem to those of us who read biographies to refer to the twin hard rock influencers of 1970, Led Zep and Sabbath but the odd thing here is that the vocal is a strangely bitchy take on his friend and rival Marc Bolan. The song might conceivably have been a T-Rex number but Bowie's mordant vibrato and boomy rock revival chords tell of a curious jab. Good song, though.

After All is the song I played the same hour I heard of Bowie's death. How many times had I lain in a teenage dark listening to its earthward dragging waltz with the bowster whispering his Nietzschean lines and demented cockney choirs intoning: Oh By Jingo! Countless. The end of the first side in the old money was a sharp left turn from the arrogance of the hard rock of the rest of the side. It's like we stopped in the middle of the wake and remembered the corpse on the table. There in the great dark that bore this song's idea is the line: won't someone invite them, they're just taller children. It cut me to my ashen blood. A kind of sea dirge for the funeral march of all time. I love it every time I listen and it never gets old.

Side two starts with a simple three chord strum that ends in a surprise tympanum boom. A sinister feedback lingers in the background. Bowie's buzzy voice comes in with a tale about a war veteran who is so used to killing that he can't tell the difference between war and civilian life. Running Gun Blues. It snaps to the moment the tympanum is replaced by the crispest snare drum in recording history. The song doesn't go much further than that but doesn't have to. Why? because Bowie has learned something.

He's learned, since the often complex stories of the first album lost him an audience and the more searching narratives of the second did the same, that with music it's better if you don't sing the whole story. It's better if you let the music help out. Between the last and this, apart from anything else, the mighty Tommy was released which did just that. Townshend understood that opera is a mesh of meaning, one piece in the words, another in the tune and the orchestration and another still in the implied action. The Man Who Sold the World is Bowie's post-Tommy record. and it remains one of his most tightly coherent. 

Take the next one. Saviour Machine. It's pretty much the story of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Computer goes mad. Bowie narrates a little exposition and then it's over to the computer cam for the rest. It comes from the dark of the vinyl between the tracks in a busy 5/4 gallop but settles into a 6/8 canter as we hear about President Joe and his dream of a digital King Solomon who then finds its life is too easy and decides to rustle up some spice with social chaos. A big spitting synthesiser solo in the middle tells you all you need to know. It might ruin the mood to say that the melody of the break is the same as the opening of the Cilla Black chestnut You're My World but life's tough.

She Shook Me Cold starts with a few grimacing Hendrix style wah wah twirls before the dam bursts into a world of tritonal grunge as Bowie almost vomits his vocal about a debauchee who meets his hedonistic match and can't quite recover. A middle section breaks out the back story but he's met his match and the point at which he admits his defeat and servitude is the moment that takes this way out of a Sabbath soundalike. "She don't know I crave her so" is a screech of anguish that ends in a few seconds of tight breathing before the final verse kicks in like the first. As I've pointed out in the articles on Sabbath's first two platters in this series, they were far from a metal chug machine but Bowie's take adds a moment of tension that is pure cinema that they never got to.

The title track begins with a pleasant Latin shuffle which is taken over by a phased-out Bowie who tells a weird tale of meeting a stranger on the stair who tells him that his life has left him spare. Has he sold the world in the literal sense, to an alien race? Or has he sold his potential, his reality for the fury of the chase to sex, drugs, rock and roll, power, fame, expertise....? It's hard to tell but we are left as spooked as the narrator, especially in the fade which keeps the Latin side-to-side going but adds an epic wordless choir as the song seems to sink slowly into a vortex. If you speak to a later X-er you'll hear them think of it as a Nirvana song. I wonder, though, did Cobain find something familiar in its brief depths that his fans could only guess at, something lightless and endless that he saw in awe and sought to touch, at least once?

The Supermen is a closing track that will surprise no one who reads a Bowie biography but spooked me. It's earth-bowel drums and prehistoric male choirs mixed with a crunchy Les Paul and Bowie's buzzy voice tell of rites and conflicts of the ubermensch. Extremely effective use of limited resources turn this song which might have come off as petulant and silly into a tiny epic of imagination. the final words are in the Ziggy voice and reach to the dark heights: "So Softly a supergod dies."

This is the second Bowie album I owned on vinyl. It disappointed me. I bought it the same day as I bought the Who compilation Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy which also disappointed me. I wanted the Who to have been stadium-ready deafening rockers from the start but they sounded like The Beatles. I had read that this Bowie album was a "real explosion into heavy metal" but it seemed so noncey. It was months before, listening to both, that I came to understand how writers found things in music that were hard to sing to and defied all dancing but cut through the packaging plastic and into the sharp and jolting electricity within. I came to that and finally felt reverence. And then punk happened and I woke up in the late '70s.

Listening notes: for this article I listened to the incredible 2015 remaster as a hi-res download. Vinyl can never compete. My late '70s copy had the RCA packaging with the NME article on the back and the Ziggy era front cover. It created a very different impression from the original one.

1970@50: LOADED - THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

And then there were three. And Doug Yule. Same as the previous except drummer Mo Tucker left to have a baby. All songs by Lou Reed and four lead vocals by Yule. If you don't want to look it up, Doug Yule sounds like a younger Lou Reed. Three years at the top of the hip world and the bottom of the charts had taken their toll. The previous record had used the absence of John Cale's avant gardism to present a cleaner sound and this one was meant to be the pop breakthrough. The title not only referred to being intoxicated but also Loaded with hits.

Who Loves the Sun? begins with a sweet Yule vocal and Mammas and Pappas backing vocals. There's an edit towards the end that's so rude it sounds like a hard tape splice where the band falls into a Beach Boys style a cappella break before resuming. Whatever the intention this mostly appealingly sugary number sounds like something from half a decade before. That and the jolting vocal break make it sound like the most sneering attempt at writing commercially imaginable.

It tinkles and jangles into a fade that gives way to one of the most iconic of all Velvet Underground Songs and one that would effectively be the source point of Reed's career beyond the band. While a few of the lines lifted from the lyric might promise drugs and cross dressing this is more of a Diane Arbus photo rendered in song and has more to say to the hippies ridiculing the squares of the previous generation that those pre boomers have life in them, didn't invent sex or hedonism either but got there before the flower children. Reed has and eats his cake with this one. Sounds risque but it's not what you think. The editing of the track on the first release of this album leaves out a bridge and an ecstatic choral coda and Reed often cites it among the reasons why he upped and left before it was in the shops. What remains is a fabulously catchy song that pays the patient listener with depth that it pretends it doesn't have.

Rock & Roll treads path already familiar and would continue to be as a band puts the term Rock and Roll into a title or a chorus, mentions teenagers and the radio. This one adds a circular chord progression. The major reason this doesn't sound dated to me is that the formula was in place for decades and seemed to stretch into my adulthood. Or is it that this kind of boomer anthem was as go-to as a Chuck Berry knockoff is to every single garage band that ever practiced under the house or in a bedroom? History will decide.

It's here that I'll stop going track by track and say that the first impression I had of this record has never been superseded by a closer listen later. The concept of making a record stuffed with hits condemned it to sounding of its time and once you've done that you fall behind the times. In the interest of full disclosure I find most of the rock music released between 1969 and 1976 grating and regressive and, while this album is by no means a poor effort it sounds more like that kind of rock music than any of the three previous VU albums. 

Exceptions are New Age that could fit comfortably on any solo Lou Reed album form the '70s, I Found a Reason and Sweet Nuthin' which continue the gospel influences that helped make the third album so strong. These don't sound like Boomers on the Radio but they do hark back to the days of a better band.

So was it the further dissipation of the membership, the influence of new and straight-minded members/musicians, weariness with the game of it, that makes this one sound like a contract filler rather than a statement by a group? All and none, probably. The next studio album to bear the band's name was effectively a Doug Yule solo effort and, while it's a perfectly creditable set of songs, it is mired in that flavourless swamp that was most of early '70s rock. When Reed left for his solo career he redesigned himself faster than Bowie for a little while until settling on a premature rock sage role with records like Berlin. And when it came to do the live album mandatory for all successful rock acts of the '70s (even The Beatles had a couple of posthumous live discs) Rock 'n' Roll Animal it was unusually a single album and featured an almost all Velvet Underground set list.

Many fans of the band put this at the end of the studio albums and have no issue with its sound or writing, thinking of it as a kind of cynical progression. Me, I can listen to it but almost always stop it near the end of the old side one. I keep wanting to listen to Transformer or Berlin. But this record also poses questions along the lines of the ship of Theseus. Huh? Well, Theseus had a ship and over the years it had all of its parts replaced. Was it still the ship of Theseus? Was the Velvet Underground of Loaded the same one as the Banana album? Decidedly not but closer to the self-titled one. But the self-titled one was a set of heavily crafted pieces that continued the raw emotional shocks of the earliest recordings which survive as ghosts of the afternoon on Loaded. If "and Nico" is a warehouse apartment with the windows blacked out Loaded has them all smashed in. The sunlight's blaring in but it's just not the same place.

1980@40: ICEHOUSE/FLOWERS/FLOWERS/ICEHOUSE

I saw this band before I knew who they were. A massive line up at Festival Hall that included XTC, Magazine and a pre-fame INXS. Flowers, as they were then, took the stage with a thick crisp mix and a fashionably static performance style. Singer Iva Davies proved gymnastically adept. He sounded like Marc Bolan when they did a T-Rex cover and Bowie when they did one of his. At first I thought that was pretty good but this was in the era of DIY style and behaving like a cover band made the band lose points. The songs were catchy enough but that note perfect vocal sampling had to go.

I thought very little of them after that until the video for I Can't Help Myself appeared on Sounds one afternoon. The band setup in a big concrete multi-level carpark and synched through the song. I loved how the chorus was delayed with a brief guitar instrumental and seemed to be about the dangerous side of mental illness. The charts at that stage offered far fewer love songs than most of the years of the '70s: Enola Gay was about the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, Underpass was about a kind of Ballardian isolation, Counting the Beat was about masturbation, and so on. This joined the stream but did so with a singable chorus and a staccato keyboard hook in the verse. So, no more Bowie vocal party tricks, then.

Cut to Schoolie's Week 1980. I was staying at a friend's family unit high above Broadbeach. Through the floor to ceiling windows you could see all the other cells, expensively dimly lit, each one a screenshot from the kind of neo noir film we'd be seeing in cinemas around the corner of the opening of the decade. We went to late night bars for drinks and pre-dawn cafes for toasted sandwiches after the drinks. We went to parties where no one was unwelcome. The endless beergardens in the afternoon and whatever you could get away with after sundown. We slept when we had to, regardless of the position of the sun. It was overcast for the second half of the week and it didn't bother us at all. Two songs will always bring that back for me. Holiday in Cambodia and We Can Get Together. After I made a tactical move to another flat on Mermaid Beach I heard the album that the second one came from. And in the middle of a loud night of drunken girls and boys I listened and liked what I heard.

You think the volume's too low at first. A single bass note on the synth coils out of the dark for a little too long until the vocal comes in with a strings like figure on the keyboards. "It's always cold inside the icehouse. Though the rivers never freeze ..." There's also a girl waiting outside waiting for a boy who'll never come. The Devil lives inside the icehouse, at least that's what the old folks say. As the parts of the verse develop the keyboard figure adapts to the chord changes and the bass keeps barrelling on. A pause for each chorus, a single line: there's no love in side the icehouse. This big lightless nightmare of a song moves slower than a funeral cortege until the palm muted chugging guitars push it into the territory of a tank battle. The images flash and soar into life.

Next came the song I mentioned before. A chunky electronic chug gives way to a shiny hot lead riff and a power chord announces the singer. "There must be something we can talk about..." And ends the verse with the first half of the chorus. The repeated plea, "No matter what your friends say, don't go too far..." Could have been written for us except that we really did need our friends to stop us (and they did, just quietly). The song was all teen fear, the fear that becomes indistinguishable from excitement and turns a night sky into a tide of wishes and the lights below it a ragged map. There's a great lust in the middle of it as there's a great lust at every party every night where everyone's well under twenty and changing like a chameleon as often as they have to get whatever it is they need. But it's also 1980 and three years of punk and punk-influenced pop have taken adolescent courtship from oafish rock unchanged since the '50s to this blend of angsty hesitation and bursting will. And at the end, finally with a high climatic sustained wordless vocal note beneath the chorus is the explosive refrain: WE CAN GET TOGETHER! And then, because it's still 1980, it finishes with chit chat and a rounded chord.

And that's what most of the album turns into, two streams of electronics and anthemic rock. The single after that was Walls which had a cinematic video to it. They attracted a lot of attention at the Countdown Awards and mimed Icehouse from within a wireframed neon cube. Whether it was a single or not the song Sister was on Countdown more than once. And the rest is success with a sharp ear for a hooky chorus enough to fill a good sized compilation album.

These aren't the only good songs on this first one and very few feel like filler. A disco version of Can't Help Myself didn't impress me but at least it was a different one. Nothing to Do was Iva back to his old cover version days in a Lou Reed mode. Pretty standard if enjoyable fare that helped my first Christmas holidays back in Townsville that bit more fun. What lifted it above standard was that sense of cinema it offered so boldly. No surprise in learning later that the producer was Cameron Allen, a film composer whose score for the political thriller Heatwave could do with a contemporary release.

But the thing about Flowers was that, regardless of how the band started it very soon became a group with a line up that changed around Iva Davies. A look through the songs credits on the record sleeve have him in every one and mostly solo compositions. As much as Tubeway Army really had just been Gary Numan and players so this band was Iva and friends. Oh, and it feels like they went in one way and came out another during my holidays but what had been a band called Flowers became the same band called Icehouse. Considering the font on the cover art no change was necessary, just now the album was called Flowers by a band called Icehouse. And when the Oz Rock wave flowed into the commercial FM stations in the decade to come there was no real way of using that much image to tell them apart from Australian Crawl or Mondo Rock. The songs were still better than those others' but that's where they moved and lived ever after.

So, while Flowers were never cool they appealed with the same crossover ease as the mainstreaming Split Enz were at the time, even going to rival that band's egg Crowded House with honours. I am the last to whinge about bands selling out but quick to point out that some were not doing so but reaching stated ambitions. See also The Police or The Pretenders. No shame in that. But I recall as though it were art directed by my own nostalgia, the pleasure of qualifying my affection for a hooky single, a Street Cafe or Great Southern Land, without ever needing to commit to fandom. It was a smirking nod across the picket line and felt as good as all smirks do. But now, with facial muscles that need to do more to show less I can listen to the songs and briefly run back out into the night of the Gold Coast canals and jump into the shadows before anyone sees me.

1970@50: LED ZEPPELIN III

 

I've already written about this one in my series on the band here so this shorter entry will have other concerns.

Led Zeppelin's third album was loaded from the off. After getting a lot of guff in the more popular press for being too monolithic and heavy the chief songwriters, Plant and Page holed themselves up in a Welsh cottage to absorb the dew and leafy goodness of the rustic life and breathe it out as a new album. This was it: not a tight loaded cartridge of road-tested goodies but a planned pregnancy.

But people like to simplify. LZ III is supposedly their first acoustic record or side one is rock and side two is folk or ... But, really it's a mix from the get go. The barnstorming Immigrant Song gives way to Friends which is heavy but acoustic (with Bonzo on the tablas!). Already the record is both the lofty Zeppelin and the lead in the band name. But if anything this album's mix of styles is less eclectic than confident. If the first was the campaign broadside and the second another first than this is what happens when they draw breath and see what they might want to do next.

What that was turned out to be a mix of folk with mandolins and 12 string guitars like Gallows Pole, plumbing pipe stompers like Out on the Tiles or weird blue freakouts like Hats Off to (Roy) Harper. It feels like comfort more than bravado. They would hone it to perfection in the next album before closing the door and starting freshly with the next one. If that's true why bother, why not just take a whole year off and make the fourth album?

Well, because it was 1970 and rock music for its most successful practitioners became something that could be developed through trial and error, a forgivable misstep here or a bold failure there. The era of Tommy and the White Album was one of disregarding limits and getting it out for a public, not some notion of an ocean of teenyboppers but a public. LZ III's energy rises and falls eccentrically: the hoedown of Gallows Pole fades before the gentle strum (after a false beginning) of Tangerine; the juddering monster Out on the Tiles explodes from the silence after the emotional wrenching of Since I've Been Loving You (which would have been a perfect side closer). The record dozes and wakes up violently again and again but even that has no pattern. After all the formalism leading to a Sergeant Pepper there needed to be more of an artist's choice about an album, a song after song rather than a solid core going from an imagined audience and tuning orchestra to the great coffin lid closing of A Day in the Life. Not a reaction against, just a restart. 

That's what this is. Instead of a more satisfying three album climb it's just the first of two. As the first two showed a refinement of their own. After Houses of the Holy everything changes from that again as circumstances demand pragmatism and triage. But at that point when the band that made this record were preparing for tours and more musical adventures to come they offered this. If it weren't so substantial I'd call it a sketchbook but take almost any of its tracks and play them outside of the sequence and they still work.

This is worth noting at this stage as it's not so easy to define what a pop music album is or should be. That has been the case since the early '00s when genres variously merged or splintered into ever finer fragments and the public became all of what they only partially had been before, the consumer base. That's not a rant from an old man as much as it is a recognition that moments like this album are more the norm and offering a concept (like Flaming Lips or Arcade Fire were still attempting in the late '00s) has not yet reached its quaint retro charm status. 

But this wasn't itself offered as a concept, just two sides of songs. The big cohesive statement with its levees of doom and stairways to the misty mountains was yet to happen. I know, the gimmicky cover with its planters wheel made a meaningless fan-service picture show is at odds with that but that was not in the band's control. Even if it had been it would still make a kind of cheeky kind of bait and switch. And the joke in that would have been that this was the sweetest and most sincere sounding Led Zeppelin records to date. So, I guess I still like it.

1980@40: TRUE COLOURS - SPLIT ENZ

 

Muffled voices, instruments warming up and suddenly a punky barre chord buzzes out with tight but light drumming. Tim Finn's urgent vocal does easy local gymnastics around a deceptively simple melody when the verse ends with the cry of the title: Shark Attack! Add momentum for each verse and race on. A brief break to add some orchestral drama and then an impossibly rapid piano solo before the last verse flies past to the fade. Split Enz have burst through the door and let us know that they made it into the '80s, leaner and meaner and are ready for their closeup.

Proof? Neil Finn takes the mic after an introduction on still fashionable palm muted chords. Neil's vocal is more fluid and warmer than big brother's and his way with a vocal melody and songcraft are going to win him more a-sides and take the band further away from their prog rock cabaret than they'd so far dared go. I Got You is all hooks and charm. A keyboard solo with a quirky turn away from the main progression pays tribute to both the old prog and the new wave at the same time. The song is pure joy.

And so is the rest of it, from the punchy rage of What's the Matter With You? to the quavering comic book figure of Nobody Takes Me Seriously Anyway, the soaring instrumental Choral Sea, the classically strong I Hope I Never. This set in its sleeve of spiky, Dutch tilted artwork and compressed production is a manual of assimilation that couldn't be approached as the generational kin like Billy Joel tried to do with some yelps and palm muting. With Split Enz the cultural exchange rate felt like dollar for dollar. Very slight shifts to their look but such a paring of their arrangements and songcraft made them indistinguishable from bands much younger making bigger splashes.

Neil Finn's influence cannot be underestimated here as he emerged as the kid brother that could and continued to prove his chartability in future singles like One Step Ahead and History Never Repeats. Brother Tim, no slouch himself, seemed outclassed and perhaps it wouldn't be until Neil's Crowded House years that he could break from the constraints. Until then, his fast, snappy songs that had fewer quirks than hooks sounded like everything else on the top 40.

But what did this mean? The next LP sounded much like this and the one after was more expansive with real orchestras and folk instruments and had a kind of concept to it. The direction suggested the kind of development that the boomers who ran the big radio stations and the record companies that fed them would recognise as orthodox; a little Beatles never hurt anybody, after all? Back in the land of the long white cloud the mighty mice of the Flying Nun label were producing miniature wonders for the ages with the likes of The Clean and The Chills aided and accessorised by the great Chris Knox who seemed to do what he did for the love of it. As the Enz grew and broadened they must have felt this pinch and even sting. In Australia, The Go Betweens were still quirky and low key and Nick Cave returned to Melbourne with a better defined bad boy saunter that you didn't have to believe for a second to enjoy it. Where could Split Enz go after they had finally cracked the code of charting in the new, short haired video arcade of post punk? They went boomer because the boomers finally gave them the money they'd been starving for over the decade just gone and cared to starve no more. They were selling to fans half a decade younger than their first fans had been and that's how you build a consumer base.

Until then, this disc, forty plus minutes of joyous hard edged pop that you will still like and sing along to forty years later, still stands. If you don't know any of the context that's all you need to hear. The band that had gone from obscurist art rock to teenybopper without ever going through a cool phase could at least write a good song and fill two sides of vinyl with them.

I'm saying all this as I didn't have this record at the time and a little later picked up the singles second hand as they worked so solidly well. My face might redden to admit that I turned my nose up at them for being oldies while really enjoying the songs. Well, I was seventeen and you're allowed to be as shallow as the bounds of human interchange will permit. Finally hearing the record after decades of all but forgetting it had been released was a strange experience as it felt old and familiar and unheard at the same time. But I still play it now because there are songs because there are songs because there are songs.

1980@40: SCARY MONSTERS - DAVID BOWIE

 

So much had happened. The great morphing wave had taken us from the barre chording slaughter of punk through the sourcandy Brighton rock of post punk, industrial, ska, dub on the mainstream that it looked like nothing in particular was in fashion. As I headed to eighteen and nominal adulthood I started thinking that all that was just as well as it might be time to ditch the idea of fashion altogether. Fact was I wasn't good at playing it to begin with and it wasn't for years before I could look back and understand that that was fashion. There would soon be clubs where the punters dressed like 18th century Venetian court jesters and bands that got on stage in the plainest drab they could get from the supermarket. We didn't even have a patois; there was no rad or cool or square or gnarly to us and we called what we liked good. Then the clip for Ashes to Ashes was played on Countdown and I thought for the first time in at least a year: I wonder what David Bowie will do now?

The last one, Lodger, was a track by track departure from the big sci-fi landscapes of Low and the harsh and sharded night of Heroes. It even had some fun along the grooves. And it was eclectic but it was eclectic in a Bowie way, unlike when Billy Joel tried to get all new wave that year and only made himself look older than everyone. And then in 1980 he turns up again in a clip that looked like a hard sci-fi tv show and music that didn't try to be anything but good. And because he always knew how to cast, nascent star of the London Blitz Steve Strange was there beside him in surrealistic costume. Bowie was trying and trying hard but in his case it worked. The video and song were thrilling.

We get to the start of the opener It's No Game with the sound of someone fast winding a cassette, turning it over and winding it more. A messy count-in and we plunge into a big noise of Robert Fripp guitar which sounds like a synthesiser here but a rhinoceros there. A sassy woman speaks something in Japanese before Bowie comes in with a vocal that sounds like he's been in the drunk tank for three hours. Desperate screams and imagery of street conflict. Where? Kabul? Iran? U.K.? Anywhere and everywhere. It's as though he spent a day with wall to wall news broadcasts and forced his way out of a locked door. In the end as it's coming to a crashing stop Fripp keeps up his metal monster noodling until Bowie yells at him twice to shut up.

Up the Hill Backwards comes from a highly ordered opposite. Lower key vocals sing the lyric in unison. I always think of lines of athletes in uniform tracksuits singing this with hands on hearts. No major breaks, just a few verses of everyone in line and agreeing. After a decade of great dynamism as an artist and celebrating the disruption of punk while providing his own appropriately different one Bowie watched this settle into genre, into homogeneity which is the point at which any youth revolt is absorbed by the mainstream. So, it sounds healthy and could sell boxes of cereal or flavoured milk. He met the new brash mainstream with subtlety.

The title track bashes to after a brief electronic drone with screaming guitar and oafish glottal gulps. Bowie comes in multitracked and in low Cockney. The chorus adds a microsecond delay giving it an unnerving plastic sound. A long but screaming guitar noodle ends satisfyingly with a double chorus. We leave on a wordless hum-along to the fade. It's rock and roll but it doesn't even have slogans anymore just impulses. 

Ashes to Ashes opens with arpeggios that could be keyboards or guitar or both, warbling through chorus pedals. We hear the sound before the notes but when we hear them we hear a deeply melancholy fanfare. Bowie starts in falsetto: "Do you remember a guy that's been, in such an early song?" References to his first significant hit song Space Oddity and its lead character Major Tom are woven deeply through the lyric but as we relax into a descending progression and a series of stream of consciousness images, backed by a spoken choral vocal, we are lowered into the hole in the ground as the funeral rites are murmured above. This song is a floating wilderness that drifts from gentle reminiscence to distant operatic roars against an arrangement that's very hard to pin down beyond its narcosis. It's sleepy, it's dreamy and second by second it just seems to get sadder. But it's transient, less an end than a farewell. Bowie's using the turn of a nine to a zero as a chance to reboot. The gentle chant "My mother said to get things done you better not mess with Major Tom" steers us slowly out of the melancholy, through the sci-fi landscape of the the video. R.I.P. Let's get this party started.

So we do. Fashion. A few bars of something undefined turns into another thick rock song with a deep funk ground. The vocals again are multitracked, striding through images of political strong arm tactics and style identity. Lots of warping Fripp guitar. The modal oohs of the verse bring back Golden Years but the looseness of that one has been clipped into uniformity. The easy trip of the mid '70s is now the tightly wrought kit of the New Romantic and the New Right. Bowie's not taking sides, here, not even to the extent of a Thin White Duke, he's just watching and reporting. Fashion is fun but it's also deadly serious. By now it's clear he's not giving us another persona, the music itself is doing that, but preparing for an ascension elsewhere. Where? Far above this organising leisure politics, for one thing. He keeps climbing as the voices below chant the sounds of style: fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fashion.

A little feedback gives way to a sweeter Fripp guitar line and a descant. Bowie's in gymnastic mode but the feel of it is the kind of rolling ballad he's been doing since Aladdin Sane, with a forward pushing momentum. But instead of romantic tales of love and travel Teenage Wildlife is more like a celebration of seeing genuine style and individuality in the kind of herd that Fashion was describing. The noodly guitar stretches into Heroes-like legato wails as the calls to the teenage wildlife ascend to jungle howls like fanfares.

Scream Like a Baby opens in strength, telling of hospitals and paddy wagons, life under arrest and in restraints. If the previous song toasted individuality this is aggrieved to see it punished with force. The hard beats and low-mixed rock arrangement push the notion of fun from our minds as Bowie's pained vocal seems to ask us what we would do.

Kingdom Come is a cover of a Tom Verlaine song. Narrator is a prisoner, confused which is how he got there but he just needs a day far away and then a night and he just keeps breaking the rocks in hard labour until the end of the world. Like Sam in the previous song, he's defiant and determined to get to relief and freedom when (in a twist) the kingdom comes. Why this as a cover, especially when Bowie was on such a roll? I think it's a gesture of generosity and an admission that the rising generation might well be getting it right. The arrangement is very little changed form Verlaine's solo album original (it wasn't a Televsion number) in another gesture of solidarity.

Because You're Young begins in the muted chords of the era with a pinched urgent riff. Bowie's vocal falls to the cod operatic he started with the 1969 self titled album and this is one of the few songs on the set that sounds like it could have been on an earlier platter like Diamond Dogs or Station to Station. Not to denigrate it for that but the call back feels strange in this record of newness. The words are intriguing, though. "It's love back to front and no sides." Like the severely short haircuts of the electronic musicians this seems to leave no mystique to the face but rather a taunt to question its contrast. Psychodelicate girls and metal faced boys. Is it about one of his own encounters? Bowie is seldom if ever that straight up but there is a real yearning to the screaming litany of millions of starts, dreams and everything else.

The closer is the opener but without the screaming. Everything is clean. His vocal feels resigned, the old master debaucher on his throne, more like Lou Reed than Bowie he reaches for the snifter of cognac at the table, gives it a swirl with a look in and puts it back without drinking. He's tired and and can't tell drunkenness from inspiration at this time of night but he's ready to go and will be fine when he gets there. Where? Not here, for one thing.

A frantic clicking like typing or something. It fades. End.

November 1980 and I'm studying for exams in the room downstairs, away from the tension of the troubled marriage in the main house. That marriage began with trouble and never got through it so it just repeats there, blow and counter blow. Down here I've got a good big coffee and my texts, and the radio has three or so stations on the AM band I can switch between to hear any of three high rotation numbers. One is Don't Stand So Close, by the Police because I like the movement and the harmonies. Two is Psycho Chicken by the Fools, a clunking parody of Talking Heads' Psycho Killer that I find funny no matter how many times I hear it. And three is Ashes to Ashes. I manage over hours to hear each one about three times and I never forget a fact that I read that night which is just as well as the next day I'll be sitting in the big bright cavern of Cloudland answering questions about Economics. By the time I get to bed I'm hearing an ersatz David Byrne talk about supply and demand of chicken meat and then I dream of white faced clowns on posterised seashores.

Then exams, breathe out, Schoolie's Week, good stuff, bad stuff, and then it's up to Townsville where I finally can't hear my brother and his wife. School friend Wayne visits in the afternoon with a copy of the album. We smoke, chat, drink rum and listen. We were too young to be into Bowie at the start and had to catch up through the jungle drum market of home cassettes. He was a hero for more than one day. Everything was changing. We were legally adults which took the burr off the alcohol a little but it still worked. And, as neither of us were looking, we missed seeing Bowie climb up to the stage of the biggest stadium he could find where he pumped out hits that were ready for the turntables of the most brutal AM playlists. For a bit, at least, though, he was still down here with us, letting us know we were fine. And then he was gone.

1980@40: ALPHABRAVOCHARLIEDELTAECHOFOXTROTGOLF: MODELS

21 Hz rises from the silence as a dusty rhythm. It's like a big wide desolate landscape. I ran it through a spectrum analysis and found there was a dip in the 21 Hz range but a big shelf around 50 Hz (which is past inaudible to human ears) so it wasn't a highlighted frequency that inspired this (unless something is happening at 21 Hz that they put in for the hell of it. Wow, how to ruin an opening track. Thought I'd check it, just in case.

So begins the first LP by Models, a Melbourne band who, along with a few significant cohorts, established a shaky bridge over the ravine between the mainstream and the threatening, many-visaged theatre of post punk. They begin with the atmosphere of an electronic band but they riff in the next track like a rock band. The guitar playing the riff is not overdriven but clean and thick. Strategic Air Command, starting like a jet fighter rising into the blue and the strangled vocals of Sean Kelly gravelling out a short phrase verse melody before the backing vocals burst in: bombs away, that's ok, error in your favour. The phrasing of early computing and automated service. The language is military but it's about a "mock-up" plane. He's trying to entice someone into his lair. There he is the Air Vice Marshall. This odd take on mating from 1980 could be a gamer's anthem from 2020. That's reach.

Two People Per Sq. Km is gutteral verse, singing sax, spiky guitar and bass on a real workout. The existential perils of a place with massively more land than people. A thick, syntheised intrumental break and the chanted chorus: Dancing makes me seasick. Next, a big, bright synth riff and sharp chordy guitar with the kind of quirky love song heads to a half spoken chorus: she pulled the pin on me. 

A galloping bass is joined by a stilted spaghetti western guitar riff in Twice removed. This stops abruptly at the verse which is almost a chant but set to a kind of battered Latin beat. Synth and organ dissonance, seared by more sax. A taut low string guitar riff through a chorus would recall the Cure if not for its arch wink. An staccato organ progression as bright as an ice cream commercial starts Pate Pedestrian and an insistent piano rising figure support the words about his feet getting hot on the spot and that he's a pate pedestrian. Models are from Melbourne and know enough of those to write a song about them. It's an end of side song so it just gets left on rather than chosen first.

A rushing tomtom and big synth arpeggio. Kelly comes in with a few growled lines before the whole band chants: You cheat on her she cheats on you. Kissing Around Corners. A sublime keyboard ascension then repeat. If this were the halved Human League to come this song would have neo disco pretensions but this is pure fun, stopping here and there for a kind of John Carpenter movie synth break before plunging back into the thick pop bliss.

All Stop has a finger clicking 2/4 strut with a skeletal echoed guitar over a bass on full treble. Compelling but it's hard to get a grip on the lyric. Is it about working in advertising? War fottage on tv? A middle section features a panning chopper rattle. It ends on more skeletor guitar, a hummed repetition of the title and a fade. Uncontrollable Boy is an unruly Bossa Nova with Telstar organ. He's unruly himself as the song gives way to a rock instrumental which feels stiff by comparison and the shambling Latin groove is welcome back.

Young Rodents asks us into a shadow with a big bass arpeggio and dirty alley sax. "Plays like a cat, he's a cute little boy." A creepy middle section resigns that they will have to kill them. Somewhere between the scratchers of Hamelin and the future Birthday Party dirge Nick the Stripper lies this strange, unnerving dream. No less a worry is the next track. Hans Stand: A War Record. A fade in of marimbas. Kelly's strangled voice enters gently, telling Hans to clean the church. The title tells where Hans has come from. It fades almost before it's begun. 

And then, the albums master track, the one I heard in my head all the way from Brisbane to Melbourne on a Bus so loud with a yobbo's blaring cassette of the new Dire Straits album that my memory of the Model's track had to struggle. But it won.

Happy Birthday IBM starts without a breath as a bass on the edge of overdrive plays a stuttered two note figure then down a tone. Drums then guitar. Then the mighty synth melody descending in staccato slices into the nervous systems of every one who hears it. "Happy Birthday!" chants the band. "Happy Birthday IBM". An effortless major key squiggle on the keyboards and repeat. But this is Models so you don't repetition until you've tried it a few different ways in the same song. A break restarts with slices of guitar and a cartoony low register synth riff as a big deep voice expands the IBM abbreviation. Chorus chant fades into a ring modulated tom tom and industrial hiss.

There had been plenty of songs about computers and by the early '80s the theme felt weary. Even the strong Mi-Sex charter Computer Games felt a little naff for all its nu-wave force. But this didn't mention computers. It mentioned their maker. And it used them in sequencing. And it suggested the brutalist music they could make and turn us into without a single line about how impersonal they were. And it was fun. The corporate anthem feel to the chorus really is infectious. You can't get away with a single listen without at least wanting to sing in perfect unison with it.

With the strength of sticking to a constant instrumental pallet, some burgeoning songcraft poking through the alt.rock aloofness and a non-gothic delight in the darker corners of the city, Models made me think of Melbourne years before I got there. I saw them a few times and they were good but at the time I wanted them to sound like the spiky, quirky records they made. Then again, as I was to discover, the city of their birth left its stamp on them as much as it did to all its musical children. Part cabaret, part grand guignol Models added a blue-grey smudge to a canvas that just kept getting busier and darker...and more fun.

1970@50: PARANOID - BLACK SABBATH

A brash, dark minor power chord on the guitar falls to the major below it in the kind of Dorian mode resolution that we like so much from medieval music right up to sea shanties. Here, though, there's a sadness to it, a drag in more than one sense. The bass and drums are keeping it buoyant but the melancholy is intensifying. At the fourth chordal knell an air raid siren fades up and fits the time (perhaps the players were timing themselves to it) and it blends perfectly. But it's just getting sadder.  All this and the song is less than 40 seconds into it. The siren doesn't feel like a goofy effect the way that the Foley effects were used by the Beach Boys. This is not a novelty song. The siren sounds like it's part of the music. Suddenly the guitar changes to a rapid two chord blast and Ozzy Osbourne comes in singing about the War Pigs of the title. His voice is solid, concentrated, and his own, somewhere between Richard the Third as voiced by Olivier and Screaming Lord Sutch. Then again, it's really just Ozzy by now, any derivation has been stripped away by gigging and the pace of living. The generals gather like witches at black masses, the politicians flee to the safety of bunkers and the poor put the uniforms on and walk into the bullets and the bombs. Not subtle enough for you? They're singing about warfare or what war is made of. Subtlety be damned. This is the thing about Black Sabbath at their best (and this album ranks among their very best). The groove toughens into a four on the floor metal groove as the song moves into its third phase. Yet another chord riff leads to a modal solo which rises into rapid double tracked business as the drums keep a solid ground and the aggressively picked bass provides both thump and melody. A sudden return to the first verse form as the picture develops. The third chord riff enters again and gives way to a more arpeggiated form which swoops down the scale before moving into a melodic fulfilment of the opening groove and then another double tracked solo. Finally the arpeggio resumes and speeds up artificially (via pitch control) to a final bash. We have travelled through a monochrome landscape of mass annihilation and, weirdly, it feels good.

The title track which was released as a single begins with a swift riff on the seventh before finding a chugging modal chord riff. Ozzy sings about losing his mind. A harsh beauty of crunching guitar tone, thickened by bass and hardened by drums beneath a syllable spitting caterwaul. It's metal but it's also proto punk without knowing it. It's a creation and performance extraordinary for compressing what would be known as heavy metal into a radio friendly chunk of clinical insanity that musically presaged UK punk by over half a decade and just kept punching.

Planet Caravan then surprises us with its gentle clean guitar arpeggios, conga drums and finger bass. Ozzy sings through a flanger about travelling through the cosmos in yet another medieval scale. The feel is a soft but intense jazz like the jamming of a psychedelic outfit but in context gathers some black light poster gravity. A a subdued but lyrical solo demonstrates to anyone listening that this band is not limited to headbanging. A jazz piano adds some harmonic ground. The thing with this track is that it doesn't sound out of place for as much as a bar. Anyone who wrote Sabbath off as Neanderthal Rock wasn't allowed to after this one.

Then again. A punching kick drum. The guitar comes in with a withering power chord bending downwards. An entire chord on a Gibson SG without a whammy bar. Dedication! Ozzy enters with his voice extremely modulated to sound robotic which is still scary: I AM IRON MAN! And then one of the greatest riffs in all rock music grinds out rising through a modal minor to an overdriven rapid alternation of chords (this Tony Iommi doesn't just have chops he's inventing them for generations). The vocal follows the riff exactly, in Osbourne's most compelling wail. The bass, too, is going along. The result is power. Pure bloody power. A strange figure is described by passers by who wonder about the metal man who has suddenly appeared in their midst. There's a problem. He's become this iron monster from time travel gone horribly wrong. He returned to warn the earth of the apocalypse but his appearance is so weird that he is shunned and then spurned. His cataclysmic revenge becomes the Armageddon he saw.  A development section shows that the band were not stingy on the riffs and they kick into a workout before hitting base with a reiteration of the verse riff. The finale, depicting in pure riffage is an aural picture of the apocalypse which blends surf rock galloping on the bass, loose but restless cymbals, feverish soloing rising to a final da-da-da! ending.

Electric Funeral grinds up with a thick riff voiced with a wah-wah pedal pressed more slowly than usual which gives it an otherworldly sound as the pattern rises and falls through a chromatic sequence. Ozzy comes in with the others as the verse melody tightens the chromatic phrase to give the words a sense of chanted description. A nuclear apocalypse flashes the earth to waste. The gear changes to hi-speed  and Ozzy's is in a higher scream with more accounts of the devastation. And the sole off moment in the song happens as someone else snarls "Electric Funeral" four times. This almost ruins the whole song. Ozzy's lyrics are already on the edge of overstatment and then this guy comes on stage in a skeleton costume and starts telling you why it's scary. It's the metal equivalent to the ba-ba-baaahs at the end of the instrumental section in God Only Knows. In both cases they were doing so well. The opening riff grinds back after a breath. The final verse describes a strange version of the end of Revelation where a mechanical god rules over the wasted earth as the damned fall to cramped cells in the inferno. Fade.

Hand of Doom creeps up slowly with a cinematic bass figure, joined by drums. Ozzy comes in before the guitar, addressing someone who is facing his own death. The guitar slams in, in unison with the bass and Ozzy climbs an octave. Back to the quieter mode. A list of wartime weapons offered as solutions but now the thought of them causes despair and everything shrivels down to opiates. Push the needle in. Guitar slams back in. But it isn't much more than any entertainment. A brief return to the quiet opening before the band kicks in with a high energy riff. Ozzy comes in in high voice, chastising the subject for the self anihilation. Acid is added to the mix and brings colours and other reality-masking distractions. He's burning at both ends. A double tracked solo joins him on his haze before climaxing. The ominous bass riff re-enters. Ozzy describes a living corpse, exhausted by narcosis and suicidal leisure. "Now you're gonna die." The quiet bass figure slowly takes us back into the dark.

This song is why Black Sabbath continued to find greatness beyond their initial success. There is a real poetry to the splicing of military culture, progressive industrialisation and the resort to drugs to shut both out. Osbourne's inspiration had come from accounts of U.S. soldiers traumatised by service in the Vietnam war who picked up opiate and lysergic lifestyles which became whole lives on their return. The musical dynamics of this track, the shadow heavy room of its quiet and deliberate description to the searing rage of its breakout verses, give us the same disciplined power that drove The Stones' Midnight Rambler or The Doors' When the Music's Over. Here, though, it just feels more real.

Rat Salad is an instrumental that sounds like a rejected instrumental section from another track. Either that or a jam turned into a showcase for the guitar and drums as both get extensive solos. It's not quite formless but has little to say and spends minutes of side filling time saying it.

Fairies Wear Boots begins with a palm-muted figure which gives way to another modal guitar riff which gives way to some high soloing and chord riffage before settling into a metal groove. Ozzy tells a tale of seeing a fairy dancing with a dwarf. Oh, the fairy was wearing boots. He takes his story to a doctor who tells him to lay off the drugs. This is a veiled account of Ozzy getting beaten up by skin heads who took opportunity to lay into a hippy. The song acquits itself as a pedestrian rocker but,despite a solid performance and iron-throated vocal, it feels like the last track on an album which it indeed is. The soloing drives off into the night of the fade.

The modal guitar figures can be heard at the other end of the decade in Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures album. The force of vocal against hard guitar rock contributed to all of Henry Rollins' career. The dynamics in Hand of Doom can be heard in the study notes of Jane's Addiction's marvellous Three Days. All of the Northwest American bands of the '90s cut the lineage points between themselves and Black Sabbath, leaving no ambiguity about influences, whether they were lyrical or musical. Black Sabbath's descendants are among the peaks of the rock music in the decades that followed their early releases and Paranoid, even more than the eponymous debut, gave that world a field manual on music as a channel of fury against the nodders and the toed-lines that always seem to reform after every upset. That's why we, punks who smirked at them, needed Black Sabbath.

1980@40: KALEIDOSCOPE - SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES

When the guitarist and drummer from the lineup of the previous two albums fled mid-tour in a panic this band might have collapsed. The bad about that is that the band lost a guitarist with good ideas. The good is that the creative force of the music and what it sought to express stuck around. Siouxsie and Steve Severin showed that the darker, cinematic moods of The Scream and Join Hands were not only freer to take the helm but refrained from overstating the gothic. They also made good choices of replacements. Budgie, who'd been in the Slits, not only stuck with the band but married the singer and brought a richer percussive pallet to the music. John McGeoch came in on guitar from Magazine. These were people with style and ideas, not just hired guns. What that meant was that the third album sounded fresh but familiar.

Happy House mixed heavily processed guitar with the pulsing toms, chorused bass and full throated vocals. That's the formula for the next few albums and expresses the dependable sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees. For the song itself there is an icy riff, distant whistling and a shivery falsetto, all on different melodies. The verses themselves are controlled explosions, strident declamations of ironic protest. The happy house is a horror house. The wails, cries and force are bound but powerful, growling in chains.

Tenant brings in the hitherto unfamiliar sound of electronics to the band's sound. Budgie sets up a busy high hat ticking, occasionally run through a ring modulator. The bass guitar is so flanged that it sounds like a keyboard. The guitar is chorused and muted and distant. And there throughout, a frowning lower register synthesiser. Siouxsie comes in with sparse images of isolation in high density housing and paranoia. "The plaster falls and a body reels .... softly" Stops, starts, whispers and more falsetto coos. It's like putting your head into a Francis Bacon painting and listening to the sounds in the room. 

Trophy starts with the more familiar attack of straightforward snare drums and spiky distorted guitars and Sioux alternating between a cold croon and a wail. But here the rhythmic pattern is a 4/4 with extra bars wedged in to stop it sounding too rock. 

Hybrid has an insistent snare roll, ropey guitar figure, languid sax. It is a kind of hallucinatory account of exhausting touring. Everybody's weary but the thing is that this never drags. It wasn't just McKay and Morris that felt the strain of the previous year's touring. Severin and Sioux were ordered bed rest and tranquilisers by their doctors. Here the mix of grind and sweet jazzy sax melodies express the collision of physical wastage and sublime rewards of working for all that fame.

Clockface is a near instrumental with a forceful rock (thought the guitatr is still well distant). Siouxsie's insistent whoa whoas provide the riff. Perhaps continuing the exhaustion theme of the previous track, even the most energetic song on the side is too difficult for lyrics.

Lunar Camel starts with thick keyboards and drum machine like tones as Soiuxsie enters with a light and breathy whimsy about travel in a dreamlike landscape. This comes as close as the band would get for years to the pleasurable side of intoxication. A blend of childlike playfulness and a worrying darkness beneath. It and the side end on a deep bass drone, chunky muted flanged guitars.

Side two kicks off with the understated acoustic strum and murmur of Christine, a deceptively gentle response to a reading of The Three Faces of Eve about multiple personality disorder. "She tries not to shatter kaleidoscope style ..." "Now she's in purple, now she's a turtle, disintegrating." It's the lightness, the ease of the vocal and the false laid-back bed track that push the disturbance forward, here. Christine's swings and changes happen in the space of a breath. This was a hit single (backed by the decidedly less restrained Eve White) and those were the days.

Desert Kisses rises like a wave of subdubed guitar and forward keyboards. Budgie is keeping time with an off/on approach to high hat figure. Siouxsie's vocal follows the rise through the minor scale with images of isolation, a troubled affair between sand and sea that ends in a letting go or resignation as she sinks down to a personal oblivion. The blend of sexy minor key and pitiable middle eight creates a sense of hopelessness on an epic scale.

Red Light uses a similar minor figure on the synth as Desert Kisses but it's more circular, inescapable. A pornographic photo studio during a shoot. "as the aperture shuts, too much exposure." 

The riff keeps circling. Siouxsie comes in with a variously tired groan or wild wail until the final repetition of "when you see the red light wincing" when she gets mixed to the back and the march of the riff gains strength. Light and heavy all at once.

Paradise Place kicks off at full speed with a tide of fuzzed guitar, vocal wail and the now signature falsetto coos. Cut rate cosmetic surgery. Lots of bad things sliced and reformed in the Hollywood Hills. The guitar of this one reminds me of Keith Levene's playing on the first two PiL albums, down in the mix but razor sharp and gnashing. It's Steve Jones ex Sex Pistol, in fact. The progression plays out sharply to the fade under coos that now sound tragic.

Skin begins with hesitant beeps and clinks but soon takes on a paranoid wail and cacophony as Sioux rails at fur wearing. More Jones guitar, this time a subdued palm muted chord progression. After a final vocal assault the track deconstructs, one part at a time until only the beeps and trills remain. Album over.

Kaleidoscope saw a punk band adapt to losing half its limbs and emerging as a more adventurous and cinematic unit. The songs still have a bratty edge to them but in every case are more refined as new power is discovered in the quieter corners of invention. During the stress hiatus Severin and Sioux extended their pallets by taking up synthesisers and guitar, finding new musical expression in unfamiliar territory. This is to be expected in young artists when forced into invention from necessity: things out of your control? Pick something up and find the notes. This makes the album much better than a resumption: it doesn't sound like a broken original patched up with session players, it sounds like a new band.