I must confess that this is not my idea; having recently come across Tom Breihan’s ‘The Number Ones’ column for Stereogum, and in turn, Tom Ewing’s ‘Popular’ column for Freaky Trigger, I felt inspired to approach the format from my own geographical perspective; that is, review every single to reach number 1 on the ARIA Charts/Kent Report, and assign a numerical grade from 1-10. In the interest of brevity (and some pertinence), the column shall begin from July 1974, the date in which the initial Kent Report was first published commercially, and work forwards from there. Dependent upon time constraints and general interest, publishing of these articles will, similar to Ewing and Breihan’s columns, be daily. And now…
Daryl Braithwaite – “You’re My World”
6 January – 20 January 1975 (3 Weeks).
Perhaps one of the most underrated delights of exploring a history of Australian pop music is that I can accord some attention to songwriters that have either had a minimal presence in the US and the UK, or just plainly didn’t make much of an international dent to begin with. Daryl Braithwaite is one of those performers; having fronted Sherbet, he produced some of Australia’s biggest anthems including “Summer Love” and “Howzat,” whilst topping the charts in his own right with “One Summer” and “The Horses.” As an inductee to the ARIA Hall of Fame, he’s a national treasure; to those North of the equator, he’s Daryl Braithwaite.
I must confess that this is not my idea; having recently come across Tom Breihan’s ‘The Number Ones’ column for Stereogum, and in turn, Tom Ewing’s ‘Popular’ column for Freaky Trigger, I felt inspired to approach the format from my own geographical perspective; that is, review every single to reach number 1 on the ARIA Charts/Kent Report, and assign a numerical grade from 1-10. In the interest of brevity (and some pertinence), the column shall begin from July 1974, the date in which the initial Kent Report was first published commercially, and work forwards from there. Dependent upon time constraints and general interest, publishing of these articles will, similar to Ewing and Breihan’s columns, be daily. And now…
Carl Douglas – “Kung Fu Fighting”
16 December – 30 December 1974 (3 Weeks).
Perhaps the best argument against the posterity of the charts and certain song’s placement within them is that they often fete cultural moments that are decidedly one time only. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with the virtue of being inane and mindless; however, when oriental riffs become lodged into critical discussions like this, it’s hard not to condescend to the source material. Which is a literary way of saying: this thing hasn’t aged well.
Having said that, it wouldn’t have aged well even if society decided that the main riff for this song is just slightly offensive retrospectively. Regardless of all of that discussion, it’s a…
I must confess that this is not my idea; having recently come across Tom Breihan’s ‘The Number Ones’ column for Stereogum, and in turn, Tom Ewing’s ‘Popular’ column for Freaky Trigger, I felt inspired to approach the format from my own geographical perspective; that is, review every single to reach number 1 on the ARIA Charts/Kent Report, and assign a numerical grade from 1-10. In the interest of brevity (and some pertinence), the column shall begin from July 1974, the date in which the initial Kent Report was first published commercially, and work forwards from there. Dependent upon time constraints and general interest, publishing of these articles will, similar to Ewing and Breihan’s columns, be daily. And now…
Olivia Newton-John – “I Honestly Love You”
18 November – 9 December 1974 (4 Weeks)
It’s possible that “I Honestly Love You” invented the tired cinematic trope of the ironic soundtrack choice. When it appears in Jaws, Alex and his dog disappear; all the while, Olivia Newton John hums on the radio, soft, lulling, delicate, and unassuming. The song was barely a year old at the time, but its subverted and mismatched application makes it feel as if were always somewhere there, tucked away in the scenery.
In part, that’s because this is the 1970s, and this is Peter Allen, so the nostalgia felt is integral to the composition. Heard as it were, it’s a plainly inoffensive and lilting performance from John, who, removed from Grease…
Are you there? Okay, cool; you managed to cope with the visual documentation of why recorders were, once and for all time, a mistake nobody could compensate nor understand. Better yet, you read two volumes of some guy from the Midwest freaking out over David Bowie. What I lack in professionalism I make up for in enthusiasm, overbearing as it may be, and believe or not, this is end of the first Deep Cuts series – very much a work-in-progress – but not the end of what will become a regular mainstay of the site’s blogs for the time being. With that out of the way, we travel to 1979 to look upon the lonely and absurd Lodger.
The finale of the Berlin Triptych, Lodger already portrayed the Bowie/Eno union coming to an end. Both parties were finally losing interest, with Eno now focusing his attention towards the upstart Talking Heads and Bowie moving towards more commercial aspirations, his three-year long simultaneous detox and Krautrock/Berlin School tribute reaching its conclusion. The second track from the album, “African Night Flight”, is an anomaly even for the Berlin records, all of which featured uncompromising experimentation and challenged Bowie’s audience that had stuck around following his ventures through salacious glam excess and detached cocaine funk — or constantly alienated them and label execs, who pushed hard for more Young Americans.
The ’90s were a dark, dark time, no? Apparently so – with a clip of a sleek rendition of “Fame” and other cuts at Howard Stern’s birthday party in 1998 – and to drive the point home, with Stern’s massive posse swarming the dance floor as Bowie and co. looking not out of place, but uncomfortably dated fashion-wise, even for 1998.
But to delve even deeper into incredibly dated realms we must venture backward once more into 1967. “The Laughing Gnome” is the song David Bowie spent an entire lifetime trying to escape from. No matter how> eclectic his sounds and tastes became, this one song always found its way back to its creator, even being the punchline to a campaign NME led in 1990. Bowie was undertaking preparations for his Sound + Vision tour, with a ballot on which songs were to be included in the setlist – a specially curated “Greatest Hits” tour, but with the incentive that the songs included would then be retired at tour’s end. Of course, hits like “Space Oddity”, “Changes”, and “Blue Jean” made the cut, but one song was out of place: “The Laughing Gnome”, which somehow accumulated enough votes for Bowie to consider a Velvet Underground-influenced arrangement, although this was Bowie most likely taking the piss and making light of the NME’s “Just Say Gnome” campaign to rig the polls, which were immediately scrapped. It also would’ve…
In keeping with the monthly (bi-monthly, if proper motivation and inspiration manages to come my way) ramblings that I regularly undertake – whether it be by a long-winded review, incoherent comment in some guy’s thread about Sputnik’s flavor-of-the-month album, or the now-immortal quip “list is digs” that is said to be bestowed upon a many lists, threads, and articles – I have seen it appropriate to further expand the ongoing Guides series, starting with a bi-monthly retrospective on the one and only David Bowie: the man of many faces, sounds, and visions.
No introduction is needed for such an astounding artist, but for those who do need a refresher, Bowie did a lot throughout his 54 years in the industry (1962-2016), beginning as a young man heavily influenced by the rhythm and blues very much popular with British youth and emerging decades later weathered through a multitude of personae, fashions, and most importantly, the stardom he desired so greatly and the acclaim that followed. Once a young man who dreamed of being his band’s Mick Jagger and inspired by the whimsical music hall sound of Anthony Newley (who reportedly destroyed his copy of Bowie’s debut in disgust) during his time with Decca (1966-1968), he went out as perhaps the definitive artist of his generation and as one of the most innovative pop artists ever.
Now that we’ve a little context behind the man who wrote classics such as “Heroes”,…
An astoundingly large portion of Pink Floyd’s back catalogue was unceremoniously released into the world in 2016. When I say ‘unceremoniously’, I mean a lavish multi-disc, Blu-ray and DVD boxset which extensively covered their first seven years of life; but when you consider this music one of life’s finer pleasures and these rarities as basically a wellspring of lost gold, the boxset feels a lot less than they deserved. In fact, the not-insignificant price tag of The Early Years would have undoubtedly turned some fans off from digging into material that should be in everyone’s collection.
I mean, just try some out for size – like the brilliantly loopy lost Syd Barrett cuts “Vegetable Man” and “Scream Thy Last Scream”. The former features some of the band’s all-time catchiest melodies against a disturbingly self-reflective lyric from Syd, reportedly blocked from A Saucerful of Secrets for being “too dark”, while the latter boasts Nick Mason belting out a rare lead vocal of surreal rhymes over chipmunk backing vocals ripped straight from your nightmares. Or maybe the half-hour long “John Latham” jam, an extended improvisational soundtrack to an early piece of British surrealism that makes “Interstellar Overdrive” sound pretty tame. Or, moving past the Syd years, you have The Man and the Journey, a legendary live show that combined musique concrete, pastoral folk and explosive psychedelia as the band tried to re-jig songs from their first four albums into an impressionistic concept piece involving pink jungles and temples of light. There are diamonds on…
I want to briefly talk about U2. They have a new album out this week, Songs of Experience, which Rowan described as ‘an Apple-funded gimmick to appeal to the poetry-loving college crowd.’ It’s ostensibly a companion to 2013’s Songs of Innocence, and it’s bad. Not offensively bad (not that U2 ever have been offensive, moreso bland and boring, spiritless and soulless, pedestrian and ponderous), but bad enough to warrant derision and mockery. What is it exactly that Bono stands for when he sings ‘I can help you, but it’s your fight,’ when we all know that he hides money in tax havens and has powerful friends compromise editorial integrity for him? I don’t know. For the record, “Get Out of Your Own Way,” the song that line comes from, isn’t completely awful, and could well have been successful had it not been compressed so heavily and recorded by a band with more clout and pertinence than U2. But the entire album is so completely diluted with the sentiment of nothingness that you can’t help but feel as if everything is painfully familiar; lyrically and thematically, its anti-Trump vitriol is obvious and well plundered; musically, it’s repetitive, blase, samey, and unoriginal. This was the band that wrote Achtung Baby, criticized the technocratic revolution, and then preceded to redefine the frightening implications of digital distribution. Nowadays, I would rather listen to The Killers. So, to simplify, it’s what we would otherwise expect from a new U2 album. But, perhaps most bizarrely, Songs for…
Slowdive, in my opinion, are perhaps one of the premier shoegazers of the initial wave of the genre. Recording one of the landmarks with 1993’s Souvlaki and following it up with the radically different Pygmalion, Slowdive have cemented themselves as one of the giants of the effects-obsessed artform. Sometimes drifting in between heavenly dream pop bliss with cuts such as “Machine Gun” and the Eno-produced duo “Sing” and “Here She Comes”, to the abstract ambiance that permeated all of 1995’s Pygmalion, Slowdive can easily be not only the definitive entry-point to any curious onlooker, but the ultimate crossover from more conventional rock music to the incredibly diverse/divisive shoegazing genre.
In consideration to the amount of time I’ve spent listening to Slowdive – a whopping thirteen months (according to my last.fm: about 407 plays as of this writing; since Oct. 31st of 2016), I’ve still found myself somewhat overwhelmed with the near-abrupt shifts in their repertoire from album to album, although their catalogue is rather minuscule and far more accessible than some of their other contemporaries. Plus, they have the benefit of not promising an album to their fanbase, then pulling off the most drawn out disappearing act on them over a course of two decades, so Slowdive already have their priorities straightened out quite nicely.
This guide, in keeping with the recently established tradition I’ve forced upon myself (and will most likely alter in future iterations), will give a streamlined overview of the band’s works, along with a sampler that will hopefully guide…
In acknowledging I’m most likely the website’s local stan for this guy, and the point that I’m writing such an article solely due to the fact I seriously can’t stop listening to his rather plentiful back catalogue, I’ve come to have certainty in the idea that David Sylvian is quite possibly one of the greatest and most ambitious artists to come from his respective generation. There’s so much I could (and will) say, but considering the scope that his works have offered listeners for the last forty-plus years along with the various artistic overhauls that have accompanied Sylvian’s output — both solo and with others in the band format — it seems quite necessary that I provide somewhat of a guide to the works of someone I hold in high esteem. For the sake of not rambling on longer than I really need to, we shall begin with a quick glimpse of where Sylvian began: in the art rock group Japan. Formed in 1974, Japan had their roots in the glam rock scene and took to their influences quite clearly with their initial outfitting, which would come back to embarrass the group upon their identity shift to new wave/synthpop auteurs that often rejected the New Romantic culture and the following that came with it:
Following two albums’ worth of middling glam worship blended in with some worthwhile tunes, Japan had finally found their sound with their third album, 1979’s Quiet Life; along with this futuristic sound, Sylvian had eschewed the slurred vocal…
Daryl Braithwaite – “You’re My World”
