O VIDEO, WHEREFORE THY ART?

LETTER FROM BRITAIN

Cynthia Rose

0 VIDEO, WHEREFORE MART?

Welcome (the temperature dropped four degrees as I typed that word) to a moment in time when, thanks to cold, wet and economics, the nature of 'experience' in Britain has never been more vicarious. If you're frozen into position out in the U.S., eyes frosting over in front of MTV, you may feel we got nothing on you. But wait just a mo, bro.

Consider: one of every three individual dwelling-spaces in the U.K. now possesses its own video (almost all, like British tellies, cheaply rented). And what do their proud owners find to show themselves at the local Video Marts and Tape Klubs? (There IS one on every block). The absolute dregs of the American drive-in circuit, that's what. Psycho Sisters, Camp Severed, The Brutes, Blowtorch, The Prize Of Peril. Not psychotronic movies, fun Z-grades or even flesh-flicks. Just sheer dross they couldn't even palm off on the Dauph's local.

It's pretty weird to think that if you live in Podunk or Toonerville, U.S.A., you'd still have to drive a far piece to afford yourself the choice of recreations to which the average British Joe is limited vis-a-vis his home vid. The. giant escalation in home viewing has, of course, led to more and more music on legit TV...Only it's not exactly legit music. 'Rock' in TV terms means Li(/e In Concert: unimaginative footage of unimaginably bad performers (Leo Sayer, Thompson Twins, Bucks Fizz) playing colleges or places in Germany. 'Pop' means either cheeky peeks at the 'real lives' of fascinating figures from Status Quo or Genesis or pop programs (format: carefully groomed presenter equipped with jokes and trendy duds plus mimed live appearances, videos, mini-interviews and the odd live live appearance).

Tonight's Top Of The Pops, for instance, billed two Big Treats: the announcement of their First Annual 'Best British Video Contest' (with no furriners allowed, it might be down to Elton John vs. McCartney) and the 'world premiere' of the new Duran Duran vid. Phew!

This increased obsession with visuals— and decreased familiarity with real LIVE music—has had a huge impact in the business, and given over immense power to those middle-men, the image-makers. Take the case of Carmel, a trio from Manchester I may have mentioned earlier. They consist of pretty, ambitious vocalist Carmel McCourt, who boasts a five-octave range (accurate mainly in the middle), her boyfriend Jim Paris (bass) and his cousin Gerry Darby (percussion). Back around the i , . lvl°och Club was swinging, u;ith achieved a cult reputation of sorts Rod P]senes of small-time releases on indie 11 . T am®' ^ ^d to a signing with major ^iLoHdon, RF's distributor

«>_ u no teamed right away, says Jim, ow hyperaware record companies are that in nis country 'music' now means Radio Une and two or three TV programs. Because of that, they listen to the radio and look at this handful of programs then race back to you and say 'Look what was on last week!' (he laughs) as if it were inarguably meaningful.'

'It's implied in everything,' says his cousin. 'And of Course it's rubbish. But you're up against that all the time, whatever. You're in touch With that consciousness all the time, in your listeners as well as executives.'

Being a stubborn bunch (they go through 'guest artists' and backup singers at quite a rate, and even bounced the first producer for their debut long-player), Carmel decided that they would 'protect our loose and long-range attitude about being a band by getting someone whose medium had always been film for our video.' And—the financial rewards of promo vid being what they are—London got them no less than Lindsay Anderson, of O Lucky Man, If and This Sporting Life fame.

Anderson' had not only done no previous videos; the only one he's even liked was made for another cult act (Tom Robinson) by colleague Nic Roeg. But the negotiating was able to settle that the project should be 'low-profile': 'something which works on its own terms.'

'We wanted something that would run alongside the music, like another thought,' says Carmel herself.

But Anderson's mini-film (which begins in grainy black and white reminiscent of his original 'kitchen sink' reputation, then bursts into stylized color) is extremely popsy and carries a strong undertow of accomplishment hard-sell. The main musical criticism of Carmel has always been that they chew ever more than they bite off. But on film all we see is friendly, poised assurance.

Aurally, a more accomplished indie songstress (also now Red Flame's new blond hope, after a spell with the Compact Organization) who stays within her range is Cynthia Scott. Scott looks a bit like Our Miss Brooks in her gimmick-y glasses, but she did write, produce arid package her new platter 'Juggler Of Hearts' (b/w her type of bebop beatnikitude, 'Masochismo'). Her pipes, however, recall the heyday of Chrissie Hynde more than the new subNightclubbing torchesses.

Ms. Hynde, by the bye, fell foul of the video boom in an idiosyncratic way thanks to the Pretenders' arch Christmas-time enactment of '2000 Miles.' Seems that the Salvation Army took umbrage at Chrissie's use of their uniform ('We really don't know how she got it, although she did look fetching,' said a spokesperson). In fact, they made her a pin-up for one issue of the Army mag War Cry: in an article criticizing 'pretenders of all sorts.' Too bad they chose Chrissie just at the moment she's filling the national press with the difficulties of motherhood-diminutive Natalie Rae gives a cry just before she's due onstage and Chrissie simply agonizes. 'Father Ray Davies can hardly help,' chides one tabloid, 'As he is off in America on tour.' Still, there's always Nanny!

A far more polished pretender is Velvet vet John Cale, whose travelling medicine show rolled into town at the Venue last week, an hour of hits 'n' new bits. Fronting a raunchy, inept bunch of youngbloods (the only musician he wants to play with, says Cale, 'is Captain Beefheart'), 41-year-old Cale slicked his grey hair back a la Neil Young and hid behind Costello-style shades. Between cuts from Caribbean Sunset ('I'm finished with politics, into the good-time stuff now'), he took to the keyboards and worked the ole Welsch magic with a slightly over-practiced hand. Ready for the very best Vegas has to offer, Cale is actually otherwise engaged writing a book on—wait for it—the Velvet Underground. 'I'm going to try and capture that insane humor and psychosis that was induced by lack of sleep,' he solemnly stated. Lack of sleep? Slightly more telling was an admission that he 'likes to study trends in music—I think Will Powers takes Madison Avenue to the cleaners.' Cale's last encore was a throwaway 'Keep A Close Watch On This Heart Of Mine'; as a man next to me commented, 'It sounds like he better.'

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Can live event even survive when the land is locked in such a video stranglehold? Sure! You just have to be ingenious, stay on the lookout, and disbelieve 90 percent of what you see onscreen. This morning in Carnaby Street, for instance, I ran into Sean Ono Lennon quietly souvenir-shopping in a tiny deerstalker hat. (Yoko was over at the Dorchester, checked in as 'Mrs. Brown' now that she's revealed she's the reincarnation of Elizabeth Barett B). And before that, there was the arraignment of Tony Perkins' of Norman Bates fame, over't Uxbridge Magistrates Court. Never has TP given a better performance—unfortunately, never for less cause. (Thanks, Paul and Linda McCartney; you've really helped a lot of famous folks out over at Custom and Excise!)

And one can always look outside London. Even in as depressed a burg as Glasgow, there's good live stuff around. There you'll find James King And The Lone Wolves, for instance, who this week released a solid EP with a great title track ('Texas Lullaby,' dedicated to JFK). King's a vet of defunct local indie Cuba Libre. His best effort thereon was 'So Alone,' the B-side of a single called 'I'm Tired' which garnered him some critical acclaim but little else. Yet King's songwriting—-'emotional stuff .with a country inflection; hurting songs about hurting, not just from love but from lots of things!'—deserves those compliments he's gotten. And his Lone Wolves easily summon up the power to deal with subjects of menace and threat. They'd go down a treat in the old U.S.

Glasgow quintet the Kissing Bandits I've not been able to catch live (though they date from '82), but on the pure-pop front, their new cover of the Flamin' Groovies' 'Shake Some Action' sounds just as they've been described to me: clean and competent but not sanitized. I like the B-side better, but as this is only a test pressing, names will have to wait. Still, other questions press. Will they film? What will they be wearing when YOU see them via the cathode magic of which I write? To these and other burning topics, we shall return next month.