LETTER FROM BRITAIN

LETTER FROM BRITAIN

BRIGHT LIGHTS, BRILLIANT LIVES

Cynthia Rose

As short a while as two weeks back, this summer sounded like Rerun City. Everyone and his sister (the Residents, Flying Lizards and Screamin’ Tony Baxter anyway) was “de-constructing” a James Brown number and the best tunes around were all reissues. RCA woke would-be agit-poppers up when they re-released the entire Creedence Clearwater Revival catalogue. Brentford’s Demon Records gave us a Dr. John compilation of mellow moonlight-and-methadone hoodoo. And the ever-resourceful Charly came up trumps with Clifton Chenier live, Johnny Burnette, the Upsetters (that band Little Richard left on a limb the first time he went back to the church in ’57) and jumpin’ Joe Turner of “Shake Rattle And Roll” fame and very much more.

If the summer were to have an anthem, my choice would have to have been Dave Bartholomew’s “Who Stole My Beer While I Was In The Rear?” But that was before the Special AKA produced their Greatest Hits, In The Studio. One lighthearted newie (“What I Like Most About You Is Your Girlfriend”) and one cutting commentary (“Bright Lights”) of a party song, more than balance their already-lauded masterpiece “Nelson Mandela.” While critics and trendophiles babble about “psychojuju” and rock star King Sunny Ade played five-minute sets at our recent Reggae Sunsplash, Jerry Dammers has been busy finding a poetic formula for the best, most multi-racial character of this island. And, most exciting of all, he makes it work musically. Setting aside the polemics and possible criticisms of vocalists Stan Campbell and Rhoda Dakar, “Bright Lights” really swirls around you. And, if you were from around here, believe me it would sound familiar, too.

Anthem no. 2 has to be “Solidarity”— added to Black Uhuru’s reissued album when they flew in for Sunsplash before taking on the States. “Everybody wants the same thing don’t they?/Everybody wants a happy end/They wanna see the game on Saturday/Dey just wanna be somebody’s friend/What do we need? SOLIDARITY” blares from every ghetto blaster. And, irrespective of one’s views on Puma Jones’s retreat from social worker into submissivewoman Rasta symbol, “Solidarity” has ’em dancing in the streets.

Biggest non-rerun of ’em all, though, turned out to be that Saturday’s game: Bob Dylan playing to a one-night crowd of 100,000 at Wembley Stadium. No one but no one expected what began to happen in Dylan'dr©6 °j^a* set when, as dusk fell, a meaa ha Sjed IS ^°hnny Cash banished his onlv ht d and be9an "o P^y alone with suddenl °'AT' r9u!tar and harmonica. And stonnerp’ those packed acres of fans nlatitu^ US* ,WavinS and screaming at every a i,S";aS with Sara (for it was she) thP C1ij? Children who stood quietly on ly //sten/n staSe, the crowd was actual-

pylan responded as quite possibly , ..u yanc°uld: addressing 100,000 ears L;... Is amplest melodies and hardest!/-p, ^9 yr^cs (often altered from the early s). ‘ here were no showy, stadium-rock oves to enthrall the listeners either—until o ess than Chrissie Hynde strolled out uninvited to go-go dance with wild abandon, s close as the “Special Enclosure” most non-binocular-wielding press folks just assumed she was a pushy stoned Stone.

The unabashed Bob remained polite, and quickly directed attention to his own guests: Eric Clapton and Van Morrison. Morrison did such a transcendental job with the first verse of “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” that the star grinned and remained content just to back him for the whole song.

Whatever folks felt compelled to write the morning after, Dylan made an evening of history here—as well as putting his rep right back up with those one has to reckon with. He was followed a week later by a different sort of believer: the Reverend A1 Green who, with the massive London Community Gospel Choir, managed to fill the Royal Albert Hall. And just like Dylan’s mega-bash, it turned out the inverse of what had been expected. The LCGC (composed of over 200 West Indian and Caribbean Pentacostalists from four separate churches) waxed robust and enthusiastic, but their brand of spiritual song is miles from Green’s own. It bounces from calypsodic roots to St. Paul’s Cathedral Choir territory and when they performed the Hallelujah Chorus they sounded a solemn white bunch.

Solemn they were too, in contrast to the revved-up Rev—who came on like Little Richard crossed with the Sex Machine himself. Green caressed and berated his mike; sometimes setting it down onstage, other times dragging it half the length of the hall as he wandered through the audience singing “Amazing Grace” (his version) and letting eager women mop his brow. One moment Green would be cutting the rug, the next whipping off his sweat-soaked shirt and flinging it to the faithful. Groupies galore were able to garner hugs and kisses, too: this minister was selling Al, not the Big Guy upstairs. And far too little of the Rev’s incredible vocal powers got display.

That, of' course, was OK with the media—who largely failed to grasp that what we got to witness onstage was the divide that claimed Marvin Gaye Jr.’s life in action. Green, the partying circuit rider, whipped himself into a sensual frenzy—backed by a choir of believers whose faith won’t permit even attendance at parties. And such contradictory spectacle continues to characterize the emergence of “gospel” in Britain. It’s a trendy term to throw about (Mick Jagger was only one of the luminaries taking notes at the Albert Hall). But the idea that it could be a way of life—well, that’s a little extreme, and very un-British. (I recently heard a radio jock laugh right out loud when he asked Linda Womack what she liked to read in her offstage time and she replied “The Bible.”)

A similarly cosmetic grasp of country pervades the pop scene—Nick Lowe’s latest vision of himself (cowboy as pop gangster) being the-best-publicized example. Lowe’s rechristened this band his “Cowboy Outfit” and issued a new LP of ditties which sound like identikit imitations of Joe Carrasco. The concept may be fairly inoffensive but even the best tunes are utterly lightweight (including the obligatory single produced by Costello: “LAFS [Means Love At First Sight]”). And, tellingly, this album stays acres of enpurpled sage away from C&W’s most central theme: marital strife.

Chanteuse Pearl Harbour, a longtime member of the Lowe generation, has also gone vaguely country, on the B-side of her novelty number “Hula Love” (produced by Richard Gottehrer and featuring Pearl’s new Nipponese band the Mods). One has to wonder: is this Pearl clad only in lei and grass skirts on the sleeve of the blue vinyl treat really the same one who used to babble about the integrity of Dolly Parton?

Meanwhile, 250 unhappy punters were turned away from the real thing when Jason & the Scorchers headlined the Marquee a few days ago...and among them was Bill Wyman. Wyman missed a set so sweltering guitarist Warner Hodges threw up twice backstage—though you’d never have known it from his Townshend-style leaps, spins and kicks. The crowd who did get in almost tore the old club wall from wall with their enthusiasm and when frontman Jason began to recite the Lord’s Prayer during “Both Sides Of The Line,” I started to realize something impressive. This band was proud to lift that gauntlet A1 Green had left lying somewhere on a backstage floor the week before.

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It wasn’t any illusion, either. Called back for an almost unprecedented third encore, a dripping Jason confronted hoarse requests for “Rock ’n’ Roll!” with a grin. “It’s all the same,” he said into the mike. “Some’s a little faster and some’s a little slow. But it’s all the same thing.” Then, dropping their arms to their sides, the Scorchers rendered “Amazing Grace” in perfect Appalachian harmony.. .before absolutely ripping through their trademark “Lost Highway.” Little wonder critics like Simon Frith nominated them for the best live performances seen in the U.K. last year.

But nothing, it seems, can alter the power of adolescent self-pity: as I write, “The Day Before You Came,” Blancmange’s ultimate anthem to British bedsitter alienation, has been the week’s fastest-selling single. Frankly, they could do with turning on the Bright Lights. Apart from anything else, I might just find out who DID steal my beer while I was in the rear. As big bandleader Dave so succinctly put it, “Such dealin's call for action/I’m demandin’ satisfaction!”

For full-color catalogues and mail-order kits, send $2.00 to Charly Records at 155-166 Ilderton Rd., London SE15 UK or to Demon Records (who also handle Edsel re-releases) at Western House, Harlequin Ave., Great West Road, Brentford, Middlesex TW8 9EW UK.