OUT OF THE RUBBLE
Nobody ever said it was easy being a politically correct band. You have to dress in black, like fans of Depeche Mode, or kill yourself, like the late Joy Division. And your music is usually reminiscent of a Gregorian chant. No fun, no bounce and certainly no pop tunes.
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OUT OF THE RUBBLE
Nobody ever said it was easy being a politically correct band. You have to dress in black, like fans of Depeche Mode, or kill yourself, like the late Joy Division. And your music is usually reminiscent of a Gregorian chant. No fun, no bounce and certainly no pop tunes. Painfully hip.
Welcome to the late '80s and the band that may change all that: the Thrashing Doves. The Doves (formerly the Climb) are comprised of the brothers Forman—Ken (vocals/guitar) and Brian (keyboards)—Ian Button (guitar/bass) and Kevin Sargent (drums) and they have a better idea. Personal politics. What a concept.
“Politics,” says Ken, sprawling on a couch at his record company office, “really that’s just living, after all. There was a whole spate of gloomy ‘political bands.’ But music is about life; you can call it personal politics. It’s like Joy Division—that makes some people horrifically depressed, but I found there to be something real in there. Many of the bands that followed were just saying, ‘Well, this is a depressed emotion,
I better put that in, and put this gloomy minor chord over it.’ It’s important if you’re going to write that kind of stuff that what you do is real. I find it quite sick when you get to know someone and you know full well what they’ve written isn’t real.”
The Doves’ sparkling debut album, Bedrock Vice (if the title sounds a bit like Fred Flintstone meets Don Johnson, you’re on the right track) is a collection of tunes that deal with issues. The difference is they are real, painfully personal and set to guitar-based post-punk melodies. Danceable, hummable, eclectic issue songs.
Consider that, among the other tunes, Bedrock Vice contains: “Je$u$ On The Payroll,” (the Doves are considering putting a Tammy Bakker dance mix on the B-side of the single), “Magdelana” (about a whore who convinced an entire town she was a member of the Divine family), “Matchstick Flotilla” (the story of boat people) and “Rochdale House,” about heroin addiction. All of which cquld drive listeners to swallow about 32 Seconals and be done with it if the Doves didn’t have such a light touch musically.
“I think if you’re in a band you owe it to yourself and the people who spend money on your record to be aware of what’s going on in life. You shouldn’t just write any words that come to mind just because you’ve got to have lyrics for the singer to sing on the record.”
But neither the Thrashing Doves nor their music exist simply as downers. These guys worship at the altar of Jonathan Richman, fer gawd sake.
“The last thing we want to do,” says Brian, “is get up on a soapbox and preach a sermon and try and educate people. We write examples so that people can interpret them in their own way and maybe find out what we're feeling. But I think, particularly in England, with unemployment the way it is, bands have a certain obligation—it’s the same that rock ’n’ roll had originally—and that’s entertainment."
“I think,” adds Ken, “that Jonathan Richman is the ultimate at that. I remember going to see him once, and I was really depressed, but two songs into the show, I’m going, ‘It’s great to be alive.’ That’s what rock ’n’ roll should do.”
It’s a good point. And if Bedrock Vice is any indication, that’s exactly what the Thrashing Doves have in mind. So you can toss your gothic wardrobe in the trash and lighten up. Rock ’n’ roll lives.
Sharon Liveten
