Category: Non-fiction (page 7 of 9)

As mentioned previously, one definition of an EP is a record whose length is between 10 and 35 minutes. If this was the case (and I think we’re all pretty clear on where I stand re this definition), then Wire’s first three albums would all be considered EPs, despite the fact that each one contains at least 15 songs (their debut album clocks in at 35 minutes exactly – 21 songs). This astonishing trilogy (Pink Flag, Chairs Missing and 541) has traditionally been analysed in its entirety, and what an entirety it is. Listen to these albums today and you’d be forgiven for thinking they’ve just been released. 1977’s Pink Flag, with its massive opening track “Reuters”, was an incredible statement of intent, followed within a year by the equally delightful Chairs Missing, with the edgy and experimental nose bleeder 541 brining up the rear in 1979. If Wire had failed to release any more records (they have in fact, many more) then that would still have been okay. Holy wow. Each of the first three albums veered effortlessly between sharp-edged punk (“12XU”), art rock (“Outdoor Miner”), moody experimentalism (“A Mutual Friend”), erm, sharp-edged punk (“106 Beats That”), art rock (“Map Ref. 41?N 93?W”) and – you guessed it – moddy experimentalism (every other track). Not enough said. I’ve just got two words: Elastica. Remember “Connection”? Well that’s “Three Girl Rhumba”, ripped off. And now there’s an even more blatant cover version doing the rounds that’s saved from oblivion mostly because of the interesting video clip. Word for freaking word, line for freaking line. Wire are one of those bands who manage to influence everyone. My Bloody Valentine covered “Map Ref. 41?N 93?W” (can’t remember when) which is convenient for me. One song on “Chairs Missing” even prefigures Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning”. Then again, one can never really isolate influences. I mean, that Elastica song’s synth riffs also sounded like “Funky Town”. Figure that out when you have time. Anyway, Wire are in Melbourne this weekend, I’m hoping I can afford to go. Wire, for me, is the coolest of the punk survivors, outshining the Buzzcocks, the Jam, the Clash, the Sex Pistols. They’ve released some absolute shockers (like, most of the 1980s albums, despite the slight reprieve provided by A Bell Is A Cup Until It Is Struck) but they’re hard-core. On a tour of the US they apparently hired a support band, called them the “Ex-Lion Tamers” after a song on Chairs Missing and then basically got them to play Pink Flag in its entirety every night of the tour as the opening act. You can’t get more arty than that. Oh, hang on: for a brief time in the 1990s, when one of the band members left, the remaining members changed the band’s name to “Wir”. Get it? Brilliant.

Don’t get me started about Tumbleweed. Theatre of Gnomes, their first major release, was a five track EP. Enough said. Ask anyone who’s from Wollongong if they’ve heard of Tumbleweed. Then ask them if they’ve heard Theatre of Gnomes. If the answer’s yes, you’ve just discovered a true ‘Weed fan. And of course it was great big dumb Ramones-style stoner rock but hey, Tumbleweed did it well. Stand-out track for me on this release would have to be the epic closer “Shakedown”, whose final few blasted minutes of instrumental chaos and tension represent the zenith of Wollongong music. A friend of mine once told me that a journalist had described the Gong as “the Athens of the South” – ie, a musical scene similar in size to that of Athens, Goergia. And who comes from Athens? That’s right, REM. And the B52s. And bugger all else. Wollongong’s a bit like that too. There’s Tumbleweed and that’s it. They were an incredible live act. I got kicked in the head at their 1993 Big Day Out performance at the Hordern Pavilion, and spent a not altogether unpleasant day wandering around slightly concussed. Apparently they’re all suffering the effects of industrial deafness now. Wollongong’s like that too. For all my cynicism though, the music scene in Wollongong did become, in the mid 1990s at least, quite healthy, thanks largely to the members of Tumbleweed themselves, particularly – help me here, the Curly brothers? were they both in the band? One of them started recording bands down at the Youth Centre anyway, and the number of visiting international bands increased dramatically around that time too. I saw Bikini Kill down there, in what used to be the Art Gallery. It was quite ferocious. Anyway, I still remember the day me and my sister were driving down Burelli Street and “Shakedown” came on the radio. It was her favourite track too. Unfortunately, just when the instrumental part began (ie just when it was getting to the good bit), the DJ faded it out. And thus did Tumbleweed fade also, from my memory, as well as Wollongong’s.

Enough said. The man is an alien. I’m talking the Station To Station release which for the sake of a technical obsession with record lengths I’m going to call an EP. I ask you: does it get any better than this? One word: “Wild Is the Wind”. Two words: “Station To Station”. Three words: “TVC15”. Oh did I mention those four magical words? “Golden Years”. Wha happened? So you’ve probably heard Chan Marshall’s version of the track originally made famous by the sadly-deceased Nina Simone, but I’m sorry to tell you Bowie has nailed “Wild Is the Wind” for all time. Bowie is the only man alive who can get away with singing “I hear the sound of mandolins”. Remember The Wonder Stuff? They played mandolins in their songs, and look what happened to them! REM? Now, that’s enough. Although, their Chronic Town EP is a masterpiece – five songs on that one, not a dud amongst them. Anyway, “WITW” is just about the most romantic song ever written, and I should know. Let Station To Station rip on your turntable some time soon, before the cobwebs eat into the vinyl. While I’m on the subject, there might be a couple of other Bowie releases that technically class as EPs, but don’t even get me started on the “mini-album”! According to some, U2’s “Live At Red Rocks” classes as an EP. What was it that the Screaming Jets said? “You know, and I know better.”

The sad story of Glide perfectly encapsulates the highs and lows of the early 1990s in Australian music. Glide, fronted by the extraordinary singer-songwriting talents of William Arthur, burst onto the Sydney scene in 1991, releasing two breathtaking EPs – Pretty Mouth in 1991 and the huge Shuffle Off To Buffalo in 1992 – to critical acclaim. A girl I had the hots for at the time gave me a tape with both EPs on it and I was soon a fan. Pretty Mouth was a very dark pop record, the lyrics (in my ears) alluding to childhood abuse and an accompanying innocent/ experienced vulnerability. “Dream of Sammy”, the EP’s poppiest moment, with its “should have been me/ could could have been/ could have been me” chorus, counter-balanced the melanchology in a powerful way. The other thing Glide had going for them, a factor which became immediately apparent on the second EP’s opening track, the simply astonishing “Waterfall”, was an intricatly crafted wall of sound that has also been described as a “wall of harmony”, a necessary counterpoint to the industrial, atonal wall of sound manufactured by British counterparts Ride. “Waterfall” was perhaps the best Australian single of 1992, and that’s saying something. How can I describe the song except to say that its sound was simply massive. The band’s lead guitarist at the time was also a phenomenal player, matching Arthur’s melodies with some impressive noodling on both releases. In hindsight, his departure from the band (and from my memory) was the first step in a long and slow descent from grace which culminated with William Arthur’s death in 1999. For a while though, Glide were on the top fo the freaking planet. I saw them wipe the floor with UK misery merchants Adorable in 1993 at the Phoenician in Sydney, playing so well and producing a sound so huge it just wasn’t fair. Perhaps Glide were just in the wrong place. Consider the fact that the “band” they supported produced just one LP and then died in the arse. Enough said. Fittingly enough, Glide’s first LP was a fairly melancholy affair, and was succeeded by several more well-crafted albums, all of which lacked the immediate spark and tention of the early EPs. I never did end up kissing the girl who gave me the tape way back in 1992. In fact, I’m not sure I can even remember her name. I do remember the spirit of that time, however, and the special talents of William Arthur. RIP, man, seriously. I think it was Rachael.