"Suddenly It's Tuesday" - Part 12 (21-40)

 

Happy new year to you all and best wishes for a much improved 2021!

I predicted in the last post that the failure of 'What Have I Said Now?' to make the top 40 would be the most controversial aspect, and so it proved, although it didn't provoke quite the level of vehemence I expected. Trawling back this evening through the responses on here, Facebook and Scopitones, I estimate that the comments have fallen roughly into: 70% 'can't argue with that'; 25% 'I'd have had xxx a bit higher/lower'; 5% 'are you mad and/or deaf?!?' Which is actually rather better than I expected... But more importantly, I've been really impressed with the thoughtful and civil responses, which says I lot, I think, about your average TWP fan.

Anyway, onwards into the heady heights of the top 40!

YouTube Playlist (223 - 21)

Spotify Playlist (21 - 100)

40 Don't Laugh 

(B-side of Nobody's Twisting Your Arm, 1988)

The typical GB-era guitar blend of frantic-scratchy and smoothly distorted doesn't do anything particularly out of the ordinary - although there's nicely timed jangly interlude and a pleasantly busy finish - and the drums are a little on the ploddy side. What raises 'Don't Laugh' above the more samey tracks from the era, however, is the lyric (and David's delivery of it).

Recounted from the now-empty flat that the narrator once shared with his girlfriend, it's a touchingly bittersweet story that contrasts the happy memories of their moving in together ('four tins of paint made this our home / I got less on the walls than I got in my hair' has the air of one of those Hollywood montages where the happy couple end up jokingly covering each other with paint as they decorate) with the misery of the break-up and the cold reality of his now solitary existence ('sitting here it seems ever so quiet now').  'I touched your skin last night' verges on awkward mawkishness, but Gedge delivers the standout lines with impeccably balanced nostalgia and resigned anger: 'When we moved in here the dog was still a pup / do you remember the time he chewed those curtains that we found? / I laughed the day you put them up / the day you left I tore them down'.

39 Dan Dare

(B-side of Lovenest, 1991)

I may get some stick for placing this 100-second instrumental b-side (and a cover of one of TWP's own songs to boot) so highly, but 'Dan Dare' is just so joyously infectious and uplifting that I think it warrants its place in the top forty. A lyric-free (although David does contribute some 'aaaaahhhhh's) surf-rock reimagining of 'Dare', it fizzes along with winning exuberance. 

In 2000, the song was used as part of US comedian Andy Richter's final appearance on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.

If had a quid for every time I'd used this as an opener on a mixtape/CD, I wouldn't be a rich man, but I'd probably be able to buy a copy of the Peel Sessions box set.

38 Boing!

(Single, 1992)

The August entry of the Hit Parade finds TWP doing the simple things very effectively: a delicate arpeggio, some rough, choppy chords, an assertive three-note fuzz-guitar line, a hooky chorus, a couple of gentle lulls and a furious finale. The lyric doesn't have a whole lot to say, but David squeezes as much desperate angst as possible out the refrain 'you’ll come bouncing, bouncing back to me'.

The promo video features the band having fun on a bouncy castle and David performing in front of a traction engine called Lady Sarah. It's also an otherwise unreleased extended version of the song.

37 A  Million Miles

(George Best, 1987)

George Best's prettiest moment, but still a melancholy one. Framed around multiple layers of melodic, chiming guitar, its opening lines capture perfectly the anxious uncertainties of teenage romance: 'I must have walked past this doorway thirty times / just trying to catch your eye / you made it all worthwhile / when you returned my smile'. Despite the dreamy romanticism, the concluding line ('...at least not yet') interjects a surprising realism that rounds the song off nicely.

The Charlie referred to ('do you see much of Charlie over here?') is a real person - Charles Gant, a schoolfriend of bassist Keith Gregory. Gedge discusses the song in an interview here. TWP revisited the song for Locked Down & Stripped Back this year.

36 Catwoman

(Watusi, 1994)

Watusi's penultimate track (and surely it should have been the closer?) takes a very similar approach to 'Boing!', in that it features a calm, arpeggio-led verse punctuated by noisy outbursts. It's even more stripped-back, basic and direct, however, almost primitive; there are definite echoes of the Velvet Underground in the rowdier passages. (The Velvet Underground never seem to get referenced much in relation to TWP, but surely 'What Goes On' is the blueprint upon which much of the Wedding Present sound is based?)

The lyric is only really notable for the slightly queasy 'the pussycat in you / brings out the man in me' line (possibly a Bob Dylan reference?) - but it's all about the guitars here, and there's an appealing bloody-mindedness about the two heads-down one-chord sections.

35 Silver Shorts

(Single, 1992)

The fourth Hit Parade single is a little more subtle in approach than 'Boing!' or 'Catwoman' in that the noisily aggressive and subtly melodic components are more carefully integrated (not that there's anything wrong with the 'quiet bit - loud bit' strategy, of course).

The lyric is unremarkable ('the thoughts you put inside my head / yes, I’ll stay here instead') but Gedge delivers it with urgent passion, and at points ('just keep on doing what you were / before I mentioned her', for example) achieves the soaring, heartbreaking intensity that's characteristic of TWP's best work. And there aren't many artists that could get away with a line like 'wear your silver shorts today / and I won’t go away'.

34 I'm Not Always So Stupid 

(B-side of Nobody's Twisting Your Arm, 1988)

Gedge's lyrics might not always be a model of sophistication and subtlety, but you can't dispute his talent for capturing regret and melancholy. 'Stupid' finds the narrator obsessed with his estranged lover, even the most mundane events in his life reminding him of her. His inability to let go is captured poignantly in the line 'you changed your number and my phonebook’s such a mess / but I can’t bear to cross your name out yet'.

The song doesn't bother with a traditional chorus, instead breaking up the verses with flourishes of scratchy guitar. This gives 'Stupid' a sense of momentum and purpose that's resolved by the final despairing 'I think it’s you'.

33 Bear

(Going, Going... 2016)

A carefully balanced blend of rumbling distortion and crisp jangle, 'Bear' (named after a town in Delaware) is a song about doubt and regret. The 'quite odd' / 'iPod' rhyme is a little jarring, but this is more than made up for by the rather touching 'the thing I didn’t notice... that you’re my best friend'. The vocal interplay between Gedge, Katherine Wallinger and Samuel Beer-Pearce is delightful, and the way that the acapella section erupts into a wall of noise is truly uplifting.

Always a great song live, even when the iPad doesn't work properly.

32 2, 3, Go

(Saturnalia, 1996)

Released as a limited edition single three weeks before Saturnalia's release, 'Go' is one of DLG's 'let's take a leap into the unknown' relationship songs (cf 'Jump In, The Water's Fine'). Full of romantic optimism - 'there is nothing to lose... the future is starting right now' - the chorus in particular bursts with gung-ho exuberance, Gedge exhorting his lover to join him in riding wild horses, buying sports cars and even swimming the Zambezi (although his optimism regarding the easiness of the last activity suggests a little bit of overconfidence). Although the opening rhyme ('answer is / formalities') is a dodgy one, the Dr. Seuss reference is a nice touch.

The verse is particularly understated, Gedge barely rising above a mumble, but this serves to enhance the effect of the uplifting chorus. The way in which his and Jayne Lockey's vocals circle around each other adds to the sense of giddy delirium. Simple but effective: a song that can conjure up - for a few minutes at least - the feeling that anything is possible.

The album version takes a little while to get going and is appended by a minute or so of ambient noise à la 'Lovenest'; the more concise single version below suits the song better.

31 Rachel

(Going, Going... 2016)

Gedge once again in romantic dreamer mode, this time envisaging he and 'Rachel' sleeping under the stars, drinking champagne and - in keeping with the album's American theme (Rachel is in Lincoln County, Nevada, and is the closest settlement to Area 51) - jumping railroad cars.

'I want to serve you / I know I don’t deserve you' is arguably a sentiment that Gedge has done to death over the years, and 'skim stones forever' is delivered with a coyness that's almost cloying, but overall he captures that swooning romanticism that's the hallmark of many of TWP's best songs. The strings that emerge towards the end might have been a tad overcooked if it weren't for the fuzzy grunge of the lead guitar which is subtly understated but has just enough edge to balance the song beautifully. And the melody is simply gorgeous. 

Gedge described 'Rachel' as an 'out and out pop song' and suggested that it was the band's favourite song from Going, Going... He performed a lovely version with Terry on KEXP in 2016

30 Kennedy

(Bizarro, 1989)

This (and the next song on the list) were possibly the two toughest to rank. 'Kennedy' was the first Wedding Present single to breach the UK top 40 (a big deal in the 80s, particularly as it got you mentioned on the Top of the Pops chart rundown); it and 'Brassneck' are the two songs that those generally unfamiliar with TWP are most likely to have heard of, and it's the track that they've played live most often (458 times according to setlist.fm). 

None of this, of course, diminishes the quality of the song. It would be the worst kind of in-crowd cliquey snobbery to dismiss it just because it's relatively well known. And there is certainly much to love about 'Kennedy': Gedge's scrabbling, frantic rhythm guitar; the way that Keith Gregory's bass lumbers back into view at 1:40; Simon Smith's relentless machine gun drumming; the layers of distortion in the swelling, epic coda. 

Lyrically, Gedge was clearly trying to do something a little different, more abstract - perhaps concerned that he was becoming pigeonholed as no more than a chronicler of kitchen-sink adolescent heartbreak drama. In a 2012 interview, he was asked if the song was about the death of the American dream: 

‘Kennedy’ is different from my usual style. It’s a lot more vague, for one thing. I wrote it after reading about the Kennedy assassination and the theories about mafia and CIA involvement… so draw your own conclusions!

The thing is, vague and abstract doesn't really suit Gedge; his strength is in pinpointing real emotions and human stories. As such, the 'too much apple pie' refrain feels like little more than a meaningless catchphrase, too often a slogan for the very small minority of meatheads who sometimes attend TWP gigs to bellow mindlessly as they fling their elbows around at the front of the crowd. 

Musically, 'Kennedy' is well worth its place in the top 30. Whether or not it's snobbery to deny it a higher position because of overfamiliarity I shall leave up to you.

 29 Brassneck

(Bizarro, 1989)

Much of what I said about 'Kennedy' also applies here: 'Brassneck' is the third most popular setlist choice (388 outings) and suffers similarly from over-exposure. The added complication is that the Bizarro version is vastly different from that on the Steve Albini-engineered single. 

The album take is decent enough, but feels distinctly flimsy in comparison to the later recording, which has, frankly, a great deal more bollocks. There's a tribal aggression about the thumping drums, the guitar is a grimy smear of distortion and Gedge spits out the lyric with a venom that makes the original vocal sound like a primary teacher reading out a nursery rhyme in comparison. The bitter, sardonic lyric ('but then that’s typically you') is far better suited by this approach.

The biggest difference comes in the song's final quarter. On Bizarro, a brief lull is followed by a gentle build that's broadly in line with the earlier part of the song. On the single, a fragile acoustic strum is interrupted by possibly the most delicious electric guitar sound ever produced (3:06 in the video below) before the whole thing erupts into an aggressive, snarling conclusion.

'Brassneck' reached the heady heights of number 24 in the singles chart, which led to a Top of the Pops appearance. The promo video below has more than a touch of The Fall's work with Michael Clark about it. 

28 Sports Car

(Mini, 1996)

There isn't a single misstep on Mini, but this is the best of a cracking bunch of songs. An anguished cry of regret and recrimination ('oh, don’t forget how well I know you') is soundtracked by an ominously bass-heavy riff overlaid with contrasting chiming notes that eventually erupts into a searing, acerbic lead guitar part. David's vocal is restrained and controlled to begin with, then falters on 'well, I don’t have to'; when he rejoins the song, he embodies completely a ragged, emotional exhaustion - 'I'm not going to call / there’s no reason at all...' The final ninety seconds take a neat sidestep into a measured REM-ish jangle that confounds expectations by not bursting out into a stamp-on-the-pedals finale, but instead just fades away gently.

The recent Locked Down & Stripped Back performance featured a delightfully sultry version of the song, with Melanie Howard on vocals and Terry de Castro on guitar.

27 Corduroy

(Seamonsters, 1991)

Sometimes The Wedding Present just do simple things extremely well. I know that this is a simple song because I am an amateur guitarist of very limited talent and I worked out how to play 'Corduroy' with very little effort. There's something gauche and awkward about the whole song - especially in its ragged transitions - that matches perfectly with the image of the socially inept 'boy, probably dressed in corduroy' who features in lyric's laughable old photos. 

There's also something quite deep and fundamental that Gedge captures here, despite (or perhaps because of) the song's twitchy, nervous gawkiness. A sense of dislocation and isolation; of being misunderstood and underestimated. On a more prosaic level, the bursts of abandoned noise (live, David really gives it some with his enthusiastic use of a slide) are an absolute blast.

The version below is the superior '3 Songs' take; the album version feels a little muffled and restrained in comparison.

26 Octopussy

(Seamonsters, 1991)

David is a big James Bond fan. In December 2020 (whilst this blog was being written) Not From Where I’m Standing was released, a collection of Bond themes recorded by current and former members of Cinerama and TWP. Bond (and other 60s spy film and TV ephemera) was a frequent cultural touchstone for Cinerama: Disco Volante was a yacht in Thunderball; 'Mr Kiss Kiss Bang Bang' was how Bond was referred to in Italy (although Fleming himself actually coined the phrase) and was originally intended as the theme song for Thunderball. Seamonster's finale, however, although named after 007's thirteenth screen outing, has no other apparent connection to the world of kitsch 60s/70s spy films.

Over the course of TWP's history, there have been some less than obvious choices for album closers, George Best ('You Can't Moan Can You?'), Bizarro ('Be Honest') and Watusi ('Hot Pants') being the most obvious examples. It's clear that Gedge rather enjoys confounding expectations with the sequencing: 'it’s typically very "Wedding Present"', he suggested, 'to not finish an album with the obvious album-finisher'. As far as Seamonsters is concerned, however, 'Octopussy' is an absolute no-brainer for the final moment.

The most dark and broody moment on an album noted for its darkness and broodiness, 'Octopussy' opens with a languid yet sinister arpeggio that then alternates with an acrid, discordant strum. Simon Smith's punchy and aggressive drumming is a particular highlight; in the 'loud' sections, it's his rattling fills that create the intensity rather than the guitars, which are actually rather restrained in their levels of distortion. It's a full team effort, Keith Gregory's throbbing bass line anchoring the transition from the mid-song maelstrom with calm assurance.

A casual listen gives the impression of straightforward melancholy yearning: 'some bits of snow still hanging in the air / but that's outside' conjures images of a romantic fireside scene; 'we don’t have to do anything / except watch the leaves turning in the wind' is similarly wistful. But there's much that's puzzling, even slightly disturbing about the lyric. 'You don’t take away my hand like you ought to' has a sleazy suggestiveness that Gedge would return to on several occasions (for example in 'Quick, Before It Melts' - 'you put your hand onto the very place my girlfriend’s hand should be'); how this fits with the repeated refrain, 'you’ve become my family' is rather mysterious. It's also hard to fathom whether the striking line 'you laughed and pulled your knees up to your chest / if I came near' is touching or disturbing.

There's an intense version of the song from Paris, 2006 here.

25 No Christmas

(Single, 1992)

TWP saved the most resolutely uncommercial of the Hit Parade singles until last (remarkably, it  managed to reach number 25 in the charts, although the limited edition nature of the singles made their chart placing somewhat dependent on the performance of other singles). It's a  thrillingly unpredictable journey: the song opens with blaring cacophony, retreats into a fragile, barely audible verse, erupts into sludgy distortion, steps back into a fragile jangle, bursts into grimy slashing chords, fades away into silence... and then catapults you into a whirl of frantic, distended guitar.

The lyric boils down to 'it can't be ending', which Gedge delivers with an especially raw passion. It's by no means the most subtle or complex Wedding Present song, but you'd be hard-pressed to find one with more unbridled emotion.

The original is fantastic, but I simply have to promote this utterly amazing version:

24 Granadaland

(Bizarro, 1989)

Although it's been very many years since I used or owned a record player, I'm sure I'm not alone in still thinking of 'Granadaland' as the start of Bizarro's second side - and also as the opening salvo in one of the most amazing twenty minutes of music the band ever released. 

The cascade of frenetic guitar work is well suited to the angry, bitter lyric. The narrator is being knowingly manipulated by a girl who 'uses everybody' - 'he hasn’t got a car and so your list of names brought you to me'. Despite her dismissive attitude ('maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, if you can spare me the time') and the fact that she's made her romantic choices clear, he can't stop hoping forlornly that she'll change her mind. 

Like 'Corduroy', 'Granadaland' does simple things exceptionally well. Lyrically, it's not exactly subtle poetry, but the way Gedge delivers 'you're breaking my heart / I can’t bear the thought of us being apart' captures with brutal candour the anguish of being unable to help yourself hankering for someone who's clearly not interested. It's no more subtle musically, the main part of the song being based around a simple D-A pattern. Around half way through, the real fun starts: the band adds an extra chord (it becomes D-A-G) and simply thrashes the living daylights out of the progression; three and a half minutes in, we get what sounds like closing crescendo, but there's a joyful moment at 3:53 when Simon Smith whacks his snare and everyone crashes back in for a final 16 bars of frantic, distorted mayhem. Simply marvellous.

As well as the original below, it's worth watching these two nicely contrasting versions from 1990 (which featured on the *Punk video) and 2020 (from Locked Down & Stripped Back).

23 Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft

(George Best, 1987)

As archetypal a late 80s TWP song title as you can get; also where it all started for me, as I described in the first Tuesday post. Not as intense as 'Granadaland', but there's still a sense of deceit ('don’t give me that / because you were seen'), betrayal ('Shaun said he saw you holding hands with your new friend') and bitterness ('how does it feel to know you’ve just won again?') That said, there's a touch of levity to 'Daft', created by the almost jolly loping bass line and Gedge's chuckling and casual whistle. Chuck in the air of wistfulness created by Amelia Fletcher's backing vocal and you have a winning concoction of energy, angst and enthusiasm. 

And then, of course, you have the last minute or so, where, in October 1987, TWP demonstrated to this thrilled 18-year-old the beautiful simplicity of just letting everything else fade away and allowing the guitars to have their say; not with complex, histrionic solos, but just three repeated chords that sounded like music boiled down to what matters.

22 Don't Touch That Dial

(Take Fountain, 2005)

A bit of an oddity, in that it was released as both a Cinerama and Wedding Present song. The 2003 Cinerama single is a decent take on the song, but it in places it feels a little stilted and hesitant in comparison to the magnificent 'Pacific Northwest Version' that appeared on Take Fountain.

It isn't the most inspiring lyric, and features some slightly hackneyed rhymes ('don't say a word / more absurd'; 'I guess / powerless'), although 'is there some way that I can change somehow? / because I don’t think I can live without you now' is moving in its simplicity. But it's the shifting dynamics of the music that is 'Dial's strength. 

A delicate, melancholy arpeggio (eventually supported by a second guitar playing lazy, mellow chords) sits over an elaborate percussive shuffle (reminiscent of Paul Simon's '50 Ways To Leave Your Lover'). There's a delicious tension between the metronomic guitars and the meandering drums, which is briefly resolved at 1:40 and then again at 2:47. The genius of the track, however, lies in its final two and a half minutes. Over the looping arpeggio, a chiming guitar line builds, one note at a time; it seems constantly on the verge of eruption, but teases - restraining itself until everything comes crashing down at 4:39. After a feedback squall, the song fades out with picked guitar, fragile piano and distant, echoing voices. 

21 Carolyn

(Seamonsters, 1991)

I'm sure I once read a description of Steve Albini's studio approach that was something along the lines of 'turn the drums up loud, the guitars louder, and let the vocals fend for themselves'. Google suggests that I may have imagined it, but should it happen to be true, the last part at least certainly applies to 'Carolyn'. There are some who suggest that Gedge's vocals are buried in the mix to an extent that's detrimental to the song, but, for me, it's pitched perfectly. 

The protagonist is breaking up with 'Carolyn' (the name of Simon Smith's girlfriend, although David was mainly just looking for 'an appropriate three-syllable name') in an apologetic, guilty fashion, clearly having lacked the resolve to do it earlier: 'I lied / and it's gone on far too long'. His barely audible mumble emphasizes his shame and regret: 'I’m sorry that I said that'. The solitary occasion that the vocal rises above the intense, revolving acoustic shuffle comes shortly after David's solo guitar part - a simple line that does little more than follow the chord progression, but has an aching simplicity - is introduced. Finally finding the determination to make it clear that it's all over, he loses the mutter and states bluntly: 'no more'. It's amongst TWP's most notable 'hairs on the back of the neck' moments; beautifully timed and utterly devastating.

Two more posts to go (plus, perhaps, a final one to wrap things up with some stats) as I shall be splitting the top 20 into two parts for dramatic effect.

As ever, many thanks for your continued support and interesting comments - see you next week.

Steve

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