Terry and the Lovemen Conquer Black Sea

All part of decency's jigsaw, I suppose.

A couple weeks ago, I went out to see a band that was scheduled to start at 10:30. This served two purposes: 1) It proved that I'm not old, and 2) It let me see an XTC tribute band -- which calls itself "Terry and the Lovemen (Luke Adams, Jon Button, Zak Shaffer, and Danny Delamatyr) -- perform XTC's Black Sea album in its entirety. In order.

The cover of Black Sea shows the band wearing diving suits, but I always thought of it as "the Green album" because the first pressings came wrapped in a green paper bag (for reasons that escape me). I still have the vinyl and it's still wrapped in the paper bag (and that's probably what kept me from completely wearing out the record).

The band, whose members are session and touring musicians with great credits, were amazing. And they were having a great time, playing fantastic (and surprisingly difficult) music.(Link for Gmail subscribers.)


When you hear a song live that you know really well, what you're hearing blends with your strong memories of the music, creating a hybrid experience that blends the recording you know with the show you're seeing. (This partially explains why tribute bands do so well and can be so much fun.)

Now, Black Sea is an album I know backwards and forwards (especially side 1 of the vinyl). The album built on the strengths of Drums and Wires, but featured better songs and tighter performances. The chance to see the album performed live (even if it wasn't by XTC) was too good to pass up -- even if it meant going out to see a show that wouldn't start until 10:30.

By the way, the name "Terry and the Lovemen" has great meaning for XTC fans. It was an alias used by XTC when they re-recorded an old B-side for the XTC tribute album A Testimonial Dinner (which also included XTC songs redone by Joe Jackson, Sarah McLachlin, and They Might Be Giants. And it also was one of the alternate titles for the album that would become Black Sea. Drummer Terry Chambers vetoed that title, but he was long-gone from the band by the time of A Testimonial Dinner, so the band dusted off the name. (More trivia: according to Andy Partridge, the list of performers who wanted to appear on the XTC tribute album but couldn't includes: Elvis Costello, Sting, Tony Bennett, David Byrne, Suzanne Vega, Bjork, Barenaked Ladies, Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Beastie Boys, INXS, Shonen Knife, the Chieftains, and Al Kooper.)


Virgin Records chief Richard Branson was still pushing to make Colin Moulding a sex symbol (and portray XTC as Moulding's band, despite the fact that Andy Partridge wrote most of the songs) and decided Virgin needed a video for Colin's song "Generals and Majors." Branson decided they should shoot a video starring Branson (filmed at Branson's country estate). To Branson's credit, he allowed the band to appear as waiters serving him, then had them pretend to play guitars while bouncing on a kids-party inflatable castle in the driveway.

Virgin also had XTC record a more radio-friendly version of Andy Partridge's song "Respectable Street" (eliminating the words "abortion," "sex position," and "wretching" in a failed attempt to please top 40 stations and MTV).


As for Luke, Jon, Zak, and Danny that night? They were amazing and really fun. My only regret is that more people weren't at the show. And that they didn't play the kazoo solo from "Sgt. Rock (is Gonna Help Me)."

I'd go see them again in a heartbeat -- only next time I'll be sure to bring a kazoo or two.

World Shut Your Mouth

Haul me out of the water, haul me onto the land.

She never was one to listen to anyone else.

It was enough for her to listen to the voices in her head (and, yes, I mean that literally).

So that summer evening, she stood on the rocks, daring me to stop her from diving into the water. The shallow water. With the underwater obstructions and many jagged rocks. She knew what was below her. But didn’t care.

“It’s too shallow,” I yelled from the sand. She didn’t care.

“It’s getting dark. Come inside.” She still didn’t care.

The car stood 100 yards away, tape deck blasting Julian Cope. This was back in the days when we made tapes. And cars could play them.

“Come in with me,” she yelled, smiling, then peeling her clothes off.

I shook my head, turned away, walked a few steps back towards the car. I looked back over my shoulder, just as she jumped.

Julian Cope - World Shut Your Mouth


When he was 20, Julian Cope formed a punk band in Liverpool with his buddy Ian McCulloch (later of Echo and the Bunnymen); they disbanded without playing a note.

Cope then formed The Teardrop Explodes, who flirted with success before disbanding after a few years and three albums. His first solo album was called World Shut Your Mouth, but it didn’t include the song “World Shut Your Mouth” (which was Cope’s first real hit and appeared on his Saint Julian album. By the way, if you're looking for perfect examples of poppy 80s new wave music, all you need is Saint Julian (and maybe its follow-up My Nation Underground).

After some minor college hits (and much world-wide speculation about just exactly why he needed the strangest-looking microphone stand in the history of music), Cope started feuding with his record companies (who felt his music had too much insane ramblings and not enough hooky, poppy songs). During one such record company feud, Cope privately released an album only in Texas, using the proceeds to hire an attorney to get Roky Erickson (the former leader of the 13th Floor Elevators who traced his mental problems back to the first time he took LSD) out of jail.

Cope fought with various record companies about his refusal to follow greedy marketing plans. He continued to record and perform in the U.K., but by the mid-90s, most fans thought his glory days were long past.

Julian Cope - Charlotte Anne


I stood there, shocked, until I heard the splash. Then I ran back to the water, searching as the sun disappeared. And I dove in, fully clothed, searching for her. She surfaced a few second later, laughing. I was furious.

“You could have killed yourself,” I said, shaking with fear at her near-miss.

“But I didn’t,” she said, and ran naked back up on the rocks to retrieve her discarded clothing.

When we broke up, she took my copy of Cope’s Peggy Suicide with her, saying only “I need this more than you.” To this day, I can’t hear “Beautiful Love” without thinking of her… or the day she jumped off the rocks.

She’d have many other close calls over the years, somehow escaping each time (through luck or because death himself was afraid of her madness), but that was the only one I personally witnessed. It was enough to scare me off for good.

Bonus 1: "Five O'Clock World"

Bonus 2: "When I Dream" by the Teardrop Explodes (special low-tech video version).

Trying to Aneasthetize the Way that You Feel

It's only inches on the reel-to-reel.

Boston's WBCN radio announced today they will shift to an All-Sports format next month. (I guess because there far too many radio stations that still have a brand name and a history and far too few outlets for idiots to talk sports.)

A long time ago, WBCN was a classical music station (the call letters even stood for Boston Concert Network, dating back to a period when concerts meant cellos and violins instead of two guitars, bass, and drums).

That all changed in 1968, when they switched to a free-form rock station by playing "I Feel Free" by Cream. Boston's student population embraced the new WBCN and the staff clearly loved music more than anything. For WBCN, free-form radio was more than just a slogan -- for many years as other stations became heavily formatted by radio consultants relying on surveys and test results, WBCN let their DJs play what they wanted. By the late 1970s, the station was one of the few places outside college radio that played punk records.

For 10 or 15 years, WBCN was easily the best thing to listen to in Boston and probably one of the ten best stations in America. It was inevitable that the glory days couldn't last forever and by the time WFNX arrived (and was trumpeted as everything 'BCN used to be back when it was great), WBCN was starting a slow decline. The station backed off from alternative music, put their DJs on ever-tighter leashes, and hired programming consultants. They embraced grunge in the 90s and switched to a harder rock format in the past 10 years, mixing in "classic" songs from its history (and always including a heavy emphasis on local Boston bands).

Additionally, here are three true facts about me and WBCN:

1) Morning DJ Charles Laquidara used to call people up on their birthdays. One morning, he read a letter I'd written asking him to call my girlfriend and wish her a happy birthday. He spent five minutes making fun of the fact that I'd neglected to include her phone number. (It's just as well, the relationship was doomed.)

2) In Los Angeles, we lose great radio stations all the time. In the past 15 years, they always promise to continue as webcasters, then close their digital doors for good a few months later. WBCN plans to continue playing music on the web; here's hoping they can do better than LA's late, lamented 101.9 (World Class Rock) or Indie 103 (home of Jonesy's Jukebox). (Link for Gmail subscribers).


3) WBCN played a crucial role when I lost my virginity. This may already be too much information, so I'll leave it at that.

With the Rolling Truck Stones Thing Right Outside

Purple before Prince.

I remember little about the first junior high dance I went to. The clearest thing about that night isn't the girls (although I remember a few of them), or the dancing (ditto), or even the ribbons hung over the school gym (which might have depressed me if I'd looked closer). What do I remember? Deep Purple.

I'm reminded of this because Deep Purple is in the news this week. (No, really. They are.) Apparently, the band played a concert in Russia last October and has been fined for not first licensing their own songs from the Russian Author's Society.

The $1,000 per song fine is to be paid to the rights-holders of those songs, which happens to be... the band Deep Purple. (Techdirt noted: "Common sense just died.) All I know is this is the strangest thing to come out of Russia since Yakov Smirnoff. (Maybe even stranger -- who knew Deep Purple was even still around?)

When I was in junior high and high school, the stoners all loved Deep Purple, cranking the well-worn vinyl their older brothers and sisters left behind when they went to college. Most of their albums folded out, too -- which was handy for rolling joints (although I don't know if that added to the band's stoner-appeal).

Here's what I do know: at the first junior high dance I ever went to, the first song I danced to (played with long-haired abandon and little noticeable skill by a very bad local band who were probably just a few years older than the kids dancing) was this:


A girl named Rachel asked me to dance. I remember next to nothing about her, except that it was both fun and terrifying to dance with her and she kept moving closer to the makeshift "stage" until we were right in front of the band. And the song ended, she said thank you and we retreated quickly to opposite ends of the gym.

My friends all teased me about Rachel and urged me to go talk to her, but I didn't. Like it says in the song, Swiss time was running out. When the band took a break, she made a beeline for the stage and flirted with the guitar player (no doubt asking him probing questions about effects pedals and what kind of pick he preferred). My buddies and me watched this and decided immediately to form a band. None of us played instruments, but that didn't stop us from spending weeks picking a name and designing a logo. It was so perfect that we had no choice but to break up the band without playing a single note.

Oddly enough, if you go to Montreux, there's a sculpture by the shore of Lake Geneva honoring the song (and including the notes to the never-to-be-forgotten guitar riff). I imagine you'll find Rachel there, too. Or your Rachel. Whoever she may be.

(She'll be easy to recognize, even after all these years; she's the one hanging on the arm of the aging guitar player...)

Let Me Whisper in Your (Right) Ear

Now we know.

Thomas Dolby was onto something.

It's not just poetry in motion. There are clear and obvious electrical, chemical, and scientific causes and effects of everything. Even love. (Maybe especially love.)

Now, what Dolby was trying to tell the world in 1982 (with a little help from Andy Partridge, Lene Lovich, and Bruce Wooley) is finally proven: If you want something, ask the right ear. Requests to the right ear are twice as likely to be granted as requests to the left ear.

So the next time you ask for a raise (or a dance, or a phone number, or anything else), blind them with science.

I'm sorry to report that I plan to use this information for evil, not for good. I wonder if it matters if the listener is a lefty... (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


And of course, there's no guarantees in science, so you have to take the risk that things might wind up like this:

God's Late-70s Attempt to Save Rock and Roll

God sent Ellen Foley to save rock and roll, but the Devil sent the Clash to stop her.

My friend Gina was a rocker chick. And also a Bible-thumper. She didn't think the two were at odds and fervently believed God loved catchy hit singles, preferably with swooping sax solos, rhythmic keyboards, angelic harmonies, and blistering guitars. Given the right singer and the right guitar, she'd say, you can practically touch heaven (or at least get an idea of what it sounds like).

To hear Gina describe it, God got cranky in the mid-1970s. Rock was in bad shape and the radio was dominated by Disco, self-indulgent singer-songwriters repackaging an angst they lost four Jaguars ago, and songs by coked-up bands still coasting on a reputation they'd earned more than a decade earlier. Punk fluttered up, but acted more like a time-release drug (one that would take 15 years to fully activate).

So God sent down something bombastic and wondrous in the form of Meat Loaf and Ellen Foley, the only chick singer who could match him note for note. When Bat Out of Hell sold a bazillion copies, Epic signed Ellen Foley to her own record deal (and, as Gina told me, God was very pleased).

Ellen Foley's first album Night Out -- produced by Ian Hunter and Mick Ronson -- was a revelation. The songs swoop and jump and Ronson's guitars take you from the seventh circle of hell all the way up to heaven and back in under 4 minutes. Foley's vocals were passionate and rough (but polished up with harmonies from Rory Dodd, who also sang on Bat Out of Hell).

And God was very pleased. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


More than that, Foley was cool as only rocker chicks can be cool. She covered the Rolling Stones at their bitchiest on "Stupid Girl" (and was tough enough that she didn't have to change the gender and water down the song).


Then (since rock and roll had not yet been sufficiently saved), Foley spread God's word, singing on an Iron City Houserockers album (produced by Ronson, Hunter, and Steve Van Zandt from Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band), and doing a duet with Hunter (as seen... um... here). For the first time since Saturday Night Fever, music seemed to be getting back on track.

But, said Gina, the Devil had other plans for Foley.

She started dating Mick Jones from the Clash, sang on their Sandinista album, and decided that her second solo album (The Spirit of Saint Louis) would basically be a Clash album (with production by Jones, credited on the sleeve only as "my boyfriend" and songs co-written by Jones and Joe Strummer). Songs like "The Death of the Psychoanalyst of Salvador Dali" left most fans scratching their heads and few wanted to hear Clash songs (which weren't quite good enough for Clash records) sung by Ellen Foley. The album never caught on and was in cutout bins within months.

And, Gina explained, because the Devil can multitask, the Clash soon started to fall apart (although Jones would channel his troubled relationship with Foley into the song "Should I Stay or Should I Go").

Foley's third solo album Another Breath tried to recapture the sound of her first album, but slick producer Vini Poncia was no Ian Hunter (and certainly no Mick Ronson) and the record -- despite featuring songs by Ellie Greenwich and Desmond Child -- never quite worked.

So Foley retired from rock and roll to raise kids (and take the occasional acting gig)... emerging last year with a new, bluesier band called Ellen Foley and the Dirty Old Men.

And that, Gina explained to me, is why God had no choice but to turn to Bruce Springsteen to save rock and roll.

We Gotta Get Out of Here

Sometimes You Just Have to Leave Town.

During college, I had a friend named Penny. She played the drums and was one of the coolest women I'd ever known. She worked at the college radio station, wrote freelance record reviews for Rolling Stone and was on a first-name basis with every touring rock drummer who rolled through town (but she never broke her strict "don't sleep with touring musicians" rule).

She was also a little impulsive and once invited me to drive from New England to South Carolina because she wanted to visit a particular beach-side barbecue shack. We were late-night BBQ buddies and she kept telling me I needed to go below the Mason-Dixon line to get real BBQ. Besides, she told me, sometimes you just gotta make a break for it and get the hell out of town. (I had a final the next day and passed on the chance; channeling Ellen Foley, she asked teasingly if I was gonna stay home and watch the reruns of the Muhammad Ali/Marlene Dietrich fight. She made the drive in record time but was arrested on the way back on charges of transporting live chickens without proper permits. She used her one phone call to contact me and I wired her $100 for bail. But that proved unnecessary; Penny charmed the arresting officer by telling stories about Ginger Baker until he dropped the charges, got her phone number, and let her go with a warning. They got married four years later but split up after a few years when he started touring as the bass player in an indie rock band. "I should've married you," she told me when her divorce came through, "at least you can't play an instrument.")

In my senior year, I decided one night that I had to get out of town, so I called Penny and told her I was driving to Montreal. She laughed at me and said there was no decent barbecue in Montreal -- and besides, I needed to get finish a paper for a philosophy class we were both taking.) I drove all night -- in a red VW bug whose floorboards were slowly rusting out and whose driver's seat had been stolen a few months earlier. I didn't quite make it to Montreal because I ticked off a border guard who then refused to let me into the Canada because I didn't have enough cash (Penny never did pay me back for the "bail money" I sent).

Penny dropped out after that semester; I drove back to New England, finished my philosophy paper in one uninterrupted two-hour stint at the keyboard, and graduated. Years later, Penny would finish her degree... but I still get terrified whenever I enter Canada.(Link for Gmail subscribers.)