The U2 Debate.

It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest,

It’s no secret ambition bites the nails of success.

Every artist is a cannibal; every poet is a thief,

All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.

The issue of what a band should do when they have been together for over thirty years is a relatively new one. With the music industry - as we know it - only having been around for about sixty, there are very few who have yet reached the monumental landmark of being in a band together for such a long period. 2012 marks the fiftieth anniversary of The Rolling Stones, and the only question is surely; is this really a reason to celebrate? Of course it provides the perfect opportunity for yet another worldwide stadium tour where the same hits get churned out from the skeletal horrorshow that the band have become; selling their souls and their grace in exchange for millions of dollars and the ego boost that comes from thousands of people screaming your name each night. But this isn’t what it’s all about. It would seem that what ex-NME journalist Nick Kent suggests in his book ‘Apathy for the Devil’ – that The Rolling Stones were widely believed to be washed up and on the wrong side of their best work by 1972 – has proven true. Yet, here we are forty years later still watching the soulless puppet show push on through, fully aware that Keith Richards and Mick Jagger despise each other to their very core, that the words they sing and the notes they play no longer ring true and that the band and fans alike would really be a lot happier if this pretence would stop and we could listen to Sticky Fingers with a wonderful, untarnished mental image of The Rolling Stones in their prime.

U2 are perhaps the only other band who fall into this bracket who are on a par with The Stones in terms of global superstardom and the ability to still sell out stadiums in the blink of an eye, but they themselves actually hold the feat of remaining together for almost thirty-five years without a single line-up change or any periods of band hiatus. Now, it would be easy for me to take a few punches at U2 – indeed, the majority of what I have just discussed about The Rolling Stones could be effectively applied to their Irish market shareholders – however, that is not what I wish to do in this blog. While there are many questions to be raised regarding why something other than artistic drive could persuade a band to continue beyond a point where they offer the music world anything worthwhile, my main concern today lies with the damaging and resounding effect that a band can have over their own name as a consequence of providing a new generation with incredibly average material. By making music of a low calibre, a new audience who are unfamiliar with previous releases will be quick to judge a band’s merit on their latest offering, and uninspired to delve into their back catalogue, the band will be forever dismissed as irrelevant. This kind of self-slander is destructive and painful to observe and it brings me to the point that I wish to make; I do not want people to judge U2 on Elevation, Get On Your Boots, Beautiful Day or any of the other songs or albums that have frequented our airways in the last ten years or so. Nor do I want people to take one look at the millionaire cardboard cut-out version of Bono that has existed since about 1997, shaking hands with presidents and rubbing shoulders with political scum.

I want you to know how incredible U2 once were. And I want you to read on objectively.

In my opinion, there are three great albums to be taken from U2’s vast back catalogue, and by great I mean they each stand alone as incredibly powerful albums that should make any all-time-best list and make any output by the likes of Coldplay – to whom they are so readily compared – look utterly amateur. It is bizarre now to see U2’s music written off as stagnant and repetitive, when with each new studio album from 1980-2000 (that’s ten in all), they completely reinvented their sound and ambitiously swung in a variety of diverse musical directions, not afraid to alienate their fan base to achieve artistic satisfaction.

War (1983), The Joshua Tree (1987) and Achtung Baby (1991) are the big three that I would urge anyone to listen to before feeling that it’s their birthright to slag off U2 for being the cartoon band that they have now become. Each one representing the band at a completely different stage in their development, and being worthy of objective acknowledgement for what they were trying to say at the moments they were made respectively. War in particular is an incredibly ballsy album; starting hard with a martial drum roll and high pitched squeal, it's clear this album means business right from the start. The message of the song is apparent from the get go as Bono croons and then pleads into the microphone;

I can't believe the news today,

I can't close my eyes and make it go away.

How long, how long must we sing this song?

Tonight, we can be as one tonight.

It quickly goes on to describe the horrors of war and violence against innocent people in no uncertain terms, and the band goes about such business with uniform authority, knowing exactly what the song needs and how to deliver it. Sunday Bloody Sunday was a bold political statement at the time it was written, and it delivered a universal message of refusing to sit back and take such mindless violence whilst also being layered with a hope for the future. It is perhaps one of the best openings any rock album has ever had, as it grabs the listener from the start and prepares them for what’s to come. Coming in at number 221 on Rolling Stone Magazine’s ‘Top 500 Albums Of All Time’ list, U2's War is as almost perfect a balance of politics, blind faith, hopeless love, and ringing guitars as you will likely find recorded over the last twenty-eight years since it's release. The band would change direction after this album and never really look back. It was an album of the moment, yet timeless at the same time. And for U2, it was a bold statement that set them on the path they were looking for.

I feel that less needs to be said about The Joshua Tree due to the fact that it is already widely regarded and plugged as their seminal album, however my point with this particular release is that the greatness lies in the songs which are not featured on the numerous greatest hits packages that Island Records have put out over the years. Running To Stand Still in particular is an emotive masterpiece, drawing from the influence of American music and culture that is so explicit throughout the album, the song considers the constraints placed upon one’s life in the throes of heroin addiction and documents the activity and emotions of a couple who have ended up in a dark and painful place as a result of bad choices and a lack of options offered to them by society.

Sweet the sin
Bitter taste in my mouth,
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out.
You got to cry without weeping,
Talk without speaking,
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison,
From the poison stream,
Then I floated out of here.

As the 1980s drew to a close, we saw the first instance of U2 doing what they are now deemed old-hands at; taking themselves too seriously. With the release of their 1988 album and concert film of the same name; Rattle and Hum, U2 sought to further portray their growing obsession with American music through the incorporation of blues-rock and gospel into their sound. Aware that they might have been dragging themselves into the dangerous realms of self-importance and stung by the subsequent backlash from critics and fans alike, the dawn of the 1990s marked a new era for U2, and they began by taking a leaf out of the master of reinvention’s book – David Bowie – and upping sticks to Berlin to record an album under the experimental production of Brian Eno. The result; Achtung Baby is a brilliant and dark parody on rock stardom.

Embodying an entirely different sound from anything we had heard from the band before, the fusion of heavy rock with electronic elements served as a powerful demonstration that successful reinvention is definitely possible. Adopting the persona of ‘The Fly’ – a stereotypical, egotistical rock star who has seen one to many excesses and who has truly started to believe his own hype, Bono could be seen on the accompanying Zoo TV tour strutting the stage in head-to-toe leather and, for the first time, adorning the wraparound shades that he has not been keen to remove in the twenty years since. The incredible depth and texture that one enjoys during a listen of Achtung Baby is rarely paralleled; each song hugely inept at creating a particular mood and highlighting the many cracks which can appear in the mask of a troubled rock star. To create an album like this some twelve years into a band’s existence is remarkable, and as Bono describes it best; “[Achtung Baby is] the sound of four men chopping down The Joshua Tree” and boy, does it sound fantastic.

Coming off the back of a hugely successful and band-defining album like The Joshua Tree, then choosing to take that winning formula and completely twist it round is representative of the great courage that U2 possessed throughout the first twenty years of their time together, and therefore makes it all the more disheartening to see them looked down upon as the stale entity that they are so often viewed as today. Following Achtung Baby, the 90s saw them become even more experimental and unpredictable with 1993’s techno attack on media-over saturation Zooropa, followed by 1997’s Pop – in which the band delved further into the realm of electronica and alternative-rock. It wasn’t until 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind that U2 seemed to finally settle on a sound that they have stuck with ever since; a more conventional and easy-listening take which has subsequently earned them their place in music-for-Dad’s territory.

Who knows whether it would be possible or enjoyable for a band to continue to experiment and produce groundbreaking music beyond their twentieth anniversary. The relatively young age of our music industry is yet to prove it so, however something it has repeatedly taught us is that artists make their most interesting and resounding work before the age of forty – thus making this a brilliant age for one to step aside from the mainstream music arena. Sure, make arty albums that satisfy artistic desires and tour small to medium sized venues with a stripped down approach in order to reacquire a loss intimacy with fans, but do not continue to regurgitate the same songs that you were singing in a town hall at the age of eighteen and pretend that the passion is still there.

Having seen U2 perform live on four occasions between 2001 and 2011, I must say that what I have witnessed is a gradual decline in enthusiasm for the task in hand. The first show that I was in attendance at on 14^th August 2001 at Birmingham’s NEC arena can be described as nothing other than mind-blowing. The performance that they gave that night was every bit as mesmerising and powerful as the footage I had spent hours pouring over from their shows in the 1980s. Full of energy, emotion and an aura of charisma from Bono which left me feeling as though my soul had been wrenched out of me and wrung out in front of my eyes, it was that moment that truly convinced me that music is one of, if not the, most powerful force of love and connection amongst fellow human beings that we have at our disposal. However, the following three shows; 2005, 2009 and then their Glastonbury performance earlier this year, have continued to reaffirm to me that the easiest way to lose one’s musical credibility is to take everything that was once fantastic about your band; and shit all over it. A lack of energy on stage, a vacant look in the eyes, the laborious delivery of a machine that has made the same movements one too many times - the past three occasions I have witnessed them have left me feeling empty and disappointed. Often overshadowed by huge set designs - which are ultimately a transparent attempt at driving attention away from the band I have paid so much to see - it has become a case of style over substance. And everyone knows U2 were never really up there in the style stakes.

That is all I wish to say on their decline, as I wish to reinforce my primary aim of urging everyone to look beyond the image of U2 that is held in 2011, and to delve back to a time when Bono was a young, politically radical and passionate individual who wanted to change the world through the power of brilliant music. Having witnessed a disappointing performance at Glastonbury this year, I finally decided that I am no longer going to chase the shadow of a once great band or open myself up to their self-slander, but enjoy the many moments of brilliance that they have already provided, and believe me – there is certainly enough of those to be getting on with.

Below I have included three videos of U2, one song from each of the three albums I consider their most noteworthy. The first two are live performances, as this is undeniably where their strength lay at the time, and where their passion and talent really shines through most effectively. As to whether Bono has done too much damage to his own image so to render them irredeemable by many remains to be seen, however in the meantime; do come back with me to a time where their music did the talking and their title as the ‘biggest band in the world’ was truly deserved.

U2 - Sunday Bloody Sunday

War, 1983

U2 - Running To Stand Still

The Joshua Tree, 1987

U2 - The Fly

Achtung Baby, 1991

Suede : A Musical Obsession.

If you have ever found yourself under the mesmerising spell of an artist or band; caught in a limbo world where no other music but that of said musicians is of any interest to you, where you can think of no better way to spend your time than pouring through as many interviews and trivia bites as you can feast your eyes on, flicking through youtube videos and absorbing all such information with as much ease as a newly purchased sponge, then I look to you for understanding and empathy; as this is exactly how I feel about Suede right now.

It hits you almost like a fever; unexpected and unexplainable in its approach, you just wake up one day and find that it has wrapped its merciless fingers around your whole body, and there is little you can do but ride the wave to its natural conclusion. As an obsessive with an obsession for music, this is a pattern that I have dealt with on several occasions before, however there is no telling for how long I will be inflicted with a disease which has seen my requirements for oxygen usurped by the need to hear Dog Man Star on indefinite repeat.

Anyone who has ridden the musical fixation rollercoaster can tell you that, despite its ability to overrule all rational thought, and overspill into various aspects of your life – it is not an unpleasant experience; in fact it is an absolutely fantastic feeling, of which every second is rich with appreciation. Music never sounds as good as when you are in the throes of irrational obsession, and you can wave goodbye to any difficult decisions regarding what to listen to on your ipod, or indeed; what to write about on your blog.

Perhaps at this point I should address the band over which I am so shamelessly gushing, and in doing so, acknowledge how unlikely and random a candidate they really are, however I struggle to know where to begin with Suede. Victims of a bizarre and unjust turn of events, whereby they were seemingly ousted from the Britpop movement for not complying to the laddish, boozing, fake-working-class checklist, despite the fact that they themselves kick-started the subgenre, but in turn expressed no desire to be associated with what it went on to embody. The hype surrounding Suede’s emergence in 1992 was truly extensive, with Melody Maker proudly adorning their front cover with the words “Suede: the best new band in Britain” and the following year, the Brit Awards shuffled around their schedule in order to afford them a last-minute slot at the ceremony as a direct response to pressures from the music press – all before an album had even been released. With so much hype surrounding them, it would have been easy to disappoint or fall victim to overzealous critics, however their first self-titled album was an enormous critical and commercial success subsequently earning them a Mercury Music Prize in 1993, and then leading on to record – what I believe to be their true masterpiece – Dog Man Star in 1994. Despite a string of increasingly commercially successful albums throughout the 1990s before disbanding in 2003, Suede are rarely remembered and seldom played in 2011. This is a great shame, as they are truly brilliant and arguably the best and most interesting band of the 1990s – an achievement for which I hold their astoundingly fascinating frontman mainly accountable.

One look at Brett Anderson’s erotically charged, androgynous stage persona will quickly answer questions regarding why they didn’t fit in well with the overtly laddish overtones of peers such as Liam Gallagher and Damon Alburn. Incredibly charismatic and instantly fascinating, Anderson can be seen strutting the stage with a stereotypical feminine haircut, big silver hoops through his ears and a black lace top tied loosely around his slim and hairless torso, singing lines such as 'I want the style of a woman, the kiss of a man'; he certainly cuts a striking and controversial image. However, this is most effective due to the way in which Anderson conducts his androgyny; with such self-assurance and masculine gusto, proudly stalking the stage in the knowledge that he is twice the man that any jean-wearing guy swigging beer at a football match could ever be. It is no wonder that he managed to ruffle a few feathers in a time where shell-suits reigned supreme, and American grunge was topping the charts. While Suede’s absence from the common consciousness of today is a shame in part, I am not sorry that their songs haven’t received The Universal or Wonderwall treatment, and that their music can be enjoyed without being tarnished by advertising campaigns or being strummed by incompetent guitar players in parks and festivals across the country.

I would recommend the album Dog Man Star to anyone, as it really is a five-star album that can be enjoyed perfectly from start to finish. While Suede may not have been flying the flag for British optimism, Anderson’s observations of suburbia are accurate and representative of a generation who came of age during the perilous 1980s, delivered via his impressive and instantly recognisable vocals. Introducing The Band, New Generation and Black or Blue are particularly good at summing up the feelings of British disillusionment that Britpop was soon to gloss over with the resounding opening chords of Blur’s Parklife.

So I will continue to ride out my obsession with all things Suede and Brett Anderson, even to the extent of finding myself shaving the hair on the right side of my head in an attempt to adopt some of the latter into some visual aspects of my life, as well as having him provide the audio soundtrack to my every move. Their performance of Animal Nitrate at the Brit Awards in 1993 is one that I keep going back to, and something that I suggest you check out if you are at all interested in what it is that has sparked such infatuation with the band and their music. I have included it below, but be warned; musical obsession is contagious. 

A Lesson In Self-Respect.

Sometimes I wonder whether David Bowie can do no wrong.

Perhaps he has a lot to thank for his origins on a far away planet – from which he descended to brighten up our world in the late 60s – as they have served him well in avoiding any of the usual human slip-ups or falls from dignity and grace that many aging stars of his generation or later, seem unable to resist succumbing to.

With this observation, I seek not to clarify how amazing Bowie’s musical contributions are (for this is now as widely accepted as the laws of science), or indeed how the revolution he bestowed upon us in the 1970s continues to reverberate around the music and fashion industries with a deafening roar. No. Today what I hope to get across is that it’s the decisions that he has made since this time that make him so worthy of respect and admiration, whilst simultaneously ensuring that all that he achieved before seems even better.

As we are constantly made aware these days by musicians who are somewhat less dignified with their aging, the 21^st century is a time with temptation and empty promises around every corner, waiting to trap and lure the icons of yesteryear. I need only mention the names of Iggy Pop, Axl Rose and Joan Jett in order to paint an image of degrading advertisement deals, shameless flogging of a band that's been unrecognisable and irrelevant for twenty years and copious amounts of plastic surgery – paths all too often taken by the once adored, successfully undermining any reverence or respect that they once commanded.

It is at the opposite end of this spectrum that we find Bowie, holding music with the highest respect and refusing to let any foolish endeavours of later life tarnish the genius that we know of his younger years. This is a lesson that other aging musicians should definitely take heed of, for in their greedy desire to maintain a level of prominence, they could well be ruining their legacy in the process. I personally hold Iggy Pop as the prime example of this – his crimes being all the more hard to swallow due to how incredible he once was as the frontman of the protopunk movement. What is such a shame is that now, even though I herald ‘Lust For Life’ as one of the best albums of the 1970s, I can barely listen to it for fear of conjuring up terrifying images of a lost old man selling his soul, dignity and self-respect for £25 million under the slogan of “Get A Life”. An innovator of punk rock selling car insurance? What a disgusting and disgustingly modern state of affairs. Next we'll be seeing the man who once snarled down the camera shouting "God save the Queen, a fascist regime" dressed in tweed, proclaiming that we sell-out like him and buy 'Country Life' butter "because it tastes the best".

I don’t think it is necessary to point out that this is not something that you’d catch Iggy’s close friend David Bowie doing - his dignified silence over recent years speaking volumes. Gracing us with his presence on only a few occasions, usually in situations which serve to remind of his position at the forefront of all that is still cool in the music industry. His appearances onstage with Placebo, Arcade Fire and Moby have been a nod to the new generation of gifted and respected musicians. (A far cry from a special guest slot on ‘X Factor’, I think you’ll agree).

His complete and utter success in growing old gracefully and gloriously is prominent when one notes his absence from the chat show circuit, within which we find a continuous stream of autobiography-holding, greatest-hits-promoting, reunion-tour-plugging shadows. Instead we catch Bowie say, in a photo shoot for Q Magazine, Kate Moss dangled round his neck, looking as though the pleasure is all hers.What Bowie has succeeded in doing is creating the blue print for how people can not only grow old in a way that will give their previous achievements all the more respect and appreciation to new and old generations alike, but also how to live your life as fulfilled and content as possible. It is easy to see that Bowie is no longer hung up, unlike so many of the prime offenders in this category, on the power and money driven fame game. Releasing new albums only sporadically, often under the radar of the commercial market – holding artistic satisfaction as the main aim, and refraining from making anything at all if not suitably inspired.

Admiration for David Bowie in the year 2011 is as prominent as it has ever been, and rightfully so. Respect for himself has got him a long way, now enjoying retirement cuddled up to a supermodel wife and bringing up his young daughter in New York, undoubtedly able to look back on his extensive career with few regrets and much pride. This of course works both ways, for it is thanks to this self-respect and dignity that we – as fans – can continue to love and enjoy David Bowie’s artistic offerings, happy in the affirmation that he 100%, absolutely, positively and certifiably was and is as incredible and other-worldly as we ever believed him to be.

The Lost Art.

Sometimes it is hard to deny that the old ways are the best. While this may be true of many things, there is a definite romanticism of a time gone by when - while it may or may not have been the case – there was a sense of quality, truth and simplistic beauty in the way people lived and the way that things were produced. This is certainly the way I feel about music, and while it may be a bit of a cliché to declare that the greatest albums were made prior to the turn of the 21^st century, if not long before, what I am mainly talking about here is the evolution of the physical (and digital) musical format and subsequent loss of album artwork.

The cover of a great album has shown itself to have the capacity to become as iconic as the music itself, with images such as The Dark Side of the Moon prism and the Abbey Road zebra crossing being forever etched on public conciseness – perhaps in these cases, even identifiable by those few who have not listened to the albums themselves. This is why I believe one of the most distressing things about the rise of the mp3 to be, aside from the ease at which we evade honouring an album by playing it in its entirety, that there is no longer the appreciation of album artwork.

Long have I fantasised about what it must have been like in the golden-age of vinyl, at which time you would leave your front door with enough money in your pocket to head down to the local music shop to purchase the latest album release by your favourite band. Racing down the aisles to the new release section and gripping that glorious physical 12 inch square piece of art in your hands for the first time, before racing home and devouring it with your eyes and ears as you pour over the sleeve and inserts within. Call me nostalgic, but that’s got to be better than a click of the mouse as £8.99 is removed from your bank account in exchange for an invisible musical concept.

While the ipod is a fantastic thing and fabulous in many ways, it is hard not to overlook the fact that all the wonderful artwork, new and old, is now being forgotten and overlooked thanks to the confides of a thumbnail image. Not only this, but it marks the death of the back cover (the qualities of which were often found in its ability to portray a brilliant photograph or image which never quite made the cut of the front). It is a real shame that album artwork isn’t getting the appreciation that it deserves these days, both in terms of the fantastic pieces that are still being produced, and also for those people who are currently discovering the wonderful music of the past fifty years, but yet not getting the whole sensory experience.

It might be worth arguing that at least with albums of the vinyl, and even CD eras, they have had their time and appreciation in larger formats, and the real crime is that brilliant new pieces are never escaping out of the confides of a 2.5 cm square. I was reminded of this most recently when I purchased Florence and The Machine’s album Lungs on vinyl, and was blown away by the richness and detail of an album cover which I already knew to be beautiful, but had never been able to appreciate it for its true splendour. Formatted in a gatefold, filled with stunning imagery and plentiful sleeve notes, it really takes a generous amount of time to take it all in - the only shame being that it won’t reach a wider audience.

As is the case with Lungs, it is great to see that artists and record companies are still producing vinyl copies of their albums, and this is due in part to the resurgence in popularity of old formats. I’m incredibly pleased that there is still a great passion and interest in these things, and that even those brought up in the digital age are keen to appreciate music as it was intended, and I really hope this trend continues.

Below I have included eight album covers; four pre-digital and four post, yet all equally brilliant and worthy of attention. Feel free to click on each of them to appreciate them in high resolution.

Patti Smith - Horses

Pink Floyd - Animals

Blondie - Parallel Lines

Suede - Dog Man Star

MGMT - Oracular Spectacular

Pete Doherty - Grace Wastelands

Florence and The Machine - Lungs

Biffy Clyro - Only Revolutions

A Day.

I really do love my life. My life, and Fleetwood Mac.

I realised this today, and it almost came to me as a simultaneous epiphany as I sat on a grassy knoll surveying the vast expanse of Bristol before me. Sure, one can consider that their life is wonderful on any number of occasions, and so they should. However, what made today so beautiful for me was that, by all intents and purposes; it was a right shitter. Without going into detail, I’d had about as much ill fortune and been faced with as much pointless paperwork as one could possibly handle, all before the clock stroked 11am. A tedious and stubborn illness which I have been pleading to leave my body for days, also had me scrabbling around on the scorching tarmac at one point, in a keen desperation, pleading that I should not faint or vomit in front of the pupils of a school at which I hope to work.

                
Not a great start admittedly. But, it served its purpose. I owe this morning a lot, for this afternoon, the memory of its ugly character allowed me to fully wallow in the glory that one is indeed, responsible for their own happiness – a happiness best served on a plate of simplicity. I found mine this afternoon, in a sunny park, accompanied by the soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac’s 80s masterpiece ‘Tango In The Night’. An album so powerful, that it inspired me to write a blog. When people think of Fleetwood Mac, they undoubtedly think of ‘Rumours’, copious amounts of cocaine consumption, incestuous affairs where every band member sleeps with every band member, and… Steve Nicks (perhaps concurrently). Despite being dismissed by critics as the product of an era where not even the cool people were cool anymore (Pink Floyd’s ‘Learning To Fly’ anyone?) ‘Tango in the Night’ has some of the happiest songs that take me to the crux of musical glee, and today this is something that I certainly felt the full effect of as I peacefully existed under the blue sky, with nothing else but a willingness to enjoy that moment. I suggest you listen to it too, perhaps it will take you there.

             
So, to end my opening blog – I feel I have sampled an appetizer for which the claws of addiction I can already feel clambering at my fingers and thoughts. I shall whittle on here about things, hopefully with some sort of musical inclination, possibly not. The underlying theme will always be in the joy of writing.

Also, on the subject of all things bright and beautiful, I would like to add that Alison Mosshart is the most magical and hypnotic female creature on the planet in the music industry right now. Marvel in her splendour: