Pop music
Solitary pleasures
Marcus Berkmann
Er so unashamedly populist an art form, pop music is unusually generous to its solitary geniuses. From Phil Spector onwards, solitary geniuses have been allowed to beaver away in their home stu- dios, making their solitary, mad records, without once being put in rest homes for the psychologically disadvantaged. In the end, of course, some of them do go com- pletely bonkers and, like Brian Wilson, put pianos in their sand-pits. Others ingest vast quantities of recreational pharmaceuticals, which doesn't do the marbles a lot of good either. Either way, eccentricity has come to be seen as the distinguishing mark of the solitary genius, the inevitable curse of his creativity, and whatever he does with his sand-pit is generally agreed to be his own business.
Such public interest in the mental pro- cesses of solitary geniuses tends to distract attention away from their music. Mike Old- field, for instance, is now mainly known for being halfway round the bend while he was making Tubular Bells. The terrible tor- ments he experienced during this early part of his career are much documented, while the fact that he actually made Tubular Bells in the first place has been almost forgotten. Like many people, I sold my copy of this record in about 1980, when it was slightly less fashionable than smallpox, but have been fascinated to see that, many years on, Oldfield has at last been persuaded by a gigantic cheque to record Tubular Bells II (WEA). Listening to it brought back awe- some memories of adolescence, such as Viv Stanshall saying the words, 'slightly distort- ed guitar'. This time it is, I believe, Alan Rickman and he's saying, 'slightly sampled guitar', but the principle is the same. For, despite slightly different tunes and a few new ideas, TBII is more of a remake than a sequel. The only real difference is Trevor Horn's production, which is sometimes breathtaking.
Marginally less dotty is Thomas Dolby, who, between producing Prefab Sprout's albums, has enjoyed a sporadic but never uninteresting solo career. Like all his records, his latest, Astronauts & Heretics (Virgin) is worth hearing mainly as a pre- view of what other, less inventive record producers will be filling their records with over the next couple of years, but, as always with Dolby, it also features some marvel- lous tunes. 'Silk Pyjamas' and 'Cruel' are superb little creations, although elsewhere Dolby exhibits that courageous lack of restraint that has stopped his records sell- ing in any quantity at all. In keeping with his old mad-professor image, he is pho- tographed in a hairstyle that only electric shock treatment could produce naturally.
One worrying aspect of Dolby's record is its occasional use of heavy metal guitar, and the same is true of Lindsey Bucking- ham's otherwise immaculate Out Of The Cradle (Mercury) — a clear indication that without a bit of grunge on your records your chances of making money in the US these days are virtually nil. Buckingham is the fruit-loop who created most of Fleet- wood Mac's best records — Tango In The Night was essentially his last solo album, which he gave to the group in a moment of weakness. Out Of The Cradle is an obvious sequel to that record — too obvious, some- times, as on a couple of songs that sound like little more than variations on 'Big Love'. Otherwise, though, Buckingham shows once again that he's one of the most inventive producer-writers operating in mainstream pop today. It seem a shame, if inevitable, that he won't achieve the same level of commercial success as a solo artist 'She's got a pod divorce lawyer.' as he did with Fleetwood Mac.
Finally, Brian Eno, whose Now Net (Opal/WEA) I found disappointing. A cou- ple of years ago, Eno was heard to say that he had rediscovered the pleasures of writ- ing proper songs, but since then he seems to have been derailed by remix culture. At 64 minutes, this is a collection of dance beats and experimental noises topped off with the occasional weary vocal and Robert Fripp's scorching guitar — a combination that works brilliantly on a couple of takes and then grows increasingly tiresome. Either I'm too old or Eno's lost the plot. But then that's your solitary genius for you.
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