Vinyl of the week
Kaleidoscope – Tangerine Dream
Kaleidoscope and Tangerine Dream is a record that has been in the back of my mind since my very first tentative attempts at buying 60s LPs with psychedelic influences. It has not been uncommon for it to be labelled “the best psychedelic LP in the world”, which of course is not a reasonable claim. Music is probably the most subjective thing you can express a binary opinion about, which doesn’t exactly make you very credible. But having said that, Tangerine Dream is a gem in the context. A really good record. As with everything else, there has to be a beginning. Psychedelic records were relatively easy to come across during the first half of the 90s, when CDs meant that people were, quite literally, throwing their LPs out as landfill. Some records were perhaps kept closer to the chest, partly because of their emotional value, but also because of their reputation. Tangerine Dream was surely one of those records. Were there expensive second-hand records in 1990? Well, yes and no. If you paid 200 kronor, you could pretty much get whatever you wanted. More often than not, good second-hand LPs were available for less than fifty kronor. My personal ceiling was 200 kronor, at that price, it had to be something really special. “Why are you bothering with all that stuff? There won’t be any record players left soon.” I heard that quite often. So when I spotted a Fontana STL 5448, UK 1967, displayed on the wall at Sadisfaction in Haga, I thought: this one is coming home with me. The LP was high up, on the top row, right next to the counter on the right-hand side, looking into the shop. Martin was standing behind the counter with Tore, both busy dealing with customers, and the shop was packed that Saturday. The price was 500 kronor. 500 kronor. That was a lot of money back then. But it was also something I had been looking for, and I thought: fuck it, this one isn’t going to come around again. Since I didn’t want to interrupt Martin or Tore, and because 500 kronor was a considerable amount of money at the time, not something you paid for an LP every day – I took a slimm risk that someone else might grab it. So I crossed the road to withdraw one sixth of my monthly student loan from the cash machine. Five minutes later, at most, I was back in the shop with the cash. Cards were hardly ever used back then, and certainly not in a second-hand record shop. The space on the wall where the record had been was conspicuously empty. I scanned the shop and, to my horror, saw a man perhaps 35 years older than me, at least in my eyes, handing Martin a five-hundred-kronor note, with the LP tucked under his arm. You get the picture. A purchase I never made, and one I can’t really regret. But I do regret not interrupting Martin and asking him to put the LP aside for me. Tangerine Dream UK 1967 remained a dream.
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Arthur Lee - Vindicator
I’ve talked about Arthur Lee before. He is probably one of the artists I’ve listened to most, perhaps with the exception of David Bowie – who knows. Most of Arthur Lee’s LPs have come to me in a steady stream, without too much effort. I started collecting these LOVE LPs more than 30 years ago. Some, such as Forever Changes, I have in several different editions – US, UK mono and stereo, etc. One album I did have to actively search for, though, was Arthur Lee’s Vindicator from 1972. Since finally finding a good copy, I’ve actually come across it more and more often. A rainy and granite-grey day in November 2007 in Oxford. Avid Records on Gloucester Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the bus station, was a real institution. Three floors packed with more records than could reasonably have fitted inside. Of course, I had rummaged around there before and asked the same question: “Any chance you’ve got a decent copy of Vindicator? This time the place looked even shabbier than I remembered. Garry, with a cup of tea in his hand, said, “I’ll have a look,” and headed upstairs. And then he came back with it. Mint condition. £25. Far too much at the time. But I paid. Vindicator presents Arthur Lee in a considerably more rock-oriented and heavier form. The production is far from polished. Quite the opposite – there is something dirty, almost garage-likeabout it. The guitars have real presence, and at times it feels as though the band is playing right on the edge of losing control.“Sad Song” opens the album in a stark and melancholic way, while “Everybody’s Gotta Live” is the record’s great gem. There are still clear psychedelic elements from the LOVE era, but here they meet a rawer, harder and more blues-rock-oriented Arthur Lee. And then, of course, there is that photograph on the back cover featuring Jimi Hendrix. Lee and Hendrix knew each other and had plans for a joint musical project that never came to fruition. Vindicator is an album from the crossroads between the psychedelic era of the 1960s and the heavier rock that would define the 1970s.
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Imperiet - Blå himlen blues
The year was 1985, and I had moved to Lund, very much against my will. My girlfriend at the time had left me after two years together, and my studies were limping along like a shopping trolley with wonky wheels. Most of what I actually did during my few years at university in this particular university town was partying and getting involved in student union activities. Despite this rather unpromising introduction, and the shackles of academia, I was fundamentally quite a positive person – and definitely tireless. Anyone who knows how cramped a student room can be will also understand why my place became particularly attractive towards Friday afternoons, when everyone wanted to make up for lost time and live out their dream of being a newly liberated student. You see, I lived right in the centre, in a flat that was about five times the size of an ordinary student room. It also had two entrances – one proper front door and one for making a getaway – and, as the icing on the cake, a balcony. I was, as it happened, "looking after" a relative's flat before it was eventually put up for sale. Blå himlen blues was released that very year, in March, and I absolutely loved the LP. It had such a strong sense of "to hell with it" and freedom about it that you simply wanted to bellow along to the songs, sober or pissed. I had brought the LP with me from Gothenburg, along with my Lenco L75 and the rest of my stereo equipment, intending only to blow the speaker cones out of their boxes whenever I got the chance. I'd painted those speaker cabinets myself, red and gold, and I exercised them like an unemployed man with nothing better to do. Yes, I hear you thinking: so what? Well, this particular evening, one that remains especially deeply etched in the memory lane, came about when my temporarily live-in mate Jakob had brought six or seven friends over from his home town. Jakob's dad was a fish farmer – salmon, to be precise – and his mum was forever sending him salmon pies to improve his otherwise rather disastrous diet of instant macaroni and ketchup. As a result, I was eating salmon for breakfast and dinner. The mixture of old and new friends, tequila slammers, the stereo at full volume, a fall, and one of Jakob's old homeboys planting his face straight into a pizza-wrapped wall, bleeding down into the gap between "wall and bowl," created an evening that, by today's standards, might not seem entirely well thought through. The atmosphere itself wasn't particularly unusual. It was more the natural consequence of underdeveloped frontal lobes, generally poor judgement, and an enormous amount of flight instinct thrown into the mix. Escape. That was the key. When C.C. Cowboys, the first track on side one, was playing at full volume for the third or fourth time. When "We are the great..." kicked in, the chaos became so uncontrollable that I escaped through the other "entrance" and disappeared into the night, just before the Old Bill turned up.
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Pink Floyd - Zabriskie Point
I can’t remember when I bought my first Pink Floyd album. Pink Floyd is a band that has somehow got under my skin gradually over a very long period of time and completely coloured my soul. I have always regarded this band as one of those that has influenced me the most, especially their early work. So when my Brother in Arms, Clifford, sent me a little message from the UK and asked if I wanted to go to the Pink Floyd exhibition Their Mortal Remains at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London in 2017, I was quick to take him up on it. A perfectly valid excuse for me, and an opportunity to secure an exception permit for a pub or two. And this brings me to Zabriskie Point, a soundtrack that really puts my love of Pink Floyd to the test. At the exhibition there was a section dedicated to the band’s film music. More, Zabriskie Point and several others were presented there. But right where the LP of Zabriskie Point should have been, there was simply an empty space. They had simply been unable to get hold of a copy. This surprised me a little. I have had at least three copies in my hands over the years. I can admit that I bought my first copy partly because of the cover – a rather wonderful hippie 60s artefact. The album really is a case of the good, the bad and everything in between, and a complete mishmash of different artists, to such an extent that one of my friends actually tried to physically carve his own track into the record with a knife, just so he wouldn’t have to listen to one of the other artists involved. Yes, you can imagine how well that went down!? The Pink Floyd music on the album, however, is very special and, in my opinion, fascinating; experimental, atmospheric and psychedelic, with plenty of sound collages, echoes, floating guitars, tape loops and long atmospheric passages. The material dates from 1969, the period between Ummagumma and Atom Heart Mother, which gives you some idea of what we are talking about. And the three tracks – “Heart Beat, Pig Meat”, “Crumbling Land” and “Come in Number 51, Your Time Is Up” – are recordings from the Zabriskie Point sessions and really belong to this very particular phase of Pink Floyd. The whole collection of tracks and the way everything is thrown together probably isn’t really meant to be understood. I’ve given up. I probably ought to watch the film, which I actually haven’t done. There are certain pieces you find yourself hoping will come to an end quickly. Perhaps that is why my current copy sounds like frying bacon – previous owners have simply given up and jumped around among the tracks.
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Gene Clark - No Other
I may once again be stating the obvious: “In 1974, Gene Clark released an album that almost nobody wanted to hear. Today, many regard it as a masterpiece.” Clark had made exactly the record he wanted to make, but the record label simply didn’t know what to do with it. My way into the album came many years after its release, of course, as I was born in the mid-’60s. Around 2013, I had been given a commission to sketch out the interior for a new retail concept. The CEO of the company at the time was a very open-minded and exuberant American called James. Robban suggested to James that I put together an inspiration trip – to check out trends and feel the groove of what was bubbling away and the directions that looked set to grow strong in the years ahead. So we did. Robban, my colleague and close friend, photographer, 100% entrepreneur and, above all, my partner in crime when it comes to creativity and general mischief, and I travelled to London with James. A destination chosen partly because of my never-ending Anglophilia and my younger years of repeated visits and getting down and dirty in the streets: Brick Lane, Portobello Road, Shoreditch, the East End, Bethnal Green, to name but a few. Late ’80s and early ’90s. Filterless and with plenty of self-confidence, we visited haute couture shops, the Sonos headquarters and smaller, newly established bazaars at the embryonic edge of the vintage trend. We looked, listened, talked, drank. Took it all in. And then, one night, we ended up on Carnaby Street in Soho. As if by chance, Liam Gallagher, founder of Pretty Green and, of course, frontman of Oasis, was launching a new collection in his shop at 57 Carnaby Street – Pretty Green’s first shop. ’60s-inspired, packed with Mods artefacts, a Lambretta Li 150 Series 3, two floors, whitewashed brickwork, black industrial windows. Music roaring from the speakers, invited guests, curious faces and security guards in black hoodies, arms folded and wearing hard stares. But, as you know, serendipity only exists if you seize the moment and keep an open mind. Somehow, we talked our way in. Perhaps it was the American accent, perhaps the eccentric, slightly authoritative confidence, or simply being the right people in the right place at the right time. Whatever it was, we were invited to the party. Free beer and a bloody lot of high-profile celebrities. And now comes the arc in my story. Gene Clark suddenly came pouring out of the speakers. In my state of looking straight into the kaleidoscope, beer splashed across my chest, swaying away in a red, grey and blue striped padded jacket, green army trousers and the obligatory boots, I felt on top of the world on the dance floor, right in front of the DJ’s Technics 1200s. So I walked over and asked him: “What are you playing now?” Given my interest in music, we quickly found common ground, and the record changed hands right there and then. No Other. I had absolutely no idea that this record had been waiting for me for almost forty years. Or that I would have to travel all the way to Carnaby Street and drink beer with Liam Gallagher’s guests to find it.
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Thin Lizzy - Thin Lizzy
The Friendly Ranger At Clontarf Castle streams out of the speakers and flows seamlessly into Honesty Is No Excuse, and I am completely stunned. I am sitting there, wedged into an Eighties sofa, surrounded by cushions, cheap wine, Marinella and fingers sticky with cheese puffs.“Can you play that again?” I say to Tommy. Tommy was from the small town of Habo, just outside Jönköping, and was into tennis, Thin Lizzy and Van Halen. We had met earlier that same year in Kristianstad, where we were doing our military service. The year was 1984. It was Friday night and we were excited after a long train journey back from our posting. Herreys were at the top of the Swedish charts, grating on our eardrums like a Eurovision-winning Swedish entry – three brothers dressed in dance-band outfits with brightly coloured tops. It definitely wasn't our thing. Our world wasn't filled with the gossip press's front pages or the covers of OKEJ magazine. I knew Thin Lizzy well enough, but I had never heard this first LP in its entirety before. The few songs and fragments I had picked up were minimal, mostly overheard on the radio. My focus was more towards post-punk, Pink Floyd and my musical god David Bowie. By then, my LP collection had already grown to a half-metre-high stack of records in this genre. I met Tommy again several years later. We talked about music, and he told me that he had developed an allergy to hops. A fate worse than death, he said – he loved beer... The LP is a blend of Irish folk rock with clear Celtic influences. Here you can hear Lynott's early songwriting, extraordinarily poetic and musically outstanding. Lynott also wrote poetry, which he published in book form alongside his music. Eric Bell was the band's sole guitarist, bringing his own tone and colours to the music. The absence of simple power chords is striking. Instead, it is all about creating atmosphere and nuance around Bell and Lynott's lyrics. I know I've said this before and taken some wallops for it, but I consider the first three LPs to be the most interesting. Precisely because of this combination, where the vocals almost seem to converse with the drums and guitar, in something akin to call and response. In my subjective opinion, there isn't a single second of a dip in this LP. Everything grabs your attention. Five out of five all the way through is my verdict. Perhaps that is precisely why it has now, these days, been reissued as a 50th Anniversary Edition. Share the music!
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Svart Ridå – APONIA
When the Curtain Goes Up, Svart Ridå, this three-stage rocket. Dressed like old men in white shirts, black trousers and shoes, and black ties, like The Blues Brothers. Perhaps completely off the wall to some people, but I think I get it. They are absolutely taking the piss out of patriarchy, touché and they do it so bloody well. “Take me seriously, for fuck’s sake, look how I conform,” while in reality it is one big: “Fuck you, I’ll do whatever I want.” On the outside, they stand there at Way Out West in their uniform, almost rigid appearance in stark contrast to their explosive and physical performance on stage. Svart Ridå absolutely stand out, and they have more than deserved all the positive attention they have received recently. And the way they play. Only three of them in the band, yet they sound like many more. They wear out the skins on the drum kit and shred the strings on bass and guitar, without it ever feeling forced or contrived. This is pure, unadulterated rock: guitar noise, improvisation, swinging arms, headbanging and powerful emotional outbursts delivered straight from the spine. I realise I’m stating the obvious when I say that this is a band who own the stage. The music is raw and played with incredible authority and confidence, on a level with the biggest bands of the 1990s. Like a reincarnation from a bygone era, they suddenly appear. The openings are heavy as lead, dystopian, frightening, direct, fearless, full of bloody-minded determination only to unfold into beautiful melancholy and deeply emotional storytelling the very next moment. There is Nirvana’s fragility, distortion and sudden explosion, attitude and attack, only to land moments later in that distinctly Swedish melancholy and emotional depth. We are thrown from the extremes of punk, down into dreamy Slowdive, through The Hives and Jeff Beck, before finally being lulled to sleep by Kent. Their performance and expression are so strong that they never need to shout for your attention. Instead, you suddenly find yourself standing there, swaying in a trance, mouth open and eyes fixed. They clang, they wail, they roar in unison, just like the very best. So come on, lads, come and have a look. All you bands full of blokes trying so bloody hard. Svart Ridå have already cracked it long before their death and before the curtain has even come down. And as for why I skipped half of my Way Out West headliner, Gorillaz: the LP APONIA is 100 per cent brilliant, just buy it. But as a live act, Svart Ridå make you tremble.
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David Bowie – Reality
David Bowie – Reality. Unlike last week’s LP, Silverhead, I remember exactly when I bought this record, Reality by David Bowie. It came after Heathen (2002), and Bowie was then going through a period of resurrection and a more down-to-earth phase. There may well be people out there who disagree with me, but to me this felt more like back to the roots, an art performance, and more like the period of 1976–77. A period which, in my opinion, is one of his very best, with Station to Station, Low and Heroes. This long period in between, starting in 1993 and lasting until 2002, felt to me as if I had lost my great hero from my younger years. From my 80s teenage years, with my Kermit-green DIY speakers, a Lenco 75 turntable and a 35-watt Marantz 1040 amplifier. When the spark was lit again for me, it was with Heathen. A little anecdote is that Bowie was actually in Gothenburg that year to promote Heathen. I still have the LP, but I never got it signed. The queue was long, stretching all the way down and past the Sjöfartsmuseum. So, on 15 September 2003, when Reality was released in Europe, I had it marked in my calendar. I bought the CD at Bengans in Gothenburg, too, and it landed straight in the glove compartment of my Golf. It wasn’t available as an LP, you see. About 20 days later, I became a father for the first time. My first daughter, eager and curious about the world, was born six weeks prematurely. She was due around Christmas Eve, but right then my life took a new turn. Bowie and I travelled back and forth to the neonatal unit. My entire focus was on my daughter, with Bowie soothing me into some kind of harmony. Reality received its share of criticism. Bowie had stopped trying to be the man who changed music and had instead become very good at simply being David Bowie. Everyone agreed that the album was well made. Many thought it was intelligent; some found it vague, with strange lyrics, a little pretentious, leaving the listener with a whole lot of questions. And that, in my opinion, is the most interesting thing about it. Like Low, it makes you think as you listen. The album demands your attention. Something new appears each time. It doesn’t get “worn out” by being played on repeat. It can quietly and happily sit there in the CD player of my white Volkswagen Golf, back and forth from work to the hospital, home again, and round and round. Reality is Bowie as a more mature version of himself: guitar-driven, dark, melodic and down-to-earth, with electronic veils and a distinct sense of reflection.
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Silverhead – Silverhead
I honestly can't remember when I bought Silverhead, but I'm fairly sure I picked it up at Satisfaction in Haga. Martin was probably behind the counter, while Claes was somewhere in the background, towel in hand, wiping the worst of the dust off one of the Arthur Lee & LOVE records. A special thought goes to Claes. He was the one who introduced me to LOVE. "Have you heard this album? It's brilliant." And just like that, Forever Changes changed hands. Full credit to Claes. He worked hard in the world of vinyl, surrounded by record sleeves, crates of LPs and a never-ending mountain of paperwork, until one day the air simply went out of him and his health finally gave way. Rest in peace, Claes, and thank you. But it isn't LOVE I'm here to talk about today. It's Silverhead – Silverhead, the band's debut album, packed with swagger, catchy riffs and a hefty dose of grit. Silverhead were one of those British bands who never quite achieved the success their music deserved. Fronted by the charismatic singer and actor Michael Des Barres, the band carried a unique energy. Throughout the album you can feel Michael's intensity, much in the same way Ozzy Osbourne's personality seems to come straight through the speakers. It's more than singing – it's a performance. In my mind the whole thing unfolds on the stage of a slightly dystopian, drug-fuelled former theatre, with cobwebs hanging from the scenery and torn plush seating scattered throughout the auditorium, now taken over by an obscure underground band playing to an ecstatic and heavily intoxicated audience. Perhaps it's the spirit of 1972, combined with the fact that Michael was, after all, an actor, that creates this feeling. Plenty of attitude, glam, blues and a blend of doomed hard rock. The music shifts from being gloriously rough, almost sloppy and gloriously ragged, as if it were recorded live, before suddenly turning sentimental and surprisingly delicate, as on the penultimate track on side one, Johnny. It's genuinely moving for about 95 percent of the song, only to almost throw it all away during the last few lines with some rather silly, inexplicable babbling. Even so, I can thoroughly recommend this LP. If you happen to come across a copy, it's still remarkably affordable, largely because Silverhead seem to have slipped beneath the radar of the wider record-buying public. Perhaps that's exactly why it still feels like one of those hidden gems that's worth sharing.
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