Tag Archives: C86

At the Lost & Found – Marine Research

I saw Marine Research play at the Garage in Highbury, London, in 1999, promoting their one and only album, Songs from the Gulf Stream. They were, along with Joy Zipper, supporting Quasi, who were just about to release Field Studies. It was one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to: total indie-pop heaven.

At the time I didn’t know anything about them, and it was some while before I was able to piece any of the story together (this is pre-internet, remember). The band had its roots in a twee-pop group from Oxford in the 1980s called Talulah Gosh, a sort of English Beat Happening, with the dungarees, hairslides, lollipops and let’s-do-the-show-right-here enthusiasm that has  always been and remains the hallmark of twee-pop bands the world over. However, the affectations and faux-naivety that make, say, Beat Happening’s Calvin Johnson insufferable were strong in the Gosh, too, so they were divisive among music writers and fans. This sort of music always was; as many people were embarrassed by C86 as embraced it.

Talulah Gosh ran its course and in late 1989 the core of the band reconvened, this time calling themselves Heavenly, singer Amelia Fletcher and her colleagues dropping their rather precious stage names (she had been “Marigold”; Turner Prize-winning artist Elizabeth Price was “Pebbles”; Fletcher’s drummer brother Matthew was “Fat Matt”). While still apt to annoy music fans who want overt and easily understood shows of rock’n’roll rebellion, Heavenly demonstrated noticeably improved instrumental abilities, and were no longer the most shambolic live band in Britain. And if their music was still not ambitious for itself in the manner of the Manchester bands of the same era (or a few years later bands like Blur and Suede), the idea that this stuff might appeal to a wider group than anorak-wearing Peel listeners no longer seemed utterly fanciful.

Sadly Heavenly came to an abrupt end after Matthew Fletcher killed himself in 1996. He was only 25. Heavenly decided to call it a day. But they would reform once again, a couple of years later, as Marine Research, and with their new drummer they completed their evolution from indie shambles to surprisingly spiky guitar-pop band.

They only made one record, Sounds from the Gulf Stream, in 1999. It was a low-key, low-stakes kind of record (indie pop released on K Records is low-stakes almost by definition), but it was lyrically darker than Heavenly’s work had been, with a little bit of added aggression and a lot of very adult ambivalence about the world and relationships. Take At the Lost & Found, where’s the singer is caught between affection and disdain for someone she thinks she recognises from her past, and Fletcher imbues the final chorus with something not far from desperation:

I watch your shadow and think
Oh please, oh please
I watch your shadow that talks
And laughs and bleeds
You hunch your shoulders
And I’m weak at knees
At the lost and found

This was grown-up territory that Marine Research were now playing in. Venn Diagram and Chucking Out Time lived in the same place. All three are great, and Sounds from the Gulf Stream was an underappreciated little gem of a record.

Surprisingly for a band who, even in their mature work, were on the naive and childlike end of indie, away from the band they’ve all had suprisingly high-powered careers. Amelia Fletcher (or rather Dr Amelia Fletcher OBE) is a former head economist at the Office of Fair Trading, guitarist Peter Momtchiloff is in the philosophy department of the Oxford University Press, and keyboard player Cathy Rogers was once on TV every week presenting Scrapheap Challenge, before going to the US to present the American version with Henry Rollins (she devised and produced both shows, having previously worked on science shows like Horizon). She later packed in TV entirely and now owns an olive farm with her husband. Talulah Gosh co-vocalist Elizabeth Price (“Pebbles”, remember) won the Turner Prize a few years ago, and was last seen hammering the Tories in the press over cuts in arts funding.

Theirs has been a strange but rather inspiring group of careers.

mr pic

Marine Research, 1999 – Yes, this is the only picture I could find of the band

Recent home-recorded indie soft-of pop

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Coast is Clear – Curve

Bands, all bands, have context. Curve’s context is not the plants and refineries of Grangemouth, like the Cocteau Twins, or the low-achieving, living-in-penury, C86 world of My Bloody Valentine. Curve’s context is Dave Stewart and Annie Lennox

The Eurythmics were not cool in 1990 when Curve formed. They weren’t cool when Stewart was making cheesy-listening smooth-jazz/pop crossover hits with Candy Dulfer. They weren’t cool when Lennox decided to measure herself against Aretha Franklin and didn’t even have the humility to find herself wanting. If they had, briefly, been cool, five minutes either side of releasing Sweet Dreams in 1983, they had already fallen from cool by the time they hired a bass player called Dean Garcia for their live band, later the same year.

Garcia hung in with his insufferable bandmates until Stewart introduced him to a young singer called Toni Halliday in 1985. They formed a duo called State of Play, playing post-New Pop, synthesiser-based pop music, with huge programmed drums and funk-influenced rhythm guitars. Their music lacked much in the way of spark or originality, and its grim, joyless efficiency (learned at the feet of Lennox and Stewart, no doubt) failed to find an audience.

Halliday – ambitious, photogenic and, truth to tell, a bit of a chancer – then went for it a second time, now as a solo artist. Her solo album was in the mould of Roxette and post-Go-Gos Belinda Carlisle – huge drums (again), pop-rock guitars with the odd squeally metal solo, and big harmonies in the choruses. It was a better example of its type than State of Play, but again, it sank without trace. At this point, probably no one in popular music was carrying more baggage than Toni Halliday.

In one of the most enormous stylistic about-turns in pop history, Halliday once again hooked up with Dean Garcia, this time as Curve. Their guitars were loud, the vocals were mixed low, the drum loops were obvious. They were a shoegaze band.

Shoegaze was an easy bandwagon to jump on, an easy sound to adopt, and Curve were pros. All they needed to do was stand still, look down at their feet, appear somewhat ill at ease, and play tremendously loud. Halliday and Garcia had been around the block a few times each, they had contacts and by now they knew what they were doing in the studio and on stage, so the this shoegaze thing was almost too easy. They welded furious guitar noise to oddly insistent melodies, unlike their contemporaries (Slowdive for instance), many of whose songs are so evanescent they practically fade away while you listen to them. Perhaps they adopted their new sound too studiously. Maybe they’d have been bigger if they’d dialled back the guitars a bit – listening to the chorus of Coast is Clear is like listening to music in a wind tunnel, particularly in its viciously over-compressed remastered form. As it was, they stayed a cult act, best remembered for doing pretty much everything Garbage ever did, five or six years before the latter act formed. By that time, Curve themselves were chasing the big-beat trend, leaving behind the wind-tunnel guitars in favour of an aggressive rock-dance hybrid, as in thrall to Nine Inch Nails and the Chemical Brothers as My Bloody Valentine.

Never respected in the music press, who knew all about Halliday’s big-hair period and Garcia’s Eurythmy, Curve nevertheless received an after-the-event blessing from the King of the Jazzmaster himself – Kevin Shields – who played on their mid-noughties comeback album, when they returned to guitar-led shoegazing. Garcia (now in his mid-fifties) can’t leave it alone – he’s in a shoegaze/electronic duo with Halliday’s daughter, Rose Berlin (less vixenish than Halliday, perhaps, but very obviously her mother’s daughter). I don’t know if that’s sweet or creepy.

curve