Tag Archives: Teenage Fanclub

The Darkest Part of the Night – Teenage Fanclub

It’s a bit of a cliche that an artist can be turning out excellent work – even their best work – long after everybody has stopped paying attention. An artist’s period as commercial or critical flavour of the month is short. Journalists are more or less obliged to keep finding new people and things to write about – to begin new cycles of hype generation, if you want to be a little cynical. Punters, meanwhile, find they’ve seen all the movies they want to starring this actor for a while, or they’ve heard all the songs they need by such and such an artist. Some artists may remain at the forefront of public consciousness longer than others, but they’re all subject to the same law of physics in the end. You can guess which.

This truism is just as true – perhaps more true – when dealing with the semi-popular, the quasi-obscure and the indie-famous as it is with genuine stars. Teenage Fanclub have never been a band my parents would have heard of, but they were – especially in the first half of the nineties – indie-famous in a way you probably have to have been there to properly appreciate now. Bandwagonesque in 1991 was cool, a fusion of the Byrds and My Bloody Valentine that no one else had put together in quite the same way, or pulled off quite as well.

Even by 1997, when I was began reading the UK’s music weeklies periodically, the critics and tastemakers had moved on. Before I ever heard the band, I had an impression of them as yesterday’s men – largely the result of one of David Stubbs’s Mr Agreeable columns in Melody Maker, in which he “reviewed” Ain’t that Enough, one of TF’s finest songs: “Ain’t that Enough? I’ll fucking say it is!” it began, and went on from there, accusing the band of making the same record over and over, while (gasp!) never having any proper hits.

Both of those last criticisms are true, but also irrelevant. Ain’t that Enough, heard without the performative cynicism of Mr Agreeable (which functioned as a sort of rock writer’s id, which Stubbs was surely intelligent enough to know as he was turning in his copy), is absolutely lovely, its sandblaster mastering job notwithstanding.*

That kind of critical response (not genuine hostility in truth, despite Stubbs’s column; more a sort of benign indifference) could have pretty much spelled the end for TF. Many bands would have decided that that was indeed enough, and gone on to solo careers at that point. But Teenage Fanclub never did stop, and as late as 2016’s Here, Gerard Love, Raymond McGinley and Norman Blake were still turning out tightly harmonised jangle pop as lovely as Blake’s The Darkest Part of the Night – for my money, the finest song any of the band’s members have so far written. No one knows when to the shift the harmony to the relative minor like Norman Blake.

All of which is to say that Teenage Fanclub’s new album, Endless Arcarde, has just come out. Gerard Love (author of Ain’t that Enough and many other minor classics) has now left the band, replaced by Dave McGowan (on bass, not as a writer), and former Gorkys Zygotic Mynci frontman Euros Childs is now TF’s keyboard player. But it’s heartening that they’re still out there, doing what they do. I’m looking forward to giving Endless Arcade a spin.

*Songs from Northern Britain came out on Creation the same year as Oasis’s Be Here Now. Label boss Alan McGee, deep in his cocaine megalomania phase, was not interested in subtlely at that point of his career, if indeed he had ever been.

My Secret Life – Redd Kross

The first for-real band I ever saw play a for-real gig on a for-real stage with a for-real PA in a for-real venue was Redd Kross in 1997 at the Astoria in London, supporting the Foo Fighters. They sounded fantastic. I’d never (literally) heard anything like it. I was 15 and I’d played a gig or two with the terrible high-school grunge band I played bass in, but that hadn’t prepared me for what a focused, tight and loud rock band on stage would sound like. They had loud guitars, bashing drums and glorious harmonies. Nostalgia may be playing a part in this assessment – and granted, 15-year-old me had nothing to compare it to – but still, their set remains one of the best I’ve seen by a support act.

That and a recommendation in (I think) the Melody Maker prompted me to go out and get their then single, My Secret Life.

Redd Kross was founded by brothers Jeff and Steve McDonald in 1982, and its first gig was supporting Black Flag. Probably because of their love of everything kitsch about the 1960s and ’70s, Redd Kross are sometimes left out or downplayed when the history of American punk is retold, but they were there and part of it almost from the start. On guitar in the band’s early days was Greg Hetson, later of the Circle Jerks and Bad Religion, and a virtual who’s who of LA punk would go on to pass through its ranks: Dez Cadena and Ron Reyes (both Black Flag), Vicki Peterson (the Bangles), Robert Hecker (It’s OK) and Jack Irons (Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers), to name a few.

My Secret Life was pretty far removed from the band’s on-stage sound, which mixed sugary harmonies with some seriously loud distorted guitars. My Secret Life is a big – huge – melodramatic ballad, with piano, acoustic guitar, tympani, Mellotron strings and the band’s trademark 3-part harmonies, a sort of updated Spector. Surprisingly grand for a band that spent most of its career celebrating everything low-brow and trashy about Californian teen culture.

It’s customary for a certain type of critic to point at a cult guitar band (those artists that take Big Star and Raspberries as the starting point for their sound) and say that they made “perfect pop music”. This sort of boosterism is usually misplaced. There’s always something that stopped those bands being as big as the Beatles were (or even as big as the Raspberries or Cheap Trick). Marshall Crenshaw was too gawky. The Posies started off too fey, then got too muscular. Jellyfish lacked a really great lead singer. Teenage Fanclub didn’t quite have the choruses. But any band can produce a perfect moment. That’s what’s so great about pop music. And when Redd Kross crash into that final chorus of My Secret Life – this time complete with tympani – and harmonise the word “life” over an unexpected F minor, it pretty much is a moment of pop perfection.

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Steve and Jeff McDonald from Redd Kross, in the studio, 1993

My Life is Right – Big Star

There are two ways to approach the music of Big Star these days. The first is through the rock-canon myth of the Unruly Genius of Alex Chilton, Big Star’s singer-songwriter. In that case, start with their third album Third (also known as Sister Lovers), released in 1975, and work back. This is the standard rock-critic take on the record:

To listen to it is to be plunged into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Songs are drenched in strings and sweet sentiment one minute, starkly played and downcast the next. No pop song has ever bottomed out more than Holocaust, an anguished plaint sung at a snail’s pace over discordant slide-guitar fragments and moaning cello.

Parke Putterbaugh, Rolling Stone

Here’s my take on Third. It’s a mess, and only a couple of songs reach the standards of the band’s best work. The myth of Alex Chilton the Unruly Genius is just that, a myth: in the early years of Big Star at least, Chilton was a disciplined craftsman, but that was an image he didn’t care to project (and besides, that image doesn’t appeal to jaded music critics). But it was Chilton the craftsman who gave us the Ballad of El Goodo, Give Me Another Chance, Thirteen and Watch the Sunrise, all of which are absolute classics of their type. Songs like Ballad of El Goodo don’t happen without work. A lot of it.

Which brings us to the other way to approach them: through the first album, #1 Record, from 1972. This is the one that the Posies, Teenage Fanclub, Matthew Sweet, the Bangles and Elliott Smith owed so much to. This is the one that first made cool the idea of mixing 1965-era Beatles-style songwriting with big drums and guitars that were jangly, but loud, with an edge to them, guitars so sparkly they’re almost harsh. This version of Big Star were responsible for the lion’s share of the band’s enduring songs.

This version of Big Star had two singer-songwriters, and it was the push and pull between Chilton and Chris Bell, author of My Life is Right, that made #1 Record such a fine record. Without Bell to bounce off and to provide nearly half the songs, Chilton struggled to pull together enough strong material for a whole album. Bell shared Chilton’s Beatles obsession, but was a more damaged, less hedonistic, individual. Depressed by the commercial failure of #1 Record, dependent on heroin and, it has often been said, conflicted about his sexuality, he seemed destined for a bad end.

He met it, at the wheel of a Triumph TR-7.

He cut a classic single after leaving Big Star (I Am the Cosmos/You and Your Sister), which is  known to later generations though This Mortal Coil’s cover of the B-side (with vocals by Kim Deal and Tanya Donelly) and the inumerable covers of I Am the Cosmos. But not enough people talk about how great his contributions to #1 Record are: his vocal on Don’t Lie to Me is the album’s most startlingly aggressive moment; Try Again is a beautiful, weary song, beaten down but ready to start over, refusing to give in; My Life is Right is his most joyful song, and maybe the band’s. There’s nothing more grin-inducing than Chilton and Bell straining to hit their high notes on the line “You are my day” in the chorus while drummer Jody Stephens plays bubbling triplet fills on his snare and rack toms. And what a great drummer Stephens is – I could write a book!

I can’t recommend #1 Record highly enough. Radio City and Third/Sister Lovers certainly have their moments, but for me they’re the work of another, inferior, band. The first version of the group were less mythic, but a lot more consistently rewarding.

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Alex Chilton, Chris Bell