V&B Hall Of Fame Part 6
Pop quiz:
Who were Dexy’s Midnight Runners?
a) Forgotten 80s one hit wonders that briefly made a splash stateside with some dubious fashion choices and the celtic-inspired new pop song “Come On Eileen.” Essentially, Nena in overalls.
b) A once white hot English band that scored eight Top 20 songs in the UK and began making headway in the US before flaming out and falling off the radar completely.
c) One of the most compelling bands in the history of pop music, releasing three drastically different, uniformly excellent albums that hold up to this day, despite popular opinion.
d) All the above.
Depending on what continent you live on, it would be understandable to have selected any one of those answers, but the answer is really D. Your opinion of Dexy’s essentially depends on your knowledge of them. The more you know and the more you hear, the more you like.
The Dexy’s Midnight Runners story leading up to their final album, 1985’s Don’t Stand Me Down, is a complicated one, with various band line-up changes, aesthetic alterations both sonically and aesthetically and a whole lot of self-inflicted career-hindering.
A quick backgrounder goes like this: Dexy’s began with Kevin Rowland and Kevin “Al” Archer in 1978, picking up a handful of horn players and releasing a single a year later that would crack the UK Top 40. The band’s second single, “Geno,” did even better, shooting to No. 1 and giving the band a centerpiece for their first album, 1980’s Searching For The Young Soul Rebels, a scorching (almost angry) blue-eyed soul hit packed to the brim with killer songs. After a couple more hit tracks, de facto leader Rowland opted to release some less commercially viable singles, causing many band members to leave the band in protest of Rowland’s leadership.
A second group was compiled (known as the Projected Passion Revue), releasing a couple of hit singles and then another flop. Once again, the band disbanded and Rowland was back to the drawing board. Looking for new band members, Rowland decided to totally overhaul the sound of Dexy’s Midnight Runners by trading in the piping horn section for violins (for the most part, some of the horn section remained) – out went the angry young man’s version of blue-eyed soul, in came a peppy celtic sound. The resulting album was Too-Rye-Ay, which arrived on the scene in 1982 to mild success until second single “Come On Eileen” blew up on an international scale, making Dexy’s one of the most popular bands in the world. And then…?
Well, as the band’s history had shown, Rowland was maybe not the most popular bandleader, often being accused of obsessive and dictator-like behavior. The story kind of repeats itself – rifts between Rowland and the rest of the band forced Dexy’s to whittle down to only Rowland, guitarist Billy Adams and violinist Helen O’Hara, a pretty small group considering the fact that the group had ballooned to the double digits in the past.
Rowland and co. re-entered the studio for Don’t Stand Me Down, but once again the group’s leader seemed eager for a stylistic shift. First, the band, once decked in Mean Streets attire and then in a sort of celtic hobo attire (the “Come On Eileen” overalls), opted to shed the gypsy look in favor of a clean-cut combination of ties, pin-striped suits and neatly trimmed hair. The album took over a year-and-a-half to complete with its budget ballooning to exorbitant levels. Don’t Stand Me Down had to do really well to re-coup costs. It didn’t do well. At all. While image was a big aspect of the overall Dexy’s experience, it was the tonal shift that was most jarring. Rowland added a heavy piano rock element to the band’s overall sound, but he also made some additions that virtually guaranteed failure.
While the album was seven tracks long (a re-released “Director’s Cut” adds an eighth), there’s not a lot “song” going on, with many of the tracks sounding like extended intros, peppered with mumbled, barely audible conversations instead of proper verses and more codas and middle eighths than actual verses and choruses.
In an effort to be even more difficult, Rowland refused to release a single for the album, emphasizing that the album had to be heard in its entirety. Ultimately, Mercury Records decided to go ahead and issue a song to the public anyway – an abridged version of the 12-minute “This Is What She’s Like,” an epic track that is almost entirely comprised of leitmotifs and mumbled asides (a sample line: “You’re familiar with the scum from Notting Hill and Moseley, The CND? / Sure / They describe nice things as wonderful / She would never say that / She’s totally different in every way” – catchy). While Rowland’s ship-steering would understandably piss off any label, it turns out he was right – Don’t Stand Me Down was about the least populist pop album in the universe. Critics unanimously panned it after its release, leading to the immediate dissolution of Dexy’s Midnight Runners and several years of coke-binging for Rowland.
But that don’t mean it stinks. Don’t Stand Me Down is a tricky little album, but after a handful of listens it really begins to sink in as a terrifically madcap ramp through the mind of a talented, but ridiculously self-indulgent malcontent. This is an angry album and almost every lyric is filled with venomous outwardly expressed hatred that perhaps gives us a greater glimpse into Rowland’s own insecurities. He may spend a good amount of the album lashing out against the British upper class and the like, but there’s a good sense of self-loathing that permeates the whole affair.
Six of the eight songs extend pass the five-minute mark, making the album slightly overlong, but infinitely rewarding. If you can dig deep with Don’t Stand Me Down, it could easily become a favorite.
First off, the album sounds immaculate. Made in 1985, it would be easy for the album to risk sounding dated (even the best albums from the decade sound slightly dated), but all that extra time and money put in give Don’t Stand Me Down a shimmering sound that has been compared to Pet Sounds (not necessarily the songs, but the production). If nothing else, the album sounds great.
Aside: the “Director’s Cut” of Don’t Stand Me Down, released in 2002, includes a different cover, an additional song (album opener “Kevin Rowland’s 13th Time”) and a couple of revised song titles (“Knowledge of Beauty” becomes “My National Pride,” “Listen To This” becomes “I Love You (Listen To This)”). Like most Director’s Cuts in film, this one is a little longer and a little better, but not vastly different.
“Kevin Rowland’s 13th Time” kicks things off with Rowland’s warbling voice careening all over a jaunty barroom bounce (lots of piano, horn stabs, violin interludes and a subtle but tasty guitar lick sliding in from time to time. The song is punchy and cocksure, but then Rowland closes the proceedings with a spoken word non-joke joke (“You ever hear the one about the, um, the middle class idiots who sorta spend all their time analyzing their own emotions, and writin’ bullshit poetry you know, that we’re supposed to read? I mean, as if we’re fuckin’ interested.” Ha?). It’s a pretty good indication of what’s to come as “The Occasional Flicker” whimpers in with a barely audible vamp before the drums kick in and Rowland powers through with one of the album’s more sturdy verses. The song shimmies into a big, repetitive chorus (the first of many on the album) full of smooth horns and a bluesy piano. For the second verse, however, Rowland begins to abandon the melody, opting to riff in a sort of speak-sing that gives a nice overview of the singer’s neuroses and paranoia (“You could say I’m a bitter man / I would a agree / I think this is true / I will remain so until I know more than those who know more than I do”). The verse then turns into a mostly mumbled conversation between Rowland and Adams about a burning sensation that the singer remembers experiencing. Throughout all of this gibberish, the band continues to vamp – and what a vamp it is! Lasting for well over half the song’s nearly six-minute run time, the band (big horns, rollicking piano and an ultra-precise rhythm section that are, for the most part, made up of session musicians – Rowland’s perfectionism and use of session men is only bested by Brian Wilson and Donald Fagan), keeps the song interesting, but it’s perplexing why Rowland kind of gives up half way through his second verse and never returns to a chorus. It’s a confounding and frustrating move, but no doubt an entertaining listen.
Even more audience-unfriendly is “This Is What She’s Like,” which opens with a two-minute, non-accompanied conversation between Rowland and Adams (what they’re talking about is almost impossible to decipher, the album is well-served by a lyric sheet). The song eventually kicks in in a satisfying way, with the band bursting through Rowland’s meandering a cappella. Rowland, whose vocal styling can be heard today in the likes of Justin Hawkins and Ted Leo, sparkles and shines throughout the song, despite intermittent conversational asides. After the near-silent opening, the song moves along smoothly and with a good degree of commercial viability before the band pulls back at the halfway point (about six minutes in!), with just the piano and some lovely “oohs” filling in the cracks. A funky bass line pops in with a some organ and electric guitar touches before the song crashes back in with some sunburst Beach Boys harmonies. It’s a lovely minute-and-a-half sidebar and one of the keys to the album’s charms – little, easy-to-forget moments given the same kind of compositional care as the meat of the song. “This Is What She’s Like” is packed to the brim different sounds and ideas, but it’s this little breather that ensures its excellence. Before long the beat picks up and Rowland takes the lead vocal duties back before the song completely stops on a dime once more. Enter pulsing strings and bass, with a liquid keyboard just barely peaking over the surface – another little moment of grace and beauty. But it’s soon back to the main theme as Rowland gives a Springsteenesque four count and the band (with a whole lot of bouncing piano) kicking into high-gear. Rowland and Adams go back to mumbling to each other in between bouts of vocal gymnastics from Rowland while the band vamps and vamps and vamps the song to a fade out. At 12-and-a-half minutes, the song is undoubtedly Don’t Stand Me Down’s centerpiece and a fair representation of the album at large – frustratingly indulgent and muted conversations (like a Robert Altman film), over a bright and shining new pop vamp, with brief reprieves of gorgeous subtlety.
Personally, I like “My National Pride” the best, as Rowland quietly and indecipherably muses on his national heritage (this album really works best with the lyrics in hand) while the band plays countrified gospel. Hardly mawkish, “My National Pride” is almost inspiring as Rowland sings about pride in his identity and upbringing. O’Hara is given a lovely violin solo about two-thirds in that soon collides with a lap-steel. It’s one of the more refined instrumental moments on an album full of them. The song closes with a big crescendo accentuated by saxophone bleats and Rowland repeating the phrase “I look back where I came from.” At the song’s peak, Rowland diverts from the lyrics when he happens upon his realization: “My national pride is a personal pride.”
“My National Pride”
Of course, that pride only lasts so long as Rowland converts his heritage-based epiphany into something for more xenophobic on “One Of Those Things.” Built on a beat and chord-progression directly lifted from Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves Of London” (in fact, Zevon was successful in his litigation against Rowland for, well, stealing his work), “One Of Those Things” is perhaps the album’s jauntiest track, with thick organ swells, a grungy chicken scratch guitar, manic violin, a heavy dose of cowbell and, of course, lots of buoyant piano. Once again, Rowland and Adams are mumbling back and forth to each other about Rowland’s interactions with other’s. Here’s a sample transcript:
Rowland: Anyway, so I started asking around, you know.
I started making a few inquiries,
just putting out a few feelers.
Adams:
Yeah?
Rowland: Yeah.
I had a word with a couple of so-called socialists on my way and during the course of our conversation
I put to them a question. I said:
”How do you feel about Ireland?”
Adams: Ireland?
Rowland: Yeah, Ireland.
That place, it’s just across the sea. They said:
”We’re for Sandinista, Cuba’s Militia,
The P L O, M.P.L.A, Afghanistan and Babylon”
and on and on and on.
And I said: “Alright, alright, but what do you think about Belfast?”
Adams: And what did they say?
Rowland: Well, their replies were various
but they all had one thing in common.
Adams: And what was that?
Rowland: They all sounded the same.
OK, so it’s a little, um, weird, but it all kind of works with such a punchy backing group.
“One Of Those Things”
Don’t Stand Me Down takes a bit of a breather with “Reminisce (Part Two)” and “I Love You (Listen To This),” the album’s only tracks shorter than five minutes. The former track sees Rowland doing a little spoken word recalling his favorite music from his youth, not only name-checking the music of his youth (The Kinks, John Denver), but actually mimicking their melodies (listen to the loungy piano throw in a little “Lola” when Rowland mentions the song – it’s a nice touch). It’s a comparatively restrained piece, but it’s charms resonate.
“I Love You” is more driving with a propulsive bass rumble that grounds the rest of the song. Rowland’s singing gets a bit pitchy on the verses, but this song would have made far more since as an early single than the endless “This Is What She’s Like.”
The album ends with “The Waltz,” which is pretty much exactly that. The song is quite possibly the most melodically strong song on the album, with Rowland showing a bit more range (who knew he could sing so low?) and the back-up singers providing a subtle but affecting hook. Like the other longer tracks on this album, “The Waltz” is an exercise in building and relaxing momentum – starting with a mournful violin strain and closing with a totally pumped horn section blasting out a tight riff. In between there are some crescendos and decrescendos, with the song alternating between lounge, Irish folk, country and Memphis soul. There’s comparatively less spoken word on this track (although Rowland kind of does a speak-sing hybrid that makes it difficult to tell the difference) making it another easier entry point for the album itself.
There’s a lot going on during Don’t Stand Me Down’s near hour-long run time – lots of sounds, ideas, genres and throwaway moments to latch on to. It’s a bit of a puzzle, this record. Passive listening can yield very little in terms of satisfying results, which perhaps explains the ridiculously cool reception it received upon its initial release. But give the album a few listens – really listen to it: sit down, open the liner notes and listen to it – and you’ll begin to realize that the album is simply bursting at the seems with terrific ideas, pristine sounds and captivating songs.
So is this the place to start if you’re new to Dexy’s? Probably not. All three of there albums are terrific in their own way, but Don’t Stand Me Down is easily the most confounding entry point. You can’t do much wrong by starting with either Searching For The Young Soul Rebels or Too-Rye-Ay. Searching probably still holds up as the best Dexy’s album, chock-full of great tracks and nary a moment of filler, while Too-Rye-Ay always has the fallback of “Come On Eileen.” But once you’ve digested those two great records, Don’t Stand Me Down will be waiting there, offering you the chance to bite off way more than you can chew.