1997 Spice Girls: Too Much

Too much? Of a good thing? After six singles and six number ones then maybe - whilst you could never be 100% certain what you were going to get from the Spices, they never took you down the road less travelled. And whatever genre the girls dabbled in, their output always displayed a lightness of touch that didn't come structured by girders or fuelled by diesel. Despite the oh so serious cover shot 'Too Much' doesn't buck that trend. In fact, it spreads its vaguely R&B, vaguely doo wop, vaguely American influences way too thinly over a song that's all chorus with precious little in-between. And when the pastry is rolled so paper thin then the whole pie crumbles way before it gets to your mouth. For once the girls provide at least a semblance of distinction in their vocals to keeps the interest levels up, and a certain in-built catchiness doesn't hurt either, but ultimately 'Too Much' belies its title and serves up anorexic flim flam that needs a damn good feed.

1997 Teletubbies: Teletubbies Say Eh-Oh!

Being the seventies child that I am, I'm always quick to refer to 'my' era of children's television as being a 'golden' one, a vision of Arcadia before the Goths and the Vandals breached its walls, sacked its buildings and laid waste to its gardens (I'm looking at you Timmy Mallet). In other words, a benchmarking of quality to which all others should aspire and inevitably fall short; was 'Going Live' better than 'Tiswas'? I think not, but then I would say that wouldn't I?

Teletubbies were a late nineties BBC television show aimed at young children that featured four primary coloured, baby faced, non human characters with a TV built into their chest and an antenna on their heads (that's them on the cover). These are facts that I've gleaned via simply 'being around' when the show first aired; I can hold my hands up and say that I've never actually seen a single episode in my life. In fairness to me, it's hard (and not a little bit creepy) to keep up with children's week day television when you're an adult in full time employment with no kids of your own and so it's fair to assume that the people behind the show didn't have people like me in mind as their target audience.

So on those terms at least, I'm carrying too many years to credibly provide any meaningful comment on a song that derived from that very show. And yes, before you start, I'm quite aware that the people behind some of the singles I've merrily slagged off down the years could make exactly the same claim about their wares too, but as 'Teletubbies Say "Eh-Oh!"' is basically an extended version of the theme to a show aimed specifically at pre-school children then I think I'm justified in placing it outside any of the interconnecting circles of the popular music Venn Diagram.

Ah, but even though I was too old to appreciate the Teletubbies at their peak, I was most definitely at the right age in the seventies to appreciate The Wombles when they were at theirs. And it's through clear memory rather than the warm valves of nostalgic glow that I remember how much pleasure 'The Wombling Song' theme tune single gave me when I was given it as a birthday present in 1974. Can I now be so curmudgeonly as to in any way criticise a song that would probably have given the nineties version of me the same level of enjoyment and treasure trove of memories? I think not. So I'm not going to.*


* The nostalgia supremacist in me is dying to point out that Mike Batt's Wombles tune was a 'proper' song with an iconic clarinet riff worthy of Benny Goodman and a tune that could be both be enjoyed in its own right and have carried any set of lyrics whereas, in comparison, 'Teletubbies Say "Eh-Oh!"' is a thirty second indent stretched by repetition alone into single length until it makes my teeth buzz the way they do whenever I eat too much chocolate. Lucky I'm not so petty and culturally insecure to do that eh?

1997 Various Artists: Perfect Day

It hasn't escaped my attention that the volume of number ones per year has been steadily increasing. In past decades, a tally of eighteen would have made for a busy year but right now it feels like I've been slogging through 1997 forever and it's not over yet. There will be worse to come too. I don't believe that this is because there are significantly more singles being released than in the past; rather, aggressive marketing and promotion of multi pack formats by the record companies resulted in a spate of songs rocketing out of the traps to the top in the first week of release only to drop out of sight completely by the fourth when momentum fizzled out.

It all made for a choppy looking chart where flavour of the month recordings came and went in a brave new world where the slow, steady climb to the top was, like vinyl, becoming a thing of the past. In a further unwelcome development, where a number one was once regarded as the pinnacle of achievement, heavily promoted artists and their songs were now being regarded as some kind of failure if they only managed a lowly number three placing. How times change.

If you're going for a heavy marketing push in the UK though, then there's no better medium than the ubiquitous BBC. The only fly in the ointment with that is, being financed by a licence fee, the Corporation is by and large advertising free. The rules aren't so stringent when it comes to blowing their own trumpet though - 'Perfect Day' is a cover of Lou Reed's 1972 album track by an impressive roster of star names, the main purpose being to promote/celebrate the diversity of the BBC’s output but with a (not that) subliminal message in the accompanying film that encouraged us all to pay our licence fees.

Whilst it undeniably gives me no small frisson of pleasure to see a Reed song (and the man himself - he sings the opening and closing lines) at number one, the product as a whole is only more or less successful depending on what side of the face you take its value on. In its function of self promotion then I've no doubt that it worked well, but I can only take it on terms of my brief and on that level the recording in front of me is less successful. Reed's original was a meditative confessional soaked in barely disguised self loathing ("You made me forget myself, I thought I was someone else. Someone good") and ambiguous menace ("You're going to reap just what you sow") - Reed is glad of his day but a character flaw stops him from enjoying the moment as much as he should have. It gave the song an air of tragic inevitability that fitted the edgy, faded glam of its parent 'Transformer' album to a T (and also used to good effect on the drug overdose/hallucination scene in the 1996 film ‘Trainspotting’).

The current recording is a bi-polar affair split along an axis of those who know the song and are out to do it justice (Bowie, Brett Anderson etc) and those who seem less familiar and sanitise it as a thing of uplifting joy (Heather Small, Lesley Garrett etc ). And by bouncing from style to style like a damaged pinball (the turns by and large take a line each), it makes for a choppy take and an awkward listen that's a microcosm of the crudely eclectic charts it inhabits. Nothing here fits with dovetail smoothness and the crude joins are glued in place by Reed's melody that remains largely unchanged from the original. Which makes this 'Perfect Day' little more than highly professional karaoke and the only verdict I can offer is to roll my eyes and wonder why anybody would want to go to the trouble of owning a copy. Other than to bask in the self satisfaction of knowing all proceeds went to that year's Children In Need appeal. Obviously.

1997 Aqua: Barbie Girl

More of that Eurodance stuff, this time a Denmark/Norway hybrid. Whilst most tracks of this ilk come with a 'well at least it's fun' caveat, I can't find much to enjoy in the Zebedee bounce and cartoon grin that 'Barbie Girl' injects straight into my eyeball. No, like a ringtone from Hades 'Barbie Girl' pulsates with a hard wired annoyance that's aided and abetted by Lene Nystrøm's helium soaked, toy like vocal that's too pleased with itself by half. True the "I'm a Barbie girl in the Barbie world. Life in plastic, it's fantastic" offers a veneer of satire that in part excuses its relentless repetition and lifts it out of itself to a degree, but let's not kid ourselves that we're dealing with Rabelais here, and with a message so vague, it's questionable as to who the dig is aimed at (or if it even is a dig in the first place). 'Barbie Girl' is as chunky and primary coloured as stickle bricks; fine for small hands, but of limited appeal to anybody old enough to find the idea of scoffing a five pound bag of sherbet at one sitting nauseating. Very limited.

1997 Spice Girls: Spice Up Your Life

Lead off single from their forthcoming new album and film, 'Spice Up Your Life' also acts as a precursor to the short-lived yet highly visible pop fad for all things Latin that would invade the charts in the late(er) nineties. A generic dervish of flab free salsa, samba, tango & mambo rhythms, 'Spice Up Your Life' zips along at a fair crack, but its velocity is such that the girls' vocals struggle to cling on for the ride. The "Colours of the world" shout out is a clumsy brake from Scary Spice to try and stamp some order, but their identity as a whole gets washed into anonymity by the slipstream until only the shameless, self referencing of the title remains - this could be the work off N. E. Girl Band, which surely isn't what it says in the Spice Girls constitution. All of which goes to make 'Spice Up Your Life' a cardboard camera of a song; it provides workable, functional holiday snaps but, ultimately, it's quite disposable.

1997 Elton John: Candle In The Wind '97/Something About The Way You Look Tonight

"Oh what a circus! Oh what a show!
Argentina has gone to town
Over the death of an actress called Eva
Peron"

Not a lyric from any version of 'Candle In The Wind' but the opening lines to 'Oh What A Circus' from Lloyd Webber's 'Evita' (sung in the musical by Che Guevara no less). And circus is right - on August 31 of this year, a car carrying Diana, Princess of Wales crashed in a Parisian road tunnel, claiming the life of both her and her boyfriend. For anyone so young to lose their lives in such a way is a sad event, but the crash itself was small beer compared to the media feeding frenzy that exploded the next day - Mr Guevara again:

"We've all gone crazy
Mourning all day and mourning all night
Falling over ourselves to get all of the misery right"

As one who was there I can report that this was bang on the money. Crazy? Oh yes - in the days that followed it became a virtual act of treason to be spotted in public without red eyes and your face not buried in a soaking hankie. The tsunami of grief that poured out over the death of the 'people's princess' bordered on mass hysteria amongst a large section of the populace who had never so much as breathed the same air as the one time Lady Di, egged on by a media high on the euphoria of misery and keen to document every single second of it.

Age was no factor, both the very young, very old and those at all stages in-between were caught up in a web of personal anguish that left normally rational people almost totally incapacitated. There they were on the news bulletins every night, gathered outside places of Diana significance clutching armfuls of flowers and cuddly toys and standing in either silent prayer or wailing like the damned. Had Che made his comments above within earshot then like as not he'd have been strung from the nearest beam stout enough to bear his weight. A strange few days, I can truly say that I've never experienced anything like it before in my life and hope never to again.

Of course, a commerative song was inevitable, but whist my money at the time was on an all star ensemble, long time Diana friend Elton John stepped up to the plate with a re-working of his own 'Candle In The Wind'.* It's easy enough to see why; John's "And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind" is a strong metaphor and one that could be utilised to equal effect on the Princess as it did on its original recipient Marilyn Monroe (there's also a certain neat symmetry between the two in that both were glamorous icons dead at thirty six after a troubled life lived mostly in public under the glare of a spotlight they weren't equipped to deal with). What couldn't be recycled though were the Monroe specific words from fanboy lyricist Bernie Taupin ("I would've liked to know you, but I was just a kid") who duly re-wrote them to be context specific. And it's where the whole enterprise becomes unstuck. But let Che have his say first:

"But who is this Santa Evita?
Why all this howling hysterical sorrow?
What kind of goddess has lived among us?
How will we ever get by without her?"

Tim Rice's lyric is sarcastic, sardonic and Guevara is taking the piss. Unfortunately, Elton isn't, and this 'Candle In The Wind' provides the answers to Che's hypothetical questions -"Goodbye England's rose. May you ever grow in our hearts, you were the grace that placed itself where lives were torn apart. You called out to our country, and you whispered to those in pain. Now you belong to heaven, and the stars spell out your name"

Which isn't exactly the image I had of Diana whilst she was alive, but he goes on: "Loveliness we've lost. These empty days without your smile, this torch we'll always carry for our nation's golden child". And it's this myth making image, block boarded in greetings card platitudes of a soft focus Diana romping through the fields of Albion's green and pleasant land as a Christ-like figure amongst her followers that grates in its slack jawed solemn sincerity. Manna to the believers of course, but it's why this 'Candle In The Wind' isn't a 'pop single' per se any more than the 'Dunblane' single was. What it is is little more than a funeral souvenir for the emotionally deluded to buy and line up alongside the commerative plate, the tea towel, the mug etc as a solid, artefact of vicarious grief that grants them an access point to a nominally closed off world and lets them objectify their misery (or, as Che sang, "So share my glory, so share my coffin") so that, for a few days at least, they can confirm the fact that they're still alive.

Elton sings it from the heart as any friend would, but I'm afraid the "From a country lost without your soul who'll miss the wings of your compassion" never spoke for me and had no business even pretending it did, and the whole cult of personality reverence left me with the same bemusement that Che felt about Eva Peron's passing (in the song natch). A curious thing too is that for all its ten million plus sales, I have never met anybody who actually owned up to buying this. Neither can I say that I'd ever care to, but I'll leave the last word on this to Mr Guevara :

"Oh what an exit! That's how to go!
When they're ringing your curtain down
Demand to be buried like Eva Peron
It's quite a sunset
And good for the country in a roundabout way
We've made the front page of all the world's papers today"

Ah but that's not the end of the story here - 'Candle In The Wind' was a double A sided disc of death with Elton's 'Something About The Way You Look Tonight', a song dedicated to Gianni Verscae who was murdered earlier that year. Being only dedicated and not person specific, 'Something' is all the more palatable but this was still Elton John by numbers, a piano led ballad that could have been culled from any point in his post 1975-ish career that relies on John's trademark solemn sincerity to breath some emotion into Taupin's clunky lyric ("I need to tell you how you light up every second of the day. But in the moonlight you just shine like a beacon on the bay"). But this would only ever have been a PS for British fans who had more than enough grief to be going on with on the other side.


* Elton of course had previous in this field and I think someone missed a trick here - if he'd released this as an EP with his earlier 'Funeral For A Friend', 'Song For Guy' (written in memory of Elton's dead motorbike courier Guy Burchett) and 'Kiss The Bride' then he could have marketed it as 'The Four Funerals And A Wedding EP'. But I'm being flippant now *slaps wrist*.

1997 Verve: The Drugs Don't Work

Verve were a Brit band who, although active during the Britpop era, always stood slightly aloof from the party like mature students watching the freshers get up to their antics with a raised eyebrow. In many ways,'The Drugs Don't Work' acts as a fitting comedown, a full stop epitaph for the whole ludicrous era. Which is perhaps too convenient a way of looking at it, but taken directly then 'The Drugs Don't Work' presents me with a dilemma; with a line 'Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown' at number one, then the latent miserabilist in me should be whooping with joy (if you'll excuse the oxymoron). In its downbeat tone and despairing nature it's a song I should be embracing, but I don't. Not that much anyway. Again, dislike would be far too strong a word - distrust would be a better one, but that's going to take some explaining.

Basically, I don't trust it because, as a whole, I find it too pat and ordered, too neat and polished in a way that belies the end of tether world it's meant to inhabit. In a curious way, its studious polish and shimmer of echoing designer angst reminds me of nothing more than Boyzone's take on 'Words' - that is, an attempt to add emotion by proxy instead of letting the song beneath do the talking. Because it could - 'The Drugs Don't Work' is a highly emotive statement of loss and longing that doesn't need those generic guitar and string embellishments.

For proof of that, look no further than the demo version served up on the B side that bleeds its emotion through a simplicity that does nothing to hold it back. Yet for their definitive statement, Verve offer it up as a coffee table cover version, a weighty tome of high gloss that's there to impress, but with some much bulk then lines like "if heaven calls, I'm coming, too. Just like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead" lose their power by simply getting lost along the way. As I've said before, less can often be more and in its attempt to present a grandiose statement of wounded gravitas, 'The Drugs Don't Work' floods the engine. Shame.

1997 Will Smith: Men In Black

It's kind of easy to paint Will Smith as the clown prince of hip hop - not fair perhaps, but easy. Certainly, he provided a family friendly face for the genre that made it palatable to suburban living rooms where the likes of NWA would definitely not be welcome, but in saying that this song from the Men In Black soundtrack is less a genre tune per se than a pop song given a hip hop spray job. As much a part of the merchandising as the T Shirts, model aliens and video games, 'Men In Black' sells itself more as a teaser for the film and on the back of Smith's amiable persona than on the inherent quality of the song itself. Which, truth be told, is a mundane affair of functional stiffness that does all it needs to and no more, but at least the ramrod straight beat that Smith quickly speaks his rap lite rhymes of in-jokes over seems in as much of a hurry to get to the end of the song as I am, so no harm done.

1997 Oasis: D'You Know What I Mean?

Taster single from their then forthcoming 'Be Here Now' album, 'D'You Know What I Mean?' opens with the sound of a low flying bomber, a Morse code signal and a funky 'Shaft' lite wakka wakka guitar riff. Enigmatic-ish, it's an event setting build up that heralds something of substance, a grand statement of intent that you'll need to sit down and listen to is coming over the horizon. That's the promise anyway, but then it never makes good on it; in fact, that intro is as interesting as it gets. Because after the 'When The Levee Breaks' drums kick in, 'D'You Know What I Mean?' quickly settles down into a bloated, aimless drone of guitars and designer sneers that evaporate any interest like water from a puddle on a hot day.

Even at their most derivative, early Oasis at least had a glam spark and last gang in town mentality that let attitude take over and carry the load where the ideas ran out. By the time of 'D'You Know What I Mean?', this was clearly no longer enough and Oasis were going for that great leap forward to take their music to that ever elusive 'next level' like those Beatles boys were always doing. A fair aspiration I guess but some studio sound effects trickery, lyrical nods to The Beatles ("Fool on the hill, and I feel fine") Dylan ("There's blood on the tracks", "bring it all home to me" "Don't look back") and a seven plus minute running time does not a Sgt Pepper or a Blonde On Blonde make.

Such events only occur once and in any case, far from pushing any boundaries, I kind of get the feeling that the only reason 'D'You Know What I Mean?' doesn't sound like mid seventies Emerson, Lake and Palmer' is through lack of technical ability and imagination rather than shame; this is prog rock without the progression, a sideways step that mistakes length for substance, belligerence for attitude and repetition for having something to say - 'D'You Know What I Mean?' is the sound of egos out of control and a talent spread too thinly (Gallagher was even recycling his own lyrics - "Look into the wall of my mind's eye") within a medium lacking the vision or the guts to rein them in. The simple fact is that 'D'You Know What I Mean?' is a Boring song, capital B and its release marked the beginning of the end of the band. I honestly can't say I'm sorry about that.

1997 Puff Daddy featuring Faith Evans: I'll Be Missing You

For those in the game, hip hop is a serious business. Sometimes it's a matter of life or death; take Christopher George Latore Wallace (aka Biggie Smalls or The Notorious B.I.G.), a Brooklyn rapper killed aged 24 in March of this year in a drive by shooting that was apparently part of a long running East Coast/West Coast beef. Conspiracy theories linking this crime to the murder of Tupac Shakur some months earlier abound, but suffice it to say here that 'I'll Be Missing You' is a tribute to Wallace from fellow East Coast rapper Puff Daddy and Wallace's own widow, the self styled first lady of rap Faith Evans.

For the most part, 'I'll Be Missing You' is based around a sample of Andy Summer's guitar riff from The Police's 'Every Breath You Take' and it spins Sting's stalker anthem into a personal statement of loss. "Every step I take, every move I make, Every single day, every time I pray, I'll be missing you". It's a neat idea, but it's an obvious one too, a one horse town concept that's fine in passing but not big or clever enough to shoulder the whole song by itself. Not only that, being such an obvious sample, 'I'll Be Missing You' never breaks free of its source to find its own voice; in any case, it couldn't if it tried.

Which is another one of its problems - 'I'll Be Missing You' doesn't try. Not all that hard anyway. That sample is constant and though Evans' vocal is suitably fraught, Puff Daddy's linking rap is a pedestrian mumble of loss based platitudes personalised so directly at its subject as to deny it any emotional crossover to the non rap fan or casual listener who wouldn't know Biggie Smalls from the hole in the ground he was buried in. Yes, it's heartfelt and it's genuine - I can't deny that, but from that tasteless bling of the cover in, it's a one dimensional tribute which, whilst it does have resonance within that dimension, makes the bottom line one of this being too insular and self serving to be regarded as a good single.

1997 Hanson: MMMbop

Originally recorded by the Hanson brothers in 1996 as a more balladic, fairly unremarkable soft rock strum form, it took another set of brothers - hip hop producers The Dust Brothers - to add the snap, crackle and pop of breakbeats and scratching that churned 'MMMbop's still waters into something more fizzy. Which isn't to say that it is or aspires to be anything approaching hip hop; at centre, 'MMMbop' has a thumping pop heart that pumps the Jackson 5's 'Rockin' Robin' through its veins and The Osmond's 'One Bad Apple' (check out Donny's "Oh, give it one more try before you give up on love" wail) through its arteries until they converge to give life to creation of 'MMMbop's fixed grin in your faceness.

Because it's hard not to grin at 'MMMbop' - just like Michael and Donny before them, the Hanson vocals makes no bones about being juvenile (the trio had an average age of 14) and they garble the lyric in an all at once squeak of excitement that renders it borderline unintelligible. Not that it matters a great deal - 'MMMBop's calling card is its once heard, never forgotten bubblegum chorus that pours readymix over anything the song might have to say anyway. Which is actually a lot more than the nonsense chorus implies.*

Ah yes, that chorus - as somebody 'who was there', I can say that the song's ubiquity was such that nobody ended 1997 wanting to hear 'MMMbop' "just one last time", and such familiarity generally breeds contempt regardless of the song or artist. Both then and now, 'MMMbop' was/is a song derided in many quarters, but not in mine. On the contrary, to these ears 'MMMbop' skirts as close to pop perfection as you're likely to get, with the fairy dust from The Brothers adding an icing of contemporary rush that has yet to date. That's my opinion, but rather than rehearse any issues of personal taste I'll just leave 'MMMbop' by pondering how many of the haters actually voted for it in the 'Song Of The Year' category at the 1999 Grammy's after TLC slowed it down, stripped out the chorus and called it 'Unpretty'? Just wonderin'........


* 'MMMbop's theme of "You have so many relationships in this life, only one or two will last. You go through all the pain and strife. Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast" could be taken as sage like wisdom from the wizened, but from a trio too young to shave, it's faintly ludicrous and borderline patronising - no father wants to be lectured by their kids. Harrumph.

1997 Eternal featuring BeBe Winans: I Wanna Be The Only One

Ostensibly working within the US spawned R&B sphere, Brit trio Eternal go for added authenticity with a song written by latter day genre royalty Rhett Lawrence and veteran gospel star BeBe Winans (who also adds a vocal part). Crossover is the name of the game and 'I Wanna Be The Only One' goes out of its way to appeal to all-comers. Winan's "You know I had to come all the way to England to sing with you" and the girls' London accents in response provide a smattering of the exotic amongst the familiar for listeners on both sides of the Atlantic, and the song itself offers a wide appeal with a lyric that doubles as promoting either a secular or religious love. It depends on your viewpoint I guess.

I know I've been fairly snippy about this modern R&B lark on these pages in the past, but in its de minimis approach 'I Wanna Be The Only One' sidesteps any attempt at a faux sultry/sexy groin groove in favour of a pop tart of a song with a chorus hook that nags with the persistent memory of another song half remembered and lying just out of reach. Not one but two cheeky key change at the close keeps would could have been a one trick pony fresh right to the end, and while there may not be much about 'I Wanna Be The Only One' to get your teeth into, it doesn't give any cause to start them grinding either.

1997 Olive: You're Not Alone

When it comes to music, us Brits like our pigeonholes. Music that can be neatly labelled is a must, and if some brave soul should decide to colour outside the lines by trying something different then a new genre title is duly dreamed up to accommodate it. Nineties dance music was notorious for this; acid house, deep house, hard house, happy hardcore, breakbeat, techno, big beat - it's an eclectic linguists wet dream, but for my own part the difference between most is as subtle as the point where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet; an expert could pinpoint the difference and why it matters, but to me it's all just a lot of water.

To the above roll call can be added 'Trip Hop', a subgenre of house characterised by a chilled moodiness and/or downbeat paranoia that found it's definitive voice in 1994 with the double whammy releases of Portishead's 'Dummy' and Tricky's 'Maxinquaye'. Like most genres that find a voice, it further splintered and subdivided in the years that followed with many acts pursuing a lighter 'chill out' vibe that both found its own pigeon hole (in 'chill out' aptly enough) and also skirted dangerously close to soulless wine bar muzak. All of which potted history brings me to Olive.

A trio drawn from former members of Simply Red and Nightmares On Wax, 'You're Not Alone' manages to straddle those trip hop/chill out waters by combining a musical canon throb and skittish breakbeat backing with Ruth-Ann Boyle's gap filling vocal wrapping up the package into a coherent whole. It's a hybrid that combines a studious moodiness with an uplift of optimism, a chameleon duality that potentially makes for an apt choice at both wedding or funeral. A needless repetition means it outstays its welcome, but there's a substance here that provides the dimension to make this something to wallow in rather than the mood music wallpaper the genre was apt to wallow itself in whenever the 'lazy' button was pressed. Which in the late nineties was too often for comfort.

1997 Gary Barlow: Love Won't Wait

Not a Barlow original this time but a cover of an unused offcut from Madonna's 'Erotica' album which he tailored after his own fashion. I might be doing Mr Barlow a great disservice here, but 'Love Won't Wait' is not the sound of a man trying his best. I'm not sufficiently au fait with Take That to be able to comment on their B sides, but I'd like to think that this is what a Take Than B side would sound like had they recorded any; vaguely upbeat with a dancey rhythm that wants to get on with things but is hampered by a straitjacket of a song that that sounds like anaemic Take That bleached clean of any joy or substance and with a damp squib of a chorus that arrives and sputters out with all the force of a drunken orgasm. Then again, I've always thought Madonna's 'Erotica' album was pretty wretched too so the odds were never stacked in his favour here.

1997 Michael Jackson: Blood On The Dance Floor

From its opening bars, 'Blood On The Dancefloor' has more than a hint of the familiar. If it sounds more like the Michael Jackson of old and not the more recent 'issues' burdened model, then that's because it is; 'Blood On The Dancefloor' was recorded in 1991 as part of the 'Dangerous' sessions but not released at the time. Maybe it's not difficult to second guess why Jackson kept it in the can; it's not a question of quality - in fact, 'Blood On The Dancefloor' is, for me, a better song than a good 50% of those that did make the cut, but its hard boiled tale of Susie and her knife would have been too close to a video nasty re-tread of 'Billie Jean' for comfort (the "Susie got your number, and Susie ain't your friend" is a dead ringer for tension releasing chorus of that earlier song).

Not close in terms of a natural progression either, but in more in line with a deliberate hark back to associate with past glories in a manner that suggested a creative stasis and more than a hint of desperation to regain ground lost. In 1997 though, the distance was sufficient in time to give a timely reminder to jog the memory of just what it was that made him special in the first place; 'Blood On The Dancefloor' falls between the two stools of the Quincy Jones helmed brand of robotic funk (Jackson's under the breath "She got your number, she know your game. She put you under, it's so insane" opening is a kissing cousin to 'Smooth Criminal') and the later harder, metallic Teddy Riley production values of 'Dangerous'.

All of which makes 'Blood On The Dancefloor' a home game for Jackson, a hard surface for his yelp to ricochet off and a relentless two step dance beat to tear up the dancefloor. Sure, it's a step backwards, but after Jackson's post 1991 green manifestos ('Heal The World', 'Earth Song') and his hard knock life whinging (think of 'You Don't Care About Us' and it's "Tell me what has become of my life I have a wife and two children who love me, I am the victim of police brutality, now I'm tired of bein' the victim of hate" or 'Stranger In Moscow's "I was wandering in the rain, mask of life, feelin' insane. Swift and sudden fall from grace, sunny days seem far away") then it's retro appeal is not just easy to overlook, it's also a blessed relief to.

1997 R Kelly: I Believe I Can Fly

Though prolific as a writer/producer of R&B, soul, hip hop etc, for his first UK number one, R Kelly steps outside one box and into another by coming up with the most eighties of eighties power ballads. Not exactly a genre crying out for a revival I’m sure you’ll agree, but what the hell - I'm happy to go along with him in the name of nostalgia. So, tremulous verse leading into arms aloft chorus of gurning inspiration that begs for dry ice start pumping stage left? Check; 'I Believe I Can Fly' has all this to spare in its balladry par excellence, but what Kelly forgets to add is the 'power' element of the equation. And he forgets to add it because he doesn’t seem to realise that he HAS in fact written an eighties power ballad.

The potential to soar is there alright, but the would be smooth groove clip clops like a lame mule while Kelly himself delivers his lyric with the hesitancy of a man perched up on a twenty story balcony with a set of home made glue and feather wings strapped to his arms, gingerly eyeing the drop below; 'I Believe I Can Fly' has an in-built wilt that makes it more pep talk than genuine aspiration. Maybe that's closer to the truth at that - it's fortunate that 'I Believe' has proved a popular song over the years and there are no end of alternate covers that do manage to take the lid off.

But even in the hands of a full-blown gospel star like Yolanda Adams, 'I Believe I Can Fly' is still self-help therapy masquerading as popular song; a 'Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway ' set to music or the Rocky theme with words. If it’s the kind of social Vaseline that to inspires you to 'go for it' then good luck to you, but for me there’s something cynical at the heart of all this - whether that heart is the songs or mine I don't know (sharing the sleeve with Bugs Bunny is no credibility aid), but 'I Believe I Can Fly' is functionality personified, sparks none of my plugs and whatever Mr Kelly is feeling is passing me by. Or perhaps flying over my head.

1997 The Chemical Brothers: Block Rockin' Beats

It's always convenient to come across a tune that reviews itself through its title and Schooly D sample - "Back with another one of those block rockin' beats", what else can I add? Without the crutch/hindrance of a celebrity guest spot, the brothers crack on with what they do best and crank out a piledriving dance wallop with all the grace of a ton of housebricks being lobbed into an empty skip to the beat of a metronome. As subtle as an armed robbery but without the threat, what it lacks in innovation (no 'Setting Sun' trickery or effects dropouts here) it makes up for with a blunt directness and sheer un-ignorability that's tailor made to fill any dancefloor.

1997 Spice Girls: Who Do You Think You Are/Mama

A double A side from the girls, but only one of them need detain us for long - 'Who Do You Think You Are' is a Hydra headed tune that's part Europop, part seventies funk, part disco and with House overtones that are all homage to Madonna's 'Vogue'. So many cooks could have spoiled the broth, but each ingredient is used sparingly and in pinches to create a song that's low on calories but high on an effortless joi de vivre that even manages to counter that awkward shift of key and tempo at the "Swing it, shake it, move it, make it" breakdowns. There's nothing new here of course, but take it on it's own terms and it does the job of keeping the dancefloor ticking over.

'Mama', on the other hand, is the sickly confection of the girls paying tribute to their mothers who once upon a time "used to be my only enemy and never let me free, catching me in places that I know I shouldn't be" but now, older and wiser, they're happy to admit "so now I see through your eyes, all that you did was love. Mama I love you" in an updated 'There's No One Quite Like Mama' style. It was probably a godsend for the lazy at Mother's Day and cheaper than a box of chocolates too, but it's too much 'Strawberry Kiss', soft centred goo for me to cope with I'm afraid - stick to the 'Hazelnut Heaven's girls.*

* Fans of Cadbury Milk Tray will know what I mean. Oh yes.

1997 No Doubt: Don't Speak

Originally a ska/punk crossover band, No Doubt's 'Don't Speak' is gimmick free rock balladry that boldly walks the fine line separating the overground from the underground, with the ever photogenic Gwen Stafani effortlessly exploiting the duality of the mainstream appeal of Madonna and the alt rock credibility of Courtney Love. "As we die, both you and I, with my head in my hands I sit and cry " - 'Don't Speak' is an angsty wail all right, but it keeps it's pecker up with a fist pumping, mosh friendly chorus that welcomes everyone to the party, and therein lies the problem - for a band riding the vague wave of West Coast, punk inspired skate/guitar/rock acts (along with Green Day, The Offspring, Primus, Rancid etc), the smooth edged 'Don't Speak' is the rock ballad Celine Dion would record if she ever wanted to show she's down with the kids. Which is to say that it's a little on the drive time bland side for my tastes, and though it never fails to catch my ear it never quite manages to hold my interest.

1997 U2: Discotheque

What is it about U2 that I just can't take to? It's a fair question, and one that I've considered off and on over the past twenty years or so, usually around the time they release a new album and when I invariably find myself not liking it. It's not so much an out and out hatred that I have, but I've never been able to deal them on any level whereby their music gives me an unalloyed pleasure. There's been the occasional song yes - any band active for so long would struggle not to produce at least something worthwhile. But for every moment of clarity that takes our relationship step forward, the band - either individually or collectively - will do something that irks enough to shove them back three paces and have me clamouring for a divorce.

It's not just down to Bono either. I know his extra curricular activities of charitable worthiness are a lightning rod directing mass loathing for many, but I can't say they've ever bothered me all that much. I find it very easy to separate Bono the singer from Bono the UN Peace Ambassador (or whatever) simply because I find Bono a very easy person to ignore. Full stop. Which is odd in the context of U2, because for a man with seemingly endless things to say outside of his band, he never has much to say for himself when he's with them.

Take 'Discotheque' for example. A direct continuation of U2's post-modern 're-invention' that began with 'The Fly', 'Discotheque' lays on a similar junkyard wall of sound but this time it's sifted through a dance filter that softens the hardness into something more fluid. Yet for all its silicon valley industrial montage of 'can't stop' busy-ness, 'Discotheque' is as hollow as a blown egg with only its own noise and a vague sense of their newly found irony (a dance track from the future called 'Discotheque'? Oh how very droll) holding it all together. This U2 Mk2 always have an in-built aspiration to lead the pack, but in their blinkered attempts to predict or ride the zeitgeist, they usually find themselves one step behind it. Yet crucially for them, at the same time they're always enough of a step to the left of it to give their music the impression of originality and innovation, even when the actuality is the exact opposite.

On 'Discotheque' the cut up lyrics ("You know you're chewing bubblegum, you know what that is. But you still want some, you just can't get enough of that lovie dovie stuff" - what does it mean? Not the foggiest sorry), car crash guitars and newly found dance angles are crude image panels from a simple zoetrope that only give the illusion of movement by virtue of moving so quickly. Slow it down enough to scratch the glossy painted surface and it reveals the lines and numbers of the template beneath that the band painstakingly painted it by, and with no apparent joy either. And when the band themselves don't sound like they're enjoying it much, then it doesn't bode well for the rest of us. Not for me anyway; like most of their output, I don't hate it, but then I don't like it much either.

1997 LL Cool J: Ain't Nobody

From the soundtrack of 'Beavis & Butthead Do America' (which isn't the world's strongest opening gambit), 'Ain't Nobody' is a cover of the 1984 Rufus & Chaka Khan dance classic. Not just a cover version mind - a rap cover version, which is a statement that by itself puts me on caution from the threat of what that might entail. The Fugees have already conveniently demonstrated the two main directions this could go and, unfortunately, 'Ain't Nobody' is more 'Killing Me Softly' than 'Ready Or Not'.

Chaka Khan's vocal on the original is the secular gospel celebration of finding that special someone directed to that special someone. This re-working throws a lead weighted net over the uplift by adding a very workmanlike rap of smarmy smooth talk ("I'm the best when it comes to makin' love all night, throw your butterscotch body beneath the red light") that you just know LL spins to all the girls and by itself it puts a crack in the once clear bell of the chorus until it no longer rings true and serves to compres the song until it's as flatly drawn as Beavis and Butthead themselves. All very lazy, all very forgettable - the main point of interest of 'Ain't Nobody' is as an illustration of how quickly the novelty of seeing rap at number one has faded.

1997 Blur: Beetlebum

By 1997 with the 'battle' with 'rivals' Oasis lost , Blur began moving away from the knees up romp al la 'Country House' (in an "if you can't beat 'em, don't compete" kind of way) to an altogether different place that took inspiration from the post grunge, lo-fi music scene filtering in from across the Atlantic. Damon Albarn had of late been trumpeting the virtues of Pavement to anyone who'd listen and promised in advance that the new Blur album would be more than one step removed from the dying on its arse Britpop movement. He wasn't kidding either; simply called 'Blur', the album was as fresh a start, line drawn in the sand affair as its definitive title suggested and lead off single 'Beetlebum' presented a more gritty aura than previous.

In hindsight it seems obvious, even without subsequent confirmation from Albarn, that 'Beetlebum' was a song about drug use; "And when she lets me slip away, she turns me on all my violence is gone, nothing is wrong, I just slip away and I am gone". Yet 'Beetlebum' escaped the furore that surrounded an 'Ebeneezer Goode' by virtue of its tone and ambiguity; there's nothing celebratory about Albarn's descriptors, they're as matter of fact as Lou Reed's "Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life", but while Reed's song builds slow before descending into a hell of squally noise, 'Beetlebum' opens with a guitar led dirge in a box that gives way to the widescreen chorus that breathes freely with some very Beatle-esque harmonies to give voice to the pleasures of a heroin high.

Ah but hindsight too has shown that though this seemed a brave step leftfield at the time, its edginess flatters to deceive; I'm always happy to trust my own ears, and here they're telling me that they've heard all this before. There are plenty who have strip mined the cod-violent gun/cum imagery of 'Beetlebum' (contemporaries Suede for one, though Albarn would not welcome the comparison) to better effect than its designer rough and Albarn's own 'one of the lads' twang can manage. Which means that there's nothing new about 'Beetlebum' beyond the novelty of its own existence, and though it breaks new ground for Blur, the paths it follows have been well trodden by others before it. And trodden to much better effect to be honest.

1997 White Town: Your Woman

A subtle spin on Bing Crosby's 1932 song 'My Woman' (though the muted trumpet riff is actually a direct sample from Al Bowly's version of the same year), 'Your Woman' is a soft clash of the old and the new from one man band Jyoti Prakash Mishra (aka White Town) that's broadcasting from some unspecified, androgynous future through a vintage radio microphone powered by valves. 'Your Woman' works as a song because it neither revels in nor emphasises this inherent contradiction in style and instead presents both itself and its curiously asexual lyric in a dry and passionless, matter of fact way that stops it well short of falling into the territory of quirk to demand that you take it seriously. Indeed, 'Your Woman' feels more closely aligned with the then lo-fi output of Folk Implosion, Pavement, Beck et al (though that spooky trumpet motif is the best sample Portishead never used), a comparison that befits a song recorded in a back bedroom. It all adds up to a noteworthy one hit wonder of the kind we haven't seen in such a long, long time.

1997 Tori Amos: Professional Widow

As part of his nineties Radio One Radio Show, media terrorist Chris Morris used to present a weekly spoof 'Dance Top Ten' run-down: "Forty-ninth week at seven, it's still there for Oestrogen Blabdaddy and "Bring Me A Chicken". Down twelve at six, there they sit, Urbane Bookie Collective and "Dreamy Twat." And also at number six, due to huge shopping, Denis Helium and his remix of ELP's "Anaesthetics At The Birth Of A Potato." Up more than I care to say, with their first major number five, it's Love Minus Petrol and "Blundering Around In A Tent". If he'd added "And at number one, Armand Van Helden's house remix of Tori Amos' 'Professional Widow" then I don't think it would have looked too out of place in its unlikeliness.

And yet here it is, a spoof made flesh at number one. I've said in the past that it's no great shakes to graft a thumping 4/4 backbeat over anything and present it as a 'dance remix', but Van Helden goes much further than such simplicity to completely re-construct Amos's original harpsichord led swipe at Courtney Love (originally a 1996 double A side with 'Hey Jupiter') from the ground up until only the DNA of her vocal remains, and even that is sliced and diced until her "Honey bring it close to my lips" is reduced to a hard garble to bounce off Helden's snakeskin bassline. In fact, Helden's work reduces Tori to a bit part player struggling to belong in her own song. 'Own song'? - this is now as much a Tori Amos song as replacing the head and handle of a broom makes it the same broom, and I don't know what impresses the most; that Helden's vision saw the potential in the source material in the first place or that he actually pulled it off. Philosophical niceties aside though, this is simply a great dance track.