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Back in 1980, I had a very soft spot for The Piranhas hit 'Tom Hark. I knew nothing of the song's history or what 'The Piranhas Play Kwela' meant on the sleeve, but it was a relentlessly upbeat, saxophone/whistle driven shot of happiness that seemed kin to the Madness songs that were just coming through. As what was probably my first introduction to what has now come to be termed 'world music' it was invaluable. It was only much, much later when I got to hear the original 1956 version by Elias and His Zig Zag Jive Flutes that I appreciated just how much The Piranhas take had cleaned up the sound and yet how much they left it intact.
'Oh Carolina' is a cover version of a 1960 ska recording by The Folkes Brothers and an important precursor to the then burgeoning reggae movement. Historical significance alone never shifted many units (after all, popular music charts are not there to act as a surrogate museum) and the sounds on the record are scratchy and distant enough to have been laid down some time in the Middle Ages. Yet although Shaggy tightens the beat to give its rude boy styling a gangsta appeal, takes out the rat tat tat drums to give it glossy coat of modern Ragga danceability, there a few other concessions to a commercial Western market. The ska groove remains intact and, like Althea and Donna before him, other than the title I can barely make out any other of the lyrics thorough the thick patois on either of the versions.* And because of this, the song's heritage is respected rather than sacrificed on the altar of its success. It's still fun, but the approach lifts 'Oh Carolina' up from the swamp of one-off cultural novelty where it could easily have sunk and where, whether by intention or not, The Piranhas took 'Tom Hark' all those years ago.
* A device that would be used to hide a multitude of lyrical sins in the Ragga movement that flowed from Shaggy's breakthrough.
'When you say twelve "No"s in a row, don't you think that's a bit negative"? Now there's a fair question and it's one that always comes to mind whenever I hear 'No Limits'. Of course, it was asked by Chris Morris in an interview with the band that was deliberately designed to take the piss, but it's forever cast 2 Unlimited as the unwitting clowns of the early nineties dance/techno scene. Unfair? Of course it's unfair - nobody listens to dance to be philosophically enlightened by the lyrics and another question 'When you say "no valley too deep" do you really mean that?" could be partially rephrased and used to take the mick out of any number of earnest but respected rock songs past and present (or even out of 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' as it stands). There's also nothing particularly big or clever about ribbing two amiable, eager to please young Europeans whose first language wasn't English and yet....and yet...
...and yet I can't help but think Morris had method in his cruelty. Eurodance had all the cartoon colour of a kid let loose with a box of crayons anyway, but 2 Unlimited always (to me) had an edge of unwitting parody, of self consciously trying to live up to an image or type but then crossing over into something else entirely, like a young metal act's portfolio pictures of them posing in alleyways in leather jackets and slugging from bottles of Jack Daniels (pneumatic blonde in push up bra and miniskirt optional). As a dance track, it's hard to imagine something more pared to the bone than 'No Limit'; the two finger, two note keyboard bounce is dumb as a Ramones riff and certainly takes techno back to its basics in a Sigue Sigue Sputnik go clubbing kind of way.
So why is it that the first Ramones album frequently turns up on 'All Time Best' lists whereas 2 Unlimited....don't? Well the Ramones were operating within the context of deliberately working against a mainstream to return rock music to its roots; 2 Unlimited were as much a part of their own genre as any other Eurodance act and it was already a 'type' of music frequently ridiculed for a perceived inanity. 'No Limit' takes that to its logical conclusion by rubbing the listeners face (ear?) in the banality of it all without ever being conscious that that was in fact what they were doing.
And I don't think this edit of it helps matters either - the original, uncut Euro version features (as most Eurodance singles were wont to do) a rap segment. But unlike (for example) the Snap! singles where the rap punctures the song's free rolling swagger, Raymond Slijngaard's efforts here actually added some flavour to the pot's otherwise relentless repetition, but in cutting it back until only the repeated 'Techno techno techno' remains it just gives more ammunition to the likes of Morris and ramps up the parody quotient through the roof.
'No Limit' will always remind me of vodka fuelled, undergraduate nights out in some of the most makeshift nightclubs in Christendom, and even now those 'doomph doomph' beats are one of the few things that can tempt me back onto the dancefloor because it's so easy to dance to (albeit only when I have more alcohol than blood in my veins). A backbeat you can't lose indeed. But even then, I'm always guided by a sense of the ironic - 'No Limit' is the dance song that every non dance fan knows, and they know it through a guilty pleasure, kitsch awareness that somehow serves to taint dance music as a whole. It's the same the way most people know that Ozzy Osbourne once bit the head off a bat but wouldn't be able to name a single Black Sabbath song - such people irritate me so I can understand the irritation others may feel toward this but for my own part I have no major beef with 'No Limit'; it lugs enough baggage around with it without me adding to the pile.
Here's a startling fact - of the 52 weeks that make up any given year, two songs from the soundtracks of films starring Kevin Costner sat at number one for exactly half of them. '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You' notched up a record busting 16 weeks there, while this song from 'The Bodyguard' managed a still not to be sneezed at 10. Spooky? Maybe. Something diabolic anyway - Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You' is one of those songs whose popularity is almost perfectly balanced by the amount of critical bile flung its way. And it's not undeserved; bombastic, overbearing, histrionic, sonorous - 'I Will Always Love You' delivers all of these adjectives and more as Houston mangles the coy promise of Dolly Parton's original into a bug eyed, hurricane blast of obsession and threat. The Houston pipes are in fine fettle, and for the first minute or so she keeps enough of a lid on to make it a not unpleasant listen. But at 1:48 she fires a starting gun that takes 'I Will Always Love You' down into power ballad hell where hollow bluster masquerades for love and the title becomes the calling card of a stalker's unwanted attentions. I have a mate whose wife to be walked down the aisle to this at their wedding. The marriage didn't last three years - what Whitney hath joined together, let an emotional vacuum put asunder. Says it all really.
....and as if to show exactly what I meant in calling 'The End Of The Road' cartoon soul, Charles And Eddie pitch up to show us exactly how it should be done with a song that showcases how it used to be done. With the US in the grip of an endless slew of hip hop/new jack swing/R&B beat led productions, 'Would I Lie To You' harks back to the funky, sweet Philadelphia Sound and an Al Green inspired vocal (on a tune that recalls his 'Tired Of Being Alone') that even manages to celebrate love through negating doubt. "Look into my eyes, can't you see they're open wide. Would I lie to you baby" - I'd believe them in a heartbeat, even without the spoken, open wound honesty of "Do you think I give my love away/that's not the kind of game I play" at 2:30. It's not pastiche or parody and neither is it homage; 'Would I Lie To You' is straight up revival of a sound from yesterday with nary a moment of originality in its whole running time. But while I'd be the first to say that you can't move forward by standing still, it's a real shame that an act who could produce something as glorious as this was so short lived.
It's an interesting question I suppose - when is a boy band not a boy band? In essence a nineties phenomena, 'boy band' is generally used as a derogatory description of a certain class of group who are somehow not regarded as legitimate. For example, The Rolling Stones are (or were) all boys, but they have never been classed as a 'boy band' the way (for another example) Boyzone were. How the act came together, who writes the songs, who produces is and for what specific audience - all these factors play their part in determining how an act are perceived and whether they are due any kudos because of it.
For my money, Boyz II Men walk a fine line between credibility and whatever you imagine the opposite to be. Taking their lead (and name) from New Edition (a definite boy band if ever there was one), the genre's influence is palpable, but Boyz II Men nevertheless plied a more sophisticated take to the norm that always knew its place in its own history, with 'The End Of The Road' being as good as an example as any. Though signed to Motown, their reading of this borrows less from the pop history of their label and more from the swing of Philly soul; I can hear more than a splash of The Delfonics' 'Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)' in its amalgamation of solo and harmony vocals set to a smooth groove that builds in intensity as the desperation grows. As such it's a song that would benefit from a more tentative watercolour approach instead of the elephant stomp we get.
Writer/producer Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds' latter day CV reads like a who's who of modern R&B, but the clipped and icy separation on each of the music tracks on 'The End Of The Road' ring with a cold and hollow clang. They provide too hard a bed for the song to lie comfortably on and would have benefited from a little blurring round the edges instead of being laid on thick in poster paint primary colours. Vocally too the Boyz aim for an earnestness of tone that ultimately translates as seriousness of the furrowed brow, chin stroking variety that are devoid of the warmth they aspire to. The shuddering diction on each of the 'girl's makes them sound like an insult based on gender and the spoken word middle eight at 2:35 ("I’m not out to go out and cheat on you all night. Just like you did baby but that’s all right") would play better with a little vulnerability instead of a Darth Vader intensity and it all serves to unravel 'The End Of The Road' and re-knit it into something bordering on parody. It's a decent song with a class and a pedigree, but ultimately I'm afraid its larger than life Hanna Barbera soul doesn't have either of its feet in any kind of reality that I can relate to.
So, 'Sleeping Satellite' - my reaction to this back in 1992 was hatred to the point I would physically leave any room where it happened to be playing. Which might seem a tad extreme considering what it is, but nevertheless it irritated me to the point of no return. But much like the earlier Bryan Adams song, it's something that seems to have faded from view since its day in the sun and I can't recall hearing it at all really over the past ten years, which begs the question as to whether those intervening years mellowed my opinion? Alas, no - on exhuming it from its natural grave tonight for a fresh listen, that opening "I blame you for the moonlit sky" raised the hair on my arms as if it had never been away. Welcome back Tasmin.
And yes, the annoyance really does set in that quickly, chiefly because of Archer's insistence on modulating her tone at the end of each line to deliver her statements as if they were questions; it's unexpected and it immediately throws the song skewiff, though not in a good way. I'm all for subverting the norm, but this always makes me feel I'm one minute late for the party and that 'Sleeping Satelllite' has already welcomed its guests with an introductory bon mot that I missed that makes sense of why it then goes off on a wander of its own along a light beat, slow dance shuffle without ever resolving itself into anything satisfactory.
Structure aside, what provides the lead weight to truly sink 'Sleeping Satelllite' are the awful lyrics; Archer is trying to make a grand, new age friendly statement about....something or other....but it plays out like the over earnest prose of a pretentious teenager on speech day. "Have we lost what it takes to advance? Have we peaked too soon? If the world is so green then why does it scream under a blue moon?" - it's meaningless nonsense to a word and this lack of a solid core of anything gives 'Sleeping Satelllite' all the style and substance of smoke wafting from the flame of a scented candle. And for those with no nose for this type of thing (like me), it leaves an irritating stench in its passing.
This might be starting to sound like old news by now, but it's worth pointing out again that dance music was a big deal in the UK of the early nineties. So much so it's impossible for me to overstate how big it was. Fuelled since the late eighties by drug of choice ecstasy and stamped with the smiley yellow face logo, for all the world it looked like the loved up kids dancing at their 'raves' had found a way to express themselves within a culture that didn't harm anyone. The Sun newspaper, always keen to exploit anything that could improve their circulation, even carried an offer to buy a "cool and groovy" smiley T shirt. And everybody was happy. For a while anyway. And then around the turn of the decade it all turned nasty. The Sun, jumping on the growing anti-rave mood of the public now ran screaming 'EVILS OF ECTASY' headlines to highlight the drug abuse within the culture, and the establishment itself moved to outlaw the it completely with the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994's attempt to stamp out raves with the boot of authority.
But I'm getting ahead of myself now - in the early nineties there was still bandwagon enough ripe to be jumped on, and in the same way that disco gave a second wind to some unlikely acts in the late seventies, a number of hitherto low key indie acts began to proclaim that there was always a dance element to their music before hopping on shamelessly with a stolen ticket. Primal Scream made the biggest splash with their shift from the fey jangle of Byrds wannabes to the era defining 'Screamadelica', but other acts like Pop Will Eat Itself, The Farm, Soup Dragons, The Mock Turtles all found a degree of success within this field (certainly more than with anything they'd done previously).
And to that list can be added The Shamen - initially sixties psychedelia revivalists, their shift to electronic dance began earlier than their peers and by 1989 they were fully converted to all things acid house/techno where they were respected players. All of which makes 'Ebeneezer Goode' something of a mystery. While the genre was never without humour, The Shamen themselves were never renowned for playing anything for laughs, and yet how else are we to take the pure tabloid baiting "E's are good" chorus of this? A novelty cash in to file next to Smart E's Sesame Street sampling 'Sesame's Treet' that was number two a few weeks previous, or a KLF type prank to get the country to unwittingly trumpet the joys of Class A recreational drugs?
I think the truth falls somewhere in-between with The Shamen happy to hedge their bets. The "Ya ha ha ha ha ha" laughs and "Naughty naughty very naughty"'s are knowing and played for (what else) pure comic effect, but then Mr C's rap highlighting the benefits of Mr Goode ("He takes you for a ride and as if by design the party ignites like he's comin' alive. He takes you to the top, shakes you all around then back down, you know as he gets mellow then as smooth as the groove") are a clear antidote to media frenzy of the drug's evilness that even comes with a "He's the kind of geezer who must never be abused" warning for moderation. All set to a day-glo, 127 bpm techno rush.
And I think the duality is what caused most of the stink - a song at number one advocating drug use with enough handholds to lead young and old with its chortling Pied Piper allure of good times ahoy. Popular music has always contained coded messages relating to sex and drugs, and The Shamen themselves had already released a more sober track advocating the benefits of drug use in 1987's 'Christopher Mayhew Says' ("When he sits in merry disarray with a smile that says it all. He's found a distant bliss too beautiful for words") to no controversy whatsoever. But of course, that was from when The Shamen were still a niche indie band tucked away from the masses - this was too blatant, too amoral, too pleased with itself and too bloody easy for a Play School audience to sing along to. It had to be banned and the BBC duly obliged. 'Ebeneezer Goode' is not a good example of it's genre - minus the controversy it's predictable and formulaic, a Ford Mondeo of dance music. But as a complete package, it exudes the generational splitting mischief of pop music at its best.
Back in 1980, I had a very soft spot for The Piranhas hit 'Tom Hark. I knew nothing of the song's history or what 'The Piranhas Play Kwela' meant on the sleeve, but it was a relentlessly upbeat, saxophone/whistle driven shot of happiness that seemed kin to the Madness songs that were just coming through. As what was probably my first introduction to what has now come to be termed 'world music' it was invaluable. It was only much, much later when I got to hear the original 1956 version by Elias and His Zig Zag Jive Flutes that I appreciated just how much The Piranhas take had cleaned up the sound and yet how much they left it intact.
