Thursday, September 15, 2005



Finally, after years of searching and a stubborn refusal to pay three-figure sums on Ebay, a very nice man has, at last, furnished me with a CD copy of the greatest album ever made. OK, it’s a CD of his vinyl copy complete with scratches, pops and crackles, but it’s as close as I’m ever going to get to the real thing without resorting to a life of violent crime. And not even a CD is worth that. With my cassette version (49p from the bargain bin at the Virgin Megastore – I still remember the moment of triumph as it rose to the surface in my hot, sweaty palm) dying from overuse, it’s high time I got a decent replacement

You probably haven’t heard of it, though. So, allow me to introduce you to:

Win: …Uh! Tears Baby (A Trash Icon) London Records (1987) – Perfect, perfect pop music from beginning to end from an Edinburgh band that didn’t get the promotion or the break they deserved. Uh! Tears Baby arrived to huge critical acclaim (as did its follow-up Freaky Trigger), but somehow, and as is so often the case, the acclaim didn’t quite match the sales.

The mid-to-late 80s was a cultural desert, so while The Kids were swooning to Wham, Bros and the New Kids on the Block, this lot were criminally assured. Rising from the ashes of the Fire Engines [a pun scoring 3/10 on the Oh-Christ-o-meter], Win were a three-piece, joined by accomplished session musicians and a production that made them sound, well, enormous.

You may well have (unwittingly heard) the group’s finest hour, the single “You’ve Got the Power” in an advert for McEwan’s lager – a rather strange choice as the song is actually about the folly of drug-taking, but it’s certain the ad people chose the song for its stomping tune rather than the actual words.

You’ve Got the Power is the seventh track on the album, and before that you’ve got the perfection of Super Popoid Groove, Shampoo Tears, Hollywood Baby Too, all tracks that, eighteen years on, are still truly infectious. A crime that this bunch of musical geniuses were denied wider airplay, while still Mariah Carey lives.

The band disappeared virtually without trace, leaving a couple of albums of such quality they remain in the top five of anyone whose ever heard them.

Hunt it down, you dogs. Meanwhile:

* Very old review of the masterpiece
* Clips! cut down to legal-sized thirty second chunks by my own fair hand, and will remain online until deleted or the website implodes. Listen. Love. Break into the vaults at London Records and snaffle the masters. You know you want to.

Thursday Lack-o-vote-o

Insanely busy over the next couple of days, spending a large quantity of money my employers forgot to pay me over a period of eight years. There may be linoleum involved, and, following a survey of local builders' skips, office furniture.

So, Praise Him! Praise Him and Praise Him a little bit more, as you are spared a Thursday vote-o. You're getting the long-awaited God/Football interface, and liking it. Praise Him till you've forgot what you're Praising Him for! So - tomorrow [and really getting your hopes up with the quote-o]:

* God/Football interface: "He looked up and saw the wizened, twisted face of Roy Keane bounce across the windscreen, landing like a Henry Moore sculpture. Not far away he saw Rooney fleeing through the bushes, and he put the gas pedal to the floor."


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