Thursday, September 25, 2025

RIP Danny Thompson

Danny Thompson worked with a host of people, including a stint in Pentangle, but for many of us he is inseparable from the name John Martyn  - and revered as the co-author of "Go Down Easy", "I'd Rather Be The Devil", "Solid Air", "Couldn't Love You More", "Glistening Glyndebourne"....

Here by way of indirect tribute are three pieces about Martyn in which Thompson flits into view here and there. Most prominently in the first one, a Blissblog recollection about about the only time I ever saw Martyn live - in New York, just months before he died, with Thompson by his side, the only other person on the small stage with him - which doubled as an obituary. The fond bond between the two was very evident that night.

There is also a short piece about "I'd Rather Be The Devil" and a longer piece about Solid Air as a Desert Island Disc written for the 2007 book Marooned (Phil Freeman's unofficial sequel to Stranded). 


John Martyn RIP

Blissblog, January 31st 2009

RIPs appear here quite regularly. Rock is long in the tooth; musicians you admire, whose music you've grown up with, seem to be popping their clogs with mounting frequency. Usually I feel sad for a bit, in a fairly removed sort of way... then life's petty urgencies resume. But this week's big one, I must admit, has hit me quite hard. It's cast a shadow over the last few days. It feels a lot more personal somehow.

It struck me that I might possibly have listened to John Martyn more than any but a handful of other musicians. Actually I can't think of who else I'd have listened to more, over such a sustained period. The Smiths? Love? But if you broke it down, it would be Solid Air and One World that accounted for 95 percent of that lifetime of Martyn listening. Those two albums have been such a large and constant presence. They keep coming back, or rather, they don't go away, whereas there's other central artists, deep deep favourites, where there are long periods of mutual leave-taking (Can, for instance--I seem to be taking a breather from them, for some reason just don't feel the urge, but I know the time will come again.) (Another example: postpunk, which dipped away for much of the Eighties and almost all of the Nineties). But John Martyn… it barely took me a minute to settle on Solid Air as my desert island disc when asked to contribute to Marooned. It was my first choice, and then to do it proper I thought up some other candidates (closest contender being Rock Bottom). But it was always going to be Solid Air, partly because the "desert island" scenario suggested it somehow, but also because of its inexhaustibility as a record.

Strangely, though, when I think of John Martyn's music, I don't think of personal memories particularly. Some records evoke times of your life: Head Over Heels and Sunburst and Snowblind, the debut Smiths album, those records remind me with incredible vividness of a student bedsit in north Oxford, the yearnings and miseries of that time; "Thieves Like Us" carries with it the flush of romance remembered; there's plenty more examples. But with most music, the memories carried are memories of the music itself, if that makes sense. When you're a music fiend, that function of commemoration or life-soundtracking or "our song" that perhaps remains prominent for the more casual listener, it really fades away. You might say that music's life eclipses your own, or it becomes one with it, or it fills in the holes. Music doesn't serve as a mirror for narcissistic identification so much as a means of leaving one's self behind. A favourite record, then, might be more like gazing at a landscape, the kind of place you'd revisit at different stages of your life. A perennial source of wonder. (This is why I'm not a huge fan of memoiristic criticism: oh, it can be done well, but even at its best it doesn't really tell you anything about the music; that one individual's memories adhere to a piece of music in a particular fashion doesn't have any relation to what I or anybody else might get out of the record or glom onto it, experientially. Although it's also true that the narcissistic projection towards a song/album/group that music arouses so potently can make it feel like those life-experiences somehow inhere to the music).

But back to John Martyn--another strange thing is that I'd never gone to see him perform live. This despite being a fan since 1985 (when I'd taped Solid Air off David Stubbs--cheers David!--having been intrigued by this Barney Hoskyns interview with Martyn that compared Solid Air to Astral Weeks--cheers Barney!). The opportunity just never presented itself , and I'd never felt tempted to seek it out. I guess the sense you got was that after the 1970s heyday Martyn onstage was likely to be... variable. He'd be playing with bands composed of younger musicians, a modern soft-rock/AOR-ish sound like on those post-Grace and Danger Eighties albums, you heard tell of the keyboard sound being thin and digital-synth nasty. It seemed to promise disappointment. Anyway, I've always been more of a records man; I just don't have that compulsion to witness everybody whose music I love perform live at least once.

But late last year I heard that John Martyn was playing in New York. (I have to thank Rob Tannenbaum for the tip off, I'd have completely missed it otherwise--cheers Rob!). October the 9th, at Joe's Pub--less than ten minutes away. And not only playing in New York, virtually round the corner, but playing with Danny Thompson. So I had to go, even though this was the night before we flew off to London for the annual see-the-folks-and-friends vacation, there was packing to be done that night, an early rise the next day.

I got there and found quite a long line to get in, which surprised me, as I'd always had the impression Martyn wasn't really known in this country. And nor was it the case that the line was entirely composed of British expats. I ran into a friend-of-a-friend, an experimental musician (of the academic kind) who I'd not have particularly expected to be a John Martyn fan. We positioned ourselves near the bar with good sight-lines of the stage.

Joe's Pub is not a pub at all, but a sort of nightclub/performance space attached to The Public Theater on Lafayette. It's the sort of place where you'd expect, oh, Norah Jones to play; it's got a bit of an acid jazz/downtempo/Giant Steps type vibe to it. The last thing I saw there was ages ago: Herbert and Dani Siciliano doing the full chanteusy-meets-clickhouse thing. Anyway, there was this small, scarlet curtain at the back of the stage, which just seemed like part of Joe's plush cabaret-ish décor. All of a sudden there's a ruffling with the curtain, the suggestion of struggle and kerfuffle behind it, almost a Tommy Cooper/Morecambe & Wise-esque effect. And then, with evident difficulty Big John and his wheelchair were maneuvered through the red fabric and onto the tiny stage. I might be misremembering it but I think they actually had to wheel him on backwards. At any rate, it wasn't a dignified entrance.

First impression was of a ruin of a man. Magnificent, maybe, but definitely a ruin. In fact what I couldn't help thinking of was the sketch in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life ... the monstrously obese diner who eats so much he explodes. Martyn's face had this sagging quality, it seemed to droop and merge into the sprawl of his torso.

They opened, I think, with "Big Muff". It was great, totally different from the One World recording naturally (no drummer, just John and Danny), loose and swinging. I can't remember the exact sequence of songs, but at some point early in the set, they did "Sweet Little Mystery", Martyn's voice this immense blubbery ache of sound, a beached whale of bluesiness, bedraggled and beseeching. But apart from "Mystery" from Grace and Danger and "Muff" from One World, everything else was from Solid Air: "Jelly Roll Blues", "May You Never" (which got a cheer), the shatteringly tender imploring of "Don't Want To Know", "Solid Air" itself, maybe another one or two I'm forgetting. It was almost a Don't Look Back, except the order was scrambled and they didn't do "Go Down Easy", to my chagrin. The friend-of-a-friend pointed out how different the guitar tunings on each song were from the recorded versions.

Indeed between the songs there was some tuning-tweaking going on. There was also banter. But Martyn's speaking voice was so slurred, plus he was sat slightly far back from the mic (fine for singing but not for stage patter) that it was all completely indecipherable. He told jokes but through his bleary, sodden mumble they became abstract jokes. You could pick up the cadence and the timing of joke-as-pure-form, almost to the point of getting the comedic pay-off when the punchline came. But the actual content was lost. I picked up one or two lines: one involved a man going into a bar, another one was about penguins. I think he might also have cracked his post-amputation standard about having promised the promoter not to get legless, boom boom.

But I did manage to catch it clear when he apologized for the set being below par--"that's just the way it goes sometimes". At which Danny Thompson leaned over and gave him a kiss on the top of his balding head, affectionate yet reverent. I also just about made out what Martyn said before they launched into what turned out to be the final song: something like "this is by a gentleman called Skip James, who doesn't deserve to have his song murdered." It was "I'd Rather Be the Devil" of course and it made me wonder what other examples there are of a great artist--a writer and performer of brilliant original material--whose absolute greatest recording and signature song in live performance is a cover of someone else's song. (From the rock era obviously; there's loads of examples from the era when singers did standards, didn't write their own songs, etc). Of course to call it a "cover" is to underplay the amount of reinvention imposed on the original (which must be why John changed the title from "Devil Got My Woman", a bit of justified arrogance there: took your song, made it my song, whatchu gauna dee aboot it, eh?). So "Devil", live at Joe's Pub: not as torrential and tectonic as Live At Leeds, not quite the exquisitely wrought aquamiasma of Solid Air. But I wasn't disappointed. Oh no. Stole my breath away it did.

And then they were off, John wheeled backwards through the red curtain with the same awkward strenuosity it had taken to get him onstage in the first place (apparently he'd reached 20 stone in his last year). Semi-apologising for the brevity of the set as they shuffled off, Danny Thompson explained that the gig was kind of impromptu: John was coming to New York to visit a hospital to get a new prosthesis fitted, and they thought "why not?".

So, my first and only John Martyn Live Experience. I walked home aglow, much earlier than I'd expected (just as well with the flight) but not dissatisfied, not in the least. I meant to blog it after we got back from London but the moment passed. Now the man has passed and the moment seems right.

^^^^^^^^


John Martyn
Solid Air 
Island, 1973
By Simon Reynolds
(for Marooned, ed. Phil Freeman, 2007)

Picking my favorite record of all time, identifying the album that means the most to me, singling out the one I could least bear to never, ever hear again – such a task would surely make my head explode. But the desert island scenario (and I’m curious: who came up with this conceit first, historically?) actually makes narrowing things down much easier. Something with a very particular bundle of attributes would be required, a tricky-to-find combination of consoling familiarity and resilient strangeness. You’d need a record that could retain the capacity to surprise and stimulate, to keep on revealing new details and depths despite endless repetition. But it couldn’t be too out-there, too much of an avant-challenge, because solace would after all be its primary purpose. Which in turn would mean that the selection would have to feature the human voice, as a source of comfort and surrogate company – a criterion that sifts out many all-time favorites that happen to be all-instrumental (Aphex Twin’s two Selected Ambient Works albums, Eno records like On Land and his collaboration with Harold Budd The Plateaux of Mirror). But, equally, songs alone couldn’t sustain me on the island – I’d need some element of the soundscape, the synesthetically textured...food for the mind’s eye...something to take me out and away. 

Four albums sprang to mind based around a framework of songs-plus-space (or songs-in-space, or maybe even songs versus space). (Actually, there’s a fifth album in this vicinity, but Lester Bangs bagged it last time around: Astral Weeks). All are from roughly the same period in rock history – the early Seventies – and all can be characterized as post-psychedelic music in some sense. Tim Buckley’s Starsailor is just too wild, too derangingly strange; its restlessness would stir me to rage against the limits of confinement, rather than adopt a sensible stoicism, and its eroticism would be no help at all. Robert Wyatt’s Rock Bottom is rich and lovely, but the album’s emotionally harrowing arc (it was made shortly after the fall that left him paralyzed from the waist down) might be too wearing for someone in such dire straits; even its ecstasy is on the shattering side. Stormcock is brilliant and beautiful, but Roy Harper’s diatribes wouldn’t warm my lonely soul, and besides, it only consists of four long tracks, all pretty much chipped from the same block of sound.

So my choice is John Martyn’s Solid Air. There’s something about this album that suggests “island music.” And I don’t just mean that it came out on Island – probably the most highly-regarded record label on Earth at that point, a haven for the visionary, the esoteric, the not-obviously-commercial. The other day I was searching through my stuff for a review I wrote a long time ago of the reissue of another John Martyn record (1977’s One World, which is hard on the heels of Solid Air as much-loved album/potential D.I.D.), only to be pleasantly ambushed by the opening lines:

John Martyn was a castaway on the same hazy archipelago of jazzy-folky-funky-blues as other burnt-out hippy visionaries of the Seventies (V. Morrison, J. Mitchell, etc.)

Ha! That list should have included T. Buckley, R. Wyatt, N. Drake (a close friend of Martyn’s and the inspiration/addressee of Solid Air’s title track), and probably quite a few others too. “Archipelago” still seems like the right metaphor. These artists didn’t belong to a genre, each of them had their own distinct sound, but there’s enough proximity in terms of their sources, approaches, and vibe, to warrant thinking of them as separate-but-adjacent, a necklace of maverick visionaries sharing a common climate.

The cover of Solid Air invites aqueous reverie. A hand passing through sea-green water leaving an after-trail of iridescent purple ripples, the effect is idyllic on first glance. But then you notice that the image is a circle of color on a black background, introducing the possibility that we’re inside a submarine looking through a porthole, and the hand’s owner is outside, drowning. Solid Air’s title track, we’ll see, is about someone who’s figuratively drowning, unable to resist the downward currents of terminal depression. One of the best songs is called “Dreams By The Sea,” which might resonate for a homesick castaway, except these are “bad dreams by the sea.” 

Water flows through the entire John Martyn songbook, from “The Ocean” to his delightful cover of “Singin’ in the Rain,” while two of his post-Solid Air album covers feature images of the sea. 1975’s Sunday’s Child shows the bearded bard standing in front of crashing surf, while One World’s cover is a painting of a mermaid diving up out of the waves and curving back into the ocean, her arched body trailing a glittering arc of sea-spray and flying fish. In that review, I dubbed the album “a Let’s Get it On for the Great Barrier Reef,” a comparison inspired mainly by the reverb-rippling aquafunk of “Big Muff” and “Dealer,” two songs that mingle the language of sex and drugs such that you’re not sure what brand of addiction they’re really about. One World’s final track, the nearly nine minutes of almost-ambient entitled “Small Hours,” was recorded outdoors beside a lake. 

Solid Air, though, has just one song that actively sounds aquatic, “I’d Rather Be The Devil,” a cover of Skip James’ “Devil Got My Woman.” After almost 15 years of loving Martyn’s version, I finally heard the original “Devil” in the movie Ghost World, where this out-of-time specter of a song harrows the teenage soul of heroine Enid. Most songwriters would have flinched from attempting such an unheimlich tune, but Martyn’s cover is so drastic it fleshes this skeletal blues into virtually a brand-new composition: imagine the clavinet-driven funk of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition,” if it actually sounded superstitious, witless and twitchy with dread. “I’d Rather Be The Devil” starts as a sickening plunge, a dive into seductive but treacherous waters. Roiling with congas and clavinet, the glutinously thick groove rivals anything contemporaneous by Sly Stone or Parliament-Funkadelic. Martyn moves through the music like a shark. Lyric shards come in and out of focus: “my mind starts a-rambling like a wild geese from the west,” “stole her from my best friend...know he’ll get lucky, steal her back.” But mostly Martyn’s murky rasp fills your head like a black gas of amorphous malevolence. The song part of “Devil” gives way to a descent-into-the-maelstrom churn, a deadly undertow of bitches-brew turbulence. Then that too abruptly dissipates, as though we’ve made it through the ocean’s killing floor and reached a coral-cocooned haven. Danny Thompson’s alternately bowed and plucked double bass injects pure intravenous calm; John Bundrick’s keys flicker and undulate like anemones and starfish; Martyn’s needlepoint fingerpicking, refracted through a delay device, spirals around your head in repeat-echoed loops of rising rapture. This oceanic arcadia is something music had touched previously only on Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland with the proto-ambient sound-painting of  “1983...(A Merman I Should Turn To Be)/Moon, Turn The Tides...Gently Gently Away.” 

Listening to this split-personality song – glowering storm-sky of dark-blue(s) funk/shimmering aquamarine utopia – it’s hard to believe that only a few years earlier John Martyn had been a beardless naïf with an acoustic guitar, plucking out Donovan-esque ditties like “Fairytale Lullaby” and “Sing a Song of Summer.” What the hell – more precisely, what kind of hell – happened in between? 

Arriving in London from his native Scotland in the mid-Sixties, John Martyn hung out at the city’s folk cellars, learning guitar technique by sitting near the front and closely watching the fingers of Davy Graham and Bert Jansch. Soon he was performing at spaces like Les Cousins and Bunjie’s himself. He signed to Island (one of the first non-Jamaicans on the label) and in October 1967, aged nineteen, released his debut album London Conversation – fetching but jejune Brit-folk. Like many of his contemporaries, he gradually fell under the spell of jazz, especially John Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders. He later described Impulse as the only truly pure label in the world. The Tumbler, from 1968, featured the flautist and saxophonist Harold McNair, while The Road To Ruin, his second collaboration with wife Beverley, involved jazz players Ray Warleigh, Lyn Dobson and Dudu Pukwana. But neither of these records really transcended an additive, this-plus-that approach; they fell short of a true amalgam of folk and jazz. 
 
It’s not known if Martyn learned and drew encouragement from, or even heard at all, the voyages of Tim Buckley, who was on a very similar trajectory from pure-toned folk troubadour to zero-gravity vocal acrobat deploying the voice-as-instrument. But Martyn did talk in interviews about digging Weather Report (particularly the colorized electronic keyboards of band leader Joe Zawinul) and Alice Coltrane (he called her “my desert island disc” but didn’t specify which particular disc of hers he had in mind!). A less-likely influence was The Band’s Music From Big Pink, especially the Hammond organ sound, which he mistook for electric guitar, and described as “the first time I heard electric music using very soft textures, panels of sound, pastel sounds”. He and Beverley Martyn made one album, Stormbringer, in Woodstock and New York City, with some members of The Band playing. But that was something of an aberration in the general drift of his music towards a jazzed fluidity. The ideal of a “one world” music possessed the imagination of many at this time – Can and Traffic, Miles Davis and Don Cherry – and throughout this period, at the cusp between the Sixties and the Seventies, Martyn was also listening to Indian classical, high-life, and Celtic music. (He would later record an electric version of the Gaelic air “Eibhli Ghail Chiun Chearbhail.”) This all-gates-open receptivity was part of Martyn’s refusal, or more likely inability to tolerate divisions, his compulsive attraction to thresholds and in-between states. And it would culminate in the untaggable and indivisible alloy of folk and jazz, acoustic and electric, live and studio, songform and space, achieved on Solid Air. "I think that what's going to happen is that there are going to be basically songs with a lot of looseness behind them," he told Melody Maker at the end of 1971, less than a year before recording the album.

As jazz entered Martyn’s musical bloodstream, it affected not just his songwriting and approach to instrumentation, but his singing too. The clear diction of folk gave way to slurring that turned his voice into a fog bank of sensuality tinged with menace. Folk privileged words because of the importance it placed on messages and story-telling, but Martyn had come to believe that “there’s a place between words and music, and my voice lives right there.” One characteristic Martyn mannerism – intense sibilance – can be heard emerging in his cover of “Singin’ In the Rain” (on 1971’s Bless the Weather, the immediate precursor to Solid Air), where “clouds” comes out as “cloudzzzzzzz,” a drunken bumble bee bumping against your earhole. 

If Martyn’s music grew woozy “under the influence” of jazz, during this period he was equally intoxicated by...well, intoxicants. The ever more smeared haziness of his voice and sound owed as much to the drugs and drink entering his biological bloodstream; dissolution and the dissolving of song-form went hand in hand. Martyn had always felt the bohemian impulse (he’d gone to art school in Glasgow looking for that lifestyle, only to leave after a few months, disappointed) and on his debut album he sang the traditional folk tune “Cocain.” But with its jaunty lyrics about “Cocaine Lill and Morphine Sue,” the song sounds like it was recorded under the effect of nothing more potent than cups of tea.  Bless the Weather, again, is the moment at which the music first really seems to come from inside the drug experience. “Go Easy” depicts Martyn’s lifestyle – “raving all night, sleeping away the day...spending my time, making it shine...look at the ways to vent and amaze my mind” – but it’s “Glistening Glyndebourne” that hurls you into the psychedelic tumult of sense impressions. The title sounds like it’s about a river, and the music scintillates with dashes and dots of dancing light just like a moving body of water, but it’s actually inspired, bizarrely, by an opera festival in a stately home near where Martyn then lived; the suited formality of the upper class crowds provoked him to reimagine the scene. 

“Glistening Glyndebourne” was also the track that first captured what had become the signature of Martyn’s live performances, his guitar playing through an Echoplex. It seems likely that he was, unconsciously or not, looking for a method of recreating sonically the sense of the dilated “now” granted by drugs. Martyn initially turned to the machine thinking it could provide sustain (a quest that had previously and briefly led him to attempt to learn to play a jazz horn). He quickly realized that the Echoplex wasn’t particularly suited to that task, but that he could apply it to even more impressive and fertile ends. Set to variable degrees of repeat-echo, the machine fed the guitar signal onto a tape loop that recorded sound-on-sound; the resulting wake of sonic after-images enabled Martyn to play with and against a cascading recession of ghosts-of-himself, chopping cross-rhythms in and out of the rippling flow. The Echoplex appeared in discreet, barely-discernible form on Stormbringer’s ““Would You Believe Me,” but “Glistening Glyndbourne” was something else altogether. Its juddering rush of tumbling drums and Echoplexed rhythm guitar was the dry run for “I’d Rather Be The Devil.” 

Solid Air starts with “Solid Air,” twinkles of electric piano and vibes winding around Martyn’s close-miked acoustic guitar and bleary fug of voice. For most of my years of loving this album I never knew the song was about, and for, Nick Drake, and I almost wish I could un-know that fact (especially as I’ve always secretly felt that Martyn deserved the mega-cult following that his friend and Island label-mate has, as opposed to his own loyal but medium-sized cult). But the phrase “solid air” still retains its mystery. Listening to it just now it suddenly flashed on me that “solid air” sounds like “solitaire,” raising the possibility that it’s a punning image of the lonely planet inhabited by the melancholy Drake, cut-off from human fellowship as surely as any desert island castaway. More likely, though, is that lines like “moving through solid air” attempt to evoke what depression feels like, suggesting both the character in Talking Heads’ “Air” who’s so sensitive he can’t even handle contact with the atmosphere, and someone trying to make their way through a world that seems to have turned viscous. The song, written over a year before Drake committed suicide, is at once an offer of help, an entreaty, and a benediction: “I know you, I love you...I could follow you – anywhere/Even through solid air.” Sung with a sublime mixture of maudlin heaviness and honeyed grace, it’s a huge bear-hug to someone in terrible pain. But, with the advantage of hindsight, it also feels like a lullaby – rest in peace, friend.

There’s a symmetry to the way Solid Air is constructed. Side Two starts like the first side, with a soft, slow whisper of a tune gently propelled by Danny Thompson's languid but huge-sounding double-bass pulse. In texture, tone and tempo, “Go Down Easy” is very much a sister-song to “Solid Air,” but this time the air is thick not with melancholy but with a humid sexuality that’s oddly narcotic and ever so slightly oppressive. It’s a kind of erotic lullaby: the title/chorus seems logical enough, the kind of thing lovers might say, until you actually contemplate it, and then it sounds more appropriate to an agitated animal being quelled or a child being calmed down at bed time. “You curl around me like a fern in the spring/Lie down here and let me sing the things that you bring,” croons Martyn, drawing out the chorus “go down easy” into a kind of yawn of yearning, as he draws his lover into a space where breath becomes tactile and intimacy almost asphyxiating. 

On Solid Air, John Martyn is a hippie with a heart of dark, equally prone to brawling and balladeering, his voice constantly hovering between sweet croon and belligerent growl. In an interview, he talked about wanting to be “a scholar-gentleman...I'm interested in spiritual grace,” and this side of Martyn – the idealist, albeit one whose ideals his all-too-human self tended to fail – comes through in songs like “May You Never” and “Don’t Want to Know.” The former (his most well-known song, widely covered, mostly famously by Eric Clapton) is a good will message or blessing to a friend; that empty social formality (“best wishes”) fleshed out with specifics, bad things to be warded off (“may you never lay your head down without a hand to hold,” “may you never lose your woman overnight”). An anti-hex, if you will. Lines like “you’re just like a great big sister to me” and “you’re just like a great big brother to me” show that this song’s domain is agape as opposed to the eros of “Go Down Easy.” Eros, in Martyn’s world, is the danger emotion, the destabiliser, source of addiction and division (stealing your best friend’s woman in “I’d Rather Be The Devil”). 

If Martyn had only ever recorded delicately pretty, heartfelt songs like “May You Never” and “Don’t Want To Know”, he might have been as big as, oh, Cat Stevens or James Taylor (although his thumpingly physical and rhythmic acoustic guitar playing always put him several cuts above the singer-songwriter norm). “Don’t Want to Know” is an even more desperate attempt to ward off malevolent forces with a willed withdrawal into blissful ignorance: Martyn says he doesn’t “want to know one thing about evil/I only want to know about love.” It’s a kind of shout-down-Babylon song (even though his voice is at its softest), with a strange apocalyptic verse about how he’s waiting for planes to fall out of the sky and cities to crumble, and lines about how the glimmer of gold has got us all “hypnotized”. Martyn often talked about wanting to leave “the paper chase” behind, move out to the country, live a purer lifestyle. But if this song envisages corruption as an external contaminant that you can escape by putting distance between yourself and it, “I’d Rather Be The Devil” and its own sister-song “Dreams By The Sea” treat evil as an intimate. In “Devil,” it’s inside his lover, his best friend, and most of all himself (“so much evil,” moans Martyn midway through the song), while in “Dreams”, a song fetid with sexual paranoia, he goes from imagining there’s “a killer in your eyes” to a “killer in my eyes.” The track is tight, strutting funk, Martyn’s "Shaft"-like wah-wah coiling like a rattlesnake. At the end, it’s like the fever of jealousy and doubt (“Nah no nah no/It can’t be true...Nah no nah no/It’s not the way you are”) breaks, and the track unwinds into a lovely, forgiving coda of calm and reconciliation, laced with trickling raindrops of electric piano. 
 
There’s one more pair of songs on Solid Air, and in these Martyn figures as incorrigible rogue rather than demon-lover. Side One’s “Over The Hill” is deceptively spring-heeled and joyous, its fluttery prettiness (mandolin solo courtesy Richard Thompson) disguising the fact that Martyn here appears as a prodigal rolling-stone returning in disgrace. “Got nothing in my favor,” he blithely admits, while flashing back to Cocain Lil with a line that confesses “can’t get enough of sweet cocaine.” Babylon’s own powder, coke is a drug that stimulates desire for all the other vices, from sex to booze. “The Man In The Station,” on the opposite side of the album, catches the roving minstrel once again wending his way back to the family hearth, but this time he seems less cocksure and more foot-sore, ready to catch “the next train home.” These two coming-home songs would sound especially right on the island, where I’d need music that both acknowledged the fact of isolation while offering consolation for it. The album ends with “The Easy Blues,” really two songs in one: “Jellyroll Baker,” a cover of a tune by acoustic blues great Lonnie Johnson and a Martyn concert favorite whose blackface bawling is the only bit of Solid Air I could happily dispense with, and then the light cantering “My Gentle Blues” which almost instantly flips into a sweetly aching slow fade, draped with a poignant (if dated) synth solo played by Martyn himself.  

I’ve sometimes argued in the past that rock’s true essence is juvenile, a teenage rampage or energy flash of the spirit that burns brightest in seemingly artless sounds like ‘60s garage punk or ‘90s rave. Solid Air, though, is definitely adult music. Crucially, it’s made by an adult who hasn’t settled down, who’s still figuring stuff out; his music shows that growing pains never stop. 

This aspect of Solid Air also owes a lot to its historical moment: Martyn as open-hearted hippie emerging from the Sixties adventure to confront the costs of freedom (the problem of being in a couple but remaining fancy-free; drugs as life-quickening versus drugs as “false energy” or numbing tranquiliser). 

Solid Air is post-psychedelic also in the sense I mentioned earlier. These are songs, like the self that sings them, blurring at the edges and melting into something larger. This expanse was designated “space” by the cosmic rock bands of the era, but Martyn’s utopian image of healing boundlessness was “the ocean.” In “Don’t Want To Know,” the vengeful verse about cities a-crumbling ends with the wistful yet mysterious line “waiting till the sea a-grow”: a mystical image of world destruction as world salvation, perhaps, as though unity will only come when the continents (gigantic islands, if you think about it) drown in the sea of love.

The oceanic, “only connect” impulses of Sixties rock were political and musical at the same time. In the Seventies, these twin dreams collided with political reality and with a music industry that was becoming more market-segmented, and less of an anything-goes possibility space. By the end of the Seventies, Island’s Chris Blackwell would inform Martyn that his meandering muse had driven him into a niche marked “jazz,” a pigeonhole that every fiber in the singer’s artistic being revolted against. 

Only a few years earlier, in happier times, Blackwell produced Martyn’s #2 masterpiece, One World, its title track a disillusioned hippie’s plea as plaintively poignant and ardently apolitical (because seeking to abolish politics?) as Lennon’s “Imagine” or “One Love” by Martyn’s labelmate  Bob Marley. But the track’s sentiment is also a musical ideal, the call for a “one world” music being made by many at the time (see Miles Davis’ Pangaea, named after the original supercontinent that existed some 300 million year ago).

Martyn had already reached it on Solid Air: a body music that feeds the head, a sound woven from the becoming-jazz of folk, the becoming-electric of jazz, the becoming-acoustic of funk (not that Martyn, an earthy fellow, would ever use such Deleuzian jargon). The schizo-song of “I’d Rather Be The Devil” is where it all comes together, while coming apart. Sonically traversing the distance from the Mississippi levee work-camps in which the young Skip James toiled to Miles Davis’ In a Silent Way, “Devil” captures the ambivalence of “blue”: the color of orphan-in-this-world desolation, but also of back-to-the-womb bliss. The two halves of “Devil”, like the play of shadow and light across the whole of Solid Air, correspond to a battle in John Martyn’s soul – between sea monster and water baby,
danger and grace. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"I'd Rather Be The Devil" for The Wire's cover story on cover versions, November 2005


“Devil Got My Woman” (Skip James, rec. 1931)

Blues might be the most worn-out (through over-use and abuse), hard-to-hear-fresh music on the planet, but James’ original “Devil” --just his piteous keening voice and acoustic guitar--still cuts right through to chill your marrow. The lyric surpasses “Love Like Anthrax” with its anti-romantic imagery of love as toxic affliction, a  dis-ease of the spirit (James tries to rest, to switch off his lovesick thoughts for a while,  but “my mind starts a-rambling like a wild geese from the west”). Most singers would flinch from taking on this unheimlich tune. But John Martyn, reworking (and renaming) it as “I’d Rather Be The Devil” on Solid Air (Island, 1973) not only equals the original’s intensity but enriches and expands the song, stretching its form to the limit. It starts as a sickening plunge, a dive into seductive but treacherous waters. Roiling with congas and clavinet, the band’s surging aquafunk rivals anything contemporaneous by Sly Stone or P-Funk; Martyn moves through the music like a shark. Lyric shards come into focus now and then--“so much evil”, “stole her from my best friend… know he’ll get lucky, steal her back”--but mostly Martyn’s murky rasp fills your head like this black gas of amorphous malevolence. Then suddenly the bitches-brew  turbulence dissipates; ocean-as-killing-floor transforms into a barrier reef-cocooned idyll. Danny Thompson’s bass injects pure intravenous calm, keyboards flicker and undulate like anemones, Martyn’s needlepoint fingerpicking spirals in Echoplexed loops of rising rapture. Sonically traversing the distance from the Mississippi levee work-camps in which the young James toiled to Miles Davis’ In a Silent Way, “I’d Rather Be The Devil” captures the ambivalence of “blue”: the colour of orphan-in-this-world desolation, but also of back-to-the-womb bliss. The two halves of Martyn’s drastic remake also correspond to a battle in the singer’s soul--between monster and water baby, danger and grace.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
                                                        











Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Oneohtrix Point Never

Oneohtrix Point Never

Village Voice, July 6, 2010

by Simon Reynolds


Daniel Lopatin, the young man behind the spacey and spacious mindscapes of Oneohtrix Point Never, operates out of a cramped bedroom in Bushwick. Most of it is taken up by vintage Eighties synthesizers, rhythm boxes, and assorted sound-processing gizmos, plus a gigantic computer monitor.  Every inch of surface area is covered with tsotchkes: a Tupac mug, little sculpted owls, John and Yoko kissing on the sleeve of "Just like Starting Over".  Besides the computer, a stack of tomes represent upcoming areas of research for the erudite, philosophy-minded Lopatin:  a guide to Alchemy & Mysticism, a lavish book on ECM Records, Ray Kurzweil on The Singularity.  Most intriguing, though, are the notes posted above his work-space:  maxims, self-devised or sampled from thinkers, that are midway between Eno's Oblique Strategies and  those embroidered homilies people once stuck on their kitchen walls.   

"Do More With Less (Ephemeralize)" is fairly self-explanatory. The more opaque "'Linear'  -- Kill Time vs. 'Sacred'" is clarified by Lopatin thusly: "People think killing time is bad, you should be productive --but when music is at its most sanctified, it's a total time kill."   There's something in Hebrew and Cyrillic that nods to Lopatin's Russian Jewish background.  Most revealing of these "little critical reminders" is "N.W.B.", which stands for "Noise Without Borders".  "Everything is noise," elaborates Lopatin, whose yellowish hair and reddish beard mesh pleasingly with his off-purple flannel shirt and kindly, dreamy green eyes. "Noise can be sculpted down to become pop; pop can be sculpted down into noise. But it's also to do with the idea of not having genre affiliations".

Oneohtrix Point Never emerged out of the noise underground, but for a long while Lopatin felt like an outcast among the outcasts. The ideas he was developing--bringing in euphonious influences from Seventies cosmic trance music and Eighties New Age, creating atmospheres of serenity tinged with desolation--went against the grain. "My shit wasn't popping off at all", he laughs. This was 2003-2005, when Wolf Eyes defined the scene with their rock 'n 'roll attitude.  Lopatin and a handful of kindred spirits such as Emeralds felt a growing "boredom with noise, a sense we'd done it: we get this emotion." Around 2006, the scene began to shift slowly in their direction. "We were all talking about Klaus Schulze," he recalls of the gig where he first bonded with Emeralds. He notes also the huge clouds of pot smoke pouring from vans outside the venue, Cambridge, MA's Twisted Village.  "Drugs!" is his answer when asked about how the noise scene reached its current ethereal 'n' tranquil state-of-art. "Noise, at the end of the day, is headspace music. Drugs are a big part of getting into that experience, from a playing side, and from a fan/listener perspective too."

A flurry of Oneohtrix releases plus collaborative side projects such as Infinity Window made Lopatin a name to watch. But it was last year's Rifts--a double CD for Carlos Giffoni's No Fun label pulling together a trilogy of hard-to-find earlier releases--that propelled him to underground star status. U.K. magazine The Wire anointed Rifts the #2 album of 2009. The CD also sold out its two thousand pressing, making it a blockbuster success in a scene where the majority of releases come out in small runs anywhere from 300 to 30 copies. Rifts was further disseminated widely on the web, talked about and listened to with an intensity that sales figures don't reflect. 

Another profile-raising "hit" for Lopatin was Sunsetcorp's "Nobody Here"-- a mash-up of Chris DeBurgh's putrid "The Lady in Red" and a vintage computer graphic called "Rainbow Road," that has so far received 30,000 YouTube hits.  Lopatins calls his audio-video collages "echo jams": they typically combine Eighties sources (a vocal loop from Mirage-era Fleetwood Mac, say, with a sequence from a Japanese or Soviet hi-fi commercial) and slow them down narcotically (an idea inspired by DJ Screw). Lopatin collated his best echo jams on the recent Memory Vague DVD.  His Eighties obsession also comes through with the MIDI-funk side project Games, a collaboration with Joel Ford from Brooklyn band Tiger City. (Ford also lives in a room at the other end of the Bushwick apartment).  Lopatin plays me a new Games track that sounds like it could be a Michael McDonald song off the Running Scared O/S/T and says "We want people to be playing this in cars."

In what is simultaneously a further step forward and another step sideways, the new Oneohtrix album Returnal is released this month on the highly respected experimental electronic label Mego.  Although Lopatin's preoccupations with memory are similar to the label's most renowned artist Fennesz, sonically Returnal has little in common with Mego's glitchy past.  Yet Returnal is a departure for Lopatin, too.  Several tracks adhere to the classic OPN template established by tunes like "Russian Mind' and "Physical Memory": rippling arpeggiations, sweet melody offset by sour dissonance, grid-like structures struggling with cloudy amorphousness. But the most exciting tunes are forays into completely other zones. 

Opening with the sculpted distortion-blast of "Nil Admirari" is a fuck you to those who have Lopatin pegged as "that Tangerine Dream guy". It's also a concept piece, a painting of a modern household, where the outside world's violence pours in through the cable lines, the domestic haven contaminated by toxic data: "The mom's sucked into CNN, freaking out about Code Orange terrorist shit, while the kid is in the other room playing Halo 3, inside that weird Mars environment killing some James Cameron-type predator."" At the opposite extreme, the title track is an exquisitely mournful ballad redolent of the early solo work of Japan's David Sylvian. Lopatin's vocals have featured occasionally before as Enya-esque texture-billow but never so songfully as on "Returnal" (qualities that emerge even more strongly on the forthcoming remix/cover voiced by Anthony Hegarty).

Finally, most astonishingly, is "‡Preyouandi∆", the closing track: a shatteringly alien terrain made largely out of glassy percussion sounds, densely clustered cascades fed through echo and delay. On first listen, I pictured an ice shelf disintegrating,  a beautiful, slow-motion catastrophe.  This "blues for global warming" interpretation turns out to be completely off-base, but "‡Preyouandi∆" is the sort of music that gets your mind's eye reeling with fantastical imagery.

Both "Returnal" and "‡Preyouandi∆" contain textural tints that explicitly echo the hyper-visual sounds and visionary concepts of Jon Hassell, who back in the 1980s explored what he called "4th World Music":  a polyglot sound mixing Western hi-tech and ethnic ritual musics.  "I wanted to make a world music record," says Lopatin. "But make it hyper-real, refracted through not really being in touch with the world.   Everything I know about the world is seen through Nova specials, Jacques Cousteau and National Geographic."   He explains that the stuff that indirectly influenced Returnal were things like the unnaturally vivid and stylized tableaus you might see in that kind of documentary or magazine article--a 100 Sufis praying in a field, say.  "So I'm painting these pictures, not of the actual world, but of us watching that world." 


Oneohtrix Point Never, Elizabeth Fraser

“Tales from the Trash Stratum”

[from Pitchfork end of year tracks blurbs 2021)

The original “Trash Stratum” on 2020’s Magic Oneohtrix Point Never entwined distortion and euphony in fairly familiar Dan Lopatin fashion. This year’s drastic reinvention lovingly collages ‘80s production motifs: pizzicato string-flutters as fragrant as Enya, blobs of reverb-smudged piano that evoke Harold Budd, high-toned pings of bass that could be The Blue Nile or Seventeen Seconds Cure. It’s like Lopatin is a bowerbird building a glittering nest to attract a mate – and succeeds in reeling in the onetime Cocteau Twin.  Fraser’s contributions -  ASMR-triggering wisps of sibilant breath, chirruping syllables from a disintegrated lullaby – are closer to a diva’s warm-up exercises than an actual aria, and sometimes you long for her to take full-throated flight into song.  But it’s lovely to hear the Goth goddess brought into the glitchy 21st Century. 


Queries + replies from / for Amanda Petrusich and her New Yorker profile of Lopatin


1.    Dan's work is really conceptual, but I'm also curious how it lands on you as MUSIC -- how you see it fitting in amongst his genre peers, and also his predecessors? My sense is that he's not the first artist to do some of these things, but there's something about his work that feels really special.

 

Dan is one of the pioneers and exemplars of what I call conceptronica. Sometimes with that not-quite-a-genre (it’s more like a mode of operation) the framing can be a bit overbearing. Occasionally he’s veered too far that way. But unlike many of those who operate like that (i.e. with a highly articulated rationale pitched to the audience and to critics) , at its best his music has an element of sheer beauty and emotional pull to it that transcends, or just bypasses, the verbalization. I’m thinking of pieces like “Physical Memory”, which just aches with feeling.  

I’m not even sure I can pinpoint what the emotions are – often it's like strange new affects of the future.

But then something like his most famous eccojam, “Nobody Here” – the emotion here is human and relatable. He’s said it’s about his own loneliness in New York, having recently moved there. Which is not the emotion in the original song,  a romantic ballad. But somehow he was able to take that little vocal sliver and repurpose it, in combination with that early computer graphics animation in the video. I don’t think there’s any element in “Nobody Here” that sonically or visually was generated by him, it’s all found material, but out of it he created something new and emotionally resonant. 

When he first came along he was identified with this scene that some called hypnagogic pop and then later chillwave was the term used for the more song-oriented stuff out of that area. So he would be bracketed with artists like James Ferraro and Emeralds – a lot of the emphasis was recycling Eighties mainstream pop or rehabilitating New Age music. When I tried to pinpoint what defined this wave of artists I came up with this idea that it was Pop Art meets psychedelia. So, reusing detritus from mass culture, but shot through with this hallucinatory quality.

In some ways, although he uses older musical material or references it, Dan’s ancestors aren’t so much in music but in the visual arts – the Appropriation Artists in particular, which is essentially Pop Art part 2..

 

  

2.    I'm super interested in an idea you write about a lot in "Retromania," that the Internet has left everything essentially untethered to space and time, and therefore we're moving laterally, and not backwards, when we recycle or reappropriate or repatriate or recontextualize ideas from the past. I'm curious what you think might be dangerous -- if anything! -- about this new way of consuming culture? 

 

I don’t know if it’s dangerous – it’s disorienting for someone like me who grew up with ideas of progress and sort of construable linear evolution for music and culture, in which some things get definitively superseded and you move on to the next stage, ideally at exhilarating speed. That was my outlook and my expectation growing up, but it might already have been a somewhat old-fashioned sort of modernism even then – those ideas lingered far longer in popular music than they did in art and architecture.

Dan has some great quotes that I used in Retromania (from the original interview I did with him for Village Voice) to do with how we’re living in  a time of reprocessing culture, this enormous junk heap of material left over from the 20th Century, it’s an aftermath phase of salvage and tinkering and recycling.

That said, there are clearly plenty of new technological things happening that are creating new cultural forms or the potential for them. At the time of writing Retromania I didn’t realise how much Auto-Tune would become a creative tool and lead to all this completely new-sounding music, particularly in hip hop but also on the experimental fringe. The voice became the field of action in terms of experimentation. (Dan’s done quite a bit of stuff in that vein, whether it’s things like “Sleep Dealer” or the vocal entity created for Garden of Delete)

And then there’s AI.

So maybe that archival moment that was happening in music in the 2000s (and also in art  - reenactments, what Claire Bishop recently wrote about in terms of research based art), maybe that has passed. It was a temporary phase created by the way that the Internet, YouTube etc seemed to erupt into existence and suddenly we were all sitting amidst this enormous cultural junkheap, It was irresistible to explore and excavate. Overpowering in terms of its claims on our attention and how creative people’s imaginations were affected. Indeed, there was a kind of helplessness to it, I think.

That is still going on, there’s a lot of archival based work, revivalism, pastiche - but there are things that are happening, enabled with newer technology, that result in the genuinely unforeheard.

 

3.    This is kind of a weird one, but does it feel, to you, like Dan has invented something new, some new idiom or sound?

I think he has, in moments, particular tracks. There’s a lot of referencing and recycling –  the whole hypergrunge idea was very clever.

But something like “‡PREYOUANDI∆” – I can hear faint echoes of earlier artists (like a bit of Jon Hassell maybe) but it’s really like nothing I’ve heard.

Even “Physical Memory”, while you might think vaguely of Tangerine Dream and Klaus Schulze, it doesn’t really sound much like those groups. It’s probably more inspired by an idea of the analogue synth epic, these very long electronic mindscapes that could sometimes take up the whole of one side of an LP. 

A lot of what has fascinated Dan is older futurisms - the pathos of new technology that gets obsolesced but also might contain dormant possibilities that were passed over too quickly at the time in the onrush of development. You can hear all these echoes or reactivations of 1980s early digital textures and effects. 

So the whole idea of the future and the new is sort of simultaneously jettisoned, or questioned, and yet still has this pull, still continues to have this hold on the imagination . 


 

 


Saturday, August 2, 2025

Pete Shelley

Pete Shelley tribute

Pitchfork, December 8 2028

by Simon Reynolds

The first and only time I saw Buzzcocks play live was in 2012, at the Incubate festival in Holland. They seemed an incongruous choice for a festival otherwise dedicated to experimentalism and dark cutting-edge fare. Although I love the band’s late-1970s output, I never would have actively sought out their live incarnation as a pop-punk legacy act; it was exactly the sort of nostalgia-appealing operation that would usually earn my stern disapproval. It was mild curiosity, really, that drew me into the big hall—only to be stunned by the power and glory of the noise wrought by the worse-for-wear-looking survivors on the stage.

Classic after classic smashed into the crowd’s collective face like surf. I found myself doing something embarrassingly close to a pogo. It was wonderful, every bit of it—even a strange new mid-section to “Harmony In My Head” that involved Steve Diggle delivering a kind of quasi-insurrectionary rap. This appeared to bemuse Pete Shelley as much as the audience and prompted him to gasp into the mic, “What the fuck was that?”. I had turned up expecting something rote and stale; instead I was jolted alive.

Whenever I listen to Buzzcocks’ music, what always strikes me is how modern it still sounds. But that is actually how it works with true innovation. No matter how much time passes—decades during which a breakthrough is assimilated and worn out by repetition, whether by others or by the artist repeating themselves—something of that initial shock of the new rings out and cuts through. And if you think about it, nearly everything handed down to us as “classic” was, in its own time, a break with tradition.

Buzzcocks severed ties with the blues-rooted rock of the early ’70s. No Chuck Berry chug for them: instead, Shelley cited Can’s Michael Karoli as his favorite guitarist and said that his idea of a great solo was John Lennon’s abstract noise eruptions on Yoko Ono’s “Why.” The name Buzzcocks could almost be onomatopoeia for the noise made by Shelley and rhythm guitarist Diggle: a serrated surge, at once coarse and sleek, with a hint of kinky mischief. Shelley and the band’s original singer Howard Devoto found that name from the chance conjunction of words in a magazine headline about the buzz-worthy TV show “Rock Follies,” rock-biz satire featuring a tough-girl singer who cheekily addresses everyone as “cock.”

Although they were in the original core cluster of groups that invented UK punk, Buzzcocks would always be an anomaly within that movement—misfits among the misfits. There had never been words, a voice, a personality, like this in rock before. Shelley sang love songs when every other major punk vocalist rejected them as trivial next to political themes, or—if they did deal with desire and heartbreak—laced the words with spite and hostility. The aggression in Buzzcocks was all in the sound; the animating spirit was sensitive, open-hearted, vulnerable. There’s a lovely clip of Shelley circulating on the internet, interviewed by a TV documentary crew in 1977 when punk gigs in Britain were getting banned by local councils and picketed by hordes of outraged citizenry. Twinkling and grinning adorably, the singer is incredulous at the idea that he could be deemed “vile and obscene.”

When punk evolved into post-punk, Buzzcocks didn’t fit there either. Although Shelley was well-read and philosophically searching, and although the group’s graphic presentation was arty and stark, their tunes and riffs went straight for your pleasure centers; the words were direct, colloquial, accessible to all. Nor did Buzzcocks have much truck with the militancy or didacticism of the post-punk era. The band’s politics were personal, verging on private—to do with radical honesty, the struggle to be an individual, to disentangle oneself from games and masks and role-play.  

“I think people need a new way of living—inside themselves,” Shelley offered gently, when asked about the idea of a political movement by TV interviewer Tony Wilson. People generally assume that Peter McNeish renamed himself Shelley after the Romantic poet, but in that same TV mini-doc about Buzzcocks, Wilson says that Shelley was the name that his parents would have given Peter if he’d been a girl.  

That invocation of the she that he might have been connects to a genuine innovation that Shelley introduced to rock and that reflected his fluid sexuality: the deliberate use of gender non-specific pronouns in love songs, something that would hugely influence later lyricists like Morrissey. "There isn't any implied gender in our songs now because we think it's boring singing about one thing when it could apply to both sexes,” Shelley told the music paper Sounds in 1977. “Our songs our bisexual."

This elasticity of gender and sexual attraction was one aspect of Shelley’s desire to invent a new kind of love song. In a 1978 interview with NME, he described himself as “a modern romantic…  trying to find out what modern romance is..  I’m trying to find something new… All the old kinds of romance are self-destructive because they don’t take account of realities.” On the Buzzcocks’ debut album, Another Music From A Different Kitchen, “Fiction Romance” was about the gap between the entrancing dreams propagated by movies and magazines and the aching mess of real-life desire: “I love this love story/That never seems to happen in my life.”

Shelley’s solution was a radical mundanity, using pained humor to sketch scenarios of humiliation, inadequacy and shortfall, coupled with melody that promised resolution or transcendence. Again, this tension between romance and reality points ahead to groups like Orange Juice and the Smiths. In the Buzzcocks’ case, the delicate balancing act between beauty and bathos was never more (im)perfect than on the group’s second and third singles: the perpetual unfulfillment of “What Do I Get?” (the answer: sleepless nights in an empty bed), the amorous asymmetry of “I Don’t Mind” (“this pathetic clown’’ll keep hangin’ around, that’s if you don’t mind”).  

Although “Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)” continues the theme and is a fan favorite as well as Buzzcocks’s biggest UK chart hit, this triptych of anti-romantic love songs is really completed by “You Say You Don’t Love Me.” The aim here is clarity achieved through a kind of positive disillusionment, serene acceptance of things as they are: “I don’t want to live in a dream, I want something real… Though I’ve got this special feeling, I’d be wrong to call it love/For the word entails a few things that I would be well rid of.” In interviews, Shelley talked of his new approach: starting out as friends and hoping romance would grow, rather than falling head over heels and then trying to turn that idealized half-figment of a person into a friend and companion.

In the punk and new wave era, people who would never have previously been considered to be pop star material—on account of their looks or their vocal inadequacies—became household names. Part of the shock of Buzzcocks was the sheer ordinariness of Pete Shelley materializing in the glitzy TV context of “Top of the Pops.” With his open-neck button-shirts and slightly shaggy hair, he looked like neither a punk nor a pop star, but more like an office clerk on his lunch break. And he sang like one too.

Shelley might never have become the band’s lead singer and lyricist if Howard Devoto had stayed in Buzzcocks. Like Bernard Sumner following the death of Ian Curtis, Shelley took on the frontman role because he and the other members of the band figured it would be easier for an insider to take over singing duties rather than accommodate a new person who might have his own ideas.

But Shelley would have already been a historically significant figure in British punk even if he’d never sung a single tune or written a line of lyric. It was he and Devoto who arranged for the Sex Pistols to play their debut Manchester gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall on June 4 1976: a much-mythologized event said to have seeded the city’s entire punk scene, sparking the careers of Joy Division, the Fall, and Morrissey.

It was also Shelley who persuaded his dad to take out a loan for 250 pounds, the decisive investment in the recording and pressing of Buzzcocks’ Spiral Scratch EP, which the band and manager Richard Boon put out on their own New Hormones label. Released in February 1977, Spiral Scratch would be the beacon that mobilized the DIY hordes of punk and post-punk Britain and beyond, inspiring outfits like Desperate Bicycles, Scritti Politti, and Swell Maps to demystify and democratize the means of musical production. Do-it-yourself and release-it-yourself was seen as a righteous war waged against the apathy and ennui so acutely anatomized by Devoto in his lyrics for “Boredom,” Spiral Scratch’s killer track.

By the time of the EP’s release, though, Devoto was bored of punk itself and left the band, taking with him an epic guitar riff generously gifted him by Shelley that would eventually serve as the hook of “Shot By Both Sides,” the debut single of his new group Magazine. Shelley and Buzzcocks, meanwhile, decided that persevering on their own regional independent label was not viable and they signed with the major United Artists. In swift succession, over just two compressed and hectic years, there followed the immaculate debut album Another Music in A Different Kitchen and its uneven but endearing follow-up Love Bites (both released in 1978), then the underrated third album A Different Kind of Tension the following year. The last of these was overlooked in its own time, as the rapidly evolving UK scene left Buzzcocks behind.

There was also a string of eight perfect singles, starting with “Orgasm Addict” (a hilarious masturbation anthem that was, in fact, construable as “vile and obscene”). Together these made up Singles Going Steady, the greatest “greatest hits” LP this side of the Supremes, even if most of the inclusions had barely been hits. I vividly remember the disbelief, aged 16, when the gorgeous melodic swirl of  “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” and the glittering chimes of “Harmony In My Head” both failed to pierce the Top 20.

In punk-pop perfection terms, Buzzcocks were rivalled only by the Undertones and there was a feeling, albeit a minority viewpoint, that they were the era’s Beatles, or should have been. Each single deserved to go straight in at Number One. But there was more to Shelley than power pop, as was revealed on the second side of Singles Going Steady, dedicated to the group’s B-sides. These grew steadily less straightforward, culminating in “Why Can’t I Touch It,” nearly seven minutes of loping almost-funk and radically stereo-separated guitar-slashes, and “Something’s Gone Wrong Again,” which resembles suspended-animation Stooges, glistening with a coat of frost. The entire second side of A Different Kind of Tension was a Shelley mini-concept album, permeated with existential doubts and askew with a disassociated feeling influenced by LSD. And 1980’s “Are Everything,” one of the first-phase Buzzcocks’ last singles, was even more psychedelic: Shelley took acid for every stage of the process, from recording to mixing, hoping for the rush of revelation to overcome him.

But it wasn’t a case of Buzzcocks getting weirder as Shelley expanded his horizons: he’d always  had an experimental streak.  A few years before punk, Shelley recorded several albums worth of abstract electronic music and some of this 1974 material saw belated release in 1980 as the album Sky Yen. Another 1980 side project was The Tiller Boys, in which Shelley partnered with a Manchester teenager called Eric Random to record the clangorous Neu!-like stampede “Big Noise From the Jungle”, which became a favorite on John Peel’s BBC radio show. Both Sky Yen and “Big Noise” bore a relationship to a pair of “theoretical groups”  Shelley had conceptualized in the years before Buzzcocks: a heavy, hypnotic Krautrock-inspired project called Smash and an electronic entity known as Sky.  Unlike Smash, Sky actually “became real… but consisted solely of me,”  Shelley recalled to Trouser Press in 1983. Made at home with hand-built oscillators and cheap-and-nasty organs, Sky’s squalls of abstract electronic noise couldn’t have been further from the prim precision and candied catchiness of  “Ever Fallen In Love” . Any Buzzcocks fans who splashed out for Shelley’s solo album were likely mystified. 

When Shelley and Devoto first met it was actually through the Electronic Music Society at the Bolton Institute of Technology in Greater Manchester, where they both studied: Devoto was looking for someone to soundtrack a film he was making. “Peter was an electronics engineer and he was into computers even at that stage,” Devoto told me in 2003. With this deep and long-established interest in electronic music and technology, it’s hardly surprising that Shelley was quick to notice the potential of the affordable synths and drum machines that became available in the last few years of the ’70s.

After the band split up exhausted in 1980, Shelley started working on a solo album with Martin Rushent, the producer who had crucially shaped the Buzzcocks’ raw-but-glossy sound on record. The result was the pioneering synth-pop single “Homosapien,” yet another in the long line of Shelley should-have-been-a-smash songs (although this time the problem was a BBC ban, on account of its impishly suggestive homo-erotic lyric), and a 1981 album of the same title that blended synths and drum machines with electric guitars. Another parallel universe / alternate history scenario tantalizes here: a world where Shelley pipped the Human League to the post (they also worked with Rushent, to massive success) or became a kind of one-man Pet Shop Boys. You could even imagine a Buzzcocks that didn’t split but embraced electronics, gradually becoming a New Order-like force.

Instead, after a couple more unsuccessful electro-pop solo records, Shelley joined with the other ex-Buzzcocks to reform the group along their classic lines. They released their fourth album Trade Test Transmissions in 1993, the first in a series of half-a-dozen albums that were solid but never quite ignited the old spark. In 1994, at fanboy Kurt Cobain’s invitation, they toured with Nirvana, a preview of the next 20 or so years of sustained live work.

In the days following Cobain’s suicide in April 1994, Shelley—an early adopter of the internet—could be found on a bulletin board of the now-defunct Compuserve commiserating with fans and sharing his very recent memories of hanging out with Kurt. He cycled between self-reproach for not being able to help the troubled singer and deliberately irreverent comments intended to deflate overly pious laments for the fallen rock savior—attitudes he clearly felt missed the point of punk and of Cobain himself.  

Shelley’s own aim was to be exactly the same size as life, and somehow put that across onstage or on record, despite the inherent artifice of being a performer. That was his interpretation of what punk represented—the artist as unheroic hero, on the same level as the fans. Approachable, unassuming, self-deprecating, Shelley lived out that ideal until the end.