World Of Rubber

Thanks to the crate digging blogs of the last several years, Adrian Borland's music, both with The Sound and his side projects have been rediscovered by a new army of online fans. Of particular interest is Second Layer, the duo he formed with The Sound bassist Graham Bailey. The first thing that's noticeable on listening to World Of Rubber is how utterly different the sound and aesthetic of Second Layer is compared to that of The Sound. While The Sound had songs of gloomy introspection and a sweeping romanticism, Second Layer strips all of that away, leaving in its place a monochrome worldview morbidly obsessed with the dehumanising effect of war, nuclear weapon annihilation, and the fracturing and negation of the self within an increasingly distorted and technologically mediated society. The lyrics on World Of Rubber don't trade in subtlety or ambiguity, instead preferring to overwhelm you with its ugliness. The opening song 'Definition Of Honour' has Borland drawling explicit anti-war rhetoric such as "the definition of honour is the hole in the side of your head." 'Underneath The Glass,' has an almost freakish level of paranoia with Borland neurotically singing about germs, disease, assassination plots, and disturbing things squirming in the brain.

The music, mirroring the blunt lyrics, is as harsh as it is austere, with Bailey's drum machine rhythms and bass providing the stiff regulatory pulse, and Borland's abrasive guitar providing the platform onto which faltering synths and industrial metal noises are bolted and welded together. It's an assemblage of machine parts that seeks to characterise the inhuman worldview shown on the album's cover, where veins, flesh, skin and emotions are replaced by wires, pistons, plastics and cybernetic feedback circuitry. By the time they made tracks such as 'Japanese Headset', 'Underneath The Glass', and 'Distortion' they move more into the cyberpunk territory that you hear from Chrome and Cabaret Voltaire. The deep well point in World Of Rubber though has to be 'Black Flowers,' an almost apocalyptically grim dirge, with shuffling walls of bass and atonal synth wash, with Borland singing 'Black Flowers' like a poisoned nursery rhyme. It's the sort of song that I'd like to hear at the death of the earth, standing on a beach when the sea turns black and putrid and the grey skies open up and piss blood red acid rain on me.

Honolulu Mountain Daffodils

A scatter-brained and perhaps drunken recording entity based on the collective talents of guitarist Joachim Pimento, fuzz guitarist/keyboardist Zoe Zettner, fuzz guitarist/vocalist Lord Sulaco, fuzz guitarist/percussionist Daiquiri J. Wright, fuzz guitarist Franklin Silverheels, and bassist Smoky Alvaro (yes, they apparently liked the sound of a fuzz guitar), the Honolulu Mountain Daffodils gathered occasionally throughout the late '80s and early '90s to patch together records that threw almost anything imaginable into a blender (from Kraftwerk to Tom Waits to the Ramones to Black Sabbath to Neu! and all points between). The ill-rehearsed results were always uneven, but a fun time was guaranteed each time they gathered into a studio. The only true ambition of the Daffodils was to have their records exist in obscurity until developing a cult of fans via a steady slew of dollar bin discoveries. In fact, as legend has it, the artwork for the 1987 album Guitars of the Oceanic Overgrowth was designed to look as if it had spent at least two decades gathering dust in a record shop's sunshine-prone window display. Guitars’ was their first album and was followed the next year by Tequila Dementia, and then the trilogy was completed three years later by Aloha Sayonara (the Psychic Hit-List Victim EP was released in 1991). Apparently the band split up soon thereafter; lord (or Lord Sulaco) knows why.

Citizen Borland

The Sound were certainly one of the bands from the post punk era that never really got the recognition they deserved. After their demise in 1988, their lead-singer Adrian Borland moved to the Netherlands and formed Adrian Borland and The Citizens. Released in 1989, Alexandria was his new band’s first album. Following up on the music produced by The Sound was no easy feat, but their popularity in the Netherlands helped. Borland not only proved he was an accomplished songwriter but one capable of delivering accessible songs, if only the public would listen.

Alexandria is a mellow record in comparison to his previous work with The Sound. Passionate and intense, it reveals much about the man behind the songs. His fragile emotional state translates into songs which have an almost optimistic jangly feel yet at times moody and dramatic. Borland uses his voice really well on this record as it plays a large part in carrying the songs. Much of The Sound’s music had a rudimentary unpolished feel, Alexandria however sounds much more sophisticated and mature.

Overall Alexandria could be easily sat alongside early R.E.M., The Mighty Lemon Drops, Dream Syndicate, The Go Betweens, The Replacements and XTC. Adrian produced the album himself, having already worked with a number of independent bands. Vibrators guitar player Pat Collier was drafted in to add his special touch to a few of the songs.

Anyone who calls him or herself a fan of post punk or new wave should seek out the music of Adrian Borland, most certainly if you are into bands like The Chameleons and Comsat Angels.

Edited somewhat from original by THEARCHITECT

I Can't Escape Myself....plus

Despite the production's rough edges, the limited budget that fostered it, and the feeling that it sounds more like several A-sides and a couple decent B-sides thrown together than a singular body, Jeopardy is a caustic jolt of a debut that startles and fascinates. With the plaintive intro of the rhythm section, a spidery guitar, and incidental synth wobbles (which all sounds surprisingly Neu!-like), "I Can't Escape Myself" begins the album unassumingly enough until reaching the terse, one-line chorus that echoes the title of the song; suddenly, from out of the blue, all the instruments make a quick, violent, collective stab and retreat back into the following verse as singer Adrian Borland catches his breath. The reverb placed on his voice is heightened at just the right moments to exacerbate the song's claustrophobic slant. The ecstatic onward rush of "Heartland" forms the back end of a dynamic one-two opening punch, with a charging rhythm and blaring keyboards leading the way. It seems to be the spawn of XTC and U2, just as giddy as something from the former (think Go 2) and almost as anthemic as something from the latter (think Boy). Much later on, near the end, "Unwritten Law" comes along as one of The Sound's best mid-tempo mood pieces -- one of their greatest strengths. It also shows how much a simple shading of synth can affect a song, as it affects it with a melancholic smear that no other instrument could possibly provide. In all honesty, they weren't breaking any new ground here. Their influences were just as apparent as the ones donned by the other bands who inhabited similar post-punk territory. Smart journalists of the time (meaning the ones who truly listened and were aware of the band's past) knew well enough that The Sound belonged in the same league as the bands they were compared to and not somewhere in the bushes. Hardly coattail jockeying, The Sound were developing and growing alongside them. If you're thinking that this sounds like someone's telling you that you need Jeopardy just as much as you need Kilimanjaro or Unknown Pleasures or Crocodiles, you're right again. 

Jeopardy is THE album missing from your music collection.

Making such a bold claim banks on two assumptions, which I’ll come clean about right now. First, that you don’t already own Jeopardy. I assume this because, in the transition from a historical moment to a musical canon, the sad reality is that some bands, good as they may be, get left by the wayside. This unfortunate fate has most certainly befallen The Sound. Though they signed in 1980 to Korova Records (the very same major label which also housed Echo and the Bunnymen, with whom they also share a sonic likeness) they would hardly enjoy the same fame. Their cult status in England never translated into any notoriety on American shores; they remain unknown even by rabid new wave and post-punk fans on both sides of the Atlantic. Such a tragic tale only goes to show that, in the world of music, there most certainly no justice.

My second assumption is arguably one based on taste, but for anyone interested in how punk got to be post punk got to be new wave got to be ‘80s synth pop, Jeopardy is a critical piece of the puzzle. Nestled in that moment before what has become the signature ‘80s Euro sound was full-on explode, The Sound find musical cousins in the Cure, the Fall, the Gang of Four, Joy Division, and the Psychedelic Furs. Pretty good company, right? Now ask me again why you don’t already know about this band.

Jeopardy is the band’s debut release; it bursts with fresh energy while also maintaining a startling maturity and skill. These are songs that haunt, blaze, rip, and govern, sometimes within the same moment. Oh, their elements: the guitars twitch like an itchy trigger finger, the vocals teem with fury and fire, the bass like a controlled nuclear reaction, keyboards always at the perfect colour, whether dark or luminescent. In addition to the original material from the 1980 release, this particular reissue also contains tracks from rare live Instinct EP recorded in London in 1981.

“I Can’t Escape Myself,” the album’s opener, is an intensely dramatic, mesmerizing number. The characteristic quickfire bass and upbeat drum kicks start almost inaudibly and rise like smoke filling a closed room. Guitar agitates in unison with the drums. Then singer/guitarist Adrian Borland begins: “So many feelings/ Pent up in here/ Left alone, I’m with/ The one I most fear.” His paranoia intensifies across the verse, until the theatrical interjection of the chorus. Borland drips “I can’t escape myself,” as it’s echoed, in screams and guitar jabs, in the background. But this is a brief, Kafkaesque release. Even the closing of the song offers no real exit, Borland singing his final “escape myself” over the relentless bass, both of which cut out abruptly.

“Heartland”, the agile punk race which follows, is far more optimistic—blusteringly lively, indeed a “chemistry of commotion and style,” as the lyrics astutely note. Midway through is a genius guitar solo that recalls Richard Hell or Tom Verlaine, and the whole thing is overlain with a keyboard zing that nimbly dances across unexpected note progressions.

The exchange between “I Can’t Escape Myself” and “Heartland” is characteristic of the album writ large—brooding suspicion followed up by amphetamine-y mania. (Is it really a surprise that the band was beset by drug addictions and internally and externally imposed turmoil?) “Words Fail Me”, The Sound’s version of a “love song,” is as curious and angular as you’d expect from someone as anxiety-ridden and troubled as Borland comes off as being. It pops with horns and jumps with desperation, guitar rapid-firing a single note throughout the vocal acrobatics of the chorus. The melodramatic and shadowy “Missiles” follows and it could not be more of a departure. “Who the hell makes those missiles/ When we know what they can do?” Borland implores. Whether located in the government or in the depths of their own collective consciousness, the world is filled with forces beyond The Sound’s control.

All this, and I haven’t even touched the album’s best tracks: the roller-coasting “Heyday” and asymmetrical, supernatural “Desire”, not to mention the jaw-dropping live rendition of “Brutal Force”. Feel free to debate me on these selections, as so much of the album overflows with brilliance that it’s endlessly hard to pick a favourite. In fact, I’m stupefied in trying to figure out another superlative I could give to this tremendous record. Let’s just say, Jeopardy far surpasses my humble writing ability. I hope, for your own sake, that it’s not missing from your record collection for much longer. 

Outsider

Issued in May 1977, the Outsiders' first album has attracted some renown as an historical footnote, since it might have been the first self-released U.K. punk LP, or at least one of the first. (There's also some dispute as to whether it should be considered self-released, as it did come out on a label set up by guitarist/singer Adrian Borland's parents that was technically independent from the band.) Why isn't it cited in punk histories like, for instance, the Buzzcocks' early-1977 self-released Spiral Scratch EP is? For one thing, it was panned upon its appearance by some highly regarded U.K. music critics who championed punk, Julie Burchill and Jon Savage. For another, it's actually not all that punky, though a few tracks certainly qualify by most listeners' standards. If you're not expecting a lost prime class of 1977 document, however, it's not so bad. The title track has the anthemic spewed lyrics and fast guitar blur typical of early British punk, as do "Terminal Case" and "Hit and Run," though the latter veers toward hard rock. On other songs, however, they play decidedly non-punk, quieter, more introspective material. "Break Free" and "Weird" are more like moody Jonathan Richman or Peter Perrett than all-out punk assault; "On the Edge" is like muted Stooges in its sludgy midtempo wariness; "Start Over" is an actual acoustic guitar-centred ballad, if a downbeat one; and "I'm Screwed Up," despite the punky title, is more a grungy hard rock song than a defiant assault. Certainly better than the initial U.K. music press reviews would have you believe, it's nonetheless no lost classic, sounding more like a young band with a hint of promise and some knack for expressing vulnerable frustration. The sound quality's pretty good for an essentially self-generated effort, but the playing is sometimes a bit dodgy, the songs lacking in memorable riffs and variety. So it adds up to something that seems a bit more like a demo than a finished product, though it certainly has its interest for U.K. punk collectors, in part because the quieter songs don't stick to a generic formula.

Discussion of punk albums can often find themselves loaded with contradictions. The Outsiders records are no exceptions. Legend has it that the true punks couldn’t play. Yet Borland was a guitarist of some repute. He wasn’t alone in this respect and we could easily point to Stuart Adamson (The Skids), Keith Levene (Clash/PIL) and Marco Pirroni (Banshees/Ants) as other examples of prodigious axe talent from the punk era. The thing that strikes most about Borland is just how good a guitarist he was so early into his career. So much so that on Calling On Youth you’ll find all manner of nods back to previous bands such as The Doors, Velvet Underground and even Roxy Music, when most punk bands were rebelling against the past. There are even guitar solos on the album, usually anathema to supposed punks.

But what did punk rock mean anyway? Nevermind The Bollocks is supposed to be the landmark album of the era but that isn’t really a punk record. Listen to the glossy production values and you’ll find that the Pistols famous LP is far from the scratchy, garage/demo quality of true punk recordings. Indeed some might venture that punk was merely a movement or concept, that the whole idea of punk was non-conformation. Thus signing with a label and pressing an album are at odds with the whole punk ethic. Calling On Youth was a punk album but The Outsiders hadn’t been signed. The record goes into the history books as the first self-funded album by any UK punk act. In an era dominated by singles this might seem about as anarchic a move imaginable. So allow yourself a private chuckle with though thought that Adrian’s parents put up most of the money.

The music is patchy and sprawling as it could only be. There are few signals on the album proper of the tense, post-punk soon to follow. (If you don’t know The Sound, I’ll summarise by saying they were as close to Joy Division as any London act ever came. Buy From The Lions Mouth, one of the truly essential albums of British post-punk.) The extra One To Infinity EP tracks start to sound tighter and less cluttered, signposting the way forward. Calling On Youth is a decent punk record but not much more than a curio, even for fans of The Sound.