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Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts

 
 
 
 
 
 

In England, we don’t have the concept of pomana. It simply doesn’t happen. For this reason, we have great difficulty in letting go of the past, coming to terms with the passing of time, in a mature and sensible way. The Orthodox church (when it’s not condemning homosexuals to a pit of fiery embers for all eternity) actually has the right idea with this Pomana thing, bringing people together with decreasing frequency to pay homage to a loved one. In England by comparison, we simply try to “move on”, keep a “stiff upper lip” and try not to embarrass ourselves by talking too much about our feelings. As a result, the English are full of pent up frustrations about the past. And when we do get the chance to look backwards, it’s like opening the door of a washing machine when it’s mid-cycle - out gushes all this dirty water and partly-soiled underwear.     
A mountain of sodden, soiled underwear is actually a pretty good description of a current musical anniversary, celebrating 40 years since the release of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Now, if you wear a denim jacket, are male and over the age of 35, you’re probably convinced that this is the best album the Beatles ever released. (Wrong! The best Beatles album is “The Best Of The Beatles”. Fact.) You might even be one of the legions of people who think that this is the best album ever made (if this applies to you, you really need to get out more often). Anyway. I digress. To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the album’s release, the BBC brought together a bunch of tight-trouser-wearing bands to re-record the album (using the same equipment and the same sound engineer - a fact that is only important to people who’ve never had a proper girlfriend and who spend all their money on buying pairs of John Lennon’s glasses on Ebay).           
From the start, the project looks more than dubious. I can understand why bands like The Magic Numbers, The Zutons and the Kaiser Chiefs were asked to re-record Beatles songs. But what on earth is Bryan Adams, the most boring man in rock music, doing covering the opening track on the album? And what kind of sadist could possibly be interested in British comedian Russell Brand’s version of “When I’m Sixty Four”? Oasis, having spent their entire career imagining themselves to be a re-incarnation of the Fab Four, of course, make an obligatory appearance. They manage turn the George Harrison song “Within You Without You” into the kind of uphill-struggle of a song that Status Quo would be embarrassed to release. Without exception, each and every track on the album sounds like a humourless sub-Karaoke version of the original. Avoid, at all costs.           
  Enough complaining. On to the good stuff. Album of the month has to go to Richard Hawley’s “Lady's Bridge”. Despite hanging out at Europa with a brown envelope full of cash, I’ve not been able to pick up any illegal, Chinese-import copies of the LP before its official release. Yes, I know, recommending an album that I’ve not actually heard is a little unprofessional. However, on the basis of the single “The Streets Our Ours”, and his last four albums, I can guarantee that the upcoming LP from the ex-Pulp guitarist is going to be astonishing. In fact, I’m so convinced of the greatness of this album, that if I’m wrong, I’ll write a gushing seven-page feature on ‘The Genius of Marcel Pavel’ in the next edition of Elle. A performer of melancholy, country-inspired pop ballads, Richard Hawley has a voice so sad that he can make tattooed skinheads who beat up their girlfriends weep buckets of the salty tears of repentance. Make sure you get a copy, even if it involves making dodgy transactions with a gang of Triads down a back alley.           
  Coming a close second, is “Miss Diamond To You,” by Miss Diamond herself. If you’re the kind of person who thinks electronic music is a sign of the coming of the Anti-Christ, then this is the album to open your eyes. Produced by the legendary Maurice Fulton, this is nu-disco-boogie-soul (I just invented that genre, by the way) with such a spaced-out sound that you’ll need to hold onto the furniture to stop yourself floating away.           
  As well as these two offerings, I’ve spent the last month listening to the latest LP from New Young Pony Club. Yes, they’re an ultra-fashionable London band obsessed with the 80s. Yes, people at their concerts spend all their time looking at how rare and expensive your trainers are. Yes, they’re all the things you’re supposed to hate about ‘hipster’ music. But they’re forgiven, because their LP “Fantastic Playroom” is the musical equivalent of driving past a head on car crash, involving the Blondie tour-bus and a wagon carrying 80’s synthesiser equipment, and not being able to help yourself but turn to peer into the wreckage (in a good way, of course).           
For some inexplicable reason, this last month the relationship of just about every couple I know managed to disintegrate like a love-letter found in the pocket of a pair of freshly-washed jeans. I suspect there’s something in the water - or it could be some kind of CIA-sponsored conspiracy to destabilise Bucharest. Anyway, as a result of all this trauma, I’ve been forced to help out and start holding group-therapy sessions at my apartment to help everyone get through the heartbreak. In the process, I managed to re-discover Bob Dylan’s album “Blood on the Tracks”. Recorded after Dylan’s separation from his wife, this classic album is like holy-water for the broken hearted, and comes highly recommended. If you want to listen, come along, every Wednesday, at seven, my place. Bring your own tissues.