Remember the Coop

They've just released some mini LP CD editions of Alice Cooper's 70s back catalogue in Japan. They've also been digitally rejiggered (something that has been long overdue for these albums) and the ones I have sound great. But the reason I'm posting about them is that I've never seen CD reissues with such incredible attention to detail as these.

The picture above is the package for the School's Out album. Everything is there, from the folding out desk sleeve, to the tracklisting insert and even (and they're gilding the lily here) a set of mini nonwoven panties to mimic the notorious ones they used on the original vinyl one.

The Muscle of Love one is even more impressive. The cardboard sleeve is an uncanny replica of the one used for the vinyl album, and the inner sleeves are all present and accounted for. Note as well, how they have the correct versions of the Warner Label on the respective CDs. These guys haven't missed a trick.

Of course this just reminds you how much thought and expense went into the packaging on those albums when they first came out. Whether it was 1972 calenders, desks, billion dollar notes or LP sleeves as lunatic asylums, these records have some of the more memorable packaging of the time, and let's be honest, they probably contributed significantly to the band's success. Which in some ways is a shame because those albums didn't really need that much help. The four records that the band made with Bob Ezrin (Love it to Death, Killer, School's Out and Billion Dollar Babies) are all strong albums, especially the last one, which is stuffed to the gills with hits. Though to be fair, others, such as the patchy Muscle of Love needed all the help they could get.

If you know the albums, you'll know that - the odd bit of overproduction aside - they've aged pretty well. Killer in particular sounds as fresh as paint. In fact, it's a bit puzzling why the band isn't regarded more highly: they were undoubtedly influential - the group photo on the cover of the School's Out single (below) was the template for just about every band that hung out on Sunset Strip during the 80s. Come to think of it, maybe that's the problem.

Widow's Weed

I've long believed that there aren't many types of music that can't be improved by the addition of a Black Sabbath riff somewhere. A strategically-placed gonzoid riff is like Tabasco sauce or balsamic vinegar - it can transform the driest bowl of chips or the dullest plate of greens into a satisfying meal.

Which brings me to Folk Rock. Now, I should like Folk Rock, after all, Highway 61 Revisited and John Wesley Harding are two of my favourite albums. However, I find that most of what goes under the banner of Folk Rock these days is heavy on the Folk and light on the Rock; all those plaintive acoustic numbers strummed by scruffy young mean with beards don't do much for me. That sort of thing would be much improved by some Sabbath riffs.

I think Espers get this. The track below is from their second album, Espers II, which I've been playing a lot recently (the fact that they called their second album Espers II already endears me to them: not enough of that these days if you ask me). The album is Folk Rock that's not scared of electric guitars, and this particular track even has some Sabbath riffs to add an extra air of menace. I think it's great. They're on eMusic, if you're a subscriber; if not the album was going cheap on Amazon last I looked, and while you're there you could even pick up their third album, called - you've got it  - Espers III. How can you not like this band?

Recordshopper

The first single I bought was Beat the Clock by Sparks, which I bought from my local Woolies in 1979 or so. I still like Sparks and I like to think that having this as my first single indicates what great musical taste I had as a 10 year old. Actually, the reality is the charts in those years were so strong that you could have sent a chimpanzee into Woolies with a quid and a sign saying "I want a random Top 20 single", and the chances are he would have come out with something pretty decent. Unless he spotted the Pick n Mix counter first, I suppose.

For the next 8 years or so before I went off to college my record buying was mostly done in my local town's music shop (and it was a music shop, not a record shop; there was as much space given over to acoustic guitars, recorders and accordions as there was to Iron Maiden albums). There was nothing cool about the place, it was a family-owned shop that had a couple of racks for records, one of which had Scottish music albums (I hesitate to use the word "folk" here: mostly they were awful records with middle-aged blokes on the cover wearing chunky sweaters and kilts with titles like My Heart is in the Highlands), while the other was for rock and pop. The fact that it has such limited space meant that you soon ended up ordering most of your records, and my friends and I became well-acquainted with the shop's copy of the Music Master catalogue as we ordered such obscure recordings such as Meddle, Houses of the Holy and Master of Reality (before CDs came along back catalogue records seemed to be doomed to obscurity, especially the older ones. You would never see a copy of, say, Pet Sounds or John Wesley Harding in a record shop).

So, happy recollections of more innocent times? No, not really. Most of the time, the ordered records arrived within a week or two, but delays were common, especially if you weren't ordering from the majors. My copy of Black Sabbath's Sabotage, on the cheaper-than-chips NEMS label took seven months to arrive. Seven months! Plus, not everything was available and you would often arrive at the shop hoping to pick up your record only to hear the dread word "deleted".

I now realise that I was buying my records back then in essentially the same way as I buy the majority of my music these days - by mail order. The exception being that I was using the Music Master as opposed to Amazon (and if I could have accessed Amazon on my ZX Spectrum 48K, I would have).

I don't think the music shop is there anymore, not many of them are, having been bit torrented and amazoned to that great high street in the sky. And to be honest, I don't really mourn them. I thought I did, but the process of writing this post has made me realise that, if I'm really honest, I don't. Now on the other hand, I think second hand record shops should be goverment-subsidised, as they are effectively museums of popular culture where you can buy the exhibits. But that's a different post.

Anyway, as it's that time of the year, it's time to wish you all a good Christmas and post a picture of the record below, which may have been the first 12" single that I ever bought (I told you that my 10 year old self had good taste).

The Crystallised Banana Show

 I suppose I should have enjoyed the Anvil film a lot more than I did. After all, heavy metal documentaries are usually catnip to me, even though they tend to cover the same ground (Birmingham ...blah blah .... heavy industry ... blah blah ...Born to be Wild ... blah blah) and have the same old talking heads with the leaky memories. I'll sit and watch them all night. So why didn't I like the Anvil film?

Well first of all, the film suffers from that common ailment that we can call "Swollen Opinions". Now I remember Anvil back in the 80s, when they were seen as a silly bunch of chancers from Canada who would pose for photos with a vibrator (or as Kerrang! put it: "erm, a crystallised banana"). However, according to the film, they were one of the time's most influential bands who somehow unjustly missed out on stardom. So we saw an old copy of Kerrang with them on the cover, even though back then Kerrang would put pretty much anybody on the cover, such as Aldo Nova, Baron Rojo and Budgie. We had Malcolm Dome go on about how "heavy" they were, and we got endorsements from folk like Lemmy, Scott Ian, Lars Ulrich and Slash. In fact we got to hear more people talking about their music than the music itself, and when you heard the music you realised why.

However, the other reason I didn't warm to the film may just be a consequence of me getting older. The "plot" of the documentary involves Lips raising 13,000 pounds from his sister to finance recording professionally their new album (their 13th) which they then hawk (unsuccessfully) around major record labels. We're meant to see this as showing that they have a Never Say Die spirit and are fully dedicated to living the Rock & Roll Dream. But I just saw it as desperation, a last Hail Mary from a bunch of 50-something musicians in denial who can't accept that their time has past. The younger me would probably have admired that dedication. The older me felt sorry for the sister.

Edit: I've realised that my friend Bright Ambassador also wrote a (much better) post about the film, and moreover, unlike me, wrote about the damn thing when it came out. You can read it here.

Labels

I was reading this post about an artist who does paintings of 7" singles in their paper sleeves. He doesn't do picture sleeves, just the old-fashioned paper sleeves with a cut-out where you can see the record label. It got me thinking about the artwork on record labels. Sometimes the label design was a form of guarantee - the Atco Stax and RAK labels gave the potential purchaser an idea of what type of music was contained inside. And some record labels just become associated with a particular artist - I can't see the red Polydor label without hearing Noddy Holder going "Baby baby baaaaaaaaby!!!!"

So what were the record labels from the NWOBHM days that stick in the mind? Well, I'd put forward the following four for starters.


The Iron Maiden EMI Label

There is surely a case for saying that Iron Maiden may be the best-managed band around. What I find most impressive about their early EMI label was the fact that they did it at all. Such a vanity was rare in those days but surely someone on the management team twigged that if they did have their own label it would make people think they were a major band, even if at the time, they definitely weren't. Looks good too.


Bronze

I'm not sure what to make of Bronze as a label. On the one hand, it had Motorhead, Girlschool and Angel Witch on it, but on the other, I can't help thinking that all three of these bands (especially the last two) would have done a lot better if they were on a proper label with real marketing moolah. Still, it was a memorable label; just by looking at it you hear a gruff voice say "...just in case".


Neat Records

We can't let the majors have all the fun. The thing about the Neat Records label is that you know what it looks like even if you don't actually own any records on it. I don't have any records on Neat, and even back in the day the only thing I had on Neat was an awful sampler cassette I ordered from Sounds, but I still know what the label looks like.


Horrible Clickety Clackety Moulded Plastic

Sadly, the golden years of Metal coincided with record labels realising that they could cut costs by doing away with paper labels and just stamping a design onto the plastic. I hated these cheap, thin, brittle buggers. And they scratched and scuffed much more easily than their counterparts with the paper labels. I still have my original copies of Since You Been Gone and All Night Long and they have so much surface noise they sound like they were pressed the same day as one of Louis Armstrong's Hot Five recordings. Still, there's no denying that a lot of great singles ended up being pressed like this, especially by members of the old guard like Thin Lizzy, Rainbow, Rush and Dio Sabbath, so they need to take their place at the table.

So, what have I missed? Should the horrible pink of Carrere's label be there? Or the rather fetching Jet Records label that the Girl and Randy Rhoads Ozzy singles came out on? I'm sure there's something that triggers some of your memories...