1982 Renee & Renato: Save Your Love

In which Bob Carolgees' portly brother with a nice line in V neck sweaters (Renato) serenades his belle (Renee) in a faux Italian operatic Italian who honks back in a sharp and shearing English accent that aims for American but ends up falling in the drink somewhere mid Atlantic.

The overall effect is the sound of two underoiled and badly misaligned gears crunching together over a rinky dink Hammond organ beat and an atomically over the top string arrangement that follows the basic melody as faithfully as a guide dog leads its master. Yes it's horrible, and the accompanying video showed the duo playing it worryingly straight with no sense of irony (in a 'just one Cornetto' kind of way) - they were actually taking this seriously and that in itself somehow makes it all the worse.

Or rather it would if the woman in the video actually was Renee. Or Hilary Lester as her mother knows her. Because it's not - the girl in the video is an anonymous model because old Hilary was 'too busy with other projects' to promote this load of nonsense and only climbed on board the bandwagon when it went top twenty. Such a mercenary attitude does not make this any more endearing.

1982 The Jam: Beat Surrender

And so the end of The Jam came with a bang and a whimper. A bang in that Weller's announcement of the break up of the band when they were at the top of their game was as sudden as it was unexpected. A whimper in that 'Beat Surrender' is not their finest hour and was probably carried to number one more on a wave of sentiment than it's inherent quality.

It was a fateful sign that the final single from The Jam was a toss up between this and 'Solid Bond In Your Heart'. The latter went on to become a single from the 'what Weller did next' Style Council, but it's clear that in 1982 he'd outgrown the punk/new wave genre that nurtured him and that his aspirations lay in a more soul based direction and it's telling that, in all the contemporary promotional footage of this song, Weller is dressed more like a French student than the sharp mod of old.

To that end at least, 'Beat Surrender' follows their previous 'A Town Called Malice' by being delivered in a horn blasting, foot stomping Northern Soul wrapper which powers from 0-60 in a matter of seconds from the brief piano led introduction and barely draws breath until the fade out.

At close on three and a half minutes, it's longer than the majority of the band's singles , though ironically it has the least to say. As far as the lyrics go, they act as a goodbye of sorts - that is, a goodbye to The Jam and an embracing of whatever the future might bring: "All the things that I care about (are packed into one punch). All the things that I'm not sure about (are sorted out at once). And as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end, that bullshit is bullshit, it just goes by different names"

It's as well to spell out them out here because the muddy production and mumbled vocal makes what Weller is saying incredibly difficult to make out. It's almost as if he's too lethargic and fed up with it all to enunciate his lines clearly, leaving Bruce Foxton to belt out his side of the call and response exchange as if his life depended on it. Which, as he was staring the dole queue in the face, he probably felt it did at the time and perhaps this was his way of trying to convince Weller that there was still fight in the old dog yet. In any event, they are of virtually secondary consideration to the blatant hook of the chorus: "Come on boy, come on girl. Succumb to the beat surrender", a couplet that tries hard to swing and swing but falls just shy of connecting with a clean punch, and it's constant, constant repetition makes it sound more forced than free, leaving it frustratingly unsatisfying in an 'is that it'? kind of way. Sure the rolling piano and thick brass interludes generate a party atmosphere, but you just know that Weller wasn't trying all that hard by this stage and 'Beat Surrender' falls well short of past glories. There's no doubt that the passing of The Jam marked the end of an era, and few bands who have had the same level of success have ended so suddenly and definitively. In hindsight, the symbolism is potent; it's almost as if the curtain was finally being brought down on the seventies and the eighties were now free to begin in earnest.

1982 Eddy Grant: I Don't Wanna Dance

If 1982 had been a bumper year a German presence in the UK charts, then reggae wasn't doing too badly either; 'I Don't Wanna Dance' completes a hat trick of number ones of British artists recording within the genre. Guyana born Grant had been here before in 1968 with The Equals and 'Baby Come Back', and in the true style of that other great eighties phenomena 'Transformers' it's fair to say that it would not take too many replaced or modified parts to transform that earlier song into the current one; 'I Don't Wanna Dance' runs on a similarly solid four on the floor backbeat that owes more to Chuck Berry than Lee Perry with an underlying tune that is almost interchangeable.

Though saying that, unlike 'Baby Come Back' where the verses aimed to build to a tension relieving chorus, here Grant latches on to his tune from the off and hangs on 'till the end, ploughing the same furrow throughout with a tunnel vision that gives the overall impression of being dropped into the middle of something that is either one long series of verses without a chorus, or simply just one long chorus. Whatever, it soon grates and even an uncharacteristically (for reggae anyway) zippy guitar solo does nothing to raise the interest bar. The pissed off looking girl in the accompanying video provides the perfect response to Eddy's serenading and her bored and pained expressions review this better than a thousand words.

1982 Culture Club: Do You Really Want To Hurt Me

In 1982, Culture Club came as a package, not so much as band identity but in that it was impossible to separate their music from the six feet of androgynous max Max Factored camp that was George O'Dowd. Media interest was focused more on his sexuality (or lack of it) and the music generally played second fiddle to the image. That observation can be said about a lot of eighties bands, but in Culture Club it seemed to reach its natural peak.

"Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" is a gentle, lovers rock ballad that seemed a natural heir to the number one slot after Musical Youth. An international hit, what strikes the listener after the passage of time is just how far George's voice carries the song on it's shoulders. The all important bass and rhythm section associated with the genre are buried under the strident vocal that carves out both the melody and rhythm of the track with confidence. There's none of the groin level bass throb of a Gregory Isaacs or John Holt tune to keep things moving, and take George's vocal track away and you're left with a straight and rather limp beat that muzak fans would regard as a bit dull.

But to it's credit, the vocal melody is a strong one, and the constant running up and down the scales provides welcome distraction from the frankly incomprehensible lyrics that boil down to a series of almost random phrases that amount to far less than they aspire to:

"Precious kisses, words that burn me
Lovers never ask you why
In my heart the fires burning
Choose my colour, find a star"

George could have sung this in Esperanto and it would have had little detrimental impact on the overall effect because the verses didn't matter - the kiss off here is the chorus that rang out clear as a bell:

"Do you really want to hurt me
Do you really want to make me cry"

And though plenty of people did in 1982, far more saw George almost as an alien entity, a man out of place and a harmless but vulnerable figure to be loved or mothered (depending on your age). The rest of the band were just so much ballast.

Age has not withered "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" a great deal; by sticking to the formula inherent in the genre it has avoided the harsh 'eighties' sound that has brutally date stamped many of its contemporaries and instead, having no original power to blunt, it sounds as smoothly laid back as it did when it was first released. Perhaps more so now as George's power to shock and confuse has long since vanished and the song can be listened to and appreciated on it's own merits without the pantomime window dressing that went with it.

1982 Musical Youth: Pass The Dutchie

If reggae was a rare visitor to the UK charts in the eighties, even rarer was a reggae band composed entirely of schoolboys. Which is what Birmingham's Musical Youth were.

'Pass The Dutchie' is basically a re-working of The Mighty Diamond's 'Pass The Kouchie', though as 'Kouchie' is slang for cannabis, the title was altered to 'Dutchie' to be more in keeping with the age of the band - having a fifteen year old extolling the virtues of drug taking were well beyond the pale in 1982, probably more so than they would be now.

The subtle shift in the lyrics continues through the verses too. Whereas the original had the singer on a mission to score:

"It was a cool and lovely breezy afternoon
(How does it feel when you've got no herb ?)
You could feel it 'cause it was the month of June
(If you got no herb you will walk an' talk)"

Musical Youth extended the 'cooking pot' idea to turn the song into a less threatening but more socially aware description of poverty and hunger:

"It was a cool and lonely breezy afternoon
(How does it feel when you've got no food ?)
You could feel it 'cause it was the month of June
(How does it feel when you've got no food ?)"

And the changes aren't just lyrical. While The Mighty Diamonds track is laid back to the point of the inertia with the band sounding baked to the gills on weed, Musical Youth update the standard reggae template and add a far more sprightly, almost rap, almost Nu Yorican feel to the tune, pulling in contemporary ethnic influences that reach out further than Jamaica.

Subtle touches and overdubs like the strategically placed steel drum fills and a powerful, almost metallic drum overbeat make this shimmer and sparkle like sunshine on water. Cover version it may be, but it's a cover version that's been overhauled and re-fitted to the point where it becomes something original in it's own right and Dennis Seaton's opening shouted call to arms:

"This generation
Rules the nation
With version"

Could have easily prefaced a Public Enemy track.

Musical and youthful, the song lives up to it's name quite wonderfully and it's only the subsequent knowledge that the promise here was never fully fulfilled and also of what would become of some of the band that casts a shadow of what is sunshine captured on vinyl.

1982 Survivor: Eye Of The Tiger

For a generation who were of a certain age in the early eighties, this song will always be the 'Theme From Rocky 3', no more and no less. And why not? Stallone was a fan of the band and commissioned them to write the song specifically for the film. So the question is whether 'Eye Of The Tiger' can stand on it's own two feet without Rocky to prop it up. Well yes....and no.

Yes, in that the song is a solid enough listen with an unusual nagging single note guitar riff opening the track then running through it like a stitch. The double tracked power chords and drum beats add a note of drama and menace which, disappointingly, is never realised with any effect as it soon falls into predictable 4/4 line as it gathers pace. The lyrics though are suitably removed from the world of pugilism to transcend their source and provide inspiration to anyone with their back against the wall:

"Risin' up, straight to the top
Have the guts, got the glory
Went the distance, now I'm not gonna stop
Just a man and his will to survive "

No, in that 'Eye Of The Tiger' is more light than heavyweight in the rock stakes. Whilst the UK in 1982 had the likes of Judas Priest and Iron Maiden running riot under the NWOBHM banner, the Americans were getting off on an FM diet of soft pop/rock sounds courtesy of Foreigner, Journey, REO Speedwagon et al whose combined record collections didn't seem to stretch any further than the first Boston album.

Survivor are a typically square peg to sit aside these square holes, and for all their fighting talk, bluster and streetwise swagger the band show on the video, 'Eye Of The Tiger' now sounds too tired to fight it's way out of a paper bag. At least not when compared with something like 'Ace Of Spades' released two years earlier which still sounds like someone repeatedly slamming your head against a brick wall. Maybe that's not what Survivor were 'about', but as they were soundtracking a boxing film, then maybe they should have been.

Hearing 'Eye Of The Tiger' now will always bring a warm feeling to those who remember it first time round, and the urge to throw shadow punches to those power chords at the start is still well nigh irresistible. The remainder will wonder what all the fuss is about.

1982 Dexy's Midnight Runners: Come On Eileen

After achieving critical and commercial success with their 'Young Soul Rebel' image and music, frontman Kevin Rowland pulled the rug out from under expectant fans by switching tack and adopting an Irish Gypsy, Celtic folk model for their next album.

Opening with a reel played on a Celtic fiddle, the many key and tempo changes throughout 'Come On Eileen' make it an unlikely wedding party staple, and it's meaning is obscure as a Picasso on first listen. But there's no denying that from the off, something intense and something exciting is afoot and Rowland soon pulls you in to his tale of a youthful attempt to charm a girl out of her clothes at the point where liking someone turns to lust:

"Ah come on let's take off everything,
That pretty red dress Eileen
Ah come on let's, ah come on Eileen, please".

'Come On Eileen' is almost impressionistic, a Monet set to music. The whole piece is structured so as to be a snapshot of a time and place populated by hints of memories and emotions that aren't meant to be nailed down or carved in marble. Indeed, the music is drawn from varied sources; the opening fiddle motif is the Irish song 'Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms', while the chorus is loosely based on 'A Man Like Me' by the Jimmy James and the Vagabonds.

Nevertheless, the end product more than exceeds the sum of these parts and instead of some stitched together Frankenstein monster of borrowed phrases, 'Come On Eileen' drips with the excited promise of teenage sex, a 'Teenage Kicks' as imagined by a nineteenth century Romany troupe if you like.

As a celebration of being arrogantly young, it's almost without peer; growing old is not on the cards for Rowland or Eileen, it simply could not happen:

"These people round here wear beaten down eyes
Sunk in smoke dried faces they're so resigned to what their fate is,
But not us, no not us we are far too young and clever".

Which maybe goes some way to show that the message in The Specials' earlier 'Too Much Too Young' will always fall on deaf ears.

What everybody remembers about 'Come On Eileen' (and what gets the parents out on the dancefloor) is the bridge. Here, the band call a sudden halt and begin a slow burning counter melody that increases with speed and intensity with each passing bar to build into a climax when the main theme kicks back in to defuse the tension and any dancefloor erupts to the sound of stamping feet.

Personally, I've always thought that Rowland missed a trick here in that the ending is resolved too quickly and the band comes back too soon. With just one more bar it could have built into the perfect orgasm instead of almost falling flat as a premature ejaculation - if Rowland was making another comment on teenage sex here then he did a damn fine job!