New British Canon

Van Halen’s David Lee Roth once said: “Rock critics love Elvis Costello because rock critics look like Elvis Costello.” When he first appeared on Top of the Pops in September 1977, beyond Buddy Holly and Hank Marvin, there had been few rock stars with the nerd aesthetics of Elvis Costello. Though much too musically competent to be truly punk, he possessed a tongue bathed in acid and a remarkable ability to turn a phrase. But while this Angry Young Man persona made him a star, it would also destroy him. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Radio Radio.”

For those that adored the Manic Street Preachers in the early 90s, no other band will ever compare. At first mixing political rhetoric and literary wit with populist glam punk, they kicked back against the impartial shoegaze, baggy and acid House scenes, and, for the first time since the Smiths, they felt like a British band that actually had something to say. Their masterwork 1994’s The Holy Bible, formed of dark metallic post-punk, tangled head on with the worst impulses of human-kind, masterminded by their driving force “guitarist,” Richey Edwards. But if one gazes too deeply into the abyss, there is a chance that person might get lost. This is New British Canon and this is the story of The Holy Bible. “4 stone 7 pounds”

The British Indie Disco has a long tradition. Dating back to the days of Orange Juice and New Order, through The Stone Roses and Happy Mondays, it was Guitar Pop that moved you, that you could dance to. But after the death of Britpop there was little to groove to. You can sway and sob to Coldplay, you can do a hyperactive pogo to The Libertines but you can’t dance. In 2004 Franz Ferdinand reignited this shimmying fire by again colliding jangle and funk. And they did so with the best love as a battlefield metaphor this side of Pat Benatar. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Take Me Out.”

In the 70s, there was metal - Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple. And then there was punk, Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Damned. Two separate entities that rarely if ever mixed. However a band both subcultures could agree on was Motörhead. Led by the hoarse rumble of Lemmy, with their first three albums they cemented their place as one of the loudest bands Britain has ever produced. But the lead single from their fourth album proved they could be metal heavy, mangle it with a punk attitude and still be able to crossover to the pop charts. This is New British Canon and this is the story of "Ace of Spades."

The mid-80s was make-or-break time for Kate Bush. Since her breakthrough in 1978, she’d been gradually alienating her fans with successive ambitious but non-commercial left turns. As such, her label EMI was seriously concerned for her future as a pop artist. However, that all changed in 1985. She returned after 18 months at her farmhouse recording studio with her weirdness intact and a song about Faustian-deals, body swapping and the power of love. And it saved her career. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God).”

Even amongst the ragamuffins and likely lads of the UK Punk scene, Ian Dury stood out. In his late 30s, with his left arm and leg withered from Polio, and in love with Stax, Motown and free jazz - But that is also what made him transcend. Aided by the funk-punk backing of the Blockheads, his acerbic Estuary wit was on full display on the band's only UK number one, an around the world jaunt that takes in Bingo Lingo, James Brown and the universal appeal of copulation. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick.”

If 2004 was the year of Franz Ferdinand for the NME crowd, then 2005 was all about Bloc Party. With razor sharp guitarwork, disco beats and Kele Okereke’s anguished yelp, they brought the indie set heartache you could dance to. In spite of studio issues, Gang of Four comparisons and feuds with Britpop elderstatesmen, with Silent Alarm Bloc Party unleashed one of the most exciting British debuts of the decade. A reaction to the reductive boring rock’n’roll surrounding them, they added life, vitality and whatever they could find into their jagged yet sensitive post-punk. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Banquet.”

For most of the 90s, Aphex Twin ran counter to what was happening in mainstream dance music. He was messing with low-key ambience during the forceful Eurodance of “Rhythm is a Dancer.” Moved to harsh industrial noise as Europe was smitten by the dreamy trance of Robert Miles’ “Children.” And when Prodigy and Chemical Brothers ruled the roost, Aphex Twin was attempting to rupture drum and bass with rapid stuttered software-programmed beats. The Aphex Twin story is similarly antagonistic, filled with fabrication, half-truths and provocation pried from the man himself. Did he own a tank, live in a bank and do a DJ set using solely sandpaper and a food mixer? Quite possibly, but picking through everything he’s said for the presence of truth is a foolish exercise. The legend is more fun than the bedroom-based music geek reality. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “Windowlicker.”

Though it had been bubbling under for 18 months, the end of 1976 was when UK punk got its first seven inches. The Sex Pistols’ “Anarchy in the UK” may have generated the most outrage, but The Damned’s “New Rose” got there first. While they may have fired the first shot, The Damned ran counter to many of the key tenets of punk. Their songs dealt with the personal rather than the political, they didn’t instantly disregard all music before 1976 and they could actually play their instruments. They were outcasts, set adrift by the punk powers that be, yet one of the most vital and interesting bands of the era. This is New British Canon and this is the story of “New Rose.”