“Does anyone want to see my knob”?
Don’t worry, we haven’t wandered accidentally (what do you mean, ‘accidentally’? – Ed) into some deviant club or cinema- although as I gaze across the A38 during inter-band fag breaks, I notice several are situated less than 200 yards away. They certainly haven’t revitalised this end of town since I left… No, the above quote comes from none other than behatted, enigmatic, likeable and articulate Fischer-Z mainman John Watts- who, much as I tend to be during the time spent each day writing this drivel- is presently ‘struggling with technology’
The aforementioned knob, you see, is evidently some form of ingenious audio device enabling him to alter the pitch, reverb and tone on his guitar and vocals: it’s also connected to another ‘gubbins’ up his ear’ole which seems to be initially causing him some discomfort, but rather than allow such jiggery-pokery to inflict any longeurs ‘pon tonight’s performance, the iconoclastic Brightonian songwriter utilises it to humorous effect, moving between solo opener The Day Johnny Passed Away and the casual entry of the band (“oh, by the way, here they come”) with warmly sardonic ease.
Watts, very much the sole constant since the outfit’s inception some 40-odd years ago, has a superb new album out (OK, it was actually released last year, but that’s still new to me) by the name of Building Bridges: though its crunchy folk-rock sound (recalling more the likes of Tom Petty or Paul Westerberg than anyone remotely ‘quirky’) may not bear that much resemblance to the Fischers’ first three fondly-remembered releases, nor later 80s entries like Reveal and Fish’s Head, it makes perfect sense to long-term listeners such as myself, and stands as his most focused work in quite some time. Yet equally, he knows full well that the vast majority of punters won’t want to hear a set laden with it- and thus, wisely sticks to highlights such as Wild Wild Wild Wild and So Close (the haunting tale of a romance cut sadly short by the ever-present threat of war) rather than labouring the point.
That said, give ‘em another five years and they’ll be received as classics- a description which obviously applies to the likes of Room Service and The Worker, the latter another lesson in how to preface a politically incisive lyric with a deliciously daft spoken (or in this case sung) word introduction. Why can’t the likes of Andy Gill or Mark Stuart ever drop their po-faces and allow such daftness to reign? Around him, Watts has assembled a fine combo, equally adept at handling the spikier edges of Marliese, the folkier strains of Marguerite Youcenar or the dub-reggae chops of Remember Russia: sadly, aside from keyboardist Adrian (and I only register that monicker because of its West Ham connections) their names fly immediately over my head, but I can confirm that the bassist- noted, in Watts’ own words, for his ability to ”slide from high to low” , and drummer are tighter than the proverbial gnat’s chuff. In fact, I think I’m pretty sure I spot the proverbial gnat leaving quite early on, having clearly accepted defeat…
That said, he doesn’t depart quite as early as the narrow-minded neo-proggers who elect to disappear straight after Mancunian duo The Blackheart Orchestra have concluded their excellent support slot: granted, such a bill may ostensibly seem an odd one, but in today’s industry, that’s often how it works (as it ‘appens, they’re actually longstanding friends of the Watts clan) and besides, we’re surely not still at the stage where we believe punkers can’t like prog and vice versa, are we? Haven’t any of you heard of XTC or The Stranglers? Were all the Cardiacs’ pioneering experiments in vain? Jesus, it’s 2018: stick around and watch a great songwriter already, you might learn to appreciate something that doesn’t sound like Genesis for once. And I say that as possibly the biggest Genesis fan in the world…
I can’t, however, prefer any ill will upon the Blackhearts themselves: their dreamy, wistful songs, based around an engaging mosaic of semi-acoustic guitars, electronic percussion, eccentric lyricism, abstract vocalese, misty Northern synthscapes and classical piano, conjure images of Shelleyan Orphan jamming with Mark Hollis in Michael Dunford’s library, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s more than enough to make me head for Bilston in the Autumn and catch their full headlining show. Moreover, Watts clearly likes them, urging his public to applaud them long after they’ve finished: besides, the Fischers (like all the greatest New Wave outfits) were always unafraid to embrace their psychedelic side anyway, as the Farifisaesque keyboard stabs of the evergreen Pretty Paracetemol still demonstrate.
Interestingly, despite having lowered his range considerably in the last twenty years, Watts still handles the last-named in its original falsetto: he also attacks the band’s other near-hit So Long with gusto, although one can tell by his explanation as to why precisely it didn’t chart high enough for a TOTP appearance (an all-out record pressing plant strike) that he’s still slightly bitter about the missed opportunity. Unfortunately though, as a socialist in the music business, one often finds oneself hoist by one’s own ideological petard: yet still, given the choice of watching the band in an arena-full of Fischer’eads (something which apparently still regularly happens in Germany and Holland) or surrounded by a small yet fervent following in the intimate surroundings of the 02’s ‘smallest room’, I know, to quote Kenneth Williams, which side my bread’s buttered. Duckie.
My thoughts of Deutschland, ironically, come not only as a preface to the sublime Berlin (played, like the rabble-rousing Perfect Day and a brief snatch of She Said, as part of an unplugged section which soon finds its author near-submerged by impromptu vocal accompaniment) but the crash-walloping funk-punk thrud that is Head On: bouncing like the very bombs it decries, it remains one of the post-77 era’s most pertinent, least tacky anti-war anthems, and still bites hard. Yet despite such Continental leanings, we still finish- where else- In England: a slight key-related cockup (which I rather liked, as it goes) with the first verse aside, it pummels like it’s always pummelled, bringing the evening’s steadily increasing impetus to its naturally explosive conclusion.
95 minutes after it began, my first live encounter with Fischer-Z (not my fault- they just don’t play here often enough) has already inspired me to make damned sure it’s not my last: as I type, somewhere in an alternate sliding-door universe outside Worthing, John Watts and his band are being hailed right now as heroes on the level of an Attractions, Only Ones or Modern Lovers, and if I can do my bit to drag a tiny piece of that appreciation into this dimension, my work will not have been in vain. As the song says, we will remember them. Still don’t want to see his knob though.
DARIUS DREWE
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