40-plus years ago, as a little scrote sat in my parents’ Essex living room watching Top Of The Pops, Get It Together, Tiswas, Swap Shop and the arse-end of Magpie, I was obsessed with anything Mod, New Wave, skinny-tie or ska-based.
Not that I would have known at that age, of course, that such genres even existed, or for that matter what a genre even was – I was seven after all, and despite showing ‘advanced intelligence’ for a boy of my tender years, all I really knew was that most of my favourite bands had short hair and wore suits of some description, occasionally with hats to match. Come to think of it, even the more rock-based ones, such as Sad Cafe and City Boy, did that too. And though the one I had the most singles and albums by was most probably Madness [every schoolboy’s fave because of Baggy Trousers] the coolest of the lot was undoubtedly Secret Affair.
Led by slick, sharp, stylish frontman Ian Page and moody axe-slinger Dave Cairns, the Affair were the living EPITOME of uber-Mod, and when I was that young, I so DESPERATELY wanted to be the former of the two. I wanted to grow up quickly, so I could walk into a bar dressed like that and ‘pull birds’ : I also wanted a decent haircut, whistle and Lambretta to go with it, although ironically, by the time I DID grow up [1991] and start hitting the clubs, I’d long since relocated [against my will, I should add] to Birmingham, got into Metaaaaal, sleaze and Goth, grown ‘dampleness of riah’ to match, and discovered [sadly] that my epilepsy prevented me from legally riding ANYTHING. Furthermore, the only suits I was was interested in by then were the sort worn by the Quireboys and the Dogs D’Amour. Strange how things turn out, ainit!! But even so, I’ll never forget the night I first saw the band perform Time For Action [and, later, My World] on the box, nor indeed the now-dog-eared, scratched to death by being played out in a million clubs 7-inch of that latter single that my Dad bought me one rainy Saturday afternoon in Ilford: epochal moments one and all, and for the generation just a little before mine, life-changing.
All of which somehow leads me to a Saturday night in March, over four decades later- and a buzzing, near-full Derby Flowerpot full of expectant fans [predominantly my age and above, though there are exceptions] all waiting to meet and greet our sparky Revivalist heroes as they are today. Not that it’s the first time for me – as recently as 2012, my pal Russ and I attended the official launch party for that year’s Soho Dreams album before [ironically] nipping across the road to catch the very LAST gig of veteran Essex prog-Mods Audience – but what is encouraging is how many of the Mums and Dads present tonight seem to have brought their twentysomething offspring with them, and how many of them know all the words too. In this manner, it’s encouraging to see how the baton has been handed down to the subsequent generation[s], even if the dress sense hasn’t necessarily come with it.
Granted, age and maturity have taken their inevitable course, and neither Page nor Cairns are quite the svelte dandies they were in ’79, but then again, show me one person outside of the Stones who is, and I’ll either show you a geezer who’s done far too much heavy gear or a millionaire with a personal trainer. More importantly, only they remain now from the original lineup, with the group’s trademark keening sax played by the capable John O’Neill [no, not THAT John O’Neill] and bass duties now handled by ex-Leaf Hound four-stringer Ed Pearson: raised in Noocassel, and with a background rooted in psych rock and the 80s traveller scene [he was even at the infamous Battle Of The Beanfield in 1988] he’s the last person I would have pictured in either suit or boot, yet over the last decade, he’s become as vital a cog in the band’s well-oiled engine as drummer Russ Baxter, and now that all three have been in the band longer than any of their predecessors, I personally think respect is long overdue. Indeed, this entire outfit are roughly three times the musicians the originals ever were, and surely that’s what matters most of all: they always were the Glory Boys, but now, as they launch into said tune with renwed vigour and purpose, they’re the glorious boys. And they’re revelling in it.
Whether displaying their northern soul/RnB roots [Going To A Go Go, Road Runner and I Don’t Need No Doctor, the first of which they actually covered about a year before the Stones] or attacking the more pogo-inducing powerpop-punk of Let Your Heart Dance [their ‘other’ top 40 hit] and the similarly-titled New Dance, SA’s mission is divided equally betwixt putting huge smiles on fans’ faces and reiterating their steadfast, near-militant dedication to the Mod cause. With the passing of so much time [including an early 90s hiatus during which Cairns grew his hair and formed well-respected AORsters Walk On Fire] you’d think their fervour for the scene would have dulled, but it’s actually increased: if they could find some way of making either the Lambretta or Vespa company build them a customised tour bus, they’d be on it pronto, and by the time the set reaches another dizbusting Northern cover [Frank Wilson’s Do I Love You] I’m reaching in my pocket for the talc I forgot to bring.
And, though their natural home is somewhere more like the Half Moon Putney, the 100 Club or the long-demolished Nashville, their peacock vibes – best demonstrated by the slinky, streetlight ‘tec-theme that is So Cool, the killer B-side of ‘that’ now long-scratched 45 – are perfectly suited to this cosy Midlands venue. Lest we forget, despite the absence of any large halls in this town since the ‘closure’ [for which read ‘major insurance fraud write-off’] of the Assembly Rooms, the Mod contingent always been a strong force in this particular locale- and while in one respect it’s sad that the Affair never became as huge as The Jam or Dexys, it’s more than atoned for by our continued ability to to get this close to them and feel their full force in our eyes and ears. As a result, what was once the Sound Of Confusion is now the sound of clarity- and with it has come a brash, strident sense of renewed purpose.
Of the popular Revivalist anthems of 79-83, Time For Action always pissed over the likes of Millions Like Us, There Must Be Thousands, You Need Wheels and the woeful Brummie nonsense that was I Got Me Parka, and though no-one ever really knew quite which action it was meant to be time for [doing one’s barnet nicely, buffing up the mirrors on your scoot, scrubbing the beer stains off your dezzies, chatting up Twiggy lookalikes daaahn the Lotus, your guess is as good as mine] a whole generation took it [perhaps maybe too literally in certain suburban nightclubs, resulting in the odd misjudged fracas or two] as a call to arms. Which it still is, greeted by over 200 approving airborne hands. However, in spite of that, we still know that’s merely the prelude to the main event- and as the thrusting horns’n’keys intro of My World hoves into view, I will do ANYTHING to ensure I’m down the front watching, filming and snapping away, albeit from the most hunched, crouched position possible. Moreover, woe fucking betide ANY rude grumpy tosser [or his missus] that attempts to stop me- this is one of the 50 songs that changed my life, and I’m GOING IN. Stick THAT in your pillbox and pop it.
And, as its lolloping beat and insurgent sax breaks pinion my buttoned-down spine to the floorboards, it still feels every bit as powerful as it was in 1980. OK, I never expected it to be anything less, but even if for only six minutes, this is life-affirming: granted, Page and Cairns are yet to better it in 43 years, but that it doesn’t mean they never will, and with an average age of 64 [which in an era when octagenarians are still releasing rock albums and touring practically makes them young whippersnappers] they have a long way to go yet before throwing in the velvet towel. Equally, though the majority of tonight’s set is rooted in the past, the entries from the more recent Soho Dreams [Walk Away, Turn Me On] are sufficient proof that the band still have enough of a present to blossom into another future- and despite Pearson’s post-gig insistence that “albums are expensive and tricky bastads to mek these days”, I ‘knaa’ full well [just between Teddington and Isleworth, isn’t it? – Obvious Sarcasm Dept] that they’ve got one, if not a few, more in them.
In reversal of a certain well-known song, Secret Affair are not cheap, but freer than ever before: and with young bands now citing them as an influence at last, perhaps this really is their world after all. Wouldn’t it be nice to think, When The Show Is Over, that it was? See you on the dancefloor in ten, and pack yer leapers.
DARIUS DREWE
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