Remember the glory days of Sire Records? There have been precious few major labels with such an exemplary track record — the kind that made you feel like you could buy everything they released because, statistically, the odds were way in your favor that you were going to come up with a winner. Sire Records sure as hell fell into that category. Technically, they were just a subsidiary of a major label — they started as an independent, founded by Seymour Stein and Richard Gottehrer in 1966, then they were acquired by Warner Brothers in 1978 — but still, they were one of the coolest cogs in the WB machine.

Although one of the biggest stars in the world was on the label (Madonna), I didn’t manage to fall into Sire’s gravitational pull until I got my first CD player, but once I picked up the label’s 1987 compilation Just Say Yes, I started buying albums left and right by the artists who were represented on the disc.

If you’re not familiar with the collection in question, it’s no understatement to call it a near-perfect sampling of what was cool in alternative music in the post-new-wave/pre-grunge era, featuring tracks from Depeche Mode, Echo & the Bunnymen, the Mighty Lemon Drops, James, the Smiths, the Ramones, the Replacements, Aztec Camera, Erasure, Throwing Muses, Figures on a Beach, the Wild Swans, Jerry Harrison’s Casual Gods, and even Ice-T. Not too shabby, eh? And Just Say Yes proved so successful that it spawned six — count ‘em, six — sequels, with each volume sporting a title that played off the original, including Just Say Yo, Just Say Da, and Just Say Anything, to name a few.

In 1995, however, Sire moved from the Warner Brothers family and went to crash with their cousin Elektra Records, and … well, frankly, the magic was gone. Indeed, I’m of the suspicion that the label itself might have been gone, as I can find no significant release under the Sire banner for the better part of two years; 1996 saw nothing emerge, and the first three-quarters of 1997 only resulted in jazz albums which came out as joint releases with JVC.

But in late 1997, the label began to stir once more, making an unabashed attempt to reproduce its earlier successes by digging for the best and the brightest in rising new talent. A lot of great stuff made it into stores as a result, including records by the Apples in Stereo (Tone Soul Evolution), Jolene (In the Gloaming), Clem Snide (Your Favorite Music), and Taxiride (Imaginate), as well as Rialto’s self-titled album and Shaken and Stirred: The David Arnold James Bond Project. I’d have to guess that not a single album in that bunch ever recouped its initial investment via its U.S. sales, but every one of them made enough of an impression on me that they’re all still in my collection today. The greatest impression, however, was made by a trio of lads from Stamford, Lincolnshire, who called themselves Midget.

(more…)

During my years on the ‘net, I’ve been a member of various E-mail lists and participated in countless discussion forums, and if there’s one recurring theme that never fails to rankle me, it’s when people so emphatically hold up an artist’s early work as the gold standard of their career that they refuse to acknowledge their later albums as being anything other than complete and total dogshit.

There’s a statistical likelihood that most of these people will fall into one of two categories: Elitist Dickheads or Old Fogies. The Old Fogies at least have the excuse of having been around since Day One of the artist’s career, and having been there when the early work was actually released, you can understand why they’re particularly partial to it; the Elitist Dickheads, however, tend to pay attention to the more pretentious music critics – many of whom happen to be Old Fogies – and presume the artist’s later work is crap not because they’ve actually heard it but, rather, because their favorite Music Bible tells them so.

Man, I hate that.

Maybe I’m just overly sensitive about this because I discovered the Beatles in the early 1980s. If this comment doesn’t provide you with a sufficient explanation for my sensitivity, consider this: any music geek worth his or her salt who’s in the midst of falling head over heels in love with a band is going to seek out solo efforts by the various members of that band. This means that, as a result of the time frame of my discovery, I ended up starting my solo Beatles collection with…

• Paul McCartney, Give My Regards to Broad Street
• George Harrison, Gone Troppo
• Ringo Starr, Stop and Smell the Roses

Don’t worry, I have neither the time nor the energy to sit here and attempt to compose a valid argument that those albums are the best that those guys’ careers have had to offer … mostly because they aren’t. (At ALL.) I’m just saying that it’s easier to find something enjoyable about Gone Troppo when you’ve never heard All Things Must Pass…and even once you finally have heard All Things Must Pass, you don’t necessarily abandon the things you liked about Gone Troppo.

Okay, enough back story. Where was I going with this? Oh, right: I was going to defend the most recent — and possibly final — Prefab Sprout album, The Gunman and Other Stories.

(more…)

Even since Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus first realized that they had a knack for writing songs together, it’s been an accepted fact that there’s something in the water of Sweden which gifts the residents of this kingdom with the abilities to write inconceivably catchy pop hooks. I mean, I’m not saying anyone’s actually done any sort of chemical analysis – or, at least, I haven’t, anyway – but given the sheer hummability of the average Swedish composition, it seems like as good an explanation as any. As late as the mid-1990s, however, my knowledge of Swedish pop was limited to two groups – ABBA and Roxette – and neither were exactly the height of cool – but, then, neither was I, which is why I had ABBA’s Gold and Roxette’s greatest hits, Don’t Bore Us, Get To The Chorus! (Even if you don’t like Roxette, I think you have to admit that that’s a really awesome title.)

It was right around this time that a man named Bruce Brodeen entered my life. (more…)

Let it be said here for the record: Jeff Giles can make you feel like a superhero.

When he dropped me a line, showered me with praise, and offered me the opportunity to write a regular column for Popdose about my favorite unheralded pop albums, for one shining moment, I imagined how Batman must’ve felt when Commissioner Gordon called the Batcave and told the Caped Crusaders that Gotham City needed their help. Of course, Mr. Giles in no way needs my help, given the fantastic staff of writers he’s already got here (not to mention the fact that he’s a fine essayist in his own right). But, still, he made me feel like I’d be adding something to the site and he played to my ego, so here I am with my first entry of Hooks ‘N’ You.

To start things off, I thought I’d spotlight a band who were pretty big regionally, if never as huge nationally as they should’ve been: Dillon Fence. (more…)