Simply put, those “U1” jokes about Simple Minds that Py Korry referred to in his most recent Mix Six installment began here.

“Produced by Steve Lillywhite.” For most bands, those four words are akin to being touched by the hand of God. For Simple Minds, it ultimately caused more problems than it solved. The band was riding a steady wave of buzz after the release of their 1982 album New Gold Dream (81-82-83-84) in 1982, so it was easy to see why Lillywhite was interested in applying his sonic bombast to the band’s atmospheric art pop. The end result, 1984’s Sparkle in the Rain, is arguably Simple Minds’ finest record, and fewer songs displayed that bombast better than the album’s second single, “Speed Your Love to Me.” Along with its crash-boom-bang drum track, Mel Gaynor positively rocks that cowbell, and Lillywhite’s 12” mix, which highlights Charlie Burchill’s scratch guitar technique, inspired U2 comparisons by the pound. Bono didn’t mind, though; he loved Sparkle in the Rain, saying it was what U2 aspired to do with War. You know, if Bono had any idea back then how to lighten the fuck up.

This is the part where the writer is supposed to talk at length about the difficulties Simple Minds had living in the shadow of U2, their decision to record a silly pop song that Billy Idol and Bryan Ferry had already turned down, etc. But not here, not today. We choose to remember Simple Minds as they were before the music machine crushed their spirit. Consider this: when Sparkle in the Rain was released, it was still anyone’s guess whether U2 or Simple Minds would prove to be more popular. Isn’t that just adorable? Not as adorable as Kerr’s jacket in the song’s promo video, of course, but you get the idea.

Simple Minds - Speed Your Love to Me (Extended Version)

People are making a big deal out of Fatboy Slim and Soulwax doing remixes of tracks from the Rolling Stones’ back catalog, but this is truly much ado about nothing. The band, after all, was one of the first rock acts to play the remix game with “Miss You,” and beginning with their 1983 album Undercover, they would commission remixes of nearly every song they released as a single. Few bands understand crossover potential like the Stones. Whether you were at the concert hall or in the club, the Stones loved you. And your money.

The remix genre didn’t have much of a personality when “Miss You” was made, but it definitely had one by the time Undercover arrived. The band went the ‘extend the album version’ route with the album’s first single, “Undercover of the Night,” but when it came time to issuing remixes of the third single “Too Much Blood,” the band chose New York freestyler Arthur Baker to man the boards. The difference between the remixes for “Undercover” and “Too Much Blood,” to borrow an expression from comedian Larry Miller, is like the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it.

While the modus operandi of remixers today is to strip a song of all of its definable characteristics, Baker did the opposite; he would keep the track more or less intact, and would add a couple elements to punch things up. In this case, punching up the track meant two new keyboard lines – one of which, a Funkadelic-style synth bass, doesn’t appear until after the third chorus – and a whole mess of percussion. What was once a song is now a party, and now that everyone is feeling festive, Baker decides to have a little fun.

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Or, the very first 12” mix I ever heard and saw with my own eyes.

My sister brought it home with her from college one Christmas. I was 14, so the idea of stretching a song out for clubs so DJs could seamlessly mix them together was a rather alien concept. Even more alien was the notion that normal proles like myself could purchase these mixes for our home collection, no DJ credentials required. Fascinating.

Robert Palmer gets maligned in certain circles for the whole ‘whiteface girls in black spandex’ thing, but let’s make something abundantly clear: his work for Island, while not the model of consistency, was rarely dull. He would experiment with any style under the sun – witness the island riddims of “Every Kinda People” and the cock rock of “Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor, Doctor)” – and would sing any song he thought was cool, once covering Gary Numan and the Beatles on the same album. Simply put, the man followed his muse, with little regard for where it took him. Until, of course, he got a taste of success with the Power Station, at which point the muse was bound, gagged, and thrown into the trunk for a few years.

In 1983, however, the muse was still in charge, and when Palmer heard a song from the New York R&B duo the System called, fittingly enough, “You Are in My System,” he knew what to do. Armed with a voice significantly stronger than System singer Mic Murphy and an actual human behind an actual drum kit (the drummer did get some help from some synthetic toms), Palmer’s version takes the perky keyboard riff and Kraftwerk-ish percussion and gives it a soul. The 12” mix does not deviate much from the original, simply adding a couple mix-in and mix-out points and a bit involving a bouncing kick drum. But this was 1983; Arthur Baker had not yet turned the 12” mix on its ear by spinning vocal tapes backwards and cutting the rhythm tracks to shreds. Simple was good, and this was very, very good. And dig that brief scat in the instrumental break.

Funny story: I interviewed Babydaddy of the Scissor Sisters, and when I commented on how their song “Paul McCartney” reminded me of Palmer’s “Looking for Clues,” he admitted that that was exactly what they were aiming for, then made a throwaway comment about that song’s groove, saying, “Who knew that Robert Palmer had it in him?”

I sent him “You Are in My System.” I got a one-word reply: “Awesome!”

Robert Palmer – You Are in My System (Extended Version)

Los Angeles, September 1987. The director of A&R at Virgin Records rolls out of bed at three in the afternoon, his mind a fog after a three-day bender of booze, hookers and blow. He stumbles out into the kitchen to mix himself a screwdriver (“Hair of the dog’ll do it. Fuck you, I do not have a problem.”), putting on sunglasses after the glare of the light from the refrigerator proves to be more than his brain can process. Only then does he realize that his underwear is on backwards and his robe is inside out.

Nameless A&R Guy gets the mail – still in backward undies and inside-out robe – and sees a small brown envelope with no postage on it. He brings the mail to the kitchen table, opens the envelope, and pulls out a blank cassette that says, in block letters, “Warren Zevon Dance Mix.”

Sweet Jesus, what have I done?

He calls his assistant Claire (who bailed on the festivities two days earlier, shortly after her boss asked if he could snort the next line off of her ass), and asks her what the hell a Warren Zevon dance mix is doing in his mailbox. “You don’t remember?” she asks as neutrally as possible, secretly stung that her boss only wanted to snort coke off her ass. “You thought it would be hilarious to give Warren’s song to this pair of New York Latinos, just to see the look on Warren’s face when he heard it. You were so excited about it that I had them get started on it right away. They worked all night and overnighted the mixes to me this morning. Also, you dropped Scarlett and Black from the label, and signed Janet Jackson’s choreographer, for God’s sake. Good luck explaining that one at the next meeting.”

I am so dead, Nameless A&R Guy thought to himself.

In fairness to Nameless A&R Guy, his logic was not as twisted as you might think. Zevon had recruited George Clinton to do the arrangement for “Leave My Monkey Alone” (Clinton also shows up the video for the song), which makes a dance mix of the song a given. No, the twisted part would be the decision to get the Latin Rascals (Albert Cabrera and Tony Moran) involved. The Rascals, you see, were all about the edits, where kick drums are turned into machine gun fire. Perhaps their involvement was in response to the A-side mix, a ten-and-a-half-minute, rather unremarkable marathon version of the song. (We’ll assume that Claire commissioned that one.) Nameless A&R Guy, meanwhile, was very smart in assuming that if a Warren Zevon track is going to get any club play, it better have some pop, and the Latin Rascals mix, which will inspire a flurry of descriptors ranging from “awesome” to “blasphemous” and all points in between, has undeniable pop. And stutter. And pause. And pop again. Listen if you dare, Zevonphiles.

Warren Zevon - Leave My Monkey Alone (Latin Rascals Edit) (download)

No band wants their video legacy to trump their musical legacy, but in the case of Go West, chances are that when one of their songs comes on the radio (figuratively speaking of course, since radio stopped playing them years ago), the first thought the listener entertains will be one of bouncing numbers and wooden figurines. The Godley and Creme-directed clip was an eye-popper — though one wonders what possessed them to feature singer Peter Cox in a wife beater while carrying a giant wrench — and helped propel the song to within spitting distance of the Top 40, peaking at #41.

For 1985, the video holds up remarkably well, using some nifty split-screen panning. (The Russell Mulcahy-directed clip for the follow-up single, “Call Me,” is not so fortunate.) Likewise, this mix of the song (download), the B-side of “Call Me’s” U.S. 12″ single, has also held up well, perhaps because it seems aimed more at the home listener than the clubber. Is that a drum-free keyboard intro? And heavens, what is that thing in the middle? Is that … a guitar solo? Yesirree, and a mighty fine one at that. And to think, we thought that Richard Drummie carried that thing around with him in the videos just to give him something to do.

The band would go on to greater success years later thanks to a certain song from the Pretty Woman soundtrack (and, of all things, a rerecording of a song from their first album that wasn’t deemed worthy of a Stateside release the first time around), but for my money “We Close Our Eyes” is still the only Go West song that matters, and this is the only mix of that song that matters. What does it mean, though, to say that imagination never lets us take the blame? That sounds like one of those David Byrne, fill-the-space-with-words lyrics. God, did I just compare Go West to the Talking Heads? I think that’s my queue to walk away before I say anything really stupid. See you next week, kids.

My club-friendly tendencies are clearly lost on the majority of Popdose’s AOR-loving rock hounds, so let’s shake things up this week by putting Jimmy Page under the remix knife.

Truth be told, the album version of “Radioactive” is a pretty sorry excuse for a song. At the time, though, I loved it, primarily because of the combination of Page’s guitar scratch on the third line in the verse, followed by Paul Rodgers’ reverbed vocal. Other than that, what else is there to sink your teeth into? Chris Slade’s drumming is competent but unremarkable, and Tony Franklin’s spectacular hair overshadowed his skill on the fretless bass. Perhaps that’s why the song is so short; even the band knew they were pushing their luck by leaning on scratcha-scratcha-scratcha-scratch, “’cause Imma radioactive!” for their hook. Hell, not even Page’s solo is a highlight, as it is smothered by a second solo slapped on top of it. Bryan Ferry did this a couple of years later on his song “Limbo,” and Duran Duran did it a few years after that on “Read My Lips.” They all sound terrible.

So if the original is pushing its luck without even cracking the three-minute mark, what on earth is a six-minute version of the song going to be like? Surprisingly awesome, in a very mid-‘80s rock mix kind of way. (more…)

If you know me, then you know that I loves me some Duran Duran. Even when they make an album as unlistenable as Liberty, Pop Trash or Red Carpet Massacre — you’d be wise to not get me started on how they let a 25-year-old “producer” positively manhandle them — I will be first in line when their next record drops. I will also be using this space in the near future to pimp my all-time favorite remix, which happens to be of a well-known ballad by the boys from Birmingham. But first, let’s go to the carnival.

When the band turned Rio in to the record company, Capitol knew they had a big hit on their hands. Still, they were not taking any chances; in an attempt to wash away any lingering stench of New Romanticism, the label hired David Kershenbaum to remix various Rio tracks, with the apparent goal of making the band both club darlings and “tough” enough for rock radio. The remix EP, titled Carnival, was not only a hit in the clubs but actually cracked the album charts, and subsequent versions of Rio included Kershenbaum’s remixes in place of the band’s original versions.

Finding those mixes on CD, however, is easier said than done.

You’ll have to hunt down the import CD single for “Rio” to find Kershenbaum’s mix of “My Own Way,” while his mix of “Lonely in Your Nightmare” has inexplicably never been issued on CD. And then there is his fantastic guitar-heavy seven-minute mix of “Hold Back the Rain.” It had gone missing for years, but was finally unearthed for the blink-and-you-missed-it Night Versions: The Essential Duran Duran CD in March 1998, only to be taken out of print six months later.

I didn’t blink.

So here you go, cassette-owning Rio fans. Here is Kershenbaum’s mix of “Hold Back the Rain” (download) in all its glory. According to Wikipedia, the song is about bassist John Taylor’s growing drug problems, though I don’t see a single lyric that would support that. I can see “Lonely in Your Nightmare” being about John and drugs, but not this. And besides, what a downer association that is to make with such a kick-ass song.

There is just no other way to say it: 1990 was an awful, awful year for music.

The first #1 single of the year belonged to a certain no-talent ass clown. The first act to score two #1 singles that year was Wilson Phillips. Hammer. Jane Child. Vanilla Ice. Stevie B. Linear. Tommy Page. Fucking “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You.” You Mutt Lange apologists out there, start apologizing.

This ripple of suck did not confine itself to the pop charts, either. Modern rock floated aimlessly, as if unsure whether Depeche Mode or Faith No More led the way to the promised land. Hard rock, represented by Guns ‘n’ Roses and Metallica two years ago, now meant Alias and Nelson. The 1990 sassy UK female export was…Betty Boo. Sinead O’Connor released her best album that year, then proceeded to alienate the music-buying public by tearing up a picture of the Pope on national television. One of the biggest club hits involved Suzanne Vega and a Soul II Soul beat. Another involved sampling the Smiths. The rest featured Martha Wash (audio only, not video).

It sort of makes sense then, amidst all of this chaos, that someone would think a dance-oriented remake of “Strawberry Fields Forever” was a good idea. (more…)

Two weeks ago, Dead Milkmen tried to insult us by saying, “You’ll dance to anything by Book of Love.” Today, we officially respond: Goddamn right we will.

It’s hard to believe now, but there was a point when Book of Love were as big as New Order, Depeche Mode, Ministry and Erasure. You couldn’t go a single night in a club without hearing at least two of their songs, and with one spin of their 1986 eponymous debut, it is easy to see why: the record, no joke, is an alt-dance masterpiece. There is nary a lazy track on the album, and DJ Ivan Ivan’s crisp, inventive production gave the band a sound like no other. The band’s ace in the hole, though, was lead singer Susan Ottaviano, who has a voice that my wife once, and definitively, described as “beautifully bored.”

Book of Love didn’t seem to take their 12″ mixes very seriously at first. “Boy” and “I Touch Roses” were merely extended as opposed to remixed, but in the band’s defense, neither song really needed much additional help in packing a dance floor. It Boy Jellybean Benitez handled remix duties for third single “You Make Me Feel So Good,” but primary songwriter Ted Ottaviano — no relation to Susan, which is a far greater cosmic goof than Duran Duran sporting three Taylors — took the reins for fourth single “Modigliani (Lost in Your Eyes).” As catchy as the song is, Ottaviano had his work cut out for him; the drums were flat, and the production just didn’t have the same oomph that the previous three singles boasted. (more…)

The late ‘80s caused rock bands to do many a strange thing in order to maintain their broad appeal. There were three surefire ways to reach the youth of the day: hire outside songwriters to write a piece of schlock you wouldn’t dream of claiming as your own (but would be happy to sing for a buck), record a dippy power ballad, or commission a dance mix of your latest single. It should be noted that Aerosmith, in an effort to hedge their bets, did all of the above.

Remixes were not new to the rock world – the Stones were making disco mixes as early as 1978 – but the early extended versions, like Steve Lillywhite’s cacophonous mixes of his work with U2, Big Country and Simple Minds, were made with a certain devil-may-care looseness, with little regard for whether a radio DJ or a club DJ gave the records the time of day. By 1987, however, the game had changed completely. If you were going to make a remix, you were going to make it club-friendly, damn it. Even bands like Duran Duran and the Cure, whose 12” mixes were guaranteed power rotation club play regardless of what they sounded like, were now getting worked over by Shep Pettibone and Francois Kevorkian. The message was clear: gimme a beat!

Enter Yes, and their Big Generator album. (more…)