Car Crash Set - Trevor Reekie, Ryan Monga, Nigel Russell.

A discussion came up at band practice the other day around, of all things, smoke machines. The Singer, who was in A Dunedin Band, smirked slyly: “you were in one of those Auckland wanker bands. I bet you had one.” Charming.

But it got me thinking. I mean, we did use a smoke machine: once. I could hardly play my synth for all the oily grease that said machine had unleashed across the stage. But I bet we looked good. And so there was the argument: North vs South, Auckland vs Dunedin, style over substance, pop tarts versus credible musicians. And on.

Could such a divide exist in such a small nation? When the pop/post-punk/indie scene was as small as it was? Absolutely. As the 1980s got shinier, metropolitan bands emerged that had their sights set on what was happening internationally, often with a desire to emulate (and, occasionally, imitate). Because it felt like there was a chance of exporting music like this, not just importing it. And it felt new, and exciting, and global.

In contrast, and while we know the distance of 40 years tells a different story, to many of us getting into bands at this time, what was coming out of the Deep South sounded like their jerseys – moth eaten, backward-looking, often borrowed, and dark. The difference went beyond the merits of smoke machines. Or lack thereof.

Which sent me in search of 10 fine tracks from that (marginal?) era. (A wee metropolitan in-joke there!) The mid-80s will not be recalled fondly for high-quality pop product, locally or internationally, perhaps. And any rivalry was more friendly than fierce. But letting the music do the talking, you just find that, well, actually…

Marginal Era – Haven’t I Seen Your Face Before? (1984)

Marginal Era are more readily remembered for their upbeat ‘This Heaven’ which, sans vox, became the theme tune for Radio With Pictures, Warwick/Paul Agar had a knack for pretty, punchy pop and an ear for the moment. Pitched in tone and pace in a space that sways rather than rocks, this parades its colours brightly in a warm, poppy way that, for sheer class and production values, was streets ahead of a lot of the offerings in Aotearoa circa 1984/85. Agar really tried to push the envelope towards something shinier and less parochial by nature – a live performance/showcase at Quays nightclub captured it all brilliantly: swish suits, makeup applied with a trowel, a Simmons drum kit, and a keyboard player (Richard Newcomb) doing twirls in a white suit jacket. Poptastic, as they say.

 

Car Crash Set – No Accident (1984)

Less derivative than some of their other work – if Joy Division influenced Danse Macabre then early New Order was a blueprint for much of the Car Crash Set material – Ryan Monga’s distinctive slap bass motif and Trevor Reekie’s luscious 12-string ripples lift this into something highly original and captivating. “I met her on the 10th of June, I think it rained that day …” sings Nigel Russell, all swaying nonchalance and darkly lilting vocals, sitting “just so” above the busy percussive drivers. Beyond that dissection, it was catchy, especially when the strings-that-sound-like-horns riff came in. Stands up well, showing no shortage of class. Distinctively urban, capturing the dark mood of the inner city in the increasingly vacuous 80s.

 

IQU – Paper Dolls (1984) 

A synergistic segue from the previous track, inasmuch as IQU featured the aforementioned Ryan Monga while adding Betty-Ann for (very) good measure. The drivers were Jon Lowther, Andrew Lamont and Robert Mayo; songwriter Lowther stands icy cool behind his Prophet synth in the video, embodying a then rapidly growing template that has worked a treat for similar electro-pop maestros, from Malcolm Smith to Vince Clarke. Drafting in a soul star to offset the cool electronica works perfectly: the cracking Betty-Ann vocals here bring colour, light and sunshine to this track, the most uplifting off IQU’s 1984 EP/single ‘Witchcraft’.This is the sound of New Zealand music harnessing the inner workings of the swiftly changing synth technology, and trying to replicate what Fad Gadget and industrial-leaning Depeche Mode were sounding like at the time. Would not have translated well to the Captain Cook, to be fair, but, heck, it was never aimed there.

 

Soul On Ice – I Want Love (1986)

Guitarist Paul Moss and keyboardist Malcom Smith wrote the catchy songs, and Liz Diamond fronted the highly successful Soul On Ice conglomerate (which later became the internationally successful Fan Club). Where the mid-80s Auckland crowd had moved on from the live scene to the explosion of new clubs that abounded, Soul On Ice had a shiny shoe in both camps, playing at Zanzibar (complete with a hip-hop troupe to kick things off), and the Six Month Club at various times. I recall seeing them live at the Brat and really making it work; quite a feat given the logistics involved in getting more players than Earth Wind and Fire onto a stage, under lights, in Auckland’s highly critical mid-80s club scene.

Way poppier than Car Crash Set and IQU, this had the smell of global aspirations all over it, the admirable sound of an Auckland band trying to reach beyond the shores from their, indeed, North Shore beginnings. They even credited boutique local designer outfit Leod Hais on the back cover of this single (‘I Want Love’) for “Male Wardrobe”. Not something The Verlaines would likely have done …

 

National Anthem – Please Say Something (1985)

The voiceover when this clip played on the mid-week music show RTR Video Releases says that the band wanted a sound “featuring brass, and no synthesisers.” So there was a bit of a manifesto at work here. Anthony Johns and Craig Smith-Pilling wrote this, the latter having been in Whanganui’s Blond Comedy. This has that international ambition too, and was a more pensive/rock take on what Black, Sampson and Co were doing with the Netherworld Dancing Toys at the time. South of the Strait, it may well have been derided as being pretentious as all get out. You can see why – the original video is all moody lighting, a fedora, a white scarf and some very slinky mic moves. But it offers up some classy songwriting, slick production, and is pretty catchy. According to aninterview with Johns, Don McGlashan gave them the name, under the directive to “think big”. National Anthem followed that down, and completed an album, 1986’s ‘One Day Different’ (on Reaction) which included an appearance by our Don, as well as Mike Chunn on bass, and The Exponents’ Harry drumming. Too arch for the punters, perhaps, it did not, as they say, “shift units”. They also appeared on the Jayrem compilation Say Something!

 

The Mockers – One Black Friday (1985)

Despite the band’s strong ties to Wellington, by the time 1984/85 came about, and The Mockers were hitting their commercial peak, their provenance was largely irrelevant, to their audience anyway. The Mockers had an artful, but randomly accumulated, blend of pure pop (keyboardist Tim Wedde), rock cred (Steve Dab, Geoff Hayden), and a shamanic, shambolic frontman in Andrew Fagan. ‘One Black Friday’, a response, largely, to the December 1984 Queen Street riot that made a dark social period a whole bunch darker (and sent Dave Dobbyn back off to Australia), is all sequencers, Simmons Drums and glossy light, underpinning Fagan’s tale of a kid what done wrong. It’s a glorious slice of pop which was well produced enough (recorded in Sydney) that it could have dominated airwaves globally. But … it didn’t. The video, including a full circus, lion tamers, the whole nine yards, was shot in Auckland’s Victoria Park, less than a kilometre and a year from the riots, where The Mockers themselves had played.

 

Screaming Meemees – Stars In My Eyes (1982)

I first saw The Screaming Meemees in the school art room. I recall the ceiling being low – like the legendary Stranglers clip for ‘(Get A) Grip (On Yourself)’ (which turned Barry Jenkin from an old rocker to a punk fan in just under three minutes). They were loud, colourful and exciting. It seemed like punk although it wasn’t, of course. They were too clever and pop-oriented for that. But it still seems like a leap from the North Shore Art room in 1979 or, indeed, the school “talent quest” where the band treated a bemused bunch of schoolboys to ‘Teenage Kicks’ … to this slice of energised pop-funk, a shift in skills, depth, and complexity garnered over a matter of a few short years. What often goes missing is what outstanding musicians particularly Mike O’Neill and Pete van der Fluit were – the piano breaks throughout their songs are scintillating, and for someone who wasn’t a native bassist, Van der Fluit’s adoption of driven funk lines, and ability to execute them is remarkable. O’Neill’s guitar lines here are equally original and deft. Tony Drumm croons and falsettos distinctively over the top – but it’s never over the top: tight, restrained but explosive. Such a shame they were so short-lived.

 

The Dance Exponents – Greater Hopes, Greater Expectations (1985)

Oh yes, alright, Geraldine, Twizel, Timaru, Caroline Bay – these were all Jordan Luck’s geographical lyrical touchstones, but for our purposes, by the time they recorded the highly anticipated follow-up to Prayers Be Answered The Dance Exponents had moved a long way from the Deep South. Money was spent on recording – and beer, the soft drink machine at Harlequin was filled with Steinlager that very hot summer – and Ian Taylor, Roy Thomas Baker’s sidekick, was drafted in to produce, with the Psychedelic Furs’ Vince Ely occupying the drum stool, recently vacated by Harry. This had “ambition” etched all over it. The distance to this, the third single release from Expectations, from the gentle sway of ‘All I Can Do’ and space and dynamics of ‘Victoria’ on the previous record, is profound. The guitars were all over this song, from the loopy/scratchy intro motif to the big bridge chords. Still aiming for a singalong at an Eden Park test, “ba-ma-na-now-now” never took off in the way that, say, “I don’t know-oh” did seven years later. The sound of a band growing up, and an audience bewildered. The jittery clip was shot at virtually every recognisable Auckland landmark.

 

Dave McArtney & The Flamingos – Pink Flamingo (1980)

A mate lent me the cassette of this album (that’s how we shared music before streaming and curated playlists existed, kids) and I remember being very impressed by the, er, packaging. I’d heard the titular single (mind yourself, lad) and sniggered at the innuendos in ‘Virginia’. I mean, The Flamingos were so naughty they were more likely to get played on Hauraki rather than the state-owned ZM, with their talk of being “still on parole” and Virginia’s “loving every inch within ya.” Lordy! I was truly blown away by the aesthetic of the “product”. In 1981, this showed remarkable design smarts. Great cover shot, great design all around – it looked like it might have actually had some money spent on it. The production was spot on, too: the whole thing, even its being on Polydor, really made it feel “international”. Musically, this is a real bright, shiny, tongue-in-cheek track from one of our finest rock/pop songwriters. Paul Hewson’s shaky piano is reminiscent of early Split Enz, an unlikely reference for this Queen City rocker. But Dave McArtney’s pop ear was always spot on: if “Gitcha-gitcha-gitcha-gitcha feathers …” isn’t an earworm, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.

 

Sneaky Feelings – Waiting for Touchdown (1984)

No, I don’t need a geography lesson. I know which end of the islands this track by Sneaky Feelings hails from. Do forgive me, but I was never terribly taken with the Dunedin sound first time around. I played synth in a pop band that itself grew out of a band that had no guitarist– it was all “keyboards and hairdressers” in my hood. Dunedin was jerseys, guitars and , shudder, lo-fi. (Steady on, you stalwarts of the Captain Cook) It was all a bit … arch, a bit knowing. And so I was more than a little surprised when a good friend from the North (Orewa was an hour’s bus ride in those days) who had hooked me up with Devo (he was a sk8terboy) and other non-radio material well ahead of its time, handed me a pale maroon album at school, with a skewed black and white image, and said, “you have to listen to this.” One rainy afternoon I put it on. If I’d known the OMG acronym back then, I would’ve used it. I loved the layers of guitar, the downbeat vocals that were somehow sweet as well as sad. The song structures were superb, the lyrics appealingly bitter in places, something an angry suburban teen could relate to. And this track is a standout. Which goes to show, when you’re mining emotions, especially teenage emotions – angst, isolation, fear – it doesn’t matter where you’re based, or what scene you were in. When the songwriting is first class, as it is here, these things are universal.

 

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In the 1980s Michael Larsen was a member of Auckland band Grey Parade, an experience he wrote about in “Always the Bridesmaid: life as a perennial support act”