Great Lyricists Of Our Time | |
| When you're down beside the lake you're bound to hear somebody say, I was never a fan of Half Man Half Biscuit when they started out in the mid 80s. Back in the DHSS (1985) is the only HMHB album I don't actually possess. I'm still not keen on ever getting it, partly as it's Before My Time (I was pre-pubescent), and partly because I'm keen to help promote the fact that they're not a band whose existence entirely remains in said debut album's Peel-football-and-C86 novelty-band madcap-student snapshot shadow. Of those that have heard of HMHB, many are surprised to know the band are still going, still making records, and have been doing so since reforming in 1990. Many of this same breed who attend current HMHB gigs out of curiosity are surprised to hear their sets are comprised almost entirely of songs they're not familiar with, songs from the six albums released since reforming. Six consistently excellent albums. Here comes the boy across the road Nigel Blackwell is your actual Man Who Knows Too Much. His sponge-like mind is cluttered with a lifetime of watching too much bad TV, of being an thirtysomething fan of music and sport based in the Wirral Peninsula, of being British, of being... Nigel Blackwell. He is the wry-pop prince of social and cultural commentary, peppering references to half-forgotten 70s prog rock bands and obscure sporting heroes with puns on phrases from the Bible and classic literature and... anything at all he's ever been exposed to, as long as it's something untouched by anyone else. Which makes every HMHB song genuinely original. There's no other songwriter like him. He's the Dark Lord of the In-Joke. Noel Coward as a Tranmere Rovers supporter. Alan Bennett as a devout NME reader (only buying it for the crossword, naturally). As a key to the man behind the word-association-football mask, he once let his sarcastic guard down in an interview, admitting that the prime reason for plumping for a life of writing surreal, wordy, humorous guitar ditties was simply that eternally English national trait... social embarrassment: "When I started writing, I just felt stupid... So I had to take the mickey or all my mates would be going 'What are you on about you big blouse.' " |
| And the older and grumpier Nigel Blackwell gets, the better his lyrics are. Trouble Over Bridgwater, the latest album, is the best yet, and my favourite album of 2000, no contest. '24 Hour Garage People' details a familiar modern ritual ("I'll have ten Kit-Kats and a motoring atlas / and a blues CD on the Hallmark label... that's sure to be good"), while 'Used To Be In Evil Gazebo' is a spot-on spoof of pretentious band interviews ("I've been in a mental hospital, but I don't like to talk about it" / "Right... well, your ex-girlfriend, whose band Pankhust entered the charts this week, informs us that your 'treatment' as such consisted of one visit to a day centre in order to kid people into thinking you were the new Nick Drake"). Both Dylan and black-clad fans of The Mission come in for a pasting in 'With Goth On Our Side' ("I was brought up on Bauhaus and black bedroom walls / and I had my first snakebite when I was in halls"). One memorable lampoon from recent HMHB output is 'Turn A Blind Eye', based on that over-quoted Pastor Niemller poem about aiding the persecuted. ("First they came for the Jews, but I did not speak out because I was not a Jew...Then they came for me, And there was no one left to speak out for me. ") Blackwell turns it around wickedly: They came for the bungee jumpers, but I wasn't a bungee jumper, so I did nothing Yes, you're no one till Nigel Blackwell puts you in one of his songs. And then you're for it: Henry Rollins, Henry Rollins The tiresome trappings and recurrent cliches of indie band-dom are particularly well targeted in songs like 'Running Order Squabble Fest', 'Bad Review', 'Tour Jacket With Detachable Sleeves' and 'Secret Gig': they're gonna be unveiling some new material It may be fair to assume that the only person who gets every single lyrical reference is Mr Blackwell himself. I like to think I don't do too badly for my part, and I'm a Southerner with zero knowledge of anyone in sports ever. I don't know who Tony Gubba is. Still don't. So I'm indebted to the HMHB Unofficial Website, which has an handy fan-compiled directory for any names that may whizz over one's head: http://surf.to/hmhb/ Listening to Half Man Half Biscuit is a thoroughly refreshing, vicarious, and dare I say even cathartic experience. You feel all the rubbish names and experiences cluttering up your memory are troubling boils finally, hilariously lanced by the cruel-to-be-cruel Doctor B and his scathingly unique way with words. Nigel Blackwell, Nigel Blackwell, you're dead funny. And dead clever. And dead underrated. No sarcasm there. © Dickon Edwards 2000 |