BURIED TREASURE

Unarchiving hidden gems…

Such is the speed of popular culture, not to mention my own accelerated aging process, that’s it easy to lose track of those formative moments that once defined your waking being. As someone with an unworkably capacious record collection, and restless appetite for fresh meat, it’s easy to overlook those gems already on your doorstep. This was brought home the other evening when, tearing into the yielding flesh of a stuffed marrow, I chanced upon two such lost treasures on Marc Riley’s 6 Music show. The first was the Birdbrain from Boston trio Buffalo Tom (check the 1990 album of the same name for a rollicking version of the Psychedelic Furs’ Heaven too); and while that invoked a rather unbefitting spot of old-timer chair rocking, the second split my stupid face from ear to ear, so warm were its associations. And so, in tribute, it’s the first entry in a possibly erratic and potentially endless new mini-series starting right here, right now…

1. THE VERY THINGS

THE BUSHES SCREAM WHILE MY DADDY PRUNES

(Reflex, 1984)

Like, I suspect, many others, the first time this madcap oddity assaulted my discerning ten speed gears, I was bedroom-bound on a weekday, dutifully tuning into the John Peel Show. It stood out like a raging hard-on in an impotence clinic, from its muffled distorted intro to the unhinged gabbling voice bellowing “I’m going pruning… pruning, pruning, pruning, pruning!” before the off-kilter rockabilly riffs kick in. It’s brilliantly evocative – parts of Joe Meek, Joe Orton, Napoleon XIV, The Twilight Zone and even Lon Chaney all linger in the sonic swamp – yet also totally of itself with its almost spasmodically discordant middle eight and haunting church bell chimes. There’s an unmistakable whiff of the novelty hit to it – though this would be a hit only in the long-lost Independent Chart and on Peel’s Festive 50 – and I recall making a conscious decision not to buy its parent album for fear that the impact of The Bushes… and its two-riff B-side The Shearing Machine would forever be tainted by the unseemly keening of its lack lustre siblings. They may well be a work genius on the same scale, but it’s a risk I’d still somehow prefer to shirk.

The Bushes… also came accompanied by a video that matched it to a tee (watch it here); proof that a shoestring budget need be no barrier to greatness, and enough to spook any budding Percy Throwers planning to rein in their roses. However, this wasn’t a full promotional effort but a film made with the band at The Tube’s bequest, prompting fellow guest Ken Russell to declare it “wonderfully gothic,” adding that it made him want to destroy his greatest work. The film’s ’50s sci-fi B-movie vibe complements its noir leanings perfectly, and paved the way for a future live slot on the same show debuting Let's Go Out.

So who were these Very Things I have come to praise? It was principally the work of singer/bassist The Shend, with guitarist Robin Raymond and drummer Gordon Disneytime. The former pair were both exiles from Redditch jazz punks The Cravats, who released half a dozen singles and the 1980 full-length The Cravats In Toytown for labels like Small Wonder, Glass and Crass between 1978 and ’82, recording three Peel sessions along the way. And while The Bushes… was the Things’ commercial highpoint, they went on to record a second album Motortown (One Little Indian, 1998), while Fire collected some of their best bits (but curiously no The Bushes…) on the compilation It’s A Drug, It’s A Drug, It's A Ha Ha Ha, It’s A Trojan Horse Coming Out Of The Wall in 1993.

Since the band split in 1988 The Shend has been the most visible – growing a capacious beard (see above) and turning his thespian talents into a whole raft of TV gold in the likes of Emmerdale, Hustle and The Hogfather, though is perhaps most memorable for his portrayal of psychotic killer Max in Torchwood (They Keep Killing Suzie, 2006). Which is all well and groovy, yet nothing competes with that seven-inch slab of black plastic that nestles alongside the likes of Vice Squad, Venom, Vim and Johnny Violent in my collection, yet towers above them all. Respect due.

  

STRICTLY ARMCHAIR

Following from a distance…

Like so many million suckers worldwide, I am a football fan. And like so many million suckers worldwide I am a non-participating one. Meaning what? Meaning that I follow my team, and those around it, with diligent verve; checking out the fan websites, following all the results in the paper (reading from back to front, naturally, though it’s not so easy in the modern era of daily sports supplements) and through the daily twin media of radio and television. And I follow football to the total exclusion of all other sports bar a spot of tennis (and even then only Wimbledon). Rugby? A clutch of red-faced fat boys chasing an egg. Cricket? Rule 4162: Never trust a ‘sportsman’ who wears a jumper. Grand Prix? Bunch of insufferable James Hunts. Golf? Don’t even go there. And when I say don’t go there, that really encapsulates the kind of fan I am: strictly armchair.

It wasn’t always thus. There were times, in my early teens, when I would be a regular for home games. It was when I subtly shifted my allegiance from a very popular ’70s team in red to the monochrome set I still follow today, owing to a move from a small Welsh village with no local allegiance to a big city club with an absolute stronghold on its captive audience. I played every hour I could too, though the move was, in truth, a difficult time and a hard transition – going from bossing all-comers in a titchy village school to a bumbling playground bumpkin in my new locale (something that had a negative drip-drip effect on an already fragile confidence). And if I indulge the time to reflect, it was this schism that edged me away from football into music.

For some deep in the throes of adolescence music and sport can live together in perfect harmony. For me, however, a line needed to be drawn – so the two became mutually exclusive. Was it possible to nurture those dreams of being pale, frail and interesting with backcombed hair to match with the more vulgar, muscular and hair-flattening demands of the football pitch? Hell, no. And nor was it possible to consort with its followers either (with their ugly miniscule collections of Phil Collins and Tina Turner records, stupid blue jeans and enviable ability with the fairer sex) when the pressing intellectual concerns of the young and effete (Bowie, Burroughs, Bauhaus, badinage) pressed so heavily. And ne’er the twain should meet.

And yet in my early twenties, as the hairline started to go north, football, or at least my dogged resistance of it, crept back into my affections. It may have been the England qualifier I was forced to endure at ULU – where suddenly I was punching the air and hugging my fellow student – that started it. It may have been when I was asked to make up numbers at work for their regular five-a-side and discovered the skills I thought long vanquished were merely dormant (and while I’m not saying I was any great shakes I didn’t feel hopelessly out of place, just a bit off the pace thanks to a heavy nicotine addiction and lack of any meaningful exercise for over a decade). It may have been sharing a Walthamstow flat with a trainee dentist whose sole three passions were football, football and football (and, to be fair, amassing the world’s largest archive of dodgy porn) that gradually eroded my carefully worn resistance to the extent it was futile. It may have been elements of all three, but not quite.

No, the tipping point came during a brief recuperative stay with my parents in 1992. While there a well-meaning friend took me to a few home games at St James Park (yes, for better or worse, my mast is nailed firmly to Newcastle United). And while at first I confess I played it cool – the fare was, in truth, pretty ropey and relegation to the old third division seemed a certainty – a very definite switch was turned on full on April 25, at the home game against Portsmouth. Eighty-nine minutes of the most grindingly tedious ineptitude had passed and old mother doom had settled like a heavy fog over the massed ranks of the Leazes End, where we were perched disconsolate behind the goal. And then, magically, David Kelly unleashed a poacher’s grass-cutter of the first order that spun into the corner of the Portsmouth net. A semi-heart-attack-of-disbelief, then bang! Total euphoria. Inexplicable. Uncontained. Brilliant. Dancing like a stupid bear. A deal was sealed, and I’ve never been quite the same since.

Football, fortunately, is not quite the same as smack or crack. Once you’ve had that first big hit you can attain it again and again, and reach an even bigger high, though the path to enlightenment is invariably paved with potholes. Circumstance, cash and that old foe of geographical proximity mean that, with a few notable exceptions, I’ve followed most Newcastle games since from the comfort of my armchair. And while I’m hardly a vociferous chanter or shouter, and would certainly balk at exposing my beautiful belly in sub-zero temperatures, it’s certainly a far different beast when squeezed through the cathode ray nipple. Yet there are a few advantages. Take five…

1. Comfort

You’re not squashed next to some hair-lipped gurning idiot berating pizza-loving Micky Quinn for being a ‘useless fat c***’ every four seconds, as I once was. Revenge was swift and sweet though, as the mighty Quinn scored seconds later, ruining his one-man hate campaign for that day.

2. Shouting

Similar to the above, only you can bawl what you damn well want at the screen; most of which is best kept within your own four walls. That said, a very hairy Newcastle fan of my acquaintance might have been singlehandedly responsible for my neighbours emigrating when, during one televised game, he shouted “SPACKERS!” with such venom a crack verily appeared in the wall.

3. Refreshments

You can’t drink while watching a live game – only before or at half time – you can at home (and take a ‘lucky’ break in the necessarium as you please). And if you support Newcastle, it’s often a necessity.

4. Storming Out

When you frankly despair at the third rate rubbish played out in front of you, it’s a lot easier to have a hissy fit and make a dramatic exit when you haven’t paid £40+ for the privilege.

5. Pies

You’re missing a critical trick if you don’t accompany your game with some sort of lucky pastry-based ritual (besides the ones served at most grounds invariably tasting of dog food). When not going homemade I plump for the calorific haven of McDougalls Chicken & Asparagus family pie – crucially with no accompaniments, just salt and pepper. Sometimes the pie boasts more luck at the start, sometimes at half time – you have to be flexible and work with it. Remember, whatever happens on the pitch is a direct consequence of what you shovel into your pie hole. And that’s empirical fact.

All five of these went out the window on Saturday when, conspicuously crumb-free, I attended my first game since god knows when at Ipswich, courtesy of a ticket (and lift) from my kindly, slightly deluded, next door neighbour, a card-carrying Tractor Bore, sorry, Boy. In fact, the last game I saw Newcastle play was also at Portman Road, a pre-season friendly when a roundly-booed Craig Bellamy was still in the team (which takes us back at least five years as the most popular Welshman in Sierra Leone has since played for Celtic, Blackburn, Liverpool, West Ham and Man City, as well as proving his sporting credentials with a golf club).

The first difference was nerves. It’s possible to work yourself into a small frenzy of anticipation watching from home – it would be stupidly pointless not to – but that’s nothing to the gut-churning sensation that afflicted me almost an hour before kick-off. It was almost as if I was playing myself, and even if I wanted to I was far too nervous to eat a peanut let alone a pie. And then, of course, there are just so many thousands of people crammed into a small space, amplifying any latent strains of claustrophobia and misanthropy – and I have both in different measures – to the max. It took a quick visit to the gents to truly settle down.

But then, a revelation. Once we’d located our seats – just over the halfway line in the Cobbold Stand – it was clear that, despite the meagre comfort this flimsy plastic base would afford my pampered butt, the view was incredible. And even just watching the warm-up everything seemed thrillingly three-dimensional and, well, real and alive. Not the thin grey eye-gruel you get when processed through cameras you can’t control and not tediously underscored by the procedural inanity of the tried and tested commentator/pundit combo. While that affords the viewer some knowing detachment – with the tacit knowledge that if it all goes tits up you can always get on with the VAT return – here all eyes and ears are trained on the prize. And despite being knee-deep among Ipswich fans and unusually schtum and restrained for large swathes of the match, it really didn’t matter.  

If you’ve any passing interest you’ll already know the result (and if you don’t it was Ipswich 0 Newcastle 4, the Toon winning at an almost contemptuous canter) – a stat that merely proves there’s a real gulf in quality between the Premiership and the Coca-Cola Championship (Newcastle have already won as many games in this league than they mustered all last season). With any luck it will also play a part in the ultimate unravelling of Roy Keane. As Alf-Inge Haaland will testify, the psychotic leprechaun’s not the world’s most balanced individual, and after fluking his first managerial appointment with the Mackems his powers of alchemy seem to have quickly reversed. Once he forgets the Just For Men and lets the beard freely flow Ipswich fans will need to seize the keys for his ejector seat with haste.

“Stop looking so smug,” spat my neighbour as we waded through the massed ranks of blue, black and white back to the car opposite the Dark Horse pub. But I couldn’t. When Newcastle were relegated last May I was following the score on his TV amid the hurly burly of an early summer barbeque. He laughed at me then as I laughed at him now – poetic justice had been served, and never had it tasted quite so sweet. And if this whole post is an exercise in stating the bleeding obvious, so be it. It was just something to get down before the armchair claws back my soul.

BE KIND, REWIND 3

me-ac’s third random round-up…

WHAT IS THIS?

Be Kind, Rewind is intended to update on events since the previous five posts on me-ac. It offers clarifications, corrections (when necessary), additional notes and thoughts – not all madly relevant – as the whim takes us. It’s also an opportunity to ’fess up (as we must on this occasion) for any hysterical mishaps or ill-founded rants. And for the record, me-ac is happy to slap its own finely boned wrists when it errs – if only more supposedly dependable sources would be so bold.

DON’T BE A DUMMY

Our first apology concerns our initial thoughts on Elton John’s proposed adoption. Somehow me-ac concluded that far from being a genuine, heartfelt attempt at do-gooding Elton was in fact using cute Ukraine tot Lev, and we quote, “as a pint-sized Trojan horse to bash Madonna”. It’s a good idea, possibly even sinister genius, but on reflection, and given the boy Dwight’s subsequent silence, me-ac has concluded that the Rocket Man simply put his foot in his mouth here.

It wouldn’t be the only time of late. The man Rod Stewart dubs ‘Sharon’ was back on the business pages on Wednesday, weighing in to the whole illegal downloading debate in a letter to Lord ‘Mandy’ Mandelson: “I am of the view that the unchecked proliferation of illegal downloading (even on a ‘non-commercial’ basis) will have a seriously detrimental effect on musicians, and particularly young musicians and those composers who are not performing artists,” he argued, possibly via a ghostwriter who hasn’t quite grasped Elt’s usual man-of-the-people way with words. And while me-ac supports his broader sentiments here – musicians do have a right to be paid for their work, not the quality of their T-shirts – the ridiculously draconian and practically unenforceable idea of cutting off offenders internet connections seems, well, just plain daft. It’s a big, messy and complicated debate – with implications across all the arts – and one me-ac will plough into in more depth another time.

ANY OLD ALLEN

While paying our respects to the culinary TV genius that was Keith Floyd, me-ac summarily dismissed Keith Allen, as a “celebrity irritant”. We stand by that in the same sense his autobiography Grow Up! seems to gleefully reinforce it, but for the sake of balance we’d also like to raise a two-fingered salute to a pair of the celebrity Fulham fan’s finest achievements beyond Fat Les (there may even be three, but we’ve yet to catch up with his apparently scabrous showing in Bodies). They are…

1. Whatever You Want

1982 Channel 4 show where Lily’s dad deployed some of the ribald tactics he was keen to stress he learnt from Floyd in Keith Meets Keith. This was an early, not unsuccessful, attempt at ‘yoof’ broadcasting, its memorable first episode opening with Allen sitting naked on a chair, and later (thankfully clothed) sneaking into the Leonard Hair Salon to interview Misses Holland, Bolivia and Gibraltar about beauty contests. Not unsurprisingly, his Glasto bosom buddy Joe Strummer turned up in a later episode too.

2. Jerry Arkwright

An early Allen character that featured on his series of cassettes (oh yes, and still in me-ac’s possession) for the fantasy Breakfast Pirate Radio channel. Clad in leather bondage gear, Arkwright was a soot-smudged self-styled minor-on-a-mission, as the opening words to his signature tune made clear: “You southern flash bastard/You cultural pig/I come with a tale from up north/I’m an industrial gay/And I like it that way/Fist-fucking on the firth of forth/The time has come for the north to rise/In a welter of leather and sweat/I’ve been down south looking for a big boy/And I haven’t met a big one yet…”

HE’S GHOST!

It may have been a bit remiss of us but amid the recent celebrity deaths we forgot to raise a glass, or even a leg, to that star of silver screen Patrick Swayze. It could be because me-ac is still inwardly seething at the disastrous double date turned debacle Dirty Dancing once wrought on us, something we’re endlessly reminded of whenever we hear She’s Like The Wind. Or maybe it was because we detested his next blockbuster Ghost (though, admittedly, we had an agenda by then) with every last grain of our semi-formed manhood.

Yet, somehow the man that, even if the face of crippling pancreatic cancer, referred to himself as Swayze Dog managed to invert our inveterate ire. It may have been an affectionate residue of early ’90s hip-hop slang – when anyone leaving the room would be ghost or Swayze – it may not. Either way, phat Pat sealed the deal with his self-mocking turn as oily motivational speaker Jim Cunningham in Donnie Darko. To go from zero to hero in the space of a movie is one thing, but only someone whose best friends are bathplugs could even contemplate this.

OOPS! WE DID IT AGAIN

It’s rare that me-ac ever publicly apologises, yet here we go again in the space of a few hundred words. This time we’re eating humble pie (like Oscar is about to above) for our rather dashed-off and ill-thought post on the trial of Matthew Swift and Ross McKnight, the Manc teens accused of plotting the UK’s own Columbine massacre ten years after the fact. Why so sorry? Well we simply don’t want to disappoint me-ac’s legion of followers (four at the last count, though we’re averaging thousands of unique hits a day, honest guv) with sub-standard guff. And while we stand behind the bigger opinion expressed therein – in a line, don’t judge a book by its cover – we made it in redonkulously convoluted fashion (though we uphold its sentiments against Barbara Ellen’s views in The Observer – it’s hard to believe the ever-fragrant Babs has ever endured the ignominy of an impure thought or impulse!). There are mitigating factors: we were trying to locate a brain cell, compounded by the receipt of some grave news, but me-ac doesn’t swallow that either, and we’ll keep the post up as much as a lesson in self-flagellation as anything else.

One thing it did prove is that the infinite monkey theorem is in need of an urgent update for the blogosphere. Namely, if you leave a monkey hitting keys at random on a blog for at least 15 posts he’ll begin tapping out paranoid big-brother-is-watching-you rants and wittering some scaremongering second-hand garbage about the Illuminati, the New World Order and the world being controlled by giant lizards before you can say Jon Ronson. See, told you! That said, if you do have the time and the inclination, you should read this or this, which gives a rather different perspective on the whole Al-Megrahi case than the whipped-up furore of the time or Gordon Brown’s subsequent and still unconvincing denials.

BOB’S YER UNCLE

Another omission. When rightly praising The Night Of The Hunter (the first of several potential entries from Film Club) we neglected to mention its scene-setting score by Walter Schumann. String laden and dramatic – such were the times – like the visuals it played with the form, veering off the beaten path with some off-beam expressionism that has apparently influenced everyone from Chumbawumba to The Pogues to Springsteen – not necessarily a good thing! But after his haunted version of Leaning On The Everlasting Arms me-ac is more preoccupied with about getting its lugs around some solo Robert Mitchum. Apparently the silver-tongued cavalier went calypso crazy while filming Heaven Knows, Mr Allison in Tobago in the late ’50s, and after meeting local artists like me-ac living legend Mighty Sparrow and Lord Invader went all-out and recorded his own full-length take, Calypso Is Like So, with the patois still intact.

AUTUMN ALMANAC

When we knocked up our seasonal compilation the other day we didn’t just cobble together the first 20 tracks with an autumn bent. No, we painstakingly selected the best from an admittedly shallow pot. So wither the rejects? Here’s a perfect ten of some of the ones that got away and why…

1. MAMAS AND THE PAPAS: CALIFORNIA DREAMING

Perhaps the most obvious omission but struck off for reasons of literal accuracy: “All the leaves are brown/And the sky is grey/I’ve been for a walk/On a winter’s day…” Maybe it will make the grade for our winter compilation – though competition for places is already intense – if so we’ll be plumping for the Bobby Womack version used to sterling effect in Fish Tank.

2. THE CURE: A FOREST

Shunted off at the death to accommodate The The, this still evokes frosty walks in the park and memories of finally being able to master one’s first bassline.

3. U2: OCTOBER

Almost the first rule of any compilation worth its salt – no U2, if only because Bono’s Napoleon complex has shot so far into orbit there’s no way back. One to ponder: does he share a cobbler with Sarkozy?

4. MAX EIDER: RAKING UP THE LEAVES

This gentle ode to remedial gardening from the Jazz Butcher’s erstwhile 12-fingered guitarist would have made it over Simon and Art if – and it’s a big if – we had The Greatest Kisser In The World in digital form. To be rectified.

5. THE KINKS: AUTUMN ALMANAC

Almost too blindingly obvious and ultimately not to our tastes; though me-ac gives fulsome, deserved praise for Ray Davies’ alternative take on the wisened rock biog.

6. REM: NIGHTSWIMMING

One recommended by Guardian readers back in 2005 and one me-ac rejects for the same basic rule as U2. Yes, we are cruel.

7. JUSTIN HAYWOOD: FOREVER AUTUMN

Solo Moody Blues action from Jeff Wayne’s overblown War Of The Worlds atrocity, we’d include it if we weren’t still haunted by David Essex’s later shouted exhortations: “We gotta make a new life where they'll never find us. You know where? Underground… What’s so bad about living underground eh? It’s not been so great living up here, if you want my opinion.” We don’t, so do one.

8. NEIL DIAMOND: SEPTEMBER MORN

Rick Rubin clearly believes Daimond is due a career resurrection. Cop this middling schmaltz and you may beg to differ.

9. ABBA: WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE

Abba gold in many ways, divorce is in the air “when the summer’s over and dark clouds hide the sun” for our Swedish quartet. Yet this lesson in sangfroid is still best consumed whole as part of its parent album, The Visitors.

10. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: AUTUMNSONG

me-ac prefers the version of the Manics story where they stick to their guns and split up after Generation Terrorists. Case in point.

AND FINALLY…

News has reached me-ac that ITV are remaking our absolutely favourite ’70s bed-hopping incest drama series Bouquet Of Barbed Wire. Normally this would send an indignant shudder down our spine and spark a furious letter to our local MP, but the fact Trevor Eve is to attempt to reprise the godlike Frank Finlay’s role as Peter Manson has us all a quiver. We won’t spoil Andrea Newman’s plot, except to recall Clive James original review in The Observer, where he noted, “by the end everybody had been to bed with everyone else except the baby”. And now, without further ado, we’re outta here, we’re ghost, we’re Swayze…

FOREVER AUTUMN

All the leaves are brown…

In the wake of the autumn equinox, it seems perfectly fitting to put together a compilation to reflect the change of seasons. I can’t lie, I dread autumn almost as much as winter – I’m certainly no fan of the dark nights or slowly encroaching cold, though I’m more than fond of the late September skies, the yellows, browns and reds of the fallen leaves and the rich vegetable bounty that hoves into the seasonal cook’s radar. It is time to get hearty in the kitchen, for heavy casseroles and stews, for a warming glug or three of Shiraz, a little candlelight, and some (mostly) melancholic sounds to match.

It’s easy to tie yourself up in all sorts of self-imposed knots when making a compilation – little rules start to form almost unconsciously (like setting the mood with a short instrumental, following it up with a big bang, sequencing the whole shebang as if it were a double album) and I’m guilty on all counts. Yet, as here, it’s sometimes better to ignore your own restrictions and mix it up a bit more. After much time-consuming dilly-dallying, this is my final selection: a beautifully symmetrical 20 tracks that squeeze, with seconds to spare, onto a single CD. Get burning…

1. FELT: AUTUMN

(The Final Resting Of The Ark, 1987)

Okay, guilty as charged – it’s a short mood-setting instrumental! Yet this brief peak into the singular talents of one Martin Duffy (later of Primal Scream) makes one wonder if he didn’t hitch a ride on the wrong wagon. There’s more of similar quality on Felt’s lounge classic Train Above The City but be warned: it’s an acquired taste.

2. DAVID SYLVIAN: SEPTEMBER

(Secrets Of The Beehive, 1987)

Definitely not a big bang! The former Japan leader whispers his way into his most pastoral offering with the gentlest words of longing: “We say we’re in love/While secretly wishing for rain/Sipping coke and playing games/September’s here again…”

3. THE YOUNG GODS: SEPTEMBER SONG

(The Young Gods Play Kurt Weill, 1991)

There’s so many versions of this Weill standard – from Sinatra to Bowie, James Brown to Lou Reed – but I favour the Swiss noiseniks brooding, ominous take, if only for the sheer depth charge of Franz Treichler’s guttural growl.

4. AIR: CHERRY BLOSSOM GIRL

(Talkie Walkie, 2004)

Just to leaven the dark early mood here’s a slight slice of gossamer pop from Godin and Dunckel – all surface prettiness, little depth, and a short ray of light from the imminent shade… 

5. RYAN ADAMS & THE CARDINALS: SEPTEMBER

(Jacksonville City Nights, 2005)

… Which arrives fully formed in Adams’ haunting country refrain for a friend lost to suicide – one of his simplest and prettiest songs to date.

6. THE VINES: AUTUMN SHADE

(Highly Evolved, 2002)

The undoubted highlight of a vastly overrated debut album from the pen of tortured talent Craig Nicholls, Autumn Shade marries a sumptuous melody with some languorous guitar soloing, a cooing chorus and cinematic keys.

7. FIONA APPLE: PALE SEPTEMBER

(Tidal, 2000)

Recorded when Apple was a precocious 18-year-old, this haunting piano/cello/voice elegy to the changing seasons chimes with the times, and almost begs for a film noir video treatment.

8. THE WHITE STRIPES: DEAD LEAVES AND THE DIRTY GROUND

(White Blood Cells, 2001)

Time for the big bang – the Stripes three-chord paean to loneliness from their breakthrough album still sounds remarkably lean and keen. It’s a shame, then, that Jack White seems hell-bent on spreading his Midas touch thinner than a steamrollered Michael Winner.

9. EARTH WIND AND FIRE: SEPTEMBER

(I Am, 1978)

Back to the disco in gaudy hot pants for some galvanising grooves from Chicago’s foremost funkateers; Phil Bailey’s faultless falsetto urging us to dance our blues away. Er, only if we must.

10. JON HOPKINS: AUTUMN HILL

(Insides, 2009)

A brief but effortlessly charming instrumental to signal September’s end and a deeper immersion into autumn’s chilled charms.

11. THE THE: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR TOMORROW (ALL OF MY LIFE)

(Soul Mining, 1983)

Slap-bass aside, much of Matt Johnson’s debut still sounds on the money. Self-laceration on wax, its opening lyrical gambit – “I’m hiding in the corner/Of an overgrown garden/Covering my body in leaves/And trying not to breathe” – seals autumn’s credentials as the season of doubt.

12. MALCOLM MIDDLETON: AUTUMN

(Into The Woods, 2005)
Said seeds of doubt are given a firm rebuke in two choice words of prime Anglo Saxon as Falkirk’s unsparing troubadour turns the changing times onto himself.

13. AMY WINEHOUSE: OCTOBER SONG

(Frank, 2003)

A pre-beehive, Blake and breakdowns Winehouse on a winning Salaam Remi produced jazz tip, tipping a nod on the way to vocal forbear Sarah Vaughan. 

14. YO LA TENGO: AUTUMN SWEATER

(I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One, 1997)

Restrained atmospherics, bongos, and a heavy organ refrain bond this tale of longing and fine knitwear from Hoboken’s most prolific. And praise the lord it’s not got an Americanized (sic) title like, say, Fall Jersey.

15. GORILLAZ: NOVEMBER HAS COME

(Demon Days, 2005)

MF Doom – or DOOM as he now has it – is in the house. So more tricksy, almost impenetrable lyrical manoeuvres over the sparsest of Gorillaz beats, with Albarn chiming in on the choruses.

16. SIMON & GARFUNKEL: SCARBOROUGH FAIR

(Parsley, Sage, Rosemary And Thyme, 1966)

Redolent of the season more than explicitly autumnal, Paul and Art’s update of the old Scottish ballad The Elfin Knight captures the pair at their harmonious prime, though is perhaps better digested as part of The Graduate.

17. MORRISSEY: NOVEMBER SPAWNED A MONSTER

(Bona Drag, 1990)

Difficult solo period Morrissey as he struggled to summon up a second album, November… still holds up better than his other singles of the time, its slightly contrived subject matter set into some relief by Mary Margaret O’Hara’s chilling cameo.

18. LAMBCHOP: AUTUMN’S VICAR

(Is A Woman, 2002)

Lovely, lilting obliqueness from Kurt Wagner’s growing brood, with sage advice for the squirrel population: “The nuts today you store could come handy in the future”.

19. SANDY DENNY: LATE NOVEMBER

(The North Star Grassman And The Ravens, 1971)

Denny’s star may have only shone fleetingly but it shone brightly, and this vulnerable opening track from her debut shows why she’s still revered way beyond folk rock circles.

20. MILES DAVIS: AUTUMN LEAVES

(The Best Of Miles Davis, 1992)

Like September Song there’s numerous takes on this French standard, from Piaf to Coldcut, yet it’s this restrained effort that captures its majesty the best. Davis recorded numerous versions – as a Blue Note single and on many live sets – so be careful you nab the right one or you’ll run out of spa…