The Strange Case of the "Radio Record" (aka Why the Hell did I buy "You" by Ten Sharp??)

You may have heard radio DJs over the years make a particular and remarkable statement when interviewing a musician or pop group.

What happens is that a DJ will play an artist's new single and, as a prelude to the interview, will tell the artist that their record "sounds great on the radio".

Notice the statement isn't "Your record sounds great", but that it sounds great on the radio. There is a difference, and this phenomenon has a name.

This, surely the ultimate in backhanded compliments, is known in the music industry as a "radio record".

What that means is that it's a record people listen to - and like - when it's played on the radio but totally loses its effect when the listener person actually buys and plays the record for personal enjoyment.

It's an odd phenomenon but it does exist.

Indeed, I have fallen victim to this seditious foe myself, most notably when I, er, bought "You" by Ten Sharp back in 1992. The song was not exactly my usual preferred style, but this rising, piano-led ballad did indeed sound great on the radio.

Guess what? I bought the CD single, took it home, played it once... and hated it. The CD single has remained unplayed since 1992.

Undoubtedly the best example of the radio record phenomenon must be the complete works of Keane. I'm not a fan of Keane and I wouldn't choose to listen to them, but I have to admit their records sound okay on the radio. (I certainly don't rush to change the station as I would if "All For Love" by Sting, Rod Stewart & Bryan Adams came on). I bought "Everybody Changes"... only to discover I'd been duped again. One play, then instant retirement for the offending CD single.

So, what is a radio record? How can one record have two totally different effects on the same listener?

Surely it can only be a situational difference; most radio listening is passive,  therefore it acts almost as a backdrop to whatever else you're doing at the time. And given most radio stations play the same songs in heavy rotation, any new song that is reasonably well-crafted will attract the attention.

However, if you choose to play a song at your leisure, when commuting or when exercising, your attention is focused on the music -- therefore greater scrutiny is applied to whatever you're listening to -- and this surely is the litmus test of any song. If you like it, you listen. If not, then you listen to something else.

Problem solved. Case closed. But no, here's the thing.

I recently heard "You" again on the radio and despite my continued dislike, I paradoxically thought it sounded good on the radio!

Whilst I still support the situational theory posited above, I have to further conclude that there is another aspect to the radio record; one that could explain why only some but not all records are radio records.

I'm talking style over substance.

I'm not talking about the age-old argument of throwaway pop versus "proper" music; hell, many of my favourite records are considered throwaway pop, but I would wager there's more musical complexity in, for example, the chord and melodic structure of many Stock Aitken Waterman records than there is in most so-called "classics".

What I mean here is that radio records have a particular gloss or sheen to the arrangement and production but underneath the musical complexity is not there.

And that in itself is not a bad thing, but that is the only explanation I can come up with to explain how a record can sound great on the radio but fail to bear closer scrutiny.

Finally! An explanation as to why I don't like Keane...!

Drinking In Penzance (at twenty-six)

Getting ready for work the other morning, I was snapped out of my normal hypnagogic stupor when Radio 2's Chris Evans played "Drinking In LA" by Bran Van 3000.

If I was some kind of barely-literate halfwit, I'd have just tweeted "CHOOON! LOL BSVMP" or something like that but this record - and the memories it conjures up - deserves a better tribute than 140 characters of acronyms.

This unusual and haunting record was the soundtrack to one of the most fun trips I've ever had and hearing the record so unexpectedly took me right back there.

It was August 1999 - almost, gasp, FIFTEEN years ago - when my good friend Jim and I set off on a road trip to end all road trips, and hopefully this condensed, Poundland version of Kerouac's "On The Road" will give you a flavour of this epic sojourn.

We set off from Liverpool and headed down south - in fact as south as you can get -  towards the Cornish town of Penzance to get ourselves a bit of the old Total Solar Eclipse; yes, we drove hundreds of miles just so that for a couple of minutes we could see ABSOLUTELY NOTHING at all.

Our trusty stallion for the journey was my first car - the fondly-remembered Peugeot 205 (renamed by Jim as The Truck Magnet as we constantly ended up stuck behind said vehicles on the congested motorway). Although a little cramped, it got us there and back again without a hitch.

For the most part, our soundtrack provider was Radio 1 which was de rigeur when you were young (ish) and travelling during the summer months.

And Radio 1 hammered "Drinking In LA" that summer (although honourable mentions must go to "At The River" by Groove Armada, and, er, "Mambo No.5" by Lou Bega).

So when I think back to the events of that holiday...

The warmth and hospitality of our hosts: the wonderful Ruth and her equally wonderful parents

Ruth taking us to the local nightclub "The Barn" (no joke), where we escaped the scrutiny of the female bouncer who looked like Hazell Dean on steroids, and where Jim and I watched in envious amazement as a young man with a crescent-moon-shaped face danced with the two best looking girls in the whole place (these three were henceforth known as the Cornish Corrs)

Ending up in Penzance's other night club which was decked out to look like Moonbase Alpha, only soundtracked by incessant horrible techno rather than by Barry Gray

An introduction to Julie T Wallace

On our ascent to our solar eclipse vantage point and being amazed at how the elderly man walking behind us up the hill got there before us without him actually passing us

Meeting the female replica of one of our male friends; he and she would have either a) been the perfect couple, or b) destroyed the entire universe had they ever locked lips

The most polite late night enquiry from a fellow reveller as to where we purchased our chips

... all I hear is the bizarre but amazing record about the thwarted dreams of young slackers in the unique city of Los Angeles.

Like the main protagonist of the song, I too was 26, and an aspiring screenwriter, but as a tea-totaller back then, I didn't have "the fever for the nectar".

No, I was taking photos of other people taking photos as the sky went dark in the middle of the day.

Thematically and literally completely different experiences, but for me, inextricably linked by that outstanding record with the hypnotic chorus.

Oh and yes the solar eclipse was okay too...

The (World's) End of The Pier...

In centuries past, people believed the Earth was flat, which encouraged some hardy souls to travel the seven seas, hoping to find the edge of the world.

And although the Flat Earth Society still prospers, it is generally accepted the Earth is round.

However, I have been to the edge of the world -- and it is in Southport.

Now I should point out this is not a statement of criticism about Southport; I have a lot of affection for this North-West England town and still visit it often but it remains the case that this is the place where the Earth seems to, well, run out of earth.

Let me clarify; most of the action in Southport focuses around the central blocks of its ornate Victorian shopping parade on Lord Street.

But occasionally, I take a walk along the full length of Lord Street which I suppose makes me quite adventurous as retail shoppers in Southport go.

As you progress further towards the north end of Lord Street the shops start to thin out, there are less people around and already you get a sense you are leaving civilization behind.

And suddenly you're upon it. The end of Lord Street, the last of the shops and a roundabout straight ahead.

This, readers, is where the world stops.

Or if I stop being so fanciful for a moment, this is where it feels like the world stops.

Aside from the evidence of my own eyes, it stands to reason that the world carries on beyond the roundabout.

And I have no doubt there is much to commend that part of Southport beyond the roundabout but it all stops there for me.

What I'm trying to get at is that strange feeling - and I'm sure you've all felt it somewhere at some time - when you find yourself in a thriving busy urban area and then suddenly it's gone, finding yourself surrounded by houses, wasteland or worse.

The change in scenery and atmosphere is so sudden, you feel disorientated and dislocated.

Like you've gone on further than you were supposed to, and you've ended up in some strange void.

The fun, excitement and optimism you felt moments before has given way to a disconcerting melancholy.

Maybe it's a metaphor for life; all that excitement in the early part of life left behind for quiet surburbia; youth replaced by age then death.

And maybe that's why I refuse to venture past the roundabout at the end of Lord Street. I refuse to step off the world, and instead choose to go back the way I came, back to the bright, bustling centre.

But then, my car is parked up that end...

Welcome to Meaningless Insights

This blog is basically a scratchpad; a place for me to get back into practice for writing articles (after a long gap!).

I'll be covering TV, film, music and life in general; I promise I'll try to make it as interesting as I can, and thank you for reading!