Mark's Pages

September 2, 2004:

Think about how lucky they were.

A producer who supported their ambition to be artists, particularly by agreeing to record the songs they wrote themselves. They could perfectly well have gotten Micky Most.

A scriptwriter who loved their private humor. A director committed to both art and accessibility. They could perfectly well have gotten shitty exploitation films, like Elvis'.

A manager who allowed them to keep their working class accents.

A record label that allowed them to release whatever they wanted, so long as they released enough of it.

Perhaps all these things would have somehow happened anyway, through sheer force of intelligence and stubbornness. Yet one doubts. Imagine any other band refusing to record a guaranteed hit like "How Do You Do What You Do to Me?" End of major label deal, and our boys are allowed to carry on being stubborn in any northern pub for as long as they like, or marriage forces them into real jobs.

On the CD with its superior resolution you can clearly hear him whisper through the intro, "Shoot me... Shoot me..."

Careful what you ask for.