Monocled Alchemist

Vintage music press reviews

THE DAMNED ‘Strawberries’ (Bronze BRON 542) ****1/2 | IT’S ALMOST like a Republic serial of the Forties. Just settle down, dim the lights and revel in the monochrome crackle of an endless cliffhanger.

‘The saga of the Damned! The story so far . . . ‘ Perilous Pauline would have nothing on these guys.

‘Just how will our ghastly heroes cope now that the vile Captain Sensible, self-proclaimed most revolting man in the world, has been catapulted to fame by an undiscerning horde of Marmite encrusted infants? Will Croydon ever be the same again?’ Thrilling stuff indeed.

‘Strawberries’ is the latest instalment in the story of the Damned. It’s their first album in over two years (has it really been that long?) and their most audacious yet. Somehow ‘Strawberries’ (crazy title, I wonder what the story is behind it?) manages to indulge both Dave Vanian‘s darkly obsessive Gothic vision and the good Captain’s psychedelic whims without sacrificing any hard rock sensibilities.

The result is an album as heavily stylised as a baroque crypt. I think if Roger Corman ever gets around to cutting a record it might well turn out like this.

All things being equal (which of course they ain’t) ‘Strawberries’ should be the LP to grant the Damned the recognition they’ve courted for so long. With an enthusiastic new label behind them as well as Sensible’s newly acquired notoriety and loot (happy talk!!) they should finally be able to dump that stubbornly persistent second feature/B movie tag and move up into the major league.

The Damned | Strawberries | (Bronze) 1982

I don’t mind admitting it’s something I’d love to see happen. Let’s have no more cries of ‘Quick Igor, the shovel.’ The Damned don’t deserve to be buried.

This is certainly their most accessible album to date, with a grand sense of scale that almost borders on the pretentious. Hugh, whuzzat? The Damned being pretentious. Huh, whuzzat? to the right album here? I think fairweather listeners might well be surprised at just how mellow the band are sounding these days.

Should they pick this up hoping for a re-run of the magical, metallic shambles that was ‘Damned Damned Damned’ they’ll be sorely disappointed. Even devotees of ‘Machine Gun Etiquette’s rawhide rowdyism will find little here with which to gird their loins.

‘Strawberries’ is the Damned at their most melodic and subversive. Themes hinted at on their last epic ‘The Black Album’ like ‘Wait For The Blackout’ and ‘Twisted Nerve’ are resurrected and embellished with an even brighter pop gloss.

But that’s not to say ‘Strawberries’ is out ‘n’ out wimphem (perish the thought!). The opener, ‘Ignite’, strategically placed to lull you into a false sense of security no doubt, boasts some rigorous rock guitar and ‘Bad Time For Bonzo’ hits home like a HM Monkees track.

It’s just that to these ears at least the emphasis now seems to be on style rather than muscle. ‘Pleasure And The Pain’ is a typical example of the album’s low key approach.

The Damned | Strawberries | (Bronze) 1982

Despite his dramatic career turnabout, Mega-duck Sensible usurps the vocals on only two of the tracks which is about par for the course; the LP’s throwaway closer ‘Don’t Bother Me’ the weird beat of which punctuates the entire second side and ‘Life Goes On’, a curiously dour piece wherein he apparently mopes the absence of his beloved Dolly Mixture.

The excellent ‘Generals’ is somewhat more lively, a champion slice of wonderhorse pop that simply brays for life as a single. There’s also an endearing teen melodrama with ‘A Dozen Girls’ as well as odd-ball psychedelia in ‘Under The Floor’.

Perhaps the only track I’m not that bowled over by is ‘The Dog’, which I dislike in much the same way I disliked ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’. I dare say it could turn out to be a similar showstopper live.

‘Strawberries’ is a jolt to the system. A bright and exciting treat that just demands to be eaten. The Damned are back in town. I guess the saga continues. (Sounds, 25/09/82)

THE DAMNED ‘Strawberries’ (Bronze BRON 5420) ‘STRAWBERRIES’ has been a long time coming; two years since the Black album and the mixed reception that it received.

The opening track, ‘Ignite’, jumps out in typical vintage Damned style but the rest mark more of the departures already ventured into with the last single, ‘Lovely Money’ and the instrumental meanderings of ‘Curtain Call’ on the last LP.

There’s flirtations with psychedelic guitar sounds from the Captain, cancelled out by the excellent ‘The Dog’, an obvious Dave Vanian track conjuring up Gothic visions of a femme fatale.

For all its diversity ‘Strawberries’ holds together well. There’s a lot more in there to listen to and despite a clear mellowing it’s a long way clear of being so mature it’s got no spark. + + + + (Record Mirror, 02/10/82)

ROTTEN FRUIT FROM FAMILIAR PLACES

THE DAMNED Strawberries (Polydor)

YOU DIDN’T really think they’d gone, did you? After all, it’s only four years since their ‘farewell’ gig, and looking at Jimmy Pursey’s Hams 69 who whined on for years after their ‘break up’, I’ll give these lads another three bust-ups and reformations at least before they pack it in.

It’s the music biz? Music??? Oh come on! The Damned have never been in that game — the closest they got were a couple of toe-tapping pop songs back in the ’70s.

On the other hand, they have had their positive points — they’ve been a subtle prod in the eye for all the bristling hardboiled, er, cored, woolly heads who latched onto ‘The Punk Movement’ in pursuit of identity or occupation. That The Damned never promised social emancipation or A Better Way Of Life is one up for them. But only one — not setting distinct objectives is no excuse for not reaching any, and as an album, ‘Strawberries’ reaches fewer goals than Hereford United.

But let’s get the details out of the way. For a start, the scratch ‘n’ sniff strawberry is a big mistake. Ostensibly a cover for the whiff of decay? There’s an unusual lyric sheet, though — the fact that I wouldn’t display the words if I was responsible for their existence is hardly relevant.

The first song’s a prime example. Set amidst enough heavy metal squeals and “woah hoah hoah hoah”s to bring Lemmy to shame, the lines “Gonna hit the street, Grab that night beat, Gonna set the world alight, Gonna have some fun tonight” leave me in serious doubt as to which side of ’76 these boys are from.

‘Progressing’ through side one, we find new band member Roman Jugg (who should get either his name or his nose and ears changed) goes halfway towards enlivening the wishy washy melodies with his Greenfield orientated keyboards on ‘Generals’. Next come the typical paranoic angst-ridden persecution laments in ‘Stranger On The Town’ . . . you know, the old all alone in a sea of faces syndrome, with everyone casting the usual mean eye. Hardly standard Damned aggro, but after nearly seven years, who can blame them for feeling a teensy bit sorry for themselves?

Then there’s ‘Dozen Girls’ where Vanian asks himself why the proverbial Other Man gets all the girls, and ‘The Dog’ where he answers himself in one of those ‘stay away — she’s evil’ crooners where the only mentioned vice of his lechered-after “tiny seductress” is her (splutter) “woman’s mind so sharp and distinct.” Women, Dave? What grisly species are they?

Side two is only slightly less painful. ‘The Pleasure And The Pain’ has the same melancholic charms as The Stranglers last two singles but sinks into a lukewarm dirge after four or five chorus repeats. ‘Life Goes On’, with the Captain’s peaceful bumbling philosophies, soothes and amuses, and, for its non-attempt at provoking (re)action, I’d say it’s the best track on the album. Then the pleasantries end, chased out by the half-spirited stale pointedness of ‘Gun Fury’, the dead gusto of ‘Bad Time’, and the downright tedium of ‘Under The Floor’.

This really is a miserable (w)retch of a record, spewing fourth enough nauseous ‘nostalgia’ to fill a book entitled ‘Why The Damned Never Made It’, without once touching any spirit. It seems they’re doomed to regurgitating their history ’til the aftertaste becomes too bad to bear. (NME, 09/10/82)