photo by Birdie
When Some Dusty, the debut album by Birdie, was released in 1999 it was criminally underappreciated by the music press and generally unloved. One review described Debsy Wyke's vocal as 'as weak as you would expect from someone whose day job was to not out out sing Sarah Cracknel'. It wasn't a great time to be female in the music business and a terrible time for people making day dreamy and perfect pop.
1999 was a funny old year for music. The initially interesting Britpop scene had soured from rubbing its corduroy shoulders a little to firmly with Loaded magazine and Lad culture, descaling from a roster of nifty, if nostalgic, female fronted pop music to swaggering Stella Artois wielding bloke bands pretending to be football hooligans. The novelty of hearing underappreciated indie bands on the wireless (if you have said in the early nineties Cornershop and Pulp would be household names with number one records I would have had you committed) rapidly tired itself out by a new breed of groups, with a copy of Ian Macdonald's Revolution in the Head under one arm and an Epiphone Casino under the other, set out to write 'classic' singles. What happened actually was a FM radio roster of mediocre 45's backed by a thirty six piece orchestra. Still, you can't polish a turd, and none of the tunes where even ten percent as classic, or even as good as, say, There She Goes by the La's.
The music press was even more desperate and dire. Melody Maker, surely aware of it's rapidly approaching demise (it would fold a year later) stuck awkwardly and steadfastly to it's two favourite bands, Mansun and Manic Street Preachers, presumably hoping a loyal fan base of eye lined sullen emo kids would keep it afloat. On the week of Some Dusty's release NME had Flat Eric, a novelty single releasing head nodding puppet on the cover. Better times were around the corner, both Belle and Sebastian's The Boy with the Arab Strap and Comet Gain's Tigertown Pictures, amongst others, were released the previous year and an underground DIY indiepop movement was quietly emerging but we weren't to know that at the time. If only the inky weeklies had taken a short tube ride from their offices to the Heavenly Social nights with their life affirming mix of soul, hip hop and sixties cool. But they didn't. It was a grim, grim, grim time.
Not the ideal time then, for Birdie to release an album. Paul Kelly, formally of sublime bowl haired Gretch chimers East Village and Debsy Wykes late of Dolly Mixture, the perfect link between The Shangri-Las and the Undertones,met while the both in Saint Etienne's backing band. Paul would go on to make a number of films with Saint Etienne, most cinematic love letters to London as well as Lawrence of Belgravia, a film about former Felt and Denim front man, enigma and underground hero Lawrence. (in Lawrence and Will Hodgkinson's wonderful book Street-level Superstar Paul has a reoccurring presence as Lawrence's almost comically long suffering hero and saviour). Debsy and Paul would fall in love and form a band, Birdie.
Some Dusty was recorded with Brian O'Shaughnessy, whose roster included London Sixties pop merchants The clientele and the aforementioned Denim and is a woozy, lush and incredibly melodic pop record. Opener Laugh is a sixties fringe swinger of a tune that shimmies with a keyboard led strut, its almost innocent soul until you listen to the almost Dylan-esque dis of the lyric (Yesterday you said they all would be falling over you/Now today you find that you really have no one left to lose/Can you see your friends outside they're laughing at you?)
Dusty Morning is a gorgeous, super mellow and poppy plead for a lover stay that's warmed through thoroughly by it's Walk On By brass and la la backing. 'So often on this day I'm missing
/But I'll be here and I'll be kissing you/I know it's true' coos Debsy like a cross between a siren song and Petula Clark. It's all you can do to stop yourself running to arms.
The Dansette pop of Folk Singer is a lost classic of a single, brimming with lush melody and criss crossing between acoustic and distorted guitars and could be a totem of the banality of FM radio at the time She sang for me today/But has nothing to say.
Let Her Go and Port Sunlight both shimmy with sixties pop sensibility but it's Lazy Day which is the winner for me, a super calm, hazy doe eyed hymn to staying in and wanting a lover to come on over.
The record somehow sailed over the heads of everyone except the very hip at the time and become something of a cherished secret to those in the know. It's been defined by some as a soft rock record but to me it's the best Sunday morning record ever released and the soundtrack to being ever so slightly grown up. You can imagine Some Dusty as a soundtrack to the lives of Liver-birds type hipsters with shit jobs and a head full of pop, the disc quietly revolving on the turn table as they put away the pint of milk they worked hard for in the fridge of the flat that still smells of fresh paint on chilly autumn morning.
Considering the critical acclaim of Candie Payne and global success of Duffy, both of which released records of a radio friendly sixties tinged flavour, it's difficult to understand how Some Dusty fell between the cracks and ended up an underground cult classic rather than a universally applauded sixties tinged pop master piece it so obviously is. Luckily, some twenty five years later Slumberland have re-released the record on a beautiful (and I'm not just saying that because I have a shirt that matches the shade exactly) green vinyl. The album has never looked or sounded better, and is backed up with rare photos and extensive and reliably brilliant sleeve notes by Chickfactor's Gail O'Hara. I implore you to explore this wonderful and terrific LP. Spin it while eating a few slices of French toast on a Sunday and fall in love.
Be lazy, be amazed.