Hero is a word that can mean a very many lot of things. You’ve got superheroes, personal heroes, sporting heroes, literary heroes, hero sandwiches, and also those people who risk their lives for other people, rescuing children from burning buildings et cetera. And then you get the whole antihero thing, which seems to have become far more common than classical heroes, and among all those uses of the word, when I am asked to write about heroes I am just not sure where I should be going.

Superheroes

Generic Superhero!

Are the closest thing to the original meaning of the word. A step above the rest of humanity, superheroes have superpowers and superlives and superfriends and superenemies and everything is more important and more exciting and ten times as explode-y. I have nothing really against superheroes, but they were never a thing of mine. When stuff is fictional, the higher the stakes are the less I am interested, and even now I just give props to Batman (he is the goddamn Batman, after all) and let the rest lie. I watched Captain Planet, (“He’s a hero!”) but as far as I can remember, the show was mostly about the kids and how much they could get done without the guy. Also, as far as me liking superheroes goes, Captain Hammer … hasn’t helped.

Everyday Heroes

I hate to call a real, flesh-and-blood person a hero for a thing they have done. Doing something extraordinary or altruistic doesn’t make a person less a person. If I, for whatever reason, managed to rescue fifty children from a burning, collapsing building, I would rather be the person who had done so than the hero that had done so. See? Person = who. Hero = that. And I didn’t even mean to write it that way. To name a person a hero wipes out everything else about them that makes them a person. It’s a gripey thing, since I know that hero is a huge compliment, and a lot of people would like nothing more than to be considered one. It’s much like the way my father (Hi Dad if you’re reading, look, you’re famous! And I still dislike this habit of yours!) will say “an elderly” instead of “an elderly person”, or if people say “a black” rather than “a black person”. It just really really really really really gets on my nerves, because people are people, not just one of their characteristics. Thus, a person who is brave is a brave person, not a hero, and a person who is ingenious is an ingenious person, not a hero. Maybe a heroic person, but not a hero. This is my feeling.

Personal Heroes

This is where the word hero starts to align with “idol”, and things get a whole lot subjective, and a whole lot harder to express. I don’t think I have any heroes, not outright ones. There are things about people I would be very happy to emulate, certainly. And these people by no means have to be real in the strictest sense of the word. Here is a brainstorming of things I think of when thinking about my “heroes”.

• Stephen Fry – emotional honesty
• Ron & Russell Mael – something about avoiding convention and incredible long-term achievements
• Boromir! – human enough for weakness, heroic enough to recover and mak,e amends, even more impressive because of earlier weakness

It took about ten minutes to think that stuff up. I’m just not cut out for having heroes I guess. As for why that is, I don’t know. I think it’s just I don’t have one favourite person ever. If I start calling a few people heroes, they will be joined by an insatiable horde of people whom I like and kind of admire. Which dilutes and defeats the concept.

A Note to Note about Sports:

People are all, “Just because a person is good at sport doesn’t mean they are a hero! They are belittling true heroes such as soldiers etc”, but I’m pretty sure being good at sport isn’t the only attribute a successful professional sportsperson has to admire and emulate. My own personal view of heroism makes it easy to separate the admirable qualities from the less so, but people who buy into a warts-and-all brand have a point.

I feel kind of like I have failed to address something important, but since I have been taking my own sweet time getting this thing out in the first place, I might as well give you what I’ve got. If it comes to me later, I’ll write it later. If you need more information, deal 000.

And if you really wanna, you can ask, and I’ll give you some (5) stuff(s) to write about.

Pretty

A Woofer in Tweeter’s Clothing is a huge step up from Halfnelson, even though I guess technically not much has changed. They have found a bigger, more assured sound, and much more variety in styles. Russell is less adolescent-sounding, and he finds a few new voices to play with, but mostly the songs are just better. And here they all are in their majesty and weird:

Girl From Germany

It’s just on the edges of commercial-friendly musically, but have to somehow get by the stretchy, affected vocals and painfully chipper, whistly chorus to see that this song is a real lyrical gem. Somehow it feels funny to call it a song about racism, but it really is, all about this guy seeing a German chick but whose parents can’t deal with the post-war trauma.

Oh, no! Bring her home and the folks look ill
My word, they can’t forget, they never will
They can hear the stormtroops on our lawn
When I show her in
And the Fuehrer is alive and well
In our panelled den …

It kind of edges around both being a joke and being serious, like the best of their songs do. Ron has gone on record saying he thinks that pretty much everything is funny, and I guess it’s that that lets their songs about suicide pacts, the threat of child abuse, racism, senility and so on be so endlessly entertaining and somehow very rarely offensive.

Well, the car I drive is parked outside
It’s German-made
They resent that less than the people
Who are German-made

Beaver O’Lindy

A confused, unstable mess of male puberty that I have recently been informed is about masturbation, which at least explains the I’m the girl in your head but the boy in your bed line. It flicks from lethargic waltz to seriously heavy distorted guitar and frenzied drumming to hyperactive cheerleader chorus in I think their most extraordinarily bipolar moment, beating out even Dick Around 34 years later. It’s an inspired transition, followed by some fooling around between speeds for a while, and then back to the bizarre B-E-A-V-E-R-O-L-I-N-D-Y of the chorus. I have to be really paying attention to and actively appreciating this song to enjoy it, otherwise it gets on my nerves in no small way.

Nothing is Sacred

This song is about immortality, and how much it would suck.

Most of the lyrics are nothing is sacred any more, and the song goes on and on and on and on in much the same way that this song portrays an immortal life. It sounds very much like a song from Halfnelson, from the guitar-and-drums foundation with piano extras to Russell’s loopy-loop falsetto. It’s got a neat bassline, probably the best part of the whole song, except for maybe the frantic outro, which makes the long wait through the rest of the song worthwhile.

Here Comes Bob

When I spot a driver worth a second glance
Foot to floorboard, impact soon achieved
Here comes Bob!
I ain’t subtle in my ways of making friends

One of those ideas so out there I don’t really know what to say about it and cannot guess where it came from. Basically a gorgeous piano and string arrangement around the concept that some guy doesn’t know how to make friends, so goes about it by crashing his car into other vehicles. Notable for an incredible all-but-breathless section in the middle which builds up in intensity and he has actually achieved live:

Sometimes I’ll stoop to hitting
Two-door coupes without the frills
But that’s just for casual acquaintances,
For stripped-down thrills
Your car, girl? or mine?
It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, no
But for affairs with staying power
I go after limousines
It’s always nice if something big
Is acting as your go-between
And for group encounters I’ll hit buses,
Mobile homes, or trains to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The song has so much charisma it’s ridiculous; I almost start thinking that it could be a pretty good idea. The way he announces himself he is so confident and proud of himself. And there’s a real gift somewhere in this band for string arrangements, one I feel was extremely under-used in the early years. In all years, really. The string arrangements on Plagiarism (1998) of songs from Kimono My House and Propaganda rival the originals, even for This Town. Ah well, none of that can ever stop me from loving this song, so I guess it’s all good.

Moon Over Kentucky

First five-star song Sparks made. Comes out of nowhere, especially after Here Comes Bob, like nothing they had done before and nothing they have done since. Darkly mysterious, sinister, heavy guitar, deep bass, simple, incredibly effective keyboard and pounding drums and Russell giving the vocal performance of his life with eerie wails and dark pronouncements such as:

Cut your ties with this possessive mother, she’ll destroy you
Cut your ties and find another one who will respect you

Co-written by Ron Mael and Jim Mankey, it totally rocks, especially towards the end where the vocals stay the same and the music just gradually edges up and over it. I have simply never heard anything like it, especially not from nineteen seventy bloody two.

Do-Re-Mi

Starts out mildly, ramps up hugely. I don’t know what inspired them to cover The Sound of Music, but it suits the dynamics experiments of the album perfectly. I mean, we all know the lyrics, but what we can’t predict is the strength of the music they write up around them. He could be singing some cliche like a shopping list, and the song would be as powerful, if not as incongruous. While the drums are crashing like crazy things around that simple keyboard melody, I know that Sparks can’t possibly be of this earth.

Angus Desire

Then back to the same old Halfnelson blueprint of minimal instruments supporting Russell’s delivery of fucked-up lyrics, perking up occasionally but mostly just being weird.

See private parts in public school
They look so odd, try something else
Unnatural acts, consent implied
No one objects to Angus Desire

This worries me. I think I would be more worried if I felt I understood it at all. I think instead, I will just sit over here.

Underground

It’s a nice to change to find some relaxing pop in the midst of all the everything, so Underground, penned by guitarist Earle Mankey gets two thumbs up from me. It hits the same kind of spot as Slowboat does on Halfnelson. If you don’t listen to any lyrics beyond Oh won’t you please go with me underground then it’s a pretty kind of a pop song, with a pretty melody, fun bassline and some great tinkly piano. For ages, that was exactly why I liked it. But then I tried to work out the lyrics.

First, I deciphered this:

Why don’t you please go with me underground
Where love is free and supergroups can be found

And that was exciting, because songs about music are some of my favourite things.

Once I dreamed I was on a basement tape
Took in just one take
Oh Lord, we gained our world distribution by relevant means
Jazz folk-rock fusion appealed to the teens

Okay so it’s not all that coherent, but gives a lot more meaning and charm to the song when Underground means underground music (which they definitely were) and the mission statement is:

A little more fey than I feel a Mael would have written it, but it appeals to me and I forgive Mankey for the travesty that is Biology 2.

The Louvre

The one song I automatically skip on this album, the one song that prevents it from being perfect. Too drawn out, even by Sparks standards. The gimmick of Russell singing in French doesn’t save the song from being essentially dull, and when the same lyrics are sung in English later it takes away the kind of coolness it got from being incomprehensible to a lot of people. You see, me speaking some French, I feel cheated if I can work out what it means and other people just get the meaning spoonfed.

It’s from the point of view of a statue in the Louvre, wanting to get out but being a statue makes it kinda difficult.

Essayer donc de m’enlever
Je voudrais voir si vous oser

Ils touchent mon marbre froid
Mais mes yeux sont fixer sur la porte

That’s all you’re getting from me, I am sick of this song.

Batteries Not Included

A great little piano-and-vocals scene, I almost don’t want to say anything about it because of spoilers, which is ridiculous because it’s a forty-five second song whose ending is the title. I will just say that Russell makes an excellent petulant child and leave it at that.

Whippings and Apologies

Far less risque than it sounds. Kinda like Moon Over Kentucky in that the lyrics are few and far between. Less like Moon Over Kentucky in that it starts frenetic and driven, and the vocals are yelped with slighly strangled relish in the slight pauses between onslaughts of noise. The drums are my favourite part of the whole deal, as are those moments where the music has stopped and you’re just on edge, waiting for him to cut back in, bringing the music with him with a crash.

This album is way up there with the best of Sparks, despite its initial obscurity. I wish I had seen it live, like I wish I had seen every single album live. But it was not to be, and I have to settle for videos such as this:

Omar Little in full state witness mode, complete with tie

Omar has got to be the only shotgun-toting trench-coat-wearing drug-dealer-robbing bad-ass mofo to have chided his boyfriend for swearing too much. Also, arrested for “assault by pointing” as well as possession of a handgun and so on. This picture is taken from his finest moment (yet, as I still haven’t watched the whole shebang). I wonder how much difference the tie really made.

Back at this early stage of Sparks history, they were a five-piece band called Halfnelson, as can be seen on this album cover:

Look at Ron in his corner, peering in the back window, shades and tache in place. Then look at Russell, gazing idyllically into the distance, every bit the bashful maiden. And then look at the other three! My research tells me they are Earle and Jim Mankey (guitar and bass) and Harley Feinstein who, aside from having a great name, plays drums.

Unfortunately I don’t have the buckets of money required to have a copy of the original LP, so I have had to compromise with this reissued cd:

I think L-R is Ron, Russell, Jim Mankey, Feinstein, Earle Mankey

I have grown to love this cover, with Ron’s trademark glare unobscured by sunglasses, Russell and his Adam’s apple playing it straight and the strange little man in the back with his ciggie. It looks like Ron is already preparing for the When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way’ video. Who knew he was such a dedicated method actor?

Anyway, enough blather about album covers. We’re here for the music, right? I am happy to announce it does not let us down.

Wonder Girl is a perfect way to start the whole shebang. With Russell’s voice coming from everywhere in both the falsetto and the regular variety, tinkling, circular piano resting just underneath and a prominent basic drumbeat, it consists of all Sparks have ever really needed. Repetitive, too, which they seem to like and can usually make work. And the bassline has started to push itself to the forefront the more I listen, soft but pervasive.

The lyrics? Not sure. A lot of she was a wonder girl (some girl, that girl)-ing, a few verses. Haven’t really got a handle on exactly what it’s about, but it doesn’t bother me.

Fa La Fa Lee is actually more catchy and far more funny. It’s the song from here I find myself singing most often. Unfortunately, it’s not the most family-friendly song to be singing aloud, so I often have to restrict myself to just the Fa la fa lee, she ain’t heavy she’s a brother to me bit. I don’t want people thinking I’m singing about … uh … being deprived of … incest:

Fa la fa lee,
She thinks only of the higher part of me
Such a shame, were I she
I’d set my sights much lower
Then I’d sing
Fa la fa la fa lee
But as it stands now that would be a felony
Whoo, fa la laaaaa …

La lee

I don’t know what half the sounds on this song are from, but they are things of beauty. It’s lively and bizarre and unpredictable. But most of all, it is a song about incest called “Fa La Fa Lee”. See if you can beat that, Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV.

Next! Roger
Grandiose count-in? Check! Atonal irrythmic music? Check! Lyrics you can decipher but that are impossible to interpret? Check! Vocal gymnastics? Check! Tireless repetition of one word? Check! Cymbals? Check! Quite a nice piano line coming in and fading out at the end for no apparent reason? Check!

Russell Mael wrote this song, one of his two solo songwriting credits for the album, and it’s a perfectly calibrated mess of a song.

High C
Sorry, did someone say vocal gymnastics? This song, about an opera diva who’s lost her touch, is all about reaching, as you may have guessed, high C. From the point of view of some guy, manager, agent, whatever, who wants to guide her back to the elusive high C. Or at least so I thought originally, now I’m thinking maybe it’s a fan, considering the opening lines:

A picket fence, I leaped it
Through your screen door, I gotta meet you

and the closing:

Come on home with me and we’ll sing our little hearts out
We will hit high C or maybe somewhere thereabouts

The song flips from grandiose vocal with jaunty musical stylings to jaunty vocal with grandiose musical stylings and back again, with little interspersed vocal romps up and down the scales. Not a highlight as far as the album goes, but pretty fun.

Fletcher Honorama is quite spooky, and easily my favourite. I don’t know what or who Fletcher Honorama is, but the song is about an old man (of eighty Junes), or a boy, depending on what part of the lyrics you listen to, on his deathbed. It’s gentle, eerie and even when it revs up a little and the vocals slip from muted to full bore, it remains disjointed and surreal. The piano break initially seems to break the mood, but the more times it starts up again the more it fits in.

Please, go easy now with him
Because this is his final whim
So be sure that the boy don’t die before the morn

We’ll merely sing the songs that made you scream

The way he sings scream is just subtly different and hell-creepy.

The outro is the high point of the whole song, with overlapping so be sure, so be sure, that the … boy, don’t die before the morrrrnnnns and ghostly oooo-oo-ooooos creating a place I could stay in for hours.

Simple Ballet

Publicity getting out of hand. It all just started out with a simple ballet.

The music is all plinky plonk, with massive clashing cymbals at regular intervals and high-pitched backing vocals on occasion. Russell’s voice is refined and delicate, and even when the guitar makes an entry it’s very clean and respectable. Maybe a little longer than it needs to be, but nice, sweet and subversive.

Slowboat

A pure slow soft rock song, vaguely about waiting patiently for a lost love to return, even though you know they won’t, but they definitely will. Or something. The most important thing about this song is the prop-work it got in the early days:

Russell Mael complete with papier-mache slowboat

Russell gives this song the thorough crooning it deserves, and the piano part is very pretty. It feels almost like filler, but since it’s better than at least half of the other songs on here, I guess it can’t be.

Biology 2

A Sparks song without a Mael as a songwriter? Blasphemy! It’s a straightforward comedy song written by Earle Mankey, and it’s not very good. At least I hope it’s not just me reacting to it being a Mankey song aha manky; I think I didn’t like it before I knew who wrote it. The vocals are silly beyond endearing, and though the structure is pretty interesting, and the music does some cool things, it just can’t win me over. The intro is hopelessly cheesy and dated, and most of the song is just genetics references masquerading as wit, and references to Darwin and Mendel. The line I do like comes right at the end:

Pick a stud to congeal your blood, and get your earlobes freed

Eugenics!

Saccharin and the War

What. The. Hell. Someone, please explain this to me. Or at least reassure me that it makes no sense.

Fifteen years the bus had waited,
Before it moved on into the town.
Eye liner worn by all their girls.

Through the night the war was fought

Every girl took in a doctor

Through the street girls sang
The marching bands brought on the rain
The doctors stood by the gold cross

One eye liner she had an idea
She read the Book, the Golden Book
It seems another man had come across a cross

Well, Dr. Jones they crucified
But, all their weight was returned back

The only sense I can maybe make of it is that a lot of people took a weight loss pill, then turned on the doctor responsible and all the weight miraculously returned? I thought Ron was the crazier one, but now I am not so sure… Musically it’s almost as disjointed as Roger, and after all the lyrics are out of the way it goes on a rockin spree with crashing drums, cool piano and odd squeakings at the periphery for a while.

Big Bands

Here is a love song for the most enduring love of all: music. This strikes me as a love song from a middle-aged man to his halcyon days when big bands ruled the waves. It’s really quite touching. The bittersweetness of him having practically bankrupted himself:

Follow me my lady to my home
See my large collection, some on loan
Of every big band record ever made
I had to sell my heater, so don’t shake

to keep up his passion, which is pretty much all he has to live for:

I find it so much warmer in the ballroom than at home
A common bond unites us so we’re really not alone
Sure we’ve got our problems, but tonight we won’t admit it
If I have a lady friend, we’ll make it seem like we were there tonight

is something I think most music-lovers can identify with to some degree.

I smile like Herbert Hoover when the big bands play is a line that I don’t need to understand to love. I did a little looking into Mr. Hoover, and all I can say is he doesn’t have much of a smile that I can find anywhere. Maybe that’s the joke.

Musically, it’s a really good song, starting out guitar-heavy but for a surprisingly long time staying sedate and piano-y. Russell demonstrates his vocal versatility, from the soft warbling in the verses to the bald statement in the chorus (I … am … quite … partial!), and as it goes mental towards the end like the best songs do, speeding up and speaking the remaining verses.

(No More) Mr. Nice Guys

Is a fairly epic closer, full of dynamics and words and sounds and things. It rocks out the most of any of the songs, maybe due to it being co-written by Jim Mankey and Ron? Centering on the incongruous man of morals (see It Ain’t 1918), it tells us that being nice really isn’t what a girl is looking for these days.

It almost reads as a mission statement in the chorus:

And sure enough, no one really is quite that nice:

He could be enticed
His game had to end
But he’s still quite nice
She sees other men than him

So cynicism is justified, and there really are no more Mr. Nice Guys.

This album is unusual and interesting, and a surprisingly accurate introduction to Sparks as they have been for most of their career. Sure, the Mankeys and Feinstein would only be around for one more album, but able replacements were found and Biology 2 is one of my least favourite Sparks songs, so I won’t be missing the songwriting skills. Russell’s voice is very young, but in fine fettle, and the songwriting is if anything more adventurous than in much of their later work. I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if Russell had kept up his songwriting efforts instead of just letting Ron take over. From the glimpses this album has given us, it would have been an alternate history to be baffled by.

I like Sparks.