Denim

Denim playlist

Contributor: Rob Morgan

When does a convenient white lie become the legend? Towards the end of 1989 Felt were preparing to release their tenth album Me And A Monkey On The Moon and singer/ songwriter/ neatness freak Lawrence realised that the band had issued ten singles and ten albums in ten years, and as he was planning to disband Felt at the end of the promotion process for the album, maybe this could be used to his advantage? So the convenient white lie became part of the publicity for the album – Lawrence claimed there had always been a masterplan of ten singles and ten albums in ten years before splitting the band (see evidence at the foot of this post … Ed.). And everyone fell for it, even though he’d never mentioned it before. In a way it overshadowed the album’s release which is a shame.

Before this album Felt had been famous within the indie sphere for their florid wordplay, sharp musicianship somewhere between Television and mid 60s electric Dylan and Lawrence’s eccentric behaviour. But Me And A Monkey… showed Lawrence changing – songs like Mobile Shack, Budgie Jacket, Free and She Deals In Crosses were more personal and direct than anything he had written before, looking back on relationships with former band members, family and reminisces about his past growing up in Birmingham. The centrepiece of the album was New Day Dawning – a seven-minute epic, the first half all whispered memories and promises for the future, the second half exploding into a technicolour expanse of seventies rock – somewhere between Free Bird and the conclusion of Goodbye To Love with a wild guitar solo to match. It was a shock, a pleasant surprise and an absolute blast in equal measures. Felt played some farewell gigs, claimed their cupboard was bare and there were no outtakes and unissued songs and quietly split up, their keyboard maestro Martin Duffy immediately being nabbed by Primal Scream. Meanwhile there were whispers … What would Lawrence do next?

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Gary Ainge of Felt (left) with Lawrence in 1982

The first clue appeared in a live review in a January 1991 edition of Melody Maker. The main photo focused on the keyboard player Siobhan Brookes wearing a t shirt showing a version of the Glitter Band’s Hey! album cover, amended to say “Hey! It’s Denim”. That caught my attention. It was only halfway through the review that the author revealed that Denim was the new project of Lawrence from Felt. It seems they only played a few songs but that was enough to whet the appetite of the reviewer who waxed lyrical about the retro futurism of the band’s music, lyrics and general aesthetic. As such, Denim was born and it was a great leap forward for Lawrence, as well as a glance backwards.

(Melody Maker January 12 1991 image courtesy of the DJ Bill E archive)

For Denim was a retro futurist project, and specifically the ‘retro’ part was the Seventies. As Lawrence was born in 1961, his teenage years were in the 70s and as he wrote in The Osmonds: “I soaked it all in, and now it’s dripping out”. He was the right age to experience everything the 70s had to offer, the good and the bad, and being in Birmingham he was far enough away from London to read about the stars in the NME and Melody Maker and Look-in and his sister’s Jackie magazines. Denim was – initially at least – Lawrence’s attempt to make sense of his teenage years and put it into the context of the Nineties. It was postmodernism with a pop heart and utterly timely for the early nineties. A number of other acts were attempting a similar viewpoint, whether it was the record collector rock of Primal Scream and the Pooh Sticks or the more knowing wink and smile of Saint Etienne, World Of Twist or Pulp, who were a year or so away from the start of their own long overdue success. Denim was Lawrence’s big chance and he knew it. He honed the material in a few months in New York then put together a new band around him including members of the Glitter Band who would give Denim the glam stomp Lawrence required.

Of course, it seemed that Denim fitted into Lawrence’s scheme in another way. After all, his first band was named Felt. If Felt were soft, gentle and pliable like the material itself, would Denim be tough, rugged and durable? Lawrence worked his way around this by claiming Felt was named after the past tense of ‘feel’, in particular how Tom Verlaine sang the word ‘felt’ in a Television song. Hmm. In which case did Lawrence steal his new band’s name from a 70s aftershave?

Nothing was heard from Denim until the end of 1992 when the debut single Middle Of The Road was due to be issued in October via Boys Own records, a label better known for UK dance music. There were press interviews, single reviews, radio plays on Radio One and an appearance on Later… The press loved the song, the interviews were funny and previewed the forthcoming album Back In Denim. Yet the single wasn’t released until January 1993, two months after the album, there had been problems with the label getting the record into the shops. More press adverts, another round of glowing reviews in the singles pages but the momentum had stalled. If this was the first hint that Denim were cursed, well there would be more to come.

Middle Of The Road is the perfect launchpad for the Denim project. A two chord stomper with massed handclaps and burbling synths, it allows Lawrence to set his stall for the 90s. It’s an iconoclastic list of everything Lawrence hates in music. Blues, Elvis, Chuck Berry, Spector, early Dylan (ironic considering how much late period Felt sounded like Highway 61 Revisited) and more. Then the killer lines:

Don’t be told who to like it’s your choice
It’s your right to choose
who to listen to
It’s your rock ‘n’ roll

After which Lawrence claims you’ll find him “in the middle of the road”, a double-edged line if ever there was one – he’s claiming MOR music for himself years before the ‘guilty pleasures’ movement, but the song also starts quoting literally from Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep by Middle of the Road, a song as far from hip as possible in the early 90s. It’s a brilliant way to announce the band and draw a line in the sand with everybody else. Nobody would dare to quote from Middle of the Road and yet Lawrence is reminding you of the simple pleasures of mindless pop, while also making a serious point. Never be embarrassed by your personal taste; it’s as unique and valid as anyone else’s.

Middle Of The Road fits neatly within the context of the debut album Back In Denim. The opening title track really is a chanting stomping monster, quoting obliquely from We Will Rock You and is as much a manifesto for the new project as a song. “I’m back, I’m back in Denim, and Denim put the soul in your rock’n’roll” sings Lawrence over chunky riffs and squidgy synths. It’s a great way to start the album and the band itself. At the other end of the album stands I’m Against The Eighties, a speedy treatise on the past and the future, disowning his own previous band and music, members of Duran Duran (the implication is that Lawrence knew one of the Taylors from his Birmingham teenage years), the winklepicker wearing Mary Chain debris and more. There’s numerous references to his 70s too, while looking forward to a future of love, rave music and presumably fame.

But the very heart of Back In Denim is The Osmonds. A sprawling eight-minute reflection on growing up in the Seventies. In a way it is a natural follow up to New Day Dawning. It starts gently, hissing drum machines and rolling pianos and country-tinged lead guitars, Lawrence remembering clothes and clans and trends and music, and lots of little Osmonds everywhere. At two minutes the mood changes totally, crashing chords and Lawrence spits out a verse about the IRA pub bombings which sounds as righteous now as it did then. And having got that out of his system, Lawrence returns with a list of one hit wonders and memories of friends, influences and events leading to a litany of memories in the extended coda and fade out. It’s a beautiful, melancholy song and one of Lawrence’s greatest moments.

Which leads to another rabbit hole. So when did the 70s revival start? The first time I remember even thinking about it was in early 1988. The 30th January ˈ88 edition of the NME was entitled “70s Flare Up” featuring members of the 8 Track Cartridge Family on the cover, flares, feather boas, big hair. The magazine had articles on Seventies TV, football, music and crazes, and I remember reading it fondly and discussing it with my friends. Around the same time Morrissey issued his debut album Viva Hate, an album which felt drenched in the early 70s, not least on Late Night Maudlin Street. The 70s was a subject he discussed in detail in interviews at the time as well. Slowly there was a general move towards a 70s revival as the 90s started, a kitsch view of flares and Look-in magazines and Chopper bikes. The reappropriation of Abba from slightly naff Euro Disco to glorious hit making machines helped – Bjorn Again, Erasure’s Abba-esque EP and the release of Abba Gold were all signposts of that change. In a way Denim were part of this too – the glam trappings and Chicory Tip synths, the lyrical fixation with the past – but as Lawrence sang in I’m Against The Eighties, “I’m looking forward to the Nineties”. The pop world was finally Lawrence’s to take.

Only it didn’t quite happen like that.

Denim at this point weren’t truly a live band so there was no tour to capitalise on the release of Back In Denim. Maybe that could have made a difference. The delayed release of Middle Of The Road didn’t help either. All the positive press and radio plays couldn’t sell records which weren’t available in the shops. Denim made another TV appearance in late ’92, performing the gloriously arch Here Is My Song For Europe on Popadoodledandy, presented by Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer. You don’t remember it? That’s because it wasn’t broadcast until 2012.

Yet Denim were a hot property at this time. In the Spring of 1993, Select magazine produced the now legendary “Yanks Go Home” edition, one of the early defining points of Britpop. After years of grunge, British pop was having a renaissance and the magazine featured a ten page article about the glories of both old British pop and the new bands channelling their Britishness into something new and unique; bands like Pulp, the Auteurs, Saint Etienne, Suede and Denim. It felt like a sea change in British pop music, one which these bands could and would capitalise on.

It was exactly at this point that Denim disappeared.

It’s never really been made clear what happened after the release of Back In Denim. There were rumours of Lawrence moving back to New York, following someone, ending up in a heavy drug scene. This may or may not be true. Whatever happened after Back In Denim, it derailed the band for a while. When Denim released their second album Denim On Ice in the early months of 1996 the whole pop world had shifted off its axis. Britpop had taken over; Oasis Blur and Pulp were the biggest bands in the country and a whole host of British guitar slingers were caught up in their slipstream. There was even an Easy Listening revival happening, cheesy music was in. Was this Denim’s moment? Quite possibly …

Musically, Denim On Ice is a refinement on the blueprint set by the debut album. More chanting vocals, more Glitter Band stomping, more bubbling synths and power chords plus some Lieutenant Pigeon pub piano. But whereas the debut album was past tense future perfect, Denim On Ice was present intense. Lawrence’s songs no longer ache for a past real or imaginary, but look around at mid 90s life (and the music scene) and reflect it back on the listener.

The Great Pub Rock Revival is a fantastic opening track. The lyrics are so sharp you could cut yourself on them – references to long forgotten pub rock bands like Roogalator and Ducks Deluxe, Stiff Records, the Hope and Anchor … Lawrence is predicting a future of reformed faded bands trotting out their classic songs for a dwindling number of devoted fans. And he also gets a dig in about the NME. And introduces a synthesiser solo with the words “Synthesiser solo”. It’s a four-minute work of genius. That it is immediately followed by the bland and blank nonsense of It Fell Off The Back Of A Lorry (incredibly, chosen as a single) shows the folly of the mid 90s CD era – filling up the silver disc with as much music as possible regardless of the quality. Denim On Ice swings from glorious to godawful like a pendulum. It’s perfectly listenable throughout but occasionally I wish someone had edited the album a little bit, lose ten minutes of flabby material to create a leaner sharper album.

But when the album is great it’s wonderful. The Supermodels is a hilarious vignette of those who wouldn’t wake up for less than £10,000. Only maybe not, as the protagonists end up at Whipsnade Zoo. Brumburger starts with a mugging then turns painfully confessional, while fizzing with crazy samples and squelches. Council Houses laments the high rise dream, while naming the architects themselves (“Walter Gropius, man I loved your style …” etc). Synthesisers In The Rain is a homage to Ultravox’s Vienna crossed with No Reply set in a Northern city in the early 80s. Glue And Smack is as vivid and vicious as any Lou Reed drug song. On the other hand, there’s the rather gross Grandad’s False Teeth and the blatant whine of Silly Rabbit. Over the length of the album the cynicism becomes a little boring. But still it shows Lawrence’s artistic vision for the band and there were again hopes for success.

Around the time of the album’s release, Pulp were riding the crest of their wave of popularity after the release of Common People and Different Class in 1995. There was a perceived crossover between Pulp and Denim – Jarvis Cocker being as much an outsider as Lawrence – so it seemed logical when it was announced that Denim were one of the support acts for Pulp’s arena tour of 1996. It would promote the album and the single and get Lawrence into the public eye. Only it didn’t really happen. Denim hadn’t played live properly for years and were a little shambolic, and as the first support act on the bill the Pulp fans weren’t really interested. There was a photo in Melody Maker around this time from Pulp’s gig at Cardiff International Arena – Denim on stage, the photo taken from behind Lawrence at the microphone … Denim were performing to an empty arena. Denim On Ice bombed, the band were either dropped by the Echo label or the label went bankrupt (depends which story you believe) and Lawrence was back to square one.

Help was to arrive from Saint Etienne. EMI had offered Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs a bespoke label to issue music by artists they liked, they named it EMIDISC (a name well known to record collectors as it would appear on the labels of 60s and 70s EMI acetates) and signed up Kenickie and Denim. In February 1997, EMIDISC issued Novelty Rock, the third album by Denim. Novelty Rock was a compilation of stray B-sides from their two previous EPs plus some new songs and one curiosity. Some of the B-sides had been reworked or remixed, especially the two album highlights Internet Curtains and I Will Cry At Christmas.

Both had appeared on the B-side of It Fell Off The Back Of A Lorry in the previous year, where Internet Curtains was a speedy and simple instrumental with a chorus of people shouting the song title. On Novelty Rock it gains a full lyric from Lawrence about the transient nature of mid 90s pop fame – “And now we’ve got ourselves a hit / because Chris Evans played it / Every day on his show”. It’s funny, cynical but laser sharp in its accuracy.

I Will Cry At Christmas was a graceful synthetic ballad, somewhere between 10cc and A-ha with one of Lawrence’s most heartfelt lyrics and vocals. It easily stands up next to his best Felt songs, in fact I’ve always had a suspicion that it may have been a Felt song. Oddly enough, it turned out that another song on Novelty Rock – Ape Hangers (B-side of Middle Of The Road) – actually was an old Felt song. When The Pictorial Jackson Review was reissued in 2016, Lawrence rejigged the track listing to include a previously unknown track Jewels Are Set In Crowns which was Ape Hangers. So much for Lawrence’s claim that there were no unissued Felt songs.

In amongst all these B-sides – curious synth heavy recordings of the theme to Robin’s Nest and Peter Skellern’s Snake Bite – there were some genuine new songs and they were just as weird as the rest of this curious album. Opener, The New Potatoes. is a chirpy song sung by multiple pitch-shifted Lawrences from the viewpoint of some potatoes. “We lived in a field, now we live in a tin”. Four-year-olds love it. On A Chicory Tip is one joke stretched beyond the point of annoyance. Tampax Advert is queasy beyond belief. Oddest of all is Supermarket. Originally issued on Saint Etienne’s previous bespoke label Icerink in 1992, it’s groovy Kraftwerk inspired electro pop – hypnotic and dreamy. It was misunderstood at the time and it was equally misunderstood five years later. Novelty Rock received dreadful reviews across the board and soon became a bargain bin regular, which was deeply unfair. In a way, Novelty Rock is the purest distillation of Denim. It’s stupid but it’s clever, all surface with hidden depths, retro futurism via sitcom themes and visions of modern conveniences, while sneaking in one of Lawrence’s most passionate vocals and lyrics. Does it matter that Charlie Brooker chose The New Potatoes as one of his Desert Island Discs? He calls it a “wilfully ridiculous song” and cites that his children fell about laughing when he played it to them. As indeed did my son when I played it to him at the age of five.

(Another curiosity I’ve only just discovered. There’s a promo CD issued for Novelty Rock which has two tracks. Track one is a medley of tracks from the album. Track two is Glitter All Over Again, written and sung by the Glitter Band and Lawrence which as far as I can tell has never been issued elsewhere. It’s on YT and it fits into the Denim story perfectly.)

In mid-August 1997, I was browsing through the CD singles in my local independent record shop (Diverse in Newport) when I found a one track promo for a new Denim single called Summer Smash. It was only a pound but for some reason I decided not to buy it. My reasoning was that previous Denim singles had been EPs with four songs on them, I’d hold out for the full release.

What a stupid decision that was.

Summer Smash was predicted to be Denim’s breakthrough. A summer single issued at the height of the season, it has rave reviews in the music papers and has started to pick up radio play. It was ridiculously catchy, simple summer pop. Bubbly synths, singalong lyrics and dripping in hooks. Novelty rock, sure, but of the finest quality. There was a cool yellow vinyl seven inch single, a cassingle, four song CD EP, all very collectable. The might of the EMI sales force was ready to push the song into the charts. Lawrence’s dream of pop stardom was about to come true.

And then on 31st August, Princess Diana died in a tragic car accident in Paris.

Suddenly a song containing the word ‘smash’ in its title seemed somehow inappropriate. EMI withdrew the single from release and reportedly destroyed all copies. Radio and television became a maudlin mausoleum of misery, the summer was over, and so were Denim’s chances of success. A fourth album, Denim Takes Over, was never finished. Denim split up and Lawrence moved onwards to Go-Kart Mozart, adapting some of Denim Takes Over for their future albums.

It’s hard to say what Denim’s legacy is. Lawrence is more famous for not being famous than any of his musical endeavours, yet his music continues to be uniquely brilliant. The recent publication of “Street Level Superstar” by Will Hodgkinson has focussed attention on Lawrence again, even receiving an article in the Daily Mail (And a poll – “Do you know who Lawrence is?”). The Summer Smash controversy was even featured in an episode of the BBC early evening programme The One Show with Lawrence sat on the sofa next to Gyles Brandreth. It’s a strange world.

Yet Denim’s music works outside of the boundaries of pop. It’s pop eating itself, pop speaking to pop, a vision of pop filtered through the 1970s Bell Records discography and some Glitter Band albums, yet reflecting the realities of 90s Britain. Denim is uneasy listening in an era of Britpop celebration. Lawrence is a unique visionary in British music, still dreaming of success while probably knowing in his heart he will always be a cult artist, adored by his fans and unknown to the world. Denim was the closest he came to success and that success was snatched away under the strangest of circumstances. The Denim catalogue contains some of his finest work, accessible tuneful songs that can make the listener laugh and cry. It is the perfect entry point into Lawrence’s catalogue for newcomers and has plenty of deep cut favourites for his fans. There’s never a bad time to get back in Denim.

PICK OF THE YEAR 1990

(Melody Maker January 6 1990 image courtesy of the DJ Bill E archive)

Street-Level Superstar: A Year With Lawrence
by Will Hodgkinson, Nine Eight Books (2024)

Lawrence Land

Lawrence wikipedia

Lawrence Of Belgravia film trailer
Directed by Paul Kelly, Heavenly Films (2011)

Ryan Gilbey’s Guardian interview with Lawrence (2022)

The Strange World Of … Lawrence
The Quietus interview by Ben Graham (2018)

Felt/Denim/Go-Kart Mozart Forum

Toppermost #11: Felt

Denim biography (AllMusic)

Rob Morgan writes about the music he loves at A Goldfish Called Regret and is writing an ongoing song by song analysis of the Teardrop Explodes catalogue at Exploding The Teardrops.

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