The Higsons – Run Me Down
Back in the early eighties, Norwich got alarmingly close to having a genuine music scheme. Eschewing the foppish charms of New Romanticism for an altogether edgier, punkish sound that was nevertheless feverishly funky. I seem to remember lots of brass being involved. Farmers Boys, Serious Drinking, Test Card F and Screen 3 immediately spring to mind, whether popping up in the long gone Jacquard, or providing support for one of the bands at the LCR, a venue that consistently punched above its weight in the inestimable hands of Nick Rayns. First among equals, however, were the Higsons, a band that always felt a cut above, notwithstanding this was long before frontman Switch found fame as Charlie, revealing he had audaciously lent his name to the band all along.
The Higsons were “Norwich” famous. I remember once digging my companion in the ribs, having excitedly noticed Switch on the seat in front of us on the bus. He was close to music royalty at the time, but, in hindsight, let’s face it, we were still all on the bus. Having to choose between two relatively unknown bands playing consecutive nights at the LCR, the deal breaker was which one was supported by the Higsons. I consequently got the see the Fall and missed out on U2, which was probably right. This was a band that was ever present but never quite broke through nationally, and I think we liked it that way. Much like Norwich itself, they were a secret we weren’t that keen on sharing with the rest of the country.
Artefacts from those heady times are few and far between, so his new compilation comes as a welcome fillip to those of us who, perhaps only now, can look back and see how special those times were. The Higsons were signed by Jerry Dammers’s 2Tone label as a conscious move away from the ska so closely associated with the label. Not much came of it, to be frank, and the Higsons eventually imploded in the mid-eighties, going out with more of a whimper than a bang. Nonetheless, this lovingly created mini vinyl EP – complete with René Parapap’s signature artwork – is a fitting swansong for a band that probably means more, to more people, than the modest 500 release would suggest.
The opening song, Tear The Whole Thing Down, is a tarted up version of a much earlier tune, when things were burnt rather than torn, and stand ups very well, with a cracking bass line from Colin Williams, and a brass rhythm from Terry Edwards that sounds suspiciously like Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song. Edwards remains ambivalent, at best, about the song, considering it “an album track at best” though does concede that “Jerry Dammers did extremely well with what he was given”. Intriguingly, he adds that “some people at Chrysalis thought the A and B sides should've been flipped,” and listening to Ylang Ylang – the second track on this recording – they may have has a point. With a funky, brassy infused intro, Switch’s shouty, declamatory vocals and a guitar riff that feels cheekily close to the Talking Heads, this feels like more like the Higsons for those of us with fond memories of Monkeys and things that go Waap.
Thereafter, most of the record is devoted to the eponymous title track, with no less than three versions of Run Me Down. The versions are oddly sequenced, with the rather splendid extended version making the subsequent single and instrumental versions that follow feel like codicils. Flip them round and they would have surely built up to a crescendo. It would still be a subdued crescendo, admittedly. I wonder if this song was what Charlie Higson had in mind in the nineties as “our more po-faced stuff” adding that “towards the end, we got very serious about things, trying to sound like a proper band.” I can’t agree with his analysis that “the main drawback was the fact that I can’t sing to save my life.” He certainly gives it a go here. While it may lack the “rough, knockabout, funky” charm of their earlier stuff, it has an undeniable maturity and (relative) sophistication. It also rattles round your head long after listening in way that is pleasing and irritating in equal measure.
So that leaves Put the Funk Back into Punk sandwiched in between the various Run me Downs and is exactly the sort of tune Higson was talking about – one he “could just yell over”. With a refrain nicked from the Gap Band, and surely indebted to Peter and the Test Tube Babies’ Disco, this is furiously good fun and for me the song that best epitomises the chaotic wit of the live band I remember, smashing the life out of waste paper bin with joyous abandon because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
This is a 40th anniversary release (something that feels mathematically impossible to those of us who were there at the time) and the key question has to be whether it earns its keep. Terry Edwards is typically sanguine, viewing “reissues as part and parcel of a career which is now in it's fifth decade”, but its surely worth reflecting on the point of it. To my mind, the sequence of the tracks is a little off kilter, something that does matter when dealing with a proper vinyl record you have to sit down and listen to. It’s probably for completists only – the music itself is readily available in alternate formats and doesn’t really represent the classic Higsons sound. That said, it resonates with a time gone by, is a hugely enjoyable listen, and along with 499 other people, I shall treasure my copy.
8/10
