- Music
- 12 May 01
Occasionally one gets a hardy annual, but 1985 has been more of a hardly annual, than anything. Jazz hardly raised its head above the rafters, and only Wynton Marsalis brought forth a thing of beauty in ‘Hot House Flowers’. Miles Davis got worse, and sadly Philip Larkin, a great jazz critic, died.
Occasionally one gets a hardy annual, but 1985 has been more of a hardly annual, than anything. Jazz hardly raised its head above the rafters, and only Wynton Marsalis brought forth a thing of beauty in ‘Hot House Flowers’. Miles Davis got worse, and sadly Philip Larkin, a great jazz critic, died.
The hardy American rockes had a good day. Tom Petty, Don Henley, Todd Rundgren and, above all, Marshall Crenshaw, proving that there are songs still to be written and then they are the chaps to write them. John Fogarty also reappeared to assure all that he has not forgotten how to write them.
Reggae music continued its decline towards minority status and there was little black music of lasting value. The Womacks en masse made a dent, but I’d opt for Luther Vandross when the chips are down, the cabbage is boiling and the sausages sizzling.
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As usual the lyrical eccentrics made the best records. Paddy McAloon of Prefab Sprout made ‘Steve McQueen’ – a far, far better thing than the late actor was capable of making himself. Tom Waits got better, Lloyd Cole stayed where he was but moved a little to the left of the field, and Robert Wyatt produced the brilliant ‘Old Rottenhat’.
‘Blood Sample’ was the best film I saw, this Anglo-Irish Summit was the year’s greatest waste of time and the death of Orson Welles was 1985’s saddest demise. Blandishments abounded, bestowed on the bland by the blend. Pop music, more than any other time I can remember reached heights of irrelevency one could not have imagined.