THE ORIGIN?

RETRO-MANIA   - by SIMON REYNOLDS

(working title; published by the Guardian under a different title in the winter of 1990)

      "1990: A New Decade". So proclaimed the title of the second

Soul II Soul album earlier this summer. But just as much as being

the year of the Manchester explosion and the indie/dance crossover

groups, of a new vibrancy and a sense of anticipation in the UK pop

scene, 1990 has also been the year of... just about every other

year in pop history.

     Launched last month, new rock monthly Vox is a concerted and

calculated attempt to lock into the retro-Zeitgeist. Like its rival

Select (which was launched earlier in the summer), Vox is aimed at

a "twentysomething" market midway between the highly-committed,

gig-going readership of the weekly music press, and the sedentary,

partially-lapsed, semi-detached rock fans who read Q. Q's

constituency is those who want to read about 'dinosaur bands'

(Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd, Phil Collins, Clapton etc) who are

still "going strong" in their third decade.  Vox, on the other

hand, is less concerned with "living institutions" than with

relics: the myths, memorabilia, and above all highly collectable

music of Rock's Glory Years.

   Vox is targetted at a readership that divides its time equally

between stockpiling the past pinnacles of rock history and keeping

abreast of the latest developments.  Each issue of Vox contains a

"free" magazine called "Record Hunter", which is aimed at the

trainspotter types that are the backbone, the silent mediocrity, of

the music press readership: collectors, curators, completists,

fact-compilers. "Record Hunter" includes such anal retentive treats

as: guided tours of the collections of stars (this month, the Jesus

and Mary Chain) who are fanatics themselves; a paean to the

collectability and "audiophile" quality of Japanese pressings;

histories of the Two Tone label and The Doors' first year;

comprehensive reviews of the latest reissues; a guide to record

fairs; a column where readers write in with queries about

discographies and related trivia.

    If this wasn't enough, the main body of "Vox" displays a

pronounced retro-warp. The first issue contains: a completist's

appetite-whetter of an article on legendary "lost albums" (e.g. The

Beach Boys "Smile", Prince's "Black Album", Bruce Springsteen's

electric version of 'Nebraska); a beginner's guide to blues pionner

Robert Johnson; a piece about Bob Dylan's eccentric studio

behaviour based around anecdotes related by his former

collaborators; Part One of a 'cut out and keep' Encyclopaedia of

Rock; classic shots of The Stones and The Clash; 50 Things You

Never Knew A James Dean.

    For those of you thought rock'n'roll was all about the

exhiliration of living in the present tense, about cutting loose

from the ties of the past and burning up like there's no tomorrow,

all this necrophilia might seem like the final proof of rock's

advanced state of rigor mortis.  But the makers of 'Vox' have

shrewdly grasped the fact that there's a substantial market of

young rock fans who feel they've got a lot of catching up to do.

For neophyte rock consumers, the 10 or so outstanding records of

each new year, compete with the 10 "classics" of each of the 30

years of pop history. The present just can't compete with the past.

Not only is it outnumbered, but it is fighting a losing battle with

more exciting eras, periods when rock seemed to be in some kind of

direct altercation with the outside world.  Consumers who invest

heavily in old Stones, Hendrix or Velvet Underground records are

buying into myth: they are pledging allegiance to a golden age when

rock seemed transformative or subversive rather than simply

self-reflexive.

    For all the rhetoric about a New Age, a new "positivity" and

hope for the future, 1989 and 1990 have been dominated by the "re"

prefix. There have been REformations: Crosby Stills Nash, The

Allman Brothers, The Buzzcocks, The Byrds, The Turtles, rumours of

Velvet Underground and Stooges REunions, plus David Bowie's

Greatest Hits tour.  There have been REturns to form by old codgers

and spent forces: Brian Wilson, Neil Young, Lou Reed and John Cale,

Bob Dylan, Grateful Dead.  There's been REtrospection: a series of

tribute albums to artists like Hendrix, Young, The Stones, Byrds,

or labels like Elektra, with their classic songs being covered by

young bands.  Every year sees a fresh spate of anniversaries with

their attendant glut of memoirs, biographies, documentaries and

biopics. Above all there's the fact that back catalogue classics,

RE-issued obscurites, and "best of" compilations (e.g. Led Zeppelin

and Simple Minds' upcoming deluxe editions) now account for a hefty

proportion of record sales.

    Even dance music, allegedly the most happening sector of the

UK dance scene, relies to a disproportionate degree on cover

versions of classics. In the last month alone, the charts has

harboured Adamski's version of "All Shook Up", Soup Dragons' cover

of The Stones' "I'm Free", Bombalurina's "Itshy Witsy Polka Dot

Bikini", Lindy Layton's "Silly Games", Beats International's "Just

Be Good To Be Me", ad nauseam.  Even Happy Mondays, who have many

claims to being the most "contemporary" and "street credible" band

of the day, had their first big hit with a cover of the Seventies

boogie stomper "Step On You Again", while their next single is a

version of Donovan's "Colours".

    Of course, the REworking and REmotivation of elements of its

own history, has long been the name of the game in pop, and goes

back at least as far as Bowie's glam post-modernism in the early

Seventies. But now it's the norm, oppressively.  Virtually all new

groups invite you to play the reference game.  The only scope for

originality lies in the use of recondite source material, or

incongruous juxtapositions.  At best, this can be witty and moving:

e.g the David Lynch-esque retro-nuevo rock'n'roll of The Pixies, or

Primal Scream's "Loaded" (a cross between "Sympathy For The Devil"

and house). At worst, the stench of deja vu is overpowering.

  Of course, for young recruits to the ranks of pop consumerism,

the appeal of rock's past isn't nostalgia, because they were only a

twinkle in their parents' eyes at the time. The past is just one of

a range of options that the record industry profitably services, as

part of the new "boutique" approach to record retailing (a plethora

of genres and taste publics rather than a mainstream).  Magazines

like Vox are designed to be handy consumer guides through this

post-modern 'mire of options', where the great anxiety is to avoid

missing out on any source of pleasure, past or present.

   Vox reflects the fact that rock has degenerated into something

to collect, something to document, rather than an ongoing cultural

project. Rock is dying of CONSUMPTION.  There's a vast heap of

stuff to check out, get into, purchase, but what's been lost is a

sense of the big picture, of meaning and direction. Rock is

disappearing up its own back passages. For good?