"The Gun Club's debut is the watermark for all post-punk roots music. This features the late Jeffrey Lee Pierce's swamped-out brand of roiling rock, swaggerific hell-bound blues, and gothic country. With Pierce's wailing high lonesome slide guitar twinned with Ward Dotson's spine-shaking riffs and the solid yet off-the-rails rhythm section of bassist Rob Ritter and drummer Terry Graham, the Gun Club burst out of L.A. in the early '80s with a bone to pick and a mountain to move -- and they accomplished both on their debut album. With awesome, stripped to the frame production by the Flesh Eaters' Chris D., Fire of Love blew away all expectations -- and with good reason. Nobody has heard music like this before or since. Pierce's songs were rooted in his land of Texas. On "Sex Beat," a razor-sharp country one-two shuffle becomes a howling wind as Pierce's wasted, half-sung half-howled vocals relate a tale of voodoo, sex, dope, and death. The song choogles like a freight train coming undone in a twister. Here Black Flag, the Sex Pistols, Son House, and the coughing, hacking rambling ghost of Hank Williams all converge in a reckless mass of seething energy and nearly evil intent. As if the opener weren't enough of a jolt, the Gun Club follow this with a careening version of House's "Preachin the Blues," full of staccato phrasing and blazing slide. But it isn't until the anthemic, opiate-addled country of "She's Like Heroin to Me" and the truly frightening punk-blues of "Ghost on the Highway" that the listener comes to grip with the awesome terror that is the Gun Club. The songs become rock & roll ciphers, erasing themselves as soon as they speak, heading off into the whirlwind of a storm that is so big, so black, and so awful one cannot meditate on anything but its power. Fire of Love may be just what the doctor ordered, but to cure or kill is anybody's guess." (Thom Jurek, All Music Guide)

"I had been working for a decade in traditional Irish music forms - working into an already built structure and just basically learning how to do it. It was a lot of fun but I wanted to find something else. 'Hard Station' was my first attempt at writing and arranging my own music and getting other people to play it as I heard it. The record itself was started in early 1981 in the old Windmill Lane Studios in Dublin and we recorded it over a few months.

I was equally excited and apprehensive. As a solo performer, I had been introducing these songs acoustically from about 1979, but this was a whole new thing. It was produced by Hugh Murphy and myself....and the band in studio was really my first electric band - largely the same outfit I had been touring Ireland with the previous year...Jimmy Faulkner and Arty McGlynn on electric guitars, Fran Breen on drums, Tommy Moore on bass. Betsy Cook, married to Hugh Murphy at the time, was a new and exciting ingredient on keyboards and vocals.

Jimmy Faulkner's solo guitar and Betsy's piano on 'Nothing but the same old Story' still thrill me after all this time. By now I had already released a single version of 'Crazy Dreams' (a different recording) and it had been a hit in Ireland. So with the tour the previous year and the fact that basically all the songs were already known, people were waiting for this record and it was very well received. This was a whole new beginning for me"

Drew Barfield is a singer/songwriter of impressive talent, which has been a well-kept secret for as long as he remembers! He has used his writing and vocal strengths to record and perform music in a variety of styles, from glorious pop anthems to heartfelt soul classics.

Drew's early musical apprenticeship started as a soloist in church choirs, and school operas. With his brother Dave he formed a teenage rhythm section, often with hilarious consequences – fellow teenage musician and lifelong friend Joe Jackson details some of the more amusing escapades in his seminal book “A Cure For Gravity.”

During the ‘70s Drew attended Goldsmiths Art College in London and did what all self-respecting and budding artists did – he dropped out to form a band, John Doe. It was in this band that he first teamed up with Gary Sanford (Joe Jackson's future Guitarist) Steve Tatler (Drew's old song writing and later Key's cohort). However, this being less of a band and more of an exercise in hedonism, John Doe was inevitably laid to rest.

In 1979 Drew formed The Keys with Steve Tatler, Ben Grove, and ex-Wings drummer Geoff Britton. They were signed to A&M records and released “The Keys Album” to rapturous reviews but no sales!! Produced by Joe Jackson, it contained the perfect pop songs of “One Good Reason”, “I Don't Wanna Cry “ and “Greasy Money”, all of which were released as singles. When The Keys split in 1983 Drew formed The Big Heat with singer Bill Hurley (The Inmates) and guitarist Chris Parks (Any Trouble). Big Heat's first release was the acclaimed single “Watch Me Catch Fire” (on A&M) which was written by Drew and produced by Elvis Costello. This looked a sure bet for some serious chart action until The Bradford Football Stadium fire, which led BBC producers to drop it from their playlists because of the title! How the Gods conspire against us!!

Drew's next recording was as lead vocalist with JB's All Stars – the JB in this case being John Bradbury, previously of The Specials. Their recordings of the northern soul classics “Backfield in Motion” and “One Minute Every Hour” relied heavily on Drew's vocal and emotional range.

Throughout the ‘80s and early ‘90s Drew wrote songs or lyrics for such diverse artists as Joe Jackson, Level 42 and Cathy Denis. Paul Young and producer Laurie Latham chose “Standing on the Edge” for Paul's “Secrets of Association” album. This was the start of a professional and personal friendship with Paul. Paul went on to record Drew's “War Games” and they collaborated on material for further albums including “The Crossing”. The critically lauded “Paul Young” album featured no less that 6 Barfield/Young tracks, including the singles “Wish You Love” and “Ball and Chain” together with the beautiful “Tularosa”.

During ths period Drew would occasionally do session singing and backing vocals for other artists - one being Joan Armatrading - and he sang both lead and backing vocals on Joe Jackson's album “Blaze of Glory”.

Since 1993 Drew has played in the seriously good time Tex-Mex band Los Pacaminos. The line up also comprises Paul Young, Jamie Moses, Matt Irving, Melvin Duffy, Steve Greatham, Mark Pinder, Jim Russell, David Levy, John Tonks. All these guys are musicians of great pedigree having played with the likes of Brian May (Jamie), Robbie Williams (Melvin) and Squeeze (Matt) – do your own research on the others! Better still, go see them for a fun night out!

Most of Drew's song demos for other artists were recorded using Chris Parks as guitarist/keyboard/engineer. It was Chris' powers of persuasion that has led to the album “Deep Water Terminal” reaching fruition. Together with engineer Kevin Porée, Chris began the slow process of once-weekly sessions at Berry St Studio, EC1, recording Drew's favourite or most personal songs. The only cover song that they recorded is Al Green's “Belle”, included by popular demand for all those who have seen Drew sing it with Los Pacaminos.
With Chris' distinctive guitar work as a base, Drew coerced most members of Los Pacaminos and some other unsuspecting talents to help record this album as a homage to old style writing and recording values. We hope you'll agree it's been worth it.

(www.drewbarfield.com)

"By the time David Lindley made his move to a solo career, he was already a legend. Having toured and recorded with such names as Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, and Crosby & Nash his reputation as a multi-instrumentalist (on almost any stringed instrument) was awesome. Lindley scored a contract with Elektra Records and put together an excellent band that was able to keep up with his eclectic vision. Combining blues, rock & roll, Cajun, Zydeco, Middle Eastern music, and other elements, his debut album is an absolute joy. Lindley's version of "Mercury Blues" became an FM radio staple, and his slide guitar performances on this track alone are easily some of the finest of the decade. There are some wonderfully skewed originals on the record as well, making El Rayo-X one of the greatest rock world music albums of its time. Fabulous." (Matthew Greenwald, All Music Guide)

“I put a penny in the toilet door
then I quickly stepped inside
to some graffiti and a greyhound paper
and the gentle thought of suicide
a razor blade would make the perfect bride.”

Unlike the sixth song on ‘Doll By Doll’ (first track on the second side of the vinyl release), “perfect romances” and revisited memories rarely live up to our expectations. Recordings unheard for 25 years usually amass a kind of mental hyperbole in the interim; a promise no revisit can fulfil. Having built up the album in my mind, I feared that this might be the case with ‘Doll By Doll’ but, after repeated listens over the last few days, although I can scarcely believe it, it actually exceeds my expectations. And one song is so stellar I’d go so far as to say that it represents the finest few minutes of pop I’ve ever heard by anyone, ever.

There always seemed to be something subterranean about Doll By Doll; as though a secret network of subversives existed to mould their image, design their record covers and promote their appearances — in fact, it did, and they called it Hard Ventures, back in the glory days when they were the special guests of acts such as Devo at the Hammersmith Odeon. But apparently it was a venture too hard ensuring that anything other than a single rough diamond remains of Doll By Doll’s recorded legacy. Hardly any of their songs can be judged by members of the public, unless they’re prepared to go to the same trouble and expense I’ve just endured.

The Perfect Romance from the band’s self-titled 1981 album presaged a challenging period in the life of its Romany-Scottish singer and frontman, Jackie Leven. As his biography on the unofficial website has it:

After a late night recording session for a solo album due for release by Charisma/ Virgin (1983) Jackie was the subject of an unprovoked street attack during which he, along with other injuries, was nearly murdered by strangulation. Unable to speak or sing, he lost his record deal, friends and way, entering his own period of psychic disorder, taking heroin (the classic drug of despair) and living in isolation for nearly a year.

He re-joined the world in 1985 after a successful course of traditional Chinese five-element acupuncture and psychic healing, and co-founded The CORE Trust — ‘an holistic approach to addiction’. To this day the trust operates a centre in central London, working with people with all forms of addiction. Jackie has been their manager, chair of trustees, and is presently the patron, having at one time enjoyed a good working relationship with the late Princess Of Wales, who took a strong interest in the Trust. During one encounter with HRH, she said to him, “I understand you used to be a singer.”

“I am a singer,” was his bristling reply.

“Well, sing something now,” she suggested.

That something was the traditional Scottish air The Bonnie Earl Of Moray which had formed the basis of his celebrated Doll By Doll song, Main Travelled Roads.

Although recorded in 1980, in a Maida Vale basement, using a mobile studio, ‘Doll By Doll’ sounds as original today as it did when it was first released. And it hasn’t dated because it wasn’t produced with the aim of being fashionable in the first place. ‘Wild’ Tom Newman (the co-producer of Mike Oldfield’s original ‘Tubular Bells’, and of ‘Doll By Doll’ with Leven) created a crystal-clear soundscape of crisp, rumbling basses and rippling trebles, blending to form an atmosphere of electrical energy. The wimpy 1980s’ mid-range frequencies, later beloved by Duran Duran and the New Romantics, were eschewed in favour of a crystalline hardness; and yet the result sounds remarkably balanced.

Figure It Out, with its Stones-ish rhythm guitar touches and derisive tone, is a noble pop song but probably shouldn’t have been the album opener; that they took the risk is proof the music industry was a different, not-yet-extinct animal in the 1980s. Leven’s voice, it has to be said, is characteristically huge from the very first note and lends his lyrics the right tone of biting sarcasm. But if I’d had to choose the opener it would have been the next song, Caritas.

Caritas represents the closest I’m ever likely to get to hearing perfection in songwriting and recording. A special extended version was released as a 12-inch single, backed with Murder on the Highway (3’25”) and An Honest Woman (8’44”), the latter recorded live in June 1981 at Richard Branson’s Venue on London’s Victoria Street. It should have been a top 10 hit at least. Of course, there’s never been justice in pop music, and I’m sure BBC Radio One’s producers didn’t know what to make of it. From the first, angry notes of guitar feedback to its crunch ending, this is what yearning, terror and beauty in music are all about. Leven’s voice is edged with threat, and the phased guitar arpeggio that builds out of the intro; the trebly chopped funk chords; and Tony Waite’s ribcage-rattling bass provide the impetus that drive Caritas forward. But it’s Jo(e) Shaw’s overdriven lead guitar that steals the show. His mainly low- and mid-register guitar solo is thoughtful and doesn’t noodle. But he saves his best for the lick 02’26” into the song, between the fifth and sixth of the short, three-line verses. In context, the most beautiful two seconds in all of pop music come after the line: “…the blue jets scream into the sky.

“Sing it to me now…
Caritas.”

Not only is the impossibly fast, stuttered “now” Jackie’s, but also the swirling falsetto background vocals; highlighting the sheer range of his voice before his larynx was crushed in the assault. At 04’15”, this is on the long side for a pop masterpiece, but since it received hardly any radio airplay at the time it was released, that’s irrelevant.

Soon New Life starts pensively, with a tentative, melodic bass before a calypso guitar transforms it into a celebration of coming fatherhood. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover Jackie can no longer listen to this song. As he explains on the liner notes to his album ‘The Argyll Cycle – Volume One’, at the time of recording it, not only was he about to experience near murder by strangulation and symptomatic heroin addiction, the love of his life was about to run off with the Dalai Lama’s bodyguard. The chant-like chorus line of this song seems to repeat “Since you left”, and not the song’s title; this album predates much of Jackie’s misery, but so many of the lyrical ideas seem to prophesy it that the entire album may feel to him like some dreadful form of alternative therapy.

You can hear faint echoes of the next song, and the traditional melody upon which it’s based (the one he sung for Diana), in many of Leven’s later tunes; not least My Spanish Dad from 2001’s ‘Creatures of Light and Darkness’ and Classicnortherndiversions from 2003’s ‘Shining Brother Shining Sister’. But Main Travelled Roads is the source at its purest. When Jackie’s voice gets down and dirty for the third verse the melody comes into its heartbreaking own, and he hits some high notes that seem unlikely after you’ve heard him hit the lower ones.

The Perfect Romance strikes up harmlessly enough. But again, Tony Waite’s bass impels this short (03’14”) track forwards, and it’s undoubtedly the darkest and most dangerous song on the record. The chorus is wondrously debauched; Leven sounds like a crazed Scottish laird serenading his ghost bride amidst the wreckage of a bacchanalian feast. Only Nick Cave gets darker, but Jackie out-sings him, out-baritones him and out-mans him.

The intro to I Never Saw The Movie is redolent of a hobo plucking a guitar in railroad car, but thudding bass and howling bottleneck soon put paid to that. The glorious bridge (“I was so dazed / I should have been praised / I will never feel that beautiful again”), the rumbling false-ending and consequent fade-in prevent you from dismissing this as an insubstantial pop tune built around a catchy chorus.

Up is as advertised; from its claps, finger-clicks and chiming harmonics to its rowdy, shouted “I wanna be up / Don’t wanna be down again” chorus, pre-dating Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping by at least 15 years. Shaw turns in a lovely piece of 1950s-style rock ‘n’ roll guitar before the song turns full circle for the chiming simplicity of its ending.

There are three absolute standout tracks on ‘Doll By Doll’: Caritas, The Perfect Romance and A Bright Green Field. And if you remain unmoved by the latter, you have no pulse, no blood coursing through your veins, no soul. Waite’s bottom-E rattles your skeleton, but this is Leven’s five minutes and thirteen seconds to shine, and he’s incandescent. Listen to the supernaturally intense way in which he stretches the notes on the word “rain” and “sand”. The dexterity, range and sheer variety of his vocal is mind-boggling, and the lyrical imagery — with its centaurs, demons and holy wine — gives him plenty of room to manoeuvre. He sounds possessed and extrapolates every note beyond its comfort zone. (Towards the end, there’s a brief drop-out in Vinyl Revolution’s CD, perhaps caused by a bad scratch on the vinyl — the only imperfection on an otherwise pristine re-issue of a British pop-rock classic.)

The darkness that characterised Doll By Doll was of a different order from that conjured up by their west London contemporaries Killing Joke; it’s less demonic, less gothic and more humane. Leven slept rough and lived in squats through much of the 1960s and 1970s, and his encounters with damaged souls can’t help but have affected his songwriting. And yet, despite the fortress of sullenness that Doll By Doll constructed around themselves, this is a remarkably cheerful album. The contrast between light and dark is never over-done and no emotion is oversold. Each note has been agonised over without any sense of the spontaneity having been lost.

Twenty-five years on, it’s clear what a brave band this was; recording for an uncompromisingly commercial label, the musicians and producer stuck to their guns, made an intelligent record with an unmistakeable identity and a recognisable sound, only to be punished by a cloth-eared industry that didn’t know where to put anyone who defied pigeonholing. I defy you to find a more cohesive and satisfying record.

“The last four men were waiting
for their call to take the stage
and when the curtains opened
they stood like lovers in a cage
the crowd in perfect silence
closed their eyes to hide their shame
the dressing rooms are empty
and nobody is to blame.”

(Lyrics © Jackie Leven, published by Chappell and Co.)