The Wafflehead
Autumn, 1996 (#2)
The Shapes Between Us Turn Into Amplifiers
by James Bishop
"I think 'glass bones' sums up my idea of how I want my guitar to sound -- very delicate or very brutal. Like a lot of very filthy birds trapped inside the rib cage of some enormous dying whale."
So said Robyn Hitchcock to Deborah Frost in an interview for -- of all things -- Guitarist magazine a few years back. I can only smile as i imagine her puzzled expression and uneasy grimace as this, erm, shall we say "unorthodox" comment was made. I bet it made a change from the susual Mark Knopfler- or Eric Clapton-style pronouncements like, "Um, yeah, I use a Strat, with an LPB11 limited power booster and SPX90 delay/chorus, for a rockin' feel, man."
That's the problem with Robyn, you see. He has this wonderful and unique visual imagination which he simply refuses to fetter in order to appease or conform in order to court easy popularity. So instead of being revered as a hugely inventive and talented guitarist -- more than a match for Knopfler or Clapton -- he is "the weird guy who went on about enormous dying whales."
Long may he continue to challenge and perplex, I say. Robyn's world is a magical one inhabited by statues that go rowing in the moonlight, crabs that ride trains, talking venetian blinds, catehdrals in the mind, glass hotels, and people called "Dennis". It positively teems with foliage, reptiles, fish, birds, and all manner of spectre-like characters who share a dreamlike half-relationship with reality; redolent of prime Lewis Carroll.
In Robyn's world, rain can fall "up from the ground", hairstyles "grow on trees", and dead friends called "Seth" can be introduced to the living. In short, all things are fluid, and anything is possible.
Hearing Robyn's music for the first time is like suddenly receiving colour on a black-and-white TV set, or hearing in Nicam digital stereo in 1948. It is like eating a plate of beautifully dressed smoked salmon and asparagus tips after a lifetime of boiled potatoes and mince.
I mean, how can you ever again listen to Clapton bellowing, "Layla, you've got me on my knees/I'm beggin' darlin' please", when you could be listening to Robyn sing, "The tide receds upon the bones of something beautiful and drowned/In coral and in jade"? How can you listen to Knopfler croak, "Get your money for nothing and your chicks for free", when you could hear Robyn sing something as spellbinding as, "See that man that mows his lawn/He'll hang in drag before the dawn"? Or, "Two mirrors make infinity/In the mirror, you and me/Find out just what love could be"?
No, stuff 'em all! Let them keep their Grammys and hollow music-industry awards. Let them explain at length about their tedious instruments and amplifier set-ups. I would rather listen to one bar of Robyn's music than the entire output of Clapton, Dire Straits, Genesis, Sting, Mike And The (sodding) Mechanics, and Simply Red put together.
Remember, genius is seldom recognised in its own time. Van Gogh died a pauper, The Velvet Underground hardly sold a record in their own time -- and Robyn will be a threat to George Michael's record sales (thank god)! More people buy The Sun than any other British newspaper, but does that make it the best paper in Britain?
I leave the last word to Mr. Robyn Hitchcock, who, when asked about his amplifier in the Guitarist piece, couldn't remember its name, but said it had "a little green valve in front, and a fake crocodile cover." Ha! Like I said: genius.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE