Gathering the Storms to Troop: Marillion's "Market Square Heroes"

Last week I learned, via a tweet from Sean Palmerston, that Marillion’s debut single came out 30 years ago—October 25, to be precise. Wow. 1982 doesn’t feel like a long time ago. I think of the early '80s as either prog or metal years, as I alternated between discovering new bands in each genre. 1981 was the year I really got into Yes and ELP. 1982 was definitely a metal year, what with Number of the Beast coming out. 1983 was another prog year, as I puzzled over Marillion’s Script for a Jester’s Tear. The next year I took a chance on a nasty piece of work entitled Kill 'Em All and, once I’d finished laughing at the lyrics, became a convert to the new metal scene.

I realize now that Marillion were the key band during these years of discovery. Tracking down information on the group led me to KERRANG! magazine, which in turn got me into Mercyful Fate, Metallica, Pallas, Celtic Frost, IQ, Slayer, Voivod, and so on… The magazine might have gone downhill later on, but in the early '80s, it was life-altering stuff, without question. Marillion, and reading about Marillion (by KERRANG! staffers like Chris Welch and Mick Wall) turned me into the music-fan-with-blog you see before you now.

Marillion’s first single was the prologue to four of my all-time favourite albums, so I thought I’d commemorate and appreciate “Market Square Heroes” on its 30^th anniversary. Marillion in 1982 were firmly entrenched in Britain’s metal press, gracing the covers of the NWOBHM-obsessed SOUNDS and KERRANG! Marillion may have brazenly evoked Genesis, Camel and Floyd, but their hard-earned grassroots following drew from the same denim-clad hordes who’d helped launch labelmates Iron Maiden towards global domination.

Still, Marillion were odd ducks when they signed with EMI and set to work on “Market Square Heroes.” Having a Tolkien-derived band name and a frontman with a fondness for greasepaint probably didn’t endear them to the music scene at large. Critics with fresh memories of prog’s late-'70s crash and burn (Love Beach, anyone?) rolled their eyes at the notion of a progressive revival. However, “Market Square Heroes” itself was a concise, punchy statement that revealed a band with a firm grip on reality and singer/lyricist Fish as the people’s poet, “Keeping the beat of the street pulse” rather than constructing castles in the clouds.

Mark Wilkinson’s image of the sinister jester peeking from behind a mask was the first of many covers featuring this character. Like Iron Maiden’s Eddie, he was depicted in various scenarios across the band’s releases and merchandise, and was a strong presence until 1985 Misplaced Childhood album, where you can see him on the back cover jumping out of a window.

With a crowd-pleasing Jethro Tull-ish spring in its step, "Market Square Heroes" made an effective stand-alone single. It would not have fit well with the more epic material on Script for a Jester’s Tear, released the next year. The verses have a jaunty feel propelled by Mark Kelly’s rollicking keyboard lick, which suits the bitter humour in Fish’s lyrics. Lines like “I got a golden handshake that nearly broke my arm” frame this working-man’s lament for Thatcher’s post-industrial Britain. Later, the mood turns menacing as it emerges that the song’s hero may have a messiah complex: “I am your antichrist, show me allegiance.” Idle hands will soon be making the devil’s work, it seems. Then with a rabble-rousing “We march!” the song returns to its opening theme and a chorus that would spawn encore singalongs for years to come.

The B-side (or second A-side on the 12-inch EP) “Three Boats Down from the Candy” is a song I’ve always regarded as a quintessential early Marillion track, a creepy charmer about sordid seaside trysts and cruel rejection. The “wipe the tears from your eyes/wipe the sweat from your thighs” couplet is both classic and cringeworthy. The song has a linear flow with no real chorus, opening with a tumbling, macabre fanfare before falling into a hush that really does conjure the opening lyrical image of “vacant deckchairs on a floodlit beach.” Fish finds his classic vocal style here, spooling out his words against a delicate Steve Rothery backdrop—an early example of the type of narrative, “in character” singing he would later use on songs like “Incubus” and “White Russian.”

“Grendel,” available on the Market Square Heroes 12-inch B-side, was one of Marillion’s early signature songs, their own “Supper’s Ready”-style epic. Compared to the Genesis masterpiece, it’s rather rudimentary, but it has a impoverished charm of its own. People like to point at the climactic “Let the blood flow” section, which echoes “Apocalypse in 9/8” (except Marillion do it in 4/4!) as evidence that Marillion were a bit too blatant about their influences. That’s a fair comment about one part of the song. The rest of the song, aside from Fish’s strident vocals, sounds more like Camel to me—loose and jammy, with Steve Rothery saving the day with his emotive soloing, especially during the song’s denouement. Rothery is clearly the band’s musical leader at this point, although with Mark Kelly (keyboards) and Pete Trewavas (bass)—both still fairly new to the band—he’d have a formidable team to work with on the upcoming albums. It’s a good thing that Marillion took the opportunity to get this song out of their system and record it for posterity. It’s a nice bit of history. After opening their Reading 1983 set with a killer version of “Grendel” with John Martyr on drums, they dropped the green monster from their set.

“Market Square Heroes” started Marillion’s career somewhere between a bang and a whimper. The song charted at a respectable 60. However, the band were reportedly unhappy with their first major-label recording experience. Recruiting producer Dave Hitchcock, who'd worked on such classics as Foxtrot and The Snow Goose, kind of backfired. He reportedly was obsessed with recording “Grendel,” and hastily mustered a rather drab sound for “Market Square Heroes” itself. A 1983 rerecording released on the “Punch and Judy” single is a lot better. Founding member Mick Pointer, at the time a decidedly average drummer, would be fired within a year, and the band would go from strength to strength until Fish’s departure in 1988. Marillion have boxed clever with the music business ever since (anticipating Kickstarter by nearly a decade, for example) and maintain a rabid fanbase worldwide.

The last bit of trivia I’d like to highlight is this: When the band finally reunited with Fish for a surprise outdoor performance in their old hometown of Aylesbury in 2007, the song they inevitably chose for the occasion was “Market Square Heroes.”

Pink Floyd—Music From the Film More (EMI)

Until now, this was the only Waters-era Pink Floyd album I’ve never owned. I’d been looking for it for a few years, after realizing that my favourite Pink Floyd era was that fiendishly productive and exploratory period between Piper at the Gates of Dawn and Dark Side of the Moon. I managed to pick up their other soundtrack album, Obscured by Clouds, on LP, but finding a decent copy of More was difficult. The recent Pink Floyd reissue campaign couldn’t have come soon enough. Suddenly the Floyd were everywhere, even in London Drugs, which got me feeling nostalgic, seeing as I bought a lot of my music at London Drugs as a kid. KISS albums, mostly. London Drugs doesn’t need my help though, so I picked my shiny new copy of More at the soon-to-be-empty edifice of HMV Downtown.

When you open the mini-gatefold LP sleeve, you can see a lady’s boobs, which makes up for the fact that there are no bonus tracks. There’s also a nice booklet with lyrics and stills from the movie. That’s it. If there were liner notes, they might go something like this: Music From the Film More was recorded between A Saucerful of Secrets and Ummagumma at Abbey Road. Director Barbet Schroeder paid each member of Pink Floyd 600 pounds apiece to put in the eight days’ work that produced this music: 13 songs and assorted jams and fragments; their various lengths dictated by the film, which was pretty much complete by the time the band started recording. In his book Inside Out, Nick Mason recalls, “A lot of the moods of the film…were ideally suited to some of the rumblings, squeaks and sound textures we produced on a regular basis night after night.”

Side one has the best songs, written by Waters and mainly sung by Gilmour. They held on to a few of them after the album’s release, with numbers like “Green Is the Colour” and “Cymbaline” showing up on BBC Sessions and other live sets. Nowadays, “The Nile Song” may be the best-known song on the album, having been covered by Voivod, Melvins, and others. For Pink Floyd, it’s practically garage rock, and they wouldn’t record anything so brash until maybe “Young Lust” or “Not Now John.” My personal favourite, though, is the opening track, “Cirrus Minor,” a slightly sinister wisp of a song that presages Waters’ “Grantchester Meadows” with its acoustic guitar picking, sleepy vocal lines, and dubbed-in birdsong.

Side two focuses on atmospheres. “Main Theme” is effectively eerie, with the bass and drum interplay foreshadowing the minimalist drone of OM by a couple decades. “Dramatic Theme” closes the album with a similar jam, with Gilmour playing a more prominent role. “Quicksilver,” the longest piece, sounds like what Schroeder was probably after in the first place, resembling “A Saucerful of Secrets” without the narrative thrust. “Ibiza Bar” is a cool variant on “The Nile Song”’s groove. “More Blues” is exactly as advertised—a straight up blues jam. You have to take the bad with the good, though. Fans often name “Seamus” off Meddle as their least favourite Pink Floyd track, but I’d nominate David Gilmour’s “A Spanish Piece” from More as another low point.

It would take Pink Floyd a few more albums to fully merge their two strengths—the songs and the atmospheres—into an even stronger whole, but just hearing them dabbling in the studio, finding their way in the absence of Syd Barrett’s erratic vision, is fascinating enough.

Young, moderately loud, and not so snotty: high school albums

The Deciblog recently published Laura Pleasants of Kylesa’s list of five albums that remind her of high school, and asked, via their Twitter feed, people to submit lists of their own. I heeded the call, then thought that a fleshed-out version might make a decent post. So, here we are.

I wish I could say that I had a better time in high school—cutting class, sticking it to the man, barfing O’Keefe’s Extra Old Stock while leaning out of a speeding Datsun 510. None of those things happened. I was really crappy at being a teenager. I was never high in high school. I’m pretty much the same person I was when I was 14, except that the peach fuzz ‘stache is gone, and I can talk to girls now.

Oh, and music was almost all crap when I went to high school. When I started grade eight, Keith Moon, Bon Scott, and John Bonham all died in quick succession. Foreigner were big. Michael Jackson and music videos happened. When I graduated, Duran Duran were huge. If I could sum up high school with one phrase, it would be “a state of constant discouragement.”

In no particular order, these were some of the records that kept me going.

Rush—Signals
“In the high school halls, in the shopping malls...” Signals isn’t my favourite Rush album of the period (Permanent Waves came out just as I turned 14, followed by the untouchable classic Moving Pictures), but I remember it being more ubiquitous than most. My first day of senior high at Burnaby Central, I heard Signals drifting out of someone’s car in the parking lot. Rush were growing up, for better or worse. The songs focus on late adolescent concerns. "Subdivisions," of course, lent some sympathy to bored suburbanites, “New World Man” was like a social studies class in song form, “Digital Man” was in sync with budding comp sci majors, and “Losing It” was a sobering dose of reality for those of us enjoying the best years of our lives. Signals was a senior high wake-up call. Time to put away childish things and get serious.

AC/DC—Back In Black
Talk about ubiquitous. This was the Nevermind of its day; the album on which a former cult band exploded into the mainstream. This record got so much play that I’ve never actually owned it. We got into AC/DC with Highway to Hell, and its soon-to-be death-tinged mystique, but Brian Johnson and the band’s thunderous intent took things over the top. We played most of these songs in our band, with Willingdon Black gritting his teeth at my attempts to “improve” on Phil Rudd’s beats (I was a deluded little bugger). Back in Black was more than just a party record—we studied it and learned from its lean, mean songcraft. WB and I have since been in many bands together and separately, but when we’re collaborating on songs, we speak the same Back In Black-derived language. I wish more bands today would learn from it as well.

Iron Maiden—Number of the Beast
Like Back In Black, this album was an event, albeit of a more cultish variety. “Wrathchild” got some airplay and I thought it was a damn cool song, so when CFOX premiered the new Iron Maiden album in its entirety, I was there, rolling tape and getting blown away from “Invaders” onwards. (Although I despise file-sharing and the havoc it’s wreaked on 21st Century music consumption, I never bought into the “home taping is killing music” argument back then. Just one of the many hypocrisies I live with daily.) As with AC/DC, a new singer helped bring new popularity to Iron Maiden, along with an album that was obviously an instant classic. I saw them at the Coliseum sandwiched between Girlschool and Scorpions later that summer, so suck on that. On second thought, things kinda ruled when I was in high school!

Marillion—Script for a Jester’s Tear
I realized that I’d be a progressive rock fan for life when a copy of Close to the Edge made the rounds between my friends, and I was the only one who could stomach it. My enthusiasm for Yes and ELP in high school was tainted by the knowledge that they’d both peaked a decade ago. There was nothing fresh and new to get excited about. I tried really hard with 90125, which was a quality pop album, but not really Yes. Genesis had no mystique either; they were all “No Reply At All” or “Illegal Alien.” Marillion came along in the nick of time (i.e. before I had to buy another Saga album). Script... had intrigue, especially because the North American edition didn’t come with a lyric sheet. I dove right in, puzzling over every sonic detail, trying to figure out what the concept was, man. They were my favourite band for five years.

Pink Floyd—The Final Cut
Although it didn’t take long to suss out that this wasn’t really Pink Floyd, we bought into this album wholeheartedly. I was a bit too young/naive to get fully into The Wall when it came out, so The Final Cut was it—it was new, it was ours. We loved the cover (not by Hipgnosis, I now realize), we loved the “holophonics by zuccarelli labs ltd.”, the swearing on “Not Now John,” and Roger Waters’ Falklands-inspired bitterness. Hey, I was bitter too—Thatcher and Reagan seemed callous and out of control, and nuclear annihilation surely awaited us all. Along with The Day After and If You Love This Planet, The Final Cut fuelled the fear and secret hope that I’d get to see two suns in the sunset and high school would suddenly become the least of my worries.

Entombed-Left Hand Path (Earache)

Entombed’s debut album, Left Hand Path, was released 20 years ago, and it’s still looking and sounding pretty spry. I clearly remember first seeing the cover, with its menacing Dan Seagrave artwork and “Crushing guitars—Mass death!” sticker. My friend Ken had bought the album based on that boast, and I picked it up soon afterwards. It was one of the first metal albums I bought on CD, purchased on the same day as Rush’s Roll the Bones. You can guess which one struck me as the more vital, exciting record.

The songs are good, of course, in that catchy way of early death metal. The Swedes’ style combined a Discharge-ish approach with chunky, nascent DM riffing of Carcass, Autopsy, and Bolt Thrower. Entombed—just teenagers at this point—had a flair for song introductions that drew you in and for placing memorable choruses within the mayhem. Invisible Oranges (who are much more on the ball with the metal anniversary celebrations than I am) makes a case for the opening title track and “But Life Goes On” as the most noteworthy tracks, which I wouldn’t dispute. "Left Hand Path" is epic, framed by a frantic opening and the legendary Phantasm-inspired outro—the only stretch on the album that’s not bent on flaying you alive.

“But Life Goes On” is a much different song. It’s more direct and catchy, descended from thrash titans Slayer and Kreator and rendered in Entombed’s own sounds of death. My pick for an underdog track is “Supposed to Rot,” the shortest song on the album. From start to finish, it’s pure brutality. It doesn’t waste a split second. The opening riff—all 14 seconds of it—is my favourite part of the album.

Aside from the songs, Left Hand Path’s real legend was built on its guitar sound. The combination of Peavey amp and Boss Heavy Metal pedal has passed into metal folklore by now. The guitars are out of control—so much so that they seem to play themselves. Any trace of human gesture, like pick noise or palm muting, is obliterated by the ooze, giving the impression that the riffs are generated by an unseen, supernatural force. When I think of Left Hand Path, that thick paste of frequencies comes immediately to mind. Crushing Guitars—Mass Death!

Left Hand Path isn’t one of those forgotten or underappreciated classics. It’s earned its share of kudos over the decades. It’s been inducted into the Decibel Hall of Fame and 20 years later people are still discovering it. Long may it rest in festering slime.