Starfish - The Church
Posted: Tue May 31, 2005 12:03 pmAh, you can say what you like about the eighties, but there’s no denying that they were golden years for guitar pop. R.E.M. and The Smiths were jangling their way to glory on opposite sides of the Atlantic, practically inventing the idea(l)s of ‘indie’ and ‘alternative’ as viable ‘genres’ of popular music, and a host of other talented bands were following in their trailblazing wakes as the ripples they created spread ever further across the world, and it was an exciting time indeed for afficionados of simple, timeless guitar music.
Somewhere, though, things quite literally got a bit muddied. Many still argue about its provenance, pointing to The Pixies, or Mudhoney, or even Neil Young, but wherever it came from, the Nirvana wave crested quite definitively in the early nineties, and a new host of musicians turned the distortion on their guitars up to eleven (well, nine and a half was much more likely in the brave new era of grunge – no Spinal Tap-esque indulgences for the flannel-clad authentistes of the early nineties!) and turned their back on the clean, ringing jangle-pop of those hitherto underground bands who had emerged, blinking and yet epoch-formingly, only a few short years ago.
Now, I’m certainly not going to buy into any debate so futile and hopeless of resolution as the hackneyed old ‘was grunge good for music?’ dispute – like it or not, grunge happened, and its effects are undeniably still being felt (although its lasting impact remains to be seen, and early signs are that it may not prove as deeply resonant as, for example, its musical and spiritual forerunner, punk). But one thing I will say is that the rise of grunge had the unfortunate effect of obscuring some very worthy bands, one of whom was plying its trade on the other side of the world altogether, in Australia. The band was – and is – The Church, who were, without question, one of the single most influential bands on the then-fledgling Australian music scene.
Lobbing into public consciousness in 1980 (a couple of years before their trans-Pacific counterparts really landed) and quickly attracting attention for their densely layered, guitar-driven exercises in restrainedly psychedelic pop, The Church were a four-piece in the classic vein – two guitars (Marty Willson-Piper and Peter Koppes), bass (Steve Kilbey, who also lends his earthily ethereal vocals to lead vocal duties in most songs), and drums (Richard Ploog) – but have never allowed themselves to become mired in the conventions of that field, and have continued refining their core sound while simultaneously pushing it in new directions over the 22 years since their first appearance.
Arguably, the band’s most rewarding music came early in its career, in the form of 1982’s amazing The Blurred Crusade, which is still spoken of with reverence in discerning circles. However, it was 1987’s Starfish which really saw them break through to mainstream success, both locally and internationally (although success beyond the home front proved to be sadly transient), and Starfish which remains perhaps the band’s melodic high water-mark.
In talking about Starfish, it’s impossible to avoid mention of what proved to be The Church’s biggest hit single, both locally and internationally (including in the States, where it helped pull Starfish up to the top of the Alternative charts), “Under The Milky Way”. Now, there are probably about a dozen Australian singles which have really, indelibly marked the popular national consciousness – perhaps The Triffids’ “Wide Open Road”, Hunters and Collectors’ “Throw Your Arms Around Me” and “Holy Grail”, Cold Chisel’s “Khe Sanh”, The Saints’ “I’m Stranded’, Silverchair’s “Tomorrow”, and a small handful of Paul Kelly, Midnight Oil and AC/DC songs – and “Under The Milky Way” fully deserves to be counted amongst their number.
The song itself is a shimmering, subtly layered, guitar-driven number which builds and then peters out, and builds again, and peters again, often all within the space of a single line, and is graced by an almost naff (but absolutely perfect) racing keyboard bridge which appears only once, midway through. It’s wonderfully, mysteriously evocative, and completely majestic in a fashion which derives much of its power from its sustained restraint, and there’s a real sense of yearning to Kilbey’s vocals, and of wonder, too, as he sings those enigmatic words: “Wish I knew what you were looking for,/Might have known what you would find…”
Perhaps the most impressive thing about “Under The Milky Way”, however, is that it is great not because it is particularly different from the rest of the songs on Starfish, but rather by virtue of its perfect encapsulation of all that is good about the album. Indeed, similar gems are scattered throughout the record, in particular the top and tail of “Destination” and “Hotel Womb” the first (and album opener) is a darkly pretty, swirling number which seems to build forever without ever really resolving itself (in truth, it builds to the rest of the album, and is deliberately not self-enclosed), while the second (and album closer) is a suitably warm, ringing drive home, a retracing of the album’s steps which, brightly glimmering, hangs gently in the air while hinting at a promised future.
Still, while they are always true to their roots, The Church are not a band who are afraid to push themselves, and the other two highlights of Starfish both see some expansion in their characteristic sound. “Antenna” is a mandolin-laced beauty, years before R.E.M. produced their even greater variation on the same theme, “Losing My Religion”. It too yearns after something nameless, and it’s both immediately memorable and persistent. And “Reptile”, which follows it, is suitably sinuous, slithering and shaking on the back of a delicately tickled guitar figure and cut throughout by another, swooning, “How Soon Is Now”-esque electric guitar line.
All of this isn’t to say, of course, that Starfish is perfect. The band’s greatest strength, its heavy emphasis on simple songcraft, and – particularly – melody, also serves as a weakness, for it results in the one or two songs which don’t quite come off really dragging a little bit, and tending to meld into the tracks which surround them; there are no bad songs on this record per se, but there are a couple of unmemorable, relatively uninteresting ones. It’s not that they particularly break up the flow of the album, but rather that they pass by almost unnoticed.
It’s easy to forgive those one or two mis-steps, however, for what surrounds them really is something close to perfection as far as classic guitar pop goes. There’s a real grace to this record, a shimmering (it’s impossible to avoid that word when describing Starfish), unaffected clarity which sounds just as pure now as it did back in 1987. It didn’t break any new ground at the time of its release, but then again, nor did it set out to. Instead, it stands as a testament to the potential of simple, timeless songwriting coupled with a faith in the guitar, and that’s more than enough in its own right.
Somewhere, though, things quite literally got a bit muddied. Many still argue about its provenance, pointing to The Pixies, or Mudhoney, or even Neil Young, but wherever it came from, the Nirvana wave crested quite definitively in the early nineties, and a new host of musicians turned the distortion on their guitars up to eleven (well, nine and a half was much more likely in the brave new era of grunge – no Spinal Tap-esque indulgences for the flannel-clad authentistes of the early nineties!) and turned their back on the clean, ringing jangle-pop of those hitherto underground bands who had emerged, blinking and yet epoch-formingly, only a few short years ago.
Now, I’m certainly not going to buy into any debate so futile and hopeless of resolution as the hackneyed old ‘was grunge good for music?’ dispute – like it or not, grunge happened, and its effects are undeniably still being felt (although its lasting impact remains to be seen, and early signs are that it may not prove as deeply resonant as, for example, its musical and spiritual forerunner, punk). But one thing I will say is that the rise of grunge had the unfortunate effect of obscuring some very worthy bands, one of whom was plying its trade on the other side of the world altogether, in Australia. The band was – and is – The Church, who were, without question, one of the single most influential bands on the then-fledgling Australian music scene.
Lobbing into public consciousness in 1980 (a couple of years before their trans-Pacific counterparts really landed) and quickly attracting attention for their densely layered, guitar-driven exercises in restrainedly psychedelic pop, The Church were a four-piece in the classic vein – two guitars (Marty Willson-Piper and Peter Koppes), bass (Steve Kilbey, who also lends his earthily ethereal vocals to lead vocal duties in most songs), and drums (Richard Ploog) – but have never allowed themselves to become mired in the conventions of that field, and have continued refining their core sound while simultaneously pushing it in new directions over the 22 years since their first appearance.
Arguably, the band’s most rewarding music came early in its career, in the form of 1982’s amazing The Blurred Crusade, which is still spoken of with reverence in discerning circles. However, it was 1987’s Starfish which really saw them break through to mainstream success, both locally and internationally (although success beyond the home front proved to be sadly transient), and Starfish which remains perhaps the band’s melodic high water-mark.
In talking about Starfish, it’s impossible to avoid mention of what proved to be The Church’s biggest hit single, both locally and internationally (including in the States, where it helped pull Starfish up to the top of the Alternative charts), “Under The Milky Way”. Now, there are probably about a dozen Australian singles which have really, indelibly marked the popular national consciousness – perhaps The Triffids’ “Wide Open Road”, Hunters and Collectors’ “Throw Your Arms Around Me” and “Holy Grail”, Cold Chisel’s “Khe Sanh”, The Saints’ “I’m Stranded’, Silverchair’s “Tomorrow”, and a small handful of Paul Kelly, Midnight Oil and AC/DC songs – and “Under The Milky Way” fully deserves to be counted amongst their number.
The song itself is a shimmering, subtly layered, guitar-driven number which builds and then peters out, and builds again, and peters again, often all within the space of a single line, and is graced by an almost naff (but absolutely perfect) racing keyboard bridge which appears only once, midway through. It’s wonderfully, mysteriously evocative, and completely majestic in a fashion which derives much of its power from its sustained restraint, and there’s a real sense of yearning to Kilbey’s vocals, and of wonder, too, as he sings those enigmatic words: “Wish I knew what you were looking for,/Might have known what you would find…”
Perhaps the most impressive thing about “Under The Milky Way”, however, is that it is great not because it is particularly different from the rest of the songs on Starfish, but rather by virtue of its perfect encapsulation of all that is good about the album. Indeed, similar gems are scattered throughout the record, in particular the top and tail of “Destination” and “Hotel Womb” the first (and album opener) is a darkly pretty, swirling number which seems to build forever without ever really resolving itself (in truth, it builds to the rest of the album, and is deliberately not self-enclosed), while the second (and album closer) is a suitably warm, ringing drive home, a retracing of the album’s steps which, brightly glimmering, hangs gently in the air while hinting at a promised future.
Still, while they are always true to their roots, The Church are not a band who are afraid to push themselves, and the other two highlights of Starfish both see some expansion in their characteristic sound. “Antenna” is a mandolin-laced beauty, years before R.E.M. produced their even greater variation on the same theme, “Losing My Religion”. It too yearns after something nameless, and it’s both immediately memorable and persistent. And “Reptile”, which follows it, is suitably sinuous, slithering and shaking on the back of a delicately tickled guitar figure and cut throughout by another, swooning, “How Soon Is Now”-esque electric guitar line.
All of this isn’t to say, of course, that Starfish is perfect. The band’s greatest strength, its heavy emphasis on simple songcraft, and – particularly – melody, also serves as a weakness, for it results in the one or two songs which don’t quite come off really dragging a little bit, and tending to meld into the tracks which surround them; there are no bad songs on this record per se, but there are a couple of unmemorable, relatively uninteresting ones. It’s not that they particularly break up the flow of the album, but rather that they pass by almost unnoticed.
It’s easy to forgive those one or two mis-steps, however, for what surrounds them really is something close to perfection as far as classic guitar pop goes. There’s a real grace to this record, a shimmering (it’s impossible to avoid that word when describing Starfish), unaffected clarity which sounds just as pure now as it did back in 1987. It didn’t break any new ground at the time of its release, but then again, nor did it set out to. Instead, it stands as a testament to the potential of simple, timeless songwriting coupled with a faith in the guitar, and that’s more than enough in its own right.