If Nick’s personal ambition on the 1977 Stiff Records tour had been to front a band that ‘looked strange’, he certainly struck gold when he hooked up with Yep Roc Records label-mates, Los Straitjackets. With all due respect to the band’s superior musicianship, their appearance is quite alarming. Nick of course played it deadpan, as if appearing onstage with four musicians wearing Mexican wrestling masks was nothing to get too worked-up about.
The ‘Quality Holiday Revue’ of December 2014, which featured a mix of Nick singing solo, Los Straitjackets playing some of their surf instrumentals and Nick being accompanied by the band, was an immediate success and set a pattern for further ‘holiday revues’ in the years to come.
Former Faces star and Rolling Stones sideman, Ian McLagan, was to have been the opening act on the bill, but he sadly died from a stroke, age sixty-nine, on the day that the tour opened in Minneapolis. There was no question of cancelling; the show had to go on, as no doubt McLagan would have wanted, and each night Nick paid tribute to his departed friend.
At Cleveland’s Beachland Ballroom, he told the audience, ‘Mac was an amazing guy, the archetypal Mod, and what we used to call “a groover”, a kind of archaic expression nowadays, but that’s what he was. He had this incredible gift of being able to spread goodwill around and cheer people up. The way I see it is, if we can’t have him in person, we’ll try our best to have him in spirit.’
‘It was the first time we saw the leadership side of Nick,’ says Straitjackets’ guitarist Greg Townson. ‘He tapped into the loss we were all feeling and helped bring us together. It was quite a dramatic way to start working together and it created a bond that wouldn’t have been present at the start of our musical relationship otherwise.
‘When we first rehearsed, the first thing he told us was not to listen to the old records. He wasn’t interested in recreating the past. He wanted us to bring our own band sound to the arrangements and do something fresh. In other words, he wanted us to be ourselves with the songs. The great thing about Nick is that after every show, right after we came off stage, he’d give us some specific feedback on a couple of things we could try to do differently on the next show. It’s always coupled with great enthusiasm for what went right that night. He kept saying it was getting good when he felt like he was part of our band.’
On 8 May 2015, Bobby Irwin died of cancer, aged sixty-two. He had been suffering for some time and was forced to intermittently vacate his drum chair with Geraint Watkins & the Mosquitos during their weekly residency at Tooting’s Wheatsheaf public house. Bobby’s death was not only tragic in itself, but also a major blow to the new firm, both musically and as simply good company.
‘Bobby was extremely funny,’ says Nick. ‘He could make me howl with just a look and I would laugh so hard my face would hurt. He was wonderful to travel around the world with.’
At Bobby’s funeral at St Stephen’s Church, Twickenham, Nick took the lectern to deliver a eulogy for his fallen drummer and veteran musical partner. A few minutes beforehand, Bobby’s brother Chris, who would sadly die within days of the funeral, had recalled their childhood moments and revealed that, as a sixteen-year-old school leaver, Bobby was employed by the Beatles at Apple as an office assistant to their publicist, Derek Taylor. This nugget came as a surprise, even to Bobby’s closest friends in attendance. Then, Geraint performed a comforting ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ seated at the piano, with Martin Winning on sax.
Nick’s own public address to the three-hundred-strong congregation was nothing short of high drama. Tears fell faster than the hailstone rain in the churchyard, which was punctuated by bursts of spring sunshine, just as Nick’s emotionally charged speech was dotted with humorous asides that brought hearty laughter.
‘I looked up the word “eulogy” before writing these notes,’ said Nick. ‘It is supposed to be brief. Well, I first met Bob in 1976 when I was recording at Pathway Studios in Stoke Newington.’
Within moments of recalling this encounter, Nick broke down in tears, unable to continue for a full minute. Time became suspended as mourners allowed him a moment to summon composure. Eventually, he mopped his eyes with a checked handkerchief and continued.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through this,’ he said, thumbing his notes and looking as if he was about to return to his seat. The Reverend Jez Barnes stepped forward in support, his holy intervention persuading Nick to continue describing his unique musical partnership with Bobby.
Then Nick slammed the congregation with the nitty-gritty: ‘Bob was larger than life. When he told a joke, it was as if he saw himself as a member of his own audience.’ More laughter. And then, by emotional contrast: ‘I don’t know how I’m going to carry on without him.’ Nick’s son Roy popped up from the pews to deliver a fresh handkerchief.
‘We spent many years touring the world as young musicians. There are of course stories that I couldn’t possibly repeat in church, but I’m quite happy to give anyone a personal consultation later, if you wish.’ More laughter amid the tears. Nick had done Bob proud, and returned to his seat to huge and sustained applause.
Recording engineer Neil Brockbank then read from Corinthians, and ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’ was sung by all. Following the service, many of us repaired to a nearby hostelry to toast Bobby’s memory and exchange stories about the great man.
Within a few months it became clear that the loss of Bobby Irwin had effectively drawn a line under the way of working that Nick had enjoyed over the past two decades. He was not necessarily down, but had little interest in serving up ‘another new dish’ when his recent albums had enjoyed only modest sales. There were, of course, artistic milestones, but the public’s appetite had to be weighed up against the cost of making those kinds of records.
‘In a way, I think I’m done with that. I can’t really see the point of it, and I don’t have the drive to want to tell people something in a way that I think they haven’t heard before. Also, I’ve done about six [albums] in a row now. They always get four- and five-star reviews – I can’t remember the last time I got less than four or five stars – but stars in magazines don’t sell the things. And even though my records eventually go into the black, they are so expensive to make. When we occasionally went into RAK, we really had to have our shit together to get our money’s worth. But it was very relaxed as well. If we got fed up, we might say, “OK, I’m going home now,” whereas we really should have ploughed on. I guess a new record would eventually make its money back over a number of years, but Bob’s demise has finally brought the curtain down on an era we’d all got thoroughly used to.’
Although not always credited as such, Bobby Irwin was very much a co-producer alongside Nick and Neil Brockbank. His mere presence in the studio would have affected the outcome of any session, from his barrage of comic remarks that kept the mood up – ‘I refuse to play the red-nosed buffoon any longer’ – to the occasional sideways glance that might have prevented a lacklustre performance from making the cut.
Brockbank sums it up: ‘When Bob died, I said to Nick, “I think we were making those records to please Bob,” and Nick said, “I never thought of it that way but I think you’re right.” Bob was the arbiter. Nick and I would produce the records, but Bob was producing us. Even now, when I’m in the studio, I’m saying to myself, “What would Bob think?”’
It is impossible to overestimate Irwin’s contribution to Nick’s recorded output from The Impossible Bird through Quality Street. He was the magician’s assistant, and a master of understated rhythmic accompaniment, as supplied on a minimal drum set. It didn’t matter if the bass drum was a different colour to the tom-tom, or if the snare drum stand was a good fit. As long as his drums and cymbals were in approximately the right position, Bobby would hit them and make the whole thing swing. And ‘swing’ was what he was good at, in the studio, on the concert platform, or in a social situation après gig, but now the indispensable Irwin had checked out.
Since his 2014 hook-up with Los Straitjackets, Nick toured with the group annually, presenting the ‘Quality Holiday Revue’. Group members observed his on-the-road discipline for keeping himself in shape and getting rest, so that his voice was in good form.
‘He likes to arrive shortly before the performance,’ says Greg Townson. ‘When he gets there, he’s relaxed and we’re often having a casual conversation right before we hit the stage. Somehow, he always manages a few humorous anecdotes related to wherever we’re playing. He’s a gracious bandleader and acknowledges all of us during the show.’
In 2016, Los Straitjackets recorded an album entitled What’s So Funny About Peace, Love And Los Straitjackets on which they interpreted, instrumentally, thirteen Nick Lowe songs. Production was handled by Neil Brockbank. Townson recalls Nick’s reaction to his group’s demos for the record: ‘He asked us not to be too strict with the melody to the songs, just the opposite of what you’d think a songwriter would say. Again – “don’t be so reverential”. He and Neil added a little background vocal part that Nick did in London later, as well as his son Roy’s first appearance on record! He did a cymbal overdub. Of course, Nick also participated in the Jesus Of Cool parody cover.’
Another enjoyable diversion for Nick was performing with close friends, Paul Carrack and Andy Fairweather Low, in ‘Lowe–Carrack–Low’, to give the trio its informal yet succinct moniker. They made one of their earliest appearances in London at a 2015 benefit show for Henry McCullough, former guitarist with the Grease Band and Wings. McCullough had recently suffered a massive heart attack and was wheelchair-bound. The charitable event at Putney’s Half Moon was organised by Dave Robinson, and also included performances by Graham Parker and Suggs from Madness. A fundraising auction took place, in which a 45-rpm-disc-shaped cheddar cheese – bearing ‘So It Goes’ c/w ‘Heart Of The City’ record labels, and supplied by Dorset cheesemonger, Justin Tunstall – went for £600. Nick then took the stage to deliver a chilling version of McCullough’s ‘Failed Christian’. Paul and Andy soon joined in for an acoustic and harmony strum-along. Classic songs included Ray Charles’s ‘Crying Time’, Bobby Darin’s ‘Things’ and Johnny Cash’s ‘I Don’t Hurt Anymore’.
It was easy to spot the trio’s potential as a live attraction on the UK theatre circuit, and possibly on disc. Some recording had already been done at Carrack’s home studio, but Nick felt the results were disappointing and were therefore shelved. Nick’s agent, Paul Charles, suggested that they play some British festivals with a view to touring the following year.
‘There is some motivation in “The Three Brexiteers”, as I call them,’ says Neil Brockbank, whose light-hearted nickname does not necessarily reflect his three colleagues’ views on the UK’s relationship with the European Union. ‘What Nick is looking for there is a bit of Carrack’s penetration of the English provincial market, and what Carrack’s looking for is a bit more credibility. And “Fair” is along for the ride. He’s great, and visibly thrilled to be on the planks with Nick and Paul. It’s a very good show. Nick’s got, what, four songs that are recognisable? Carrack’s got six! Andy’s got maybe three? “Bend Me Shape Me”; “If Paradise Was Half As Nice”; “Wide Eyed And Legless”. Put it all together and it’s hit after hit, then a couple of covers, then more hits. When Andy does “Paradise” the whole theatre is singing along. It’s a very valuable property, and serious box office.’
Like many performers, Nick needs to get into character prior to a run of live shows, and it can take him several weeks to turn into ‘Nick Lowe – the bloke who goes on tour’. During this period, he becomes absent-minded, balancing his gradual transformation with the everyday chores that require his attention and interacting with his family, or taking Larry the Whippet for his walk. It drives his nearest and dearest ‘round the twist’. Occasionally he hears Peta say, ‘You’ve already gone, haven’t you?’ Young Roy has even been known to enquire, ‘Has Dad got the coat on yet?’ – ‘the coat’ being shorthand for his father’s mind having already left home.
The process is essential in order to become the person who can sail through flight delays, tolerate inclement weather and adapt to sudden schedule changes, in other words, to get from A to B and undertake C ‘without touching the sides’. He also has to be able to deal with ‘mad fans’ who insist on a selfie in circumstances that require him – no matter how sincere he clearly is – to maintain a shit-eating grin until the shutter is pressed. And most importantly, to be able to save himself for that all-important live performance and be the guy that says, ‘Hello Cleveland!’
Some of the time he is actually two different people because, when he returns home from a tour, the reverse process is required. It’s a challenge to purchase the correct items at the supermarket when his head is still in performance mode. Or pick his son up from his football match without leaving the muddy boots behind, when, for the last three weeks, he has been the centre of attention in the eyes and hearts of adoring fans in the heady world of showbusiness. He knows he’s not a household name, but after spending all that time in America with his ‘small but perfectly formed audience’, who pat him on the back and tell him how marvellous he is, he could be forgiven for thinking he’s some kind of star.
After a few weeks back home, he will have shaken off ‘the coat’ to hopefully become ‘Dennis’, the man who can drive to the town hall and pay his council tax, because ‘Nick Lowe can’t do that shit’. But he has to keep ‘Nick Lowe’ on the back burner, ready for the next slice of action. Then it’s time to shed a couple of kilos, update his wardrobe and review his set lists. ‘What?!’ he might say to himself. ‘I’ve got to play that old song again?’ Then he thinks, ‘Man, that’s a pretty good tune,’ and finds himself singing it slightly differently, so that it doesn’t sit there like ‘a sludgy old piece of cake you’ve got to serve up to your people every night’.
‘It’s not the money,’ he says. ‘I have got to do it. Sometimes it confuses my family, people that have loved me and I have loved in return. They are sometimes confused and hurt by the fact that they seem to come second. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s the truth. Obviously, if there was a fire I wouldn’t save my guitars, but there’s something in me, I can’t help it. But I have to be two people in order for me to be a responsible husband and parent, and less selfish than I really need to be. We’ve all seen people in the music business who treat their families like shit, and I didn’t want to be one of those people, but I really can understand why that happens. You have to discipline yourself so that you don’t cause mayhem in other people’s lives, especially people who love you and realise that you are sort of elsewhere for quite a lot of the time.’
As much as he’s a musician, he’s also a thinker and confesses to sometimes ‘over-thinking’, especially when a call comes in requesting his participation in, for example, some music documentary or media event. He’ll get a call from a guy who wants him to do something. He’s not sure. Then he thinks it could be cool, but he’ll remember having dealings with the guy before. He weighs up the pros and cons and always thinks first about what could go wrong. He looks at the downside, but might run out of reasons not to do it, and finds himself saying, ‘On the other hand…’
Indecision also extends to releasing new records. There are always new songs in development, and one or two of them may meet his self-imposed high standards, but then of course they have to be recorded properly, and so further indecision sets in. As he told Iowa City writer and illustrator Cheryl Graham, when discussing the fact that in 2016, anybody with a laptop computer can make a record, ‘Yeah, they can knock one out, and it’ll be pretty good, but “pretty good” is the new shite.’
Disinclined to make a new long-playing record, he was pleased to be presented with studio alternatives and invitations to collaborate on songs in Nashville, although the first time he returned there after a long absence, he confessed to being terrified by the prospect of working with the pros. But suddenly his old skills returned, and he found himself thinking, ‘Maybe I should do some producing again, because I’m pretty good at this, knowing how somebody else’s music should go, and people seem to listen to me.’
Suddenly, the fact that he was in his mid-sixties didn’t seem to matter. His new publishers, Big Deal Music, were proactive and, with offices in New York, Los Angeles and Nashville, ideally placed to hook him up with other writers. Big Deal’s senior vice president in Nashville, Dale Bobo, had long been a fan, and stops just short of calling Nick ‘a musical hero’.
Bobo made it his mission to seek out people for Nick to work with. Aiming high, the first person he approached was Bob DiPiero, a Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame inductee and writer of fifteen number one country hits, with songs recorded by artists such as Reba McEntire, Vince Gill and Tim McGraw.
‘DiPiero got back to me within moments,’ says Bobo. ‘He told me he’d always been a Nick fan and it made him happy that he was going to get to write with him.’
Having set up the meeting with DiPiero, and sessions with other top writers such as Tommy Lee James, Al Anderson and, via his New York colleagues, Dan Auerbach from the Black Keys, Bobo would pick Nick up from his hotel in the morning and drive him to the place of work. This was usually a home studio, often in a little house with a garden, just outside of town, or at an office with recording equipment and an interesting selection of guitars. Work commenced mid-morning and by mid-afternoon, a song, maybe two songs, were written.
It is not uncommon in Nashville for a professional studio demo to be recorded immediately after a writing session, as was the case with Al Anderson’s ‘Good Girls Love Bad Boys’, co-written with Nick. At Legends Studio, for example, a new song can be recorded for a fixed fee, with house musicians who will learn it in a matter of minutes, give it a quick run-through and, when the engineer hits the record button, usually capture it on the first take. ‘Those session guys will do you a shit-hot demo in about, er, thirty minutes,’ confirms Nick.
Dale Bobo appreciated that Nick’s professional reputation would often precede him in Nashville: ‘When we got to the writing room, you could see these people were excited to be there with Nick. People here are by and large up on their music history and they know who he is.’
Long-term Nashville songwriter Bill Lloyd concurs. With his own musical credentials straddling modern country and power pop, Lloyd represents the local ear-to-the-ground musician who grew up listening to the music coming out of Britain in the late 1970s.
‘My friends and I started reading about Nick Lowe in the cool rock magazines of the day,’ recalls Lloyd. ‘We saw his name attached as producer to Elvis Costello. It was love at first listen. Nick’s music was a blueprint for the thing I was going for on the Foster & Lloyd records, and his hilarious twisted lyrical side was a big plus.’
Of course, it does help to have worked and hung out with some familiar names, such as Elvis Costello and Chrissie Hynde. As Elvis Presley’s original drummer, D. J. Fontana, once quipped, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you knew.’ And there is no doubt that Nick’s former marriage to Carlene Carter – and its direct connection to the Johnny Cash and June Carter saga – rings bells in Music City. Those local songwriters who had not followed the story, but suddenly learnt about it from a chance remark, can get quite excited.
‘What’s that? You knew Johnny Cash?!’
‘Many of the songwriters I’ve met in Nashers work in duos,’ says Nick. ‘I’m the third element that comes into the room, and of course everyone’s looking for the fourth element, which is the song. And nobody I’ve met with has been able to tell me what it is I’m supposed to bring to the party. Do you bring a title? A verse? Some people will tell you, “Don’t bring anything.”
‘I might have come to town with a few half-finished songs in my saddlebag, not to punt them, but to have something to produce if I’m asked, “What you got?” On one occasion, I had a pop thing that I thought was a pretty good idea, maybe a little too mature for Justin Bieber, but his kind of feel, with an insistent melody. But I’d painted myself into a corner with it. The duo I was writing with liked it and, boy, did they go to work on it. “OK right, we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do that.” Their necklaces and bracelets were shimmering, and I’m looking at this brilliant thing that’s quickly taking shape, and I’m thinking, “Yes! This is what I’ve come to Nashville for.”’
On the subject of songs taking shape, Jake Guralnick recalls, ‘I was in LaGuardia Airport with Nick. We were having a coffee and he took out a notebook and started writing stuff down – it was the lyrics to “Tokyo Bay”. I’d never been there when he was writing. Usually I imagine him at his place in Brentford, thinking about a new song. He talks about going into a trance, and I was witnessing it. It was like he went somewhere, wrote some stuff down, then he was back with me and said, “What time is our flight?”’
‘He’s so brilliant,’ says Chris Difford. ‘I remember going to his house in Brentford once. We had a few beers and I asked him if he was writing. He said he had one or two ideas on the boil, and I immediately knew that he was slowly brewing a potion of clever and charming lyrics that would document his love life and his way in the world. Each Lowe album is another log on the fire that glows brightly with wonderful images and brings warmth to my life. He is a storyteller from the deep within. “Stoplight Roses” – only he could see that and put pen to paper; “Hope For Us All”; “What’s Shakin’ On The Hill”; so many great songs that chill me. I wish that I would take my time and see the world from his armchair, with his eagle eye of wry humour.’
Carlene Carter: ‘He is a great songsmith. He taught me so much about writing songs. Not actual teaching, but being around him and with him, I learnt a lot about the sound of words, the percussive quality of syllables. As far as John [Cash] was concerned, Nick was a good writer, but Nick was very conscious of not wanting to appear to be pushing his songs to John. He knew “The Beast In Me” was right up John’s street, but that song took a long time to finish.’
Chrissie Hynde: ‘How do I rate Nick as a songwriter? He’s one of the greats, and I’d put him up there with the rest of the great songwriters. There aren’t that many… Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Lucinda Williams, Ray Davies… I’d put Nick up there with them. I hold him in the very highest regard.’
Ry Cooder: ‘Nick and myself – we’re of a generation lucky to come up in the happy golden age of pop songs: intro, verse, chorus, half an instrumental verse, chorus, and out; things we took to be an integral part of life, but gone now for the most part. Three chords and the truth, as per Harlan Howard [who wrote country hits including ‘Heartaches By The Number’, ‘I Fall To Pieces’ and ‘Pick Me Up On Your Way Down’]. Back in our days from youth, the songwriter was the key man – or woman, let’s be fair. Can you imagine the Everly Brothers without Boudleaux and Felice Bryant? Songwriters were good storytellers and good poetry men. I rate Nick as a real songwriter, and that’s the reason he is a good musician and fun to work with. He plays the song, not just the notes, and his bass-player timing is the best. “Time is all you got,” in the immortal words of the late, great Milt Holland. Nick pulled my coat to some very good white songwriters, an area in which I was deficient. We had some good talks about Johnny Cash, Carl Smith, and so many others.’
Huey Lewis: ‘I hope he lives and writes songs for ever. He’s a treasure, and a real authentic songwriter. When Huey Lewis & the News played Shepherd’s Bush Empire a few years ago, I asked Nick if he wanted to sit in. He said, “I don’t rock any more.” But Nick can do whatever he wants. He’s a genius. He’s brilliant and he’s funny, wonderful, generous and a sweet guy. They don’t come any better than Nick Lowe, period. Britain ought to be proud of him.’
To acknowledge and summarise Nick’s musical abilities, he is a highly accomplished bass player; his rhythmic aptitude on acoustic guitar would propel any rock and roll band; he can sing lead and layer harmonies; and is a natural and gifted writer of both lyric and melody. It’s a skillset that awards him at least ‘triple threat’ status as an artist, and this is before one takes into account his ability to entertain.
So why isn’t Nick Lowe more well-known? Why does he remain a cult-throb, singing only to the choir and maybe a couple of stragglers in the churchyard? Why haven’t any of his recordings this century scraped even the lower reaches of an album chart? Why, in the UK, has he been unable to fill modest venues in the provinces?
True, his last smash hit was back in 1979, although the mention of ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ usually rings a bell or two. His more recent music, however, is virtually unknown beyond a loyal band of followers, despite its undeniable crossover appeal. His fans are mystified, yet one senses an air of protectiveness surrounding their favourite music maker. Do they really want him to be discovered by the masses? What if his face did appear in the media every day? Would the hoi polloi even get ‘I Trained Her To Love Me’? Is he the secret his fans would rather not share?
Perhaps the secret itself doesn’t want to be shared; Lowe maintains his outsider status to the point of immaculacy, and maybe that suits him. For answers, we must look to the man himself. He would sure like to sell more records but only up to a point, and not if it means prostituting himself on chat shows and social media. The royalties would come in handy, but not if there was too much glad-handing involved. As his former manager Dave Robinson told writer Michael Bonner for an article in Uncut: ‘He’s the perfect example of an Aries. Aries like power without responsibility, they’re very creative. I call it panicking in the face of success. But I think he realised when fame might come it could fall on him to do a large amount of work. He didn’t want to do that. Nick would always slope off before success.’
But it goes deeper than being workshy or having an aversion to publicity. Maybe if we go back to the aftermath of the British Empire, a bygone era during which segments of the working middle classes gained access to the English public school system, we might find some pointers. This is where we may come into contact with ‘toffs’, and experience the affectations of the privileged idle rich. To these guys, everything was ‘a bit of a fag’ [too much like hard work]. It was satirised in the Billy Bunter stories and portrayed in TV’s Dad’s Army, specifically the character ‘Sergeant Wilson’, as played by John Le Mesurier, and later Bill Nighy. Wilson, nonchalant and slightly distant, behaved as if he was above life’s day-to-day mundanities. It’s a trait that is often accompanied by useful qualities such as stoicism in the face of adversity and quick-wittedness in a tricky situation, but it also manifests itself in demonstrable modesty and an abhorrence of the unseemly, especially aggressive self-promotion.
Of course, Nick knew how to produce hits, as exemplified by his work with the Pretenders and Elvis Costello, but writing hits he found less straightforward. To help solve the riddle I spoke with the writer Peter Silverton, who has a keen insight into what makes Nick tick. He first saw him perform with Kippington Lodge at a church hall in Wadhurst, East Sussex, and often interviewed him for Sounds during the Stiff Records and Rockpile era. Silverton has been a true fan of the Lowe oeuvre ever since, and helped to identify a number of obstacles that have stood between the artist and commercial success.
I listened to Silverton’s theories, the first being that although Nick talked expansively about ‘pop music’ in the mid-1970s – probably because ‘pop’ was a dirty word and therefore it appealed to the contrarian in him31 – he didn’t really know how to consistently write a real pop record. Real hits were written by people such as Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman, the songwriting and production duo behind the likes of Sweet and Mud.32 Nick also aspired to cynicism in his songs, typical examples being ‘Music For Money’ and ‘I Love My Label’, but Nick didn’t have a cynical bone in his body compared with Chinn and Chapman, who cleverly manipulated the teen market with slick recordings and juvenile lyrics, such as ‘Does anyone know the way to block Buster?’ That’s not quite as snappy as Nick’s story [in ‘So It Goes’] of remembering ‘the night the kid cut off his right arm’, an opening line worthy of the Band, whose chief songwriter, Robbie Robertson, was the truly authentic model to which Nick had aspired during his formative years. But authenticity plays no role in the act of making hits, and it is the same with irony.
It is hard to think of many hit singles that take a genuinely ironic stance. Randy Newman’s ‘Short People’ is a rare example. But, as Silverton points out, Newman had his biggest hit with ‘You’ve Got A Friend In Me’, from the movie Toy Story, and the public at large didn’t get ‘Short People’.
‘They saw “Short People” as a novelty record,’ says Silverton. ‘To me, Nick’s irony is so very clear in “(What’s So Funny ’bout) Peace, Love And Understanding” by Brinsley Schwarz. The song is structured around irony. Does he really mean it? Doesn’t he really mean it? Is it funny? Is it not funny? That bit in it where he talks about “more peace and love for the children of the new generation” – it’s an obvious joke. It could have been a hit record and that is the bit that got in the way. People don’t want a gag like that in their record. If they want a gag, they want “Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West)”. Nick put that gag in there.
‘You’d go and watch the Brinsleys in a pub and they’d do the Shadows dance. That was self-referential and ironic, and it goes down brilliantly with about two hundred fans, but it would go over the heads of the general public. The problem with irony is that it tells the wider audience that they don’t get the joke. They know that the joke is at their expense, because irony in a pop record says to them: “This is not really what you think it is; you thought you were buying a pop record; actually, you’re buying something which has an ironic take on pop records,” which also means that the status of all the other pop records that they’ve bought is downgraded. They perceive it as patronising, I think, and Nick’s “pop records” were “pretend pop records”.
‘But the thing about Elvis Costello’s version of “Peace, Love And Understanding” is that he really meant it. He wasn’t playing with anger. That’s why his version goes in a totally different direction, because he’s really angry about it, and he means it, whereas Nick couldn’t mean it at that point. Although today when Nick sings the song, he does mean it. He has had to come all the way round to be able to reclaim his own song, which was reinvented for him by Elvis.’
And then came ‘Cruel To Be Kind’, with added Dave Edmunds, and it was a hit.
‘Edmunds is bereft of irony and cynicism, at least in his music,’ continues Silverton. ‘But he knows how to make hit records. His production techniques were clever, but not clever-clever. Nick was smart, and Edmunds was not smart, in that way. He’s a talented Welsh guitar player who likes being in pop music and spending a lot of time in his Jaguar, or in the studio. Nick is a smart man in a business that is not really full of very smart people. And he hooked up with a smart person like Jake Riviera, and took advantage of the brutalities of Jake’s language and persona.
‘Nick’s shtick – his ironic self-deprecation – is inherently a lie, but it knows that it’s a lie. It’s a way of moving through life as if nothing really matters, while everyone else thinks it does. David Niven played the same trick. Life just happened to him. “No, I just knocked that together,” he might say. It’s the cult of the amateur. When Nick was producing the Damned, he was probably saying, “Well, I just found myself here.” But it requires a lot of drive, and low cunning. And I think there’s a lot more cunning in Nick then he would ever admit to. I don’t think even he knows it. The thing is, you go into the music business with the intention of becoming a pop star. You may say, “This doesn’t really matter,” but it does. You pretend it doesn’t matter, and some people think what you’re saying is the truth, but it’s not. It distances you from the music business, so that when it turns out you’re not a pop star, you’ve got somewhere to hide. If your record flops, you say, “Actually, I’m not that serious about it,” therefore it doesn’t matter that it’s not a hit. There is that side of Nick – he really cares about what he does, but he pretends he doesn’t.’
Despite Nick’s profile management strategy, there were still pockets of influential media folk who were quietly monitoring his accomplishments, variously describing his live performance as ‘nearly devastating’, and his status in the world of popular music as approaching ‘god-level’. He remains important to the tastemakers and switched-on critics, not to mention his many fans, because in addition to being a superb songwriter, he came along at a time when much of rock music had become pretentious and overblown, and here was Nick revelling in the three-minute song and bringing his music to their attention via a tiny London-based record label – Stiff Records – that helped change the rules.
Although not yet inducted into any Halls of Fame, he had attracted the attention of the American Association of Independent Music (A2IM), an organisation founded in 2005 to support and improve the business of boutique record labels that make and sell the sounds of musical pioneers, mavericks and outsiders.
The term ‘independent’ had been a misnomer, hijacked in the 1980s by music publicists who sought to align their clients with the edgier side of contemporary music, when in fact the ‘independent label’ in question was often a discreetly bankrolled offshoot or imprint of a major record company.33 ‘Indie’, as it became affectionately known, was, in the minds of many consumers, a musical genre! A2IM sought to redress the balance.
For a good example of an authentic 1970s independent label, one needs to look no further than Ork or Beserkley in the USA, or Chiswick and Stiff in the UK, and even further back, Andrew Loog Oldham and Tony Calder’s Immediate Records. Stiff Records was, of course, where Nick Lowe was launched as a solo artist. Although historically one or two major labels have distributed his music, Nick had remained independent in spirit and deed throughout much of his recording career. Since 1994’s The Impossible Bird, he had consciously avoided links with large corporations and chosen to plough his unique furrow. It is therefore fitting that in 2017, A2IM, through its ‘Libera’ programme, inducted him as an ‘Independent Icon’.
‘Few artists get better with age,’ stated a press release. ‘Nick Lowe is the exception.’
According to the New York Times, Mr Lowe spent much of the 1970s ‘busy not fitting into three successive movements: pub rock, punk and new wave. As the inaugural artist and house producer at Stiff Records, he helped create the blueprint for the modern indie label, and helmed historic early recordings for the Damned, Elvis Costello, and the Pretenders, among others. More recently his releases on Yep Roc Records have heralded a bona fide second coming.’
Nick was due to accept the prestigious award on 8 June 2017 at an industry event in New York City, alongside singer-songwriter and feminist icon Ani DiFranco, who was being presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award. But just nine days before the ceremony, he received the devastating news that Neil Brockbank, his co-producer and right-hand man on the road, had died suddenly at the age of sixty-six. Everyone in Nick’s circle was shocked. It transpired that Neil had become a victim of lung cancer. He had probably been carrying the disease around in his body for some time, but it failed to surface until around 20 May, when symptoms loudly presented themselves. An email from Neil as recently as 18 May informed me that he had just fired up his old computer to look up some tour-related trivia, but had otherwise ‘been ill’.
Neil’s unexpected death – almost two years to the day since the passing of drummer Bobby Irwin – was yet another blow to the old firm. In the forty-eight hours that followed, Nick wrestled with the prospect of undertaking his overseas commitments minus the presence of his loyal batman, and confessed to feeling nervous. Imminent events included the important A2IM award ceremony and a series of shows around New York State that would follow. There was also a trip to Japan, for which Neil had been studiously arranging the work permits and immigration papers, such was his crucial role. Nick knew that he could not shirk from his responsibilities. Fortuitously, Neil’s own right-hand man, twenty-seven-year-old Tuck Nelson, a London-based native of Boise, Idaho, was ready to take care of Nick, his road guitar and the out-front sound on the upcoming dates.
‘I hadn’t done any tour managing before,’ says Nelson. ‘But I had done some onstage sound for Nick. I sort of knew his act, but I didn’t know the “special effects” that each song required. I wasn’t yet “part of the show”, like Neil had been. I had to learn it, but luckily that mostly occurred in Japan, so I guess, at first, I got away with it. I felt like, “Who the hell else is gonna do it? Of course, I’m gonna do it!”’
At the PlayStation Theater on Times Square, Nick handled the A2IM event with aplomb, graciously accepting his award. Previous winners included Arcade Fire and the Arctic Monkeys. When he was introduced, the entire audience rose to its feet in recognition of his crucial role in modern popular music and his ‘iconic’ status.
Following an introduction from Sound Exchange CEO Michael Huppe, Nick told the crowd, ‘I am simply another ageing gent from across the sea who fell in love at a very early age with the wonderful music that this great nation has given the world. I was lucky to have the opportunity to go out and try and make something out of my love and hobby and along the way managed to make one or two good records and hundreds of terrible ones, but of course nobody remembers those, which is why I am standing here this evening.’
He then performed ‘Lately I’ve Let Things Slide’ and ‘Cruel To Be Kind’. As the locals might say, you could ‘feel the love’ in the room.
The following night, Nick commenced another run of sold-out shows at the City Winery. The venue’s dinner service was still being wrapped up as he walked onstage, bang on 9 p.m., without any fuss or introduction. The waiters and bus boys were sensitive to his solo acoustic performance and moved around in a hushed manner as he delivered his most bruising, personal songs. Although the distant rumble of a subway train below the Winery’s foundations was an occasional, ambient distraction, you could otherwise have heard a toothpick drop.
He opened with ‘People Change’ and ‘Stoplight Roses’, followed by one of his entertaining welcome speeches, worked out in advance, not improvised, because these days, he admits, he’s ‘not good enough to just wing it’. After confirming his name, he commented that on such a beautiful day, ‘New York might actually be the greatest city on the planet.’ Loud applause. He thanked everyone for coming out, and the next night remarked that, ‘last night’s crowd were unusually handsome and elegantly dressed, but frankly, looking at the house tonight, I thought last night’s lot were a bit seedy’. Laughter.
‘I’ve devised a programme here, which I hope is going to meet with your approval. I want to do a few things that I haven’t done for a while, or in some cases never done. Well, there’s the odd new tune. But rest assured that the whole set will be balanced on the cornerstones of several of my most well-known works. It would be rude not to. I mean, if you went to the time and trouble to go and see, say, Billy Joel in concert, and he didn’t play, er, “We Didn’t Start The Fire”, you wouldn’t be very pleased, would you? It’s exactly the same with me, it’s only a question of scale. So, I intend to keep them coming, jukebox style.’
Enchanted by Nick’s comedic patter and his songs of love and loss, highlights of which were the unreleased ‘Blue On Blue’ and ‘Crying Inside’, the audience sat in reverential silence, except of course for the inevitable participation that always accompanies ‘Cruel To Be Kind’. His set, with encores, clocked in at eighty minutes, and although this was brash New York, and Nick was almost fifty years into his musical career, it was suddenly as if we were watching ‘Nickie’, the precocious twelve-year-old, strumming his ukulele banjo to entertain his parents’ friends in a cellar bar somewhere in Germany, smiling, beguiling and knowing exactly when to leave us wanting more.