HOW WAS IT FOR YOU? - 1990 TOUR PROGRAMME

MARTIN ASTON

James turned up at the point The Smiths were poised to wrestle something permanent out of Britain's post-New Romantic malaise - as simple as clocking the ways we feel and the things we remember and forget - and rights for guitars (how quaint that now sounds) - rather than the distanced emotional artifice and career ambitions of synthesisers. This was the new pop literacy, of individualism, defiance and grace, in the face of an increasingly synthesised pop world that has since fulfilled almost all the fears and no noticeable desires the pop literate held.

Was it this unaccommodating pop world that waylaid James ? Or was it hope over doubt that partnered them with a major (Talking Heads and Madonna's Sire), where they choked? After 'Folklore', 'Hymn For A Village' and especially 'What's The World' (the first song The Smiths covered) vibrated with nervy, fanatical elation, why did only 'Scarecrow' and 'Why So Close' survive the hollow-heart mix of Stutter? The album sounds better, or freer, now, but it's still an awkward sensation, knowing Lenny Kaye evaporated the elation, let time get away from them, let James sound more like a group than an act of nature.

James shared my values, felt individual, defiant and graceful in the right balance, understood the mesmerism in traditional folk fervour, and seemed very green, in both the naive and conscious sense of the word. But I let James go. I didn't even chase up Strip-Mine.. I can't even remember why. How was it for them? I feel guilty now, on hearing the natural act of One Man Clapping, all that necessary despair and defiance -a live set of older songs as my most played album of '89, of songs all but laid to rest in my mind. But sticking with James had been a bit like watching Newsnight while The Comic Strip crackles on the other side; more worthy and significant but not half as much relief. And if you were to take James seriously - you know the pop literates bemoaned The Smiths' career moves, how the handled the politics of independence, the power to keep going then all the slipped discs mattered.

Now we know this is the second sitting for James' supper, and they've grown new members, fined their conception of their gaps, toughened the rhythm and again chanced a major label, put freedom in the balance. But it still feels like they're walking a thin ledge, and I wonder whether James are going to circle round the real James again. 'Sit Down' was near delirious, 'Come Home' a smack on the head, but 'How Was It For You' doesn't sound ...yes, and act of ..like they have to. And do they need to be mixed by Tin Machine's producer? What else will be sacrificed for the chance to prove they can - financially and historically - take their reward? James still make me nervous and stutter by toying with our expectations. Maybe that's what pop literacy is all about.

ADRIAN THRILLS

It was June 1989. The middle of the hottest summer in living memory and a good time to escape from London's watery sunshineand hit the north. To the Temperance Club in Manchester where the 'vibes in the area" were not those of self-abstinence or self-restraint, but glorious expression of a musical policy that was positively ground-breaking.

It was a Thursday night that took no notice of the bogus barriers between homegrown guitar sounds and the imported techno pulses of hip-hop and house. This was glasnost of the groove. I came, I saw, I raved and I was hooked. I didn't buy a pair of flares, but I returned prestissimo. 

These were the last few months of Manchester's private party, the dog days and fevered nights before the city's rolling musical musical waves broke on a national scale. For the media; it was a summer of acid scallies on too many dancing biscuits. For the dancing fan, it spawned a sound track to suggest that British pop might never be quite the same. A wonderfully vibrant hybrid was being born on a northern dancefloor and the established notions of what exactly constituted both 'indie' and 'club' music suddenly seemed ludicrous and a lot shakier than they had a few months earlier. 

So how was it for me? Two records in particular encapsulated last summer's sensations perfectly. Poles apart musically, they were both among the prime fioor-fillers at The Hacienda on a Thursday night. The first was 'The 900 Number' by DJ Mark The 45 King, a hypnotic swirl of loopy saxophone and crashing break beats that induced a mass outbreak of synchronised jumping whenever it was aired. The second was 'Sit Down' - either by accident or design - captured all the verve and spirit of their hometown's musical upsurge.

A song of hope and companionship, it served to enhance the already-strong sense of community and celebration that existed in the beating heart of Manchester clubland. 'Sit Down' was a brilliant pop record, but it also explored and enhanced the possibilities of the 12-inch club mix as effectively as any highly cherished import single. Its tumbling bass lines and sumptuous drum rolls never failed to whip-crack the lines of baggy-shirted dance devotees into seven minutes of feverish arm-flailing action The first instalment of a titanic trilogy of singles, 'Sit Down' never reaped the critical acclaim or commercial success that was to follow for 'Come Home' and 'How Was It For You', but it was possibly the most vital of the three. A benchmark single. An anthem for its time, So let it roll.

KEVIN PEARCE

'Jimone' and 'Jamestwo' were the best of all possible beginnings. Neither trammelled nor tailored: James then played on a cliff-edge, laces dangling undone: precariously poised pop.

'Jimone' was a startling start; cogent, pungent, deep. The highlight 'Folklore', remains an exceptional exception to the rules.

The more public, articulate(d) successor, 'Hymn From A Village', so remarkably wordy and wise, hinted at so much. Things should never have turned plain again.

Should James have called it quits, there and then, they would be matchless. What might have been means little, though.

James have not held my interest. I am not a camp follower. I lost James in the crowd, chancing upon them from time to time. I have been aware James are still out there, so that means something.

James have kept a certain ambiguity and mystery; never quite making it clear where they stand : whether they are poets, fools, boffins, bums. They fall between stools; seemingly unsure whether to settle to being popular performers, playing to crowds, scrabbling for dignity as routine sets in; or whether to veer off, play up, be generally difficult, James should have meant the best of both worlds, whatever that means.

 James have been rather like Morecambe and Wise's running-gag, where the stooge came on with his harmonica, only to be told 'Not now, not now". James have trouble with their timing. They have always almost been in the right place at the right time. but never quite.

Take the brown rice and arran knits image; naturalism long before everything had gone green. Take the associations with Factory, Patti Smith, other Smiths, never really made the most of.

Still fashion and favour float on; entertainers pat themselves on the back, imagining they are dismantling imagined barriers. Any sudden spirit of openness could mean James benefit. What will that mean?

If James are accidentally caught up with any sociable movement where music is stripped of language and meaning, the irony should not be missed. James seemed awkward in company, and I liked that. James had a way with worlds, and I liked that even more. James should wilfully refuse to waste their natural resources. They should supply cerebral stimulation. A chance to exercise the little grey cells as well.

What could James mean ? It would mean a lot if they became known for being Deft James.

PENNY ANDERSON

I first met their music when my friend taped Stutter for me, because she said it was nice, and that it would make me happy.  The machine spat out the music after chewing it thoroughly, too folky, fey and nice for a rock and roll tape recorder.

 Then ... James didn't mean all that much to me; I read about them, thought they seemed weirdly poppy, but I was never in love with their records - there wasn't enough passion. In May 1989, I met James with a view to working for them (or with them, as Tim would guiltily insist). Martine, their strong, compulsively dedicated manager smiled at me sweetly and with some slight suspicion I was to run the fan club.

The day I started, I asked why they called it 'Chain Mail'. "Named alter a single," smiled Martine patiently.

 Things got better. More nice music, but still something was missing. I like to think I watched them find their missing spark; I think they discovered their own, righteous anger, fuelled by the constant cheap jibes and lazy words in a collective vocabulary limited by macho prejudice: all together one, two, three.. "Vegan Hippie Weirdoes In Sandals", smirked the press headlines. When I saw them live, their purpose and place fell together like a wooden puzzle; the flailing, nuclear-spined dancing of Tim, and the way Larry and Jim play so sincerely and watch benignly. They all stand at odds with their sometimes devoted, sometimes pot-bellied, beerily confrontational audience. I was convinced.

Being a special live band did them no good; they needed a hit - when the Stoned and Happy Carpets all mouthed their lyrics on Top Of The Pops, it was obvious that Jamesshould be there too. They began to include their newly found sense of fun and freedom on some delicious dance-based singles, all of which dented the charts, but remoulded the perceptions of those people who might buy their records. Then came Phonogram, and then came 'How Was It For You?'  Visible sighs of relief and postponements of bankruptcy and breakdowns in the James camp, but the sense of tension, and desperation increased. They needed a hit, and they needed it yesterday.

Now it's early in hot May 1990, Martine drives me to the country to get away from the pressure, the nervous waiting. She doesn't believe they'll be mentioned by Bruno this time; I lie and say I know they shall. Number 35. I scream so loud the windows should crack, Martine laughs and screams, Ben her child cries and screams, we sit in the car by the roadside, a bit delirious and still disbelieving. At fucking last!

 How was it for me? Painful at first - still is sometimes - but now I like it and I want to do it again and again.

DAVE SIMPSON

I'm sitting in a borrowed tent in the middle of a field with an umbrella up as the teeming rain pours in through the canvas. I think The Go-Betweens are playing, and I'm stuck in this overgrown tea-bag soaking wet and cold, missing the band. Criminal isn'tit? This is the WOMAD Festival '85, and three days hitching have left me drained and knackered, I tell you. I'd give anything to be at home in bed. And then it happens .. it stops raining, the sun comes out, people are moving about again, happy, smiling faces, and children, half-naked and covered in mud are running around our feet. And James come on.

I've somehow managed to miss the band twice before as support to New Order, and all I've got to go on are 'Hymn From A Village', 'What's The World' and the earnest recommendation of friends. But I like them, even before they play. Hell, I don't know, maybe it's the way they look kinda awkward or the gentle, disarming manner of singer Tim Booth or the way they take ages to get their gear right and ready to start. They ...you can tell they're here to tell us something, y'know?

A roar of drums fills the air and the band launch into 'Yahoo' and 'Chain Mail' ...Tim Booth twisting and turning like a demented marionette undergoing electrocution. By 'Folklore', the last of many encores, James are a part of my life.

 James were always at their best live. Somehow, their records never quite attained that very special communication they were able to inspire. Well, maybe 'What For' and 'Sit Down' managed it, but it's James' gigs that fill my heart with the fondest memories.. the time they played outside in Halifax in the pouring rain to a mere handful, the Birmingham night of the 'Come Home' tour, the band wracked by flu and struggling against all the odds to produce a brilliant performance. Most of all, perhaps; their devastating. triumphant showing at 1989's Futurama Festival; Tim Booth beaming his way through 'Sit Down' and tears rolling down my face. Sad memories too the night a gig at Leeds Astoria was wrecked by mindless violence, the way the band got screwed by big business, almost broken.

But they're still with us. I remember talking to Tim just before Christmas and thinking just how strong his spirit was, after everything. I remember hearing 'The Last Whale' and thinking it was quite possibly the best thing they've ever done, and then hearing about a half-dozen other new songs and thinking exactly the same thing. And I remember thinking that the band are laying out the mood for a whole new decade, a time to care.

These days, I think of James, I remember that first time and all we've been through, and I smile ..for us, because their music is better now than it's ever been, and for them, because their time has finally come.

JEAN-DANIEL BEAUYALLET

How was it for me? Well.. the first time was against a wall. I was in Liverpool and I spent my afternoons in the only place where my difficulty in understanding the English language (well, scally slang, actually) wasn't a handicap - Probe, the scouse temple of musical mayhem. I was furtively scanning the record covers tacked to the wall when I was struck by an enigmatic picture, childish and totally out of place I saw there the word 'Simone', the name of a friend of mine in France and so asked the weirdo behind the counter to show me this cottage industry record. 'You'll like it, it's out on Factory', he replied. And so I went home forgetting the treasure which fate had just put in my path. I rediscovered it several days later, only to find that this strange ochre and green scribbling did not say 'Simone' but 'Jimone', which perplexed me even further. I ended up scratching my precious record from playing it over and over again, trying to decide whether, in this era of oh so serious rock, the title - 'Folklore' -was or was not ironic. To this day I've still not managed to make up my mind. But basically, it didn't matter, because God knows how much I loved those three absurd and insolent songs. I made myself drunk on them, as I spent my nights, armed with my only useful friend - an enormous French-English dictionary - exploring their valued words. Sensitivity is a vlce of which we shan't speak was my favourite line. I sung it everyday to confused faces I never found out whether it was my accent or those few ludicrous words which disconcerted them. All that remained was to put faces to these origin-less lyrics. I imagined them as Martians or as gentleman-farmers, doubtlessly as surprising as their enchanted songs.

The second time was in Manchester and everybody was there This evening, said the poster, Manchester was going to explode, throwing it's two prodigal sons to the lions, James and The Smiths. Manchester didn't explode, but the Hacienda almost did. Pressed up near the stage, I had come to resolve the enigma of the all too anonymous single which I already knew by heart. At last, Iwas going to know who it was who wrote these incredible songs (who, but not why). That, I still haven't found out! And I wasn't disappointed. Instead of Martians, I discovered an introverted fanfare, beatific and transcended by its own music. From time to time, their singer was overcome by convulsions and bounced from one side of the stage to the other I had never come across such a strange and natural dance, which was as much inspired by Zebedee as by dervish dancing. It seemed to start from inside, like an intimate earthquake, and ended up in an uncontrolled frenzy. A tense power was released from the group, which contrasted with their lit up faces of goodness. I came out of the Hacienda reeling and dumbfounded. On that evening, even Hulme seemed comforting and tinged with colour.

Since that day, I have seen James often. Thinking, each time, that the group had reached its peak. And yet, it still found a means of evolving at a point when the others were stagnating, all too contented with having found their corner of nirvana. Recently, I came across an old cassette of an intimate concert of James, recorded six years ago, in a basement in Manchester. Their progress is amazing, but sufficiently dignified and honest not to encroach on opportunism The song already possessed the trance, the magic and a wide and rare vision.  But the jealous music industry at that point decided to make James pay for it's unique talent by forcing the group to vegetate in the waiting room. I met them at this time. Faced with such small-mindedness, such a lack of comprehension, their fervour and their calmness stupified me. The band was fighting against a fortress and yet, it remained serene, sure of it's convictions. We walked in Hyde Park and spoke about meditation. Tim bent down to the lawn and picked up a conker. He gave it to me in sucha serious manner. I kept it, without understanding, once more, why.

Since then Manchester has exploded again. James have become a large family and have written the sound track of precious memories. The conker has become a chestnut tree, proud, oblivious to changing winds, a mixture of rustic grace and sturdiness. It could well be my symbol of James.

DAVE HASLAM

There have been plenty of highlights since I first saw the James gang in action; among them, seeing them at a packed Hacienda supporting The Smiths (they certainly don't let the club get so full, so bursting, these days), and witnessing a stage invasion and subsequent mayhem when they played in Leeds with The Bodines at some poxy niterie four years ago.

 Live they've seemed better than on record; crushed black vinyl never really captured the frenetic energy of the early years. Sometimes, too, listening to songs at home in the cold light of day brought a few flaws into focus; the frequent rhythmic obscurity, for instance, and Tim's tendency to descend into a kind of self-parody, also. But they've never wanted to sound like anyone else, which is rare, if you think how hugely some bands are influenced by others.

Favourite songs include; 'Medieval', 'Why So Close', 'Scarecrow', 'Hang On', 'Really Hard', and 'Come Home'

It's only when you have had close contact with the business side of the music business (which, to my misfortune, I have), that you realise just how important that panoply of press officers, pluggers, remixers, promotions departments, accountants, and label managers really is. For a band, it's the difference between poverty and glory. Of course, some bands don't deserve success, and eventually, somehow, even a band entirely without friends or money do get recognition. If they're important enough. With James you could always sense that given thj right structure to support them, they could go mighty high. But they've changed labels too often. It's sad, because some of their best work remains buried in the back catalogue. But there you go.

Once, on a demo protesting at Reagan's airstrike against Libya, launched from British bases, I walked round Manchester city centre in unarticulated incomprehension of America's fatal aggression. As you do, I just got depressed, becoming more convinced, the further I wandered, that walking around Manchester was not going to much to knock the fools off their pedestals. But, on coming to Albert Square, I saw the James boys set up their gear, take a short (like ten seconds!) soundcheck, and break into 'Why So Close' The moment articulated so much that I felt, the performance was so powerful, that I reckon I'd have walked a hundred miles for that.