CD
2 -- TWO OUNCES OF PLASTIC WITH A HOLE IN THE MIDDLEEngineers -- Alan Florence, Brian Humphries, Howard Barrow
Sound Effects -- Malcolm Eade
Recorded at the Langland hotel (Swansea) and at Pye Studios (London)
All songs published by Carlin Music
Liner Notes by
Deke Leonard:There was little ice-breaking to be done. We were old friends: we'd played the same Welsh gig-circuit for the last five years and shared many a curry. No auditions had been necessary, they knew what they were getting. They were Ray Williams, the bass player, Jeff Jones, the drummer, Clive John on keyboards, and Micky Jones, guitar player. And they all sang like angels.
I was Vic Oakley's replacement. Six months earlier, by mutual consent, Vic, their singer, had left the band. The Bystanders, like the Dream, had embraced psychedelia with glee but Vic, a singer in the classical sense -- like Ray Charles is a singer -- found that there wasn't much room for what he excelled in.
Ray, acting spokesman, sadi that they were fed up doing covers. From now on they were only going to do original material, they had played their last nightclub gig and they were never going to do another single. They were going to make an album. Pye, their record company, had agreed to it.
John Schroeder, their producer, had signed the Bystanders to the label and produced a series of singles. Some got close. A cover version of an American hit called '98.6' got heavy airplay but was pipped when the Americans had the temerity to release the original recording. Another, 'When Jasamine Goes', later became a hit for the Casuals, who stole the Bystanders' arrangement note for bloody note.
We were going to play two nights at the Langland Bay Hotel in Swansea, to be recorded by the Pye Mobile and used as the foundations of the album. We would then take the tapes to Pye Studios in London for overdubs and mixing. it had been John Schroeders idea. His rationale was inpeccable. As it was our first album, he thought we would feel more comfortable playing the new songs in front of a hometown audience rather than in a cold, impersonal studio.
The album had a loose concept -- the word still makes me shudder -- that modestly entailed covering all the aspects of existence, from primordial soup to the conquest of space. Along the way, we would cover the nature of time; the structures of societies; the innocence of childhood; the rites, and wrongs, of passage; the pursuit of the dream and the corroding effects of reality; the death of idealism and the rebirth of hope; if it didn't fit, we crowbared it in.
We had recorded a jam at the Langland Bay. It was good and we wanted to use it, but we didn't know where it fitted in. We decided to eroticise it. Why don't we get a girl to make orgasmic noises over it? The result was 'Erotica', a big hit single in France though it wasn't released here.
As we approached the end of recording, we decided we needed a little magnifoquence. We called for the company boffin and doused the whole album in sound effects. I particularly enjoy the Apollo Space Programme ending, where a voice says 'I can see the lights of Rockingham below.' I like to think that it's Alan Shepard but i've got a feeling it's probably poxy John Glenn.
Somewhere along the way we decided, without a trace of irony, to call the album 'Revelation'. The album cover -- my idea, I'm afraid -- was to have us standing naked in a desert landscape on the front, and dressed in a city streat on the back. The photos went off to Pye but, by the time my idea had been filtered through the art department, the front cover, which was all dry-ice and no desert, looked like an album of rugby songs. This little niggle apart, we were delighted with the album. At least, I had made it onto the musical map.
By New year's Day 1969, we were back in our South London flat writing te next album. We were monomaniacal. We'd play all day and drop acid at night. We were listening to Zappa, Beefheart, Steve Miller, Hendrix and the occasional Quicksilver.
The highlight of the next album, for me, came during the mixing of 'Spunk Rock'. We were listening to a playback. I had my head down on my forearms, leaning against the end of the console. A rustling noise made me look up and there, standing at the other end, was Sid James. My first thought was, 'Wow, this is good acid' -- but there was no denying it, it really was the great man, here to interview us for a radio show.
We decided to call the album 'Two Ounces of Plastic (With A Hole In
The Middle)' by default. Nobody really liked it, but we couldn't
think of anything better. We sent the label copy to Pye and all hell
broke loose. The wouldn't accetp 'Spunk Rock'. They didn't
mind 'Rock' but 'Spunk' was an absolute no-no. Neither would they
accept 'Shit On The World' -- one of Clive's finest moments, a magnificent
assault on the principle of authority. He phoned them up and shouted
at them, but to no avail. They were adamant. No 'Spunk Rock'.
'Call it what you like,' said Clive, exasperated, but offered no alternative.
'What about "Shit On The World"?' They asked. 'It is as it must be,'
he said, and slammed the phone down. When we finally saw the cover,
we read the tracklisting with interest. 'Spunk Rock' was now called
'Spunk Box' -- the prats had changed the wrong bit -- and 'Shit On The
World' was called 'It Is As It Must Be'. Our days with Pye were numbered.
Half way through the mixing of 'Two Ounces of Plastic' I handed in my notice.
I'm sorry, I said, but circumstances demanded it. Family troubles.
It was agreed that I would do an upcoming Marquee gig, then leave.
I really didn't want to go. With my usual impeccable timing I had
left just as the band's fortunes were on the up.
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