From The Face
No 25 / October 1990

After one chart hit, The Charlatans are poised on the fringe of either stardom or obscurity. They may be better mannered than Happy Mondays and cuter than the Stone Roses, but will their new single, "Then", give them the same staying power?

The current independent pop boom owes a lot to the assistance of the pop media. The independent bands (for 'independent, read trippy melodies, Funky Drummer" loops, long hair and voluminous trousers) still jive in the vain hope of a good review in NME, a favourable nod from Melody Maker, or a friend at Sounds who writes with scant regard for the English language about how they are Manchester/non-Manchester influenced, Sixties or non-Sixties obsessed, about whether their organ was manufactured by Hammond or Farfisa. Minor points of interest to you, but, as Sid James might have said, if your organ's not good enough, you'll never make the cover.

The music industry is so lazy and so out of touch it waits to be told what to do and how much to spend. It's almost mathematical. Two good live reviews mean you can expect a telephone call from the desperate record company hoping to find the last Happy Mondays in the shop. An unexpected in-depth interview and you can name your price. Tell them you have cousins who live in Manchester and a representative from the record company will be out of Euston on the 8.15. A front cover and you will need to get your telephone disconnected in order to make time to consider how to split a six figure sum between four thin boys in Joe Bloggs clothing and a Hammond organ. The rock press has never been so powerful - and the interview process is at the heart of it. New groups must be prepared to cuss post-"Sympathy For The Devil" Rolling Stones for being old, talk about how pop music began when Jimi Hendrix played his first guitar solo, and mention a passion for old school trainers and Thursday nights at the Hacienda.

Tim Burgess is the singer with The Charlatans and he's up there with Shaun Ryder and Saddam Hussein as the face most likely to assault you on a visit to the newsagents. He exists as a set of lips and a haircut and he understands all this. There are few people I've talked to with a better understanding of the importance of combining cheek, humour, eccentricity, personal detail, controversiality and the appearance of intellectual depth when talking to a tape recorder.

Tim grew up listening to the groups who emerged from Liverpool in 1979 and 1980. Realising I'm older than him, he asks if I saw people like Echo And The Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes and OMD at the legendary punk club Eric's in Liverpool. Being less than ten years old then, his memories of the time are different to mine. "I remember swapping a skateboard in me mate's shed for a 12-inch copy of Echo And The Bunnymen's 'Rescue'. I remember miming to the Buzzcocks with me tennis racquet in front of the mirror. Nobody talks about tennis racquets anymore, do they?"

If the northern rock uprising needs a Julian Cope, then Tim is waiting. He's obviously read all those interviews where Julian talks about feeling like a city centre. Tim is living out a rock fantasy. He is Pete Wylie talking to Ian Penman; Julian Cope talking to Paul Morley. He is having the time of his life. The only thing that troubles him is that Eric's closed years ago and The Charlatans will never play there.

People have called you a sex symbol, Tim, though I find it hard to see myself. "I can't see it either. I didn't know big lips were that sexy. I've always had big lips. Still, somebody has to do it. It might as well be me as Shaky...

Martin Blunt is the bass player. Tim calls him Mart. Mart is here chiefly to keep an eye on Tim so that Tim doesn't say things he shouldn't. Tim is good to talk to. He doesn't want to stop. Being a media junkie, he asks all the right questions: "How big is the piece?" After over two hours of conversation, the fun has just begun. "Are you sure you've got enough?"
Each time Tim says something like "The Rolling Stones are just a shower of old wankers", Mart inhales and pulls on the lead. This is what Tim says when Mart goes to get the round: "I went to see Prince the other night. It was the first gig I'd seen outside of a dirty little club and it bored me shitless. He's crap. He's nothing compared to us, For some people he creates an aura. For me, he did fuck all.'

Tim starts to tell me how the pressure of recording a single to equal the considerable chart success of their first (relatively) major label release, "The Only One I Know", has led to some tension between the band members while recording. "We throw wobblers, don't we Mart?" says Tim in full flow after his third bottle of lager. Mart is silent. I accuse him of being over-cautious after he tries to quash the debate over whether The Charlatans should appear on Top Of The Pops. Tim who doesn't want to - sees it as a point of principle. Mart doesn't want to upset anyone. Convinced that this is a matter of national security, he asks me not to put the slightly heated exchange in print. After responding to another question with a reply along the lines of "It's all about music, that's all", he falls into a kind of sulk while Tim pisses behind the bushes. "Journalists," he offers. "are not to be trusted."

Perhaps it's just a question of pre-album tension. Perhaps I should count myself lucky that Mart, who turns out to be more than likeable once the tape is switched off, turned up at all.
The Charlatans are recording in a studio tucked away in the hills of North Wales, The album will be called 'Some Friendly" after a series of bizarre working titles like "Fuck Over". "You're Not Very Well" and "Looking For The Orange One". The latter is a line taken from a Charlatans song which goes, "Life's a bag of Revels and I'm looking for the orange one." Perhaps they've found it.

The scenery is beautiful, but after a while, they claim, the greenery begins to mess with your sanity. At the pub down the track where the locals drink, most of the people are still wearing flares from the first time around. "There's nothing to do around here but drink," says Mart, tackling the froth on his pint of Beamish. "It'd be all right for The Waterboys or Hothouse Flowers. They could get their guitars out and have a sing song with the locals. They just look at us like we've arrived from another planet. No offence to those groups, like."

The rest of The Charlatans are recording today. Back at the studio their sense of mistrust is so great they find it hard to raise their heads high enough to acknowledge me as they breeze past to have their pictures taken. Jon Brookes, the drummer, later starts talking when I assure him it isn't for the interview.

I went to see Prince the other night. It was the first gig I'd seen outside a dirty little club and it bored me shitless. He's crap. He's nothing compared to us".

The Charlatans appear to have arrived from nowhere, but they've been together for over two years. Those aware of their "Indian Rope" on the band's own Dead Good Records label will know that they have every right to be standing alongside the big three from Manchester - Stone Roses. Happy Mondays and Inspiral Carpets. Line-up changes have been frequent. During the last shuffle they discovered Tim, who, with typical modesty, told them he could do the job better than their previous singer, Most of the group are from the West Midlands. Tim hails from Northwich, a town that belongs to neither Liverpool or Manchester, stuck on the side of the M6 motorway.

The group are now based in Northwich, because their manager, Steve Hanson, works from a record shop there. Steve is central to The Charlatans story. Mart would write to his indie mail-order service in search of rare American independent releases and Steve and Mart developed a taste for Northern soul and would go to all-nighters in the area. If I was in the right mood, I might try to develop some ridiculous link between the music of The Charlatans and Northern soul. Instead I'll tell you that The Charlatans are a pop group who happen to have landed near Manchester.

Tim says they are the biggest group in Northwich and describes their music as "The Northwich Sound". He laughs. Mart frowns. "The Beatles played in Northwich," says Tim. "So did the Stones, but not in my lifetime. The last group to play there before us was Dead Or Alive. They played at the Northwich Memorial Hall. I was 15 then." More seriously, he points to the importance of the north-west in British rock music. He gets nostalgic talking about The Fall, OMD. Joy Division and New Order, despite the fact he was probably at junior school the day Mark E. Smith first scowled at a microphone.

People talk about Manchester, but it's not about Manchester," says Tim. "It's about the north-west. All of it. There must be something in the water. I drink loads of it, just in case."
Tim pushes his fringe out of his eyes but it falls right back. He drags hard on his fag, not meaning to pose. The effect is the same. Tim is the visual focus. It's hard to believe that the man largely responsible for the group being described by one over-excited observer as "the shaggable Charlatans" was once a bald punk. With Mart here, it's a difficult subject to broach, but in the current climate it's clear that The Charlatans' classic indie haircuts from squaddie crop to shaggy dog - and their pastel T-shirts and training shoes are important. Four years ago, white English boys playing guitars would have baulked at spending five pounds on a second-hand duffle coat. Now they're in the casual grip of The Duffer Of St George.

"I've always wanted to look the best," says Tim. "I went to Germany for me trainers." He points at his grotesque British Knight moon boots. "I go to Millets now and again," says Mart, at last entering into the spirit of our conversation. "We wear camping gear all the time," says Tim. "We walk around in sleeping bags all the time, don't we Mart?" Mart doesn't respond. Tim shifts in his chair and pushes his hair out of his eyes again. Mart goes up to buy another round of drinks. He returns and places a new bottle in front of Tim, hair back in his eyes. "Brilliant," says the singer, with the same amount of ridiculous enthusiasm he has for everything from the films of Ken Russell to the guitar playing of Mick Jones, from the day he and Mart spent looking at castle ruins close to the studio to time spent with his mum back in Northwich.

Unable to keep still, he leans forward and sits back time and again. "I'm going back next week to see my mum. Fucking brilliant! I'm sick of all this recording and being in a group. It just gets unreal. I'm going to do normal things like tidying my bedroom, Me mum will be talking about her holiday in Spain, going on and on about it. I can catch up on all the gossip. She tells me who's carrying on with who and all that local gossip. Fucking brilliant!"

Perhaps Tim knows that this kind of honesty and the idea that he just could be one of us (despite the fact his face has been in the NME 500 weeks running) is enough to win over even the hardest hack. What really impresses, however, is how, after almost two solid hours of Anglo-Saxon Fs, Bs. and Cs, the man on the table opposite decides he has had enough and in his best macho voice asks Tim to stop swearing in front of his wife. The singer meekly apologises and drops his head in shame.

Perhaps Mart is aware that the rest of the band could become mere shadows if Tim continues to monopolise. If Julian Cope was a star, then Tim certainly qualifies. Mart doesn't really help by trying to wring the controversy out of any topic. He talks about the media as if there is a sinister thread that links us all, from the Beano to the New Statesman. Tim just has fun: "I say whatever comes into me head and worry about it later." He claims to be an ex-brickies' mate. 'I couldn't carry the bricks, though. They sacked me for bringing them up one at a time." He tells me about his lyrics. "I just write them about ordinary things, things that make me laugh, things that make me sad. Just the kind of things that anyone with a basic secondary school education would worry about."

We talk about their music and Tim comes up with a long list of reference points. Mart isn't happy being associated with anybody. "We're just ... The Charlatans," he says helpfully. But at least the conversation is going his way. "It's all about music though, isn't it?"  Well that's half the story. Mart

John McCready heir music and Tim comes up with a long list of reference points. Mart isn't happy being associated with anybody. "We're just ... The Charlatans," he says helpfully. But at least the conversation is going his way. "It's all about music though, isn't it?"
Well that's half the story. Mart