Be-Bop Deluxe
Drastic Plastic

SUMMER IS HEAVEN IN SEVENTY-SEVEN........

Thus Marc Bolan sang joyfully under the August sun, celebrating that summer with his new single, a musically blazing summer in the British Music-Biz, a change to be celebrated, and not even the death of Elvis on the 16th of the month could stop the London Party, with the sound of No Future, White Riot, and swastikas worn as mourning bands, borrowed from Bowie's visions broadcasting live from East Berlin.

But Bolan was not a Central European visionary, perhaps a minstrel who went to quench his thirst in the Mississippi Delta, receiving Bessie Smith's blessing, then hitchhiking to Woodstock, and returning home just in time not to miss the boarding for the Isle of Wight. The link with the Punk Generation, and his great stroke of genius, was knowing how to reinvent Rock'n'Roll, making it shine with his smile even before "all those glitters," and feeding it to children and teenagers, the very ones who, six years later, began to clear away the 20-minute suites with baroque and sci-fi graphics, ready to exterminate the great reptiles still in circulation.

Fate decreed that, again on the 16th, just one month after Elvis, Bolan ended his days crashing a Mini into a tree: thus England also had its tragedy, while many of those dinosaurs fled hastily with suitcases in hand, destination USA. This explains the billion-dollar operations of those who preferred to have their Breakfast in America, or those who casually transported Baker Street to 5th Avenue, not to mention the Anglo-American partnerships designed to refill the suitcases (this time with dollars), in the case of the unrecognizable Fleetwood Mac or the second-class reformed Foreigner, in name and in fact.

Bowie remained the only one to show the way, certain that even Punk had to evolve quickly sensing its Waterloo, but the most startling thing is that there was no band that could do the same. Roxy Music spent a kind of forced hibernation, an unofficial break-up, with their first Greatest Hits slyly released in '77 to keep their flag high, and nothing more.

There exists a secret still well kept that personally dates back to that 1977 when a large Rock Encyclopedia by Nick Logan and Bob Woffinden, translated and published in Italy, arrived at my house. Of many names, I was completely unaware, others intrigued me by their bizarre names, and I found Be-Bop Deluxe to be something interesting, but for a long time I couldn't find any of their records, and no one knew them.

In 1983 a copy of Drastic Plastic ended up in my hands in an old record store turned car stereo dealership: I gave a big smile and took it home, never imagining that it could be an idyll born there and arriving intact to this day.

After more than three decades, the reasons for writing this review have been my research on the web to confirm that it was not just my own long-standing conviction, and then one day, browsing the blog "Julian Cope Presents....", that cover reappears to me as if by magic and its content finally gives me that long-awaited answer.

In 1977 the band of virtuoso guitarist Bill Nelson had already released five albums and had a reputation for a chameleon-like sound, what was labeled as Art Rock in the absence of a better term, and in their case absorbed with ease Hard Rock, Progressive, Glam without the pomp of Queen or the campy coolness of Roxy. But it takes equal intelligence not only to keep up with the times without seeming like old Valentinos dressed in new clothes, but also to make an album recorded six years prior sound perfectly current in 1983, and for an English band, this is a very well-hidden record even today, and never minimally celebrated.

Nelson's infatuation with artistic purity, that art seen as a hammer and not as a mirror, borrowed from his unconditional love for his inspirational hero Jean Cocteau, takes hold of a modern television screen to wear on your head, and the band records the album naturally that summer in a residence on the French Riviera, a castle where Cocteau himself stayed, maintaining the production of the three previous albums with John Leckie, who shortly thereafter would end up in the studio with XTC for their 33 rpm debut, in '78 for Magazine's debut, and in '79 for Simple Minds'. All of them, as I soon realized, owe much to this album.

The role of the keyboards for the first time keeps pace with the guitar, Andy Clark acquires a brand new Polymoog, and it is the first sound to come out of the grooves, a syncopated robot speaking to us through an Electrical Language, inviting us to discover its world and listen to its beat " Turn up the rhythm and you'll pick up the beat," a beat that becomes martial in New Precision, a Devo-lution intro before the band from Akron showed themselves to the world, Nelson, amid sudden breaks and heated solos dictated by the Mediterranean influences of the location, prepares us for an apocalyptic loop finale, a metamorphosis of the human race towards the ocean depths " The world is closing down, Now is the dying season, Let's walk into the sea...", A decadence swept away from the sea-view terrace of Surreal Estate, Pop-Art of rare elegance and from the first listen brought me back to the ranks of Generals and Majors with that crazy desire to whistle to the sound of hooks (Dear Partridge and Moulding, how much did this little gem inspire you?). But were we not speaking of Punk? Is it Punk 77 you want? Two chords only two for the assault of Love in Flames, with an anthology guitar break just teased by a Vox Continental Organ, and with lyrics that exude lust and a desperate longing " I want to be your mystic, I want to be your gypsy, I want to be your target, anytime you want to hit me". These are just a few episodes of a fun, multifaceted work with witty and irreverent lyrics, and where entirely unexpected scraps emerge such as the masterpiece for acoustic guitar Visions of Endless Hopes, deliberately recorded outdoors and in which you can really feel the warm and enveloping rays of light. A sort of tribute to the carefree Bolan in the infectious Dangerous Stranger and the schizophrenic pre-Cardiacs rhythm of Superenigmatix make it all a concentrated mix of variety and musical vision almost complete, and this explains its absolute value, and the influence to come for new generations of musicians.

Bill Nelson, despite a prolific solo career like few others, and historic collaborations (Gary Numan, Yellow Magic Orchestra, David Sylvian), remains an unsolved mystery. A guitarist among my favorites, with unmistakable style and technique, a singer with evocative tones, he will close the Be-Bop Deluxe chapter here, opening the ephemeral but important chapter of Bill Nelson's Red Noise. Perhaps someday I will introduce it to you.