The Style Council
Introducing the Style Council

If while traveling in the southern Albion, you arrive (taking a wrong turn, there's no other reason) in Woking and the hours spent behind the wheel, teamed with the scrotum crushed by 80 kg of unexpected, naive last-minute explorer, whisper to you "damn, stop now," well, you might visit the famou... erm the grand... the futuristic tripod by Michael Condron, then the McLaren stables, the English countryside complete with a reasonable number of sheep (according to agreements with postcard designers) and then nothing more.

If, on the other hand, you were born in Woking, you might spend happy hours in the square admiring the futuristic tripod by Michael Condron, visiting the McLaren stables from time to time, taking a walk in the English countryside, and in case of insomnia, counting sheep. And then... and then nothing more; unless your name is John William Paul and having had enough of the futuristic, the tripod, Michael Condron, the stables, and the bleating sheep that dot the English countryside and you even find them on postcards grinding your 'glaces', you decide to start a RRockBend.

We are in the mid-'70s. Malcolm McLaren takes apart and reassembles the Sex Pistols as if they were Lego, and a certain Joe Strummer has put together a very promising band. The Jam crash onto the punk scene with the same effect as a propellant in the midst of a fire. All is well if it weren't that the Woking combo loves the Kinks and the 'generation' of the Who, and I absolutely cannot imagine Townshend with long hair slicked and styled with fish glue.

Weller, on the other hand, can. And so can his Rickenbacker. And so too can a million people who take to worshiping them. Thus they spend seven years between incendiary pieces that will write history, with some seeing them as a punk band and a host of other big shots placing their sound between mod with parkas, rock with a sprinkle of pop, pop with a sprinkle of rock, rock pop with a sprinkle of pop rock, which doesn't disdain a handful of mods with or without parkas... ... ... the Jam break up. There remains still a pinch of deranged souls divided still between rock, pop, mod, punk, skank, while Weller veers towards soul-jazz-pop-sophisti-pop. "For god's sake, do you do it on purpose? Stop for a while." Not even to mention it.

Ladies and gentlemen "The Style Council"!
Or: the lad with the "baby-bottom" skin and the good giant with velvet fingers. The mind and the arm (mighty and talented); The roles come to full definition some years later, on the rugged Dorset coasts when patient Mick, flustered and equipped with a heavy bag, chases after a lanky Paul 'crazypainter', often bored, who in moments of euphoria has fun shouting "Wolf! Wolf!".

No more trace of sheep. Nor tripods. Only jazz, outdoor cafes, and bateau-mouche. Weller has thrown his combat boots into the Seine, taken Talbot, the giant, by the arm, and headed to 42 rue des I°arrondissement, straight towards the Duc des Lombards. Fully embracing the new Paul, an adopted son of the 'City of Light', impeccable in his precise, disciplined look. Except for that necklace on the black turtleneck sweater, which just can't be unseen. They are artists, what can you do.

1983. The Style Council present themselves to the world with "Introducing: The Style Council". Some admirers of the early Weller buy the album. They listen to the album. Lift the needle from the record. Make the record fly. Among the sheep in the English countryside.

Yet there is a reason in the grooves of the first work with the Talbot-tone. Loads of sophistication, whether you like it or not. And inspiration passing from those early listens of young Paul, marked by Motown. The rhythms slow down, so do the lights and the pressure. The heartbeat. Everything flows sweet and slow. The stylish "Long Hot Summer" with the distinct and sober bassline, the pastel-colored pop of "Speak Like A Child", the incredible "The Paris Match" (in the 50% version, those who know know why), the semi-acoustic ballad "Headstart For Happiness". Talbot's magic touch, the long walks along the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. The endless combinations of 88 black and white keys and the aroma spreading in cafes with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Paul's sighed singing, bistros and the Eiffel Tower. Saint-Germain and the Eiffel Tower. Montmartre and the Eiffel Tower. The Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower. The Eiffel Tower and the, ehmm... Eiffel Tower. Damn, how I miss the sheep.

Weller, chameleonic genius, had understood the right moment to hang the studded jacket on the wall and slip into a soft tweed jacket. Still today, away from SC, he continues to exude charm and UK-style from every pore, almost bordering on suspicions of (ultra) 'nationalist' nature.

"Introducing: The Style Council" is not a Krug Clos d’Ambonnay from 1995 but an honest, pleasant Vermouth that had the merit of paving the way for the masterpiece of the following year. After all, they invented the match before the lighter.

Greetings from Woking! (beee, bee.... beeee)