It’s A Sin

The release of ‘It’s A Sin’ from the second album by Pet Shop Boys marked the start of their self proclaimed ‘imperial’ phase. They’d entered that period of time when it seemed they could do no wrong. Of course, it went to number one, having been released on 15 June 1987. It seems so long ago now.

The song opens with a sample of a rocket launch countdown, typically fitting for such an overblown production. Everything seems to be thrown at it. The video, directed by Derek Jarman, is equally as arresting. The lyrical themes of the song find direct interpretation as Tennant finds himself in the role of sinner, Lowe as that of his inquisitor.

It is clearly about the perception of rights and wrongs, and it indirectly speaks to the question of how to be a gay man in Thatcher’s Britain. The Catholic Church is never too far away either. The guidance it offers has been of little use as the bridge opens: ‘Father forgive me/I tried not to do it/Turned over a new leaf/Then tore right through it’.

But it is, perhaps, in the strident verses that the full effect of the vocal takes flight: ‘At school they taught me how to be/So pure in thought and word and deed/They didn’t quite succeed.’ As the video outlines, this is hell and there is no escape: ‘Everything I’ve ever done/Everything I ever do/Every place I’ve ever been/Everywhere I’m going to/It’s a sin’.

The song doesn’t reference AIDS; that will be left to the most lyrically complex song on the album. ‘It Couldn’t Happen Here’ is that particular story; a song so beautiful in its orchestration and programming that, some thirty three years after I first heard it, can still reduce me to tears. It’s not sentimental; it’s just the price some people paid for love.

The coda of ‘It’s A Sin’ has Tennant reciting the Confiteor in Latin. He’s occasionally talked about the theatricality of the Catholic Mass, the language, the rituals, the rhythm. The confession to God and the acceptance of fault, and the child Tennant as Altar Boy is finally left behind as the song, bookended as it is by the rocket launch reaches its climax with the sampled ‘zero’. Make of that image what you will. 

I haven’t seen the Channel 4 series of the same name yet. It’s had some great reviews. Lots of it was shot in Bolton and, of course, it inhabits the same themes as the song. Olly Alexander of Years and Years, who also plays Ritchie Tozer in the series, has recorded a lovely version of ‘It’s a Sin’ too. Gone is the theatricality. The vocal just lifts and lilts, never really pushing, never over-reaching. The lyrics are haunting and within the start, there is a sense of a conclusion. Devoid of the original production values, it sounds like a song to which we already know the ending: ‘When I look back upon my life/It’s always with a sense of shame/I’ve always been the one to blame.’

Burning the heather

I’m no longer consumed by dark nights in which I’d wake sweating in panic while wondering where it’s all going. Words help.

I am at the Doctor’s surgery. It’s full. Monday morning full.

I’m not here for myself, though. I’m here with my youngest who has a raging temperature, a rash, and most worryingly, is periodically struggling to breathe properly. He needs an inhaler to help him. He needs something stronger than Calpol to bring his temperature down, and I need to know he’s OK.

He rocks gently to and fro on his chair. A much older man is seated to my right. He too sounds like he needs help with his breathing: he rasps noisily and I repeatedly suppress the urge to cough on his behalf. Sat in the order that we are we look like a living, breathing, aching, wheezing timeline. Stuck as I am in the middle, I can’t help but think to myself that I’m not as young as I once was, nor as old as I could be. I’m immediately embarrassed by the banality of what I’m thinking.

Perhaps it’s all the fault of the Pet Shop Boys that I’m being overly reflective. They have a new album out in January and, by the sound of their newly released track ‘Burning the heather’ they could well be back to their lyrically mature and sombre best. Suede’s Bernard Butler plays guitar and Stuart Price’s production is subtle, almost muted. It’s certainly lacks the banging quality of the last two albums, which if I’m honest, is no bad thing. I’ve always wallowed in the beautifully engineered tracks of 1990’s Behaviour, while 2012’s Elysium saw me stop more than once while driving to cry with the sheer unbearable weight of grief.

My life isn’t shot through with the pain of loss anymore. I’ve accepted the fact that ‘autumn is here and time’s moving along’. I’m no longer consumed by dark nights in which I’d wake sweating in panic while wondering where it’s all going. Words help. The persona in the coda of the song finds that he’ll ‘consider staying’. I’m glad that I did too.

Pure shores

Predictably enough, I read Alex Garland’s novel The Beach in Greece some 22 years ago. When Danny Boyle’s adaptation hit the screens any excitement I had at watching it soon disappeared that wet Sunday afternoon in Bolton. Even Virginie Ledoyen couldn’t really warm it up. Where the novel sweltered its way towards the secret mythical beach, the film seemed stilted and contrived.

The soundtrack is a different matter. It’s an eclectic mix of early naughties: from Moby to Blur via Richard Ashcroft. Brian Eno and Angelo Badalamenti feature along the way. The highlight is All Saints’ track ‘Pure Shores’. With William Orbit arranging the vocals, the harmonies journey through deserts and along shores ‘to a place I can call mine’. Lovely.

A constant theme of pop music is the escaping from an urban environment. ‘Pure Shores’ reminds us that when pop does it well, we travel through sonic landscapes as moving as their physical counterparts.