At the ugly fag end of the 80s, just before the recession kicked in, someone with a cultural budget to burn thought that it would be useful to hold a French Rock Week in the sticky floored pay-to-play shit holes that then passed for a London club circuit. 

A friend struggling to make an honest woman of herself in the a&r department of one of the crappier major labels invited me along to what was allegedly the key night of this extravaganza of Le Rock Parisienne.

For those either not there or justly refusing to pay attention these years were a spectacularly miserable period for major label stupidity. Either throwing silly money at unutterable garbage or spending mind boggling budgets to secure career ending novelty hits for the likes of Fuzzbox and Screaming Blue Messiahs. Records by acts with literaly no audience getting the five-format single treatment. 

When it came to records from outside the US / UK axis, if the band in question had ever either had a pint with Billy Bragg or supported Robyn Hitchcock on their home turf then there was a good chance that the International department of a major would make them a two week priority. 

This would involve flying them over to London for the ubiquitous Borderline showcase, a few nights in the Averard or Colombia, a Soho dinner with bored junior execs and a Whats On interview before sending them back to the clubs of Manitoba or Queensland their carefully managed unrecouped balance, tended by endless touring in their own country, now hammered beyond repair. There would be little else to show for it beyond a souvenir beer mat nicked from the Princess Charlotte and a down page live review in Record Mirror.

So, much as I loved the poetic and romantic French approach to rock and roll that could hold Coltrane, Iggy, The Pop Group, Burning Spear, early ZZ Top and the whole noble idea of the picture sleeve ep in suitably high esteem, this night in some Islington drinking hole did not hold out any great promise. I had heard Telephone. 

And then they arrived — a gang of cartoon Starship crewmen with a look somewhere bewteen MC5 (the singer defnitely had a(n) (a)cute case of Tyner worship) and early J Geils (before they turned into Aerosmith play Rockpile) with a dollop of midland Pomp silliness. The most un-LA looking, Detroitified rock and rollers I had seen for quite some time. 

They took one look at an empty pub back room, spat on the floor and ploughed through a break neck set of callous but loveable garage band anthems. Great, short, spiky, hilarious songs which while built on a solid axis of ‘High Times’ and ‘Brain Capers’ also borrowed from ‘Demons and Wizards’, ‘Complete Control’, ‘In Rock’, ‘Grand Funk Live’ and ‘Deuce’ (Rory not Gene and Ace) with reckless abandon and often within the same eight bars. Instant classics each and every one. The solos happened at the same time as the singing and everyone soloed at once. You figured that these boys spent a lot of time bitterly fighting each other out of a profound sense of brotherly love. 

Had it been 1974 they would have been buried on Vertigo with the likes of Tea — the Swiss / Armenian Deep Purple — but this was the shoegazing late 80s and here was a band for whom a little gum on their boots was clearly a serious (and silly) business. 

I was in love. 

My a&r friend was thrilled but unimpressed by the odds of getting them past people who thought Ride and Lush were a good idea. PWEI, Underneath What (anaemic Cat Scratch Fever era Ted Nugent with a pair of pseudo Ashetons as a rhythm section) and Gaye Bykers had already siphoned off as much major label dough as was likely to land in the laps of bands with a lust for disorder and only a passing acquaintance with carriers of the art denying careerist gene.

After their set I got a copy of the self titled debut record, gushed inanely to their manager about how huge they deserved to be and went straight home to relive the experience. 

To be frank the record was a wee bit disappointing, the equivalent of a shakey poloroid taken in the midst of a memorable, but chemically obliterated good time. The humour, the Lou Martin / Vincent Crane keyboard axis, the pomp gurning, teeth grinding, glam pouting, howling Motor City rage were all there intact (if veiled) but the moment had passed. 

Still, if you ever see a copy of their debut (and possibly only) record it is a stomping glam hoot of Strummer / Hunter snarling humanism, uxorious love songs and paens to the humble escalator.