Everett True

Song of the day – 245: Clock DVA

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Best fucking seven-inch of 1981? You tell me.

I was reminded of this song recently when, at a Deadnotes practice, Leighton began playing his clarinet with vigour and anarchic clarity. There was something about the sudden squalls of dissonance. The atmosphere. Edgy. The intent. Menace. Of course, none of the Deadnotes knew who I was referring to, when I mentioned them afterwards. The lyrics were half-lifted in tribute to my former punk/London musicians collective band, Fixed Grin – and I threw in an oblique reference to the following song. I dunno. It could be lifted direct from one of the Shend’s darker nightmares, particularly in The Cravats. It’s from the same time period. Everything was hidden and dangerous in the shadows. It seems like those times are returning in my former home country, led on by a government who figure it’s better to lead by fear and division, rather than inspiration.

I saw the group that Clock DVA splintered into – The Box – a couple of times, and they were brutal. Not Clock DVA themselves. Shame. Mind, they travelled that weird aggression-toned-down dance path that several others did, to varying degrees of success.

Here’s the Deadnotes song. Not that similar after all. Them’s the breaks.

P.S. It would be a contender for the best fucking single of 1981, if it wasn’t for the totally crap ending. Sigh.

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