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Richard Hawley’s ‘Coles Corner’ arrived like a ribbon tied round an old oak tree, captivating an audience willing to be at odds with the music scene.
Here’s to the romantics of the world, the people still on the hunt for true love in pursuit of total happiness and eventually finding ‘the one’.
Most of us would find that sentiment hackneyed, but as if invited by the true believers themselves, twenty years ago Richard Hawley’s third solo album had a bygone, uber retro sort of vibe which prized antiquity and set down roots in the very antecedents of what became pop.
It was no surprise that the singer had a less than straightforward background; born in Sheffield with a cleft palate and a hare lip, his father was in a local house band who played with the likes of Memphis Slim, John Lee Hooker and Brownie McGee.
A precocious talent, after forming John Peel favourites Treebound Story he subsequently joined Longpigs, much touted as Britpop’s next big thing but whose record label folded the day before their second album was released.
Along then to the rescue came Jarvis Cocker by offering a role in Pulp as the band toured This Is Hardcore; constantly mithered by the bespectacled frontman, Richard Hawley eventually turned a series of demos into what would become Late Night Final, released in 2001.
Four years later, Coles Corner arrived like a ribbon tied round an old oak tree. Named after a popular meeting place for lovers outside a department store in his home city, it captivated an audience willing to be at odds with a music scene full of sulky New York punk rawkers and gloomy synth pop merchants.
Richard Hawley’s most obvious problem was avoiding accusations of novelty, but the titular opening track was a work of doubt-dispelling genius, a gorgeous, cardigan wearing tale of longing and loneliness padded by strings, sorrowful piano and an elegant, world-weary croon. There was no going back to skinny jeans from here.
It shouldn’t have worked. The chintzy doo-wop of Hotel Room could’ve come straight from The Enchantment Under The Sea dance, its tremolo-soaked guitar twang apparently lifted direct from The Shadows’ Sleepwalk, with The Shads’ Hank Marvin making an appearance himself as part of the extras here via the instrumental I’m Hank Marvin.
It would’ve been impossible to attempt this with a poker face; Born Under A Bad Sign for instance opens with the lines, ‘What are you like/You’ve had a right life’, then uncurls sumptuously, a cover of Albert King’s classic blues number turned into pipe and slippers
admonishment.
Darlin’ Wait For Me by contrast leans heavily into a weary sounding take on Johnny Cash, its brushed drums and plaintive goodbyes timeless and moist eyes deep.
It’s a sonic trick aced once more on the roots-laden country of (Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time, the subtle artistry of being able to emulate such a vast richness of character demanding to not be ignored.
The peak though comes not from making nostalgia memorable but with The Ocean, an epic written in far flung Cornwall and of which the emotional subtext’s rawness caused the singer to break down during the recording.
Now 20 going on 70, the additional material – Hank to one side – is largely in the interesting but non canonical variety; single versions, live material and B-sides.
The most must listen though is a gutsy cover of The Jesus And Mary Chain’s Some Candy Talking, down home closer A Bird Flew On One Wing and Long Black Veil’s sparkling rockabilly.
Here’s to the romantics then and their dreams, clutching a bouquet tight at Coles Corner and believing, like Richard Hawley, that one day we’d never have it so good.
He was right too.