Sound - The Impossible Escape

Rock history is a long string of injustices, but the one inflicted on Sound stings in a particularly acute way. It's hard, in fact, to make sense of why they never enjoyed the success granted to so many other bands within the British wave constellation of the 80s. Perhaps they were simply too versatile for an era that demanded strong, clear-cut identities: not orthodox enough to be punks, not goth enough for the dark crowd, not acid enough to join the psych-pop circle of Julian Cope and Echo and the Bunnymen. Or perhaps, more simply, they lacked a frontman on a par with the dark stars of the moment. Adrian Borland, after all, was neither a frontman with the neurotic magnetism of Ian Curtis, nor a theatrical mask in the mould of Peter Murphy, nor a performer possessed of the sorcerous fervour of a Siouxsie. He was just a (excellent) "normal" singer, in an age when striking looks and shapeshifting personas ruled supreme.

And yet, musically, Sound had everything needed to break through: an uncommon melodic gift, a visceral, neurotic edge inherited from the noble school of Velvet Underground and Stooges, a subtle psychedelic touch descended from the Doors, and a "dark" sensibility worthy of Cure and Joy Division. On top of that, they had a modern lyrical language, suspended between punk's restless urge to rebel and the spectres of loneliness and anguish born of that post-industrial alienation which would haunt much of new wave. A spleen more melancholic than nihilistic, one that would take root over the years both in the more romantic wing of that movement (early U2, Mission, Chameleons, Comsat Angels) and, partly, in the later shoegaze generation of bands such as Ride, Catherine Wheel and Pale Saints.

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, just a few years after Borland's death, the Sound experience was rediscovered by the nu-new wavers of the 2000s (from Interpol to Bloc Party, from Film School to I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness and Organ, to name just a handful).

Thus "In Passing – A Tribute To Adrian Borland", released in 2001 with contributions from various artists including Mark Burgess (Chameleons), Convent and Voodoo Vibe, effectively carries the signature of everyone who has drawn, more or less explicitly, from that sound. A phenomenon so striking that it makes their music sound even more "modern" today than that of many sacred monsters of the post-punk era.

Escaping punk

London's Adrian Borland made his debut with the Outsiders, his first band, in the sweltering UK of '77, with the album Calling On Youth — according to some, even the first entirely self-produced punk album.

But his path, in some ways similar to the contemporary trajectory of Howard Devoto (from Buzzcocks to Magazine), soon moved beyond punk's boundaries. Because, like Devoto, he too sought greater musical and lyrical complexity, encompassing on one hand richer, more sophisticated instrumentation (keyboards first and foremost, but also new "atmospheric" solutions tied to a different approach to rock's classic trio of bass-guitar-drums), and on the other a more pronounced introspective streak and a desperately romantic vision of human affairs. Thus was born the idea of this peculiar strain of new wave, seasoned with psychedelic echoes, a lugubrious streak, and Borland's desolate delivery, joined on the adventure by Graham "Green" Bailey (bass), Mike Dudley (drums), Bi Marshall (keyboards, sax), and Max Mayers (keyboards).

An early line-up of the future Sound, made up of the trio Borland-Green-Dudley, released an EP and several singles on the Torch label in 1979, catching the attention of Korova (the label of Echo And The Bunnymen, Psychedelic Furs and Teardrop Explodes), who decided to sign them.

The line-up, now active full-time in London, settled into a quartet: Borland (guitar and vocals), Green (bass), Dudley (drums), Marshall (keyboards).

Under the name of The Sound – which in its simplicity says it all – the band debuts in 1980.

Recorded on a low budget, with bare, essential sounds, Jeopardy oozes punk adrenaline through its stinging guitar riffs, yet marries it to a bleak, aching spleen, forging that typical darkwave sound that would come to dominate the British scene of the 80s. The lyrics depict everyday desolation and youthful existential unease with an almost disturbing candor.

A gloomy rhythm section and sparse synth vibrations à-la Neu introduce the litany of “I Can’t Escape Myself”; then the sudden explosion, with distorted guitars taking off in unison with the drums. But it's just a flash, because right when it seems about to detonate, the track cuts off abruptly, as if there really were no way out. “Heartland” is a frantic punk dash through dazzling bursts of synth, with a central guitar solo reminiscent of Verlaine, while the seemingly radiant chorus of the title track clashes with its sickly atmosphere.

Nervy outbursts and chilling stretches of desolation follow one another. Driving it all is an obsessive, sordid bass, capable of stirring up the Curtis-esque ghost of “Hour Of Need” amid webs of guitars and walls of synth, of spurring exhausting rock'n'roll gallops (“Heyday”, “Resistance”), or of shaking to its core that highly peculiar love song called “Words Fail Me”, where an unexpected sax appears, sketching out a fragment of melody.

Elsewhere the band ventures into the darker rooms of dark music: “Night Versus Day” is a hypnotic liturgy fit for the Sisters Of Mercy's temple of love, “Unwritten Law” unfolds over a menacing mid-tempo, with lacerating guitar riffs slicing through dense blankets of synth, while the closing “Desire” is a morbid declamation in the style of Bauhaus, stripped however of all theatrical excess and left adrift in a slow crescendo. Borland's pure idealism resonates in the anti-militarist anthem “Missiles”, moving in its desperate crescendo, with low-flying feedback-drenched guitars and frightening keyboards that almost mimic the whistling of warplanes.

Jeopardy would remain one of the most interesting (and underrated) works of British new wave. Praise from the specialist press of the time, however, would not be matched by commercial success, to the point that the Sound would start facing pressure from their label to make their music more accessible.

Meanwhile, Borland devotes himself, together with his friend Green, to the side project Second Layer, and produces a host of bands, including Luke Haines's first group, The Servants.

In 1981, with Calvin Max Mayers replacing Bi Marshall on keyboards, the Sound release their second album, From The Lion's Mouth, produced by Hugh Jones. Far less austere in its sound and production, the record builds on the ideas of its predecessor, slightly heightening the tone, in a melodramatic vein worthy of the best U2. Borland's romantic spirit is sublimated into an even more pronounced melodicism and atmospheric streak, kept in check, however, by guitars that remain dissonant and sharp. On top of that, there's the usual relentless bass calling the shots: “Back then I used to wear gloves because I played so fast that sometimes my fingers would bleed,” Graham “Green” Bailey would recall.

The opening “Winning” is a rousing anthem, with Borland's insistent arpeggios riding a fine whirl of circular synths: it would become one of their signature live staples, even more memorable in the live version included on In The Hothouse. The lyrics seem to voice a desire for redemption, proving that the band is alive and finally ready to step out of the darkness: “I was going to drown/ Then I started swimming/ I was going down/ then I started winning”. But the band's thoughts are also weighed down by anguish over the tragic death of Ian Curtis, who took his own life in 1980 at just 23: “Silent Air” is a poignant ballad dedicated precisely to the Joy Division frontman.

The kinship with the dark movement is felt in tracks like “Contact The Fact”, with a brooding pace that echoes the Cure's “A Forest”, or “Fatal Flaw”, folded into a shadowy melancholy barely lit by crackling guitars, or again “Possession”, with Green's usual killer bassline backing a vocal that, for a moment, really does seem to summon the desolate spirit of Ian Curtis.

“Skeletons” and “The Fire” are the most upbeat episodes, the ones where the bass revs up and Borland's guitar solos masterfully counterpoint his intense vocal performances. The driving synths of “Sense of Purpose”, the emphatic U2-style riff of “The Fire” and the closing “New Dark Age”, with its almost noise-rock attitude, always manage to keep the tension high.

Overall, From The Lion's Mouth is a less direct and dazzling album than Jeopardy, but probably more mature in terms of its sonic exploration and the cohesion achieved by the ensemble. Once again, however, these results would not be matched by adequate attention from the public.

On a collision course

Despite everything, the Sound remain thoroughbreds, from whom the record industry expects a chart-smashing hit at any moment. Their melodic talent can't go unnoticed, and so for All Fall Down none other than Wea (the group that distributes Korova) steps in, though without giving up on being a major through and through, pushing the band to write songs with greater commercial appeal, along the lines of a softer, more saccharine psych-pop. They would succeed only to a small degree, and would end up making the band pay for its lack of “obedience.” But the Sound's compositional creativity suffers for it: their sound de-volves (to borrow from Devo), turning inward, growing hazy, torn between synth-pop impulses and more typically post-punk instincts. On the former front, the clear highlights are the title track, where menacing keyboards build a suffocating atmosphere, made even more oppressive by the chorus and Borland's grim vocal, and the dazed “Calling The New Tune”, with its syncopated, sobbing pace.

Among the more energetic tracks, meanwhile, are the galloping “Party Of The Mind”, with its dissonant coda, and the urgent “Red Paint”, both harking back to the epic feel of their early work. The slower, more atmospheric ballad this time is “Monument”, which unwinds, circular and melancholic, around clusters of synth and sparse guitar arpeggios.

The record label's diktats don't scare the Sound, who refuse to abandon their experimental streak, tangible above all in the electronic claustrophobia of "Glass And Smoke" (almost seven minutes of pure hypnosis, punctuated by robotic drumming and bursts of feedback) and in the closing psychedelic gem "We Could Go Far", with its four-on-the-floor kick drum, catatonic bass and Borland's moved delivery, announcing a sinister farewell: ⟦Q1⟧.

Even when they seem less inspired, then, the Sound always let illuminating flashes of their talent shine through.

All Fall Down nonetheless seals the end of the first chapter of the band's career, as they definitively break with the record industry. "They wanted to turn us into the new Genesis, and we felt there was too much pressure around us. Become a commercial band? Never!" Michael Dudley would later explain.

Wea, for its part, would retaliate by withholding promotion for the album, effectively condemning it to failure.

Convinced of the need to preserve their own artistic autonomy, the band turns down overtures from other majors (except for a deal with A&M for the release of material in the US, which however comes to nothing) and opts definitively for the indie market.

The EP Shock Of Daylight (1984) is thus released on their new label, the small Statik, produced by Pat Collier. A mini-album with six tracks, in which the restless spirit of their early days resurfaces here and there. The tight rock'n'roll of "Golden Soldiers", the new romantic tones of "Longest Days", the explosive chorus of "Dreams Then Plans", the icy rigor of "Winter" and the wave suggestions of "A New Day Of Life", amid gusts of keyboards and a pounding rhythm section, testify to the intact verve of a band endowed with a creativity that never ceases to amaze, at a time when many of new wave's original protagonists are losing their edge and plenty of commercial flashes-in-the-pan are appearing on the horizon.

But it's above all on the following Heads And Hearts (1985), with Wally Brill's crystalline production, that Borland and co. perfect their new direction, shaped by a shadowy, decadent and refined pop sound. It's the classic "mature album", driven by that moving anthem "Total Recall" (perhaps their finest song ever): almost six heart-pounding minutes, dominated by the bassline and enveloping keyboards, with Borland's voice exploding in the melodic chorus ("I can see a distant victory/ A time when you will be with me"), almost invoking a way out of his inner torment.

Indeed, a few glimmers of light filter through the band's bleak imagery. But "Under You" and "Love Is A Not Ghost" are new forays into the cliffs of paranoia, albeit tempered by more polished sounds (an unprecedented saxophone even makes an appearance). "Restless Time" unleashes another of their steel-edged hooks, while the restrained "Mining For Heart", the ballad "Temperature Drop" and the sinuous "Wildest Dreams" testify to a search for softer, yet no less melancholic, atmospheres.

Heads And Hearts is also their terminus. Battered by failure and by their leader's personal distress, the Sound head into the final phase of their ill-fated trajectory.

Oblivion interrupted

Their career is celebrated by the double live album In The Hothouse, recorded at the Marquee Club in London in August 1985, over two torrential nights. A formidable tracklist, right from the opening quartet ("Winning", "Under You", "Total Recall" and "Skeletons"), which goes on to survey the Sound's entire career, from "Heartland" to "Sense Of Purpose", from "Silent Air" to "Missiles".

The guitar ellipses, built on distortion and dissonance, the dark shroud of the keyboards, often just sketched in to hint at the melody, forge their classic tense, nocturnal sound, while Borland performs every song as if it were the last of his life, with his signature baritone timbre, so full of congealed desperation.

A kind of last testament from the band, who, shortly after, would literally fall into oblivion.

Before the end, there's still room for one more dark album with, yet again, a troubled gestation. Statik, in fact, goes into liquidation. So Thunder Up (1987) comes out on a new label, the Belgian Play It Again Sam. No one will notice it, except the most devoted fans, yet some band members would call it their best album, for the quality of its sounds and the intensity of its lyrics.

In truth, beyond the boldness of its choices, the Sound's songwriting here appears rather convoluted and out of focus, oscillating between the rock adrenaline of Jeopardy and From The Lion's Mouth, and the cryptic electro-pop experiments of All Fall Down. The most successful synthesis is probably "Barria Alta" (which Dudley even called the best song in the entire Sound catalogue), wrapping Borland's deep vocals in sinuous swirls of synth, backed by martial drumming. The shifting rhythms of opener "Acceleration Group", the tight cadences of "Kinetic", the soft-pop tones of "Hand Of Love" and "Web Of Wicked Ways" (the latter close to the Bryan Ferry of "Boys And Girls") and the tangle of distortion in "I Give You Pain" offer the other standout moments of an album that nonetheless lacks the killer hooks of their golden years, too often leaving the impression that the band is spinning its wheels.

Still moving, however, are the lyrics of a Borland now held hostage by a malaise that had exploded in all its severity: in 1986 he was diagnosed with a schizoid disorder, manifesting itself through alarming symptoms such as temporary loss of touch with reality and the sensation of hearing "voices" in his head. Alongside the pessimism over his personal ordeal (“Don’t say there’s a time and place/ for everyone who waits/ It’s a load of lies”, the bitter admission of "Iron Years") there is also the proud affirmation of a collective history under the name Sound: "The flames will flicker and the writing will waver/ But there's something in this somewhere that's going to go on forever" ("Acceleration Group"). Aware that he is now condemned by his illness ("I've lost some sensitivity/ Maybe you can see the scars"), Borland still manages to glimpse a flicker of hope, dreaming of liberation from negative forces ("Barria Alta"). But it's in the metallic, disjointed "Shot-Up And Shutdown" that the illness surfaces brutally: behind the attack on the Thatcher era ("Most of England is sleeping in the sun but not everyone") lies the fierce description of a personal agony (“I feel like a piece of wood/ My arms don’t do what I want them to/ And my legs don’t do what they should/ I feel like summer thunder/ Shot-up and shutdown”).

Not particularly significant musically, Thunder Up gains its value precisely from the moving intensity of the lyrics, which recount one man's desperate struggle to make sense of his existence and to save the band he loved.

But for Sound, it's over: the split is made official at the start of 1988, amid general indifference. A truly sorrowful farewell for a band of this stature.

To the discography should also be added Propaganda, recorded at Borland's home in 1979 by a group that wasn't yet called The Sound and had stopped calling itself The Outsiders. Three tracks from this album ended up on Jeopardy. This record too, along with Jeopardy, From The Lion's Mouth and In The Hothouse, would be reissued in the early 2000s by the far-sighted indie label Renascent, which would also bring back to light the Bbc Recordings (2004).

Sound meanwhile became the classic cult band, followed by a small band of devoted followers scattered across Europe (mainly in Germany and the Netherlands, but also in Italy), and virtually unknown to the rest of the world.

The four lost touch with one another. Graham "Green" Bailey worked in America for a cable TV station. Mike Dudley wrote for a magazine in England. Calvin Mayers, the magical synth behind so many of the band's songs, died of AIDS on Boxing Day 1993.

Borland, left on his own, first tried his hand with Adrian Borland and The Citizens (the mediocre Alexandria and Brittle Heaven, which indulge in melodic singer-songwriter fare without adding much to his body of work). He then embarked on a solo career that drifted into obscurity across five weary albums, stubbornly anchored to a sound whose time had long passed. Meanwhile, he devoted himself to the parallel project Second Layer and to producing a number of indie bands (Celibate Rifles, Dole, Steve Lake, Red Harvest and the excellent Felt). One of his final ventures saw him in White Rose Transmission alongside singers Carlo van Putten (Convent) and Claudia Uman, keyboardist and guitarist Florian Brattman, and violinist David Maria Gramse, a project that drew a fair amount of critical interest.

But, around him, everything grew dark. After moving for a time to the Netherlands (a kind of "second homeland" for Sound), he returned to London, to his mother's house. In one of his last letters, posted on his official website, he wrote that he was feeling well and was very excited about starting the recording of his sixth album, "Harmony and Destruction". The message ended with these words: "To those that still care, thanks, you'll be hearing from me! Adrian Borland P.S. Sane, as we speak".

Sunk into an unbearable depression and increasingly plagued by serious mental disturbances, Adrian Borland took his own life on 26 April 1999, throwing himself under a train at Wimbledon Station in London. A tragic act that united him, in death, with his successful alter ego: that Ian Curtis whose musical fortunes, in life, he had never managed to match.

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