Having discovered that the rights to my early major label recordings have reverted back to me, I have been pondering what to do about it - to exploit or suppress once and for all? The songs I wrote and recorded as a priapic poseur more than 20 years ago could at best be described as uneven. It's not that what I've done since has been uniformly good either, and the future is almost certainly strewn with banana skins and custard pies (the very near future, actually): however, the early stuff is "approach with caution".
My first two albums were massive-budget, shareholders' nightmares, recorded at Electric Ladyland Studio in New York (when I was still based in England) and at Air Studios in London (when I'd moved to New York). I would have had to sell millions just to recoup the hotel bills. I had the same backing singers as the Rolling Stones, top of the range session players, a string quartet, and Polygram executives flying in and out to check on progress and swoon at playbacks. Somewhere amongst this perfect boys own rock'n'roll fantasy, there were supposed to be some hit songs - great, big smashes that would justify the expense and propel me into the super-league. Well there weren't. Not one. Not even a sniff. Acid house swept the nation, and a man dressed like Edward Scissorhands and sounding like a prototype Robbie Williams impersonating Alan Vega was surplus to requirements.
When I die, I might have to explain to St Peter why it was that I developed an American accent. This was all part of the madness. At times I wish I could re-enter the mindset, the insane self-belief that convinced me that in next to no time I would become a global brand, and the sooner I knocked being exclusively English on the head the better. Using American producers didn't help matters.
Hey ho. So what to do with these ... um ... documents? Bin them and hope nobody ever mentions them again? Or re-visit the past like a time traveller, post them on iTunes and perch upon the village fete ducking stool for any curious late-night drunks to knock me into the water ... at 79p a throw? Like the consummate whore I am, I've plumped for the iTunes option. Even though many of the songs are cringeworthy, there are a few diamonds among the car crashes, and perhaps the odd semi-precious stone. I'd certainly advise you to keep a bucket handy.
Anyway, for anybody with a strong stomach and your mum's iTunes password, you could do worse than downloading my early back catalogue. Not sure how much worse though. It's available from November 26. There won't be any more reminders.
