“Some books are undeservedly forgotten, none are undeservedly remembered.” W.H Horton. I suspect the great poet would have said the same about music.
Whether it’s the flint spark guitar solo or the storming saxophone, or the lyrical portraits of the sorts of conversations disaffected twentysomethings have, stuck in this nightmare of mediocrity, Baker Street cooks, and cooks to this day. It’s glamorisation of the sex, sleaze and slime of modern urban living has never truly been equalled with such eloquent solipsism and everyone knows it; in the UK at least it’s been a drivetime favourite of the likes of Simon Mayo and a popular pub quiz topic (did that £27 cheque really bounce?). What’s often forgotten about Baker Street is how it’s one of the most stunning punk records of all time: cobbled together, the iconic saxophone solo, itself mired in controversy, played by a session musician, production of the song itself from all rumours appears to have been ramshackle and random; the lyrics of the song are packed with veiled references to the Steeler’s Wheel clusterfuck, and it inspired a DIY culture of saxophone music that led to the eighties being drenched in the sound. It’s baked into our culture, but take a moment to think about how he was right all along, and how, in 1978 this was a piece of pure punk, and unlike all the others, he meant it.
Written under duress by Steven. Act now and you too could regret following me on twitter.