Madness. Madness. They call them Madness.
Set for release in November 2023, the loftily-titled Theatre Of The Absurd Presents C’est La Vie will be the thirteenth long-playing record from ska mainstays Madness, and the first taste of it, C’est La Vie’ is out now. So without further ado, here‘s trusty scribe Mark Gibson and his Perfect 10 from the Nutty Boys.
Almost 45 rocksteady years have passed since Madness released their debut single, The Prince, on the Specials’ own 2 Tone label in August 1979. With its Prince Buster-copping flipside, Madness (replete with deceptive Gary Glitter-eque glam stomp intro), the self-described Nutty Boys scored their first Top 20 hit, the result of a storming Top Of The Pops appearance. With a shift to Stiff Records that October, the group became label mates with Elvis Costello, Lene Lovich, and Kirsty MacColl (and later, The Pogues and The Belle Stars) and their debut album, One Step Beyond, stayed in the British “hit parade” for over a year.
Suddenly the sextet from Camden had achieved a level of fame beyond their wildest dreams. Indeed, in an era when the most popular British bands were lean and mean trios like The Police and The Jam, in the next few years the seven-pronged hit-making machine stood out as a ragbag ensemble full of piano, horns, strings and almost anything they could get heir mitts on to flesh out their defiantly uncategorisable sonic tapestry.
In doing so they walked all over the competition to become the biggest selling band in the British singles charts during the entire 1980s. Madness offered a larky everyman take on Thatcher’s Britain while turning out a series of highly original records with arrangements that owed as much to fairground melodies and music hall jollity as the trademark bluebeat and ska shuffle that had inspired them.
With every one of the band extroverts who loved to dress up and show off, Madness emphasised their “zany” credentials by accompanying their singles with a succession of unforgettably madcap videos that made these North London lads into national treasures and folk heroes, beloved of everyone from Morrissey to Neil Tennant, who would both go on to work with vocalists Suggs and Carl in the ’90s and ’00s.
Often referred to as the ultimate singles band, as with the Pet Shop Boys and the Bee Gees, Supergrass and Squeeze, the Beatles and the Stones, and other statutory genii of the Brit 45, you’re looking at a long list of choice cuts to narrow it down to the perfect introduction to Madness. The Nutty band have released 43 singles, 12 studio albums, 4 live sets, and 16 compilations, but really it’s all about those little black seven inches, of which we’re zooming in not to the toppermost 21 but the latest in our series of Perfect 10s. With so many fantastic tracks to choose from, compiling this list was hard, but we think we’ve found the best of the best.
In other words, Hey you, don’t watch that, read this! Get ready for the heavy, heavy monster sound…
My Girl (1979)
The Nutty Boys was an apt alternate moniker for Madness, as the group rocketed madly through their debut long-player, all wicked grins and giggles, intoxicated with their own cleverness and winking slyly at their own goofy musical jokes. Who could be so po-faced as to not join in with these lovable lads?
One Step Beyond… was also the very first LP produced by Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley, who would go on to produce everyone from Aztec Camera to a-ha and The Teardrop Explodes. Begging for a chance to shine, the title track was spun off as its second single a week after the album’s release, bagging the band their first top ten hit. The third 45 was issued in time for Christmas and did even better, marching to No. 3 at the start of the 1980s (behind the Pretenders’ Brass In Pocket and, with delicious irony, The Specials’ Too Much Too Young).
Written, as were many Madness classics, by the dexterous hands of piano supremo and chief songwriter Monsieur Barso aka Mike Barson, My Girl’s a tender kitchen sink drama that paid an obvious debt to cockney poet Ian Dury, but also mined the great and good of Tin Pan Alley, its teen mag poppiness striking a chord with Tracey Ullman, who dashed off a gender-swap version in 1983 as My Guy.
But no, with only a faint bit of dub to remind people of the band’s origins, My Guy, the Middle Eastern psychedelia of Night Boat To Cairo and the fan favourite Bed And Breakfast Man were all ample proof Madness were much more than just a juvenile ska outfit, even if they were about to head back to the classroom.
Baggy Trousers (1980)
Ding, dong, Camden calling. The lead single from second album Absolutely, Baggy Trousers is a solid gold classic, and one of the most memorable Madness hits. For a band to springboard from their early reggae influences to songs like this in just a year was quite a rapid development. The tune was penned, quite painterly, by the band’s guitarist Chris Foreman, with lyrics by frontman Suggs, who soon became many a schoolgirls’ crush (Oi, that rough trade attraction wasn’t restricted to the ladies, even if he did look like a cross between a blockheaded policeman and Biff from Back To The Future – Ed.).
In storytelling terms, you can see the through line from masters of the vignette like Ray Davies, Paul McCartney, and the Small Faces. Moreover, the whole mod, Rude Boy ideal was further shoved into a more poppier diary of the woes of the one-size-fits-all comprehensive system. Indeed, there’s a certain image of British state schools, that of The Beano’s Bash Street Kids and the BBC’s Grange Hill, which Baggy Trousers manages to perfectly capture – a riotous atmosphere full of cheeky characters getting into classic scrapes. Every kid could relate to it: the glimpses of colour despite the dreariness and the despair on an equal footing from teacher and pupil alike, as Suggs recalls:
“I was writing about my time at school. Pink Floyd had that big hit with ‘teacher, leave those kids alone’. It didn’t really relate to me, because I hadn’t been to a public school where I was bossed about and told to sing Rule Britannia and all that”.
Kudos also to the always entertaining video, filmed at Kentish Town Church of England primary school, where I’m still convinced to this day that saxophonist Lee Thompson can really fly.
Embarrassment (1980)
Speaking of little Lee, lyrically he actually could fly in the what became Madness’ sixth single, a track that would do Jerry Dammers and Terry Hall proud. It’s an unfolding tale of the sax player’s sister, a teenage Tracy Thompson, and the uproar when she tells her parents she’s pregnant to a black man. The intensity of the shame and rejection felt is explored in this casual, everyday example of racial prejudice. The story hit a hard lesson back home in Tyneside, as both my nieces Jo and Kate are mixed race, with my two aunts marrying men from African heritage.
So Embarrassment has a special place in my heart, and it remains such a beautiful full of life record, though these days no one would get away with a blackface Mike Garson tinkling the ivories in the video, even if the message was poignant and admirable. Look beyond the edgy and claustrophobic sax-driven melody and you’ve got some of Madness’ darkest and most pointed lyrics, deadpan delivered over Mark Bedford’s big, bouncy bass navigating a stairwell of chords.
“That’s one thing that’s always underestimated about Suggs,” said Chrissy Boy, aka guitarist Chris Foreman. “He really does have an ability to sing a strongly emotional song without making it appear sentimental.” The real-life story had a happy ending, too; Thompson later stated that when the child named Hayley was born, the antipathy of Tracy’s family dissolved, providing that love does indeed conquer all.
Grey Day (1981)
Serious mood shift moment ahoy. Because after the cocktail jazz instrumental The Return Of The Los Palmas 7 became the final 45 spun off from the band’s sophomore set, there was a marked change of pace and tone with the first single from 1981’s 7 album.
Grey Day was a brave choice to lead with, but then as good as the third album is, it’s not brimming with big ear-worm bangers in the way the previous LPs had been. The music is infused with a hauntingly dark and doomy atmosphere, and dates back to Barson writing this in the band’s nascence, before they’d become famous. Stiff Records head honcho Dave Robinson was on record as saying Mike didn’t trust anyone and was always thinking people were on the make trying to rip them off. That weariness and self doubt is all over this.
“The rain is falling on my face, I wish I could sink without a trace” was a line every teenager could identify with, and despite the miserable as sin subject matter, it paid off handsomely by giving the lads their fourth top five hit in little more than a year. I call it the Eddie Yates song, because once I tell you, you can’t unhear it. “My arms, my legs, my body aches,” sounded to me like the lazy bin-man who lodged with Stan and Hilda from Coronation Street. Splendid sax too.
It Must Be Love (1981)
Following the vaudevillian Rawhide-quoting caper Shut Up “only” making No. 7, the Camden collective opted to pause the 7 campaign and showcasing their ability to be just as sincere as they can be silly, issued a standalone 45 and their second single written by someone else. Good job they did because it’s a proper prince among remakes, rivalling Tainted Love and Always On My Mind for the title of the most beloved cover version of the eighties.
With its committed and charmingly heartfelt delivery, Suggs and co took the old chestnut and used blasting brass, raindrop-like pizzicato strings and studio polish to produce an evergreen gem that deserves many a listen. Broadening their reach beyond their traditional ska-punk base, while establishing them as a mainstream pop act, it cemented the band’s hit-making reputation by marching into the top ten twice, reaching the fourth spot in 1982 (the No.1? Human League’s immovable Don’t You Want Me) and again in 1992 (behind Shakespears Sister’s even more stubborn Stay)
However, not everyone realises that the wonderful soul that is singer-songwriter Labi Siffre wrote the romantic ditty a decade prior, reaching No. 14 in 1971. What’s interesting is that it’s a straightforward love song – shock, horror – from a man to a man, because Siffre was always an openly gay black musician when it was unheard of, and makes the Nutty Boys a lot more open-minded and liberal than perhaps some of the noisier elements of their audience.
Also in Madness’ 1981 movie, Take It Or Leave It, the woman who played Suggs mother released a record in the 1970s called Super Dyke. The lads did have a racist shadow over them as they were unfairly tagged as a white supremacist skinhead band through connections with mates who were National Front. Alas, that was more of a communal all-lads-together thing than any right-wing ideology. A band capable of so much beauty could never be haters. They were obviously great humanitarians, and It Must Be Love is a true gay anthem of our times.
To emphasise the inclusiveness, Siffre appears as a violinist throughout the song’s curiously funereal video, which was hastily prefaced with a “don’t try this at home” warning after Top Of The Pops refused to show the full film. “We had to edit out the underwater guitar sequence because the BBC thought it might give kids ideas,” Geoff Robinson recalls. But what of the likeable Labi Siffre? Well, he hit the big-time again in 1987 with the anti-apartheid anthem (Something Inside) So Strong, while Eminem sampled his Chas & Dave-backed 1975 song I Got The…. on his breakthrough hit My Name Is. See, it really must’ve been love – it turned out nice for everyone in the end.
House Of Fun (1982)
Right back to the Nutty Boy remit, after Cardiac Arrest, the third and final single from 7 failed to land Madness in the top ten for the first time since their Prince-ly debut. This time they were leaving nothing to chance.
Originally recorded under the title Chemist Facade’(no, it’s not catchy, is it?) and without the “Welcome to the House Of Fun” section, this jaunty fairground ride became the one-off 45 we know and love only after Stiff insisted on a chorus, forcing Lee (lyrics) and Barso (music) back to the writing desk. Written about a boy who uses the teen slang of the time to buy condoms on his coming of age birthday (“16 today and up for fun”), it’s full of enjoyably daft euphemisms for rubber johnnies, including “box of balloons with a featherlite touch” and “party hats with the coloured tips”.
However, the lad is misunderstood by the confused chemist, who promptly tells the boy that the pharmacy is not a joke shop, and directs him towards the House Of Fun. Me? I was so naive back then I thought a Durex was make of battery. And with infinite jollity, the video cements everything that we love about them: naughty boys, kiss me quick, a grope behind the bike sheds, the first flowering of teenagers – in other words, all the things a sizeable chunk of the people buying their records would have been going through.
House Of Fun was released prior to the band’s thumpingly great first of 16 (sixteen!) compilation albums, 1982’s Complete Madness, and no wonder it sailed to number one (Madness’ only chart-topping single in fact), and, quite rightly, was voted the eighth favourite No. 1 of the ’80s in an ITV poll in 2015.
By now Madness were like the pilgrims in the socket, because it’s from a time when music really did matter, and like The Specials’ Ghost Town it wasn’t just fluff on your telly, it was actual social realism brought to life. But made palatable by a band who practically invented ADHD as these clownish eternal extroverts couldn’t stay still for long enough to drink a cup of tea. They can’t hang round, see.
Our House (1982)
Now we’re on to the one with the video where they play a working class family straight out of an episode of Corrie, only with added cross-dressing and air guitar. House Of Fun’s follow up, the deliberately absurdly tuneless Driving In My Car (replete with Fun Boy Three cameo in the vid), was okay but not quite right. In many ways, the sequel was one that bagged Madness the Best Pop Song gong at the Ivor Novello Awards – the single that would go on to give them the title of their own musical, Our House.
Written by Chrissy Boy and secondary vocalist Chas Smash aka Carl Smyth, Our House was the lead single from fourth album The Rise & Fall and is the band’s anthem in all but name, and you only need scan the footage of the first Madstock gig from 1992 to see how loved it is. From the car-engine bassline to the barrelhouse piano chords topped off with that gorgeous string arrangement, the verses are a brilliantly constructed story of joyful family nostalgia, but at the same time, there’s an element of doubt as the narrator knows he should probably make his own way in the world, severed from mother’s apron strings and the stifling mundanity of suburbia. (We hear this voice of reason in the almost sneaked in line “Something tells you that you’ve got to move away from it.”)
Again, employing an effervescent wit while capturing what British pop life was all about, there’s a strong element of mining the song style of peak-era Kinks. But, come on, perhaps not even the redoubtable Ray Davies could write something this life-affirming, especially as it’s topped off with the thing that underpins a classic 45 – a stellar bulletproof drill-in-the-skull catchy chorus.
It’s the sound of England winning the ’66 world cup, of the first man on the Moon, of pathos and kitchen sink drama, of a song that gave Madness their biggest US hit – No. 7 during the Second British Invasion of 1983 – yet one that you probably remember doing a lot better than that in Britain. In fact, Our House got stuck at No. 5 for four solid weeks over Christmas and New Year, behind a host of festive immovables that included the toothy twosomes David Bowie & Bing Crosby (huzzah!) and Renée and Renato (yikes!).
In all fairness, Our House’s fate was probably sealed earlier than December; hampered by following what seemed like a long line of non-album singles. The ongoing success of Complete Madness hardly helped, which also stilted progress of The Rise & Fall. The band’s fourth studio album only reached number ten and was out of the charts quite quickly, signalling that the wheels of the hit machine were beginning to wobble.
Wings Of A Dove (1983)
Madness didn’t release an album as expected in 1983, though there was an eponymously titled US LP, for which this next corker wasn’t finished in time – though it does contain just as good alternatives such as the melancholy double A-side Tomorrow’s (Just Another Day) c/w Madness (Is All In The Mind) and Lee Thompson’s anti-Thatcher diatribe Blue Skinned Beast.
Christ, they were prolific, though. Written and sung by Suggs and Carl, this infectiously ecstatic classic was yet another standalone single in the UK, though it was later included on the American edition of the fifth Madness album, 1984’s Keep Moving (and yes, I had actually plumped for the sublime Sun And The Rain in a draft version of this feature).
Instrumentally, Nutty Boys songs are arguably most famous for Barson’s piano and their use of brass instruments but Wings Of A Dove is notable for having only minimal trumpet and sax elements. Rather than ska, this track is inspired by another buoyant example of Afro-Caribbean music, the calypso. As such, it features some truly scrumptious steel drum elements which really elevate the song to a joyously hypnotic level.
Effervescent and full of life, Wings Of A Dove could turn a sinner into a saint. It begins with an impossibly catchy drum beat before a simple piano riff joined by Suggs’ vocals and a bouncy bass line, as well as the stunning steel drums and a jubilant ensemble of gospel backing vocals that conjure up colourful images of W11’s Notting Hill Carnival, a celebration of Black British culture every summer.
It’s easy to imagine yourself caught in the spirit of euphoria and celebration of an event like this. Most Madness songs are renowned for their upbeat atmosphere, but this track’s tropical vibes really is something marvellous, even if it does sound a bit like Culture Club rewriting David Bowie‘s Modern Love. Who were the biggest British pop band of 1983? If it wasn’t Duran Duran (The Police were more adult rock, really) you’d have to say Boy George and co. And this is where the changing of the guard comes into view: Wings Of A Dove peaked at number two in Britain (though hit the top spot in Ireland), but it would be the band’s final top five hit.
Michael Caine (1984)
Like a proto Bez (Happy Mondays) or Paul Rutherford (Frankie Goes To Hollywood), Chas started as the spare part – the dancer mate and hanger on, but unlike his successors he quickly became much more than that. Chas aka Carl aka Cathal Smyth was like an Irish firecracker, going off in every direction possible. Indeed, the quality of Madness’ songwriting was such that, like Queen, every one of the band had a hand in penning a hit. In that respect the levelling up reminds me less of another quartet, because it’s more akin to Lennon and McCartney and George Harrison and very rarely ventures into Ringo Starr mode. Which is great, as Ringo’s records were the reason why God invented CD skip mode.
Michael Caine is another solid 45, penned by Smyth with drummer Daniel Woodgate. The titular paranoid figure (“Staring out the window there’s nothing he can now do/ All he wanted was to remain sane”) isn’t the bloke from Alfie and The Italian Job but an IRA code name for a Supergrass informant during the Irish Troubles, given to those who cooperated with the British authorities who were then offered witness protection. The Caine connection comes from a scene in The Ipcress File, in which Caine’s character, Harry Palmer, resists brainwashing by repeating the words “Harry Palmer. My name is Harry Palmer”.
Another valiant effort to raise awareness of the Ulster plight, Bananarama had Rough Justice metered out a few weeks later but despite the film noir aspect and what could be considered a dicey subject matter for a single (the screams indicating torture under interrogation were less than subtle), Madness nailed it better. Mothers loved them, kids adored them, and dads were gently persuaded. They were omnipresent, and the real acting legend actually features on the record, unlike the Nana’s Robert De Niro where the taxi driver had a flat tyre (probably).
Critically, the Nuttys were still considered almost untouchable so they had a lot of leeway, which was fortunate because the Thompson Twins’ third wheel Joe Leeway, as guest reviewer for Record Mirror, described Michael Caine as “more melodic than usual” and “a mysterious ‘out in the cold’ song” with a “great sax vamp towards the end”. Warming to the theme, Neil Tennant, then of the swingorilliant Smash Hits declared, “This new Madness single is world-weary and melancholy, although it’s brightened up by the man himself declaring ‘I am Michael Caine’ every now and then. I like it, actually.” The NME’s Tony Parsons praised the “beautiful, understated melody” and “hesitant, almost shy lyric that is not without flashes of humour” and concluded, “They never sounded less like Madness and they never sounded so good.”
Frank Hopkinson of Number One noted Smyth’s “Bowie-ish vocal” and commented, “Suggs has stepped down for a single that still includes [the soon to depart] Mike Barson but is stripped of the usual Madness trademarks, including the hum-along tune. I know it’s unthinkable, but this one might not even make the top ten!” And he was right. Michael Caine was No. 11 with a bang. And what happened a few months later? The IRA bombed the Grand Hotel in Brighton, with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher narrowly escaping the carnage.
Yesterday’s Men (1985)
Divine Madness, the 1992 greatest hits album, did one great thing, apart from selling like hotckakes: it cemented through TV advertising, the ever approaching Madstock live events. It made people realise what a truly epic band Madness were. They had a bit time away, but with that chart-topping compilation it completely fermented in the hearts and ears, what a power of joy the Nuttys were and still are. Also, it allowed us to retcon Yesterday’s Men, a minor 1985 hit, inabout out of touch judges, with oranges in odd places, dressed in suspenders and being whipped faster than a Blancmange in a typhoon. Like a regular Thursday night in my house.
Its successor Uncle Sam was prime Madness and really should have been the first single, but then the NW1 posse have always been contrary buggers. This is a great bluesy slow-jazz number yet still has the ear-worm chorus. But it’s more nocturnal now, more measured, more reflective. Now signed to Virgin via a brief flirtation with their own vanity label Zarjazz, Yesterday’s Men was the aptly titled lead 45 from Mad Not Mad. This would turn out to be the sixth and final Madness album before their ‘90s reunion, and came out right at the end when summer was fizzling out; to quote Gary Kemp, “The salad days slowly being eaten away”.
Indeed, the band were winding down. The spark had gone a bit since Mike vacated the songwriters club in 1984 to move to Holland. It’s not like they couldn’t have carried on, but they were probably knackered, and Mad Not Mad would be their last LP of original material until 1999’s Wonderful, which of course we know they are, and forever will be.
Viva Camden’s finest, and the seven and the ragged hit machine.
An earthquake has erupted.
Mark Gibson
BONUS BEATS
There’s quite a few that almost made the grade. But of the songs from first seven year’s “glory” days that failed to receive even a cursory namecheck, In The Middle Of The Night (1979), Disappear (1980), and Mrs Hutchinson (1981) are sterling stuff, while the retro-jazz melancholy of One Better Day (1984) predates Bowie‘s fellow Langer & Winstanley helmed Absolute Beginners by a couple of years. A cover of Scritti Politti’s The Sweetest Girl and the “farewell” 45 (Waiting For) The Ghost Train (both 1986) aren’t too bad either.
Steve Pafford has a soft spot for the Eastern Indian mysticism of I Pronounce You (1988), but that was the short-lived post-split reunion (re)incarnation by The Madness when they were reduced to a quartet (ie no Barso, Bedders or Woody, who’d gone on to form Voice Of The Beehive).
Lastly, the excellent return to form in the shape of The Liberty Of Norton Folgate spawned the excellent Golders Green-referencing single in Sugar And Spice (2009). It’s more than nice.
Adam Ant and Madness: The time Smash Hits’ Neil Tennant was Driving In My Car with the Nutty Boys is here
