PASCAL's KEVIN COYNE HOME PAGE

 

Two articles by Rychard Carrington: about RUFFSTUFF and a KC obituary, both from Songbook (May 2005).

 

KEVIN COYNE, R.I.P.

  I lost a true hero when Kevin Coyne died in December, a victim of fibrosis of the lungs at the age of sixty.  He was one of those ‘cult figures’ whose brilliance was so evident to his fans that the lack of widespread recognition begged unflattering questions about a public that prefers so many far less interesting acts. You want to grab people by the scruff of the neck and demand to know why they bought No Jacket Required in preference to Millionaires And Teddy Bears. Of course Coyne’s music was not easy listening – Sting claimed he could only handle it when he was drunk – but it gets to the heart of something important, something very human, in a heroically uncompromising and effortlessly original manner that is surely compelling. Surely?

  ‘Rugged’ and ‘intense’ are two obvious adjectives for a description of Coyne, both as a vocalist and as a songwriter. A few devoted critics went further. In 1979, when Coyne enjoyed a brief period of fashionability, the NME devoted a whole page to its review of Millionaires And Teddy Bears, headed ‘After Kevin Coyne, everything else is so much toothpaste’.  In the early 90s, Time Out commented that if Cliff Richard was Dorian Gray, then Kevin Coyne was his picture.  The other side of the Coyne indeed – from all the normal show biz glitter. Short, plump, scruffy, Coyne had the appearance of one who had suffered and survived without illusion, an appearance which matched his music perfectly.  But Coyne was never self-centred, his early work as a social therapist for psychiatric patients and a counsellor for drug addicts enabled him to see the tragedy, pathos, dignity and beauty in the unhip millions who make up most of the population. Perhaps the film-director Mike Leigh has a comparable vision. So often music makes romantic anti-heroes of ‘losers’ and ‘outsiders’; Coyne’s realism was unflinching, his tenderness genuine. The resultant songs were no ‘Eleanor Rigby’s, but harrowing expressions of mature passion 

  Coyne’s musical career began in earnest in the late 1960s, as singer with the highly original blues-rockers Siren. Kevin was untempted by an extraordinary offer from Electra, to replace Jim Morrison as lead singer for The Doors (true, they were both startlingly original, intense and dark, but Coyne was so much more down-to-earth and humane). Siren were left-field from the beginning, but perhaps their most fascinating work, only released in the 1990s on the DJC label, witnessed Coyne’s idiosyncratic sensibility and dark humour leaving the blues behind in confusion. After a first solo album on Dandelion (John Peel was always a keen supporter, as was Andy Kershaw), Coyne signed to Virgin, whose mid-70s roster was as impressive a collection of radical musical talent as ever was assembled  - how strange to think that it gave birth to a global corporation. The Virgin debut, Marjory Razor Blade, marked an extraordinary arrival in no uncertain terms.  There’d been no other album like it: no precious angst or post-Woodstock platitudes for this singer-songwriter, but an open-hearted portrayal of the grotesque in the everyday. The equally brilliant Blame It On The Night followed. The next few albums weren’t quite as strong: as so often, a backing band (Coyne’s included Zoot Money and Andy Summers) mitigated the distinctive raw passion of an inspired artist.  But in 1979 starker accompaniment and production by Bob Ward helped to forge perhaps Coyne’s greatest masterpiece, Millionaires and Teddy Bears.

  Virgin didn’t make money from Coyne, and so dropped him amidst the dreadful musical climate of the early 80s. Kevin suffered a bitter divorce, alcoholism and a breakdown, before relocating in Nuremberg, where he resided for the rest of his life.  Germany appreciated Coyne more than did Britain, partly for his music, but especially for his painting, which was as brutally, strangely insightful as his music. Coyne also penned short stories – the collections The Party Dress and Show Business feature some remarkable character portrayals.

  Coyne’s albums in the 80s and 90s were patchy, and sometimes marred again by unsympathetic musical arrangements, until a terrific return to best form on 1999’s Sugar Candy Taxi. But live, especially when performing solo or in a duo with another acoustic guitarist, his personal presence, engaging off-the-cuff inter-song banter and repertoire of great songs always ensured a special occasion.

  In the canon of great singer-songwriters, Nick Drake stands out as the voice of beautiful, romantic innocence. Kevin Coyne stands out as the voice of harsh but compassionate experience.

  Rychard Carrington

 


SIREN

RUFFSTUFF

****

DJC DJC022 (72.42)

Distinctive blues from a young Kevin Coyne and pals

  While Nick Drake stands out in the canon of great singer-songwriters as the voice of beautiful, romantic innocence, the late Kevin Coyne stands out as the voice of harsh but compassionate experience. Possessing such expressive vocals and inventive wit, Coyne was could never fail to be interesting, any more than could Lennon or Dylan. This collection of informal recordings made by his blues band Siren during 1969 might seem a long way from Millionaires And Teddy Bears, but in fact the same manic energy and knowing sadness informs throughout. Coyne had a strong affinity with the blues, revitalising its usual sentiments with his idiosyncratic anguished passion. Pianist Nick Cudworth, bassist Dave Clague, drummer Tat Meager and various guitarists play with appropriate feeling, while the rough sound suits the material, perhaps slightly better than the smarter production on Siren’s two Dandelion albums. One imagines all-night sessions in cellars, fuelled by copious cigarettes. Nearly all of the numbers are penned - or improvised - by the band, and there are hints of what was to come in lyrics such as ‘You look like something out of the Old Testament, Baby, and you’re turning blue’. Consisting mostly of previously unreleased songs, this might not be the best introduction to the English equivalent of Tom Waits (try Blame It On The Night), but it will certainly satisfy all existing Coyne collectors.

Rychard Carrington