The unfiltered sound of 1977
The bass growls low, steady, aggressive. With that round, overdriven tone he developed via years of flatwound string playing and more frequent punching of his amp than most drummers hit their kits, Jean-Jacques Burnel drives each note forward like a menace. Never ostentatious, the drums follow near, basic and dry. Above it, the organ slides, playful and bizarre, always on the verge of spiraling into madness but retaining one hand on the beat. Like he’s ticking boxes on a list that no longer matters, Hugh Cornwell speaks the words with cold detachment, sharp and flat.
The words distribute names like discarded photographs on a filthy floor: Trotsky, Lenny Bruce, Shakespeare, Sancho Panza. No tribute, no explanation, just a list of the obsolete. These are not obituaries. These pieces are thrown with a laugh. The title says everything. The smell of garbage and low cost spray paint pervaded London in 1977. Heroes no longer smelled that way. With alcohol on its breath and no apologies, it crawled from the pub toward the radio.
Sideways through the punk scene walked the Stranglers. Older, more rugged, less enthusiastic in slogans. Burnel excelled in French over English and studied karate. Cornwell experimented chemically before starting a band. They started for Patti Smith and got kicked off grounds for battling the audience. Police sirens and shattered bottles marked the conclusion of their shows. That discord never left the music. It pushed into the song’s grooves like vinyl dust.
“We got away with murder” said Hugh Cornwell about the era of No More Heroes, reflecting on the band’s provocative and rebellious approach during their explosive 1977 rise
(Mick Wall, Louder Sound, 2023)
The mix remains tight almost choking. Nothing sings out too far. Everything folds back into the beat. Never gentle, the keyboard lines swirl in spirals, constantly revolving the riff like vultures. Thick and continuous, the bass pushes everything forward. There is no air in this track. Tension, rhythm, and merely walls. It sounds like a band playing with its backs against the wall, eyes on the exit.
No More Heroes perfectly depicts a feeling that never called for clear definition. It reads like a note scribbed into a toilet stall. Speeches are finished. Also the age of legends. Left is a riff, a growl, a four-minute song with marks. Not questions. Not replies. merely footprints and sound.
