Somewhere in an alternate reality, spurred on by the success of his contribution to In Strict Tempo, Genesis P. Orridge formed a synthpop act with Dave Ball, went on to even greater things, and none of us had to spend any more time thinking about Psychic TV. It didn't happen but Gavin Friday and Dave Ball would have been at least as good, and now we have evidence to support such a claim. It's been forty years but better later than never.
I half expected a slightly more disturbing Soft Cell album, but the tone and mood remain consistent with Friday's work with Maurice Seezer; although no-one could possibly doubt that it's Dave Ball twiddling the proverbial knobs given his invoking John Barry, Serge Gainsbourg, or even Kurt Weill (probably) with the best of them. Gavin Friday always had one of the more powerful voices to emerge from whatever the fuck it was he emerged from - gorgeous, and darkly sexy whilst equally liable to scare the living shit out of us with songs one can easily imagine crooned by Sinatra somehow without any of the obvious contradictions getting in the way.
As with others of his - or our if I'm being honest - Friday's vintage, thoughts inevitable turn to change and what the hell happened, so yielding reflection on When the World was Young - chilling and poignant because I'm not sure what the hell happened either. Rather than pointing out how everything is now fucking stupid (which it is) he instead ruminates on what we got right and on what should be remembered - even in the ominous yet nevertheless uplifting Glitterstomp of Lady Esquire - without squirting generic rainbow juice over everything, case in point being the sublime Cabarotica, a memory of Soho in the early eighties. Avoiding music press as I've tended to do, I've never formed assumptions regarding the lad's sexuality because it makes no difference to me; and I enjoy the idea that it ultimately doesn't matter because I miss those years before we had to fill in forms, wear badges, and pass tests in order that adjacent arseholes - the social equivalent of useless upper management material - should feel validated. Just as significant an indication of the man's character is The Best Boys in Dublin, a moving tribute to Friday's beloved sausage dogs, and I'm not sure how much more you really need to know.
The loss of the late, great Dave Ball is an enduring source of sorrow and this masterpiece is both a fine memorial to himself, and a testament to Gavin Friday as an artistic colossus whose powers remain undiminished.
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