121. Scritti Politti
Roundhouse
3 February 2016
This was very much a “why the hell not?” gig, rather than one of those hotly anticipated, drop-everything, block-out-the-calendar kind of affairs. Scritti Politti weren’t exactly burning up the collective stereo of either me or my oldest mate back in the day, unless you count being subjected to The “Word Girl” on a near constant loop from every café radio within the East Sussex catchment area. But it was a Friday, it was at the Roundhouse and I had membership privileges, which meant we could waft in and out of the Members Bar like jaded aristocrats avoiding contact with the sticky-floored masses.
Technically, it wasn’t even Scritti Politti. It was just Green Gartside, the sole remaining Scritti in a Politti-less band. But honestly, name me another member. No one ever bought a Scritti record for the rhythm section. Green was always the nucleus, a softly spoken, six-foot Welshman with a voice like a hormonally confused choirboy and a brain like a post-structuralist.
Whilst Go West were busy oiling their pecs and Haircut 100 were losing theirs, Green was holed up in a North London flat writing pop songs with the head of a semiotics professor and the heart of a heartbroken teenager.
Take the “Word Girl”, a breezy, radio-friendly earworm, right? Wrong. It’s a full-blown linguistic takedown of gender tropes in pop music; a shimmering sugar-coated critique of how the word "girl" is weaponised in song after song. “She stands for your abuse,” croons Green, like a sixth-form Derrida fan with a synth. And yet, somehow, it still sounds like it should be played on a beach at sunset.
Likewise, “Perfect Way”, ostensibly a poppy ode to personal betterment, but really a Trojan horse stuffed with Green’s quiet rebellion, tracing the band's evolution from Marxist post-punk art project to chart-friendly synth-pop unit, disillusioned by punk’s quick descent into gatekeeping tribalism. You could dance to it. You could write a thesis on it. You could do both at once, if you were nimble enough.
Live, it was all slightly frayed around the edges; guitar straps misbehaving, mild heckles knocking Green off his stride, stage fright peeking out, but the crowd was warm, and he handled it all with disarming charm. “Artfully inept,” he mutters at one point, apologetically. But it’s delivered with such sweet self-awareness, you wanted to give him a hug.
Out of nowhere comes “Oh Patti”, played live for the first time, with a trumpet solo originally by Miles Davis now bravely handled by some session muso with a mildly terrified expression.
Green’s voice, still that fragile, cracked falsetto, hasn’t aged a day. It flutters above the rhythms like an injured bird. Songs from Cupid & Psyche are wheeled out like shy debutantes, and the crowd laps it all up, dancing, smiling, forgiving every minor wobble.
In the end, what we got wasn’t perfection. It wasn’t slick. It wasn’t polished. It was something better: charmingly awkward and oddly touching. It was a reminder that sometimes the most meaningful pop music is the stuff that refuses to behave, that wears its learning lightly and doesn’t mind if the guitar strap snaps halfway through the second verse.
Artfully inept? Maybe. But also, quietly brilliant.