Charles Douglas’ musical career was strange and brief, and largely ignored at the time. By the time he reached his mid-20s, he’d released a slew of material, some via regular commercial channels, some by other means – notably a brace of home-made cassette only albums – and quit drugs and music making too.
‘Not Your Kind of Music’ gathers much of Douglas’ ‘lost’ works on two discs, with the first containing the two official albums, ‘The Burdens of Genius’ and ‘Minor Wave’ and the second containing the impossible to find cassette releases ‘The Spiders are Getting Bigger’ and ‘Haunting and Daunting’ to amass a total of 67 tracks in total.
‘The Burdens Of Genius’ (which Douglas self-released after Elektra, who we was signed to, refused to put it out) and ‘Minor Wave’ (again rejected by his label and selling poorly when finally released by an indie) are unquestionably lo-fi classics that at their best would stand up alongside early Pavement and Silver Jews, although the wildly variable quality – not so much of the recordings, but of the material – is undoubtedly an issue, and it’s not too hard to hear why Douglas struggled to connect with a wider audience.
What ‘ Not Your Kind of Music’ reveals is a troubled young man with a superabundance of ideas but a distinct lack of focus. His prodigious output certainly wasn’t matched by a sense of quality control, and no doubt his career would have benefited from some refinement. Even Douglas admits that ‘Minor Wave’, which he hated by the time it was released, has its moments but would have worked better as an EP.
But for all of the erratica, fuck-ups and mis-hits, there are moments of unquestionable brilliance to be found, and moments of bewilderingly intriguing musical exploration, too. ‘Drivin’ Around’, for example, is rough and ready, with the distorted yelping vocals veering wildly either side of the loose melody. It’s compelling and painful in equal measure.
Meanwhile, ‘Monkey Island’ is half Pavement’s ‘Hit the Plane Down’, half bedroom Casiotone doodle with monkey impressions, and elsewhere, ‘ Dennis Wilson’ incorporates the punk drive of The Ramones with the ramshackle one-take stylings of early Fall recordings.
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Much of the lyrical content is simple and slapdash - take ‘Name’ for example, which opens with the lines, ‘When I saw you my head fell off / And then I asked you to come get off / You gave me 200 joints / Then I saw things from a new viewpoint / I wanna know your name.’
It’s very much a hit-and-miss affair, and disc one certainly contains the superior material (and even some of that’s cringe-inducingly sloppy and throwaway). Sometimes it’s hard to be sure if the execution impedes great songs or if it’s an integral part of their charm (as on the wonky but sincere ‘Suicide Note’) but even the iffiest of tracks are redeemed in some way by Charles’ commentaries in the booklet, which are humorous, thoughtful and surprisingly well-written and put him across in a positive light.
Had Charles Douglas not kicked the drugs, would he still have killed his music career, or would he have simply killed himself off instead in an inglorious junkie death? And if he’d gone the latter route, would he have received instant canonisation or his legacy lost without trace? It is, of course, immaterial. He might not be making music any more, but Charles seems happy and is doing ok as a novelist writing under his own name (Alex McAulay) nowadays. What’s more, the products of his brief but unusual musical career hold a lasting legacy – and thanks to Broken Horse, it now has a chance of receiving the recognition it deserves.
Charles Douglas Online
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