The Flatmates: Love and Death

Reissues are all the rage these days. It seems every week the new releases list is filled with more and more old names. Whether it’s the reissuing of Beatles’ albums in their American versions, Bob Dylan or Rolling Stones albums in 5.1 SACD surround sound, Pavement albums with dozens of unreleased tracks, or the seventh-best Sonic Youth album with a boatload of “rehearsal recordings”, many of the most talked about albums of today are at least a decade old.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with all of this — great music certainly deserves to be revisited — but the fact remains that it has become a growing trend because these releases are such cash cows. It’s all about adding that little something extra and getting people to fork over cash for a record they very likely already own. So that’s why the Flatmates’ Love and Death is such a welcome relief from the current deluge of reissues. Its modesty goes a long way. There’s no essay by [insert esteemed rock critic here] telling us why this album is so important. There’s no pontificating by band members about the unique “atmosphere” during the recording of the album. There are no superfluous demos or outtakes that grow old after a handful of listens, if that. If you’re looking for the usual bells and whistles that go along with a reissue, you won’t find any of those here. Nope, all you’ll find here is a long out-of-print, genre-defining album that remains as vital and inspiring as ever.

It’s surprising that no one got around to re-releasing this record sooner — it would only take a random check of eBay once a month or so to see original copies of Love and Death regularly going for upwards of $50. In a genre where obscurity is one of the key prerequisites in becoming legendary, the scarcity of Love and Death certainly contributed to the increased interest in the Flatmates over the past few years. Despite not appearing on the actual Creation Records compilation, the Flatmates were certainly a part of the British C-86 scene. The band formed in Bristol in 1986 and gigged regularly around the Kingdom until its demise in March 1989. Although they’ve often been given the “twee” tag in recent years, it’s really not a label that fits. In fact, punk is very much at the heart of the Flatmates’ sound, and just one listen to this record (which includes a spot-on version of Rocket to Russia‘s “I Don’t Care”) will make clear that the Ramones were the band’s biggest influence. Yes, there’s some definite shambling going on here and the guitars are far more jangly than anything Johnny Ramone ever played, but in terms of songwriting the basic Ramones formula is on display: catchy, concise, and fun as hell. Just because there’s a female singer and not as much distortion, that doesn’t automatically make it twee.

The a-sides of the band’s first two singles, “I Could Be in Heaven” and “Happy All the Time”, are deliriously catchy pop gems that are near impossible to listen to while sitting down. The Ramones’ influence is clear from the beginning as vocalist Deb Haynes puts her own twist on a classic Ramones theme, singing “I wanna hang around with you” before breaking into a joyful “ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba”. She also showcases a very Joey Ramone-esque hiccup (as in “Hey, Romeo-ah!”) throughout the track, which is certainly as timeless as anything off the first few Ramones albums.

“Happy All the Time” follows the same basic formula, with guitarist Martin Whitehead (who wrote the majority of these songs) delivering a snappy intro before the rhythm section breaks into an almost surf-rock groove. Haynes’ vocals are delivered with the glee that one would expect from a song with such a title, but there’s a certain strength to them as well. She’s certainly a more assertive vocalist than many of her male C-86 counterparts, which is just another reason why the band’s twee tag is befuddling.

“Shimmer” is another highlight, and shows the band becoming more confident in its sound while at the same time expanding it. A squall of feedback at the beginning of the track hints that this will be a slight departure for the Flatmates, and it’s confirmed when the big, echo-y (as in the actual sound and the Bunnymen) drums come in, along with Whitehead’s briskly-strummed, David Gedge-inspired guitar. The song moves slower than those that precede it, but this helps give it a fuller, heavier sound. These elements lend the song a distinctly ’80s flavor, which differentiates it from the majority of the group’s other material. Similar production values have marred many a song by the group’s contemporaries, but the judicious use here combined with the top-notch songwriting make it one of many timeless classics on the album.

Yes, the word “classic” gets thrown around a lot, but in this case it’s legit. Each of the 19 tracks on here could stand on its own as a mix-tape centerpiece. There’s an inherent familiarity to each of the tunes, but there’s never a feeling of redundancy. By stripping away what had at that point become the unnecessary aggression of punk and using its basic blueprint as the foundation of their songs, the Flatmates helped make the world safe for kids who wanted to bash out hooky, major chord-driven songs, but who didn’t want to deal with all of the posturing. The fact that, until now, this album could only be enjoyed by indie pop fans who had the good fortune (literally and figuratively) to track it down was a minor travesty. Now that it’s available again, it shouldn’t go unnoticed. Those other reissues can wait; if all that bonus material that you have to wade through was so great, it would have found its way onto an album. There’s nothing to wade through on Love and Death. You won’t be hitting the “next” button at all, but you’ll be hitting “repeat” a whole lot.