“Trixies” (BMG/Love Records)
By Eleni P. Austin
Most bands wait several years before attempting to write a Rock Opera or a concept album. The Who had been making music together nearly a decade before unveiling Tommy, same with Elton John and his Captain Fantastic record. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers were around 30 years before they recorded The Last DJ. Meanwhile, Neil Young had been making records close to 40 years before he tackled the complicated concept album, Greendale.
But the nucleus of Squeeze, Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook had barely been collaborating for a few months in 1974, and had just begun gigging around their local club scene in Depford. They had yet to secure a recording contract when they dreamed up Trixies. Demos were recorded, but the music was deemed too complicated to replicate live. So, the project was set aside, only to be dusted off and revisited ahead of their 50th anniversary in 2024.
Back in the ‘60s, Bob Dylan and The Beatles forever changed the face of Rock & Roll. Really, they were the first artists to write their own songs and craft full-length albums. Preceding that paradigm shift, performers were content to record a single or two and hastily cobble together eight more songs that served as filler.
By the dawn of the ‘70s, The Beatles had broken up and Bob had put music on the back-burner, preferring to spend time with his growing family. Around the same time, it felt as though every new male singer-songwriter that released a debut was christened “the new Bob Dylan.” That appellation was applied to John Prine, Bruce Springsteen and Loudon Wainwright III at the start of their careers. But there’s never been a songwriting duo hailed “the new Lennon & McCartney,” that is until the British band Squeeze began to make some noise at the end of “The Me Decade.”
Back in 1973, Chris Difford nicked 50 quid from his mother’s purse and placed an advert in a sweet shop looking for a guitarist for his (nonexistent) band. Glenn Tilbrook was the only applicant. The duo began writing together and a year later, the first iteration of their band included bassist Harry Kakouli, drummer Paul Gunn and Jools Holland on keys.
They cycled through a series of names before settling on Squeeze, (originally the name of a disappointing Velvet Underground album). Playing in their hometown of Depford, they shared stages with other up-and-comers like Dire Straits and Alternative TV. When Gilson Lavis took over on the drum kit, that truly solidified their sound.
Squeeze signed with A&M Records and their self-titled debut (known as U.K. Squeeze in America), arrived in 1978. Although it was mostly ignored by the critics and the music-buying public, it set the stage for a triptych of records that cemented their reputation as a stellar band, and earned them their earliest Lennon & McCartney comparisons.
Released between 1979 and 1981, Cool For Cats, Argy Bargy and East Side Story were all watershed records. The first two were produced by John Wood, the third boasted production from their simpatico pal, Elvis Costello. Each record zeroed in on the sharp songcraft of Difford and Tilbrook. Songs like “Up The Junction,” “Pulling Mussels From A Shell” and “Tempted,” wed pithy (Lennon-esque) lyrics to sunny (Macca-fied) melodies. Their sound was pure Pub Rock, gussied up with Dayglo, New Wave Colors.
After releasing their fifth long-player, Sweets From A Stranger (which yielded the hit “Black Coffee In Bed”), as well as a Greatest Hits collection, Squeeze called it quits in late 1982. Difford & Tilbrook recorded a duo album two years later, and by 1985, the band roared back to life. Records like Cosi Fan Tutti-Fruitti, Babylon And On and Frank continued their streak of critical acclaim and commercial success that sustained them through the ‘80s. During the next decade, they toured at a breakneck pace, but only released four albums, Play, Some Fantastic Place, Ridiculous and Domino.
By the dawn of the 21st century, Chris and Glenn toggled between releasing solo music and touring with the band. Out on the road, they played their hits, but the songwriters wrote separately, saving new songs for their solo projects. Inspiration finally struck when the BBC asked Difford & Tilbrook to write songs for an eight-part series, Cradle To Grave. It was their most accomplished effort since East Side Story. Two years later, they returned with another winner, succinctly entitled The Knowledge. Now they have returned to their roots with their 16th album, Trixies.
The opening two tracks, “What More Can I Say” and “You Get The Feeling,” set the scene. The former is something of a nonchalant overture. Blasé keys and spiraling guitars connect with thrumming bass, tingly percussion and a tentative beat. Glenn’s world-weary vocals wraps around lyrics that conjure up a night spot that is equal parts seedy and sophisticated: “The cocktails have been shaken, the girls have all been taken, the dawn is slowly breaking/It’s oh-so continental, it’s the underworld of the night, it’s oh-so instrumental, I don’t have to sing another line because Trixies is alright.”
The latter blends feathery acoustic guitars, shaker percussion, sunny Wurlitzer, angular bass lines and a chunky back-beat. Glenn’s choirboy croon evinces effervescence, as lyrics move on from the club’s milieu, honing in on the fizzy sensation of feeling right at home in a new place: “You sit down to your table, to Jazz so cool and gentle, the sax is in a solo, it makes me sentimental, a tune to wash your dinner down, the music spins your head around, they’ve got the Fox, you’ve got the hound.” Searing electric guitar and descending Wurlitzer notes drill down on the seductive reasoning. Celestial backing vocals cocoon Glenn as declares “You get the feeling, you know you might be dreaming, nobody is leaving, whisper in my ear, I love the feeling here.”
“The Place We Call Mars” opens with a surprisingly ornate arrangement, as Stylophone, Mellotron and electric Flange guitar converge, splitting the difference between rococo renaissance and portentous Prog-Rock. Acoustic licks, rippling piano and a low-key beat is woven into the melodic tapestry, but a grim scenario manages to dirty up the pretty: “There she lay on the hospital floor, blood on her face and spikes in her mind, everyone knew she could take no more, as she ran screaming with death by her side, the window was broken and smoke trickled in, along with the spiders and smells, how did I know where the end might begin, when the story was so hard to tell, the story was so hard to tell.” A squally guitar solo intersects with plangent piano notes on the break, as the chorus acknowledges the glamor and gilt have given way to a gritty and dangerous world: “You can’t mend a mind, but you can mend a face, I’m lost in the line to visit the place, the place we call Mars, the place we call Mars, the place we call Mars. A space age instrumental coda feels thick with foreboding, and the countdown begins.
Things have truly taken a turn with “Hell On Earth.” Stab-y keys, whiplash guitars, agile bass lines and a jittery beat propel the action. Meanwhile, a speed-freaked Greek chorus hug the melodic hairpin turns. The bloom is off the rose as seedy becomes sordid: “The bouncer’s name was Eddy, he’s always at the ready, for the man who gets stoned as he slurs and he shouts, and in the two-way mirror, I play ‘spot the killer,’ if you don’t wear a tie, then you’re in and you’re out.” Wiggly Moog runs amp up the angst on the break ahead of the final chorus: “Hell on earth baby, hell on earth baby, Trixie’s is the last thing you say, Trixie’s is one hell of a place, Trixie, oh Trixie, I’ve never seen your face.”
Chris takes the lead on “The Dancer.” His dour vocals are matched by furtive keys, bleak bass lines, wiry guitars and restless lap steel. A squalid scene unfolds substituting flesh for fantasy: “Her foot was resting on a stool, her movements made the old men drool, and so she made a few more friends, upon the stage, she threw her blouse, the nylons flew into the crowd, her dark hair flung across her face/Hands reached out, things got rough, she sang no more, her song of love, she felt abused and lost the taste.” The tempo accelerates like a nervous heartbeat as each fresh humiliation transpires.
Musically, “Good Riddance” flips the script, unfurling the kind of hook-filled, infectious melody that would soon become Squeeze’s trademark. Stacked harmonies are mirrored by sparkly instrumentation featuring vibraphone, Bell tree, celeste and harpsichord all anchored by a thunking beat. Rather quickly, the arrangement shapeshifts, locking into a torchy, Cocktail Jazz groove. Salting the mix are vroomy-guitars, lithe bass lines, plaintive pedal steel and a drowsy beat. In keeping with the decadent demimonde, a nuanced narrative is equally cinematic and menacing: “Simon sat lonely and bothered with his constant cigarette smoking, he never done no harm, maybe just as well, I sat and listened to his story and he knew it was time he was going, but with a slug in his heart, there was no story to tell.” Courtly Spanish guitar ambles across the break, almost leavening the tawdry tableau: “Savage women with tongues like razors squabbled their way ‘round a man, they didn’t want no harm, it was just as well, how lucky he was to be wanted, with his smart, young Italian tan, he was full of their charm, with no love left to sell.”
“Don’t Go Out In The Dark” is suitably sinister, powered by greazy guitars, fright-wig keys, roiling bass and a shuddery beat. Once again, Chris and Glenn display a lyrical acumen and sophisticated musical instincts that belie their teenage years. Rat-a-tat vocals spit out a “just the facts, ma’am” disquisition that is rich in detail: “A taxi drew up at the Chelsea mews in a cruel and wintry fog, all I could see were her Lurex shoes as she walked her Afghan dog, a cigarette holder appeared in the light as she opened up the door, it was one of those old Victorian nights that she won’t see anymore.” The dissonant instrumentation lines up perfectly with the song’s lurid denouement: “So at the club I saw a man who looked completely dazed, I could see his shaking hands his eyes were red and glazed, he told me all about his wife, he dragged her through the dirt, he told me all about his life and how the tables turned.”
Meanwhile, “Why Don’t You,” presages the New Wave template Squeeze would pioneer a few years later. Metallurgic guitars ricochet across darting keys, boomerang bass lines and a hopscotch beat. Something of a toxic Tango, the lyrics progress from what Glenn and Chris would later refer to as “a little slap and tickle,” to a sado-masochistic mise en scene, jumping from “Why don’t you scratch me…why don’t you kiss me,” to “Why don’t you hit me, give me a heart attack, go on and love me, and I might love you back, I know you’re much younger than me, when I pulled you off the street, it’s a cruel love, and it’s ours to keep.” The power dynamic shifts on the break as skronky guitars skitter atop an insistent handclap beat.
“Anything But Me” offers up a sad-sack soliloquy from a Trixies habitue who’s luck has run out. Air Raid siren guitars, sprightly Mellotron, harpsichord and vibraphone, along with downcast bass lines are wed to a hiccoughing beat. His fate is sealed: “Here comes Big Fat Harry with that same old cigar, his boys are in the alley waiting for me, the dice fell and I’m losing, his smile crept ‘round the wall, it wasn’t so amusing, it was hard to be.” On the break, thrumming bass and keening pedal steel underscore the dire circumstance.
Once again, Chris takes the wheel on the woozy “It’s Over.” thready bass lines make way for airy guitar, reedy organ notes and a stop-start beat. Adopting a Sinatra-esque croon, it’s one for his baby, and one more for the road: “It’s over, the singer has taken his bow…I asked her if she’d like to dance, I led her out in my arms, she looked me in the eyes and said ‘Hey, Soldier, what do you think will happen when this drink you’ve had’s gone to your head? You want me,’ and I say ‘it’s over.’” A serpentine guitar solo uncoils on the break, matching melancholy notes to a restrained refrain. The final verse is suffused in regret and recrimination: “It’s over, my shadow and I are on the street, all over, I wonder if she thinks of me, the rain has stopped falling, I hear someone calling, it’s over.”
The final three tracks find the club has suddenly gone legit. “The Jaguars” is a Glam-tastic groover that connects stinging electric guitars to spiky pedal steel, rubbery clavinet and buoyant bass lines to a staccato beat. Beneath a sleek and shiny surface, the illegal action remains sub rosa: “Down in the cellar, sat on a stool, watching Bobby Collins making up all the rules, the girls are dynamite, I drank so much tonight, then without a warning there’s a shot in the air, the doors are flying open and I’m last down the stairs, Trixies is the place to be, with the next best memory….we can Rock and Roll together, we can be The Jaguars, we can Rock and Roll forever, here at Trixies, you’re a star!”
“Trixies Pt. 1” and “Trixies Pt. 2” offer a playful coda. On “Pt. 1,” acidic piano washes over spiraling guitar licks, sinewy bass, sustained Hammond, Celeste and a relax-fit Reggae riddim. Like a rotting pinata the club still survives, gilded and glamorous on the outside, foul and fetid at it’s core: “I had the smell of Lavendar and the drinks were so dear, the same old calendar hangs there each year, no one went out back, the dark wasn’t all that safe, the barman really stank, but that was his own fate.” An explosive drum salvo punctuates each chorus and a snake-charmer guitar solo hypnotizes on the break. Membership has its privileges.
A blowsy saxophone fanfare announces “….Pt. 2.” with Klezmer-iffic exuberance. Pounding piano collides with shivery ARP synths, Minimoog, dervish guitar, tensile bass and a raucous beat. The faces change, but the song remains the same: “I tell you who hangs out there, Miss November, she’s a Playmate, Rock stars of the ‘80s, directors who are irate, models and comedians, actors who are chameleons, all the sort of people who carry something lethal.” The final phrase says it all, “Trixies is a gas, singing hey, hey, Trixies is alright.”
These days, along with Chris and Glenn, Squeeze includes Danica Dora on additional vocals, Melvin Duffy playing guitar, lap steel and pedal steel, Simon Hanson behind the drum kit, Stephen Large on keys, Moog, piano, organ, Mellotron, harpsichord and clavinet, Steve Smith on percussion and drums, and Owen Biddle on bass, additional vocals, drum machine, drums and production. It was Owen (who cut his musical teeth as bass guitarist for The Roots), who enthusiastically urged the band to make this record.
The motivation for Trixies was a confluence of influences. From the writing of Damon Runyon and Raymond Chandler and splashy MGM musicals like The Easter Parade. To more obvious antecedents like Quadrophenia, Bowie, Sparks, Elton John, Stevie Wonder, the Velvet Underground, Paul McCartney, The Beach Boys, Roxy Music, T-Rex and John Lennon.
It’s shocking (and, then again, not so shocking) to realize how adept Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook were as teenagers. Trixies is a testament to their protean talent. The good news is, it’s finally seen the light of day. The better news is Squeeze has already completed an album of brand-new material. All hail Squeeze, long live Difford & Tilbrook.
