FROM ACROSS THE KITCHEN TABLE (SINGLE), NME, 8 JUNE 1985
More expansive production to camouflage the glaring and obvious fact that any semblance of a decent song, melody or idea went missing in action, as far as the PF’s are concerned, years ago. Nice of them to rip off the old Public Image, logo though.
JEAN’S NOT HAPPENING, NME, 19 JANUARY 1985
With a cavalier approach to sentence construction, The Pale Fountains open with the line Here I am standing here. Hmm, liking this I am not. Pleasant is as pleasant does, strum-a-dum-a-diddle. Wally Whyton did it better.
JEAN’S NOT HAPPENING, MELODY MAKER, 12 JANUARY 1985
Having survived their jazz phase, this lot now grind their loins to face the ocean rain. It’s all here, the Cavern-echoed acoustic guitars, Van Der Valk strings, and soggy lyrics She’s like the pouring rain. Mac will be amused. It’s not a bad record, just irredeemably redundant, a sponge door-knocker.
DON’T LET YOUR LOVE START A WAR, NME, 17 MARCH 1984
The Pale Fountains don’t sound at all in lurve, they merely sound a bit annoyed, as though they’ve stubbed their toe. But they are probably quite intelligent – it is obvious by now that the stupider a person, the better the lurve song they can create. My favourite lurve songs of the moment are by Hall and Oates who are, let’s face it, two of the stupidest human beings ever to walk the face of the Earth. Sad but true fact two: nasty people write better lurve songs than nice ones.
UNLESS, MELODY MAKER, 26 JANUARY 1984
The satirical edge of The Pale Fountains is no less sharp: they’ve made such a wickedly funny assault on the sensitive-boy-with-polyphonic-synth genre that some of their label-mates will never forgive them.
UNLESS, NME, JANUARY 1984
The Pale Fountains are wet!
THANK YOU, NME, 6 NOVEMBER 1982
Well, irony and genre inversion are dangerous playthings for dullards such as these. The deliberate MOR packaging of Thank You with it’s welter of strings, virginal voices and oboes (oboes! I ask you, oboes!) sets them a task so massive it would take a rare balance of genius and instinct to pull it off. Of course, they fall laughably short of the goal. A miserable scrap of a song is fattened on bombast and a clumsy orchestral sweep until the most unbearably sticky confection has been ceremoniously half-baked.
Like so many of the offerings of those young dandies who clutter up the singles drawer every week, wrapped up in their long lashes and feline grace, The Pale Fountains are the empty echo of a long line of vacuity that stretches all the way back to Rupert Brooke. Pshaw! Garbage!
THANK YOU, MELODY MAKER, 6 NOVEMBER 1982
And good-night. Remember Frank Ifield.