I once had a friend who was saving herself for David. In all seriousness. Sylvian was all she wanted and wished for and although by the time Japan graced my sound system, I knew I my love life would be fulfilled at slightly different tomorrow parties I was happy to second that emotion. For more than a moment back then in the 80s David Sylvian, Steve Jansen, Richard Barbieri and Mick Karn were everything. Their floppy hair as enchanting as their floppy basslines, the electronica as electrifying as the looks they shot whenever they were beamed into my front room courtesy of Top Of The Pops.
From the grit of Don’t Rain On My Parade and Adolescent Sex (the latter probably the only tune whose greatness Queenie and I regularly disagree on) to the smoothness of All Tomorrows Parties, I was a lass persuaded to adoration thanks to the Catford four. Add their stylish inspiration for this butch dyke to get suited and booted, the bleeding heart Sylvian created with Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Red Guitar and the endless modern day 1BTN bunker appreciation sessions with a certain Bally-eric pairing and you have a band I will forever travel to.
Love is infectious and life long when it grabs you young and for that David, Steve, Richard and Mick I will always be a grateful sod. Hell for a moment there I almost ending up saving myself for David. For the man with the unconventional band that always delivered this adolescent the goods.