'Direct from TV's (Insert Title Here)'

 

The heyday of the die-cast spin off toy

From James Bond to Basil Brush... the Avengers to the Pink Panther, the phenomenon of the TV/film spin-off provided rich pickings for the makers of die cast model cars during the 1960s and 70s, and an exciting range of superbly designed toys that were appreciated by children and collectors alike. Nothing like them had ever been seen before, or since, with some of the most innovative examples now looking like genuine design classics. Here I take a look back at some of the more interesting examples that came my way during the white heat of what was a technological revolution for toy makers...

As a child, I was regularly bought die-cast model cars, on what seemed like a weekly basis. At this time (the 1960s), Corgi and Dinky were the prime movers in the field, and as the years went by I amassed a large number of their models, alongside others from smaller but equally interesting manufacturers such as Tri-Ang’s Spot-On brand, and Morestone (aka Budgie). The models available were, for the most part, contemporary roadgoing vehicles, and aside from the exotica of American and continental models, and the occasional racing car, there was nothing strange or other worldly on offer, at least not from the ranks of Corgi and Dinky... not yet, at any rate.

Budgie Toys, on the other hand, whose models were often smaller-scaled and less attractively finished than those of their competitors, stole a march on their rivals in 1962 with their die-cast model of Gerry Anderson’s Supercar. This was by no means the company’s first ‘character merchandising’ tie-in: under their earlier brand name, Morestone, a die-cast model of Noddy’s car had been introduced in the mid-1950s, one of the very first examples of such a merchandising spin-off in the model car arena. The Budgie Supercar was, if nothing else, the earliest die-cast model ‘car’ ever produced in tandem with a television series, but neither of these early entries into the field gave any hint of what was to follow.

'The marvel of the age': Budgie's die-cast Supercar toy. In a nod towards future trends, they even managed to get the colour scheme subtly wrong...

Rivalry between Corgi and Dinky had led to a kind of ‘features war’ between the brands, as each tried to outdo the other by adding functionality and play value to various models. Opening doors were probably some of the earliest examples of this quest for greater realism, as were the likes of hinged bonnets (often revealing a detailed engine compartment), or boot lids. One of Corgi’s most popular models of the mid-60s, was its ‘dual control’ driving school car, introduced in June 1964, which offered the unique ability to control the direction of its wheels by means of a stylised roof sign. So far, so sophisticated. Now, the field of die-cast toys was set to be totally transformed by a single model.

In October of 1965, a new Corgi model was brought to my attention, via the medium of television. Both Blue Peter, and its Bristol-based alter ego, Tom-Tom, ran features on a brand new toy car that had just been introduced, in anticipation of the new James Bond film that was scheduled for release the following year. This was, of course, the iconic Aston Martin DB5. It was also, most likely, my first ever encounter with the Bond film franchise, via a clip of the factory car chase sequence from Goldfinger. But for the time being, the films could wait. What I really wanted was that toy car...

The Aston Martin DB5 was a re-tooled version of Corgi’s existing casting for the DB4 (those in the know would have spotted the retention of the earlier model’s rear light array). Unlike Bond’s actual example, Corgi gave theirs a gold paint job – which undoubtedly looked more flashy – but in other respects, the model would have more than satisifed the most stringent inspection from ‘Q’ branch. Many of the Goldfinger gadgets were present, including front-mounted machine guns, which popped out at the flick of a spring-loaded switch, and a rear window shield, similarly activated. But it was the ejector seat, a small work of genius by Corgi’s designers, that really set the model apart. At the flick of a switch, the roof popped open on a hinge and the passenger seat was flung free of the car, disgorging its gun-weilding occupant. In one small respect, the model improved on the original, for the ejection mechanism in Bond’s ‘real life’ car left the vehicle with a gaping hole in the roof where Corgi’s hinged lid could simply be clicked back into place. Now pay attention, 007...

All of these incredible features were duly demonstrated by Blue Peter’s Christopher Trace: and I’m almost certain that the example he showed us on screen also boasted features that were not included in the original production model – the extendable tyre-slashers and rotating number plate would eventually be incorporated into a later version, but my memory is of seeing them demonstrated at the model’s inception in 1965, and later wondering where they were when the vehicle finally found its way into my hands...

‘Special Agent 007’ proclaimed the box artwork, for those who, like myself, had yet to make the aquaintance of Ian Fleming’s timeless Secret Service assassin. The box itself was almost as much of a work of art as the car, and indeed, would set a precedent for later releases of similar TV and film tie-in vehicles. In a development of packaging techniques that had already been trialed on some of Corgi’s more workaday vehicles, the Aston Martin was presented on a cardboard plinth with folding display panel backing and sides. There was even an envelope containing ‘secret instructions’, and a mini-catalogue proclaiming Corgi Toys as ‘model car makers to James Bond.’ In marketing terms, buying into the Bond franchise was a huge coup for Mettoy, owners of the Corgi brand, and the toy went on to sell in vast numbers. I still remember being presented with my own model, on a dark winter evening: our dad had collected it from a toy shop on his way home from work. Everything worked perfectly – unlike some later entries in this newly emerging range of film and TV tie-ins – and the only slight snag was the tendency for the ejected Chinese gunman to disappear under items of furniture...

Corgi's original James Bond Aston Martin... enough bling to satisfy Mr. Goldfinger himself...

This was late 1965, and the Bond car had arrived perfectly timed for the Christmas market. Rival die-cast barons Dinky were clearly taking careful note of these developments, and the following year saw the first of their own entries into the field, with two models derived from Gerry Anderson’s Thunderbirds. Lady Penelope’s FAB 1 was an instant hit, and Thunderbird 2, complete with detachable pod containing Thunderbird 4, would remain in production for over a decade.

Corgi themselves were quick to capitalise on their initial success, and 1966 saw the arrival of several more TV die-casts. The Man from UNCLE’s Oldsmobile, despite never featuring in the TV series, was an immediate hit. Once again, Corgi worked from a pre-existing cast of the Oldsmobile Super-88, customising the model with the addition of a spring-activated periscope which caused gun-wielding figures of Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin to pop alternately from the front side windows. Another attractive box was offered, with the bonus of a ‘Waverly’ ring, comprising a lenticular image which shifted to show portraits of Solo and Kuryakin. The ring was, if anything, more impressive than the car itself. I had certainly never seen anything like it before (although the lenticular process had been around since the 1920s). Something else I had never seen – at this point in time – was the UNCLE TV series, but that hardly mattered with a toy as cool as this. I must have been given the car as a birthday present in 1966 or 67, and it survives (sans box or ring) to this day...

Corgi had picked their moment well. No sooner was the James Bond car comfortably installed in the catalogue than along came one of TV’s coolest ever vehicles. It was spring of 1966 and the car in question was, of course, the Batmobile. Once again, Corgi rushed to market with a superbly accurate, highly detailed model, managing to get this extremely complex toy into production in time for the all important Christmas market. Debuting in October 1966, the model’s built-in features included a rocket launcher, front-mounted chain slasher, and a plastic tongue of flame that ingenuiously flickered in and out of the exhaust pipe as the vehicle was trundled across the carpet. Another handsome box was produced, incorporating room for a sprue of small plastic missiles, and a Batman sticker, all of which add considerably to the model’s value if still present and correct fifty-three years later...

Suddenly, there was a whole new thing happening in the arena of die-cast toy cars, as the new licensed spin-offs began to outsell more conventional models, which themselves began to adapt in order to keep pace. The late 60s saw Corgi introduce a short-lived range of cars whose wheels could be removed via a set of hinged ‘golden jacks’ on the models’ undersides, and every Christmas saw a rush of innovative new models such as the impressively-appointed Lincoln Continental of 1967, with ‘opening everything’ (doors, bonnet, boot), flock-carpeted interior, and a ‘working’ colour television (a small screen illuminated by a battery displayed a series of small coloured slides).

The marketing departments at Corgi and Dinky must have scoured the film and TV listings for any likely candidate vehicles – and if the castings already existed, so much the better. Both manufacturers had been producing vintage models for a few years (albeit these ultimately held little appeal to collectors), and from the Corgi range, model No. 9, a vintage Le Mans Bentley, provided the source model for an attractive Avengers gift set, marketed from January 1966. Corgi had introduced a ‘normal’ Lotus Elan the previous year, and now, with a white paint job, it did double duty as Mrs. Peel’s personal transport (reflecting the vehicle seen in the black and white Avengers episodes). Plastic models of Steed and Emma added to the realism, and the packaging even found room for three small plastic umbrellas! In fact, the only area in which the Avengers set slipped up was in the matter of Steed’s Bentley – green in reality, red in its die-cast incarnation. Not that many would have realised, since the episodes were still being transmitted, like all other British TV, in black and white. Ironically, the source model from the ‘Corgi Classics’ range had been offered in an accurate green paint job, and was later to form a further TV tie-in as a ‘World of Wooster’ Bentley (the PG Wodehouse novels were then being adapted on BBC1 starring Ian Carmichael as Bertie Wooster). The Avengers Bentley remained resolutely red, but over the years, collectors have succumbed to the temptation to swap it for a ‘correct’ coloured example, often passing it off as a ‘rare’ green Avengers set, when no such model ever saw the light of day...

Meanwhile, over at Dinky headquarters, attentions were focused on the marketing deal the company had struck with Gerry Anderson’s Century 21 merchandising division, a move which would prove highly lucrative for the company over the ensuing years. If Thunderbirds had been ripe for exploitation, Captain Scarlet was even more so, with no fewer than three different road-going vehicles employed by Spectrum’s indestructible agent. One might even speculate that the proliferation of road-based transport might have been at Dinky’s bidding...

Like Corgi, Dinky managed to find ways of exploiting existing models in revamped spin-off editions. Their Mini-Moke model, introduced in the mid-1960s, reappeared in repainted form to do service as a Prisoner spin-off, before being revamped yet again in what must be the most obscure example in the whole TV merchandising die-cast arena: ‘Tiny’s Mini-Moke’ derived from an almost forgotten childrens’ series produced using primitive cardboard cut-out characters. The Enchanted House was seen sporadically across various ITV regions around 1971 before disappearing into oblivion. The Dinky toy, in mint, boxed form, now commands staggeringly high prices.

More familiar to young viewers, but again derived from an existing die-cast model, was Parsley’s car, as seen (briefly) in The Adventures of Parsley, a comic series of 5-minute escapades developed from the Watch With Mother staple The Herbs. The ‘Bullnose’ Morris had been on the Dinky catalogue in various forms for a number of years, including a risible ‘flower power’ version marketed as the personal transport for a made-up pop ensemble, ‘The Dinky Beats.’ It took nothing more than a dayglo green paint job and a plastic Parsley to complete the transformation.

Looking not unlike a green version of Jeremy Clarkson, Parsley takes the wheel of his Bullnose Morris Oxford... that'll be ten shillings in old money to you, squire.

 

Speaking of made-up pop ensembles, over at Corgi, a model of the Monkeemobile was added to the catalogue in December 1968. Regrettably devoid of cool features (unless you counted the plastic Monkees inside it), this was an accurate rendition of the hot-rodded Pontiac GTO seen in the TV series title sequence, but seldom (if ever) featuring in any actual episodes. For once, the Beatles lagged behind the Monkees, at least in the die-cast department. But the Fab Four would have their day in the toyshop spotlight, and in February 1969, the Yellow Submarine model duly appeared – an innovative creation featuring pop-up Beatles and a rotating periscope. Despite the film version being resolutely two-dimensional, the design translated surprisingly well into the die-cast format.

Novelty vehicles such as these now accounted for a substantial part of Corgi’s output, and a good many pages in their yearly catalogue were given over to detailed depictions of the models and their many features. As part of their potential target audience, I can attest to the success of these toys and their associated marketing campaigns. I’d resisted both the Beatles and Monkees models, but was much more receptive to the superbly-modelled Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Corgi’s flagship toy of 1969, released in November ‘68. I’m not sure that I even saw the movie at the time, but Blue Peter more than made up for it with clips from the film and a full demonstration of the toy on air, as good a commercial as ever appeared via the BBC...

Batman had disappeared off the small screen in 1967, but his car remained a top seller. November of the same year saw another superhero vehicle added to the Corgi range, in the form of the Green Hornet’s Black Beauty – a sleek limousine whose boot disgorged spinning projectiles, while the radiator flipped open to fire an orange plastic missile. The fact that The Green Hornet had failed to make the TV schedules in most (if not all) ITV areas did little to dent sales, and the model remained on sale until 1972.

The late 60s also saw further entries in what was rapidly becoming a mini-franchise for James Bond, with a superior Aston Martin model unveiled in February 1968, whilst a Toyota, derived from a single sequence in You Only Live Twice had appeared the preceding year. Of these endeavours, only the Toyota felt like a misfire... Bond wasn’t even the driver, for a start, although he was certainly present, crouching down on the rear seat, gunning for the pursuing Spectre hoods. The casting was, however, a literal misfire, certainly as far as my example went: the boot was supposed to open and launch missiles, which it did at first: but the mechanism soon became locked with the boot half-open. It looked very handsome, but compared to the Aston Martin, it was a bit of a dud.

Similar disappointment was attached to Dinky’s otherwise excellent SPV model, rush-released for the Christmas market in 1967, and one of the year’s must-have die cast toys. The features on offer included a flip-open front hatch from which missiles could be fired. Regrettably, the design of the hatch was not as sound as it might have been, and by Boxing Day, it had already displayed a tendency to disengage itself from its spring-loaded mechanism. The fix involved opening the model’s base with a screwdriver – the very fact that screws were used in place of welding spots suggesting that Dinky’s designers knew the model would need to be user-serviceable...

As the 60s yielded place to the 1970s, the market for ‘character’ die-cast toys showed no signs of abating. Previous models had tended to reflect the content of the films or television productions from which they derived, but now the makers began to strike out on their own with some often ambitious designs that were wholly original. Foremost of these was Popeye’s ‘paddle wagon’ which appeared in the early 70s. Popeye was seldom seen on TV at the time, but the character had long since transcended his comic strip and film origins. The ‘paddle wagon’ featured just about every recognisable character from the comic strip in a vehicle that looked like the aftermath of a collision between Noddy’s car and a Mississippi riverboat.

I was never convinced by the paddle wagon, and passed on it at the time. Likewise, a range of Magic Roundabout vehicles from Corgi felt a little too juvenile for me by the time they appeared (1971). I made an exception for Basil Brush, whose 1910 Renault (revamped from an earlier ‘Corgi Classic’) was released for the Christmas market the same year. By this time, Dinky were setting the pace with their Gerry Anderson vehicles, with the UFO Interceptor appearing in disappointing metallic green the same year, alongside an ‘Ed Straker’s Car’ which incorporated a keyless clockwork motor that harked back to the old ‘mechanical’ Corgi toys of the 1950s, and a military green version of the SHADO Mobile. 1972 also saw the appearance of a Pink Panther car, based on the Panthermobile seen in the TV series opening titles. I was somewhat disappointed when this turned out to be a plastic model, where a diecast would have felt more solid and engineered. But the tide was beginning to turn...

Corgi’s fortunes seem to have gone into a decline sometime in the mid-70s, with a noticeable drop in the quality of their models, accompanied by the decision to source certain vehicles from Hong Kong. When a Dick Dastardly car appeared in 1973, it bore no resemblance to the ‘Double Zero’ as seen on screen, and was nothing more than a Dastardly and Muttley-equipped model derived from a cheap and nasty range called ‘Qualitoys’. To the potential consternation of buyers, Dastardly was depicted in his flying gear as opposed to the Wacky Races ensemble. Film and TV tie-ins continued through the decade, but these increasingly began to take the form of panel vans with decals bearing the logo of the relevant film or TV character and no actual relationship to anything seen in the original series. Around this time, and fully aware of what was happening in the toy market, I produced a humorous drawing of ‘Alec Freeman’s Musical Mini-bus’, an imaginary die-cast toy ‘direct from Gerry Anderson’s UFO’ which satirised the whole risible trend. 

'Muttley! Do something!' DD's Corgi car is, frankly, never going to win the Wacky Races or stop the pigeon...

Dinky fared somewhat better, but by the mid-70s the best models in their catalogue were the left-overs from the innovative years of the mid-60s and early 70s, now repackaged in the transparent window-type boxes that had become an industry standard from the late 60s onwards. But by the late 70s, the toy market had swung away from model vehicles towards electronic, gaming-based toys that seem, in retrospect, like a foretaste of what was to come. There can be little doubt that the spike in sales of film and TV-derived die cast models kept both Corgi and Dinky afloat for longer than might otherwise have been the case, and as Corgi’s sales continued to flag, a sudden surge in licensed character models in 1979 smacked of desperation to revive a doomed brand.

But one question remains to be answered: where did it all get started? We’ve seen how Morestone/Budgie were an innovator with their Noddy and Supercar models, but these were not necessarily the first examples of this intriguing sub-genre. For that, we must look to Lone Star toys, whose ‘Road Master’ series models debuted in the early 50s, and featured – ill-advisedly – a range of vintage and veteran cars alongside contemporary models. These models, combining die cast bodies and plastic detailing, included what I believe to be the very first example of a model car sold off the back of a ‘parent’ film – namely, 1953’s Genevieve. A ‘Road Masters’ brand model was sold in an attractive display style box (anticipating Corgi by a decade) from around 1954, and as can be seen from the example in the photo, the packaging pulled no punches in establishing the connection with the source movie. It even boasted a plastic John Gregson...

The model that started a trend... Lone Star's 1954 Genevieve model

The whole arena of the die-cast film/TV tie-in probably enjoyed ten good years, spanning a time when I was precisely the right age to participate in all of that missile-firing-pop-up-goodies excitement, and to appreciate those toys for the miniature works of genius that they were. By the same token, the TV series and films that had proved the impetus for these model marvels were becoming thinner on the ground as we neared the 1980s. And were the films and TV series even as good or as imaginative as they’d been a decade ago? Of course not.

Remembering Scott Walker – the way I want to remember him

On March 25 this year, the music world lost Noel Scott Engel, better known as Scott Walker. But we’d already lost his music a long time before that. The Scott Walker who made albums like Tilt, The Drift and Bish Bosch was arguably not the same artist who produced a slew of lush, orchestral records during the late 1960s. It’s an analysis with which Scott Walker himself would likely have agreed: he considered his early career hermetically sealed off from his later work and neither listened to nor referenced those works in later life. So what happened? It’s a question I’ve pondered on for many years, and one to which I’ve returned in the light of his demise...

I first became properly aware of Scott Walker in 1990, with the acquisition of a compilation CD, Boy Child, made up entirely of self-composed material drawn primarily from his four solo albums spanning the years 1967-70. Of course I knew of him well before this. I’m sure I knew the Walker Brothers’ single The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Any More purely from airplay at the time of its release, but I probably couldn’t have put a name to the group at the age of five or six. Neither was I aware of the identity of the singer responsible for a record that caught my attention in the early summer of 1969: The Lights of Cininatti. It was one of those songs that seemed to embody the spirit of the time, warm and mellow, like a long summer evening. I liked it a lot, but it was only years later, when thumbing through a copy of the Guinness Book of Hit Singles that I was finally able to put a name to the singer. His earlier solo hits, Jackie and Joanna had failed to make any impression on me, hardly surprising in the case of the former, a Mort Shuman translation of a Jacques Brel song, which the BBC banned outright for its reference to ‘authentic queers and phoney virgins’ (a word for word translation from the original French). Neither had I been aware of Scott’s television series for the BBC, now lost in its entirity. But the very fact that such a series was commissioned is a clear indication of how the entertainment industry perceived the Scott Walker of the mid-1960s: a polished, professional cabaret crooner with a rich baritone that bore comparison with the greatest singers of his day. But all of this was about to change.

The change came with 1969’s album Scott 4 – released under his real name of Noel Scott Engel, a commercially disastrous decision which was later reversed. The album, entirely self-composed, adopted a much less elaborate musical texture than had been heard on his three previous solo outings, with many songs underscored by a clipped, stacatto bass guitar playing intricate contrapuntal parts. The songs were challenging in their choice of subject matter, one of them (The Old Man’s Back Again) subtitling itself as ‘dedicated to the neo-Stalinist regime’, whilst The Seventh Seal was a literal re-telling of the Ingmar Bergman movie. This was daring stuff, especially in light of Scott Walker’s typical fanbase, which was overwhelmingly young, and female.

Anyone perceptive enough might have guessed at this change in direction from as early as the first solo work, titled simply ‘Scott.’ Here, alongside some inoffensive but richly melodic standards, Scott had chosen to record a brace of numbers by Belgium’s challenging ‘chansonnier’ Jacques Brel, well known in his home territories for songs dealing with difficult and often intimidating topics, such as the abuse of young army recruits (Au Suivant) or meditations on death including Tango Funebre, Le Moribond, and L’Age Idiot. Scott’s own compositions displayed the lyrical influence of Brel in self-consciously ugly lines like ‘we’re swallowed in the stomach room’, clearly the first step towards the more disturbing material he would later release.

Scott Walker, pictured during the years of greatness.

The next solo album, released in July 1968, contained originals like Plastic Palace People (seemingly influenced by the short French Film The Red Balloon) and The Amorous Humphrey Plugg (the title clearly tipping its hat in the direction of TS Eliot’s The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock). The clues were beginning to amass for anyone interested enough to spot them: Scott Walker was a Europhile, well-read, a literate, philosophical artiste whose slick, easy-listening façade masked some increasingly uncomfortable lyrical ideas.

In time, of course, this desire to disturb and disorient would entirely overwhelm Scott Walker’s compositions, but for the time being, he played it safe, couching his strange wordplay in the deceptively velvet upholstery of arrangements by the likes of Reg Guest and Wally Stott (latterly Angela Morely). But was this really playing it safe? I’d argue that here, in the mid-1960s, Walker was at his most genuinely subversive, drawing in the unwary with melody and texture only to turn their preconceptions upside down with lyrics about an anthropomorphic balloon with a ‘string tied to his underwear’ or a ‘big-shot’ husband who deceives his wife by visiting brothels on his way home from work. It’s dead easy to sound subversive through dissonance, atonality, serialism or simply using a dead pig as a percussion instrument – all of which Walker would later go on to do in the absence of genuine musical ideas. But it’s the mark of a genius to be subversive in the context of a beguiling, sinuous melody, delivered by a full orchestra. And this is what Scott Walker did with his first four solo albums. So why did he not continue to do so?

The commercial failure of Scott 4 saw Walker act on the advice of his record company (presumably, toe the line or leave the label), and the next release was the more accessible ’Til the Band Comes in . Here, Walker employed his manager, Ady Semel, to weed out the darker, subversive elements of his lyrics, which were clearly perceived as part of the reason for Scott 4’s disappointing performance.’Til the Band Comes in was widely perceived for years as an album to be avoided. The Walker cognoscenti (amongst them Julian Cope, who expressed this actual opinion to me in person) considered it a mis-step, and while the first four albums were reissued on CD during the 1990s, it took a lot longer for ’Til the Band... to find its way onto the digital format. When it did, it was quickly deleted, and the CD was soon changing hands for ridiculous amounts of money...

There are some worthwhile moments on ’Til the Band Comes in, although Walker does sound like he’s getting tired of fighting his corner. The jazzy Time Operator is a highlight as is Sleepers Awake (both were included on the Boy Child collection), but some of the cover versions are bordering on blandness, and this kind of reactionary conformity would increasingly come to define Walker’s career during the early 1970s. There would not be a single Noel Scott Engel original on any of his subsequent solo albums until 1984’s comeback Climate of Hunter.

Mid-decade saw the Walker brothers come together again, with a moderate-sized hit single (No Regrets) taken from a critically-mauled album of the same name. Walker’s delivery on the single hinted that some of the old greatness was still present, but his voice seemed to have lost a little of the range and drama that had been showcased on the four ‘Scott’ albums. A further album of covers followed for the Walkers, but the turning point for Scott was just around the corner. The trio’s final album, Nite Flights, saw each member contributing their own material to what was essentially three mini solo albums joined together. Their label, GTO, was hovering on the brink of collapse, presenting the band with an opportunity to do something uncompromising.

John Maus brought four songs to the table, Gary Leeds just two, whilst Scott supplied the remaining four. Amongst these was a track that would become a kind of clarion call to Walker fans, and a beacon to others in the music industry. The Electrician came about after Scott had read Noam Chomsky’s writings on American imperialism in South America, and describes the work of a CIA torturer. If Scott’s songs had already hinted at dark and disturbing depths, then on this evidence, there were still greater profundities awaiting his examination. The Electrician begins with an atonal drone on strings that instantly recalls Scott’s earlier use of such effects on songs like Such a Small Love. Other, ill-defined sounds can be heard in the background (seagulls? screaming voices?), and when Scott’s voice enters it’s still recognisably the old familiar baritone, albeit with somewhat less range than we’d previously been used to. The brooding darkness of the first part then opens out into a sunny, expansive orchestral setting, before the threatening mood descends once again for the coda.

The Electrician is, essentially, the pivot between the two eras of Scott Walker: the strings and orchestration hint, briefly, at a return to the greateness of the mid-60s, whilst the grim, doom-laden intro and outro, replete with sounds that hover somewhere between the realm of music and sound effects, point the way towards Tilt and its successors...

The Walker Brothers ended their career on Nite Flights, and Scott Walker himself now entered a period of obscurity, during which he lived, by his own account, on ‘not a lot.’ Despite his low profile, interest continued to grow in his work, and the early 80s saw a number of compilations released. Eventually, Walker signed a deal with Virgin records, which culminated in his first solo album for fourteen years, Climate of Hunter, released in March of 1984. 

Climate of Hunter is a long way from being Tilt, or Bish Bosch; but it stands equally far apart from the 1960s solo albums. There is more melodic content than would be apparent on the later works, but the circumstances of the recording lend the whole a fractured, indecisive feel. Walker reportedly refused to allow the session musicians to hear the vocal melody which they would be accompanying, and was keen to avoid the sound of a band ‘all swinging together.’ There is, accordingly, not a single moment on Climate... that could be described as swinging. The songs, though somewhat more melodic than those Walker would later produce, were poor things compared to those on the mid-60s albums, and the voice sounded in need of an overhaul, thin, plaintive, determined at all costs to avoid the soaring, vibrato-laden drama of his earlier persona.

Clearly, something had happened to Scott Walker. He was no longer the artiste he had been a decade earlier. Even on the sleeve, there’s something odd about his appearance: gone is the cool, good-looking young man of 1967: instead, we see a middle-aged man, already losing his youthful appearance, holding out a hand as if caught in the middle of asking a question. His expression is similarly challenging, as if demanding of his audience: ‘what are you expecting?’ whilst simultaneously defying them to ask for anything other than what’s on offer.

Personally, I find Climate of Hunter quite hard to take. Not in the way that Tilt, The Drift or his other later works would be hard to take, just hard in having to accept that Scott Walker could have produced something so aimless and mediocre. The melodies go nowhere and seem almost to have been improvised in the moment over the pre-recording backing tracks. His voice, once deep and resonant, is thin and whiny. Frankly, it’s a bit rubbish. But try finding a Scott Walker fan who’d agree with that.

If Climate... was hard going, then the next message from planet Walker would be harder still. Made-up words, atonal meandering melodies, and a sense of darkness and dislocation characterised the long-awaited Tilt. At the time of its release, I speculated that Walker, now bereft of creative musical ideas, had simply caved in to the pressure for him to do something, anything, and simply cranked out an album of random garbage, secure in the knowledge that it would sell, simply because it had his name on it. He even appeared on Later With Jools Holland, performing one song solo, accompanying himself on a Fender Telecaster, on which he scratched away without making a single musical sound. It was rubbish. But the fans loved it, just like they’d swooned over that new suit of clothes of the Emperor’s. Clearly, it wasn’t just Scott Walker who had changed... but from hereon in, there would be no change, no relief from the slog of hard-grind albums immersed deep in the morass of wilful obscurity.

Looking through the online obituaries last week, I was dismayed at the level of regard and attention lavished over these feeble later works, none of which can honestly be described as musical or entertaining in any aspect whatsoever. I almost began to wish that Scott Walker had remained a recluse so that now, on his demise, we could celebrate the true genius of the maverick singer who married skewed, literate lyricism to extraordinary melodies and elegant orchestral arrangements. This, as I’ve already stated, was, to me, his true genius – not the industrial noise of the later years.

I began by asking a question: what was it that turned Scott Walker from the orchestral-accompanied crooner into just one more purveyor of atonal musical horror? I struggle to provide an answer but find myself coming back increasingly to this hypothesis: melodically, and lyrically, had he not got as far as it was possible to go by the end of the 1960s? Scott Walker was never one to stand still (he reportedly never listened to any of his albums after he was done with it in the studio). He always had to move forward, to innovate. During the early 70s, he was prevented from doing so, and by the time the chance arose to do his own thing once again, the musical landscape had changed. Melody had served him well, but it was now time to dismantle the conventions he’d previously employed. Climate of Hunter is the sound of him doing just this, and by the time of Tilt, eleven years later, the process was complete – not one vestige of classical melody or harmony remained, and lyrics had been sanded down to the roughest, most impenetrable textures. 

But equally, he might simply have forgotten how to write a decent song. Such things do happen...