Wails From the Crypt (An Occasional Series): Special "Great Media Crushes of My Youth" Edition

As you may have heard, the incomparable Marianne Faithfull departed this sad vale of tears on Thursday last at the age of 78.

Needless to say, I was a long-time and huge fan, and when I heard the news, I thought I should post my musings on her breakthrough New Wave album Broken English, from the February 1980 issue of the Magazine Formerly Known as Stereo Review. Which I only barely remembered.

And so here they are.

Mariannae Faithfull (heavy sigh, as Mork from Ork would say) has been my ultimate dream date for about as long as I can remember, as I think she is for a lot of people who went through puberty when I did. Just ask Patti Smith, for example, who wrote a poem about her I can't read without quivering. For those of you too young to remember her, however, let's just say that of all the female icons of London when it was Swinging (rather than Burning), she was by far the most memorable, with a face that could melt your heart and a voice that could turn your limbs to Jello. If you need proof, watch your Public Television outlet for the film version of the Tony Richardson/Nicol Williamson Hamlet, in which she is perhaps the sexiest Ophelia ever to grace a stage. (The relationship with her brother Laertes is, uh, closer than need be). Or better still, rummage up a copy of her 1968 Rolling Stones-backed single of "Sister Morphine," a devastating performance that sounds like it must have been recorded at Season-in-Hell studios; Mick Jagger's more famous version sounds positively idyllic in comparison.

Marianne's been through a lot, in the gossip-column sense, since then, and though she's still gorgeous at thirty-two, life in the fast lane has clearly taken a toll on her voice. Where once she sang like a school girl wise beyond her years, now she comes off as Tallulah Bankhead on methadone. For all that, she's as individual as ever, and if anything, she's a better singing actress than she was in the days when she was fresh out of the convent.

Broken Engish is the result of her hanging out on the fringes of the New Wave scene (her husband, Ben Brierly, who worked on the record, used to be bass player for The Vibrators). Though it's hardly a complete success, and fairly reeks of Catholic guilt, it has a number of interesting moments, including a powerful, if overdressed, version of John Lennon's "Working Class Hero." But what you should buy it for is an astonishing meditation on sexual jealousy called "Why'd Ya do It," in which, while the excellent band wails an atonal, jaggedly metallic mutated reggae, Marianne delivers a dialogue between two angry lovers that is probably the frankest, scariest thing of its kind ever committed to vinyl. You can practically hear her going after the guy's genitals with a meat cleaver. Sure, it's exploitative, and a little too neat a publicity gimmick (let's not forget she made her initial splash by appearing out of wedlock and obviously pregnant on English television), but it's also enormously effective theater. Call me perverse, if you will, but I find myself playing it quite a lot. Ah Marianne -- you can chase after me with a meat cleaver anytime. -- S.S.

Heh. 😎

Seriously -- I think I nailed it pretty good. Plus, it's funny; I'm particularly fond of the "Tallulah Bankhead on methodone" line.