Kevin Coyne - Marjory Razorblade 1973

Of the four or five Kevin Coyne albums that fans routinely describe as his best ever, Marjory Razorblade is by far the best known in the wider world, a consequence not only of the enormous critical splash it made upon its original release in 1973, but also because of the ripples it continued sending out long after the fact. Four years later, Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten singled out the album's "Eastbourne Ladies" as one of his all-time favorite records, while the strumming, thrumming "Marlene" is one of those records whose failure to become a monster hit single continues to baffle and bewilder. (Even Virgin thought so, as they proved when they gave it a second chance in 1977.) Yet "Marlene" is just one highlight amid a storm-tossed sea of the things. A glimpse into Coyne's early influences is provided by a brace of Carter Family covers, a knockabout romp through "Lonesome Valley" and a nearly bluegrass-colored "Heaven in My View," while his eye for distinctly English working-class archetypes is unrelenting. Vacationing Anglos romp through "This Is Spain," a deliciously wry study of the suspicions that beset every Continental tourist during the first years of package holiday-making, while "Jackie and Edna" transplants much the same characters to a dour English beachfront, and turns their discomfort inwards.
The clashing of Coyne's characteristically sharp, tuneful poetry with deliberately warped imagery is breathtaking. The title track, a couple of minutes of a cappella poetry sliced out of the live favorite "Suite Marjory Razorblade," makes an excellent bed for "Marlene" to emerge from, and the remainder of side one (on the original vinyl) rattles along with express-train precision, bound for the furious blues boogie of the aforementioned "Eastbourne Ladies," a compulsive examination of the elderly inhabitants of that (and every other) English seaside town. But the ramshackle "Karate King," sounding like it's being sung through a telephone receiver, the scarcely in-tune and barely controlled "Dog Latin," offering an acerbic vision of the decline of Catholic worship, and "Good Boy," a headmasterly recitation of praise that twists almost imperceptibly into viciousness and scorn, jab your ears like thumbtacks embedded in the cushions of a comfortable chair, to ensure that, no matter how much you wind up loving Marjory Razorblade, you will never feel completely at ease with her. Yes, there are four or five Kevin Coyne albums that can be described as his best. But Marjory Razorblade remains the greatest of them all. AMG.

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Kevin Coyne - Case History 1971

Coyne's first solo recording is a triumphant, if occasionally bleak, look at life's outsiders. Using his time as social worker in a government-run mental hospital as a basis for his narratives, Coyne deals with issues of intense alienation, indifference, substance abuse (to which he was no stranger), and mental instability in a world that would rather forget these people existed, and a labyrinthine governmental bureaucracy that often denied their humanity. This is not a happy record, and is only infrequently hopeful, but it's never cynical, and neither does Coyne indulge in glib condescension. He acts as a subjective documentarian, an advocate for a group of people who desperately need one. Reissued on CD with extra tracks by the import label Dandelion/See For Miles in 1994. AMG.

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Kevin Coyne - Matching Head And Feet 1975

By the mid-'70s, Kevin Coyne was becoming very much a "cult" artist: one that would be appreciated by a small but significant segment of fans, who would buy new releases not so much because they wanted the particular record, but because they liked the particular artist. This is the kind of collection that is going to be sought mostly by that cult, as it's not one of his stronger efforts, and not likely to be adapted by anyone who hasn't previously been exposed to Coyne. The arrangements are more conventional than most of his previous work (a pre-Police Andy Summers handles guitar), and much of the results are routine. Not lifeless, though; anything sung by Coyne will have roughness around the edges (and his voice here sometimes sounds not just raw, but downright worn). And songs about folks who carry guns, knives, and smash the faces of their wives (in "Turpentine") are not your usual rock fare. The words are unconventional, but the settings are average in a mid-'70s way, which dilutes the lyrics' impact, and makes this an unmemorable effort on the whole. AMG.

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