25 November 2024

Forty years ago, Band Aid brought mad excitement to my generation

Watching the BBC’s The Making of Do They Know It’s Christmas?, what was once such a big deal dematerialised in a cloud of smoke.

By Rachel Cooke

There is a poem by Mick Imlah, called “In Memoriam Alfred Lord Tennyson”. It begins, “No one remembers you at all,” and as I watched the BBC’s weirdly evocative backstage documentary about the recording of Bob Geldof’s 1984 charity single “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” the line kept crossing my mind, as if on a ticker tape. Marilyn! Does anyone under the age of 50 know his name now? Androgynous and beautiful, back then he had a few top 40 hits I couldn’t even have hummed at the time. In the film, he flits in the shadows, cheekbones glowing, a memento mori in human form (though he is, I should say, still very much alive). Oh, but the Eighties were brutal, and that’s even before we get to Tony’s Hadley’s leather trousers.

Hadley was the foghorn singer of Spandau Ballet, a band that turned up en mass to record the single in a studio that belonged to Trevor Horn in Notting Hill, west London, in November, 1984. The start was early for pop stars – the track had to be cut the following day – and many of them complained. No time even to do their lip gloss!

Hadley, however, hadn’t got the memo. The hair was bouffant, the blouse frothy, and the leather trousers as voluminous as a pair of curtains. “Turn me down a little bit,” he said to Midge Ure (kids, Ure was the singer with Ultravox, and Geldof’s co-writer on “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”) who was manning the sound deck as Hadley performed his turn. Ure duly twiddled a knob, and as he did, I fancied I knew exactly what he was thinking. One sharp blast of “Gold” or “Instinction” – yep, they made up a word – and you’ll certainly find me plugging my ears with cheese.

The documentary isn’t retrospective – all the footage was filmed on the day, much of it unseen until now – and perhaps this accounts, in part, for its unexpected ghostliness. The feeling is of old family cine film, fetched down from the attic. But it also had to do with the sad fact that many of those in it are dead: Paula Yates, Geldof’s then wife; Annabel Giles, Midge Ure’s then girlfriend; Rick Parfitt, of Status Quo; and George Michael. The general mood is shy. Boy George says all of them were always slagging each other off in the press – and yet, they’d never met in person before. Simon Le Bon sits next to Bono, and it’s like the sixth form, the uncool kid laughing far too hard at the cooler kid’s jokes.

Putting aside the song’s agonising lyrics – all that crass stuff about snow in Africa: 40 years on, and it’s in danger of being cancelled – you’ll be struck by Band Aid’s want of an effective diversity and inclusion programme. Kool & the Gang are the only black guys; the only girls allowed are Bananarama, and Jody Watley of Shalimar. Talent, though, is not a prerequisite, and I suppose in that sense the time was in its own peculiar way highly meritocratic (again, I give you Hadley). We get to hear voices raw and unrehearsed, unaccompanied by guitars or even synthesisers. George Michael nails it, of course, and Boy George, when he can stop with the double entendres, is okay. But Bono, Paul Young and Glenn Gregory of Heaven 17 are pretty awful and – how young they look! – must report after class to Mrs Quaver the music mistress for extra coaching.

On the day, however, the coaching is left to Geldof, Horn and Ure. “More expression!” says Geldof. “It’s slightly flat,” says Ure. Horn conducts the mass singalong at the song’s end in a manner that suggests he’s long since given up, his hands moving in time to the crowd, rather than the other way round.

It’s funny, but as a teenager, I thought Band Aid comprised dozens of people. Now, though, I understand what a small group Geldof had managed to gather, the kingpins (Bowie, Mercury, McCartney et al) either otherwise engaged, or far too trepidatious/sensible to consider putting their voices next to Foghorn Hadley’s. Bam, bam, ba-bam, ba-ba-bam! What was once such a big deal – oh, the mad excitement Band Aid brought to my generation – now dematerialises in a cloud of smoke to the sound of Phil Collins’ (admittedly excellent) drumming.