Song of the day: LAST PARTY – Mr Hurst (1987)

Hard to believe that this track is twenty years old. I remember hearing it on Peel at the time, and a couple of years later picking up a second hand copy at a record fair in Manchester. It was released in 1987 on the Harvey label with a track called “Hubby’s Hobby” on the flip. It’s one of those songs that just sticks with you. It has a great chiming guitar riff, and a lyric about some dismal weekend spent out in the middle of nowhere. The best lines, and the ones that everyone who knows the song remembers, are “One fag left / last match dead / six miles to the Post Office” followed by the gloomy realisation that “It’s a Sunday”. Never has something so trivial sounded so heartbreaking. Copies of the single change hands for twenty quid or more. It’s never been issued on CD. There are a lot of great songs from that era that are languishing in obscurity – some enterprising soul ought to gather some of them together on a compilation some time. It would be great to hear bands like the Train Set, the Charlottes, Metro Trinity and the Blind Mice again – most of whom had one great song and promptly disappeared into oblivion, rather like the classic garage bands of the sixties. But these acts haven’t been anthologised (is this a verb?) to death. I’ve no idea what became of the Last Party. I believe that they made a couple of LPs, but I never heard anything else by them. If you ever see a copy of “Mr Hurst” snap it up. It’s very much of its time, but a great song nevertheless.


4 responses to “Song of the day: LAST PARTY – Mr Hurst (1987)

  1. Pingback: The M M & M 1000 – part 35 « Music Musings and Miscellany

  2. P.S. Train Set never wrote a daft tune. Metro Trinity, they have one killer single. Never, ever! mistake Simon Rivers (Bitter Springs / Last Party) for being “one trick”.
    This man is possibly the planet’s single greatest living lyricist. People don’t “get” the Springs” because they hate to be challenged. NOTHING touches the brutal study of the sorrow that is humanity, like Simon Rivers’ fucking INSANE(yet discernible!) poetry.

    – Cheers from Brooklyn. Out.

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