Quality control
Sibling rivalry amongst members of UB40
“I’ve watched my brother murdering my songs for five years.”
Let it not be said that interviews with Ali Campbell, lead singer of UB40, are lacking in drama.
UB40, you may recall, is one of the biggest selling reggae bands of all time, scoring major hits in the ’80s and ’90s with loping covers of Neil Diamond’s “Red Red Wine” and Sonny & Cher’s “I Got You Babe” (with Chrissie Hynde).
They ruled the charts for a decade, introduced a wider audience to reggae’s syncopated Caribbean charm, then settled into their role as esteemed elders as generations of musical explorers followed in their wake.
Until, that is, 2008, when Campbell announced he wanted to promote a solo album as a side project and, depending on who’s telling the story, was either forced out or willingly left the band.
“I still don’t understand why they let me walk from the band,” he says by phone, as miffed today as he was eight years ago.
“They all had money behind my back. It was a bit of a divide-and-rule situation.”
Ah well, you know how these things go.
After 30 years together and 15 since its last hit, conditions were ripe for what Campbell refers to with a melodramatic flourish as “skullyduggery” and band members “in cahoots” with management.
Long story short, he was replaced, to his profound amazement, by his older brother, Duncan.
“He was the brother who didn’t do very well — always the unemployed one,” notes Campbell, blindsided by the move. “I used to speak to him and he seemed to understand my problems. He was a shoulder to cry on.”
It was Duncan who convinced Ali to take a hard line, to clamp his vocal pipes until his concerns about band finances and internal politics were addressed.
And then — lo and behold — Duncan took his place.
“To watch him is so embarrassing for me,” laments the congenial Brit, who seems both outraged and amused at being replaced by a professional spoon player with no connection to reggae. “I sit there biting my knuckles. He has no soul at all. He hasn’t got an understanding of reggae music at all. I can’t believe the other (band members) are putting up with it.
“It’s an unmitigated disaster.”
It might seem like the pompous whining of a coddled rock star, but Ali’s complaints were legitimized when two other founding members, Astro and Mickey Virtue, joined him to form their own UB40 that, Campbell claims, makes the other one sound like the phoneys they are.
Not that they had been doing themselves any favours.
Without the creative spark and “quality control” Campbell says he brought to the band, the rival UB40 decided to record, gulp, a country album.
“It’s was an affront to everyone who likes reggae and everyone who likes country music,” he says without hesitation.
“It beggars belief. My jaw is still on the floor.”
It hasn’t stopped his own UB40 from filling stadiums in Britain while his stumblebum rivals — indebted as much to Buck Owens as Bob Marley — play tiny 400 seat clubs.
“We’re the real deal and we’re selling out,” notes Campbell, declaring his intent to “save the legacy of the band.”
“They’re like a headless chicken, with no sense of direction.”
I normally wouldn’t devote this much space to internecine squabbling by a band that hasn’t been in the public eye since the waning days of the Mulroney era.
But the way Campbell tells it, with incredulity, irritation and dry British wit, it’s the most entertaining thing
about them.
“I’m just hoping if we ignore the other band long enough they’ll go away,” he says passionately. “They’re not the real UB40.”
Having exhausted this topic, I unintentionally stir up another hornet’s nest by asking about the band’s knack for turning tired cover tunes, like Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling In Love,” into mammoth reggae hits.
“We don’t consider ourselves a cover band at all,” insists Campbell, noting that of the 24 albums recorded during his three-decade tenure, only three were filled with tunes by other performers: “Labour of Love” and its sequels, “Labour of Love II” and “III.”
“It’s because those ones were so successful that people think that.”
Reggae artists, he says, had a long history of transforming American pop hits into hypnotic party jams long before he arrived on the scene.
“All the early reggae hits we thought were Jamaican-written were covers of songs from America,” he explains. “So we were very happy to cover other people’s stuff.”
There is no end to misconceptions about UB40, including their image as a “dour, bitter band” who wrote anti-Margaret Thatcher anthems in the ’80s (which they did) and spent time “crying in their beer” (no confirmation on this one).
Campbell, a charming but forthright scrapper from the old school, has heard them all before.
“We were always a party band,” he laughs, amused that people might still be confused. “People usually think of beaches and palm trees.”
It’s reggae, he says. Peace out. Let the good times roll.
“It brings people together in a spirit of collaboration and cooperation and freedom.
“It’s a healing music this world needs”