The Monochrome Set

Reissues

TAPETE The cryptic crossword you can dance to.

Many arrived with The Monochrome Set in a state of bafflement. Prior to the perplexing Dandy Highwayman-ing of the boy Goddard, Adam And The Ants were (despite press hatred) the final embodiment of the toocool-for-school punk band. And prior to their stint in the Set, both guitarist Lester Square and bassist Andy Warren had been fully paid-up Ants. Imagine the widespread shock when, instead of the expected Teutonic S&M perversity of their erstwhile cult combo, The Monochrome Set proved to be an entirely different kettle of decidedly queer fish. They were pretty much the antithesis of concurrent punk. As the Oi! polloy held sway, the Set’s smooth, if sardonic, lead vocalist Bid (Ganesh Sheshadri) came across as the epitome of world-weary sophistication, more public school rake than borstal daddy, his lyrics – full of ready wit and arch ennui – were set against clean ‘n’ chiming, pre-Marr guitars, Warren’s wired ‘n’ wiry bass and JD Haney’s clipped percussive precision.

No one sounded like The Monochrome Set. No one wrote like The Monochrome Set. Their Strange Boutique debut (1980,

8/10) still sounds extraordinary, other-worldly, like a French film. Every gesture ludicrously cool. It’s the vinyl equivalent of smoking Gauloises in a mac, an 11-track Gallic shrug. Later that same year came Love Zombies

(8/10), a Venn diagram intersection of the Velvet Underground and Franz Ferdinand that sounded exactly like neither. B-I-D Spells Bid nags like an unsolved maths problem, while The Man With The Black Moustache’s tumbling jazz-oid quirks can utterly possess you.

Cherish The Monochrome Set’s oblique otherness. There’ll never be another.