Squeeze: Trixies – Album Review

Written in 1974 but unrecorded and unreleased until now, Squeeze’s 16^th studio album is both their oldest and their newest work. Its compelling song cycle of a fictional nightclub is more than just a musical path not taken – it’s a late-career shot in the arm for the band. Robert Plummer is dazzled by the bright lights.

Beware the Muso Bear. He’s the cartoon grizzly on a thousand T-shirts with a slogan to strike fear into the heart of any veteran musician: “I prefer their earlier stuff.” But now Squeeze songwriters Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook have come up with the perfect riposte: “OK then, how about some even earlier stuff that you’ve never heard before?”

Difford and Tilbrook were mere teenagers growing up in Deptford when they began their writing career with the 13 songs that make up Trixies. At the time, concept albums were all the rage, so they came up with a fully realised world based on an imaginary nightspot populated with Damon Runyonesque characters.

Looking back now, you sense that the pair are a little in awe of the ambition shown by their younger selves. But it’s the very scope of the work that proved their undoing at the time. They soon realised that their compositional ability outstripped their capacity to play the resulting songs, so they shelved them.

Now, 52 years later, Trixies’ time has come. The original order of the songs has been changed, the odd line has been modified. Otherwise, these are the same songs that were written when Difford was 19 and Tilbrook was 16.

Opening song What More Can I Say serves as an overture for the whole saga, beginning at the end of a long night’s revelling. “The cocktails have been shaken/The girls have all been taken,” croons Tilbrook over a woozy early-morning lullaby of gently chiming guitars and late-to-the-party drums. There’s only one thing left to do and that’s to begin all over again: “Let’s stage the next show,” he adds.

The languid mood continues on You Get The Feeling, a little piece of yacht-rock in dry dock. It’s an ode to the vibe, the night and the music: “You sit down to your table/To jazz so cool and gentle.” But the mood soon darkens, as The Place Called Mars leads us through a disorienting jumble of crime-scene imagery, albeit sweetened by an entrancing 70s baroque pop melody.

The album is unsparing in its view of the seedier side of the era’s nightlife. Staccato piano riffing powers Hell On Earth, a series of low-life vignettes including a glimpse of Eddy the bouncer, ready to eject any and every troublemaker. “He’s always on the ready/For the man who gets stoned ‘cause he slurs and shouts.”

Things take a turn for the worse amid the brooding bass-driven rumble of The Dancer, whose protagonist falls foul of a misogynistic crowd. “No heads were turned as she performed/Her fists were clenched down by her side,” runs the lyric. The writers were little more than schoolboys at the time, but to their credit, they saw beyond the salaciousness of clip-joint culture to evoke compassion for its victims.

After that downbeat interlude, the pair’s knack for a gorgeous melody is back as they harmonise to stunning effect on Good Riddance. Bright, harpsichord-style keyboards, buoyant bass and a jazzy guitar solo add colour to their anecdotes of leather boys and “savage women with tongues like razors”.

We’re watching the detectives again on Don’t Go Out In The Dark. Bluesy whammy-bar guitar riffs and strident organ stabs are high in the mix, providing an appropriately spine-chilling backdrop to an old-fashioned tale of murder most foul. The finality of the deed is never in doubt: “It was one of those old Victorian nights/That she won’t see any more.”

Why Don’t You shows its age a bit, its glam-rock tango stylings and prominent handclaps recalling outfits such as Mud and Pilot, although not unpleasantly. Then we’re back to clubland’s sombre side for Anything But Me, the hard-luck tale of an unfortunate gambler who owes a packet and faces retribution from the house heavies.

Another slowie ensues, It’s Over, the only song written entirely by Difford alone. It’s a lovelorn lament by a man who thought he’d found the one, only to discover it was just the haze of a drunken hour. Picking up the pace, The Jaguars serves up a little T. Rex-flavoured rockabilly for those who love to boogie. “The rock ‘n’ roll is sounding way ahead of its time,” proclaims the lyric, belying the tune’s retro feel.

The two-part title track brings an end to the proceedings. Part two, especially, turns the sleaze factor up to 11 with a raunchy, Stripper-type rhythm and some unflinching observations: “The band are watching another fight/The heroin pushers appear at night.” It sounds like the kind of Soho that has since been all but gentrified out of existence – whether for better or for worse depends on your perspective.

It’s staggering to think that this extraordinary album could have so easily been buried by the sands of time. But a chance rediscovery of the original demo tapes, now available to hear on the album’s deluxe edition, sent Difford and Tilbrook back to realise their original vision. As Squeeze’s first album in nine years, it’s been a long wait in every sense – and it’s a pleasure to welcome them back with such a strong showing.

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You can find Squeeze’s own website at https://www.squeezeofficial.com/. They are also on Facebook here, Instagram here and X here.

All words by Robert Plummer. More writing by Robert can be found at his author’s archive. He is also on X as @robertp926.