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We Love the City. Hefner.
2000, Too Pure. Producer: Hefner.
CD, 2000.
IN A NUTSHELL: We Love the City, by relatively unknown British band Hefner, is a record of brilliant melodies that provide enough cover for leader Darren Hayman’s soul-baring lyrics that the listener doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Whether singing about sadness and loss or giddiness and love, or even politics or sex, the band will have you singing along with gusto, so you won’t be able to cry. And that’s what keeps me listening again and again.
NOTE: The setup – below the line ↓ – might be the best part … Or skip right to the album discussion.
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When I was young, elementary school through high school, and even into college, I was a big fan of Charlie Brown. At Ebenezer Elementary School, I regularly bought Peanuts books (basically comic strips in paperback format) from the Scholastic Book Club to supplement the pile of Peanuts books my sisters and I had received as hand-me-downs from older cousins. In addition to these books that compiled daily strips, such as Thompson Is In Trouble, Charlie Brown, and You’re a Pal, Snoopy, we owned a slim, square book called Happiness is a Sad Song, featuring Linus on the cover, a radio by his side, looking anything but happy. It confused me.
The book contained several single-sentence declarations 
of happiness, such as “Happiness is having something to look forward to,” and “Happiness is waking up, looking at the clock and finding you have two hours left to sleep,” accompanied by drawings of the classic Peanuts crew: Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, Snoopy, etc. Most of the statements described happiness very well to me, and made sense. But a Sad Song? It says right there, it’s “sad,” not “happy!” How can a sad song be happy? It was one of those weird, grown-up, inexplicable things that made no sense to young me, like my grandma’s claim that Coke was “too sweet.”
And now, as a weird grown-up, I have to say that I completely understand what Linus meant. (I also understand now that my grandma was a diabetic, which is why she drank that disgusting TaB cola.) Sad songs do make me – and 
many other people – happy. And it turns out that it’s not just because I’ve been clinically depressed at various times in my life, and it’s not because I’m generally unhappy or a curmudgeon or a fuddy-duddy. I may be all those things, but the reason sad songs make me happy, it turns out, is, well, complicated. But it’s been shown to be more than a weird, grown-up contradiction.
There have been sad songs everywhere for as long as there have been songs, I’m sure, but I’m not going to get into requiem music or folk songs or songs from other cultures. I deal in 
pop/rock, and sad pop/rock songs are typically – but not always – about lost love. The Adele mega-hit “Someone Like You,” scientifically proven to provoke tears, may be the best example of a lost-love sad-song. It’s extra-sad because not only is the music sad, but also its lyrics are not just “I’m sad ’cause you left,” but “I’m sad ’cause you left, and I’m trying to be happy for you,” which increases the sad-factor by at least 3.7x, if scientific studies are to be believed[ref]I made that up. I mean, the study is real, but it doesn’t have to do with anything else I just wrote. In these writings about sadness, I’m trying to find some humor.[/ref]. People love lost-love/breakup songs.
The 70s light-rock band Bread made a career out of sad break-up songs: “Diary,” “Everything I Own,” “If,” “Lost Without Your Love.” Each 
was a top-15 hit between 1971 and 1976. Their brand of mopey, depressive Loser-abilia landed in the sad-song sweet-spot – the early 70s, an era which must be the apex (or nadir, depending on your perspective) of sad pop songs. The charts were filled with maudlin odes to all kinds of woe. In addition to break-up songs, like “Alone Again (Naturally),” “All By Myself,” and “Without You,” were scores of songs about tragic death. There were tragic deaths of young husbands (“The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia“), tragic deaths of young wives (“Rocky“), young fiancees (“Billy Don’t Be a Hero“), young apparent fiancees (“Run, Joey, Run“), the young singer himself by his own hand (“Seasons in the Sun“), young sailors by the dozens (“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald“) and an Irish Setter (“Shannon“). By 1976 the music world was so depressed, it NEEDED punk rock and disco!!
Songwriters know the world loves to cry along to music, and they do their best to oblige. In the early 60s, songs about the death of young lovers, such as “Last Kiss[ref]A song that Pearl Jam recorded, which became their biggest hit song.[/ref]” 
and “Leader of the Pack,” filled the airwaves. Known to record executives as “sickies,” these songs were churned out by people who thought young death was a hit-song formula. Although death is an easy way to jerk some tears, the formula for sad songs doesn’t have to include it. Country-Western songwriters probably understand the formula (if there is one) best; on Malcolm Gladwell’s terrific podcast “Revisionist History,” he makes the case that it’s because they write with a specificity that their pop/rock counterparts can’t match. He also posits that the 1980 George Jones song “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which (spoiler-alert) IS about death, is the saddest song ever written. I heard it for the first time on that podcast in 2017, and I think he may be right. (Here is Alan Jackson singing the song at Jones’s funeral in 2013. Bring a tissue.)
Sad songs aren’t always due to the careful planning of the songwriter. Songs 
can be sad because of the time and place you experience them. For example, the Wings song “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” while a bit wistful and downbeat at first, isn’t a particularly emotionally devastating song. However, I experienced it as a boy along with a significant accident in my family, and to this day I find it too sad, and I always turn it off. Similarly, and probably more bizarrely, I remember the fun Beach Boys song “Good Vibrations” playing on the car radio one summer day while driving 
to a Little League baseball game that was supposed to be the first game in which I’d play – and a sudden rainstorm washed out the game. I still have a tinge of sadness whenever I hear it. Also, songwriters’ lyrics aren’t always what gets you: one of my favorite sad songs, “Nwahulwana,” by Wazimba & Orchestra Marrabenta Star De Mocambique, is sung in a language I don’t even understand.
The thing is, aside from “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” I’ll listen to, and enjoy, sad songs as much as any other songs – even though they can evoke chills and tingles and regretful memories, and sometimes bring tears to my eyes. Two of my favorite Beatles songs are “For No One” 
and “I’m So Tired,” two of their perhaps lesser-known sad breakup songs. Elton John’s 80s period wasn’t as interesting to me as his 70s stuff, but I’ll always stop to listen to “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.” I love The Replacements’ Paul Westerberg’s knack for tugging heartstrings, whether it’s over unrequited love (“Within Your Reach“) or being a misfit (“Here Comes a Regular“). When Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell killed himself, his song “Seasons” revealed new depths of sadness, yet I’ll still listen to it regularly.
That being said, I certainly don’t set out to buy records that are sad. I like melody, guitar and drums. When those parts are there, I’m happy, and if some emotion can come along as well? That’s just icing on the cake. And Hefner checks all the boxes. They’re an indie band active in the UK around the turn of the millennium who never hit it big, but who did catch the ear of influential BBC DJ, John Peel. They never had any hits, but you don’t need hits to make my list – or to be well-loved by your fans. I still remember the first 
time I heard a Hefner song. In 2000, I was a new dad in a new city, and I met another new dad/new city guy named Jon. He’s an amazing guy who, apart from being a PhD in some kind of linguistics/robots/speech stuff, also publishes novels, plays in an original rock band, and has an amazing breadth of musical knowledge and appreciation. When I met him, he was also a DJ at a local radio station, and he gave me a cassette of one of his shows.
I listened in my car, driving to work, and the first song was this catchy, sunny melody that somehow seemed dark and desperate. 
It sounded like something from the late 70s, and the obviously British singer, despite a definite warble to his voice, had a confidence and earnestness that stood out. I thought it must be some established rock act that I’d always heard about yet never listened to, the type of artist that sells few records but has all the critics’ ears – like Nick Cave or The Soft Boys. By the time the singer was screaming at the end of the song, I had to know who it was! The band was Hefner. I fell hard for the band – as hard as bandleader Darren Hayman seems to fall for every woman in every song. I fell so hard that I eventually spent more on a single Hefner record than I’ve ever spend before or since, $40 for an import-only live album called Kick, Snare, Hats, Ride.
And that song I’d heard was “We Love the City.”
Up front I wrote about sad songs, but “We Love the City” isn’t sad in a “somebody died” kind of way, or with a “Someone Like You” directness. 
The sadness is revealed slowly, with singer/songwriter Darren Hayman first singing lyrics lamenting the London subways and his girlfriend’s distance. As a subtle guitar line begins to accompany him, he describes a love/hate relationship with London, then turns rather suddenly to a series of comparative adjectives (“I am intrigued, not merely curious,” etc.) before the source his despair is revealed – his realization that his girlfriend doesn’t really love him. The song has what I think of as a “classic Hefner buildup,” the band’s, and more specifically Hayman’s, specialty: slowly ramping up the intensity, verse-by-verse, until his emotions are laid bare. What saves it from being pathetic and embarrassing are the clever lyrics and – more importantly – the excellent melodies he writes. Every song is singalong catchy.
Take for example the song “Good Fruit.” I sang along to this song happily for a long time before I really listened closely and realized its lyrics describe a situation most any human can relate to: someone breaking up with you just when you thought the relationship was reaching a deeper level.
The song features Amelia Fletcher from another band I love, Heavenly, on vocals. It’s a simple song, using a subtle melodica, 
and it gets to its hooky verse quickly. Hayman has the look and sound of an unlucky-in-love schlub, careless with his heart, too eager to fall in love, and never embarrassed by his declarations. He imbues all these songs with such emotion, and when he sings “you should stick around/ to hear me hit the ground,” it’s clear that he’s not actually considering jumping off a building, but that his heart has been pushed off the ledge. I really connect with this song, maybe because I’ve felt this way in my life but always kept it to myself, so it’s good to hear somebody singing it and making it real.
But Hayman and the band aren’t depressive and mopey. They’re actually rather funny, as that video above shows, and as this video, featuring fake nudity (always funny), for a song from a different album shows. But what Malcolm Gladwell noted about Country & Western songs is true of Hefner: the songs’ lyrics have a specificity – details, observations – that provide an emotional impact. Take, for example, “Painting and Kissing,” which describes (in a very catchy, bouncy melody, of course) the typical fizzling of a short, intense relationship.
The song basically has two chords, and the opening scratchy guitar plays both of them. Hayman gets specific with his vocals immediately, stating her name (Linda), where she lives (Holloway Rd.), where they met (The Wig and Gown)… 
There’s an organ break between verses, and as he builds intensity with each verse, he throws in terrific phrases that present a clear image of him and the relationship. “After a week or two … she was my girlfriend/but I couldn’t call her my girlfriend.” “The first time she came to my house/she brought Chardonnay/ Now I buy Chardonnay.” All the while the exasperation in his voice increases, until “On March the 23rd” she dumps him. At 3:45 the song stops for Hayman to plead for her return, and then those damn two chords continue, mimicking the rut one’s emotions can fall into. It’s a simple, terrific song, and for anyone who’s ever been on the wrong side of an unbalanced love equation (i.e., the person who cares too much) the song is right on target.
It’s not a sad song per se, it’s just one with emotion and feeling presented baldly in a way that’s not often heard in rock. And although most of the songs are from Hayman’s perspective, he can sing from a different perspective, as he does in “She Can’t Sleep No More,” a jaunty, country-sounding song with interesting guitar behind the vocals, that tells 
the story of a woman who let the right man get away.
Hayman also uses his clever lyrics and untethered feelings on songs about being in love – ostensibly with someone who loves him back, although as a listener I do wonder if his partner might be a bit overwhelmed at times. “From Your Head to Your Toes” describes the entirety of his feelings for his love in a kind of lullaby. In “Hold Me Closer,” a piano based song with terrific vocals from Amelia Fletcher, he sounds fine, until he admits he owes her his eyes and lips and hands… In “Don’t Go,” he sounds more concerned than is typical about his love possibly leaving – and doesn’t seem to notice how bossy he sounds. On “As Soon As You’re Ready” he tries to dial back his intensity, but ends up sounding desperate all the same.
He also uses his lyrical gifts to harshly, and quite humorously, skewer former British PM and foe of the common people Margaret Thatcher in “The Day That Thatcher Dies.”
It’s almost funky, for Hefner, with a kind of dance beat and horns. Children gleefully sing “Ding-Dong! The witch is dead!” as Hayman discusses his political growth. As with love or sadness or sex, Hayman is direct and emotional about his politics.
Hayman’s voice and singing style make him sound like he’s baring his soul on every single note. 
But if Hefner’s songs were simply needy, emotional exsanguinations, We Love the City would be horrible. What makes it work are the terrific melodies behind the words. Words are always secondary for me[ref]You can’t be a prog-rock fan if you’re too concerned with words.[/ref]. But when they work well with the melody and the performance, it’s magic. Take, for example, “The Greedy Ugly People,” which bounces along just like a heart under new love’s spell.
Hayman sets himself and his new girlfriend apart, from those horrible folks who don’t understand love. It’s a lyrical us-against-the-world motif that
draws the listener in, too: “I’m not a greedy, ugly person,” the listener says. “I know just what you mean!” A simple scratchy guitar opens the song. The verses and the chorus have a great melody, then a counter melody enters “Love don’t stop no wars …” which also sounds great. I also like guitar, and most of the songs have something interesting happening on guitar – like the little bit behind the vocals here, about one minute.
In the terrific “The Greater London Radio,” the music really supports Hayman’s words, creating a feeling of a chilly winter night, and adding horn flourishes at the end to signal his return to his love.
It’s regal and warm and the swirling 
organs create a symphony behind the vocals. It may be my favorite song on the album. Or perhaps my favorite song is the multi-part, Broadway-esque (and I can be a sucker for show tune-type songs) “The Cure For Evil.”
To be honest, whatever song I listen to is my favorite on this record – 
I love them all. But this song seems a step beyond the others. It eventually becomes a duet between Hayman and Fletcher, and this time it’s not just Hayman’s anxieties set to music, but also their impact on someone else. It starts with a simple piano phrase, and – as is typical – builds with each verse. He tries to explain that he’s a bit emotionally unwound, but that he’s growing and trying and at least aware of his own issues. There’s nice subtle guitar work, then at about 1:22, the song begins to bounce a bit and by 1:58 it hits its full stride. About 2:30 Fletcher (and a banjo!) enters. It marches along, horns enter, end then by 4:00 the big finale (with flute!) hits.
The band has an understanding of the emotional impact of music. I wasn’t really up on pop music taxonomy by the time this record came out, but perhaps they
were an “Emo Band?” They don’t scream much, or wear makeup and black trench coats, but Hayman puts his feelings right out there, and I can empathize with all of them. Since they’re wrapped up in interesting sounds and great melodies, I can listen time after time. Linus was right: Happiness is a Sad Song. Or a Love Song. Or an Angry Song. As long as the melody’s catchy and the words are sincere.
Track Listing:
“We Love the City”
“The Greedy Ugly People”
“Good Fruit”
“Painting and Kissing”
“Hold Me Closer”
“Don’t Go”
“The Greater London Radio”
“As Soon As You’re Ready”
“She Can’t Sleep No More”
“The Cure For Evil”
“The Day That Thatcher Dies”
“Your Head to Your Toes”
