Squeeze – Piccadilly

I owned the album East Side Story, the fourth album by Squeeze, and this song caught my attention right off. It drew comparisons to the Beatles, especially in Rolling Stone Magazine at the time. That’s usually the kiss of death, and so unfair to any artist to start comparing to Dylan or anyone else.  This album was hyped, but it paid off. This song wasn’t a hit, but it was a hit in my car and at home because I wore it out. So, #1 on Max’s chart.

One of the strengths of Squeeze was always their ability to shift gears within an album. On East Side Story, you get upbeat pop, soul influences, and a few slower pieces. In my opinion, they were one of the best pop bands of the 1980s, but didn’t get played here as much, except for a few big hit singles. Their songs were quality and good, and they didn’t sound thrown together to get a hit. 

It was written by Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook, and the song shows their usual approach with sharp observations about what is around them. Like Tempted, they use adjectives SO well in this, and it puts you in the song. You can see what they are talking about. As in a purple hairdryer, begging folk singer, the neon club lights of adult films and Trini Lopez, and just visuals, you can see. Tilbrook’s vocal keeps things straightforward, which fits the tone of the lyrics.

By 1981, Squeeze had become one of the most reliable songwriting bands of the British new wave era. After the success of Argybargy, the group wanted to try something broader for their next record. Instead of using one producer, the band worked with a couple, Elvis Costello and Roger Bechirian, which helped give the album its varied sound.

When the album was released in 1981, it became one of Squeeze’s most respected records. Songs like Tempted, Labelled With Love, Messed Around, Is That Love, and In Quintessence were the singles, but deeper cuts like this song show another side of the band, just as well-crafted.

The album peaked at #44 on the Billboard 100 and #19 in the UK in 1981. 

Piccadilly

She’s not a picture above somebody’s fire
She sits in a towel with a purple hair dryer,
She waits to get even with me.
She hooks up her cupcakes and puts on her jumper
Explains that she’ll be late to a worrying mother,
She meets me in Piccadilly.
A begging folk singer stands tall by the entrance
His song relays worlds of most good intentions,
A fiver a ten p in his hat for collection.
She talks about office she talks about dresses
She’s seen one she fancies her smile is impressing,
So maybe I’ll treat her someday.
We queue among strangers and strange conversation
Love’s on the lips of all forms of engagements,
All queuing to see tonight’s play.
A man behind me talks to his young lady
He’s happy that she is expecting his baby,
His wife won’t be pleased but she’s not been round lately.
The girl was so dreadful we left in a hurry
We escaped in the rain for an Indian curry,
At the candle lit Taj Mahal.
My lips to a napkin I called for a taxi
The invite of eyes made it tense but relaxed me,
My mind took a devious role.
The cab took us home through a night I’d not noticed
The neon club lights of adult films and Trini Lopez,
My arm around love but my acting was hopeless.

We crept like two thieves from the kettle to the fire
We kissed to the sound of the silence that we’d hired,
Now captured, your love in my arms.
A door opened slightly a voice spoke in worry
Mum went to bed without wind of the curry,
Our secret love made its advance.
Like Adam and Eve we took bite on the apple
Loose change in my pocket it started to rattle,
Heart like a gun was just half of the battle.

Author: Badfinger (Max)

Power Pop fan, Baseball, Beatles, Alternative music, old movies, and tv show fan. Also anything to do with pop culture in the 60s and 70s... I'm also a songwriter, bass and guitar player. Not the slightest bit interested in politics at all. View all posts by Badfinger (Max)