JOHN HOWARD: Kid In A Big World Prof Stoned Remaster (Bandcamp)
John Howard's auspicious debut, Kid In A Big World, has been around for fifty years and, as such, deserves some aspect of acknowledgement. A belated celebration cum reassessment in the form of an impeccable remastering via the diligent hands and vigilant ears of the redoubtable Prof Stoned, a man who can gild the most fragile and perfect of artifacts. Like a freshly repolished and reset gem, the album now glints and glitters in the fresh light of recent days.
It is salient to mention that for nigh on thirty years the LP was a dump-bin resident, rescued by the discerning on account of the stylish sleeve image of an immaculately attired young dude in a suitably sharp suit with its title and artist's name proclaimed by elegant typography. All that changed two decades ago when it was reissued to the kind of acclaim a forgotten artist might only ever dream longingly of, as a lost baroque late-glam masterpiece.
First time around, it had sold a respectable 15,000 units, but CBS rejected the follow-up, and its successor was recorded with the legendary Biddu as not being sufficiently commercial. A brace of eminently catchy singles, "Goodbye Suzie" and "Family Man," failed to find favour on the BBC playlists; the first was deemed too depressing for having suicide as a theme, whilst the second was considered anti-women. Both reasons are transparently and ridiculously spurious. Homophobia was rather trendy and acceptable in the seventies, and despite John Howard not creating the sort of antagonistic lavender wave his direct contemporary Jobriath had, and paid dearly for doing so, his mere appearance and style were easily read by the disapproving. With no hit single, his bigger splash dissipated, and despite staggering on for a few more years with several singles that went nowhere, Howard developed a successful career in A&R. His dreams of stardom were consigned to the attic of memory. Those trials and tribulations are readably and humorously annotated in three delightful volumes of autobiography.
But what of his fifty-year-old debut? It was and remains a perfect mission statement, a stylish and accomplished affair that promised much in the shape of itself and of things to come. Considered but never contrived. Poised but never precious, it has aged like a wine of exceptional vintage and betrays little of time having passed. What Prof Stoned has achieved is a form of digital Botox. A freshening up that gives greater clarity to the artistry within. There have always been the inevitable lazy comparisons to Elton John on account of his use of piano, but Howard never resorts to a faux American whine, his style being eloquently English with a nod and sly wink to the theatrical, just as Jobriath harnessed aspects of Old Hollywood and vaudeville. A cross between Laura Nyro in cahoots with Noel Coward, with an Aladdin Sane lightning bolt across his face, imbued with shades and tones of Hunk Dory, sets the sonic tone. As do the equally English delicacies of Philip Goodhand-Tait, or the American sentiments of Randy Newman.
Breathe in the exquisite and languid air of "Goodbye Suzie," indulge in the discreet decadence of 'Guess Who's Coming To Dinner' or the divine flights of ecstasy within "Missing Key," and you have entered a perfectly realised world curated and created by a supremely talented kid in his early twenties. From Palm Court effeteness to discreet Glam affections, this is a beautiful work from then that remains supremely relevant to now. A tremendous shame persists that it has yet to earn its rightful place in the pantheon of treasured musical accomplishments of the seventies and beyond.
Although only presently available as a download, this impeccable exercise in aural renovation deserves a vinyl release. I would love to see a gatefold affair that utilises the rejected photographs of John in a scarlet fedora, bookended by a beautiful pair of Afghan hounds. Those images caused the respectably suited and booted executives at CBS to clutch their imaginary pearls in outraged horror, banning their use, and then demanding that a more acceptable set of shots be undertaken.
The kid of those days has aged into the Walt Whitman of Glam with a glorious cascade of albums from the past two decades. A perfect maker-upper for the loss of lost time, but this return to the beginning is an absolute treat for the uninitiated and a timely enhancement for those already aware of the kid in the big world. It will prove to be a luxurious punishment of riches.