The Human League's Sheffield roots helped keep them grounded
HE early 1980s did not lack for unlikely pop stars. Even by the mascara-smeared, epaulette-sporting standards of the time, however, the Human League stood apart. Influenced by Kraftwerk and Can, they were nonetheless at home on Top of the Pops and on drive-time play-lists.
Racking up hits such as âDonât You Want Meâ, âFascinationâ and âMirror Manâ, the Human League were the original outsiders who conquered the mainstream.
âWe didnât really care about the fame side of it,â recalls Susan Ann Sulley, the vocalist famously recruited, along with bandmate Joanne Catherall, by songwriter Phil Oakey in a Sheffield nightclub after he had fallen out with the rest of the original line-up (who would go on to form Heaven 17). âThe key was that we always stayed in Sheffield. We went to London strictly to record and made sure not to be sucked into the goldfish bowl of celebrity.
âRemaining in our home town kept us grounded. In the long run that was essential. Thatâs why we are here.â
Incredibly, itâs nearly 34 years since the Human Leagueâs mega hit âDonât You Want Meâ. In November 1981, this retro-future masterpiece shot to number one, going on to sell more than 1.5m copies (the instantly iconic video was directed by Dubliner Steve Barron).
SURPRISE SUCCESS
Nobody was more surprised by its success than the band, who had assumed it would be the latest in the string of critically-adored, yet commercially underwhelming releases. To say they were gobsmacked is an understatement. âWe didnât think the band would last more than a couple of years,â says Sulley. âItâs been an extraordinary journey. People still listen to the music, which is more than we ever imagined possible.â
The Human League broke boundaries by creating pop music that was intended to be taken seriously. As a lyricist, Oakey was influenced by Philip K Dick and JG Ballard and even the groupâs most throwaway tunes pulse with intelligence and seriousness of intent. Without making a big deal about it, they brought the avant-garde to the top 10.
âItâs very kind of you to point that out,âsays Sulley. âOf course, we werenât operating in a vacuum. Abba had done that [fused pop and artistic ambition]. As did Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder. For us, the songs were just there. They got written and stood the test of time. We didnât think too much about it.â
The Human League came together in the late â70s, when local scenesters Martyn Ware and Ian Craig Marsh invited friend Phil Oakey, a hospital porter notorious around Sheffield for his flamboyant dress sense, to collaborate. Early on the trio traded as âThe Futureâ. âThe Human Leagueâ came from characters in a science fiction war-game of which Ware was a fan.
Initially their sound was aggressively arty, early releases such as âBeing Boiledâ and âCircus Of Deathâ steeped in the electronic underground. By 1982, with a commercial breakthrough no nearer, relations between Oakey and Ware had begun to break down (one apocryphal account has Oakey pursuing Ware up a street, flinging milk bottles at him).
As the bad blood reached boiling point, it was agreed Ware and Marsh would form their own ensemble and that Oakey would become custodian of the Human League (retaining all the groupâs debts and obligations).
This gave the singer the freedom he had craved, yet also left him scrambling to put together a band 10 days before a contracted tour. Together with his girlfriend, he scoured Sheffieldâs artier nightclubs, where he discovered Sulley and Catherall. The rest is electro-pop history.
ELECTRIC DREAMS
Sulley was 17 when she joined. Does she look back and wonder at the improbable direction her life took?
âAt 17 you donât know much of anything. do you?â she ventures. âYou are still working out what itâs all about. One thing that Iâm glad is that I went into it for the right reasons. It was for the love of music, not for fame or wanting to be on television.â
Throughout their career Sheffield has remained central to the groupâs idea. A post-industrial city with a celebrated arty streak, it is just the sort of cauldron from which a group such as the Human League would emerge.
âSheffield is an odd place in many respects,â Catherall observed recently. âOn the one hand it is extremely arty. Itâs a university town. But because itâs outside London, you donât get sucked into trends. Creatively, it has its own micro-climate. At the same time, it is an industrial town â youâve got vestiges of the steel industry. And that keeps things grounded. Itâs hard to get away with taking yourself too seriously.â
The Human League tour on and off nowadays, their activity largely dependent on demand (2015 is relatively quiet, with the band performing mostly at weekends). Live shows are a breeze, they report, their mostly digital production a contrast with the rickety analogue set-up they brought on the road in the â80s, when disaster was always merely a blown fuse away. âThe first time the Human League went on the road, we were really bad,â said Catherall. âIt was in 1986, after the Crash album. Things were so much more primitive back then. You had to take these enormous analogue synthesizers with you â they were the size of a grand piano, almost. I donât think technology had quite caught up with us at that point.â
NEW WORLD SYMPATHY
Sulley counts herself lucky to have entered the industry when a long-term career was still viable. She fears for younger musicians, trying to support themselves in an era when music is regarded as something that should be available for free, regardless of the cost to the artist.
âWe wouldnât be here if we hadnât worked in an industry where people actually sold units of products â records and CDs. In those days music wasnât very throwaway. People bought their records and cherished them and listened to them a lot. Nowadays music is a plaything â you listen once or twice and then probably forget about it for all time. â
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