Chris Thomson has had his more than his share of problems with record

labels in the past, but now a German company has come to the rescue.

He tells David Belcher of his latest venture

I actually think getting

dropped has become easier

each time it's happened

VORSPRUNG durch ambient techno: no-one has yet applied this motto to

Chris Thomson's new album, and thankfully no-one will. For despite its

efficient Teutonic business connections, Lagoon Blues is an LP which

simultaneously defies ad-men's spurious slogans and easy categorisation

by reviewers, as well as prevailing musical fashion.

It is a thing of paradox, not the least of which is the fact that the

LP's status as a thoroughly Scottish monument to one Glaswegian's faith

in himself is in no way diminished by its being issued on a German

label, Marina, run from Hamburg, and distributed by an Englishman based

in Glasgow's Byres Road.

But before contemporary music's international boundaries become too

entangled, let us go back and start at the beginning. In Chris's case,

this means his emergence over a decade ago as a member of Friends Again,

alongside James Grant, who went on to form Love and Money.

Having released one critically-lauded album, Trapped And Unwrapped,

Friends Again were dropped by their label, Phonogram, three months

later. The same sorry fate was to befall Chris's next two forays into

the wonderful world of the recordbiz. As the Bathers' mainman, Chris

created Unusual Places To Die for Go! Discs in 1987, shortly afterwards

experiencing an unusually brusque termination of his services by the

company.

Sweet Deceit became the second Bathers' LP, in 1990, this time for

Island, for whom Chris also recorded another album, Fortuny, as a member

of Bloomsday, a short-lived combo featuring two of Lloyd Cole's

ex-Commotions, Neil Clark and Stephen Irvine.

At the end of 1990, days after Chris's last live Glasgow gig (with

Bloomsday, supporting Del Amitri at Barrowland on Christmas Eve), Island

bade Chris a premature farewell. Inside five years, he had been dropped

by three different labels.

''It would be fair to say the last three years have been difficult,''

Chris says with characteristic understatement. His powers of motivation

and self-belief have been sorely tested since then. Along with his

finances. Lagoon Blues is something he made at his own expense, bought

and paid for.

''I actually think getting dropped has become easier each time it's

happened, with each different label. The first time, as a teenager, was

a real kick in the teeth. With Go! Discs, I felt as though I was in the

wilderness . . . I wasn't sure if I could go on, or if I wanted to.

''After Island, I was sure I could carry on.'' But how? Chris was

enough of a realist to know that major labels were, for the time being

at least, a complete no-go area. ''There was no point talking to any of

them because at that stage, early in 1991, labels were dropping

everyone, dozens of bands, and they're not out of the woods yet.'' Enter

the two men who timeously demonstrated a truth which had hitherto been

thought unthinkable: critics can actually do things!

Chris was provided with practical assistance by two German

journalists, Stefan Kassel and Frank Lahnemann.

''I'd met them in Germany during my time with Island when they'd come

to interview me for Stern magazine. Frank is the music journalist, while

Stefan is a film critic.'' Crucially, both are music fans, and they had

decided to start their own label.

''I just happened to read about their label in a Scottish magazine

because they were about to release an album by another Scot, Alan

McCusker-Thomson, of the Painted Word. I contacted them and discovered

that their plans with Alan had fallen through.''

The duo were more than happy to continue the Caledonian link via the

Bathers, however.

'' 'Scottish music has soul,' Frank and Stefan both say. But when you

ask them about their other musical tastes, they list Laura Nyro, Dean

Martin and Marvin Gaye . . . so I don't see where the Scottish

connection fits, to be honest.'' In addition to presenting the latest

instalment of the Bathers' story, Marina is also home to another

Scottish band, Gazelle, formerly known as Balance.

An EP's-worth of Gazelle's funky-jazzy-dancey stuff is readily

obtainable along with Lagoon Blues, from your friendly, knowledgeable

neighbourhood independent record-retailer. In fact, it's likely to be

more readily available there than it is in many of Scotland's larger,

city-centre chain-store disc-vendors.

But this state of affairs will not be due to lack of effort on the

part of Marina's UK distributor, Gordon Montgomery. Hitherto best known

as an exiled Coventry City supporter and proprietor of Fopp, the West

End record shop, Gordon has decided to broaden the scope of his

entrepreneurial talents. He'll still be sourcing caches of cut-price

vinyl (vintage jazz on the Impulse label a speciality), but he's also

helping Marina get its foot in the door of other emporia. This can be a

more difficult task than might at first appear.

''As there's no Marina presence in the UK, I've been going around

shops myself with boxes of CDs, and I know how many layers of

centralised bureaucracy you can meet before a big shop will take

meaningful numbers of a record.'' Often, individual shop-managers have

been enthusiastic enough when Chris has approached them, but then

everything has had to take weeks going through a far-off HQ. In

triplicate. With knobs on. And a slow pay-off.

''But it's been good to have this real involvement, to know what's

happening physically to these records. All too often, you record your LP

and then feel left in limbo. Ken McCluskey, of the McCluskey Brothers,

has made records for big labels and independently, too, like I have, and

he said to me: 'Isn't it strange to make a record and actually see some

money for it?' Usually it's 'You'll be due some money after a quarter of

a million units, lads'. A Performing Rights' Society cheque is generally

the only saving grace, when you see a statement letting you know you're

getting air-play in Japan.''

Oh, but enough of commerce, what of Chris's art? Lagoon Blues is an

atmospheric concoction. Pianos tinkle in moonlit Venetian apartments.

Hearts are variously poured out and/or broken; gruffly, languorously.

Throughout, Chris sounds like the mutant cousin of Tom Waits and Paul

Buchanan. While expressing reservations -- isn't this European

dreamscape routine a bit precious? -- critics have been most favourable.

''There was a Q review which quoted song titles -- Via D'Oro, Easter

Sorbonne -- and accused me of pretentiousness . . . 'Ooh, I wish these

European cities could be like they are in his songs when I go there'.

''All I can say is that it would be more pretentious for me to do

lyrics on 'kids are all right' level. I wouldn't be comfortable with

that. I wouldn't be being honest to myself. Obviously, these are

magicked-up European cities I'm writing about, using their best

elements.

''We all know the harsh realities. But there's an instinct that leads

us to believe we can create something better than what actually is. Take

Glasgow: there are lots of good things and lots of bad things. I can

look out of my window at home and see the ugly grey shed of the SECC,

and at the same time see church spires around it.

''In the same way, Lagoon Blues shuts out the negatives, but I know

they're still there, and the people listening to the record know they're

still there.''

Some critics think Tom Waits's voice is there over-much, i.e. it's too

discernible in yours, Chris.

''You'll always sound like someone, but it's unintentional. My

conscience is clear. I tried to toughen myself up for the Bathers. With

Friends Again, I felt I was too fey. Twee. So on Sweet Deceit, I slipped

into a Tom Waits-style voice because that was the only one appropriate

to the atmosphere of the record . . . it dragged me that way.

''With some musos, it's a bedroom-mirror thing: they can only relate

by being someone they admire. I'm not afraid to do my own thing. I'm not

on anyone else's star trip. You stick to your own course and hope other

people fall in with it.

''I've had my years off when not much was happening. Now I'm enjoying

a sense of momentum. With the LP in my hands as a finished item, I feel

more of a purpose.''

Heart-wrung Durch Schotte, as they nearly say in Germany.