When asked about sex, the newly famous Boy George cocked an eyebrow and said he’d rather have a cup of tea. He was actually at it with the drummer. Compare and contrast with Cliff Richard, into whose afternoon beverage a vat of bromide was dumped somewhere back in the Fifties. His songs have reeked of sexlessness ever since. All that mucky business involving eager groins and sweaty throbbing is not really his department.
But they are the department of rock'n'roll, which was so offensive to the parents of its fans because it was overtly about kids getting into each other's knickers. Cliff cashed in when the UK was on the hunt for its very own Elvis. He had the quiff and the prettiness and the energy. You can tell by the voice, which has changed as little as the waistline in the last half century, that he was up to no bad. So should he really be syringing all the sex out of an album of standards like “Wake Up Little Susie” and “Johnny B Goode” that once upon a time caused hot flushes?
Recorded live in Nashville, these are Saga takes on rebellious youth. Think Dame Edna singing Never Mind the Bollocks. “I feel desire,” swoons Sir Cliff. Oh no he doesn’t. “Such a Night,” croons Cliff. What would he know about such things? “I want a girl to call my own,” moons Cliff. The other one's got bells on it. The great American gods of rock’n’roll, with the obvious exception of Haley and Holly, mostly had the sulphurous whiff of lawbreakers who may easily fetch up in the penitentiary for dodging taxes or interfering with nymphettes. Cliff was always just a living doll. When he sings “I just want to be your teddy bear”, he means it: unlike Elvis, a cuddle is all he ever wanted. The Fabulous Rock’n’Roll Songbook, appropriately for the old fella's 100th album, is music for the nursing home.
