Never Turn Your Back on a Friend

If ever Budgie had an album that should have garnered them worldwide acclaim, it was this one. Never Turn Your Back on a Friend, the third and last album to feature the band’s original lineup, was (and remains) a class act from beginning to end. Beneath the mythical, radiant Roger Dean cover work were molten heavy metal treasures, a few nice ballads, and even a cover tune (something the band would never try again, I believe), and yet somehow things failed to pan out for them. If I had to guess, I’d say people thought they were just too weird a group, and in the 70’s of all places, with their odd song-titles and unusual arrangements. Time has shown that those people were almost right…everything but the “too” part. This album was just perfectly strange enough to remain in one’s memory eternally, though even today, it remains unknown by many.

If the average Joe Metalhead has the faintest idea about Budgie, it’s because of “Breadfan,” or rather, because “Breadfan” was performed by a certain famous heavy metal band…I dunno, Metalli-something. (Ca? Huh? Ca! Ah.) I imagine only a handful of these folks have bothered to check out the original, and what a shame, what a shame; the original’s a killer. NWOBHM before the ‘old wave’ had begun to crest, it’s energetic, anti-consumerist attack demands attention and a swift vertical motion of the neck. And let’s not forget the bridge, a Budgie trademark, where the band suddenly, inexplicably shift into mellow, melodic mode for a spell; this is your intermission… the riffage will thunder in again momentarily. Funny, ol’ Metalli-something would use this exact same trick in a number of their key songs, most obviously “Master of Puppets” and “Phantom Lord.” Is “Breadfan” strangely composed, or merely too strange for its own decade? You decide.

Speaking of mellow departures, two is still the magic number of ballads for this lineup, and the number of ballads shall be two. Both “Riding my Nightmare” and “You Know I’ll Always Love You” could be considered the most thoughtful and promising acoustic numbers the band had written to this point. But they’re a bit too plain and sweet for my tastes, I like Budgie’s acoustic bits as contrasts, not as showpieces. The dramatic finale “Parents” is what I’m after, the spiritual successor to past works “The Author” and “Young is the World,” but coupled with the emotional finesse of King Crimson’s unforgettable “Epitaph.” Ray Phillips’ drumming is featured prominently here and the track is neither soft nor sugary. It’s very jammy in the middle, like the overstuffed jelly doughnut I’ve been trying not to compare it too, but Tony Bourge’s soloing here is among his best recorded performances. A somber masterpiece overall, it’s one of this lineup’s triumphs.

Still, neither “Parents” nor “Breadfan” are the song of the album, despite their quality. That honor must be reserved for “In the Grip of a Tyrefitter’s Hand,” arguably Budgie’s ultimate track, and easily one of the best metal songs of the decade. That main riff is just so bafflingly attractive. Bluesy and mystical, sort of a West meets far East with groovy back rhythm. Abstract political sentiment tethered with riffs of pure concrete: all tremble in fear in the grip of the chords that follow the verses. After this one, most previous Budgie tracks dissolve from memory, an impressive feat considering the innate quality of these. We haven’t yet mentioned “You’re the Biggest Thing Since Powdered Milk,” but we shouldn’t hesitate, because it’s another example of the boundary-pushing blues-metal Burke Shelley and friends were channeling with ease. Note the nearly two minute phased-out drum fill that starts the song, Shelley’s odd cadence grappling with odder lyrics, and especially the deft bass-led bit that starts at around 5:25: Steve Harris would implement an identical technique in the bridge of a certain composition of his, “Phantom of the Opera.” You may have heard of it. The fact that it is easier to name bands that Budgie has inspired than bands that inspired Budgie themselves should be telling.

Honestly, the only time I wasn’t enjoying this record when the band weren’t being themselves: there’s a jammed out version of “Baby Please Don’t Go,” an old blues standard performed by absolutely everybody, that, while competent, lacks the character of the band’s original tunes, not to mention gets blown out of the water next to AC/DC’s version off next year’s ’74 Jailbreak. Still, the record’s solid qualities far outweigh this little dash of hindsight, and shouldn’t dissuade anyone interested from giving this album a chance. It’s a classic in its own manner: an accessible first taste for anybody craving some new 70’s weirdness and an indispensable companion for those who already know it well.