Bright Young Things: The Art and philosophy of El Records by Mark Goodall (Ventil Verlag)

Any indie label worth its salt is more like an alternative universe, or a kooky extended family, than a business. Factory, Stiff, Creation: the best ones were founded by mavericks who trusted their own taste and gave chances to artists too odd, contrary or unclassifiable to get past the unimaginative industry gatekeepers. Fuck commerce, let's art. Mark Goodall's Bright Young Things pays tribute to él Records, the most quixotic of labels, whose ambitions wildly oustripped its budget in its initial 1984-90 incarnation but whose influence can be seen all over indieland today.

Enter Mike Alway, stage left. Goodall paints the eccentric él supremo as a benevolent dictator with a fondness for conceptual hi-jinks. WEA Records had given him, Rough Trade founder Geoff Travis and Belgian promoter Michael Duval control over Blanco Y Negro, their 'major label indie' boutique label, but Alway felt that his aesthetic wasn't truly understood by the suits. If he was going to fail, then it should be on his own terms, dammit! And so, with not much cash but an abundance of ideas, él was born.

The label entered a music scene hopelessly divided between the uber-glossy, millions-selling New Pop (Wham, Duran etc) and an NME-approved indie-rock scene which was becoming ever dourer, grottier and more lo-fi as it shunned anything that could be seen as "selling out" (with a few honourable exceptions, obviously). Alway remembered that for a glorious few years in the 60s, the charts had been filled with glamorous weirdos who didn't think writing a great tune was a cop-out. He began creating a revisionist 1960s, where the Pop Art surrealism of The Prisoner replaced the Beatles as the dominant inspiration, English eccentricity was given full rein and the feminine was elevated above rock pig misogyny (ring a bell, Saint Etienne fans?).

Alway gathered an inner circle of trusted collaborators, including uber-smart French production whizz and singer-songwriter Philippe Auclair (aka Louis Philippe). With notable exceptions (Shock Headed Peters' ace, unclassifiable gay anthem I Bloodbrother Be cost an unheard-of £4,000) they knew they would have to record on a budget. But while Alway often gave his artists a shedload of creative prompts, he then stepped back and let them get on with it, telling them he liked to be surprised.

The music - eclectic, often gloriously melodic - was important, of course. But it was just one element of an aesthetic that included left-wing Thatcher-era dialectic (The Monochrome Set's uber-catchy Jet Set Junta); glamorous, often retro visuals (Simon Fisher Turner done up in a suit of armour as the King of Luxembourg, Bad Dream Fancy Dress as headscarved WW2 glamourpusses); and frequent nods to the manufactured line-ups and preposterous pseudonyms of Tin Pan Alley and bubblegum pop.

It all seemed like one great big adventure, playtime for grown-ups... studio time may have been limited but great (or mad) ideas cost nothing. The Would-Be-Goods gave us a concept album based around society photographer Cecil Beaton; Louis Philippe struck unashamedly for beauty and hit the mark with English acapella fantasia Anthony Bay. And while él shunned machismo, Alway refused to be embarrassed about the things he loved. Way before Loaded and Italia 90, Alway hymned maverick 70s footballers with the footy-song compilation Flair. He also released Turner's classical score for Derek Jarman's iconic Caravaggio. That's range for you!

The first wave of él was more committed to 45s than 33s, for both budgetary and aesthetic reasons. Some cracking tunes resulted: the King of Luxembourg's A Portrait of Dorian Gray is a classic indie-pop guitar belter: insanely prolific singer-songwriter Momus's combination of the perverse, the unsettling and the deeply insightful made for some wonderful art; and Louis Philippe's Guess I'm Dumb would have done Burt Bacharach proud.

In the book's first half, Goodall weaves the history of the label in between an exploration of the many strands that made up the él approach. We hear of él's debts to Pop Art, graphic design, pop svengalis like Andrew Loog Oldham and French cinema's New Wave auteurs, while hearing how Orson Welles' lifelong clash with Hollywood and the pursuit of romance informed the records. Goodall also details how Alway gave his blessing to Japan's 'Shibuya-kei' movement in the 90s, which saw artists like Cornelius pay overt tribute to él.

The second half profiles a selection of the records that made él what it was. And what a smorgasbord of oddities and visionary moments it is. Somehow Always' worldview could encompass the 'mocking cabaret' of Klaxon 5's Hothouse; the suburban seediness of Always' Thames Valley Leather Club and future Mo' Wax stars Marden Hill's cinematic exploration Cadaquez.

Expectations were there to be overturned: Vic Goddard's Holiday Hymn saw the former Subway Sect punk prove that doing it yourself, and being an individual, were the parts of the movement worth preserving, not mindless riff'n'spittle. A rather lovely set of promo photos in the book's midsection shows that (arty 80s) beauty can be achieved on a miniscule budget.

Goodall does several things well. His book is an inspiring call to arms for all of us who continue to see music as a romantic endeavour; it is a tribute to one man's obsessive determination to craft his own fantasy world; it explores the ideas that shaped Alway's worldview; and it opens the door to a world of great records. The label compilation that accompanies it, The Rubens Room, Él Records: In Camera, was reviewed on this site just the other week - and there are several other label compilations on Spotify. Get exploring. 5/5