Cliff Richard’s debut album review from The New Musical Express.

Cliff Richard: Cliff (Columbia)
(Five stars)

Get ready for the ride of your life! Cliff Richard is HERE, clear, and will make your parents feel queer. Squares might not like Cliff. He’s just too much for them. He’s crazy, man. Wacko. Harold Macmillan don’t like him much. He’s raw. He’s angry. He’s young. If there’s one word you could use to describe Cliff, it’s edgy. Like a knife... laid on the wrong side of the plate! Get used to it.

And we here at the New Musical Express are not afraid to back him. We reckon there is absolutely no doubt he will feature alongside Lita Rosa as the biggest star of the next decade. Hyperbole? Well we said the same about Donegan, and he's skiffed YOUR world - so who's boleing?

There are those in our groovy office who fear that Cliff’s star is burning just too brightly. Not only do the housewives not like his banging sounds, he’s so out there, different and unsafe that perhaps he’s destined to burn brightly and fade away. We are concerned that he may find the pressure of being a huge star too intense and turn to those all-too familiar means of relaxation – late night Canasta, high speed Whist Drives and the thing most likely to ruin a young man’s career – supporting an Association Football team.

Take the first song: Apron Strings. Cliff states in a low grunt his desire to be “tied, tied, tied” to an unnamed woman’s apron strings. It is evident what this means. He wishes to find a wife. So soon, Cliff? The so-called arbiters of good taste and decency who run our country will tell us not to listen to such racy “wife chat”. We should not be focused on the opposite sex, they tell us. Quite the opposite. Let’s hope that Cliff doesn’t listen.

Similarly thrilling for the youngsters is Living Doll. Cliff has crafted a woman out of other material (“Take a look at her hair, it’s real”), who he wants to lock up in a trunk. Despite what the fuddy-duddies will say, really what could be more natural for a young man?

This electrifying album continues with tracks like Baby I Don’t Care (written by the promising Wendy James, aged just -7!), the savage radio favourite Down The Line and the commanding Move It bursting into our ears. It’s furious, angry and fresh. And yet melodious.

We now know how the first people to hear a jazz record must have felt. We’re on the verge of something special. Get living, dolls.