Happy 26th Anniversary to Lynden David Hall’s debut album Medicine 4 My Pain, originally released November 10, 1997.
Writing for Albumism is a joy that I never imagined would enter my life. As someone who has lived for and loved music, it has always been a mainly solitary pleasure. I have friends whose interests overlap with mine but something has always held me back from fully revealing the depths of my love and sharing all of me with them. So instead, I chose to share it with complete strangers over the internet. As you do.
It has offered me rewards beyond my expectations (I’ve spoken to Meshell Ndegeocello, for God’s sake!), but it is not always a walk in the park. With a job, a daughter, a wife, a dog and sleep, it’s not always easy to squeeze in the words that Albumism deserves and requires. Occasionally, the things we (ok, I) plan to write about get dropped as life takes over or I plainly and simply, forget. Five years ago, I made the almost unforgivable mistake of being unable to write about an album that deserved my time and the time of anyone so inclined to investigate it.
I’ve written about Lynden David Hall before, but his debut album Medicine 4 My Pain is my favorite of his tragically short life and career. Beyond the music though, which I’ll come to in due time, writing about it reveals and symbolizes so much of what was wrong with the British music industry and press at the time of its release in late 1997.
When you choose to write an anniversary piece about an album, sometimes it comes relatively easy to you, as there is a massive amount of material already out there. Imagine writing about one of Stevie Wonder’s 1970s albums, as I’ve been fortunate enough to—reams upon reams have been written and said about them, so it becomes a matter of aggregating insights from them, (hopefully) adding one or two of you own and framing it in your own unique way. Were you to contrast that with writing about a Beatles album though, you would find the work about Wonder dwarfed by that dedicated to the Fab Four, despite comparable levels of influence and importance.
So, in writing about Lynden David Hall’s magnificent debut Medicine 4 My Pain, the pickings for coverage at the time are slim to non-existent. Were you to find a comparable white Britpop guitar-led group of the time, then you’d find a very different picture. There’d be page after page in Melody Maker or NME for starters, alongside splashes in broadsheet culture sections. But for a hugely important slice of UK soul music written and performed by an alumnus of the newly minted Brit School Of Performing Arts? Barely a whisper.
Thus is the all-too-common fate of UK soul acts revealed. Producing soul music for UK audiences is largely a thankless task. There is a limited ecosystem to support the continued development of the artists in any meaningful way. No wonder artists like Loose Ends and Estelle have fled for some part of their careers to the US where a more comprehensive ecosystem of clubs, venues, radio stations and audiences exists to support them.
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Then there are always the comparisons made to US acts that imply UK acts to be lackluster imitations of those from the other side of the Atlantic. Hall suffered from comparisons made to those who inhabited the land of soul music’s birth, as he was labelled the UK’s answer to D’Angelo. Two handsome Black men playing soul music and raised in church environments they may be, but a comparison between the two serves no one and does Hall a massive disservice, reducing him to a follower, rather than the leader he was. If you take a look at the top 40 in the UK in 1997 into 1998, it is stuffed with boybands and girl groups, Cher’s autotune behemoth and the last dribs and drabs of Britpop. With that backdrop, where does a Black man making organic sounding soul music fit in?
The fact that the album only reached #43 in the British charts tells you plenty. “Sexy Cinderella” limped to #45 in the singles chart and was followed by “Do I Qualify” faring slightly better and climbing to #26. It was a remix of lead single “Sexy Cinderella” that had the most impact though —the C&J remix pushed it to #17 upon its rerelease. All of which meant Hall had a certain level of success, within the parameters already raised.
He received far more critical acclaim than commercial. In 1998 he won a MOBO for Best Newcomer, was nominated for Best British Male Artist at the 1999 BRITS and became the first British man to win Blues & Soul’s prestigious Best Male Artist category. But a look again at those achievements demonstrates the earlier points about the limitations of the UK soul ecosystem.
That two of those awards come from places that specifically recognize work of Hall’s ilk, shows the limited way he was able to puncture the consciousness of the public beyond the existing ecosystem, despite the many qualities he had. Up against artists like Fatboy Slim, Hall was never going to win his BRIT category, however much folks like me cheered him on and shouted at the TV screen during the award show.
To put it bluntly, Lynden David Hall deserved much, much better and it’s through no fault of his own that success commensurate with his talent didn’t come his way. The only way to remedy that is to raise his name in conversations and write about him whenever we get the chance (hence my disappointment in myself at not writing this sooner).
What has always appealed to me about the album, alongside the great music on offer, is his rejection of the macho bullshit that can accompany male artists’ work. He shows himself to be reflective, sensitive and prone to self-doubt and unafraid to speak truth to power. The majority of the album is given over to affairs of the heart but with refreshing perspectives. “Do I Qualify” speaks to his sense of insecurity, while on “Crescent Moon” he lays himself prostrate in the face of his heart’s desire.
Elsewhere there’s the feeling of escaping society’s prewritten script for young Black men on “Livin’ The Lie” and it’s all set to a musical landscape that makes its influences clear. There’s a distinct sheen of 1970s soul to proceedings. Slinky, organic grooves with smatterings of Al Green, Marvin Gaye and others make the South Londoner a man with impeccable taste capable of forming new things from those undeniably smooth raw materials.
Nestled at the end of the album though are two quietly beautiful tunes that offer a much more stripped-down musical accompaniment, offering new dimensions to him and his work. The title track “Medicine 4 My Pain” is initially an acoustic guitar before a subtle sweep of strings begins a swell of beauty. This is then followed up by more acoustic beauty in the form of “Do Angels Cry” and both offer the chance to revel in his soulful voice, which soothes as surely as a warm blanket.
Though Lynden David Hall may not have received the kudos he deserved, what he did though was to provide a template for others who followed. In his wake, others had more commercial success. Craig David and Lemar both broke into charts in ways Hall didn’t and they owe him an artistic debt—after all if you see it, you can be it. Lynden David Hall’s debut deserves to be recognized as a hugely important UK soul record and if you’ve taken the time to read this (thank you!), then take some time to listen to it. Whether experiencing it for the first time or the hundredth time, you’ll find something to love in its grooves and Hall’s quiet magnetism.
He more than qualifies.
Listen: