The Dreamweavers knew – absolutely knew – their song was a hit, but nobody wanted to record it. At this distance we can only guess as to why – too sad, perhaps? Too defeatist? Too old-fashioned? So the group did something remarkable: they recorded it themselves. Their arrangement was primitive – just a piano and crooning voices – and their singer wasn’t the finest, with a wimpy voice and an audible lisp. But their instincts were right – “It’s Almost Tomorrow” was a smash. Self-written, self-produced, a portrait of male weakness and romantic defeat – The Dreamweavers had made the first ever indie record, and had taken it to the top of the charts.
In all seriousness, this is a lovely single (the jarring ending flourish aside). The singer is doomed and knows he is doomed – in the morning he will meet his lover, and it is certain that she will leave him. So sure is he of this that his best hope lies not in her relenting, but in tomorrow somehow not arriving. The tune is terribly pretty and vulnerable, a lullaby of abjection, and the delivery is almost comically pathetic – imagine Droopy the cartoon dog writing a 50s pop ballad. Except British. I don’t actually know for sure that the Dreamweavers were British but my goodness this record sounds it: its buttoned-down misery and polite hopelessness strikes a national chord which has kept on resonating down to this day. “The saddest songs are the lonely songs, so easily outgrown” – British pop hasn’t outgrown this yet.