from the LP With Sympathy, Arista Records, 1983
Even though Al Jourgensen has consistently disavowed his contributions to the official release of this, his debut album under the alias ‘Ministry’, it’s hard to hate any exercise in post-Depeche Mode synthtastic lack of inhibition, particularly when the songs are as catchy as this; come on Al, editing quirks notwithstanding, this is the fucking schnizzle! Juvenile sex metaphors about “working overtime” aside, everything about this song pleases me: choice beats, creep-tastic synths, angular guitars, even Al’s faux-British accent does the job. Short of the dark ambiance, there aren’t really any indicators of the brash direction his music would take in the coming years, but that sharply removed distance only adds to the appeal of these primitive musical excursions, for me anyways.
from the LP Around the World in a Day, Paisley Park Records, 1985
The song that took berets from second-hand stores to the racks at Macys (remember that shit?!), this smoking hot number captured my imagination and, if truth be told, my heart from the very first time I watched the weird music video for it---that psychedelic sky blue pantsuit with clouds across it that he was rocking was fucking incredible. It’s the string section that probably hooked me so hard, and those cellos still command my attention whenever this song is playing, surely evidence of his fascination with the Beatles at that time. The whole thing sounds a bit coy coming from Prince, the guy who had brought us determinedly lewd tracks like “Sister”, “Soft & Wet” & “Little Red Corvette” before, and I think that might be exactly what works for him here---it’s kind of a sweet song, considering the source; granted, relative to the rest of the pop music community, lyrics like “…she-e-e-e wasn’t too bright, but I could tell when she kissed me, she knew how to get her kicks…” aren’t exactly milquetoast.
from the LP Passion Factory, Hansa Records, 1981
Although they later went on to follow a similar musical direction as the Pet Shop Boys and Erasure (see: Europop cheese at its finest), at this stage in their career the German duo of Sven Dohrow & Ronny Schreinzer, known simply as the Twins, still sounded very much like a Tubeway Army tribute band---that’s not an insult in the least, as Gary Numan fucking rocks, and so does a good portion of this debut album. Granted, the lyrics aren’t nearly as haunted or delicious as Numan’s are, but the music itself comes quite close, and there is a hint of the Cars’ influence to be found here as well, both inspirations fashioning a very melodic sound indeed. You just have to love the iconic cover photo, so fucking ‘80s man!
from the LP Visage, Polydor Records, 1980
If you study the etiologies of various musical subcultures over the last 50 years or so, you find that many genres initially found their footing within the confines of a single club (sometimes merely a club night), insular underground scenes developing the fulcrum of a full-fledged trend, often without realizing the extent of the exposure which was to come. The short-lived New Romantic movement of the early ‘80s, essentially a fashion-obsessed tributary of the New Wave, is a textbook example of this phenomenon, and the club promoters responsible for creating all that fuss (Steve Strange & Rusty Egan) just happened to also be (good at hiring…) musicians, calling themselves Visage---a name well chosen, given the scene’s propensity for androgyny, excessive use of makeup, and foppish period clothing (see: fancy tranny pirates). This song, Visage’s biggest and most enduring hit, is suitably over-the-top with that lone oscillating monosynth and high-drama lyrics, particularly the nonchalant delivery of some French spoken word. It was all a bit cheeky, and any unabashed celebration of the ersatz in music is usually doomed to a brief shelf-life, but having spawned such polarizing and famous figures as Boy George & Duran Duran, the impact was both real and wide-reaching. Go figure.
from the LP Tom Tom Club, Island Records, 1981
There aren’t a whole lot of husband & wife teams to be found in rock-n-roll, which isn’t terribly surprising because it’s difficult enough to build a successful marriage without also attempting to be professionally involved together. That said, Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz (longtime rhythm section for the Talking Heads) make it look easy; calling themselves Tom Tom Club, the couple signed to Island records and crash landed at Blackwell’s heady commune in the Bahamas (Compass Point), bringing in players from all over the Caribbean to help craft this entertaining slice of post-modern mayhem. In fact, none other than Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry was supposed to produce, but in typical fashion he never showed up---not that it seemed to matter much. This dropped at a time when all the lines between varying musical genres were blurred, allowing for the intermingling of all styles present, constructing new soundscapes which totally defied categorization. The lyrics are all in French, but I found a translation which essentially breaks it down like this: an elephant & hippopotamus, disguised as people, walked to a town where they came across children fleeing and crying, and when they asked what the deal was they were told that it was a war, and all the men were killing each other; wisely, some owls told the pair to shed their human costumes.
from the LP Freedom Of Choice, Warner Bros Records, 1980
The 1970 massacre at Kent State University stands as one of our nation’s turning points, an event which epitomized the divide running through the whole country at that time, something which basically ended the idea of peaceful resistance & also predicted the direction that groups like the Weather Underground would take in retaliation for what was increasingly seen as something of a social-civil war. Some people who witnessed the tragedy that day were so appalled and moved by the events that it ignited creative fires deep within their souls, wrought from the stress of a seemingly imploding world. One notable example of this is the band Devo, threee members of which were students at Kent during the shootings and had already discussed the idea that our human race might actually be “devolving” into a more basal species, and they have often been quoted as saying that the events that day were the ultimate catalyst for them deciding to form a band. They carried these ideas forward with them for almost a decade before things started to happen, and their informed, smart-assed approach to sociological observation proved the perfect fit for an angsty, new wave of cold war kids---funny thing is, I doubt many of them understood that Devo was often pointing their empirical surveillance the youth’s way, “…in ancient Rome, there was a poem, about a dog, who found two bones; he picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles, he dropped dead… freedom of choice, is what you got; freedom from choice, is what you want…” Culturally, we continue to be bombarded by exponentially more & more shit than ever before, perhaps correlating to the increasing state of disconnect up in here. Maybe these crafty nerds were on to something…
from the LP Songs from the Big Chair, Mercury Records, 1985
Regular readers of this blog know that I don’t often wade into the slurry pit of bullshit that is American politics, so please forgive me this one instance to share a couple of thoughts I’ve had after learning more about some of the fucktarded nutbags who won a few of our nation’s primary elections last night and over the past couple months: (ahem…) okay, um, REALLY??!!? Given the statistics we’ve recently heard regarding how one fifth of our population actually believes that our president is a foreign-born muslim, it must be those same lurching imbeciles who are turning out to vote, which is fucking scary people. I’m not a cheerleader for the Dems either---as I’ve previously stated, I think virtually ALL politicians at the federal (and increasingly, the state) level are crazy douchebags and narcissists of the highest order; that said, the alternatives on the other side appear to be far more harrowingly stupid and out of touch, which is what makes a GOP sweep in November such a sincerely frightening & horrifying probability. Not to mention the fact that our Supreme Court is now heavy with young social conservatives… The deeper, and more petrifying, reality this wave symbolizes is the failure of our educational system, en masse; poor people voting against their own interests out of some delusional resolve that we need to go backwards instead of forwards…I won’t even venture into the sickeningly elevated levels of religious zealotry that is linked to that crowd. In order for a democracy to work correctly, the people have to be well educated--- otherwise, we become held captive to the reactionary perils of emotional idiots. (deep sigh) Okay, ‘nuff said.
from the 7” single, Chrysalis Records, 1978
Scorned by punks, adored by critics and horny pubescent boys (one in the same?), Blondie was always something of a paradox no matter how you looked at it: sanitary but vulgar, cherubic and demonic at the same time, approachable yet downright coldly post-modern; quite frankly, it helps to know that Debbie Harry was gobbling down Quaaludes and smoking mad dust through much of the hoopla, genuinely not giving a fuck about the haters. As contrived as some snobbish heads might make you believe their music was, Blondie really just lived it, carving their own niche inside a NYC scene that was rather bloated with bands trying to out-shock or out-nasty one another. Listening to the lyrics of this track now, in the age of texting & smart phones, leaves me awash in mental pictures of the recently distant past, “…I’m in the phone booth, it’s the one across the hall; if you don’t answer, I’ll just ring it off the wall…” I read somewhere the other day that pay phones are probably on their way out, relics of a non-digital past, as it costs more to service them than they bring in. Weird man…
from the LP Blue, Metronome Records, 1985
Mmmmmmm, that’s good guilty pleasure! Right up there with “West End Girls” and “Steppin’ Out” in its ability to steal my mind away, back to a sun-dappled misspent youth full of daydreams & delusions of grandeur, this track is cheesy schlock at its finest; of course, at that time I worshipped my older sisters’ collection classic rock & metal LPs, so I didn’t admit liking this song back then---- secretly, however, I adored it. Having one of the least creative names ever (seriously, you guys couldn’t come up with something more interesting than this?!), Swiss crew Double are the responsible party for this tale of a lady in waiting, and they used to play the video for this on VH1 all the time: a wonderfully 80s montage of pale models walking around with extra pout-y faces, wondering where their man has gone. I am fully cognizant of the fact that this song holds absolutely no enduring meaning or importance, and that it probably finds its way onto worst-song lists often, but I still dig it, so go fuck yourself. :)
from the 12” single, Factory Records, 1984
Propelled along by their rhythm section’s brisk pace (the minimal production of which does very little to help their argument about not being Joy Div / New Order wannabes… I’m just saying…), Scottish crew The Wake clearly didn’t miss a beat after losing their original bassist right before this single dropped: that being none other than Bobby Gillespie, who went on to play drums with the Jesus & Mary Chain before fronting Primal Scream. In fact, this sound is remarkably tighter than that found on the Wake’s first album (sorry Bobby), indicating the maturation which would present itself in full on their next LP. Hath my whore-like lust for synthesizers any point of cease? HELL to-the NO! That melodica heard in the background, tooting only 2 notes…slays me.
from the LP World Machine, Polydor Records, 1985
This song always sets my mind adrift, being one of those tracks that’s interminably linked to carefree & youthful memories, afternoons spent lazing at the beach or watching MTV for hours on end (remember, this was when music videos were played 24 hours a day, and it was fucking incredible) while my mom did whatever it is stay-at-home mom’s do when they want to avoid their kids, leaving me happily alone with my music videos, sandy feet and delusions of grandeur. Level 42 started off as a jazz-funk ensemble, but by the time this single dropped they had morphed into a slick jazzy pop act, benefiting from the new wave sounds without being defined by them; for all his mastery on the bass, I remember being more interested (hypnotized?) by Mark King’s bizarre face, which was on prominent display in the video: something like a mix between Bob Geldoff in The Wall (during the shaved scenes) & a grouper (the fish, not the leftfield ambient band). Say what you will about ‘80s music, the crap glutting up the Top 40 these days can’t touch the clean, simple brilliance on display here.
from the LP In Ghost Colours, Modular Recordings, 2008
Where Neon Indian merely channeled the ghosts of Fleetwood Mac in his “Should Have Taken Acid With You”, Aussie chill-out gurus Cut Copy manage to completely re-interpret “Gypsy” on this standout cut from their second longplayer, taking the best accouterments that new wave & yacht rock have to offer and baking them into a cloud-like soufflé, like washing a couple Somas down with a spliff and a mimosa, then going for a walk on a breezy, sunny Colorado day…or so I’ve heard (eternal love to my “stoned mimosa Saturdays” crew). The gap between their first LP and this one was a grueling four years, but if waiting means they will keep the quality level as high as it’s been in the past, I’m willing to wait; although, just two years out, I’ve played this album to death and could sure use a 7” or something to tide me over… Toss us a bone mates!
from the 7” single, Bridge House Records, 1981
Oh yeah, this is the stuff man… Equal parts Joy Division, Bauhaus, & Gary Numan, this scorching track from the relatively unknown Wasted Youth (no relation to the Cali hardcore crew of the same name) gets everything right: driving rhythm section, minor chord harmonies, weird synth effects hovering about, and a dreamy (not to mention catchy) chorus with forcefully processed vocals; not surprisingly, a Martin Hannett production. Gothic new wave post-punk bliss. The precious few people who remember this band are typically fans of the guitarist Rocco Barker, who later went on to find moderate fame with the band Flesh For Lulu (a John Hughes favorite), but most of the mood on these early singles owes far more to drummer Andy Scott and bassist Darren Murphy, who provided the relentless metronomic pulse that makes their sound so appealing, to me anyways.
from the LP How to be a Zillionaire, Neutron Records, 1985
Well, for those unacquainted with ABC’s cheeky brand of sparkling gossamer pop music, be warned: this is about as guilty of a pleasure as there is, so the cheese factor found within does a respectable job at living up to the diaphanous vibe inherent to the album’s title & cover art…ah, that dry British wit. This wasn’t all meant as irony though, and they were no different from any other ‘80s act, seeking stardom in the decade of success. You can’t deny the melodies or meticulous craftsmanship however, sugar-coated chord progressions accented by the airiest of effects, all congealing into marshmallow clouds of pure pop confection---like Skittles for your ears. I got no shame, I know it, but fuck if I care…that descending piano run releases a monster shot of serotonin to my dome-piece, “…be near me, be near…(whistling the piano part)…be near me, be near…”
from the LP Jeopardy, Korova Records, 1980
I spent a brief tenure flunking out of college in the middle of Indiana, about as “heartland” of a place as one can find around this country anymore, rows of corn and soybeans as far as the eye could see; for a boy that grew up at the beach, getting high in the middle of a cornfield was surprisingly exhilarating, the dappled night sky above us untainted by city lights and the contiguous silence of the countryside pairing to produce a truly alien landscape to any urban spawn. In fact, I never went to class at all. My poor mom & dad, arriving for parent’s weekend only to be met by the faces of puzzled professors, one after another, explaining to them as soothingly as possible, “…um, well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I’ve never met your son before…what did you say his name was again…?” Looking back, I’ve gotta say, I’m thankful for my time in the heartland: days spent with my fellow flunking allies, driving aimlessly through the quartered counties, Graffix hookah firmly entrenched in between the driver & passenger seats, clam baking all the while---nights spent tripping on weak microdot and chugging cheap tequila, hitting up girlfriends for the use of their cars (no shame) when Travis was in dispose (namely his sisters wreck, but that’s another story for another day…). Shit, we probably listened to Dark Side of the Moon & the Dead’s Europe ’72 over a hundred times that fall… Here’s to rural Indiana! Happy birthday Verratti!!
from the 12” single, Wall Of Sound Records, 2001
Fittingly enough, this track first came to me care of a freebie CD included with Mojo magazine, and its trancelike new wave attack has never let go of me---I admit, being a nerd sociologist makes me more inclined to connect with this song’s title (many varying post-modern realities encased in that one), but the music holds up, and Paper Faces do a phenomenal job with the remix here, sounding almost like a mashup of Daft Punk & early New Order (that bassline could easily be one of Peter Hooks). I’m an accomplished magazine whore, which I rationalize by continuing to read challenging novels as well, but there really are some top publications still kicking around that give me hours of shameless, page-turning satisfaction, even amidst all the horribly vapid crap: Wax Poetics, Mojo, Wallpaper, Dazed, Anthem, and others as well. Zoot Woman crafted a real winner here, and their early releases have surely served as inspiration to the current crop of chill-wave acts.
from the LP Rebel Yell, Chrysalis Records, 1983
You’ve got to imagine that Billy Idol took a lot of shit from his mates for this one---I mean, going from Generation X to this in 5 fast years must have seemed like pure treason to the punk faithful; frankly though, that core of purists never really took Mr. Idol seriously to begin with, and for good reason, because he wasn’t truly one of them. This album displays that dutifully, and it remains one of my guiltiest 80s pleasures; this song in particular really congeals everything that was right/wrong with that time period into four & a half minutes of pure unadulterated gratification. All the decade’s hallmarks are here: over-processed guitar, heavily echoed vocals, drum machine, synths, and the general aura of anal beads & uncut coke. Not a lot of substance to be found in the lyrics here, except for one glaring, existential truth; “…ain't it strange what we do to feel all right? Oh yeah…”
from the CD Secret Diary, Futur Records, 2008
This Valerie Collective (so dubbed because the founder, David Grellier, a.k.a. ‘College’, felt that that name ‘Valerie’ had been unfairly left behind in the ‘80s & the sound of it reminded him of all the fun times), they are kicking my ass man, for real. It’s almost enough to make one want to buy a Delorean, deck it out with the latest hi-fi audio equipment, and just go driving off into some generic desert sunset, presumably with the hopes that an enchanted synergy will be created between the futuristic looking car, bumping chill wave soundtrack & the speed you hit (not to mention, probably weighable amounts of cocaine dust in the upholstery, I mean, homeboy was surely letting the assembly line stay high while they worked, right?), sending you hurtling backwards through time. Almost. It doesn’t need lyrics, but imagine if there were…
from the LP Madonna, Sire Records, 1983
This slut anthem still rocks my cock almost 30 years after its release, an unabashed celebration of the lust inside us all when we see someone from across a bar, bus stop, classroom, or what have you, that categorically pushes every one of our buttons (except one) at once; “…do you wanna see me down on my knees, bending over backwards now would you be pleased; not like the others, I’ll do anything, I’m not the same, I have no shame…I’m on fire…” Madonna was lucky to have been dating John ‘Jellybean’ Benitez prior to this album dropping, because his mixing abilities are indisputably a huge part of the eternal magnetism this album generates; already having cut his teeth in NYC, spinning records at 54 & the Funhouse, JJ had a level of underground sensibility and taste which Madonna could never have come up with on her own, back then anyways. That being said, she rips it up with her vocals here, tearing your clothes off through the damn speakers; the guitar parts were a great choice, really amps up the sex factor. For all her bullshit, I still love her (not the post-‘90s music so much), even if she does adopt all of Malawi…with a faux British accent…
from the LP With Sympathy, Arista Records, 1983
