Record #602: Elvis Costello and the Attractions – Imperial Bedroom (1982)

There ain’t nobody like Elvis but Elvis. And I don’t mean Presley.

Elvis Costello is a singular figure in the history of pop music, encapsulating the purest forms of aloof cool, punk sneering, and pop songcraft.

But knowing him mostly as a new wave icon, I was surprised to hear that one of his most highly regarded albums is a piece of orchestral chamber pop.

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Record #546: Men At Work – Business As Usual (1981)

A hit single can be a huge boon for a new band. It can launch their career like a jet engine, putting them in front of a huge audience.

But it can also be an albatross, painting listeners’ perception of your work. Perhaps there’s no greater example of this curse than Men At Work’s “Down Under,” which hit number one in a handful of countries around the world—despite being a poor representation of their debut album.

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Record #528: M83 – Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming (2011)

If ever there was a post rock crossover pop hit, it’s M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming. 

This record debuted at number fifteen on the Billboard Top 200. The bouncing single “Midnight City“, complete with a screaming saxophone solo, was ubiquitous. The group appeared on a number of late night talk show performances. Songs were played in commercials and movie trailers.

This is only made more impressive by the fact that it’s a double album by a band that made their name playing synth-driven drone music.

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Record #480: David Bowie – Let’s Dance (1983)

let's dance.jpgBy the beginning of the 80s, David Bowie had been through enough career turns to make the most accomplished musicians dizzy. He had cut his teeth with Dylan-esque space folk before moving onto theatric art pop, glam rock, plastic soul, sci-fi disco, and harrowing Krautrock.

There wasn’t a lot of space that Bowie hadn’t already explored. So he set his sights on the best dang pop a man could create.

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Record #436: The Cure – Disintegration (1989)

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In a conversation with some fellow music nerds recently, it somehow came up that I had never spent much time with The Cure. I had picked up a copy of their 2004 self-titled album once in high school and listened to it maybe once or twice, but that was hardly an accurate picture of these 80s darlings.
My friend nearly demanded that I listen to Disintegration  that instant. And friends, it changed me.
I already have a deep love for 80s post punk. Joy Division and Cocteau Twins are staples of my collection. Disintegration hits every one of those buttons:  atmospheric synths, moody bass lines, and sparse guitar riffs set the stage for Robert Smith’s tortured croon.
At times, it’s deceptively poppy. You might even think that they’re happy. “Plainsong” opens the album with a major key anthem for the end of the world. “Pictures of You” sounds so triumphant that you’d be forgiven for not noticing how isolated Smith feels. The perennial classic “Lovesong” flips the formula a little bit, juxtaposing joyful lyrics to a minor key ballad.
They can only keep up the facade for so long, though. The second half of the album is all gloom, all the time. And it’s exactly what the Cure does best. “The Same Deep Water as You” is a nine-minute meditation on toxic codependency that sounds as beleaguered as its lyrics. The title track starts with a poppy drum beat, hinting for a moment that the gloom has lifted. But this beat sets the stage for one of the most harrowing tracks of the album. The album doesn’t return to a major key until the closing track, “Untitled,” a gentle major key ballad that feels like two friends holding eachother after a bridge collapse.
Which is apparently exactly what was happening to the Cure during this time. Smith was filled with dread as he looked forward to his thirtieth birthday, and his rejection of his sudden fame and internal tension within the band brought him into an existential crisis. And while these sorts of crises aren’t uncommon, it takes a rare artist to perfectly capture that feeling for others to experience. Robert Smith is that artist, and Disintegration is that feeling—71 minutes of ennui and alienation perfectly captured on tape and pressed to vinyl. A rightly-lauded masterpiece that I will not ignore any longer.
As a sidenote: I think I’ve isolated the reason why I’ve ignored the Cure so long. In middle school, I was a big fan of Adam Sandler’s The Wedding Singer. In the movie, he sings a song that he prefaces with, “when I wrote this, I was listening to the Cure a lot.” The song is a sad punky song with an angry, yelly chorus. Punk kid that I was, I loved it. I wanted more like that. The Cure reference made me think that this is what they sounded like. It was not. I lost interest.

Record #370: Hall & Oates – Voices (1980)

I’ve said on multiple occasions that my musical worldview has a number of blind spots–bands (or sometimes entire subgenres) that have made a mark on pop music that I’m just entirely ignorant of.
​Hall & Oates occupy a certain pocket of ‘70s and ‘80s middle of the road soft rock that I’ve somehow missed.
Of course I’ve heard their name–I’d be hard pressed to miss that. But I’m not sure if I’ve ever knowingly heard them. My friend Dan flipped out when he heard this, so when I found this copy in my mom’s collection, I took it home.
And now that I hear them, I’ve put a name to some of the great pop tunes I still hear on the radio–”Kiss On My List,” “You Make My Dreams,” and “Every Time You Go Away” still have healthy radio airplay, and with good reason. They’re infectious pop tunes with harmonies as sweet as honey. What’s surprising is just how new wavey some of the deep cuts are. Side one features a bunch of moments that clearly took notes from Talking Heads and Duran Duran. But as post-punky as they get, their vocal interplay remains just as sweet and sun kissed as the pop singles. It makes for a surprising first foray into a band’s catalog, but I dig it.