I bought this record when I first started my collection in college for two reasons: it was twenty-five cents, and the cover was cool.
And after a disappointing listen, I kept it on the merit of its artwork and never listened to it again. But now, six years later, the record doesn’t sound as terrible as it did when I first heard it.
The very first thing you notice about Invisible Touch is just how poppy it is. Which isn’t too surprising–the two records before it had some great pop numbers with prog flares thrown in to keep things interesting, like Abacab’s great No Reply At All or the Home by the Sea suite from Genesis, reflective of what groups like The Police and Talk Talk were doing around the same time on Ghost in the Machine and The Colour of Spring (which are both masterpieces).
Not long ago, I referred to the streak of Born to Run to Nebraska as “The Only Springsteen Albums That Matter.” This was a reference to the Boss’s later catalog in general, but it held its snobby fingers out to Born in the USA in particular and said, “yeah, I’m talking to YOU.” Continue reading
The same year Clapton was putting together a collection of mediocre excuses for guitar solos called Slowhand that (let’s be honest) probably sounded dated upon its release, something else was brewing in London.
That something else was a young man named Elvis Costello who called in sick to his day job to record his debut album, which has become an undisputed classic.
From the Jackson Pollock style cover to Costello’s crooning, Armed Forces is an album as cool as Costello himself, what with his thick rimmed glasses, pompadour, and suit-and-tie–a coolness that comes from practically eschewing the whole idea of coolness.
The most immediate things you notice about Rio is how the album cover looks like a cheesy travel brochure, the frantic bass lines, dancy rhythm guitars, atmospheric synths, saxophone solos, and vocals that sound like an Elvis Costello caricature.
I have mentioned before my music snob roommate in Chicago. Truth be told though, I benefited more from his snoot than it was a detriment to me. The Cars is among the best examples. We were at a used media shop one day and he said to me, “There’s a copy of The Cars’ Heartbeat City over there for two dollars. If you don’t buy it, you hate your life.” And so, partially to keep him off my back, I gave it a shot. And it opened the door to the Cars’ entire discography, which I am, for the most part (I’m looking at you, Panorama), a huge fan. And this was the record that piqued my curiosity.
And then, the Cars returned to making pop music with new-wave and art-rock influences, rather than art-rock with pop influences. It seems a wise choice, since their greatest triumph was in their debut’s ability to walk the line between pop sensibility and avant-garde experimentation like it was a tightrope. And while Shake It Up might not match the finesse and memorability of the first classic, it easily leapfrogs over Panorama with radio-ready singles as well as paranoid, freakout tracks.
As the saying goes, nothing gold can stay. Like their spiritual heir apparent Weezer a decade and a half later, after two winning albums, the Cars fell into a bit of a slump.
The astute among you will notice that I’m posting the back cover of this album as opposed to the legendary, lusty front (if you want to see it that much, you know how to use Google). As a man who has tried to follow the teachings of the man who said “whoever looks at a woman lustfully has committed adultery with her in his heart,” it’s always been difficult for me trying to divorce this record from its cover. But that difficulty isn’t unwarranted: the record went platinum in record time, largely because of the pinup sprawled on its cover.
But that success reinforces the question: is the music any good?