When Punk exploded in 1977, the dam burst so hard it left a crater. It didn’t take very long for the maelstrom of no-frills sonic intensity to suck up other elements. Post-punk emerged almost immediately, deconstructing punk into unrecognizable shapes. Post-punk in turn splintered into its own series of subgenres—most notably, new wave and gothic rock.
Genre taxonomy is an inexact science, and no one is totally sure who laid goth rock’s first brick. But Bauhaus is a darn good guess.
In the scope of their immense body of work, U2’s sophomore album is often overlooked.
And if you ask me, it’s an absolute travesty.
October captures all the energy of Boy and juxtaposes it against a newborn social consciousness that presented a difficult crossroads for the band.
After a career of arena tours, high-profile philanthropy, Platinum records, Broadway soundtracks (remember the Spider-Man musical?), unsolicited album releases, and more hits than you can shake a stick at, it can be hard to remember that U2 was birthed out of the same scene as the Clash, Wire, Joy Division, and the Cure.
But even the most shallow listen to Boy will snap that picture into focus, simultaneously forecasting a prescient image of the iconic band that they would become.
I’m not sure how it’s taken me this long to add this record to my collection. Back when Enema of the State shockingly wound up on the Top 40, I was a blossoming punk who was a firm adherent that any band’s earlier stuff was always better.
While I’ve since learned I was wrong about that, you can probably understand why Cheshire Cat would have solidified that idea for me. While its decidedly less mature than their pop breakthrough and lacks the technical drumming prowess of Travis Barker, this record nails blink’s juvenile humor, teenage angst, and raw energy in a way that they never quite topped.
When my family and I made our first excursion into Stockholm proper, I stepped off of the train in Old Town and was immediately greeted by a flier advertising a fifty percent off record sale. I wasn’t about to abandon everyone to go record shopping, but the more time we spent in town, the more I saw these fliers popping up.
Finally, our last day in the city, we found ourselves in the neighborhood with the shop. I decided to split off to find this much-advertised sale and meet up with them later. I found the shop, tucked into a cobblestone alley up a steep set of stairs, and set to digging.
This cover art, from a band called HÄLLREGN (pronounced like Hell Rain, meaning torrential downpour) caught my eye. When the shopkeeper offered to play me a sample, I was surprised that despite its dark, foreboding album art and the band name written in what seemed like blood, it sounded like what would have happened if the Go-Gos were punkier, and also Swedish.
For as ubiquitous as they are in pop culture, it’s almost a shock to remember that they only released two studio albums. Their trademark sound, marked by melodic basslines, robotic drums, stabbing guitars, and Ian Curtis’ distinct baritone drew up most of the post punk blue print, but they also had a huge impact on new wave, goth rock, and indie rock (as nebulous as that term is, it’s impossible to listen to bands like The National, Arcade Fire, Interpol, LCD Soundsystem, etc and not hear shades of Joy Division).
And while Substance is best celebrated for “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” their only Platinum single, this compilation serves as a career-spanning chronicle of one of the most important bands in pop music history.
By now, anyone who knows me should already know that there are some inexplicable and inexcusable gaps in my music knowledge. There are plenty of bands that I should have grown up loving but ignored for one reason or another.
In the case of Hot Water Music, my suspicion is that I had confused them for Poison the Well, who I never cared for. And yes, I know how stupid that was.
I’ve set to mending these gaps over the last few years, but few of those undertakings have been as satisfying as Hot Water Music’s Caution, a fiery burst of melodic post hardcore that checks just about every box of what I was looking for as a high schooler.
First impressions are a powerful thing. Like many people, my first introduction to the Beastie Boys was “Fight For Your Right,” an irreverent and ubiquitous track that struck many as a novelty. And at the time of that track, the Beastie Boys were a novelty: the three Jewish kids from New York had transitioned to hip hop after their hardcore band found a burst of attention with the jokey rap song “Cookie Puss” (after which they hired an aspiring DJ named Rick Rubin).
But after riding the novelty act thing to notoriety, the Beastie Boys decided to get serious—a memo I had largely missed until my wife picked up a CD copy of Ill Communication on my regular detour at Vertigo Records in Grand Rapids. Listening to it on the drive home, I realized what an idiot I was for not just buying the vinyl at the same time, because this is truly one of the greatest records of all time.
Over the years, I have stated publicly and often that I missed the Get Up Kids when I was in the throes of my emo phase. Most publicly, on the first episode of my podcast, which I host with a Get Up Kids superfan.
As a teen, I had a copy of the B-sides and rarities disc Eudora, but really only loved a couple tracks on it. I have a vague memory of buying Something to Write Home About, regarded by many to be their best, but I don’t remember being very enthralled with it.
However, a couple months ago I bought a box of records from a friend that had a number of emo classics, including many from TGUK. “I might as well keep this one,” I said of this disc, before putting it on and realizing something surprising…
I knew every word to this album.
The conversations around the greatest punk band of all time are often focused in the rivalry between USA and the UK. Punks wax philosophical about The Ramones or The Clash, Black Flag or the Buzzcocks…(note: I’m intentionally omitting the band Virgin Records put together to reappropriate punk aesthetics).
One factor that’s not often brought up is that of race. True, there might not be too much to talk about there—for all its rebellion against the status quo, punk has always skewed heavily white. But for Bad Brains, whose legend demands that they’re mentioned in any conversation about important punk bands, their punk cred is tied intrinsically to their blackness, both in lyrical content and the way they were perceived in their early days.