Punk and New Wave

The Cure “Disintegration” (1989)

Though he may despise and disdain the term, Robert Smith, with his pot kettle black eyeliner, moussed, tousled hair and dour almost-dopey mopiness, will always be the archetypal goth, the poster boy for bedroom gloom and overwrought, affected misery. The Cure was far from a one-trick pony with a limp, but angst and depression are stamped repeatedly on the forehead of Disintegration, the crowning achievement of Smith’s career. His moody contemplation and inner turmoil goes Technicolor Cinemascope on this record; the guitars, flanged and phased beyond recognition, chime and soar, the vocals and drums reverberate through the cavernous bunker of the production, while layers of synthesized strings and weeping keyboards supplement the texture. These songs are sweeping and tenaciously grandiose – stadium-sized music for sun shy shut-ins and poetry scribblers. Opener “Plainsong” announces the record’s sound, with Smith’s voice echoing desperately across the freezing Wuthering Heights moor, while the “shimmering” (definitely among the most overused words in pop criticism) bells on “Pictures of You” underpin the longing of the tea-soaked madeleine cake lyrics. The straightforward, sullenly heartfelt “Lovesong” is the most accessible track, while “Lullaby” is the sexiest, with a near-funky stop-start rhythm, punctured guitar jabs and whispered vocals. The desolate essence of the album can found within the watery twins “Prayer for rain” and “The Same Deep Water as You:” plodding, winding requiems of remorse and reprehension. Though it nearly runs out of momentum by the time the wistful pump-organ of the untitled final track materializes in the haze, Disintegration is an elegy to loneliness, a bombastic display of histrionic pomp and the uncontrollable circumstance of just feeling sad, a true fucking epic blurred by flowing tears. —S. Paul Brown

Roky Erickson and the Aliens “The Evil One” (1981)

After serving some time in a mental institution, Roky Erickson, gifted vocalist of the prolific psych outfit 13th Floor Elevators, pheonixed into a paranoid messiah of rock, shedding any traces of campiness from his 60’s catalog in the proccess. “The Evil One” is a raging slab of psychedelic punk driven by Roky’s wonderful Texas fried and acid fed voice. He shrieks in terror as if to warn world of the demons in his mind. Although the lyrical subject matter is almost comical; vampires, a two headed dog, the devil, etc…, it’s delivered with a sincerity comparable to Syd Barrett’s solo albums or even a homeless person in the street raving on about something out to get them. But aside from any side stories of mental breakdown or heavy drug intake, the record is a cold cut ripper. Full speed 70’s hard rock with out any filler or forced attitude and killer guitar runs throughout. A must have for rock, punk, or psychellic heads. Just make sure your mind is together before dropping the needle, it might not come back. -Alex

Tubeway Army “Tubeway Army” (1978)

This is the Gary Numan we know and love, in his infancy. And although this is essentially a more guitar-oriented blueprint for Replicas, its sloppiness and low-rent ambiance give it a creepy feeling and skuzzy attack that makes this album a keeper not only for fans of the man-machine’s two or three subsequent classics, but of early “new wave” in general, before it had its edges smoothed away. Still, the album would have more impact as an EP, as Numan’s limits show themselves not quite equipped for the long player’s haul. Granted, the latter could arguably be said of his two or three subsequent classics, as well. –Will

Talking Heads ‘77 (1977)

Talking Head’s music seems to attract the use of adjectives: jittery, angular, brittle, odd, quirky, weird, eccentric, intelligent – all these and more can be levelled against a band who were within touching distance of that much over-used and erroneous description: unique. With less attitude and aggression than their punk counterparts, Talking Heads managed to be more disturbing than most yet their music was tinged with a comic aspect. I don’t agree with those who say this album hasn’t aged well. It still seems as strange and awkward to me today. Take “Happy Days”. For me the song just doesn’t work at all. Byrne’s vocal squeaks and squawks around a restless rhythm that doesn’t seem to know where it wants to go. But, while it may not be very good, it still sounds new and different. However, when it does work it sounds great – like “New Feeling”. I’ve always believed that somehow the band managed to take basic reggae rhythms and twist and shape them into something that is immediately recognisable as Talking Heads. Some say they invented a new musical form, but that is plainly stretching the truth way past reality. But they were certainly clever enough to forge their own identity. Besides the stellar “Psycho Killer”, other highlights are “The Book I Read”, “No Compassion”, “Uh-Oh Love Comes To Town”, “Don’t Worry About The Government” and “Pulled Up”. —Ian

The Cure “Three Imaginary Boys” (1979)

The early years of the Cure were a quite different proposition than their better-known commercial years, a colder, more alienated (and alienating) unit with a darkness at the core of everything they do. Not that they were ever  sunshine and lollipops, but there was a perverse bleakness that permeated their first few albums that lifted ever so slightly as they carried on. Way back here on their debut, they have the rolling, tense sound of post-punk/no-wave, with the clicking rhythms and murky bass lines taking influence from reggae and dub, but with the nihilism and antagonistic energy of punk rock played with a touch more spiky, precise musicianship. You would hardly recognize them as the band they would become, except in an occasional familiar quirk of Robert Smith’s voice.

“10:15 Saturday Night” is one of those obsessively neurotic songs that everyone seemed to be doing around the time (perhaps because they so well fit the nervous energy of this musical style), and one of the best, with a great smeared, jagged guitar solo. It sets the tone of alienation and disconnection that most of the album carries on. What love songs appear here are disguised and usually bleak (and there’s “Object” which denies any affection for a partner – ‘don’t try to hold me because I don’t want any ties, you’re just an object in my eyes, but I don’t mind’), although there is a surprisingly effective total reinvention of Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” that is more like Devo than the rampant sexuality of Hendrix. Instead, these are songs about dripping faucets, track lighting, subways, the impending extinction of humanity, or about being hung to bleed out on a meathook. Universal stuff. It is not on the whole some of their more distinct work, but it is a very strong example of the post-punk era. —Jared

Mission of Burma “Signals, Calls, and Marches” (1981)

Along with early Pere Ubu, Wire, and the Fall, Mission of Burma are on top of the post-punk heap anticipating Husker Du, Sonic Youth, Fugazi, and a whole lotta other stuff that’s made music worthwhile in the last 30 years. Harnessing arty punk noise abandon to a firmly footed garage rawk, and throwing in enough hooks to snare your pop instincts and sonic left-turns to keep you guessing, there are few groups I can think of who made more bracing music in this very bracing period: the aforementioned luminaries rarely topped ’em, if ever. In fact, I’m not sure anyone can top the opening track on this record: it’s been covered to death, but the original is timeless. Fortunately, their well-received reunion has resurrected their two essential early releases from obscurity. Get them both today. –Will

Young Marble Giants “Colossal Youth” (1980)

It must be twenty years ago since I first heard Colossal Youth by Young Marble Giants. I borrowed the album from a friend, fell in love with it and have spent the time in between trying to search out a copy. Okay, I may not have been trying too hard, but hunting down Colossal Youth was not as easy as you’d think. The problem was, by the time I got around to hearing the album, the band had been defunct for seven years. The trio consisting of brothers Stuart and Phillip Moxham and vocalist Alison Statton formed in Cardiff at the back end of 1978. They arrived out of nowhere, blew the socks off the majority of music journalists, recorded an intensely minimalistic album, were touted as one of the best new bands by the New Musical Express and fell apart amidst a flurry of bad feelings and irreconcilable differences. By early 1981 they had returned to relative obscurity leaving behind a small but perfectly formed body of work. The liner notes accompanying the album claim, because Young Marble Giants didn’t hang around for long, they were unable to sully their work with inferior product. There may be a kernel of truth in that but it does tend to detract from the fact what makes the statement true is the material they did produce had to be damn near perfect to begin with.

Where to begin describing the music of Young Marble Giants? There may be something clichéd and ho-hum about the statement but Colossal Youth is verging on the unique. Stepping outside music, imagine a wireframe designed to be the foundation on which layers of papier-mâché will be pasted to create a landscape. The music of Colossal Youth is the wireframe. It’s as if the band went into the studio, laid down the most basic of backing tracks, had an initial stab at a vocal and then made the astonishing decision that that was enough. The music is beyond minimal; at times just a few clipped notes on the guitar, a muted beat and a wispy vocal. The whole thing could be blown into oblivion by an interloping tinkle of a triangle. It’s incredible how so much substance and depth can be drawn from something so skeletal. There isn’t a wasted note on the whole album because there simply aren’t enough notes to waste. The band eventually folded due to a combination of the breakdown of the personal relationship between Phillip Moxham and Statton and the fact Stuart Moxham – the principal songwriter – had always wanted to sing his own material but had been persuaded by his brother to let Statton join. Eventually the cracks became too divisive to ignore and the Young Marble Giants went their separate ways. It’s a memorable document of a band whose star shone very brightly very quickly before just as swiftly burning itself out. Young Marble Giants were a band who exemplified the saying less is more – in their case a hell of a lot more. –Ian

Killing Joke “Killing Joke” (1980)

Killing Joke’s debut album was a revelation – and, for me, a massive gamble. Strange, you may think, for someone immersed in the likes of hard and punk rock but, even in these areas, I’d always steered well clear of extremes. I always went for a tune rather than noise so, whilst the band received concerted rave reviews, I became circumspect when their music attracted descriptions like “industrial strength” and “barrage of sound.” The term being “blown away” is commonly attributed to music which leaves the listener in awe; in relation to this album it can be applied quite literally. There can be little difference between listening to this and working in heavy engineering. The drums crash like thunderclaps, the bass is a tripping jackhammer, the guitars are wailing banshees and the vocals are a sinister nightmare and if you think all that adds up to criticism, forget it, because the result is a fabulous blitz of discordant sound which, incredibly, never lets go of the underlying melody. Deliberately provocative – a Christ-like figure throws a two-fingered salute on the inside cover – Killing Joke are a band who demand to be taken seriously. Ignore at your peril. —Ian

The English Beat “Wha’ppen” (1981)

When Wha’ppen hit stores in 1981, many (English) Beat fans probably wondered just that: What happened? Actually, in the short time between the releases of their frenetic 1980 debut and this more cerebral follow-up, lots happened. An increasingly unpopular prime minster lorded over a Great Britain still in the throes of a deep recession. Racism and nationalism ran rampant, and social decay seemed everywhere. Very few albums of this era reflect its troubled times as effectively as this Birmingham band’s sophomore effort. Musically, Wha’ppen denotes a departure from the classic ska influences of their debut, I Just Can’t Stop it, replaced with forays into other Jamaican forms such as roots reggae (“Doors of Your Heart”) and dub (“Cheated”). But these serve as mere jumping-off points. The band finds inspiration in other parts of the Caribbean (the calypso-infused “All Out to get You” and the steel drum-flecked “Over and Over”) and also the Mother Continent (the Soweto township jive-infused “French Toast”). But while these tropical influences make the arrangements sunny and bright, the subject matter is decidedly DARK. A close listen to much of the lyrics reveals an unsettling undercurrent of fear, paranoia, and dread. “Monkey Murders” delivers a cutting condemnation of domestic violence, “I Am Your Flag” questions the logic of dying for one’s country, and “Get-a-Job” addresses Britain’s spiraling unemployment. But the album’s most chilling moment is surely “Drowning”, a vicious attack on capitalist excess, wherein chief “toaster” Ranking Roger mocks the song’s upper-class fat-cat protagonist as he sinks to his watery grave. Some have criticized the silliness of the album’s closing track, “The Limits We Set”. After all, we’ve just endured a musical roller-coaster ride through all manner of serious social ills, and now we have a song about… shoplifting? But in actuality, it’s one of the Beat’s cleverest tracks, a song that reminds us that we’re no better than the corrupt leaders and institutions whom we condemn if we don’t hold ourselves to the same high moral standards. The Beat would make one more great album, the classy and eclectic Special Beat Service, before calling it quits, but this one was their most edgy and adventurous—a can of day-glo paint splattered across the grey and cracking facade of Margaret Thatcher’s Great Britain. If the 2 Tone movement had a Sgt. Pepper’s, this was definitely it. —Richard P

Buzzcocks “Another Music in a Different Kitchen” (1978)

There are some albums which will never age and remain relevant no matter what the prevailing musical trends; Another Music In A Different Kitchen is one such album. Many predicted the demise of the band following the departure of founder member Howard DeVoto but this magnificent album proved the doom-mongers wrong. The Buzzcocks’ magnum opus is not punk but brash rock and roll with pop overtones couched in the candid language of the day. It carries no pretensions and refuses to acknowledge any inspirational influences. This is simply four blokes having a good time. From the buzz-saw introduction of early single “Boredom” which both opens and closes the album but doesn’t actually appear in its entirety, this is a quite breathtaking selection of songs but, in my opinion, side two is where all the nuggets are to be found. The brilliant jagged guitar that ranges throughout “Fiction Romance”, the driving bass/guitar that punctuates the chorus of “Autonomy”, the desperate, manic vocals which feature on “I Need” and the devastating drumming which rolls through “Moving Along With The Pulsebeat” and is one of the few occasions a drum solo can claim to be more than window dressing – all important considerations when understanding what makes this type of music so powerful. A true classic of the punk era without being a punk album. –Ian

Go-Go’s “Beauty and the Beat” (1981)

Much as the Rock press would like to think, The Go-Go’s were never Punk Rock. What they did take from Punk was the ethos rather than the music, the ability to form a band from a group of like minded individuals who perform music, disregarding technical musical ability or preconceived notion that rock is a masculine world, and for a brief moment they were the Darlings of the music industry. “Beauty And The Beat” is a testament to this ethic, brash, fun, slightly shambolic, but always heartfelt Power Pop. Formed in 1978 and originally called The Misfits and made up of Belinda Carlisle (Vocals), Jane Wiedlin (Guitar, Vocals), Charlotte Caffey (Guitar, Vocals), Margot Olaverra (Bass), and Elissa Bello (Drums), the band’s major breakthrough would come through building a following from their support slot for British Ska nutty boys, Madness, and this led to a contract with Stiff Records for a one off single “We Got The Beat”. The major record labels showed an interest in both the single and the live following the band were attracting, and The Go-Go’s signed to IRS in early 1981. This, their debut would reach number 1 in the Billboard album charts for 6 weeks and would eventually go to sell over 2 million copies. Spiky Power Pop at its best, the Jane Wiedlin/Terry Hall co-composed single “Our Lips Are Sealed” would be the star attraction, along with other highlights including “We Got The Beat”, “This Town”, “Lust To Love”, and the fine closer “Can’t Stop The World”. A surprisingly assured album, that carries alongside its demure directness, a touching astuteness. –Ben H

The Human League “Dare!” (1981)

When Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware left the Human League following the release of the band’s second album “Travelogue”, one would have thought that the sole remaining member Philip Oakey would have either called it a day, or risked a solo career. When the music press revealed that he was re-assembling the new Human League with an unknown Bass player ( Ian Burden), a slide projector operator (Philip Adrian Wright), two girls he had met in Sheffield club with no musical experience whatsoever (Joanne Catherall and Susanne Sulley), and a guitarist from the long defunct Punk band The Rezillos (Jo Callis), many must have thought that Oakey had lost the plot, and the world was half expecting the next appointment to ba a fire eating lion tamer from Halifax. Virgin uneasily supported Oakey’s moves and recording started on the band’s 3rd album “Dare”, with The Stranglers producer Martin Rushent at the helm. Musically, Oakey wanted to retain the mechanical, industrial synthesised instrumentation and style, but introduce a Pop and Dance element to make the music a more viable proposition to the growing New Romantic following. He suceeds, and “Dare” is THE best Pop/Synth/New Romantic album of the era, a culmination of great Pop songs, dark vocals, and simple, crisp instrumentation, resulting in a number one album in the U.K. and a top 5 success in the States. There are many highlights, from the pure Pop duets “Don’t You Want Me” and “Open Your Heart”, the brilliant Dance numbers “Sound Of The Crowd” and “Love Action”, the upbeat “Things That Dreams Are Made Of”, and the paranoic “Darkness”. A masterpiece of it’s time, and Oakey would never be able to recapture this moment again. The album gave us an excitement that no one had come close to. –Ben H