Tag: 1984

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

This week: this ain’t rock n’ roll…

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 6/30/24

“Future Legend/Diamond Dogs” – David Bowie

Another victim of me trying stubbornly to fit this into a color scheme, and also a victim of me trying to align my albums with what I draw on the whiteboard of my dorm. Listen, if the original sleeve was banned in the U.S., that generally means it’s a cool album cover, but probably not a good idea to be displayed for the world and my RA to see. And I was not about to draw David Bowie’s anatomically accurate canine lower half. Nah.

A time-proven rule: nobody does it like Bowie. You can put on all of the theater and spooky voices that you like, but nobody will ever replicate the sheer goosebumps that the intro to this album induces. The same can be said for many songs on this album (see: “Sweet Thing/Candidate/Sweet Thing [reprise]”), but I put “Future Legend” and “Diamond Dogs” together because the most enriching way to experience them is to experience them as a single song, and that single song is one of my favorite album intros of all time. Diamond Dogs is glam rock covered in flies—the lovelorn hope of Ziggy Stardust remains, but stinking of a world left in tatters, a hunk of rotting meat left for the mutant vultures in the searing desert heat. Cobbled from shreds of William S. Burroughs and Bowie’s failed attempt at a musical adaption of 1984, this album is a dystopia full of lust and peril. As a prologue, “Future Legend” is the height of Bowie’s theatricality. On anybody else, a dog’s howl, distorted as though bellowed through a plastic tube would feel like a feeble attempt to set a scene. Bowie, of course, makes it into the most bone-chilling alarm bell signaling the beginning of the end. It’s not the kind of sound any normal dog makes— it immediately triggers a sense of uncanny valley, a hair’s breadth away from being distinctly, evolutionarily wrong. His staticky narration is accompanied by synthy moans and high-pitched, delirious singsong beasts echoing “love me, love me!” as he tells of an alien landscape where all that remains of the 20th century is the excess it produced, the last monoliths that the mutant survivors of some horrific extinction now cling to. Panting dogs and drooling bloodsuckers lick their lips in the distance as Bowie lifts the curtain to declare this an era beyond the collapsed remnants of our sense of time. No month, no four-digit number to designate this hellscape: it is the year of the Diamond Dogs.

And “Diamond Dogs?” Hearing it for the first time while freshly 13 rearranged my molecular structure. In that moment, nobody had ever done anything as cool as that. It’s still true.

Because there will never be another album intro like this:

And in the death, as the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare,
The shutters lifted in inches in Temperance Building, high on Poacher’s Hill
And red, mutant eyes gaze down on Hunger City.
No more big wheels.

Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats,
And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes,
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love Me Avenue,
Ripping and rewrapping mink and shiny silver fox, now legwarmers.
Family badge of sapphire and cracked emerald.
Any day now…
The Year of the Diamond Dogs!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

“On Repeat” – International Teachers of Pop

In terms of Co-Pilot, I end up focusing. more on Jim Noir, which…well, he has played a very prominent part in my musical life, but Leonore Wheatley’s musical ventures rarely get the praise they deserve. Wheatley’s talents extend to The Soundcarriers (big thank you to my brother for introducing me to them!), Co-Pilot (who released their incredible album Rotate almost a year ago!! Make some noise!!), and International Teachers of Pop, where she provides vocals alongside Katie Mason.

I’ve heard far too many bands who desperately want to market themselves as a second-coming of a certain era of music (We haven’t recovered from what Stranger Things did to shove the ’80s in everybody’s faces…I want out), but only end up sounding like plastic imitations. The key, which this school board of musicians has figured out, is not to set out to imitate. This sounds like a product that emerged from a desire to have fun and make catchy dance-pop and not try and sound like somebody more famous. Fun should be the prime motivation to make music, especially in a side project like this, but the bar’s low in such a hit-churning industry. You can hear Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys in every synthy buzz and flourish, but not because they set out to sound like them—it’s an homage, never an imitation. Mason and Wheatley’s harmonies center this pulsating track, built for booming bass and bouncing feet. (It really was a shame to see how lukewarm the crowd was in the video above—why are they barely dancing??) With lyrics swimming between existential dread and a desire for oblivious joy, “On Repeat” is the product an extensive pop study. Maybe the name is a touch presumptuous, but they’ve got the talent to back up their assertion, tongue-in-cheek or not.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

“I Won’t Tell” – Conlon & The Crawlers

Listen, I am BEGGING the Hacks fandom to do their stuff, because I can’t keep looping this song over and over on YouTube, and I don’t have a record player and therefore have no reason to snag the copies lingering on eBay…PLEASE. WE NEED TO GET THIS ON STREAMING. WHATEVER IT TAKES. DO YOUR STUFF!!!!!

“I Won’t Tell” was one of two one-off singles (the other being “You’re Comin’ On”) by Conlon & The Crawlers, an offshoot of The Nightcrawlers (top 10 band names that I totally want to steal for reasons that are totally not X-Men-related). From the looks of it, neither song went anywhere, and now the only remnants are floating around on eBay, and, thanks to some digging, a few eagle-eyed people on YouTube. All of this begs the question: how were they able to get this on Hacks? Somebody’s got a great record collection…unfortunately, the scene isn’t on YouTube, but it appears in Season 3, Episode 6, and briefly soundtracks a hilarious slo-mo of Ava and Deborah on a golf course, with Ava confidently strutting beside Deborah with her caddy vest on backwards.

The minute I heard it, I knew I had to hunt it down—it encapsulates a very distinct sound of the late-’60s that I just adore. It’s just deliciously jangly, from the opening riff (a reworked and arguably improved version of the opening to The Nightcrawlers’ “Little Black Egg”) to the almost banjo-like strum that builds the track’s backbone. Chuck Conlon’s butter-and-sugar voice spins the strings of “Little Black Egg” into a precocious, peculiar masterpiece—who would forget a song that opens with “A teaspoon holds more than a fork does/A long snail eats more than a short one?” This vibrant, jangly oddball is practically asking to be used for a tightly-shot Wes Anderson montage. Surely it’s obscure enough for him…

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

“A Million Times” – Lisa Germano

I’m not sure which direction I should go for next in terms of Lisa Germano’s discography. She has nine studio albums, two of which I’ve already listened to (Excerpts from a Love Circus and Slide). I know I’ll feel like a kicked puppy lying on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere after I listen to any given album, so chances are, it probably doesn’t matter where I start. Either way, on a whim, I dipped my toes into a handful of songs from her 2009 album Magic Neighbor. Many of the reviews have categorized it as having a childlike innocence juxtaposing the veil of darkness that never lifts from her discography, and there’s tangible strings of it stretched throughout. Even if you’ve dictionary-definition Been Through It like Germano has, I feel like you’d still have to have at least the tiniest mote of innocent glee—or humor—left in your soul to name a song “Kitty Train,” even if it’s a short instrumental break.

“A Million Times” has a childish glint to it, but childish here translates to complacency and toxicity; it feels like the emotional progression of “Small Heads,” musically twelve years down the line, but personally, only a handful. (At least…I hope so. I can only hope that the abusive bastard who inspired her to write any of the songs from Love Circus is just one guy, and that he got his comeuppance.) “Small Heads” acknowledges how unhappy she is in said relationship, but wryly admits that it’s not all the other party’s fault: “How convenient to forget/All the lies that you say/When you’re really really drunk…like me.” It’s a mutual kind of tangling, with both people ouroboros-ing themselves into their own minds so deeply that they’ve ceased to think of each other (“Did I ever think of you?/Did you ever think of me?/Probably not, with our heads in the clouds”), or, as Bowie might put it, “making love to [their] egos.” It’s all just fun and games, right? Whee! “What a lonely life!” she sings to the cheer of the crowd and dainty recorders.

Such fun and games echo through “A Million Times.” Said recorder has made a comeback, and all of the egg shakers and brushes in the background sound like remnants of rusty toys being disassembled. Just as childlike, Germano tosses the relationship across the room like a discarded doll, letting its limbs crumple now that she’s had her fun: “We fell in love and we were caught/Inside this game we call together/And it felt good until we found/We had more fun when we were strangers.” Every motion they go through is described in the same way that Ken tells Barbie “we’re girlfriend boyfriend,” smashing doll heads together to simulate kissing. Such kisses and games are a distraction from the inevitable implosion of their excuse for love—they’re so caught up in performing love that both of them have retreated into their own heads, convincing themselves, over and over, that they’re not sick of playing. It’s self-aware in the way that an arsonist is self-aware: they know that they’ve just burned down a building, but they’ll continue to set as many fires as they like. Germano seems to regress as she drags out her cry of “You can’t leave me/No, not really/We are happy with this misery/So we’ll start it all again/A million times, a million times.” Never before have I heard an accordion that sounds so distinctly ominous—the bellow of it as Germano’s lyrics get progressively poisonous might as well be the siren in a bomb shelter, a low, distant warning of disaster to come. “You can’t leave me” is simultaneously the rug of innocence being pulled out and the dread of pulling apart from someone who you know will collapse without you to parasitically cling to. Platonically, I’ve been the host/discarded toy in such situations, so for my sake and hers, I hope Germano’s since quit playing with her dollies. I’m willing to give her some leeway, since if she’s played up the eerie overtones in this song, she recognizes these patterns for the toxic mess they are.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

“Feet-like Fins” – Cocteau Twins

Rounding out the month with yet another Cocteau Twins song…sorry, everybody. Get Victorialand‘ed, I guess. The only thing keeping me from swallowing this album in one gulp like some kind of deep-sea abomination of god is knowing that this is the perfect album for winter, what with the Artic and Antarctic inspiration.

Situated near the end of the album, “Feet-like Fins” is a dewy spiderweb of reverb that glitters in waning sunlight through gray clouds. Crested by soft cymbal crescendos, you can never pick out a note from the track that isn’t vibrating like raindrops on a speaker. Even the bongos that gently steady the melody never truly feel percussive, nothing but droplets sending ripples out into the frigid water. Like “Aikea-Guinea,” “Feet-like Fins” is distinctly watery, but where the former feels like being tossed through the waters of time, this track is a gradual descent into the ocean, watching the last threads of silky light disappear into the shallows as you’re pulled downwards. Judging from the “Frozen World,” Living Planet-inspired patchwork of the album, the feet-like fins likely belonged to the various seals that appear throughout the episode: crab-eater seals, fur seals, and elephant seals; Indeed, the sleek movements of this track mirror their bubble-trailing paths through the water as they hunt for prey.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!