In fairness, this isn't my typical listening genre, but I did really enjoy the sampling on this record, and there were quite a few moments of lyrical/rhythmic genius - however, this album did struggle to keep my attention for the whole time. I don't know if I would go out of my way to put this album on again, but I wouldn't skip it if it appeared in my shuffle.
This album sounds like The Rocky Horror Show, but for straight people, which is ironic because the lyrics are actually quite gay. Reed's voice is very pleasant to the ear, and reminds me a little of Mick Jagger. There's actually a nice variation on this record, some glam rock, some lowkey rock and roll, even some jazzy elements.
The first half is filled with infectious grooves, almost rock opera harmonies, and feels about a decade ahead of its time both sonically and technically. By contrast, the last half of the album morphs into a swirling, ambient soundscape - if the rock starlings in the first half felt like they hailed from 1987, then this second half feels like it was unearthed from a capsule sent from 3000AD. Bowie's voice is like 5000 gigawatts jammed right through the speakers: this is a bible for the rock religion, the new testament of the electronic age.
The vocal intercourse between members is like listening to a Wimbledon tennis match, batting lyrics back and forth with such gusto and precision that you could almost believe it was a one-man-band. The production on this record is air-tight, so crisp and so fresh.
I actually enjoyed this album a lot more than I thought I would, and I think it has something to do with the fact that Roth's vocals are less grating and more chesty than I imagined they would be, and the guitar grooves are positively dirty. I don't feel like myself when I listen to this, but I do enjoy the sort of glam-rock/punk person I become.
You can hear the drug-fueled, whirling dirvish stylings all over this album, as if Bowie cant keep his restless self from settling for too long. The music lurches from krautrock to disco to art rock without much care or consideration. The production on this thing is tight as ever, infectiously groovy, if sometimes a little skittish or unsettled. Bowie's voice is particularly agile on standout Golden Years, and the cover of Wild is the Wind is another stellar track.
I really don't appreciate that the World musicians that performed on this album were left uncredited by McLaren - they are far and away the best parts of this album, and their omission from official credits feels exploitative and racist, especially considering this album seems to steal almost exclusively from musical cultures that are predominantly black. Malcolm McLaren is nowhere to be found on this album; what could have been a really eclectic mix of musical styles ends up being an almost mocking pastiche of "the other". There is no original personality or voice on this album, and with each song, I was increasingly interested in listening to the original songs that were sampled (stolen).
1/5
This album sounds like if Twin Peaks was set in Arizona, instead of Washington. The pace is slow, deliberate; the instrumentals are spacey and laid-back; Timmins' vocals are intimate and warbling. The music swings and shimmies in a haze, smokey with age, like French hennessy. There's something very beautiful about how simple this album is, just melancholic and slow country ballads, which make you feel like you're a cowboy in the middle of Navajo country, with a 'gal' waiting for you back home on a wraparound porch, putting up bunting in the last light of the Sun.
This album feels like the precurser to Coldplay's 'Parachutes' in a way, full of soft rock swoonings and nihilistic stank. The orchestral touches throughout are very pleasant, and the violins particularly complement the naturally nasal timbre of Ashcroft's voice. Unfortunately for this album, and for Britpop in general, there is an issue of authenticity, because there are moments when the symphonic swathes of angst start to become grating or boring, and the music starts to feel like it is trying too hard to sound too cool and aloof. Despite this, the sound here is tight and definitive, and one can definitely feel some pleasure in listening to this record.
Grant's voice is burnished and subdued, layered together like the album cover would suggest. The orchestration on this album is expansive, at times both resembling a small rock band and a sprawling symphony, with Grant sat somewhere in the centre, both isolated and fully part of the fabric of his music. His lyrics are sardonic and snarky, drawing from what feels like real life experiences and thought patterns, although his use of the N-word sours the sentiment of the song; by contrast, the moments of ambience are haunting and cerebral. I suppose that's the beauty of this album - there is so much palpable contrast; the music and the singer, the words and the silence, the them and the other.
There's such an air of French mystery to this album - the music almost oozes with sensual, slurring panache, and would perfectly fit a modern noir film set in Paris. Air's command over their unique sound leaves the listener swirling in a post-acid haze, caught somewhere in the hookah smoke of the 60s and the fuzzy bitmaps of the 90s.
I feel like I need to be stood on the balcony of a Miami penthouse apartment, while white-silk curtains unfurl out of the windows with the late summer night breeze, watching the twinkling lights of the city below me, superslim in hand.
This album, for me, truly marks the beginning of the 1980s sound as we know it; the new wave elements are fresh and timeless, Smith's vocals are emotive and keening. The music is bruised and brooding, steeped in angsty guitar twangs and gothic-esque textures, sitting on harmonies that mediate between pleasant and intentionally discordant. While very much a harbinger of The Cure that was sure to come, this album still tends to feel like a run-up, as some ideas and sounds are still left needing development.
