Eight from the ‘80s

For too many years, off and on, I’ve been working on a very long novel that takes place during the 1980s. I am flooded with bittersweet nostalgia every time I revisit it. Of course, playing the proper music helps. I have a special fondness for eighties music, and that is my excuse for diving into eight favorite songs from that era that send me back in time. In no particular order…

Dr. Mabuse by Propaganda (1984). Before the internet, I searched out cool and unusual music through college radio stations, oddball fanzines and independent record stores. I made monthly pilgrimages to the fantastic Wax Trax record store in Chicago for indie releases and imports. (Wax Trax later became a record label for many of my favorite industrial and experimental bands.)

One day, I entered Wax Trax and the clerks were spinning a really wild German synthpop 12-inch single and I immediately fell in love with it. It was Dr. Mabuse by Propaganda on Trevor Horn’s eccentric Zang Tuum Tumb label. Between 1983 and 1988, I devoured everything ZTT offered and you’ll see the label appear at least one more time in my 8 favorites list. The original Propaganda lineup lasted for just one album, A Secret Wish, and that LP remains a highlight of extravagant yet strange 1980s music.

The Final Cut by Pink Floyd (1983). After the glorious epic bombast of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, the band’s follow-up album, The Final Cut, was a much quieter affair musically but seething with sustained tension both on record and behind the scenes. At the time of its release, Rolling Stone magazine called The Final Cut Pink Floyd’s masterpiece, an opinion shared by hardly anyone else. Most reviewers wrote it off as a depressing and tedious Roger Waters solo album. Keyboardist Rick Wright had been fired for laziness and drummer Nick Mason was replaced on at least one track by an outside session drummer. David Gilmour inserts some searing guitar solos, but it’s otherwise a whole lot of cranky Roger. Throughout the album, he whispers, screams, snarls, whimpers and scolds his way through the loss of his father, horrors of war, senseless politicians, fearful relationships and the infuriating ignorance of the beer-guzzling public. He cries out to Jesus, fantasizes about killing world leaders in a gas chamber, contemplates slashing his wrists and ends the album with visions of a nuclear holocaust. Unamused, the public did not embrace this record. The band split up soon after, later reforming without Waters.

It’s a really difficult album, but I love it. There’s nothing radio friendly across its twelve tracks and the closest thing to a potential single (Not Now John) is sabotaged by repeated use of the F word. For this list, I’ve chosen the haunting, melancholy title track. It’s Roger’s dark, sad reflection of his own fragile psyche, possibly the most nakedly emotional thing he – or anyone – has ever placed on a pop album. His trembling whine and angry howls represent a tortured man exposing himself to the world after the walls around him have been torn down. This is the sound of Roger Waters battling personal demons without the window dressing of The Wall’s operatic narrative and inflatable cartoon characters. It’s an astonishing display of music as therapy and, ultimately, the path to recovery.

Such a Shame by Talk Talk (1984). The de-evolution of the band Talk Talk is one of the more fascinating stories of 1980s music. I say de-evolution because over the course of five studio albums they neatly unraveled from slick commercial pop to defiantly tuneless organic meanderings. Their transformation infuriated their record label and baffled fans, but those later releases eventually became cult classics deemed ahead of their time. Satisfied with their musical end state, the band split up in 1992. In 1998, vocalist Mark Hollis released a delicate, nearly comatose solo album and then drifted away like a breeze, never to be heard from again.

My favorite Talk Talk period is in the middle, when they still crafted catchy songs but injected them with a unique personality and jagged emotion. Mark Hollis has an amazing voice, sometimes reminiscent of Bryan Ferry, and the musicianship is top notch with session players like Steve Winwood. Picking one track is tough. It’s My Life is a classic but you already know that one and the cover version by Gwen Stefani. Let’s go with Such a Shame. I don’t know why the song starts with elephant noises but the band probably won’t tell you.

Cloudbusting by Kate Bush (1985). When I first discovered Kate Bush, I was so enthralled with her music and beauty that I immediately ran out and spent all my money on her discography. She returned the favor by never touring the United States. Hounds of Love is easily one of the greatest albums of the eighties, sensual and mysterious, a rewarding journey through darkness and light. Side one of the LP consists of five captivating songs, including the unforgettable gallop of Running Up That Hill. Side two is devoted to a complex musical suite about drowning that pulls you in like a whirlpool and leaves you satisfied like a grand short story. For my list, I’ve chosen Cloudbusting, a song about psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich and his Cosmic Orgone Engineering experiments as told by his son Peter. Never mind the description. This song soars.

Two Tribes by Frankie Goes To Hollywood (1984). More than any other band, Frankie Goes To Hollywood exemplified 80s excess: crass marketing hype, immense sound production, engorged 12-inch singles, batches of remixes, out-of-control studio costs, and in-your-face lyrics, videos and record sleeves. Frankie’s debut album, Welcome to the Pleasuredome, filled four LP sides and included a merchandise order form. The first side was dominated by the outlandish disco title track with the most pompous opening imaginable. It was a whole lot of fun while the party lasted, but the hangover was inevitable. Record company lawsuits, band infighting and declining sales accelerated Frankie’s demise. Frankie had shot its load.

Frankie Goes To Hollywood was the big moneymaker for record label ZTT, enabling them to fund more esoteric interests like Propaganda, Art of Noise, Anne Pigalle and Andrew Poppy. (Art of Noise’s Moments In Love was this/close to making my Favorite 8 list.) In college, we used to drink too much and play the extended remix of Frankie’s Two Tribes really loud at all hours to annoy/flirt with the girls downstairs. Eventually someone called the cops. Those were the days...

Anywhere Out of The World by Dead Can Dance (1987). Dead Can Dance never fail to transport me, creating audio adventures that send my soul around the world and backward through time. I have a hard time describing them – at times ethnic music, sometimes gothic and medieval, enriched with a fascinating blend of classical and unusual instruments. Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard split the vocal duties, alternating 1950s-style crooning with the heavenly wailing of angels. Their music paints dramatic pictures, so it’s no wonder Gerrard also contributes to award-winning film soundtracks. This is one of their darker numbers, sung by Perry, sounding like he’s bellowing from deep inside musty catacombs yearning to see the daylight.

The Mystical Body of Christ in Chorazaim (The Great in the Small) by Current 93 (1984). One of my fondest radio memories is discovering after-midnight experimental programming on the far reaches of the dial – a jaw-dropping, brain-frying blend of speech fragments, industrial noise, electronics, ambient sounds and other abstract elements to create a disorienting audio sculpture for weird freaks like me. The source for this madness was a couple of free-form college radio stations (WZRD & WNUR) with a limited range but lots of imagination. It was like tuning in to secret alien broadcasts.

This started my affection for dark experimental music of the 1980s. My CD collection is ridiculous with obscure, room-clearing electronic noise. The early works of Current 93 made a considerable impression. This track, from the deeply disturbing Nature Unveiled LP, is essentially the soundtrack to a nightmare. Or perhaps the sounds you hear when you make that final journey from life to death to Hell. It’s horrific and dark, anguished and mournful, and damn near beautiful. Current 93 later turned their attention to acoustic, neo-goth folk music with mystical lyrics, creepy and special in its own right but less throat-grabbing than the epic soundscapes of their early years. Listen to this alone in the dark at 2 a.m. I dare you.

True Faith by New Order (1987). I don’t dance, but if I did dance, I would dance to New Order. The joyful beats, colorful synths and powerful bass blend marvelously with Bernard Sumner’s thin, intimate vocals to create an unforgettable soundtrack for a special time. “True Faith” is one of the best songs of the 1980s, starting out romantic and ending with a tinge of regret and embarrassment, perhaps like the decade itself. This is classic eighties pop at its peak.

Now back to writing stories.