XTC—Mummer

XTC—Mummer

Mummer—The second phase of XTC's career—arguably their defining one—came about due to something almost unheard of in the world of popular music: stage fright. They had been playing for around ten years before Andy Partridge suddenly broke down on stage in 1982, the tipping point being withdrawal from Valium that had been helping him deal with the stress of life in a touring band (Partridge says via Twitter that memory loss and limb seizures were worse aspects of his withdrawal). These facts are well-ingrained into the band's legend, and the incident helped to usher in a new era with a different approach.

English Settlement (1982), though eclectic, was still very much the work of a rock band, with Terry Chambers' drums still mixed in front and generally spare arrangements. Mummer would be the last album to feature him, and only on the first two songs at that; a founding member of the band, Chambers found himself in a tough spot with many of the band's new compositions not being conducive to his straightforward style of drumming. Peter Phipps from Gary Glitter's band played on the other eight songs, as he would on the following album, The Big Express (1984). Ironically, the sounds that open the album on "Beating of Hearts" are Chambers' drums, with Partridge's message summed up by the line, "For a heart without love is a song with no words/And a tune to which no one is listening." Bassist Colin Moulding's scathing "Wonderland" juxtaposes its sugar-sweet melody and synthesized beats with a criticism of someone who is "caught in [their] superficial, non-existent, fairy story/Wonderland." Partridge opined in the notes to Coat of Many Cupboards, "I think this is one of Colin's more beautiful melodies, and so complete, that my only suggestion to help it on its way, was the addition of tropical bird sounds for the finished article."

The idyllic "Love on a Farmboy's Wages," which by some accounts was the straw that broke the camel's back for Chambers due to its stranger rhythm (Partridge tweeted the real reason was "an emotional ultimatum by his new wife"), may be one of Partridge's veiled references to life as a professional musician ("People think that I'm no good/Painting pictures, carving wood ... But the only job I do well is here on the farm ... And it's breaking my back"). The catchy and hilarious "Great Fire" ("I'm animal and panicking") continues Partridge's ongoing fascination with avian creatures as he imitates a bird's cries with the saxophone. Moulding balances out Partridge's clumsy-love with "Deliver Us from the Elements," which is something like a green or naturalist anthem and fits well with Moulding's general political aesthetic or is perhaps reminiscent of, say, The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society.

Partridge's ghoulish "Human Alchemy" is one of his great forgotten songs, which ostensibly looks back on the slavery imposed on native Africans by whites, but might also be a coy reference to record companies' exploitation of black hitmakers ("To turn their skins of black into the skins of brightest gold," or that is to say, a gold record). The simpler "Ladybird" sounds like a song about a fleeting romance that could never be, though it predates Partridge's infamous, up-and-down relationship with Erica Wexler (later the subject of "Seagulls Screaming Kiss Her, Kiss Her" from The Big Express and "Another Satellite" from Skylarking [1986]). The lamentful yet pejorative "In Loving Memory of a Name" is one of Moulding's smartest songs, striking at the banality of surrendering propriety to the military ("Covered in moss/You may have died for your country/Forgotten not lost/You're laid to rest where you're wanted"), ultimately being reduced to "a name," and the indoctrination associated with Christian society ("The sermons attended when you were young/Still echo round these churchyard walls"). "Me and the Wind" is Partridge's token end-of-toxic-relationship song; in the notes for Fuzzy Warbles Volume 5, he noted that "Lots of you seem to think that this song is about Terry Chambers leaving XTC. I can see your logic. Words like ‘snare,' ‘stool,' ‘imprisoned in your drumbeat’ ... Now you've got me doubting my own intentions." "Funk Pop a Roll" is an arch harangue of the record business, which he says is "a hammer to keep/You pegs in your holes" and "Big money selling you stuff that you really do not need," while admitting to the grave notion that he's "already been poisoned by this industry."

A common criticism of Mummer is that its songs are obscure, which is true—it's easy to miss the irony of songs like "Wonderland" and "Funk Pop a Roll" on a casual listen—but that's also the point. A mummer is a person in disguise who puts on a play with dualistic themes; the band can be seen wearing the traditional shredded-paper costumes in the album's inner sleeve. Mummer is a rich album from start to finish, with the exception of some overcooked Partridge moments on side B, but that's par for the course, and never before it did XTC so concisely and beautifully achieve their vision.

David Bowie—Let's Dance

David Bowie—Let's Dance

Let's Dance—For traditionalists, Let's Dance marks the point where David Bowie began acting in bad faith. Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980) was a succinct coda to his post-glam era, so the need to move on came as no surprise. What didn't seem to cohere was the choice to go with straight-up dance music, which was and continues to be a move seen as tacky, especially for any artist that mingles with supposed higher forms of art. That's not to say Bowie was never into soul, R&B, or big band—Diamond Dogs (1974), Young Americans (1975), and Station to Station (1976) are proofs against that—but all through the 1970s, Bowie rarely brushed with disco. His tendencies as an innovator perhaps led him to leave that music alone, preferring to touch it only once the pot had cooled. In this case, Bowie is less a progenitor as he is a necromancer: appropriating the dregs of disco with his own essence and alterations. Let's Dance has been hence referred to as "post-disco": an improbable brand.

The lyrically despondent, musically uplifting "Modern Love" kicks off the album with the waking guitar of either producer Nile Rodgers or special guest Stevie Ray Vaughan. The song consciously retrofits rock and roll with the trappings of then-current dance music, hence the joke: "There's no sign of life/It's just the power to charm ... Never gonna fall for/(Modern love) walks beside me." It's worth noting at this juncture that Bowie had been flirting with pop and new wave since Lodger (1979), though this is obscured by the pervasive notion that Lodger fit best with the Berlin narrative (Low and "Heroes" [1977]). Furthermore, Scary Monsters was markedly sinister in tone, which makes the disco-neutering all the more puzzling until it becomes apparent that Bowie attempted, at least in part, to convey this same sentiment with Let's Dance. If not, it's strange that he would decide to remake "China Girl" of all songs, the spasmodic centerpiece of Iggy Pop's The Idiot (1977), co-written by Bowie. "Let's Dance" hit #1 or #2 in most countries as a single, which was released both as a 7" in an abridged version and a 12" in its full album length of 7:38. It can either be interpreted as a love song or, given the album cover, a metaphor for pugilism. Its success is the reason why Let's Dance may also mark the point where David Bowie became truly accessible; it opened his music up to a whole new audience, much as atypical singles like "Fame" did before.

It's tough to regard Let's Dance as anything less than a smash success, given this onset of hits. Even from a traditionalist's mindset, they're worthy songs, if tumid in their way, much as the extended cuts of Station to Station were. The only problem was the supporting repertoire. Side closer "Without You" is a repetitive, bland piece of work. "Ricochet" has an uncanny quality but ultimately comes up short, never climaxing. Requisite cover "Criminal World" (Metro) neither adds nor subtracts from the experience. "Cat People (Putting out Fire)," with music written by Giorgio Moroder, was recorded originally in a more sparse, haunting arrangement for the 1982 film Cat People. Its inclusion either signaled Bowie's simple satisfaction with the song or was symptomatic of a larger problem: he was hitting a lean period in terms of songwriting inspiration (the follow-up album Tonight [1984] would feature a roughly equal number of truly new songs). "Shake It" is the definition of filler.

Let's Dance earns the dubious honor of being interesting on its own merits—"Modern Love" is one of Bowie's best songs in any era—but also a portent of substandard work by Bowie in the years to follow. Even apart from the history, however, it's one of his least challenging records, and some of the songs are flat-out unnecessary or monotonous.