Joy Division—Unknown Pleasures

Joy Division—Unknown Pleasures (1979)

Unknown Pleasures—Joy Division's singular debut was their third recording on their third label, which is the greatest testament to how hard it was to identify the band. The rejected full-length Warsaw and the self-released EP An Ideal for Living (1978) were promising in their own ways (though the former could not commercially be heard until 1994). The latter picked four fascism-fascinated songs from their repertoire and delivered them in fairly straightforward punk fashion, though the overall tone and production values gave them a bleak coloration from the beginning.

The band's rise is inextricably tied to the formation of Factory Records, an independent label formed in 1978 by television host Tony Wilson, actor Alan Erasmus, artist Peter Saville, and record producer Martin "Zero" Hannett. Joy Division joined the label soon after appearing on Wilson's music TV series So It Goes, and appeared on A Factory Sample (1978) along with The Durutti Column, John Dowie, and Cabaret Voltaire. They contribute the songs "Digital" and "Glass," which forecast the sound of their forthcoming album, Unknown Pleasures. Produced by Hannett (who until then was only known for producing the Buzzcocks' debut EP Spiral Scratch and some spoken word acts), the band's sound was now clearer and more pronounced, more drum-focused, and was characterized by many strange sound effects. "Glass," for example, featured a range of electronic noises and handclaps, neither of which were notable on their own, but made for a unique mix.

The album format also had the effect of focusing lead singer Ian Curtis' lyrical themes, which during their early phase were more integral to the song rather than the overall ambiance. That's not to say Unknown Pleasures is a marked concept album, but the shift from surface punk angst to the dark depression of songs like "Disorder" is stark. Accentuated by Peter Hook's melodic bass lines and surrounded by Hannett's phantasmal effects, Curtis sings one of his most well-known and characteristic verses: "I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand/Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man/New sensations bear the insults, leave them for another day/I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, take the shock away." The eerie, shambling "Day of the Lords" paints a war-torn generation. The two songs form an effective one-two punch because they both descend into affecting, authentic catharses; with another band, "Disorder" might be too obscure and "Day of the Lords" might drag. The creeping dirge "Candidate" is a sinister representation of a relationship destroyed by an unwillingness to compromise. The pessimistic, dejected "Insight" is infused with various alarming noises that give it an apocalyptic feel, plus enigmatic electronic squeaking. The devilish "New Dawn Fades" is the album's climax: a flawed person's struggle that unfortunately turned out to be autobiographical.

"She's Lost Control," inspired by the epilepsy-related death of a girl whom Curtis had met at his day job (a condition he suffered from himself), is characterized by its harrowing, ritualistic mantra. The awesome "Shadowplay" is the album's most explosive song, with cutting guitar that perfectly complements Curtis' increasing pandemonium. "Wilderness" is the most thematically and sentimentally basic (as well as most repetitive) song on the album. The Naked Lunch-inspired "Interzone" is the only song in Joy Division's main canon where another member (Hook) sings lead, though Curtis can be heard answering in the background. The isolative abyss of "I Remember Nothing," replete with sounds of breaking glass and other curiosities, possibly represents best the surface idiosyncrasies of the band without exactly getting into self-parody—it's amusing to note that the Talking Heads song "The Overload," which attempted to capture Joy Division's purported sound without having actually heard it, sounds exactly like "I Remember Nothing."

Unknown Pleasures, and by extension Joy Division themselves, is an anomaly. It at once sounds muddled, like a debut might, and developed—the kind of sound only a band with experience can come up with. That can be explained by the avant-garde production of Martin Hannett and the fact that Pleasures wasn't technically their first album attempt, but it also speaks to the striking, visionary lyrics of Ian Curtis and the surprising proficiency of the band. The album occasionally borders on boring musically, but in its best moments, it's emotionally moving and tastefully literate. It bears a sympathetic tone that works paradoxically well with the power of its riffs and animalistic percussion, creating a sound that for many people defined U.K. post-punk, arguably establishing them as the movement's premier band.

David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

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David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars—The 1960s were when rock and roll started to get weird. With the advent of psychedelia, songs like "Hound Dog" and "Roll over Beethoven" were eclipsed by ones like "Burning of the Midnight Lamp" and "2000 Light Years from Home." As with the latter, outer space, space travel, and the notion of extraterrestrial life became hugely influential on popular music. Songs were written before, during, and after the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 20th, 1969, but none are more inextricably tied to it than David Bowie's "Space Oddity" released nine days prior. The worldwide hit, which remains one of his most enduring and beloved songs, put him on the map, but the album that followed had little to do with "Space Oddity" or space themes in general.

That album, David Bowie (1969), is sometimes referred to simply as Space Oddity both because of that song's notoriety and because Bowie's debut was also called David Bowie. Its themes were hazy, grotesque, and introspective. When focused, such as on "Memory of a Free Festival," they were often quite pastoral, seeming the opposite of spacey. On his following albums, Bowie would refine these sensibilities, first with the good The Man Who Sold the World (1970) and then the great Hunky Dory (1971). At this time, Bowie was producing new music at a an increasingly rapid pace. Most of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was already written or recorded (ca. November 1971) before Hunky Dory was even out the door. That album, while not a monster seller initially, was met with immediate warmth, which likely provided a boost to Bowie's ego. Thus, his iconic Ziggy Stardust persona was born.

Bowie had personality from the beginning, but he nearly always presented vague androgyny and outsider qualities rather than a concrete character. In January 1972, the Ziggy Stardust tour began in England (later moving to the U.S., Japan, and other parts of the U.K), when Bowie began to dress up in elaborate costumes designed by Kansai Yamamoto, red hair, and extensive, glamorous makeup. It is, of course, during this time that glam rock hit its zenith, with Ziggy being arguably its most exemplary character, album, and song. While the movement produced many memorable albums by T. Rex, Roxy Music, and Bowie himself, among others, Ziggy was special—it had a story.

It begins with the apocalyptic love song "Five Years," in which humanity finds out it has "five years left to cry in." The T. Rex-esque rock spiritual "Soul Love" pontificates on love and God. "Moonage Daydream" was repurposed from Bowie's Arnold Corns side project, which was essentially a '71 incarnation of backing band Spiders from Mars (Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, Mick Woodmansey) plus fashion designer Freddie Burretti. It was released as a single that year, but failed; the Ziggy version rocks harder (especially on Mick Ronson's legendary solo), and features altered, more absurd lyrics as well as more varied reverb, echo treatments, and horn parts.

The wondrous "Starman," which was recorded last and almost didn't even make the album (a cover of Chuck Berry's "Around and Around" was in its place in the initial running order), became Bowie's biggest hit (#10 U.K.) since "Space Oddity" (#5) and even hit an unprecedented #41 in the United States. In the context of the album, its lyrics present the mindsets of young people hearing Ziggy on the radio, who until that point had forsaken rock and roll. Interestingly, the song they are hearing can actually be inferred to be "All the Young Dudes," which was written by Bowie specifically for Mott the Hoople in a move to save their career. In that song, Ziggy sings about the decadence of youth; in "Starman," he continues his exposition in which he reveals that the "infinites" (the starmen) are coming to Earth and may save it. Musically, the song fittingly borrows from gay icon Judy Garland's "Over the Rainbow" for its memorable chorus, which becomes increasingly variegated with each iteration before swelling into a warm, symphonic cheer. A warped cover of Ron Davies' honky-tonk "It Ain't Easy," a holdover from Hunky Dory, closes the side, providing some post hoc thematic cohesion (also being another last-minute replacement of a cover: Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam").

Swelling Marc Bolan tribute "Lady Stardust" is quietly one of the album's best songs. The transient "Star," by contrast, is one of the least essential. "Hang on to Yourself," the B-side of the Arnold Corns single, is heavier than the original, which was more of a frenzied folk-inspired tune. Incomparable theme song "Ziggy Stardust" summarizes the story promised by the album's title; bits of it can be seen or heard in virtually every type of media and social phenomenon. Spirited, raunchy blues "Suffragette City" (initially offered to Mott the Hoople just prior to "All the Young Dudes"), is well-known for its build-ups and false stop. On the bittersweet, acoustic-symphonic "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide," Ziggy dies as he is consumed by the infinites to make themselves corporeal. It also, of course, served as the showstopper during the tour, including at the conclusion of the final show, documented in the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars film (1973) and its accompanying album, Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983).

There's no question that Ziggy Stardust is a classic album, but it's always been less clear where it stands in Bowie's oeuvre. It's probably not his masterpiece, compared with more careful works like Hunky Dory, Low (1977), "Heroes" (1977), or Scary Monsters (1980)—the songs "Star" and the cover "It Ain't Easy" disrupt the album's flow in a minor way, but only because the rest of the songs are of such high quality by contrast. Produced during a hectic period in Bowie's life, Ziggy has a certain unpolished, naive energy to it that's often as off-putting as it is endearing. Of course, that was part of the point; Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars were supposed to be a basic rock and roll band, and on that level, it succeeds. It's greater than the sum of its parts, and it's charming. No matter how you cut it, "Starman, "Ziggy Stardust," and "Suffragette City" are some of the best songs Bowie ever produced, and the entire package is a star that won't burn out for a long time.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
David Live (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Stage (1978)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled]

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled] (1971)

[Untitled]—There are various reasons why writing about Led Zeppelin's fourth album is pointless. It doesn't need promotion—it's already one of the best-selling albums of all time anywhere. Even those who don't own it have more than likely heard something from it, be it the ubiquitous "Stairway to Heaven," "Going to California, "or the singles "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," either in their original forms or mangled badly by high school classmates. More than that, however, the album is notable for its continuing popularity; other all-time bestsellers like Meat Loaf's Bat out of Hell or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever have faded into relative obscurity, being relics of their time, but the nominal Led Zeppelin IV has more or less retained its significance since its release.

Nowadays, giving a piece of product no title is nothing extraordinary, but when Led Zeppelin did it, it was considered a risk. The Beatles released their eponymous all-white album four years prior, but the Beatles were also the Beatles, and the band's name was nonetheless printed in all capital letters on the front cover. Led Zeppelin's fourth album has nothing distinct on the cover relating to the band, though it has become iconic itself: an antique painting hung against a run-down wall. Fittingly, its songs in one way or another share this arcane quality. The military cadence "Black Dog" is a twisted blues that's hard to count, inspired partially by a black dog whose antics were a source of amusement for the band. The frenetic "Rock and Roll" features an augmented rhythm section with Ian Stewart of Rolling Stones fame (who also played on "Boogie with Stu," which was recorded during these sessions along with "Night Flight" and "Down by the Seaside," all three of which would later appear on Physical Graffiti [1975]) and is made by the always-stellar drumming of John Bonham. It can be seen as a response to the more insipid reactions to Led Zeppelin III ("It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled").The diacritic "The Battle of Evermore" is the band's most explicit citation of The Lord of the Rings, written on the mandolin (which was first introduced by John Paul Jones on Led Zeppelin III) and supplemented by the singing of Sandy Denny (Fairport Convention).

"Stairway to Heaven," for all that's been said about it both good and bad, probably is their crowning achievement. No matter how overplayed it may be, it's a marvelous three-part suite, even if the first segment is admittedly very similar to Spirit's "Taurus"—but that's only one small part of the song, and the rest of it, from Robert Plant's inspired lyrics to Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar solo, John Paul Jones' arrangements, and John Bonham's steady beat are a mix they never quite equaled again. The plodding, sardonic "Misty Mountain Hop" grates, though it is amusing. The primordial "Four Sticks" was the song that turned into "Rock and Roll" during rehearsals because of Bonham's frustration with the song's meter (it was named so because Bonham played it with four drumsticks), and gets its point across more on abstruse textures than it does its throwaway lyrics. The tranquilizing Joni Mitchell tribute "Going to California" obliquely references her songs "I Had a King" ("To find a queen without a king") and "California." The magnified Delta blues apotheosis "When the Levee Breaks" adequately evokes the sense of doom inherent in the original piece (by Kansas Joe and Memphis Minnie), if turgidly.

A less appreciated aspect of Zeppelin's fourth album is the chirality between its two sides: the related compositions "Rock and Roll" and "Four Sticks," the mandolin excursions "The Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," and the epics "Stairway to Heaven" and "When the Levee Breaks." It's ultimately an inessential observation to the listening, but it adds to the cohesive, timelessly cyclical nature of the record. Beyond that, it's a masterfully performed and produced album, and the fact that it's been so persistently conspicuous for more than forty years is a testament its excellence.

David Bowie—Scary Monsters

David Bowie—Scary Monsters (1980)

Scary Monsters—Among David Bowie's most celebrated albums—Ziggy Stardust (1972), Low (1977), et al.—Scary Monsters is the most commonly forgotten. It's considered to be roughly on the same plane as the others, but possibly due to its more extreme nature, it's often left off such lists. Unlike the more moderate persona of its predecessor Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters is painted with Bowie as a sinister Pierrot; likewise, the songs and Bowie's vocals are confrontational and disquieting compared to Lodger's impartial croon, sometimes drone.

Although it follows mostly logically from his previous three albums, and foreshadows the electronic direction of his later albums, Scary Monsters is something of an anomaly. Bowie is unusually direct throughout much of the album, with some pointed criticisms of his peers surfacing here and there, and it's one of his most overwhelmingly guitar-oriented albums. In the hair-raising opener, "It's No Game (No. 1)," Bowie's verses are preceded by singer Michi Hirota's (of Stomu Yamashta's Red Buddha Theatre) Japanese variations. Bowie explained, "I wanted to break down a particular type of sexist attitude about women. I thought the [idea of] the 'Japanese girl' typifies it, where everyone pictures them as a geisha girl, very sweet, demure and non-thinking, when in fact that's the absolute opposite of what women are like. They think an awful lot, with quite as much strength as any man. I wanted to caricature that attitude by having a very forceful Japanese voice on it. So I had [Hirota] come out with a very samurai kind of thing" (Strange Fascination—David Bowie: The Definitive Story, David Buckley, 1999). At the time, Bowie also had recently appeared in a Japanese commercial for Crystal Jun Rock sake for which he recorded the instrumental "Crystal Japan." That later became the B-side to "Up the Hill Backwards," his acoustic-electric tribute to Marcel Duchamp—"Sneakers fall apart"—who sculpted Not a Shoe and was once quoted as saying, "If it is shoes that you want, I'll give you shoes that you will admire to such an extent that you will lame yourselves trying to walk in them" (Surrealism, Julien Levy, 1995).

"Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" is predictably the most overtly insane cut, with Bowie's chorus descending further into voltaic madness as the song wears on. "Space Oddity" sequel "Ashes to Ashes" is a candidate for Bowie's best song ever, an extraordinary self-referential journey that sounds like nothing else before or since—a swirling revelation of multi-tracked vocals, otherworldly synthesizer, and a jaw-dropping, deceptively simple refrain to close it out. "Fashion" is an apocalyptic funk ride that recalls Young Americans (1975) and Station to Station (1976). Centerpiece "Teenage Wildlife" attacks "new wave boys"; seeing as Bowie drew heavy inspiration from Krautrock for his late '70s work, he probably saw new wave artists like Gary Numan as less imaginative and driving than they should have been. "Scream Like a Baby," a holdover from aborted project People from Bad Homes (itself a line that was reused for "Fashion") that was originally called "I Am a Laser" and featured entirely different lyrics, is a carnivalesque song about unfairly-persecuted Sam of vague origins. "Kingdom Come," from Tom Verlaine's solo career, is well-produced but ultimately inferior to the original. "Because You're Young," with guest guitarist Pete Townshend, is a less prominent but satisfying offering coated with Halloween-evoking synthesizer. Flip-side reprise "It's No Game (No. 2)" ramps down the album steeply with a resigned tone, with Bowie inserting a couple new jarring lines into the mix ("Children 'round the world/Put camel shit on the walls").

Scary Monsters is pretty much universally considered the end of Bowie's classic period. In retrospect, he still had good, even great albums ahead of him, such as his final three (Reality [2003], The Next Day [2013], and Blackstar [2016]), but Bowie never assembled quite as good of a band as he did on Scary Monsters. It's an album that's hard to pull into its discrete parts in discussions, and at times it almost feels like a Greatest Hits album because of its career-to-date-encompassing subject matter. Taken on its own, however, it's one of Bowie's most original, galvanizing, and uniformly excellent albums, and it can go toe-to-toe with anything in his canon.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

The Beatles—Please Please Me

The Beatles—Please Please Me

Please Please Me—The farther you get back in the Beatles' discography, the less likely people are to remember it. That's not to say any Beatles album, single, or even outtake can be considered obscure, but while Revolver (1966) Sgt. Pepper (1967) are household names, the pre-Rubber Soul (1965) albums are often considered at least partially inessential. Please Please Me was their first one ever (Introducing... the Beatles and Meet the Beatles! [1964] were the first ones to hit the United States), coming on the heels of the "Please Please Me" and "Love Me Do" singles.

Paul McCartney's dissonant rocker "I Saw Her Standing There" opens the album on a high note, importantly showing early on that the band could write a classic all their own. "Misery," written originally for Helen Shapiro, is one of the greatest sub-two-minute pop songs ever. John Lennon's rendition of Arthur Alexander's "Anna (Go to Him)" and George Harrison's of the Cookies' "Chains" (Goffin/King) are somewhat pointless, but Ringo Starr's of the Shirelles' "Boys" is strangely effective. Lennon offers the album's best token cloying-nonsense number in "Ask Me Why" in spite of that being McCartney's reputation.

"Please Please Me," which Lennon wrote inspired by Roy Orbison and Bing Crosby, and McCartney's "Love Me Do" showcase the two men's early vocal harmonies at their best. "P.S. I Love You," the first in a series of postal Beatles songs that would be continued by their cover of "Please Mr. Postman" and "Paperback Writer," is lovably banal. Bacharach/David/Williams' "Baby It's You" was not the best choice for a Lennon vocal, while the dopey "Do You Want to Know a Secret?" and corny theater piece "A Taste of Honey" weren't good choices for anyone. "There's a Place" features Lennon and McCartney in a pleasing baritone range. Only on "Twist and Shout" does Lennon do a cover justice, mostly thanks to his famously pained delivery from a marathon recording session.

That doesn't sound like a wholly impressive set, and for the most part it's not—"Please Please Me" and "Love Me Do" and their respective b-sides "Ask Me Why" and "P.S. I Love You" were hardly vital parts of the package, having likely already been sought by every patron in England in single form. The remaining ten songs, only four of which were originals, were recorded in a single session, live in studio, and while only maybe half those cuts are notable in most any way, the band's restless drive shines through on the finished record. On the whole, Please Please Me is something of a classic, if an odd one, and it's amazing to think that even in their nascent stages as hitmakers the Beatles were this tight as a band, producer George Martin included.

Talk Talk—Spirit of Eden

Talk Talk—Spirit of Eden

Spirit of Eden—Though U2's similar Eno-infused rock soundscapes came years prior, Talk Talk's shift from synthpop to art music was surprising. Almost no artist in that vein headed for the ditch—Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, Eurythmics—and others simply made compromises, such as the jagged-yet-accessible stylings of Devo or Gary Numan. Talk Talk was more primed for that shift, considering singer Mark Hollis was more thoughtful and sensitive than his contemporaries. The songs on The Party's Over (1982), It's My Life (1984), and The Colour of Spring (1986) were far from banal, even in the earliest stages—cheaply done perhaps, but the craft just kept getting keener and tighter. Producer Tim Friese-Greene's occasional songwriting input blossomed into a full-blown symbiosis with Hollis, which sharpened Hollis' vision, resulting in more adventurous micromanagement; as a result, The Colour of Spring utilized twice as many session musicians as any other Talk Talk album.

It didn't so much sound like radical change was taking place, but Talk Talk was growing, and Colour of Spring's sales (their best-selling album), along with hit single "Life's What You Make It," gave them more freedom for the follow-up, Spirit of Eden. Hollis said, "Spirit of Eden—I kind of think that was very much, in a way, where all those earlier albums were trying to get to" (1998 TV interview, Okay Tone), and that was shrewd introspection; Eden's personnel—that is to say the band's discrete number of instruments—were pared down from Colour of Spring's line-up, though thanks to shrewd editing and a wider variety of sounds, it doesn't at all seem so. Hollis and Friese-Greene took the resulting recordings and played with each bit of tape until the album's six extended cuts were complete—Hollis being a proponent of first takes: "If you demo a track, no matter how badly you tried to demo it, there will always be a quality within it that you subsequently would try to recreate, which you shouldn't be."

As a result of this holistic approach, Spirit of Eden feels very cohesive, and in fact the first three songs form their own suite, led by the sparkling "The Rainbow," where Hollis sings of justice. The music evokes the intermittently pleasant uncertainty of a circadian rhythm, with certain segments alternating in intensity and length, and how nature and emotion are constantly at odds. The bittersweet "Eden" alternates between promise and mourning—the aural manifestation of a letdown. "Desire," the most rock-oriented tune, fittingly mimics an oncoming storm, yet is defiant; without cracking a smile, Hollis quips, "That ain't me, babe/I'm just content to relax/Than drown within myself," highlighting the sad pointlessness of obsession.

The dirge "Inheritance" exposes the excesses of humanity: "Don't you know where life has gone/Burying progress in the clouds" He subtly digs at faith-based living ("Expecting the dour/To redress with open arms/Ascension in incentive end"), calling the collective "Nature's son," implying accountability and a misguided need for what he describes as "Desperately befriending the crowd/To incessantly drive on/Dress in gold's surrendering gown." The achingly beautiful "I Believe in You" is an uncharacteristically explicit anti-heroin song completed just before Hollis' brother Ed's death by overdose: wondrously dissonant, with the chorus hitting C♯ being one of the most satisfying moments in popular music. The closing hymn "Wealth" is a sentimental resignation to fate which posits that ultimately, Hollis' misgivings about life in general are tempered by his acceptance of powerlessness.

Spirit of Eden didn't showcase anything particularly groundbreaking—the jazz tones and meticulous editing recall Miles Davis' Bitches Brew and Soft Machine's Third—but rather than embracing an experimental bent, Talk Talk polished their recordings to create something not only challenging but profoundly, undeniably gorgeous from start to finish. It stands as not only their high-water mark, but a dazzling achievement in music.

Leonard Cohen—Various Positions

Leonard Cohen—Various Positions

Various Positions—Leonard Cohen's albums all exist at roughly the same level of literacy, which is unsurprising given that he was already an established writer and poet by the time of his debut, Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967). There's not much to differentiate them on paper but for that the titles sometimes give away the overarching themes or morals (e.g. Songs of Love and Hate [1971]). They are more commonly defined by their production values. Cohen has gone on record saying he feels his debut was overproduced, and there are detractors when it comes to New Skin for the Old Ceremony (1974) and Death of a Ladies Man (1977). The latter was augmented by Phil Spector and is probably Cohen's most controversial record, the claims there being legitimate. New Skin, on the other hand, was produced by John Lissauer, and is only so involved in comparison to Cohen's other albums.

Recent Songs (1979) was something of a return to the drawing board, sounding almost like a matured Songs from a Room (1969) with more tasteful arrangements. Cohen did very little professionally in the ensuing five years, but slowly compiled the writing that would turn into Various Positions. He reunited with Lissauer when it was time to record, who had gone on to other ventures after being Cohen's bandleader for a number of years in the '70s. By 1983, times had changed, and Cohen had turned to composing on a Casio keyboard, which formed the basis for the striking opener, "Dance Me to the End of Love." Its lyrics were inspired by the true tale that in concentration camps, captives "would be playing classical music while their fellow prisoners were being killed and burnt." (Dave Thompson, 1000 Songs That Rock Your World). The sunset serenade "Coming Back to You" details the realization that a lost lover trumped the experiments that followed, while the funereal "The Law" is like a gangster's apology. "Night Comes On" offers a look into Cohen's vivid, archetypal dreams in triple meter.

The celebrated "Hallelujah" appears here in its original incarnation, which is sometimes said to be not even close to the best version. While it's true that subsequent performers brought out other strengths in the song, Cohen's original is unique for his charismatic baritone and the character of its chorus. However, the album's real gem is the forgotten "The Captain," which is smartly musical, funny, and literate all at once, owing as much to Lissauer's arrangement as it does to the poem, which Cohen had been performing live as a spoken-word piece. "Hunter's Lullaby" evokes the sentiment of a man searching for his destiny, told from a detached point of view. "Heart with No Companion" is a charming ode to restless souls. "If It Be Your Will" offers a glimpse into Cohen's torturous spirituality ("Let your mercy spill/On all these burning hearts in Hell") in the guise of a gentle paean.

It's easy to dismiss Various Positions as just another veteran artist's experiment with special effects. But it's possible that it was his strongest collection of songs ever, at least on some level—although the production sometimes sounds dated, there's not a bad piece of writing in the whole set, and it's more concise than many of Cohen's earlier efforts. For this reason, Various Positions should come to be considered a misjudged classic.

Joni Mitchell—Blue

Joni Mitchell—Blue

Blue—During the 1960s, Joni Mitchell was known more as a songwriter by repute than recognizance. Her songs "Both Sides Now" and "Chelsea Morning" had been performed by several artists, most notably by Judy Collins, who won a Grammy for her recording of the former. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young performed the best-known version of "Woodstock" on their album Déjà Vu, among others. But Mitchell's own Song to a Seagull (1968), Clouds (1969), and Ladies of the Canyon (1970) were received with increasing acclaim; when the next decade rolled around, Mitchell's star began to grow, and she became known more for being a performer in her own right. However, she lacked a signature record, as her first two were produced uniformly as middle-of-the-road folk, and her third played more like a collection of disparate tunes than anything that spoke to a concept.

Following Ladies of the Canyon, Mitchell took time off to travel, interrupted only by a performance at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival, when she played eight songs from Clouds and Ladies, as well as three new songs: "California," "A Case of You," and "My Old Man." Those three upbeat, optimistic songs came about with the onset of Mitchell's relationship with a young James Taylor, both as lovers and musical comrades; aside from touring together, Taylor would play guitar on the studio recordings of the three aforementioned songs, while Mitchell would provide backing vocals on Taylor's Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. But the restless Mitchell and the troubled Taylor would only last about a year together, and the split would send them in different directions. Taylor would go on to further his highly successful if uneven career, while Mitchell would return to Los Angeles to record Blue, her bright outlook now marred by a string of failed (and well-publicized) romances.

The frolicking opener "All I Want" exhibits Mitchell's free-wheeling spirit in contrast to the reserved approach of contemporary female artists. "I want to wreck my stockings in some jukebox dive," she proclaims while simultaneously acknowledging the hurt that has arisen from her missteps and the hints of self-criticism that she allows only so briefly ("I love you when I forget about me"). "My Old Man" details the ups and downs of new love, how "He's the warmest chord I've ever heard," and "when he's gone/Me and them lonesome blues collide/The bed's too big/The frying pan's too wide." The cozy "Little Green" predates the rest of the album; it became known decades later that Mitchell wrote it about her daughter, whom she gave away in 1965. The joyous "Carey," the album's most colorful song, is about a real person she met in Matala, Crete, the self-proclaimed "best cook in the area" with a "flaming red personality" (source). The encapsulating dirge "Blue" addresses directly the melancholy that peppers the album—around half the songs mention the color by name, sometimes in more intriguing ways like her daughter's eye color ("Little Green") or the glow of a television screen ("A Case of You").

"California" opens the second side with the same sort of whimsy as the first, with Mitchell contrasting her adopted home of California with the places she'd seen in her travels, sometimes with amusing anecdotes that suggest her resilience ("I met a redneck on a Grecian isle/Who did the goat dance very well/He gave me back my smile/But he kept my camera to sell"). The vortical "This Flight Tonight" represents her burning desire for a lover she's just left behind, but also the turbulence ("I hope it's better when we meet again, baby"). "River," a masterstroke, morphs "Jingle Bells" into a threnodic admittance of self-disdain, hopelessness, and escapism. "A Case of You" is a deceptively cute song about knowing the tragic flaws in a relationship will someday be too much to overcome, having evolved from an earlier incarnation as a simpler maritime analogue. "The Last Time I Saw Richard" sees Mitchell refuting a cynic, only to later find herself in the situation he forewarned; nevertheless, she assures herself, "Only a phase, these dark cafe days," ending the album on a curious but poignant note of optimism.

Joni Mitchell generally kept a healthy distance between herself and her music for the most part until Blue, choosing more to embrace the holistic ways of the folk scene. With Blue, she broke that barrier, reemerging from her hiatus with an evolved approach that continues to be emulated. It may not sound like such at times, but Blue was the most major work by a woman in the rock era—at the time most certainly, and it possibly still is.

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

Hunky Dory—Usually regarded as David Bowie's first bona fide classic LP, Hunky Dory bears the overlooked quality of being a summation of the first segment of his career. David Bowie (1967) was a classicist excursion in early British Invasion and baroque pop, with a touch of the strangeness that would always be present in his work—the Beatles with a more archaic touch, essentially—David Bowie (1969), the second album to bear that title, often referred to as Space Oddity or Man of Words/Man of Music, mixed in progressive elements in the same manner as Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd, and The Man Who Sold the World (1970) furthered layered his sound with hard rock elements and obscure, dark, often maniacal lyrics. Hunky Dory is a step back from the last iteration, possibly a sign that producer Tony Visconti was responsible for the compression in sound—Visconti does not return in that role nor as Bowie's bassist as he had been on the previous two albums—but it does continue Bowie's move into more personal territory as well as observations on the latest in space fare.

"Changes," iconic for its stuttering chorus among all else, is also one of Bowie's best chord progressions, with some credit to Yes piano player Rick Wakeman. However, Bowie quickly tops himself in this respect with with "Oh! You Pretty Things," which esoterically honors outsiders. The pair of songs is interesting in the sense that both seem to embrace campy arrangements that are slyly undercut with hints of real meaning and true vision in melody that separate it from the novelty music that no doubt influenced them. The amusing but slight vignette "Eight Line Poem" was probably a real observance from Bowie. "Life on Mars?" has transcended its origins as a "My Way" parody to become one of Bowie's most rightly beloved space songs, mostly due to Mick Ronson's string arrangements. The idyllic "Kooks," written for Bowie's recently born son Duncan, is one of Bowie's most unmysterious songs ever; if it sounds vaguely like "Sugar Mountain," the Neil Young connection was deliberate. The abasing "Quicksand," which switches from mono to stereo near the end of the first passage, references the occult, Heinrich Himmler, Greta Garbo, and Winston Churchill in its apocalyptic vision, concluding, "Don't believe in yourself, don't deceive with belief/Knowledge comes with death's release."

"Fill Your Heart," the Biff Rose/Paul Williams composition, the first in a long series of once-per-album covers, fits right along with "Kooks," but it is interesting to note that the outtake "Bombers" was initially supposed to lead off the second side, which arguably better fits with the themes throughout the rest of the album. "Andy Warhol," a funny tribute to Bowie's friend with a killer acoustic arpeggio, was initially written to be performed by Dana Gillespie, just as "Oh! You Pretty Things" had been for Peter Noone (combined with the fact that Bowie had intended to write his own version of "Comme d'habitude" for Frank Sinatra, one must wonder if Bowie fantasized being a professional songwriter). The languid "Song for Bob Dylan," which came during Dylan's lean period in '71-'73 that saw very little progress from the artist, uses Dylan's own words against him ("Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie, I wrote you a song") in criticizing him for abdicating his lofty position in popular music. "Queen Bitch," the only indication that Bowie would get heavier in the years to come, ennobles Lou Reed. "The Bewlay Brothers" is a characteristic Bowie closer: complete nonsense (Bewlay being a brand of tobacco pipe) that nonetheless conveys his message effectively in texture.

By trimming the excesses from all aspects of his music (with help from new producer Ken Scott), David Bowie was able to make his most effective record to date with Hunky Dory. With the basic elements of his songs—that is to say, his singing and principal melodies—mixed in front, the world got to see just how inspired a songwriter he was, and it resulted in the first of many masterstrokes.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

Split Enz—Mental Notes

Split Enz—Mental Notes

Mental Notes—Not the first theater aficionados to take up rock instruments, Split Enz was something like New Zealand's answer to Roxy Music. Eventually, they evolved into Crowded House and became household names in other parts of the world, but that was more than ten years after the inception of Split Enz, then called Split Ends. They acted for three years as an occasional-singles band, recording three: "For You" backed with the eponymous "Split Ends," "Sweet Talkin' Spoon Song"/"129," and "No Bother to Me"/"Home Sweet Home." These songs, released collectively with other early works as The Beginning of the Enz (1979), were even farther removed from the worldwide appeal of Crowded House. "For You" was a woodwind-laden, acoustic tune with off-kilter charm: folk in the vein of Vaudeville, but with a Kiwi touch. The rest of the songs were equally idyllic, most likely due to their insular upbringing in rural New Zealand, and colored by the influence of apparent band leader Phil Judd.

To call Split Enz the Beatles of New Zealand is in many ways not an understatement, as the band was both directly influenced by the recently broken-up Beatles and also would pave the way for New Zealand pop groups in the same way the Beatles did on their side of the world. As Judd's group, however, their music was a different animal. The cover of Mental Notes (painted by Judd) was a strange piece of work—seven band members with unnatural skin colors and ridiculous expressions and some various other individuals, the back cover extending this image into an absurd scene with a frankly terrifying photorealistic baby—that definitely fit the music therein. The art was also not merely affectation, as Split Enz' performances were ensconced in this aesthetic that was rooted in philosophy and literature. The record begins with the isolationist "Walking Down a Road," on which said aesthetic is apparent—a quality of introspection no doubt influenced by the troubled mind of Phil Judd, a then-undiagnosed sufferer of bipolar disorder (although Tim Finn sings it and shares writing credits). The mad "Under the Wheel" is surrounded in darkness; Judd sings of persecution and abjection, offering the conclusion, "death, glorious death/Is just another appointment to keep." The bright "Amy (Darling)" was meant for Judd's daughter, though it also seems to have some dualism or what-have-you (hopefully), as Finn also sings that "She's a serpentine, she's a naughty girl/Making the most of the rich man's world." Side one closer "So Long for Now" has an air of self-rationalization to its wavering words.

Side two, bookended by characteristically theatrical extended pieces, begins with the nightmarish "Stranger than Fiction," which spins a yarn that reads like the fantastical stories the name recalls. Requiem for the resigned "Time for a Change" contains one of Judd's best verses: "But like a parrot in a flaming tree/I know, it's pretty hard to see/I'm beginning to wonder if it's time for a change." The plodding, harmonic "Maybe," the album's only single, is unsurprisingly the most straightforward lovey pop song, though not to displeasing effect. The quaint and gratifying "Titus" tributes Gormenghast, which served as inspiration for much of the album's mood-feeling. The living crosscurrent "Spellbound" wistfully notes the phenomenon of personal stasis in an ever-changing world. Lighthearted vignette "Mental Notes" makes use of the run-out groove of the vinyl record to produce a repeating phrase ("Make a mental note") a la "A Day in the Life."

Split Enz as a collective was split on their opinion of their work on Mental Notes. All but two of the songs on the follow-up, aptly titled Second Thoughts (1976) were reworkings of songs from Mental Notes, the sessions from same, or earlier recordings. Time has proven that this was unnecessary, as Mental Notes continues to be a singularly compelling recording. Though they continued to make great, evolving pop music for years, Split Enz never quite duplicated the keen sense of purpose or consistent ingenuity of their debut.

Big Star—Radio City

Big Star—Radio City

Radio City—When people speak of Big Star's legacy, they generally have #1 Record (1972) in mind. They like Radio City, of course, but Radio City didn't have "The Ballad of El Goodo," "Thirteen," or "In the Street." The biggest difference between the two is Radio City's lack of Chris Bell, who was the band's founder, ironically, and the main reason for #1 Record's overall sound. Despite this, Radio City surpassed it; Bell's harmonies and arrangements glossed Alex Chilton's jaggedness with a bright, optimistic sheen, but the shared credits on the songs of #1 Record obscured an important detail: "The Ballad of El Goodo," "Thirteen," and "In the Street" were all written by Chilton.

After #1 Record's absolute failure commercially, tensions ran high, and Bell left the group, which effectively disbanded it. Drummer Jody Stephens recalled (Perfect Sound, December 1996) that some time after, "We got back together at the request ... rock writers ... It was a low pressure sort of thing because we were all doing it for the fun of it. We weren't promoting anything. So we got to get back together and play for the critics who were basically our only audience. We had a great time so the band got back together and immediately started working on Radio City." Bassist Andy Hummel explained (Perfect Sound, July 2001), "We started Radio City when we were still a foursome. We had four songs, a couple that we all three [Chilton, Hummel, Stephens] co-wrote at Alex's house one night ... We were looking for new, different things to do so we decided to record in mono ... It was the tightest, hottest music we'd ever done. Unfortunately those tapes were subsequently lost or stolen so we had to rerecord the ones we used later as a threesome. And of course we didn't use much of Chris's stuff because he subsequently left the group."

Soon after, Bell left the band for good, leaving Chilton in complete control of the group. The result was an indurated affair: guitars were the new spokesmen for the band, the characteristic irresolution of Chilton's lyrics serving only to give focus to the music as they had done before, but now without the pretense of optimism. The chord changes of "O My Soul" are protracted, allowing for Chilton's miniature yet rife hard-blues solos to take the forefront. On "Life Is White," he slows to a crawl, letting the screeching harmonica give chroma to the broken sentiments of the words. Andy Hummel's "Way Out West," unlike "The India Song" from the previous LP, fits seamlessly, with Hummel's melodic bass lines riding coolly beneath it all. "What's Going Ahn," a masterpiece, features multiple guitar tracks from Chilton—some acoustic and some electric—that somehow form a coherent whole and perfectly harmonize his vocal. The cautionary dirge "You Get What You Deserve" is hauntingly beautiful, while the heavy "Mod Lang" tributes white R&B.

"Back of a Car" is one of the few remaining stylistic ties to #1 Record: an imagined dialogue set to a harbinger's tune. The bipolar "Daisy Glaze" details the paranoia stemming from cheating, devolving from "I'm drivin' alone/Sad about you," to  "Who is this whore? ... You're gonna die/Yes, you're gonna die." The Todd Rundgren-cum-Mick Taylor "She's a Mover" details "Marsha the name" who "look like a dove" and "smile like crocodile." "September Gurls," a heavenly, elastic pop masterwork, works off an irresistibly sunny chord progression to deliver an immortal Chilton lyric: "I loved you, well, never mind." "Morpha Too," featuring Chilton solo with piano and a single overdubbed vocal of himself, is wonderful and hazy; it is not clear what or who "morpha" is. "I'm in Love with a Girl" amazes with its simplicity that at the same time sounds like nothing that came before.

Though Big Star's final 1974 recordings were compiled for 3rd (1978) and Chilton and Stephens reunited with members of the Posies for In Space (2005), Radio City was effectively the final Big Star album. The paltry amount of original material has given Big Star a certain mystique, which is something that often unfairly elevates the legacy of a work. In the case of Radio City, it is no hyperbole. The songs are singular, the sound is tight, and Chilton is on a whole other planet with his guitar playing.

Big Star—#1 Record

Big Star—#1 Record

#1 Record—Big Star was a band that was simultaneously behind and ahead of the times. Modeled largely after bands from the British Invasion, they arrived a year after the breakup of the Beatles and well after the Rolling Stones had abandoned any pretense of being a pop band. Big Star came to be formed when Alex Chilton, formerly of the Box Tops, joined Chris Bell's band Icewater. Chilton could be seen as analogous to John Lennon, bringing a dissonant edge to the music of the more McCartney-esque Bell. As with many good songwriting partnerships, however, each brought something to the other's music that improved it.

#1 Record captures on tape something rare as it pertains to human experience: the moment just before the point of collapse. Big Star, despite rave reviews, was destined to crash and burn. The debut album was released on John Fry's Ardent label, based in Memphis, Tennessee (the hometown of every band member aside from bass player Andy Hummel) and was to be distributed by Stax, but Stax hit a wall trying to sell it. The reason why is unclear—perhaps emerging soul, funk, and hard rock trends rendered #1 Record outmoded, and drummer Jody Stephens quipped, "it's not a good idea to release a new act in the Christmas season" (interview with Perfect Sound, December 1996)—but its commercial failure led to the effective demise of the band not long afterward.

It's easy to say now that #1 Record is a great album, which mixed pop sensibilities with the kind of angst uncommon to that which it embodies. "Feel" mixes brittle, anxious guitar with horns to create a sound that was unique for the time. What really captures the listener, though, is Chris Bell's profoundly affected vocal; Bell, who would be killed in a single-car accident in 1978, had a truly singular voice. He would only record a handful of other songs in his time, most of which were compiled for I Am the Cosmos. He sings, "Feel like I'm dyin'/Never gonna live again," over a tumultuous relationship. Chilton answers with the existential "The Ballad of El Goodo," treated to harmonic backing by Bell, and the simplistic "In the Street." Sung by Bell, the ode to youth would become the theme song to That '70s Show, and could be seen as a spiritual precursor to the Smashing Pumpkins' "1979."

"I don't know if the general population even knows that Big Star had anything to do with it. As a matter of fact, it's funny, [Wilco and I] played "In the Street" together ... my wife was in the audience and she said, when we started playing "In the Street," somebody sitting in back of her said, 'Why are they playing That '70s Show song?'" —Jody Stephens for Songfacts, "What Made Big Star Shine" (June 17, 2013)

"Thirteen" looks back on childhood romance, referencing the Rolling Stones' 1966 single "Paint It Black"; the song suggests a relationship between two people of different ages, which has been the subject of discussion; its arrangement is slight as to suggest innocence, and includes the line, "Would you be an outlaw for my love," but otherwise does not harbor ill intent, and seems to imply a somewhat minor age gap. Bell's cathartic "Don't Lie to Me" is augmented by Chilton's blues licks, and Hummel's middling "The India Song" sounds like it belongs on a lesser Nick Drake album. "When My Baby's Beside Me" rollicks with great pleasure, unwittingly showing up all of Chilton's predecessors in both performance and craft. "My Life Is Right" is one of the few Bell compositions that remained relatively free from Chilton's crookedness, but this also renders it unremarkable. "Give Me Another Chance" at first appears unremarkable until the fourth or fifth listen, when the unique instrumental backing and Bell's vocal overdubs catch the ear. "Try Again" pleases with its country-inflected solo, giving the album's flow the effect of sunset; ironically, this leads to the resplendent "Watch the Sunrise" and its bright strumming, the ringing chords and arpeggios no doubt the precursor to many an indie rock song. The esoterically titled closer "ST 100/6" is an attractive, minor song that serves a role similar to the Beatles' "Her Majesty" from Abbey Road.

#1 Record is often lumped in with Big Star's second record, Radio City (mainly because they have generally been reissued together), but it's important to keep the two separate in discussion, as they are wildly different. In the case of the former, its naivety is the only thing that detracts from its legend; some of its songs are sad in how vulnerably they depict the young group, and conceptually some of them are thin, mainly on the second side. Of course, it makes sense that the album would be frontloaded: Big Star expected to live up to the name, and the foundation began to crumble immediately the following year. But the flaws are minor, and #1 Record deserved what its titled attempted to prophesy.